Witness of Gor coc-26

by John Norman

  “The slave,” said the court’s clerk.

  Angrily, with a swirl of robes, the man turned about and came to the edge of the circle. “I own you!” he cried, his voice thick with rage. It seemed she suddenly trembled, and might look up, but he cried out. “Do not dare to look upon me, you worthless slut, you now-nameless slave!”

  The fellow mad an angry gesture to the clerk. The clerk summoned forward one of the guards, he who had led the slave into the chamber. The fellow came forward and produced, from his belt, a small key. It was the key, I assumed, to the holding collar. The clerk then looked to the fellow at the edge of the circle. That fellow indicated that the slave was to be turned about, and she was, rudely, so that now, standing, she faced the portal though which she had been introduced into the room. I saw that her hands were now, indeed, tied behind her back, fastened there with binding fiber. The fellow then came forward. He then removed from his pouch a collar and handed it to the clerk. The clerk looked at it. He thrust it before the slave, that she might see it. But then, perhaps because he thought that she, in her distress, her fear, was in no condition to pursue it, he said, “The legend on the collar reads, ‘I am the slave of Henry, of the house of William, in Harfax.’” He then handed the collar back to the fellow who, from his previous angry announcement of ownership of the slave, I gathered must be this very Henry, he referred to the collar, he of the house of William, in Harfax. He would also be, as I recalled, from the words of the praetor’s officer this morning, the youngest and least of that house.

  Henry, from behind, above the holding collar, put the collar about the neck of the slave. He did not do this gently. Such collars, too, as it was a common collar, of the sort most frequently found in the north, fit closely. I, Fina, and the others, wore such collars. So, too, I recalled, did Dorna. I assumed most of this city did. He jerked the collar back, firmly. It must have been tight as it had, pinned beneath it, the cloth of the outer robe of concealment, the hood of that garment, and the veil. He pulled it back, again, firmly, and I heard the click of the collar’s closure. It is clear-decisive-meaningful-sound.

  There is no mistaking it. The girl will not forget it. She has been collared. She may hear that sound even in her dreams, and awaken, and touch her throat, and, half asleep, stirring, ascertain its sure presence. Yes, it is there, and on her. And she cannot remove it. She is in a slave collar, in the collar of her master.

  Inadvertently, without really thinking of it, my hand strayed to my own collar.

  I kissed my finger tips and pressed them to my collar.

  I envied girls their private masters.

  I belonged to the state of Treve.

  The pit master briefly glanced down at me.

  Frightened, I returned my hands, palms down, to my thighs. I straightened my body. I looked straight ahead. My knees were slightly spread, enough to show that I was a pleasure slave, but were closely enough placed to accord with the decorum of the praetor’s court. I was pleased to understand that the pit master would choose to ignore my slight indiscretion. No one but a frustrated free woman would denounce, or punish, a girl for loving her collar.

  I was relieved.

  I would not be punished for breaking position.

  We then, he and I, the pit master and one of his pit slaves, returned our attention to the floor.

  The slave was now in two collars, the holding collar and, just above it, the identification collar, that by means of which she can be identified, as belonging to a particular individual. As soon as the identification collar was in place, the guard of the court removed the holding collar. There had been no moment, then, when the slave had not been in at least one collar. Henry, as we shall speak of him, now adjusted the identification collar on the slave, moving it about, and pressing it down, until it was in place, the lock at the back of the neck.

  He then regarded her, in his collar. He then stepped back, away from her.

  “You may turn about,” he said. “Keep your head down.” She obeyed and he, for his part, went back to the edge of the scarlet circle, rather on our side of it. She was then standing in the center of the circle, rather as she had before, save, of course, that she now wore not a temporary collar, a holding collar, but the collar of her master.

  “You nameless slut,” he said.

  She kept her head down.

  “Worthless slave!” he cried.

  I could not understand his fury. He was facing her, his back to us.

  “Kneel,” he said, “keep your head down.”

  She fell to her knees before him.

  “Perhaps the slave recalls,” he said, “one who was once the Lady Constanzia of Besnit, one who once, when the mistress of a rich house, defrauded the house of William, in Harfax. Much did the house of William suffer, in its resources, and more, in its reputation, in its very name, honored for generations in a dozen cities. Nearly did she bring the house of William to its ruin, but the house, a strong one, survived, and, rebuilt itself, in its resources and its name. Indeed, it is now the most prosperous of the merchant houses in Harfax. In the time of our peril, of our shame, of our sacrifices, we did not, of course, forget the name of Constanzia of Besnit. But, know that even now, now, in the time in which our fortuned have been recovered and more, in a time in which our name shines again, and more brightly than ever, in a dozen cities, in a time in which we have become first among the houses of Harfax, we still remember that name. No, we have never forgotten the name of Constanzia of Besnit. We remember that name well. And then, wonder of wonders, it came to our attention, as such things may, that the Lady Constanzia, lured like a vulo, and trapped by her greed, was now a capture prize, being held n Treve for ransom. But, lo, would her own brothers not ransom her? But it seemed not. What then was to be her fate? If she were not simply fed to sleen, it would be, presumably, oh, miserable fate, the collar! Well, you can well imagine our reluctance to see such a fine lady, and one so special to us, being simply put upon a block, somewhere, and who would know where, and being sold to just anyone. No, it seemed fitting to us that we should rescue her from such a fate. Was she not, after all, an honored member of our caste? And so we decided to ransom her, if her brothers would not, as an act, if nothing else, of caste solidarity and benevolence. And so she was ransomed. And her ransom was not cheap, I tell you that. Should we not have waited until she was enslaved, and then bid upon her? No, certainly not. She must not have been enslaved. What if she had been simply fed to sleen? But, we had heard rumors that her body might not be without interest, and so we speculated that her captors might see fit to save her for the collar. But would we know where she would be sold? Perhaps not.

  And auctions are such tricky things. Could we be sure of overcoming all bids? Might there not be others who, for similar reasons, for similar grievances, might be as anxious as we to obtain her? And what if she misbehaved in the house of the slaver and was, say, cut to pieces, and never even came to the block? But more than these fears, I think was the pleasure, the gratification, which would be felt in our house by our having been your actual ransomer. I think you can understand what an excellent and fitting thing this was. And so she came into our hands, deliciously, as a free woman. And, what, then, was to be done with her? We had feared, you might recall, that she might find herself enslaved, but our fear, most particularly, most exactly, was that she would find herself enslaved by the will and act of another-and not by our will and act, not by the will and act of the house of William, in Harfax. But our fears proved groundless. She has now been enslaved by our won will and act, by the will and act of the house of William, in Harfax, and is now, specifically, my slave, I who am the fifth son, and least in the house. You understand the meaning of this, too, I am sure, that you are the slave of the least in the house. But do no fear. You will be presented before the first in the house. An oath has been sworn to the effect. Indeed, it is in accord with the provisions of that oath I am come to Treve, to fetch you to Harfax. It is to be mine, you see, in accord with the pr
ovisions of the oath, to throw you as my branded slave, naked and in chains, to the feet of he who is first in my house, William, my father.”

  The slave’s head was down.

  “You will serve well in the house, I assure you,” he said. “You will work long and hard, you will perform the lowliest and most servile tasks.”

  She did not lift her head.

  “You will be kept under the strictest of disciplines,” he said.

  She kept her head down.

  “It will be amusing,” he said, “to point you out to our guests, and delineate your histry, as, too, you are serving at our meals. Indeed, afterwards, perhaps we will have you accompany our guests to their rooms, seeing to their needs and wants, attending upon them, brining them fresh linen, bathing them, preparing their couch and, later, naturally, taking your place at its slave ring, a token of the hospitatilty of the house of William.”

  She kept her head down.

  “Yes,” he cried, angrily, “you will serve well in that house! And, that it may be well recalled who you were, and what you did, you will be suitably named. Put your head to the tiles!”

  She, kneeling, in the outer robes of concealment, in the hood, in the veil, thrust her head down to the tiles. Her small hands were then up, behind her, high, resting on her back, where the wrists were crossed, tied tighter.

  “I name you ‘Constanzia’!” he said, angrily.

  The slave was now named ‘Constanzia’.

  At this point the clerk inscribed something on the set of papers which lay still on the table.

  “You may straighten your back, but keep your head down, slave,” said the angry Henry, of the house of William, in Harfax.

  Instantly the slave, who was now “Constanzia,” obeyed.

  The clerk now folded the papers together, forming the long, narrow packet as before. He then tied the packet shut with the blue-and-yellow ribbon. He then walked across the scarlet circle, past the kneeling slave, and handed the papers to Henry, who took them, and put them within his robes, as he had his copy of the earlier papers, the court papers. These later papers were undoubtedly the slave’s slave papers. Somewhere, I had no doubt, there were similar papers on me. The notation on the papers which had been made by the clerk had undoubtedly been the slave’s name, presumably with the effective date of the name, as such names may be changed, as the master wishes. Subsequent names may, of course, be added to the papers, with their effective dates. Different masters, for example, will often give different names to slaves. Blue and yellow are the colors of the caste, or subcaste, as the case may be, of the Slavers. Some, as noted earlier, regard the Slavers as a caste independent of the Merchants, some regard it as a subcaste of the Merchants. The colors of the merchant caste itself are white and yellow, or white and gold. Needless to say, caste members do not always wear the caste colors. For example, a scribe would normally wear his blue when working but not always when at leisure. Goreans are fond of color and style in their raiment. They tend to be careful of their appearance and often delight in looking well. Not all slave papers are bound in blue and yellow, of course. I had seen copies in the pens which were in plain folders, in envelopes, and such. Indeed, some had been merely clipped together.

  “I would now be left alone with the slave,” said Henry.

  “Our concern in this business is now done,” said the clerk. “We have another matter to attend to, one which must shortly be discharged.”

  “I will not be long,” said Henry.

  “I wish you well,” said the clerk.

  “I wish you well,” said Henry.

  The clerk then, followed by the two guards of the court, withdrew.

  The pit master and I were well back in the shadows. I am sure the fellow realized our presence in the chamber, but it was not conspicuous. The two guards from the pits, who had come with us, were back by the main portal.

  “I hate you!” Henry said to the slave.

  She trembled, her head down, her hands bound behind her.

  “Oh,” he said, angrily, “it is not merely that you were once the hated Constanzia of Besnit! What matter such mild hatreds? We have you now in our collar. You are now under our whip. Let the house be satisfied with what you now are, and what will be done with you. I hold a grudge against you far more profound than that attendant upon the fraud you wrought upon us, even that attendant upon the near ruin into which you brought your house. No, do not dare to lift your head, hated slave!”

  the slave kept her head down.

  “You do not understand, do you, hated, branded slut!” he cried.

  She whimpered twice, in misery.

  “Ah,” said he, “you have already been taught gag signals! Excellent!”

  I did not understand his fury.

  “Twice you have caused great injury to the house of William,” he said, “once to the house as house, and once to the house though me, one of that house.”

  He then, in fury, spurned the slave with his foot to the tiles. “Dare not to look upon me!” he cried.

  She kept her eyes averted.

  Even I was terrified by his wrath.

  “Curse honor!” he suddenly cried, his fists clenched.

  I was startled by this outburst, and looked up, more closely than before, less unobtrusively, less furtively. His back was to me. I had not heard this voice much before, if I had heard it before, only a few times, and then it had been in calmness, even in humor, sometimes in peremptory command, not as it was now, shaken with rage, almost hoarse with fury. But I thought that I recognized it. Before it had been only a whisper about my mind. Now I was certain. Also, it then became clear to me that the slave, far more familiar with the voice than I, if it was indeed the voice which I thought, must have surely wondered or speculated, or suspected, or entertained hopes, about the identity of its owner long before I. But she could not have been certain of the matter, for the voice was now unnatural with rage, and there might be many similar voices. She had not been permitted to look upon his features. That had been denied to her. She could not then be absolutely certain as to the matter. Indeed, even I had not looked directly upon him.

  “What injury you have done to me!” he cried. “It is because of you that I have lost the most exquisite, beautiful, and desirable slave in all the world, the woman I love! Yes, here in the retreat of tarns, I found my love slave. But I must conduct my business! I must ransom the slut, Constanzia of Besnit! I must sign the letters of credit to the state of Treve to redeem her, rather than use them to negotiate for she who is to me beyond compare, who is to me above all others. Curse honor! Were it not for honor I would forget you. I would let you be dragged to any kennel, on any man’s chain. Were it not for honor I would remain secretly, at the risk of my very life, in this city, to seek her, to somehow come into possession of her! Were it not for honor I would find my love, and fly with her! Kneel, head down!”

  The slave struggled again to her knees.

  “We must leave,” he said. “The clerk has further business this afternoon.”

  He then walked a little about the slave, considering her. He crouched down behind her, and put his hand on her ankle. She tried, in fear, to draw it a little away, but he held it. “Do you fear a man’s touch on you?” he asked. “You will grow used to it, my dear. Your ankle is not bad. It is trim, like hers. It will doubtless take a shackle well.” He then moved his hand a bit inside her lower robe, perhaps to the interior of her thigh. She jerked, putting her head back, and then, swiftly, lowered it again. “You will grow used to it,” he said. Then he stood up. “Your body may prove to be, as rumored, not without interest,” he said. “But you will never compare to her. You are too unlike her. At best you would be as a moon to her sun. To her you will always be, in my mind, as nothing.”

  He then walked further about her.

  “Would you like to speak?” he asked.

  She whimpered once, desperately. Then, after a time, she again whimpered once, even more desperately. Then, in a moment, sh
e began to try to speak, making tiny little futile noises, muffled in the gag.

  “But you see,” he said, “you may not speak. Were you not informed? Do you not understand that your words, no matter how piteous, will be of no avail? The matter is now concluded. You are branded, branded, you perfidious, dishonest, corrupt, fraudulent slut-yes, at last, after all this time, branded, at last branded! — superb! — it is now done! — the slave mark is now on you, in you! — it has been burned deeply into your very body with the fiery iron-understand that, slut! — and you are now, too, in our rightful neckwear, no necklace, my dear, but the collar of a slave-and it is locked on you-and you cannot remove it-and it is my collar! — it is the collar that you wear, slut! You are now owned! I own you! You are now kajira! Kajira! And my dear, my sweet little thing, you are my kajira!”

  “Ah, you would speak? But were you not informed? Your words are not of interest to those of the house of William. Why should we listen to the begging, pleading prattle of a slave? We choose not to do so. Perhaps later you will be permitted to speak, and you will be lashed if we are not pleased with your words.” He then walked about her, until, again, he was rather before her, she a little to his left. “Keep your head down,” he warned her.