Rebels of Gor

by John Norman

  “Gregory!” called Saru, insistently.

  I was pleased she had the sense to remain on her belly, with her arms at her sides, the palms of her hands facing upward.

  “We will need three tunics,” I said. “I expect they may be found on the other side of the partition.”

  The tent was a sales tent, though obviously it had been closed for sales, presumably to better conceal the shogun’s daughter. Being a sales tent it seemed likely it would be equipped with certain devices and goods. In some markets, the seller will provide a tunic for the purchased slave, and a whip for the buyer. More often, such items may be purchased. In either case, they are likely to be available. I had seen some chests, and bundles, in the main area of the tent, to the side, which observation I regarded as promising in this regard. Certainly I would not look forward to conducting three naked slaves through the camp, an action unlikely to pass unnoticed.

  “You will attempt to evade the perimeter guards,” said Pertinax.

  “I think not,” I said. “Given the escape, the number of fugitives, and such, I would expect the perimeter to be infested with Ashigaru.”

  “I do not think we can long remain in the camp,” said Pertinax.

  “You and Ichiro,” I said, “must have arranged some means of returning to the holding of Temmu or the encampment of tarns, surely not on foot.”

  “Certainly,” said Pertinax, “a point of tarn rendezvous to be scouted from tarnback each day at the tenth Ahn, but that point is pasangs from the camp, and we had not anticipated any great difficulty in leaving the camp.”

  “Which anticipation must now seem miserably naive,” I said.

  “Unfortunately,” said Pertinax.

  As I had suggested earlier, the camp had been, possibly by intent, or carelessness, or arrogance, relatively open, but that situation, I was sure, no longer obtained.

  “What do you suggest, Tarl Cabot, tarnsman?” said Tajima.

  “We must leave,” I said, “from the point from which our departure would be least expected.”

  “The Merchant Portal?” said Ichiro.

  “Yes,” I said.

  This was the authorized entrance and departure point in the camp, utilized by a variegated traffic of peasant venders, itinerant craftsmen, peddlers, merchants, recruits, deserters from the forces of Lord Temmu, and others.

  “It will now be heavily scrutinized,” said Haruki.

  “We will need a wagon or cart,” I said.

  “There are many near the point,” said Pertinax. “Near the market, where vegetables and fruits are sold.”

  “Good,” I said.

  “Let us be on our way,” said Pertinax.

  “No!” cried Saru. “No, no, Gregory! Do not leave me!”

  “Do not break position,” I warned her.

  “Gregory, Gregory White!” she exclaimed, over her shoulder. “You cannot leave me behind! I am Margaret, Margaret Wentworth! We are both of Earth! Remember New York! Remember the office! We came to Gor together! You want me! You love me! You will do whatever I want! Free me! I am chained! Free me! Take me with you!”

  “Fetch three tunics,” I said to Pertinax.

  “And a whip,” said Tajima.

  “Oh, yes, Master, yes!” said Nezumi, pressing her lips to Tajima’s thigh. Slaves fear the whip, but it thrills them to know that they are subject to it, are truly subject to it. Few things bring a woman’s slavery home to her better than the sight of the whip which may be used upon them, if they should fail to be pleasing, fully pleasing.

  “Do not break position,” I warned Saru.

  “Please, please, oh, Master!” she wept. “Permit me to break position!”

  “Very well,” I said.

  “Thank you, Master!” she wept, and scrambled about, rising to her feet and dragging against the chain fastened to her left ankle.

  “The rest of you remain as you are, precisely,” I said.

  A shudder of linkage coursed down the chain. Then the slaves were as before. Most, I am sure, given their positioning, were not clear on what was transpiring.

  “Gregory!” cried Saru, looking about.

  “He is gone,” I told her.

  “No,” she cried, “no!”

  “He will be back, shortly,” I said. “I think you had best welcome him on your knees.”

  “But I know him, from Earth!” she said.

  “You knew Gregory White,” I said. “I am not sure you know Pertinax.”

  “I do not understand,” she said.

  “Gregory White was a timid, retiring, easily abashed, enamored, manipulable weakling, an employee, a subordinate, whom you enjoyed ordering about, humiliating, tormenting, and demeaning,” I said. “Pertinax is strong, supple, agile, skilled and trained, a warrior and tarnsman, the possessor of a code.”

  “But Earth!” she protested.

  “This is not Earth,” I said. “And you are not on Earth. This is Gor. Here your Gregory White is Pertinax, a warrior and tarnsman, and you are a stripped, chained, collared slave.”

  “I need only have a moment alone with him,” she said. “I need only smile, shed a tear, let my lips quiver, my body tremble, my voice shake, and all will be as it was before. I shall recall him to his better nature, his true nature.”

  “He has now found his better nature,” I said, “and here, on Gor, his true nature. Do you think he will betray the blood which is his, the heart which he has at last found, severe and hardy, in his own breast?”

  “I can make him weak!” she said.

  “Perhaps once,” I said. “And that may be why he avoided you for months in Tarncamp. But I do not think you can do so now.”

  “I am strong,” she said. “I am powerful. I can trample and destroy him!”

  “How so?” I asked.

  “He loves me!” she said.

  “You are not a free woman,” I said. “You are a slave, a beast. Perhaps you might hope at best, if you are fortunate, that he might find your flanks of interest.”

  “No!” she cried.

  “Why is this slave standing?” asked Pertinax, returned from the other side of the partition.

  “Get on your knees,” I snapped, and, instantly, the former Miss Margaret Wentworth, the slave, Saru, went to her knees.

  Pertinax cast a tunic to the ground before Jane, before Cecily, and Nezumi. Each gratefully clutched the tiny garment.

  Pertinax handed a slave whip to Tajima, who briefly held it to the lips of Nezumi, who kissed it, joyfully.

  The slaves looked to me.

  “You may clothe yourselves,” I said.

  The three slaves stood, and slipped into the bits of cloth allotted to them.

  How pleasant it is to be the masters of women.

  “Where is my tunic, Gregory?” said Saru.

  Pertinax turned his back on her. “I have some bracelets, as well,” he said, “and, here, a coil of rope.”

  “Good,” I said. “Back-bracelet them and put them in neck coffle.”

  “Gregory, I am here, Margaret!” said Saru.

  The three slaves then stood before us, gracefully, as slaves, their hands braceleted behind their backs, in a rope coffle, neck-fastened.

  “Gregory!” said Saru.

  Pertinax turned to face her, and she shrank back.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “Margaret,” she said, “Margaret Wentworth.”

  Pertinax turned to me. “Do you see a Margaret Wentworth here?” he asked.

  “No,” I said. “I see a slave, who might be given what name masters might please.”

  He then turned back to the slave. “Margaret Wentworth,” he said, “was a free woman, petty, vain, venal, ambitious, conniving, sly, hypocritical, dishonest, pretentious, lying, and arrogant, but free, one despicable in many ways, but free. A free woman is permitted whatever nasty indulgences, whatever flaws and faults, she pleases, but the least suggestion of such a thing in a slave can be a cause for discipline.”

  This
was true. The free woman need please only herself. The slave is to please the master. The free woman is responsible only to herself. The slave is responsible to her master. She is owned.

  “Gregory,” she said, putting out her hand.

  He seized her by the hair, and struck her twice, first with the flat of his hand, on the left cheek, and then with the back of his hand on the right cheek.

  She looked up at him, aghast, in awe.

  “You struck me,” she said, reproachfully. “No! Do not turn away!”

  He turned back. I feared he might be angry. The slave is not to be struck in anger. She is to be struck, if she is to be struck, to discipline her, to improve her. She is to be trained as the animal she is, and in her training, the whip is occasionally useful.

  “Why did you strike me?” she asked.

  “I found you displeasing,” he said.

  “What do you think you are?” she asked.

  “A free man,” he said, “and you are a slave.”

  “A slave,” I said, “does not address a free man by his name.”

  “We have dallied enough,” said Pertinax. “Let us be on our way.”

  Scarcely had we turned away, when the slave cried out, “Masters, do not leave me! Do not leave Saru! Please, Masters, take Saru with you. Do not leave her behind on her chain!”

  We turned about, and saw that the slave had prostrated herself on her belly before us, her ankle pulled as far forward as the chain would allow. Her left leg was stretched taut, behind her. Her hands were extended, lifted. Her head was up, from the dirt, tears streaming down her face. “I am contrite, Master!” she wept. “I beg forgiveness! I am only a slave who begs a master’s forgiveness!”

  Pertinax regarded her, angrily.

  “I know,” I said, “you had many reservations about the moral character of Miss Margaret Wentworth, but now it is the helpless, chained slave, Saru, who is on her belly before you, begging your forgiveness.”

  He glared, down, at the prostrate slave.

  “What do you see there?” I asked.

  “A slave,” he said.

  “That is what is there,” I said.

  “Obviously,” he said.

  “It is incontestable,” I said, “that many faults and blemishes, of diverse sorts, personal and moral, characterized the former Miss Wentworth, but it is not to be overlooked that she was also a beautiful woman. Indeed, she was designated for Gorean slavery, and the slavers of Gor, I assure you, are not easy to please. They are not just chaining the women who flee from burning cities. They choose with taste and discrimination. Miss Wentworth was beautiful, even on a world contaminated with lies, hypocrisy, and pollution. And here, we have the slave, Saru, on a fresh, clean, natural world, marked and collared. So marked and collared, surely her beauty is much enhanced, as is ever the case when a woman is marked and collared, proclaimed female, and slave.”

  “Let us be on our way,” said Pertinax.

  “You can see she is beautiful,” I said.

  “There are many beautiful women,” said Pertinax.

  “Stand closer to her,” I said.

  He did as I suggested, looking down.

  Saru put down her head, and her tears fell on his feet, as she kissed them, again and again. Then, tenderly, she lifted his foot and placed it on her head. He then stepped back, and she looked up at him, her eyes bright with tears.

  “I love you,” she said, “—Master.”

  “Lying slave,” he sneered.

  “I dare not lie, Master,” she said. “I am a slave!”

  “Speak,” he said, coldly.

  “I always loved you, even on Earth,” she said, “even when I despised you for your weakness. Do you not understand? I wanted to be taken in hand, and put to your feet. I longed for, and needed, a master, not an associate, a pet.”

  “Do not blame Pertinax,” I said. “Few can stand against the weight of centuries of denial, superstition, and madness. Culture was determined to banish nature, to rob men and women of their selves. He was endeavoring, as so many others, trusting innocents unaware of what was being done to them, to fulfill alien prescriptions, to fulfill pathological stereotypes, engineered stereotypes in terms of which the ‘true male’ was to be defined, a male without maleness. Is the political agenda here so difficult to determine? Can one not sense what lies concealed behind the veils of rhetoric? Is it so difficult to detect what the advertisements are out to sell, under a hundred false labels? But faraway, and never wholly forgotten, for it lies in the blood, and genes, is the burning fire, the hunt, the club, and thong.”

  “Forgive me, Master,” she said, “for all the wrongs I have done you, all the cruelty I showed to you. I hoped to find in you the master I had sought so unsuccessfully to drive from my dreams.”

  “We must be going,” said Pertinax.

  “Surely you wanted me,” said Saru, “if only in your collar, or on your leash!”

  Pertinax extended his hand to Tajima, without looking at him. “Whip,” he said.

  He was handed the whip, and he gestured, peremptorily, to Saru that she should rise up, to her knees.

  He then held the whip to her, and, weeping, she held it in both hands, and, head down, licking and kissing, lavished upon it the ecstasy of the submitted slave.

  “I love you, I love you, Master!” she said.

  Pertinax pulled the whip away and returned it to Tajima. I handed Pertinax the key and he thrust it into the ankle lock of the slave.

  “Take your place,” said Pertinax to the slave, and she hurried to stand behind the other slaves.

  “We will fetch her a tunic, bracelet her, and add her to the coffle on the way out,” I said.

  “This is all well and good,” said Haruki, “but we may all be dead within the Ahn.”

  “It is still light out,” I said. “The Merchant Portal will be most closely scrutinized after dark. It is my hope that few would expect us to depart through the Merchant Portal, and in the full light of day.”

  As the bracelets were being placed on a tunicked Saru, and she was being added to the coffle, Tajima turned to me. “Do you think she will make a good slave?” he asked.

  “Why do you ask?” I asked.

  “She is not even Pani,” said Tajima.

  “No matter,” I said.

  “Do you?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “The woman actually enslaves herself, when she yields to the slave in her heart and belly.”

  “When she acknowledges to herself what she is, and wants to be?” said Tajima.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Do you think Pertinax is strong enough to be a master?” asked Tajima.

  “Yes,” I said. “He is no longer of Earth. He is now of Gor. If at any time Saru should be so foolish as to dare to doubt her bondage, she will be soon reminded that she is owned, and wholly. Indeed, given their antecedents, their experiences on Earth, and such, Pertinax may not be excessively patient with her. Let us hope then that she is a dutiful and pleasing slave, and fully so. The whip is not pleasant.”

  “If Pertinax is not satisfied with her,” said Tajima, “do you think he would sell her?”

  “Certainly,” I said. “She is a slave.”

  “Do you think she will be pleasant on the mat?” asked Tajima.

  “Slave fires,” I said, “are already in her belly. Pertinax may not be aware of that.”

  “He has a pleasant surprise in store,” said Tajima.

  “I think so,” I said.

  “You think she will writhe well on the mat?” asked Tajima.

  “I think so,” I said, “and if Pertinax should be otherwise occupied, I think she will beg to do so.”

  “Four,” said Haruki, looking at me closely, “seems a nice number.”

  “Yes,” I said. “It balances out better than three.”

  “I do not understand,” said Tajima.

  “We are thinking about appropriating a wagon,” I said. “And the most likely harnessing will
come in pairs.”

  “And we will need some harnessed draft beasts to draw the wagon,” said Tajima.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Yes,” said Tajima, “four is better than three.”

  We then, with our tunicked coffle, left the slave tent.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  We Reach the Merchant Portal

  I cinched the harness straps on Cecily.

  “We are only women, Master,” she said.

  “We selected a small wagon,” I said.

  “It does not seem to me so small,” she said.

  “It was convenient,” I said.

  “I see,” she said.

  “It is empty,” I said.

  “It will be heavy, nonetheless,” she said. “I do not know if we can draw it. We are but women.”

  “That it is empty will not arouse suspicion,” I said, “as we are planning to leave the camp.”

  “Still,” she said.

  “The men will walk,” I said.

  “We will do the best we can,” she said.

  “Haruki and I,” I said, “drew a loaded rice wagon pasangs to the camp.”

  “We are women, Master,” she said.

  “And much of the way was uphill,” I said. “And much of your way, as we are leaving the vicinity of the camp, should be downhill.”

  “But not all of it,” she said.

  “No,” I said.

  “Surely we are not to be used as draft beasts,” she said.

  “It is one of the things slaves are good for,” I said. “On continental Gor it is not unknown for women to draw wagons, and carts, even plows.”

  “But large women,” she said, “work slaves, the slaves of peasants. I fear we are not such.”

  “You look well in harness,” I said.

  “I fear we will be unable to draw the wagon,” she said.

  “You will do very well,” I said.

  “What are you doing?” I asked Haruki.

  “Cutting a switch,” he said, “in case the beasts need encouraging, or hastening.”

  Pertinax now had Jane and Saru harnessed.

  Nezumi had been hitched up first by Tajima.

  “Cecily is right,” I said to Haruki. “The wagon is heavy for four slaves.”