Mariners of Gor cog[oc-30

by John Norman

  One of the girls was sobbing, her body shuddering. Perhaps she was frightened, apart from the security of her mat and chain.

  Then the shackle was closed on her left wrist.

  I had a special interest in these matters, other than the usual pleasures associated with the inspection and surveying of slaves. I wished to make sure that a particular slave, Alcinoe, was present, that she had not been kept on the ship. She was, after all, of some value. There was a bounty on her.

  Accordingly, I had been pleased when I had detected her in the net, being lowered to the wharf with other girls, and had noted that she, the last of her ten, would be attached to the first of the next ten.

  She was special to me.

  I liked to keep my eye on her.

  There was, after all, a bounty on her.

  It was well that the slaves had been landed.

  Some men, I fear, suspected that the great ship might depart the cove, with the treasure aboard, and the slaves, leaving the contingents then in a strange, hostile land. Thus they were reassured, at least to some extent, that the girls had been brought to shore.

  Whereas the landing of the slaves might have been welcomed by the men, and might have well served the Pani by allaying some currents of suspicion amongst the men, it seems clear that, from the Pani point of view, the disembarkation of the slaves was no more than a disembarkation of cargo, no different from other forms of cargo.

  That Alcinoe had not been kept on board, despite her value in Ar, pleased me. It suggested that this value might be unrecognized or, more likely, given the interest Seremides had expressed in her, that it was immaterial to the Pani who were seemingly in no need of economic resources, or, at least, of such a kind. She had been purchased in Brundisium as no more than another slave. Too, of what value is a coin which cannot be spent?

  In any event, I was ashore, and much pleased that the slave, Alcinoe, was also ashore, and, obviously, for the time, at least, would be easy to keep track of.

  Her left wrist was held, while the shackle was snapped about it.

  She had been the lofty Lady Flavia of Ar, confidante of the Ubara herself. Now, no more than five yards from me, now almost indistinguishable amongst other goods, she was no more than a tunicked, barefoot, wrist-shackled slave at the World’s End.

  This pleased me.

  Might it not be nice to caress her, until her body reddened and throbbed and her hips and haunches shook and she begged to serve my pleasure?

  I thought of her squirming, begging, in my arms, helpless in the spasmodic, uncontrollable throes of a slave.

  It might be pleasant.

  Then I recalled that I had no interest in her, unless it be to return her to Ar. Still, there is more to life than gold, a girl, say, a slave at one’s feet, in chains.

  The last ten was attached to the coffle.

  A cry rang out, and a whip snapped.

  The first step is taken with the left foot.

  They were instructed to walk as slaves, with their heads down, not looking to right or left, and, of course, keeping silent.

  Women love to speak, and they do it articulately, and beautifully. It is a joy to hear them. It is a lovely part of their life.

  Muchly then does it impress their bondage on them that this delight may not be exercised without the explicit, or implicit, permission of a free person. What a difference between the unquestioned prerogatives of the free woman who may speak if and when, and as, she pleases, and the helplessness of the slave who may be silenced with a word or gesture, and may not speak without permission.

  Surely the nature of a woman much changes, once the collar has been snapped about her neck.

  Men were about the wharf and the slaves’ coffle must proceed between them. And, as is common, many were the remarks, comments, whistles, observations, sounds, and such, to which the shackled kajirae were exposed.

  Such a coffle, in such a situation, such a display of goods, is sometimes referred to as a collar banquet, as though its contents might be something which men might seize and on which they might feast.

  The coffle, interestingly, was accompanied by Pani youth, of the lesser sort, with switches. As I understand it, something similar is often done amongst the Red Savages of the Barrens, namely, that adult white females are placed in the charge of boys. In this way, controlled and herded as the animals they are, they are taught that they are inferior even to the children of their masters.

  When Alcinoe passed me, I whispered to her, “Heat your thighs, slut,” and she jerked at the chain, frightened, but kept her head down, and whispered, “Yes, my Master.” That had surely been a mistake. She had been terribly startled. She had not thought. For such a mistake, a girl might be switched. I was not her master. She was a ship slave. I watched her proceed toward the end of the wharf, the walled-in trail. Normally, of course, that expression, ‘my Master’, is used only to one’s actual master, the one to whom one belongs.

  Almost all the slaves, of course, wore ship collars, as did Alcinoe, but some had lighter, lovelier collars, more common on the continent, and islands, but as securely locked, and as unslippable. I saw Pertinax’s Jane and Cabot’s Cecily. They had not been taken with the tarn cavalry, to whatever might have been its destination. Both seemed apprehensive. They were now with common slaves, public slaves, so to speak. Both were delicious sluts, with sweet love cradles. They were perhaps being confiscated. At the World’s End, who could gainsay the Pani? The tarn cavalry had been brought, largely intact, to the holding of Lord Temmu. I wondered if Tarl Cabot, Pertinax, and some others, might not now be expendable. Surely they were not Pani. Did Pani now need them? Would Pani trust them? Slaves, of course, are in little danger. They are not likely to be slain, no more than other animals. They may, of course, as other animals, easily change masters.

  The hatred and contempt of the free woman for the meaningless, despicable slave, so far beneath her, is well known. On the other hand, when a city falls, when walls crumble in flame, and the streets run with blood, the free woman, unlike the slave, has much to fear. Their freedom, commonly so estimable, is now likely to earn them the bloody blade, their heads as readily posted on pikes as those of others. There is none to defend them, none to save them. Where shall they hide, within the encirclements, away from the room-to-room searches, away from the snuffling sleen, searching for a scent? It is not unknown for them to tear away their clothes and prostrate themselves before mocking victors, covering their feet with kisses, and begging to be spared. “Are you a slave?” they might be asked. “Yes, Master!” they sob. “Whose slave?” “Your slave, Master!” Sometimes their own serving slaves, who have often been much abused, as is commonly the practice of the scornful free woman, set upon their former mistress, strip, and bind her, and lead her, leashed, to slave-gathering points, at a wall, or at major cross streets, throwing her to the feet of conquerors, that her thigh may be seared as theirs, and a collar put upon her. “I am a free woman!” might cry the shamed, affronted captive. “How dare you bring me a free woman?” might the slaves be asked. The free woman is then thrown to her belly, and a sword is put at the back of her neck, and the arm is then raised. Surely it is an honorable death. “Please spare me, Master!” cries the free woman. “Master?” “Yes, Master! Master!” The woman is rudely turned, so that she is supine. The eyes of men rove her. She trembles. Might she please a master? Would she do, as a slave, even minimally? “Take her away,” says one of the men, “mark her, collar her. Perhaps she will do as a pot girl.” The slaves laugh, as their former mistress is dragged to the side. In addressing the word ‘Master’ to a man, did she not confess herself slave? Her masquerade of freedom is then at an end. Many free women, it is said, and perhaps all, as is hinted, are merely slaves who have dared to conceal themselves for a time in the habiliments of the free. Better then, at last, that they will know the cage, the chain, the rope, the whip.

  I saw the blond slave, Saru, pass.

  I saw her, more than once, lift her hea
d, slightly, and, with agonized eyes, whispering, interrogate some fellow to the side.

  When she came to my vicinity, the chain had halted briefly, for some girls, ahead, had fallen, trying to ascend the steepness of the trail. It was not an easy climb. She whispered to me, plaintively. “Noble Master, where is Master Pertinax? Do you know him? Is he about? Tell him of me, please tell him of the slave, Saru!”

  “Be silent,” I told the slave. Surely she knew she was not to speak in coffle. I was entitled to strike her, but I did not. Any free person is entitled to administer discipline to an errant slave. It is, so to speak, a favor to the master. To be sure, I had no idea where Pertinax might be, save that I supposed him with the tarn cavalry, wherever that might be. Might not the slave have supposed as much? But perhaps not. Slaves are commonly kept in much ignorance. Would you, for example, spend time imparting information to kaiila, tarsks, and such?

  Too, what was her interest, that of a slave, in the whereabouts of a free man? What might Pertinax be to her or she to him?

  A bit later I gathered that her indiscretion had caught up with her, for I heard her cry out, in misery, several yards ahead, almost at the end of the wharf, near the beginning of the trail. One of the Pani youth had come up behind her, probably unnoticed, caught her speaking, and struck her, several times, swiftly, about the left arm and neck. She had her head down then. She looked neither to the right nor left. And I supposed she would now be silent, appropriately so, perfectly so, forbidden speech. And she might hope that she had not been noted in such a way that she might be whipped at the journey’s end.

  What might Pertinax be to her, or she to him?

  I should mention one thing which I found of great interest, in the matter of the coffle. It may be recalled that amongst the slaves of the Venna keeping area, supposedly the area of higher slaves, there had been a certain number of slaves which, when brought to the open deck, had been invariably hooded. I had supposed, originally, as I saw no hooded slaves disembarked from the ship that those slaves were retained on board. On the other hand, I had heard a fellow remark, as one of the large cargo nets swung out from the rail again and once more began its descent to the wharf, “That is the last ten, the last of the slaves.” “Surely not,” I said. “How many are there?” he asked. “Two hundred, some two hundred,” I said. “Well,” said he, “when that ten is added, there will be twenty tens.” “It cannot be all,” I said. “There were hooded slaves.” “I know fellows in the kitchen,” he said. “They tell me two hundred, give or take two or three.” “Where are the hooded slaves?” I asked. “Perhaps they have been cast overboard,” said a fellow. There was laughter at this, so merry a jest, a form of humor likely to be less amusing to slaves than others. To be sure, who would jettison such lovely cargo, goods so pleasant to behold, and hold? “Mixed in,” said another. “Yes,” I said. “Mixed in!” “I do not see any who seem all that different from others,” said a fellow. “No,” said another. “Why were they hooded, anyway?” asked another fellow, scrutinizing the passing coffle. “Pani are strange,” said a man. “It was a Pani madness.”

  I suddenly understood, or thought I understood, the rationale for the hooding. It was truly important to hood one slave only, the former Talena, of Ar. I had recognized her, to my astonishment, in the private area within the Venna keeping area. To hood several was merely to suggest that any particular one was not of paramount importance. A single hooded slave might have provoked a great deal of speculation. The nonsense of extraordinary beauty, though the slaves were clearly high-quality merchandise, was to conceal the identity of one slave, Talena, of Ar. If it was understood that she was on board, considering the bounty on her in Ar, the men might have become unmanageable, and insisted on putting about, and returning to the mainland. Pani, and some others, might have resisted, and the enterprise of the great ship, whatever it might be, would doubtless have come to an end. And the Pani, of course, would brook no temporary return to the mainland, no delay in their venture to the World’s End. The outcome of the war might be soon decided, had perhaps already been decided. That Talena’s presence on board might have been disruptive was clear, and that the concealment of her presence was prudent was also clear. What was not clear was why the Pani would have her on board, at all. I assume, given the precautions exercised, and such, that they were well aware of her political and economic importance. There must then be some additional reason for her presence, perhaps in the camps in the northern forests, of which I had heard, on the ship, and here, at the World’s End. Indeed, why would she have been so mysteriously swept from the height of the Central Cylinder in Ar, long ago? She must have some importance to Pani, or to someone, or something, but what it might be, I did not know.

  There had been twenty slaves in the private section of the Venna keeping area, those who had regularly been hooded. Alcinoe and I had seen them, even examined them, in the light of the lamp. It had been then that we had encountered amongst them, frightened, now only one slave amongst others, she who had been Talena, the Ubara of Ar, in the time of the Great Treason. I supposed that she had been given a name, as is usual with slaves, but I did not know what it was. I was sure that Seremides could recognize her, but I doubted that he knew she was about. I could recognize her, of course. And Alcinoe. But, as far as I knew, we might be the only three other than, presumably, some of the Pani, who could do so. I had no intention, of course, of revealing her identity. It might be worth one’s life to do so. I envied many of my fellow armsmen, who could simply look upon her, as a man looks upon a slave, as merely another slave. To be sure, that was how she should now be looked upon, as that is all she now was. Let a woman be looked upon as a slave. She is then looked upon as a woman.

  I saw whip slaves, in their turn, moving past.

  They were wrist-shackled identically with the others, and were similarly clad, and were barefoot. Gone were their switches. Gone now was their authority. As slaves they were poor stuff. I doubted that, stripped and exhibited, they would bring much off the block. To be sure, some men might like them. Perhaps some Peasants might buy them, to hoe suls, to pick beans, to swill tarsks, to draw the plow, to warm their feet in the winter.

  I did not expect to recognize all the slaves from the private section of the Venna keeping area, having seen them but once, in poor light, but I had little doubt I could recognize some of them.

  The last ten had, as noted, been joined to the coffle.

  “See the pelt on that one,” said a fellow.

  That was one, one from the private area, for sure. Her reddish hair, like a flame, burned to her very calves.

  I then saw another I recalled.

  Excellent, I thought. They are here, mixed in.

  It was interesting to see them in the light. I remembered some six or seven.

  Talena, I supposed, would be here somewhere.

  “Keep your head down,” said one of the Pani youth to a slave, and struck her, stingingly, once on each calf, below the hem of the tunic. “Yes, Master!” she said. “Forgive me, Master!”

  I was pleased.

  Slaves should well understand themselves as slaves, for that is all they are.

  It was a great temptation, of course, for them to look up, and ahead, toward the castle of Lord Temmu, far above.

  Curiosity may not be becoming in a kajira, but they are inveterately curious. How they will wheedle and plead for the least tidbit of information, kissing one about the knees, looking up, hopefully. Their curiosity reminds one of that of the tiny, agile, scampering saru, hurrying about amongst the branches of the forests of the Ua.

  Then I saw her, rather toward the end of the coffle, perhaps seventeenth, or eighteenth, from the end.

  She did not see me, of course, for she kept her head down, as the slave she was, and, I gather, now knew herself to be.

  If she had any doubt as to the matter, a bout with the lash would soon convince her.

  It is an excellent, and beautiful, moment when a woman realizes that that
is what she is, a slave.

  She is then whole within herself, content, and loving.

  The pain is ended.

  She is the property of her master.

  Yet she had no private master. She was the property of the ship, which is very different. The Pani, of course, could give her to anyone. Perhaps she might even be given to Lord Yamada, among other gifts, in a petition for peace, or mercy, or as a token of esteem or good will.

  I watched her approach.

  It was interesting to me. She might be now struck, no differently from any other slave.

  Who, at one time, would have dared to think of striking Talena, Ubara of Ar?

  Now, a slave, she was subject to the whip of a child.

  Had she had true power in Ar, had she been a true Ubara, and not a puppet of the occupation, her word might have created and destroyed fortunes, humbled generals and exalted common armsmen; armies might have been marched at her word, and tarn cavalries launched, wars begun and wars ended, but she had had, for the most part, only the trappings of power, not power itself. Yet she had sat upon the throne, presided on public occasions, issued the decrees prescribed, and made the appointments recommended. She had seemed to have power, and I do not doubt but what the unastute thought it hers.

  Now she was approaching, coffled.

  I had attended, as a guardsman, many of her fetes and banquets, and had attended her, and others, at the theater, at concerts, and song dramas. Her regalia had been complex and sumptuous, rich and colorful, the envy of every free woman in the city, each pleat and fold carefully arranged by slaves; her slippers had been laced with pearls, her veils had shimmered with jewels. Cast flowers and sprinkled perfumes, drummers and flautists, preceded her chair, borne by mighty slaves, flanked by liveried guardsmen.

  “There is a pretty one,” said a man.

  “No, look at that one,” said a fellow, indicating another.

  Men may look upon slaves appraisingly, as upon other beasts. If one may admire the silken coat, the flanks, of a kaiila, one may, as well, admire the pelt, the flanks, the curvature of a calf, the trimness of an ankle, the roundedness of a forearm, the delight of a shoulder and throat, the lissome figure, the exquisite features, of a lesser animal, a slave.