by John Norman
"Paga!" called a fellow, sitting cross-legged, a few yards away. A girl hurried to him, with her vessel of drink.
Survivors of Ar's Station, which had been Ar's major bastion on the Vosk, including many women and children, had been rescued from the piers of the burning port by a fleet of unidentified ships, ships with which the Cosians in the north had not had the forces to deal. Although the identities of these ships were putatively unknown it was an open secret on the river that they were those of Port Cos, supplemented with several apparently furnished by the Vosk League itself. The matter had something to do with a topaz, and a pledge, something going back apparently to affairs which had taken place earlier on the river. At any rate, as it had turned out, the Ubarate of Cos had decided, wisely, in my opinion, to take no official notice of this action. This was presumably out of a respect for the power of Port Cos, and her desire to influence, if not control, through Port Cos, the politics of the Vosk league, and, through it, the river, and the Vosk basin, as a whole. I had been among these survivors. We had been carried to the safety of Port Cos.
There were perhaps a hundred men, here and there, within the enclosure, and some fifteen or twenty girls. The girls filled their vessels, which, like the hydria, or water vessel, are high-handled, for dipping, in a large kettle hung simmering over a fire near the entrance to the enclosure. Warm paga makes one drunk quicker, it is thought. I usually do not like my paga heated, except sometimes on cold nights. This night was not cold, but warm. It was now late spring. Some Cosians tend to be fond of hot paga. So, too, are some of the folks in the more northern islands, interestingly, such as Hunjer and Skjern, west of Torvaldsland. This probably represents an influence from Cos, transmitted through merchants and seamen. In the north generally, mead, a drink made with fermented honey, and water, and often spices and such, tends to be favored over paga.
"Master," whispered the girl before me.
I looked at her. She had not asked permission to speak. She quickly put down her head. "Forgive me, Master," she said. She opened her knees more, frightened, placatingly.
Most of the girls within the enclosure were here and there, serving, or kneeling, waiting to be summoned. Two, naked, were in tiny cages, cramped, hardly able to move. I gathered they were new to their slavery. I did not know how long they bad been kept so. It had perhaps been a day or so. Both, putting their fingers through the close-set bars, which made it hard even to see them, would beg a fellow, I suppose, Philebus, their master, and the owner of the enclosure, as he passed by, to be released, that they might now serve men. It was difficult to tell if he had heard them or not, but once, at least, he must have for he, with his staff, struck the bars of a cage, strictly ordering its fair occupant to silence. "Yes, Master!" she wept, drawing back, as she could, within it. There were some other girls, too, who were not serving, some five or six, or so. They, in their snatches of slave silk, sat, knelt or lay about a stout post which had been driven deeply into the ground to one side, to which post they were chained by the neck. As more men entered the enclosure women were released from the post to assist in the serving. Also, if one appealed to a fellow, she might be released at his request, to serve him particularly and, if he wished, privately. Temione had been free of the post when I had arrived. I had, however, thinking I had recognized her, and as it proved, I had, summoned her to my place.
I regarded the former proud free woman. She did not dare to raise her eyes. She did, however, trembling before me, make a tiny, piteous, begging sound of need.
"Did you say something?" I asked.
"Forgive me, Master," she said.
"Did you want something?" I asked.
She lifted her eyes, frightened, pleadingly. "I desire to serve you," she whispered.
Interesting, I thought, the transformations which a collar can make in a woman.
"Please, Master," she begged.
"Very well," I said, "you may serve me."
"Thank you, Master!" she breathed, joyously.
"Bring me paga," I said.
"Oh!" she wept, in misery. "Oh, oh."
I looked at her.
"Yes, Master," she wept, and rose quickly to her feet, hurrying toward the paga vat.
I watched her withdraw. How lovely she was! How well she moved! What a slave she had become!
The enclosure of Philebus was, in effect, a transportable paga tavern, one so arranged that it might accompany a moving camp.
I watched her waiting, to dip her paga vessel. How attractive, how desirable, how exciting she was! Women look well, in the service of men.
Another paga slave hurried by, summoned, a blond.
I have mentioned that the girls were not belled, and that this had to do with, presumably, the possible need for darkness and silence, in the event of an attack on the camp. The evening was warm. The moons were out. It would be a good night, I thought, idly, for an attack on a camp. Yet I did not expect one would occur. One should occur, but, I was confident, it would not. If it were to happen, surely it should have taken place long before now. There was even poor security in the camp. I and the fellow I had agreed to accompany, a young man, of the warriors, formerly of Ar's Station, a young man named Marcus, or, more fully, Marcus Marcellus, of the Marcelliani, had had no difficulty, in the guise of minor merchants, in entering the camp. In effect, I suppose, we were spies. Young Marcus, with the consent of his commander, Aemilianus, formerly of Ar's Station, now among the refugees at Port Cos, had been given permission to track the movements of the Cosians in the north, and to convey this information to the major land forces of Ar, which were currently located at Holmesk, to the south. So deeply ran former loyalties, in spite of the failure of Ar, seemingly inexplicably, to relieve Ar's Station. Young Marcus was, in my opinion, a fine though moody, soldier. It had been he who had managed to convey Ar's Station's half of the topaz to Port Cos, which action had resulted in the redemption of the pledge of the topaz, bringing the forces of Port Cos, and apparently, in the process, ships of the Vosk League, as well, to Ar's Station, to evacuate the piers, to rescue survivors, primarily the remnants of her citizenry. If young Marcus, of whom I have grown fond, has a weakness, I would think it would be his moodiness, and his incredible hatred for Cosians, and all things Cosian. This hatred, which seems almost pathological, is doubtless the consequence of his experiences in war, and particularly during the siege of Ar's Station. It is hard to see all, or much, of what one has loved, destroyed, and not feel illy disposed toward the perpetrators of this destruction. To be sure, had the forces of Ar landed in Telnus, I do not think the results would have been much different. I myself, like many warriors, terribly enough, I suppose, tend to see war more as the most perilous and exhilarating of sports, a game of warriors and Ubars. Too, I am not unfond of loot, particularly when it is beautiful and well curved.
Temione had now reached the vat, and was carefully dipping her narrow, high-handled serving vessel in the simmering paga. She had seemed to be crying, but perhaps it was merely the heat from the paga which she had, with the back of her hand, wiped from her eyes. Yet, I thought, too, I had seen her clench her fist, driving the nails into the palm of her hand, and her hips move, inadvertently, helplessly, in frustration. It is hard for a woman to help such things when she is scantily clad and in a collar, when she is a slave.
To be sure, the Cosians had moved in an open, leisurely way, and even along the southern bank of the Vosk, rather than to the north. This seemed madness, for surely the Cosians could be pinned against the river and slaughtered. They would now be, as they had not been at Ar's Station, heavily outnumbered. Perhaps Policrates, the camp commander, was unwise in the ways of war. But rather it seemed he might know he had little or nothing to fear. From what I had heard of him I was reasonably confident he knew what he was doing. Indeed, perhaps he was flaunting an immunity of some sort, political or treasonous. To be sure, the southern bank of the Vosk, because of the former extent of Ar's Margin of Desolation, long ago abandoned, is much less populo
us than the northern bank. Also, of course, the Cosians were presumably moving toward either Brundisium, which had been the port of entry of their invasion fleet, or south to join Myron in the vicinity of Torcadino, where Dietrich of Tarnburg, the mercenary, lay at bay, like a larl in his den. There had been no attempt, at least as yet, for the fine forces of Ar, in all their power, to cut them off, to pin them against the Vosk, or meet them in battle. There were several thousand Cosians, and mercenaries, in our camp, but the forces of Ar, by repute, were in the neighborhood of some fifty thousand men, an incredible force for a Gorean community to maintain in the field. The common Gorean army is usually no more than four or five thousand men. Indeed, mercenary bands often number no more than one or two hundred. Dietrich of Tarnburg, in commanding something like five thousand men, is unusual. He is one of the most feared and redoubtable of the mercenary commanders on Gor. Surely his contracts are among the most expensive. But in spite of the invitation seemingly flagrantly offered by Policrates, the camp commander, general of the Cosian forces in the north, said once to have been a pirate, rescued from the galleys by Myron, Polemarkos of Temos, a cousin to Lurius of Jad, Ubar of Cos, the forces of Ar had not struck, even to restrict or harass foragers. Militarily it seemed Ar's behavior was inexplicable. Perhaps, incredibly enough, they simply did not know the disposition, strength and location of the Cosian forces.
Temione had now filled her paga vessel. She picked up a goblet from a rack near the vat. The shelving on the rack was of narrow wooden rods. The goblets are kept upside down on the rods. In this way, washed, they can drain, and dry. This also affords them some protection from dust. I watched her carefully wipe the goblet. Woe to the slave who would dare to serve paga or wine in a dirty goblet!
I listened to the Vosk in the background, the murmur of conversation within the enclosure, the sounds of the camp.
The slave turned toward me.
Seeing my eyes on her, she put down her head. She approached, humbly, frightened, seemingly terribly conscious of my eyes on her.
How beautiful she was.
"Master," she said, kneeling before me. She poured me paga, filling the goblet she had taken from the rack, from the vessel she carried.
"Paga!" called a fellow nearby, to a redhead, who swiftly hurried to kneel before him, her head to the dirt.
I smiled.
She had not dallied.
Any slave in such a place, of course, may be subjected to the discipline of a customer. It is little wonder that the girls, so subject to penalties, which may be promptly and severely administered, are concerned to be pleasing, and fully.
"Master?" asked Temione. I took the paga.
"Will there be anything else?" she asked, timidly. I sipped the paga. It was hot.
"Your ankle is not belled," I said.
"None of us are belled here," she said.
Her response suggested to me that she was probably unaware of the rationale for this.
"Your ankle would look well, belled," I said.
"I have never been belled," she said, shyly.
"Belling a girl makes it easier to find her in the dark," I said.
"Doubtless, Master," she smiled.
It is common, though not universal, to bell paga slaves. The jangle of slave bells on them, as they move, is quite stimulating. In the oasis towns of the Tahari, and in the vicinity of the great desert, sometimes even free women are belled, and wear ankle chains, as well, that the length of their stride may be measured and made beautiful, and perhaps, too, to remind them, even though they be free, that they are but women. Who knows when the slaver's noose or net may fall upon one of them? Almost all female slaves, at one time or another, or at certain times, are belled. This is probably because bells are so beautiful on them, and so brilliantly and insightfully symbolic of their status as domestic animals, that they are properties, that they are in bondage. Most girls walk proudly in their bells, their shoulders back and their heads up, gloriously proud of their fulfilled femininity. Sometimes they fear, though, to wear bells out-of-doors, for they may then be subjected to the attacks of outraged, frustrated free women, attacks which they, as slaves, must endure. Indoors, however, they are pleased to wear their bells, and often beg to do so. And the little she-sleen, I assure you, know well how to utilize those pleasant, remarkable little devices, so subtly and apparently innocently, to drive masters half mad with passion. When a girl fears she may be out of favor with her master, she sometimes kneels before him and begs, "Bell me." In this simple request, asking to be belled, the slave puts herself in her place, at the feet of her master, reconfirms to him her humble and loving acceptance of her bondage, reassures him of her desire to please, and gives promise of slave delights so exciting and intimate that they can be known only among masters and their women. Sometimes, too, when a slave feels she may not have been sufficiently pleasing she will strip herself and approach the master on all fours, her head down, a whip in her teeth. It is her way of making clear to him her desire to please. It is usually much better, incidentally, for the slave to do this of her own accord than to be ordered to so approach the master. If it is he who has issued the order she may well be being summoned for punishment, or at least a severe upbraiding. If she approaches on her own accord she may well find forgiveness or, perhaps, a disciplining that is little more than symbolic. If she so approaches, however, on his order, as I have suggested, she may well fear. He will do what he wants with her. She is his, totally. The whip on Gor, incidentally, though it is much in evidence, is seldom used. That it will be used, and promptly, if the occasion arises, is perhaps, paradoxically perhaps, why it seldom needs to be used. Most girls avoid feeling it, at least generally, by striving to be excellent slaves. To be sure, every female slave will have felt it, upon occasion. It is then common that they try to make certain that these occasions are quite infrequent. To be sure, some women do not fully understand they are owned, until they are whipped.
The gate to the paga enclosure suddenly flew open and cracked back against the railing.
"It is Borton!" cried a fellow, delightedly.
"Let the festivities begin!" called the newcomer, a large, broad-shouldered, heavily bearded fellow, flinging a heavy purse on its strings into the stomach of he whom I took to be Philebus, the taverner, who clutched at it, but failed to secure it, as it was jerked back on the strings. Philebus cried out in good-humored dismay. And then the fellow took the purse and thrust it down, firmly, into his hands.
"I have been long aflight and have now reported to my captain," said he. "I am weary of the saddle, and would have drink, and something softer to ride!"
There was laughter, and cheering. Men crowded about him. The chained girls shrank down, frightened, making themselves as small and inconspicuous as they could, close to the post.
This fellow, I gathered, was well known. Unfortunately I, too, had once made his acquaintance.
Temione gasped. She, too, had recognized him.
He wore the uniform and insignia of the tarnsmen of Artemidorus, the well-known Cosian mercenary.
"Let feasting begin!" he called, expansively. There was more cheering. "It is Borton!" called a man. "Borton has returned!" cried another. "Borton!" said another. Others, taking note of the commotion, outside the railings, hastened now to enter. Philebus, as I took him to be, the taverner, and Temione's master, was calling out orders to a couple of fellows, his lieutenants, or assistants, I gathered, having to do with food and drink. One of them closed the gate of the enclosure. Some other fellows were climbing over the railing.
"Are you not in my spot?" inquired the newcomer heartily, of a poor fellow sitting rather near the center of the enclosure, usually regarded as a preferred position for prompt service, for observing the dancing of slaves, and such. Swiftly, on all fours, the fellow beat a hasty retreat.
There was again much laughter.
The fellow called Borton hurled his helmet down in the place, marking it for himself. Few, I gathered, would be eager to d
isplace this token of his claimancy.
I put down the cup of paga, and tested the draw, an inch or so, of my blade.
"No, fellow," whispered a man near me. "That is Borton."
"I had gathered that," I said.
"He is one of the best swords in the camp," he warned me.
I returned my blade to the sheath, almost entirely.
"Master," whispered Temione to me, breathless, her eyes shining. "It is he."
"Yes," I said. I did not then understand her emotion. "It is he."
The newcomer strode to the post. The girls there, not yet serving, clung about it, in their neck chains, as though it might provide them some security, some safety or refuge. He pulled one and another of them about, examining them. He turned one over with his foot and had her lie before him, her back arched. Temione gasped, startled at the boldness with which the women were handled.
"You, too, are a slave," 1 reminded her, "and you, too, could be so treated."
"I know," she said.
"Bring me the girls in the cages!" said the fellow, settling down in the spot he had marked for himself.
The two girls, in a moment, wincing, were brought forth by Philebus and, one of his hands in the hair of each, drawn hastily on all fours to his place. They were naked save for their collars. He thrust one to his side on the dirt, and threw the other, a blonde, on her back over his knees as he sat, cross-legged. "Do not interfere," he warned her.