“It is a long one,” said Paula.
Some wagons were then aligned behind us, waiting for the caravan to pass.
“It is a caravan of the merchant, Mintar,” said Paula.
“Yes,” I said.
Neither Paula nor I could read Gorean but we were familiar with the sign of the merchant, Mintar, which appeared on the side of the wagons, and on several banners, these raised on wands over every third or fourth wagon. There would be no doubt as to whose caravan it was. It must have contained four hundred wagons or more. Surely it took a very long time to pass. Interestingly, unlike most caravans, it was, for the most part, unguarded. This was apparently because most brigands or raiders were reluctant to attack a caravan of Mintar. He, rather as Decius Albus, and certain other high merchants, maintained their small private armies, which might consist of as many as a thousand men. He was also noted for the relentless pursuit of any who might threaten or despoil his caravans. His resources enabled pursuits to be maintained for years. It was difficult to dispose of his goods. He maintained a large network of informants, from whom intelligence might be gathered, upon whom gold might be lavished. Bribes were tendered, bounties would be paid. His hunters, skilled and patient, were often referred to as “the Sleen of Mintar.”
Once the caravan had passed, a succession of wagons that had been behind us began to move past us.
One, however, lingered behind.
On both the left and right side of the road paired ruts were worn in the stone. Clearly the Viktel Aria was a very old road. Major roads, such as the Viktel Aria, are begun as deep, wide trenches, several feet deep. These trenches are then filled with fitted stone until the surface of the ground is reached. They are built like walls, walls of fitted stone, walls that are sunk in the earth. Traffic then makes its way on the top of these “walls.” They are intended to last for millennia.
We heard drums in the sky.
“Tarnsmen,” said Paula, looking up.
Overhead there was a flight of tarnsmen, perhaps a hundred men and mounts. We could see sunlight flashing from helmets, shields, and weapons. They were perhaps five hundred feet above us, to our right. The tarn drums kept the cadence of the flight, the wings of the great birds beating in unison.
“See the standard,” said Paula.
“That of Ar,” I said.
There was a blast on a horn, a bugle, trumpet, or such, and the formation, as a single flock, ascended sharply; another signal and it veered to its left; another and it descended to perhaps two hundred feet, far off now, and then veered to its right, and then returned to its original line of flight, toward Ar.
“It is beautiful,” exclaimed Paula.
We cried out in fear for there was a sudden sound, striking us like a bludgeon, a sudden snap of wings, great wings, not twenty feet from us, over us, air rushing about us, buffeting us, we covered for an instant by a vast, fleet shadow. We heard laughter, rapidly fading.
“Monster!” I shrieked, after the departing figure.
“It is a joke,” said Paula.
“I nearly lost consciousness,” I said. “I might have been dragged behind the wagon.”
“It is an outrider,” said Paula. “Formations are often flanked with them, for purposes of security.”
“I trust he enjoyed himself,” I said.
“I am sure he did,” she said.
“A monster!” I said.
“A man,” she said.
“Yes,” I said, “a man!”
“Remember, kajira,” she said, “we belong to men.”
“Yes,” I said, jerking at the slave bracelets that fastened my hands behind my back, shaking my neck in the chain that bound me to the ring fixed in the back of the wagon, “we belong to men!”
“Do you object?” she asked.
“No!” I said, angrily.
“Why not?” she laughed.
“I belong in their collars,” I said. “I belong in their chains!”
“I, too, dear Phyllis,” she said, “I, too.”
“He is still a monster,” I said.
“It is a man’s joke,” she said, “a man’s prank. Besides, who can blame him for swooping by, and inspecting two naked kajirae? Perhaps he was speculating on how we might look, fastened to his slave ring.”
“A tarnsman,” I said.
“Of course,” she said.
I supposed that it took an unusual man to dare the great tarn. Many, I had heard, died in the attempt. I recalled my flight in the tarn basket. Even in the basket, there had been a joy of flight. Some tarnsmen, I knew, were raiders, raiders for women. In some cities, a young tarnsman’s first task is to capture a woman of the enemy and bring her back as his slave. At a feast, before his family and friends, she, once a proud, haughty free woman, must dance, dance as the slave she now is. None may touch food or wine at the feast until he has partaken of each, served, of course, by his kneeling slave. Commonly a marauding tarnsman uses the capture loop. She is then dragged to the saddle apron and tied, belly up, before him. On the other hand, some have trained their tarns to seize the girl in their talons, to be released later at their convenience.
Looking back, I noted that the wagon behind us, some four or five hundred yards back, had neither drifted back, nor approached, and passed us.
“There is a wagon behind us, Paula,” I said. “It has been there for some time. It neither drops back, nor approaches.”
“Perhaps it is in no more of a hurry than we,” said Paula. “Perhaps it is pacing itself off us, thinking we are more familiar with the road. It may even wait to see where we will stop, at some inn, or caravanserai.”
“Another is passing it,” I said, “and will soon be beyond us.”
“I trust the Lady Bina is comfortable,” said Paula.
“Doubtless,” I said. “Why should she not be? She is free.”
The Lady Bina, with Lord Grendel and Eve, were in the wagon, concealed within the yellow cloth. One would not expect a free woman to walk, at least one such as the Lady Bina. Too, Lord Grendel and Eve, obviously, if in the open, would be conspicuous, and would be sure to provoke curiosity. It was better that they be concealed. Drusus Andronicus and Kurik were on the wagon bench, taking turns with the reins. Occasionally one or the other would go back into the wagon, and join the others. Sometimes, someone or other would open a narrow crack in the back of the cloth and peer out. At such times we would keep our heads down, that we not meet the eyes of the free. The wagon was slow and ponderous, seemingly a poor choice if one were interested in effecting a surreptitious escape. The yellow cloth on the frame, too, was easily noted. A wagon such as ours could not easily slip by, unnoticed amongst other wagons. It was drawn, too, by a single, plodding draft tharlarion. What pursuit could it possibly elude? Too, two kajirae, afoot, were chained behind the wagon, and the wagon, thus, must monitor and regulate its speed, lest, secured as they were, they be dragged, and injured, perhaps their necks broken.
“The masters,” I said, “do not fear pursuit.”
“Perhaps not,” said Paula. “Why do you think not?”
“We move on the road,” I said. “We move in daylight. We do not endeavor to conceal ourselves or hasten. The wagon is drawn by a single beast. The wagon is large, ponderous, slow, and conspicuous.”
“And,” said Paula, “two kajirae are attached by leads to two rings, behind the wagon, which assures that the wagon cannot move more swiftly than two secured, tethered kajirae, that they not be lost or harmed.”
“That, too,” I said.
“How better then, so openly, so conspicuously,” she asked, “could one conceal one’s presence?”
“Paula?” I said.
“What fugitives,” she asked, “would behave so, so foolishly, seemingly frustrating their own designs?”
“I see,” I said.
“B
ut perhaps you are right,” she said. “Perhaps Kurii, perhaps Decius Albus, do not concern themselves with us, perhaps they do not begrudge us a quiet and unimpeded exit from Ar.”
“It seems so,” I said.
“Indeed,” she said.
“You suspect our tethering,” I said, “to be a part of a disguise, suggesting confidence and ease?”
“I suspect so,” she said.
“And if it were not,” I said, “if no danger threatened, and all was safe, where would we be?”
“Precisely where we are now,” she said, “chained to the back of a wagon.”
“I see,” I said.
“We are slaves,” she said.
Many times in the past few days, I had felt the urge to throw myself to my belly before Paula, weeping, and beg her forgiveness for the wrong I had so gratuitously done to her, confessing my miserable attempt to seduce Drusus Andronicus. How grievously I had betrayed her friendship and trust! Clearly Drusus Andronicus had never referred to the matter. It remained, thus, a secret, my terrible secret, a secret that, daily, grew harder to bear.
“—Paula,” I said, plaintively.
“Yes?” she said.
“—Nothing, nothing,” I said.
“We are drawing to the side,” said Paula. “There is a well there, by the pasang stone. Perhaps we will be fed and watered. Perhaps our neck chains will be lengthened, so that we may lie down on the grass, under the wagon.”
The wagon rolled from the Viktel Aria, and stopped in the shade of a Tur tree, some yards from the well. We welcomed this. Our neck chains were lengthened, and, as we knelt and lifted our heads, we, by means of a bucket brought from the well, held to our lips, were watered. Kurik allowed some of the water to wash down our bodies, for which we were grateful. Shortly thereafter our wrists were freed from the slave bracelets, and we were given a round, flat loaf of bread, which we eagerly divided between us. We had been attended to by Kurik, while those in the wagon were served by Drusus Andronicus.
“I think we may be allowed to rest,” said Paula.
We climbed under the wagon, in the slack of chain allowed, and stretched out, on our stomachs, our bodies damp from the water Kurik had poured upon us, on the soft grass. As we lay, rising a bit on our elbows, we could see the Viktel Aria, and the passing traffic.
“Where will we stop, where will we camp?” I wondered.
“In some public place, I think,” said Paula. “The masters seem determined that all should proceed with apparent normality.”
Various wagons, some moving toward Ar, some away from Ar, passed. Occasionally one stopped, to draw water from the well.
“What are you looking for?” asked Paula.
“There was a wagon,” I said, “that lingered behind, neither exceeding our pace, nor slackening its pace, and falling behind.”
“I remember,” she said.
“I do not see it now,” I said. “I do not think it passed us.”
“Perhaps it has turned off the road,” said Paula. “There are many side roads.”
“Yes,” I said.
“Or,” she said, “it may have paused, as we are pausing.”
“I am afraid,” I said.
“It is probably nothing,” said Paula.
We continued to watch the traffic on the Viktel Aria.
“I am filthy,” I said. “I hope we can soon bathe.”
“If we stop at a public camp, or such,” said Paula, “there will be arrangements for the washing of slaves.”
We suddenly heard the snap of a whip, and a cry of pain. We were startled, and winced. The crack of a whip is a sound slave girls well know. The sound came from the road, from our left.
“Look,” I said, “a coffle.”
It was moving toward Ar.
“Hold!” called a mounted guard, on a saddle tharlarion, placing his long, slender lance across the bosom of the lead slave.
She stopped instantly, and, with a sound of chain, the coffle arrested its progress.
“They are stopping,” I said.
“The shade, and well,” said Paula. “They are going to rest and water the slaves.” This made sense, as the slaves were all female. Whereas the desiderated attributes of the male slave are stamina, endurance, strength, and such, and male slaves may be driven hard and long, and treated mercilessly, the most obvious desiderated attributes of the female slave are such things as beauty, grace, softness, and femininity. One does not want to bring female slaves to the market exhausted, spent, half-crippled, and burned. The male slave, putting aside the male silk slave, is essentially a work animal. The female slave, though she may be well worked by her master, is essentially a pleasure animal. Accordingly, the marches endured by coffled female slaves are quite different from those commonly enforced on male slaves, for example, in such things as the length of the march, the time marched in a day, the pace of the march, the frequency of waterings and rest periods, and so on. Women are not men. This is something well understood by Gorean slavers, and by Gorean men in general. This is not to deny that coffled women, proportional to their stamina, size, and strength, may not be as weary, worn, driven, and miserable as coffled men. But commonly, after two or three days of rest, water, and food, they are ready for the sales block.
“I think it is a long coffle,” I said.
Paula rose to her hands and knees, her head low, under the wagon. “Yes,” she said. “Many slaves. I cannot see from here. Perhaps more than a hundred, perhaps considerably more.”
The girls were chained together by the neck. In such a way, unshackled, they may be easily moved. They also may be more easily moved when chained together by the wrist. The left wrist is the wrist invariably chosen, rather as, if the chain is ankle-shackled, by the left ankle. Indeed, if a woman is chained to a slave ring by the ankle, it is commonly the left ankle that is selected for the fastening. The most-favored coffle fastening is by the neck. The neck is favored in many chaining arrangements, whether a coffle is in question or not. The neck mount is both aesthetic and secure. Too, a chain on the neck, as a collar on the neck, have their symbolic aspects, each leaving the girl in no doubt that she is a slave. Too, as is well known, chaining, collaring, camisking, tunicking, and such are sexually stimulating, both to the slave and the onlooker.
“To the right,” called the coffle guard, and the girls began to cross the road, approaching the well and nearby shade.
“Their feet are not wrapped, not protected, as are ours,” I said to Paula.
“Do not be concerned,” said Paula. “We were protected, as the stones are hot, and we were following the wagon, which holds to the road. The coffle is marched to the side of the road, on the dirt, the soft grass.”
The girls in the coffle were, of course, stripped. That is the common way women are moved in coffle. It saves the soiling of tunics. In this way, at the end of a journey, after the slaves are washed, brushed, combed, and such, they may, if the masters wish, be placed in fresh, well-pressed tunics. Nudity in Gorean streets is rare, and usually reserved for a new slave, usually one who has recently been a free woman, or a slave being disciplined. An interesting exception to this, sometimes encountered, is male laborers, free men, commonly of the lower castes, who might be engaged in heavy tasks. Little is thought of this.
As we watched, we saw some of the girls being ankle shackled. They were then freed from the coffle and sent to the well. Shortly thereafter, with buckets and dippers, some from the following supplies wagon, some from the vicinity of the well itself, they were distributing water. The water is taken by the slaves while they are on their knees. They were, however, permitted to hold the dipper themselves. The slaves distributing the water are not permitted drink until the coffle has been watered. That apparently encourages them to complete their task in a timely manner.
“Your master,” said Paula, subsiding again to her
stomach on the grass, under the wagon, “is conversing with one of the coffle guards.”
“He is of the Slavers,” I said.
“What do slavers talk about?” asked Paula.
“I suppose,” I said, “business.”
“Doubtless,” said Paula.
Shortly thereafter, Kurik sauntered over, and snapped his fingers. “Out from under the wagon,” he said, “and kneel, here, before me.”
Still on our chains, they considerably slackened from when we were fastened closely to the rings on the back of the wagon, we complied.
“You see the coffle,” said Kurik.
“Yes, Master,” we said.
It now rested, muchly gathered together, in the shade.
The water bearers had now been returned to the coffle, where they had been deshackled.
“It is a large one,” he said. “How many slaves do you think are beaded on that particular ‘slaver’s necklace’?”
“A great many,” said Paula, “perhaps one hundred and fifty.”
The common coffle seldom exceeds more than a hundred girls. Common coffles usually contain twenty to fifty “beads.”
“Two hundred,” said Kurik.
“That is very large,” said Paula.
“It is moving, of course, toward Ar,” said Kurik.
Ar was generally credited with having the most slave markets in the northern hemisphere, a distinction that was held by Turia in the far south. The slavers of Ar also boasted the finest markets in the northern hemisphere, but there were few of the other “high cities” that would not dispute this claim. The most prestigious market in Ar was clearly the Curulean, where Paula, I recalled, not at all pleasantly, had been sold. Two other important marketing centers in the northern hemisphere were the port, Brundisium, and, on the Vosk, Victoria. The latter tended to sell almost as much to slavers, seeking eventual resales, as to private masters. The locations of Brundisium and Victoria had not a little to do, it was speculated, with their economic importance. Brundisium, with its great harbor, did not only command the coast, but was the nearest major port to the island Ubarates of Cos and Tyros, and, of late, to the “World’s End.” And Victoria, as I understood it, was the largest port on the Vosk, this providing a favored access to one of Gor’s major arteries of commerce.
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