by John Norman
"What is that?” asked Cabot.
"That of enlisting a human leader, one men will trust, a warrior, a seeming champion, a seeming hero, one whom men, properly motivated, will unquestioningly, eagerly follow, one who will lead armies against the Sardar."
"I see,” said Cabot.
"Agamemnon grows impatient for your answer,” said Peisistratus.
"He will have it soon,” said Cabot.
Grendel had now removed the great bar from the sand, and from his antagonist, and cast it aside, into the sand.
He then turned about and went to the cement platform, and freed the chain of the blonde pet from its ring. He then led her slowly from the platform, to the sand, and then across the sand, and then through one of the far gates, she on all fours.
Two attendants, with poles with hooks, came and removed the now inert body of the champion, dragging it through the sand, furrowing it, to another gate.
"The blonde pet is now safe,” said Cabot.
"Here, no human is safe,” said Peisistratus.
There was then a sudden roll of drums.
"What is it?” asked Cabot.
"The climax of the festivities,” said Peisistratus.
From a far gate, a Kur, laden with chains, goaded by hot irons, was herded, stumbling, toward the center of the sand.
"It is Lord Pyrrhus,” said Peisistratus.
"He is ill,” speculated Cabot.
"More likely, faint from hunger,” said Peisistratus.
The Kur's chains were removed, and it stood alone, in the center of the arena. Despite its size it seemed small there.
"Or, too,” said Peisistratus, “it may be weakened from loss of blood."
"I do not understand,” said Cabot.
"Drawn from his veins,” said Peisistratus. “Thus there is no visible wound."
"Still,” said Cabot, “he is a formidable foe. Agamemnon is not without courage to face such an enemy, Kur to Kur."
"Perhaps,” said Peisistratus.
"What will be the weapons?"
"None,” said Peisistratus.
"None?"
"Hand to hand, tooth to tooth,” said Peisistratus.
"He is courageous, indeed,” said Cabot.
"Perhaps,” said Peisistratus.
"Surely it were better to send a champion against Lord Pyrrhus,” said Cabot, “rather than risk himself, a Face of the Nameless One, in the arena."
"Agamemnon himself will do battle, Kur to Kur,” said Peisistratus.
"A worthy World Lord,” said Cabot. “I salute him."
There was then another thunder of drums, and the tiers turned to face a great part of the wall. It was below and well to the left of where Cabot and Peisistratus were held in their cage.
Two mighty doors there swung open.
The portal might have admitted tharlarion.
For some moments nothing emerged from the gate.
"Ai!” said Cabot, dismayed.
In the portal, now, some eight to ten feet in breadth, some twenty feet in height, there appeared what seemed to be a gigantic, metallic Kur, the limbs, the body, the head, all in proportion, and cunningly devised. The light flashed on the plating and fangs of the immense artificial beast. Suddenly, perhaps on released springs, sharp claws, like curved knives, a foot in length, sprang into view.
"It is a body of Agamemnon,” said Peisistratus, dryly.
The huge metallic head, with eyes like fire, turned from side to side, and then halted, and inclined a foot forward and downward, peering at the figure on the sand, Lord Pyrrhus.
It then, slowly, foot by foot, heavy in the sand, approached Lord Pyrrhus, who made no move to flee, or to defend himself.
One of the metallic paws swept out, and the chest and the side of the face of Lord Pyrrhus, symmetrically lacerated, streamed with lines of blood.
Twice more was Lord Pyrrhus struck, and he struggled to retain his feet.
"He is trying to goad him to fight,” said Peisistratus.
"Lord Arcesilaus, across the way,” said Peisistratus, “is leaving the tiers."
Others, too, were filing out.
Again and again the metallic beast struck Lord Pyrrhus, as though growing more and more frustrated, sometimes flinging him yards, rolling, fur bloody, across the sand. Still Lord Pyrrhus, again and again, staggered to his feet, and made no effort to either flee or defend himself.
"Why does he not fight?” asked Cabot.
"He is fighting,” said Peisistratus.
"He is not,” said Cabot.
"There is much here you do not understand,” said Peisistratus.
"To be sure,” said Cabot, angrily, “what could he do?"
"Agamemnon wants him to struggle, to strike even against the metal, to howl, to scratch at the plates, however futilely."
"It is unlike a Kur not to fight,” said Cabot, “whatever the odds, however improbable the outcome."
"He is fighting,” said Peisistratus.
"Surely not,” said Cabot.
"Surely, so,” said Peisistratus. “He is defeating Agamemnon by finding such a combat beneath his dignity, by demonstrating his mockery of such an absurd contest, by making it clear to the world that Agamemnon, in assuming this body and arrogating to himself its advantages, has abandoned all pretence to, or claim to, honor."
"I see,” said Cabot.
"Lord Pyrrhus strikes a great blow thusly for his cause."
"Many have left the tiers,” observed Cabot.
"In disgust,” said Peisistratus.
"They were to meet, Kur to Kur,” said Cabot.
"But they have not done so,” said Peisistratus.
"No,” said Cabot.
At this point it seemed that Lord Pyrrhus was minded to attack the gigantic, armored machine which so tormented him. He raised himself from the sand and howled in rage, but then, as though recalling himself to himself, he lowered his arms and retracted his claws.
He stood there in the sand, not moving, his head lifted.
"He is showing his contempt for Agamemnon,” said Peisistratus.
The gigantic machine then, as though in fury, closed its jaws about the waist of Lord Pyrrhus and lifted him from the sand and shook him, violently. Even in the tiers one could hear the bones breaking, the muscles and flesh ripping and tearing. Blood streamed from the eyes and mouth. Fur and blood spattered even to the walls of the tiers. And then Agamemnon cast the body from him, and turned about, and left the arena.
Peisistratus and Cabot regarded the remains of Lord Pyrrhus.
"He was Kur,” said Cabot.
"And he won,” said Peisistratus.
"The tiers are muchly emptied,” said Cabot.
"The festivities have ended,” said Peisistratus.
"Yes,” said Cabot.
"Agamemnon will be dissatisfied with this,” said Peisistratus. “He will now be trebly dangerous."
"Why is he not deposed?” asked Cabot.
"He is the Eleventh Face of the Nameless One, Theocrat of the World,” said Peisistratus.
"I see,” said Cabot.
"Do you salute him now?” inquired Peisistratus.
"No,” said Cabot.
Peisistratus pounded on the bars of the cage. “Release us!” he demanded.
A Kur then came, and unlocked the cage, and Cabot and Peisistratus left the tiers.
Chapter, the Twenty-Second:
PAGA
"Paga, Master?” asked the slave.
Cabot looked up, blearily.
"Do you not recognize her?” asked Peisistratus.
Cabot rubbed his eyes, and tried to focus.
"No,” said Cabot.
"We are keeping her a virgin for you,” said Peisistratus.
"A virgin slave?” smiled Cabot.
"White silk,” Peisistratus assured him. “Any time you wish her, you may drag her to an alcove, fling her down amidst the chains, fasten her in place, and teach her to writhe."
The slave shuddered.
/> "Did I not have her before?” asked Cabot.
"No,” said Peisistratus.
"I thought I did,” said Cabot.
The slave regarded him, angrily. Was she no more than one slave amongst others?
But, yes, that was all she now was.
"No,” said Peisistratus, “others, others."
"I do not remember,” said Cabot.
"You were drunk,” said Peisistratus.
"I had her?” asked Cabot.
"No,” said Peisistratus.
"How long have I been here?” asked Cabot.
"You have been with us for three days now, mostly drinking, and sleeping."
"I remember the arena,” said Cabot, slowly. “I was not pleased."
"Few were pleased,” said Peisistratus. “You drank to forget, too much, too long, but one does not forget."
"No,” said Cabot, slowly. “One does not forget."
"Perhaps,” said Peisistratus, “it is time to remember."
"No,” said Cabot, sullenly.
"Are you not of the Warriors?” asked Peisistratus.
"Once,” muttered Cabot.
"Always,” said Peisistratus.
Cabot tried to see the slave. “She is not collared, is she?” he asked, puzzled.
"Those are coins,” said Peisistratus.
"For each use of her, after the red-silking of her,” asked Cabot, “the coins then to her master?"
"She is not a coin girl,” said Peisistratus. “If she were, the coin box would be chained about her neck and locked. She would have no access to the coins."
"Why are there strings of coins about her neck?” asked Cabot.
"They are useful, to remind her that she is a slave, that she has economic value, that she can be bought and sold, and such. Let her think of herself as, in effect, similar to the coins, an object, a property."
"I see,” said Cabot.
"There are twelve strings of coins, your winnings,” said Peisistratus. “From the arena."
"I do not want them,” said Cabot.
"Nonetheless, they are yours."
"Why are they about her neck?"
"I told you,” said Peisistratus. “I would throw her in with the coins."
"It is she?"
"Yes."
"The brunette?"
"Yes."
The slave straightened her body, and lifted her head, and looked away. She assumed an aspect of irritation, of resignation, of disinterest, of frigidity, of disdain, even of boredom.
She was determined to give masters no pleasure.
How naive she was!
Did she not understand how she could not help but give them pleasure, how even her ruthless, helpless subordination to their will would give them pleasure, and how, if they chose, in their patience, she could be inevitably transformed into a squirming, begging instrument of delight, thereafter to be vulnerably, hopelessly dependent on a man's touch?
"Beware, slave,” said Peisistratus.
"Yes, Master,” she said, frightened.
"I do not want her,” said Cabot.
The slave gasped, and drew back.
She regarded him, startled, disbelievingly.
Could a man not want her?
She drew back, further. Her assumed mien of boredom, of disinterest, and such, was now well vanished. She now seemed confused, frightened, disbelieving. How could this be? Had she heard aright? She was kneeling, she, who, quite possibly, had regarded herself as the most beautiful woman she had ever seen, she who had known herself excruciatingly desired, who had taken great pleasure in leading males on, and tormenting them, and then rejecting them, was now kneeling before a male, utterly vulnerable, she now a slave, at the mercy of masters, strings of coins about her throat, and he had not cried out with pleasure at the prospect of her use, had not seized her by the hair and drawn her rudely, instantly, to the privacy of one of the small, enclosed, lamp-lit alcoves.
Was she lacking, was she not attractive?
Was she not such that she could make men her toys?
Or was it now that she was the toy, with whom men might choose to play, or not to play?
She seemed uncomprehending. Momentarily she was angry. Then she was afraid, terribly afraid.
She was now a slave, and helpless. What if she was not wanted? What would be done with her? Too, she now knew that her beauty, in this place, was not that unusual. Here, she was but one slave amongst others.
Slaves are chosen for their beauty, you see. The collars on their necks are not easily purchased.
Too, she was here before a man, and men, such as she had while on Earth met only in her dreams, men of will, and force, men before whom such as she, she realized, could be but a slave.
But he had not wanted her?
She wanted to be wanted.
She must be wanted!
She needed to be wanted!
She knew that she, if necessary, would beg to be wanted!
Despite her pretences from Earth, you see, clung to hitherto so futilely, she was now muchly different from what she had been.
Even in her virginal state, her belly was muchly stirred. Effusions of desire, of readiness, of desires to please, in this so unnatural, and yet so natural, a place, had begun to afflict her with intimations of submission and ecstasy.
Here, in this place, her feigning, her pretenses of bravado, her postures of indifference, and such, suddenly seemed pointless and absurd, even to her.
And what if masters chose not to accept them?
Here she was not as she had been on Earth.
These men would not be likely to be patient with her.
Here she found herself a woman, and a slave, amongst true men.
And she knew such men would expect much of a slave.
And she must strive desperately to please them!
How paradoxical it all seemed to her. Here, where her body was subject to shackles, she found her needs, long denied and desperately, even fearfully, suppressed, unshackled. Here they were allowed to emerge, and run free, into the daylight of nature. Here she could be a joyful, shameless animal, which, as a slave she was.
Indeed, those needs must emerge.
They could be commanded forth.
Men would have it so.
They would have her the helpless victim of her needs, so much then at their imperious mercy.
And what of these new desires, such remarkable consequences of the liberation of her deepest self?
Such desires!
Keen, insistent, irresistible, overwhelming desires!
How like torture, and ecstasy, they were!
Already she sensed she could become their prisoner, as much as though weighty chains had been locked upon her small, fair limbs.
Well would she be enshackled in them! How much they would place her at the mercy of masters!
For the first time in her life, other than in the joy of her dreams, she understood how a woman could kneel before a man, and place her lips tenderly, humbly, gratefully, submissively, to his feet, thanking him for his collar and the fulfillment he granted to her.
Too, she suspected how she, bound, might understand, and gratefully welcome, even the stroke of the whip, unfit for free women, but confirming for her as it would her status as object and property, as something subject to the whip, as something owned by her master.
Already, you see, she had begun to suspect, and well, what it might be, to be a woman, and a slave.
And, as the Priest-Kings, in their cruel wisdom, had chosen her for her desirability, and particularly to a man such as Cabot, indeed, had chosen her to be irresistible to him, so, too, in her way, she had been matched to Cabot, as slave to master, that he would be irresistible to her.
And now, as she knelt helpless before him, the choice wholly his, he had not accepted her. He had denied her acquisition.
She, however incomprehensibly, had been rejected! Tears of shock, of amazement, of confusion, of fear, of misery, of helplessness, sprang to her eye
s, stung them, filled them, and ran down her cheeks.
"I fear you have distressed her,” said Peisistratus.
Cabot shrugged. What, after all, are the feelings of a slave?
"Stop crying,” said Peisistratus to the slave.
"Yes, Master,” sobbed the slave.
"Would you rather I had strung the coins on a post?” asked Peisistratus.
"Do whatever you want with them,” said Cabot, slowly.
"You could kill yourself, drinking like this,” said Peisistratus. “Men have."
"What would it matter?” said Cabot.
"It might matter much,” said Peisistratus.
"Is it truly her?” asked Cabot, trying to focus on the slave.
"We have had a collar prepared for her,” said Peisistratus. “The legend says ‘I am the property of Tarl Cabot'."
"I do not want her,” muttered Cabot.
The girl stifled a sob.
"If unclaimed,” said Peisistratus, “she must be disposed of, and soon."
It seemed the girl would cry out, or speak, but she remained silent. Several times she had been switched for speaking without permission.
It is one of the first things a slave learns, that it is not always permitted to her to speak, when and as she wishes.
She is slave.
"Let another claim her,” said Cabot, sullenly.
"None will have her,” said Peisistratus.
"Is she such a tharlarion?” asked Cabot.
"Her hair is too short,” said Peisistratus.
"It is short,” said Cabot, leaning forward.
"Set the goblet aside,” said Peisistratus to the kneeling slave. “Split your knees, more widely! Straighten your back!"
"Yes, Master!” she said.
"Quickly, slut!” he snapped. “More quickly!"
"Yes, Master!” she wept.
"Move the coins to the side, with both hands,” said Peisistratus, “so that we may examine your breasts."
"Yes, Master!” she sobbed.
"She is not bad,” said Peisistratus.
"Perhaps not,” granted Cabot.
"I think,” said Peisistratus, “that few would confuse her with a tharlarion."
"I want the paga,” said Cabot. “Paga!"
"Do you wish to be whipped?” Peisistratus asked the distressed, trembling slave.
"No, no!” she cried. It seemed clear she had felt the whip.