Norman, John - Gor 10 - Tribesmen of Gor.txt
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“Please, Hassan,” she wept, “keep me as a slave girl”
“But you are free,” he said.
“No!” she cried. “In my heart I have always been a true slave girl. I only
pretended to be free. Whip me for it! Though I was fortunate enough never to be
collared or branded, or mastered, I am a natural slave! Though I have lived as a
free woman since birth, I concealed the fact that I was a true slave!”
“And when did you learn this fact?” asked Hassan.
“When my body changed,” she said, looking down. The men laughed.
I looked upon her. Her contours were lovely. It was not unlikely she would
please a master.
She stood before Hassan, relaxed, soft, though frightened, her right foot at a
right angle with her left, turning her hip out, opening her beauty to him, as a
slave girl. “I confess to you, Hassan,” she said, “what I have never confessed
to any other man--that I am a slave girl.”
“Legally.” said he, “clearly you are free.
“More real than the law is the heart,” said the girl, quoting a proverb of the
Tahari.
“It is true,” said Hassan.
“Keep me,” she said.
“I do not want you,” he said.
“No!” she cried.
“I do not want you,” he said. Then he said, “Conduct this free woman from the
camp.”
One of the men seized her by the arm.
“Let me sell myself!” she wept.
As a free woman she could do this, but, of course, she could not revoke the
transaction for, after its completion, she would be only a slave.
“I will sell myself into slavery,” she said.
Hassan indicated to his man that he should release the girl. He did so.
“Do you understand what you are saying?” asked Hassan.
“Yes,” she said.
“Kneel,” he said.
She knelt before him.
“What have you to offer?” he asked.
She held out the golden tarn disk.
He looked at it, held in her small palm, proffered to him, piteously.
“Please, Hassan,” she said.
“I see that you are a true slave, Zina,” he said.
“Yes, Hassan,” she said. “I am a true slave.”
“It is far more than you are worth,” he said.
“Take it,” she begged.
He looked at her.
“Please take it!” she begged.
He smiled.
She took a deep breath; she closed her eyes. Then she opened her eyes. “I sell
myself into slavery,” she said.
His hand, open, was poised over the coin. Her eyes looked into his. His hand
closed upon the coin; the transaction was completed.
“Chain this slave,” he said.
Roughly the girl, whose name had been Zina, but who was now as nameless as a
newborn she-kaiila, was taken from the tent and thrown on her belly in the
gravel by the slave stake. The collar, from behind, was put about her throat and
locked; her head was jerked sideways as, by the collar chain, in the fist of one
of Hassan’s men, she was secured by the snap lock at the chain’s fret end, to
the stake ring. Her ankles were chained, snapped into the ankle rings; her right
wrist was then locked in a slave bracelet; Hassan’s man, reaching under her
right leg, by the dangling bracelet, rudely jerked her right hand and wrist
under her right leg: he then locked her left wrist in the bracelet, confining
her hands behind and below her right leg. She lay on her side in the gravel,
miserable. When free women and slave girls are chained together, it is common to
respect the distinction between them by chaining them somewhat differently; in
this case the free girl’s hands were braceleted before her body, the slave’s
were fastened below her right leg; it is common for the slave to be placed under
greater restraint, and more discomfort, than her free sister; this acknowledges
the greater nobility of the free woman, and is a courtesy often extended to her,
until she, too, is only a slave; “Give the free girl a switch,” said Hassan; it
was done; the free girl wielded the switch with two hands; the slave, as she was
chained, could not defend herself.
Hassan slipped the golden tarn disk into his wallet. “Alyena!” he called.
The girl came running to him, and knelt before him. “Yes, Master,” she said.
“Give us more tea,” said Hassan.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“Are you not afraid the free girl will kill her?” I asked Hassan. I referred to
the switching in progress of the recently imbonded wench at the slave stake.
She who had been Zina was now shrieking for mercy. She was not receiving it.
“No,” said Hassan.
“Slave! Slave! Slave!” screamed the free girl, lashing down at the imbonded
traitress.
But, after a time, he signaled to one of his men, and he, standing behind the
free girl, who was on her knees, caught the switch on the backswing and, to her
fury, took it from her. “It is enough,” he said to the free wench. She sat
angrily in the gravel, her head down, her neck chained to the stake.
“Please, Mistress. Please, Mistress,” wept the slave, moaning.
“Alyena,” said Hassan.
“Yes, Master.” she said.
“Gather brush and dung,” he said. “Make a fire. Heat well an iron.”
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“Tonight.” he said, “we brand a slave.”
“Yes, Master,” she said.
I had little doubt that it would be the Tahari brand which, white hot, would be
pressed into the thigh of the new slave, marking her thenceforth as merchandise.
The contact surface of the iron would be formed into the Taharic character
‘Kef’, which, in Taharic, is the initial letter of the expression ‘Kajira’, the
most common expression in Gorean for a female slave.
Taharic is a very graceful script. It makes no distinction between capital and
small letters, and little distinction between printed and cursive script. Anyone
who can printed Taharic will have no difficulty in following cursive Taharic.
The men of the Tahari are content to form their letters carefully and
beautifully, being fond of them. To scribble Taharic is generally regarded not
as proving oneself an efficient fellow, but something of a boor, insensible to
beauty. The initial printed letter of ‘Kajira’, rather than the cursive letter,
as generally, is used as the common brand for women in the Tahari. Both the
cursive letter in common Gorean and the printed letter in Taharic are rather
lovely, both being somewhat floral in appearance.
“Give the free girl water,” said Hassan. It was done. “The slave will wait until
she is branded before she drinks”, said Hassan.
“Yes, Hassan,” said one of the men.
“Water her after the kaiila,” said Hassan to Alyena.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“You have lost some money on these women, haven’t you,” I asked, “if you brand
her before bringing her to the market.”
Hassan shrugged.
Many men like to think they are buying a fresh girl, one who was free. Many men
enjoy breaking a girl to slavery. Furthermore, slavers tend to pay more highly
for free women than slave girls. Slav
e girls, less guarded, less protected, are
more easily acquired. Slave girls, too, are less likely to be the objects of
determined rescue attempts. No one cares too much what happens to a slave girl.
So they wear the collar of one man or another, in one city or another. What does
it matter? They are only slave. Sometimes it seemed to me that, at least in the
north, a tacit agreement existed among the isolated cities. Beautiful slave
girls, barefoot, bangled, in scandalously brief slave livery, well displaying
their considerable charms, collared, hair free, blowing in the wind, vital,
walking exhileratedly, were common on the high bridges of the city, extending
between the numerous cylinder towers, whereas free women, sedate, dignified,
restricted, in their confining robes of concealment, were discouraged from the
use of such bridges. Each city’s young tarnsmen, then, in testing their mettle,
were offered convenient, well-displayed, delicious, female acquisition-targets.
Who would care to risk his life for a free woman, who, stripped, might prove
disappointing, when, for less risk, he could get his capture loop on a known
quantity, a girl who has quite probably been trained like an animal to
deliciously satisfy the passions of a man, a girl who, responsive, helpless
under his touch, his hands and mouth igniting her slave reflexes, will beg and
strive to be a loving and, obedient joy to him. These arrangements, I suspected,
had to do with the attempt of cities to protect their free women who, in
numbers, seldom fall to the enemy, unless the city itself should fall, and then,
of course, they would find themselves, like slaves, under the victory torches,
their clothing removed, completely, strapped On the pleasure racks of the
conquerors, thereafter, in the morning following the victory feast, to be
chained and branded. Men respected free women; they desired, fought for, sought
and relished their female slaves.
“As a free woman,” smiled Hassan, “she would have brought me nothing.” He
referred to the one who had been Zina. “As a free woman,” said he. “I would have
put her out into the desert. As a slave girl I will make a little on her.” He
grinned. “And, of course,” he said, “her brand will be fresh.”
“That is true.” I acknowledged.
“Besides,” he said, “it will give me great pleasure to brand her.”
I smiled.
“In her slavery,” said he, laughing, “let her remember who it was who put the
brand on her.”
“Hassan, the bandit,” I said.
“He,” acknowledged the desert raider. “Now let us have more tea.”
10 Hassan Departs from the Oasis of Two Scimitars
The oasis of Two Scimitars is an out-of-the-way oasis, under the hegemony of the
Bakahs, which, for more than two hundred years, following their defeat in the
Silk War of 8,110 C.A., has been a vassal tribe of the Kavars. The Silk War was
a war for the control of certain caravan routes, for the rights to levy raider
tribute on journeying merchants. It was called the Silk War because, at that
time, Turian silk first began to be imported in bulk to the Tahari communities,
and northward to Tor and Kasra, thence to Ar, and points north and west. Raider
tribute, it might be noted, is no longer commonly levied in the Tahari. Rather,
with the control of watering points at the oasis, it is unnecessary. To these
points must come caravans. At the oases, it is common for the local pashas to
exact a protection tax from caravans, if they are of a certain length, normally
of more than fifty kaiila. The protection tax helps to defray the cost of
maintaining soldiers, who, nominally, at any rate, police the desert. It is not
unusual for the genealogy of most of the pashas sovereign in the various eases
to contain a heritage of raiders. Most of those in the Tahari who sit upon the
rugs of office are those who are the descendants of men who ruled, in ruder
days, scimitar in hand, from the high, red leather of the kaiila saddle. The
forms change but, in the Tahari, as elsewhere, order, justice and law rest
ultimately upon the determination of men, and steel.
It was late at night, in single file, over the sands, silvered in the light of
the three moons, that we came to Two Scimitars.
Men rushed forth from the darkness, with weapons, encircling us.
“It is Hassan,” said a voice.
“One cannot be too careful these days,” said another voice.
“Tal,” said Hassan to the merchant who stood at his stirrup.
“We have water,” said the merchant, greeting the bandit.
Hassan stood in his stirrups, looking about at the palms, the red-clay walls,
the buildings of mud; some domed, of the oasis, the gardens.
“You have goods for me?” asked the merchant.
“Yes,” said Hassan. He sat back in the saddle. The girl back arched, head down,
belly up, bound over the withers of the kaiila, before the saddle, twisted,
whimpering. She was Zina. Only she now wore the name, which she had borne as a
free woman as a slave name, to shame her, given to her by her master,
Hassan, the Bandit. Her companion prize, whose name was Tafa, was bound
similarly before the saddle of one of Hassan’s men. The soft interiors of the
thighs of both girls were bloodied, stained reddish brown, to the side of the
knee but only one of them wore in her flesh, on the outside of her left thigh,
recently imprinted, the Tahari slave mark. She only, Zina, was, of now, a slave
girl. Others of the men of Hassan led pack kaiila, containing in their burdens
goods taken from the caravan plundered four days ago.
The mud buildings at an oasis such as that of Two Scimitars last for many years.
In such an area one often goes years without rain.
When rain does fall, however, sometimes it is fierce, turning the terrain into a
quagmire. Following such rains great clouds of sand flies appear wakened from
dormancy. These feast on kaiila and men. Normally, flying insects are found only
in the vicinity of the oases. Crawling insects of various sorts, and predator
insects, however, are found in many areas, even far from water. The zadit is a
small, tawny-feathered, sharp-billed bird. It feeds on insects. When sand files
and other insects, emergent after rains, infest kaiila, they frequently alight
on the animals, and remain on them for some hours, hunting insects. This
relieves the kaiila of the insects but leaves it with numerous small wounds,
which are unpleasant and irritating, where the bird has dug insects out of it’s
hide. These tiny wounds, if they become infected, turn into sores; these sores
are treated by the drovers with poultices of kaiila dung.
“Six days ago,” said the merchant, “soldiers, Aretai, from Nine Wells raided the
Oasis of the Sand Sleen.”
It puzzled me that the merchant should say this.
I looked about me. In the moonlight I could see that kaiila had trodden the
gardens. I saw two walls broken, the high Walls of red clay used to shade
courtyards and as a protection against raiders. I counted eleven palm trees,
date palms, cut down, their trunks fallen at an angle into the dust, the palm
leaves dried and lifeless, the fruit unripened. It
takes years for such a tree
to grow to the point at which it will bear fruit.
“They struck here last night,” said the merchant “But we drove them off.
“Aretai are sleen,’’ said Hassan.
I wondered that be should feel so deeply about such matters, he, a bandit.
“They broke a well,” said the merchant.
No one spoke for some time. Hassan, nor his men, did not, even cry out in
outrage.
Then Hassan said, thinly, “Do not jest.”
“I do not jest,” said the merchant
“Aretai are sleen,” said Hassan, “but yet are they of the Tahari.”
“The well is broken,” said the merchant. “Do you wish to see?”
“No,” said Hassan.
“We are attempting to dig out the rock, the sand,” said the merchant.
Hassan’s face was white.
It is difficult for one who is not of the Tahari to conjecture the gravity of
the offense of destroying a source of water. It is regarded as an almost
inconceivable crime, surely the most heinous which might be perpetrated upon the
desert. Such an act, regarded as a monstrosity, goes beyond a simple act of war.
Surely, in but a few days, word that Aretai tribesmen had destroyed, or
attempted to destroy, a well at Two Scimitars would spread like fire across the
desert, inflaming and outraging men from Tor to the Turian outpost merchant
fort, and trading station, of Turmas. This act, perpetrated against the Bakahs
at Two Scimitars, a vassal tribe of the Kavars, would doubtless bring full-scale
war to the Tahari.
“Even now the war messengers ride,” said the merchant.
The tribes, at the various oases, and in the desert, in their nomad territories,
and at their kasbahs, would be summoned. It would be full war.
A well had been broken.
“Business must go on,” said the merchant. He was looking up at Hassan. His hand
was on Zina’s body.
“Are you sure the raiders were Aretai?’’ I asked the merchant,
“Yes,” he said. “They did not deign to conceal the fact.”
“On what do you base your conjecture?” I asked.
“What is your tribe?” he asked.
“He is Hakim of Tor,” said Hassan. “I vouch for him.”
“The agal cording was Aretai,” said the merchant. “The saddle markings, too. And
they cried out, in their attack, ‘For Nine Wells and Suleiman!’“