Norman, John - Gor 10 - Tribesmen of Gor.txt

by Tribesmen of Gor [lit]

  woman.” The fellow had been dragged away. He was with the male slaves toward the

  rear of the column; he alone among them was not stripped; he wore his seraglio

  silk, the ruby necklace; they did not look pleasantly upon him.

  At the first group of fifty girls, nude, waiting in wrist coffle, I stopped. She

  was the twenty-third girl from the first girl on the line.

  Her left wrist behind her, held by the chain to her sisters in bondage, she

  stepped forth. She put her head to my stirrup, not looking up. I felt her press

  her lips deeply, fervently, to my boot.

  She looked up then, tears in her eyes.

  “My thanks,” she whispered, “Master.”

  “You are in the first group, twenty-third girl,” I said. “I hear among the men

  that you are quite good.”

  “A girl is grateful,” she said, “if men should find her pleasing.

  I made as though to ride from her. Her small right hand was at the stirrup. Her

  left hand was behind her, locked in its bracelet.

  “I am not the same as a man,” she said, looking up.

  “Obviously,” I said, looking on her stripped slave beauty.

  “I am different,” she said. She looked up. “I love being different,” she

  whispered.

  I nodded.

  “I love men,” she said. “They are so strong, so magnificent. I love being

  commanded by them. I love obeying them. I love knowing that if I displease them

  in the slightest, I will be whipped or slain. I had not known such feelings were

  possible.”

  I regarded the girl in her rapture. How thrilled she was to discover the

  deliciousness of her own domination by men. Women desire male domination. Not

  receiving it they become petty, frustrated, competitive, hostile, and vicious, a

  function of this basic need having failed to be satisfied. The institution of

  female slavery in a society provides a vehicle for the expression and

  satisfaction of this basic need. The slave girl, of course, is completely and

  totally at the mercy of men. She is the most dominated of women. Further, her

  domination is supported by her civilization; it is legally binding and

  culturally sanctioned; it is complete; she sees it in the eyes of all who took

  upon her, it is complete, she is slave.

  “I love being a slave,” said the girl, looking up at me.

  “Kneel,” I told her.

  “Yes, Master,” she said. She knelt. I lifted the single rein of the kaiila. I

  set my heels to touch its flanks, to move ahead in the line of march.

  “Master,” said the girl.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “May I speak?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Will I be sold in Tor,” she asked.

  “Yes I told her. “You will be sold nude in Tor, from a slave block.”

  “To whom will I be sold?” she asked.

  “A Master.” I said. Then I kicked the kaiila in the flanks and moved ahead. The

  leather at the pommel of my saddle grew taut as I pulled with me, stumbling, the

  girl I had tethered there. Behind me, kneeling in the sand, in wrist coffle,

  fastened, to others, on each side of her, I left a nameless slave beauty, who

  once had been Tarna.

  It would be time enough in Tor, for her to have a name. She would receive it

  from her master. It would be whatever he wished. It is useful for a slave to

  have a name. It makes it easier to summon and command her.

  I looked at the girl tethered to my saddle. Of all the slave girls about, save

  one in a white kurdah, near the bead of the march, she was the only one who was

  clothed. Her neck was encircled by a band of steel, the slave collar. It was no

  longer that of Ibn Saran; it wore the name of Hakim of Tor. That was who the

  girl belonged to. Tight leather bound her wrists; her tether led to my saddle,

  The garment she wore was incredibly brief, a rag, it was of brown rep-cloth,

  stained with grease and dirt; I had found it in the kitchens of Ibn Saran; it

  had been used in the cleaning of pans; I had ripped it at the neck: I had torn

  it, lengthily, on the left side, to reveal the marvelous curve from her left

  breast to her left hip; let men look upon her beauty; it would be as public as I

  cared to make it, for she was my slave.

  After she had falsely testified against me at Nine Wells, she had smiled, slyly,

  in triumph, pleased with her work, pleased that I would be sent to the brine

  pits of Klima; I had escaped from Nine Wells, but, recaptured, was enchained,

  destined for Klima; I well recalled her elation, her contempt, her scorn, as she

  had looked down upon me, helpless in the chain; she had flung me a token,

  something by which to remember her, a bit of slave silk, redolent with slave

  perfume; she had flung me a kiss, laughing, before being ordered back to her

  barred alcove by the slave master who at that time was supervising her.

  I would not forget pretty Vella. Now I owned her. She had begged me to forgive

  her, as though a word from me would make all things right. When she had been

  flung to the feet of Hakim of Tor, she had looked up, in terror, then joy,

  seeing then who was Hakim of Tor, the master to whom I had consigned her,

  myself.

  “Do not rise, Slave Girl,” I told her.

  “Am I forgiven, Tarl?” she bad begged. “Am I forgiven?”

  “Fetch the whip,” I told her.

  I saw T`Zshal, who was riding past, leading his thousand lances. He reined in,

  and his men behind him.

  “We are returning, to Klima,” he said.

  “But you have kaiila,” I said.

  “We are slaves of the salt, slaves of the desert,” he said. “We return to

  Klima.”

  “The Salt Ubar is gone,” I said.

  “We will negotiate with local pashas and regulate the desert, and discuss the

  prices of the varieties of salt,” said T`Zshal.

  “The price of salt will soon rise,” I suggested.

  “It is not impossible,” said T`Zshal.

  I wondered if it were wise to have armed the men of Klima and put them in the

  saddles of kaiila. They were not typical men. There was none there who had not

  survived the march to Klima.

  “Should you ever need aid,” said T`Zshal, “send word to Klima. The slaves of the

  salt will ride.”

  “My thanks,” I said. They would be fierce allies. They were desperate and mighty

  men. Each there had made the march to Klima.

  “Things now,” I said, “I conjecture, will change at Klima.” I recalled that

  Hassan had warned me against taking a bit of silk, perfumed, into Klima. I had

  hidden it in the crusts. “Men would kill you for it,” he said.

  T`Zshal looked about himself. Slave girls, in coffle, shrank back.

  “We will need taverns, cafes, at Klima,” he said. “The men have been too long

  without recreation.”

  “With control of much salt,” I said, “you may have much what you wish.”

  “We shall confederate the salt districts,” said T`Zshal.

  “You are indeed ambitious,” I said. T’Zshal, I saw, was a leader.

  Haroun, sitting in court, in what had been the audience room of the kasbah of

  Ibn Saran, had invited T’Zshal, and his lances, to join his service. T`Zshal and

  the others had refused. “We will return to Klima, said he, “Master
.” T’Zshal, I

  knew, would serve under no man. “I would rather be first at Klima than second in

  Tor,” he had said. He was a slave, true, but of no man, only of the salt, and

  the desert.

  “I wish you well,” said T`Zshal.

  “I wish you well,” I said.

  His kaiila, with a scattering of sand, sped from me. He was followed by a

  thousand riders.

  I rode, slowly, toward the head of the columns, across the desert between the

  two kasbahs.

  Some two hundred yards from the head of the, column, I passed the small Abdul,

  who had been a water carrier in Tor, and an agent of Ibn Saran. It was not

  impossible, through his work with Ibn Saran, that he knew matters of importance

  pertaining to the wars of Priest-Kings and Kurii. Two chains ran to his metal

  collar, on opposite sides, leading, respectively, to the stirrup of a mounted

  rider on each side of him. His hands were manacled to a loop of chain about his

  waist. He did not raise his head. He feared to look me in the face. “Let him be

  sent to Tor,” I had suggested. “I will have agents of Samos, of Port Kar, sent

  to that city.” It will be done,” had said Haroun, high Pasha of the Kavars. The

  agents of Samos have interesting techniques of interrogation. I had no doubt

  that they would learn all that small Abdul had to tell them. After that, no

  longer of use to the agents of Priest-Kings, he could be sold south, into the

  Tahari.

  Some hundred yards from the bead of the column, I passed a large white kurdah,

  on a large, black kaiila. I did not brush aside the curtain. It did not contain

  a girl I owned. It contained a slave girl, an exquisitely feminine girl,

  blond-haired and blue-eyed; she was richly veiled and bejeweled; it was said she

  was the preferred slave of the great Haroun himself, high Pasha of the Kavars;

  it was said her name was Alyena; she was of high station; she wore silks, and

  veils, and jewels; but the collar on her throat was of steel.

  In what had been the kasbah of Ibn Saran she had been thrown naked to the foot

  of the dais on which, cross-legged, sat the great Haroun himself. She had not

  dared to raise her head. “I will keep this slave,” he had said. She had been

  dragged away, weeping. “I am the slave of Hassan,” she had wept. “I love only

  him!” That night, sent to his quarters; she had knelt before her veiled master.

  “Do you love another, Girl?” he had asked, sternly.

  “Yes,” she said, “Master. Forgive me. Slay me, if you must.”

  “And who is he?” asked her veiled master.

  “Hassan,” she wept. “Hassan, the bandit.”

  “A most splendid fellow,” said her master.

  The girl looked up, startled. His veil was about his shoulders.

  “Hassan!” she wept. “Hassan!” She threw herself to his feet, covering them with

  kisses as a slave girl.

  When she looked up, he commanded her to the couch. She ran eagerly to it,

  tearing the slave silks with which she had been adorned from her body, and knelt

  upon it, small, her head down, awaiting her master. He joined her, discarding

  his robes. Then he seized her by the hair and pulled her head up and flung her

  on her back to the depth of the luscious silk, and then, with the cruel

  exploitativeness of the Tahari master, he claimed her as his own.

  Toward morning he reminded her that she must be whipped three times. First, she

  had called out his name at Red Rock, among the flames, during the raid of

  Tarna’s men; secondly, she had fled from his riders, to return to Red Rock, to

  seek him out, when she had been captured; third, she had, that very evening,

  upon discovering who might be her master, cried out his name, “Hassan! Hassan!”

  “Whip me, Master,” she said, lying in his arms. “I love you.

  “Am I forgiven, Tarl?” Vella had begged. “Am I forgiven?”

  “Fetch the whip,” I had told her.

  She looked at me, dumbfounded. Women of Earth are always forgiven. They are

  never punished, no matter what they do. They, of course, are not slave girls.

  They lack the legalities, and the collar.

  “You cannot be serious,” she said.

  “Did I not speak of this to you when I first bound you as a slave girl?” I

  asked. I referred to our conversation in the room of preparation, when I had

  first surprised and captured her, making her mine.

  “I asked when you would whip me,” she said, numbly. “You responded, when it was

  to your convenience.” She looked at me, miserably.

  “It is now convenient,” I told her.

  She sprang wildly to her feet. “I hate you!” she cried. “I hate you!”

  Her small fists were clenched. She was, wild with rage, quite beautiful in the

  brief, stained rag I had given her to wear.

  “I hate you!” she cried. “I hate all of you!’’ she cried, turning to look at the

  many warriors in the great room. “I hate men!” she cried. She was barefoot on

  the tiles. She was the only woman in the room, and she was slave. “I hate all

  men!” she cried. “I hate them! I hate them!” She spun to face me. “And I hate

  Priest-Kings, too!” she cried. “I hate you all!”

  No one responded to her, but gazed impassively upon her.

  “I betrayed Priest-Kings!” she cried. “Yes! I served Kurii! Yes! And I am glad I

  did, glad! Yes, glad! Glad! Glad!” Her eyes blazed. “Punish me!” she demanded.

  “You are not to be punished because you betrayed Priest-Kings,” I told her.

  “You left me in a paga tavern in Lydius,” she cried out, “a chained paga slave!”

  “You chose to flee the Sardar,” I told her. “It was a brave act. It did not turn

  out well for you. You fell slave. On Gor, as not on Earth, a girl bears the

  consequences of her actions.”

  “You could have purchased me”‘ she cried.

  “Yes,” I said, “you were within my means.”

  “But you did not do so!” she cried.

  “It did seem convenient to me, at that time,” I said, “to purchase you, to keep

  you as a slave.”

  “As a slave!” she cried. “You should have freed me!”

  “As I recall,” I said, “you begged to be freed.”

  “Yes!” she cried.

  The men in the room looked at one another.

  “I had not known, until that time,” I said, “that you were, in the belly of you,

  a true slave girl.”

  She looked at me, angrily. She turned red.

  On Gor it is said that only a true slave begs to be freed. That act,

  incontrovertibly, on Gor, more deeply than a brand and a collar, marks the

  individual as a true slave. Who but such a true slave would beg to be freed?

  Such individuals, of course, are never freed, but, commonly, their nature now

  being made undeniably clear, are put under heavier restraints and treated more

  harshly. When Talena, the daughter of Marlenus of Ar, Ubar of Ar, had, in a

  missive to him, begged her freedom, he had, on his sword and on the medallion of

  Ar, sworn against her the oath of disownment. As a consequence, she was no

  longer of high birth, no longer his daughter. I had had Samos free her and

  transmit her to Ar. There she lived, free but of no status; she was no longer

  recognized, in the sight of its Home Stone, as a citizen
of Ar; she had not even

  the collar of a slave girl for her identity; she was kept sequestered by

  Marlenus in the central cylinder, that his shame not be publicly displayed upon

  the high bridges of the city.

  “No!” cried the girl. “You should have freed me!”

  I looked at her, in her rage. I did not suppose she had acted much differently

  than would have many women. The Goreans believe, of course, that in the belly of

  every woman there is a slave girl, waiting to be revealed by the right master.

  “You should have freed me!” she cried. “You should have freed me!”

  I looked at her, in her rage, her beauty, her clenched fists, the brief,

  revealing rag.

  “You are too beautiful to be free,” I told her.

  She reacted as though struck.

  She looked about, at the men in the room, clad in the garb of the Tahari. They

  looked upon her. She shuddered, knowing that among them she was too beautiful to

  be free.

  She turned again to face me. She drew herself up. “I am pleased I identified you

  for Ibn Saran,” she said. “I am pleased that I testified against you at Nine

  Wells. Punish me.”

  “You are not to be punished because you identified me for Ibn Saran,” I said,

  “nor because you testified against me at Nine Wells.”

  She looked at me, furious.

  “Were you not commanded by your Master, Ibn Saran, to so testify?” I said.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “You were a good slave girl. You are to be commended,” I said.

  “Throw her a candy,” I said to one of the men.

  He did so.

  “Eat it,” I told Vella.

  She did so.

  “You are to be punished,” I said, “and punished only, because you, a slave girl,

  have not been found pleasing.”

  She looked at me with horror.

  “For so little?” she said.

  I gestured to a man, an Aretai, in white burnoose, with black kafflyeh and white

  agal cording, who stood nearby. He tossed a Gorean slave whip to the tiles, some

  twenty feet from the girl.

  She looked at the whip in disbelief. Earth women, no matter what they do, are

  never punished. She could not believe that she was to be treated as a Gorean

  slave girl.

  “Fetch the whip,” I told her.

  She stood straight. “Never!” she cried. “Never! Never!”

  “Bring a sand glass,” I said, “of one Ehn’s sand.” It was brought. The Gorean