Tribesmen of Gor

by Norman, John;

  * * * *

  An Ahn before dawn I had been aroused. Tafa, sweet and warm, on the straw, on the cool stones, lay against me, in my arms.

  Five men, two with lamps, entered the cell. A loop of chain was placed about my belly. My wrists were manacled before me, the manacles fixed with a ring in the chain. Two of the men, one on each side, then thrust a bar behind my back and before my elbows, by means of which, together, they could control me. The fifth man unsnapped the collar from my throat, and dropped it, with its chain, to the stones. I was pulled to my feet.

  Tafa, frightened, awake, knelt at my feet. She bent to my feet. I felt her hair on my feet. I felt her lips kiss my feet. She knelt as a slave girl. In the night I had conquered her.

  By means of the bar, not looking back, I was thrust from the cell.

  * * * *

  We had stood, the salt slaves being readied for the march to Klima, at the foot of the wall of the kasbah of the Salt Ubar. The moons were not yet below the horizon. It was cool, even chilly at that hour in the late spring. Dawn, like a shadowy scimitar, curved gray in the east. I could see Tarna’s kasbah, some two pasangs away. Hassan stood, some four men from me, similarly manacled. Our feet had already been wrapped in leather. I saw the collar of the chain lifted, snapped on his throat. Dew shone on the plastered walls of the kasbah looming over me, on rocks scattered on the desert. A rider, on kaiila, was moving toward us, on the sand about the edge of the wall. The scarlet sand veil of the men of the Guard of the Dunes concealed his countenance, and a length of it fluttered behind him as he rode, and the wide burnoose lifted and swelled behind him. The cording of the agal, over the scarlet kaffiyeh, was gold. Men beside me lifted the chain and collar. The rider pulled the kaiila up beside me, drawing back on the single rein. The collar was snapped about my throat. I felt the weight of the chain.

  “Greetings, Tarl Cabot,” said the rider.

  “You rise early, noble Ibn Saran,” said I.

  “I would not miss your departure,” he averred.

  “Doubtless in this there is triumph for you,” said I.

  “Yes,” said he, “but, too, regret, Comrade. One gains a victory, one loses an enemy.”

  The men of the Guard of the Dunes were fastening slave hoods on the prisoners of the chain. There were several men behind me. This slave hood does not come fitted with a gag device. It is not a particularly cruel hood, like many, but utilitarian, and merciful. It serves four major functions. It facilitates the control of the prisoner. A hooded prisoner, even if not bound, is almost totally helpless. He cannot see to escape; he can not see to attack; he cannot be sure, usually, even of the number and position of his captors, whether they face him, or are attentive, or such; sometimes a hooded prisoner, even unbound, is told simply to kneel, and that if he moves, he will be slain; some captors, to their amusement, leave such prisoners, returning Ahn later, to find them in the same place; the prisoner, of course, does not know if they have merely moved a hundred feet away or so, to rest or make camp; all he knows is that if he does move a foot from his place he may feel a scimitar pass suddenly through his body. In the hood, too, of course, the prisoner does not know who might strike or abuse him. He is alone in the hood, with his confusion, his ignorance, his unfocused misery, his anguish, helpless. The second major function of the hood is to conceal from the prisoner his location, where he is and where he is being taken. It produces disorientation, a sense of dependence on the captor. In the case of the march to Klima, of course, the hood serves to conceal the route from the prisoners of the chain. Thus, even if they thought they might live for a time in the desert, in trying to flee, they would have little idea of even the direction to take in their flight. The chance of their finding their way back to the kasbah of the Salt Ubar, and thence, say, to Red Rock, would be small, even if they were not hooded; hooded, on the Klima march, of course, the chance, unhooded, of finding their way back at a later time would be negligible. This disorientation tends to keep men at Klima; fewer of them, thus, die in the desert. The second two functions of the slave hood, relative to the march to Klima, were specific to the march. Mercifully, the hood tended to protect the head from the sun; one does not go bareheaded in the desert; secondly, the darkness of the hood, when the salt crusts were reached, prevented blindness, from the reflection of the Tahari sun off the layered, bleak, white surfaces. These hoods, used on the march to Klima, have a tiny flap, closed and tied with a leather string, at the mouth, through which, several times during the day, opened, the spike of a water bag, carried by kaiila, is thrust. The men are fed twice, once in the morning, once at night, when the hood is opened, and thrust up some inches to permit eating. Food is thrust in their mouths. It was generally dried fruit and bread, and a bit of salt, to compensate for the salt loss during the day’s march, consequent on perspiration. Proteins, meat, kaiila milk, vulo eggs, verr cheese, require much water for their digestion. When water is in short supply, the nomads do not eat at all. It takes weeks to starve, but only, in the Tahari, two days to die of thirst. In such circumstances, one does not wish the processes of digestion to drain much needed water from the body tissues. The bargain would be an ill one to strike.

  Ibn Saran had turned his kaiila toward Hassan. He looked at him for a time. Then he said, “I am sorry.” Hassan did not speak. It had puzzled me that Ibn Saran had spoken thusly to Hassan, a bandit. Then Ibn Saran turned his kaiila again, and prepared to depart the chain.

  “Ibn Saran,” I said.

  He paused, and guided the kaiila to my side. The men were closer now, fastening on the prisoners the slave hoods.

  “Slave runs to Earth by agents of Kurii,” I said, “have been discontinued.”

  “I know,” he said.

  “Does that not seem curious?” I asked.

  He shrugged.

  “Priest-Kings,” I said, “received an ultimatum, ‘Surrender Gor.’”

  “That is known to me,” said he.

  “Might you clarify that ultimatum?” I asked.

  “I assume,” he said, “it betokens an intention to invite capitulation, before some aggressive stratagem is initiated.”

  “A stratagem of what nature?” I asked.

  “I am not privy,” said he, “to the war conferences of the Kurii.”

  “What is your charge in the desert, on behalf of Kurii?” I inquired.

  “Their work,” said he.

  “And of late?” I asked.

  “To precipitate war,” said he, “between the Kavars and the Aretai, and their vassal tribes, to close the desert to strangers, intruders.”

  “Such as agents of Priest-Kings?” I asked.

  “They, and any others unwelcome now in the dune country,” said he.

  “Can your men not police the dune country?” I asked.

  “We are too few,” said he. “The risk of some strangers slipping through would be too great.” In Gorean, the same expression is used for stranger and enemy.

  “So you enlist the desert on your behalf?” I said.

  “Inadvertently,” he said, “thousands of warriors, preparing, hasten even now to do my bidding, to fly at one another’s throats.”

  “Many men will die,” cried Hassan, “both Kavars and Aretai, and of the vassal tribes! It must be stopped! They must be warned!”

  “It is necessary,” said Ibn Saran to him. “I am sorry.”

  A slave hood was pulled over the head of Hassan. His fists were clenched. It was locked under his chin.

  “One gains a victory,” said Ibn Saran, “but one loses an enemy.” He looked at me. He unsheathed his scimitar.

  “No,” I said. “I will march to Klima.”

  “I am prepared to be merciful,” said he, “Comrade.”

  “No,” I said.

  “It is cool here,” he said. “Your death would be swift.”

  “No,” I said.

  “You are of the Warriors,” said he. “You have their stupidity, their grit, their courage.”

  “I
will march to Klima,” I said.

  He lifted the scimitar before me, in salute. “March then,” said he, “to Klima.” He resheathed the blade, swiftly. He turned his kaiila. He rode down the line, the burnoose swelling behind him.

  Hamid, who was lieutenant to Shakar, captain of the Aretai, now in the red sand veil of the men of the Guard of the Dunes, stood near. “I ride with the chain,” he said.

  “I shall enjoy your company,” I said.

  “You will feel my whip,” he said.

  I saw the kneeling kaiila of the guards, the guards now mounted, lifting themselves, to their feet. I surveyed the number of kaiila which bore water. “Klima is close,” I said.

  “It is far,” he said.

  “There is not enough water,” I said.

  “There is more than enough,” said he. “Many will not reach Klima.”

  “Am I to reach Klima?” I asked.

  “Yes,” said Hamid, “should you be strong enough.”

  “What if difficulties should arise, unanticipated, on the journey?” I asked.

  “Then,” said Hamid, “unfortunately, I shall be forced to slay you in the chain.”

  “Is it important that I reach Klima?” I asked.

  “Yes,” said Hamid.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “You have given Kurii, and their agents, much trouble,” said he. “You have opposed yourself to their will. Tarl Cabot, thus, will serve at Klima.”

  “Tarl Cabot, thus,” I repeated, “will serve at Klima.”

  “Look,” said Hamid. He pointed to a window, narrow, high in the wall.

  I looked up.

  At the window, veiled in yellow, behind her a slave master, stood a female slave.

  Gracefully the girl, doubtless with the permission of the slave master, removed her veil. It was Vella.

  “You remember, perhaps,” said Hamid, looking up, “the delicious slave, Vella, whom the Kurii found of much use, who testified against you in the court at Nine Wells, who, by her false testimony, assisted in having you sent to the pits of Klima?”

  “I recall the slave,” I said. “She is the girl-property of Ibn Saran.”

  I recalled her well.

  “It is she,” said Hamid, indicating the girl in the narrow window, the slave master behind her.

  “Yes,” I said. “I see.”

  The girl looked down upon me. She smiled, scornfully. She had begged in Lydius to be freed. I had not known until then that she was true slave. But I would have known it now, seeing the insolence, the petty, collared beauty of her. I stood below her in the chain of salt slaves. Female slaves, cringing and obsequious, fearing free men, often display contempt for male slaves. Sometimes they even flaunt their beauty before them, in their walk and movements, to torture them, knowing that the male slave may be slain for so much as touching their silk. I could see that she was much pleased to see me, helpless and in the chain to Klima. I could see in her smile how she looked upon me, as a female slave upon a male slave, but I could see, too, in her smile, the pleasure of her triumph.

  “A delicious day for the slave,” said Hamid.

  “True,” I said.

  Then the girl, reaching within her silk, withdrew from her bosom a light square of silk, some eighteen inches square, scarlet, clinging, diaphanous.

  She turned to the slave master behind her. She requested of him something. He seemed adamant. Her attitude was one of begging. With a laugh, he acceded to her request. Triumphantly she turned again to the window and dropped the silk from the aperture. Gracefully, it wafted downward, settling on the sand at the foot of the wall near us.

  “Bring it,” said Hamid to a man.

  The man picked it up, smelled it and laughed, and brought it to Hamid.

  Hamid held it. It was laden with slave perfume. It was slave silk.

  “A token,” I said.

  “The token of a slave girl,” said Hamid contemptuously. Hamid thrust and twisted the square of silk in the metal of my collar, and yanked it tight. “Remember her at Klima,” he said.

  She had testified against me at Nine Wells. She had smiled when I had been sentenced there to the pits of Klima.

  I looked up, the silk fastened in my collar.

  She looked down upon me, as a female slave upon a male slave. And, too, more than this, she looked down upon me in triumph. Her face was flushed. It was red with pleasure, transfused with joy. How deliciously sweet did she find her petty feminine vengeance! How foolish I thought her. Did she not know I was Gorean? Did she not know I would come back for her?

  But it was said none returned from Klima.

  I looked up at her.

  I resolved that I would return from Klima.

  “Remember her at Klima,” said Hamid.

  “I will,” I said.

  I would remember her. I would remember her well.

  In the window the girl stiffened. The man behind her had said something to her. She turned to him, agonized. She pleaded with him. This time his face remained impassive. Angrily she turned to the window again. She smiled. She blew a kiss toward me, in the Gorean fashion, brushing it toward me with her fingers. Then, swiftly, she turned and left the window.

  “Is she not,” I asked, “to be permitted to look out, to see us begin the march to Klima?”

  “She is a slave girl,” said Hamid. “It will not be permitted her.”

  “I see,” I said.

  One often denies slave girls small pleasures and gratifications. It teaches them, the more deeply, that they are slaves.

  “I thought she stood high with Ibn Saran,” I said.

  “She is now in the keeping of a slave master,” he said.

  “Perhaps she will attempt to undermine the slave master with Ibn Saran,” I said, “in the wheedlings of the couch. I gather that she crawls well to him.”

  “Ibn Saran is no fool,” he said. “She would earn herself an excellent tying and whipping.”

  “I see,” I said.

  “It is Ibn Saran,” he said, “who has put her in the keeping of the slave master, and has instructed him to leave her in no doubt that she is naught but a slave.”

  “I see,” I said.

  “She is only a female of Earth,” he said.

  “True,” I said.

  “She will obey,” he said.

  “Good,” I said.

  Some kaiila moved by, laden with various supplies. Some guards rode by.

  I smelled the slave perfume. I recalled it from the palace of Suleiman Pasha, when the girl, with Zaya, the other slave, had served black wine. A rich master will often have individual perfumes specially blended and matched to the slave nature of his various girls. All are slaves, completely, but each girl, collared, embonded, is deliciously different. Some slave perfumes are right for some slaves, and others not. Vella’s perfume, I thought, doubtless a tribute to the skills of some perfumer, had suited her superbly. It fitted her well, like a measured collar.

  I smiled. Perhaps Vella, even now, had been returned to her quarters, perhaps adjoining a larger area for the keeping of less-favored female slaves; where she would wait until commanded by men, perhaps to her exercises or bath, or silks, or cosmetics, to her beautification, or to small, suitable servile tasks, useful in reminding a girl that she is a slave, or perhaps, if fortunate, to the couch of her master, or, if it was his pleasure, to those to whom he saw fit to give her. But it was early. Doubtless her silk had merely been taken from her and she had been locked in her quarters, or cell, as it might be.

  As Vella was apparently a high slave, a preferred slave, I did not think she would be kept in the general slave quarters and have an assigned alcove.

  Such indignities were apparently not to be inflicted upon her.

  Too, had not Ibn Saran said that she had her own quarters?

  More common slaves, but slaves higher than those kept in the lower depths of the kasbah, are usually kept in the general slave quarters, and are often entered into their alcoves, which are
reached through the walls of the slave quarters. In the alcove the girl is commanded to her stomach, head to the back wall, and the small, square gate is locked behind her. These two precautions, the prone posture and the locking gate, are common in female seraglios in the Tahari. When the girl lies on her stomach, her head to the rear wall, she cannot prevent the door from locking behind her.

  That the alcoves lock, as well as the doors to the general area, provides the masters with useful options, putting the girls more at their mercy. Sometimes, for one reason or another, it is useful to separate or isolate given girls; too, it common to secure slaves at night, and the alcove makes this a simple matter; a single guard, with a lamp, can check a hundred girls in a few Ehn; too, if one is not in her place, it is easy to know instantly which one is missing; too, the simple fact of being secured, at the pleasure of men, in whatever way, helps to impress upon slaves their helplessness, and their bondage.