Tribesmen of Gor

by Norman, John;

  “How do you look upon men, Wench?” Hassan had asked. “How do you meet their eyes?” he had asked.

  And Tarna had gazed upon him.

  He had moaned. “We shall lose our heads,” he had said.

  I had then dragged her by the neck to her own couch, that swift instruction be administered to her.

  She had thousands of pasangs to go, but we had made a start with her, enough to get her through the halls.

  I had seen her react as we had dragged her through the soldiers. She was not then the Tarna of old. She was a woman who had been taught what men could do with her.

  I heard singing, shouting, from below, too. We descended four levels, until we reached the bottom level. Tarna looked sick.

  “The smell,” she said. A drunken soldier, carrying a bottle, brushed against us. I let her throw up, twice, in the hall. Then I pushed her ahead of me, holding her by the arm, stumbling through the straw and slime down the corridor. She cried out, miserably, as an urt scurried past, brushing her ankle. We looked through one cell door, swung open. It led into a large, long, narrow room. Against the far wall, chained by the neck, on straw, were more than a hundred slave girls. Soldiers, many drunken, sported with them. Some, holding the slaves in their left arm, forced wine from bottles down their throats. Some of the girls squirmed, eagerly, some with their hands on the bottles, others with their small fingers grasped tightly about the wrist of their master of the moment. Others, at the end of their chain and collar, on their knees, held out their hands. “Wine, Master, please!” they cried. They did not bargain, as might have a desperate free woman, “Anything for a sip of wine, Noble Sir!” for they were slave girls. Anything could, and would, be demanded of them, and for nothing. They were slave.

  “How horrid men are,” moaned Tarna.

  “Speak with care,” warned Hassan, “for soon, as much as any slut at the wall, you will belong to them.”

  Tarna threw back her head, and moaned.

  “It is here,” said Hassan. He moved back the heavy iron door and we entered the room. I looked about, at the chains and devices. Tarna shrank back. She could not run, for my hand was on her arm. She seemed faint. I steadied her. It was dark in the room, except for a small tharlarion-oil lamp on a chain in one corner, and a brazier, glowing, near the branding rack. Hassan stirred the coals in the brazier. In a large kasbah irons are kept always hot. The slaves know this.

  I ripped the bit of cloth away from her hips and threw her against the rack. I swung shut the two heavy bands and with the two twist handles tightened them on her thigh. She turned, trying to pound at the metal that held her. I took her wrists and pulled them forward, to the two posts, some six inches apart, part of the branding rack, putting them in the snap bracelets which dangled there, one from each post. These are simple mechanisms. It is quite easy to open and shut them, and it may be done with a snap of the finger, one for each bracelet. As the bracelets are situated, some inches apart, of course, and as the snap is on each bracelet itself, at the wrist, the girl herself cannot get her finger, of either hand, on the mechanism. Others may open them easily; she, on the other hand, is perfectly held. I took again the twist handles. I turned them extremely tightly. “Oh, oh,” she cried. She pulled futilely at the snap bracelets. Then I again turned the twist handles. “Please!” she cried. “Be quiet,” I told her. She bit her lip. I tightened the handles more and put in the locking device, that they might not slip back. Her thigh was absolutely immobile.

  “I see you like a left-thigh-branded girl,” said Hassan.

  “That is the usual brand site, is it not?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “It will do then,” I said.

  “Yes,” he said.

  Tarna regarded us in misery, while we discussed where she might be marked.

  The rack can be adjusted for a variety of sites.

  The girl can writhe in the rack or squirm, or scream, but the held thigh will not move. It is held for the kiss of the iron.

  With a heavy glove, Hassan pulled an iron from the brazier. “What do you think of this brand?” he asked.

  It was the Taharic slave mark.

  “It is beautiful,” I said. “But let us assure ourselves that this will be a common slave, one fit to sell north.”

  “A good idea,” said Hassan. He returned the one iron to the brazier and reached for another. It glowed red. It was a fine iron, clean and precise. At its tip, bright red, was the common Kajira slave mark of Gor. Tarna looked upon it with horror.

  “It is not yet hot enough, my pretty,” said Hassan. He returned it to the brazier.

  We heard shouting, as though from far away. Hassan looked at me. “I shall investigate,” I said. I left the room and ascended to the third level. The noise was coming from the level above, the second. A soldier was stumbling by. “What is going on?” I asked. “On the level above?”

  “They are searching for Tarna,” he laughed. He then stumbled away.

  I saw two slave girls led past me, on wrist chains, in the grip of another soldier.

  I returned to the fourth level. I returned to the room where Hassan waited.

  “They are searching for Tarna,” I said.

  “On what level are they?” asked Hassan.

  “The second,” I said.

  “Ah,” said Hassan, “then we have plenty of time.” In a few Ehn he removed the iron from the coals, and examined it. He then again replaced it. Shortly thereafter, however, for it must have been almost ready, he drew it forth again. It glowed white.

  “You may scream and cry out, my pretty,” said Hassan, not unkindly.

  She struggled in the bracelets, she watched the iron. Then she screamed. For five long Ihn Hassan held the iron, pressing it in. I saw it sink in her thigh, smoking and hissing. Then he, cleanly, withdrew it. Tarna was marked.

  She sobbed, wildly. We did not rebuke her. I freed her thigh of the rack. She fell on her knees at the posts, sobbing. I freed her wrists of the snap bracelets. I lifted her, sobbing, in my arms.

  I, Hassan, leading, carried Tarna to an empty cell on the fourth level. Hassan pushed back the door, tying it open. The cell he had chosen was not entirely dark, but it was difficult to see within it. It did have a bit of dim light, particularly near the bars, that furnished from a small tharlarion-oil lamp situated a few feet away in the corridor, but, on the whole, it was mostly in shadows, and darkness, particularly near the back wall. Hassan’s choice of the cell, in my view, was a good one. It was dark enough to hamper vision without being so dark as to arouse suspicion, or as to require additional light.

  I put Tarna, still sobbing, on the dank straw at the back wall of the cell.

  “I’m a slave girl,” she whispered. “I am a slave girl.”

  We found the chain and collar, and I fastened it about the girl’s neck, locking it.

  We looked at her.

  She was chained to the wall.

  She put her fingers to the metal on her neck, and then her hands on the chain.

  I recalled how she had been in her own quarters, when I had been sent to her, for her pleasure, reclining on her elbow, surveying me, the yellow gown, the yellow cushion, the red-silk sheets. Now in the dim light I could see the glint of the rude collar on her neck, that of the chain which fastened her to the wall. She did not have the kaiila crop now. Rather, now, she herself would be subject to such a device. I considered her. The lineaments of her lovely body were much obscured in the shadows, but there was more than a hint, even so, even in the half darkness, of the alluring geography of her beauty, that now of a marked girl, one who now belonged to men. Many things had changed for her. The once-proud Tarna, now no more than a slave, was chained by the neck to a wall on the lower levels of what had once been her own kasbah. It was fitting for her. Excellent, I thought, excellent.

  She was quite lovely, in the half darkness.

  I considered putting her to my pleasure now. One can do such things with slaves.

  �
��I am a slave girl,” she whispered to us, disbelievingly, through her tears.

  “Yes,” I said.

  It was an assessment which surely none could now gainsay.

  We heard sounds, from the level above.

  “They are searching the third level, that above us,” said Hassan. “They will soon be here.”

  “I am a slave girl,” she said.

  “If it is discovered that you were Tarna,” said Hassan, “it will not go easy with you.”

  She looked at him, numbly, comprehending his import. Tarna had been spoken of in the past tense. No longer was she Tarna. Tarna was gone. Tarna no longer existed. In her place now, there was only a girl slave, nameless as a kaiila or verr.

  “If it is discovered that you were Tarna,” said Hassan, sternly, “it will not go easy with you. No longer would you be entitled to certain forms of torture, suitable for free persons, culminating in your honorable impalement. Your death would surely be one of the deaths of a slave girl, who has not been pleasing.”

  “What can I do?” she wept. “What can I do?”

  “You are a slave,” said Hassan, cruelly. “Please us.”

  And in that foul cell, on the stinking straw, in the feeble light of the lamp outside, the once-proud Tarna, now only a nameless slave girl, chained by masters, struggled to please us. We were not easy with her. We were harsh, and hard, and cruel. Often she wept and despaired of her ability to please us, but she was cuffed and kicked and set again about her duties.

  At last Hassan and I rose to our feet.

  “The slave hopes that she has pleased her masters,” whispered the girl.

  Hassan looked at me. “She has much to learn,” he said, “but I think, in time, she may be satisfactory.”

  I nodded, concurring in his judgment. We then stepped outside. We were encountered in the hall by a soldier, with a lifted lamp. “I search for Tarna,” he said.

  “Tarna is not here,” I said. “In the cell there is only a female slave.”

  The soldier looked into the cell, and lifted the lamp. The girl lay on the straw, curled up, the collar and chain leading to her throat. She shielded her eyes from the lamp. It was not bright, but, in the dimness of the cell, it hurt her eyes.

  She was beautifully curled on the straw. She lifted her head, shielding her eyes.

  “Master?” she asked.

  “What is your name, Girl?” asked the soldier.

  “Whatever master wishes,” she said.

  He held the lamp up, examining her beauty. With a sinuous movement, with a rustle of chain, she sat upright, her back straight. She extended her right leg, looking at him over her right shoulder; her toes were pointed; her leg was flexed, revealing to its best, delicious advantage, the curve of her calf.

  I felt like raping her.

  “What is the name of your master?” asked the soldier.

  “I do not know,” she said. “I belonged to Tarna. Now I hear from soldiers that Tarna has fallen. I do not know who will be my master.” She looked at him. “You seem strong,” she said.

  She, sitting, as she was, thrust forward her breasts, accentuating the line of her beauty.

  “Slut,” he laughed.

  She put her head down, chastened.

  He laughed. “Be as you were before,” he said. She obeyed. “More so,” said he. She obeyed.

  “I search for Tarna,” he said.

  “Do not search for her,” begged the girl. “Stay with me.”

  “You are dirty,” he said. “And you stink.”

  “Bring slave perfume,” she said to him. “Rub it on my body.”

  He turned from the door. She fled to the length of her chain, kneeling, her hands outstretched to him. “The fourth level is deep,” she said. “I am in a cell to myself. Many men do not even know I am here. The kasbah has fallen and only two soldiers have entered my cell. Stay with me!”

  “I must search for Tarna,” said the man.

  “When you have finished your search,” said the girl, arms outstretched, “return to me.”

  “I will,” said the soldier. He laughed brutally.

  “Thank you,” she cried, “beloved Master!”

  He turned to go.

  “Beloved Master,” she whispered. She knelt. She put her head down. “If I were a bold free woman,” she said, “and not a bond girl, I would ask that you bring with you on your return a bottle of wine for your pleasure, that you would enjoy me more.”

  “Little she-sleen!” he laughed. He entered the cell and, putting down his lamp, kicked and cuffed the girl, until she rolled in the straw, tangled in the chain, covering her head, her body half covered with straw, at the wall. He then again took up the lamp, and went to the door. “I shall return,” he said, “and when I do, I shall bring wine.”

  She rolled to a sitting position. “Thank you, Master!” she cried.

  “And I will bring slave perfume, too,” he said, “to souse you with, you stinking little slut of a slave.”

  “Thank you, Master!” she cried.

  Laughing he left the cell, to continue his search for Tarna.

  “Let us go upstairs,” said Hassan. “Doubtless there are those who wonder as to the whereabouts of Haroun, high Pasha of the Kavars.”

  “Doubtless,” I said.

  I looked into the girl’s cell. “You are an excellent actress,” I said.

  She looked at me, puzzled.

  “The soldier,” I said, “I wager he will return.”

  She broke a bit of straw between her fingers. “I hope so,” she said.

  I looked at her. “You want him to return?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said. Her head had lifted, in the chain and collar.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Did he not seem strong to you?” she asked. “Did you not see the ease, the audacity, the authority with which he handled me?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I want to be had by him,” she said. “I want him to have me.”

  “Are you serious?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “I want to serve him as a female slave.”

  Hassan stood behind me. “I wish you well, Girl,” he said.

  “I, too, wish you well, Slave Girl,” I said.

  “A slave girl gives you her gratitude,” she said. As we turned and left, she said, “I wish you well, Masters.”

  26

  The March

  It was early morning.

  I could hear the drums. The march was soon to begin. The kaiila shifted in the sand. Leather was looped and loosely knotted about the high pommel of my desert saddle. My boots were in the stirrups. The scimitar was at my side. I held the light lance of the Tahari, its butt in the stirrup sheath on my right.

  I saw Haroun, high Pasha of the Kavars, in swirling white, ride past. At his side, in the black kaffiyeh and white agal cording of the Aretai, rode Suleiman, high Pasha of that tribe, holder of the great kasbah at Nine Wells, master of a thousand lances. Behind Haroun rode Baram, sheik of Bezhad, his vizier. Behind Suleiman, on a swift kaiila, rode Shakar, with silver-tipped lance, a high captain of the Aretai.

  I looked behind me, at the long lines of men. The sun was now striking the east wall of what had been the kasbah of Abdul, Ibn Saran, who had been the Salt Ubar. The line of march extended from this kasbah, across the desert, to the kasbah which had been once the holding of Tarna, once a beautiful and proud desert chieftainess. It was at that kasbah that could be found the head of the march.

  I saw the young khan of the Tajuks, in white turban, ride by, going to the rear of the columns. He was accompanied by twenty riders.

  The march would proceed to Red Rock, thence to Two Scimitars, thence to Nine Wells, thence, by a major caravan route, to Tor. Different bodies of men would leave the march at various points, as tribesmen returned to their lands. Only some few hundred would journey as far as Tor, and those largely to conduct herded slaves to the fine markets of that city, which is the Tahari clearing house for sla
ves to be sold north. Already word had been sent ahead to Tor that preparations be made. Cages must be scheduled, chains forged, slave meal garnered. For the female slaves cosmetics and perfumes must be anticipated. Arrangements must be made for auction houses. Dates must be set. Advance publicity is particularly important. The sale must be widely and thoroughly advertised, in many cities. Before the first girl, barefoot, nude, ascends the block, to be sold, much must be done. A great deal of planning, and organization, and hard work must take place before she first lifts her head to the buyers, looking out upon them, one of whom will own her, and she hears the first call of the auctioneer, he lifting his coiled whip behind her, “What am I bid?”

  In the march were Kavars, Ta’Kara, Bakahs, Char, Kashani, Aretai, Luraz, Tashid, Raviri, Ti, Zevar, Arani and, holding the position of the rear guard, with black lances, Tajuks.

  In the march were hundreds of pack kaiila, many carrying water.

  The tempo of the drums increased, indicating that the time for the beginning of the march would be soon.

  The sun was now full on the east wall of what had been the kasbah of Abdul, Ibn Saran, the Salt Ubar.

  A dozen kaiila moved past in stately line, laden with water.

  Some six hundred women had been taken in the two kasbahs, all female slaves.

  Some fifteen hundred men, who had surrendered, now wore the chains of slaves.

  The men would march toward the rear of the columns, before the rear guard. The women, for there were insufficient wagons or kaiila for them, would march, in separate groups of fifty, within the columns and toward their center. They were more valuable than the men. Each female slave group was a fifty-bracelet coffle.

  I moved the kaiila over to regard the female slave groups, which stood at the wall, not yet herded to their places in the columns. Each girl was fastened by the left wrist, in wrist coffle in her group. Each girl was separated by some five feet of light, gleaming chain. It was not a heavy chain to carry. As I moved the kaiila slowly along the line of chained girls, to examine them, the leather, looped and knotted about the pommel of my saddle, grew taut. It led to the crossed, bound wrists of the girl I had tethered to the pommel. She had ten feet of tether. She followed.