by John Norman
She turned about, suddenly, and faced me. "Take me in your arms, Jason," she said.
I took her, suddenly, in my arms, and began to press kisses about her throat. "No," she whispered. "Oh," she cried. The gown lay about her ankles. "Jason," she said. I lifted her, naked, from her feet and carried her toward the couch. Her, weight was nothing for me. Her hands were behind my neck. She kissed me under the neck, then she turned her head away, horrified that she had put her lips to the body of a slave.
I stopped before I reached the couch. She looked up at me. She kissed me on the chest. "No, no," she said, weeping. But I carried her then again toward the couch. "No," she said. I placed her on the couch. I sat beside her. I then pulled her by the arms into a sitting position, and held her. "No," she said. "No!" My arms tightened on her. She struggled, but could not begin to free herself. "Is this what it is to be in the arms of a man?" she asked, weeping. "This is only the beginning of what it is to be in the arms of a man," I told her. "You're holding me too tightly," she said. "You are hurting me!"
"Oh!" she cried, as my grip tightened yet more upon her. I then pressed her to her back on the deep furs of the couch. She looked up at me, wildly. I lowered my head toward her small, fair mouth. "Stop, Slave!" she cried. "Stop!"
I released her, and stood up. She knelt on the couch, trembling wildly, crying. She pointed at me. "Get out!" she cried. "Get out!"
I left her chamber.
"I will have you beaten!" she cried after me. "I will have you beaten!"
Chapter 15 - I AM BEATEN; THE MISTRESS SPEAKS WITH ME
I stood below the whipping ring, my wrists crossed and tied over my head.
I jerked under the second blow of the snake. I did not cry out. Present were only two keepers, one of whom wielded the whip, and the Lady Florence.
I felt blood running down my back.
"Hold," said the Lady Florence. She came to stand quite near to me, near my left shoulder. We were on a colonnaded porch on the south side of her house.
"Do you understand why you are being whipped, Jason?" she asked.
"I displeased my Mistress," I said.
"You are not weeping under the lash," she said.
I shrugged. I was angry.
"I have thought much about what happened last night," she said. "It has been much on my mind."
I said nothing.
"I did not sleep well," she said.
"I am sorry, Mistress," I said. A tincture of bitterness, or irony, doubtless, infected my voice.
"Are you angry, Jason?" she asked.
I shrugged. My back hurt. I felt sick.
"I was not entirely displeased, as I now think about it," she said, "that you took me in your arms." She spoke softly. The others, standing back, could not hear.
"I thought Mistress commanded me to take her in my arms," I said. "It seems that I was mistaken."
"It is how you took me in your arms," she said.
"Oh?" I asked.
"I am a Lady," she said.
"Yes, Mistress," I said.
"You held me too tightly," she said.
"You would direct a man on how to take you?" I asked.
"Take me?" she said, angrily.
"Of course," I said.
"I am a free woman," she said.
"Yes, Mistress," I said.
"I could have you beaten to death," she said.
"Yes, Mistress," I said.
"Are you angry with me, Jason?" she asked.
"No, Mistress," I said.
"I am Mistress," she said.
"Of course, Mistress," I said. "I understand that well, Mistress."
"Yet your hands were not entirely displeasing on my body," she said.
"Mistress should be a slave girl," I said.
"Surely you understand that you are tied, and at my mercy," she said.
I moved my wrists in the leather bonds that held them. I had been tied, expertly, by a keeper. I was held fast.
"Yes, Mistress," I said.
"I could have you beaten to death, or tortured, and slain," she said.
"Yes, Mistress," I said.
"Yet you dare to speak to me so boldly?" she asked.
"Yes, Mistress," I said.
"Beat him," she said. She stepped away from me. Three more times the snake fell against my back.
"Hold," she said.
I was still on my feet. I struggled to remain so. I could scarcely see. "He is strong, Lady Florence," said the man who had struck the blows. He was a short, powerful man, Kenneth, a free man, a keeper and the first groom in her stables. I had not once lost my footing. I recalled that in the House of Andronicus I had once received five blows of the snake. After the second I had hung in the straps, helpless, weeping, crying out for mercy.
"Do you still think your Mistress should be a slave girl?" she asked.
"Yes, Mistress," I said.
"Beat him," she said. Five more times the snake fell upon my back. Then, again, she cried out, "Hold."
"Do you still think your Mistress should be a slave girl?" she asked.
"Yes, Mistress," I said, through gritted teeth.
"Why?" she demanded.
"Because you are exciting and beautiful," I said.
"Flattering slave!" she laughed.
I did not speak.
"But I am exciting and beautiful as a free woman," she said.
"It is true, Mistress," I said. "But the excitement and beauty of a free woman is as nothing compared to the excitement and beauty of a slave girl."
"Beast!" she laughed. But I think she knew that it was true.
"Is he to be beaten further?" asked Kenneth, the keeper and groom.
"Do you wish to be beaten further, Jason?" she asked.
"No, Mistress," I said.
"Beg my forgiveness for your insolence." she said.
"I beg forgiveness for my insolence," I said.
"Are you ready to obey me in all particulars and be fully pleasing?" she asked.
"Yes, Mistress," I said.
"Very well," she said. "I forgive you." Then she turned to the fellow with the whip, Kenneth. "Five more blows," she said.
I looked at her.
"I have forgiven you, Jason," she said. "But surely you must understand that punishment for your insolence must still be meted out to you."
"Yes, Mistress," I said.
Five more times the snake fell against my back.
"He is still on his feet," said one of the two men in the room, he who did not hold the whip.
"That he is," said he who wielded the whip, Kenneth, the groom.
"He is strong," said the Lady Florence, my mistress. There was a pride in her voice.
"Is he to be beaten further?" asked Kenneth.
"No," she said, "it is enough." She walked about to where she could look at me. "Cut him down," she said. "Then withdraw. I will tell you when to fetch him to his kennel."
The strap which held my bound wrists was cut away from the ring to which it was tied.
I crouched down, under the ring. I did not collapse to the tiles. I was sick. I was aware of the blood on the tiles, beneath me and on my feet. I was aware of the sweat and blood on my body. My hands were still tied before my body. I was conscious of the collar of steel on my neck. I had received fifteen blows of the snake. I knew that twenty blows of that fearsome whip could kill some men.
I felt the small hand of my Mistress on my naked shoulder. "You are strong, Jason," she said, "very strong. That pleases me."
I did not speak.
"You must clearly understand, of course, that I am Mistress," she said. "Is that clearly understood?"
"Yes, Mistress," I said.
"I like you, Jason," she said. "You excite me," she whispered. Women think little of speaking intimately to their silk slaves, for such are only their animals.
I felt sweat under the tight leather bands confining my wrists. I breathed heavily.
"Are you angry with me, Jason?" she asked.
"No, Mistress," I said.
"Sometime," she said, "perhaps, if you are a very good boy, I may let you take me again in your arms."
The air was soft and gentle. I could smell flowers in the gardens.
"But you must not hold me too tightly," she said, "and you must do exactly as I tell you."
"Yes, Mistress," I said.
"Kenneth, Barus!" she called.
The two men returned to the area. They had been waiting inside the house, near the portico.
"Return him to his kennel," she said. "Put balm on his wounds. Feed him later. Let him rest. Tomorrow he will run certain errands for me. Tomorrow, in the evening, send him to my chambers."
"Yes, Lady Florence," said Kenneth, who stood first among the two men.
The Lady Florence, then, with a movement of her robes, departed from the porch.
"Have you ever fought?" asked Kenneth, lifting me up, his fellow assisting him.
"No," I said.
"No. Do not throw up until you reach the kennel," he said.
"Yes, Master," I said.
Chapter 16 - THE PERFUME SHOP OF TURBUS VEMINUS; I AM CAPTURED
I knelt in the cool recesses of the shop of Turbus Veminius, a perfumer in Venna. Venna has many small and fine shops, catering to the affluent trade of the well-to-do, who patronize the baths and public villas of the area. I, a slave, unaccompanied by a free person, would wait until free customers were waited upon and served.
I could smell perfumes, and their mixings in the long shop behind the counter. There, at various benches, attending to their work, measuring and stirring, were apprentice perfumers. Though one is commonly born into a caste one is often not permitted to practice the caste craft until a suitable apprenticeship has been served. This guarantees the quality of the caste product.
It is possible, though it is seldom the case, that members of a caste are not permitted to practice specific caste skills, though they may be permitted to practice subsidiary skills. For example, one who is of the Metalworkers might not be permitted to work iron, but might be permitted to do such things as paint iron, and transport and market it. Caste rights, of course, such as the right to caste support in time of need and caste sanctuary, when in flight, which are theirs by birth, remain theirs.
The women of a given caste, it should be noted, often do not engage in caste work. For example, a woman in the Metalworkers does not, commonly, work at the forge, nor is a woman of the Builders likely to be found supervising the construction of fortifications.
Caste membership, for Goreans, is generally a simple matter of birth; it is not connected necessarily with the performance of certain skills, nor the attainment of a given level of proficiency in such skills. To be sure, certain skills tend to be associated traditionally with certain castes, a fact which is clearly indicated in caste titles, such as the Leatherworkers, the Metalworkers, the Singers, and the Peasants.
A notable exception to the generalization that women of a given caste normally do not engage in caste work is the caste of Physicians, whose women are commonly trained, as are the boys, in the practice of medicine. Even the physicians, however, normally do not admit their women to full practice until they have borne two children. The purpose of this is to retain a high level of intelligence in the caste. Professional women, it is well understood, tend not to reproduce themselves, a situation which, over time, would be likely to produce a diminution in the quality of the caste. Concern for the future of the caste is thus evinced in this limitation by the physicians on the rights of their women to participate without delay in the caste craft.
The welfare of the caste, typically, takes priority in the Gorean mind over the ambitions of specific individuals. The welfare of a larger number of individuals, as the Goreans reason, correctly or incorrectly, is more important than the welfare of a smaller number of individuals. I do not argue this. I only report it.
"My thanks, Lady Teela," said Turbus Veminius, proprietor of the shop, accepting coins and handing to a robed woman a tiny vial of perfume. She then left.
The woman of the Physicians, at the age of fifteen, in many cities, wears two bracelets on her left wrist. When she has one child one bracelet is removed; when she has a second child the second bracelet is removed. She may then, if she desires, enter into the full practice of her craft.
Turbus Veminius then turned his attention to another customer.
Caste is important to the Gorean in ways that are difficult to make clear to one whose social structures do not include the relationships of caste. In almost every city, for example, one knows that there will be caste brothers on whom one may depend. Charity, too, for example, is almost always associated with caste rights on Gor. One of the reasons there are so few outlaws on Gor is doubtless that the outlaw, in adopting his way of life, surrenders caste rights.
The slave, too, of course, has no caste rights. He stands outside the structure of society. He is an animal. It is said on Gor that only slaves, outlaws and Priest-Kings, rumored to be the rulers of Gor, reputed to live in the remote Sardar Mountains, are without caste. This saying, however, it might be pointed out, as Goreans recognize, is not strictly true. For example, some individuals have lost caste, or been deprived of caste; some individuals have been born outside of caste; certain occupations are not traditionally associated with caste, such as gardening, domestic service and herding; and, indeed, there are entire cultures and peoples on Gor to whom caste is unknown.
Similarly, caste lines tend sometimes to be vague, and the relation between castes and subcastes. Slavers, for example, sometimes think of themselves as being of the Merchants, and sometimes as being a separate caste. They do have their own colors, blue and yellow, those of the Merchants being white and gold. Too, are the bargemen of the Southern Cartius a caste or not? They think of themselves as such, but many do not see the matter in the same light.
There are, on Gor, it might be mentioned, ways of raising and altering caste, but the Gorean seldom avails himself of these. To most Goreans it would be unthinkable to alter caste. He is generally too proud of his caste and it is too much a part of him for him to think in such terms. It is, too, recognized that all, or most, of the castes perform necessary, commendable or useful functions. The Leatherworker, accordingly, does not spend much time envying the Metalworker, or the Metalworker the Leatherworker, or either the Clothworker, and so on. All need sandals and wallets, and clothes, and metal tools. Each does, however, tend to think of his own caste as something special, and, somehow, I suspect, as being perhaps a little bit preferable to the others.
Most Goreans are quite content with their castes; this is probably a function of caste pride. I have little doubt but what the caste structure contributes considerably to the stability of Gorean society. Among other things it reduces competitive chaos, social and economic, and prevents the draining of intelligence and ambition into a small number of envied, prestigious occupations. If one may judge by the outcome of Kaissa tournaments, amateur tournaments as opposed to those in which members of the caste of Players participate, there are brilliant men in most castes.
"Is the perfume of the Lady Kita of Bazi ready?" Turbus Veminius called to the back of the shop.
"No," a voice answered him.
"Do not hurry," called Turbus Veminius. "It must be perfect."
"Yes, Turbus," I heard.
Turbus Veminius then turned, sternly, toward the Lady Kita. She was a small, delicate, brown-skinned woman, with a light yellow veil, common in Bazi. She shrank back. "When was your perfume to be ready, Lady Kita?" he inquired. He did not seem deterred by the two large, smooth-skinned, brownish guards, arms folded, who stood behind her.
"At the fifteenth Ahn," she said, timidly.
"It is now the fourteenth Ahn," he said, casting a meaningful glance at the water clock on the counter to his right.
"I am early," she explained.
"Obviously," he said.
"Yes, Turbus," she said.
"Return at the fif
teenth Ahn, and not before," he said.
"Yes, Turbus," she said.
The Lady Kita turned about and hurried, followed by her guards, from the shop.
Turbus Veminius looked after her. He, like many perfumers, and hairdressers and cosmeticians, treated his female clientele almost as though they were slave girls. Indeed, he was famous for once having said, "They are all slave girls." Yet, in spite of the gruff, authoritarian way in which they might be handled, and the rude, peremptory fashion in which they might be addressed, women, and high-caste women, for no reason that was clear to me, flocked to his shop. He was, of course, one of the foremost perfumers of Gor. His prices, it might be mentioned, were beyond the reach of all but the very wealthy. It might also be mentioned that he did not deal at all in slave perfumes.
"Will the perfume of the Lady Kita be ready at the fifteenth Ahn?" Turbus called back to someone in the shop.
"I do not know," said the voice.
"Do not hurry it," he said. "If it is not ready, I will order her to wait, or to return tomorrow. It must be perfect."
"Yes, Turbus," I heard.
I smiled at the thought of ordering a free woman to wait, or to come back tomorrow, and knowing that she would obey you. "They are all slave girls," Turbus Veminius was once reputed to have said.
He then turned his attention to a new customer. She hurried deferentially forward.
I knelt on the tiles. It was warm outside, but cool inside, in the shade. I smelled the perfumes of the shop, many of which were being blended by hand from signature recipes in the back of the shop. Signature recipes are unique, and secret. They are the result of a perfumer's consultations and experiments, the outcome of an effort to devise the perfect perfume for a given woman, though perhaps relativized to a time of day and mood. A wealthy woman may have as many as ten or fifteen signature recipes, each different. They are called signature recipes not only because they are individualized to a given woman but because the recipe bears the perfumer's signature, indicating that he accepts it as a perfume worthy of his house.