Magicians of Gor

by Norman, John;

"Please no, Master!" she suddenly cried.

  I was pleased to note that she, as she was a slave, had now recollected to address free men by the title of 'Master'.

  Marcus used his belt for the business, slipping the knife in its sheath, and his pouch, from it, and handing them to me. He also gave me his over-the-shoulder sword belt as well, that he might not be encumbered.

  Then the disciplined slave lay trembling on her belly, her eyes wide, her cheeks tear-stained, her hands beside her head, the tips of her fingers on the stones.

  "I gather," I said, "that the discipline to which you have been recently subject has been lax. Perhaps therefore you should be further beaten."

  "No, Master!" she cried. "Please no, master! Forgive me, Master! Forgive me, Master!"

  "Are you sorry for the error of your ways?" I asked.

  "Yes, Master!" she said. "Please forgive me, Master!"

  Her contrition seemed to me authentic.

  "What is your name?" I asked.

  "Whatever Master pleases!" she sobbed.

  "Come now," I said.

  "Tafa, if it pleases Master," she said. That is a common slave name on Gor.

  "Do you repent of the error of your ways?" I asked.

  "Yes, Master," she said.

  "Who repents of the error of her ways?" I asked.

  "Tafa repents of the error of her ways," she said.

  "Who is sorry, who begs forgiveness?" I asked.

  "Tafa is sorry! Tafa begs forgiveness!" she said.

  "I wonder if you should be further beaten," I said.

  The belt, doubled, hung loose in Marcus' hand.

  "Please, no, Master," begged the girl.

  I turned to Phoebe. "Are you distressed?" I asked.

  "No, Master," said Phoebe, "certainly not. She was an errant slave. She should have been punished."

  Tafa groaned.

  "Indeed," said Phoebe, "it seems to me that she got off quite lightly. I myself believe she should have been whipped even more."

  "Please no, Mistress," begged Tafa.

  "I am not 'Mistress,'" said Phoebe. "I, too, am only a slave."

  It was natural enough, in the circumstances, for Tafa to have addressed Phoebe as "Mistress." As Tafa was currently subject to us, and Phoebe was with us, this put Phoebe in a position of de facto priority to her. For example, in a group of female slaves, for example, in a pleasure gardens, a fortress or a tavern, there will usually be a girl appointed First Girl. Indeed, if there is a large number of slaves, there are sometimes hierarchies of "first girls," lower-level first girls reporting to higher-level first girls, and so on. The lower-level slaves will commonly address their first girl as "Mistress." Thus, in some situations, the same girl may be first girl to certain girls and be subordinated herself to another, on a higher level, whom she will address as "Mistress." Sometimes a hierarchy is formed in which all the girls are ranked in such a manner that each must address the girls above her as "Mistress." More commonly, it is only the lowest slave, usually the newest slave, who must do this with all the others, whereas the others will address only their first girl as "Mistress," and, of course, any free woman whom they might, to their risk, or peril, encounter. Technically the lowest of free women, of the lowest caste, is immeasurably above even the highest of slaves, even the preferred slave of a ubar.

  Indeed, even such a slave, perhaps in a collar set with priceless diamonds, must, upon the least indication, belly before even the least of free women, and kiss her feet humbly. And this will be done with all sincerity and trepidation because, when all is said and done, she is merely a slave and the other is free. Even the highest of slaves, upon the merest word of a free woman, may be chained and beaten, even slain.

  The matter can be quite different with free men. It is not unknown for free men to cultivate a high slave, hoping that she will influence her master in their behalf. She may thus enjoy a genuine measure of power, and permit herself an exercise of will and voice unusual in a lower slave, playing with the ambitions and hopes of sycophants, soliciting gifts for her favors, and so on. Myron of Temos’ favorite, Lucilina, in the vicinity of Torcadino, had been such a slave. Luchita, on the other hand, the low slave of a common soldier in the company of Dietrich of Tarnburg, was not.

  Sometimes a ubar will even have his preferred slave serve in a low-caste hovel one day a year, under the command, and switch, of a low-caste free woman, performing her labors, and such, that she may be reminded that she is truly, when all is said and done, only a slave, as much as the lowest of the kettle-and-mat girls in the most wretched of hovels, crowded about the walls of a small city.

  "The decision as to the discipline of a slave will be made by the masters," I reminded Phoebe.

  "Yes, Master," said Phoebe. "Forgive me, Master."

  Phoebe's zeal to see an errant slave punished, and suitably, was a quite natural one, of course. The girl was a slave, and had not been pleasing. Thus it was appropriate, even imperative, that she be punished. More broadly, order and structure in human life, stability in society, even, in a sense, civilization itself, depends upon sanctions. A civilization must be willing to impose sanctions, and to impose them reliably and efficiently. A lapse in such resolve and practice is a symptom of decline, even of impending disintegration. Ultimately civilization depends upon power, moral and physical, upon, so to speak, the will of masters and the reality of the whip and sword. It might be added, incidentally, that Phoebe, herself a slave, in moral consistency, fully accepted this same principle, at least intellectually, in her own case. She accepted, in short, as morally indisputable, the rightfulness of herself being punished if she should fail to be pleasing. Also, accepting this principle, and knowing the strength and resolve of her master, and the uncompromising reality of the discipline under which she herself was held, she was naturally disinclined to see others escape sanctions and penalties to which she herself was subject. Why should others be permitted lapses, faults and errors, particularly ones in which they took arrogant pride, for which she herself would promptly and predictably suffer? Accordingly, slave girls are often zealous to see masters immediately and mercilessly correct even small lapses in the behavior of their chain sisters. It pleases them. Phoebe herself, it might be mentioned, had very seldom been lashed, particularly since the day of Myron's entrance into the city when Marcus had finally accepted her as a mere slave, as opposed to a Cosian woman in his collar, to be sure, enslaved, on whom he could vent his hatred for Cos and all things Cosian. The general immunity to the lash which was experienced by Phoebe, of course, was a function of her excellence as a slave. Excellent slaves are seldom beaten, for there is little, if any, reason to do so. To be sure, such a girl, particularly a love slave, occasionally desires to feel the stroke of the lash, wanting to feel pain at the hands of a beloved master, wanting to be whipped by him because she loves him, in this way symbolizing to herself her relationship to him, that of slave to master, her acceptance of that relationship, and her rejoicing in it. To be sure, she is soon likely to be merely, again, a whipped slave, begging her master for mercy.

  "Look!" laughed Phoebe, looking toward the prone slave.

  The slave, sobbing, had lifted her body.

  "Scandalous slave!" laughed Phoebe.

  The slave groaned.

  "Apparently you do not wish to be further beaten," I said.

  "No, Master," said the slave.

  "You wish to placate masters?" I asked.

  "Yes, Master," she said.

  "Slave, slave!" laughed Phoebe.

  "Yes, Mistress," whispered the slave.

  "She is such a slave," said Phoebe.

  "She is a female," I said.

  "Yes, Master," said Phoebe.

  I was amused by Phoebe's attitude. Indeed, I found it delightfully ironic. Many was the time I had seen her so lift herself to Marcus, hoping to avert his wrath.

  I looked down at the slave.

  She was tense, and hardly moved.

  I handed Marcus his thin
gs, piece by piece, the sheath, with its knife, and the pouch, both for his belt, and the sword belt, with its scabbard and blade, to be slung over the left shoulder. I then crouched down beside the slave.

  "Master?" she asked.

  I pushed her down to the stones, so that her belly was flat on them.

  "Master?" she asked.

  "Do you beg use?" I asked.

  "Yes, Master!" she whispered, tensely.

  "Perhaps some other time," I said.

  "Do not kill me," she said.

  I took my knife and, from the back of her head, gathered together a large handful of her long dark hair, and then cut it off, close to the scalp. I then, using her hair, bound her hands together behind her back.

  "You have not earned a use," I said.

  I then cut another gout of her hair from the back of her head and used it to tie the flute about her neck. I did not crop the hair about her head with the knife, rather in the manner of shaving it off, as is sometimes done as a punishment for female slaves. I did no more than take the two gouts. To be sure, these two gouts, thick as they were, cleared an irregular space of several square inches of the back of her head. This cleared area, though not evident from the front, was only too obvious from the back. It would doubtless occasion much merriment upon its discovery by her chain sisters, as she was a beauty, and might be envied by them. Too, given her personality, I suspected that they would be likely to find her plight even more amusing. Perhaps she could wear a scarf for a time, or have her hair shortened or tied in such a way as to conceal or minimize the rather liberal extent of this local cropping. One advantage of shaving a girl's head, incidentally, is the duration of the punishment. It is recalled to her, for example, every time she touches her head or sees her reflection. By the time it has grown out, and even by the time that it begins to grow out a little, she has usually determined to do all in her power to be such that her master will permit her to keep her hair. If he wishes, or thinks it judicious, of course, he may keep her with a shaved head. It might also be noted that certain slaves, rather as an occupational mark or precaution, for example, girls working in foundries and mills, often have their heads shaved. Too, it is common to shave a girl completely if she is to be transported in a slave ship. This is to protect her against vermin of various sorts, in particular, lice.

  I dragged the slave up to her knees and knelt her before us. She trembled, daring not to meet our eyes.

  "Go to the other flute girls," I said, "to all those about, whether on the street or on the wall. Inform them that their work for the day is finished."

  "Master?" she said.

  "Tell them to hurry home to their chains."

  "Master!" she said.

  "Do you understand?" I asked.

  "Yes, Master," she said.

  "Do you dally in the carrying out of a command?" I asked.

  "No, Master!" she said, and leaped to her feet, running across the Wall Road, her hands tied behind her, wisps of silk fluttering about her waist, the flute dangling from her neck.

  "She is very pretty," said Marcus.

  "More so than I?" asked Phoebe.

  "Is the slave jealous?" inquired Marcus, teasingly.

  "Please, Master," begged Phoebe.

  "Are you jealous?" he said.

  "Yes, Master!" said Phoebe, defiantly.

  "You do not sound humble," he said.

  "Forgive me, Master," she said, quickly, frightened.

  "Who is jealous?" he inquired.

  "Phoebe is jealous," she whispered.

  "Phoebe, who is what?" he said.

  "Phoebe, Master’s slave, is jealous," she said.

  "You are a thousand times more beautiful than she," said Marcus.

  "Master sports with his helpless slave," pouted Phoebe.

  "To me," said Marcus, teasingly.

  "How shall I ever hold you, Master?" she wept. "I am yours, and only a slave. You may put me aside, or keep me with others, as you might please. There are thousands of intelligent, pretty women who would be eager to serve you. You may have your pick. You may buy and sell as you please. How shall I ever keep you?"

  "You cannot," he said.

  She moaned.

  "It is mine to keep you—if I wish," said Marcus.

  "Yes, Master!" she wept.

  I considered the unilaterality of the master/slave relationship. All power is with the master. This, of course, has its effect upon the slave. Let her strive to be such that her master will keep her.

  On the other hand, despite the niceties involved in such matters, the allocations of power, the legalities, and such, I had little doubt that Phoebe, and, indeed, thousands of other slaves, had a great deal to do with whether they were kept or not. They could not force themselves to be kept, but they could be such that by their beauty and service, their pleasingness, they could do much to influence the master in this regard. To be sure, sometimes a master simply tires of a slave, and then he will give her away or sell her. There is nothing critical to be effected here. She is, after all, only a slave. But I did not think Marcus would tire of his little "Cosian slut." Though Marcus would not admit this, and would scorn the very idea, it seemed obvious to me that not only was Phoebe his love slave, but that he was to her as love master.

  "Look," I said, pointing to the foot of the wall, where the flute girl was together with others of her station. She seemed distraught, bound, turning about, to look at me. They all, excited, confused, looked in this direction. To be sure, several of them, and many on the wall, too, both flute girls and laborers, had paused in their various activities, to follow the sequence of events on the Wall Road. But Marcus and Phoebe paid me no attention. They were in one another's arms.

  "I love you, Master," was saying Phoebe, looking up at him, "totally and helplessly."

  "And I," he was saying, brushing back hair from her forehead, "fear that I might find myself growing fond of you."

  "Use me, Master, use me!" she begged.

  "Not here," said Marcus. "Perhaps in a darkened doorway, on the way back to our lodging."

  Quickly she pulled from him, and hurried a few steps back, toward Harness Street, turning then to look back, pleadingly at him.

  I was pleased to see that she was much in his power.

  "I see," said Marcus. The flute girls at the foot of the wall, looking this way, knelt, putting their heads down to the stones, doing obeisance in our direction. They then, one by one, leapt to their feet and hurried away. The command of a free man had been conveyed to them. I then saw the lovely brunette picking her way with difficulty up a path to the higher part of the breach. She was communicating my message, I gather, to the girls she encountered, on the different levels. I looked up toward the height of the breach. There, girl after girl, especially as she saw my eyes upon her, knelt, putting her head down. Those that were sitting cross-legged swiftly abandoned that position, also performing obeisance. Then, one by one, as the brunette hurried among them, they picked their way down the paths from the breach to the Wall Road and hurried away. In a few moments the breach was cleared of flute girls. Doubtless all of them, at one time or another, had been under an excellent discipline and now, fearful of an impending restoration of such rigors, would lose no time in recalling, and manifesting, suitable attitudes and behaviors. No woman who has ever felt the whip forgets it.

  "Was this wise?" asked Marcus.

  "No," I said.

  "Tomorrow they will be back, and things will be the same," he said.

  "Undoubtedly," I said.

  "Nothing will be changed," he said.

  "True," I said.

  "Then why did you do it?" he asked.

  "I felt like it," I said.

  "I was afraid you might not have had a good reason," he said.

  "Master," said Phoebe, pleadingly.

  "It could be dangerous here," said Marcus.

  "For whom?" I asked.

  "I see," said Marcus.

  "Master," begged Phoebe.

  "The
men of Ar, and the women, and youths," he said, looking over to the wall, "remain on the breach."

  "Yes," I said.

  "Interesting," he said.

  "Master!" said Phoebe, suddenly, again. But this time, from the note in her voice, we turned about, instantly.

  "You there, hold!" cried an angry voice, that of a guardsman in the uniform of Ar, hurrying toward us. His hand was on the hilt of his sword.

  We turned to face him, separating ourselves. This permits outflanking, the engagement by one, the death stroke by the other.

  Instantly the guardsman stopped. He was then some four or five yards from us.

  "You are armed," he said.

  "It is lawful," I said. "We are not of Ar."

  He drew his blade.

  We, too, drew ours.

  "You have drawn before a guardsman!" he said.

  "Did you think we would not?" I asked.

  "It is against the law," he said.

  "Not our law," I said.

  "What have you done here?" he asked.

  "The flute girls have worked enough today," I said. "We have sent them home."

  "By whose authority?" he asked.

  "By mine," I said.

  "You are an officer?" he said.

  "No," I said.

  "I do not understand," he said.

  "You are Cosian," said Marcus.

  "I am a guardsman of Ar," said the fellow.

  "You are Cosian," said Marcus.

  "You have drawn a weapon against me," I said.

  "You are of the warriors?" said the fellow. He wavered. He, too, knew the codes.

  "Yes," I said.

  "And he?" asked the fellow.

  "He, too," I said.

  "You are not in scarlet," he said.

  "True," I said. Did he think that the color of a fellow's garments was what made him a warrior? Surely he must realize that one not of the warriors might affect the scarlet, and that one who wore the grimed gray of a peasant, one barefoot, and armed only with the great staff, might be of the scarlet caste. It is not the uniform which makes the warrior, the soldier.

  "There are two of you," he said, stepping back a pace.

  "Yes," I said.

  "Be off," said he, "before I place you under arrest."

  "Perhaps you fellows should go about in squads of ten," I said.