She was slave.
“My body is so different from that of men,” she whispered, “a body designed by nature for their pleasure. To look upon it, do they not know it was made for them, and is such that it belongs to them! That they find it different and beautiful, and desirable, excites me. How meaningful, and warm, and real it makes me feel! I want them to look upon it, with zest and pleasure. As the body of a woman is it not theirs, a fitting belonging, like the whole of a woman, of men? I have always wanted to show it, to display it, and I am grateful that I must now do so. Must we always be content with a disarranged veil, the hem of a skirt, lifted about an ankle? Better the slave in her collar, given no choice but to be bared before masters! Does not the free woman, in her heart, yearn to cast aside her robes, and show herself as what she is, woman! Does she truly wish to bargain with the promise of her beauty, dangling it before her like a closed purse, whispering its hints from behind an opaque screen? Are not such mercenary ones better put on the slave block, in chains? The beauty of a woman is not a thing of shame. Who could think so? Does she truly think it a thing of shame? Surely her beauty is not a thing of shame, not a blemish, or crime, to be concealed from view. Does she truly wish to conceal her beauty? Does she not rather, in her heart, desire to reveal it? How different is it, truly, from that of a thousand other beauties, that of grass and wine trees, that of tabuk, of sleen, or kaiila? Is it not a thing with which to be pleased? Let the slave, brazen in her sex, be proud. Let her say to the free woman, ‘Here I am, a female, found pleasing by men, and collared, for their pleasure. Are you so much? I am helpless, and theirs. I must be obedient, and fear the whip! Would you not be so ? Abuse me, and hate me, if you wish. I am content. I am happy. Are you so?’”
My lips drank from her the wine of her bondage.
She gasped, her small arms clutched me.
“Oh!” she said.
When I would thrust her from me, the mark of my buckle would be in her body.
“Own me,” she begged. “I am your slave! You know that!”
That one could own such a thing as she much pleased me.
She was slave in my arms.
“I love you,” she said, “I love you, I love you, my master!”
“Beware,” I said.
“Do not have me sold!” she said. “Do not put me on the block! I am so helpless!”
“I do not own you,” I said.
“It is your collar I would beg to wear!”
“Surely you wish to be free,” I said.
“No, no, no!” she wept. “I want to be a slave!”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because I am a slave,” she said. “It is in my heart to love and serve! I want to give all. I want a master! I want to be owned! Chain me, tie me, master me! I want to be so desired, so wanted, so lusted for, that it would not occur to a man to keep me other than as what I am, as a slave, even to the whip! That is how I want to be kept! Oh, I would strive to be found pleasing!”
“Surely you want freedom,” I said.
“I am not a man,” she said. “I am a woman!”
“Even so,” I said.
“No,” she said, “a thousand times no! I have known the emptiness, the loneliness, of freedom, the pretensions, the selfishness, the uncertainties of freedom, the confusions, the lack of place, the opacities and ambiguities of freedom, the lack of purpose, the lack of meaning and identity!”
“It is true,” I said, “that a slave has her purpose, and her meaning. Such things are quite clear. It is also true that what is expected of her is clear, and that there is no doubt as to what she is. That is as clear as the collar on her neck.”
“It is in my sex and my heart,” she said. “It is an ancient and needful thing in my body, to belong, to be owned, to kneel, to revere, to submit, to serve, to please, to find myself at a master’s feet, where I desire to be!”
“Surely freedom is precious,” I said.
“So, too,” she said, “is bondage.”
“I have heard so,” I said.
“What woman does not wish to be owned,” she said, “what woman does not wish a master?”
“Some, I suppose, free women, would deny it,” I said.
“Such expressions are expected of them,” she said, “even required of them. How they would be ostracized and scorned, put from society, if they did not say such things! Indeed, they might be remanded to slavers.”
“Some,” I said, “might suppose themselves, honestly enough, if naively, to subscribe to such expressions.”
“Then,” she said, “let them find themselves at the feet of a man, stripped, and in his collar. Let them find themselves mastered, and then let them examine their feelings anew.”
“Might they not cover their chains with tears?” I said.
“Yes,” she said, “and then kiss the chains that bind them, so helplessly, so securely!”
“Many free women,” I said, “fear the collar.”
“And long for it!” she said.
“Perhaps,” I said.
“Many were the civilized women, educated and refined, and barbarian females, illiterate and primitive, not even able to speak Gorean, brought, shackled, to the markets of Ar, lamenting their fate,” she said, “but before Tor-tu-Gor had run half his course, they had only one thing in common, their submission to masters, the love of their collar, and the fear that they might be freed.”
“Would you impose your views and values on all?” I asked.
“I leave that to others,” she said.
“I see,” I said.
“Do you speak for all women?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“Perhaps,” I said.
“Whatever might be the truth in these matters,” she said, “for those of us who are slaves, and know we are slaves, and would be slaves, and are complete only at the feet of men, do not be cruel, do not begrudge us our collars!”
“You would be owned?”
“Wholly, and helplessly!”
I regarded her, not speaking, not releasing her.
“Is it wrong for one who is a slave to want to be a slave?”
“No,” I said. “It is not wrong.”
“Keep me in a collar!” she said. “I belong in it, I want it.”
“I do not own you,” I said.
She sobbed, pressing herself against me.
I looked to the former Talena of Ar, once Ubara.
“And perhaps you, Adraste,” I said, “would be pleased, in your collar, to serve naked, at another’s feast.”
Swiftly, she turned away.
I thrust Alcinoë from me, and she slipped to the polished floor, of dark wood, and knelt there, holding my leg, pressing her cheek against it.
“Master, Master,” she said.
I disengaged her hands and held them apart, looking down on her, she on her knees at my feet. Then, holding her hands, I put my right foot against her left shoulder, and then spurned her to the floor, as the slave she was, and she turned, tears on her cheeks, and looked up at me. “I love you,” she said. “I love you! Care for me, care for me, just a little, Master!”
“You are a slave,” I said, turning away.
She sobbed.
At the exit, I turned, again. “Continue serving,” I said.
“Yes, Master,” said Adraste.
“Yes, Master,” said Alcinoë.
I then left the small dining area, the Hall of the Three Moons.
It was dark outside now, but, under torches, there was still feasting at the long tables in the courtyard.
What a glorious victory had been that of the exploratory force!
I would ascend to the parapet.
When I reached the height of the wall, the inner wall, the highest wall, I looked over the wall, down, toward the village. Near me were two Pani, guards, on the parapet, as well. The village, or where it had been, was dark, but, as far as I could see, scattered about, to the south, were a great number of campfires.
&
nbsp; The force of Lord Yamada, or his generals, was in place.
I stayed sometime on the parapet, for the most part, however, not looking over the wall, but looking back, down to the courtyard, where I might observe the tables.
As I feared, later, near the nineteenth Ahn, a number of men withdrew from the tables, and I saw them gather in a corner of the courtyard. Others were now joining them, from various barracks, and halls.
I thought of Alcinoë.
I attempted to scorn and detest her. Did I not know she was a slave? Was I not a free man, and a warrior? Why then, I asked myself, would I die for her.
What a weakling and fool I was!
I wondered if she should be freed?
Did I hate her so much?
Were her soft lips not made to be pressed to the feet of a master?
I laughed, and the two Pani guardsmen regarded me, puzzled.
Free her, I thought. Never!
How absurd such a thought, for such a woman!
If I owned her, I thought, she would well know herself slave. Her collar, as it is said, would be well locked.
Women such as Alcinoë belong in a collar.
Accordingly, they are to be kept in one.
They do constitute a danger, of course.
They are appealing, desirable, helpless, and owned.
One must thus be careful lest one begin to care for them, lest one begin to succumb to their charms.
What curvaceous, cunning little brutes they are!
Take no chances with them!
Keep them in the strictest and most perfect of bondages. Do not let them forget they are slaves. Let them fear the whip. If necessary, they may be taken to the market and sold. Such women, after all, however delightful in their collars, are nothing. They are only slaves.
I hastened down the steps from the wall.
Many had now left the tables.
I saw Seremides hobble out of the darkness. “They are going to take the ship!” he said.
“I know,” I said.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
What Occurred at the Gate
Four Pani, in defensive stance, glaves at the ready, stood before the innermost gate.
“Stand aside!” commanded Tereus.
The Pani did not budge, though, obviously, resistance would have been useless.
“Stand aside!” said Tereus.
Behind him were a large number of armed men. Later, as they would be counted, there would be eight hundred and seventy men, precisely.
“We may not do so, honorable one,” said one of the guards politely.
Clearly Tereus did not wish to force the gate, but, as clearly, he was prepared to do so.
“We are going to the ship,” said Tereus.
“Have you permission?” inquired the guard.
There were cries of rage from several of the men. “Kill them,” I heard.
I pressed through the crowd.
I had thought the instigator of this action would have been Tyrtaios, but I did not see him. Tereus was a fine oarsman, and, in his way, an honorable fellow. I did not think he had managed this business, though, at present, it seemed he was its spokesman.
I suspected that those who were most behind this matter were in the background, waiting to see how matters might proceed.
Shedding the blood of others is easy; parting with one’s own is much more difficult.
Personally, I did not blame the men for wishing to withdraw.
Much treasure had been gathered in without much difficulty, from the derelicts in the Vine Sea. This treasure was aboard the ship. The men were mostly mercenaries, fee fighters, and they had already riches. What more could they hope for here, at the World’s End, in a war amongst strangers for strangers, a war from which they had little to expect and, presumably, a good deal to fear. They had encountered the enemy in the ill-advised landing and the exploratory force, to their sorrow, had encountered him more locally. These events augured no simple and speedy route to victory. The ship, on the other hand, was the means to return, rich, to continental Gor. They might have no other opportunity. It was not surprising, then, particularly given the apparently decisive defeat of the exploratory force, that fellows would think of escape, think of taking the ship and putting to sea. It had reached the World’s End from the northern forests of continental Gor. Why then might it not return? Too, who knew if the fleet of Lord Yamada might not soon appear on the horizon, and close the mouth of the cove, closing the door to escape and precluding the eventual exploitation of the hitherto garnered riches?
I continued to press through the crowd, trying to reach the gate.
Most of the men knew me, directly or indirectly, by accounts, from early in the voyage, my retrieval from the Metioche, and the test by Lord Nishida, early in the voyage, with Philoctetes, and later, from my attendance on Tarl Cabot, my actions in the Vine Sea, my role in the evacuation, my frequent participation in the high watches, and such.
I was not, of course, an officer, but, in this situation, I thought I might have more influence on them, being one of their own, so to speak, than an officer.
I broke through the crowd, I think a moment before the four Pani guardsmen would have been rushed, and the first of the three gates swung open.
I put myself before Tereus, and the fellows at his side.
“Hold, friend Tereus!” I cried, putting out my hands.
“Rescuer of Rutilius, the murderer,” he said, “stand away!”
Men growled beside him.
Tereus had unsheathed his sword. I had kept mine sheathed, of course, not so much because I wanted my intervention to be peaceful, though I surely wished that, as because, drawn, it would have done me little good. I might, with fortune, have slain one or two men, but then I would be swept aside, probably trampled, probably bleeding from a hundred wounds.
“You are all of the ship,” I cried to the men. “Do not betray her! Do not insult her! You have taken fee! Honor is due! You have come to serve, so serve! Do not desert your fellows, the Pani, and others, who have fought with you! You have been treated fairly by Lords Nishida and Okimoto. They have sought your service, paid for it with good coin, which you accepted, and brought you here, in trust, across vast, green Thassa, to the World’s End, that you may prove your worth and earn your pay, that you may teach those of these islands the honor, the prowess, and might of the archers, spearmen, and swordsmen of Ar, Jad, Brundisium, Temos, Kasra, Tor, and a hundred ports and cities.”
Men wavered, and looked to one another.
“He is Cosian,” said a fellow of Ar.
“You cannot stop us with words,” said a fellow, “you and four behind you.”
“You may stay here to die,” said a fellow. “We will not!”
“We came for gold, and we have it,” said another. “There is nothing to keep us here.”
“Honor!” I cried.
“Do not speak of honor,” said a fellow. “Many here have betrayed Home Stones.”
“Or been cast from our gates in the name of Home Stones,” snarled another.
“You cannot take the ship,” I said. “The galley nests are not open. The bulwarks are high. The ropes and nets will not be lowered.”
I saw more than one fellow in the crowd with loops of rope. I saw more than one grappling iron, and, I supposed, there were others, which had been smuggled from the ship. I knew, as well, that mooring ropes might be climbed, and that spikes might be hammered into the side of the ship, by means of which men might climb the sides. Even so I doubted that the assault on the ship would be successful. Although the Pani on the ship would be much outnumbered, they would have the advantage of position. Arrow fire would flow from the ship to the wharf, and from the wharf to the ship. Hundreds might be slain.
“Go back,” I begged the men. “Go back! There will be much killing. Remember the mutiny! Nothing will be accomplished. Much will be lost. The wharf will run with blood. Go back!”
“Step aside, friend of Rutilius,
” said Tereus, “or meet our steel.”
“Kill him!” said more than one man.
“We are going to open the gate,” said Tereus.
“That will not be necessary,” said a quiet, polite voice, but one which somehow carried.
“Lord Nishida,” said men.
This high officer had approached, unnoticed, from the side.
Not one Pani warrior was with him.
I thought he must be a fellow of great courage. Surely he must understand the men were frightened, resolved, and desperate.
As Lord Nishida turned, benignly, toward me, I bowed, not knowing anything else to do, which bow he returned, politely. His hands were in his sleeves.
“Noble Callias,” he said, “your effort at the gate is commendable, if somewhat foolish. Nonetheless, it is appreciated, and it will not be forgotten.”
“Noble Lord,” said Tereus, “open the gate.”
“You are the oarsman, Tereus, are you not?” inquired Lord Nishida.
“Yes,” said Tereus.
“I find it surprising,” said Lord Nishida, “that you, an oarsman, should be the captain of this enterprise.”
“Open the gate!” called a man.
“There must be men here from several decks,” said Lord Nishida. “Something like this must have taken careful planning, thorough preparation, and meticulous organization. The expeditious marshaling of the men here, from diverse locations, and the timing of their confluence at the gate is also impressive.”
“Lord Temmu will be mustering Pani!” said a fellow.
“Not at all,” said Lord Nishida, quietly.
“Open the gate!” called another man, frightened, angrily.
“I request,” said Lord Nishida, “that you Tereus, and your friends, return to the feast.”
“Lord Nishida,” said Tereus, “open the gate.”
“Certainly,” said Lord Nishida, indicating that the Pani guards open the gate. I stood to the side, bewildered.
I was more startled when I saw the other two gates between the courtyard and the steep, downward trail to the wharf already stood open.
The men, led by Tereus, rushed past us, through the opened gate. In moments Lord Nishida, the four Pani guards, myself, and two or three armsmen in the vicinity, were alone, by the gate.
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