by John Norman
She dared to lift her head a little, but she saw neither Mirus nor Selius Arconious within the enclosure. She did see, this frightening her, and she quickly put down her head, the scribe who had interviewed her in the exhibition cage, and three guardsmen, with him, not one but three, all approaching.
Her apprehensions were much increased when she became aware that they had stopped in her vicinity.
Ellen, trembling, pressed her forehead down into the sand.
“117, Kajira Ellen,” said the scribe.
“Yes, Master,” said Ellen.
“Dismiss your girls, save this one,” said the scribe.
“Return to the area of preparation,” said the exterior whip master.
Immediately, with a rustle of bells, and the clinkings of necklaces and bangles, the other slaves hurried to their feet and went into the area of preparation.
“Master?” asked Ellen.
“Strip yourself, completely,” said the scribe.
“Yes, Master,” said Ellen.
“Help her,” said the scribe.
One of the guardsmen undid the halter, behind her back, and pulled it away. One of the other two guardsmen whistled softly. “Nice,” he said. Ellen, flushing, lifted aside the necklaces and the bracelet and, embarrassed, though a slave, unhooked the swirling skirt of dancing silk. “The veil, there, Masters,” she said. “That was mine to wear, too.” In this way she had purchased a moment’s modesty. Then the veil was put beside her, and on it were laid the halter, the necklaces and bracelet. She looked up and, meeting the stern eyes of the scribe, lifted away the skirt, folded it, and, head down, placed it, too, beside her.
“Bells,” said the scribe.
Ellen sat then in the sand, and drew up her left leg, to attempt to remove the bells. She was at this time naked, save for the bells. Her fingers fumbled. The knots seemed too close, too tight. She struggled, and began to weep.
“On your belly,” said the scribe.
One of the guardsmen, then, crouching beside her, bending her leg, lifting it by the ankle, pressing it closely against her body, so closely she whimpered, undid the bells. With a jangle they were flung to the bit of garb and the few adornments beside her. She remained, of course, on her belly, but put her leg down. Her head was turned to the right, her left cheek in the sand.
“Well, little Ellen,” said the scribe. “You danced well.”
“Thank you, Master,” whispered Ellen, frightened.
“But I thought it strange,” said the scribe, “when I heard your number called in the camp, summoning you to a dancing circle, and, indeed, one so high as the ba-ta circle. I seemed to recall the number, and, accordingly, as is my wont in such instances, checked my records, which I have with me.”
Ellen was silent, lying in the sand, the feet of the men about her.
“According to my records,” said the scribe, looming over her, tall in his blue robes, she could see but the hem of his robe and his sandals, “you responded negatively when queried as to your ability to dance. Perhaps my records are in error?”
I think we may grant, even within this narrative, despite the possible risk of a seeming impropriety, hopefully not one punishable, that Ellen had at least average, or reasonable, intelligence. Certainly her life on Earth, her education, her attainments, her position, and such, suggest as much. More coercively, perhaps, we might note that intelligence ranks high among the selection criteria of Gorean slavers, of which, as noted earlier, we may assume that Mirus was one. I think that it is seldom that stupid women are brought to Gor. The Gorean master, you see, looks for high intelligence in a female slave. It is one of his pleasures to take a highly intelligent woman, even a brilliant woman, provided, of course, that she is attractive, would be of interest in chains, is likely to squirm well in the furs and such, and teach her her womanhood, a lesson which is too often neglected in the education of a free female, either on Gor or Earth. He delights then to take such an interesting, lovely, remarkable creature in hand and, step by step, with great patience, reduce her to an unquestioning, passionate, obedient chattel. The more intelligent she is, of course, the better slave she is likely to make; I assume that that is obvious; she is likely to be more aware of the subtlest and almost unspoken desires of her master; she is less likely to make errors which might displease him; and she is likely to be not only hot, devoted and dutiful, as the saying is, but inventive and zealous, conscientious and creative, intelligently desperate to please, in her unrelieved, categorical servitude. Also, I suppose that there is just more pleasure in owning an intelligent woman than in owning one who is less intelligent. She is a greater prize to have at one’s feet. Too, the average Gorean master wants a woman he can talk to, seriously talk to, one with whom, in a sense, he can share his life. It is not unusual for a master to speak of numerous matters with his female slave, politics, culture, music, history, philosophy, and such, almost as though she might be his equal, though she is likely to be kneeling before him, naked, and back-braceleted. In this way she is not likely to forget that she is a female. Afterwards he can put her in pleasure chains, and, as it pleases him, turn her once again into a begging, submitted, conquered, spasmodic, writhing slave. A dull woman, you see, is not of great interest, whether in a collar or not. An interesting woman, on the other hand, is not the less interesting in a collar; indeed, she is more interesting in a collar.
“No, Master,” said Ellen. “Your records are correct. I denied that I knew dance.” She supposed that the question had been a trap, but, even had it not been, even if the scribe’s question had been innocently, honestly, motivated, she thought it wisest to answer truthfully. As a slave she feared the penalties for prevarication, the least of which might be a severe whipping.
“Then,” said the scribe, “it appears that you are a lying slave.”
“No, Master,” she wept. “I answered as honestly as I could. I am a slave girl. I would not dare to lie to a free man!”
“You said you could not dance, and yet with my own eyes, and to my pleasure, I may add, I saw you dance.”
“I cannot dance!” cried Ellen.
There was laughter, from the scribe, and from one of the guardsmen, and from the two whip masters who had now come forth from the area of preparation.
“It is true,” said Ellen. “I did not so much dance, as act to music. And I have seen dancers, in the circles. I tried to imitate them! I tried to do well! Then I felt myself taken by the music, and I could not help myself. Then, as though held in its chains, I found myself dancing. I had been captured by the music. I had no recourse but to obey it, Masters! I did not know I could dance, if dance I did.”
“You danced,” said the scribe.
Ellen groaned.
“You had lessons?” said the scribe.
“No, Master,” said Ellen.
“But you have seen slaves dance?”
“Yes, Master,” wept Ellen.
“And you learned from them?”
“Perhaps something, Master.”
“And surely, as a slave,” said the scribe, “you upon occasion, naked, in secret, had swayed before a mirror?”
“Yes, Master,” whispered Ellen. She recalled that she had done this, not only on Gor, but even on Earth, as a frustrated female intellectual, more than once, in anguish, and curiosity, and embarrassment, in the privacy of her apartment, the shades drawn, far above the distant pavement, far above the dismal, crowded, gray streets below. She had wanted to see herself as she might be, and wanted to be, as a beautiful, natural creature, and to see herself, as well, as that creature might appear, beggingly presenting itself, beggingly displaying itself, in all the lure of the dance, to a member of the opposite sex, to a man. Once, to her astonishment, she had found herself whispering to the mirror. “I am here. Where are you, my master? I am ready for a collar. I want a collar. Come, collar me, my master!” She wondered how many slaves danced thusly in such small, lonely apartments, their slave needs starved, longing for a master.
“Then you have not only made observations, from which you perhaps learned something, but you have practiced,” said the scribe.
“Yes, Master,” wept Ellen.
“I think I shall have you remanded for the liar’s brand,” said the scribe.
“Do not have it put on me, please, Master!” begged Ellen, terrified.
“I would think that a good whipping would be sufficient,” said a voice, “say, ten lashes.”
Ellen started, keeping her head down.
“Who are you?” asked the scribe.
“I am called ‘Selius’,” said the voice.
Ellen dared to look up, from her belly, half buried in the sand, into which it seemed she would crawl, as though to hide. Her fingers dug into the sand, at the sides of her head.
It was Selius Arconious!
“Perhaps you are right,” said the scribe. “I myself was inclined to be lenient, though I suppose the liar’s brand would be appropriate for her.”
Ellen dug her fingers into the sand, in terror.
“I did, as doubtless did we all, enjoyed her performance, and that should count for something, I suppose,” said the scribe, “and I, besides, upon reflection, am inclined to grant that she may not have fully understood her latent talents in the matter.”
“It is instinctive in a woman,” said the guardsman. “They are all slaves, with or without their collars. They are all born to dance the dances of slaves. Such things are in their belly from birth.”
“True,” said Selius Arconious. “But she was stupid not to understand this.”
“Yes,” agreed the guardsman.
Ellen bit her lip in anger, remaining quiet on her belly amongst the feet of the men.
“Surely she should at least have qualified her answer, or have been more candid, or more speculative, with our fellow here,” said Arconious, indicating the scribe.
“Agreed,” said the guardsman.
“I am inclined to forget the matter,” said the scribe. “All in all, I do not think the little slut was trying to mislead us.”
Ellen gasped softly with relief.
“But she did mislead you,” said Selius Arconious.
“Inadvertently, unintentionally,” suggested the scribe.
“Then she is stupid,” said Selius Arconious.
“Granted,” said the scribe.
Ellen dug her fingers into the sand.
“Apparently,” said Selius Arconious, “those of Cos are indulgent with their slaves.”
“We do not have that reputation,” said the scribe, unpleasantly.
“Too, intentionally or not,” said Selius Arconious, “she has made a fool out of you, and of Cos.”
“No, Masters!” whispered Ellen, frightened.
“Were you given permission to speak?” inquired Selius Arconious.
“No, Master,” said Ellen. “Forgive me, Master!”
“You see how stupid she is,” said Selius Arconious.
“Yes,” said the scribe.
“I did not know that Cos accepted stupidity in her slaves,” said Selius Arconious.
“We do not,” said the scribe. “Whip!”
The whip of the exterior whip master was handed to the scribe, who gave it to one of the attending guardsmen.
Of the other two guardsmen one took Ellen’s wrists and drew them forward, holding them, and the other took her ankles, and, holding them tightly, drew them back, this extending her legs. In this way she was stretched at full length, on her belly, and held, vulnerably, in the sand.
“What do you think should be her punishment?” asked the scribe.
“I would think fifteen lashes,” said Selius.
Ellen sobbed in misery.
“Ten for the stupidity of imperiling the integrity of your records,” said Selius Arconious, “and another five for the stupidity of daring to speak without permission.”
Ellen saw the shadow of the guardsman, the arm lift, the hand holding the whip. She shut her eyes tightly, in misery.
But the blow did not fall.
She opened her eyes. Selius Arconious had interposed himself, and his hand rested on the arm of the guardsman, staying its blow. The guardsman, puzzled, lowered his arm.
“I will buy the strokes,” said Selius Arconious. “I would suppose that a tarsk-bit a stroke would be sufficient, as the slave is stupid, rather than willful or wayward.”
“That is acceptable,” said the scribe. “Fifteen tarsk-bits.”
“Done,” said Selius Arconious.
Ellen heard the tiny sounds of small coins. She saw the whip returned to the exterior whip master.
The scribe distributed some of the coins to the attending guardsmen. “Good,” said one of them. Such coins would buy more than one round of paga.
“So,” thought Ellen. “How cleverly Selius Arconious demeans me! He knows I hate him, that I cannot stand him, that I loathe him! Now he whom I intensely despise chooses to interfere! From where has he come? Why is he here? By what right does he interpose himself betwixt a slave and an agent of her master, the state of Cos? How he humiliates me! So now I should be grateful to him? With what contempt he buys away my whipping! How better could he show his contempt for me? How better could he impress my vulnerability, my nothingness, my slavery, upon me? And so he wishes to put me in his debt, me, whom he so scorns! Am I now supposed to be grateful to him, for this act of calculated humiliation. I loathe him! I loathe him!”
“You may belly,” said the scribe, “and express your gratitude to your benefactor.”
Ellen, who well understood her condition, needed not be reprimanded or kicked, nor required a suggestion, or command, to be repeated, but squirmed immediately, prostrate, on her belly, to Selius Arconious, and, putting down her head, her hair falling about his sandals, kissed his feet.
“Thank you, Master,” she said, bitterly, angrily.
“Your gratitude may be premature, my dear,” said Selius Arconious.
Ellen lifted her head a little, puzzled. Selius Arconious stepped back, away from her.
“Kneel up, slut,” said the scribe. “Lift your wrists, crossed.”
Ellen, kneeling up, lifting her wrists, crossed, flushed. She was obeying, and kneeling, a naked slave, in the presence of Selius Arconious, whom she hated.
She felt her wrists lashed together, at one end of a leather tether.
She was pulled to her feet.
She looked at Selius Arconious.
“I have always thought that you were a slave,” he said, “and now I see that you are.”
She looked down, angrily. Then she looked up, for her wrists were lifted, by the scribe, he checking the confining knots which bound them.
“There is no more dancing or serving for you this night, 117, Ellen,” said the scribe. “You are being taken to the slave cages. There you will wait. You will be sold tomorrow night.”
“She is a slut, meaningless and stupid,” said Selius Arconious. “I recommend that she be confined straitly.”
“I will see that she is put into one of the tiniest of the slave cages,” said the scribe. “By tomorrow night she will beg to run to the block.”
The slave’s tether was then handed to a guardsman.
Ellen, turning about, cast an angry glance at Selius Arconious, who regarded her impassively.
She turned away, angrily.
Then she was led away.
Chapter 25
SOLD
Ellen screamed in pain, her head seeming to explode with fire. “Please, no!” she cried, lights bursting in her vision, jerked forth by the hair, doing her best to scramble out, to comply, to please, stop the pain, stop the pain, please, don’t hurt me, flung to the dirt on her belly outside the tiny cage. She lay there on her belly in the dirt and felt her left wrist seized and manacled.
There had been metallic sounds, as the locks had been undone, the hasps flung back, and the padlocks, partially opened, slipped over the staples. The small gate was then thrown open.
“Out, out!” had said the keeper.
“Yes, Master!” she had cried, going to her hands and knees, to crawl forth. Then he had seized her hair.
“On your feet,” said the voice.
Ellen tried to rise, but her body, from the cage, was in such pain and so stiff, and so ached, that she, trying to rise, fell. “Oh!” she cried, as a bootlike sandal kicked her thigh, and she, bent over, her left wrist in the manacle, with the chain, her eyes filled with tears, rose to her feet.
At least her hair had been released.
Behind her, on the chain, were some sixteen or seventeen girls. She could see the lot number, rather similar to her own, on the left breast of the frightened girl, a blonde, behind her, she also chained by the left wrist in the line.
Perhaps the blonde, who had exquisite features and a lovely figure, had not been sold before. Or perhaps she knew more than Ellen, and feared this sort of sale.
“Stand straight,” said a voice, that of another keeper, and Ellen straightened her body.
There were two empty manacles on the chain before Ellen. They, with their chains, were before her, waiting, lying in the dirt.
From an area of chains and stakes she saw two girls being conducted toward her chain. Each was bent over, held in leading position, both in the handling of one keeper. They were then released and knelt, and then commanded to bow their heads and lift their left wrists. They were then roughly entered onto the chain, each by the left wrist. They were then ordered to their feet, as had been the others. The lot number of the one manacled before Ellen, which number she had seen as she had been brought forward, was again similar to her own. Was it higher, or lower? “How beautiful she is,” thought Ellen. “Is she more beautiful than I?”
A scribe, with papers, was nearby, and, in a moment, began to course the chain.
“115,” he said, of the first girl on the chain.
“116,” he said, of the second girl on the chain.
It was not the scribe she had known from the exhibition cage or the silken enclosure of the preceding evening.
“Put your head up, girl,” said the scribe.
“Yes, Master,” said Ellen.