by John Norman
The wharf cart had been empty.
When the slave left me I had yielded to him, as though he might have been a free man. I was much shamed.
I lay behind the boxes and looked up at the blue sky. I was miserable. I had been used by a slave. But, too, I was frightened. It was surely past the time when I should have returned to the Chatka and Curla. I did not want to be whipped!
Slowly, painfully, my legs stiff, I climbed to my feet. I rearranged the bit of silk I wore.
I stepped out from behind the boxes. I must hurry back to the Chatka and Curla.
I stopped, startled. Then I shrank back beside the large boxes. He was far off, but I was certain. I began to breathe rapidly. My heart began to pound.
It could not be, but it was.
I did not know what to do. At first I felt, unrestrainable, overwhelming me, an incredible flood of love and elation. I felt the incredible love and joy, the elation, possible only to a slave girl.
He was approaching from down the wharf, carrying a sea bag, in the guise of a sailor.
I wanted to run toward him, crying out, the length of the wharf, and throw myself to his feet, weeping, covering them with kisses.
Then I was frightened that I had made a mistake. It could not be true.
But I watched. I grew more and more sure, and then I was certain. He stopped to buy a cake from a vendor on the wharf. It was he!
It was my master, Clitus Vitellius of Ar!
"Oh, Master," I wanted to cry out, "I love you! I love you, Master!"
Then I saw him glance at a paga girl who posed, turning before him, and spoke to him.
Suddenly I hated her and him!
He dismissed the girl, but I had seen him look upon her, as a warrior, a master.
I hated them both!
It had been Clitus Vitellius of Ar who had first enslaved me. He had marked me with the hot iron, marking my very flesh, branding me a slave girl. He had made me serve him! He had made me love him, and had then, when it pleased him, his sport done, thrown me aside, giving me to peasants!
A bold plan, relentless and terrible, formed in my mind. I breathed deeply, in cold fury, resolved.
He would find that a slave girl's vengeance is not a light thing.
I straightened myself. I parted the silk, lasciviously. I lifted my head, with the small sounds of the bells on the collar.
He was coming toward me now, eating on the bit of cake he had purchased.
I saw he carried no weapons. This pleased me.
I ran toward him, with short steps, and knelt before him. I kissed his feet. At his feet I felt suddenly a wave of love for him, the helpless weakness of a slave girl overcome at her master's feet, but then I caught myself, and every bit of me became cold, and calculating and sensuous. I held the calves of his legs in my hands, and looked up at him.
"Dina," he said.
"My master calls me Yata," I said, "Master."
"Then you are Yata," he smiled.
"Yes, I am Yata," I said. I looked up at him, smiling.
"Are you as innocent and as clumsy as before?" he asked.
"No, Master," I said, putting my head down, beginning to kiss him on the side of the leg, deeply, pulling, sucking, at the hair a tiny bit.
"I see not," he said, laughing.
I looked up. "I have been taught how to please men," I said.
"Of course," he said, "you are a slave girl."
"Yes, Master," I said.
"Are you good?" he asked.
"Some masters have not been fully displeased," I said.
"Do you think you could please me?" he asked.
My heart leaped. I applied myself as subtly and marvelously as I could, touching his leg variously, bringing my mouth slowly, biting and loving, to the side of his knee. "No, Master," I whispered. "Yata could never please a great warrior like you."
He looked about. "Say only 'sailor,'" he said. "Here I am not a Captain of Ar, he Clitus Vitellius, but only a seafarer, a simple oarsman from Tyros, one called Tij Rejar."
I looked up at him. "As master wishes," I said. Then I again applied myself to his legs.
"Master will not cuff me from him, will he?" I begged.
"Clever slut," he said.
He lifted my head and brushed back the kerchief on my head. I reddened.
"I was some weeks ago slave cargo," I said, my head down.
"And pretty slave cargo indeed," he said.
"I am pleased if Master is pleased," I said. I held his legs, my cheek against his thigh. I wanted to cry out that I loved him, but then I checked myself, remembering my project. I knelt at his feet only to bring him low. I did not think it would be difficult if I could get him to the Chatka and Curla.
He would pay! He would pay!
I looked up at him, smiling. "I was once yours," I said, "Master."
He looked down at me, almost tenderly. "Perhaps it was a mistake to have given you away," he smiled.
I caught my breath, but remained firm. I must not relent. I would be remorseless.
How vulnerable in a way I was, in silk and collar at his feet. But I held great power.
"It is strange," I said. "Once you owned me. Now, in faraway Cos, on the wharves, I kneel at your feet in the collar of a paga slave."
"It is a pretty collar," he said.
"Thank you, Master," I said.
"I see by your silk," he said, "that you work in the Chatka and Curla."
"Yes, Master," I said.
"What is your duty there?" he asked.
"To please the customers of my master," I said.
"It is long since I have held your hot little body," he said.
I blushed, though I was a slave girl.
"You are a hot, lovely slave, you know," he said.
"In your arms," I said, "any girl, even the daughter of a Ubar, would find herself only a responding slave." I did not doubt but what this was true. I remembered myself miserable in his arms, writhing with unwanted ecstasy, then, unable to help myself, unable to hold out longer, suddenly surrendering to my enslavement in his arms. Though I had been of Earth he had reduced me to a spasmodic, yielding slave.
"I am thirsty for paga," he said.
"I know a place," I said.
"The Chatka and Curla?" he asked.
"Yes, Master," I said.
"But are there girls there?" he asked.
"Yes, Master," I said.
"Are you one of them?" he asked.
"Yes, Master," I said.
"It is long since I have owned you," he said.
I looked up at him, boldly. "Own me again at the Chatka and Curla," I whispered.
"You are a curvaceous, tempting little slut," said he, "—Yata."
"Does Yata dare to suspect," I asked, "that Master once cared for her a little?"
"Does a slave girl wish to be whipped?" he asked.
"No, Master," I said, head down.
"I have other matters to attend to," he said.
I looked up, frightened. "Please, Master," I begged. "Come with Yata to the Chatka and Curla."
"I am busy," he said.
"But Master thirsts for paga," I said.
He grinned.
"And Yata," I wheeled, "was detained upon the wharves." I remembered the slave who had been set upon me by his master, to discipline me. I had been well ravished, and at length. He had forced me to respond to him, as a slave's slave. It was now well past the time when I should be at the tavern, bathing and preparing for the labors of the evening. "She is late," I said. "If she does not return with a customer, after all this time, her master may not be pleased."
"It is nothing to me," said he, "if a girl is tied at the slave ring and put under the leather."
"Of course not, Master," I said. But then I looked up at him. "But Yata," I said, softly, begging him, supplicating him, "desires to serve Master paga." I knelt before him, on the boards of the wharf, eyes lifted, holding him. "Have me with the cup, Master," I begged. "Please, Master."
/>
He looked down upon me.
"Have pity on a slave, Master," I begged. "Have me with the cup, Master. Please, Master."
He seemed undecided.
"Purchase a cup of paga, Master," I said, "and have me with its price."
He looked down upon me.
"Yata is before Master on her knees," I said. "Yata is on her knees before Master, a slave girl, begging him, begging him!"
He smiled. "Conduct me to your tavern, Slave Girl," he said.
"Thank you, Master!" I breathed. I put down my head, so that he might not see the smile of victory, of triumph, that suffused my features. Submissively, with the sound of bells, those on my collar and ankle ring, I rose lightly to my feet, turned, and, excited, scarcely daring to breathe, barefoot, as a slave girl, led the way toward the Chatka and Curla.
I heard him following me.
* * * *
The double gate, of barred iron, shut behind me.
I turned, suddenly, screaming, pointing to he who had followed me within.
"He is of Ar!" I cried. "He is an enemy! Seize him!"
Clitus Vitellius looked at me, startled.
"Seize him!" I cried. His hand had gone to his left hip but the short sword in its scabbard did not now hang there.
Strabo, assistant to Aurelion of Cos, leaped upon him, and was struck back. Clitus Vitellius looked about himself wildly.
"Seize him!" I cried.
Two of the men who worked within the tavern hurried toward the gate. Men leaped up from tables.
Clitus Vitellius turned to the double gate and tore at the bars, but could not fling them back, for the bolts had slipped into place.
A man leaped on him and he shook him off. He bent to Strabo, to rip the keys from his belt. There were many keys. He cut with the keys, holding their ring, at the face of the second man of the tavern, who fell screaming, bloodied, reeling back. He slashed about him with the keys, long and heavy on their thick ring, some six inches in width. A man leaped at him, low, seizing his legs. Two others leaped bodily upon him. They struggled. Then two others sped to him, and then there was a sword at his chest, where the tunic of the sailor had been torn away. Four men held him, back against the bars of the gate. Aurelion of Cos rushed forward. "What is going on here?" he demanded.
I pointed to the powerful, bloodied captive.
"He is Clitus Vitellius of Ar," I cried. "He is a captain of Ar!"
"A spy!" cried a man.
"Kill the spy!" cried another.
"He says he is Tij Rejar, an oarsman of Tyros, but he is of Ar, of the Warriors! He is Clitus Vitellius! He is of Ar! He is a captain!"
Aurelion looked at me. "It would not be well for you, Slave," said he, "to be mistaken in this matter."
"I am not mistaken, Master," I said.
"Who are you?" asked Aurelion.
Suddenly I was frightened. If his identity were sufficiently well established so as to truly appear an oarsman from Tyros it might not go well for me. I might be boiled alive in the oil of tharlarion. I began to sweat.
"I scorn to conceal my identity from those of Cos," he said. "I am Clitus Vitellius, a captain of Ar."
I laughed with pleasure. "See!" I cried.
"Bring chains," said Aurelion.
Clitus Vitellius looked at me. I shrank back. Chains were placed upon him.
"He is securely manacled," said Strabo, whose face was swollen as a consequence of the blow of Clitus Vitellius.
Ankle chains were then placed, too, upon the warrior of Glorious Ar, and a chain ran, too, from his wrists to the chain on his ankles.
A collar, with two guide chains, one on each side, was fastened on his neck.
"Kill the spy," said a man.
"No," said Aurelion. "We will take him to the magistrates."
The double gate was unlocked by Strabo, who had recovered his keys. Four men made ready to conduct Clitus Vitellius from the tavern.
"It is the heavy galleys for spies," said one man.
"Better to kill him now," said a man.
"No," said Aurelion, "conduct him to the magistrates. They will have much sport with him before he is chained to a bench."
The heavy galleys were round ships, large ships, which usually carried bulk goods, such as lumber and stone. It was usually impractical to employ free oarsmen on such ships.
Clitus Vitellius looked once more upon me. I saw that he was securely chained.
I approached him. "Ho, Clitus Vitellius," I said. "It seems you now wear chains like a slave."
He did not speak to me.
"You will soon be slave in the heavy galleys," I said. I posed before him, as a slave girl, opening my silk. Men laughed. "Look well, Master," I said, "for there are few girls in the rowing holds." I turned before him, and again faced him. "Do not forget Yata, Master," I said. "Remember it was she who put you in chains, who puts you upon the bench of the galleys!"
He regarded me, not speaking.
I went to him and, suddenly, with all my might, slapped him. He scarcely moved.
"The vengeance of a girl," I said, "is not a light thing."
"Neither," said he, looking at me, "is the vengeance of a warrior."
I shrank back, frightened.
"Take him away," said Aurelion.
Clitus Vitellius was conducted from the tavern.
"You did well, Slave Girl," said Aurelion.
"Thank you, Master," I said.
Then, suddenly, I knelt before him.
"What is it?" he asked.
I had rendered great service to the state of Cos.
"Yes?" he said.
Suddenly it had occurred to me that I could become free! When again might such an opportunity present itself? I was from Earth! Surely I was not so contemptible and despicable that I cared to remain a slave! Surely it was wrong that a collar should be on me! Perhaps on others, but not on me! Not on me, surely! Had I not been Judy Thornton, of Earth? Surely I should not be a slave! How could that be? Was I not of Earth? Must I not seize this opportunity to win my freedom! How often might such an opportunity come to a girl? How helpless and vulnerable I was as a slave! Did I not understand that? I viewed the dimensions of my servitude. We were at the mercy of our masters. I shook with the frissons of a girl's fear. Did I want truly to be a slave? How could that be? To have no choice but to obey, and serve! Surely that could not be true! I must not let it be true! I must not let it be true! And then I felt, rising within me, the feelings of Earth, so insidious, grievous and ugly, the reflexes, emotions and responses which had been pervasively, subtly engineered into me, to shape me into an ideological product designed to perpetuate a culture at war with nature, a prison of stereotypes alien to a natural world, a culture designed with the success, thriving and welfare in mind only of the those who could profit from the frightened, the shallow, the incomplete, the manipulable, the thwarted, and hating, the ruthless artisans of, and profiteers from, organized pathologies. And as Earth spoke in me, I felt reflexively, dutifully, what I had been told I should feel, what I had been taught I ought to feel, what it had been programmed into me I must feel if I were to satisfy pre-established cultural criteria, if I were to be smiled upon and commended, too, lest I bear the terrible burdens of difference, of ostracization, of isolation and scorn. Surely I must win my freedom! How terrifying to be what I was, a slave! I was in a collar! I was owned! Was this not horrifying, that I might be silked, or stripped, or bound, that I must serve without question, and in all ways? They must free me! I must be freed! I must have my freedom! I deserved it! I had done well! Indeed, Aurelion, my very master, had said that, that I had done well! Surely I might now be freed!
"What is it, Yata?" asked Aurelion, proprietor of the Chatka and Curla, my master.
Too, of course, if Clitus Vitellius should somehow regain his freedom, unlikely though that might be, I had little doubt that he would remember the girl who had betrayed him. And I did not doubt but what, as he had said, a warrior's vengeance is not a light t
hing. If I were free, I might hide, slip away, change identities, be in any one of a thousand cities, be untraceable. As a slave I must await him at the Chatka and Curla, fearing each stranger who might enter, fearing it might be he. Must I await him here, like a silken, caressable verr, unable to flee, observed in the day, chained at night? And if I were sold it might not be hard to track me, from master to master, by means of slave papers, merchants' records, and so on. Goreans tend to keep track of their properties, verr, kaiila, slaves, and such.
"Free me, Master," I begged.
He looked down upon me.
"I have done Cos great service!" I said. "Free me, free me, Master!"
I looked up at him, pleadingly.
"Bring a whip," said Aurelion to Strabo.
"No, please, Master!" I cried.
"You are a slave, Yata," he said. "And you will remain a slave. Do you not think I know women? Do you not think we know women? You should be a slave, and you will remain a slave."
"Master!" I protested.
"And at this point in your bondage," said he, "you are an ignorant, presumptuous slave."
I wept.
"Put her at the slave ring," said Aurelion, "and give her ten lashes, and then throw her a pastry. She has done well."
"I shall, Aurelion," said Strabo.
In moments I knelt at the slave ring, my small wrists crossed and bound to it, the silk pulled away from me, down about my calves. I was struck ten times, and then released. A pastry was thrown to the floor before me. "You did well, Slave Girl," said Strabo. "Thank you, Master," I whispered. I reached for the pastry. The whip stayed my hand. "Forgive me, Master," I said. I put my head down and took the pastry in my mouth.
"Chain her in the kennels," said Aurelion.
On my hands and knees, as a punished slave girl, holding the pastry in my mouth, I crawled from the floor to the kennels, followed by Strabo. There, at the concrete wall, on my blankets, I lay down. The chain and collar was fastened on my neck. Strabo left. I took the pastry in my hands, and began to eat it. What a fool I had been to beg my freedom. I had only to look in a mirror to see that I would never be free on Gor. I lay in the darkness of the long kennel, on my blankets, in my place, chained by the neck. I was a Gorean slave girl. Then I cried out with anguish, weeping, and hurled the pastry from me. I pounded at the concrete beneath the blankets. I wept. I had betrayed Clitus Vitellius, my master!