by John Norman
“Master?” said the older lad, hopefully.
“Girl,” said the man.
“Master?” said Ellen, frightened.
“Have you had your slave wine?” he asked.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“Go about the tent, on the left,” he said. “There you will find a trestle. Bend over it, and wait.”
“Yes, Master,” said Ellen, miserably.
“Have you made use of the slave?” asked the man of the boys, severely.
“No, Master,” said the older.
“No, Master!” said the younger, quickly.
“She is the property of Cos,” the older one reminded the man.
“I will find some coins for you, in the tent,” said the slave marshal. “In the meantime, accept the gratitude of Cos, and enjoy the hospitality of Cos.”
“Long live Cos!” said the older lad.
“Long live Cos!” said the younger.
“You will find thongs at the trestle,” said the slave marshal. “Tie her left wrist to her left ankle, the right wrist to the right ankle.”
Later the slave marshal came himself to stand beside the trestle. Ellen was weeping, bent over, wrists tied to ankles, helpless, embarrassed, well secured.
“Portus Canio, of Ar, was your master,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” she said. It is not easy, as you may understand, to conduct a conversation, particularly one in which one retains any dignity, when one is fastened thusly. He would have read her collar, she supposed, when he examined the Cosian tag wired to the collar. Ellen wondered if he had heard the name of Portus Canio, of Ar, before. It did not seem unfamiliar to him.
“What is wrong, little vulo?” he asked.
“Nothing, Master,” she wept.
“You may speak,” he said.
“You gave me to boys, Master!” she wept. “You gave me to boys!”
“Do you object?” he asked.
“No, Master!” she said, quickly.
“They seem like nice lads,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” she said. “But am I not a little old for them? Would I not be consigned more suitably to men, Master? Am I not more for men, Master?”
“You are for whomsoever masters decide,” he said. “But it is true that you are for men. You are the sort of woman who obviously and appropriately belongs to men.”
“Yes, Master!” she said. “But I was not satisfied.”
“Who cares if a slave is satisfied,” he said.
“They were so quick with me, Master!”
“I shall be even quicker,” he said.
“Master?” she asked.
“We do not want you contented as yet,” he said. “I think it will be better if you sweat a little, and, for a few days, heat your chains. In a day or two I suspect you will scream for a man. You have the look of such a slave.”
“Please, Master, have mercy,” begged Ellen.
“Surely you would wish to be sent to the block desperate for a master. Would you not then perform better, more piteously, more needfully?”
Ellen moaned.
“I will send for one of the metal workers tonight,” he said, “and we will get this collar and tag off your neck. Then, afterward, we will see that you are chained. And, in the morning, when we leave, I will put you in the coffle.”
“In the coffle, Master?” wept Ellen, in horror.
She then felt his hands on her body, holding her.
“Oh!” she cried, suddenly. “Oh!”
He was indeed quick with her. She held to her ankles in misery.
When he turned away she called after him, “Master, may I speak?”
“What is it?” he asked.
“Were the boys rewarded for bringing me here?” she asked.
“The young men were compensated,” he said.
“May I ask to what extent, Master?”
“You wish a clue as to your value, do you not, collar slut?” he said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“Cos,” he said, “is noted for her liberality, her unparalleled generosity.”
“Yes, Master,” said Ellen.
“Five copper tarsks each,” said he.
“Thank you, Master!” said Ellen.
“You are all vain she-urts,” he said, turning away.
“Yes, Master!” said Ellen, delightedly.
That would be in most cities something like one hundred tarsk-bits altogether. It would be something like fifty tarsk-bits for each lad. Presumably they would not have so many coins at one time until they were responsible for their own fields, and the sale of their own crops. This was, we may remember, the price for which Mirus had allegedly sold her to Targo. It was not much, but it was surely something, and Targo, a professional slaver, had paid it, and so, doubtless, had hoped to make a profit on her, perhaps of as much as five tarsks. She did not know what Portus had paid for her. Several times she had been tempted, when he had seemed in a good mood, to crawl to him on her belly, take his ankles in her small hands, kiss his feet, and beg to know. But she had not dared to do so. Portus was not a patient man. Too, she knew that curiosity was supposedly unbecoming in a slave girl. She did not wish to be beaten. But she was curious, of course, intensely curious, just the same. She had no doubt that she had grown in her bondage, in her beauty, her walk, her responsiveness, even her skill in various domesticities thought suitable for a female slave. For example, she could now make tiny, fine, straight, measured stitches. To be sure, her experiences in the streets of Ar did not suggest that men would be likely to bid upon her with their eyes intent upon her skills as a cook or seamstress. Indeed, she had been obviously taken in the streets of Ar as merely another lovely, briefly tunicked Gorean slave girl, as no more than another Gorean slave girl, and then she thought, this thought muchly pleasing her, that there was nothing unfitting or surprising about that, for that was what she now was, only another Gorean slave girl! She was muchly pleased with the compensation accorded the boys, and she doubted, truly, that those of Cos were any more generous than those of any other city when it came to such matters. A reward of ten copper tarsks for her seemed considerable. Obviously the slave marshal regarded her as acceptable collar meat, perhaps even excellent collar meat! There, take that, again, Selius Arconious, she thought. She did not expect, however, to ever bring as much as a silver tarsk. It would be exciting to be bid upon, she thought. How few women are put upon a block and sold for what men find them to be actually worth!
Do free women think they are so lofty and precious? Let them be put stripped on a sales block and see what they would bring! Let them then get some idea as to what they are truly worth!
Thus, few women, she thought, have any sense of what they are actually worth, as a female. What would be their monetary value, on a slave block? To be sure, it is hard to know about such things, as so many variables affect a price. If the market is glutted a beauty may go for tarsk-bits, and if women are scarce a pot girl might bring a silver tarsk. And some men, determined at all costs to bring a particular woman to their slave ring, may bid prices incomprehensible to others.
Still there is something to be said for what a woman goes for, what men will pay for her.
In a few minutes a fellow in the black and gray of the metal workers appeared and removed her collar, with the attached tag. He then made use of her, briefly, and then freed her from the trestle. She was then, held bent over, in common leading position, her head at his hip, taken back about the tent and chained for the night.
After their feeding and watering the girls were permitted to lie in the dust and rest. The coffle would not move for an Ahn. Bosk and tharlarion were to be fed, watered, and rested. Soldiers were taking their midday meal. Some drovers lay in the shade beneath their wagons. Ellen’s body still burned from the lashing, and the two strokes of the slave’s switch. As she lay there she realized that her lashing, and her switching, had been well deserved. She should not have asked for more water, and she should have
come to position more quickly after her whipping. What a stupid slave she was! Still she was angry with the woman. It is one thing to be whipped by a man, who is a master, and another to be struck by a woman, and one who, like oneself, is a mere slave! Would I not bring a higher price than she, wondered Ellen. Am I not near the head of the coffle?
As she lay there, her arms over her head, to protect it from the sun as well as she could, she became aware of a whispering in the coffle, proceeding toward her. It is forbidden to speak in the coffle, of course, but if no masters are about, or their representatives, such as switch slaves, it is certainly not unknown. The whispering seemed to be eager, and lively.
“Slave,” she heard, from the girl who preceded her in the coffle.
Ellen rose up, to all fours, looking anxiously about.
The other girl, too, looked about, then she crawled toward Ellen and addressed her in a soft, confidential, pleased whisper. “In three days,” said the girl, “there will be a festival camp, near Brundisium. Cos has been again successful. A plot has been foiled. Conspirators have been taken. Victory to Cos! There will be feasting. Slaves will serve. Slaves will be sold, and danced! Tell others!”
Ellen’s heart sank. She feared that this intelligence boded ill for Ar, and perhaps for Portus and his fellows.
“Tell others!” insisted the girl before her, looking about.
Ellen turned about and whispered these tidings to the girl who would be behind her in the coffle. That girl then, delightedly, a redhead, turned about, and passed the message on.
Then, profoundly disturbed by this news of some victory by Cos, though its nature seemed uncertain, Ellen lay again down in the dust to seize what rest she might. Too soon, for her desires, though perhaps not now for those of her enchained sisters in bondage, the order to rise was received, emphasized by the snapping of a slave whip. Ellen could see that the coffle now was in higher spirits. If the guards noted that, they did not inquire as to the reason, and, indeed, perhaps they were well aware of the reason. Perhaps it was they, under orders or not, who had dropped this information near the coffle, in conversation, knowing that it would, at the first opportunity, course like wildfire along the chain. Sometimes we think we are clever. But then, not unoften, it seems that it is the masters who have been most clever. It makes one feel vulnerable. But then one is no more than a slave.
“I do not want to go to Cos or Tyros,” whispered the girl behind her. “I want to be sold before Brundisium. I will perform well! Do you think I will get a rich master?”
“Yes,” said Ellen, “you are very beautiful.”
“You, too, are very beautiful,” said the girl.
Very beautiful?
This startled Ellen, for she had not really thought of herself along these lines, or at least not often, or at least to that extent. Beautiful, perhaps. Surely her vanity suggested that. Had she not seen herself in mirrors? But very beautiful — and by Gorean standards?
Surely she could not have so changed, from the shelf of Targo in Ar.
Perhaps she was “ten-tarsks beautiful,” but more?
Perhaps!
Could she hope then, ever, to bring as much as a silver tarsk?
She was convinced, of course, that she was a valuable, attractive slave. She had no doubt about that. She was not unaware of how men had looked upon her, for example, in the streets of Ar. Yes, then thought Ellen, I think I am beautiful! Perhaps even very beautiful!
To be sure, that was for men to decide.
I am near the front of the coffle, she reminded herself.
And the camp slaves have treated me with cruelty. At least it seems so to me. Could they resent me, perhaps for my beauty? Might they be jealous of me?
Could I have changed so much, from the shelf of Targo?
But beauty was for the men to decide. It was they who carried the whips and chains. It was they who did the bidding, the collaring, the branding, the buying and selling, the raiding and netting and roping, the capturing and herding, the mastering.
“What of you?” asked the girl. “Will you perform well?”
“I do not know,” said Ellen.
“You will, slave,” laughed the girl softly behind her. “It will be seen to by the masters!”
“Are you a hot slave?” asked the girl behind her.
“I do not know,” said Ellen.
“If you are not,” she said, “do not worry. You will be trained under the hands of the masters. They will teach you to squirm and beg. They will put slave fire in your belly!”
“Perhaps,” said Ellen, trying to speak indifferently, even coldly, even skeptically. She saw no point in informing her thoughtful, solicitous sister in bondage that she, Ellen, despite her youth, was no stranger to slave fire, that the flames of the owned, dominated, mastered woman already raged frequently, irresistibly, in her belly, that she hungered for touches, for caresses, for embraces, which were being denied her. Men had indeed taught her to squirm and beg. But they had not created her sexual needs, nor her sexual nature. Not these men, at least, though her nature might have been shaped, through startling complementarities, and interactions with men, in the course of evolution, through countless millennia of capturing, buying and selling, bartering, domination and mastery. They had merely summoned it forth, imperiously, even against her will, merely commanded it, merely liberated it. Only in bondage is the sexual nature of the human female totally freed. In her enslavement she finds her freedom. This is the paradox of the collar.
The order to march was then received.
Standards were lifted, and flashed in the sun.
Drovers called out to their animals, whips cracked, wagons creaked. There was the tread of the soldiers, the grunting, and scampering about, coming and going, scattering dust, of saddle tharlarion.
The coffle, too, with its sound of chain, marched.
The march had been underway for something like two Ahn. Saddle tharlarion, as has been noted, were familiar components of the march and camp. These, not unoften, ran the length of the march, relaying orders, carrying messages and such. Too, of course, there were mounted officers, and others, civilians, and such, who rode with the march, rather than walked, or had places in the wagons. A pair of men approached, and halted their tharlarion some yards ahead of Ellen’s position, and, turning the beasts, which were restless, were engaged in conversation. As Ellen, on the chain, marching with the others, approached them, they relatively fixed at the side of the march, she was startled, terribly shaken. She was certain that she recognized the two riders, neither of whom were concerned with the progressing coffle. One was the subcaptain, the Cosian officer, who had been in the loft of Portus Canio, whose men had ransacked it, indeed, he who had wired the tag to her collar, and who had spoken to her earlier. The other man, in colorful riding robes, laughing, jesting with him, she also recognized. It was Tersius Major.
Quickly, as she approached them, miserable, on the chain, covered with dust, she put her head down and brought her hair before her face, to conceal her features. And thus she passed them, unnoticed, no more than another slave in the coffle.
As she passed them she heard laughter. Then the laughter was behind her. When she turned about she saw that the two tharlarion had continued on their way, toward the rear of the column.
Somewhere she heard the crack of a whip.
Quickly she turned her head forward again, and continued on her way.
Chapter 21
THE POOL
“You are an ignorant barbarian, are you not?” asked the man.
“Yes, Master,” said Ellen, quickly.
She knelt before him, her head to the ground.
“Do you know how to bathe?” he asked. “You may look up.”
Ellen lifted her head, timidly. “Yes, Master,” she said. “I have been taught.”
“You will go to the designated pool with this group,” he said, gesturing. “Oils, sponges, rags, will be at the pool, and lotions. Pebbles will do for scrapers. Stand the
re.”
Ellen rose to her feet and went to stand behind another girl, one in a line now of seven, including herself. Three more would be added to the group. All were naked. This is not that unusual for slaves in transport. Whereas nudity is certainly not unknown amongst slave girls, and is relatively familiar, even publicly, and masters often keep their slaves naked in their own quarters, still a naked slave is likely to be noticed; she is unlikely to blend in with “clothed” sisters in bondage, permitted perhaps an open camisk or a scanty ta-teera. Seen in a field, for example, free men will commonly investigate the sight of such a slave, and, if she is not known to them, set upon her, apprehend her, and demand an accounting. An attendant knotted a rope about her left ankle. It went to the girl before her, about whose ankle it was already knotted, and would be extended behind her, to fasten the next three slaves in the ankle coffle, as she was, each such coffle consisting of ten slaves.
The usual coffling order, for those whom it might interest, is not from front to rear, as was being done here, girls being selected almost randomly to be added to the rope, but from rear to front, the slaves keeping their eyes forward. This is particularly the case when chains and collars, or wrist rings, or ankle rings, are used. In this way the slave does not see the device until it is upon her, and then, of course, it is too late; she is locked within it. She knows, of course, that this is going to be done. She hears the chains, the snapping shut of the locks, and so on. Indeed, she, standing, or kneeling, presumably knees spread, hands on thighs, or on all fours, waiting, forbidden to turn about, builds up a considerable amount of suspense in the matter, and it comes, usually, as a welcome climax, as a relief, when she finds herself at last added, as she knows she must be, explicitly, securely, helplessly, to the “slaver’s necklace.” One supposes it is done in this fashion largely for its psychological effect on the slave, it tending to make her feel apprehensive, docile, obedient and helpless. And it does have that effect. It is also supposed that it makes it less likely that the slave will bolt, or flee, but that seems to me dubious, except perhaps in the case of recently captured free women, terrified to find themselves in such a line, presumably naked, or new slaves. The rational slave knows she is to be chained, and that there is nothing she can do about it; she neither bolts nor flees. She does not wish to be dragged back to her place by the hair, and whipped there, in the very spot she so foolishly forsook. “Here!” it might be said. “Here is your place, foolish girl!” “Yes, Master! Yes, Master!” And the lash would fall. “And you are not to leave it without permission, stupid slave!” “No, Master! No, Master! Forgive me, Master! Please forgive me, Master!” And the lash would fall again and again. And then the chain is put on her. She sobs. She has learned. She has been taught her lesson.