Magicians of Gor (22 page)

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 of Cos and 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 (pg. 125) 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 things, 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 (pg. 126) area, thought 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 had grown out, and even by the time that it begins to

grow out a little, she had 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 have a girl completely if she it to be transported in a slave ship.

This is to protect her against vermin of various sort, 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 then 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.

(pg. 127) “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, s 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?”

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

“Yes, Maser!” she wept.

I considered the unilaterally 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.

“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 them 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.

The command of a free man had been conveyed to them. I then say the lovely

brunet 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. (pg. 128) Those that were sitting cross-legged swiftly

abandoned that position, also performing obeisance. Then, one by one, as the

brunet 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 that 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 woman, and youth,” 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 guardsmen 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.

(pg. 129) “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 a 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.

“It is not necessary,” he said.

“No,” I said. “I suppose it is not necessary.”

“Are you going to kill him?” Marcus asked me.

“I have not decided,” I said.

“There are two of you,” he said.

“You are a brave fellow,” I said, “not to turn about, and flee.” The odds, you

see, were much against him, even were we mediocre swordsmen. One need only

engage and defend, and the other strike.

“You dare not attack,” he said. “It is day. Those of Ar watch.”

“Is it true?” I asked Marcus, not taking my eyes off the fellow.

(pg. 130) Marcus stepped back, shielding himself behind me. “Yes,” he said.

“Interesting,” I said.

“You see,” he said. “There are many witnesses.”

“They are not rushing for aid are they?” I asked Marcus.

“No,” he said.

“I suspect they will have seen nothing,” I said.

The fellow turned pale.

“You are cowards!” he said.

“Which of us will kill him?” asked Marcus.

“It does not matter,” I said.

The fellow stepped back another pace.

“Why do you not run?” I asked.

“Those of Ar watch,” he said.

“And not to show fear before them you would stand your ground against two?”