Magicians of Gor (23 page)

“I am Cosian,” he said.

“Now,” I said to Marcus, “perhaps the victory of Cos is clearer to you.”

“Yes,” said Marcus.

“Under the circumstances,” I said to the guardsman, “I would nonetheless

recommend a discretionary withdrawal.”

“No,” said the man.

“We are prepared to permit it,” I said.

“No,” he said.

“No dishonor is involved in such a thing,” I said.

“No,” he said.

“You need not even make haste,” I said.

“I do not fear you singly,” he said.

“On guard,” I said.

He immediately entered readiness.

“Stay back,” I said to Marcus.

I had scarcely uttered my injunction to Marcus when, Phoebe screaming, the

fellow lunged. Our blades met perhaps three times and I was under his guard. He

drew back, shaken, white faced. Again we engaged and, again, in a moment, I was

behind his guards. Again he drew back, this time staggering, off balance. “Aii,”

he wept and lunged again, and then, tripped, scrambling about, pressed back with

my foot, was on his back, my sword at his throat. He looked up, wildly.

“Strike!” he said.

“Get up,” I said. “Sheath your sword.”

He staggered to his feet, watching me, and sheathed his sword. I then sheathed

mine.

(pg. 131) “Why did you not kill me?” he asked.

“I told you earlier,” I said, “I had decided not to kill you.”

“I am an expert swordsman,” he said, looking at me.

“I agree,” I said.

“I have never seen such speed, such subtlety,” he said. “It is like defending

oneself against wind, or lightning.”

I did not respond to him. In a way I felt sad, and helpless. In many ways I was

an average man, if that. too, I have many lacks, and many faults. How ironic

then it was, I thought, that among the few gifts which I might possess, those

few things which might distinguish me among other men, were such as are commonly

associated with destructiveness. Of what value is it, I asked myself, to have

certain talents. Of what dreadful value are such skills? Of what value, really,

is it to be able to bring down a running man with the great bow at two hundred

yards, to throw the quiva into a two-hort circle at twenty paces, to wield a

sword with an agility others might bring to the handling of a knife? Of what use

are such dreadful skills? Then I reminded myself that such skills are often of

great use and that culture, with its glories of art, and music and literature,

can flourish only within the perimeters of their employments. Perhaps there is

then a role for the lonely fellows on the wall, for the border guards, for the

garrisons of far-flung outposts, for the guardsmen in the city treading their

lonely rounds. All these, too, in their humble, unnoticed way, serve. Without

them the glory is not possible. Without them even their critics could not exist.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said.

I recalled, too, the games of war. They, too, in their awesomeness, must not be

forgotten. Why is it that some men seek wars, traveling to the ends of the earth

to find them? It is because they have a taste for such things. It is because

there, where others fear to tread, they find themselves most alive. He who has

been on the field of battle knows the misery, the terror, the tenseness, the

racing of the blood, the pounding of the heart, the exhilaration, the

meaningfulness. In what other arena, and for what lesser stakes, can so much of

man be summoned forth, man with his brutality, his cruelty, his mercilessness,

his ruthlessness, his terribleness, these ancient virtues, and man with his

devotion, his camaraderie, his fellowship, his courage, his discipline, his

glory? In what other endeavor is man, in his frailty and strength, in his

terribleness and nobility, so fully manifested? What is the meaning of war to

the warrior? Surely it is not merely to be found in the beholding of flaming

cities and the treading of bloody fields. Surely it is not merely (pg. 132) to

be found in silver plate and golden vessels, nor even in women lying naked in

their chains, huddled together, trembling in the mud, knowing that they are now

properties and must please. It is rather, I think, primarily, the contest, and

that for which all is risked, victory. To be sure, this is a war of warriors,

not of technicians and engineers, a war of men, not of machines, not of

explosives, not of microscopic allies, not of poisoned atmospheres, wars in

which the tiny, numerous meek, in their swarms, crawling on six legs, will

inherit the earth.

“You are not of Ar,” said the guardsman.

“No,” I said.

“I did not think so,” he said.

I shrugged.

“Cos,” he said, “can use blades such as yours.”

“I seek employment,” I said.

“Go to the barracks of guardsmen,” said he.

“Perhaps,” I said.

“I would now leave this area,” he said. “Too, I would not attempt to interfere

with the work on the walls.”

“I understand,” I said.

“That is a pretty slave,” he said.

“She belongs to my friend,” I said. Phoebe shrank back a bit, closer to Marcus.

Female slaves on Gor must grown used to being looked upon frankly by men, and

assessed as the properties they are. They know they can be acquired, and

disposed of, and bought and sold, and traded, and such, with ease, even at a

moment’s notice.

“Is she of Ar?” he asked.

“No,” said Marcus.

“Are you sure?” asked the guardsmen.

“Yes,” said Marcus.

“Many women of Ar look well in slave tunics, barefoot and collared,” he said.

“Undoubtedly,” I said.

“They should all be slaves,” he said.

“So should all women,” I said.

“True,” he said.

To be sure, it did amuse me to think of the proud women of Ar, of “Glorious Ar,”

as slaves. Such a fare seemed to me fully appropriate for them, and in

particular for some of them.

“Let us return to our lodgings,” I said to Marcus.

“I wish you well,” said the guardsman.

“I, too, wish you well,” I said.

“I must now put these tame cattle of Ar back to work,” he said.

(pg. 133) “One man alone?” I asked.

“No more are needed,” he said.

Indeed, there were no guardsmen on the walls themselves. We had encountered one

on the way to the wall, on Harness Street, who had detained us briefly,

apparently primarily to determine whether or not we were of Ar.

“We shall leave now,” said Marcus.

“Yes, Master,” said Phoebe.

We then turned about, and left the vicinity of the Wall Road. Near the entrances

to Harness Street, off the Wall Road, I turned about.

“Continue your work for peace!” called the guardsmen to those on the wall.

The men on the wall then, and the youth, and women, returned to their labors.

“Incredible,” marveled Marcus.

“Master,” moaned Phoebe.

Things were then much as they had been before. Nothing had changed. To be sure,

the work was not now being performed to the music of flute girls. Tomorrow,

however, I did not doubt but what the flute girls would be back, and numerous

guards in attendance, at least on the street.

“Is your sword for hire?” I asked Marcus.

“It could be,” he said.

“Good,” I said.

“You have some plan?” he asked.

“Of course,” I said.

“Master,” whimpered Phoebe.

Marcus stopped and looked at her.

She, too, stopped, and looked up at him.

“Strip,” he said.

She looked at him, suddenly, wildly, and then about herself. “This is a public

street,” she said.

He did not speak.

She squirmed. “Is there no doorway? No sheltered place?” she asked.

He did not respond to her.

“I was a woman of Cos,” she said, tears springing to her eyes. “This is a public

street in Ar!”

His expression remained impassive. He maintained his silence.

“Cos has defeated Ar!” she wept.

He did not speak.

“Am I to suffer because you are angry with the men of Ar?” she asked.

“Does the slave dally in her obedience?” he inquired.

(pg. 134)”No, Master!” she said, frightened.

“Must a command be repeated?” he inquired.

“No, Master!” she cried. Her tiny fingers began to fumble with the knot of the

slave girdle, on her left. Then she had the knot loose and pulled away the

girdle. She then, hastily, struggling a little with it, pulled the tunic, a

light pullover tunic, off, over her head. “The slave obeys her master!” she

gasped, frightened, kneeling before him. He then tied her hands behind her back

with the slave girdle and thrust the tiny tunic, folded, crosswise, in her

mouth, so that she would bite on it. He then pushed her head down to the stones.

“Are you now less angry with the men of Ar?” I asked him, in an Ehn or two.

Marcus stood up, adjusting his tunic.

“Yes,” he said.

Phoebe turned about, from her knees, the tunic between her teeth, and looked

back at us.

“This had little to do with you,” I told her. “Too, it is immaterial that you

were once of Cos. A slave, you must understand, must sometimes serve such

purposed.” Her eyes were wide. But one of the utilities of a slave, of course,

is to occasionally serve as the helpless object upon which the master may vent

his dissatisfaction, his frustration or anger. Too, of course, they may serve

many other related purposes, such as the relief of tensions, to relax oneself

and even to calm oneself for clear thought.

“Do you understand?” I asked.

She nodded.

I regarded her.

She whimpered, once.

“Good,” I said.

One whimper signifies “Yes,” and two signifies “No.” This arrangement, at any

rate, was the one which Marcus had taught to Phoebe long ago, quite early in her

slavery to him, at a time when she had been much more often kept bound and

gagged then now.

Marcus then snapped his fingers that she should rise.

She leaped to her feet.

We turned our steps once more toward our lodging. Phoebe hurried behind. Once

she tried, whimpering, to press herself against her master. She looked up at

him, tears in her eyes, her hands tied behind her, the tunic between her teeth.

She feared that she might have now, because of her earlier behavior, lapsed in

his favor. Too, compounding her misery, was doubtless the fact that Marcus, in

his casual usage of her, had done (pg. 135) little more than intensify her

needs, the helpless prisoner of which, as a slave girl, she was. He thrust her

back. we then continued on our way, Phoebe heeling her master. I heard her gasp

once or twice, and sob. She was now, I was sure, much more aware, in her own

mind, of what it was to be a slave. I do not think, then, she thought of herself

any longer, really, as a woman of Cos, or even one who had once been of Cos, but

rather now as merely a slave, only that, and one who had perhaps, frighteningly,

to her trepidation and misery, failed to be fully pleasing. I did not doubt that

later, when we had reached the room, and she was unbound and freed of the gag,

that she would crawl to Marcus on all fours, the whip between her teeth,

begging. Too, though he loved her muchly, I did not doubt but what he would use

it on her. She was, after all, his slave, and he, after all, was her master.

9
 
    
The Plaza of Tarns

“She,” said Talena, Ubara of Ar, “she is chosen”

The woman uttered a cry of anguish.

There were cheers, and applause, the striking of the left shoulder, from the

crowd standing about the edges of the huge, temporary platform, the same which

had earlier served near the Central Cylinder for the welcoming of Myron, in his

entrance into the city.

The woman, held now by the upper left arm, by a guardsman, was conducted to a

point on the platform, erected now in the Plaza of Tarns, a few feet from a

rather narrow, added side ramp, where she was knelt, to be manacled. This

smaller, added ramp would be on the left side of the platform, as one would face

it. My own position was near to, and rather at the foot of this ramp, such that

I would be on the right of a person descending the ramp. Talena, with certain

aides and counselors, and guardsmen and scribes, was on a dais, it mounted on

the surface of the platform, a few feet away, rather to its left, as one would

face it. There was a similar added ramp on the other side, by means of which the

women, barefoot, and clad at that point in the robe of the penitent, would

ascend to its surface.

The manacles were closed about the wrists of the kneeling woman, one could

clearly hear the decisive closure of the (pg. 136) devices, first the one, then

the other. She lifted them, regarding them, disbelievingly.

“Have you never worn chains?” asked a man.

First with one hand and then the other, suddenly, frenziedly, first from one

wrist, and then from the other, sobbing, she tried to force the obdurate iron

from her wrist.

Then, again, she lifted the manacles, regarding them, disbelievingly.

“Yes, they are on you,” laughed a fellow.

“You cannot slip them,” said a man.

“They were not made to be slipped by such as you,” said another.

There was much laughter.

The woman sobbed.