Prize of Gor (67 page)

Ellen drew back in fear, as she saw a hook knife flash in the man’s hand.

“Steady,” said the man’s voice, soothingly. “We are just going to see what you’ve got.”

The hook knife half cut, half tore, through the tunic, soiled, stiff with dirt, and the tunic, parted, fell to the ground.

“We want coins for her,” said the older lad. “We did not keep her. We brought her back.”

“You would have considered keeping the property of Cos?” asked the man.

“Not we, of course,” said the older, hastily. “But some might have.”

“Some less grateful to their beloved benefactors, some less loyal to the empire?” suggested the man.

“Yes,” said the older boy.

“That would be theft,” said the man.

“We brought her back,” pointed out the older lad.

“She is a young, cheap slave, and, if I am not mistaken, a barbarian,” said the man. “But be assured, in any event, that you have the gratitude of the empire of Cos.”

“And everyone knows the generosity of Cos,” said the older lad.

“You want a reward?” asked the man. “For merely doing your duty?”

The lads were silent.

The visage of the slave marshal, for that is who it was, was severe.

“Serving Cos is reward enough,” said the older lad.

“Wait a moment, lads,” said the man. “There may be others, less honest, less noble, less loyal than yourselves to the empire, and we would not wish them to be dissuaded from returning properties such as this to their rightful owners.”

“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.