Smugglers of Gor (65 page)

The gowned slave put her hand behind my head, holding it in place, and thrust the small bowl to my lips.

“Feed, barbarian she-tarsk,” she said.

I choked a little, and I felt some of the gruel run beside my mouth.

“There,” she said, “it is done,” and drew the bowl away.

I recalled the quick, superficial descent of the bowl into the feeding trough. The bowl was small, of plain, unglazed, baked clay, and was chipped, and there had been very little in it, presumably by the gowned slave’s intent, and part of what there was had been removed with the bowl.

She stood up, and, with her finger, several times, wiped some gruel from the bowl, which adhered to her finger, which she would then suck away. Then she turned away to return the bowl somewhere outside.

I was still very hungry.

“We saw, Laura!” said one of the slaves.

“You were not well fed,” said another.

“Call the guard, and complain,” said another.

“No,” I said, “he is a master.” I did not wish to be lashed.

“We will back you,” said another girl. “Call out!”

“No,” I said.

“Then we will do so,” said another.

“Pretty Ubara then will be stripped and lashed, tied in the doorway,” said another.

“It will not be the first time,” laughed another.

“No,” I said, “do not do so! Please do not do so!”

“What is going on?” said the guard, entering, holding the gowned slave roughly by one arm. She seemed small and distraught beside him, so held.

“Ubara did not feed the barbarian!” said a girl.

“No, she ate her food!” said another.

“Speak!” said the guard, shaking the miserable gowned slave by the arm, almost causing her to lose her footing.

“I fed her well, as commanded!” said the gowned slave, frightened. “A full bowl, as commanded! I did not eat her food.”

So, I thought, beauty, for all your having possibly been of high caste or whatever, and for all your pretensions and superiorities, you are now only a frightened slave, and a liar.

The guard dragged the gowned slave before me. “Speak,” he said to me. It was clear he held the beautiful, olive-skinned slave in contempt. To him, I saw, she was no more than another slave, and perhaps one that was less than pleasing. I did not think he would find her stripping and lashing amiss. Perhaps it was he who had put her in the gown, to signal her out for envy and derision. It is the masters, of course, who decide whether or not a slave is to be clothed, and, if clothed, how, and to what extent. Such small things, as many others, help the slave to keep well in mind that she is a slave.

“I was fed, Master,” I said. “I am content.”

Several of the slaves in the kennel cried out in protest. The gowned slave, her arm released, regarded me with surprise, and then, as the guard withdrew, with contempt.

“You did not inform on me,” she said.

“No,” I said.

“You were afraid to do so,” she said.

“No,” I said.

“Why did you not have her beaten?” asked a girl.

“She was afraid,” snarled the gowned slave.

“No!” I said.

“Then why?” asked another slave.

“The whip hurts,” I said.

The gowned slave, her face contorted with fury, bent toward me. “You are a fool,” she whispered. “I owe you nothing!”

“I expect nothing, and want nothing, from such as you,” I said.

“From such as I?” she said.

“You may or may not have been born to high caste,” I said, “but I see little of high caste about you. You may be beautiful, but you are small, petty, cruel, pretentious, self-centered, and a liar, and most obviously, now a slave.”

“Silence, slave!” she hissed.

“A slave may speak so to a slave,” I said.

“I am not a slave!” she cried.

“Slave!” I said.

The gowned slave then threw herself upon me, screaming, striking, biting, and scratching, and the other slaves about leapt to their feet, and rushed toward us, to protect me, and, as they seized her, the gowned slave had seized my hair, and shook my head, violently, and I had pulled back, with a rattle of chain, that I not be strangled in the wall collar, and the gowned slave’s hands were pulled apart, away from my hair, and she wept with pain, as she was dragged back, away from me, by the hair.

“Release me!” she demanded, but two girls held her arms, one on each side, and another had her hair pulled back so tightly that the gowned slave’s head was facing the ceiling of the kennel. Other slaves were crowded about, angrily, and some others had entered from the clearing outside the kennel.

“I hope you marked her,” said a slave to the gowned slave, “that your nose will be cut off!”

“No, no!” cried the gowned slave. “She is not marked, not marked!”

“Who are you that you would attack a chained slave?” asked a slave.

“She is not marked!” cried the gowned slave.

I was scratched but, as it turned out, superficially. I did not think any damage had been done. I was more angry than anything else. My assailant’s blows, dealt with the sides of her fists, happily, had been administered only with a woman’s strength, and my rescuers had been upon her almost as soon as she had hurled herself upon me. The bites about my shoulder had not drawn blood. I did taste blood, but I had inadvertently bitten my own lip in the tumult.

“Cut off her nose!” said a slave of the gowned slave.

“No!” she wept.

Masters, as is recognized, seldom mix in the altercations of slaves. On the other hand, they are very much concerned with maintaining the value of the goods involved. Nothing is to be done to a girl which might reduce her value on the block. For example, the supple, broad-bladed, five-stranded slave whip designed to punish an errant slave, and well, is also designed in such a way that it will leave no lingering residue of its attentions. Happily for women, and, I suppose, for their owners, if they are owned, it is very rare that their disagreements, unlike those of men, result in any permanent injuries or disablements. Amongst free women who may tear veils or lose slippers, or amongst slaves, who may rend or lose a tunic, not much is likely to take place which could not be reduced to unpleasantries such as insults, scratchings, bitings, and yanked hair.

“Cut off her ears, too!” cried another slave.

“No, no!” wept the gowned slave.

She was then forced down to her knees.

She struggled but was helpless in the hands of her chain sisters, two of whom maintained their grip on her arms, one on each side.

“Would that we had a dagger,” said one of the slaves.

“The guard has one,” said a slave.

“Call him!” said another.

“No, no, no!” begged the gowned slave.

“Leave it to Laura!” said a girl.

“No!” begged the gowned slave. “No! Not to her!”

“Beg her forgiveness!” said one of the girls holding the gowned slave’s arm, the left arm.

“She is a barbarian!” protested the gowned slave.

“Now!” cried a girl, and, taking the gowned slave’s head by the hair, with two hands, forced it down to the planks before me.

The gowned slave howled with misery. “Forgive me, forgive me!” she wept.

“Call her ‘Mistress’,” said another girl.

“Mistress!” wept the gowned slave.

“I am not ‘Mistress’,” I said. “Let her up.”

It was permitted to the gowned slave that she might raise her head, but she was held on her knees, helpless, as before, before me.

“Bespeak your contriteness,” said a girl. “Beg her forgiveness, as what you are, a lowly, miserable slave.”

“That is not necessary,” I said.

“Now,” demanded one of the girls.

“I am not injured,” I said.

“I am contrite, Mistress,” said the gowned slave. “Please forgive me, Mistress.”

“I forgive you,” I said.

“We do not!” said a slave, angrily.

“Please, let her alone,” I said.

“Are you important?” asked a slave of the gowned slave.

“No, Mistress,” she said.

“What are you?” asked another.

“A slave, Mistress,” she said.

“What sort of slave?” asked another.

“A meaningless slave, Mistress,” said the gowned slave.

“Are you better than we?” asked a girl.

“No, Mistress,” said the gowned slave.

“Are you less than we?” asked another.

“Yes, Mistress,” said the gowned slave.

Several of the slaves laughed. “She speaks truly,” said one of them.

“Remove her gown,” said a girl.

“No!” begged the gowned slave.

“The guard will not permit it,” said a slave.

“Go, see!” said a slave, and another slave hurried from the kennel.

“No, no!” said the gowned slave.

In a moment the slave who had rapidly exited the kennel returned, beaming. “It may be done!” she shouted.

“No!” wept the gowned slave, but then, in a moment, she was as stripped as the others. She was then dragged toward the door. There the light was better. “The mark of Treve!” cried a slave, pointing to the thigh of the held slave.

So, I thought, she is branded. I knew little of Treve, other than the fact that it was reputedly a bandit city somewhere in the vastness of the mighty Voltai mountains, far to the south.

“I hope masters burn a dozen brands into her leg,” said a slave.

“Yes,” said another.

“Let her alone,” I said. “Please let her alone.”

The slaves then went about their ways. She who had been gowned then crept back into the darkness of the kennel, and lay on the planks, her head down on her arms.

A slave approached me. “Are you all right?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“The gate is opening!” called a girl.

“Keep back,” said the guard.

Four men entered, two bearing small boxes, and two, together, bearing a long chain with collars.

“What is it?” asked a girl.

“A coffle chain,” said a girl.

“We are going to be moved!” said a slave.

“Is the ready banner down?” called another.

“I cannot see,” said a slave.

“What is in the boxes?” called a girl, from the kennel doorway.

“I do not know,” said a girl, from the clearing.

“I can see through the gate!” called a girl. “Across the river! I cannot see the ready banner! It is down!”

“Get back!” ordered the guard. There was a snap of his whip.

“The ship departs tomorrow!” cried a girl, frightened.

“Back, back!” said the guard. I heard the snap of his whip, twice more. “Into the kennel!” he said. There was another snap of the whip, and the slaves who were in the clearing, hurried back into the kennel. They left the door open, and were clustered just inside, looking out.

“I do not want to sail to the farther islands,” said a girl. “It is too late in the season. Thassa will not permit it.”

“I have heard the World’s End,” said another.

“That is absurd,” said another. “That would be madness.”

“I do not want to go to the World’s End,” said a girl.

“We will go where we are taken,” said another.

“Have no fear,” said another. “That cannot be the destination.”

“The men are going,” I heard. “The guard is closing the gate.”

“To the feed trough!” called the guard.

The slaves then hurried to the trough, with the exception of she who had been gowned, who remained prone on the planking inside the kennel, to the left of the door, and one other, who lingered by me. “I will bring you something,” she said.

“Thank you,” I said.

The slaves were crowded at the trough. They were permitted to use their hands. After a time she who had volunteered to feed me entered the kennel. She carried the small, simple bowl which had been earlier carried by the slave who had been gowned. She held it to my mouth that I might feed, and, with a finger, as I could not do so, wiped what had clung to the bottom and sides of the bowl into my mouth.

“Thank you,” I said.

She then returned the bowl to the feed trough in the clearing, and returned.

“I am very grateful,” I said.

“You did not want Ubara hurt,” she said. “Why?”

“She is a slave,” I said.

“Do not expect her to be grateful,” she said.

“I do not,” I said.

“I do not know why Ubara is as she is,” said the slave.

“Perhaps she was once free,” I said.

“So, too, were we all,” said the girl. “There are no bred slaves here, save that we are women.”

“You think that women are born slaves?” I said.

“We are not complete until we are the slaves of our masters,” she said.

“Even Ubara?” I asked.

“She fears greatly that for which she most longs,” she said.

“Do you think she would make a good slave?” I asked.

“She is very beautiful,” she said.

“But surely more is required,” I said.

“She has not yet learned her collar,” she said.

“I see,” I said.

“Men can teach it to her,” she said.

“I have learned my collar,” I said.

“But you ran away,” she said.

“I now know my collar,” I said, “and want it, and love it.”

“Even though you will be despised by free women?” she asked.

“Let them be themselves,” I said, “and let us be ourselves.”

“They are the mistresses,” she said.

“Why do they hate us so?” I asked.

“It is we whom men strip and collar, and bind, and buy and sell, and raid for, and capture, and put to their feet, and want,” she said.

“I feel sorry for free women,” I said.

“Do not feel sorry for them,” she said. “They have the switch and whip.”

“How deprived, and lonely they must be,” I said, “in their pride and misery.”

“They envy us our collars, and our joy,” she said.

“I fear so,” I said.

“Have you been mastered?” she asked.

“I am a slave,” I said. “Any man can master me.”

“But perhaps you hope for a given master?” she asked.

“Oh, yes!” I breathed. “But why do you ask?”

“You are well chained,” she observed.

“I do not understand,” I said.

“Think,” she said. “You have not only been put naked in a high-security stockade, but chained, by the neck, and hand and foot. You are held to the wall, and you cannot even bring your hands together before your body or bring your legs together. Surely you are aware of your vulnerability, and how you might be caressed with impunity.”