Plunder of Gor (75 page)

“May I speak, Master?” asked Paula.

“Yes,” said Drusus Andronicus.

“What are we to do?” she asked. “What will you do? What will become of us? Master Decius Albus did not die. He is recovering. Surely his power is mighty, and his memory long. His position in the administration of the Ubar is secure. Many men wear his livery. He will not look kindly on the loss of slaves. He did not stint on the slaves he intended to sacrifice to the fangs of Kurii. He has doubtless learned much from the field off the Viktel Aria. He is unlikely to again risk insurrection amongst his cohorts over kajirae. If anything, he will now use them as gifts and prizes, to enhance his image as a generous leader, to consolidate loyalty and assure devotion. He will be stronger, and more feared, than ever. Where, within the walls of Ar, will you be safe? Has Master Tyrtaios, he of the Black Caste, fled the city, with the slave Alexina, or has a pouch of gold changed hands, and he is about, waiting to strike? What of the free woman, the Lady Bina? She has no Home Stone. How is she safe? What of the noble Lord Grendel and his friend, Eve? What is to become of them? What of Surtak, and minions loyal to him? Will they remain in the vicinity of Ar, or depart? What of dreadful Lucilius, who fled the box of honor, on the field? What has become of him? Has he joined forces with Master Decius Albus?”

“Go into the kitchen, and cook,” said Kurik.

“Yes, Master,” we said.

Chapter Sixty-Three

The day was hot. We were stripped. We were weary, both of us. Sweat ran down our bodies. The masters had been kind and wrapped our feet in wool, the wool of the bounding hurt, that our feet not be burned by the large, heavy, sun-heated stones of the Viktel Aria. Even so, we could feel the heat through the wool. The wool was held in place by thongs wound several times, tightly, about our ankles. Our wrists were fastened behind us, in slave bracelets, light, but secure restraints. We were helpless in them. That is their purpose, to render their occupant helpless. A chain was fastened about each of our necks, each chain fastened to its ring, anchored in the back of the wagon. The wheels of the wagon were iron-rimmed, and very large. It was a large, closed wagon, with bright, yellow canvas stretched over the high, rectangular frame rising from its sides. The wagon was laden with little in the way of freight, but it did contain a closed bale of some sort of cloth, a box or two, and a cylindrical container. One of the boxes was long, narrow, and rectangular. I had not been informed of the nature of these objects. It is not unusual for slaves to be chained to the back of a wagon or cart. At least we were not harnessed, perhaps with others, to draw the wagon. It is doubtless unpleasant to be switched or whipped when straining in a harness, doing one's best, under the tyranny of a merciless keeper, one of several, soft, slight, two-legged draft animals. How much is to be preferred the pillows and cushions of a tavern alcove, or even a straw mat beneath a slave ring! Looking back, in the far distance, I could see the tops of the high walls of Ar.

I trudged on. The chain was warm on my neck. I could hear the small sound of the links. From somewhere ahead, I heard the sound of caravan bells, coming from the opposite direction.

There was much traffic on the Viktel Aria, moving toward Ar, departing from Ar.

Paula, secured as I was, was beside me.

We were slaves and would be treated as such. There are many ways in which a girl may be reminded that her thigh bears a delicate, distinctive mark, and that her neck is locked in a metal collar.

“Are you hungry?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“Shall we have lunch in the cafeteria, with the others?” she asked. Several of us who worked in the same building had often lunched together. The cafeteria was in the same building, and it was convenient. To be sure, the food was not all that scintillating. I had regarded myself the commanding presence at those small gatherings. Paula had been so shy, and quiet, seemingly dazzled by my vivacity and intelligence, seemingly admiring my verve, wit, and charm. “Poor Paula,” I had thought. And now I suspected that it had been she who had looked gently on me, making allowances for me, accepting my faults patiently, tolerating my vanity. And she had sold for a golden tarsk, and it was speculated that I might bring in the neighborhood of a pair of silver tarsks, if all went well, on a good day!

“We shall be fortunate,” I said, “if they permit us to nibble some cheese from the palm of their hand, while we kneel head down before them, fortunate if they cast us a crust of bread!”

“Of course,” she laughed. “We are nothing. We are slaves.”

We did not speak for another Ahn.

A kaiila, with a post rider, raced by. News, I supposed, was being brought to Ar. Occasionally we saw a tarn in flight, it, too, with its post rider. Cities maintain their post riders. Too, there are some private companies that supply what might be regarded as a limited postal service, between certain cities. Few, however, can afford their fees. The skies of Gor, particularly in certain areas, can be dangerous, sometimes due to bandit tarnsmen, but more frequently due to municipal patrols intent on protecting a city's territorial claims, which claims are often exaggerated, pretentious and unclear. Borders, in the usual sense of borders, do not exist on Gor. The territory under the aegis of a particular city waxes and wanes with the power of the city. It might be mentioned that some of the great merchant houses maintain their own lines of communication. Interestingly, commerce may be in effect between these houses even when their respective cities are at war. All in all, however, there is, for most practical purposes, no postal service on Gor. Letters, and such, may be entrusted to peddlers, travelers, caravan guards, drovers, and such.

“How are you faring, dear Phyllis?” inquired Paula.

“I feel like a verr,” I said. Verr are often tied behind farm wagons.

“There is much similarity,” she said. “They, and we, are both domestic animals.”

“I was not always a domestic animal,” I said.

“But you were,” she said. “It is only that you were not then collared.”

I was silent. I knew that she was right. On Gor I had learned that I was of the slave sex, that I was a slave, and belonged at a man's feet.

How joyful it had been to acknowledge that, and be at peace with myself!

“Dear Phyllis,” said Paula, smiling, trudging beside me, “do you doubt you are a slave?”

“No,” I said.

“I love my collar,” she said. “I love being a slave.”

“That is fortunate,” I said, “for the collar is on your neck.”

“Would you trade your collar for freedom?” she asked.

“No,” I said. “But at times I can lament bondage, and try to tear the collar from my neck.”

“But you cannot do so,” she said.

“No,” I said, “mine is locked on my neck, as is yours.”

“Even on Earth,” she said, “I thought of us as sister slaves.”

“You never told me,” I said.

“You would not have understood,” she said.

“At times,” I said, “I am terrified.”

“I, too,” she said.

“We are so helpless,” I said. “We cannot choose our master. It is we who are chosen.”

“We are owned,” said Paula. “We are slaves.”

“I fear the whip, terribly,” I said. “But I love being subject to it.”

“We are women,” she said.

“Slaves,” I said.

“You would not then trade your collar for freedom,” said Paula.

“No,” I said. “On Gor I have learned myself. I have learned myself at the feet of men. I have learned what I am, and what I want to be, a man's slave. Freedom is precious, but the collar is a thousand times more precious.”

We had left Ar well before dawn, by the Viktel Gate. As we were departing, produce wagons, in their lines, were entering the city. This is to bring fresh produce to the morning markets. The larger wagons would leave before light. Heavy wagon traffic, as noted earlier, is not permitted during daylight hours. This is in order to avoid congestion. Where the streets are wholly closed to traffic, even small wagons, there are often stations where, if one wishes, and can afford it, sedan chairs and palanquins, with bearers and attendants, may be rented. Richer individuals, naturally enough, usually supply their own resources in such matters. Similarly, individuals with some official status, or official guests of the city, or such, may be furnished such conveniences at the expense of the state. Most Goreans, as one would expect, move about on foot.

“Where are we being taken?” I asked.

“We have not been told,” said Paula, ruefully.

“Of course not,” I thought. Would a herdsman of verr, or a drover of bosk or kaiila, bother informing their beasts of their destination? A slave must request permission to speak. She is often kept in ignorance. Often she does not know where she is to be taken or what is to be done with her. She is a thing, an object, a beast, a property, a slave. In a thousand ways she is well reminded of her bondage.

“I hear bells,” I said.

“It is another caravan,” said Paula.

It would pass us on our right, as Goreans keep to the left side of the roads, streets, paths, and such. This apparently has to do with the fact that most Goreans are right-handed, which allows one's weapons, in case of need, to be most conveniently brought into play. As far as I know, there is only one word in Gorean for “stranger” and “enemy.” The context usually governs how the word is to be best understood.

“It is a long one,” said Paula.

Some wagons were then aligned behind us, waiting for the caravan to pass.

“It is a caravan of the merchant, Mintar,” said Paula.

“Yes,” I said.

Neither Paula nor I could read Gorean but we were familiar with the sign of the merchant, Mintar, which appeared on the side of the wagons, and on several banners, these raised on wands over every third or fourth wagon. There would be no doubt as to whose caravan it was. It must have contained four hundred wagons or more. Surely it took a very long time to pass. Interestingly, unlike most caravans, it was, for the most part, unguarded. This was apparently because most brigands or raiders were reluctant to attack a caravan of Mintar. He, rather as Decius Albus, and certain other high merchants, maintained their small private armies, which might consist of as many as a thousand men. He was also noted for the relentless pursuit of any who might threaten or despoil his caravans. His resources enabled pursuits to be maintained for years. It was difficult to dispose of his goods. He maintained a large network of informants, from whom intelligence might be gathered, upon whom gold might be lavished. Bribes were tendered, bounties would be paid. His hunters, skilled and patient, were often referred to as “the Sleen of Mintar.”

Once the caravan had passed, a succession of wagons that had been behind us began to move past us.

One, however, lingered behind.

On both the left and right side of the road paired ruts were worn in the stone. Clearly the Viktel Aria was a very old road. Major roads, such as the Viktel Aria, are begun as deep, wide trenches, several feet deep. These trenches are then filled with fitted stone until the surface of the ground is reached. They are built like walls, walls of fitted stone, walls that are sunk in the earth. Traffic then makes its way on the top of these “walls.” They are intended to last for millennia.

We heard drums in the sky.

“Tarnsmen,” said Paula, looking up.

Overhead there was a flight of tarnsmen, perhaps a hundred men and mounts. We could see sunlight flashing from helmets, shields, and weapons. They were perhaps five hundred feet above us, to our right. The tarn drums kept the cadence of the flight, the wings of the great birds beating in unison.

“See the standard,” said Paula.

“That of Ar,” I said.

There was a blast on a horn, a bugle, trumpet, or such, and the formation, as a single flock, ascended sharply; another signal and it veered to its left; another and it descended to perhaps two hundred feet, far off now, and then veered to its right, and then returned to its original line of flight, toward Ar.

“It is beautiful,” exclaimed Paula.

We cried out in fear for there was a sudden sound, striking us like a bludgeon, a sudden snap of wings, great wings, not twenty feet from us, over us, air rushing about us, buffeting us, we covered for an instant by a vast, fleet shadow. We heard laughter, rapidly fading.

“Monster!” I shrieked, after the departing figure.

“It is a joke,” said Paula.

“I nearly lost consciousness,” I said. “I might have been dragged behind the wagon.”

“It is an outrider,” said Paula. “Formations are often flanked with them, for purposes of security.”

“I trust he enjoyed himself,” I said.

“I am sure he did,” she said.

“A monster!” I said.

“A man,” she said.

“Yes,” I said, “a man!”

“Remember, kajira,” she said, “we belong to men.”

“Yes,” I said, jerking at the slave bracelets that fastened my hands behind my back, shaking my neck in the chain that bound me to the ring fixed in the back of the wagon, “we belong to men!”

“Do you object?” she asked.

“No!” I said, angrily.

“Why not?” she laughed.

“I belong in their collars,” I said. “I belong in their chains!”

“I, too, dear Phyllis,” she said, “I, too.”

“He is still a monster,” I said.

“It is a man's joke,” she said, “a man's prank. Besides, who can blame him for swooping by, and inspecting two naked kajirae? Perhaps he was speculating on how we might look, fastened to his slave ring.”

“A tarnsman,” I said.

“Of course,” she said.

I supposed that it took an unusual man to dare the great tarn. Many, I had heard, died in the attempt. I recalled my flight in the tarn basket. Even in the basket, there had been a joy of flight. Some tarnsmen, I knew, were raiders, raiders for women. In some cities, a young tarnsman's first task is to capture a woman of the enemy and bring her back as his slave. At a feast, before his family and friends, she, once a proud, haughty free woman, must dance, dance as the slave she now is. None may touch food or wine at the feast until he has partaken of each, served, of course, by his kneeling slave. Commonly a marauding tarnsman uses the capture loop. She is then dragged to the saddle apron and tied, belly up, before him. On the other hand, some have trained their tarns to seize the girl in their talons, to be released later at their convenience.

Looking back, I noted that the wagon behind us, some four or five hundred yards back, had neither drifted back, nor approached, and passed us.

“There is a wagon behind us, Paula,” I said. “It has been there for some time. It neither drops back, nor approaches.”

“Perhaps it is in no more of a hurry than we,” said Paula. “Perhaps it is pacing itself off us, thinking we are more familiar with the road. It may even wait to see where we will stop, at some inn, or caravanserai.”

“Another is passing it,” I said, “and will soon be beyond us.”

“I trust the Lady Bina is comfortable,” said Paula.

“Doubtless,” I said. “Why should she not be? She is free.”

The Lady Bina, with Lord Grendel and Eve, were in the wagon, concealed within the yellow cloth. One would not expect a free woman to walk, at least one such as the Lady Bina. Too, Lord Grendel and Eve, obviously, if in the open, would be conspicuous, and would be sure to provoke curiosity. It was better that they be concealed. Drusus Andronicus and Kurik were on the wagon bench, taking turns with the reins. Occasionally one or the other would go back into the wagon, and join the others. Sometimes, someone or other would open a narrow crack in the back of the cloth and peer out. At such times we would keep our heads down, that we not meet the eyes of the free. The wagon was slow and ponderous, seemingly a poor choice if one were interested in effecting a surreptitious escape. The yellow cloth on the frame, too, was easily noted. A wagon such as ours could not easily slip by, unnoticed amongst other wagons. It was drawn, too, by a single, plodding draft tharlarion. What pursuit could it possibly elude? Too, two kajirae, afoot, were chained behind the wagon, and the wagon, thus, must monitor and regulate its speed, lest, secured as they were, they be dragged, and injured, perhaps their necks broken.