John Norman - Guardsman of Gor

I could not hear the discourse which took place between Kliomenes and Miles of Vonda, but I knew, and well, its nature.

“What is it which becomes whole when stones are joined?”

“That ship which sails a topaz sea.”

“Where might be found a topaz sea?”

“Within four walls of rock.”

“And where might be found these walls of rock?”

“About a topaz sea.”

“Who owns the Vosk?”

“Those who own the ship that sails the topaz sea.”

There was a cheer from the pirates on the walls. Kliomenes spoke to someone beside him. That man signaled another man, near the west gate tower. He, in turn, called out to another, apparently within the tower. Kliomenes stepped back from the wall. My hair stood up on the back of my neck. I heard the groan and the creak of the great gate. I saw the chains grow taut and then, protesting, dripping water, dark, wet and glistening, I saw the great bars lifting out of the water.

Callimachus, near me, lifted and dropped his blade a bit in his scabbard. It was a warrior’s gesture. He may not even have been aware that he did it. It was as natural as the curling of the lip of a sea sleen, anticipatory to the baring of a fang, trembling, preparing to charge.

“Do not do that,” whispered Callimachus to me.

“What?” I asked.

“Loosening your sword,” he said. “That suggests that you expect to use it.”

“I did that?” I asked.

“Yes,” said he.

“I am sorry,” I said. I smiled to myself.

I wondered how many of the hands of the fellows, mostly of Ar’s Station, tensed on their oars in the Tuka , anticipating the reach below their benches to where their weapons lay concealed.

The sea gate rose. I was well aware of the force required to lift that weight.

Within the holding I could hear the sound of flutes, drums and kalikas. The melody, however, was slow and decorous.

Miles of Vonda had represented us, of course, as being the advance ships of the Voskjard’s fleet.

I looked upward as we moved slowly, rowing, sail down, under the great gate. It was impossible to pass beneath it without a sense of apprehension. I remembered how, the last time, it had plunged downward. It had shattered the ship on which I had ridden in two.

Then, following the Tuka , the Tais behind us, we were within the holding’s sea yard.

Kliomenes had descended from the wall. He was waiting on the broad walk, near the iron door leading within the holding, for Miles of Vonda. Lines were being cast from the Tuka to willing hands on the walk.

More than fifty slave girls, their hair coiffured high on their heads, clad in sleeveless, classic gowns of white silk, were aligned on the walk nearest the wall containing the iron door, that leading within to the halls of the fortress. To the music of the musicians, near the iron door, they performed a most decorous dance, slowly and gracefully lifting their arms and turning, facing first one side and then the other. In their hands they held baskets of flower petals. The dance was the sort that free maidens of a city might perform to honor and welcome visiting dignitaries, or the ambassador and his entourage, of a foreign city. Had their gowns not been sleeveless, and had they not been barefoot, and had their throats not been locked in collars, one might have mistaken them for free women. I could smell viands, too, cooking, the delicious odors of them emanating from the holding. A feast was being prepared.

I did not see either the slave, Beverly, or the slave, Florence, among them. Doubtless they, like many of the other slaves, were within the holding, preparing, under whips, the feast for their masters. I regarded the slaves. Even in such gowns and in the performance of movements so decorous I found them maddeningly exciting. How excruciatingly beautiful and desirable are women! How difficult it is even to look upon them and not scream with desire.

One could scarcely conceive of what such women would be later at the feast when, stripped or clad in rags, or perhaps insulted with a bit of silk, perhaps tied about their left ankle, they must, in the full exposure of their slavery, present themselves before strong men. I did not think their dances then would be so decorous, but would be such as to manifest the full sexual needs of women, under the command of men. I could conceive of them crawling on their knees, if so commanded, serving. I could conceive of them, as I had seen them at other Gorean feasts, their bodies stained with food and drink, caught by the hair, thrown on the low tables and raped by masters, and then raped again. They were naught but slaves. There was no service, pleasure or intimacy so delicious, so profound, so prosaic or so unexpected, that they must not render, and swiftly, at the merest whim of a master. They were, after all, naught but slaves.

I looked away from the girls. The door leading within the holding, and the walls, must be taken, swiftly.

The Tuka now drew alongside the walk. Mooring lines were now made fast. Miles of Vonda made ready to disembark. Kliomenes waited to greet him. The girls had now stopped dancing. In their left arms they cradled the baskets of flower petals. With their right hands they reached into the baskets of petals, to cast them on the walk, in the path of Miles of Vonda and of the men disembarking from the Tuka . The symbolism of the casting of such petals is perhaps reasonably clear. Feminine, and soft and beautiful, they are cast before the tread of men. Is the token in this not obvious? Men are the masters, the conquerors and victors. Beneath their feet, theirs, surrendered, lie the petals of flowers. In this we may see a lovely gesture, one of both welcome and submission, and one in which the order of nature is beautifully and sensitively acknowledged. But, of course, there are many ways in which the order of nature may be acknowledged. Another is that in which the woman, naked and collared, branded, under a man’s whip, writhes at his feet to the beating of drums.

“Welcome to the Masters,” sang the girls.

Miles of Vonda stepped upon the rail of the Tuka and he, and other men, leaped to the walk.

“Welcome to the Masters. Welcome to the Masters, all!” sang the girls, casting their petals on the walk before the men emerging from the Tuka .

I saw Kliomenes seizing the hand of Miles of Vonda. Aemilianus and his men must move to the door. The halls must be taken.

“All is yours,” sang the girls, “and we are of the all. Welcome, Masters, all!”

The Tina drew alongside the walk. We cast out our mooring lines. Scarcely were they fast when Callimachus, followed by myself, and others, leaped over the rail. Callimachus, and his men, must seize the walls.

“Welcome, Masters, welcome, all!” sang the girls.

Aemilianus, followed by men, moved swiftly, past startled pirates, toward the iron door.

“Hold, hold there!” cried Kliomenes, suddenly. He had seen Callimachus and myself. “There are spies among you!” he cried.

Then the sword of Miles of Vonda was at his throat. “Order your men to throw down their arms!” said Miles of Vonda. My sword then, too, threatened him, at his belly. The arms of Kliomenes were pinned behind him by two men. Slave girls screamed. Baskets of petals fell to the walk. They shrank back against the wall, armed men moving past them. “Throw down your arms,” called Miles of Vonda to the pirates on the walk, “or you are dead men!”

“Throw down your arms!” called Kliomenes, hoarsely. We saw Aemilianus, followed by a file of men, thrust through the iron door. Beyond it, almost instantly, we heard shouts, and then some swordplay, and running feet. Callimachus, followed by his file of men, raced up the steps toward the walls. I saw two pirates, cut from the steps, fall twisting and striking against stone to the sea yard below. A pirate leapt past me and fled down the walk. I pursued him. Then ahead of him another ship was at the walk’s edge.