John Norman - Swordsmen of Gor

“Brigands, assassins, mercenaries,” he said. “I think they are from the wars, from the south, even from Ar. Hundreds have come, in many ships.”

“To this remote place?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“They cannot be from Ar,” I said. “Ar has fallen, and been garrisoned by Cos and Tyros. Ar lies under the heel of Chenbar of Tyros and Lurius of Jad, of Cos. Ar is looted, bled, and chained. Ar is beaten, subdued, and helpless. Her riches are carted away. Many of her women are led naked in coffles, to Brundisium, to be put on slave ships bound for Tyros, Cos, and the islands. Myron of Temos, of Cos, is polemarkos in Ar. On the throne of Ar sits an arrogant puppet Ubara, a traitress to her Home Stone, a woman named Talena, a hypocrite and villainess, a female once the daughter, until disowned, of the great Marlenus of Ar himself.”

“Perhaps things have changed in Ar,” he said.

“Impossible,” I said. I had been in Ar. I had seen her helplessness and degradation, even how her citizenry was being taught to acclaim their conquerors, to blame themselves for the faults of others, to seek forgiveness for crimes of which they themselves were the victims. Wars could be fought with many weapons, and one of the most effective was to induce the foe to defeat himself. And so men, defeated and disarmed, must learn to rejoice in their weakness, and commend it as virtue. Every society has its weaklings and cowards. But not every society is taught to celebrate them as its wisest and noblest, its boldest and bravest.

“The strangers, hundreds of them, disembarked, from ship after ship, trek in long lines through the forest,” he said. “They are the dregs and rogues of Gor. I do not know their destination.”

“You,” I said, “have not come to meet us?”

“Certainly not,” he said. “And if others are to be here, to meet you, I am apprehensive.”

“You are afraid?”

“Yes,” he said.

“But you do not fear me?”

“No,” he said. “Were we not together on the 25th of Se’Kara?”

“Give me your hand on that,” I said.

“No,” he said. “I fear my hand is harsh, from the ax.”

“Forgive me,” I said.

“You will share my hospitality, of course,” he said, “for the 25th of Se’Kara?”

“With pleasure,” I said.

He who designated himself as Pertinax then smiled, and looked upon the kneeling slave, who, as was suitable, had been silent, as she had been unaddressed, and in the presence of free persons.

“Can she speak?” he asked.

“She has a general permission to speak,” I said. Such a permission, of course, at a word or gesture, may be revoked.

“You are generous with a slave,” he said.

“Many allow their girls that liberty,” I said. To be sure, the slave is to speak as a slave, and act as a slave, with suitable deference in words, tone of voice, physical attitude, and such. They are not free women. Sometimes a new slave thinks she may hint at insolence, or even manifest the barest glimmering, or thought, of disobedience, say, in a tone of voice, or a tiny gesture, or fleeting expression, but she is seldom going to repeat this infraction, even in the most transitory and petty manner. She is likely to find herself instantly under the switch or whip, put in lock-gag, be forbidden human speech, be put in the discipline of the she-tarsk, or worse.

“Girl,” said Pertinax to the slave.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“I understand your name is Cecily,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she said, “if it pleases master.”

“If it pleases your master,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she said, putting her head down.

“You are very pretty Cecily,” he said.

“Thank you, Master,” she said.

“Cecily,” I said.

“Yes, Master,” she said, lifting her head.

“You are in the presence of a free man,” I said. “Show him deference. Go to him, put your head down, and lick and kiss his feet, and then kneel before him and take his hands and lick and kiss the palms of his hands, gently, softly, moistly, tenderly.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“Yes,” said Pertinax, after a time. “She is a lovely slave.”

The kneeling, and kissing and licking the male’s feet, is a common act of deference in the female slave. Too, the holding of the hands, and putting one’s lips, and tongue, to the palms, humbly and gratefully, and kissing and licking them, is a lovely gesture. It can also, of course, ignite male desire. The slave is caressing the very hands which, if she be displeasing, may cuff and strike her. Interestingly, this same act can be quite arousing for the slave herself. So, too, of course, is something as simple as kneeling before the male.

“Back, girl,” I said. “Position.”

I did not think it wise to let her prolong such ministrations to a Gorean male.

Cecily drew back and knelt beside me, to my left.

“A Pleasure Slave,” said Pertinax, approvingly.

“Yes,” I said. “She is from Earth, as noted earlier. In that place, she is from a place called England.”

“I have never heard of it,” said Pertinax. “Was she free there?”

“Yes,” I said.

He regarded her, appraisingly, as a Gorean may look upon a slave. “Absurd,” he said.

“Yes,” I said.

“Is she any good?” asked Pertinax.

“She now knows she is in a collar,” I said.

“Good,” he said.

I thought Cecily would look nice in a camisk, a common camisk. The camisk is much more revealing than the common slave tunic. It is a one-piece, extremely simple, suitable for slaves, narrow, poncholike garment. It is slipped over the head. It is usually belted with a loop or two of binding fiber. One may use the binding fiber to bind the slave. It is tied with a slip knot, which may be loosened with a casual tug, at the left hip, as most masters are right-handed. The common camisk is seldom worn publicly, in cities. One supposes the reasons for that are clear.

“Women make lovely slaves,” he said, wistfully, I thought.

“As you would know from yours,” I said.

“Of course,” he said.

“They are bred for the collar,” I said, “and they are not whole until they are within it.”

“True,” he said.

“Ai!” he said, suddenly, and, shading his eyes, looked out to sea. I turned, too. The slave started, but remained in position, not daring to turn about.

“A sail,” I said.

It was far off, a lateen-rigged sail, so presumably from the south, not the north. In Torvaldsland the common sail is square. Too, their ships commonly are clinkerbuilt, with overlapping planks, to allow more elasticity in hard seas. Most of the southern ships are carvelbuilt, so they ship less water. The northern ships commonly have a single steering board, whereas most of the southern ships are double helmed.

“Come back, into the trees,” said Pertinax, anxiously.

“I do not think they can see us from there, not yet,” I said, “but we will join you momentarily.” I bent to gather up the small bit of supplies with which we had disembarked the ship of Peisistratus. The girl came to assist me.

“The palms of our friend’s hands?” I said to her.

“Soft, smooth,” she said.

“He is not a forester,” I said.

“Who is he, Master?” she asked.

“I do not know,” I said. “He is, however, a liar and a hypocrite.”

“Master?” she said.

“Pretend something has been dropped, and you are looking for it, in the sand,” I said.

She began to feel about, in the sand.

“He has never seen the Home Stone of Port Kar,” I said. “It is not well-carved, inlaid with gold, and such. It is rough, and of common rock. It is not large, only a bit larger than a man’s fist. It is gray, heavy, granular, nondescript, unimposing. The initials of Port Kar, in block script, are scratched into its surface. It was done with a knife point.”