Mercenaries of Gor coc-21 Read online

  "Are you a brigand?" she asked.

  "No," I said.

  "It is a free woman," whispered Feiqa, kneeling on the blankets.

  "Cover your nakedness," I said. Feiqa pulled her tiny, coarse tunic about her self.

  "This is my house," said the woman.

  "Do you wish us to leave?" I asked.

  "Do you have anything to eat?" she asked. "A little," I said. "Are you hungry?"

  "No," she said.

  "Perhaps the child is hungry?" I asked.

  "No," she said. "We have plenty."

  I said nothing.

  "I am a free woman!" she said, suddenly, piteously.

  "We have food," I said. "We have used your house. Permit us to share it with you."

  "Oh, I have begged at the wagons," she said suddenly, sobbing. "It is not a new thing for me! I have begged! I have been on my knees for a crust of bread. I have fought with other women for garbage beside the road."

  "You shall not beg in your own house," I said.

  She began to sob, and the small child, bundled in her arms, began to whimper. I approached her very slowly, and drew back the edge of the coverlet about the child. Its eyes seemed very large. Its face was dirty.

  "There are hundreds of us," she said, "following the wagons. In these times only soldiers can live."

  "The forces of Ar," I said, "are even now being mustered, to repel the invaders. The soldiers of Cos, and their mercenary contingents, no matter how numerous, will be no match for the marshaled squares of Ar."

  "My child is hungry," she said. "What do I care for the banners of Ar, or Cos?" "Are you companioned?" I asked.

  "I do not know any longer," she said.

  "Where are the men?" I asked.

  "Gone, she said. "Fled, driven away, killed. Many were impressed into service. They are gone, all of them are gone."

  "What happened here?" I asked.

  "Foragers," she said. "They came for supplies, and men. They took what we had. Then they burned the village."

  I nodded. I supposed things might not have been much different if the foragers had been soldiers of Ar.

  "Would you like to stay in my house tonight?" she asked.

  "Yes," I said.

  "Build up the fire," I said to Feiqa, who was kneeling back in the shadows. She had put her tunic about her. Too, she had pulled up the blanket about her body. As soon as I had spoken she crawled over the flat stones to the ashes of the fire, and began to prod among them, stirring them with a narrow stick, searching for covert vital embers.

  "Surely you are a brigand," said the woman to me.

  "No," I said.

  "Then you are a deserter," she said. "It would be death for you to be found." "No," I said. "I am not a deserter."

  "What are you then?" she asked.

  "A traveler," I said.

  "What is your caste?" she asked.

  "Scarlet is the color of my caste," I said.

  "I thought it might be," she said. "Who but such as you can live in these times?"

  I gave her some bread from my pack, from a rep-cloth draw-sack, and a bit of dried meat, paper thin, from its tied leather envelope.

  "There, there," she crooned to the child, putting bits of bread into its mouth. "I have water," I said, "but no broth or soup."

  "The ditches are filled with water," she said. "Here, here, little one." "Why did you come back?" I asked.

  "I came to look for roots," she said, chewing.

  "Did you find any?" I asked.

  She looked at me quickly, narrowly. "No," she said.

  "Have more bread," I said, offering it.

  She hesitated.

  "It is a gift, like your hospitality," I said, "between free persons. Did you not accept it I should be shamed." "You are kind," she said. "Not to make me beg in my own house." "Eat," I said.

  Feiqa had now succeeded in reviving the fire. It was now a small, sturdy, cheerful blaze. She knelt near it, on her bare knees, in the tiny, coarse tunic, on the flat, sooted, stained stones, tending it "She is collared!" cried the woman, suddenly, looking at Feiqa.

  Feiqa shrunk back, her hand inadvertently going to her collar. Too, her thigh now wore a brand, the common Kajira mark, high on her left thigh, just under the hip. I had had it put on her two days after leaving the vicinity of Samnium, at the town of Market of Semris, well known for its sales of tarsks. It had been put on in the house of the slaver, Teibar. He brands superbly, and his prices are competitive. No longer could the former Lady Charlotte, once of Samnium, be mistaken for a free woman.

  The free woman looked at Feiqa, aghast.

  "Belly," I said to Feiqa.

  Immediately Feiqa, trembling, went to her belly on the stained, sooted stones near the fire.

  "I will not have a slave in my house!" said the free woman.

  Feiqa trembled.

  "I know your sort" cried the free woman. "I see them sometimes with the wagons, sleek, chained and well-fed, while free women starve.

  "It is natural that such women be cared for," I said. "They are salable animals, properties. They represent a form of wealth. It is natural to look after them as it is to look after tharlarion or tarsks."

  "You will not stay in my house!" cried the free woman to Feiqa. "I will not keep livestock in my house."

  Feiqa clenched her small fists beside her head. I could see she did not care to hear this sort of thing. In Samnium she had been a rich woman, of a family well known on its Street of Coins. Doubtless many times she would have held herself a thousand times superior to the poor peasant women, coming in from the villages, in their bleached woolen robes, bringing their sacks and baskets of grain and produce to the city's markets. Her clenched fists indicated that perhaps she did not yet fully understand that all that was now behind her. "Animal!" screamed the free woman.

  Feiqa looked up angrily, tears in her eyes, and lifted herself an inch or two from the floor on the palms of her hands. "I was once as free as you!" she said. "Oh!" cried Feiqa, suddenly, sobbing, recoiling from my kick, and then "Aii!" she cried, in sharp pain, as, my hand in her hair, she was jerked up to a kneeling position.

  "But no more!" I said. I was furious. I could not believe her insolence. "No, Master," she wept, "no more!"

  I then with the back of my hand, and then its palm, first one, and then the other, back and forth, to and fro, again and again, lashed her head from side to side. Then I flung her on her belly before the free woman. There was blood on my hand, and about her mouth and lips.

  "Forgive me!" she begged the free woman. "Forgive me!"

  "Address her as "Mistress, I said. It is customary for Gorean slaves to address free women as «Mistress and free men as "Master."

  "I beg your forgiveness, Mistress!" wept the girl. "Forgive me, please, I beg it of you!"

  "She is new to the collar," I apologized to the free woman. "I think that perhaps even now she does not fully understand its import. Yet I think that perhaps she understands something more of its meaning now than she did a few moments ago. "Shall I kill her?"

  Hearing this question Feiqa cried out in fear and shuddered uncontrollably on her belly before the free woman. She then clutched at her ankles and, putting down her head, began to cover her feet with desperate, placatory kisses. "Please forgive the animal!" wept Feiqa. "The animal begs your forgiveness! Please, Mistress! Please, gracious, beautiful, noble Mistress! Forgive Feiqa, please forgive Feiqa, who is only a slave!" I looked down at Feiqa. I think she now understood her collar better than before. I had, for her insolence and unconscionable behavior, literally placed her life in the hands of the free woman. She now understood this sort of thing could be done. Too, she would now understand even more keenly how her life was completely and totally, absolutely, at the mercy of a Master. It thus came home to her, I think, fully, perhaps for the first time, what it could be to be a Gorean slave.

  "Are you sorry for what you have done?" asked the free woman.

  "Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, Mistress!" w
ept Feiqa, her head down, doing obeisance to one who was a thousand times, nay, infinitely, her superior, the free woman of the peasants.

  "You may live," said the free woman.

  "Thank you, Mistress!" wept Feiqa, head down, shuddering and sobbing uncontrollably at the free woman's feet.

  "Have you learned anything from this, Feiqa?" I asked.

  "Yes, Master," she wept.

  "What?" I asked.

  "That I am a slave, she said.

  "Do not forget it, Feiqa," I told her.

  "No, Master," she sobbed, fervently.

  "Will you stay the night?" asked the free woman.

  "With your permission," I said.

  "You are welcome here," she said. "But you will have to sleep your animal outside."

  I glanced down at Feiqa. She was still shuddering. It would be difficult for her, I supposed, at least for a time, to cope with her new comprehension concerning the nature of her condition.

  "I do not allow livestock in my house," said the free woman.

  I smiled, looking down at Feiqa. To be sure, the former rich young lady of Samnium was now livestock, that and nothing more. Too I smiled because of the free woman's concern, and outrage, at the very thought of having a slave in the house. This seemed amusing to me for two reasons. First, it is quite common for Goreans to keep slaves, a lovely form of domestic animal, in the house. Indeed the richer and more well-to-do Gorean the more likely it is that he will have slaves in the house. In the houses of administrators, in the domiciles of high merchants, in the palaces of Ubars, for example, slaves, and usually beautiful ones, for they can afford them, are often abundant. Secondly, it is not unusual either for many peasants to keep animals in the house, usually verr or bosk, sometimes tarsk, at least in the winter. The family lives in one section of the dwelling, and the animals are quartered in the other.

  "Go outside," I told Feiqa.

  "Yes, Master," she said.

  "Would you like a little more food?" I asked the free woman. "I have some more." She looked at me.

  "Please," I said.

  She took two more wedges of yellow Sa-Tarna bread. I put some more sticks on the fire.

  "Here," she said, embarrassed, She drew some roots, and two suls, from her robe. They had been freshly dug. Dirt still clung to them. She put them down on the stones, between us.

  I sat down cross-legged, and she knelt down, opposite me, knees together, in the common fashion of the Gorean free woman. The roots, the two suls, were between us. She rocked the child in her arms.

  "I thought you could find no roots," I smiled.

  "Some were left in the garden," she said. "I remembered them. I came back for them. There was very little left though. Others obviously had come before me. These things were missed. They are poor stuff. We used to use the produce of that garden for tarsk feed."

  "They are fine roots," I said. "and splendid suls."

  "We even hunt for tarsk troughs," she said, wearily, "and dig in the cold dirt of the pens. The tarsk are gone, but sometimes a bit of feed remains, fallen between the cracks, or missed by the animals, having been trampled into the mud. There are many tricks we learn in these days."

  "I do not want to take your food," I said.

  "Would you shame me?" she asked.

  "No," I said. "Share my kettle," she said.

  "Thank you," I said. I took one of the roots and broke off a bit of it in my hand. I rubbed the dirt from it. I bit into it. "Good," I said. I did not eat more however. I would let her keep her food. I had done in this matter what would be sufficient. I had, in what I had done, acknowledged her as the mistress in her house; I had shown her honor; I had "shared her kettle."

  "Little Andar is asleep," she said, looking at the bundled child.

  I nodded.

  "You may sleep your slave inside the threshold," she said.

  3 Tula

  "Throw back your hoods, pull down your veils, females!" laughed the wagoner. The women crowding about the back of the wagon, many with their hands outstretched, the sleeves of their robes falling back, cried out in consternation.

  "a€”if you would be fed!" he added.

  These women must be new, I thought. Probably they had come only recently to the wagons, probably trekking overland from some contacted village, perhaps one from as far away as fifty pasangs, a common range for the excursions, the searches and collections of mounted foragers. Most of the women I had seen following the wagons, at any rate, knew enough by now to approach them only bareheaded, as female supplicants, too, to be more pleasing to the men who might possibly be persuaded to feed them, with their hair visible and loose as that of slaves. Similarly, most had already discarded or hidden their veils, even when not begging. They did not even wear them in their own small, foul, often-fireless makeshift camps near the wagons, camps, to be sure, to which men might sometimes come. It had been discovered that a woman who is seen with a veil, even if she has lowered the veil, abjectly and piteously face-stripping herself, is less likely to be fed than one with no veil in evidence. Too, of course, it had been quickly noted that such women, too, tended to be less frequently selected for the pleasure of the drivers. The men with the wagons had not seen fit to permit the women the dignity of veiling. In this, of course, they treated them like slaves. "Please!" cried a woman, thrusting back her hood and tearing away her veil. "Feed me! Please, feed me! The others, too, then almost instantly, hastily, each seeming to hurry to be before the others, some moaning and crying out in misery, unhooded and unveiled themselves.

  "That is better, females," laughed the driver.

  Many of the women moaned and wept.

  They were now, to be sure, I mused, in their predicament and helplessness, even though free women, as the driver had implied, little more then mere females. One could probably not be more a female unless one was a slave.

  "Feed us!" they cried piteously to the driver, many of them with their arms outstretched, their hands lifted, their palms opened, crowding and pressing about the back of the wagon. "We beg food!" "We are hungry!" "Please!" "Feed us, please!" "Please!"

  I looked at their faces. On the whole they seemed to be simple, plain women, peasant women, and peasant lasses. One or two of them, I thought, might be suitable for the collar.

  "Here!" cried the driver, laughing, throwing pieces of bread from a sack to one and then another of the women. The first piece of bread he threw to the woman who had been the first to unhood and face-strip herself, perhaps thereby rewarding her for her intelligence and alacrity. He then threw pieces to certain others of the women, generally to those who were the prettiest and begged the hardest. Sometimes, not unoften, these pieces of bread were torn away from the prettier, more feminine women by their brawnier, huskier, more masculine fellows. Where there are no men, or no true men, to protect them, feminine women will, in a grotesque perversion of nature, be controlled, exploited and dominated by more masculine women, sometimes monsters and mere caricatures of men. Yet even such grosser women, sometimes little more than surrogates for males, can upon occasion, in the hands of a strong uncompromising master, be forced to manifest and fulfil, realizing then for the first time, the depths of their long-denied, long-suppressed womanness. There are two sexes. They are not the same.

  "More, more, please!" begged the females.

  Then, amusing himself, the driver tossed some bits of bread into the air and watched the desperate, anxious women crowd and bunch under it, pushing and shoving for position, and trying to leap upward, thrusting at one another, to snatch at it.

  "More, please!" they screamed.

  I saw again a large straight-hipped woman seize a piece of bread fiercely from a smaller woman, one with a delicious love cradle. Then with both hands she thrust it in her mouth and, bending over, shouldering and thrusting, fought her way back to where, crouching down, watching for others, she could eat it alone. None could take it away from her, save a man, of course, who might have done it easily.

  "That is all!"
laughed the driver.

  "No!" wept women.

  "Bread!" wept others.

  It was clear that something, in spite of what the driver had said, remained in the sack. He grinned and wiped his face with his arm. It had been a joke.

  "Another crust, please!" begged a woman.

  "Feed us!" cried another.

  "You are the masters!" wept one of the women, suddenly.

  "Feed us! Please feed us!"

  The driver laughed and drew forth a handful of crusts from the sack, which crusts apparently constituted the remainder of its contents. Then he flung those over the heads of the women, well behind them. They turned about and, running flinging themselves to their hands and knees in the dirt, scrambling about, snatching and screaming, fought for them.

  The driver watched them for a time, amused. Then he turned away, and, stepping among the bundles in the wagon bed, went to the wagon box. This type of box serves both as the driver's seat, or bench, and as a literal box, in which various items may be stored, usually spare parts, tools and personal belongings. It usually locks. He lifted the lid of the wagon box, which lid served also as the surface of his seat or bench, and dropped the empty sack within, and then shut the box. Also, from near the box, in front of it, near where his feet would rest in driving, he picked up a tharlarion whip. He had had experience with such women before, it seemed. "No more!" he said, angrily. "No more!"

  Women now again, pathetic and desperate, robes now wrinkled and dirty from where they had knelt, and crawled and fought for the crusts and crumbs in the dirt, began to approach the wagon. The whip lashed out, cracking over their heads. They fell back.

  "More!" they begged. "Please!"

  "It is all gone," said the driver. "It is all gone now! Get away, sluts!" "You have bread!" wept one. This was true of course. The wagon's lading was Sa-Tarna bread, and also, incidentally, Sa-Tarna meal and flour. It creaked under perhaps a hundred and fifty Gorean stone of such stores. These supplies, of course, were not intended for vagabonds or itinerants who might be encountered on the road but for the kitchens set up at the various nights' encampments.