Smugglers of Gor

Chapter Seven



I, and certain others, had been kept in that basement, or dungeon, at the foot of the stairs, with the damp, soiled straw, and the dim light, filtering in from above, in its narrow, dust-sprinkled shaft of illumination, for days. After four days I had been removed from the sirik. I could then freely move my hands and feet, and the linkage was not on my neck. How helpless we are in the sirik, and perhaps beautiful. But I was then, two days later, as some others had been, fastened to the wall. They do with us what they please. This was done by means of a collar and chain, which ran to a heavy ring, dangling from a plate, anchored in the wall. I felt even more helpless than when in the sirik, for in the sirik one may move about, with its small steps, and lift one hands to one’s mouth, to feed oneself, when permitted to use one’s hands. Now, with a rustle of chain, I could move no more than a two or three feet from the wall. And the collar was heavy on my neck. Doubtless the room, or dungeon, with its heavy, thick walls, was quite enough to keep us in place. Within it we were helpless enough, were we not, considering the walls, the barred gate at the top of the narrow stone stairs, our nudity, the men about, and such, but, one supposes, our chaining, of one sort or another, must have had its purpose, or purposes; perhaps it was intended to be mnemonic or advisory, or perhaps instructive, to leave us in no doubt that we were slaves, and only that, or, perhaps, it was merely because men enjoyed seeing us that way, so vulnerable and helpless in such impediments, impediments of their choice. I suppose I should have resented my nudity, and such constraints, and being exposed to frequent, open, public, appraisive scrutiny, as the men might wish, as the animals we now knew ourselves to be, and, sometimes, being forced to take food and water on all fours, from pans, not permitted to use one’s hands and such, but I found it, somehow, this helplessness, this subjection to complete, uncompromised masculine domination appropriate for me, fitting, reassuring, and thrilling. Here, as I had not on Earth, I felt myself a woman, and, for the first time, radically and basically female, far beyond anything I had experienced on Earth. Here, in a way, I had learned what I was, basically, and naturally. No longer needed I pretend to be something else, some sort of imitation man, a pseudoman, or a facsimile man, or something advised to be manlike, or a creature to which sex should be unimportant or irrelevant, or a neuter of some sort, or, worse, a nothing, something meaningless, no more than a societally contrived artifact. I was now what I was, myself, and wholly so, though I was ankle-deep in straw, nude, on another world. Doubtless this had something to do not simply with my needs, and the unhappiness I had known on Earth, but, too, with the men of this world, dominant, powerful, virile men, who would see me as a woman, and slave, and treat me as such, men so natural, so astonishing and mighty, that before them I knew myself a slave, and could be but a slave.

Women came and went in this place, some introduced, some removed. Sometimes men in rich robes, muchly different from the simple tunics of the guards, came to review us. Notes were taken, and lists made. I strove, desperately, as I had in the training house, to improve my Gorean. It would be the language of my masters. I had felt the monitory switch frequently enough in the house, from my branded, collared instructresses, when I erred in grammar, or ventured a poorly chosen or inept word. Here, in the basement, or dungeon, it was much easier; here my mistakes brought only amusement, ridicule, or contempt. I bartered portions of my rations for instructions. Several times, a few of us would be aligned, and examined, our feet widely spread, our hands clasped at the back of our neck, or at the back of our head. This was done with me, twice. Sometimes a slave was taken to the side, and made use of, in the straw. Some of us spoke Gorean natively, for we were not all outworlders, cattle brought from the slave world. These often wheedled the guards for information, calling up from the bottom of the stairs, for we were not permitted on the stairs, save to be entered into the place or removed from it. We learned little, I fear. We did know we were near the water. We could hear it, outside. After a time, I could follow much of the Gorean about me. It seemed that this building, which I took to be large, judging from the size of the basement, or dungeon, was some sort of depot, from which supplies, and such, at least currently, would be taken north. So much had been gathered from chance remarks overheard. It was apparently not clear even to the guards what lay to the north. I began to dream in Gorean.

I often thought of the man whom I had first seen in the store, before whom, for the first time, I had felt myself viewed as what I had secretly taken myself to be, a slave.

I could not forget him, of all the others.

I recalled him from the warehouse, when he had turned me to my back before him. Nude, and helpless, bound, lying at his feet, I had looked up at him. I had recognized him instantly. I suspect he did not remember me. I wondered if, when he had first seen me in the store, in my skirt, blouse, and sweater, he had considered what I might have looked like, as I then was, helpless, bound, slave naked, at his feet. I had had the strangest, shocking sense, when our eyes had first met, not only that I, a suitable slave, was before a master, perhaps for the first time, but that I might be before my master. My knees had been weak, my breath had become short. I feared I might fall. I had felt the strangest inclination to kneel before him, my head lowered, in suitable submission. Then I turned about, and fled away, amongst startled shoppers, and puzzled fellow clerks. After our encounter in the warehouse, in which he failed to recognize me, or it seems so, I did not see him again until the afternoon before my sale, in the exposition cage. During my training, how often I had sneaked little glances about me, at the guards, the visitors, prospective buyers, trainers, physicians, and attendants, hoping to see him! I knew myself too poor a slave to be of interest to such a man, perhaps one of skills, position, and wealth, but, still, I hoped to see him. I was sure it was he who had brought me to the iron, and the collar. At least that much I must have pleased him! But I did not see him again until the afternoon in the exposition cage. The cage serves an important purpose. It makes it possible for prospective buyers to inspect the merchandise before the sale, take notes, make comparisons, and such. The exposition cage is very different from the common slave cage. The common slave cage is designed for a single occupant. It is small. In it, commonly, the slave may not stand, or stretch her body to its full extent. Too, it is closely barred. The slave, for the closeness of the bars, cannot be well seen within it. The smallness of the cage makes it possible for several cages to be stored in a given area. Some are designed in such a way that they may be fastened together, even stacked. The exposition cage is quite different. It is quite large. In it a slave may stand, and move about with ease. The bars, too, are widely spaced, though not so widely spaced that a girl may slip between them, to enable customers, passers-by, and others, to enjoy a relatively unimpeded view of the goods to be offered later in the day. A girl may be called to the bars, for a closer inspection, and she must, if commanded, smile, pose, assume various positions, and such, that she may be the better assessed. A girl dares not demur. The lash is always at hand. Some of the girls try to attract the attention of various fellows, usually young, handsome fellows, or those in richer robes, with presumably heavier purses. Occasionally a fight breaks out in the cage, as one slave may have, perhaps inadvertently, obstructed a possible buyer’s view of another, or have thrust another aside, to present herself in her stead, or such. The slaves are to speak little in the cage, either to one another or to the men outside the bars. We may answer questions, as to our training, our origin, our fluency in Gorean, and such things. The standard phrase we are permitted is the ritual phrase, “Buy me, Master.” Each of us is marked, her lot number inscribed in grease pencil on her left breast. I was told that my number was 119. Barbarian slaves are commonly kept illiterate. There were several of us in the cage, perhaps more than was appropriate for suitable viewing, but the sale, I had gathered, was a large one, which would last several Ahn. Apparently many slaves were being purchased for transportation beyond Brundisium, by one or more mysterious buyers to whom, it seemed, price was not a matter of particular concern. Accordingly, the various houses represented in the sale were anxious to participate in so attractive a market. Many slaves, too, had been brought to Brundisium as a consequence of political events which, it seems, had taken place in the south. An unusual market situation had accordingly come about, one in which goods were relatively abundant while prices, interestingly, remained relatively stable, this apparently because of buyers rich in coin who wished to conduct their affairs with dispatch, and be on their way.

He had called me to the bars of the exposition cage.

It was he!

For a moment it was hard to breathe. I could barely move. For days, weeks, I had hoped to see him, sought to see him, and now I had been summoned to the bars! I feared I might grow weak, and fall. It was hard to breathe. It was almost like the first time I had seen him, but now I was on his world, not mine, and I, nude, a young kajira, viewed him through the bars of an exposition cage. It seemed I could not move, but then I approached the bars, not well, I feared. I wanted to throw myself to my belly, and reach through the bars, and touch him, and beg him to purchase me. Did he not know I was his slave, from the first moment I had seen him? But to my dismay I saw he did not recognize me. He did not know me! I meant nothing to him! Surely he must once have found me of interest, or I would not have been brought here, or the kef would not have been burned into my thigh, but he might have found hundreds of similar interest. What was I to him but another item in a ledger, another small, sleek beast, another piece of meat, slave meat?

I wanted to speak to him, but the words had not come.

Perhaps I should have cried out in bitterness, denounced him, and shaken the bars in helpless, futile rage, but I did not.

Was it not he who had looked upon me, and had seen fit to bring me to bondage?

Should I not have hated him for this?

Rather I wanted to kneel before him.

I wanted to be his, his belonging.

I wanted to live for him, to love him and serve him, wholly, and selflessly. But I was unworthy even to fetch his sandals in my teeth.

I do not think I even stood well before him, slender, soft, head down, submitted.

I closed my eyes, and tears pressed between the lids, and I opened my eyes, and he was gone.

He had not even remembered me.

I was to be sold. Shortly, I would belong to another.

I had fallen to my knees beside the bars, and had put my head in my hands, and wept.

***

The gate at the head of the stairs had been opened.

I looked up, the heavy collar on my neck. The chain, too, is heavy, dependent from its ring. I had little doubt that the collar and chain, as the others, was originally intended for men, perhaps criminals, perhaps prisoners of war, bound for the quarries or galleys. This basement, or dungeon, I supposed, had been rented, or commandeered, for female slaves, perhaps because of our numbers, unusual in this place, or season. I understood little or nothing of what was going on. We are not informed. We are kajirae. Curiosity, supposedly, is not becoming to us. Would herders inform verr or kaiila of their plans? I preferred the chains, the bracelets, and restraints of the slave house, where I had been trained. They are light, lovely, tasteful, attractive, and feminine. They, like the brand and collar, are intended to enhance our beauty, for a woman’s bonds, like her garmenture, if she is permitted garmenture, are intended to set her off nicely. In them she is to be framed, presented, and displayed, excitingly and attractively, purchasable goods. I suppose it only needs be added that in them, as well, as lovely and feminine as they are, we are helpless; they confine us with perfection.

It must be early in the morning.

Three fellows were descending the stairs; one held some short lengths of cord, and some strips of dark cloth, and another several loops of rope. The last, who wore blue, carried a marking board, and pencil.

Slaves shrank away from them.

If I had not lost count, this was my eleventh day in the basement, or dungeon. I had seen these fellows before, perhaps four or five times. They were the guards, or attendants, who brought girls down the steps, or escorted them upward, and beyond the gate.

Without a command, or the accompaniment of guards, we were not permitted on the stairs, those high, narrow, rail-less stairs, a wall at one side, at the height of which, giving access to the lower holding area, was the barred gate.

We knew the purpose of the cords, the strips of cloth, the long rope.

In the house, and here, as the girls spoke, I had heard of lovely Ko-ro-ba, busy Harfax, mighty Ar, and even vast, remote, Turia.

Why could we not be purchased for such places?

But we recognized the cords, the strips of cloth, the long rope.

“Be silent,” said the fellow in blue.

We all knelt, for we were in the presence of free men.

On this world a chasm separates the slave and the free. I suspect that few on my former world could even begin to comprehend the nature of this chasm. Certainly I had not. Then I found myself a slave. The free individual is a person; the slave is not; she is an animal, and is usually marked and collared as such. As any other animal, she may be bought and sold, and dealt with as her masters might please. The free individual has caste, clan, and Home Stone. The slave has nothing, and is herself owned. The free person knows himself free, and conceives of himself as such. The slave knows herself slave, and conceives of herself as such. She exists for the master, and hopes to please him.

The men surveyed us.

We knelt in the straw, naked, waiting, viewed.

We were frightened. It would be done with us as men pleased. We were slaves.

“Recall your lot numbers,” said the fellow in blue, with the marking board and pencil.

We had no names. We had not yet been named. When we were named, if we were named, they would be slave names, put on us, and taken away, at a master’s pleasure. Do verr and tarsk have names?

“You will form a line, standing, facing me, head down, wrists crossed behind your back,” said the fellow in blue, with the marking board, and pencil.

In the times before, the line had consisted of as few as ten girls, and as many as twenty.

“Sixty-eight,” called the fellow in blue, with the marking board, and pencil.

“Master,” responded a red-head.

She rose to her feet, with a rustle of chain. She was siriked. This impediment was removed, and cast to the side of the stairs.

She then crossed her wrists behind her back, took her place, and lowered her head.

She was a tall girl, perhaps five feet nine or so. Normally the line proceeds from the tallest to the shortest girl.

“Forty-one, twenty-two, one hundred and six,” called the fellow in blue. “Master,” said each, identifying herself.

They took their places, two being first relieved of physical constraints, one a sirik and one a wall collar.

“Eighteen,” said the fellow in blue.

“No, no, no!” screamed a girl.

She leaped to her feet, darted with a scattering of straw past the fellow in blue, and, scrambling, sobbing, stumbling, falling once, leaping up again, fled toward the stairs, at the top of which, high above, was the dark, barred gate. Then she screamed with misery, several feet from the stairs, caught by the hair, and yanked back, that by the fellow who carried the loops of rope. He twisted her rudely, abruptly, about, and downward, and she was then at his feet, he crouching over her, his hand in her hair. He then straightened up, angrily, and, she crying out in pain, jerked her to her feet, and held her beside him, bent over at the waist, her head tight against his hip, her head down, facing the floor, she then in leading position. In a moment, she had been conducted to the side of the fellow in blue. Her small hands were on the wrists of the fellow who held her. She was whimpering. As she was held, she could only look down, into the straw. She held her head still, extremely still, to avoid more agony, for the guard’s hand was tight in her hair.

“I am disappointed, Eighteen,” said the fellow in blue.

“Forgive me, Master,” she whispered.

“You moved awkwardly,” he said gently, chidingly. “You were clumsy. Indeed, you fell. Free women may move awkwardly, clumsily, stiffly, however they please, but you, you must keep in mind, are no longer a free woman. You are now kajira. Surely you know that you are to move beautifully, with loveliness and grace, and, in a situation such as this, only with permission.”

“Yes, Master,” she wept.

“I trust you did not injure yourself,” he said.

“No, Master,” she said.

“You must not do so, as you are another’s property,” he said. “Your master would not be pleased if you lowered your value.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

I did not think she knew her master, no more than the rest of us. We did not know by whom we had been purchased, or for what reason. We had gathered we were to be shipped north, to some point on the coast.

“Release her,” said the fellow in blue.

She went to her knees, her head down, to the feet of the fellow in blue.

“I was of the Merchants,” she wept, “the high Merchants!”

“No longer,” said the fellow in blue.

“No, Master,” she said.

“You are now yourself goods,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“It is fortunate that in your brief, foolish, and ill-advised flight you did not reach the stairs,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“Otherwise you would have been punished.”

“Yes, Master,” she said. “Thank you Master. Forgive me, Master.”

“Do you not think it would be appropriate to express your gratitude to he who saved you from a beating?” he asked.

“Yes, Master,” she said, and crawled to the fellow who had halted her in her precipitate flight.

“Thank you, Master,” she whispered, and, head down, with her soft lips and tongue, for several moments, addressed herself to his feet.

The licking and kissing of the master’s feet is a familiar behavior on the part of a slave girl. It is a ritual, like kissing the whip, which is symbolic of submission. But these behaviors, or rituals, are often rich and complex. For example, we are taught the licking and kissing of a man’s whip in such a way that he may be driven mad with passion. Too, of course, it has its effect on the slave, as well. The kissing of the feet is also, obviously, symbolic of submission, and is rich in significance. For example, it indicates that the slave is her owner’s animal. It is often a placatory behavior. It may also express contrition, gratitude, and a slave’s love. Too, it is a way in which to place oneself before the master, and plead for attention. I had sometimes begun to sense how one’s needs might sometimes be much upon us. How frightening to be so at a man’s mercy, to be so needful, and dependent upon him! How she hopes and begs that he may be disposed to show her a mercy and kindness. She is only a slave. I resolved that I must fight such things. But I did not want to fight them; rather I wanted to so belong to my master, to be that much his. It was my hope that he would be kind to me. This sort of behavior, the kissing and licking of feet, is sometimes commanded by the free woman, in her hatred of the slave, who thereby recalls to the slave that she is a slave, and no more than a property, a negligible chattel.

“You may now, Eighteen,” said the fellow in blue, “take your place in line.”

“Thank you, Master,” she said, and rose, and stood in place, in line, her wrists crossed behind her back, her head down.

It is a beautiful posture, and one suitable for slaves. Too, in it, one may be conveniently coffled, and bound.

I thought that she had gotten off quite easily. To be sure, she had not managed to reach the stairs. I do not think that I, or the others, would have minded, or much minded, if she had received a lashing. Indeed, however deplorably, we might have enjoyed that. Eighteen was not popular, given her pride, her airs, her pretensions to superiority. Let her weep under the leather! Subject to the lash, we are all equal. Let her learn that! And, too, she had had a lower number than mine, and most of the rest of us, as well, and had been offered earlier in the sales, quite early, in fact. That, too, one supposes, did not endear her to us. To be sure, the best might be offered later in the marketing. And, in the house, I had gathered that the finest jewels on the “necklace” are usually distributed throughout the afternoon and evening. Supposedly this brightens and freshens the sales, whets anticipation and capitalizes on the delights of surprise, such strategies theoretically keeping the buyers alert and attentive. Why had the men not lashed her? She was quite beautiful, of course. I wondered if masters were more lenient with beautiful slaves. No, I thought, they are Gorean. Why had they not lashed her? Then I recalled she had not reached the stairs. I found myself wishing that she might have reached the stairs. I wondered if her punishment might have been measured to the number of stairs climbed. Sometimes a piquant arithmetic seems to be involved in such matters. Then I supposed not. In any event, she had not reached the stairs.

Lashings are quite unpleasant.

I had been lashed once, in my training, to inform me of the experience. I did not care to again feel the caress, however briefly, of that implement, the five-stranded Gorean slave lash, designed for the improvement of slaves without leaving a permanent marking, which might lower their value. Having felt it I feared it, and would do anything to avoid it. Yet, too, I felt an indescribable excitement and thrill, a sense of reassurance and security, and even identity, and reality, knowing myself subject to its attention, knowing it would be used upon me if I failed to be pleasing. I was thereby well reassured I was a slave.

“One Hundred and Nineteen,” said the fellow in blue.

“Master!” I responded, suddenly, frightened.

How naturally that word came to me!

On my former world, in my employments, on the streets, it had never occurred to me that I would be so reduced and degraded, that I would be made a slave, this so fulfilling me. I had never expected to kneel before men, owned, and utter to them, in full significance and reality, that telling word, “Master.”

But it was so on this world.

How naturally that word had come to me!

A key was thrust into the collar lock, and the bolt moved. The weight was then removed from my neck, and I was free of the wall.

I took my place in the line, head down, wrists crossed behind my back.

The girl before me had been, I had earlier gathered, of the Merchant caste, even of the high Merchants, whatever that might be. Surely she had boasted amongst us that she was of the high Merchants. Her vaunted declaration, however, had brought her only derision and mockery from her chain sisters. “Where are your robes and veils?” she was asked. “Did I not see you well-siriked of late?” asked another. “I thought, two days ago,” said another, “I saw you chained by the neck, naked, to the wall.” “If she has caste,” said another, “her thigh will be bare.” “See her thigh!” exclaimed another. “It is marked!” said another. “Ah, my dear,” said another. “Then you are only a lying slave.” “Slave girls may not lie,” said another. “I fear you must be punished,” said another. “Please, no!” the girl had cried, but the others had then seized her, thrown her to the straw, and beaten her. Thereafter she spoke no more as though she might still be free. I had gathered that many might resent the Merchants, envying their wealth. It was said they raised nothing, and made nothing, but were brigands without lairs, bandits who looted without risk, men who drew blood with knives of gold. Membership in the Merchants, of course, might range from itinerant peddlers to the masters of great houses, dealing with a dozen cities. The Merchants regard themselves, with justification I would think, as a high caste, but few Goreans number them amongst the high castes, which, traditionally, are taken to be five in number, the Initiates, Builders, Physicians, Scribes, and Warriors. None, I suppose, would dispute with the Warriors that they are a high caste. If the Merchants are not a high caste, it is clear they are an important caste. It is said they own councils and sway law, that their gold hides and whispers behind thrones, that cities heed their words, that Ubars are often in their debt. Doubtless amongst the Merchants, as amongst other men, one will find the astute and honorable, the honest and diligent, the noble and loyal, as well as the corrupt and greedy, the cruel and callous, the venal and heartless. The girl before me might once, I supposed, if of the high Merchants, or such, as she claimed, have been wealthy. But now she was a portion, a negligible portion I would suppose, of the wealth of another. How lost she was amongst us, so isolated and alone, reduced from her former status, and despised by her sister slaves. No wonder, I thought, that she might have broken in the strain, and irrationally, so foolishly, tried to run toward the stairs. Did she expect to ascend them, and thrust her hands through the bars of the gate, and elicit pity; did she think the gate would be opened, and she would be released?

Did she not know that there was no escape for the Gorean slave girl, and that that was now what she was?

Did she think she had been branded to be freed?

She had been branded to be purchased, and put to use.

Certainly there was no escape for me. Where was there to escape to? And certainly my body, with its mark, proclaimed me a slave. And, I supposed, sooner or later, I would wear a collar.

I did not fear the collar. I knew I belonged in one.

It would be locked on me, and I could not remove it. It would publicly, and appropriately, proclaim me slave, and, most often, would identify a master, whose property I was. Sometimes, if one is given a name, the name, too, will appear on the collar. “I am so-and-so, the slave of so-and-so.” “I am so-and-so, so-and-so owns me.” “I am so-and-so, the property of so and-so.” Sometimes the collar is quite simple, as in “I am owned by so-and-so,” “I am the property of so-and-so,” or merely “Return me to so-and-so,” or such.

Had I a choice, I knew whose collar I would beg to wear. But I would have no choice; I was a slave.

The typical collar was practical and informative, light and comfortable, and attractive. I wondered sometimes if free women did not envy us our collars. They much enhanced the beauty of a woman, aesthetically, and, of course, in their significance. They arouse men, and have their effect on the woman, as well. Do they not inform her of what she is, and what she is for?

I knew that I was different from some, at least, of the other girls. Unlike some of them, I had known I was a slave, even on Earth. Doubtless, in time, they, too, would come to understand that they were slaves, and had always been slaves, lacking only the master and the collar. They would come home to themselves, in being owned and mastered. What hormonally normal woman does not wish to kneel before a master? Is this not clear enough from their dreams, and their feelings? Who does not wish to be a man’s belonging?

Who does not wish to feel his bonds, his lips and hands on one’s body, owning it, possessing it, subduing it, treating it as he wishes, so casually, so thoughtlessly, so imperiously, caressing it into submission, forcing it to yield to him the pleasures of the master, and forcing us, as well, to endure, should it please him, whether we will or no, unspeakable, spasmodic ecstasies of rapture, ecstasies which we will beg to yield, again and again, as his ravished slave?

“What was your caste?” I had been asked.

“I had no caste,” I said.

“She is a barbarian, can you not tell?” had said another girl.

“Listen to her,” said another. “You can tell from her speech.”

“She cannot even speak the language properly,” said another.

“Barbarians do not have caste,” said another.

“Barbarians are stupid,” said another.

“I am not stupid,” I had said.

The fellow in blue continued to call lot numbers.

Seventeen girls were called forth; five had been siriked, four, including myself, had been chained at the wall. The rest, unencumbered, had been at liberty to move about the room as they wished, saving that they might not, without permission, as noted, ascend the stairs leading to the barred gate.

We stood in line, waiting, positioned as required, head down, wrists crossed behind our back.

We had seen the use of the long rope, the cords, the strips of cloth, before. We were to be taken from the holding area. The double loop of cord was put about my left wrist and jerked tight, and, a moment later, my wrists were secured in place. A bit after that a length of the long rope was knotted about my neck, and then the two fellows proceeded forward, one fastening the wrists of the girl before me together, she who had claimed to have been of the high Merchants, and the other adding her to the coffle. Shortly thereafter the fellow with the strips of cloth was behind me. “Look up,” he said. I was then blindfolded. I felt a moment of panic, bound, tethered, and unable to see. How utterly helpless we are! This is done, commonly, from the rear forward. Supposedly this helps to keep the line tranquil, lessening the possibility of bolting. I remembered the unwise flight of the girl before me. I heard her whimper in terror, as she was blindfolded. We are so helpless! It is said that curiosity is not becoming to a kajira. It is not unusual to keep us in ignorance. Doubtless that helps to control us. Often we are not informed of where we are to be taken, and what is to be done with us. We are slaves. When we had been brought to this place we had been bound, coffled, and blindfolded, as well. We would not be able to recognize the inside of the building, its outside, the streets about, or such. We did know that we were in Brundisium, apparently a large city, and a port. Too, from the sounds, and the smells, it was clear that we were in the vicinity of water. Too, as noted earlier, we were familiar, at least with rumors, that we were to be taken north.

I felt a slight movement on the rope, and then felt it pull at the back of my neck, and I moved forward.

“Be careful of the stairs,” said a male voice.