Smugglers of Gor

Chapter Eight



“May I speak?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

She was kneeling beside me, on the boards, in a white tunic, of the wool of the bounding hurt, her wrists braceleted behind her, her leash of common brown leather looping up to my hand.

“Why are we here?” she asked.

“Are you curious?” I asked.

“Forgive me, Master,” she said.

It was early morning.

The air was fresh, and keen. The wharves were crowded. Men came and went. Pennons fluttered from halyards. Large eyes were painted on each side of bows, that the ships might see their way.

One could smell fish. The early boats had come in. Grunt and parsit were strung between poles. Crabs were sold from baskets.

It was from such wharves that the small ships, mostly coasting vessels, not round ships, one every two or three days, had been plying north.

Why should I be interested in them?

Surely it was a foolishness.

I recalled her lot number had been 119, not that it mattered.

She was a slave.

Who can understand the motivations of men, of oneself?

I was angry with her, she no more than another marked collar slut. Still she had looked well at my feet in the warehouse. Were her bound curves that different from those of other helplessly trussed beauties? What had been in her eyes, as she had looked up at me? She did not even recognize me, I who had brought her to rope and iron! How uncertain she had been, how trembling and frightened, and dismayed, on the block, naked, routinely turned about, presented for the perusal of buyers. I recalled the first time I had seen her, in her quaint, concealing, barbarous garments, and how our eyes had met, and her eyes had widened, and her lips parted, and it seemed she might fall, and she was so frightened, was so much like a startled, wide-eyed, helpless tabuk doe finding herself beneath the gaze of a larl. She had turned about and fled, as though she might have escaped, if we had found her of interest. I had entered her on the list as a possible acquisition, and she was put under surveillance. Shortly thereafter she was entered on the acquisition list, and, from that point forward, though not yet marked and collared, and all unwitting of the fact, she was a Gorean slave girl.

I recalled the first time we had met.

She had seemed so startled, so frightened. In seeing me, did she somehow sense what it might be to be a slave? Had she sensed, even then, what it might be to be owned, to kneel before a man, stripped, chained, marked, and collared, his? Had she understood herself a slave, even then, suddenly, unexpectedly, perhaps for the first time, in the presence of a master?

If I could see her again, I felt I could forget her. I wanted to see her again, if only to force her from my mind, to remove her memory from my blood. Surely she was no different from thousands of others, and less than most.

Surely she was less, even, than the slut kneeling at my thigh.

If I could see her again, I was sure I could put her from me.

Perhaps I could laugh at her, spit upon her, strike her, and then contentedly dismiss her, sending her on her way, a meaningless slave, to whatever fate might await her.

She was worthless. She had not even brought a half silver tarsk off the block. Why then did I remember her?

Last night there had been a fracas in the vicinity of a local tavern. Two men, it seems, had been set upon and robbed. But such things were not uncommon in Brundisium, even in calmer times.

I had not forgotten the offer of the golden stater.

I had inquired and learned that the offer to most was in copper tarsks, to the equivalent of a silver stater. But I had been offered a golden stater. I did not think my sword was worth that much more than that of others. In what way then might I have such value, that others might not? Too, I was curious about the ships, the smaller ships, not the round ships, which were coasting north.

What lay in the north?

Who were the mysterious Pani?

Their agents seemed well supplied with gold, gold at a time when even copper would go far. Ships were being hired, and men recruited, not merely shipsmen, pilots, helmsmen, oarsmen, and such, but men-at-arms, as well, hundreds, mercenaries, many lacking Home Stones, many perhaps indistinguishable from ruffians, vagabonds, brigands, thieves, and cutthroats.

Surely there were no great cities, no wars, in the north.

Of what use would be shipsmen, or soldiers, a small army, in the north?

Her lot number, I recalled, had been 119. The marking, if not cleansed, or washed off, lasts several days. It would probably still be on her, and the others. The slaves, doubtless, would be accounted for, marked off, in terms of their numbers, when put aboard.

Records are kept in such matters.

Many men were going north. Accordingly, slaves, as food and drink, as other utilities and necessities, would be supplied to the camps, the forts, the villages, the towns, or shelters. Gorean men will have their slaves; they will not do without them. It is what women are good for. Let free women take note.

“May I speak?” asked the girl kneeling beside me.

“No,” I said.

She was from Asperiche originally, had been taken by corsairs of Port Kar, and sold south. I had purchased her from a local tavern. “Do not sell me to him!” she had begged. The proprietor’s man, with one of the ruffian’s wallets in his belt, had been most congenial. She had shrunk back in her cage, terrified, when the light of the lantern fell upon her. There was a rustling in the other cages, as well, as other slaves stirred, or knelt at the bars, grasping them, to watch. She, and the others, had had the ankle bells removed, for they are worn, usually, only on the floor and in the alcoves. Many men enjoy a belled slave, whose tiniest motion will be marked by the bells. She clutched the light blanket about her slender shoulders. The proprietor, who held the lantern, was at our side. “This is the one,” I said, indicating the illuminated girl. “She was earlier displeasing.” “Please, no, Master!” she said. “Before leaving the tavern, you may recall,” I said to the proprietor’s man, “I left instructions that she was to be lashed.” “Yes, later,” he said. “Now?” he asked. “Yes,” I said. “Please, no, Master!” she cried. “I have a business to conduct,” said the proprietor. “You must learn to be pleasing!” “I will be pleasing,” she exclaimed, “I will be pleasing!” “No, no!” she wept, as the two locks on the cage’s gate were opened. There was laughter from several of the other cages, and I gathered that the girl from Asperiche was not popular with her chain sisters. “Crawl, slut!” called more than one, as the slave was gestured from the tiny cage and, on all floors, head down, made her way to the floor ring, before which she was knelt, and to which her small hands were fastened. The proprietor’s man removed a whip from its nearby peg, on the wall, on the right, as one entered the cage area. “Strike her well!” called one of the slaves. “Two-silver-tarsk girl!” laughed another. “Five copper tarsks, I would say,” called another. The girl, now fastened by the wrists to the ring, turned about, kneeling, and regarded me, wildly. “You did not have me beaten when I misspoke my sales price,” she said. “When you lied,” I said. “You are not like the others,” she said. “You are sweet, gentle, kind, sensitive, and understanding. You will not have a poor, helpless girl struck. You cannot do so! You will not! You cannot!” “Ten strokes,” I said to the proprietor’s man. “No!” she shrieked. There was much laughter from the other cages. “It will not be necessary for her to count the strokes,” I said, “as she may find that difficult after the third or fourth stroke, nor need she thank you once you are finished. It is possible she might not be genuinely grateful.” “I hate you, I hate you!” she wept. Then she cried out as the first stroke was administered. “Please, no more!” she wept. “I will be pleasing, I will be pleasing!” “That is our hope,” said the proprietor, nodding to his man. “Aii!” she wept. The next blows were soon done, and she now lay on her belly, her hands stretched before her, fastened to the ring.

She shuddered, in misery, sobbing, and twisted a little.

Muchly had she writhed and shrieked under the fiery rain of leather. The proprietor’s man had done his work well. She had not been pleasing. She now lay at the ring, a miserable, punished slave.

There was laughter from the other cages about.

“Beat her more!” called one of the other slaves.

“More!” called another.

“No, please,” she cried.

Insolence, rudeness, disrespect, impudence, incivility, slovenliness, temper, impatience, carelessness, clumsiness, and such are not acceptable in a slave. The slave is not a free woman, who may be as she wishes. The slave is owned, and is to be as her master wishes. She is in a collar. Accordingly, she is to be deferent, obedient, attentive, softly spoken, graceful, and submissive.

“Perhaps now you will be more concerned to be pleasing?” inquired the proprietor, holding the lantern.

“Yes, Master!” she said.

There was more laughter from the other girls.

She had learned much. She was now well aware of what it might be to be a slave, and that she was a slave.

The proprietor’s man returned the whip to its peg. He then returned and freed her wrists from the ring.

“You may now return to your cage,” said the proprietor, “on all fours.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

At the gate to her cage, she turned about, on all fours, and lifted her head to me, her eyes bright with tears, tears running down her cheeks.

“You had me whipped,” she said.

“Certainly,” I said. “You were to some extent displeasing.”

“I hate you,” she said, “I hate you!”

“Beware,” I said.

“I hate you!” she hissed, and turned about, to enter the cage.

“Ai!” she cried, for my hand in her hair had arrested her progress. I drew her backward, up, and off balance, and threw her on her back before me, at my feet, and turned to the proprietor. “What do you want for her?” I asked.

“No, no!” she cried.

“How much?” I asked.

“Do not sell me to him!” she wept.

“Three silver tarsks!” cried the proprietor.

“One,” I said. It was well over what I conjectured he had paid for her. With a silver tarsk he might, in the current market, buy two of her. She was not worth a silver tarsk, but one does not always buy, or sell, with purely economic considerations in mind. I had been annoyed. Besides, at the moment, money did not much matter to me. I had recently, in the street outside, acquired additional resources.

“Done!” he said.

“No, no,” she wept.

There was much laughter from the other cages.

“Beat her well!” called a slave. “Sell her for sleen feed!” called another.

I drew a silver tarsk from the ruffian’s wallet, and tossed it to the proprietor, who caught it, neatly, in his left hand.

“I am staying the night,” I said to the proprietor.

After the business of the street, a quarter of an Ahn past, I was not sure what might lurk in the darkness.

I thought nothing, but it is a long walk toward the center of the city and the inn of Tasdron where I had left my things.

“The tavern is closed,” he said.

I slapped the hilt of the blade at my left hip, for I had regathered weapons upon my return to the tavern. The proprietor’s man had not chosen to question me in this matter. It reposed in its greased scabbard, slung from its across-the-body strap, from, as I was right-handed, the right shoulder to the left hip. I had a knife, as well, in its sheath, fixed laterally on my waist belt, behind my back. In this way it is not obvious, from the front, that it is there. It is quickly and easily drawn with the right hand.

“Very well,” said the proprietor.

“I will visit your kitchen, as I will need some supper,” I said.

“As you wish,” said the proprietor, looking from the large coin in his hand to the blade at my hip.

I looked at the supine, trembling slave. Her left knee was raised.

The proprietor’s man removed her collar. She had been sold.

“Bell her,” I said to the proprietor’s man, “and chain her, to await me, in the first alcove.”

“It will be done,” he said.

“I trust the alcove is well furnished,” I said, “with various instruments, a switch, a whip, such things.”

“Of course,” he said.

The slave looked at me, frightened, over her shoulder, her dark hair about her back, as she was conducted, by the left arm, from the room.

“There was an altercation in the street,” said the proprietor. “I heard so from my man.”

“Have no fear,” I said to the proprietor. “None know I am here. Reprisals are unlikely. I will leave before dawn. If any inquire after me, tell them I may be found at the wharves, and will be armed.”

***

“May I speak?” had asked the girl kneeling beside me.

“No,” I had said.

I had had her for a silver tarsk.

She was then silent, in the brief white tunic, kneeling beside me, on my leash. She had slender ankles, and nicely turned calves. It was clear why the corsairs had not left her behind in her village square, naked and bound, contemptuously rejected. It is no coincidence that most slaves are “slave beautiful,” for, if they were not, it is not likely that they would be made slaves. Suppose one were interested in the capture of wild kaiila. Would one not choose, as far as possible, to herd only the finest to the sales pens? It is much the same with women. Being made a slave is, in its way, a tribute to the beauty and desirability of a woman. Sometimes a free woman is spoken of, if not to her face, as “slave beautiful,” namely, that she is beautiful enough to be a slave. Supposedly this is quite insulting to a free woman, and would result in cries of rage and protest, but, should this lamentable assessment come to her attention, she is likely, secretly, to be profoundly pleased. What woman would not wish to be “slave beautiful?” To be sure, given the robes of concealment, the veilings, and such, it is often difficult to know whether or not a free woman is “slave beautiful.” This is a difficulty one seldom encounters with slaves, of course, given the garmenture in which men place them. I had picked up my things, in the small pack, at the inn of Tasdron, as I commonly did in the morning, in case I might wish them. One did not know when the long poles might thrust one ship or another from the wharves, the sail take the wind, or the low-banked oars enter the water, and rise again, shedding their sparkling showers in the early morning light. Sometimes it seems that the blades have lifted rainbows from the water.

I saw nothing of much interest about.

I feared another morning might be lost.

Perhaps she had already been shipped north.

I felt the girl’s head lean toward me, and I felt her lips, soft, on my thigh. How timid, and humble, was that kiss! Did she fear to be cuffed to the planks? I recalled her startled, begging cries toward morning, and how she had clutched me. She had entered the alcove an enslaved woman; she had left it a slave.

“You may speak,” I said.

“I do not know my name,” she said. “I do not know my master’s name; I do not even know what is on my collar.”

“Be content,” I said. “I am watching.”

“Was Master pleased?” she asked.

“‘Pleased’?” I said.

“— In the alcove,” she said.

“More so toward morning, than before,” I said.

“Master well knows how to subdue a slave,” she said.

“I needed a slave,” I said.

“A slave hopes that she was pleasing to her master,” she said.

Certainly she had been zealous to please.

“A slave was pleasing,” I said.

“Then a slave is pleased,” she said.

Before we had left the tavern I had removed her bells, leaving them behind in the alcove.

As it had been chilly in the gray light, in the vicinity of the wharves, I had wrapped my cloak about me, and she had heeled me, hurrying behind me, unbidden, to the inn of Tasdron.

She had been pleasant in the bells. I wondered if a master would place bells on the other slave, the Earth slut, who had sold for forty-eight copper tarsks. What would an Earth slut make of being naked, and belled? Any woman, I supposed, would understand such things, what sort of woman would be belled, and the meaning of being belled.

In the dining hall of the inn of Tasdron, I had knelt her beside my table. As my resources had been considerably replenished the previous evening, I had breakfasted well, on larma, vulo eggs, fried sul, roast bosk, sa-tarna, and even black wine, the beans for which, I supposed, derived from the far slopes of the Thentis mountains, and may have been brought west at some risk. For the girl I ordered a bowl of slave gruel, to be placed on the floor beside the table, from which she would feed, head down, without the use of her hands. At two of the other tables, slaves, kneeling beside the table, were also given slave gruel. Their masters did permit them to hold the bowl with both hands, but were not otherwise permitted to use their hands. One of them smiled at me, over the rim of the bowl, but then lowered her eyes, and then lowered her head, to feed, shyly, humbly. Had her indiscretion been noted, I had little doubt but what she would have been cuffed. A slave must be careful with her smiles, for masters are often particular about such things. The girl is to keep well in mind to whom she belongs. Only one is her master. The other two slaves were tunicked, briefly, of course, as they were the slaves of men.

I glanced at my slave, as she fed, obediently. I supposed that she might have, the previous night, objected to such an arrangement. This morning she took it as a matter of course. She had learned much in the alcove. I wondered how a certain Earth-girl slave might appear, so feeding. As any other slave, I supposed. Interestingly, I suspected that the Earth-girl slave would welcome the opportunity to feed so beside her master. It would excite, reassure, and fulfill her. From the first moment I had seen her, her shocked, trim, well-turned, exciting, slender body seemingly arrested in motion, then uncertain, wavering, and the startled, vulnerable expression in her eyes, her suddenly paled, sensitive, exquisite features, the parted, ready, inviting, kissable lips, in that large, strange emporium, I had sensed she belonged at a man’s feet. Had I gestured imperiously to my feet, I had the sense she might have crawled to me and placed her lips upon them. But then she half cried out, and fled away. I thought she might do. Yes, I thought. Put her on a chain, and train her, and she might do very nicely. She would respond well to male domination, to command, to being collared, to being helplessly owned. Her fulfillment would be to be a man’s possession. The judgment of my colleagues, too, had borne me out. She would need little breaking to the collar. She had, I suspected, worn one, so to speak, since puberty. Yes, I thought, she would feed well beside a man’s table, or from his hand. She would be incomplete and miserable without a master. She was a slave, a lovely slave. I must forget her!

Several others, some with slaves, had then entered the dining hall. Some were free women who, naturally, regarded the slaves with satisfaction and contempt. Two approached my table.

I had not invited them.

“Put her in a collar,” said one of them to me, of my slave.

“She has been recently purchased,” I said. “That omission will be soon rectified.”

I supposed that some of the metal workers’ shops would now be open.

“Animals look well in collars,” said the other.

“True,” I said. I wondered how she might look in a collar. Given the veiling, it was hard to tell.

“Clothe her,” said the first woman.

Tears formed in the eyes of the girl from Asperiche.

Few things can so reduce and humiliate a female slave as the withering, contemptuous glance of a free woman.

There would be little to protect them from free women, if it were not for masters.

“I will consider the matter,” I said.

I supposed that one or another of the cloth workers’ shops would be open, or soon open.

“Apparently you cannot afford to clothe her,” said the first woman.

“Or are too cheap to do so,” said the second.

“Here is a tarsk-bit,” said the first woman. “It should be enough for a tunic.”

“Or a rag,” said the other.

I stood up, and slipped the coin in my wallet.

“You are both thoughtful and generous, kind, noble ladies,” I said to them, “and doubtless you are both as beautiful as you are beneficent.”

“Perhaps,” said one, provocatively.

“Let us see,” I said.

“What?” they cried.

I seized them both, and flung them on their bellies across the small table, with a clatter, amidst the dishes, and the residue of food.

It was a simple matter, then, to keep them in place.

I jerked back their hoods, and tore away their veils.

“Behold!” laughed a fellow. “Two are face-stripped!”

Some of the free women, at the other tables, stood. One had screamed, two gasped. “Interfere!” said one of them to a fellow, standing, watching, he presumably her companion. “Not at all!” he laughed, striking his left shoulder twice with the flat of his right hand. “Beast!” she cried to him. “Do something!” said another free woman to her escort, or companion. “I am,” he said. “I am watching.” “Take me home,” she said. “Later,” said he, “after breakfast.” “Now!” she said. “I would not hazard the streets of Brundisium alone,” he said. She remained standing beside him, and seemed pleased enough to be doing so.

“Remove their sandals,” I ordered my slave, “and give me the straps.”

“Stop!” cried one of the free women, and then the other.

I tied the hands of each behind her back.

Each had long hair, and, by the hair, I fastened them together, knotting them, head to head, close to one another.

“No!” they cried, as my knife parted garment after garment.

“Have no fear,” I said. “I will stop with the last garment.”

“Sleen!” cried one.

“Perhaps I will not stop with the final garment,” I said.

“We are free women!” cried the other. “Free women!”

“Have mercy,” cried one, “mercy!”

“Ah, silk,” I said, “and not overly long.”

“Beast, monster!” said the other.

“Have no fear,” I said.

I pulled them by the hair to their feet. They were now face-stripped, barefoot, and bound.

I regarded them.

“I find both of you inferior to my slave,” I said.

“Sleen, sleen!” hissed one.

“Ah,” I said, “a sleen! Here are your purses. If you wish them, you may carry them in your mouth, as might a pet sleen.”

“Never!” cried one.

“Then you will leave them here,” I said.

“No!” cried the other.

“Open your mouths,” I said.

Each bit on her purse.

“I will now permit you to leave,” I said. “If you should crave succor, from some fellow outside, it is likely your purse will fall. Perhaps the best thing would be to kneel down before one fellow or another, and put your head down, and release the purse, thereby keeping it near. You might then beg, head down, to be untied. To be sure, the purse might be taken and you left on your knees, barefoot and bound.”

“I would say that is extremely likely,” said a bystander.

It was true that times were hard in Brundisium.

“Now,” I said to the free women, “be away, lest I call for a switch, and have you switched like slaves from the inn.”

Weeping, awkwardly, pulling one another’s hair as they stumbled forth, the two free women left the inn.

“It is a joke worthy of a Ubar,” said one of the fellows about.

“How long do you think they will keep their purses?” asked a fellow.

“Not long,” I said.

“Guardsmen will pick them up, supposing them to be slaves,” said another, “as they are barefoot and, essentially, slave-garbed.”

“It may be an Ahn, or better, before a free woman may be found to discreetly examine their bodies,” said another.

“Before then,” said another, “they may be whipped and put in cages, for claiming.”

“You may be sure that guardsmen will be annoyed, having been inconvenienced,” said another.

“They will see it as a merry jest,” said another.

It was true that many Gorean males found the pride and pretensions of free women annoying. Certainly it was easier to deal with women in their place, at one’s feet, in collars.

I would not have behaved as I did, of course, if my Home Stone had been that of Brundisium.

Had that been the case, it would have been expected that I would endure uncomplainingly, and graciously, the contumely of the women, however prolonged and unpleasant it might be, for they were free, and a Home Stone would have been shared. Anything else would be not only improper, but, I supposed, unconscionable. On the other hand, not all Gorean males are patient with women, even those with whom a Home Stone might be shared. I wondered, sometimes, why free women occasionally so hazarded themselves before men. Were they exploiting their freedom, or testing its limits? Did they not know that they were women, and in the presence of men? Perhaps, as the saying is, they were “courting the collar.”

“More black wine,” I said to the waiter.

Most Gorean shops, particularly those of the lesser trades, open at dawn. The proprietors and workers commonly live on the premises, above or behind the shop, and breakfast is commonly taken in the shop itself, while waiting for business. One does not care to miss a possible customer.

I finished the black wine, rose, and dropped a silver tarsk on the table, a rather insolent gesture, I suppose, as it would have purchased half a hundred such breakfasts, save for the black wine. But then I had come by the money easily, the night before. I included, as well, one copper tarsk-bit. I then left the shop, heeled by the slave.

I must make some small purchases.

By the time I reached the wharves she was tunicked and leashed. Her hands looked well, braceleted behind her. On her neck, close-fitting, and locked, was a collar.

***

She was kneeling beside me.

“I am grateful to be permitted to speak,” she said.

I did not respond to her.

“We have been here for an Ahn,” she said. “I have heard the bars.”

I feared another morning was lost.

“You are watching?” she said.

“Yes,” I said.

“For what is Master watching?” she asked.

“Cargo,” I said.

“Shapely cargo?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“I feared so,” she said.

Two men passed, drawing a dock cart, laden with weights of cheese, cradled in tur-pah. Shortly thereafter two fellows passed, bearing a pole between them, from which hung gutted, salted harbor eels. Four docksmen passed, each bearing on his shoulder a bulging, porous, loosely woven sack of reddish suls. At least two ships, coasters, were preparing for departure.

A small flock of verr, some twelve or so, were herded by, conducted by a small boy with a stick. Some coasters, as well as round ships, have pens for livestock. The coaster, being shallow keeled, will usually have its pens on the open deck. Most round ships, given the dangers of weather and the distance of the voyage, keep livestock below, in the first or second hold. Coasters and long ships will commonly beach at night, the crew cooking and sleeping ashore. Indeed, most Gorean mariners, when practical, like to keep in sight of land. The moods of Thassa are capricious, and the might of her winds and waves prodigious.

Some small groups of armsmen, probably mercenaries, drifted past us. There was no discipline, no formation. Some carried spears on their shoulders, and others crossbows.

All seemed wary, dangerous men.

As I had scouted this portion of the dockage in the past, I knew that gear of war, as well as bundles of other supplies, whatever they might contain, had been put aboard one ship or another, sometimes in abundance. One could see how several had rested lower in the water. Sometimes it had been easy enough to identify the goods, as tools, such as axes, adzes, planes, wedges, clamps, and saws, or materials such as tar, turpentine, canvas, paint, and cable. One might have supposed them bound not for the northern beaches and forests but a shipyard, such as the arsenal of Port Kar.

“Ho!” I said, suddenly, softly.

“May I see?” she said.

“Remain on your knees,” I said.

From the yard of a dark building, behind the wharves, through a double wooden gate, wide enough to exit a wagon, a scribe, in his blue work tunic, carrying a tablet, had emerged. As I had expected, for I had seen this before, he was followed by a coffle of stripped slaves, fastened together by the neck on a single rope. Their hands were tied together behind their back, and they were blindfolded.

The coffle would be halted outside the building, where it would wait, until it was met by an officer from one of the ships.

Three guards were with the coffle, one on one side, two on the other, the two on the side facing the approach to the wharves.

I looped the leash about the neck of my slave, and tucked in the strap.

“Master?” she asked.

I approached the coffle, as I had the others, to place myself between it and the ships. In this way, I could, with others, survey its components.

I was followed by my slave.

Doubtless she was grateful for her tunic. I had arranged with the cloth worker that it be “slave short.” She had nice legs. Why should a master not display them? As with the common slave tunic it was sleeveless, and, naturally, as most slave garments, lacked a nether closure. This helps the slave to better realize that she is a slave, that she is always at the convenience of the master.

Several men, mercenaries, docksmen, and others, had gathered in the vicinity of the coffle.

“Good!” I said.

“Master?” asked the slave.

I was sure it was she.

Men, as is their wont, were examining the slaves, and commenting on them. Slaves, unless new to bondage, are accustomed to being publicly viewed, and spoken of, as the goods they are. Verr, kaiila, tharlarion, and such, do not object to this, so why should slaves?

“I wager that one is hot,” said a fellow.

“Ten Ehn and I could make this one weep, buck, and beg,” said a fellow.

“Consider the flanks of the tall brunette,” said another. She was first in the coffle.

“The ankles of the redhead,” said another.

“Excellent,” said another, “I would like to see them shackled.”

“There is a pudding that would juice at a touch,” said another.

“Pretty vulos,” commented a man.

“Tastas, each of them,” said a fellow, “a confectioner’s delight.”

“Put them on their sticks,” said another.

Remarks, as well, suggestions, and such, were addressed to the slaves, but they could not speak, as they were forbidden speech in coffle. I did see some tears run below the blindfolds on more than one slave. The lips of two or three trembled. Did they not know they were slaves?

I went to the one in which I was interested.

Sensing someone near her she stood more straightly, more beautifully. She may have supposed it a guard, and did not wish to invite the instructive stroke of a switch.

One expects much of slaves. They are not free women.

As I had expected, I could still see the residue of her lot number, now much faded, as was that of the others, on her left breast.

It was 119.

I went a bit to the side, to examine her small wrists, crossed, corded together, closely, behind her back. The opaque cloth of the blindfold had been wrapped twice, snugly, about her head, and knotted in place, behind her head. She could see nothing. She could feel the planks of the walk with her feet, and the breeze on her body. She was on the same long rope as the others. It is looped about the neck and knotted, and then taken ahead to the next girl. The loop was loose, but it could not be slipped.

I regarded her.

The beast was beautiful, quite beautiful.

I was annoyed.

She was more beautiful than I remembered her. I had wanted to find her less beautiful. But she was more beautiful. To be sure, she had now had some training, had learned to kneel, and obey men.

I was angry.

I had hoped to cast her image from me, to rid myself of her memory. I should not have come to the docks! I should not have watched, and waited, for days. I might have taken ship for Daphne days ago, but I had lingered in Brundisium. I was a fool.

“Master?” asked my slave, timidly.

I did not respond to her.

Surely the slave in the coffle could not be as beautiful as she seemed. I looked at the others, and was reassured. They were all lovely, and surely she on whose breast was inscribed the faded number, 119, was no better than most of them, and less than several of them.

Why then did she seem as she did to me?

I moved close to her, a bit back and on the right side, and breathed, softly, on the side of her neck, below the right ear. “Oh!” she said, softly, startled, and jerked at the cords on her wrists, but, too, inadvertently or not, she had also lifted her head. She had responded, as a slave, to the caress of a man’s breath.

“Not so close,” said one of the guards.

I moved back.

It had been a simple test, but it had told me what I wanted to know. She was a slave, no more than a slave, and should be a slave.

I smiled to myself.

She was a worthless piece of collar meat, no different from tens of thousands of others.

She belonged in a collar, and chains, at a man’s feet.

That was indisputable.

Two fellows, officers, were approaching from one of the ships. Behind them I could see several armsmen were boarding. One of the officers carried a tablet.

I would soon be rid of the troublesome slave. How pleased I was! I had never forgotten her, but now it would be easy to do so, for she would be carried to the north, and I should never see her again.

I had not remembered her as beautiful as she was. To be sure, she had now been in bondage for a time. Being in her natural place does much to enhance the beauty of a woman.

I must forget her.

What would it be to own her, I wondered, for such a woman must be owned. They must be treated with firmness, and never permitted to forget that they are mere slaves. They are to be mastered, uncompromisingly and utterly.

I looked back to the coffle. Papers were being exchanged between the officer and the scribe. Much is done with notes.

Men need slaves.

The coffle would soon be boarded, climbing the narrow plank to the ship.

I would never see her again.

I could then forget her.

How pleased I was.

I considered how she might look on all fours, crawling to me, bringing me the whip, it held between her small, fine, white teeth, the slave whip. I considered how she might look, kneeling before me, the coiled whip now in my hand, addressing to it the attentions of the female slave, caressing it with her lips and tongue, humbly, and at length, well aware that if I were not satisfied, it would be used upon her.

“Master,” said my slave, “might we not now return to the inn of Tasdron?”

Again I did not answer her.

“She is not so beautiful, is she?” asked my slave.

“No,” I said.

The coffle had now begun to move toward the nearest of the two small ships. Docksmen stood at mooring cleats, ready to loose the ropes and fling them to fellows aboard the ship. A mariner stood at the bow, amidships, and stern, each with his harbor pole. Four mariners stood ready to hoist the small yard, with the now-folded sail. Oars were still inboard. The two helmsmen were at their posts.

I would wait until the ship departed, and see it disappear, a bright speck, outside the farther breakwater. That would be the last of it, and of her. The matter would then be done.

The coffle was conducted up the planking onto the deck. There they were knelt, and relieved of the neck rope. They would remain bound and blindfolded until Brundisium was no longer visible. Curiosity is not becoming in a kajira. After the vessel was well underway, it seemed likely they would be taken to the base hold, the ceiling of which is waist high, which is floored with ballast sand, and there chained together by the neck, after which they would be freed of the wrist cords and blindfolds. A coffle from a different building was already stowed in that fashion in the base hold of the second ship. The base hold is usually dark, and the ballast sand is damp. Verr are sometimes penned in a base hold, but, more commonly, on the open deck.

The second ship, I noted, was also making ready for departure. It had been ready yesterday, but, seemingly, was waiting for the first ship. The cargos were very similar, and I had seen armsmen divided between the two ships. Two ships, together, are accounted safer than two ships, taken singly. Round ships are the preferred prey of the “sleen of the sea,” but the sleen, when hungry, do not disdain smaller prey. I had had some interaction, in a tavern, with the fellow who seemed to be the high officer of the armsmen on the second vessel.

The first ship, now, freed of its mooring, was thrust from the dock with the harbor poles. I saw the yard being raised, foot by foot, tackle creaking, followed, foot by foot, by its increasing expanse of unfolding canvas.

As docksmen were at the mooring ropes, I assumed the second vessel was ready to clear the harbor.

The first ship was already a hundred yards from the wharf.

I looked at the second ship.

“Let us return to the inn of Tasdron,” said my slave.

“You are fond of its gruel?” I asked.

“I am afraid on the wharves,” she said, “the men, how they look at me.”

“You must accustom yourself to that,” I said. “You are a desirable slave.”

“Sometimes,” she said, “slaves, even free women, disappear from the wharves.”

“You heard that in the tavern,” I said.

“Yes,” she said, uneasily.

“They would be safe enough,” I said, “on a chain somewhere.”

I looked after the first ship. I remembered the slender barbarian. At last I was rid of her. I could now put her from my mind.

The matter was now done.

I unlooped the leash from the neck of my slave, and gave it a jerk, that she might feel it pull at the back of her neck. She looked at me. She was now again the captive of the leash.

The first ship was now near the breakwater.

The matter was over. It must be over. It must be done!

I cried out, angrily.

“Master?” inquired the slave, frightened.

I turned about.

“Master,” she said, “that is not the way to the inn of Tasdron!”

I strode to the second ship.

“Tal,” I said, to he whom I remembered from the tavern. He was near the boarding plank, to the second ship. It was he, Tyrtaios, who had proffered the golden stater.

He turned about. “Tal,” he said.

“Do you still want swords for the north?” I asked.

“Such as yours, yes,” he said.

“I might take ship,” I said.

“I had expected to have you aboard,” he said, “bound and gagged, in the hold.”

“Is my sword so valuable?” I asked.

“You, and your kind,” he said, “may be more valuable than you suspect.”

“Men who ask few questions?” I said.

“Assassins, slavers, and such,” he said, “men who are open to unusual opportunities, who will do much for gold, and ask no questions.”

My slave, as we were stopped, knelt at my thigh, her head down, as was appropriate. The leash looped up to my left hand.

Tyrtaios regarded her. “Your slave is lovely,” he said.

“She is not yet fully trained,” I said.

“Different men train them differently,” he said.

“True,” I said.

“She is from the inn, is she not?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“She seems much different now,” he said.

“She is,” I said.

“Would you like several like her, or better?” he asked.

“Perhaps,” I said. Some men reckon wealth in terms of tarn disks, others kaiila, others bosk, and some in terms of slaves.

“I sent two messengers to recruit you,” he said, “but they failed in their mission.”

“Oh?” I said.

“They were set upon in the darkness,” he said, “pummeled, and robbed, by a dozen assailants.”

“It must be difficult to determine the number in the dark,” I said.

“A great number,” he said.

“Interesting,” I said.

“I offered you a golden stater,” he said.

“I am a two-stater hire,” I said.

“Excellent,” he said.

He drew from his purse two golden staters and, one after the other, placed them in my hand. I placed them in my pouch.

“What is doing in the north?” I said. “Where are you bound?”

He regarded me. His eyes, oddly, reminded me of those of a snake.

“Forgive me,” I said.

“Welcome aboard,” he said.