Prize of Gor (69 page)

“Thus to the enemies of Cos!” called out their attendant, spitting toward the group of prisoners, or slaves.

More than one of them lifted their heads, but they seemed not fully to comprehend, or mind, the passing jibe. Ellen supposed that little might matter to them now but food, sleep and commands. How complete was the victory of Cos! And what a small part of their victory was the slave called ‘Ellen’, as incidental to it as an appropriated tarsk!

Ellen quickly turned her head away from the kneeling captives, or slaves, put it down and brushed her hair to the side. She did not wish to be recognized by either Portus Canio or Fel Doron. Surely Portus Canio was miserable enough. No need for him to see his former slave as she was now, now merely another evidence of the victory of his foes, now no more than another article amongst the loot of his enemies, now merely another item in the abounding wealth of Cos. Too, she would have been embarrassed to have been seen by him as she was, naked, on a stranger’s rope, being marched to the bath. So much, perhaps, remained to her of Earth.

“There,” said the attendant, pointing, “over the bridge.”

To the right of the stream was an empty cisternlike, low, walled enclosure, a constructed pool, of some twenty feet in diameter. In this pool none were bathing. Near to it, on towels spread on the grass, were vessels, presumably of cheap oils and lotions. Too, on them, toward the edges, were a number of sponges and rags. Some small heaps of pebbles, doubtless from the stream, lay here and there near the towels.

In a moment the bridge was passed, Ellen feeling the worn, spaced boards beneath her feet, and then, on the other side, the grass. The bridge, as with most Gorean bridges, even the high bridges in the cities, was without railings. In this case that presented her with no anxiety as the bridge was little more than a yard or so above the waters of the shallow stream. She saw a fish disturb the water briefly, noted the rippling effect of clouds and sky in the stream, and caught sight briefly of her own image, of her head and upper body, peering down, into the water. She quickly looked up, for the image reminded her of what she was. It was the image of a bared slave.

“Kneel down here,” said the attendant. “First obeisance position.”

The girls complied.

“Do you beg to be permitted to bathe?” inquired the attendant.

“Yes, Master,” said the girls, quickly. “Yes, Master!”

“Each of you,” he said, “will beg individually. As I stand before you, you may lift your head, but keep the palms of your hands on the ground.”

He then stood before the first girl. “Do you beg to be permitted to bathe?” he asked.

“Yes, Master,” she said, lifting her head, looking up at him, but keeping the palms of her hands on the ground. “I beg to be permitted to bathe.”

“You may bathe,” he said.

“Thank you, Master,” she said.

“You may kiss my feet,” he said. “First obeisance position.”

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

This ritual was repeated down the line, one by one, as Ellen was approached, girl by girl.

Obviously the girls had been brought to the pool to bathe, but it is common for the kajira to thank the master on such occasions, as for a scrap of food thrown before her, a caress, a blow, water in her pan, a blanket, a rag with which she might cover herself, and such. If a girl did not beg there was always the possibility that the attendant would simply return her, unbathed, filthy, smelling, to the coffle, at which point one would not wish to be that girl, for discipline would be swift and severe. Commonly the interval between a girl’s being displeasing in any way and suffering the consequences of her lapse is very short. And it is far more terrifying when the interval is long, say, overnight, for that commonly signifies that the master is according some serious thought to the matter of her punishment.

Then the attendant was before Ellen.

“Do you beg to be permitted to bathe?” he asked.

“Yes, Master,” said Ellen, looking up but keeping the palms of her hands on the ground. “I beg to be permitted to bathe.”

“You may bathe,” he said.

“Thank you, Master,” said Ellen.

“You may kiss my feet,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” said Ellen. “Thank you, Master!”

She kissed his feet gratefully, tears in her eyes, overjoyed to be shown this favor, permitted to touch her lips, though only those of a slave, to the feet of a free man, a master.

How unworthy she was of this privilege!

Ellen thrilled to be dominated categorically by a strong male, she in a position of absolute helplessness and servitude. It was what she lived for, and what she realized she had lived for on Earth, and had never found. She was mightily aroused, and knew herself alive and wet with heat, vulnerability and desire. She had scarcely understood the extent and power of female desire until that moment, at the feet of a mere attendant, a Cosian hireling. She wondered if the irresistible might of male desire did not have its perfect corollary and complement in the natural woman, the slave, eager to yield all unreservedly and unquestioningly to her master, begging to love and serve, to please, to be owned wholly.

She wondered if the man could smell her desire, her need, her petition to be treated as a mere object, to be his, as a possession or a toy, to be uncompromisingly subjugated.

She realized, and had earlier learned, that the former strait-laced, female Ph.D. whom she had been, she who had specialized in gender studies, she who had been so smug and haughty, she who had been so proud of her degree and her publications, she who had been respected, even esteemed, for her unquestioned political orthodoxies, she who had been invited to attend many conferences organized to promote pathological political agendas, she who had been once no more than a miserable, frustrated, lonely activist, a militant bluestocking, was now no more than a young, lovely, hot slave. In her belly now, as she knelt in the grass, a rope on her ankle, burned slave fire. She moaned, and trembled, a slave almost incandescent with need.

But she knew that she was not to be permitted any satisfactions. She had not yet been sold.

“Bathe,” said the attendant.

“May we speak, Master?” begged a bold girl.

“Very well,” said the attendant.

“Thank you, Master!” cried several of the girls.

Chatting, laughing, the slaves went eagerly to the water. Some cried out at its surprising coldness. Ellen, the rope on her ankle, went with them, she, too, eager, to the edge of the wall, and, with them, first sitting on the edge of the wall, rather at the level of the ground, in her turn, slipped into the water. It was cold. It had been days since they had bathed, and they rejoiced in the opportunity to cleanse themselves of the filth and soilings of the march. How wonderful, thought Ellen, is the chance upon occasion to do something even as simple as washing one’s body! How few people realize how precious so seemingly common and familiar an act can be at times! How grateful the slaves were for this opportunity to bathe! The rope on Ellen’s ankle, as she had slipped into the water, first floated, and then was drawn under, she and her companions entering the pool. Then, the rope was held under the water as the slaves stood about in the water, rinsing, laughing and splashing about. But the rope, of course, held them together, even though it could not be seen. Ellen was grateful to the masters for the chance to bathe, to wash away the misery and grime of the march, but she realized that the motivation underlying the provision of this welcome opportunity was surely unlikely to be simply that of generous impulse. They were livestock, doubtless being readied for its sale. Naturally their owner, the state of Cos, would wish them to be exhibited at their best, to be clean, healthy, rested, presentable, attractive. It would wish to enhance their sales value. It would want them to be appealing, attractive items of merchandise when it came time to offer them to buyers.

If these were sobering thoughts, the girls, oblivious of such considerations, and with all the innocence of the lovely, curvaceous animals they were, laughed and chatted, and sported about in the water, splashing and playing, the heat and dust of the march put now behind them.

Ellen, bending down, rinsed and washed her hair as best she could.

In a few moments she feared they must leave the water, to apply the cleansing oils, thence to scrape them from the body, with the strigil-like pebbles, after which they would re-enter the water to rinse once more. After that they would emerge and dry themselves with the towels, and then apply the soothing and fragrant lotions. Then they would be conducted whence masters might wish, perhaps to chains and stakes, or even, as they were in the vicinity of Brundisium, perhaps to exhibition cages.

“Look,” said the girl to Ellen’s left, who had preceded her in the ankle coffle.

Ellen turned to look, and placed her fingers, defensively, before her lips. Approaching the pool was the line of prisoners, or slaves, which contained Portus Canio and Fel Doron. The miserable line, moving slowly, carried large earthen jars on their shoulders, presumably filled with water drawn from the stream.

Ellen drew away as she could, put down her head and brushed her hair about her face. She did not wish to be seen by either Portus Canio or Fel Doron. But her concern seemed unnecessary, for none in the slowly advancing line looked about themselves.

They were in the keeping of two soldiers of Cos, in the hands of one of which was a whip.

More than once the whip fell here and there on the line.

It seemed that the miserable occupants of the chain could scarcely cry out in pain, or groan under the blows.

One by one, painfully, they poured the contents of the vessels into the pool.

Then Ellen noted two other figures now approaching the pool. She gasped, for these were the figures of the Cosian subcaptain, known to her from the tarn loft of Portus Canio in Ar, and from the coffle, and Tersius Major, who had been in the employ of Portus Canio, and who had left Ar with them.

“So, the noble Portus Canio, of Ar, who dared conspire against the might of Cos, now carries water, as though he might be a slave, to replenish the contents of a cistern, one devoted to the drinking of tharlarion and the ablutions of slaves,” said the subcaptain. “It is fitting,” he laughed.

Portus Canio lifted his head a little, and looked, dully, at the subcaptain.

“Have no fear, sleen of Ar,” said the subcaptain. “You will soon be slave, branded with the mark of the quarries of Tyros, or perhaps we will mark you for the bench of a merchant galley, where, drawing your oar by day or night, hungry for a crust of bread or a sip of water, you will have time to ponder your foolishness.”

There was no response from Portus Canio and the subcaptain gestured to the soldier with the whip, who struck Portus Canio twice. He seemed scarcely to react to the blows. Ellen winced, and wanted to cry out, but remained silent. Two more blows, at a sign from the subcaptain, were laid upon Fel Doron.

“I am greater now than you,” said Tersius Major to Portus Canio. “You are no longer my coin giver. No longer do I obey your orders. You are a fool. I am clever! The wind blows. Could you not note its direction? Did I not hint such things to you? Why did you not listen? The Home Stone? The Home Stone of Ar is no more than a piece of rock.”

Portus Canio lifted his eyes to those of Tersius Major. His gaze was sullen, and darkly menacing.

“There is more gold in my purse now than I would have earned from you in a year,” said Tersius Major, angrily.

“The eyes and ears of Cos are everywhere,” said the subcaptain.

“I shall return to Ar,” said Tersius Major, “and uncover more of the Delta Brigade.”

“Gold will smell out rebels,” said the subcaptain.

Portus Canio put down his head. It seemed he could scarcely lift it. Ellen feared he might fall. She suspected he had been starved, and denied sleep.

“Can you hear me?” asked the subcaptain.

“Yes,” said Portus Canio, the effort to speak seeming to cost him much.

“Would you not wish to look upon the pleasant bodies of slave girls?” asked the subcaptain, expansively, gesturing to the pool. “Some are lusciously curved. There is some excellent slave meat in the pool. See the several, lovely little beasts. They are quite attractive. They exist for the service and pleasure of men. Perhaps you should avail yourself of this opportunity. You will not find many such, I assure you, in the quarries of Tyros, or amongst the benches of the great galleys.”

Portus Canio did not lift his head.

“Perhaps we will have you wash slaves,” said the subcaptain.

Portus Canio raised his head, painfully, angrily.

It is common for slave girls to assist and serve free men in their bath, washing them, applying oils, cleaning them, toweling them, applying lotions, kissing them intimately, serving their pleasure, and such. Ellen had been taught the bathing of free men in her training. It is one of many things in which female slaves are expected to be proficient. The suggestion that Portus Canio, a free man, might wash slaves was, of course, a grievous insult.

“Perhaps we will have you clean the dirtied feet of slave girls with your tongue,” said the subcaptain.

It is not unknown for female slaves, as a discipline, to be forced to kneel down and clean the paws of kaiila, the ponderous, clawed feet of tharlarion, and such, with their lips, mouth, teeth and tongue. It is a way of reminding them that they are nothing, only slaves.

“Take them away!” said the subcaptain, irritatedly, to the soldiers in charge of the line. “There are tens of other pools to replenish!”

Again the whip cracked, and the line, with a rattle of heavy chains, took up its now-emptied jars, and turned about.

Ellen had not been recognized in the pool, she was sure, neither by Portus Canio nor Fel Doron, nor by the subcaptain and Tersius Major, the attentions of the latter pair being focused generally on Portus Canio and Fel Doron, whom, she supposed, they had come out to discomfit, witnessing them in their humiliation and captivity, perhaps one last time before they, Portus Canio and Fel Doron, patriots or insurgents, might be taken to Brundisium, and from thence transported to Tyros or Cos, there to be subjected to doubtless unenviable fates.