| “Do you know how to heel, Feiqa?” I asked.
“Yes, Master,” she said. She was a Gorean woman, familiar at least superficially with the duties and obligations of slaves. To be sure, as a recently free woman, she might perhaps find herself astounded and horrified at some of the things that would now, even routinely, be required of her. I did not know. Certain things which are not only common knowledge to slaves but even a normal, familiar part of their lives seem to be scarcely suspected by free women. These are the sorts of things about which free women, horrified and scandalized, scarcely believing them, sometimes whisper, fearfully, delightedly, among themselves. Mercenaries of Gor Book 21 Page 14 The small figure stood just outside what had once been the threshold of the hut. It had come there naturally, it seemed, as if perhaps by force of habit, or conviction, although the door was no longer there. It seemed forlorn, and weary. It clutched something in its arms. “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 herself. “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 have heard there are more wagons coming,” she said. “Perhaps there will be fewer to follow these.” “You came back because you wanted to see the village again?” I speculated. “Perhaps you wanted to see if some of the men had returned.” “They are gone,” she said. “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 shrank back, her hand inadvertently going to her collar. Too, her thigh now bore 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 as 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 “Ali!” 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. The 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 yet 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!” wept 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 comprehensions 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 the 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. Mercenaries of Gor Book 21 Page 16 - 23 Page31 |