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MAGICIANS OFGORVolume twenty-five in theChronicles of CounterEarthby John NormanPublished Jun, 1988, by DawCover art by Ken KellyThis ePub edition v1.0 byDead Man Dec, 2010With the capital city of Ar under thesway of the beautiful traitress Talena, a
ruler placed in power by the Cosianinvaders, Tarl Cabot and the DeltaBrigade, the members of the undergroundforce sworn to defeat Cos, must call uponthe unique talents of master magicianBoots Tarsk-Bit to recapture the preciousHome Stone of vanquished Ar’s Station.For snatching the Home Stone from theenemy’s grasp may prove the vitalingredient in Tarl’s desperate anddangerous campaign to rouse the peopleof Ar to fight on to regain their freedomfrom the hated foe.In Magicians of Gor, Tarl Cabot and hisallies must work a unique magic withillusions and sword blades to root out thetreachery at the heart of a mighty empire.
Chapter 1THE STREET“Surely you understand the law,my dear,” he said.She struggled in the net, droppedfrom the ceiling, then held about herby guardsmen sprung fromconcealment at the sides of theroom.“No!” she cried. “No!”She was then turned about, twicein the net, on the couch so that shewas thoroughly entangled, doubly,in its toils.“No!” she wept.
The guardsmen, four of them,held the net.Her eyes were wild. Her fingerswere in the knotted mesh. She waslike a frightened animal.“Please,” she wept. “What doyou want?”The fellow did not then answerher, but regarded her. She wasnaked in the toils of the net, andnow lay on her side, her legs drawnup in it, now seemingly, small andvery vulnerable, so bared andcaught, on the deep furs of the hugecouch.“Milo!” she cried to a tall,
handsome fellow to one side, “Helpme!”“But I am a slave,” pointed outMilo, donning his purple tunic.She looked at him, wildly.“I am sure you are familiar withthe law,” said the first fellow,flanked by two magistrates.“No!” she cried.The magistrates were ex officowitnesses, who could certify thecircumstances of the capture. Thenet was a stout one, and weighted.“Any free women who coucheswith another’s slave, or readiesherself to couch with another’s
slave, becomes herself a slave, andthe slave of the slave’s master. It isa clear law.”“No! No!” she wept.“Think of it in this fashion, if youwish,” he said. “You have givenyourself to Milo, but Milo is mine,and can own nothing, and thus youhave given yourself to me. Ananalogy is the coin given by a freeperson to a street girl, which coin,of course, does not then belong tothe girl but to her master. What isgiven to the slave is given to themaster.She regarded him with horror.
“I loathe you!” she cried. “Bringme my clothing!” she wept to theguardsmen.“When the certifications areapproved, and filed, and in thiscase there will be no ambiguity ordifficulty about the matter, you willbe mine.“No!” she wept.“Put her on her knees, on thecouch, in the net,” he said.This was done.She looked wildly at Milo. Therewere tears in her eyes. “Will I then,as a slave, be your woman?” sheasked.
“I do not think so,” said Milo,smiling.“The handsome, charming, suave,witty Milo,” said the fellow, “is aseduction slave.”“A seduction slave?” she wept.“Yes,” he said. “He has muchincreased my stock of slaves.”She tore at the net, in tears, buthelpless.“Hadyou,andyourpredecessors, not been so secretive,so much concerned to conceal youraffairs with a slave, Milo’s utilityas a seduction slave would havedoubtless been much diminished by
now. On the other hand, the concernfor your reputation and such, sonatural in you free women, almostguarantees the repeatability, andcontinued success, of these smallpleasant projects.”“Release me!” she begged.“Some ofMilo’s conquests areused in my fields, and others in myhouse,” he said. “But most, and I amsure you will be one of these, areexported, sold out of the city tobegin your new life.”“My new life?” she whispered.“That of a female slave,” hesmiled.
She struggled, futilely.“Raise the net to her waist, andlower it to her neck,” he said, “andtie it about her. Then put her in agag and hood.”“No!” she wept.“By tonight,” he said, “you willbe branded and collared.”“No, please!” she wept.The net was then adjusted on thefemale, in accordance with thefellow’s instructions, in such a waythat her legs and head were free, buther arms were confined. It was thenbound tightly in place.The fellow then glanced at the
handsome slave. “You will leaveby another exit,” he said.“Yes, Master,” said the slave.The free woman watched theslave withdraw. “Milo!” shewhispered.“You are now kneeling on acouch,” said the fellow, “which, fora female slave, is a great honor.You may be months into yourbondage before you are againpermitted such an honor.”“Milo!” she wept, after the slave.The leather bit of the gag, afixture of the hood, was then forcedback between her teeth, and tied in
place.She made a tiny noise, of protest.The hood itself was then drawnover her head, covering itcompletely. It was then fixed onher, buckled shut, beneath her chin.“What have you seen?” saidMarcus.I stepped back from the crack inthe shutters, through which I hadobserved the preceding scene.“Nothing,” I said.We were in a street of Ar, anarrow, crowded street, in whichwe were much jostled. It was in theMetellan district, south and east of
the district of the Central Cylinder.It is a shabby, but not squaliddistrict.Therearevarioustenements, or insulae, there. It is thesort of place, far enough from broadavenues of central Ar, whereassignations, or triflings, might takeplace.“Is Ar this crowded always?”asked Marcus, irritably.“This street, at this time of day,”I said.My companion was MarcusMarcellus, of the Marcelliani,formerly of Ar’s Station, on theVosk. We had come to Ar from the
vicinity of Brundisium. He, likemyself, was of the caste ofwarriors. With him, clingingclosely, about him, as though shemight fear losing him in the crowd,and attempting also, it seemed, notunoften, to make herself small andconceal herself behind him, was hisslave, Phoebe, this name havingbeen put on her, a slender exquisite,very lightly complexioned, verydark-haired girl. She had come intohis keeping in the vicinity ofBrundisium, some months ago.“As we do have the yellowostraka and our permits do notpermit us to remain in the city after
dark,” said Marcus, “I think weshould venture now to the sun gate.”Marcus was the sort of fellowwho was concerned about suchthings, being arrested, impaled, andsuch.“There is plenty of time,” Iassured him. Most cities have a sungate, sometimes several. They arecalled such because they arecommonly opened at dawn andclosed at dusk, thus the hours oftheir ingress and regress beingdetermined by the diurnial cycle. Aris the largest city of known Gor,larger even, I am sure, than Turia,in the far south. She has some forty
public gates, and, I suppose, somenumber of restricted smaller gates,secret gates, posterns, and such.Long ago, I had once entered thecity through such a passage, itsexterior access point reached bymeans of a putative Dar-Kosis pit,which passage, I had recentlydetermined, descending into the piton ropes, was now closed. Isupposed that this might be the casewith various such entrances, if theyexisted, given Ar’s alarm at theannounced approach of Cos. In asense I regretted this loss, for it hadconstituted a secret way in and outof the city. Perhaps other such
passages existed. I did not know.“Let us go,” suggested Marcus.I saw a slave girl pass, in a brief,brown tunic, her back straight, herbeauty protestingly full within hertiny, tight garment, balancing a jaron her head with one hand. Thebottom of the jar rested in a sort ofimprovised shallow stand or mount,formed of a dampened, wrappedtowel. In Schendi the white slavegirls of black masters aresometimes taught to carry suchvessels on their heads without theuse of their hands or such devicesas the towel. And woe to the girlwho drops it. Such exercises are
good for a girl’s posture. To besure, the lower caste black womenof Schendi and the interior do suchthings commonly. I looked at thegirl. Yes, I thought, she could besimilarly trained, without doubt. If Iowned her, I thought, I might sotrain her. If she proved clumsy orslow to learn she could bewhipped. I did not think she wouldprove slow to learn. Our eyes met,briefly, and she lowered her eyesswiftly, still keeping her burdensteady. She trembled for a moment.I think she had seen, in that glance,that I could be her master, but then,so, too, of course, could be many
men. A slave girl is often verycareful about meeting the eyes of afree man directly, particularly astranger. They can be cuffed orbeaten for such insolence. Thecollar looked well on her,gleaming, close-fitting, locked. Shewas barefoot. Her brief garmentwas all she wore. It would have nonether closure. Thusly on Gor arefemale slaves commonly garbed.She hurried on.“Let us be on our way,” saidMarcus. Phoebe clung close to him,her tiny fingers on his sleeve.“In a moment,” I said.
“I do not like such crowds,” saidMarcus.We were buffeted about a bit.“There is a date on the permits,”Marcus reminded me, “and theywill be checking at the gate to seewho has left the city and who hasnot.”“I think they will be coming outin a moment or two,” I said, “thereat that door.”“Who?” he asked.“There,” I said.I saw the fellow who had been inthe room emerge through the door.He was followed by the two
magistrates, who had probably nowmade the entries in their records.They were followed by fourguardsmen, in single file. “Makeway, make way!” said the fellowfrom the room, and the crowdsparted a little, to let them pass. Thethird of the three guardsmen carrieda burden on his right shoulder. Itwas a naked woman whose upperbody was thoroughly and tightlywrapped in several turns of a heavynet, tied closely about her. Her headwas covered with a buckled hood.She squirmed a little, helplessly.She was being carried with herhead to the rear, as a slave is
carried.“So that is what you werewatching,” said Marcus, “a caughtslave.”“In a sense,” I said.About at the same time, comingtoward us, down the street,following the other party by severalyards, was a large, graceful fellow,blond and curly-haired, who wasastonishingly handsome, almostunbelievably so. On his left wrist,locked, there was a silver slavebracelet. His tunic was of a silkenpurple. He had golden sandals.“Who is that?” I asked a fellow
in white and gold, the colors of themerchants, when the handsomefellow had passed. Such a one, Iassumed, might be generally known.He was no ordinary fellow.“He is the actor, Milo,” said theman.“He is a slave,” I said.“Owned by Appanius, theagriculturalist, impresario andslaver,” said the fellow, “who rentshim to the managements of varioustheaters.“A handsome fellow,” I said.“The handsomest man in all Ar,”said the merchant. “Free women
swoon at his feet.”“And what of slaves?” askedMarcus, irritably, scowling atPhoebe.“I swoon at your feet, Master,”she smiled, putting down her head.“You may kneel and clean themwith your tongue,” said Marcus,angrily.“Yes, Master,” she said, and fellto her knees, putting down her head.“The appearance ofMiloin adrama assures its success,” said themerchant.“He is popular,” I said.“Particularly with the women,”
he said.“I can understand that,” I said.“Some men do not even care forhim,” said the merchant, and Igathered he might be one of them.“I can understand that,” I said. Iwas not certain that I wasenthusiasticaboutMiloeither.Perhaps it was merely that Isuspected thatMilomight be evenmore handsome than I.“I wish you well,” said themerchant.“PerhapsMiloserves, too, incapacities other than that of asactor,” I said.
“What did you have in mind?”asked the merchant.“Nothing,” I said.“It isMilo,” whispered one freewoman to another. They weretogether, veiled.“Let us hurry after him, to catch aglimpse of him,” said one of them.“Do not be shameless!” chidedthe first.“We are veiled,” the secondreminded her.“Let us hurry,” urged the firstthen, and the two pressed forward,through the crowd, after the purpleclad figure.
“Fellows as handsome as he,”complained the merchant, “shouldbe forced to go veiled in public.”“Perhaps,” I granted him. Freewomen in most of the high cities ofGor, particularly those of highercaste, go veiled in public. Also theycommonly wear the robes ofconcealment which cover them, ineffect, from head to toe. Evengloves are often worn. There aremany reasons for this, having to dowith modesty, security, and such.Slave girls, on the other hand, arecommonly scandalously clad, ifclad at all. Typically theirgarments, if they are permitted
them, are designed to leave little oftheir beauty to the imagination.Rather they are designed to callattention to it, and so reveal anddisplay it,sometimesevenbrazenly, in all its marvelousness.Goreans are not ashamed of theluscious richness, the excitingness,the sensuousness, the femininity, thebeauty of their slaves. Rather theyprize it, treasure it and celebrate it.To be sure, it must be admitted thatthe slave girl is only an animal, andis under total male domination. Tounderstand this more clearly, twofurther items might be noted. First,she must go about in public, denied
face veiling. Men, as they please,may look freely upon her face,witnessing its delicacy, its beauty,its emotions, and such. She is notpermitted to hide it from them. Shemust bare it, in all its revelatoryintimacy, and with all theconsequences of this, to their gaze.Second, herdegradation iscompleted by the fact that she isgiven no choice but to be what sheis, profoundly and in depth, a humanfemale, and must thus, willing ornot, sexually and emotionally,physically and psychologically,accept her fulfillments in the orderof nature.
“I wish you well,” I said to themerchant.He turned away.“Make way,” I heard. “Makeway!”Ahousemarshalwasapproaching, carrying a baton, withwhich he touched folks and made apassage among them. He waspreceding the palanquin of a freewoman, apparently a rich one,borne by some eight male slaves. Istepped to one side to let themarshal, the palanquin and itsbearers move past. The sides of thepalanquin were veiled.
“Odd that a palanquin of such anature should be in the Metallandistrict,” I said.“Perhaps we should considersaving our lives now,” saidMarcus.“Phoebe is not finished with yourfeet,” I said.Phoebe, looked up, happily.“Up,” said Marcus irritably,snapping his fingers. Immediatelyshe sprang to her feet. She stoodbeside him, her head down, docile.She, I noted, attracted her share ofattention. I was not too pleased withthis, as I did not wish to be
conspicuous in Ar. On the otherhand, it is seldom wise to interferein the relationship between a masterand a slave.I looked back down the street. Icould no longer see any sign of thefellow who had been in the room,the magistrate, or the guardsmen,with their shapely prisoner. She hadbeen on a guardsman’s shoulder,being carried, her head to the rear,as a slave. Later I did not think shewould be often accorded the luxuryof such transportation. Soon,perhaps in a day or two, she wouldbe learning how to heel a man andto walk gracefully on his leash.
“Oh!” said Phoebe.Someone in the crowd, inpassing, had undoubtedly touchedher. Marcus looked about, angrily. Idid not know, really, what heexpected.I looked back down the street. Icould see the head ofMilo, with itsblond curls, over the heads of thecrowd, about fifty yards away. Hewas standing near a wall. The freewoman’s palanquin had stoppedbriefly by him, and then, after atime, continued on its way.“Oh!” said Phoebe.Marcus turned about again,
swiftly, angrily. There was only thecrowd.“If you do not care for suchthings,” I said, “perhaps you shouldgive her a garment.”“Let her go naked,” he said. “Sheis only a slave.”“Perhaps some article of clothingwould not be amiss,” I said.“She has her collar,” he said.“You many never have noticed,”I said, “but she is an exquisitelybeautiful female.”“She is the lowest and mostdespicable of female slaves,” hesaid.
“Of course,” I said.“Too,” said he, “do not forgetthat I hate her.”“It would be difficult to do that,”I said, “as you have told me somany times.Phoebe lowered her head,smiling.“Too,” said he, “she is myenemy.”“If ever she was your enemy,” Isaid, “she is not your enemy now.She is now a slave. Look at her.She is simply an animal you own.Do you think she does not knowthat? She now exists for you, to
please and serve you.”“She is Cosian,” he said.“Turn your flank to him, slave,” Isaid. “Touch you collar.”Phoebe complied.“You can see the brand,” I said.“You can see the collar.Furthermore, it is yours.”He regarded the slave, docile,obedient, turned, her fingers, too,lightly on her collar, so closelylocked on her lovely neck.“And it is a pretty flank,” I said,“and a lovely throat.”He moaned softly.“I see that you think so,” I said.
The feelings of the young warriortoward his slave were profoundlyambivalent. She was not only thesort of female that he foundirresistibly,excruciatinglyattractive, as I had known before Ihad shown her to him the first time,but, to my surprise and delight,there seemed to be a specialmystery or magic, or chemistry,between them. Each was a dreamcome true for the other. She hadbeen, it seems, in some profoundgenetic sense, born for his chains.They fitted together, like a lock andits key. She loved him profoundly,helplessly, and from the first time
she had seen him. He, too, had beensmitten. Then he had discoveredthat she was from Cos, that ubaratewhich was his hated foe, at thehands of whose mercenary andregular forces he had seen his citydestroyed. It was no wonder that inrage he had vowed to make thelovely slave stand proxy for Cos,that he might then vent upon her hisfury, and his hatred, for Cos, and allthings Cosian. And so it was that hehad determined to reduce andhumiliate her, and make her suffer,but with each cuffing, with eachcommand, with each kick, with eachblow of the whip, she became only
the more his, and the more loving. Ihad know for a long time, even aslong ago as the inn of the CrookedTarn, on the Vosk Road, before thefall of Ar’s Station, that she hadprofound slave needs, but I hadnever suspected their depth until Ihad seen her in a camp outsideBrundisium,kneelingbeforeMarcus, looking up at him,unbelievingly. She had known thenthat she was his, and in perfection. Ihad no doubt they fitted together, inthe order of nature, in the mostintimate, beautiful and fulfillingrelationship possible between aman and a woman, that of love
master and love slave. To be sure,she was Cosian.Phoebe put down her head, shylysmiling.“Cosian slut!” snarled Marcus.He seized her by the arms andlifted her from her feet, thrusting herback against the wall of thebuilding.He held her there, off her feet,her back pressed back, hard, againstthe rough wall.“Yes,” she cried. “Yes!”“Be thusly used, and as befitsyou,” said he, “slave, and slutofCos!”
“Yes, my Master!” she wept. Sheclung about him, her eyes closed,her head back, gasping.Then he cried out, and loweredher to the stones of the street.She knelt there, gratefully,sobbing. Her back was bloody.Marcus had not been gentle with theslave. She was holding to his leg.“Disgusting,” said a free woman,drawing her veil more closelyabout her face.Did she not know that she, too, ifshe were a slave, would besimilarly subject to a master’spleasure?
“This is a very public place,” Isaid to Marcus.A small crowd, like an eddy inthe flowing stream of folks in thestreet, had gathered about.“She is a slut ofCos,” saidMarcus to a fellow nearby.“Beat her for me,” said the man.“She is only a slave,” I said.“A Cosian slut,” said one man toanother.“She is only a slave,” I saidagain.The crowd closed in a bit more,menacingly. Phoebe looked up,frightened.
In the press there was not evenroom to draw the sword, let alonewield it.“Let us kill her,” said a fellow.“Move back,” said Marcus,angrily.“A slut of Cos,” said anotherman.“Let us kill her!” said anotherfellow.Phoebe was very small andhelpless, kneeling on the stones,near the wall.“Continue on your way,” I said tothe men gathered about. “Be aboutyour business.”
“Cos is our business,” said aman.The ugliness of the crowd, itshostility, and such, was, I think, afunction of recent events, which hadprecipitated confusion, uncertaintyand terror in Ar, in particular themilitary catastrophe in the delta, inwhich action, absurdly, the majorland forces at Torcadino, one of thelargest assemblages of armed menever seen of Gor, under theirpolemarkos, Myron, cousin toLurius of Jad, Ubar of Cos, hadnow set their standards towards Ar.Torcadino had been a supply depotfor the forces of Cos on the
continent. It had been seized by themercenary, Dietrich of Tarnburg, toforestall the march on Ar. Ar,however, had failed to act. She hadnot relieved the siege at Torcadinonor that in the north, at Ar’s Station.Dietrich, finally understanding thetreason in Ar, in high places, hadmanaged to effect a withdrawalfrom Torcadino. His location wasnow unknown andCoshad put aprice on his head. Now there laylittle or nothing between the majorforces ofCoson the continent, nowon the march, and the gates of Ar.Further, though there was much talkin the city of resistance, of the
traditions of Ar, of her Home Stone,and such, I did not think that thepeople of Ar, stunned and confusedby the apparently inexplicablesuccession of recent disasters, hadthe will to resist the Cosians.Perhaps if there had been aMarlenus of Ar in the city, a Ubar,one to raise the people and leadthem, there might have been hope.But the city was now under thegovernance of the regent, GnieusLelius, who, I had little doubt,might have efficiently managed awell-ordered polity under normalconditions, but was an unlikelyleader in a time of darkness, crisis
and terror. He was, I thought, agood man and an estimable civilservant, but he was not a Marlenusof Ar. Marlenus of Ar had vanishedmonths ago on a punitive raid in theVoltai, directed against thetarnsmen of Treve. He waspresumed dead.“Kill her!” said a man.“Kill her!” said another.“No!” said Marcus.“No!” I said.“There are only two of them,”said a fellow.“Listen!” I said, lifting my hand.In that instant the crowd was
silent. More than one man lifted hishead. We turned down the street.Phoebe, very small and vulnerable,naked, in her collar, crawled morebehind the legs of Marcus.We could hear the bells, thechanting. In a moment we could seethe lifted golden circle, on its staff,approaching. The people in thestreets hurried to press against thewalls.“Initiates,” I said to Marcus.I could now see the processionclearly.“Kneel,” said the fellow near me.“Kneel,” I said to Marcus.
We knelt, on one knee. Itsurprised me that the people werekneeling, for, commonly, freeGoreans do not kneel, even in thetemples of the Initiates. Goreanscommonly pray standing. The handsare sometimes lifted, and this isoften the case with praying Initiates.“I do not kneel to such,” saidMarcus.“Stay down,” I said. He hadcaused enough trouble already.”We could now smell the incense.In the lead of the procession weretwo lads in white robes, withshaved heads, who rang the bells.
Following them were two more,who shook censers, these emittingclouds of incense. These lads, Iassumed, were novices, who hadperhaps taken their first vows.“Praise the Priest-Kings!” said aman, fervently.“Praise the Priest-Kings!” saidanother.I thought that Misk, the PriestKing, my friend, might have beenfascinated, if puzzled, by thisbehavior.An adult Initiate, in his flowingwhite robe, carried the staffsurmounted with the golden circle,
a figure with neither beginning norend, the symbol of Priest-Kings. Hewas followed by some ten or soInitiates, in double file. It was thesewho were chanting.A free woman drew back herrobes, hastily, frightened, lest theytouch an Initiate. It is forbidden forInitiates to touch women, and, ofcourse, for women to touch them.Initiates also avoid meat and beans.A good deal of time, I gather, isdevoted to sacrifices, services,chants, prayers, and the perusal ofmystic lore. By means of the studyof mathematics they attempt topurify themselves.
“Save Ar!” wept a man, as theypassed.“Save us, oh intercessors withPriest-Kings!” cried a man.“I will bring ten pieces of gold tothe temple!” promised another.“I will bring ten verr, full-grownverr, with gilded horns,” promisedanother.But the Initiates took no note ofthese not inconsiderable pledges.Of what concern could be suchthings to them?“Keep your head down,” Imuttered to Marcus.“Very well,” he growled. Phoebe
was behind us, on her stomach,shuddering, covering her head withher hands. I did not envy her, anaked slave, caught inadvertently insuch a place.In a few moments the processionhad passed and we rose to our feet.The crowd had dissipated about us.“You are safe now,” I said toPhoebe, “or at least as safe as isever a female slave.”She knelt timidly at the feet ofMarcus, holding to his leg.“We cannot resist Cos,” said aman, a few feet from us.“We must place our trust in the
Priest-Kings,” said another.Across from us, about seven feetaway, on the other side of thenarrow street, was the free womanwho had secured her robes, thatthey might not touch an Initiate. Sherose to her feet, looking after theprocession. We could still hear thebells. The smell of incense hung inthe air. Near the free woman was afemale slave, in a short gray tunic.She, too, had been caught, likePhoebe, in the path of theprocession. She had knelt with herhead down to the street, the palmsof her hands on the stones, makingherself small, in a common position
of obeisance. The free womanlooked down at her. As the girl sawshe was under the scrutiny of a freeperson she remained on her knees.“You sluts have nothing to fear,”said the free woman to her, bitterly,“It is such as I who must fear.” Thegirl did not answer. There wassomething in what the free womanhad said, though in the frenzy of asacking, the blood of the victorsracing, flames about, and such, fewoccupations of a fallen city. Isupposed, either free or slave, werealtogether safe. “It will only be adifferent collar for you,” said thefree woman. The girl looked up at
her. She was a lovely slave Ithought, a red-haired one. She kepther knees tightly together before thefree woman. had she knelt before aman she would probably have hadto keep them open, even if theywere brutally kicked apart, a lessonto her, to be more sensitive as tobefore whom she knelt. “Only adifferent collar for you!” cried thefree woman, angrily. The girlwinced, but dared not respond. Tobe sure, I suspected, all thingsconsidered, that the free womanwas right. Slave girls, as they aredomestic animals, are, like otherdomestic animals, of obvious value
to victors. It is unlikely that theywould be killed, any more thantharlarion or kaiila. They would besimply chained together, for laterdistribution or sale. Then the freewoman, in fury, with her smallgloved hand, lashed the face of theslave girl, back and forth, somethree or four times. She, the freewoman, a free person, might betrampled by tharlarion, or be runthrough, or have her throat cut, byvictors. Such things were certainlypossible. On the other hand, the freewomen of a conquered city, or atleast the fairest among them, areoften reckoned by besiegers as
counting within the yield ofprospective loot. Many is the freefemale in such a city who has tornaway her robes before enemies,confessed her natural slavery,disavowedherpreviousmasquerade as a free woman, andbegged for the rightfulness of thebrand and collar. This is a scenewhich many free woman haveenacted in their imagination. Suchthings figure, too, in the dreams ofwoman, those doors to the secrettruths of their being. The freewoman stood there, the breeze inthe street, as evening approached,ruffling the hems of her robes. The
free woman put her fingers to herthroat, over the robes and veil. Shelooked at the slave, who did notdare to meet her eyes.“What is it like to be a slave?”she asked.“Mistress?” asked the girl,frightened.“What is it like, to be a slave?”asked the free woman, again.“Much depends on the master,beautiful Mistress,” said the girl.The slave could not see the face ofthe free woman, if course, but suchlocutions, “beautiful Mistress,” andsuch, on the part of slave girls
addressing free women, arecommon. They are rather analogousto such things as “noble Master,”and so on. They have little meaningbeyond being familiar epithets ofrespect.“ T h e ma s t e r ” said the freewoman, shuddering.“Yes, Mistress,” said the girl.“You must do what he says, andobey him in all things?” asked thefree woman.“Of course, Mistress!” said thegirl, and leaped to her feet,scurrying away.“You may go,” said the free
woman.“Thank you, Mistress!” said thegirl, and leaped to her feet,scurrying away.The free woman looked after theslave. Then she looked across at us,and at Phoebe, who lowered hereyes, quickly. Then, shuddering, sheturned about and went down thestreet, to our left, in the directionfrom whence the Initiates had come.“The people of Ar arefrightened,” said Marcus.“Yes,” I said.We saw a fellow walk by,mumbling prayers. He was keeping
track of these prayers by means of aprayer ring. This ring, which hadseveral tiny knobs on it, was wornon the first finger of his right hand.He moved the ring on the finger bymeans of the knobs, keeping track ofthe prayers that way, comes to thecircular knob, rather like a goldencircle at the termination of theInitiate’s staff, one knows one hadcompleted one cycle of prayers.One may then stop, or begin again.“Where do you suppose theInitiates were bound?” I askedMarcus.“To their temple, I suppose,” hesaid.
“What for?” I asked.“For their evening services, Ipresume,” he said, somewhat
natural in you free women, almost guarantees the repeatability, and continued success, of these small pleasant projects." "Release me!" she begged. "Some ofMilo's conquests are used in my fields, and others in my house," he said. "But most, and I am sure you will be one of these, are exported, sold out of the city to begin your .
