The opening in the helmet was something like a "Y" in shape. There was blood on the helmet. Blood, too, was on his thighs. I had seen him before not as a warrior. I had seen him in robes on the height of a tower, on a great chair, as might have been some ruler, some dispenser of justice, and I had seen him in the softness of lounging robes, in his own compartments. In his size, his strength, his intelligence, his power, he had been fearsome enough, even then.

But I had not seen him until now in the garb of war, in the leather of the warrior, the sword at his shoulder, his helmet in hand. I did not want to look at him now. I was afraid. And I now understood, better than before, how a man might come to power on this world, and the sort of men that might rise to Sit upon the chairs of state.

"The intruders wore no insignia," he said, "but they were of Ar."

"Master?" asked Dorna.

"There is no mistaking the accents," he said. "I know them well."

Dorna shuddered, it seemed, in relief.

"And many," he said, "in receiving their death strokes, cried out 'Glory to Ar!'"

Dorna was silent.

"It is strange that they were here," he said, musingly. "They could not have been authorized.

They must have betrayed oaths."

"I do not understand," said Dorna.

"It does not matter," he said.

"There is the matter of the slaves, and of the free women, Captain,"

said one of the men with the officer.

"Let the slaves return to their masters," he said.

A sign was given and one of the soldiers went down the wall, permitting what slaves were there to leap up and speed from the terrace, some through buildings, some over the bridge, others, crossing the terrace, to descend by the far steps.

"This one is chained," said one of the soldiers. I kept my head down. I did not wish to be recognized.

"Let me see her," said the officer.

I winced, my head pulled up, by the hair. Tears sprang to my eyes. I blinked against the torchlight, which fell fully upon my countenance.

"I thought so," said the officer. "It is the Earth-woman slave."

I could not lower my head because of the soldier's grip in my hair.

"Did you know that Earth women make good slaves?" the officer asked one of his men, a subaltern.

"Yes, Captain," said the fellow.

"A stroke or two of the whip and they immediately understand the nature of their new life,"

said the officer.

"Yes, Captain," grinned the fellow.

"Why did you hide?" the officer asked me. "Were you afraid?"

I whimpered once.

"Is someone to come for you?" he asked.

I whimpered once, again. I did not know if the Lady Constanzia and the scarlet-clad figure would come back for me or not, but this seemed the most likely, and honest, answer I could give.

"Civilians will be soon be permitted to return to the terrace," said the officer.

I whimpered once, acknowledging that I understood him.

At a sign from the officer, the soldier released my hair. I sobbed with relief. His grip had been tight and painful. It is customary on this world, of course, for slaves to be handled in such a fashion, with uncompromising firmness and authority. The men here keep us precisely in line. They do not choose to be weak with us.

"She is a pit s.l.u.t," said the officer. "If she is still here in the morning, see that she is remanded to custody, pending claiming."

"Yes, Captain," said the man.

After all he had made me do, after all he had had from me, was this, then, all he now had to do with me, hardly even recognizing me? But then I recalled he was a free man, and I was only a slave.

He then turned to regard the girl beside me.

"Slave," said the officer.

"Yes, Master," said Dorna.

"You will return home," he said, "and prepare my bath. You will then wash me. You will then prepare a light collation and serve me. These things are to be done naked."

"Yes. Master," she said.

Slaves are sometimes kept naked in a man's compartments, of course.

But, too, after men have risked death, it often pleases them to be served by naked women.

Perhaps such a thing, so simple in itself, speaks to them of joy and life. To be sure, the flavor of nudity, as so many other things, depends much upon context. There is the foolishly outraged and defiant nudity of the stripped free woman, in her capture noose, who does not yet know how she appears to men and what will be done with her; there is her trembling nudity when she lies upon her belly in a hunting camp, awaiting her shackling; there is the nudity of the exposition cages, in which one must move and pose for potential bidders, there is the exposure on the slave block itself, as one is auctioned; there is the sweaty nudity of work, as when she scrubs tiles on her hands and knees in her master's compartments; there is the nudity of the slave bathing her master; there is the nudity of the slave in the morning, kneeling before the master, waiting to learn if she may clothe herself; there is the beautiful warmth of a loving slave, nude and collared, serving wine in the light of a lamp of love, there is the nudity of the enflamed slave, aroused in her dance, who will beg for her master's touch; there is the nudity of the women of the enemy serving at the feast of the victors, a nudity that celebrates the prowess of the conquerors and proclaims the fate of fair spoils of war.

There are many nudities, with nuances and flavors.

The common denominator here is the beauty of the woman, the capture or slave. It excites and delights men. Accordingly, they will have the joy of it. They will, as masters, have it subordinate to their will-and as it pleases them-fully, completely, utterly.

"Then, tonight," he said, "you will be slept naked at the foot of my couch, chained by the neck to the slave ring."

"Yes, Master," she said.

I did not doubt but what she would be used before being spurned from the couch to the floor at its foot.

I envied her a private master.

"Go!" he said.

I wondered if he would grant her a sheet, as he had me. But, I hoped, no more, no more! She, too, was a slave!

Doubtless she would be in the same collar and chain that I had worn. I wondered how many women had been slept thusly, the master done with them, on the tiles beside his couch, their head to its foot. I supposed a great many. He was a powerful Gorean male, and highly placed.

I wondered if I were the first Earth-girl slave who had had that experience.

It did not seem likely.

"Yes, Master!" she cried, and leaped up, and fled from the terrace, leaving through one of the buildings, that from which, earlier, she and others had been herded forth.

I wondered if she would please him as well as I. But, to be sure, much depends on the mysterious chemistries which can obtain between masters and slaves. How else explain the fascination that even a plain slave may sometimes exercise over the most powerful, rich, and handsome of men, to the puzzlement and dismay of beauties languishing in his pleasure garden? How else explain how a slave worthy of a ubar's palace may in a market, unbidden, throw herself in her chains to her belly before an ugly, low-born, monstrous brute, pleading desperately to be purchased? Has she seen in him her master?

Similarly, consider the power which such a brute may sometimes exercise over even free, beautiful, high-born damsels, such that, at the very sight of him, they will kneel and beg his collar. In him, perhaps, they, too, have seen their master.

But sometimes, too, a woman's past may enhance how a man sees her in bondage. For example, it is doubtless pleasant for a ubar to have a conquered ubara at his feet, in his collar.

She is then, of course, only a slave, but it is understandable that her past, like her hair and figure, may influence how she is viewed. Let her hope that, sooner or later, she will come to be viewed as only another slave. She does not wish to be tormented by her past, nor treated cruelly on account of it. Let the masters be merciful to her. Let them forget her past! Let them now treat her as only another slave!

That is now all she is.

Dorna had lost no time in obeying.

I had gathered, from various things I had heard, here and there, that she may once have been an important and powerful personage in some city, perhaps in the city of Tharna, the men of which city it seemed she much feared. But such things, it seemed, must be long behind her.

Her life had changed. She now wore a collar. She was now only a slave girl, quick to obey her master.

To be sure, her past might continue, in the senses which we have suggested, at least for a time, to exercise some fascination over her master. How amusing to have such a woman as a slave, to have her serve his meals, to order her, at so little as a snapping of fingers, to pose or dance, or to strip and hasten to the furs! But, sooner or later, one supposed, or might hope that, for her sake, her past would tend to be forgotten, and she might, for all intents and purposes, mercifully, if not for this master then for another, become only another slave. The officer was, as I recalled, not the first master she had had. She had had apparently at least one other, he who had first captured her, he who had first put the collar on her neck, one from whom she had been stolen, one whom she feared terribly, with all the terror of her embonded heart. When she had queried the officer as to whether or not the intruders had been his men, I supposed this former master might have been the one she had had in mind. On the height of the tower she had been reeling, sick with fear, at the very suggestion that she might be returned to him. And, of course, her fear was quite meaningful. She was only a slave. She could be simply bound and hooded, and returned to him, his then to do with as he pleased. I wondered if, sometimes in her kennel at night, hearing a sound, she might awaken, frightened, pulling the blanket about her, fearing that it might be he, her first master, who had come for her.

But he would not, presumably, know where she was Might she not be anywhere? On this world were there not hundreds of cities and thousands of slaves? No, from him she would in all likelihood be safe, unless her present master, if she might prove somewhat displeasing, might decide, perhaps as a joke, to return her to him. But then, as an option, might he not, under the same circ.u.mstances, and perhaps preferably, and perhaps more amusingly, see fit to return her to Tharna? Dorna, I was sure, would do her best to please her master.

"Did the intruders reach the lower corridors?" a man asked the officer.

"No," said the officer.

One of the men with the officer, the captain, was clad not in the gear of war, but wore a blue tunic, and carried, on two straps, slung now beside him, a scribe's box. It was flat and rectangular. Pens are contained, in built-in racks, within it.

Depending on the box, it may also contain ink, or powdered ink, to be mixed with water, the vessel included, or flat, disklike cakes of pigment, to be dampened, and used as ink, rather as water colors. In it, too, in narrow compartments, are sheets of paper, commonly linen paper or rence paper.

A small knife may also be contained in such boxes for sc.r.a.ping out errors, or a flat eraser stone. Other paraphernalia may also be included, depending on the scribe, string, ostraka, wire, coins, even a lunch.

The top of the box, the lid, the box placed on a solid surface, serves as a writing surface, or desk.

"There is the matter of the free women," said another man to the officer.

"Yes," said the officer.

They went then a little to their right, some few feet to my left, as I knelt.

"There are six of them," said a man. He was one of the civilians who had stood guard over the women, keeping them at the wall.

The women looked up, frightened, the torchlight revealing them. Some tried to cover themselves.

"Kneel in a line, here, facing the captain," said a soldier.

"We are unveiled!" protested a woman.

"Hands on thighs," said the soldier "Backs straight. Do not speak."

Hurriedly they formed themselves, as they had been told. The officer considered them.

"These are the ones?" he asked.

"Yes, Captain," said a man.

"Captain!" cried one of the women.

"Silence," said the soldier.

"Bring a whip," said a man.

"I have one here," said a voice. It was handed to him. The woman shrank back, kneeling back on her heels, pressing the palms of her hands firmly down on her thighs.

"Backs straight," cautioned the soldier.

The women complied.

Again they were regarded.

They trembled.

"What is to be done with them?" asked a man.

"They have proclaimed themselves slaves," said the officer. "Let them be slaves."

"No!" cried the women. "No!"

The lash fell amongst them.

Those who had leaped to their feet were seized and flung back, down, against the others.

Some tried two, even three, times, to leap up, to flee to freedom, but they could not penetrate the ring of men. Each time they were thrown back to their knees, with the others. They were then crowded together, one over the other. Down came the lash! They cried out with pain, huddling together. One tried to stand, just a little, her knees flexed, her hands and arms raised to fend blows, but she was then, blow by blow, stroke by stroke, returned to her knees, and then when another blow fell she cried out for mercy, and threw herself to her belly, her hands over her head, sobbing. She had now learned what the whip could feel like.

Some of the women knelt, holding out their hands for mercy, but the lash fell upon them, too, and they put down their heads, sobbing, bending over, almost double. Some, kneeling, crying out, sobbing, clasped their hands together, lifting them to the men. But the lash fell. And then they were a small, writhing knot of terrified women, each trying to hide behind the other.

The whip, hitting at the edges of the group, the left, the right, forced it in upon itself, and then, sobbing, cowering, they huddled together, tiny, within the ring of angry men.

The lash ceased its whistling speech. To its harsh discourse they had learned now to attend.