It is not unlikely that men, over the generations, have selected out for breeding, for marriage, women of certain sorts. Doubtless women are much more beautiful now than a hundred generations ago. Similarly, a woman who was particularly ugly, threatening, vicious, stupid, cruel, etc., would not be a desirable mate. No man can be blamed for not wishing to make his life miserable. Accordingly, statistically, he tends to select out women who are intelligent, loving and beautiful. Accordingly, men have, in effect, bred a certain kind of woman. similarly, of course, is so far as choice had been theirs, women have tended to select out men who are, among other things, intelligent, energetic and strong. Few women, in their hearts, despite propaganda, really desire weak, feminine men. Such men, at any rate, are not those who figure in their sexual fantasies.
Goreans believe it is the nature of a man to own, that of a woman to be owned. I observed Verna’s women, no longer hers, but now the slaves of their masters, in the longboats.
Verna had given them their choice, had indeed forced the choice upon them. I wondered if, in the forest, she had expected any of them to return to her. She had had them clad in slave silk. She had had earrings put in their ears. Perhaps she had already gone her own way. Her women, now slaves, waited in longboats to be carried to the Rhoda, the Tesephone.
They had made their choice, to surrender to a man. They had yielded to their womanhood.
Verna would hunt alone in the forests. She would have her freedom. About her neck she wore the signet ring of Ar. She would be swift and free in the dark green glades. She would be alone. I wondered if, at times, she would lie in the darkness, clutching the ring of Marlenus, and twist, and weep. Her pride stood between herself, and her womanhood. Yet in the darkness, as she lay on the leaves in her lair, in her ears would glint the gold of earrings. She had not removed them. They had been fastened in her ears upon the order of Marlenus, when he had been her master. She would never forget, in her freedom, nor did she wish to do so, that she had been once his utter slave. Perhaps from time to time she would long for his collar and touch. She had made her choice, for her independence. She had not been exchanged that even for the throne of Ar. Her women had, too, made their choice. Verna was free. They were shamed, as slaves. I did not know which was happiest. They sat silently in the longboats, obedient. The hands of each were now being fastened behind her back. I saw Rena’s wrist secured. They, new slaves, were shy. But they did not seem unhappy. I wondered if any, as her wrists were drawn together behind her back and fastened together, regretted her decision. If she did, it was too late. The binding fiber was upon her. But they did not seem unhappy. They had yielded to their womanhood. They had surrendered themselves to bondage, and love. This gift, this choice, which she had refused for herself, Verna had given them.
Doubtless now, alone, somewhere within the forest, in freedom and solitude there was a panther girl. She hunted. Her name was Verna. I wished her well. I wondered if she might, sometime, trek to Ar, to call upon its Ubar, or if he, attending to his hunting in the northern forests, might once more chance upon her. I did not suppose it likely. “She is only a woman,” he had said. But he had given her the signet of Ar. I wondered if Verna knew that she who wore that ring about her neck was the Ubara of Ar.
“We have set the logs of the palisade in the form of a great beacon,” aid Thurnock.
I looked to the stony beach. There, high on the stones, rose the beacon, tier upon tier of crossed logs.
“Pour oil upon it,” I said.
“Yes, Captain,” he said.
Oil was poured.
I sat high on the beach, wrapped in blankets, in the captain’s chair, cold. I looked at the beacon.
Its light would be seen more than fifty pasangs at sea.
I turned back to the beach. My men stood about.
“Put the slave Rissia, before me, she who was of Hura’s band,” I said. I heard Ilene’s switch strike Rissia, twice across the back. Rissia stripped, her ankles, wrists and throat locked in the graceful chain and rings of the sirik, stumbled forward. She knelt before my chair, on the sand. Twice more fell Ilene’s switch, and I saw bloody stripes leap on the girl’s exposed back. Her knees were in the sand, her head was down.
“Withdraw,” I said to Ilene, who stood over Rissia in her white woolen slave tunic, herself barefoot, my collar at her throat. Ilene backed away, the switch still in her hand, to stand to one side.
“This woman,” said I to Thurnock, indicating Rissia, “remained behind in the camp of Sarus and Hura, when many of her fellow panther women were drugged.” Thurnock nodded.
“She had a bow,” I said, “ with an arrow to the string. It was her intention to defend her drugged sisters, to protect them.” “I see, Captain,” said Thurnock.
“She might have slain me,” I said.
Thurnock smiled.
“What should be her fate?”
“That,” said he, “is for my captain to decide.”
“Her act,” I asked, “does it not seem brave?”
“It does indeed, my captain,” said Thurnock.
“Free her,” I told him.
Grinning, Thurnock bent to the shackles which graced Rissia’s fair limbs, removing them one by one.
Rissia lifted her head, looking at me, dumbfounded.
“You are free,” I told her. “Depart.”
“My gratitude, Captain,” she whispered.
“Depart!” I commanded.
Rissia turned about and regarded Ilene. He Earth girl took a step backward. “May I not remain a moment, Captain?” asked Rissia. She turned to face me. “Very well,” I said.
“I ask the rite of knives,” she said.
“Very well,” I said.
One of my men held Ilene by the arms. She was frightened.
Two daggers were brought. One was given to Rissia. The other was pressed into the unwilling hand of Ilene.
“I–I do not understand,” stammered Ilene, “You are to fight to the death,” I told her.
She looked at Rissia. “No!” she wept. “No!’ Ilene threw away the knife. “Kneel,” ordered Rissia.
Ilene did.
Rissia stood behind her.
“Do not hurt me,” begged Ilene.
“Address me as Mistress,” said Rissia.
“Please do not hurt me, Mistress,” begged Ilene.
“You do not seem so proud now, Slave, without your switch,” said Rissia. “No, Mistress,” whispered Rissia.
With her knife, from the back, Rissia cut away Ilene’s slave tunic, stripping her.
Rissia picked up the discarded sirik. She reached over Ilene’s head and fastened the collar about her throat, the chain dangling before her body. Then, reaching about her, she fastened Ilene’s hands in the bracelets attached to the chain, confining them before her body. She then drew the chain between her legs and under her body and fastened the two ankle rings, attached to the chain, on her ankles. Ilene knelt stripped in sirik.
“With your permission, Captain,” said Rissia.
I nodded.
Picking up the switch from the sand, with which Ilene had often beaten her, she struck her.
Ilene cried out. “Please do not beat me!” she wept. “Please do not beat me, Mistress!” “I do not choose,” said Rissia, “to comply with the request of a slave.” She beat Ilene until Ilene wept and screamed, and then could weep and scream no more.
Then she threw aside the switch and disappeared into the forest.
Ilene, tears in her eyes, her head turned to the side, lay on her stomach in the sand, confined in the sirik. The entire back of her body was hot and bright with the scarlet marks of the switch.
“To your knees,” I told her.
Ilene struggled to her knees, and looked up at me.
“Take her to the Tesephone,” I told two of my men, “and put her in the hold with the other female slaves.” “Please, Master,” wept the girl.
“And then,” said I, “see that she is sold in Port Kar.”
Weeping, Ilene, the Earth-girl slave, was dragged from my presence. She would be sold in Port Kar, a great slave-clearing port. Perhaps she would be sold south to Shendi or Bazi, or north to a jarl of Torvaldsland, Scagnar or Hunjer, or across Thassa to Tabor or Asperiche, or taken up the Vosk in a cage to an island city, perhaps eventually to find herself in Ko-ro-ba, Thentis or Tharna, or even Ar itself. Perhaps she would be carried south in tarn caravans, or by slave wagons of the Wagon Peoples, the Tuchuks, the Kassars, the Kataii, the Paravaci. Perhaps she would be, even, the slave of peasants. It was not known where the lovely Ilene would wear her collar; it was known, though, that she would wear it, and wear it well; a Gorean master would see to that.