The soldier who carried me put me on my feet. I was then again the prisoner of the wrist thong in his grasp.
A man ran toward us, holding up a torch. "The Lady Sabina," he cried, "she is gone! She has been taken!"
With a cry of rage the leader, or captain, ran toward the tents, his men racing behind him, I struggling and gasping, jerked and dragged by the thong which held me.
Straight to the pavillion of the Lady Sabina sped the captain.
I, on the tether, accompanying the soldier who controlled me, hurried, too, to that pavillion. I was pulled within, on the thong. A man within turned, white-faced, to the captain. "They came," he said. "They took her!"
To one side lay two soldiers, wounded. The maids of the Lady Sabina, who had been with her in the tent, stood terrified to one side. One held her shoulder, where there was a large bruise.
"They were here!" said the soldier, pointing to the shuddering slaves.
"What happened?" demanded the captain.
One of the girls, she with the bruise, spoke. The back of the tent was slashed. "In force they came," she said, "many of them. We tried to defend the mistress. We were buffeted aside. They were men, warriors. We were helpless!" She pointed to the back of the tent. "They entered there, and withdrew similarly, the mistress in their power!"
The application of numbers and power is an element of strategy. The men of my master had been outnumbered, surely, by the many soldiers of the camp, but at the point of attack their numbers were superior, overwhelming. Twenty men may breech a wall held by a hundred men, if the twenty men but attack where the wall is defended by only two. In the confusion, as the attention of men had been directed elsewhere, the forces of my master, though not impressive numerically, had been sharply and irresistibly applied, His stroke, in the context, had not been difficult.
I swallowed hard. I realized I had been only a diversion, a pawn. I felt bitter, and terrified.
"Of what city were they?" demanded the captain of one of his wounded men.
"I do not know," said the man.
I had seen the men of my master removing insignia from their garments before the attack.
"We know their direction of flight," said one of the soldiers. "If we act swiftly, we may mount satisfactory pursuit." "Let us act with dispatch," urged another, "that we may swiftly overtake them."
The captain struck at the heavy pole of the tent with the side of his fist. The pole, though it was deeply anchored, shook in the dirt.
"Arm the men," said he. "Issue bows, light rations. All men. Assembly in ten Ehn."
"Yes, Captain," said a man. Men left the tent. The two wounded men were carried away.
The captain then turned to face me. I shrank back. Some four men besides the captain remained in the tent, one of them he who held my wrist thong.
The captain's hand fixed itself in the sheen of the last veil, the fifth veil. Beneath it my features, frightened, could be seen. It was only a token, but, when it was torn away, even the token would be gone. I would stand before men, face-stripped. It is interesting to me, how I thought of this at the time. Doubtless much depends upon context and is relative to the culture. On Earth, few women veil their face, and yet many will veil their bodies. On Earth body veiling tends to be cultural, and not face veiling. On Gor, for free women, both body veiling and face veiling are cultural, and tend to be widely practiced. I suppose, objectively, there is something more to be said for face veiling than body veiling. Bodies, though differing remarkably, one to the other, tend perhaps to be somewhat more similar than faces. Accordingly, if one should be concerned to protect one's privacy and one's feelings, and such, it seems that the face might preferably be veiled. In the face, surely, it is easier to read emotion and individuality than in a body. Should not the face then, if one is concerned with concealment and privacy, be veiled? Is the face not more personal and revealing than the body? Does it not make sense then to consider it a proper object of concealment in a free person? Is one not entitled, so to speak, to privacy in the matter of one's thoughts and feelings, sometimes so manifest in one's facial expressions? However this may be, there are congruences and dispositions which seem appropriate in given contexts. Veils seem correct, and right, with the robes of concealment. Too, seeing the lust of men to discern your features, and understanding what face veiling and unveiling means to them, tends to influence one's views of these matters. I was terrified that such men see my face. I did not want my face to be seen by them. In many Gorean cities, only a slave girl goes unveiled.
I felt his hand tighten in the veil. Then he jerked it away. I was face-stripped, completely. I closed my eyes, with shame. I reddened. It was as though the last bit of netting, mockery of modesty though it might be, had been ripped away. My face, my feelings, my emotions, now lay bare to them. My face, though I wore robes of concealment, was as naked as that of a slave girl.
"I wonder if you are free, my beauty," said the captain.
My mouth, now that he had torn away the veil, was fully exposed to his. Nothing now separated his mouth, his tongue, his teeth, from mine. From his point of view I then, though I might be free, might as well have been a slave girl.
I looked at him.
"Release her wrist thong," said he to the soldier who held the thong. He dropped the thong, and it dangled, loosely, from my wrist.
"A wrist thong scarcely comports with the dignity of a free woman," said the captain to me.
He walked about me, as a man walks about a woman. I had the feeling he saw me naked beneath the robes.
"Are you free, my beauty?" he asked. He drew his sword. I shuddered. "Are you free?" he asked. He put the sword at my left ankle, and, curiously, lifted the robes of concealment a bit. "I hope for your sake," said he, "that you are free. If you are not, I will not be much pleased."
I felt the blade on my leg, lifting up the robes further. "Step from your slippers," he said.
I did so, trembling.
I felt the steel on my leg, lifting the robes yet higher. They were above my knee now.
The three slave girls in the tent, gowned, watched with apprehension.
The robes were lifted higher, some inches above my knee.
"If you are free," said the captain, "you are rather pretty to be free."
"Captain," said a voice from outside the tent, "the men are ready."
"I shall join you momentarily," he said.
"Yes, Captain," said the man.
The captain then again turned his attention toward me. He was angry. He spoke softly, but menacingly. "You have made a fool of all of us," he said. "Thus, I hope that you are free." The blade moved a bit higher on the leg. I trembled. "Yet," said he, "the leg is not bad. It is a leg which is pretty enough to be the leg of a slave girl. I wonder if it is the leg of a slave girl." He lifted the robes to my hip. I felt the steel against my hip.
The men in the tent cried out with anger. The slave girls gasped and shrank back.
"It is as I thought," said the captain. He stepped back, but he did not sheath his sword.
"I will give you twenty Ihn," said he, "to remove the clothing of a free woman and to fall naked on your belly before me."
Weeping I tore away the robes, frenziedly, and, stripped, threw myself on my belly naked before him, he a Gorean male, he a master, I a slave girl.
"Standard binding position," he said. I was prone. When a girl is prone, the standard binding position is to cross the wrists behind the back and to cross the ankles. I took this position instantaneously.
That I did this did not cause him any pleasure. No one in the room thought anything of it. I was simply a prone slave girl who had been commanded to standard binding position. No one in the room, including myself; would have expected me to do other than comply. Lack of compliance by a slave girl to a command in the Gorean world is unthinkable. She obeys.