Barbarian of Gor Chapter Three

 

There were now four girls serving in the main room of the Inn this night.

 

Four, is, I think, a more viable number in respect of the number of men present. That works out as close to one girl per four men. Annika had briefly disappeared to change into clinging silks, better suited to the dances she would provide as the evening wore on. When she emerged from a side room there were loud cheers and the thumping of tables in a boisterous and masculine manner. Men roared their approval as she glided between the tables, introducing herself, strips of dancing silk swaying about her body. I found myself cheering, too, caught up in the frenzy of the moment. 

 

Annika seemed to relish the attention, and the little tease swayed her hips close to the reach of each man in turn, inviting their touch, or attempted touch. Sometimes she would spring lithely away, and other times she would permit herself to be touched, but never in a manner that suggested any preference amongst the men – that would be wrong of her – we were all paying customers. 

 

The men enjoyed the teasing. It fired their blood for the lithe dancer.

 

“The evening begins in earnest now,” said Adamus. I noticed that he watched the men in the room as much as he watched the lovely slave girls. I think he had taken the measure of each man here, and weighed up any potential risks or threats. 

 

“Our friend from Torcadino seems to have the room,” I suggested.

 

“That he does,” agreed Adamus. He seemed to be the only warrior present, save Adamus and Felix. Having put an end to the free woman’s behaviour, and having stripped her at the point of his knife, he now dominated the proceedings. He had challenged every man here to object, and none had chosen to do so. That made him, I suppose, the alpha male in the room, at least in his own eyes.

 

“Could you take him down? If you had to?” I asked Adamus.

 

“Who knows.” Adamus was not prone to reckless boasting. I’ll give him that. “Never judge a man’s strength until you both hold steel in your hands.”

 

“He has a Lady of Corcyrus on her knees,” I observed.

 

“So he has,” said Adamus.

 

I had to remind myself that Adamus was no more Corcyrian than I was, save for the benefit of an extra nine months or so living within its walls. He was an Earthman, like me. And yet he claimed to be sincere in his loyalty to the Tatrix and the city. And he claimed to be truly Gorean in his thinking.

 

“I’m glad you’re sensibly pragmatic,” I said.

 

“Are you now?” Adamus gazed at me with the same watchful expression as when he gazed at the warrior from Torcadino. 

 

“It was the right call to do nothing,” I said.

 

“I’m glad you approve, Roland.” There was a trace of sarcasm there, of course. 

 

Adamus was in charge here, and Goreans do not run a democracy when it comes to hierarchy. Goreans expect to give or obey orders. 

 

The free woman had been given a name for the evening. She was now Leda.

 

“What is your name, girl?” asked Atticus. He held the coiled whip in his right hand, but had not yet used it. Annika had surrendered it to him when she had gone to change in to her dancing silks. 

 

‘My name is Leda,” she sobbed. She knelt before the warrior. Her knees had been pushed part by the touch of his foot, but the man had not yet objected to the free woman covering her breasts with her hands. From what I could make out, they were lovely shaped breasts. 

 

He began by making Leda kiss the coils of the whip and declare she had done so. He then sent her to the feet of each man in the room, to kneel before us in turn, introduce herself, and kiss our feet.

 

“My name is Leda,” she said to me. “I will be serving you tonight.”

 

I could feel Felix close to exploding, beside me. When it was the turn of Leda to address herself in that fashion to Felix, Felix angrily dismissed her.

 

“Leave me,” he snapped. 

 

This did not go unnoticed. 

 

“Calm,” whispered Adamus. “Remember your duty.”

 

“A free woman of Corcyrus kneels before these men,” he snarled. “Captain, I beg you, allow me to challenge this warrior of Torcadino.”

 

“No.” Adamus barely looked at Felix as he said that. “Do not ask again.”

 

“But the honour of our city!”

 

It is important to bear in mind that Leda was still a free woman. She was not a slave. Were she a slave, her behaviour now could be excused. But she was still free. I had lived long enough on Gor by now to understand how Felix would be feeling. His anger would span several levels. First and foremost he would be angry that Torcadino had insulted Corcyrus by stripping a Corcyrian free woman against her will. He would be angry with himself that he hadn’t stood in her defence, responding to the challenge of Torcadino. He would be angry with Adamus, that his captain had refused to do his duty and defend one of their free women.

 

But it goes further than that. The free woman had parted her thighs (albeit under duress) and crawled under the threat of the whip to each man in turn and kissed the feet of those men. The free woman was now shaming her city by her actions. You, an earth man, might reasonably feel that she had little choice, but that’s not the point to the Gorean mindset. A free woman was now shaming her city. That would make Felix angry with her, too. Ultimately, to the Gorean mind, the only way such shame can be dealt with is to enslave the free woman. Once she is a slave, her past shame as a free woman is gone. The free woman no longer exists, and so her shame no longer exists. 

 

Goreans only view women as victims up to a certain point. They then become complicit in their shame. I could almost see the cogs turn in Felix’s head as he began to resent the free woman for the way she was behaving.

 

Is this fair?

 

No,  but that’s beside the point.

 

Is it Gorean?

 

Most certainly. 

 

Pretty Leda was the only naked girl in the room. The two tavern girls wore slave tunics. But pretty Leda was the only girl who did not wear a collar, and she did not have a brand.

 

Not yet, anyway.

 

She was a free woman. 

 

Atticus ordered her to bring paga to the tables to begin with. She was taught by one of the tavern girls how to kneel before a table and serve men. Serves vary considerably, but in this case, in this Inn, pretty Leda was taught to kneel in nadu as a pleasure slave, and warm the cup with her body. She came before me, and I watched as she pressed the cup to the valley of her breasts, moving it against her ample, ripe beauty, feeling the steel rim firmly, unyieldingly, against her bosom, her nipples, then raising and kissing it, then lowering it to her belly, and then, finally, lifting her eyes and arms, regarding me over the rim of the cup, kissing it again, one last time, lingeringly, lovingly, before presenting it to me.

 

“Leda offers you, paga,” she said, her voice quivering still. “Leda hopes it brings you pleasure.”

 

She did not call me master.

 

She was not a slave. 

 

“That is acceptable, Leda,” I said. “Do as well at the other tables and you will not be whipped tonight.”

 

There was palpable sense of relief in her expression. But that relief soon evaporated once she had finished greeting each man in turn.

 

“No!” she cried. “Please, no! I can’t do this!” 

 

Annika had been given the whip again. Her skin glistened with perspiration, for she had been dancing for a time in the sand pit, but now she would have a rest, and a new girl would dance in her place.

 

“Dance well, pretty Leda,” laughed one of the bold tavern girls. She sensed, I think, that there would be no repercussions for speaking that way to a free woman. Ordinarily Leda would have snapped back at the girl, but she now had other things to worry about as Annika produced an anklet with bells, and an array of fluttering wisps of silk to adorn the free woman’s body.

 

“I can’t dance! Do you not understand! I cannot dance!”

 

There was laughter throughout the room. “You are a female,” cried a man. “Dance as the female you are.”

 

Leda wept, but gave only token resistance to Annika, and that token resistance soon ceased when the dancer slapped the free woman’s rump with the flat of her hand.

 

“Stay still, girl!” snapped Annika.

 

“You struck me!” wailed Leda.

 

“And I will strike you again if you do not comply! Ankle!”

 

Miserably, Leda flexed her ankle and permitted the slave bells to be locked in place. She stood there, quivering, as wisps of silk were tied around her waist to flutter around her thighs, and then other silks were tied to her wrists. 

 

“I do not know how to dance!” she cried.

 

“Then you will be whipped,” said Annika. “Do you want to feel the lash?”

 

“No, please, no!”

 

“Then you will quickly discover you do know how to dance, won’t you, girl?”

 

And so, pretty Leda stumbled into the sandpit in the centre of the room, and as the musicians took up their instruments again, she began to dance. The girl was telling the truth when she said she was ignorant of dancing, but she tried her best. She had seen Annika, after all, and I think she had committed some of what the lithe dancer had done, to memory. 

 

“She is trying, masters,’ said Annika, kindly. She slithered the coils of the whip through the sand as Leda swayed her hips and raised her arms, turning on the ball of one foot. Her silks began to swish around her thighs as she danced.

 

“I cannot watch this,” snarked Felix. His hands were clenched into fists. “I cannot. She shames our city”

 

There. Felix had reached the point where he was now angry with the free woman. It was now her fault. She had brought herself to this. She was complying. What dignified free woman would permit herself to dance in gossamer silks before men? 

 

“You seem troubled, friend.” The voice belonged to the warrior from Torcadino – Atticus. He moved to our table and stood there, gazing down at Felix. “Does the girl not please you?”

 

Felix stared straight ahead, not even looking at Atticus. “She does not,” he said through gritted teeth.

 

I had a bad feeling about his. We were not supposed to be warriors. We were just peasants, fleeing the war. Don’t do this, Felix.

 

“My name is Atticus, and I am of Torcadino,” said the warrior.

 

“So you said.” Felix was in no mood for small talk.

 

“We drink together tonight,” said Atticus. “Why not introduce yourself and your friends?” He regarded us each in turn. To his credit, Adamus adopted a look of respectful and polite deference, as a peasant might show in the proximity of a warrior.

 

“I am Adamus, and this is Felix and Roland,” said Adamus.

 

“I do not think your friend, Felix, cares for me,” suggested Atticus. “Why so rude?”

 

“He mourns the loss of his prize pot-bellied tarsk,” said Adamus, quickly. “It, and what few other livestock we possessed, was taken by warriors of Argentum when they raided our village. Forgive him, Sir, for he cared for that tarsk, day and night. It once won a prize at a country show.”

 

Felix gripped the stem of his goblet and stared hard at the table.

 

“I see. Well friend, I have stolen no pot-bellied tarsks from you or any other farmer, so let us drink to one another’s health and enjoy the entertainment tonight?” He raised his goblet in Felix’s direction. All Felix has to do, I thought, is raise his goblet, say a few conciliatory words, and the warrior will leave us alone.

 

“I do not want to drink with you,” snarled Felix, in a manner that you would never hear if a peasant was addressing a warrior.

 

“I am hurt,” said Atticus. He gazed down at Felix. “Tell me, do you deliberately choose to insult my caste or my Home Stone?”

 

There was silence around our table. Adamus looked pointedly at Felix.

 

“I insult neither your caste, nor your Home Stone,” said Felix, at last. Adamus and I both breathed a sigh of relief. “I am insulting you.”

 

Fuck.

 

“Gentlemen!” the Innkeeper was suddenly between us all. “Please. I ask you, no, I beseech you, for you are both guests in my Inn. Please – no fighting. Not here. Not tonight. You know the rules.” He addressed Atticus in particular. “In accepting my hospitality, you have obligations to your host – obligations that would bring dishonour to you if you ignored them.”

 

“I just want to drink here on my own,” said Felix. “I am not looking for a fight.”

 

“There,” said the Innkeeper. “And please, Sir, an apology to this fine warrior of Torcadino. He simply misunderstood your desire for solitude tonight. A simple apology will suffice to the honour of Torcadino, will it not?”

 

Adamus stared hard at Felix.

 

“I apologise,” said Felix. “My words were sharp and ill-considered. I have lost much.” He stared hard at the lovely Leda as she danced in a revealing manner before men. 

 

“Be careful in future, farm-boy,” said Atticus. “Next time I may not be quite so forgiving.” And with that he left our table.

 

“You are going to have to stop doing that,” I said to Felix once the warrior was out of earshot. 

 

“I am going outside,” said Felix. “I need some fresh air.” And with that he rose from our table and left the main room.

 

I gazed round at Leda. Annika was guiding the movement of Leda’s hips with the touch of the coiled whip. The girl responded to each caress of the leather with a corresponding swish to the other side. She was clumsy, but she was learning. The men at their tables cheered each time Leda moved towards them. Leda would survive tonight, I think. She might even retain her freedom, having learnt a valuable lesson. Does that surprise you? That she might not be enslaved tonight?

 

Again, I should stress that an Inn has to observe some semblance of law and order if it wants to remain in business. If the free woman was enslaved within its walls for no legal reason (free women aren’t enslaved in cities just because they’re rude. If that was the case there wouldn’t be any free women left), yes, it might occur without any resistance, but afterwards men would talk. It only takes a few men to tell others that a free woman was enslaved in the Inn of Tiberius, for word to spread. Suddenly the Inn of Tiberius has a reputation. Travellers avoid it. After all, what’s next? Men being robbed because they complain about the stew? 

 

At the very least the Innkeeper would have to be seen to object and to attempt to prevent the enslavement of a free woman. 

 

There are of course urban myths of Inns located in far off lands where Innkeepers have an arrangement with outlaws. The outlaws take free women from the Inn with the prior arrangement of the Innkeeper and his staff who appear to put up some token resistance but have to give in when the outlaws draw blades. The money from the sale of the women is shared out equally, and the Innkeeper retains his good reputation. But like all such urban legends, no one has ever seen such a thing occur first hand. 

 

“I’ll speak to Felix,” I said. Adamus nodded as I rose from the table.

 

I walked past the sand pit and reached out with my left hand to slide it across the rump of pretty Leda, the free woman who danced in her shimmer-silks. She gasped, and the men in the room laughed. I had broken the ice. I had been the first to touch Leda, and now other men would. She looked at me with fear, realising the night had now grown more serious.

 

“Please, no,” she wept as a man rose from a table to come closer.

 

“Continue to dance,” snapped Annika as the free woman now found herself dancing before a man who reached out and stroked her thighs. She gasped again and her face flushed with shame. 

 

I found Felix outside in the walled courtyard, lingering beside an untethered wagon.

 

“For the record, I understand how you feel,” I said as I approached my comrade in arms.

 

“Do you?” he looked at me. “Do you really?”

 

“Yes, I do.”

 

“You’re a barbarian.”

 

“I have a Home Stone.”

 

“You do not understand what it is to have a Home Stone.”

 

“’I’m learning.” I leaned against the side of the wagon and gazed up at the three moons of Gor. It was a calm night, though there was faint drizzle from time to time. “I’m learning from men like you.”

 

Felix regarded me, but didn’t say anything.

 

“I appreciate your insights. And for what it’s worth, again, I look up to men like you. I’m proud to stand beside you.” I offered him my hand.

 

“I may have misjudged you, Roland,” and then he added, “of Corcyrus.”

 

“That I am.” We grasped each other’s clenched hand, close to our chests. “We have a duty, and we will see this mission through. Sometimes it will be painful, like tonight, but there is a saying on my home world – the end justifies the means.”

 

And as I spoke to Felix in that wet, drizzly courtyard, I gazed up to the side of the building, to a narrow, barred window, set high on the first floor. A young woman stood by that window, veiled, gazing down at us. It was Laetitia, locked safely inside her cell-like room until morning.