Smugglers of Gor - By John Norman Page 0,42

beautiful. There was no one about that I could see, and I wondered how this place, which might be no different from ten thousand others, had been selected for our landfall. There must have been a signal of some sort. Naturally I had no idea where we were, other than on some remote beach, in the north. We were days from our port of departure.

“Position,” called a fellow, himself descending from the ship, splashing, and wading to shore.

So, cold, wet, and shivering, miserable, we went to “position,” kneeling back on our heels, our backs straight, our heads up, looking ahead, our knees spread, as the slaves we were, the palms of our hands down on our thighs.

It seemed then that the men forgot about us.

And it is well-known that kajirae are curious.

Much of the material cargo was being put to shore. Several men were in the water, being handed boxes, sacks, and bales, and some sealed vessels, even craters and amphorae. Some of the larger boxes were cast overboard, and, thrust, were floated to shore. Two large boxes, which had been lashed down on deck, and covered with greased canvas, were lowered over the side on ropes, with great care, to several men. I had no idea what the content of these boxes might be.

“Ai!” I cried, in misery, lashed at the side of the neck by a switch. He had come up behind me, from having brought a small barrel to shore.

“Are you not to be in position, your eyes forward?” he inquired.

“Yes, Master!” I said. “Forgive me, Master!”

I had twisted about, just a little, from time to time, to watch the men.

“Ha!” he said. “And you two, your eyes are now forward!”

“Yes, Master!” they said. Then they cried out, “Forgive me, Master!” I heard their cries, to my right, as the switch struck twice.

I was not the only one, it seemed, who had been curious.

The side of my neck stung. I had been reminded that a lapse from position, however slight, is not acceptable.

I was grateful, of course, that the men had not seen fit to lash us.

Looking ahead, I saw a figure emerging from the forest, in the green which I would come later to recognize as that of the foresters.

He lifted his hand, and said, “Tal,” and approached us. He conferred, briefly, with the chief of our armsmen. I had the sense that signs and countersigns might have been exchanged. The newcomer seemed particularly interested in the two large boxes which had been lowered carefully on ropes over the ship’s side, and then carried to shore. He then came before us, and examined us, one by one. “That one is a barbarian,” he was told, while I knelt as beautifully as I could before him. I was careful not to meet his eyes. Some masters do not allow their girls to meet their eyes. “No matter,” he said. “They all sweat and squeak the same.” He then drew back, and passed his eye over us once more. “Good,” he said. I could sense the relief which went through the chain. Certainly I felt it. We wish desperately to be found pleasing by men. It can be fearful for us if we are not.

Off in the forest we heard the roar of a beast.

We looked at one another, frightened.

Then, to my surprise, we were freed of the collars and chain. “You may stand,” we were told. We then stood in the surf, the water washing about our ankles. I held my arms about myself, as I was cold.

The collars and chain were then carried back to the ship. The mariners were busying themselves, apparently for departure. Oars emerged from the oar ports. The yard was being raised. The bow of the ship was turning about. I wondered why the ship had not been beached. One gathered that the captain and his officers were uneasy in this place. I suspected they had made more than one journey north. The collars and chains, doubtless, on a return trip, would grace new occupants, new beasts, such as I.

“Approach,” we were told, and, gratefully, we then stood on the beach, beside the disembarked cargo of the small vessel.

“Be in line, in order of descending height,” he said.

We so arranged ourselves.

We were then, from the back to the front, being put in a rope coffle, the rope to be knotted about our necks, as it had been when we had exited the holding area in our port of departure. We were not

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