“I was frightened by the archery,” I said, “the birds, the waves, the strikes, the ferocity, the accuracy, the penetration.”
“Were they not such marksmen,” she said, “they would not be in their saddles; there would be no place for them in the cavalry.”
“How could one escape such shafts?”
“Have no fear,” she said. “Men will not fire upon you, no more than on any other domestic animal, a kaiila or verr. We are to be roped, herded together, penned, and shackled, and put to the pleasure of masters. That is for us. We are slaves.”
I pulled a little at the cords which held my hands behind my back. I could feel the hemp loop knotted about my neck, which held me with the others.
“What of free women?” I said, uneasily.
“They are free,” she said. “They are in considerable danger. Why else do you think they submit themselves so readily, and desperately?”
“I see,” I said.
“How quickly,” she said, scornfully, “they tear away their veils, and struggle to divest themselves of their robes, that they may kneel and, head deeply down between their lifted, extended arms, wrists crossed for binding, submit themselves!”
I was silent.
“How quickly,” she said, “their wrists are lashed together!”
“You speak,” I whispered, “as though from experience.”
“Barbarian!” she hissed.
“Forgive me,” I said.
“But how thrilled I was,” she said, “to be bound, and led away.”
“You had been found acceptable,” I said.
“Yes,” she said. “I was spared. I would live.”
“You are very lovely,” I said.
“In Brundisium,” she said, “I went for a silver tarsk.”
“That is a fine price,” I said.
“In that market,” she said, “it was quite good. What did you go for?”
“I have heard,” I said, “forty-eight copper tarsks.”
“That much?” she said.
“Yes,” I said.
“Do not be annoyed,” she said. “Much depends on the market. You might have gone for more, or less.”
“I see,” I said.
“Do not be upset,” she said. “I have seen the eyes of masters upon you.”
“Oh?” I said.
“You are not unattractive,” she said. “In Brundisium, you might have found yourself sold to a tavern.”
“I see,” I said. I gathered this might be a compliment.
“Some men,” she said, “might bid heatedly to have you at their feet.”
“I would hope to be found pleasing,” I said.
“You had better be, and perfectly, if you know what is good for you.”
“I understand,” I said.
“Are you still afraid?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“Do not be afraid of the archers,” she said. “Your tunic, if you are permitted one, will guarantee your safety. Even free women, in the sacking of a city, often affect tunics, to be taken for slaves. Apprehended, they are often lashed for deceit, a most unpleasant whipping, and then swiftly shackled, collared, and marked.”
“I hope they will give us tunics,” I said.
“In Shipcamp,” she said. “I heard a guard speak.”
“Good,” I said.
“Do you want a tunic?” she asked.
“Of course,” I said.
“You are modest?” she asked.
“Certainly,” I said.
“But you are not permitted modesty,” she said.
“Surely in public,” I said.
“Perhaps a little,” she said, “if it is permitted by masters.”
“Yes,” I said, “if it is permitted by masters.”
“But you are a barbarian,” she said.
“No matter,” I said.
“What do you know of modesty?” she said. “You were never a free woman.”
“I was!” I said.
“As free as women on your world can be free!” she scoffed.
“Perhaps,” I said.
“You do not know what it is to be free,” she said, “for you were never a Gorean free woman. You cannot know the freedom we have, the pride, the nobility, the splendor, the power, the raiment, the veiling, the dignity! Men defer to us. They step aside. They make way for us. They will not sit in our presence without permission. We have Home Stones! Did you have a Home Stone?”
“No,” I said.
“I thought not,” she said.
“Not everyone has a Home Stone,” I said.
“Beasts, misfits, vagabonds, exiles, repudiated men, scoundrels, outlaws, and such,” she said, and then, lowering her voice, whispered, “and perhaps Priest-Kings.”
I felt it wise to refrain from speaking, as she had spoken of Priest-Kings.
“How can you think of modesty on your world,” she said. “It is my understanding that there are places on your world where women bare their faces, even on the streets.”
“I have heard of some Gorean free women, unveiled, on the wharves,” I said.
“Of low caste,” she said. “And on work days, not holidays.”
A Gorean free woman is likely to fear the stripping of her face more than the stripping of her body. Although I found this surprising at first, upon reflection, it seemed reasonable. Bodies, however