Virtus Chapter 3: The Mark of Slavery

 

"I hate you!" I cried to him, in rage. I clutched the blanket about me. How hard it is for a girl, stripped, to stand before, and conduct herself with dignity before, as an equal, a man who is fully clothed. I clutched the blanket with my fists. I held it tightly about me. It gave me courage. He had made me love him! I loved him! And yet he cared nothing for me! "Don't you understand," I cried, "I love you! I love you! And yet you treat me as nothing! I hate you!" I shook with rage. "I hate you! I hate you!" I cried. After making me love him, he had permitted his men to amuse themselves with me! He had given me to them for their sport! "You gave me to others!" I wept. "I hate you!" I looked at him, wildly. "You do not know who I am," I said. "I am Judy Thornton! I am of Earth! I am not one of your barbarian girls, a slut for your pleasure! I am a refined, civilized young woman! I am better than you are! I am better than you all!"

                                                                                               -- Slave Girl of Gor

 

 

 The slave girl's blue eyes were wide with worry. “Are you sure about this?”

Vitellia Dina Liberta sighed in her small bronze tub, trying to enjoy the water while it was still warm. “Sheila,” she said patiently as her personal slaves Junia and Lachne sponged the day's dust from her sleek body, “I have to do something.”

“Well yes, I suppose, but you can't just barge in if he hasn't already summoned you ….”

Dina smiled, but in truth, Sheila's fear was matched by her own trepidation. What she was about to do would violate propriety in a number of ways. It seemed innocent enough – approach and speak with the father of her child – but to Gorean sensibilities it was impolitic if not downright unseemly and Dina was very keenly aware that Clitus Vitellius might not approve.

Deny it though Dina might, the approval of Clitus Vitellius meant a great deal. After all, she had not always been in possession of her own quarters, her own guards, or her own slaves. Oh, she'd been born into privilege – Judy Thornton had begun her life with a level of material comfort that was totally alien to Goreans – but all that had come to an end one dark night in a suburb of Manhattan.

The occasion was still sharp and clear in her memory. Judy Thornton and her friends (Sarah Huber, Mary Howard, and Teresa Ashton, along with Elicia Nevins who Judy didn't really like but who had been invited anyway by Mary) had just passed their midterms and had been looking to celebrate with a night at Norm's Steak and Cocktails, a small, smoky little place redolent with the stench of tobacco and spilled beer, with a cigarette machine and a jukebox playing Aerosmith. They'd all drank too much Heineken and Judy in particular was enjoying the flirtations of a few young men (this probably wasn't the safest possible behavior, but after spending all this time in the library of her girls-only university, the chance to get some male attention and one-up Elicia was too much to resist) from nearby Columbia University who she had no intentions of actually going home with. She could still remember the bowls of stale pretzels, the cigarette burns on the faded wooden counter, the cracked vinyl seats, the way the smell of tobacco smoke seemed to seep into her pores, the halter top and bell-bottom jeans she'd worn as young Frankie Angelo shamelessly tried to get her drunk enough to climb into the backseat of his wood-paneled Ford with its custom shag carpeting.

Well, she hadn't been that drunk, but she'd staggered coming out of the bar, head spinning from standing up so suddenly, and Elicia had insisted on driving her back. When she'd finally pulled over, Judy had barely been given time to notice that they were nowhere near her apartment when a strange man had come up behind her and a pad of some sweet-smelling material had been clamped over her nose and mouth. Judy had struggled, but was too inebriated to put up any real resistance and before long she'd passed out in his grasp.

She'd woken up naked in a vast, sweeping plain under the brilliant blue skies of Gor, chained by the neck to a giant boulder. Some time had obviously passed since her abduction – she hadn't even been hung over. Her attempts to free herself from the stone were as pointless as her attempts to escape her captor back in Manhattan, so she hadn't budged the stone an inch when Clitus Vitellius had come striding through the grass.

Then and there her nightmare had really begun. Since that first traumatic awakening, virginal schoolgirl Judy had come to know Gor through the brutality of its men and the cruel viciousness of its women. She'd grubbed in the dirt of a small farm with the sun burning her skin crimson, had been chained in the hold of a slave ship to suffer the gnawing of lice and rats, had howled her lungs out under the sting of the whip and had screamed in the grasp of men's tight, strong hands, writhing in shame and lust at the constant violation of her enslaved body. By the time Clitus Vitellius had led her down off of the auction block, she had been whipped, raped, and sold more times than she cared to count. Her lovely courtesan's thigh still bore a delicate floral pattern where her master had burned his mark into her flesh, and it was from that brand that she derived her new name.

Clitus Vitellius was a member of a powerful patrician family whose stature had only increased due to their support of the despot Marlenus in his successful coup. He was not generally haughty, but he had very definitive attitudes about the proper position of women – he had in fact been reproached and shunned from polite society several times due to his womanizing ways and his arrogant disregard for the suffocating norms of high-class Arian nobility – and had taken great pleasure in Dina's subservience. He could have purchased any number of slave women, but it had been Dina who he'd claimed as his own and Dina for whom he'd paid a fortune in gold, for whom he'd fought warriors with edged steel, and it had been Dina whose belly had swelled with his child.

This was not usually a big deal. It wasn't uncommon for Gorean noblemen to have slaves as concubines – marriages were often arranged for political purposes with little regard for sexual desire – and any offspring born of such relations were considered slaves themselves. A common sight in Gorean households was the presence of vernae, those slaves born in the house, who bore a suspiciously close resemblance to their master. If any of Clitus's brothers had owned Dina, then her child would simply have become a new slave and, if it became comely enough, perhaps it would take its mother's place on the sleeping couch.

Clitus Vitellius had never been conventional. This was a nobleman who'd insisted that ladies of high birth wear collars like paga whores when they shared his bed (and some of them had actually done so!) but who drank with peasants and played dice with common soldiers. His was a simpler world, one in which men were men and women were women. Despite the obligations of his social class, he'd never married a lady of high caste for the purpose of alliance, preferring instead to use women as slave girls and discard them when they ceased to please his senses. His disregard for the niceties of polite society had led him to free Dina and marry her, thus assuring himself that his son would be a freeborn citizen and the product of a legally legitimate relationship. The child, though issued from the body of a concubine, would become his lawful heir and would be raised as one who was of the renowned Scarlet Caste, trained in arms and armor, taught reading and writing and rhetoric, who would in time ascend the steps of the High Council in Ar and be the master of lands, villas, slaves, businesses, and soldiers.

It is said that a camel can be so overburdened that the weight of an additional straw is sufficient to break its back. So it was with the long-suffering Lucius Vitellius Trevis Balbo, who, tired of his son's mischief, had finally put his foot down. As his other sons had all done their duty, he had been inclined to overlook Clitus's behavior, but marrying a whore was just a step too far. He'd come marching in from his country villa in the Fulvian Hills to annul the marriage and to present his wayward heir with an ultimatum.

This irresponsible behavior must stop. If Clitus wished to keep any number of girl or boy slaves for his amusement then that was his own affair, but shirking his familial duties and insulting those of high birth and station would no longer be tolerated. Neither would Clitus's insistence on maintaining a low military rank that allowed him to conduct raids in enemy territory, fight on the front lines in combat, and personally lead attacks on enemy strongholds, all of which he preferred to the boring command positions often favored by ambitious men who used military experience to boost their political careers.

If Clitus did not agree to this, then he would, quite simply, be disowned. Oh, Lucius Vitellius was not cruel. He had agreed to allow his beloved son whatever monies might be required to maintain the reckless hedonism of his lifestyle. Lucius would even act as his patron, writing letters of recommendation and advising that he be promoted, honored, commended as he wished. Clitus Vitellius would get exactly what he wanted: he would be free to marry slave girls, drink with peasants, and fight barbarians sword-to-sword in the wilderness beyond the furthest reaches of the empire, and yet he would have the necessary funds and stature to host classy dinners in a lavish villa, sip fine wines from leaded glasses, and fuck noblewomen in the top floor of his town house while their husbands were attending meetings of the High Council. He would have no voice in the family affairs, but as he'd never seemed to take his familial obligations seriously, this would hardly be a deterrent.

Dina, who had seriously feared being auctioned off at her prospective father-in-law's command with no Clitus Vitellius to claim her (not to mention watching her son being sold to some filthy pederast), found this almost too good to be true. Clitus Vitellius, who had always chafed against the expectations of a Gorean noble, was now being given free reign to do as he wished while still retaining the benefits of his family connections? All of the power, with none of the ensuing obligations? When the ultimatum was announced, she'd smiled, clapping her hands with delight.

Her enthusiasm had faltered at his scowl. “You freed me,” she'd said by way of explanation, pouring him a glass of wine, “and now you too are free. Our future, and that of our son, is without limit.” She'd twined one arm around his waist and offered the glass with the other, kissing him in the hope that this would escalate to a bout of lovemaking in which she'd use her considerable skills to distract him from any second thoughts he might have entertained.

And then Clitus Vitellius had ignored the wine, pushed her away, and spent the night brooding by himself while she twisted on the silken cushions of her ornate couch-bed, a pit of anxiety in her gut as she worried whether all her progress of the last few years was about to be swept away.

A family meeting had been held. Dina, naturally, had not been invited, but word later reached her that Clitus Vitellius had apologized to his father and to his more dutiful brothers, confessed that he was acting more like a boy than a man (especially a man of the Vitellii), and had pledged to accept the position of military tribune in his father's legion, serving under Lucius Vitellius and demonstrating his newfound fealty. It was furthermore said that at the conclusion of this touching speech, both men had wept and embraced.

Shortly thereafter, the Tenth Legion had been sent to Argentum, a tributary city of Ar. Possibly this was in response to the fact that the bulk of the legions were gathering at points along the Vosk River and the regent Gnieus Lelius did not wish to deal with any rebellions from the Silver City in their absence. Possibly it had to do with the fact that the island nations of Cos and Tyros had been recruiting mercenaries on the continent. Honestly, what Dina knew about military strategy you could fit on the head of a pin and still have room left over for the Codes of the Warriors. What was rather more important, from her point of view, was that Clitus Vitellius was trying to prove that he'd turned over a new leaf and while he'd brought Dina along – lots of officers brought mistresses or concubines to content them on long campaigns – he hadn't actually made use of her well-trained body.

Well, if the mountain didn't come to Mohammed ….

Dina sighed again. Sometimes she felt ashamed of what she was, what she'd become. But she was a woman trying to survive in a strange and barbaric world. Not only that, she wished to ensure a future for her child and if her body could be used for this purpose then so much the better. She had very little honor or dignity left to guard. Almost anything that a man might do to a woman, someone had probably done to her at some point and if these sorts of things were going to happen anyway then why shouldn't she turn them to her own advantage? Was she really meant to spend her life adrift, floating like a feather upon a breeze, tossed hither and thither by forces beyond her control? Was she going to end up like Sheila?

“What?” Sheila's eyes narrowed as she saw Dina's expression.

Sheila was another Earth girl who'd been taken to Gor as a slave, but unlike Dina, she'd remained in that unhappy condition without any expectation of manumission. It wasn't hard to see why – the girl was lovely, lovely enough to make a skilled (former!) bedslave like Dina jealous, but she had no intelligence, no initiative of any kind. If there were such things as natural slaves, Sheila was definitely one of them.

“But ….but how am I wrong?” Sheila must have guessed the general trend of Dina's thoughts, because she sat up on the mat where she'd been reclining, looking frustrated. “He's a tribune now! He's probably doing all kinds of ….tribune stuff, and he's not gonna be happy if you just walk in on him! I mean, my owner would whip my butt if I did that. That's just how it works with these guys! You don't call for them, they call for you!”

“He hasn't called for me.” She stepped out of the bath, allowing water to trickle down onto the muddy floor of her personal tent, soaking into the wool rugs that had been set there. It was getting late, and the cool evening breezes caused the tent flap to rattle and sent a chill over her bare skin. Her two handmaids, Lachne and Junia, rushed over with towels to pat her down. “We're a couple days from the city walls, and God only knows what he'll be doing then. What do you want me to do, call him on the telephone?”

“Is it so bad if he does, you know, lose interest?” Sheila had the look of someone walking on uneven ground, her big blue eyes fixed on Dina's. “Not that he should. You look great!” She gestured at the curves and lines of Dina's nudity, but her gaze stayed fixed on the subtle nuances of her friend's face and her body was poised as though to flee. “But you know how these men are.”

That kind of attitude was why Sheila was such a natural slave. But it would never do to tell her this, so Dina just smiled and watched the corresponding look of relief on Sheila's face as she realized her friend wasn't angry.

“Clitus Vitellius is my problem,” she said, laying a hand on the younger woman's shoulder. “You just let me worry about what he'll say.”

“Okay, fine, do whatever you want.”

“Are you going to help me get ready, or are you going to keep nagging me?” She knelt on the mat, picking up the dull bronze mirror with the horoscope etched around the edges. Sheila, as a trained bedslave herself, was skilled in such matters. Lachne was also skilled, but Junia was some peasant girl who had thick, clumsy fingers and didn't know the first thing about makeup.

“Okay, okay.” Sheila opened a small but ornate bench chest near Dina's bedroll and withdrew several small clay vials, delicate glass amphorettes, and stoppered jars. Usually, she would apply this in the morning, but morning had come and gone and Dina had not been given any cause to prettify herself. As usual. “Can I borrow your bath? Lachne and Junia can help with the makeup.”

Dina knelt before the bench chest as Lachne popped open a jar of foundation cream made from honey, animal fat, and white lead ceruse. It smelled awful. “No, no.”

“Please?” Sheila looked genuinely hurt. “The water's still warm and everything.”

“I mean, yes to the bath, no to the foundation.”

“You have foundation cream?”

Dina rolled her eyes. “You can use it if you want. And the bath.”

“You are such a good friend.” Sheila peeled off her own clothing, which was just a single long dress pinned up at the shoulders. It came down to just below her knees, which was considered scandalous among Goreans. Below it she only wore the breastband common to all Gorean women. Her hair was also dusty and she dunked her head in, scooping up handfuls of water and splashing her face, her blonde hair looking darker as it got wet.

Junia, looking nervous, said something in Gorean and Dina took a second to make the mental shift. Oh, yes, she was holding out a capsule with a paste made of squid ink – it didn't smell very good either, but it was a common form of eyeliner.

“Let Lachne do it,” said Dina in Gorean. Lachne had been raised from birth as a hairdresser – ornatrices, they were called – and Dina got the impression that she wasn't pleased at having to attend a glorified prostitute. She'd certainly been in a bad mood since the legion's departure, presumably because of some boy she'd had to leave behind, but now she was behaving herself. And Dina couldn't deny the teenager's skill with cosmetics and hairdressing, even if she seemed offensively surprised by the sluttiness of Dina's clothes. Junia, on the other hand, had been Dina's attempt at buying a servant without any prior allegiance to the Vitellius family (her other attendants had been given to her by Clitus Vitellius and were therefore not to be trusted) but as her budget was correspondingly smaller than that of a high-caste family, she'd wound up with a ten-year-old peasant who didn't know the first thing about proper hairdressing.

Junia and Lachne exchanged looks, and Lachne snatched the capsule from Junia's hand. Junia had to settle for patting down her mistress's face with a fine layer of hematite powder and painting the tips of Dina's breasts (she'd sometimes worn gold powder on her nipples, but that was too expensive for daily use), the palms of her hands, and the soles of her feet with henna. Gorean women usually applied makeup to a degree that would be considered exaggerated back on Earth, but as the sun was getting low and there was little in the way of indoor lighting, a heavy paint job was necessary just to get anyone to notice your efforts. Dina's makeup was actually light by the standards of courtesans, though as the ingredients for cosmetics included such foul-smelling ingredients as animal fat, boar's dung, snail slime and vinegar, a lack of makeup meant that you could go easy on the perfume. A light sprinkling from a glass amphorette filled the tent with the smell of crushed dinas (how appropriate!) and that was all she really needed.

“Do you think I should shave?” This was not a pleasant process, but Dina had dark hair and light skin, which meant that any delay in her grooming regimen was swiftly noticed. 

“I don't know.” Sheila ran her hands over her own legs, frowning slightly, and then shrugged. “My guy doesn't give me a lot of trouble about that.”

“Speaking of your guy,” said Dina, deciding to leave her body hair alone for now, “why this overwhelming concern for cleanliness?” She'd deal with it in Argentum, where there would presumably be beauticians and beeswax and better razors than her old dull ones. Besides, coming to see Clitus Vitellius without invitation was already pathetic enough without her deliberately looking desperate. She should appear pleasing to the eye, but not as though she were outright eager for his attention. Light makeup, a short bath, and now to get dressed.

“Should I not be concerned?” Sheila's voice was artificially light. “Am I normally some dirty, disgusting person?”

“What?” Dina sighed and made one last concession to vanity, dipping her finger in a jar of winedregs and reddening her lips.

“I mean, is it that unusual that I would want to take a bath? We've been in this wilderness for weeks now, and we'll probably be in civilization within a few days – um, maybe I will shave, now that you've got me feeling all anxious about it.”

“Okay, just do it sort of quickly. I'm going to be leaving soon.” Dina checked herself in the mirror, which was blurred (she'd never understood the phrase “in a mirror darkly” before coming to Gor) but revealed red lips, dark eyes, and a lovely sheen on her face. Good enough, and more than Clitus Vitellius deserved.

“You're kicking me out? I can't spend the night?”

“Not if you've got a date with Drusus Rencius, haha.” In another bench chest was a collection of jewelry. With a flick of her hand she dismissed Junia to help Sheila out and fastened her earrings herself. They were an ornate pair, each with a single pearl suspended in a golden setting. As noblewomen customarily veiled their faces and poor women couldn't afford jewelry, such rich earrings were seen as a sign of a bedslave or prostitute and were therefore considered highly degrading. On her arm went a gilded bronze serpent bracelet that had been a gift from Clitus Vitellius and over her whole body Dina slipped a red silk robe, enjoying the feeling of silk on skin.

Silk was harvested from a race of giant spiders that dwelled in the swamps near Ar. It was a rich and expensive material, and it earned the scorn of moralists by being not only luxurious but also transparent, allowing a woman to seem respectable and modest and yet display the lineaments of her body when light struck her in a certain manner. When the Ubar Marlenus had seized power in Ar, one of his public morality laws limited the wearing of silk by women of stature and now it was more commonly to be found adorning the bodies of prostitutes or courtesans – in fact, “red-silk girl” was a common Gorean euphemism for a bedslave.

Dina knew that she would never be considered respectable among the nobles of Ar, and dressed accordingly. Her silk robe was even stamped with images of dina flowers – nothing could remove the brand from her hip, and so she chose to make the symbol her own. She preferred to think of this as throwing her low origins in their teeth the way some merchants and freedmen did, but the truth was that she would have been frightened to assume the trappings of gentle birth. Lachne removed a blonde wig with long, loose hair befitting a courtesan or classy prostitute and fit it carefully over Dina's short dark-brown hair. She let the blonde hair fall loosely over her shoulders and her bare white arms protruded from the robe. Her face she veiled, but with the same diaphanous silk that revealed more than it hid. She stood, shaking out the baggy gown, wearing what was essentially a slutty version of a typical noblewoman's attire, and smiled.

Perfect. If nothing else, it made her feel much more confident to be this beautiful. Like most women, Dina's appearance and her sense of self-esteem were closely linked – so closely that she'd actually considered using the lead cosmetics just so she could feel better about herself – and when you were dealing with someone like Clitus Vitellius it was very important to be confident. He was a natural master of women, and just as a wolf could pick a sick or injured deer out of a whole herd, so too could a predator like him detect the slightest weakness or insecurity in his small, soft, trembling prey and exploit it ruthlessly.

“Well, you look good.” Sheila, now out of the tub and dripping into the open bench chest, ran her fingers over the brocaded silk with some jealousy. Her owner, a centurion named Drusus Rencius, generally didn't provide her with so many cosmetics. All Sheila wore besides her grayish-white gown – fine quality, but not elaborate in any way - were the small copper rings in her ears. Dina looked at her and felt a pang of nostalgia. There had been a time when her friend's status would have seemed like something to which she might hardly dare aspire.

Dina decided that it was time to get moving. It was now late enough in the day that only candlelight illuminated the tent's interior. Soon the gates to the fortified camp (they weren't on campaign, but it was a matter of procedure) would be closed and the huge black attack sleen in their spiked collars would be set to patrolling the perimeter. She directed Lachne to help Sheila finished.

“So, are you spending the night or not?” It was dangerous for any woman, let alone one as pretty as Sheila, to wander through an army camp in the dark. As the Tribune's woman, Dina's tent was usually guarded and she was willing to let her friend, the only other Earth woman she knew, take advantage of that.

“Oh, no, I can't do that.” Sheila smiled shyly. “You were right, I'm, uh ….expected tonight. I'm supposed to be there by nightfall.”

“Are you going to finish shaving? I would care to arrive before the camp closes.”

Sheila dithered, Junia working on her legs and Lachne on her face. “I just need a little bit of lipstick and to get the legs finished.”

“You don't really need to shave.” It was true. Sheila had very fine, light-colored hair, which Dina envied.

“Yes, but I can't go with only one leg done, can I? I would look like an idiot.”

Dina sighed and sat down on the bench chest, secretly glad for an excuse to delay while her friend got made up. The morning had been chilly, but now that late afternoon was here the weather was hot and sticky, and flies buzzed around the inside of the tent.

“So,” she grinned, more to stop the churn of nausea in her stomach than because she really cared, “I see someone hasn't lost their appeal.”

“Haha, maybe.” Sheila covered a smile with her hand. “He just told me to be ready for him at nightfall. I don't know what we're doing.”

“What else would you be doing? I bet you've got him wrapped around your finger. What are you doing that I'm not?”

“Uh, sleeping with him, I think.” Sheila had that nervous, wary look on her face again and Dina chastised herself for being jealous. After all, Sheila was still enslaved, Sheila was expected to fuck when and how her owner demanded, Sheila had just mooched off of Dina's used bathwater – but Sheila was wanted, and that made all the difference.

“More than I'm doing.”

“It's not ….he's not ….he just uses me, I don't get any special benefits – I mean, I like him, right? And he likes me! But that's it, nothing happens from me being with him. I don't have that ….magic feminine power, I guess. Not like you do.”

Dina made a very unladylike snort. “Magic power! Don't be silly. Drusus Rencius is practically falling at your feet!”

“Really?” Sheila sounded extremely doubtful, and she would know.

Dina made herself sound confident. “Darling, you've got that man wrapped around your finger. It would be obvious to a blind man. His own soldiers laugh at him behind his back for being the dupe of a woman.”

“No they don't.”

“Honey, everyone can see it but you. I wouldn't be surprised if he tries to marry you some day."

"I really think ...."

"Come on, we ought to get there before dark.”

The two girls threw on their long wool cloaks and left the tent, which was located outside the main camp and among the followers, far from the main legionary stockade. It was close to the camp that the Earth girls called “Indian Country” because of the fact that it was home to several groups of auxiliaries who really did look like Red Indians in the same way that most Goreans looked like Greeks or Romans. Two of these Indians were sitting Indian-style (how else?) in front of her tent, speaking in their own language and playing dice. They were taller than the average Arian, with long, greasy black hair, brownish skin (it wasn't really red) and castoff arms and armor acquired through trade or plunder. One wore a sword at his hip, the other a tattered chainmail shirt that was too small for him. Civilized Arians considered these folks to be frightening, but while they were bloodthirsty savages who loved nothing more than taking scalps, Dina didn't necessarily think that they were worse than Arians when it came to brutality. They were called Castor and Pollux (they weren't actually related, but they looked the same to the Arians, who couldn't pronounce their real names). When they saw the two girls, they sprang to their feet in identical smooth, catlike motions and followed. It was their duty to protect the Tribune's woman – Arians liked using foreigners as guards because foreign barbarians were unlikely to have conflicting loyalties.

Dina ignored these completely. They were Clitus Vitellius's creatures, just like Lachne. Everything she owned, even her own body, was hers by the generosity of Clitus Vitellius. At first she'd been glad to have anything at all, and then she'd gotten used to her status (there were worse things) but now, with Clitus's interest in her on the wane, her dependence on him took on a terrifying significance.

It was easy enough to find the tent. Arian legionary camps were generally very orderly, more so than their actual cities, and the tents were laid out in neat rows. The guards at the gate recognized her and grinned at each other, which she ignored. There was a central lane at the end of which was the commander's tent, which was larger than the others and positioned exactly so anyone entering via the front gate couldn't possibly miss it.

The men were still active, and she could smell a dozen different fires. In addition to the requisite eight men, each tent came with a small dinosaur-like creature called a tharlarion and a camp slave. These carried a mill used to prepare and bake each soldier's allotment of grain. This close to the lake, water wasn't a problem, so many prepared porridge from their grain and water, sometimes sprinkled with salt if one could afford it. There was the grunting of pigs, these being a major food source of legionaries, and some men had been foraging in the surrounding hinterlands, where they'd secured dog-sized rodents, small creatures like antelopes called tabuk, game birds, reptiles, and wild pigs. Others had gone fishing in the lake for carp, catfish, eels, freshwater crustaceans that looked like shrimp or crawdads, clams, ducks, and geese. Yes, this was a good spot to set up camp, which was why several peasant villages had inhabited the area and the canoes of fishermen could be seen sculling around the lake.

Dina had to move against the tide, as a number of the camp followers were being ejected from the fortified camp. These included merchants (slave traders often followed legions to dispose of captives), prostitutes, mercenaries looking for work, and refugees or travelers that attached themselves to a larger group to defend themselves from bandits. This wasn't foolproof, since many legionaries weren't above a bit of banditry themselves, but Lucius Vitellius was known for curbing this behavior in friendly territory and the presence of so many armed men would deter raiders. It was a bit like small fish swimming near a shark.

“Out,” snapped the camp prefect, a humorless man by the name of Marcus Lavinius who had little tolerance for these hangers-on even at the best of times. Likely he would not have endured their presence at all if the legion was really marching to war. He raised a staff of ka-la-na wood that officers often used for motivational purposes. “Out with you all. Do you not see the sun? No, that is right, you cannot see it, which means that it is time for you to leave. This camp is closing! Out! Out! Out!”

Two women in skimpy wool dresses and a man with handfuls of wooden beads scurried for the gate. Dina turned to meet his gaze, feeling the familiar knot in the pit of her stomach when a man was angry with her, but also the spiteful pleasure that came from defying arrogant males and their presumptions of authority.

“I am to see Tribune Vitellius.” Her voice was perfectly level and did not shake.

His eyes narrowed. Dina's heart beat a little bit faster. “Oh, yes. Well, get to the tent, I suppose. I do not want you lurking around in the dark like a she-sleen.”

As “she-sleen” was a common euphemism for “prostitute,” Dina's lip curled, but she didn't dare actually enter into difficulties with an officer of the camp. Especially not when Clitus Vitellius's regard for her seemed low.

“My thanks, Noble Prefect.” She idly wondered if Marcus Lavinius would care to fuck her. No doubt he would, but would he keep her around, provide for her and Lucius Minor?

Absolutely not. Her connection to the Vitellii was a rare and fragile thing. Sheila was right – once a man owned a woman, there was really nothing stopping him from doing as he wished with her and with another man she wouldn't have the advantage of having borne his child.

“I've got to go.” Sheila moved to kiss Dina, but was stymied by the veil and Dina's own hand – it wouldn't do to ruin her makeup. She settled for blowing a kiss. “Good luck.”

“You too.” Sheila scurried off, holding up the hem of her dress and glancing around nervously and making herself seem very slavish in doing so.

Dina herself was not a girl like Sheila. She did not run. Slaves scurried around like ants. Important men and women walked sedately. In fact, the clothing for important men and women was so long and cumbersome that it was practically impossible to run in it without tripping, which allowed everyone to see that the wearer didn't have to rush anywhere or perform any manual labor. And so Dina strode like a queen, her head high, ignoring the occasional catcalls from soldiers preparing their evening meal, secure in her position. Dina walked sedately down the central isle, dodging a staged gladiatorial bout between two camp slaves (they were numerous and trained at weapons along with their masters, which made them more unruly than the average slave) wishing to run to the tent of her former master but not wishing to seem overeager.

By the time she reached the praetorium, it was dark enough that the candelight glowed warmly from the tent flaps. Hushed voices came from within and she paused to make sure none of those voices belonged to Lucius Vitellius.

“He is busy.” It was a legionary, probably one under the command of First Spear Drusus Rencius and therefore one of the most important centuries in the legion. He didn't look particularly magnificent, though; he was leaning against his spear and obviously removing the cloak and silks from Dina in his mind.

Dina didn't mind these sorts of stares. After years of having her body available to anyone with a handful of copper coins, it was very gratifying to regain the power granted to her by her beauty, to know that men wanted you, that they would rape you if they could, but that they could do nothing save stare impotently as you strode past with your nose in the air. On Earth, Dina's beauty had made her feel powerful. When she'd become the Tribune's concubine, she'd regained that power.

“Not too busy for me, I hope.” She looked the soldier in the eye. This was not difficult as most Arian legionaries were about the same height as Dina. “Tell me, with whom does he speak?”

The second legionary, also mentally undressing her, shrugged. “Some peasants.”

“Peasants?” Dina was not fond of peasants.

He shrugged again. “It has something to do with bandits robbing their village.”

Oh, yes. Lucius Vitellius had decided that the Tenth Legion might as well make itself useful on the march, and so it had been rounding up wild beasts and bandits along the road. There had been competitions between different centuries as to who could capture the most panthers, sleen, tharlarion, and other fearsome brutes, which would be sold in Argentum and likely end their lives in the city's arena. The same fate would befall most bandits, though others were simply left impaled on stakes beside the road, often not completely dead, as a warning to other lawbreakers and a means of reassuring honest citizens that the law was, in fact, being enforced. This was especially important considering the activities of Cos had led to a number of sackings, lootings, and dislocations of individuals or entire villages. It was therefore important to make a show of punishing criminals and creating order. Otherwise panic might spread. Already the legions had passed lines of refugees making their way to the safety of Argentum's city walls.

Still, Dina did not wish to be balked, and frankly she could hardly care less about a village of fucking peasants. “I think the Tribune will tolerate my presence at these sensitive discussions,” she said, rolling her eyes slightly. “If I may?”

The legionary hesitated, but he knew what Dina was to the commander and finally made a dismissive shrug. “Your savages must remain without.”

Oh, yes. Dina dismissed the pair of Indians, who, being auxiliaries, weren't supposed to be in the regular camp anyway.

A child's voice raised. Ah, yes, her son! While the presence of Lucius Vitellius Minor (she'd wanted to name him Robert after her own father, but Clitus Vitellius had overruled her) would complicate any potential seduction, she did wish to see her child once more.

In one respect, Clitus Vitellius had not completely lived up to his promise to his father: he had showed no sign of rejecting his son. He had arranged for young Lucius to be trained in the typical arts of the warrior caste, and already the boy was learning the sword, spear, and shield. But to Dina, this was not all to the good. Already the boy was being taunted by his peers about having a kajira for a mother; already he was displaying the haughty patrician pride not dissimilar to the men who'd looked down upon Dina in the past.

She knew it was selfish, but Dina was unlikely to ever see her family. Lucius Minor was all she had, and while she had difficulty admitting it to herself, one reason why she loved her son was that he might be the only Gorean male who cared about her personally. To have him be ashamed of her, to reject her as his mother – she had a sudden insight as to how Lucius Vitellius Major must have felt when confronted with his own son's unconventional behavior.

To the eyes of the boy, she knew how it must look. His father represented status and power, not just from family connections but from his own skill at arms. His father fought in duels. His father conquered barbarian savages. His father rode tarns, great birds like hawks or eagles that could bear a man's weight as they flew, mighty monsters that only the bravest dared to mount. Everything that a young boy would find most exciting was represented in the person of Clitus Vitellius, and his mother was a foreign whore who was viewed by the rest of his father's family as a disgrace.

Well, maybe it would come to pass that Lucius Vitellius Minor would forget her very name. And he might even be better off for it. But not yet. She was not ready to give up her one and only family member in this whole world. It might be selfish, but as someone who usually existed solely for the pleasure of others, Dina felt that she had the right to indulge in occasional bouts of selfishness.

She stepped gracefully into the tent, aware as she did so of a feeling of tightness in her gut and beneath that, a sort of unwelcome anticipation. It had been long since she'd been summoned to the presence of Clitus Vitellius.

The guards had not been lying. Two men, taller and larger than most urbanites, yet still small and thin by the standards of high-caste Goreans, were standing barefoot in dirty gray tunics. One had blond hair and blue eyes while the other had reddish brown hair and bright green eyes. Both sets of eyes went to Dina as she entered.

Across the table from the peasants stood two other men, both taller and larger than them, who appeared to fill the tent with their presence. One, wearing a dusty pink tunic and holding a crested helmet under his arm, was the centurion Drusus Rencius. He was an impressive fellow, the sort built for military parades, with broad shoulders, large hands, and inscrutable gray eyes. Another was the wiry and bronzed decurion Carvilianus, about whom Dina knew little but who had come up from a relatively unknown family and carried himself with the studied arrogance of one whose birth was far more advanced. Dina respected that.

Yet the third officer seemed to diminish all others by comparison. That one was wearing a scarlet tunic trimmed with gold and a long flowing cape. His armor and weapons were conspicuously displayed in the back of the huge tent and a bowl of fruit with five glasses of wine were laid out on the table by a young and pretty slave boy. Thus he did these peasants honor by meeting with them himself instead of sending a subordinate, by dressing himself in fine clothes as if speaking with a person of importance, of serving them food and drink and in doing so extending hospitality, which was something Dina knew that peasants took very seriously. They looked incongruous amidst all the finery, which in and of itself said that Clitus Vitellius was as genuinely concerned with impressing them as he might have been with a rival nobleman.

His gaze shifted to the opening of the tent, and his eyes met Dina's. Almost immediately her resolve weakened.

This, she thought, annoyed with herself, was why she'd always had difficulty with Clitus Vitellius; he ignited her as much as she ignited him. She'd come to remind him of her presence, but the sight of that aquiline, rugged face with its mop of shaggy black hair, the dark, piercing gaze, the broad shoulders with the muscular, tanned arms and the calloused hands that could be brutal or gentle as he chose, just the intimidating presence of this man sent a little shiver down her spine, her naked body quivering beneath the smooth silk.

Dina did not appreciate having her own powers of seduction turned against her. She focused instead on the fifth inhabitant of the tent, one who was certainly less impressive than the officers but who nonetheless filled Dina's heart with an entirely different form of longing.

He was a little boy with the same dark, shaggy hair as his father and yet a face that more closely resembled that of Judy Thornton, reminding her at times of her younger brother Andrew. He wore a small scarlet tunic and on his belt there was a jeweled dagger with silver inlay, but the golden amulet around his neck was a sign of youth. He perched over the map on the desk like a general deploying his forces and he did not once look at his mother.

“I think,” he said as if there had been no interruption, “that we should surround them while they yet sleep. You, peasant,” – his tone already carried ringing authority when he spoke to his inferiors – “say you that there is a depression in the ground?”

“That is so,” smiled the green-eyed peasant, inclining his head.

“Then we should shoot arrows into it and kill them from a distance!”

“But Young Master ….”

“Yes, yes,” said Clitus impatiently, “my son is yet young and lacks experience.” He lay a hand on the boy's shoulder. “You and your fellows, of course, will flush them from cover. My men know not the land and might give warning to the sleen. That will give you a chance to deliver your sons or daughters from captivity without the risk of my men slaying them in the confusion. Once the bandits are in the open, the auxiliaries can ride them down without difficulty. All my men will do is hold the line and keep them from escape.”

“Er,” said Drusus Rencius, glancing from Dina to Clitus Vitellius.

“That is well, Tribune,” said the green-eyed peasant. “We know how to deal with these sleen. All we wish is your assurance that your men will not trouble us or our village.”

“You have it. The people of Giadini deserve my respect, and no doubt the respect of my men. Is that not so, Drusus?”

“No doubt it is, Sir. I might mention ….” He jerked his head towards Dina.

“What?” He glanced again at Dina, as though surprised she was still here.

“I grew lonely awaiting you, Clitus.” She slid the robe down slightly to expose her tanned shoulders, her pale throat with a paler band where she'd once worn a slave collar, and the tops of her breasts.

Her would-be husband showed no sign of concern. Lucius Minor's did. “Mother?”

“Oh, yes.” Clitus nodded briskly. “The night grows cold and you miss your child.”

“She looks as though she wishes to nurse him,” said the green-eyed peasant, eyeing Dina's cleavage like a sleen with a chunk of meat.

“Mind your tongue, peasant,” snapped Carvilianus. “You are speaking of a tribune's concubine.”

Clitus Vitellius seemed to find this just as amusing as the peasants. Clitus Minor, on the other hand, turned red and resolutely looked away, straightening his back and stiffening his shoulders like a very tiny soldier on parade.

“Ah, Noble Carvilianus, know you not that this how peasants always speak? They are bluff and honest, not prone to the deceits and hypocrisies of civilized folk.”

Centurion Rencius seemed amused. “If I may be so bold, Tribune, the decurion speaks truly. It is unbecoming ….”

Clitus Vitellius cut him off with a raised hand. “You are starting to sound like my father, Drusus. In any case, let us not quarrel before the peasants – bad form, eh?”

“Of course, sir.”

Clitus Vitellius turned back to his peasants. “This plan that we have devised seems good in my eyes. I think that we should carry it out. Even if some escape, these sleen should be so reduced in number that they will do little harm to your village.”

“Noble Tribune.” The peasants lowered their heads.

“There remains but one difficulty.” He looked at the peasant with the reddish-brown hair. “Understand well, I cannot guarantee the safety of your children during the attack. All manner of things might happen. It is for this reason that I have told your village to take the lead, so that you might have every chance to recover whoever was taken.”

“And for that I am grateful.” The peasant had that annoying hick accent common among Gorean peasants. “I think it is better to risk slaying my daughter than for her to be defiled by bandits.”

“I, too, think that it is better to risk slaying her than for her to be defiled by bandits.” Considering how many women and boys had been defiled by the cock of Clitus Vitellius, it took considerable restraint to keep Dina from rolling her eyes. “But if she has been defiled, I am willing to take her off of your hands.”

Minor looked up. “What does it mean, for her to be defiled?”

This only brought laughter from the men present, which made Minor look confused, and then angry. He hated being talked down to, something that Dina could appreciate.

“My gratitude for the offer, Noble Vitellius,” said the green-eyed peasant seriously. “The elders will have to decide what will be done with her.”

“That is appropriate.” Clitus Vitellius glanced around. “Minor, I wish to repeat that your participation will be in the modality of the spectator. Your word?”

Dina blinked. Surely ….he couldn't possibly ….

Lucius Vitellius Minor stuck out his hand. Man and boy clasped hands, each grasping the other's wrist, Clitus Vitellius bending down so each could rest his hand upon the other's shoulder.

Oh no ….

“Well done, sir.” At last something seemed to please Centurion Rencius. “Befitting the son of a Warrior.”

“Truly you have said.” With a fond look at Lucius Minor, Clitus Vitellius released his grip and stood. “Rencius, prepare him. Peasants, decurion, await me at the appointed time. At the appointed place. The guards will let you out.”

It would have done Dina no good to say anything. A man of his status could not be criticized by his own freedwoman in front of his officers. She bit her tongue as everyone bowed their way out of the tent, Minor glancing curiously at his mother as Rencius herded him off. Even the slave was dismissed.

Once Dina and Clitus Vitellius were alone in the tent, Dina approached her former master, being sure to smile at him in a suitably alluring fashion.

“It has been long since last I summoned you.”

Dina appropriated the jug of wine from the table, watered down as was appropriate (unmixed wine was only served at rowdy dinner parties) and considered dismissing the guards. No, better not to countermand or undermine. Anyway, they were in a tent, not a bank vault. It wouldn't exactly be difficult for someone to overhear and while she would have preferred to speak in private, this was her best chance before they reached Argentum. She poured generous helpings into two heavy lead cups, and handed one to Clitus Vitellius, who set it on the table without looking.

“Of what were you speaking?”

“Nothing of importance. Some peasants have been troubled by bandits. Myself and a few of the lads shall see to them. It should be interesting.”

“How many are there?” As the countryside was in a rather pleasant climate and near a river and lake, there were a number of fishermen, farmers, hunters and other folks who had gathered here. The presence of the legion had only swelled their numbers. She supposed that a large gang of robbers or mercenaries could have taken to plundering the region, though she hadn't heard much about it.

“It is estimated that they number one or two dozen.”

“One or two dozen bandits warrants the intervention of a legion?”

Clitus Vitellius seized up his cup and took a swallow. “You have many questions tonight, Dina. Where did you get your knowledge of military strategy?” He laughed before she could answer. “The legion is not getting involved. As I said, only myself and a few lads will intervene, picked men. The peasants themselves are growing quite weary of these sleen and will happily take the lead in the slaying of such vermin.”

“You are leading the attack personally?”

“Legate Dina.” He raised his arm in salute, sloshing the watery wine. “There's the brilliant mind I've missed. Give tongue, cry out against the foolishness of my campaign. Let the weight of long experience give credence to your words.”

“I had not realized the destruction of a handful of bandits was so significant!”

“And why not? I've done nothing of importance since we left sight of Ar! My responsibilities as commander, as my noble father continues to inform me, do not permit me to engage in any sort of actual combat. And I have so far abstained from such activity. While the men have hunted panthers and bandits alike, I have remained within the praetorium, signing papers and arbitrating disputes and writing reports. We are now near the gates of Argentum where no doubt I shall be compelled to engage in more bureaucratic and political nonsense of the sort deemed appropriate for one of my station and for once it is my wish to do something of interest before those heavy gates seal shut behind me.” His mouth quirked in a disappointed pout, making him look very much like his son. “Hersius's cock, woman, my sword grows thirsty and I've precious little time left to see to its satisfaction.

“Besides,” he added as an afterthought, “it will be good for Minor to see battle. Not true battle – I expect this to be more of a slaughter – but it is well to become accustomed to the shedding of blood at a young age.”

“I ….I still have much to learn about your language,” said Dina calmly, “but it sounded almost as though you wished to take our son into combat.”

For an instant Clitus Vitellius seemed confused. “He is not going to fight. He shall watch from a safe vantage point.”

“He is going to be present at a battle.”

“Not a battle, my delicacy, more like a ….”

“No.” Dina forced herself to calm herself, to speak more softly, to sound more ingratiating. You did not speak to men of the Vitellii in a forceful tone of voice, especially if you were a freedwoman. You did not make demands of them or issue ultimatums. She'd been whipped by him in the past and she knew that if she really pissed him off, he'd have no trouble laying his hands on her again.

In a sense, she thought, this represented the battle of the sexes. On one side of the great table was the man, tall and strong, olive skin burned brown by the sun, garbed in blazing scarlet with the panoply of war all about him, all sorts of suitably phallic weapons carefully hung up in the tent and framing him as he stood there like some terrible god of battle and bloodshed. On the other side was a woman, small and slight and pale, her curvaceous body draped in transparent silks, bearing the mark of slavery with insolent pride. Her face was painted and her soft body was scented. Thus armed with allure and the desire to protect her child did Judy Thornton carry the banner of her sex deep into the enemy camp.

Across the table was her rival. The corded muscles of his arms flexed as he folded them. His gaze fixed her like a serpent with a mouse.

“What do you mean, 'no?' I say yes.” He laughed and strode around the table, putting a friendly hand on her shoulders and drawing her close to the massiveness of his broad, powerful chest. She could feel the heat of his body through her thin silk and controlled the urge to wish she'd worn more substantial clothing. That was a sign of weakness. She must remember that her body was her strength, her soft curves a potent weapon against the most fierce, most rampant male aggression. “Oh, I know your woman's fears,” he said, stroking her gently like he would a nervous kaiila. “I shall not even lie to you – there is always a possibility of accident. But he shall be well away from the action, if we can even use the term to describe what will ensue.”

There was a difference in the way his hands caressed her – no longer gentling a shy animal, but feeling the curves of his former bedslave. Her veil was tossed to the side, even this diaphanous scrap of fabric no longer standing before him. Those powerful hands pressed her close, his lips bending to kiss the side of her throat on the tan line, the pale stripe of her former collar.

Dina wondered how much damage the cup would do if she hit him in the head with it. Instead, she pressed herself against him like a cat, smiling up at him. “You set my mind at ease,” she lied, leaning back against his hard-muscled body to rest her head against his chest. Let him pit his own masculine strength, his mastery, against her beauty and wits which she'd assembled like legions against him. “No doubt my fears are silly.”

He was not really interested. His mistake. “That silk becomes you, little flower.” He let his fingertips glide over the material. “And you've scented yourself for me?” Another kiss, this one smearing the lipstick, his tongue probing between her teeth. She tasted meat and wine on his breath.

“It has been long since I have seen you,” she smiled, not having to fake her breathlessness or the brightness in her eyes. “It is cold and lonely in my tent, without you to warm the sheets.”

He undid the silk easily, touching nothing beneath but warm, naked skin. His fingers traced the outline of her slave brand with a proprietary grin that made her want to slap him – why did he always have to remind her of that? – and spun her so that her hips bumped the table edge. Watery wine splashed over her hand and she carefully set her cup down.

“I have missed you, wench,” he said, kissing her deeply and slowly, his breathing heavy.

“And I you.” It was no lie, unfortunately. Dina knew from experience that no matter what, some part of her would always belong to this man. She loved him, and she resented him for making him love her. She had not been consulted in the matter. He had decided that she would love him and, without choice, she had done so.

Dina could endure abuse. Sometimes she even took some enjoyment from it – not just the sensations of physical arousal but the emotions associated with being placed under masculine domination. But what infuriated her about Clitus Vitellius was that he could make her enjoy that which she'd previously detested, that he could, in a very real sense, change her own identity. It could hardly be denied that Judy Thornton the college student had not been the same as Dina the paga whore, who in turn had not had much in common with the Gorean concubine, the mother, who stood there in the candelight, silk gliding over her smooth skin, clasped in the arms of a warrior.

“Freeing you was no favor,” he laughed, fingertips dimpling the whiteness of her skin. “Your body was made for a master's touch.”

“Why then did you do so?” She sometimes wondered if he would reenslave her – Clitus Vitellius was somewhat mercurial – and while it was not legally permitted, she knew that she would have difficulty taking a member of the powerful Vitellii to court, especially if already enslaved.

He shrugged. “It seemed a good idea at the time. Besides, who would not wish for his son to be a free man?”

“Your father, for one.” This was dangerous ground, but it had to be covered. She could not stand this metaphorical (for now) sword hanging over her head.

“Do not be foolish. He has said no word against the boy.”

“So far.” She decided not to remind Clitus of what he already must know – Lucius Vitellius had probably not forbidden their marriage solely from the disgrace of being bound by kinship to a freedwoman. It was not unheard-of for Gorean men to marry their slave concubines, though some of the more worldly ones laughed at the naive young men who did so and called them fools. No, it was far more likely that the paterfamilias wished to use his son to forge a connection with another important family.

In this case, the family in question certainly would not wish to have their heirs upstaged by the son of a barbarian slave girl.

Now, if Clitus Vitellius were to become estranged from his family, he might have considerable wealth, status, and resources in his own right – his father had said as much. Dina didn't really want to become Lady Macbeth, but she resolved firmly to use whatever means lay at her disposal to secure an easy life. Not just for herself – Dina could live as an enslaved tavern whore if forced to – but also for her son.

Because in one respect she was totally resolved – her son would not be a slave. He would not even be poor, since life on Gor was nasty, brutal, and short by Earthly standards unless you had enough money to afford a nice house with slaves and land to generate income. And if the Vitellii stood in the way of that, then she'd deal with them as she had to.

“It is probably nothing.” She smiled, pressing herself closer to Clitus, making a mental note to bring the matter up at some future date when it had been given a chance to sink through his thick skull. “But tell me of this attempt to bring our son on a raid against the savage sleen of the wild lands?”

“Ah, yes.” He smirked. “I begin to perceive the source of your sudden affection. No doubt you believe rubbing yourself against me will somehow sway my opinion in this matter?”

“Read the signs of my body if you can. My desire for you isn't fabricated – and you've barely begun touching me.”

“I don't doubt it, but you are using your genuine heat and passion to influence my will.” He kissed her. “Do you think I am a boy myself, to have my head turned in such fashion?”

“Would not any mother do the same, to protect her child?”

“He is to be my son, regardless of your fears. He is to be of the Warriors. He must learn to bear the sight of blood.” Clitus Vitellius placed a hand to Dina's mouth before she even had an opportunity to speak. “And I do not mean that he, a boy, shall take part in the fighting. I mean to say that a man must become accustomed to the sight of blood and death, so that it does not frighten him. Learning to fight does not account for this; it is possible to be skilled at dueling and fencing, yet quail from the foeman when fighting to kill.”

“So take him to a damn gladiatorial game or something!” She spoke quickly, before he could shut her up. “I hear they have an arena in Argentum.”

“Gladiatorial fighting is not serious. It is like dueling, a sport. Yes, it may become deadly, but the purpose of the Amusements is to entertain and the purpose of battle is to slay the foe. Even executions teach one nothing of what it is to truly fight. Yet, do not fear. It is in the modality of the executioner that I shall be acting tomorrow. I anticipate little trouble.”

“Then according to what you say, it should be profitless for our son to witness the slaughter you have planned.” Perhaps he was correct. Dina's mind, which had admitted itself to be a natural slave and had further argued that she'd been fulfilled as a woman by her experiences on this world, once more attempted to turn defeat into victory with a swift string of rationalizations. The incident, after all, proved that Clitus Vitellius was serious about inducting his son into the ranks of the Warrior Caste. Military service was a common way for Arian politicians to advance their careers, so the boy would have to go to war sooner or later. If you spun your wheels enough, you could easily claim that this was a good thing!

Also, Dina was aware that her worry was not all for Minor's safety. Every lesson about the Codes and the handling of a sword and the proper way to drape a toga, how many guests should attend a dinner party, the mythic founding of the Eternal City by Hersius the Hero, the ritual to appease the spirits of your ancestors, the ritual of grain and oil offered to the Home Stone, the proper haircut for a High Councilor, court etiquette, religious observance ….all these lessons combined to make Lucius Vitellius Minor more Gorean. One day, Dina knew, she would look at her son and see a Gorean warrior looking back at her, an imperious legate clad in gleaming armor with steel at his hip, or wearing a linen toga bleached white with piss and birdshit and orating on the floor of the High Council chamber, sitting in his office and meeting his clients, dispensing advice and favors. What use would such a man have for her, for Judy Thornton? Doubtless he would show her respect and consideration, as was the duty of a proper Gorean man towards his parents, but she would be totally superfluous, if not actually embarrassing.

Sometimes, she wished she'd borne a girl but upon further reflection she was pleased that she hadn't. Would Clitus Vitellius have freed the child then, and adopted it, or would it have wound up as a slave girl, competing with its own mother for a place in the master's bed? Clitus Vitellius seemed so fond of his child that such a scenario was difficult to imagine, yet he did have firm ideas on the position and role of women, ideas which had scandalized even his fellow Goreans. No, better to have obtained her freedom and position with a son, and then be in a position to better care for any daughters.

“Clitus,” she said softly.

“It is what my father did for me, and his father for him. Unless you have wisdom exceeding that of my ancestors, we shall not further speak on the matter.”

“You will not risk our son so carelessly!”

No sooner had Dina spoken then she knew she'd gone too far, that it wasn't her place to forbid anything to one who was of High Caste, who was indeed of the Warriors, that any power she possessed derived from this man. He had this sort of smile on his face, being the sort of man who enjoyed taming a woman, and she realized that if she'd wanted to get his attention then this was the best way she could have gone about it.

“I think,” he said calmly, hands held lightly at his sides, “that you overstep.” But he seemed more eager than angry.

Pride was the first thing Dina had learned to discard. “I have,” she said quickly, “I beg you, please forgive me ….”

He loomed over her.

“I'm a woman, driven by concern for our child ….”

She felt very, very small.

“Clitus, don't hurt me.”

“I shall not do so.” There was a smile on his face. “But nonetheless, you must be restored to your proper position.”

“I am a free woman!” She backed away, uncomfortably aware that she was practically nude and the men outside – probably listening to every word she said – were Clitus's soldiers.

“You are a freedwoman.” He moved softly toward her, close enough now that he could easily take hold of her. Despite herself, she could feel warmth flickering in her belly at the sight of his eyes, a predator's eyes, fixed upon its helplessly quivering prey. “My freedwoman.”

Dina balled her fists, heart racing, knowing that it would do nothing but amuse him. “Don't think that you can just grab me! I'm not a slave!”

He approached yet closer, forcing her to take another step back, moving with the easy, fluid motions of a stalking animal. She struck out at him and he caught her wrist with a grin, breathing more heavily than his level of exertion warranted. Her kick bounced off of the inside of his thigh. He pulled on her arm, bringing her closer with a swiftness that made her belly swoop, handled so easily, like a doll. His cock was hard now and pressed against her midsection.

“Do you truly dare to offer criticism?” He pinned her to the broadness of his chest and pressed a kiss on her, his lips and teeth brushing lightly against the side of her throat where his collar had once been. A guard, probably surprised, stuck his head in, but Clitus turned to look and he stuck it right back out again. “You presume much on my affection.”

His hands unfastened the knots, leaving her silk to flutter down to the floor. She hoped he'd get it over with, but that was not the way with Clitus Vitellius – she'd challenged him, and so he would wish to subjugate her. The simple penetration of her body would not be enough to satisfy him – Dina must be made to yield, sobbing and moaning, in his arms, crying out his name, her nails digging into his back. “You must be taught a lesson, concubine.”

The guard's head entered again. “Sir?”

“I am occupied.” There was a wry grin on Clitus Vitellius's face. Dina's hips bumped the table. She was bent backwards, his right hand caressing her body, left hand pressing her close, his lips meeting hers. Dina became aware that she was clasping him in her arms and a distant part of her said that this way was probably better, that he would be in a much better mood to hear from her afterwards, that this wasn't a capitulation but a calculated move that made it easier for her to influence him so it was okay for her to yield, to feel, to enjoy the experience. She realized that she'd missed this.

“Sir, your presence is requested ….”

“ ….requested, yes,” growled an uncomfortably familiar voice. “That is one way in which to put it, though I should also say 'commanded'. What is it that goes on within the praetorium that requires forbidding me entry, guard? Am I not legate?”

“Forgive me, sir. It is only that ….”

Another impatient growl came from without. The tent flap swung back. A man walked in.

At once Clitus Vitellius the conquering master simply disappeared. He shoved Dina away from him like a teenage boy caught fucking a cheerleader in the back of a station wagon and jerked his tunic swiftly down over his erection, a shit-eating grin pasted across his handsome features.

“Father.”

The man in the entrance to the tent had the sort of gaze that made Dina, often scorned as a shameless woman, want to cover herself. He was one of the oldest Goreans she'd ever seen, with his hair blackened to hide its grayness, black ink smeared over his bald spot to convey the impression of a full head of hair (the hairless patch was further concealed by a comb-over) and a lined, worn face bearing the marks of a life spent in the field. His right hand was made of iron, the original having been severed long before Dina had come to Gor, and he walked with a limp due to the blow of a mace or club. Once he'd been a great warrior, and his sword had helped the Ubar Marlenus rise to power, but now he could barely get out of bed in the mornings and had a habit of chewing the narcotic kanda to cope with the pain of his accumulated injuries. He supported himself with a heavy cane that bore a silver sleen's head.

After resting that harsh look on the exposed Dina for a few long moments (her slave conditioning kicked in and she was torn between the instinctive desire to hide herself and the trained reflex to display her body to a powerful master) he turned back to his son.

“Forgive me for the interruption.” His voice was gravelly.

“None required. I was but ….”

“I know. Do you have no private quarters, that you must copulate openly in the modality of the rutting tarsk? Will you behave so in the halls of Claudius?”

“She came to me, not the other way around.”

“She is a freedwoman. You are a tribune of Ar.”

“The ahn is late, Father, I had not thought ….”

The iron hand waved dismissively. “Believe it or not, I have not arrived solely to forestall the adventures of your rampant phallus.” He seated himself in a curule chair with a heavy sigh. “Words of blackest import have reached my ears, Clitus, and I would have explanation.”

“From Argentum? Does it have aught to do with ….?”

“Closer by far than Argentum. It speaks to me of your desire to lead your savages against the bandits of this countryside.”

“Yes?” He gave Dina a sharp look and gestured at her discarded cloak. Hastily she reached for it, pulled it around her shoulders and snatched the silk wrap and veil in one hand. Having secured these, she moved to creep quietly away.

“Stay.” Lucius's voice was mild, but delivered in a such a tone as to leave no doubt that immediate obedience was expected. Dina had been trained like an animal to respond to such a tone.

“What do you wish with her?”

“What do you wish? It is you who brought this woman along. I suppose I might be relieved that you seem determined to plow this singular field, that you do not intend to make any new conquests within the walls of Argentum.”

Dina blinked. Clitus Vitellius's hunger for the flesh of women and boys was legendary in Ar. She'd taken it for granted that he'd found someone else, perhaps even a camp follower or a peasant wench, while he'd been neglecting her. Monogamy was rarely practiced by Gorean men and due to the marriages being arranged, the women usually didn't seem to mind.

“I have not made use of this concubine since we left Ar.”

“Your use of concubines stands not first among my concerns.” He sighed and seated himself more comfortably, leaning on the cane as he did so.

“Then what means this fresh paternal scorn? My duties as Tribune include the control of ….”

“Your duties as tribune have been executed with acceptable skill. I had feared muchly, but you seemed to perform your tasks with ability well above what I had expected.” Lucius Vitellius picked at a leftover piece of bread on the table.

“I can ….Dina, fetch some ….”

“No, no. Do not distract me. I have heard that you are apparently recovering from this sudden affliction of competence. It has taken longer than expected, yet your customary idiocy shows signs of returning to full vigor.”

“Of what do you speak?”

“Several things, most recent among which is that you have decided to personally take charge of eliminating a minor group of bandits.”

Clitus Vitellius fiddled with the embroidered edges of his tunic. “Y-Yes, I had thought to eliminate the threat and ….” he cut himself off. No doubt he did not wish to bring his son to the attention of his father, which Dina understood even as she wished for some degree of resolution to this awful, untenable situation.

“This will not take place. I have arranged for the decurion Carvilianus to take a small band of auxiliaries and destroy them.”

“Father, the numbers of the bandits are not known, nor their weaponry.”

“They have no cavalry, and the peasants know their location, so there must be some idea of their numbers. The peasants will flush them into the open where the red savages can easily ride them down and by morning they will be naught but mutilated corpses and scalps on a barbarian's belt. Rencius is not needed for this task and neither are you.”

“It would be simple ….Father, I truly believe ….”

“I have spoken.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Now I will speak again, of more important matters. I had thought to say it earlier,” he sighed, sounding older and less stern, “and again and again I delayed, until now we are nearly within sight of Argentum's walls. And now that I have cause to speak with you anyway, regarding your ill-advised scheme against the bandits, I might as well say what I have to say.”

Dina blinked, surprised to see her own thoughts reflected so closely. She shook her head, trying to dispel any sympathy she might have felt for the savage nobleman who threatened her child.

As if sensing this, he turned to look at her, wool cloak held tightly around her body, feeling an odd mix of sexual awkwardness and existential dread. Dina hastily straightened her wig, feeling the force of his glare, feeling herself to be nothing. The motion exposed her arm, shoulder, and the pale gleam of a collarbone, which she hastily covered. “What are your feelings regarding this woman?”

“A kajira,” said Clitus Vitellius, using the common term for an enslaved prostitute. “I have had many women.”

Oh. Dina instinctively kept her expression blank and controlled, never wanting to let the men see her cry, but she wondered if perhaps it would be better to burst into tears or somehow induce guilt. She wished she could read his mind right now – was he trying to placate his father, or was it as Dina had feared? Was he truly tired of her? She tried to tell herself that it would be alright if only he kept her son, but Dina was selfish and did not truly wish to be discarded even if her child was perfectly safe and happy.

“The mother of your child? A freedwoman?”

Dina blinked. Was this not the man who had thought her a whore? At once she felt guilty for wishing that Clitus would abandon him. But no, it was more likely a matter of simple propriety. If Dina belonged to the Vitellii in some capacity, it was important that she not be treated as a common prostitute, even if she had once been such.

“There is nothing uncommon about freeing slaves. You have many freedmen.”

“I have not attempted to marry them.”

“Is this talk of marriage somehow relevant to Argentum?”

“It very well might be.” Lucius Vitellius reached into a leather pouch at his belt and pulled out a small scroll, with the seal broken. “Read this. It arrived from Argentum today.”

Clitus put the two sides of the broken seal together. “Lutatius, eh? What, am I to marry him?”

This name sparked recognition. Lutatius, if Dina recalled correctly, had been a friend of Clitus's brother Tiberius when the latter had served a quaestorship in Argentum. The two had also met during the conquest of Corcyrus, which had occurred more recently. On a more ominous note, Lutatius, or Miles as he called himself (“Miles” meant “soldier” and Gorean politicians were just as fond of portraying themselves as relatable everyday guys as  were their Earthly counterparts), had urged the execution of Sheila, who at the time had been recruited as the Corcyran queen's body double. Only the intercession of Drusus Rencius and the capture of the real queen had saved her.

“Read it. It is my wish to hear your thoughts.”

“Greeting to the Legate Lucius Vitellius Trevis,” said Clitus Vitellius, who like most Goreans had a tendency to read out loud. “ ah, he missed your latest nickname….the Noble Tenth Legion ….wishes the best of health ….will be pleased to welcome us to his home – welcome indeed, Tiberius says that the house of Lutatius is by far superior to his own – will be pleased to introduce me to his daughter Lutatia.” Clitus Vitellius's eyes narrowed and he began to read more carefully. “Lutatia is growing well and is a most gentle and pleasing girl in my eyes (are not all children such in the eyes of their fathers?), whose modesty and virtue are beyond reproach and who is sought after by many young men of Argentum. Er, wishes for my health – your health, I think – and convey his greetings to my brothers ….closing in his own hand ….” Clitus Vitellius handed the letter back to his father.

He and Dina exchanged glances. For once they looked equally appalled. “Well,” said Clitus Vitellius lamely, “he only says that she is 'modest and pleasing', which ….”

“ ….hardly describes your preferred sort of woman,” growled Lucius Vitellius with a look at his son's concubine. “But come, tell me what you make of this?”

Dina had to say something, but Lucius Vitellius was right in the tent with them and if it was hard enough standing up to Clitus Vitellius, it would be impossible to do so to his father. Her heart pounded and she felt a sense of sickness and worse, she knew that Clitus would not respond, that for all his combat prowess he would do nothing to counteract this threat to his woman and child, that in spite of everything she was just as helpless and undefended as she'd ever been.

Sure enough, he seemed shaky, even nervous. “Well,” he said, laughing nervously, “I don't make very much of this at all. So he wishes to speak of his daughter. Well, what of it?”

Lucius Vitellius's eyes narrowed. “Do not speak in the modality of a fool. You know well what of it. Do not give insult to my intelligence by asking me 'what of it'?”

“All he says is scant praise in favor of his offspring. Is that so unusual? Consider how Tiberius speaks of his daughter; I have never heard anyone so proud of having a female child! And speaking of Tiberius and his daughter, he begat her on the daughter of Claudius of Argentum. Claudius and Miles are already allies! Why do we need another linkage in a chain already forged? The Claudii and we ….” he slowed, face paling in the candlelight.

“Yes?”

“Does this have aught to do with Tiberius?” A look of actual fear was beginning to spread across the face of Clitus Vitellius. His brother, Tiberius Vitellius, was married to the daughter of Claudius, an important commander in Argentum, which meant that the family need for alliances in that city should be covered. Of course, Tiberius was currently grouped with several other legions near Holmesk, so if anything happened to him – possibly Clitus Vitellius would be expected to marry his widow, yes, that could be it.

Dina shuddered. She had heard frightening things about the Lady Claudia. Maybe it would be for the best if Clitus Vitellius could marry another.

“What do you ….oh, I see. No, nothing of that sort. We will know more when we reach Argentum; the imperial couriers have an office there. No, I mention this matter because it is my wish to know whether you will do anything foolish if you are paired with a woman of good birth and you announce that your heart belongs to your concubine.”

“No,” said Clitus Vitellius firmly, not looking at Dina. “I am fond of this woman, as I might be of any lovely girl, but my feelings for her will not stop me from doing my duty.”

Dina had expected this, and so it was much easier for her to control her expression. It wasn't exactly rare for Gorean men to keep women or boys on the side during their marriages, but a part of her had always hoped that he might see her as something more.

“And the boy?”

Her heart raced. Now, he had come to the crux of the matter, and it was foolish to assume that Lucius would never think of this, but so far he hadn't and she'd begun to think that she was safe ….

“The boy?” Clitus's tone and expression suggested not only a complete lack of comprehension, but that the very concept of "boys" was some abstract concept he'd heard of in a philosophical discussion without ever personally experiencing it for himself. 

“Don't insult my intelligence, Clitus, your offspring with that freedwoman. What are your plans for him?”

Clitus shrugged elaborately. “What are any man's plans for his son?” His voice was deliberately casual. “I wish for him to succeed me, to take my place when he is old enough.”

There! Good! Clitus Vitellius had just implied that Minor was to be raised as a Warrior, not a bastard child. And he had said as much directly to his father's face!

Lucius Vitellius did not seem angered at this (yes!) but only gave a dark chuckle. “I warn you that this process is longer and more difficult than you might suspect. Sometimes one totally despairs.”

“It is nonetheless important to make the attempt. And he is learning quickly. I believe that he will be greater than I, in his turn.”

“A hard-won prize, no doubt.” This time they both laughed.

Dina sat back and felt superfluous. These decisions would be made on her behalf by others, and she would abide by them.

“Let us speak without evasion. You cannot already have a son when you are married. Not in the case of a man like Miles, who wishes to tower above all others. Were he content to be second, he would have permitted the alliance through our mutual friend Claudius, but Miles is not content to await the pleasure of another and would have us with or without Claudius.”

Clitus looked to Dina as if for aid. She lay her hand on his arm, heart pounding at the thought of speaking up before Lucius Vitellius. “Apologies for forwardness, my Masters, but has the Noble Lutatius actually proposed marriage? It may be that all of our concern is for naught. Let us therefore seek to, uh, clarify matters.”

“Exactly! Yes!” Clitus Vitellius slammed his hand down on the table hard enough to make the cups bounce. “Let us compose a reply stating that we ….”

“I have already done so, not being totally without wits as you seem to believe. I told him that you were unmarried, and that you were interested in discussing this matter in further detail within his house in Argentum.”

“Oh.” Clitus seemed relieved, which only irked his father more.

“Do you honestly believe that I shall betrothe you on the spot, without further discussion? But come, let us speak further of this boy you have foolishly adopted. Girl, you may leave us.”

Leave? Leave, right as her son was in danger? Dina looked to Clitus Vitellius.

Of course, he made no move to countermand the order. And her heart was already racing, fear churning in her gut, her fingers already trembling because someone as powerful as Lucius Vitellius had given her an order and she hadn't obeyed it.

“Go on,” said Clitus, and then softened. “Await me in my tent.”

She nodded and left the tent, feeling the sharp sting of cool air in her face just as she'd done when leaving Norm's Steak and Cocktails all those years ago, a young and naive girl with no understanding of what was just about to happen to her.

The tent wasn't hard to find, being located near the praetorium for easy access. It was actually the same size as a normal tent, just with fewer occupants. One or two bench chests were present, while armor and weapons were hung in sheaths or on wooden racks. Several teenage boys and young men, probably camp slaves, lay about the tent like furniture and Dina stepped over them.

His bed was a simple straw mattress covered in bosk hides and Dina sat on it, face in her hands, trying desperately not to cry. At first she didn't want to cry because she didn't want to give in, to admit that he'd gotten to her and that she was doomed and all was lost, but her sorrow and her rage cooled and crystallized within her and she used those emotions to focus her thoughts and so now she wasn't crying because she didn't have any means of replacing her makeup and she thought that she would need to exert her skills to convert Clitus to her point of view. Not with aggression, as she had before – Clitus would have so much pent-up anger that he might seriously hurt her if she challenged him – but with softness and beauty, reminding him of what he'd missed all these weeks apart from her.

She considered stripping and lying nude in his furs, but he wasn't likely to be in a lustful mood after what had transpired. No, she kept her cloak wrapped around her shoulders and knelt in the corner of the tent, looking attractive but not like she wanted to tear his clothes off, and waited.

It was early before Clitus Vitellius brushed aside the tent flap and tensed suddenly, detecting only a shape crouched in his tent. “Oh,” he said, sitting cross-legged on his bed without the slightest sign of relaxation, “I should have known.”

“The camp is closed.”

“Yes. I don't fault you.” He tossed something at her. “I brought your cloak.”

Clitus Vitellius was not given to kindly gestures and the cloak was enough to make Dina break down, expensive makeup running down her cheeks, absolutely bawling into his shoulder, clinging to his big strong body like a raft in the middle of the ocean, pressing her face against his tunic and smearing winedregs and squid ink and boar's fat across the fabric.

She cried, and cried, and her body shook, and she pressed closer to him, and Clitus Vitellius simply held her in his strong arms.

But his arms weren't strong enough to save her. And with her defenses shattered, Dina couldn't find the words to say, could barely think clearly enough to form complete sentences let alone convince him ….

“Do you want to hear what my father said?”

“Yes! Please, yes!”

“Alright.” He sounded distant. “He will not disinherit Minor now.”

“Now?” Her pitch rose, and she knew half the camp could probably hear it. “Now, Clitus?”

“Now. He suggested that in future, I might be able to find someone, a figure of influence, in Argentum. And that such a person might wish to adopt Minor.”

“You want to adopt our son out. Give him away.”

“He would hardly be sold into slavery. He would be raised with appropriate station. He would have every comfort money could buy. I had thought, in fact ….”

“What? What did you think?”

“Well, you know of my brother, do you not?”

“Marcus?”

“No, the other one. Tiberius.”

Dina tried to think and came up with an older version of Tiberius, but more stately and dignified, a fairly typical Gorean nobleman as far as Dina was concerned. He'd looked at her breasts when they'd met, which was more or less expected. “Is he not married?”

“He is, but lacking an heir. He has but one daughter, and her still young. Now he marches along the Vosk, but upon his return ….”

Hope suddenly returned to Dina. She kissed Clitus Vitellius. “Oh, do you think he would?”

“It would take time. Tiberius has always been ambitious, but he seems strangely reluctant to give form to an heir. I believe his wife is fragile. But if I explain my position, I believe that he will not fail to come to my aid.”

“Would Claudius be alright with that?”

“Are you now an advocate for the prosecution?” He tried to laugh, a sort of forced barking sound.

“No, I just ….” she wanted to explain that not thinking about bad things didn't make them not happen, but if you lived to be as old as Clitus Vitellius and still didn't know that, you were probably never going to learn. “Alright. If you think it to be possible.”

“I think so. Tiberius would never do what I am doing, but he knows that I would not wish my son to pass outside of my family.”

Dina tried to think of what she knew regarding Tiberius Vitellius. Clitus Vitellius always spoke well of him, but the two men were brothers and Tiberius held the position of legate, the same as his father.

As far as Dina knew, Tiberius Vitellius was much more conventional than his second-younger brother. He was a member of the High Council, had taken part in campaigns to expand Ar's influence in the north, and was married to Claudia of Argentum, all signs of a typical ladder-climbing Gorean politician. He had run for praetor, failed, run again a few years later and succeeded. She would have assumed that he'd have had a son, given how concerned Gorean nobles were with their legacies, but adoption wasn't uncommon and if the Claudii didn't object, or if some future development reduced their political relevance ….

….then he would probably divorce the Lady Claudia and remarry, yes. But he was already fairly influential and it might be the case that he would keep his wife going forward, in which case he might be persuaded to adopt his nephew. This was a fairly unlikely chain of events, but Dina still breathed easier at the revelation that a future for her son wasn't totally impossible, that it still could happen.

And then Lucius Minor would be lost to her forever. If Clitus Vitellius was aggravating, Tiberius was an ambitious Warrior of Gor with all that implied. It was highly unlikely that either Tiberius or Claudia would make the slightest accommodation for their adoptee's Earthly ancestry, nor would they be particularly concerned with his mother. She wasn't even sure that she'd be allowed to set foot in their lovely townhouse with its atrium pool and its marble statues and its erotic wall frescoes and the wax masks of famous ancestors - certainly she'd be considered a bad influence on such a princely young man.

“And myself?”

“You are not going anywhere. You are mine and you will remain so. There is no custom prohibiting me from having a concubine, even if I must marry.” He pulled Dina closer and kissed her on the forehead. “So dry your tears, little flower. You and our son shall both be provided for.”

She stared at him, wanting desperately to say something or, failing that, to strike him with some heavy object. But she knew that this was the best she was going to get, and more than most men would have done, so she settled for gritting her teeth.

“Yes, Master.”

---

The night was chilly and dark, nearly pitch-black, blacker than he'd experienced in a world of bright neon signs and streetlamps and the warm orange glow of house windows. A cold breeze bowed the long grass and made the tree branches rustle. There was a croaking of frogs down by the lake and around him he could hear what sounded like owls hooting at each other. But his attention was mainly directed upwards.

If Eugene had entertained any doubts about the reality of his situation, the sight of the night sky eliminated them. The stars were dazzling, more so than he'd ever seen before, like thousands of diamonds glowing radiantly against the sable void, the band of the Milky Way acting as a soft white backdrop to accentuate the beauty of the moons.

Yes, moons. Somehow the sky seemed to have gotten an extra two since yesterday. One was large and white and looked normal enough, though the normal “rabbit in the moon” was missing, but the other was smaller, lower to the horizon, and a sort of yellowish color and irregular shape, like an asteroid. The third moon was clearly smaller, despite being closer, and was further across the sky than the other two. Despite its tiny size, it seemed to shine more brightly than the others.

Another owl hooted. Eugene looked around uneasily and saw nothing but blackness with not even a torch to relieve the inky gloom. Behind him, mostly sleeping, were the bandits in the copse, but Eugene did not really wish to join them. He was sitting atop his shield just outside, not wanting to run away (what if they chased him?) but not daring to mingle with them and perhaps get attacked again. Hopefully they would interpret his reticence as stoic brooding instead of, say, quivering terror.

“You did well today.”

“Ah! Jesus!” Glauco was standing beside him.

“Not so loud, my friend.”

“Sorry, you just ….”

“It is known to you that Sergius our chief is not fond of you.”

“I got that impression, yeah.”

“And it is also known to you that the fellow you slew, Hendix, has friends within the camp.”

“Oh, yeah.” Eugene wasn't sure what he was supposed to do about this. He kept staring at the sky. “Well,” he finally said, playing his part, “let them try anything and they'll meet the same fate.”

Glauco stared at him for so long that Eugene wondered if he'd spoken English.

“You amaze me,” said the smaller man carefully. “You have such faith in the swiftness of your steel that you do not fear many men? I would not have thought as much from watching you. Perhaps you were concealing the true nature of your skills?”

“Perhaps. It is sometimes wise to do so, for the Lord Alypius wishes the swiftness of his mighty steel to take the foeman by surprise! Ofttimes a miserable dog of a bandit does not know what befell him until his head parts ways from his shoulders.”

“Yet even the greatest warrior must sleep.”

Eugene shrugged, but he'd been wondering about that. The adrenaline, the shock, the mental impact of the transition he'd undergone and all its ensuing implications – all of these things had left Eugene feeling totally exhausted. It was fear that kept him sitting there, staring at the moons. If these savages really just accepted anyone who killed anyone else, then what was to prevent someone from killing him while he lay there helpless? He'd even considered wandering back into the wilderness, which after all had seemed beautiful and peaceful, except for the fact that these guys had evidently earned their Boy Scout merit badges at woodsmanship and even if he didn't see them following him, he'd always wonder if they were lying in wait. It was better to be one of the pack than prey. He was larger than most of them and had very little worth stealing, so if he had to fight any more it would be better to do so in a face-to-face confrontation.

Of course as soon as he thought this his mind returned to the feeling of his fist hitting the Hendix guy, of his head snapping to the side, of him crumpled up. Some other guys who had similar clothes and hair had dragged the body out of the camp and buried it. The man's clothing and weapons had been distributed amongst the surviving bandits.

Eugene did not want to think of this, but it kept coming to the front of his mind. If he relaxed enough to sleep, he was sure that it would invade his dreams. How could he, Eugene Phillips, have possibly done such a thing? He was not that kind of guy. He had superhero action figures on his bookshelf and a favorite coffee mug in his cubicle. People generally felt free to berate and mock and insult him and sleep with his fucking girlfriend without any fear of retribution. How could someone like that be a killer?

He couldn't. The horror of his action fresh in his mind, Eugene knew that he'd lashed out in panic and that he couldn't do that again, not consciously or deliberately. Almost every man might imagine himself capable of, under the right circumstances, unleashing Hell upon anyone stupid enough to fuck with him, but Eugene had been swiftly and brutally cured of this delusion. His escapist imaginings had come true. He had faced adversity and been found wanting. Now he knew this about himself. He might be stronger than these guys, but if it came down to it he'd lose. At some crucial moment he'd hesitate and they wouldn't and he'd be dead.

Luckily, they didn't seem to realize this. “I sleep lightly,” he informed Glauco, putting his best menacing growl into his voice. “And being woken up puts me in a bad mood. I would not wish to be the man who disturbed my sleep.”

“You would perhaps sleep in peace with a friend to watch over you.” Glauco extended a hand.

Eugene felt almost pathetically grateful. Tears actually sprang to his eyes, so terrified was he and so pleased that someone else would look out for him. Only one thing prevented him from clasping the proffered hand. “Wasn't Hendix your friend?”

“Yes.” Glauco smiled grimly. “You slew him and took his place as my friend.”

“No loyalty among thieves, eh?”

“Of what use is loyalty to a dead man? Now, I do not wish to burden our friendship, but you are not as accustomed to leading men as you pretend. You have neglected to follow up your defeat of Hendix. If I did not know better, I would say that you were avoiding the lads. The Alars do not appreciate the death of one of their own.”

Was the translation spell failing? “Who are the Alars?” The term sounded like “wings,” but not exactly, like it was a mispronunciation or something.

“Barbarian tribesmen. Fearsome fellows. They often enlist as mercenaries or auxiliaries. It is a wonder that you slew one, but the others will not be so careless and I do not think you can stand up to an axe attack, not from several savages at once.”

Eugene didn't think so either, but he only scowled truculently, trying not to sob in terror. “They are welcome to make the attempt.” His voice cracked a little, and he blinked furiously, aware that his limbs were trembling.

“They agree with you. I should warn you that when you pose as a great leader of men it is well not to sob in the modality of the female child. Sergius is reliant on the Alars for his support and will certainly give you to them.”

In which case Eugene would die. He'd gotten his one free shot; now the rest of the Goreans would handle him with a lot more care. “What do I do? I mean, and how do you advise Lord Alypius on this matter, dog?” He laid his hand on the hilt of the sword, feeling his head pounding with exhaustion.

“I would advise the Lord Alypius – be cautious in styling yourself so; many here were slave before and are sensitive about such forms of address – to strike quickly. There are those of us who are not pleased with Sergius, who himself is displeased to lose Hendix and gain you. It seems natural that we should make common cause.”

And Glauco outlined the plan. It was complex enough that between the limitations of the translation spell and the weariness laying over Eugene like a lead blanket, Glauco was forced to repeat himself several times.

The plan, as Glauco explained it, was this: several factions in the bandit camp wished to overthrow Sergius, but those who supported him were greater. Therefore, any attempt to overthrow him would be swiftly and harshly punished unless he happened to be dead, at which point the bandits would transfer their loyalty to the next leader. Eugene, having shown up and slain a notable Alar with his bare hands, was a natural leader and with Glauco at his side to advise him, they would jointly rule the band, taking it to riches and glory.

Eugene had the distinct feeling that Glauco was leaving things out, but he also felt that he didn't have much choice and in his current mental state was having trouble thinking straight. He also knew now that he could not actually kill anyone. Even if he hated them and wanted them dead, he was not capable of actually holding the blade himself. Maybe if he had a gun and he really didn't like someone then he could shoot them from a distance, but even then it was likely that his finger would hesitate on the trigger.

But of course there was no way he could actually say that. His survival depended on these guys thinking he was the toughest, hardest motherfucker on Gor and Glauco was right; he'd made that initial impression but he hadn't done all that much to follow up on it.

“What if I don't want to be your friend?”

Glauco's position shifted subtly backwards. His grasp drifted to the hilt of his sword like a traffic cop casually resting his hand on his pistol. “In that case I would be friends with someone else. I spent some time befriending the Alars, and now my friendship with you threatens to place that friendship in jeopardy. I might consider how I might win their favor. I believe Sergius suspects me of plotting against him. In this case I might demonstrate my loyalty.”

“Jesus.”

“Who?”

“Someone who would not approve of your behavior, Glauco.” Eugene sighed. Glauco was at least right in saying that he had better do whatever he was about to do fast, before he could feel more tired and before the situation could deteriorate further.

Besides, Eugene needed a friend. If Glauco thought him useful, then all the better. He still felt a numb sense of disbelief, that this was all a dream or something, and he knew that the longer he stayed here the more likely it was that the feeling would wear off and then he'd really be scared shitless.

“Okay,” he said, feeling once more like everything was happening way too fast and that he needed to sleep and eat and just think about all this, but of course he wouldn't have time to do that. “Okay, but if I lose the fight with Sergius ….”

“You will kill him in his sleep. And if you should fail at that, Subotai will aid you. It is very important that Sergius be killed – this will divide the camp and allow a strong man such as yourself to become first. Now, let us meet with William and Epicrates.”

“Where are they?”

Glauco pointed to the dark shape of a tree. “They have been waiting for us. They volunteered to stand watch tonight so that we might meet without arousing suspicion.”

Eugene hurried to seize up his spear and shield, though he didn't try to put the shield on in the dark and instead carried it by the straps. As they approached, Glauco made a soft clicking noise with his tongue. “Ho, William, Epicrates,” he hissed. “It is us.”

The lookout made no response to this.

“Hey!” Eugene waved, but of course the guy was facing away. Still, the sky had grown a little lighter while they'd talked and now he could make out the shape of a man leaning against the bole of a tree.

Another owl hoot rang out, this time from behind them, in the trees where the bandits rested. Glauco looked sharply at it, then turned back. “Epicrates, William, you dogs, have you fallen asleep on watch?” He approached more respectfully than he'd approached Eugene, moving in a wide circle and making small noises, presumably so as not to startle the men. Eugene followed, still wary of this stupid plan and feeling like he was missing something important about how it was supposed to work. “I have a fellow here who – aiii!”

Eugene followed Glauco, then came to a stop just as quickly.

The lookout was standing in place, but not of his own volition. His throat had been cut, not just a single red slash like in the movies, but a gaping wound that reached back to the vertebrae. Ropes bound him to the tree trunk, propping him in an upright position.

As much as Eugene knew this was more than just a game, he still found the sight of a dead man to be terrifying. The blood alone had a hideous metallic odor and it completely soaked the front of his tunic and cloak, running down to pool at his feet.

“The blood has not dried.” Glauco's voice was calm, but there was a deceptive sense of urgency. He turned to move back to the stand of trees, not hurrying, but deliberate and purposeful. His sword had been drawn without Eugene's even noticing, a swift movement as reflexive as an eyeblink.

“Oh, yeah, right, it hasn't.” A chilling thought struck Eugene. “Could this have happened while we were talking?”

“Yes. If they were in position before we began to speak, they would have killed us individually rather than allowing us to meet.”

“Who the fuck are they? Who did this? Did Sergius find out about us? I think – Glauco, wait up! – I think we shouldn't go back if ….”

“No, Sergius is ignorant of this. He may already be dead.” Glauco ducked into the treeline, sword at the ready. He moved with impressive grace, poised and ready to strike, totally alert.

“What about the other guy on watch, where's he?”

Glauco ignored him completely. Eugene realized with a surge of terror that he was no longer important to Glauco's plans, that the bandit had bigger fish to fry.

Most of the bandits were asleep, lying haphazardly around the ashes of cooking fires in whatever furs, cloths, or sheets they had. Even those with ragged clothing and no bedding had weapons close at hand.

Sergius sat up with a grimace at the sight of Glauco approaching with his sword drawn. “So, you've finally decided to make your move, eh?” he growled, reaching for the blade laying close to his own furs. “Didn't think I'd see it coming, did you? Well, I'll settle you right now, you son of a ….”

“We are under attack,” said Glauco, glancing around at the trees. “Epicrates and William are dead. They will be in position even now.”

“Wait, what?” Eugene could see nothing. “Guys, what the fuck is going on? Who are these people? Why do they want to kill us?”

“AWAKEN!” Glauco's voice was surprisingly loud for such a small man. At once the sleeping forms of the men in the clearing began to stir, throwing aside hides, reaching for weapons.

Unfortunately, this elevated their profiles. Whoever the attackers were, they seemed to have been waiting for such an action. There was a thrum of displaced air and a man reeled to the side, a long arrow sprouting from his chest. At the same time, another screamed as a shaft punched through the meat of his calf, dousing the ground with a gush of arterial blood.

Eugene dropped his spear and fumbled with his shield, using both hands to hold it up in front of his torso, hoping that the unseen enemy would be considerate enough to aim for it. He could see that the arrows had come from multiple directions and wondered if his chainmail would stop them.

In the fields, the sky was a dull gray, but in the darkness beneath the trees it was difficult to make out any details. All Eugene knew was that people were dying around him, screaming and shouting. There were rushing sounds and clanking metallic noises and awful smells but in the darkness and chaos neither he nor any of the bandits had any idea of the nature or number of their attackers.

The thrumming sounds were irregular, offering no pattern for anyone to predict. The clearing which had offered shelter was now a firing range into which arrows flew with amazing accuracy, their motion too swift to pinpoint. Again and again they tore into flesh and blood. One man grabbed Kore and tried to hold a dagger at her throat, but before he could bring the weapon to bear, a shaft hit him in the chest with such force that it spun him halfway around. Kore squirmed out of his hands like an eel, grabbed the man's dagger, and sawed into his throat, releasing another spout of blood. She screamed in fury, brandishing the weapon and plunging it into the back of another bandit, a skinny black guy with an axe who was obviously disoriented. She jumped over his dying body and grabbed the axe from his convulsing, spasmodically twitching fingers.

Her scream was drowned out by Sergius. “TO ME, YOU DOGS, RALLY TO ME!” He stood in the middle of the clearing, brandishing the sword again, shield up. It was a bold move, since it made him a target for whoever was attacking, and he staggered with the impact of an arrow on his shield, the shaft sticking halfway through the wood and leather. But the bandits did move towards him, holding whatever weapons they were able to catch, raising shields if they had them, branches or rolls of bedding or cloaks if they didn't, anything to slow the fierce projectiles that lanced through the boughs and sought their targets in human flesh.

Eugene hastily got in with the bandits, terrified of standing out. He fumbled with his shield, but did not even think of using his spear. One bandit did, hurling it into the dense undergrowth from where an arrow had come, but there was no sign that this had been effectual. Forgotten were the petty political squabbles; now they were as one.

“This way,” snarled Sergius, and Eugene was relieved to see him uninjured. The chieftain had been terrifying before, but now his strength and ferocity meant that he might very possibly offer protection. They charged through the brush, following Sergius, branches whipping at their faces and snagging clothing.

Once out in the open, Sergius had them take a stand a few hundred yards from the thicket of trees. Eugene, wild with panic, didn't understand this – surely it would be easier to pick out targets on open ground, without branches and trees in the way?

“There,” said Sergius with an attitude of disgust. “Those cunts don't have our numbers – if they did, we'd be dead. They won't face us in the open where we can run them down, not to mention having the sun at our backs. Ah, well, who is left? Strabo? William?” He clapped Eugene's shoulder, making him flinch. “Perhaps it was well to allow you into our band, considering how many fucking men I stand to lose.”

“Peasants,” said Glauco. “They were peasants.”

“We should not have taken the peasant woman,” said another man.

“Beware!” cried a third.

And indeed, there was much to fear. For the attackers in the trees had not shown themselves, but another group had.

At this time the dawn broke, the grayness of the horizon turning rosy-pink and sending shafts of golden light over the gentle green plains, welcoming the new day in all its beauty. And from the east also came the heavy thundering of some mass of people, some large body that was moving in fast, faster than a man could run, sweeping from the east as the night's grayness gave way to the brilliance of the sun and using that as cover so that the terrified bandits had to squint to even see who was on the attack.

The cavalry was coming. Not necessarily to the rescue, but the cavalry was certainly coming. About fifty men on horseback were moving in a pincer formation. They had clearly been positioned, and were therefore collaborating with the attackers in the trees. Due to their position, they now had the rising sun at their backs.

“Oh, Jesus!” Eugene went white, feeling sick at the sight of so much bloodshed. “Who are these people? Who are you people? Why does everyone want to kill us? What do we do, guys? What the fuck are we gonna do?”

The horsemen were moving quickly, now close enough that lancepoints could be seen glinting in the dawn's rosy glow. Their horses were strange-looking, taller, more gracile, with longer limbs (fitting for a low-gravity world, said the part of his brain that had begun to accept all this) and a sort of vulpine look to their heads, almost more like canines than ungulates.

The men atop them were, as far as Eugene could tell, Red Indians.

No, really. His impressions were confused due to the speed with which they attacked and the uncertain light, but they had light brown skin, black hair, and wore what appeared to be leggings and jackets of buckskin with fringes, a kind of loincloth, and not much else in the way of clothing save for some highly variable armor – one had a rusted mail shirt, another had a helmet, a third had a bronze shinguard on one leg and not the other – and those stern, cruel faces were indeed decorated with warpaint. They had feathers in their hair just like in the old black-and-white cowboy movies and he could see that one had somehow glued his feathers to his helmet. They even let out war-whoops, though they didn't clap their hands over their mouths because their right hands were currently holding lances and their left arms bore small, rounded shields which were also decorated with paint and feathers.

All this Eugene took in and then he realized that if he didn't get his ass in gear, he was going to wind up with his scalp hanging from someone's belt. If these had been normal people, he would've been a mile away already, but as he was currently being chased down by the combined might of the Cleveland Indians, it was a little difficult to take things seriously. The whole unbelievability of this situation was hitting him at the worst possible time.

The ground seemed to shake and he wondered if you could really feel that with only a couple dozen riders or if it was just his imagination. The steel points raced towards him like shooting stars and it seemed to Eugene that all those gleaming lanceheads were converging on his exact position.

Eugene had heard about the SCA meetups where they held big medieval-style melee battles with their blunt swords and lances. Veterans like Will had told him about how thrilling it was to face an enemy across an open field, and yet how viscerally terrifying the experience was. He had spoken of the sound of opposing armies clashing that was like nothing else, how some guys were scared to do it on their first meetup. Bruises and broken bones were not uncommon.

Now that he was facing live steel wielded by men who evidently wished to kill him, men who, it bore repeating, were riding on fucking bizarro-world fake horses, there was not even a question of bravely standing his ground. Eugene bolted, thinking of nothing but the speed at which those tapered steel lance points were rushing at his vulnerable torso and how to get away from them as fast as humanly possible. He took the landscape in great bounds, flying over the grass, sprawling and getting to his feet just as a lancehead shot over his head like a bullet and a not-horse went pounding off away from him, having missed its target and now closing in on another man.

“BANDITS!” bellowed a lean man who looked different from the others and was wearing a cloak and an Ancient Roman helmet with a molded cuirass and a cavalry saber. “SUBMIT!”

Some held their ground. These took the metal points in the chest. Others tried to run, and were run through from behind. Blood spattered, and at once the air was full of ungodly howls and screams as wounded men, run through, stabbed, sliced, were butchered like animals. The dewy grass was drenched, and the meaty chopping sound was matched by the hiss of blood spurting from wounds.

With a roar, Sergius flung himself at the nearest horseman. His steel was fast; it sliced down onto a thin lance, chopping the wooden shaft in half but spinning him around and nearly ripping the sword out of his hands with sheer momentum. Sergius at once recovered himself, but so had the Indian, who almost immediately dropped the broken lance and now had a short bow in his hands. Calmly he nocked an arrow and fired, hitting Sergius in the leg. He then said something to another figure.

This horseman was smaller than the others and since these Indians were long-haired and beardless, Eugene initially thought he was a girl. Even his voice was higher as he said something back in a questioning tone. The language was different from the language the other Goreans had spoken and it didn't translate.

The guy who'd put the arrow in Sergius's leg reached up and tapped his left ear. The youth nodded, set his lance, and charged.

Sergius was knocked down by the force of the blow, which tore the left side of his face open. Eugene could see muscle, yellow-white cheekbones and little white teeth tumbling out of the jaw like dice, the jaw itself having been ripped off of the bottom of the man's face. He twitched and scrabbled, still somehow alive but bleeding horrifically.

Apparently that had been a mistake. The Indians laughed, the sound incongruous amidst the horror of the scene, and the young man's red cheeks turned redder still. He turned his mount with unnecessary force and returned to the fray, face grimly set with the laughter of his comrades ringing in his ears.

Most of the bandits didn't have armor. Those who did had had not slept in it, and they hadn't been given much time to put it on. The small arrows and the lances swept among them, killing with superb precision. If they fled, they were run down by the horsemen. Some made for the trees, but they fell prey to arrows.

And where was Eugene while this slaughter was taking place? He had taken the advice of the Roman Helmet Guy and thrown down his sword and shield. He had realized that the Dark Lord Alypius had been a childish figment of his imagination. The clashing of blades, the slicing open of flesh and the spilling of blood, all of that was totally beyond him. He could not face such weapons, not if wielded with lethal intent. He could scarcely conjecture the nature of the man who would be capable of doing such a thing. Eugene Phillips was just not that kind of man. At once he knew that he would rather submit in shame, would rather be called a pussy, a faggot, a coward, than run even the slightest risk of his own precious, living body being subject to such violence. “I submit!” he cried. “I submit! Don't hurt me.”

Glauco did the same thing. “SUBMIT!” bellowed the man in the crested helmet.

“I ….I submit!” Was he speaking English? Eugene raised his hands high, palms open. “Don't shoot! I mean, don't stab! Don't kill me!” He looked at Glauco, and saw that Glauco and most remaining bandits were kneeling in the same position that Kore had adopted yesterday, with their weapons flung down and their wrists crossed above their heads. Quickly Eugene imitated them.

A small group of Indians detached from the main body to secure these prisoners. One of them was not an Indian at all but the Roman Helmet Guy, a thin, hawk-faced man whose resemblance to his fellows was heightened by his tanned skin, dark hair, and the plume of feathers on his helmet, but who looked to be European in ancestry and was speaking in the “normal” Gorean language that Eugene could sometimes understand. His armor was of higher quality, being a molded breastplate, a leather skirt, armguards, greaves, and a brightly-painted shield. He had a scarlet tunic that had faded to pink from long use (this did not make him look any less intimidating) and several silver medallions stuck to his chest. He gestured at the captive bandits with his sword. “Remove your clothing!”

With shaking hands, very aware of the screams, the dull wet sounds of metal cutting into raw and bloody meat, the horrible smells filling the air, Eugene took off his helmet, struggling with his mail shirt (“I'm trying, I'm trying!”) and his belt. His pack had been left behind in the clearing, fortunately enough.

If it was scary enough to be on a battlefield with a shield and armor, it was a thousand times worse when you were naked. His clothes and weapons were gathered up by eager tribesmen, with the young boy putting his helmet on, another trying on his chain mail. He himself shivered at the feeling of the chill wind over his body, his sense of total and utter vulnerability.

“Belly,” barked the man who seemed to be in charge of prisoners. Eugene looked up uncomprehendingly and received a stinging blow to the face from an Indian.

He soon found out the meaning of the command. The captives were made to lie down on their bellies in the grass to be stripped of whatever they still had, even their shoes being removed. Their wrists were held behind them, and they were made to cross their ankles. Their hands were bound behind their back with the calm professionalism of men who'd done this many times before, and they were tied together by the throat. Eugene, nearly frantic with terror, blinded by frightened tears, tugged at the restraints but felt them actually grow tighter.

The ground shook from the tread of men and horses, but Eugene could see nothing but grass. These guys knew what they were doing, though – he felt totally, utterly helpless. He couldn't even think of fighting back. His bare back prickled at the thought of the spear blades that could be driven into it.

Eugene didn't see much more, what with his face being pressed into the ground and all. His first sign that it was over – not much later – was when he was jerked to his feet by a harsh hand in his hair.

All that was left were the screams of the wounded men – and they were fucking howling, not the grunting or shouting of guys in movies but ongoing, high-pitched screeches as men attempted to push their perforated body parts back together with their hands. He could see the noseless man staggering, coils of pink intestine like sausage spilling out from between his fingers. He could see the skin on one man's hand scraped off, scrunched up around the wrist like a rubber glove. Underneath, muscles and tendons stood out in red and white, twitching when the man moved his fingers. Another man's eyes bulged comically out of their sockets – his skull had been split down the middle.

The Red Indians jumped down from their horses and began to go to work cutting the scalps off of the dead bandits. That of Sergius was presented to the young Indian who'd struck him down, though the boy made a face upon receiving it. One or two pried teeth loose and gathered them in little leather bags where they rattled like dice. They paused in their bloody work and looked speculatively at the men now approaching from the trees, who in turn were carrying small yellow bows. These bows, along with rusted, chipped knives of bronze or crude steel, were their only weapons. They had dirty gray tunics and were thin, gaunt men with stooped backs and weathered skin.

“No,” said the Italian guy, he who had the crested helmet. “It is the orders of the Tribune that these peasants be left undisturbed.”

The Indians didn't seem happy about that (and the men in gray were glaring suspiciously at the Indians) but the Italian guy and the Tribune he apparently represented seemed to be feared by both other groups and they said nothing.

Eugene's mind was whirling in terror, and it got worse when he saw that Kore, now unbound, was among the gray-clad men, standing behind one whose features resembled hers. She was wrapped in a cloak and was swaying, face grayish and sallow, as though about to faint.

“Decurion?” It was an older Indian who had a sword at his belt and a wooden club in one hand. He had more feathers in his hair than the other Indians and intricate designs embroidered onto his fringed jacket and leggings in copper, brass, and turquoise beads. His face was painted like Indians in old Western movies and he looked like a pretty tough guy. Unlike the younger tribesmen, he had not taken any scalps from the bandits, though a few older trophies still hung from his belt, looking like scraps of dried leather with hair attached.

“Yes, barbarian, what is it?”

“We end ….?” he pointed at Eugene and his fellow prisoners and made a downward chopping motion.

The Roman guy – Decurion, he was called – scowled. The older Indian brave spoke in his own language, which still didn't translate to Eugene and apparently not to Decurion either. A younger Indian said something back to him and then addressed Decurion.

“He wishes to know whether we should kill the bandits.”

“No. I have my orders from the legate himself. He commands that the bandits be impaled, so that they may stand as warning to all brigands who trouble honest men on the road.”

“What of the healthy ones?” It was one of the tribesmen. He looked a little nervous about speaking up. “The slavers might give a good price for them.”

Decurion sighed. “I do not remember the tribune or the legate specifying what ought to be done in the case of captives. It is not my belief that they expected any to survive.” He glanced around. “Still, I suppose that as bandits, we really ought to ….”

“Wait!” Eugene hoped like hell that he was speaking the native language, not English. “Wait, guys! I'm not a bandit! I'm not a bandit! I swear to God, guys, I don't know how I got here!”

“He lies!” Kore stuck her head out from behind the male peasant. “He captured me! He made me submit to him!”

“You captured Kore?” The male peasant looked thunderous. He fingered the long bow he carried.

“Be silent, peasant!” barked Decurion. “You, Noble Brigand, I believe that you were saying something? That you were not a bandit at all?”

“Yes!” Oh, thank God! “I just ….they found me, and they said that they would sell me ….”

“Ah, so you are a slave, stolen by bandits?”

“I ….I guess so, yeah.”

He straightened up, stretching himself with a look of satisfaction. “And you, the other captives, I suppose you are not really bandits either? So it is not necessary to impale you alongside the road?”

Ten different voices readily assured him that they were all completely innocent men, caught by accident in the company of bloodthirsty robbers.

“Well, that makes things perfectly simple,” said Decurion. “Let us take them to the slaver. I shall report to the tribune that ten, no, let me see, thirteen brigands were slain, along with however many the peasants managed to feather within the trees. As for these fellows, obviously common slaves, who knows what became of them?”

A cheer went up from the Indians. Decurion smiled grimly. “As for the wounded, finish them. Take whatever trophies you wish.”

The worst thing about all this was how methodical it was. The savages casually moved to cut the throats of those who were still wounded, until a word came from the men in gray, especially the one who looked like Kore's dad.

“Do not,” he said as an Indian stood with his sword drawn over a screaming bandit whose slashed bowels were oozing a foul-smelling mixture of blood and excrement.

“He ….not live ….big amount time.” The Indian was a young man, Eugene could see, probably younger than he was. Christ, the guy looked like a teenager!

“Let them die slowly,” said the peasant, and the other peasants nodded. Most emphatic was Kore, who seemed utterly thrilled at this outcome. She clapped her hands together in girlish glee and embraced her rescuer.

The man in the crested helmet laughed. “As you wish,” he said.

“What will be done with the bodies?”

The man shrugged. “They will serve as a warning to all who molest honest men of the empire.” He paused as if remembering something and then nodded briskly. “Peasant, the Tribune Clitus Vitellius commands you thusly; return to your village and spread word of how the auxiliaries of Ar slew those bandits and highwaymen. We are not as the men of Cos, who would see fit to pay and arm marauders so that they might plunder honest citizens.”

The peasant lowered his head. “The Noble Tribune's message is well-received.”

“He also bade me give you this.” A small leather bag was given to the peasant, who reached in and held up a gold coin.

“The Noble Vitellius is generous indeed.”

“See to it that you spread the word among your villages, Noble Peasants.” Decurion indicated his Indians. “Let us bring these dogs to the slaver, yes?”

Each surviving bandit was tied together, naked, arms behind his back and escorted by armed men. In the distance stood the same row of tents he'd seen yesterday, pennants fluttering, and despite himself Eugene hoped he'd meet other SCA members. But he didn't have much hope left. The bloodshed he'd witnessed had left him in a state of shell-shocked horror; he numbly moved onward, still unable to truly accept any of this, but just as incapable of denying it. Behind him, two of the Indians argued over his mail shirt, shield, and sword, all of which were apparently of decent quality.

Eugene stumbled forwards, his terror not merely due to the butchery he had just witnessed. This ….this was real. Unless he'd gone insane, a possibility that was looking more and more likely by the minute, he was genuinely in a strange and fantastic world, possibly Gor. And he could understand the language, which was something he could only attribute to magic. Had he also arrived by magic? How? Could he get back by saying “there's no place like Youngstown” and clicking his sandals three times?

If he had been brought here by some kind of powerful beings, and those beings had a plan for him, would they rescue him now? It didn't seem likely, since if they didn't like the Evil Empire and they were powerful enough to stop it, they probably would have done so by now. Maybe a small underground group of magicians who were persecuted by the Evil Empire had cast a spell in order to summon a hero from another world – in which case they'd miscalculated pretty fucking badly.

Eugene wondered what would happen if any of the violence he'd seen had befallen him – if swords or spears or lances went slicing through his flesh with those horrible dull wet meaty thumping noises. Would he wake up in his bed in Ohio? Or would he simply disappear forever?

As they approached, Eugene noted dully that the collection of tents encircled a wooden palisade like a fortress. Within this fortress were regularly-spaced rows of tents that looked like a city. Outside, they seemed to cluster more organically, hovering in greater numbers around the entry to the fort. Some areas were tightly-packed while others, for no reason that Eugene could determine, seemed to only have one or two tents or huts or whatever small buildings were growing up around the palisade.

The collection of tents nearby had none of the organization of the palisaded enclosure; indeed, they were packed tightly together, separated by lines or ropes. Groups of men in the same red tunics, usually with swords at their belts, wandered through the narrow, muddy lanes between these tents. Other men also walked around, either unarmed men in the same tunics, but of shabbier grade, or men with a varying assortment of weapons that included swords, spears, shields, daggers, scimitars, sabers, lances, pikes, and bows. Each looked authentic, and they all had points on the end. The few women present were dressed in revealing clothing and lurking in the openings to tents. A man in a gray tunic dragged a snorting pig on a rope, while another carried several cooing doves under his arms.

All these people looked small, like the bandits. They all seemed scrawny and underfed, with skin reddened and roughened by years spent exposed to the elements. As he stared around, he saw that certain of the men had tattoos on their hands that looked like strings of Roman numerals. Others, the ones with the patchy equipment, were standing around tents.

Eugene and his fellow prisoners got a few odd looks, but nobody seemed to notice them, much less think that there was any kind of problem with a line of naked, chained captives being led around.

And snatches of conversation drifted up from the stalls, conversation that he somehow, incomprehensibly, understood.

“….do you think that we will march soon?”

“….five copper pigs for this bracelet, my lord, you'll never find a better ….”

“….he says he'll lead a party against those bandits, but how the slavers would howl if he truly did ….”

“….by Hersius, I would make good use of a hot bath!”

“Out of the way, you!” came a shout considerably nearer. There was snorting and stamping as a barefoot young boy in a brown wool tunic led a horse, or at least whatever Goreans considered to be a horse, down the narrow lanes. It was taller than a real horse, with a silky black mane and muscular flanks, a white patch on its forehead and big brown eyes. Its nostrils flared and it pawed the ground with a forefoot that bore no hoof, but toes fused together into the semblance of such an appendage. It looked like a horse that had evolved from a dog and he wondered if it did have carnivorous ancestry.

The man atop the not-a-horse was almost as impressive. He was taller and larger than most of the Goreans, similar in size to Eugene in fact, and his armor was much more elaborate. His torso was covered in bronze and steel with a molded leather cuirass, his helmet was engraved with tiny details difficult to make out at a distance and he wore a scarlet cloak and a scarlet sash around his waist. Like Decurion and unlike most of the soldiers, his sword was at his left side. Every single piece of armor gleamed in the sun. His appearance was so totally incongruous amidst the squalor that Eugene looked up in sudden hope that this guy might be another role-player.

Apparently everyone else found him just as impressive. Decurion raised his arm in some weird quasi-Nazi salute. “Hail, Tribune Vitellius!”

The man raised his own arm. The boy guiding his horse held onto the reins, forcing it to stop. It snorted and tossed its head, ears lying flat against its head, probably disturbed by the smell of blood from the captives.

“Decurion Carvilianus,” said the man. “I see the peasants did not mislead you in the matter of the robbers.”

“Yes, sir, it took place just as you said.” Decurion – no, the decurion named Carvilianus, unless it was his first name – shook his head. “Those peasants are certainly quick with their arrows. There was little for our lads to do.”

“You had no trouble at all, then?” For some reason the Vitellius guy looked unhappy.

“None, sir.”

“Are these the bandits?” The man on the horse waved a hand toward Eugene and the rest of the captives, though he didn't bother to look at them.

“Oh, no, sir, these are slaves stolen by the bandits. We had thought that the slavers here might be of assistance in returning them to their lawful masters.”

The Tribune grinned, his teeth looking very white against his olive skin. “No doubt they will be most pleased to offer assistance in this matter. Carvilianus, do as you please with the captives, but be ready to attend me at noon. I wish to proceed in person to Giadini and speak further with these peasants.”

“You intend I should meet them in person?” The decurion's lip curled. “In their village? You would actually go to visit them? Noble Sir, I have just seen these peasants. It would be my pleasure to convey your will to them without inconveniencing yourself.”

Another grin. “You have captives to sell, decurion. You would not cheat those Red Savages – I hear they can be ruthless when they believe themselves wronged. No, it is far better than I, with little else to occupy my time, should conduct this mission.”

“Forgive me, Tribune, but does your noble father ….?”

A shadow seemed to cross that handsome face. “My noble father has higher concerns. I must needs go on his behalf.”

“Sir!” The man seemed genuinely outraged. “To treat with peasants in such fashion is unbecoming in a senior officer!”

“Do you so fear for your dignity, Decurion Carvilianus? Or did the gold fail to make its way to their hands after all?”

“Do not think that I speak only on my own behalf! I would rather go and command these peasants in your name than have you lower yourself. As for the gold, it is certainly theirs, but undoubtedly they will say they got nothing in the hopes of wringing more from you. The low castes are crafty, Noble Tribune, and will not hesitate to take advantage of your kindness.”

“You sound like Lavinius. You do not know peasants as I do. They are proud, independent folk and each considers himself an Ubar in his own hut. It is important to show respect when one deals with them.”

“But sir, you are of the Vitellii ….” This man who had so ruthlessly cut down bandits just recently was now almost pleading.

“I shall hear no more on this matter. It will not be the first time I have shared the kettle of a peasant. And I shall expect you with me.”

“I protest!”

“Noon, decurion. This very day.”

Carvilianus stared at him, mouth agape. Then he raised his arm again. “Glory to Ar!”

“Glory to Ar,” said the Tribune dryly, returning the salute and indicating that the boy should lead his horse forward through the tents.

“I cannot believe the legate is permitting this.” Carvilianus's crest bobbed like a bird's as he shook his head. “A fucking peasant.”

“At least he seems in a better mood this day.” It was the Indian who seemed to speak Gorean best and who had conveyed the words of the older Indian before.

“It is his dealings with peasants.” The officer sighed. “Such a man is not ideally suited to the holding of high office and patrician family; rather, he prefers the hunt, war, a woman in his arms, such things. Have you heard that he attempted to marry that slave girl?”

“Truly?”

“Truly? Of course I speak truly? When have I spoken aught but the truth? I do not blame you, though. With Clitus Vitellius the truth is so unbelievable that any man could be excused for questioning its veracity. Our Tribune has always had an odd notion of his friends. Why could I not have served in the Fourteenth?”

And while Eugene and his companions struggled through the mud, their captors continued to gossip like teenage girls, occasionally hurrying the prisoners on their way with blows from spear butts.

This whole camp seemed devoted to trading with the palisaded structure. A number of people had fish, which kind of made sense considering the giant lake, while others had livestock that looked like pigs and goats. He got another shock as he saw another man in uniform strolling along with a long black animal on a leash.

At first he wasn't sure if he was seeing one animal or two. There seemed to be something wrong with it, somehow. He shifted his head, trying to see it from another angle – no, it was a single creature, it just had an extra pair of legs.

The whole thing was probably between eight and ten feet long, but it had a longer body, supported by six thickly-muscled legs instead of four. It had a large, triangular head as massive as that of a pit bull with a grinning set of jaws that looked more like the mouth of a fish or reptile than that of a mammal. Like a dog, it would occasionally stop and sniff something, at which point its impatient handler would mutter something and tug hard on the leash to get it moving again. It had a heavy, spiked metal collar.

“What the fuck is that?” But of course he'd spoken in English, and besides, he hadn't addressed anyone specific. The man holding it didn't seem to be taking it anywhere; he just walked around the outside of the camp with the creature, probably to keep intruders away. It was moving toward the palisade and fortunately the line of captives were moving away.

They were moving toward something on the far side of the camp, as far from the wooden palisade as you could get. As they approached, the tents began to thin out.

As he got near the outside of the camp, he could see piles of shit everywhere; small piles of human feces, larger piles of horse dung. One of the camp followers was lifting her skirt and shitting behind a small bush. There was also the coppery stench of blood that had become familiar and when he looked, he could see the gutted corpses of goats in another tent, crawling with flies, their skinned heads staring blankly up at him. It seemed that while this camp wasn't as orderly as the other one, the worst of the smells were to be confined to the outskirts.

A roar snapped Eugene out of his stupor. He and his fellow prisoners had been led past a small complex of wooden cages made from logs lashed together with rope. Inside these cages lay a number of wild animals. Most were big cats that looked like mountain lions and were pacing back and forth and hissing murderously, though many had bloody marks on their bodies and some were laying on their sides, panting. Two of the men in gray tunics reminiscent of Kore or her people were marching in, carrying another panther suspended by the paws from a pole slung between their shoulders. A stick had been tied between its teeth, but its eyes were closed and it was no longer fighting.

“Ho, Peasants,” cried the decurion, “you are walking away from the buyer of wild beasts!”

The man with the panther on a stick grinned, his face covered in sweat, breathing heavily, presumably from lugging the creature all the way in. Eugene stared. He would have been a lot more careful if he'd known there were animals like that out here!

“Noble Warrior,” said the man, shifting the stick from one sweaty shoulder to the other, “know you the location of Clitus Vitellius?”

“I assume that he is in the followers' camp, though doubtless he shall pay a personal visit to your little village if requested.” Again the sneer. “Why do you ask?”

“We were grateful to him.” The peasant gestured to the line of chained prisoners and Eugene shrank back in his chains. “He is doing good work, to rid the countryside of wild beasts and bandits. We wished to present him with this panther.”

“It is the largest we have caught,” added the second peasant.

The decurion laughed. Eugene thought that he sounded rather condescending. “The tribune will not welcome your dumping a live panther in his tent, will he? Already he has sufficient sleen” – this word seemed to translate as “female dogs” or “whores” – “within his sleeping quarters.”

Eugene took advantage of the distraction to look again at the cages of beasts. He wasn't the only one. Many people were gathered around, most of them simply looking over the animals. A pair of the prostitutes were tormenting a large, shaggy creature that looked like a cross between an ape and a grizzly bear, and which was grasping the bars with disconcertingly humanlike hands. A small pack of the six-legged “dogs” he'd seen earlier paced back and forth, whining, their ears lying flat against their heads, tongues lolling. They were brown in color, and had slimmer, more gracile bodies than the giant black guard dog the soldier had been leading. Sometimes they would rear up on all fours, the first third of their bodies raised like cobras, ears up and nostrils dilated. A third type of animal was a gigantic spider, its huge hairy legs as wide around as a man's arm, its fangs large as knives. Eugene stared at this one, unable to fully comprehend what he was seeing, sure that it was some sort of trick of the light and shadow. Things like that couldn't be real, could they?

Another roar echoed. The bars on this cage were heavy and set so closely together that it was at first difficult to make out the massive beast padding behind on huge, soft paws. It was a monstrous lion, one with a thick, heavy body and saber teeth like daggers protruding from below its jaws. A slender young girl poked at it with a stick and it swiped at her, provoking a scream – but its paws were simply too massive to get between the bars of the cage. She giggled and poked it again.

There was a strong stench in the air, a musky smell from all these animals, all frightened, their wastes piled up in corners of their cages. Eugene felt that he could almost sense their fear, could sympathize with their panting, their snarling, their nervous pacing.

“Enough!” The decurion raised his hand, cutting off whatever the two peasants were going to say. “Simply dispose of it where the other beasts are, and then I will tell him.”

“We wished to ….” began the second man, but the first hushed him and inclined his head to the officer.

“Our thanks, Warrior. We shall do as you say.”

Without bothering to reply, the chain was once again led between the beast cages, past the great saber-toothed tiger and the giant spider and the manlike bear, the panthers and six-legged wolves, grunting wild boars with curved white tusks and some kind of dinosaur with a curved beak like a parrot's. The chain grew taut around Eugene's neck.

“What,” laughed Carvilianus, “you wish to become better acquainted with the wild beasts? I am sure that you will get to know them quite well!” He hurried Eugene along with a blow from the flat of his saber.

There was another one of the wooden palisades that seemed to be fairly common, but this one was spaced widely enough that you could look in, and it was topped with logs as well, so that it was really more of a cage than a pen. Inside it were four or five dirty, bedraggled figures that were so thin and filthy that at first Eugene thought that they were more monkeys. He peered closer.

“Jesus Christ!” If there had been any doubt in Eugene's mind about the reality of this world, it was immediately put to rest. The figures behind the bars were human beings. They looked like men, and gaunt men with protruding ribs and hollow cheeks, smeared with all kinds of filth. They made no attempt to shoo away the flies that crawled over their bodies, clustering in the sores on their limbs and the whip scars on their backs.

Almost worse than the sight of men sitting in a cage full of shit and flies was the reaction from the rest of the people surrounding it – namely, that there wasn't one. It had more guards than the other stalls, and they seemed better-equipped, with more armor and weapons than even the soldiers from the palisade. They wore earrings and nose rings and rings on their fingers, necklaces, jeweled girdles, and silver belt buckles, and some of their clothing was dyed scarlet or purple or black, but the rest of their clothes were stained with sweat and hard use. Outside a tent sat a handsome young man in an elaborate robe of blue and yellow silk, fanning himself idly to keep the flies away from his own face. A man marched up to him, this one looking far more like what Eugene expected a slave trader to look like – he was large compared to the other people in the camp, with leather clothing, studded wristlets, a vicious-looking whip at his broad leather belt, and an ugly, scarred face. He looked at the line of captives and muttered something to the young man in the silk costume.

“Lycus!” bellowed Carvilianus, “arise! We have something for you!”

“Noble Warrior.” This man looked up languidly and his eyes met Eugene's. A jolt of terror ran through Eugene, a sudden, sick certainty that he was going to be thrown into the cage with the wretched prisoners. “You have something for me?” The man stood up, looking bored and smoothing down his robes.

“A couple bandits. They tried to steal the daughter of a peasant – no doubt planning to sell her to you. Do you recognize any of them?”

“I?” The youth put on a look of affected surprise. “Noble Carvilianus, I would know nothing of bandits.”

“Assuredly. Well, your friends here have now found the chain on their own necks. Fitting, is it not?”

“Oh, doubtless.” The youth's eyes were sharp as he examined the prisoners. “The Priest-Kings reward men according to their wickedness.”

“In which case fire from the sky ought to have consumed you long ago. Now open purse and let fall your gold, for we have merchandise for your flesh market.”

“Gold?” Lycus's tone of amazement was such that Eugene wondered if the translation spell was working properly. “For these wretched dogs? Half of them look likely to collapse on the spot. And what is that?” His finger jabbed at Eugene, who nearly pissed himself with terror, certain that at any moment his soft flesh was about to be parted with those horrible steel blades. He could imagine it very well. In fact, it was the horror of his memories that convinced him that this was all real – surely nobody had ever become shell-shocked just by his imagination? “Look at him! That is some fat merchant, is he not?”

The decurion gave Eugene a speculative look. “If so, he had taken up with bandits. He was dressed as a common sellsword. In any event, you cannot deny that he's well-fed.”

“Perhaps. What is he good for?”

“A silver pig.”

“Come now, my dear decurion, your wild flights of fantasy have grown ever more elaborate. Perhaps a few coppers might be more realistic? After all, what exactly was his cost to you?”

The two continued to haggle, while Eugene simply stared in horror. Nowhere could he see any escape. Once or twice he caught sight of something reassuringly modern but every time it vanished after a closer look. A glint of metal caught his eye and, his heart leaping, he assumed it was a discarded Pepsi can. But then it was moved, and revealed itself to be a bracer or pauldron or something equally in-character. A sword seemed to wobble out of the corner of his eye and his gaze shot over to it – perhaps it was a rubber prop weapon? But no, it looked solid enough. One man might have been wearing jeans. He did turn out to be dressed in trousers, but stitched hide leggings instead of Levi's.

Everything was Gorean. Everything was real.

“Priest-Kings!” screamed Eugene at the sky, thinking of the letter he'd gotten. “You sent me here for a reason! Well, I can't do what you want if I'm dead or in chains!”

The sky remained clear, blue, and devoid of gods. The handsome young slaver gestured at Eugene. “You see? Quite mad! Are there so few madmen in Argentum that they must needs import them? No, I shall not give a bit of a copper pig,” – the syntax here was weird, but then again it was a foreign language – “for such a raving fool. Fifty silver pieces for the lot, and that's all.”

The decurion gave Eugene a look of grim violence. “Is prayer now a sign of madness? Surely you yourself would pray if placed in such a dangerous situation – an event which may occur sooner than you think.” He gave the hilt of his sword a suggestive twitch.

“This is what the Empire has come to, is it? Noble Warriors threatening innocent merchants? And here I had thought that you fellows had codes.” The slaver sighed theatrically, drawing up his robes to cover his face, then letting them fall with an expression of great misery and woe. “Very well, fifty-five, though such extortion is unbecoming in one who is of high caste.”

Nobody was coming. Nobody was going to help. Eugene pulled desperately at his chains, hoping that the burst of strength which had saved him from Hendix would allow him to break the shackles.

The shackles held.

“By Hersius, he's strong,” said Carvilianus. “You are going to see Pulendianus upon our arrival?”

“He gets right of first refusal on imported slaves – and pays well for the privilege, I might add. No, such a fellow would never do for the arena. He is a coward.”

“Perhaps I shall keep these slaves, and sell them directly to Pulendianus?”

“Then you will no longer be lurking about my humble place of business, threatening me with all sorts of violence as common thug. Go. Go, I say!”

Eugene was now breathing rapidly, terrified. The claustrophobic feeling of being helplessly trapped only continued to intensify.

“Be easy,” said Glauco quietly. “It will serve you nothing to act out now.”

“You wish to stir pity with your weeping?” Carvilianus spat at Eugene's feet. “What of that peasant wench you captured? Where then were your tears?” He struck Eugene in the gut with surprising force for such a small man.

“Cross and bind that one's ankles,” said the slaver casually to his big hulking henchman. “He is about to run.”

“Right, my lord.” The henchman did not make the same mistake as Hendix. He came around from behind, and drove Eugene to his knees with a well-placed boot, the chains dragging down the men nearest to him. Eugene tried to flee, but of course he was chained and helpless and fell over, his belly and face once more mashed into the ground. The slaver's man was extremely efficient and within moments Eugene's ankles were tied and crossed so that he could not even rise to his feet. Another piece of rope was tied to his wrist shackles and then to his ankle ropes, forcing him into a hunched position and more likely to fall over than to run off. When he struggled, the brutish man grabbed his testicles in a calloused hand and gave a short, sharp jerk – not hard, but enough to make Eugene double over, retching. After that he didn't dare resist.

“He's secured.”

“Good, do that for the others.” The young man waved his hand. “Wait, no, let us mark them properly first. Tie their ankles in similar fashion, but free their hands.” And so Eugene's shackles were undone and redone so that his hands were in front of his body. He looked up and saw the military men moving off, the decurion handing out pieces of metal from a leather bag. That, apparently, was the price of all their lives. It seemed odd to Eugene that anyone cruel enough to kill men and sell the survivors into slavery would be this generous with his subordinates. Maybe he was afraid that the Indians would take revenge if he didn't give them their share.

The captives, now the property of the young man, were made to crawl, their ankles bound to keep them from rising to their feet, chained together by the neck. Eugene looked up, but all he could see was the hairy ass of the guy in front of him, which had white scars across it from what was probably a prior whipping. As if to confirm this theory, there was a swish and a crack from somewhere behind the captives and a number cried out in fear.

They heard a guttural voice, that of the slaver's assistant. “Your heads are bowed in submission!” he bellowed, accentuating his point with another vicious crack of the whip. “Your bellies are beneath the chain!”

Looking to the side, all Eugene could see was mud and the heavy, bootlike sandals of the guards, their spear butts swaying idly. He crawled, his hands and knees squelching in the mud, all thoughts of dignity lost.

The crawl was short, as this tent was apparently located near to that of the slaver. A number of slaves had been gathered, all naked and chained in some way and watched over by the guardsmen. Eugene could even see a few women, all whimpering and huddled together in one big pile of naked flesh. These were not as heavily guarded and it occurred to Eugene that if they all attacked at once, they could overwhelm their captors. But they didn't seem to be in much of a hurry to do that. Their bodies, which might have been appealing if washed and fed, were filthy and bruised and some of them were rocking back and forth like caged animals, eyes glazed in terror.

Why they had been brought here was a mystery, though there was some commotion around a large tent with several metal braziers and what looked like a potbellied camping stove. A burly man whose right arm was noticeably larger than his left, stripped to the waist and sweating profusely even in the morning chill, bustled around wearing a leather apron and a pair of heavy mitts that gave him the appearance of a housewife about to remove a pie from the oven. Two younger men in wool tunics who were probably his kids or slaves or apprentices or whatever began removing long irons from a holder and placing them in the camp stove.

Eugene glanced over at his fellow prisoners, and noticed that some of them had marks on their bodies – usually letters. Some of these were on the forehead, while others, particularly a symbol that looked like the Latin letter “k,” were high on the left thigh, just below the hip. Eugene stared more closely at one and saw to his horror that it was a raised scar, that it had actually been burned into the man's flesh.

He looked at the brazier. It would take some time to heat up, especially given the lack of lighter fluid around here, but the air above it was already shimmering.

He looked back at the mark on the man's thigh.

“Upon what do you gaze, faggot?” snarled the man. “Is it your wish to suck my cock?”

Terrified, heart pounding, Eugene drew back his gaze before remembering that they were both chained and neither could so much as rise off of his feet, let alone attack the other. “Is ….what's that on your ….your thigh?”

“My thigh?”

Worried that the translation spell wasn't working, Eugene touched the equivalent location on his own body, fingers trembling.

The man laughed. “Oh, you mean my actual ….yes, I was slave. Cast no scorn upon me, for you too shall be slave ere long.”

If Eugene remembered correctly, this was mentioned in the books. “Is everyone ….?”

“Not all slaves.”

“But many,” said Glauco, who did not seem overly discomfited by his situation. “And certainly we who are taken to be criminals shall be marked. But be of good cheer, my friends – they will get less money for us if they brand us with the mark of a criminal. Therefore we shall simply receive the kef.”

“That's it? I don't want a fucking mark burned onto me? I surrendered, remember?” Fresh tears spilled hotly from Eugene's eyes. “They shouldn't hurt you if you surrender!”

“Quiet, dogs!” One of the guards made an unpleasant gesture.

“Look,” said Eugene to the guard, tears streaking his face, “don't put a fucking brand on me! I'm not a bandit! I'm really not! I don't even know these guys, man!”

“Be silent,” said Glauco quietly. He was kneeling with his head down and his palms resting on his thighs.

“Be silent? Are you fucking kidding me? Be silent? They just ….they're gonna sell us, man, how are you this fucking calm?”

“There is nothing we can do. We must remain quiet and calm until opportunity arises.”

“He is right,” said the branded bandit, also looking more bored than anything. He caught the eye of some spectators and returned their gaze with a tough-guy stare, trying to fold his arms across his chest as far as his chains would allow.

“Shut your mouths,” said another man, this one in a different chain. “You are criminals, highwaymen, rapists and thieves. You are getting what you deserve. We here are common slaves who have done nobody any injury.”

“If I wasn't chained, I'd give you what you deserve right here,” snarled the tough-guy bandit.

This was unfortunate. The guard gave him a blow with the butt of the spear that pitched him forwards with a rattle of chain. “Be silent, Slaves!”

Over in the tent, the guy in the apron lifted one of the irons from the small stove. It was white-hot. Eugene could see air shimmering off of the tip.

“Help!” he screamed, tears flooding down his cheeks. “Help me! I'm Eugene Phillips! I live in Youngstown, Ohio! I didn't agree to any of this! Help me!”

All he got in return was a sharp blow from the guard. The spear butt struck him between the shoulderblades, which wasn't too bad of an injury but certainly would leave a bruise, especially considering the metal cap on the spearbutt.

“You barbarians do not even understand a command to silence? Well, I shall teach you.” Another blow, apparently just for the sake of cruelty, and the guard stomped off back to his original post with the look of a man unjustly vexed.

The man with the mittens checked on an iron and nodded. A young girl struggled, her long dark hair wild, screaming with pain as one of the guards yanked her forward by the hair. She tried to scratch him but he popped her sharply in the gut and left her gasping for breath.

The mittens guy knew what he was doing. With competency born of routine, he removed his gloves, slung the gasping girl over a hinged device of metal and wood. This device was snapped shut, holding her leg in place but doing little else – it was up to the first man to hold her wriggling hands.

When this was done, the mittens guy nodded and slipped on his protective gloves. The woman's eyes went wide and her struggles increased, but she was fastened securely down. Sweat popped along the length of her nude body and while Eugene was too dismayed and terrified to feel much desire, he could see that she was objectively pretty and that in other circumstances the sight of her sweaty and naked and wriggling might be enticing.

The gloved hand drew one of the metal poles from the brazier. The hot end was made in a design like the letter “k” that reminded Eugene of a branding iron, but the design was very thin, almost like a wire. Perhaps, he thought, his bladder contracting, it was intended for a type of livestock with thinner skin than cattle.

A scream split the air as it was brought to rest on the girl's smooth, supple flesh, smoke rising from the point of contact as bodily liquid hissed and steamed. Her struggles intensified and then she collapsed into a faint. The guy holding her wrists released them and while the mittens guy returned his iron to the fire, the girl's captor slung her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and carried her out.

“Oh, no,” stammered Eugene. “Guys, you aren't gonna ….I'm sorry, look, I swear to Christ I'm not a bandit. I never hurt anyone! Please don't ….”

They dragged him forward.