Verna's Journey (3) The Paga Tavern

 

Verna’s Journey
Pauline Anne Armitage

With acknowledgement, and thanks to John Norman for the creation of his world of “Gor”, in which this story is set.

 

 

Chapter Three: The Paga Tavern.

It is dark when we arrive at the caravanserai.  We board the Tarns at the Tarn-cot.  Arminias throws a coin to the keeper.
“Feed the birds!”
The keeper acknowledges.  We find a bunk-house and drop our belongings there.  Arminias has paid extra for the three of us to have a small private room capable of housing four people.  I do not need privacy.  I am used to being seen naked, by other Panther-Girls, by men or at least enslaved men.  Callius and Arminias, knowing that I am the Ubara, I know that they will not lust after me or at least not openly.  On Gor, free women seem to need considerable privacy and modesty.  I though do not give such matters any thought.

I am glad to strip off my flying leathers.  Here on the ground they are overly warm and being much further south than the fortress, the climate is considerably warmer than the cool forest.  I stand in my habitual animal skin garments.
As we flew south and east during the day, we flew over several large military encampments.  Such worry me.  I know not why.
This caravanserai is a poor one.  There is no dining hall.  There is however a Paga tavern.  I hear the sound of voices and thin strands of music coming from such.
“Callius, Arminias, it looks as if the only place to obtain food is the Paga tavern.  Let us see what we can find.”
“Is that wise, Ubara?  Such places are not fitting for free women.  One could even say dangerous to such.  I know that you can take care of yourself and we are pledged to defend you, but you may be the butt of much merriment or insult.  I can fetch food and drink from the tavern”
“I’m sure that I will survive such!  However, I do not want to draw attention to my title or purpose of our journey...”
Whilst I know where I am going and why, on a surface level. In my heart and unconscious mind, I’m not really sure what impels me to travel to Ar.  I only know that I must, and that the time to do so is now.
“I’d appreciate it if you would refer to me as Verna, not Ubara.”
“It shall be so.”
 
I enter through the doorway followed by Callius and Arminias.  A rotund man in the robes of a merchant, but wearing an apron, looks on me.  He is a man, one who owns slaves, he is assessing me.  He takes in that I have been branded and that I wear earrings.  He is clearly puzzled that I am not wearing a metal collar and that I carry a spear.  His eyes slide past me to my two companions.  Clearly then, I am owned by one of the two men and what I am wearing is a costume, clothing to make the slave more exciting.
“Greetings, good sirs!”
I am beside him now.  I give him a hard thump to his ear.
“You talk to me, not to my men!  You are the innkeeper?”
The man is astounded that a woman, and one who appears to be a slave has struck him.
“I am Verna, Chieftainess of the Twelve Sisters band of Panther Girls, and lest you have any confusion, I am a free-woman.”
“A thousand pardons, Lady!  I was not to know.  Free-women entering a place like this are rare.  Portunius at your service.”
“We can get food here? Wine and Paga?”
I had noticed at the Fortress that both Callius and Arminias seemed to be drinking Paga.
“Indeed, Lady!  At once.  I apologise, but I have no male-slave to attend to you,  Please be seated.”
“We’ll manage!”
Portunius indicates a low table and cushions.  I choose another, where I can have my back to a wall, Callius and Arminias can sit at least part-on to the wall.  I start walking towards the table.  Portunius follows myself and my companions.  A red-tunicked man rises from a table.  He has a sword attached to his belt.  He’s clearly of the Warrior caste.  He’s young.  Perhaps only just inculcated into his clan.  He’s not drunk but clearly has had some drink.  His body speaks of a swaggering cocksureness.
“What an enchanting costume you are wearing, slave-girl.  I’d gladly hunt you any-day.  But what are you doing with what looks like a real spear?  And where is your collar?”
I hear the withdrawal of steel as Callius and Arminias draw their swords.  I hold up my hand so that they can see that I will deal with this matter myself.
“I am a free woman, Warrior.  Now leave me be.”
“More likely an escaped slave!  Perhaps there’s a reward for you.  You can be returned when I and the rest of the customers have had our pleasure with you.  Now give up your spear.”
I hear anticipatory laughter from several nearby men.  I drop the spear to the ground.  Callius and Arminias gasp.  The warrior is new and green!  His eyes follow the spear.  I drop to the floor.  Pivoting on the palm of my left hand, I launch a scything kick, taking his legs out from under him.  I am up onto my knees, one knee on his windpipe before he can make any attempt to rise.
“Unbuckle your sword.”
He makes to grasp the hilt.  I press down with my knee.. He chokes and stops.  I let him have a little more air.
“Now keep your hands in my sight, and unbuckle your sword belt.”
He does so.  Callius comes forward moving the weapon from his grasp.  I sense that my two companions are watching the room in case anyone else seeks to interfere.
“By your own caste codes, when beaten in battle, you must accept your own death.  Is that not so?”
He says nothing.  I press again on his windpipe.  There is a hoarse whisper.
“Yes!”
“Then I give you an alternative.  You are already shamed, beaten by a woman.  You may submit to me, as slave.”
“Never!”
“Very good!”
I press down slowly, firmly, choking off his air supply.  He has, it seems enough air to issue a strangled,
“Wait!”
I give him a little more air.
“Come, tarsk, die like a good Warrior or submit to me.  I haven’t got all night!”
His hoarse voice croaks
“I submit to you, Lady!”
“As slave?”
“I submit as slave to you!  Please don’t kill me.”
I give him a fraction more air.
“Again, so everyone can hear.”
“Please Lady, don’t kill me.  I submit to you as slave.”
There is much laughter in the room.  I hear chest thumping too.  Two bulky men wearing tunics bearing the Paga tavern’s symbol have come forward.  Clearly guards or men employed by Portunius to stop trouble or throw out drunkards.
“Portunius?”
“Yes, Lady Verna?”
“ I thought you said that you had no male-slave to attend me?  I give you this one...”
“Thank-you lady!”
“...Put him in serving chains, a camisk^[1] of slave-silk and send him to me with Ka-La-Na and food.”
The new slave moans.  I continue talking to Portunius.
“Tomorrow, brand him!  Brand him with a Kajira brand, not a Kajirus^[2] one.”
“No, please, Mistress!  I beg of you.”
“May I name her, Portunius?”
Portunius giggles.
“Of course, Lady Verna!”
“Slave, you are ‘Talendar’.  What is your name?”
Talendar’s groan is full of anguish.  He whispers.
“Talendar, Mistress”
“Louder, slave!  Let everyone hear.”
“Talendar, Mistress!”
I lift my knee from Talendar’s windpipe.  The house-guards take him away.  There is much laughter and several cheers as he is dragged away.
“Portunius, my men and I are thirsty!”
“Please sit, Lady Verna.  I’ll have another of the slaves bring you drink until Talendar has been clothed appropriately.  I thank you again!”
 
Talendar approaches.  He bears a tray on which rests a platter of food, a jug of wine and a drinking vessel.  Callius and Arminias have already been served by the surprisingly lovely but lascivious female slaves that Portunius owns.  When I enquire of Callius, he tells me that such beauty’s are common in Paga taverns.  I did not know, not frequenting such establishments ordinarily.  I am willing to wait.  Talendar wears one of the pretty but largely exposing shift gowns that are common for slave-girls.  The pink silk is stretched almost to tearing point.  Doubtless, Talendar's camisk is the largest that Portunius has available.  Talendar was not a large man, but large enough that his muscles bulge where not held in by the fabric of the camisk.  She looks quite ridiculous!  There is much ribald comment at Talendar’s expense as she departs from the kitchens towards me.  She bends to put the tray down on the low table in front of me and rises to a standing position.
“Does a slave-girl not kneel before a patron of this establishment?”
Talendar kneels.
“Do you wish to be whipped, Talendar?”
“No, Mistress!”
Whilst the five-tailed Gorean slave-whip is severe indeed for a female; I know, having experienced its ‘tender mercies’ in the camp of Marlenus, it would not normally be adequate for most men.  It would however be unpleasant.  I’m sure too that Portunius will have something somewhere that will be suitably effective on Talendar.
“You have been in these places before, Talendar.  You have watched how the slave-girls kneel, how they serve, how they move, their deference.  You will do and behave as they, in every way.  Knees wide, now Talendar and serve me wine; properly now.”
I ignore the bawdy, lewd and even obscene epithets showered upon Talendar from the patrons at other tables, though it’s clear that such embarrass the girl mightily.
“Use a third-person form of offering, a most submissive one, and put feeling into your offering.”
In such places as this, when a slave-girl is offering a man a drink in this manner, she is not just offering the drink.  She is offering herself.  She is urging him with her body-language, to take her to one of the curtained alcoves for his pleasure.  The usage of a slave-girl comes with the price of the drink, or at most a small supplement.  Talendar is red with embarrassment, as I wish her to be.
“Please, Mistress...”
I look coldly into her eyes.
“Must a command be repeated?”
Generally if a command needs to be repeated, punishment ensues, usually a flogging.
“No, Mistress!”
“Make a good job of it!”
Talendar pours the wine into the drinking vessel.  As is the custom, she lowers the vessel to her belly, lifts it to her lips and attempts to lovingly kiss the opposite rim of the vessel from that which I will drink from.  She offers the vessel forward, head dropped between her supplicating arms.
“Talendar offers Mistress wine, let her please Mistress’ pleasure.”
She fails to convince me of her desire to have me take her to an alcove to ‘rape’ her.  I do not take the vessel.
“Again, Talendar, with more feeling.  Make me want to take you to an alcove for my pleasure.  Use a different form of words.”
There are tears in Talendar’s eyes.  Tears of shame, embarrassment, humiliation.  She struggles with her emotions, her self-view of how she sees herself, or how she did before this evening.  Tonight is especially hard for her, perhaps even more so than it would be for a high-born free-woman reduced to such a low slavery.
“Wine, Mistress?  The slave Talendar comes with the price of the cup.”
“Better, Talendar.  Again”
“The slave Talendar offers wine, and more to you Mistress!”
“Improving Talendar, but you’ve still got a long way to go if Portunius isn’t to use you to feed his dogs.  Now, go to each table and offer wine to each patron…
“Mistress! Please!!!”
“...you need the practice!  Now begone!  I wish to eat my food while it’s still hot.”
Talendar bursts into tears, her sobbing loud and clear.  She manages to control herself and wipes her eyes with the hem of her camisk, revealing her ‘parts’.  Goreans generally do not show pity, it being considered shaming to not just them but the subject of it.  My face is stern as I look the girl in her eyes.  She gets the message and departs to practice at the other tables.
Whilst homosexuality is not common on Gor, it is not unknown.  There is no shame to it where it exists.  It just is.  It is accepted and unremarked.  Perhaps Talendar will be found pleasing enough to serve the lusts of one of Portunius’ other customers.  There might even be some who whilst having no such leanings, may have the new ‘girl’ suck them so as to shame her more, if she isn’t of that persuasion herself.  I reach for the platter of food.
“Nicely done, Lady!”
This Warrior is older, more mature, more wary.  I acknowledge with a nod.
“He deserved it.  He was a loud-mouthed braggart and a bore!”
“He was with you?  Shared a home-stone^[3] with you?”
My hand drops to the spear at my side.
“Peace, lady.  He betrayed his caste-codes.  He has no honour.  He will not be missed.  Slavery is the all he’s fit for.  How the military training people allowed him to don the red of the warrior, I’ll never know.  You showed that he did not have what it takes to be a Warrior.  A tavern-slut for women is all he’s fit for.  A week of his company on the road north, is quite enough thank you.”
Nominally I suppose that as a huntress, I should be of the Hunter caste, but I’ve not applied for and hence not been formally inculcated into such.  My family were of the Builder caste, but I assume that I lost that affiliation when I left my family and entered the forest.  I certainly did when Marlenus briefly enslaved me.  Slavery, equates to death for all legal purposes.  Anyone without a caste is either a Priest-King, a slave or an outlaw.  I guess that makes me effectively an outlaw.  Anyone can kill me with impunity, if they can kill me.  I grin to myself.
“You’re from Ar?  You’re heading north?”
“Yes, I am of Ar.  I am Crespus Tartarus.  Myself and a cohort of men are marching north to join a forward camp near Lydius.  The rest chose an early night as we depart early in the morning.  I decided a wanted a Paga before turning in.”
I feel disquiet.
“So what’s in the north worth sending large numbers of troops there?”
“They don’t tell me, Lady!  I’m just an ordinary trooper.  The rumour is that Marlenus is planning on taking Laurius and Lydius^[4], perhaps even extending the hegemony of Ar deep into the Northern forests.  But you know what rumour is in a military context?  It’s invariably wrong!  And you, Lady?”
“I am Verna.  Chieftainess of the Twelve Sisters band of Panther Girls of the Northern forests...”
“Whoops!”
I smile, though I am deeply concerned.
“and I’m heading for Ar.
He relaxes a little, knowing that I’m not going to carry this gossip back north.
“I won’t ask what your business is in Ar.  If you should still be in Ar when I return, perhaps we can share some wine?  I shan’t seek more.  I’ve no wish to end up like that… Talendar as you call her!  Thinking though, since you have such martial skills, perhaps Marlenus should have you teach our women some of your skills.  Perhaps it’ll make them less vulnerable to slavers, bandits from other cities and roving Tarnsmen looking for slaves.”
I laugh.  From what I’ve seen of southern free women, they’d be terrified of risking their lives in combat.  Most of them would prefer to be slaves, though whether they consciously think that is debatable.
“I’ll ask him!”
The sardonic tone of Crespus’ laugh clearly indicates that he does not think that a mere Panther-Girl would have access to one as important as the Ubar!
“I wish you well, Lady Verna!”
“And I too wish you well, Crespus.”
I ruminate on what Crespus has said.  I care not whether Laurius and Lydius are independent or controlled by Ar., as long as they don’t burn them.  Laurius and Lydius can be useful places to trade captured slaves or hides as long as one arranges such on the edges of the towns.  Whilst the thought of the other Panther-girl bands being caught, enslaved and perhaps even being made to serve in a Paga tavern such as this, is pleasing, what if it were I caught and returned to slavery, perhaps to serve in such an establishment?  Being enslaved by Marlenus himself for a short period, was not a problem.  He is after all, much MAN!  But to a lesser man, or to any man that should take a fancy to me?  I shudder.  Then there is the danger of large numbers of men moving through the forests scaring the wildlife, making it more difficult to hunt, or worse still wiping out swathes of wildlife so as to feed this army of men.  No, this is not good!  I keep my own counsel.
I watch Talendar for a while, as she moves around the room trying vainly to learn how to be the perfect serving slut.  I enjoy watching her being physically and mentally tormented.  Callius first, and then Arminias return after slaking their lusts with slave-girls in the alcoves behind.  I consider taking Talendar to one, but I really can’t be bothered.  Besides, no matter how I threaten, having been bested by me, she may not be able to ‘rise to the occasion’.  My drinking vessel is empty.  I signal to Callius and Arminias that I’m returning to our lodgings.  They follow, just in case someone tries anything stupid in the darkened courtyard.
 
We are saddling the tarns.  The sun is not long above the horizon.  I see the two tavern guards dragging Talendar to the shed of the caravanserai’s metal -worker’s shed.  I hand the four-strap of the Tarn’s control harness to Arminias.  The bird will not take off, held so.  I stroll to the smithy.  Talendar has his wrists locked in the shackles of, and his left thigh held immovably in the vice of the branding rack.  The metal-worker pulls out a brand from his fire.  Not quite hot enough.  He puts it back.  Talendar sees me.  His cry is plaintive.
“Mistress!  Please don’t let them do this to me!”
I look pitilessly at him.
“At least, Mistress, make it the brand of a Kajirus!, Please Mistress.”
“Shut the fuck up, Talendar.  Accept your branding like the good little slave-slut you are!”
Her head drops and she moans.  The Metal-worker turns to me, eyes questioning.  I recall his face.  He’d been in the tavern last night.
“Common Kajira mark, Smith, if you wouldn’t mind.”
He grins.  Taking the branding iron from the fire with a leather mitt, he steps forward and presses the iron into the thigh of the slave.  Talendar cries out and hisses in pain.  A woman would scream.  I did!  I know the pain she feels but have no pity for her.  I turn to leave.  Within five minutes Callius, Arminias and I resume our journey to Ar, leaving Talendar sobbing in pain and at the permanent loss of her freedom.

---

[1]              A simple but revealing dress for a female slave, that can be removed rapidly.  Can be made of any material, but slave-silk is common.

[2]              Common name for a male-slave.

[3]              A stone kept by all independent cities and even some peasant communities.  A thing of great pride.  Very roughly analogous to a national flag on Earth.

[4]              Estuarial and river ports on the Laurius River at the southern edge of the Northern Forests.