Kajuralia in Landa


The Kajuralia, or Holiday of Slaves, or Festival of Slaves, occurs in most of the northern, civilized cities of known Gor once a year. The only exception to this that I know of is Port Kar, in the delta of the Vosk. The date of the Kajuralia, however, differs. Many cities celebrate it on the last day of the Twelfth Passage Hand, the day before the beginning of the Waiting Hand; in Ar, however, and certain other cities, it is celebrated on the last day of the fifth month, which is the day preceding the Love Feast.
Assassin of Gor, pg. 229

“Upon this day, slaves may take liberties which are otherwise not permitted them during the year, including the drinking of wine and liquor, the freedom to roam at will (provided of course they do not attempt to escape from their owners permanently), the freedom to choose their own sexual partners and to couch with slaves of the opposite sex whom they find attractive, temporary suspension of all work and duties, and even the opportunity to play (minor) tricks and practical jokes upon freepersons. After the twentieth ahn, however, they are expected to be back in their respective kennels and slave quarters to resume the services required by their imbonded status; slaves who “go renegade” during Kajuralia are typically punished severely if recaptured, and are often executed for such an offense.” (Assassin of Gor, page 229)

“KAJURALIA!” cried the slave girl hurling a basket of Sa-Tarna flour on me, and turning and running. I had caught up with her in five steps and kissed her roundly, swatted her and sent her packing.
“Kajuralia yourself!” I said laughing, and she, laughing, sped away.
About that time a large pan of warm water splashed down on me from a window some sixteen feet above the street level. Wringing wet I glared upward.
I saw a girl in the window, who blew me a kiss, a slave girl. “Kajuralia!” she cried and laughed.
I raised my fist and shook it and her head disappeared from the window.
A Builder, whose robes were stained with thrown fruit, hastily strode by. “You had better be indoors,” said he, “on Kajuralia.”
Assassin of Gor, pg. 223

Three male house slaves stumbled by, crowned with odorous garlands woven of the Brak Bush. They were passing about a bota of paga and, between dancing and trying to hold
one another up, managed to weave unsteadily by. One of them looked at me and from his eyes I judged he may have seen at least three of me and offered me a swig of the bota, which I took. “Kajuralia,” said he, nearly falling over backwards, being rescued by one of his fellows, who seemed fortunately to be falling in the opposite direction at the same time. I gave him a silver coin for more paga. “Kajuralia,” I said, and turned about, leaving, while they collapsed on one another.
Assassin of Gor, pg. 309-310

At that time a slave girl, a blond girl, sped by and the three slaves, stumbling, bleary-eyed, bumping into one another, dutifully took up her pursuit. She turned, laughing in front of them, would run a bit, then stop, and then when they had nearly caught up with her, she would run on again. But, to her astonishment, coming up from behind, catching her by surprise, another male seized her about the waist and held her, while she screamed in mock fear. But in a moment it was determined, to the rage of all save the girl, that she wore an iron belt. “Kajuralia!” she laughed, wiggled free and sped
Assassin of Gor, pg. 310

I dodged a hurled larma fruit which splattered on the wall of a cylinder near me.

The wall itself was covered with writing and pictures, none of it much complimentary to the masters of the area. I heard some breaking of pottery around the corner, some angry cries, the laughing of girls.
I decided I had better return to the House of Cernus.
I turned down another street. Here, unexpectedly, I ran into a pack of some fifteen or twenty girls who, shrieking and laughing, surrounded me in a moment. I found myself wishing that masters belled their girls for Kajuralia, so that they might be heard approaching. Their silence in the street a moment before I had turned into it told me they had been hunting. They had probably even had spies, advance scouts. Now they crowded about me, laughing, seizing my arms.
“Prisoner! Prisoner!” they shrieked.
I felt a rope thrown about my throat; it was drawn unpleasantly tight.
It was held in the hand of a black-haired girl, collared of course, long-legged, in brief slave livery.
“Greetings,” said she, “Warrior.” She jerked menacingly on the rope. “You are now the slave of the girls of the Street of Pots,” she informed me.
I felt five or six more ropes suddenly looped about me, drawn tight. Two girls had even, behind me, darted unseen to my ankles, and in an instant had looped and drawn tight ropes on them. My feet could be thus jerked from beneath me should I attempt to run or struggle.
“What shall we do with this prisoner?” asked the black-haired girl of her fellows.
Numerous suggestions were forthcoming. “Take off his clothes!” “Brand him!” “The whip!” “Put him in a collar!”
“Now look here,” I said.
But they had now set off down the street, dragging me
along amongst them.
We stopped when I was pushed stumbling into a large room, in which there were numerous baskets and harnesses hanging about, apparently a storeroom of sorts in an unimportant cylinder. A wide area had been cleared in the center of the room, on which, over straw, had been spread some rep-cloth blankets. Against one wall there were two men, bound hand and foot. One was a Warrior, the other a handsome young Tarn Keeper. “Kajuralia,” said the Warrior to me, wryly.
“Kajuralia,” I said to him.
The black-haired girl, the tall girl, walked back and forth before me, her hands on her hips. She also strode over to the other two men, and then she returned to me.
“Not a bad catch,” said she.
The other girls laughed and shrieked. Some leaped up and down and clapped their hands.
“Now you will serve us, Slaves,” announced the black-haired girl.
We were freed, save that two ropes apiece were kept on our throats, and a rope on each ankle, each rope in the care of one of the girls.
We were given some small cups of tin, containing some diluted Ka-la-na that the girls had probably stolen.
“After we have been served wine,” announced the girl, “we will use these slaves for our pleasure.”
Before we were permitted to serve the wine, garlands of talenders were swiftly woven about our necks. Then each of us gave some of the girls wine, asking each
“Wine, Mistress?” to which each of the girls, with a laugh, would cry out, “Yes, I will have wine!”
“You will serve me the wine, Slave!” said the long-legged, black-haired girl. She was marvelous in the brief slave livery.
“Yes, Mistress,” I said, as humbly as I could manage. I reached out to hand her the small, tin cup.
“On your knees,” she said, “and serve me as a Pleasure Slave!”
The girls gasped in the room. The two men cried out in anger.
“I think not,” I said.
I felt the two ropes on my throat tighten. Suddenly the two girls on the ankle ropes jerked on their ropes and I fell heavily forward, spilling the wine to the stones.
“Clumsy slave,” jeered the long-legged girl.
The other girls laughed.
“Give him more wine,” ordered the long-legged girl.
Another small tin cup was placed in my hands. I no longer much cared for their foolery. The long-legged girl, doubtless a miserable slave most of the year, seemed intent on
humiliating me, taking revenge probably on her master, for whom I now stood as proxy.
“Serve me wine,” she ordered harshly.
“Kajuralia,” I said, humbly.
She laughed, and so did the other girls as well. My eye strayed to a room off the storeroom, in which I could see some boxes, much dust.
Then the room was very still.
I put down my head, kneeling, and extended the small tin cup to the girl.
The other girls in the room seemed to be holding their breath.
With a laugh the long-legged girl reached for the tin cup, at which point I seized her wrists and sprang to my feet, swinging her off balance and, not releasing her, whirled her about, tangling her in the ropes, preventing them from being drawn tight. Then while the girls shrieked and the long-legged girl cried out in rage I swept her into my arms and leaped into
the small room, where I dropped her to the stones and spun about, throwing the door shut and bolting it. I heard the angry cries of the girls and their fists on the door for a moment, but then I heard them suddenly begin shrieking, and crying out, as though slavers might have fallen upon them. I glanced about the room. There was one window high in one wall, narrow, barred. There was no escape for the girl locked within with me. I removed the ropes from my body, coiled them neatly, and dropped them inside the door. I put my ear to the door, listening. After about five Ehn I heard only a number of sobs, frustrated noises of girls in bonds.
I opened the door and, not to my surprise, discovered that the Warrior and Tarn Keeper, preventing the girls from escaping, and having freed themselves in the moment of surprise and tumult in which I had seized the long-legged girl, had, probably one by one, while the other girls had looked on miserably, cuffed away if they tried to interfere, bound the girls of the Street of Pots. A long rope, or set of ropes knotted together, ran behind the kneeling girls, with which their wrists were bound; another rope, or set of ropes tied together,fastened them by the throat, as in a slaver’s chain. The long-legged girl was pushed into the larger room to observe her helpless cohorts.
The black-haired girl sobbed.
There were tears in the eyes of several of the girls.
“Kajuralia!” said the Warrior, cheerfully, getting to his feet, after checking the knots that bound the wrists of the last girl on the ropes.
“Kajuralia!” I responded to him, waving my hand. I took the black-haired, long-legged girl by the arm and dragged her to the line of bound girls. “Behold the girls of the Street of
Pots,” I said.
Assasins of Gor, pgs. 310-315

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