Mark of Treve and Penalty Brands

 

“Incised deeply, precisely, in that slim, lovely, now-bared thigh was a startling mark, beautiful, insolent, dramatically marking that beautiful thigh as that which it now could only be, that of a female slave. 'It is beautiful,' I whispered. She regarded the brand. 'It is the first letter, in cursive script,' she said, 'of the name of the city of Treve.”Captive of Gor, page 277

 

“Four men held me, naked, near the brazier. I could feel the heat blazing from the canister. The sky was very blue, the clouds were white.  'Please, no!' I wept.  I saw Rask, with a heavy glove, draw forth one of the irons from the fire. It terminated in a tiny letter, not more that a quarter of an inch high. The letter was white hot. 'This is a penalty brand,' he said. 'It marks you as a liar.'  'Please, Master!' I wept. 'I no longer have patience with you,' he said. 'Be marked as what you are.' I screamed uncontrollably as he pressed in the iron, holding it firmly into my leg. Then, after some two to four Ihn, he removed it. I could not stop screaming with pain. I smelled the odor of burned flesh, my own. I began to whimper. I could not breathe. I gasped for breath. Still the men held me.  'This penalty brand,' said Rask of Treve, lifting another iron from the brazier, again with a tyny letter at its glowing termination, 'marks you also as what you are, as a thief.'  'Please, no, Master!' I wept.  I could not move a muscle of my left leg. It might as well have been locked in a vise. It must wait for the iron.  I screamed again, uncontrollably. I had been branded as a thief.  'This third iron,' said Rask of Treve, 'is, too, a penalty iron. I mark you with this not for myself, but for Ute.'  Through raging tears I saw, white hot, the tiny letter.'It marks you as a traitress,' said Rask of Treve. He looked at me, with fury. 'Be marked as a traitress,' he said. Then he pressed the third iron into my flesh. As it entered my flesh, biting and searing, I saw Ute watching, her face betraying no emotion. I screamed, and wept, and screamed.  Still the men did not release me.  Rask of Treve lifted the last iron from the fire. It was much larger, the letter at its termination some one and a half inches high. It, too, was white hot. I knew the brand. I had seen it on Ena's thigh. It was the mark of Treve. Rask of Treve decided that my flesh should bear that mark.  'No, Master, please!' I begged him.  'Yes, Worthless Slave,' he said, 'you will wear in your flesh the mark of the city of Treve.'  'Please,' I begged.'When men ask you,' said he, 'who it was that marked you as a liar and a thief, and traitress, point to this brand, and say, I was marked by one of Treve, who was displeased with me.'”Captive of Gor pages 310 - 311