THE GALLEY SLAVE "A Young Man's Odyssey into Slavery" Chapter 12: Sold!
This is a story of erotic fiction meant for adult readers over the age of eighteen years
Written by Jean-Christophe (Chris) "To see all my stories go to groups.yahoo.com/group/SlaveNow"
Chapter 12: Sold!
Caleb
I have been sold! But who has bought me and for what purpose?
These two questions swirl within the maelstrom of my troubled mind and even though I know they'll be answered in due time, I am still troubled by them.
I stand holding the bars at the front of the pen in which I am incarcerated -subsequently, I will discover this is merely a holding area where I await collection by my new owner - and I watch as my friend Joachim is sold.
I see the look of shocked bewilderment on his face similar to that worn by all the slaves who'd sold before him. And I don't doubt that I too had worn it when I was sold.
How does one describe the feelings of the newly enslaved as they are presented to the buying public for inspection and sale? How do I describe my feelings as I was paraded naked through the boisterous, shouting multitude crowded into the confines of the souk?
My nakedness marked me for what I was - a slave presented for sale and it was in sharp contrast to the rich garments of the city's aristocratic citizens and its wealthy merchants. Even the poorest of the poor and those dressed in the rags of the beggar stood at loftier heights than me. As I was led through the tumult of the crowd, the dilaleen added to the horror of my plight.
His earnest entreaties to the crowd to - "come look at this fine Nasrani slave", "examine the soundness of his young body", or "test the strength of his mighty thews" - soon had the eager buyer and the voyeur clamouring to touch me, to pummel my body and to check the soundness of my teeth.
And as I look out upon the crowd, I see that Joachim is subject to those same indignities which I'd endured.
As he is led around the perimeter of the market, I sometimes catch glimpses of Joachim but in the main it is only the corn-yellow thatch of his hair that I notice; it is in sharp contrast to the turbaned heads of the market's patrons as they cluster around him. Once or twice I see him rise above the crowd as he is made to leap high into the air as a test of his agility. I hear the sharp thwack of the cane striking his arse and thighs to make him jump ever higher and his yelps of outraged pain.
Finally, I hear the chaotic, incomprehensible shouting of those bidding to buy him and I hear the applause as he is sold to his new master. I wonder who that is and I am overwhelmed with sadness at the thought that we are now to be parted.
I watch as the next slave is taken out for sale and as Joachim is delivered back to my pen. I console myself that we will have this brief time together before we are separated and taken to our new lives as slaves.
As he enters the pen, Joachim sees me and smiles. Yet there is sadness in his smile for he too realises that we could be parted. We embrace warmly and how good it feels to have the hard warmth of his body press into my own nakedness. It is a lingering embrace made poignant by the thought of our impending separation. We look into each other's face and our eyes are misted by our tears. They say men don't cry - that our manly resolve is stronger than our emotions - but Joachim and I give lie to that notion and soon our bodies are racked by our soft sobbing.
Joachim arms tighten around me and he draws me into a tighter embrace. Our cocks touch and as though by some magical spell each begins to inch itself into throbbing rigidity. It is as though they are taking their last, fond farewell of each other.
We are oblivious to all that is taking place around us. We don't notice the other slaves who wait with us nor do we pay attention to the dilaleen and the buyers beyond the bars of our prison. For a few, brief minutes, Joachim and I are at the centre of the world. No one else exists for us.
My hands move from Joachim's broad shoulder and follow the contours of his back to the cheeky curves of his arse. There they pause and I take a rounded mound in each hand and squeeze them lovingly in one final goodbye.
All my past inhibitions dissipate and my only regret now is that Joachim and I had never found an opportunity to give physical expression to our affection for one another.
Wrapped in one another's arms, we don't notice when the overseers return to our pen with another sold slave. So engrossed are we in the sadness of our impending parting we don't see them enter the pen. But we do feel the bite of the lash on our shoulders as they whip us apart and drive each of us into opposite corners of the pen. There, they whip us cowering to the ground and with shouted admonishments we are left in no doubt that we have committed a grievous offence.
Joachim and I can no longer touch nor speak. However, I console myself with the thought that we did manage to embrace and take our leave of one another before we were so cruelly parted. My back and shoulders smart from the pain inflicted by the overseers' whips. But I tell myself they are a small price to pay for that last embrace. The pain of the whip will soon fade but I will carry the lasting memory of Joachim's strong arms wrapped around me and holding me close to him through the long years of my slavery. The memory is a bittersweet one.
Subdued, each of us crouches in our corner and waits as one by one our brothers are taken out, sold and returned to our pen. In the main, I am disinterested but one slave does tug at my hearts strings.
He is a teenager - probably about seventeen or eighteen - and he is in the company of an older slave who holds him close in a tight embrace. Both slaves are weeping and I see the resemblance between them. Quite obviously, they are father and son and I can only imagine at the heartbreak they must feel at their cruel separation. My parting from Joachim pales into insignificance when compared to these two. I listen, as through his tears, the father tries to console the son in the language of the Low Countries.
But they too are driven apart by the overseers' whips as the older slave is separated from his son and whipped to the ground. The overseers show no mercy and make no allowance for this sad parting of the father from his son. I realise these cruel men are pitiless and have no compassion in their black hearts for a lowly slave.
Finally, there are no more slaves to be sold. Beyond our bars the crowd is dispersing save for the buyers who gather in small groups to discuss their purchases and to offer congratulations to one another. We are left to wait on the pleasure of our new owners.
I see a small group gathered just outside the pen and among them I recognise the man who has bought me. My attention is centred on him and I try to determine what type of master he'll make. It is a sobering thought to realise that I now belong to him as his chattel. Does he see me as me as a man? Or does he see me in the same light as a domesticated animal? Perhaps he now sees me as the merchant sees his camels or the farmer his oxen? Intuitively, I know that I am no more or no less than any other beast-of-burden destined to do his bidding or suffer the whip.
Gradually, individuals break away from the groups and wait at the door to our pen as overseers bring out their purchases and deliver the slaves into their hands. Some of the wretched slaves try to delay the inevitable by huddling together or retreating to the back wall of the pen and curling up in the foetal position on the floor.
The handlers are well used to this reluctance and they waste no time in reasoning with the slaves. They are roughly hauled from the sanctuary of their group or seized and yanked to their feet and wrestled from the pen's security and into the custody of their new masters. Should any slave be foolish enough to resist then he is beaten with canes, whips and fists. No defiance is tolerated and no mercy given.
Heartrendingly, I watch as the father and son are parted. Two burly overseers take hold of the older slave and drag him, kicking and screaming from the pen and into the custody of his owner. The son tries to follow his father but is seized by a third overseer who holds him fast in his muscular arms. As he struggles to free himself and to follow his father, the son surprises me with his strength and determination. For a stripling, he is proving surprisingly hard to hold and his captor calls for another overseer to assist him in restraining the young slave.
The scene before me is gut-wrenching!
Both father and son are crying and begging not to be parted. I don't know their language but I hear the youth calling out to "vaartje" and the father's anguished reply of "Hendrikus". I surmise that vaartje is "father" in the language of the Low Countries and that the young slave's name is Hendrikus.
I'm not to know that the slave's name is indeed Hendrikus and that he has been bought by my master as a present for his son. That will be revealed to me shortly as our owner takes possession of us. Much later I will hear Hendrikus's story.
His family are rich wool merchants and lace-makers from Brugge and Hendrikus had travelled with his father, Jacobus on a business trip to Genoa; this was his first trip abroad and his first time away from home. It had all the hallmarks of an adventure of a lifetime for the young teenager and he'd relished every minute of it.
How important he'd felt as he accompanied his father to business meetings and social functions. With his fair complexion, blond hair and blue eyes he'd been the darling of the society matrons of Genoa, outrageously flirted with by their coquettish daughters and jealously resented by their sons.
But for Hendrikus it was all an adventure which he enjoyed to the fullest and when the time came to leave sunny Italy for the return voyage to cooler, moist Flanders he did so with sadness and the determination to return one day to the warmer climes of the Middle Sea. Why, in his daydreams, he saw himself as the representative of his family's extensive Italian business interests.
How ironic it is then that Hendrikus is to spend the remainder of his days in the warmer regions of the Mediterranean not as his family's business representative but as the body slave and sexual playmate of our Master's eldest son, Daoud.
Hendrikus rushes to the front of the pen and stretches out his arms through the bars in a vain effort to touch his father for one last time. Imploringly, he begs his father's new Master to take him too.
His distress attracts the interest of my master and another man; they detach themselves from their group and walk to the front of the pen and peer through the bars at Hendrikus. Their conversation is animated and obviously about him. It is then that I realise that the young slave has also been bought by my new owner and that we belong to the same master. I wonder what our futures hold in store for us. Are we to share in any labours that our master decides upon? However, given the differences between us, I rather think this is unlikely.
Physically, I am fully developed - the foundation blocks of my brawny physique had been laid down in my years as a farm lad and the hard life of a common seaman had added to its structure. I am strongly muscled and I suppose my future is to be one of hard labour. But Hendrikus is several years younger than me and despite the fact that he is a strapping lad, his body hasn't yet reached full maturity. He still straddles that middle ground between adolescence and young adulthood.
The young slave is a product of his rich environment. His body has the softness of easy living and it hasn't been honed by any hard physical labour. However, depending on our Master's whims, perhaps that will change soon. And as I look at him, I do see his budding masculinity in the outline of his burgeoning musculature and the sprouting of hair on his chest, belly and limbs. With hard work his is a body which will soon blossom.
Yet, looking at him, I would say that he "bloomed" early for his genitals are those of a mature man. Hendrikus is most generously endowed and guiltily, I find myself gazing at his circumcised cock and low hanging balls.
He turns away from me and gives me an unimpeded view of his rear. Before my capture, if it had been suggested to me that I would find pleasure in looking at another man's arse, I'd have been outraged. My parents' strict upbringing of me and the "fire and brimstone" sermons of the clergy of the newly Reformed Church had convinced me that such an unhealthy interest would condemn me to the eternal damnation of Hell. There, tormented by the pitchforks of Satan and his minions, I would roast for all eternity as a punishment for my sins of abominable lust and forbidden desire.
My time as a slave has been short. And yet so much has happened to me that I am now convinced no one cares whether or not I sin. Here, in this accursed place, there are no clergymen to comfort or curse me. Within days, I will come to understand that the Fates have cruelly abandoned me to serve out my days in the living hell-on-earth of cruel slavery.
As I sweat and strain at the oar, as my back is shredded by the whip and as my tortured body cries out for relief, I will discover there is no one watching over me. At first I will hope for rescue. But incrementally, despairingly I will come to realise there isn't to be any deliverance from my torments. I have been abandoned and so severe are my travails, that I will no longer fear either death or Hell. In fact, I will come to resent the Fortunes that condemn me to the long years of my servitude and deny me a swift, merciful death.
My eyes are riveted on the shapely curves of Hendrikus's arse as he moves to the back of the pen. Once more, I recall the lurid stories of the older seamen on my ship who'd delighted in telling the younger sailors of the dreadful fate awaiting them should they ever fall into the hands of the Barbary pirates.
The thought that this could be Hendrikus's fate depresses me. Hendrikus is so angelic in his appearance and he possesses a guileless innocence that the idea of his body being so obscenely misused outrages me. But then, I remember that I also belong to the same Master and my concern is suddenly self-centred. Is it possible that my new Master will subject me to the foul abuses of sodomy of which the old sailors had warned us?
Suddenly, I am very afraid!
My Master and his companion now switch their focus from Hendrikus and quite obviously I become the object of their attention. I know this is so because they look directly at me and I can tell from their body language that I am being discussed. And I wonder what are they saying about me? Of course I don't understand their strange language and so all is left to my wrought imagination.
My Master's companion intrigues me. Although he is dressed in the local garb of the of the Arab or the Turk - at this stage I don't know enough about my captors to know which it is - his facial features and his complexion tell me that he is neither Arab nor Turk. Certainly his skin has been darkened by the North African sun's intensity to a deep walnut brown but the shape of his nose, the colour of his eyes and the reddish-gold of his beard tell me that he is most probably from the lands to the North of the Middle Sea.
Eventually, I will learn from my Master's longer serving slaves that this man is a renegade Christian, now known as Osmani, who was captured as a young man and served as a slave for several years. Apparently, he had a benign, kindly Master - and a true believer - who'd offered him his freedom if he converted to the True Faith.
Obviously, he'd seized this opportunity to regain his freedom and he had embraced his new life with great zeal. And who can blame him? To regain one's freedom by simply renouncing one set of beliefs and replacing it with another would prove too tempting for most slaves. What slave wouldn't choose as Osmani had done? I suppose only the most dogmatic believer - one more interested in the purity of his religious thought than survival - would decline such an offer. Such a slave, in his blind fanaticism, would perhaps prefer the living martyrdom of his captivity to heretical freedom.
Osmani had soon proved his worth to his former masters. Having learned much from his own slavery, he is well aware of a slave's scheming nature and his cunning capacity to shirk his duties to his owner. Osmani has the uncanny ability to see into the slave's mind and determine if the slave is giving of his best in his labours.
At first, he'd been employed by my new Master as an overseer and whip-master on his galley but his enthusiasm to drive the oar-slaves to greater effort and his dexterity with the whip had ensured his rapid promotion to the "Ghibli's" boatswain.
As the boatswain, he is my Master's second-in-command and has uncontested control over all the unhappy oarsmen. He has the onerous duty - and one which he relishes - to make sure the slaves row to the full extent of their capabilities and that the galley adheres strictly to its itinerary.
In the coming days, I will learn of Osmani's fervour for his role as my Master's boatswain. Soon, I will feel his whip upon my back.
But for now, he stands just outside my prison and discusses me with his employer. I nervously await developments and all around me I see my slave brethren taken out and delivered into the hands of their new owners. I wonder what fates await them. What sufferings will they endure?
Some have abandoned all hope and they are resigned to their fates. They allow the African overseers to lead them docilely from the pen and into the custody of their Masters. Others - no doubt through uncertainty and fear - resist. Desperately, they hide among their fellows and cling to one another or seek sanctuary in the furthest corner of the pen where sinking to the ground and curling their bodies into tight balls, they vainly hope to avoid the inevitable.
At the front of the pen, a young slave has grasped the bars and holds onto them with superhuman strength and grim determination. I watch as the overseers try to pry his fingers free from the bars. Their efforts are unsuccessful and no amount of shouting or cuffing of his head will persuade him to let go of his hold. Finally, in exasperation the overseers release their hold of the slave and move away from him,
Momentarily, I suppose the slave might see this as a victory. If he does so, then it is a short - lived one and his rebellion isn't allowed to go unchecked. The overseers bring their whips into play and flail his back until he releases his grip on the bars. Under the remorseless onslaught, he falls screaming to the ground and vainly uses his arms to shield his unprotected body from the whips' ferocity. Once subdued, the weeping slave is literally dragged out of the pen and dumped unceremoniously at the feet of his angry master.
But now it is my turn; as two of the overseers walk over to me, they menacingly uncoil their whips. No words are spoken and really none are needed. The uncoiling of the whips warns me that they'll brook no resistance on my part. But they need not worry; there'll be no defiance from me. My courage has deserted me and fearful of punishment, I allow them to take me by the arms and to docilely lead me out of the pen to where my Master waits with his boatswain.
I am forced to my knees before my new owner and one of the Africans places his boot on the nape of my neck and pushes my face to the ground. Finally, I am in the presence of my new Master and I am terrified. The realisation that this man now owns me as his chattel washes over me and I tremble with the mixed emotions of fear, uncertainty and shame.
How long I remain in this abject state doesn't register. It could be minutes - and it feels like an eternity - but in reality it is just a few seconds before Osmani orders me to my feet. I hasten to obey and as I scramble to my feet, I suddenly realise that he has spoken to me in my own language. This surprises me but I am to learn later that Osmani has a working knowledge of several Christian languages and whilst he's not fluent, he is conversant enough in them to give brief commands to the slaves under his control.
Osmani wastes no time in ordering me to place my hands behind my head while he fastens my wrists to my neck collar. Immobilised, I am now ready for his inspection. Once more I suffer the degradation of having a free-man's hands roam at will over my naked body.
Red-faced, I stand impassively as Osmani uses his fingers to prod at my muscles, to gauge the depth of my navel, to pinch my nipples and to knead my buttocks before thrusting his finger into my arse as a check for its soundness and its health. He rolls my balls between his fingers and squeezes my cock to make sure I am free of the seaman's pox. Then, to my disgust, he submits me to one final, humiliating test as he uses those same fingers to check out the health of my teeth and gums.
It would appear that I have passed with flying colours as Osmani good-humouredly slaps my arse and though their meanings are lost on me, I know his words to my Master are encouraging. If I could speak their language I would hear Osmani tell my Master that he has "bought well" and that I am "pox free and born to toil long at the oar".
His boatswain's comments please my Master and his thin lips curl upward into a smile that does nothing to relieve the harshness of his face or to hide the cruelty in his eyes.
I stand and wait as Hendrikus is brought out next. Like me he is subject to Osmani's inspection which is to be of longer duration than the one I'd just undergone. To my untrained eyes, it appears that Osmani is lingering over this inspection and certainly, his examination of the young slave's arse and genitals is more thorough than the one I had suffered.
Obviously, Hendrikus is overwrought by all this unaccustomed attention and the focus on his arse and I wonder if he has made the connection as to the uses it will be put to. He appears to be an intelligent, educated lad and I suspect that he does. His fearful eyes and the loud sobbing which convulses his already trembling body indicate to me that Hendrikus is all too aware of the fate that awaits him.
Hendrikus has been placed some three to four feet in front of me and we wait on our Master's pleasure as he converses with Osmani. I suppose we'll be on the move soon. But the thought of where we'll be taken does trouble me. And for what purposes. I am learning that a slave has no entitlement to know what is to happen to him. He simply waits on the whim of his owner. And so Hendrikus and I must wait for our Master's decision.
My thoughts of Hendrikus have distracted me and I failed to notice what is happening to Joachim until I see him being taken from the pen. I watch to see which of the buyers still milling around us has bought him. My heart is heavy as I watch him being lead in my direction. I am hopeful of exchanging one final smile before we are parted forever and I am taken by surprise when the African overseers place him on his knees before my Master and force his head to the ground.
The realisation that Joachim and I have been bought by the same Master and that we are to stay together - I leap to make that assumption and hopefully it will prove right - overwhelms me. My fears are temporarily replaced by the happiness that we aren't to be parted. Incredibly, I even feel a sense of gratitude to my Master for making this possible.
Excitedly, I watch as Osmani inspects Joachim before placing him in front of Hendrikus. All three of us are now in single file with Joachim at the head of the line, Hendrikus in the middle and with me bringing up the rear. We are separated from one another by about four feet. Osmani retrieves a length of rope from a pouch he is carrying and loops it around our necks tying us into a three slave coffle. Then he removes the chains from around our ankles and hands these over to an overseer hovering close by for that purpose.
Obviously, the restraints belong to the slave merchants and not to our Master and were for use until we were sold. There is a sense of freedom in having my ankles freed of their chains. But it is to be a temporary freedom for very shortly Joachim and I will be fitted with our Master's heavy iron shackles.
Hendrikus will fare better than Joachim and me. Whereas our chains are to become permanent, his chains will be lighter and temporary. One day, when he has been fully trained and submits to his new Master, they will be removed and he'll wear the token, ornamental amulets of the pleasure slave around his wrists and ankles.
Our Master and Osmani talk animatedly for several more minutes and if I can go by their body language and voice intonation it would appear that the boatswain is receiving instructions from his employer.
Our Master takes his leave and walks away leaving Osmani to deliver us to our final destination - wherever that is.
Rashid:
I am pleased with my three purchases. All three slaves are prime specimens and the two older ones are eminently suited to serve on my galley. Within three days they will be shackled to a rowing bench on the "Ghibli" and bending their backs to my oars. For it is then that I commence my final trading voyage before the onset of the winter gales. And by Shaitan, they'd best apply themselves diligently to their labours or face the dire consequences.
But I need have no fears on that score for Osmani and his whip-masters will ensure that these two latest Nasrani dogs row to the fullest of their ability and hold nothing back in the giving of their strength.
The third - and the youngest slave - is a sheer delight and I am anxious to have him taken home where I'll make a gift of him to my beloved son, Daoud. And truly the young infidel is a worthy present for my son.
The slave's youthful beauty and virginal innocence even arouses my passions and as I watched Osmani inspect him I felt the pleasurable stirrings in my loins. Truly, this is a slave whose allure would inflame the ardour of the most jaded master; of that I am sure. I can't really understand why the Pasha had overlooked him for surely this slave would not be out of place in the royal harem in faraway Constantinople.
That the Pasha foolishly did so was to my advantage for I managed to buy him for a fraction of his true worth. Fortuitously, the savings I made with my purchase of all three slaves now allows me to buy the ornate, gold collar and matching amulets for him that are fitting adornments for so magnificent a pleasure slave.
Fast approaching middle-age, I envy Daoud his youthful vigour and vitality. I know Daoud takes his nightly pleasures with the young, male slaves of my household. Daoud's apartment adjoins mine in the men's quarters of my home and I have heard the carnal sounds of his lust through the walls of my own apartment. But I have known this for several years and I have made it a practice to regularly purchase new slaves to ensure that Daoud's considerable sexual appetites are met.
Daoud's virility is a source of fatherly pride for me. What father doesn't delight in his son's progression into young manhood and his accompanying sexual awakenings? I looked on indulgently as my son explored his burgeoning sexuality with my younger, male slaves and I never placed any restrictions on his use of them. They served as useful training tools on which he honed his not inconsiderable talents.
Today, my son approaches full physical maturity and is magnificently endowed with a prodigious, ever-eager cock and an insatiable sexual appetite. He'll demand much from this young, infidel slave whose name I have discovered is Hendrikus. Whether Daoud allows the slave to keep this name will be his choice and not mine.
I know Hendrikus is unsullied - Osmani's inspection confirmed this - but I suspect the slave will lose his virginity tonight. My son will surely want to take his new slave into his bed and fuck him. I know that's what I'd do in the same circumstances.
I am naturally excited about making a gift of Hendrikus to Daoud and I can imagine his delight at receiving so noble a present. The slave is untried and his natural apprehension and timidity will add spice to Daoud's spearing of his virginal arse.
If my suspicions are proved correct, then the slave, Hendrikus will be much used over the next three days. For tonight I will tell Daoud his new slave is to accompany him on his first voyage on the "Ghibli" as his personal body slave and bed companion and that he should be "broken in" before we sail. That gives Daoud three days to have his new slave ready.
Once aboard the galley, Hendrikus will serve in my cabin alongside of my own body-slave, Dimitrios. And like Dimitrios, this new slave will be naked and subject to the lustful gaze and the lewd comments of my crew members.
Osmani has all three slaves bound into a coffle and ready to be taken to my warehouse on the waterfront where my trade goods are stored and my slaves housed when onshore.
There the two older slaves will have their hair clipped back close to the scalp and their body hair singed to deny a breeding-ground to the fleas and other parasites which are endemic to all galley-slaves. We can't eradicate these pests completely but always we do our best to minimise their impact upon their host victims.
Then, they will be branded with my personal mark, permanently shackled and taken to the slave barracks to rest overnight. Tomorrow morning, they'll be given strips of cloth to wrap around their loins to hide their naked foulness from the gaze of all true Believers and then their labours are to begin in earnest as they assist in hauling the "Ghibli" from its careening slipway, refloating it and towing it into its mooring.
Over the next two days they will work with the other oar-slaves loading my trading merchandise into the holds and stocking the galley with water and provisions for the voyage.
Their final task, before they are stripped naked once more and chained into their places on the rowing-benches will be to carry out from storage the oars they'll use and to refit them into position.
Next morning, three days hence, on the first tide, I will depart on my last trading trip for the season. And as the slaves slowly row the "Ghibli" from the safety of the enclosed harbour and manoeuvre it through the narrow confines of the protecting mole, my son Daoud will be standing at my side.
It will be Daoud's first voyage and a proud moment for me!
Before I take my leave of Osmani, I issue final instructions concerning the slave, Hendrikus. Unlike the other two slaves, the young infidel is to be taken to my home and placed in the hands of my eunuchs who'll prepare him for his new Master.
There, his golden locks will be neatly trimmed and all his body hair removed before he is bathed in scented water and his body massaged with a perfumed unguent.
By then I should have arrived home with the new collar and amulets with which the slave is to be fitted before I present him to my son. And as I leave Osmani, I am on my way to the goldsmith to purchase these very items which are to match the ones that adorn Dimitrios.
Osmani uncoils his whip and snaps it at the heels of the leading slave. Docilely, he leads off and the other two slaves fall into step with him. Osmani wisely doesn't use his whip on the backs of the two oar-slaves. He is saving its impact for tomorrow when it will be more effective as they begin their labours in earnest.
As I watch them move away, I am well satisfied. Looking at my three, new slaves, I know I have purchased well and that they will serve admirably in the roles I have chosen for them.
To be continued........