"THE GALLEY SLAVE" A Young Man's Odyssey into Slavery Chapter 6 "The interview"
This is a story of erotic fiction meant for adult readers over the age of eighteen years
Written by Jean-Christophe "To see all my stories go to groups.yahoo.com/group/SlaveNow'
Chapter 6: "The Interview"
The sound of loud laughter cuts through the red fog of my suffering. It's now three days since I and my fellow captives were branded and for those three days, I have drifted in and out of consciousness but I'm constantly aware of the intense pain on the side of my left buttock.
Gradually, I am healing. My fever has broken and I'm no longer sweating. True, the brand on my left flank is still raw but the pain has now subsided into a dull throbbing ache. As I look at my scorched flesh, I am appalled. The red, festering symbol for slave contrasts angrily against the smooth whiteness of my arse.
For the past three days, we have been allowed to rest in our pen and to recover from the shock of our brandings. The first few hours after I was branded are a blur of indescribable pain and semi- consciousness. The human body has a great capacity for dealing with traumatic events and mine didn't fail me. Mercifully my system "shut-down" and I drifted in and out of wakefulness allowing time for my fractured mind to repair and my tortured body to begin to heal itself.
All the time I was conscious of my pain - the constant ache of my new brand certainly made its presence felt. I was aware of my feverish sweating and my restlessness and throughout I was also vaguely aware of Joachim lying beside me. All round me my fellow slaves suffered much as I did and we each fought our own personal battles against the pain and the awful truth that we are now branded slaves.
My pain made me self-centred. All around me I heard the groans and cries of my fellows but I was too wrapped in my own misery to show them any concern. Like me, they lay on the filthy, straw- strewn floor and suffered. And like me, they must adjust their minds and bodies to our new circumstances.
Our handlers left us very much alone for the first twenty-four hours after our brandings. Long experience has taught them that a newly branded slave needs those first hours to rest and recuperate. During that time, as we lay on the straw covered floor of our pen, we weren't given food or water nor were we removed from our prison and taken away to attend to the "calls of nature." Indeed, during that first terrible day, none of us looked for food or water and in our weakened state it's doubtful if we could have walked the short distance to the sanitation pits.
Quite deliberately, we'd not been fed or watered on the morning of our brandings and our empty bellies should have spared us the need to defecate or urinate. But this wasn't the case. As we tossed and turned in our delirium, many of us pissed and shat ourselves and now we lay in our own filth. After three days, the stench of this is overpowering and I am reminded of the animal byre on the farm of my boyhood. But infinitely worse than our stink is the degradation I feel. I truly have been reduced to a level more in keeping with an animal. I have become a branded beast-of-burden.
During the second day, our overseers entered our pen and made us eat and drink small quantities of food and water. Many of us would rather that we be allowed to rest undisturbed but they met our resistance with determination and if need be, they force fed and watered us.
Of course, they know what we don't. This is that we are at a critical point in our transition into slavery. Many of the newly enslaved prisoners are still reeling with the shock of their loss of freedom and this is compounded with the trauma and pain of their brandings. These two factors, following so closely on top of each other, can depress the new slave to such an extent that he loses his will to live - for many death is preferable to slavery - and he simply "gives in". He refuses to eat or drink and wastes away. This is unacceptable to our new masters; a dead slave is worthless whereas a live one has potential both in terms of profit and labour and they won't allow us to cheat them of their booty. From their point of view we are valuable assets and must be kept alive for sale in the slave market.
There are some among us who are troubled; however I'm not one of them. Mainly they are the older members of our group who doubtlessly have wives and families waiting for their safe return and for homecomings that are now doomed never to happen. And being older and wiser, doubtlessly they know what vicissitudes our new masters have in store for us. Perhaps these older members of our group can visualise our futures? Does some sixth sense tell them our futures are to be brutal and short-lived? If so, no wonder they are despairing. But, in my youthful ignorance, I remain blissfully unaware.
Despite my capture, I still retain some of my youthful optimism but for how much longer I can hold onto it I don't know. I am in the full vigour of my youth and I fervently hope that one day I'll be free again. I believe with all my heart, that one day soon I'll be rescued and then, all what is now happening to me will be nothing more than a bad memory.
Vaguely, I have heard of groups of selfless Christians who dedicate their lives to ransoming hapless, penniless captives from their corsair slavery. I do recall hearing about these Samaritans during church sermons and I know my parents occasionally donated money in retiring offerings to them so that they could continue with their "good works." And even though I don't yet know this, there are ambassadors and representatives from Christian Europe who work tirelessly to negotiate these ransoms.
There is even an English consul in this benighted city that will negotiate the ransom price for those few fortunate slaves whose English families can afford the exorbitant sums demanded by their new masters. A newly enslaved captive, who hails from a wealthy background, can look forward to regaining his freedom - eventually. However, these negotiations can be protracted and frustrating and often leave the unfortunate slave in a limbo of uncertainty as his master and family submit offer and counter offer before he finally gains his freedom.
The rest of us - too poor to enter into ransom negotiations - must place our forlorn hopes on the limited generosity of Christendom to free us from our slavery to these accursed heathens.
The sound of laughter amid our suffering is insensitive. I wonder how our captors can callously laugh and joke surrounded as they are by so much misery. But my fearful curiosity is aroused and I stir myself to join some of my fellow slaves already standing at the front of our pen and peering out into the courtyard through the bars of our prison. I am apprehensive and wonder what new horror awaits me.
Since my capture, I have accepted that each new day brings some new torment or humiliation with it. My long term hopes for freedom are at variance with my immediate situation. Despairingly, in the shorter term, I have now come to expect the worst. But, I ask myself - what can be worse than my branding. What more can my captors do to me? Fearfully, I grasp the bars of my prison to steady myself and to brace myself for the revelation of some new torture awaiting me in the courtyard. Almost immediately, I am joined by Joachim.
The scene that greets us allays my fears. Unlike the morning of my branding, there are no branding tables, no braziers or branding irons and no other instruments of torture.
Instead, I see a long table and three seats have been set up but I am left wondering for what purpose. And placed in front of the table is a wooden block measuring three feet by three feet and approximately eighteen inches high. The thought flashes through my mind - is this an auction block? And if so - are we about to be sold?
Obviously the table and chairs have been carefully placed there and they are shaded by a long oblong canopy of rich brocade held aloft on a pole at each corner by a naked, white slave. Two more white slaves stand behind the middle chair - which is almost of throne-size proportions - holding long fans of ostrich feathers. And two more stand alongside this middle chair; one on either side. One slave holds a tray of sliced melon and honeyed figs while the other holds a pitcher of sherbet water.
I can't help but make the contrast between these eight, white slaves and the miserable, forlorn specimens who work within the bagnio. Unlike those scrawny wretches, these slaves are a delight to the eye. They are of equal height and all are young and handsome. Their nakedness is emphasised by the gold collars they wear around their necks and by the matching gold bands that encircle their more than generous genitalia. Their strong, muscular bodies are highly glossed by a coating of oil which accentuates their sleekness.
The uniform appearance of these slaves suggests they have been "hand-picked" - they reflect pride of ownership - and it is quite obvious they belong to person of some prominence. But I am left wondering about who their master is and why they are present.
These activities are under the supervision of our Arab captors and six of their gigantic, African overseers. And to one side, six of the miserable white, bagno slaves huddle together like frightened animals seeking common safety from a prowling predator.
Obviously the Arabs are waiting for someone of importance and pace nervously back and forth while their black assistants have uncurled their whips and are "limbering up" by cracking them noisily through the air. The sounds of their whips reverberate like gunshots within the closed confines of the courtyard and re-echo from the tall, stone walls enclosing our prison.
I'm not sure if the overseers are doing this to intimidate us; perhaps we are meant to cower into submission for what is to take place next. Either way, with each crack of a whip, I find myself flinching involuntarily.
Like those in the courtyard, we too await the arrival of some unknown official. We are left to wonder - who he is and what is to happen to us?
One virtue a new slave must quickly acquire is patience. He needs to learn - and to understand - that any independent thought or action on his part is now forbidden. He must learn all that is now required of him is to wait on his master's commands. There are three rules which govern a slave's life. He waits patiently for instruction; he listens intently and he gives instant and unquestioning obedience to all orders. That is all that is demanded of him and failure to comply with these simple rules can be painful - yet salutary. Slowly, I am learning this basic truth but I'm yet to fully comprehend its impact upon my life. And as I await developments within the courtyard, my impatience - fed by my apprehension - grows.
Suddenly a door in the far wall of the courtyard opens and four men enter. I recognise one as the Arab in charge of the bagno. I'm sure this individual has a title -eventually, I'm to learn that our captors are inordinately fond of overblown titles that indicate their stations in life - but I don't know what it is. However, I do know that he has an evil temper which has been directed at us more than once in recent days. Whenever, he approaches our pen he spits on us and loudly abuses us in his strange, incomprehensible tongue. But the venom of his hate filled words isn't lost on us. If I could understand him, I would know he refers to us as "Nasrani dogs" or the "spawn of Shaitan".
The other man who walks at his side is a tall, bearded Arab of ascetic appearance and haughty manner; both his bearing and his rich clothing indicate he is a man of substance. He wears the traditional garb of the Turk and his clothing is made of expensive blue and gold silk. He wears a feather bedecked turban and the handle of a jewel encrusted dagger protrudes from a rich brocaded waistband.
Walking some three paces behind him are two other men, who judging by the gold collars fastened around their necks, are obviously his slaves. Although they are white - and by their appearance, I judge them to be either Greek or Italian - they are clothed in identical uniforms of shapeless pantaloons made from a coarse, grey material and matching, collarless shirts open to the waist. And as a sign of their true status they wear the red, felt caps of slavery. They wait as their master settles into the throne like seat at the centre of the table before taking their seats - one on either side of him.
My curiosity is aroused and I wonder about this autocratic man who I instinctively know is here in connection with us. Of course, I'm unfamiliar with the protocols concerning the arrival of a new shipment of slaves. If I did, I would know this man is an official representing the local Pasha and is his "Registrar of Slaves" whose task it is to record the arrival and personal details of all new slaves in Tripoli prior to their sale in the slave market.
The two slaves sitting on either side of him are his scrivanos or scribes. Each speak a number of European languages and because of this they are of immense value to their master. In reality, it will be the scrivanos who ask the questions of us and it will be they who record those details into a ledger to be used by the auctioneer on the day we are presented to the buying public for inspection and sale.
At a snap of their master's fingers, the two fan bearers begin to fan him both to keep him cool and to ward off any annoying insects. The foulness of this place attracts myriads of flies and other insects feasting off the accumulated filth of so many incarcerated slaves and the noisome odours of the place seem to bother the Registrar. At his sharp command, a slave hands him an orange pomade which he holds under his nose.
We are ignored as the Registrar and the bagno "governor" converse animatedly. Our Arab handlers and their black overseers hover close by ready to move when the signal to begin is given. But to begin what, I wonder?
Soon the order will be given and the black overseers will haul us - one by one -out of the security of our pen and place us on the wooden block in front of the Registrar and his scribes. There, we will stand trembling as we are questioned. We'll be asked our name, age and place of birth, our occupation and out religious affiliation. Our time on the podium will be brief; perhaps no than a few minutes. That is unless the Registrar intervenes.
Throughout the questioning, his gimlet eyes will sweep over our naked bodies looking for signs of any hidden worth. He is expert at determining if a new slave has the potential for ransom. He can assess us quickly and any slave with a "soft" appearance warrants his further investigation. A corpulent, well-fed body and sagging muscles will always arouse his suspicions. These are indicators that the new slave could be a "man of substance" - perhaps a rich merchant - and not a seaman or common worker. A quick word with one of his scrivanos and further questions will be asked of the slave and as a final test one of the black overseers will lead the slave over to the table where the Registrar will examine his hands. Smooth, no calloused hands confirm his suspicions and will help determine the slave's destiny. Either he will be ransomed and regain his freedom upon the payment of a negotiated sum or failing that, he will be condemned to an onerous, lifetime of servitude.
A new slave with ransom potential is a valuable asset and he will command a high price in the slave market. The dilaleen or auctioneer will tell prospective buyers of the slave's potential for ransom and this will ensure strong bidding for the right to own the slave and to negotiate his ransom through the medium of the Christian consuls or agents stationed in the city.
Today, the Registrar's eagle eye will fall on several among the new captives who, in his judgement, aren't mere seamen but more than likely wealthy passengers or merchants. He will follow up his visual assessment by having his scrivanos ask them a series of judicious questions which will either confirm or deny his suspicions.
However, the remainder - the common seamen and simple peasants - will not be so fortunate. With no prospects of "buying" their freedom, they are doomed to spend the remainders of their lives in bondage. But there is just one, faint glimmer of hope for freedom that the new slaves are unaware of. And perhaps it's best if they remain ignorant of this lest they build up their hopes falsely. For this is a limited option and open to a few fortunate slaves.
After they have been questioned by the "Registrar of Slaves" and his scrivanos, a list of all their names and answers will be given to the various representatives of the European countries. This isn't done out of diplomatic niceties; the reason is far more pragmatic than that. The corsairs are eager to squeeze the last English pound or Italian ducat out of their accursed Christian enemies.
They know that limited sums of Christian money are sent -spasmodically- to the Christian envoys in their city which allow them to randomly purchase the freedom of a few selected slaves from their masters. Of course, not every owner wants to ransom his slave. Some masters see a slave's true worth in the amount of labour their whips can wring out of him. But there are other owners who value money more highly than a slave and will happily negotiate a ransom price.
But as of now the new slaves don't know this and it's perhaps as well they don't. They neither know the foreign consuls have great discretion in "choosing" which slaves to ransom nor do they know the criteria used to determine such a slave's eligibility. That decision is left very much to the consuls. Unfortunately the money at their disposal is never sufficient to enter into ransom negotiations on behalf of every newly captured slave. Therefore they must choose carefully which slave they consider needs to be set free.
In effect, a consul has an unenviable task; he holds the power of life and death in his hands. How then does he choose which slave is deserving of redemption? Does he choose randomly? Does he pick those slaves who are too elderly, sick or weak to survive in bondage for any length of time? Does he consider the younger, stronger and fitter among the new slaves are better equipped to endure the rigours of slavery and he then abandons them to a cruel fate?
The answers to those questions are known only to the consul but obviously he must consider the attitudes of the individuals and organisations that provide him with the funds to buy freedom for these too few fortunate slaves. And there is another factor at play in these negotiations. It is less obvious and never spoken of; but it exists. This is the "politics of religion".
Christendom is opposed to the abominable corsair pirates and loudly deplores the spectacle of good Christians serving as slaves to the "heathen". It condemns their cruel bondage and prays for the speedy deliverance of all the Christian captives and urges the charitable giving of money to buy their release.
But Christendom is divided into two camps and both are as implacably opposed to one another as they are to their common enemy - the corsairs. And this reflects in the attitudes of the consuls and agents who try to negotiate the freedom of whichever slave they choose.
The individual consul's task is an invidious one. In choosing a slave for ransom he must allow for the religious sensibilities of the country or ruler he represents. He must consider whether they would approve of him freeing a hated Papist or conversely would they accept him negotiating on behalf of a Protestant heretic. He walks a very fine line and must choose carefully.
Naturally, the corsairs are delighted at this discord between the Christian co-religionists and they seek to exploit it to their advantage. In their ransom negotiations, they play one group against the other and will only grant a slave his freedom when the last pound or ducat has been squeezed out of either faction.
Under these circumstances, freedom for a new slave is very much a "lottery" and depends on factors far beyond his control. His fate is in the hands of his new master and the Christian negotiators. In most cases he is unaware of what is taking place. Should the slave finally gain his freedom then it comes as a complete surprise to him. But such "redemptions" are the exception rather than the rule. For the majority there is to be no rescue from their servitude.
The rest of my fellow slaves have been aroused by the noise and activities within the courtyard. Whether it is out of curiosity or anxiety I can't say, but they stir and gather at the front of the pen to peer out through the bars of our prison. Our eyes reflect our fearful anticipation of what is to happen to us next. Impatiently, the black overseers continue to limber up by snapping their whips loudly within the confines of the courtyard causing us to flinch involuntarily with each ominous whip-crack.
Suddenly, the bagno "governor" speaks and the overseers move in our direction. Panic grips us and we seek to move as far away as possible from them. Like frightened animals, we blindly push and shove our way to the rear of our pen fighting our way to the "safety" of the back wall. One thing motivates us; we all seek to put as much distance between ourselves and the overseers as possible. None of us want to be the "first" selected for whatever now confronts us. In the ensuing scrum, I lose sight of Joachim; self-preservation is the uppermost thing in my mind.
The overseers unlock the doors and enter our pen. Quickly, they grab hold of an unwilling victim and drag him kicking and screaming to the podium and place him upon it. Confused and weeping, the trembling captive waits for some new unimaginable horror to visit him.
Then soothingly, each of the scrivanos speaks to him in several languages before they establish that the new slave is a young, Dutch sailor from Joachim's ship. The sound of his mother tongue calms the captive and allays his fears. Quickly, the scrivano asks him his name, age, place of birth, his occupation and religion.
The Registrar watches with interest. Obviously, this captive is a seaman and has no ransom potential. Still he is a strapping fellow. Tall, well-built and strongly muscled, the Registrar considers he could be chosen by the Pasha when these new slaves are paraded before him tomorrow. The Pasha is entitled to every eighth slave as part of his penjic - or portion - and mostly he chooses the strongest to serve as beylik slaves employed in the quarries or on public works.
And, the Pasha sometimes indulges himself and chooses the youngest and prettiest boys from among the new captives to serve him in his palace. He has first choice and who can blame him for exercising his right to choose from among the best of these newly arrived slaves. The Registrar is quick to note there are several among this latest batch of slaves who would serve admirably as garzons in a male harem. And better still there are several cabin boys would make superb k"‡ekler or dancing boys after suitable training.
Actually, there is one such lad, a beautiful blond with the bluest eyes, who has attracted the Registrar's attention. He must talk to the Pasha about acquiring this young slave for his own troupe of handsome, young, male rakkas or dancers. The Registrar enjoys nothing better than being entertained by his "dancing boys" dressed in filmy, female attire. He knows some would disagree with him but, from his perspective, no one can perform a belly dance better than a lithe, young, male slave.
Yes, he will speak with the Pasha about acquiring this slave for himself. After all, the Pasha is indebted to him and owes him a favour or two. It is time to "call in" one of these favours.
The Dutch seaman's time on the podium is brief. He has answered the questions put to him by the scrivano and these have been recorded in the Registrar's ledger. A black overseer orders him to step down and escorts him to an empty - and thankfully - cleaner pen. No time is wasted and his place on the podium is taken by another new slave.
The Registrar looks at him and wrinkles his nose in disgust at the sorry sight this slave presents. The slave is ageing - somewhere in his forties by the Registrar's reckoning - balding, with pendulous breasts and an oversized, floppy belly that overhangs his miniscule genitalia. If the slave ever did possess biceps these have long disappeared and have been replaced with loose folds of sagging flesh.
The Registrar is an admirer of the male physique and chooses his slaves carefully. To his mind a slave's natural state is complete nudity and one need only to look at the eight slaves he has in attendance on him today to see proof of this. All are magnificent in their nakedness. And they are so unlike this sorry specimen standing before him.
This slave disgusts him; he is virtually worthless as he is. The slave obviously lacks strength and stamina and he is unsuited to hard manual labour; most likely he'd expire within the year. Placed on the auction block, he would invite the ridicule of all serious buyers and be treated with scorn. Possibly the slave is an educated man and could serve his master as a scribe - that is if the master wasn't too discerning. But how many owners would want to own this slave who reminds the Registrar of a bloated toad. Certainly, there'd be no place for this ugly slave in the Registrar's house hold.
Yet the slave has a hidden potential - the possibility of a rich ransom. Unless the Registrar is mistaken this slave was a merchant or a rich passenger on board his vessel when it was taken by the corsairs. He speaks softly to the scrivano who relays his master's questions to the slave and his answers prove the Registrar is correct in his assumption. The slave is indeed a rich German merchant whose family will pay handsomely for his release.
Suddenly the slave has assumed a new worth. As he is presented to the buyers, his true status will be read out to them and they will enthusiastically bid for the right to buy him and negotiate his ransom. For this slave there is the hope of freedom. However it might be a long time coming as his master negotiates protractedly with his family. But one day, he will be set free. In that he can be certain. But even when he is free, he'll always wear the slave brand on his body as a constant reminder of his sojourn among the Barbary corsairs.
We watch the proceedings from the security of our pen with great interest. After the first few interrogations we are re-assured - we now know we aren't to be mistreated providing we do as we are told and do not anger the overseers. And we allow ourselves to be led docilely out of the pen and over to the podium, where for a few brief minutes, we are the centre of attention.
Slowly, we are regaining some of our confidence and we answer our interrogators in loud, clear voices. We don't know the importance of our answers nor do we know of their consequences to our futures. But we are relieved that we aren't to endure more pain and we live for the moment. Tomorrow is another day and we are blissfully unconcerned about what awaits us then.
One by one we are lead to the podium, questioned and retired to the new pen. I watch as Joachim is led out and stands proudly tall in his magnificent nakedness. I notice the tall Arab, who sits at the centre of the table and who is obviously in charge of the proceedings, lean forward for a closer look at Joachim. His eyes narrow to drink in the splendour of Joachim's nude body and his tongue slides lasciviously across his lips. He listens intently to all of Joachim's answers and whispers something to his scrivano. Obviously, He is smitten with Joachim's blond, Germanic beauty.
In quick succession, others are lead to the podium and then finally it is my turn. Assured that I'm not to be abused, I step up onto the block and trembling with emotion, I face my questioners. Once they have established my mother tongue is English, I tell them that my name is Tobias Matthews and that I am indeed English born and I am twenty years old. I also tell them that I was a farm lad before becoming a sailor and that I belong to the newly reformed church in England.
The Registrar peers intently at me and I blush as I "sense" his eyes sweeping downwards over my nakedness. He whispers softly to the scrivano who tells me to turn slowly to the left in a full circle that brings me back to my original position facing the table. Then at the Registrar's command, a black overseer leads me to the table and I'm made to show him my hands. However, his look is cursory; obviously my calloused palms don't impress him for I am lead away and placed in the holding pen where I seek out Joachim.
We converse quietly and try to make sense of what has happened to us today. We conclude - correctly -that we have been 'inventoried" for the purpose of our sale in the slave market. But for now we are left to wonder when that sale will take place and the manner in which we'll be sold.
As we talk we lose interest in the proceedings within the courtyard and we barely notice the departure of the "Registrar of Slaves" and his retinue.
For the rest of the day, the overseers pay us no heed and we are left very much alone. That is until late afternoon, when the bagno slaves, struggling under heavy pots of a steaming stew of goat meat and barley, feed us.
And what a repast it is. We are allowed to eat as much as we want until our hunger pangs subside and our rumbling bellies are full. And to "finish off" we are given sizeable portions of fresh melon, citrus fruits, dates and figs. We haven't eaten this well since the day before we were branded.
Finally, our hunger is satiated and as we lie bloated on the straw strewn floor of our new pen, I hear the loud belching and farting brought about by our overfilled bellies. I am reminded of the geese on my father's farm being fattened up for the Christmas market.
Which is exactly as it is with us. We don't know it, but tomorrow, like just those geese, we will be taken to the market and sold.
To be continued......