Nova Baiae Rhodri's Story Chapter Eight The Slave-pens of Volpiscus "Branded"
This is a story of erotic fiction meant to be read by adults over the age of eighteen years Written by Jean-Christophe: posted November, 2019
"The characters and ideas contained in this story are products of the writer's imagination and bear no resemblance to actual persons or events. Please respect the integrity of the story and don't do any rewrites, make alterations or add another's artwork or pictures"
My blog, "Slaves through the Ages" can be found at http://slvtoby2011.blogspot.com
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Chapter 8
Slowly, I awaken from the blackness of unconsciousness into the dizzying, head-splitting pain of reality. At first, I'm unable to make sense of what has happened to me until I realize that I am naked and that my wrists and ankles are shackled. Suddenly, I am panic-stricken as I struggle to sit up to make sense of my situation.
The last thing I remember is lying in my bed at the inn of Soterus and after that I recall nothing. I should have awakened in my bed with the young slave Ovid lying beside me. However, my mind is such a blur that I can't even recall if I'd had sex with him. Instead, I find I am naked and in chains on the straw-strewn floor of a prison cell. And I'm not alone. Other young men, also naked and in chains, share the cell with me. But who are they?
Then comes the realization of who they are. I recognize them as the shipment of new slaves who, only yesterday, had travelled from the mainland on the same ship as me. But why am I here? After all, I'm not one of them. I'm not a slave! I am a free man and a visitor to Nova Baiae.
I sit with my back to the wall and find I am between two other dejected prisoners. One ignores me; possibly because he is too immersed in his own misery to concern himself with my fate. He sits with his arms and head resting on his drawn up knees. I can't see his face but I suspect he is crying as an occasional sob wracks his body.
The other slave introduces himself as Marc and he asks who I am. I tell him my name and that I am a tourist visiting the island. He looks at me pityingly and tells me.
"You're no longer a tourist, Rhodri. Like the rest of us you are now a slave."
His words panic me. How can that be and with mounting panic, I ask.
"How did I get here? Where am I?"
"You were brought here by three men a few hours ago." Marc tells me. "You were unconscious at the time but fully clothed. They stripped you naked, placed you in chains and threw you into the cell with us. I heard them laughing and joking about you now being a slave and the shock you'd receive when you regained your senses. As to where you are? You're in the slave-pens of someone called Volpiscus."
The mention of the name, Volpiscus brings home the full horror of my situation. Last evening, Casca had told me Volpiscus is the slave-trader tasked with the job of preparing the latest shipment of new slaves from the mainland for auction next Saturday. He'd also mentioned the slaves were to be branded the next day which by my reckoning is today. Already, the first light of the rising sun is dispersing the gloom within the slave-pens as a new day of horror dawns. Suddenly, I am very afraid.
My mind is in a state denial. It tells me this can't be happening and that I'm not a slave. Surely someone has made a terrible mistake and things will soon be put to right. Once I explain to Volpiscus who I am and that I am a friend of Senator Karelius, he'll apologize and set me free. He MUST set me free for I am NOT a slave!
I become aware of the awful stench that permeates the slave-pens. It's the smell of unwashed bodies, stale sweat, urine and excrement. It's then that I notice the uncovered drain which runs through the cell and which serves as the toilet for the pen's hapless occupants. Even as I watch some of the slaves straddle and squat over the drain to relieve themselves. No privacy is extended to these slaves nor are they allowed any modesty. From now they must relieve themselves in full view of their fellow slaves and their handlers. And then there are the intangible smells of uncertainty and raw, unadulterated fear and it's a fear that I am now beginning to experience. It's the fear of a future so unimaginably bleak and full of absolute horror; a life of slavery looms large over us.
I have been on Nova Baiae for less than twenty-four hours and yet that has been long enough for me to catch glimpses of what awaits me. I'd seen Karelius' harsh treatment of his body-slaves and his litter-bearers and on the wharf, I'd witnessed the slave gangs toiling under the whips of their overseers. I'd seen Soterus' cruel treatment of his three slaves and to my shame, I too had insensitively abused them. Selfishly, I'd used Aeolus for my own sexual pleasure and I'd laughed and cheered as Casca's dog-slave had enthusiastically fucked the young slave Virgil. And I took Ovid to my bed intending to use him as I had done with Aeolus. However, I can't remember that I had, in fact, fucked Ovid; my mind is a blank on that score.
And with the passing of each moment, I sink further into the depths of despair.
Gradually the early morning light filters in through the windows set high in the stone walls and disperses the prison's gloom. It also serves as a signal for our day to begin.
Suddenly, a door is unceremoniously thrown open and four burly men armed with vicious whips stalk the alleyway separating our pen from the one opposite. The swish and crackle of their whips demands we pay attention to them.
All four are of terrifying appearance but the one following closely behind is even more so. He is aged - probably in his mid to late forties - and like his companions he wears a plain tunic that hugs his powerful frame and accentuates his muscular physique. His black hair and stubbly beard are peppered with white and his eyes reflect his inherent cruelty. He wastes no time in ordering us to our feet.
"ON YOUR FEET SCUM!" He shouts at us through thin, cruel lips. "Line up at the front of the pen. DO IT NOW!"
So fearsome are the sound of the overseers' whips that we immediately scramble into position. I assume this man to be Volpiscus, the slave-merchant and one of the three overseers confirms this is so. "Volpiscus! These dogs weren't given food and water on their arrival last evening. Do we follow normal practice and deny them food and water until after they've been processed?"
"Of course, Milo! They'll be feed and watered after they have been branded and collared. We don't want them soiling the branding tables by voiding their bowels and emptying their bladders as they await the branding iron. We can't waste time cleaning away a slave's shit, piss or vomit each time a slave is branded. I take it the branding irons have been prepared?"
"Yes, Volpiscus! Two slaves tendered the braziers overnight keeping them alight and heating the branding irons ready for use this morning."
"Excellent! Then let's get on with the job of making these new slaves ready for inspection later today. I know there are some clients eager to cast their eyes over them and to inspect them."
I recoil in horror as the slave-trader and his overseers callously and dispassionately discuss branding their helpless victims. My belly is knotted up with my fear and now seems the appropriate time to speak out. Despite my apprehension, I speak directly to Volpiscus.
"Are you Volpiscus?" I ask. "If so, there's been a terrible mistake. I shouldn't be here."
"And you are?" Volpiscus asks although his manner in asking suggests to me that he knows who I am and that he is toying with me.
"My name is Rhodri Fraser and I'm a visitor to the island. I arrived last evening and I'm here as a tourist."
"You don't look like a tourist to me." Volpiscus mocks. "You look more like a newly arrived slave. What do you think?" He asks his three companions.
"All three laugh uproariously and I know I can't expect any sympathy from them. Nevertheless, I continue to argue my case.
"I am a friend of Senator Karelius" I desperately tell Volpiscus. "He befriended me when I arrived on Nova Baiae yesterday and he even arranged for me to stay at the inn of Soterus. Please send a message to him and he'll confirm what I'm saying is the truth. PLEASE!" My plea is more urgent. "Send a message to Karelius and tell him where I am."
"Fool!" Volpiscus reply is contemptuous. "I'm well aware of who you are. And Senator Karelius is aware that you are here. Who do you think arranged for you to be brought here? It was Karelius, you young fool!"
"I.... I.....I don't understand." I stutter in my confusion. "What do you mean it was Karelius who arranged for me to be brought here? I don't understand."
"It's simple!" Volpiscus gloats. "Karelius recognized your potential as a possible slave the moment he first clapped eyes on you. That is why he 'befriended' you. Unbeknown to you, he organized for you to stay with Soterus and for you to be welcomed as an honored guest. I understand that Soterus extended to you the hospitality of his inn and he even allowed you to use his slaves to put you at your ease and to allay any suspicions that might have arisen. He even arranged for you to eat with Casca and one of his dogs to make you feel you'd been accepted by the locals. But during your meal you were drugged. When you became drowsy, Soterus had two of his slaves carry you back to your room and for one of them to remain with you until you'd passed out. Then, when you were unconscious, my men brought you here, stripped you naked and put you into chains. Now you are to be branded with these other new slaves. You'll then placed on show before mounting the auction-block on Saturday. And I have to say, Karelius was right in his assessment of you. You'll make a fine slave for some lucky master. You're in prime condition and have a pleasing countenance. You're well equipped and your ass is a delight to the eye. It's pert, well-rounded without being overly large and promises much pleasure to some lucky user. Those are all worthy attributes for a slave to possess and they will ensure you fetch a high price at auction."
Volpiscus' words stun me into silence. I'm lost for words and I know instinctively that I have been betrayed by the wily Karelius who, under the guise of friendship, has condemned me to slavery.
Suddenly, my protests seem useless. Nothing is to save me from the fate that Karelius' treachery has decided should befall me.
This morning, I and my fellow captives are to be branded. We are to receive the true symbol of slavery; the mark that will forever identify us as slaves is to be seared into our flesh and our suffering will be immense. The shock of the branding iron affects its victims in many ways. Strapped down on the branding table, a terrified slave will often lose control of his bodily functions and will piss, shit or vomit - sometimes all three. Our handlers are aware of this and, as already stated, they are taking precautions against such mishaps by denying us food and water.
Our captors work quickly to get us to the branding yard but first we are made to squat communally one behind the other over the open drain toilet. The overseers' whips ensure that we don't waste time and any embarrassment I feel at this common communing with nature is soon forgotten as a whip wraps itself around my upper body. In the coming days, as my bodily functions are played out in public, I will soon learn that privacy and self-respect are no longer part of my life as a slave.
Then, we are whip-driven to an adjacent ablution block for cleansing. After their trip from the mainland and the night spent in the close confines of the slave-pen my fellow slaves are, of course, malodorous and need sweetening up. Therefore, we are scrubbed clean with a strong smelling, carbolic soap as a precaution against any infection resulting from the branding iron. All this is done under the supervision of Volpiscus' overseers.
Volpiscus doesn't body shave his stock - instead he allows his slaves to retain their body hair. It really is too much trouble and time consuming to strip the bodies of thirty slaves prior to sale. Anyway, he believes in selling his slaves au naturel as this allows the new owner to choose whether or not to keep his new slave "as he is" or to go with the smooth look. It's obvious the overseers have done this many times before and all around us there is panic and confusion among my fellow slaves; no mercy is shown to us and our handlers enthusiastically bring their whips into play. For the next few minutes the fearful sound of leather striking naked flesh echoes within the high stone walls and the air is rent with our wailing.
Marc and I quickly maneuver ourselves into position so that we are together; even at this early stage for some unknown reason we are reluctant to be separated. Whatever awaits us we'll face it together. Somehow, there is solace in this for me.
Confusion and uncertainty reigns and we are tormented by our fear of the branding iron. Already, we are experiencing the callous, indifferent cruelty of our captors and we know we can expect little mercy from them. My instincts tell me I should be afraid - very afraid.
We are whip-driven from the washroom, down a narrow passageway and through a door opening into one of two adjacent holding pens. This pen is different to the one in which we'd spent the night. For a start it is much smaller and it's only possible for us to stand scrunched tightly together in a huddle of terrified humanity. The heavily-barred front of the pen opens into a small yard and fortuitously Marc and I manage to push our way through to the bars and stand looking out at the activity taking place in the yard. Despite our terror, our curiosity has gotten the better of us and soon we will regret our eagerness to be at the front of our group. But, for now, we are unsuspecting of what awaits us.
Standing in the centre of the yard are two long wooden benches - approximately waist high - and even as we watch we see they are being prepared to receive their first victims. Our captors are supervising four, brutish slaves who are carefully adjusting chains at either end of the benches while, nearby, another two slaves are tending two braziers. These two miserable wretches are vigorously pumping bellows to keep the coals glowing with red hot intensity. And protruding ominously from each brazier are several long handles. Initially, I wonder about them before the awful truth dawns on me; with sickening clarity, I recognize them as branding irons. Our brandings are imminent.
The smartest among my fellow captives also recognize the branding irons and in the ensuring panic they move to make themselves inconspicuous by pushing back through our group to the rear of the pen. It's strange how fear makes the mind work. There isn't any hope that we'll be spared the branding iron. We are all doomed to feel it fiery pain; yet fear and panic force us to delay it for as long as possible. The cannier among us fight their way to the rear of our group putting the unsuspecting between themselves and the front of the cage. Their efforts will prove futile; they are only delaying the inevitable.
Now that we are aware of the awful reality, Marc and I join the scrum in vain efforts to move further away from the front of the cage. However, even the slower witted of us now recognize what is about to happen and they vigorously resist our efforts to push through to their rear. Marc and I are vigorously repulsed and we remain at the front of the cage near the door.
Outside of our prison, our captors are ready to begin their grim work and acting on the instructions of Volpiscus the four slave helpers walk toward us. Panic grips our group and now in desperation; we renew our frantic tussling to reach the false sanctuary at the rear of the cage. None of us want to be the first to be dragged to the branding table and like frightened animals in a slaughtering pen we struggle to avoid the inevitability of our fates.
Trapped at the front of the pen, I'm motivated by one thought - self-preservation. My new-found friendship with Marc is quickly forgotten and I leave him to fight his own battle. As an overseer unlocks the door to our prison and the four slaves enter, I'm gripped by terror and I struggle vainly to lose myself in the seething, struggling mass of my fellow slaves.
Suddenly, rough hands seize hold of me and I realize I'm in the strong grip of two of the slave assistants who begin to drag me out through the door and towards the waiting branding table. Panic-stricken, I struggle against them, I grab hold of the prison's bars in a vice-like grip and I hear my disembodied cries of protest.
"Let me go! No! No! I don't want to be branded."
Through my confusion and fear I see calloused fingers trying to pry mine free from the bars. Somehow, I have found unknown reserves of strength to fight my captors and hold on with grim determination. Fleetingly, I have the false sense that I'm winning the struggle. But the battle is uneven, my triumph is brief and it's doomed to failure. Suddenly my world explodes into a paroxysm of unimaginable pain as Volpiscus' whip falls across my unprotected shoulders and back. He shows me no mercy; indeed, he appears to enjoy whipping me. I have dared to show defiance and I'm to be made an example to my fellows that our new masters won't tolerate any acts of insubordination. The whip forces me to my knees and I scrunch my body into a tight ball to protect me from its fury.
Rough hands seize my shoulders and I'm hauled to my feet. The two slave handlers are powerfully built and I am no match for their combined strength. Hauled bodily from the sanctuary of the pen, they drag me unceremoniously across the cobblestones to the waiting table. Vaguely, I hear my howls of protest and my pleading joins with that of my fellow victim. I look to see who this is? Is it Marc? No, it isn't; it is a young man I'd not noticed before. Through my struggling, I watch as he is lifted bodily and placed face down on one of the two adjoining tables. Now it is my turn.
Effortlessly, my handlers lift me high and belly flop me onto the other table with such force that I am temporarily winded.
Sobbing wildly, my pleas for mercy join with the other slave and even as we beg I know we'll be ignored. My struggles are futile and I feel the tightening of the chains as they are fastened around my wrists and ankles securing me to the bench and immobilizing my body. My body is stretched out tautly along the length of the bench top and my movements are now restricted to the nervous, quivering of my muscles, the heaving of my chest as I gulp for air and the almost explosive beating of my heart. I turn my head towards the braziers and my eyes widen with terror as I see an overseer pull an iron from its fiery bed of hot coals. My body is racked with sobs as I see the red glowing "S" symbol for "servus" at the end of the long-handled brand. My vision and all my thoughts are centered on that branding iron.
I wait with bated breath and try to brace myself for what my over-active brain tells me will be unimaginable pain. But I'm temporarily reprieved; I'm not to be branded just yet for the overseer turns his back to me and approaches the other slave. I can't describe my sense of relief that it is he who is be branded first and not me. My mind is playing a cruel trick on me; these feelings of relief at being spared pain for a few, precious moments overwhelm me but it doesn't register that this only delays the inevitable. I turn my head sideways and watch in fascinated horror as the slave is branded.
I listen as he pleads for mercy and I watch as he struggles futilely on the table. I see his naked ass heaving and his muscles bulging and flexing as he fights vainly against the chains firmly holding him in place. With the approach of the red-hot, branding iron, the slave begins to weep and he begs to be spared the branding iron. As the glowing end of the iron touches the tender, young skin of his left buttock, there is a momentary silence broken only by the sizzling of burning flesh; the sickening smell of which assails my nostrils. This is followed by the newly branded slave's animal-like scream from deep within his body. Volpiscus walks over to the branding table to examine his companion's handiwork. I don't hear what they are saying but I hear the cruelty in their laughter.
Terrified, I look on as a sobbing slave is released and dragged away and placed in the empty pen. I watch as a wildly shouting and struggling Marc is dragged out and over to the bench to take the slave's place on the branding table. Two overseers now turn their attention to me.
"Hold him steady!" I hear one tell the other.
I feel a firm hand pressing down on my ass preventing me from wriggling or squirming and I know my branding is imminent; I wait on the other overseer. I'm suspended in a limbo of dreadful expectation of waiting for the hot iron to sear itself into me and feeling the agonizing pain as it does so. How long do I wait?
I don't know, but each second seems an interminably long-time. My heart pounds, my labored breathing quickens and I am lathered in a fear induced sweat. Then, I hear the sizzling and smell the scorching of my flesh as the overseer touches me with his iron.
Momentarily, I feel nothing and then my nervous system explodes into violent activity as it carries the signals of my pain to my brain. I hear my own high-pitched shriek at the fiery eruption of this pain throughout my body. The intensity of my suffering is unbearable and my loud sobbing adds to my misery. And intruding into this suffering is the thought that I'm now a branded slave.
Volpiscus examines my new brand and expresses his satisfaction with it. He compliments the overseer charged with the branding.
"Well done! He takes the branding iron nicely. It's a neat, crisp brand and once the scab lifts, it will show nicely against the smooth curves of his ass."
Then turning to me he smirks.
"Well Rhodri Fraser. Do you still say you're not a slave? Your new brand suggests otherwise."
I am too lost in my pain to reply.
No time is lost in unchaining me from the table and already another terrified victim is being dragged kicking and screaming from the holding pen to take my place. Once on my feet, my strength fails me and my knees sag as I am half carried in the powerful grip of two slave helpers to the second pen. As I'm removed from my bench, I look towards Marc.
Through my own pain-filled eyes, I see his body stretched taut on the bench's unyielding surface and I see the frantic thrusting of his well-rounded ass and the flexing of his muscles as he futilely fights against his chains. And I hear his pleas for mercy.
Then as I'm thrust roughly through the door of the pen, I hear Marc's scream of agony. I hear the brand sizzling on his body and the smell of his scorched flesh permeates the yard and is added to that of the first slave to be branded and my own.
Exhausted and traumatised, I collapse to the floor of the pen and lie semi-dazed alongside of the other slave. Soon, Marc joins us in our suffering.
To be continued ............