Subject:: The Galley Slave" Chapter 9
'THE GALLEY SLAVE' A YOUNG Man's Odyssey into Slavery Chapter 9: SOLD!
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: SOLD!
"The least tolerable and most to be dreaded employment of a man deprived of liberty, ranks and files of half-naked, half-starved, half-tanned, meagre wretches, chained to a plank, from whence they remove not for months at a time.....urged on, even beyond human strength, with cruel and repeated blows, on the bare flesh, to an incessant continuation of the most violent of all exercises."...... The 18th-century, English historian, Joseph Morgan.
We cower behind the wooden barrier separating us from the excited crowd now peering in through the slats at us. There are forty-two of us - our number has been depleted by the Pasha's selection of five, lusty seamen doomed to serve as beylik slaves and the young cabin boy chosen by the Pasha to serve as a kocek dancer for his harem.
Our relief at not being chosen to serve a public beylik slaves is palpable but perhaps premature and misplaced. It could well be that it is a case of 'out of the frying-pan and into the fire". For intuitively, we know this is the slave market and that we have been brought here to be sold.
Who knows what our fates will be. Who will buy us and what rigorous labours are we are to be put to? Despite my earlier relief at being bypassed in the penjic, I am now consumed with worry.
The journey from the courtyard of the Pasha's residence to the Badestan had been mercifully short. We'd been whipped along and made to move smartly through the narrow streets and lane ways to the large open area that serves as the city's market place.
At first glance it seems to be a chaotic place full of mayhem. Everywhere there are noisy, squabbling vendors who shout raucously to attract the attention of potential buyers of their wares.
Their heavily laden stalls display the wealth of the Ottoman Empire. There are silks and colourful carpets from the far reaches of the empire's eastern borders - and from beyond - and there are satins and brocades from newly plundered Christian vessels. And ironically, some of these once belonged to Joachim. Yet other stalls display a multiplicity of leather goods, clothing and utensils made from silver, copper and earthenware. And the air is heavy with the scent of exotic herbs and spices and the tantalisingly delicious odour of freshly baked bread and pastries. Other stalls groan under the weight of produce from the surrounding farms and the adjacent masseries. Later, I am to learn the masseries are small plots of land belonging to local townspeople and worked by their slaves. Here their slaves cultivate melons, squash, beans and other vegetables for their masters' kitchens and to supply the stallholders in the market with fresh produce.
Usually the owners of the masseries allow their slaves a small share of the produce they grow with which to supplement their meagre diets of black bread, mouldy biscuits and rancid water. Such arrangements are mutually beneficial. The slave effectively feds himself and the improved diet ensures the slave stays healthy, lives longer and works harder in his master's interest. And the cost to the slave's owner is minimal.
Slaves chosen to work on the masseries regard themselves as fortunate and indeed they are. They are the envy of their less fortunate brethren who subsist on one meal a day of substandard bread or biscuit and what is euphemistically called "slave wine" - a mixture of rancid water and vinegar sweetened by a few drops of olive oil.
The market is a colourful, feverish place of frenetic activity. It is mid-morning and people jam the narrow walkways between the merchants' stalls. The crowd gives evidence of the racial diversity of the Ottoman Empire; their skin colour and facial expressions speak of the Sultan's sway over a vast area and many peoples. There are swarthy skinned Arabs and Jews, lighter skinned Turks and Europeans and black skinned Africans. And everywhere, there are the rich and the poor, the wealthy and the beggars and freemen and slaves.
To my uncomplicated, English mind all this is bewildering. This city truly is a melting-pot for a polyglot humanity and so different to the simple, rural folk of my childhood.
An overseer moves before us trying to clear the way through crowd. Other overseers scourge our shoulders and our back to keep us moving forward. Reluctantly, the crowd part to allow us through but they don't miss this opportunity to hurl abuse at us and to spit upon us. Some, more daring than others, strike out at us with their sticks adding their blows to the whips of our overseers.
Several times, one of our number stumbles under the press of humanity and drags us down into a struggling, seething mass of bodies. No time is wasted and no mercy shown in getting us back onto our feet. We scramble to our feet as our naked bodies are viciously whipped by our impatient slave-drivers. Obviously our distress amuses the onlookers; they laugh and jeer at our suffering.
We inch our way through the milling crowd until we reach a cleared, less crowded area on the far fringe of the market square. This is the area reserved for the sale of livestock and as slaves we are viewed as such. We have reached our destination; this is the place where we are to be sold. Apprehensively, I look about me for the auction block. But where is it? Nothing remotely resembling a selling podium is in sight. How then are we to be sold?
Here the crowds are less pressing than back in the market and they are engrossed in the business of buying and selling livestock. Here the air is more malodorous; the atmosphere somehow ominous. The pungent odour of animal dung and urine hangs heavy and the air is full of the bleating, neighing, snorting, cackling and quacking of the many varieties of birds and animals being offered for sale.
There appears to be some order in the chaos; each variety of animals has its own reserved area where there they are displayed, inspected and haggled over. I grew up on a farm and of course most of these are known to me. There is no mystery with the sheep, the goats, the cattle, the horses, mules, donkeys and the poultry. True there is strangeness about them with which I am unfamiliar but this has to do with the different breeds rather than the species. However there are two creatures which do astound me and fill me with wonder. These are the peacocks and the camels.
Of course, back in England, I knew the gentry kept peacocks to enhance their gardens and to grace their dinner tables. Yet strangely enough, I'd never seen one. I had heard their high pitched cries in the distance at night but the grounds of the local manor house where they roamed free were out of bounds to a simple country lad such as I was and so, whilst I knew of their existence, they remained an unseen wonder.
Now, I marvel at their blue-green, iridescent splendour and the magnificent display of their tail feathers. I am entranced by their regal beauty.
But even more mysterious are the camels. These strange creatures defy logic. Never in my wildest imagination could I have conjured up images of such a strange looking beast. Their humped backs and ungainly appearances make them seem ludicrous in the extreme. And their long necks, gangly legs and padded feet add to their ridiculous appearances. What mind designed such a weird creature and for what purpose were they placed upon the earth.
Eventually, I will become more familiar with the camel and I will learn of its great capacity to carry heavy loads over long distances in the most arid of environments with a minimum of water. I will learn too that they are highly regarded by our captors and their worth is considerably more than that of a mere slave. This morning, as I gaze in wonder at the camels, I am unaware that each of them is worth considerably more than I am.
The sounds of our arrival arouse the buyers' interest. The clanking of our shackles and the sharp crack of the whips cause them to look away from the animals and watch as we are driven into the enclosure which will serve as a holding pen until we are taken out and offered for sale. We are the last of the livestock to arrive.
Joachim and I seek each other out and, together, we move to the front of the pen where we can peer out into the market. We draw solace from one another and we try to make light of our situation. Neither of us speaks of the fear that lies within us. This is the fear about the uncertainty of our fates and the realisation that we are soon to be parted as each of us is taken away into his slavery.
These past few days, I have drawn on Joachim's strength of character and his inherent cheerfulness to see me through the ordeals that confronted us. Joachim has inner reserves of strength that I lack and it has become very easy for me to "lean" on him and to draw on them. But Joachim is also generous of nature and perhaps sensing this, he has supported me with his unfailing sense of humour. This defies logic. To my serious disposition, it is incongruous that anyone could remain cheerful in our situations.
But sometimes, in the dead of night as we lay side by side on the straw-strewn floor of our prison, Joachim would draw me closer to him and wrap me in a tight, wordless embrace and I sensed he was drawing on me for support.
We watch as the animals are inspected; usually these inspections are followed by animated discussions which often degenerate into unseemly arguments between buyer and seller. Then just as quickly, these arguments are settled amicably with smiles, laughter and handshakes. And we watch as money is exchanged and the newly purchased animal is lead away by its new owner.
It would seem this is the way that business is conducted and we wonder if we are to be sold in a similar manner. Are we to be similarly inspected, haggled over and sold with a friendly handshake?
Gradually, those not buying the livestock gather in clusters in front of our pen and begin to discuss us in their strange, incomprehensible language. They shout and gesticulate angrily at us but we are strangers to their strange tongue and uncomprehendingly, we cower at the back of the pen with our fellow slaves.
By their hand gestures, it is obvious these men want us to move around our pen where they can see us as individuals rather than a tight scrum of forty-two, indistinguishable bodies. But, like frightened animals awaiting the butcher's knife, we seek safety and security in a corner of the pen where pressed up against one another, none of us will break ranks to oblige them.
Their protests grow louder at our unwillingness to co-operate and, finally, with their patience at an end, the gates to our pen are thrown open and three African overseers enter. Angrily, they lay about with their long, single strand whips. As the whips fall upon us, we push and shove together in a futile struggle to escape their fiery bite. Those slaves closest into the corner fall to the ground and are in danger of being trampled underfoot by the rest of us. Panic stricken and desperate to escape the lash, each of us thinks only of self.
Joachim and I are on the outer fringe of the crush and we bear the brunt of the overseers' fury. Repeatedly the whips cut into our unprotected backs and finally through the red haze of my pain, I break free and run to the front of the pen to escape. I'm not the only one to do so; other slaves are of a similar mind to mine and soon we are walking around the pen and giving the buyers a better view of our bodies.
The three Africans remain within the enclosure; their shouted instructions and whips ensure we move slowly around the pen in a clockwise procession. As we do so, we are scrutinised and discussed much as I remember the farmers of my boyhood did when they stood before a pen of captive pigs, calves or sheep on market day. As my thoughts return to those happier times, my eyes brim with tears and I am overwhelmed with a great sense of loss. I am lost forever to my beloved parents and the realisation that I will never see them again breaks my heart. But the sharp cut of the whip stirs me out of my self-pity and I move on.
And as I do so, I think of freedom!
Even now I still hope to regain my freedom. I suppose "hope springs eternal" in the young and despite my sufferings; I retain a small measure of optimism. I know some slaves are "redeemed" by Christian missionaries who work tirelessly to buy the freedom of Europe's forgotten, white slaves. But Christianity is fragmented and consumed by sectarian hate and it is a hatred that differentiates between the slaves purely on the basis of their belief.
I will learn that it is far better for a slave to be an Italian or a Spaniard rather than a Protestant. I don't know it, but here in Tripoli there are representatives of those two Catholic countries - the Trinitarians and the Mercedarians -two religious orders founded during the time of the Crusades to redeem captured Christians out of Saracen slavery.
They still operate today and throughout Catholic countries they have collection boxes inside the entrance to their churches marked with the words "For the Recovery of the Poor Slaves" and they urge the faithful to be generous in their donations to relieve the suffering of their Christian brethren in Arab and Turkish bondage.
Yet even these charitable orders are inadequate to the task; at most they redeem just three or four from each hundreds of those unfortunate Christians taken as slaves each year.
For the remainder of us, there is no hope. We are condemned to the living hell of the stone quarries or the galleys. A few will be slightly more fortunate and spend their days working on the large farms in the city's hinterland. But the unending physical toil, the poor diet and the brutality of our lives will see us die within a few short years. The yearly deathrate among us is one in five and the galleys must ply their oars harder and roam further afield in their quests to replace the numbers who die each year from starvation and exhaustion.
But today, as I wait to be sold, I am blissfully ignorant of these things and I can still hope.
Suddenly, the loud clashing of a cymbal, announces to the buyers and spectators that the auction of today's offering of slaves is about to commence. The crowd falls silent and turn their backs on us as they listen as the dilaleen recites the rules governing the inspection and bidding for the slaves. Somewhere in the midst of the crowd, I hear the auctioneer's litany of rules but I don't understand what he is saying. Yet, some deep instinct tells me he is spelling out the terms and conditions for our sale. The realisation that we are about to be sold chills me to the marrow and I begin to tremble.
The auctioneer finishes his spiel and an excited murmur ripples through the crowd as an auctioneer's assistant enters our pen. None of us wants to be the first to be led out and once more we jostle each other out of the way as we seek security at the far end of our prison. This time the African overseers don't waste time; they roughly seize one of our number and force him to his knees as the assistant fastens a rope halter around the wretch's neck. The slave is dragged to his feet and, obviously resigned to his fate, he submits meekly as he is led from the pen and disappears into the crowd of eager buyers waiting to inspect him.
He sets the example for the rest of us to follow. We know from past experience that resistance is futile and that it will be rewarded with the lash. This first slave has shown us the way we must go as all of us follow in his footsteps.
I am of two minds. One part of me is repulsed by what is to happen to the hapless slave and yet another part of me needs to see what is happening to him. My curiosity gets the better of me and takes me to the front of the pen from where I peer out through the wooden slats into the crowd. If I'd hoped to see what is happening to my fellow slave then I am doomed to disappointment. The press of eager bodies around him is too great and he is obscured from my view. But I hear the auctioneer's bantering sale's pitch as he engages with the buyers.
From my vantage point it seems that the auctioneer is leading the slave in a circuitous route through the crowd. His voice ebbs and flows and at times it is drowned out by loud laughter and jeering. It seems the crowd is a jovial one and is enjoying the spectacle of a despised Nasrani - the hated spawn of Shaitan - being publicly paraded naked and bewildered through their midst.
From time to time, the crowd falls silent and the only voices to be heard are those of the auctioneer and one other. I suppose these are the intervals when the slave's physical attributes are explored, discussed and argued over.
How long does all this take? I have no idea! But time seems to drag and no doubt this is more so for the unfortunate slave as he waits for someone to buy him. But then the crowd applauds loudly and I watch as the slave is placed in an empty pen next to my own.
He has been sold!
Momentarily, I look at him. His eyes reflect his confusion and fear and he is shaking uncontrollably; no doubt from the realisation that he has been sold and that he is now an owned slave. Then I notice something has been written in bright blue dye on his chest. The characters are in the same bewildering script that I have seen our captors use and I wonder about their meaning.
But my interest in the strange writing on the slave's chest is cut short as the auctioneer's assistant re-enters the pen bringing with him the rope halter with which he'll lead the next slave out to be sold.
However, I don't want this to be me and I move quickly to return to the anonymity of my fellow slaves huddled in a far corner. But my curiosity is to be my undoing; I am isolated from them and I attract the attention of the African overseers who pounce on me and force me to my knees and hold me in their grasp as the halter is slipped over my head and fastened tightly around my neck.
This all happens so swiftly and I am taken by surprise. Before the realisation that I am the next slave to be sold has time to crystallise in my mind, a sharp tug of the halter around my throat yanks me to my feet and I now follow three paces behind my handler as I am taken out to be sold.
What are my thoughts as I am lead out of the pen and into the waiting throng of buyers and spectators? To be honest, my mind is a blank and my fear numbs me. This all seems too surreal and it is as though I am detached from the reality of my situation. Vaguely, I am aware that the crowd part to allow me entry into their midst. As I stumble along behind the auctioneer's assistant, I am distantly aware that hands are reaching out to touch me. I feel them pinching and prodding at me and once or twice a hand grabs my cock or my balls and we stop to allow them to be scrutinised more closely.
Then somewhere in the midst of onlookers we stop and I am in the presence of the auctioneer or to give him his local title - the dilaleen. He is a tall, ascetic looking man dressed entirely in black and given my sombre thoughts; I think the colour is appropriate. Black is the traditional colour of mourning in Christian countries and today my grief is all too real. I mourn for my loss of freedom.
I recognised the auctioneer as one of the three men who had chosen the six slaves as the Pasha's portion during his penjic. He scrutinises me with such intensity that his eyes seem to bore into my very soul. Fearfully, I lower my eyes to the ground. He carries a short, wooden rod and he uses it to poke at my naked body.
He is accompanied by a slave ... I know him to be a slave because of his cropped hair and beardless face. I will learn that our masters do this to us to further humiliate and shame us. In this society long hair and beards are the hallmarks of a man and slaves - considered by our captors to be men no longer - are made to wear their heads and beards close cropped at all times. The slave wears shapeless, loose fitting pantaloons made of unbleached, natural cotton and a matching shirt. And on his cropped head he wears the red, felt cap of slavery.
He is a scrivano and carries a bundle of papers. Hastily, he searches through them before selecting one and passing it to his master.
The auctioneer studies the paper and periodically looks up from his reading to peer at me. I wonder about this; I'm not to know he has in his hands the details of my recent interview with the Pasha's "Registrar of Slaves". This paper tells the auctioneer that I am an English seaman, that I am 22 years old. That's all he needs to know and he will use this information as a selling point as he presents me to the buyers.
He raises his hand to still the buzz of conversation that fills my head with a sound akin to a thousand, angry wasps and waits in dignified silence until the crowd is hushed. Then and only then does he speak. I know he speaks about me. And even though I don't understand his words, instinctively I know he is extolling my virtues. If I could understand him, I would be surprised. He is fulsome in his praise of me.
"Behold the unbeliever! Have you ever seen a more worthy slave? Truly he was born to serve in whatever capacity his master decrees. Look at his youthful body; marvel at the strength of his powerful chest and the width of his shoulders. Gaze upon his strong limbs; the reach of his arms and the power of his legs. And behold the slave's arse! Truly it is that of a work slave. This slave was born to hard labour; to toil at the oar of a galley, to labour in your fields or your quarries. And yet, he has the looks and the demeanour to serve you in your homes or bedrooms. Tell me! Have you ever seen a more promising slave than this young Nasrani? At twenty, he is a mere babe with many years of productive labour ahead of him. His papers tell me that the infidel's name is Tobias and that he is a peasant, country born and raised in that far away den of iniquity, that home of Shaitan and his foul spawn - England. And in his later years he served as a seaman where his body was honed to the physical perfection you now see before you. Fortune smiled upon the true believer the day this young infidel was delivered into our hands. But come; don't be shy! Come feel the hardness of the slave's body. Feel the power of his muscles for yourselves. Test the strength of his limbs. Come place your hands on the slave. Inspect him, examine him and you will see that I don't exaggerate when I say this slave is true perfection."
Of course, I am unaware of the auctioneer's fulsome praise of me. I stand lost and bewildered in the midst of these men who now reach out to touch me. I lower my head and submit to their ministrations. I cringe with shame and horror as their hands roam over my nakedness. I flinch each time a muscle is pinched or squeezed or a finger prods at my arse. I listen, uncomprehending, as I am discussed.
Several times it is obvious that the auctioneer and a prospective buyer are arguing over me. I recognise this as a necessary part of selling me. In my boyhood, I have witnessed this same haggling between a farmer and a buyer over some farm animal offered for sale. And today, as a prospective buyer squeezes my arm muscles or prods me in the ribs or parts my buttocks to test the soundness of my anus, I can identify with those farm animals on market day.
But even worse is the foulest of indignities; the testing of the 'cleanness' of my genitalia and the state of my teeth.
There seems to be an inordinate amount of attention shown over my teeth. It would appear that a slave's teeth are a major consideration with the buyers. Later, as I serve on the galley, I will learn a slave needs healthy teeth to chew the hard, black bread and biscuits which are a staple of galley slave's diet.
There is a brief exchange between the auctioneer and one buyer and the crowd move backwards to clear a wide circle around me. From somewhere in the folds of his long flowing garments, the auctioneer produces a flexible cane and as he viciously swipes it across my ankles, I leap into the air from the shock of his unexpected blow. My loud yelps of pain amuse my audience and they laugh at my distress.
For several minutes, the auctioneer continues to whip my ankles with his cane making me leap and twist in the air to show the flexibility of my body. Then he changes tactics; now he whips each leg alternatively aiming his blows at the front and back of my legs. Now, he is making me dance a 'jig' that further demonstrates my fitness. This further amuses the crowd. I am laughed and jeered at mercilessly.
Then, a tall figure dressed in colourful garb steps forward and speaks to the auctioneer. He is asking permission to inspect more closely. Gladly, the auctioneer gives his permission and I am made to stand docilely as he does so. I don't know it but I am in the presence of my future master.
He examines me with an expertise gained from many years of assessing the bodily strength of slaves suited to tug at the oars of his galley. He had watched my progress through the throng of buyers and he'd watched as the auctioneer put me through my paces. Obviously, he liked what he saw and has decided that I am eminently suited to serve aboard his galley.
He has an easy assurance and a confidence that comes from knowing exactly what he is looking for in a slave. As his hands slide over my body gauging my muscular strength and as his fingers probe the density and hardness of those muscles, I feel no shame. This man interest in me isn't voyeuristic -unlike so many others who had examined me this morning - rather it is a "professional" interest. I know instinctively that he looking to buy a slave he wishes to work and for no other reason. There is a degree of comfort in this for me.
Since my capture I have had an underlying fear of becoming a garzon slave to some perverted Master. As a seaman in the fo'c'stle, I'd listened with morbid interest to the "old hands" tales of the fate of handsome, young men and comely boys enslaved by the corsairs. Despite my prudishness, I'd had a prurient interest in their tales. It had fed some deep seated erotic fantasy of mine but that is all it was - an erotic fantasy. I neither wanted it for myself nor had I ever dreamed that such a thing could happen to me. But that changed the day of my capture. Ever since that day, I have feared that this could be my fate.
It was this unspoken fear that prompted my sympathy when the Captain's cabin boy was chosen by the Pasha to serve as a dancing boy in his harem. The thought of what is to happen to him horrifies me.
Yet at some time in the future, as I toil at my oar, I will revisit this and wonder pensively if life as a garzon isn't preferable to life as a galley slave.
This man, who is soon to be my master, finishes with me and with a nod of his turbaned head; he indicates his satisfaction to the auctioneer. The auctioneer acknowledges this by calling for bids from those interested in buying me.
I am bewildered by the frenzied activity that swirls around me. At first it would appear that everyone in the crowd wants to buy me and to own me. But by a slow process of elimination, the number dwindles to just a handful. One by one these bidders are reduced further until just two remain; the tall man who had just examined me and another repulsive creature with an oversized body, a bloated face and lecherous appearance that I had earlier likened to a toad.
Even though, I can't understand what is being said, I am astute enough to know these two are locked in a battle to buy me. Desperately, I watch as the two bid and counter bid for the right to own me. I find myself hoping that the tall man wins this tussle of wills. Mindful of the fo'c'stle stories, I think anything would be preferable to finding myself as a slave to "toad face".
Perhaps, if I were to know of the fate that awaits me, I would have thought differently.
With bad grace, "toad face" finally concedes defeat and bows out of the bidding leaving the auctioneer to declare the tall man as my owner.
My sale into slavery is greeted with loud applause and acclamation and it is as well that I don't understand the brief conversation between the auctioneer and my new Master.
"Congratulations, Jamal! You have purchased well. The infidel slave is yours. What are your planes for the unbeliever? Will he be put to hard labour as befits all the sons of Shaitan?"
"Thank you, Mustapha! Rest assured that the slave will be sorely pressed. He is to serve as an oarsman on my galley".
"Ah, Jamal! That is indeed a fitting role for the slave. He is a lusty fellow with long limbs and his lungs are sound of wind. One has only to look at him to see he was born to toil at the oar and to bend his back beneath the whips of the true believers. May he live long and serve you faithfully. May his labours reward you a thousandfold for the money you have spent in buying him."
"Have no doubt about it, Mustapha! The slave will reward me many times over for my outlay on him. My overseers and their whips will see that every dinar I have spent on him today is returned to me a hundredfold."
As the auctioneer and my Master talk together, a slave assistant approaches me and inscribes something in red dye on my chest. I look down at this and wonder what it means.
If I were to understand, I would know this to be the price my master has just bid for me and represents the amount of money that will be paid to the corsairs who had captured me. This amount is their booty prize.
My master doesn't as yet own me. His bid is just one step in the complicated system that operates in the slave market. The amount written on my chest is merely the reserve price that has been set on me. Before I become his slave, all forty-two of us will be taken back and presented to the Pasha.
The Pasha has the right of first refusal and he can buy any or all us by increasing the price of that written on our bodies in the Badestan. It is a right he has but it is a right he seldom exercises. It is a mere formality that he insists upon and nothing is allowed to impugn his dignity.
I am now a sold slave and I am lead away to the empty pen where I'm confined with the first slave who was sold. He stands dejected and alone in a corner. He looks up as I am thrust through the gate to join him. We welcome one another and we draw support from each other.
Soon we are joined by another slave.... and another. And another.... until all forty-two of us awaits our return to the Pasha's palace.
Midway through the auction, I am re-united with Joachim. Eagerly and yet apprehensively, I question him about his sale. He describes the man who has bought him. His description is that of my Master. Joyfully, my heart begins to pound in my chest. Joachim and I aren't to be separated. We belong to the same master. We are overjoyed that we are to stay together and neither of us gives any thought to our futures.
And neither of us knows that he is now a galley slave.