by J. D. Jensen
From somewhere there was a sudden clapping of hands, and a large man dressed in a white and blue robe, a strange gold-braided red hat perched on his head, appeared as if out of nowhere, his expression stern but not cruel.
The attendants were quick now to retrieve the jugs, pulling them from the hands of the slaves. Then they scurried away along one of the paths, without a single backward glance.
Moving silently out from one of the archways came six taller youths. Dark-skinned with jet-black hair, their eyes unsmiling, they stood a respectful distance behind the large man. They stood straight, their imperious heads held high in haughty arrogance as they calmly surveyed the slaves. They were dressed in immaculate white tunics that covered them down to their ankles, but what particularly caught Nassara’s eye was the rigid whip that each one held.
Each whip was almost as much as the drop from the boys’ waists to their feet. The black leather tapered gradually down from the handle – no more than the circumference of Nassara’s middle finger – to a willowy tip almost needle thin. At the very extremity were a few tiny strands of red, coarse thread.
As the boys haughtily scanned the faces and bodies of the new arrivals with an air of distaste, the wispy red tips of their whips reposed lightly beside their feet, on the cool stone slabs of the courtyard, as if impatient to unleash their purpose. Even paradise, it seemed, was not a place without its whip-men, although here at least they were whip-boys, whose cruelty surely could not equal that of their zealous elders.
The large man clapped his hands again and the tallest of the whip-boys, who seemed to be the leader, strode instantly to stand just in front of the two lines of slaves. Zheeno and the other young men were standing in the front line, and Nassara and her female companions stood behind, still chained one to another, waiting anxiously to see what they must now endure.
The whip-boy’s eyes were black with fiery intensity and he shouted one single, shrill word of command.
‘Abbaijsh!’
Pointing first with his whip at the ground, he tapped the air in a downward, impatient motion. At the same time the other whip-boys ran instantly to move around to the side and back of the assembled slaves, hovering menacingly.
‘Abbaijsh!’ he screamed again, his lips curled into a fierce scowl and his piercing eyes darting over the slaves, seeking out anyone slow to obey. ‘Abbaijsh!’
Nassara immediately understood and she, and some of the other slaves, quickly knelt down on the cool slabs, but one or two of the young men in the front were slow to comprehend. The lead whip-boy, his face thunderous, lashed out, catching the buttock of the nearest male slave, making him gasp and cower away.
The other slaves were filled with sudden understanding, and scrambled quickly to kneel. Nassara noticed with relief that Zheeno had understood, instantly obeying, and within moments all the slaves were kneeling, their eyes cast down and anxious. But still the lead whip-boy was not satisfied.
‘Abbaijsh!’ he screamed again, suddenly getting down onto his knees in front of the slaves, as though to demonstrate what posture they were to adopt. Spreading his legs apart he bent right forward so that his back was arched and his face almost touching the stone slabs, his arms spread out in front of him and his rump thrust out behind. ‘Abbaijsh!’
Gradually the slaves understood the refinement of the required perversity of posture, and quickly copied him. Moving their knees outward they leaned forward, prostrating themselves as low as they could, straining forward. Chains rattled until the slaves were finally still again, stretched out, submissive, waiting, not daring to move a muscle, trembling with the unfamiliar tension, fearful of what might come.
But Belithza, still shackled to Nassara, had not spread herself to the satisfaction of one of the whip-boys, who stood over her angrily. ‘Abbaijsh!’ he shouted down at her, then when she scarcely moved he bent and roughly pushed her nose down against the ground, grabbing one of her thighs and pulling it further out. Then upright again, and looking down contemptuously, he lashed her raised buttocks.
‘Ooooh…!’ she yelped, biting her lip, struggling to retain the new uncomfortable posture.
Nassara scarcely dared glance at Belithza’s agonised features as she involuntarily lowered her torso still further, her spine dipped, her buttocks raised, her nipples brushing the stone floor.
There was silence again, apart from the gentle sound of running water in the lily pools. At last the lead whip-boy seemed satisfied and nodded approvingly, scanning the prostrated slaves, searching for any sign that might indicate a lapse in their display of servility. He went back to the large man, who still stood as motionless as any statue, surveying the scene with disdainful amusement. The whip-boy gave a little bow and the large man nodded, clapping his hands again.
Several liveried guards, who had earlier opened the outer doors, came back into the courtyard, hurrying to the chained lines of grovelling slaves. With iron unlocking tools they busied themselves, bending to remove the studded leather collars, pulling roughly at craned necks and grunting with effort until the shackles dropped, jangling to the ground.
Nassara was glad to feel the cumbersome collar fall away, careful not to move from her submissive posture, keeping her forehead pressed to the flagstones. It seemed to her that this humbling posture was to be the deferential mark of their humility and obedience to their new masters. From henceforth she knew that no sooner had the command abbaijsh passed from the lips of the whip-boys, or their masters, than slaves must instantly fall and prostrate themselves, remaining motionless, cast down like paralysed statues until the masters’ gracious release.
The courtyard grew steadily hotter. She did not know how long they stayed in that position, listening to the quietly padding feet of the vigilant boys and the trickling of water.
After a while she became stiff, aching in the unnatural posture. Once one of the whip-boys knelt behind her, and she sensed his scowling face close to her buttocks. He nudged the dip of her back with the tip of his whip, indicating that she should dip still further and spread her knees still wider.
The strain became acute, but just as she thought she could bear it no longer the head whip-boy shouted another command. ‘Arribaja!’ He gestured with his whip in upward movements, indicating that the slaves were to rise. Nassara got quickly to her feet, grateful for the respite from the straining posture of debasement.
But there were further lessons of servility. It seemed that in standing a slave must display sufficient poise of humility and respect. Heads held too high and eyes not cast down were acts of disrespect, and any slave showing disrespect was roughly seized by the hair until he or she did.
Glancing from beneath her eyelashes Nassara saw the large man surveying his assembled slaves. Warily he watched the young men, who now released from their shackles could perhaps pose a threat to his authority. But Nassara noticed that the vigilant guards, tall and muscled, were armed with sheathed knives, and cold tentacles of hopelessness ensnared her.
Already the minds of slaves were reduced to the inevitability of their slavery, and the need for shackles was gone.
The slaves were led across the courtyard, through an arched doorway into the cool, gloomy interior, and down a flight of stone steps. The lead boy walked jauntily ahead, his whip over one shoulder, never looking back, as if certain of his authority, knowing that slaves would follow obediently.
Batteries of oil lamps flickered from iron frames along the walls. As the slaves descended it became hot and steamy. Nassara became increasingly anxious, wondering what fresh ordeal awaited them. What dreadful place was this that belched steam and heat from the bowels of the ground?
But the humid air was sweetly perfumed, and they came to a huge pillared chamber where, beneath the vaulted ceiling, a vast pool of dark water stretched out, a misty haze of vapour hanging over it. At one end was a passageway, and the peaceful place echoed with the gentle lapping of t
he water.
Beside the tiled pool stood several fat men, their arms folded across their immense chests. Nassara had never set eyes upon men of such girth and bloated dimensions. Hairless and with beady eyes the fat men were stripped to the waist, wearing only lengths of towelling wound around their flabby bellies. These strange men stood silently watching the arrival of the naked slaves, yet Nassara noticed they seemed not unkindly in their demeanour.
The slaves were separated, the lead whip-boy motioning impatiently for the male slaves to go to one side of the vaulted passageway, the slave girls to the other. On either side were a number of arched doorways leading into small cubicles, and the fat men stood expressionless, waiting for their respective slave. When Nassara came to the chamber she had been directed to, one of them pointed for her to go inside.
Stepping warily into the confined space, and feeling her anxiety growing with every second, Nassara found herself standing in front of a raised stone platform as long as she was tall. With her heart beating faster she tried to imagine what fate awaited her, yet somehow the fat man behind her seemed strangely reassuring. Now she could see him close up his countenance was almost gentle and kindly. His lumbering movements were slow, without any appearance of malice or cruel intent. Perhaps he was a slave, too.
He moved close and instinctively she drew away, but he put a firm hand on her shoulder, guiding her to the platform, and spreading down a large towel he motioned for her to lie facedown upon it.
Oiled hands rested upon her shoulder, massaging and rubbing her skin, and she realised the servant girl from the courtyard who had given her water was standing silently nearby. She moved forward and poured warm, scented oil onto Nassara’s skin from a jar, and further back in the shadows was one of the servant boys. He held a bowl, and catching her puzzled eye, gave her a timid smile of friendly innocence.
The fat man’s podgy fingers moved progressively down her back, working the oil into her flesh. His firm but gentle motions pressed and soothed away her aches and pains, leaving her glowing with a luxurious inner warmth. Kneading the muscles of her flanks and waist, his hands moved down to the small of her back, gradually reaching the steep rise of her buttocks. More oil poured from the lip of the jar, spreading over them and into the valley between.
His fingers paused, as if considerately, at the thin welt dissecting one cheek. The cut was still inflamed, a vivid streak ripening into a raised ridge. The fat man applied some ointment from another bottle, before his hands continued again in their previous rhythm. Reaching the upper crests of her buttocks, Nassara felt his fingers slide between the dividing scarps, and more oil flowed into the opened vulnerability. Without heed of the intimacy of such ungracious encroachment, he continued to massage her there. Pleasant waves of pleasure spread from her thighs and lower belly, radiating to every part of her body, soothing and calming, healing and cleansing her ravaged flesh. Her mind was infused by some potent drug of peacefulness, almost dissolving those humbling traces of shame that came from this stranger touching her so intimately.
‘I am Babbushan, and I am to look after you for the masters, Nassara.’ The voice was rather high-pitched, close by her ear, and she was surprised he spoke her language or knew her name. ‘Turn your body to me,’ he commanded, indicating that he had finished his work on her buttocks.
‘Who are you? Where is this place?’ Nassara was at the edge of tearfulness, yet she obeyed him at once, turning slowly onto her back, wondering whether she might have come upon some small sanctuary of humanity.
He did not look at her in the same lecherous way that others did. Instead, he looked upon her nakedness with concern and sympathy. Strangely, she no longer felt humbled or uneasy under his searching gaze, despite such intimate touches by him. At first his attentions filled her with degradation, but now they seemed to be almost kindly in their purpose, the cleansing warmth still radiating through her body, dispersing the aches and pains.
‘Ask few questions of me. Keep silent. Listen and learn from me, then your life will be comfortable. I will help you when I can. I will try to keep you from cruelty. But you must be quick to learn and quick to please your masters, or your life will be one of pain and misery like the lowest of slaves. Be thankful you are chosen for our masters’ pleasure.’ His voice was almost a whisper, stern but reassuring.
He began to massage around her neck and shoulders, and then her slender arms until the stiffness was almost gone.
The girl attendant’s earnest face bobbed in front of Nassara’s vision as she poured oil into the valley between Nassara’s breasts. Where the vivid welt marked them Babbushan gently applied a thick balm, tenderly rubbing the healing mixture into it. Nassara gasped at first, until the sting slowly evaporated.
His huge form looming over her, Babbushan silently continued his work. His fingers skilfully kneaded and circled around the peaks of her breasts, before descending to the plain below, there to manipulate the toned muscles.
‘Our master will find pleasure with you, Nassara. You will be favoured in this place and find comfort and reward for devotion.’ His hands massaged her flesh in firm flourishes, and after a while he moved down to her legs, using both hands in a vicelike grip around first one and then the other, sliding his excruciating embrace slowly upwards into the softness of her inner thighs.
‘You will please the master, Nassara, if I know him well, which is my duty here.’ His tone conveyed casual satisfaction, as if telling her of matters that would also please her. Yet, as if knowing she would be unprepared for what was to come after his reassuring words, he moved his hands to rest on her crotch, both thumbs seeking the lips of rippled flesh that rimmed her entrance and gently peeling them apart. She gasped with shock, her thighs clamping together at such a crude intrusion, but he was undeterred.
For a moment he held the folds slightly apart, before spreading them more fully, exposing the gossamer pinkness of her inner flesh. ‘Oh please, I beg you,’ she began to protest, raising herself up on her elbows, tensing with shock and revulsion, but the man held her easily and pushed her back down.
‘Be still, girl. I have told you, learn and obey. Do not resist the will of the masters, or me as their servant. Be stilled for my work. I shall not harm you.’ He spoke firmly, warning her.
Nassara trembled with indignation. Her eyes blazed with a mixture of anger and sad expectancy, knowing instinctively the futility of dissent. Satisfied that she was composed and compliant again, Babbushan returned to the object of his interest. Once more holding the delicate lips open, he placed two plump fingers between the twin portals and gently but firmly thrust into the narrow passage, exploring, moving from side to side against the tight constriction of the delicately ribbed walls. ‘Be calm,’ he said. ‘I shall be quick with you. The master desires to know of you beforehand. Fear not, my task will soon be over.’
Babbushan worked deftly and with intent upon his purpose, but there were no stirrings of desire within his loins, so long ago made sterile by the masters’ bidding. From time to time his actions made her gasp, her body occasionally squirming involuntarily as he furrowed deeper, her muscles instinctively resisting his shocking penetration. Then, as if satisfied with his findings, he withdrew from her.
‘Who has entered you before?’ he asked.
Confused and embarrassed she averted her eyes from his; not replying at once, fearing what reaction might come. He waited patiently as the servant girl began to sponge Nassara’s feet with hot lotion from a bowl held by the boy attendant.
‘What is your answer, girl?’ Babbushan pressed.
She swallowed nervously, knowing how she must hasten to reply even though more shame would be heaped upon her. ‘It was the custom in my village,’ she whispered, feeling the first tears of shame trickle down her cheeks. ‘It was my stepfather. It was he who broke me to show me how to be with men.’
‘Only he?’ Babbushan persisted, staring intently into he
r eyes. ‘No other man?’
She shook her head, and Babbushan nodded.
‘Go now to the pool, Nassara. The heat and vapour will sooth your body. Rest after your long journey. It is over now. This is your home. You have done well. The master will be pleased.’ With that he slowly turned and lumbered away.
The other slave girls were already in the pool. Belithza looked distinctly better from her massage and oiling. She preened herself, stretching in the warm, bubbling water. She whispered to Nassara that her wounded buttocks felt better, treated by potions massaged in by one of the fat men. The welt on her belly had also been tended to.
‘He was gentle,’ she said, ‘rubbing me soothingly with oils and lotions… but…’ Belithza paused, looking shy, before continuing in a lowered whisper, ‘he entered me, down here, with his fingers. Did they do this to you?’
‘Yes,’ was all Nassara said.
On the other side of the pool she saw Zheeno getting into the water, his lean body glistening with oil. She caught his eye and they exchanged fond smiles. But they dared not wave, conscious of the guards and whip-boys hovering nearby.
She watched as Zheeno sank gratefully into the water, the weary look on his face momentarily lifted. As he looked back at her she felt again a surge of love for the young man she scarcely knew. But when bonded by the shackles of adversity, seeds of love fall early on the fertile soil of shared misery, nurtured swiftly by cruel fraternity.
The slaves were allowed to stay luxuriating in the hot water, feeling it healing their aching bodies. When eventually they were ushered out of the pool they were draped in thick towels by the attendants, and rubbed dry by them.
They were then led up the stairs and out, once more, into the courtyard above. Nassara and her female companions were led across to the other side of the lush gardens, and then up a flight of steep steps. Meanwhile Zheeno and the male slaves were herded away to the opposite end of the building from where the slave girls were.