A Cruel Passing of Innocence

by J. D. Jensen

  He stopped behind Zheeno, and there were brief words of discussion between the sultan and the headman.

  The master of masters lingered there for several moments, to Nassara’s growing consternation, before finally moving on to the next slave. Nassara breathed a sigh of relief, without knowing quite why, yet knowing instinctively that it was better that Zheeno should not remain under the sultan’s scrutiny.

  She did not know the name of the slave now the focus of the sultan’s interest. He was of leaner and slighter build than the other young men, and she knew he had born the cruelty of the whips and the journey here with less fortitude than his companions, barely surviving the harsh conditions of his capture and the forced march. By the time he stumbled into this prison he was near the end of his endurance. Where the collar had chafed his neck he still bore the marks, as he did the fading welts where the whips had lashed his shoulders, back and buttocks. It was only as a result of the last few days of comparative rest, treatment of his wounds, and proper nourishment that he’d recovered. Yet now, Nassara knew instinctively, he was to face a new ordeal.

  The sultan stood close by. She could smell the richness of his garments, and hear them rustling as he moved. Strangely, she thought, the sultan appeared somehow indifferent to the presence of the female slaves, having only casually glanced at them over his shoulder.

  He grunted some guttural remark, and instantly the headman shouted down at the young slave, ‘Arribaja!’

  For a moment it was as if the poor slave was unsure it was he who had been summoned. He hesitated before scrambling to his feet, the iron chains between his legs jangling starkly in the tense silence. He stood, remembering to make his face and eyes downcast. His naked body was bent forward in a stooped posture, knees slightly bent, as if the ability to stand straight was hindered by the weight of his chains.

  The sultan grunted again, turned and moved on, his retinue following, except for the headman. He signalled curtly at Ahmood, who strode quickly to the isolated slave, and from beneath his tunic he took out a long leather lead, at its end a length of metal chain and a fixing clasp.

  Ahmood crouched in front of the slave, and although Nassara was unable to see clearly she heard metal being clipped to metal, and she could just see Ahmood fixing the leash somewhere between the young man’s legs, and realised he’d attached it to the rings through his scrotum.

  Nassara knew the slave must have been wondering what horrors awaited him as he reflected upon the purpose of the leash affixed to him, feeling its crude fastenings attached to such vulnerable flesh. In his fear he must have known he was being taken to some other place, but where and for what purpose he could scarcely contemplate.

  Lowering her eyes, feeling the burden of his apprehension, Nassara momentarily forgot her own. Her thoughts were again full of sorrow… sorrow for him, for Zheeno, and for all of her companion slaves.

  His inspection apparently at an end, the sultan was leaving the courtyard, waddling slowly away towards the entrance of the main building, the fan-carrying servants keeping a measured distance behind him. Nassara could just observe the dignified figure of her master, Sulliman-Mahadji, who now stood in a small group of his siblings. They bowed low until the sultan had passed by.

  The headman waited until the gates had clanged shut behind the entourage, and then he gave an impatient wave of a hand to Ahmood, who stiffened and bowed slightly before jerking the leash, the cruel tug making the young man lurch forward, his mouth gagging with shock, gasping as the taut lead pulled at his most sensitive flesh.

  Ahmood started to walk briskly away, looking over his shoulder at the staggering slave at the end of the rein. As the slave followed hurriedly, clearly not wanting the lead to snatch again at his flesh, Nassara caught sight of the silver chain at the end of the leash, how it fastened to the lower silver ring that pierced his manly sack.

  ‘Abbaijsh maharamba!’ Ahmood snarled, and recognising the command the young slave dropped immediately on all fours, the hideous chains jangling in protesting disharmony, his hands and feet scrambling frantically on the stone path to keep some slack in the leash.

  As soon as they’d disappeared from view the other masters strolled idly back towards the remaining assembly of prostrated slaves. Sulliman-Mahadji was at the head of his siblings, clearly the elder and favoured son.

  The one who had previously taken a liking for Jammina stood behind her again. Another stood behind Safarah, the two girls glancing fearfully sideways at each other, waiting to know their fate.

  The headman motioned for two of the whip-boys to harness the two girls and they were made to stand, looking apprehensive and close to tears. Then they were commanded to get down on their hands and knees and taken from the courtyard, fearfully following the two masters who’d selected them.

  Chapter 6

  Nassara lay in the near darkness of the room, reflecting on the day. The quiet sobbing of the two girls, Safarah and Jammina, had finally abated and they were sleeping.

  It had not been long after sunset that the two slaves returned to the dormitory by Ahmood and two whip-boys, leading them by their cruel leashes, near to collapse, weakened by their ordeal.

  So many questions remained, but sometimes answers are best not given, Nassara perhaps fearing to know of what her two companions now already knew so well. Suspecting was after all not the same as knowing, innocence best preserved until the final moment.

  Even in the shadowy darkness Nassara could just see the stripes around Jammina’s thighs and buttocks where a whip had been used. Nassara spied, too, the dried evidence of male seed on her inner thighs, and her thoughts scudded back through a short space of time to when her own defilement had occurred, but then there had been no whips or chains to aid her deflowering… only words of corrupting deception.

  Nassara glanced up and thought she saw the shadow of a figure behind the latticed grille, and wondered whether it was her master, Sulliman-Mahadji. She had felt his eyes upon her several times as she slept over recent nights, awaking with a start.

  There was confusion in her mind. Why had he not yet taken her to fulfil the purpose for which she knew that she had been brought here? Had she not seen the interest for her that sparkled in the master’s dark eyes? Had she not witnessed his impure gaze when her legs were braced and open for her ring piercing? And had she not felt his lusting eyes upon her whenever she knelt in the courtyard? So why had he not claimed her? Was she being kept back for some other purpose she could not begin to contemplate?

  It seemed strange to her that only two of the female slaves had been chosen, and only one of the male slaves. And what of him? Where was he now? Having feared for Zheeno at the time she tried to blot out speculation, not wanting to form any preconceptions in her mind, preferring to think only of Zheeno’s sculptured body, and his soul and spirit that she loved.

  If there were so many uncertainties in Nassara’s mind before sleep came upon her, then much was to be revealed once daylight came again. The slumbering slaves were roused with new, harshly shouted commands.

  ‘Ashasha trabaja! Ashami! Prezza!’

  Ahmood and his whip-boys were amongst them, kicking and lashing out at any girl too slow to rise. Today there was a particular frenzy in the actions of the whip-boys; they seemed more irritable than usual. There was a troubling urgency in the air, and Nassara felt it.

  Jammina and Safarah had been particularly slow to rise from their cushions, but their previous ordeal allowed them no special dispensation, no quarter from Ahmood and the whip-boys, who manhandled the girls to their feet. Nassara eyed their welts, but there was no time to speculate upon past cruelties; those still to come were all that mattered.

  The attendants had not brought food and drink this morning, as though the slave girls were being denied sustenance before whatever was in store for them. Instead they were quickly herded down the steps to the courtyard, stumbling in their haste
to obey, chains and bells jingling in discord.

  The familiar lush features of the courtyard seemed much as usual. The serenity of the place, its insect hum and trickling of water was as just as ever, the fragrance of its beauty rich in her nostrils. Yet there was something more… a malevolent presence, elusive in its definition, something not apparent at first.

  As they neared the centre of the courtyard the first thing to appear in Nassara’s vision was an upright wooden frame. It stood before the place of assembly, a stark, sinister apparatus, its purpose not immediately apparent.

  It consisted of a flat rectangular frame of struts, bound together by tarred rope at its four corners. Set upon the paving stones, resting on its four legs, the main frame had a single horizontal brace across its centre. The contraption leaned back at a slightly reposing angle, supported by its two vertical legs from behind, each separated from the front by two short, parallel lengths of rope. Attached to the front edges of the frame, symmetrically positioned near the top and at the bottom of each side of it, and again at the centre of the horizontal crossbar, were a number of leather straps. They hung loose from their fixtures, as if waiting to embrace the limbs of anyone held against it.

  A fleeting image of a spider’s web came into Nassara’s mind, and she felt her heart sink as she studied the device. It had a distinct air of menace about its silent, brooding presence, and she was in no doubt of its generality of purpose. Clearly it was a structure of cruelty and punishment, and from the frightened looks on the faces of the other girl slaves, this much was also apparent to them too.

  Nassara caught sight of the four remaining male slaves, already prostrated on the ground in front of the headman. He stood motionless, his face a mask of silent anger.

  ‘Abbaijsh!’ came his command, so brusquely that the slave girls showed momentary confusion and compliance came slowly and with uncoordinated stumbling.

  ‘What new torment is this?’ Belithza whispered to Nassara.

  ‘Abbaijsh!’ Ahmood snarled, slashing the air with is whip, his eyes fiercely scanning the slaves’ faces for any sign of dissent or slowness to obey, immediately cutting short Belithza’s fearful whispers. ‘Prezza! Ashami!’

  Then everything happened quickly. The slaves hurried to settle themselves into their habitual, rigid posture. There was a flurry of activity. Footsteps came from every direction. Servants and guards assembled noisily around the courtyard. Nassara’s heart thumped, a deeply ominous feeling of gloom gripping her as she watched cautiously from lowered eyes.

  Two of the guards walked briskly over to large bundle and reached down to grasp it. Then unceremoniously they dragged it back, the cover slipping off to reveal the sagging corpse of the male slave. Nassara felt sick as they dragged it to where the headman stood, its legs and arms bumping and slithering grotesquely, chains sliding over the flagstones. The guards dropped the body unceremoniously at his feet and it flopped down with a dull thud, once more a lifeless heap, its half-closed eyes vacant, its jaws open in an horrific rictus of death.

  The headman began to speak. The words were meaningless to Nassara, but she could tell that Belithza understood a little. As the man went on, his voice becoming louder and more agitated, she whispered a translation to Nassara.

  ‘The young slave has killed himself. It seems that when he was returned here from the master’s pleasure he… he put a cord around his neck and jumped from the balcony…’

  Every so often she paused to listen to the headman, before continuing, clearly shocked by the words she was hearing and repeating.

  ‘He was found by guards before sunrise. The sultan, the masters, the headman are all angry… angry that a slave has taken his life… a life which is not his to take because slaves are the property of the masters, who alone have power over life and death.’

  So, slaves did not possess the right even to choose to die, Nassara thought. All things must be at the bidding of the masters alone. She looked at the corpse and felt a flood of sympathy for him. But perhaps, on reflection, he was now better off, his spirit freed, no longer a chattel of merciless people, safe from further abuse and torment.

  The headman abruptly fell silent, and it took some moments before the habitual hum of insects recommenced and the gentle trickle of water became noticeable again amongst the lushness of the greenery. Quietly the two guards stepped forward and lifted the corpse by its legs, the chains briefly rattling against the flagstones. Then they lumbered towards the gate, dragging the body behind them.

  Nassara felt the shock begin to recede, but a grim sadness remained within her, with the ever-present fear and despair. Her eyes were drawn again to the wooden frame. It stood as if awaiting its time to perform its duty, and she knew that time would soon arrive.

  The headman was talking again, as quietly as when first he had spoken, and Belithza was craning her head to hear and understand his words. She whispered again to Nassara. ‘I think he tells us that the masters blame us for the death of their slave, that we should have stopped him from killing himself, and that if it should happen again all slaves will be punished.’

  The implications of Belithza’s shocking words hit Nassara. How, she wondered, could slaves be responsible for the self-destruction of another? How could they prevent it? Nonetheless, slaves must learn that any such acts would bring retribution upon the remaining left behind. Now there was a cunning incentive to remain amongst the living, Nassara realised. There could be no escape through death without leaving behind a legacy of cruelty to be inflicted upon those remaining.

  He spoke again, and as he did so he calmly pointed at one of the male slaves, nodding towards Ahmood.

  ‘He tells us that for this act the masters will be lenient, that only two slaves will be punished this time,’ Belithza whispered. ‘But if another slave takes their life, then all living slaves will be punished.’

  Nassara heard the translated words that she’d already anticipated, and then shock gripped her as she saw the headman’s unwavering finger pointing at Zheeno. Her heart missed a beat. She willed the finger to pass on to another slave, hoping she was mistaken. But there was no mistake. It was indeed Zheeno who’d been selected, and Ahmood was already at his side.

  ‘Arribaja!’

  Zheeno stumbled to his feet. Nassara nearly screamed, seeing he knew his fate. His eyes seemed transfixed to the wooden frame, although his demeanour gave no indication of fear. Rather, he seemed to contemplate the punishment machine with calm resignation, as if somehow having expected as much. He stood in the half-crouching posture allowed him by the taut chains tethered to his manhood and ankles, his knees slightly bent by the cruel encumbrance. Yet even in such an undignified stance, he somehow retained some semblance of dignity.

  Two whip-boys moved to the menacing apparatus and stood on either side of it. Zheeno was pushed roughly, staggering to where the dreadful contraption awaited him. He stood facing it, contemplating its ugly proximity and detail, seeing the hanging leather straps that would soon restrain him.

  The two whip-boys seized his arms and lifted his wrists to the waiting straps on each side of the frame. Zheeno offered no resistance, standing placidly, allowing the whip-boys to secure him. Meanwhile Ahmood was already kneeling to fasten Zheeno’s ankles by the straps at the bottom of the frame, spreading him against it. His back and buttocks faced the assembled slaves and onlookers, his knees still bent by the twin chains straining between the small tether ring circling his manhood and the stout rings that clasped each ankle.

  Completing the strapping operation, one of the whip-boys held the belt fixed to the crossbar and passed the ends around Zheeno’s waist, pulling them in tightly, his lower belly thrust hard against the bar.

  Nassara groaned inwardly, fighting her tears, not wanting to see. Ahmood stood up straight and turned, his contemptuous eyes seeking Nassara, watching her, daring her to look away, somehow having sensed that she might do so.


  Behind the frame two whip-boys bent down and picked up two long, thin bamboo canes, and took up their positions, one on either side of the apparatus, standing back a pace or so behind the tethered victim. Their faces showed anxious concentration, as if aware of the duty entrusted to them. With both hands gripping their canes, each whip-boy held the instrument extended outward, parallel to the ground and poised as though measuring the distance and range of the intended path of the swing.

  The headman nodded curtly. The example was to begin. The courtyard was hushed.

  The two canes swung back simultaneously, away from the motionless victim. Nassara could detect no tremor to Zheeno’s body, which seemed all the more magnificent in its toned, muscled, defiant stature. A sheen of oil and sweat made it glisten under the sun’s rays. Despite the demeaning bearing and crouching angle of him, to her he was a thing of beauty to desire and cherish, an aura of strength and spirit shining out beyond his humbling misery. Tears of love stung her eyes.

  ‘Courage, my sweet,’ she whispered, forcing her brimming eyes to watch, hoping that somehow he might hear her words.

  First, from the left side, one cane lashed down, catching the cheeks of his upper buttocks, near to the base of his backbone. The second cane, coming from the other side just a fraction later, timed for the first to strike its target and then swing back again, cut him just below the buttocks, across the firm muscle of his upper legs.

  Nassara saw his body jerk against the straps, his arms tensing with agony. His back arched away from the onslaught but he did not utter a sound. There was only a faint jangling from the chains between his legs as his body involuntarily contorted, and the rings tugged at his flesh.

  The first cane sliced down again, closely followed by the second, thwacking against the lean flesh of his cheeks, landing midway within the boundaries set between the two initial, exploratory cuts. Immediately two red, parallel lines were drawn across his buttocks, so close together that they could scarcely have been a finger’s breadth apart, such was the accuracy of the strikes.