Again and again the scimitar sliced out, cutting slivers of flesh from chest to groin. Mercilessly the former slave pressed the Spaniard who squeezed his eyes tightly shut as the blade threatened to pluck them from their sockets, then screamed anew when it changed direction, carving red-oozing patterns into stomach and thighs.
Still the oar-master would not leap, seeking mindlessly to cling to agonised life; tear-filled eyes pleading desperately for some sign of mercy in his torturer’s face.
There was none! Savagely, the ex-galley slave once more pressed his attack, jabbing, and cutting, slicing at the red-running body dancing crazily at the end of the plank, his audience yelling savage encouragement. Once more the scimitar-tip flicked out, this time slicing deep into the victim’s exposed and defenceless genitals.
The Spaniard’s resolve finally snapped and, with a last despairing shout, he leapt backwards, away from the slashing blade, to vanish with a huge splash beneath the surface of the waves. A mighty cheer went up from the corsairs as, moments later, his head broke the surface, mouth gaping wide as he dragged great gulps of air into his straining lungs, blood from his wounds staining the water as he kicked out desperately with his chained legs to stare up entreatingly at the shouting, cheering faces grinning savagely down at him.
For long minutes the Spaniard trod water under the gaze of the jeering corsairs, striving desperately to keep himself afloat as the encircling black fins came closer and closer to their meal. It was a hopeless task. Finally, even as the last desperate strength left the kicking, bleeding body, two of the patrolling sharks attacked at the same time, tearing savagely into their screaming victim before he vanished forever beneath the red-stained water.
It was the beginning of what might have become a massacre. Kicking and struggling, another man was dragged from the group and hoisted up on to the plank. Having seen and heard the fate of his companion, the Spaniard babbled crazily, pleading desperately for mercy as the pirates crowded around. There was no mercy to be had. The former slave moved forward menacingly and, looking deep into his victim’s eyes, eased the point of a dagger a quarter of an inch or so into the flesh of the man’s stomach; then, with a chilling smile, drew the sharp blade slowly upwards until it actually struck the breastbone. The Spaniard shrieked, writhing and jerking crazily as blood spurted from the deep wound, yet he made no move out along the plank. With the same chilling smile, the galley slave made another slow cut, this time from right to left, leaving the bloody shape of a ‘T’. Wailing his anguish, blood running from a lip bitten clear through, the Spaniard jerked spasmodically on his perch of pain.
In the galleass’s great stern cabin, surrounded by seven great boxes filled with gold and silver ingots, Dragut Bey, Admiral of Corsairs, ignored the cacophony of howls as he sat with Khalif.
The younger man looked up as the noise intensified. “Perhaps it would be better to take a hand! ” he said. “It would be folly to lose too many. ”
Dragut sighed and held out his cup. Swiftly and expertly one of the naked girls kneeling at his side refilled it with sweet cordial from a large, gracefully spouted pot. Around her neck hung a braided leather leash, marking her as recently captured. The old corsair frowned at his companion. “Yes, all right . . . go! Save as many as you can! ”He frowned again as another wailing cry came from above. “We shall need them to pull on the oars. ”
Up on deck the ex-slave had already taken hold of his pleading victim’s genitals with one hand, dagger ready for the bloody excism in the other.
It was at that moment that Khalif, followed by Zamil, appeared on deck.
“Stop! ” shouted the Moor. “I want no more killing! ”
The would-be executioner, bloodlust still unquenched, turned angrily. “WHO says stop? ” he snarled. “For too long have I laboured under the whips of these vermin. ”His voice rose with anger and frustration. “Now I kill them! ”
Khalif approached him calmly. He spoke in his normal tone yet, in the hush that had followed his appearance, his voice carried to every man on the deck.
“Killing these men serves no purpose,” he said reasonably. He stared evenly at the former slave. “Believe me, I know how you feel; but is not always possible to do all that we want . . . even when it seems justice might be served! ”He gestured at the rest of the cowering Spanish. “These dogs will be needed at the oars if we are to fetch our prize safely to port. Also, much gold will they bring when we stand them on the auction block. ”He was standing very close to the ex-slave now, his voice lowered almost conversationally. “The Turkish Sultan pays well for galley slaves. Believe me, chained to his oars, they will suffer much before they die. ”
Still defiant, still angry, the slave was not so easily convinced. “And who are you to deny me vengeance? ” he snarled. He turned and spat at the prisoners. “It was I . . . not you . . . who pulled on the oar. It was MY family, not yours, who were butchered by these swine! ”His face twisted in anguish as he remembered. “My father and mother tortured; my wife and child both violated in front of my eyes! ”He lifted the dagger threateningly, his voice rising as his fury mounted. “How can you know how I feel? Every night since, I have slept with their screams ringing in my ears. ”Threateningly, he lifted the dagger again. “I care nothing for the Turkish Sultan . . . nor you! I say they die . . . now! ”
In an explosion of movement so fast that many of those watching could hardly credit it, Khalif slipped under the threatening blade, his right fist connecting solidly with the man’s chin. The ex-slave went limp and Khalif caught him before he fell, easing him gently to the deck.
Facing the watching corsairs, Khalif spoke calmly. “He disobeyed, yet I shall not kill him. ”He indicated the cowering prisoners. “All these vermin together are not worth his life. I know how he feels . . . ”he held up his hands so that the scars on his own wrists could be clearly seen, “. . . I too, as many here know, once served on the rowing benches of the Spanish. ”
For a moment there was absolute silence, then a swelling murmur of agreement from the onlookers. Khalif beckoned and Zamil stepped forward, muscles rippling in his huge frame. “See to this man’s needs! ” ordered Khalif, indicating the fallen ex-slave. “Tend him well! We have need of such men. ”He indicated the shaking, bleeding Spaniard still mounted on the plank. “Tend to this man also, and secure the rest below! Hurry now! Soon we must be on our way. ”
Earlier, Zamil and Khalif’s shipmaster, Issa, had re-entered the cell where Charlotte and the other girls were held, Zamil releasing the girl on the bunk while Issa dragged out the dead body of the Spaniard. Zamil made a sharp gesture with his hand and clicked his fingers. Both Leila and Meylissah, knowing what was expected, immediately bent forward to place their foreheads slavishly to the floor. The girl who had been so abused by the First Mate also slid painfully from the bunk to follow suit.
Charlotte, as yet untutored in such matters, remained on her knees with her terrified gaze fixed on the giant figure of the Nubian. She was trembling violently, the nine burning crimson swathes across her bottom a constant reminder that she dare not arouse her captors’ anger again.
Zamil frowned and indicated the humiliating posture adopted by the other girls. “A slave kneels thus when a Master enters! ” he said sternly. “Learn quickly, or . . . ! ” he pointed to where the slave-whip hung on the wall.
Although not fully understanding the words, Charlotte knew enough Arabic to immediately comprehend the man’s meaning. The gesture towards the whip was also very clear! And yet, despite her very natural fear of the punishing instrument, Charlotte was still not quite able to quell a rising feeling of anger that such an ignorant barbarian should hold such power over her; anger at the perfidious Salim bin Rahdi alias Khalif Barbar, whose treachery had brought her to such a predicament; and anger at herself as she remembered the attraction she had once felt for he who she now perceived as her betrayer. Still, she m
ust not argue or show defiance. Embarrassed and humiliated as she was, she was determined to give these men no more reason to punish her with the terrible slave-whip. And so she obeyed. As gracefully as she could, trembling and fighting to suppress her feelings of repugnance, she too bent forward to press her nose firmly to the dirty floor.
For long moments, while the men made rude and intimate observations regarding the nude bodies of the girls, all three remained as they were; Charlotte sensing rather than seeing Issa and the black moving around behind them as if to view them from all angles. Charlotte reddened once more as she realised just how much might now be seen of her most intimate parts.
“Rise! ”
Almost as in a dream, Charlotte heard the casual command and tried to rise . . . and promptly overbalanced . . . finding out immediately that, without practice, it is extremely difficult to rise from the ritual obeisance position with hands tied behind one’s back. Leila and Meylissah accomplished it gracefully; the girl from the bunk rather more awkwardly; while Charlotte only managed to sprawl forward clumsily on her belly.
Zamil was entirely unsympathetic. With an impatient growl, he tangled his fingers in the tumbled hair, callously ignoring his victim’s scream of pain as he hauled her back to her knees.
Charlotte’s eyes were full of tears, her scalp feeling as if it had been pulled from her head. Desperately she tried to reason with him again.
“Please! ” she stammered. “Release me now! Your reward will be great. Please, Zamil. You know I am not a slave. ”
“So! ” marvelled the Nubian. “You still think yourself not to be a slave? ”He snorted. “Why should you think so? You are chained, are you not? You are naked, are you not? Have you not already admitted that you are a slut . . . and felt the kiss of the whip for disobedience? ”
Charlotte’s gaze swung to where the instrument of pain hung on the wall and she shuddered, her buttocks contracting involuntarily.
Zamil grinned. “To me,” he continued, “you look to be good slave-flesh; juicy and ripe for the block. ”He walked round her, eyeing her with a professional detachment somewhat belied by the unmistakable look of lust in his eyes.
Charlotte squirmed with embarrassment. “Please, Zamil,” she whispered, “do not look at me so! ”
A thought seemed suddenly to strike the Nubian and he knelt down beside her. “Are you still virgin, Inglése? ” he asked, reaching out as if to confirm his suspicion.
It was at this last indignity that Charlotte finally lost control. “Don’t . . . don’t . . . don’t! ” she screamed, almost out of her mind with rage and embarrassment. So incensed was she that, without regard for the consequences, she did the only thing left to her - she bent her head and sank her teeth into the flesh of the big Negro’s arm.
With a grunt of pain, Zamil prised her teeth loose, then slapped her hard. Head spinning from the force of the blow, she still managed to glare up at him defiantly.
“You . . . you . . . animal! ” she gasped.
He growled and made a motion towards the slave-whip hanging by its loop on the wall. Meylissah gasped and Charlotte’s heart nearly stopped. Oh God, what had she done? Any more lashes from that terrible instrument would probably kill her. Yet still her rebellious spirit would not allow her to retreat, even though she knew what would result from her defiance.
There was silence for a moment, both man and girl locking eyes in a battle of wills. Then Zamil scowled and reached out for the slave whip. “It seems that you have learned nothing, Inglése,” he hissed. “Have I not warned you that disobedience brings much pain? ”
Charlotte’s face blanched.
“For the moment I have not the time to teach you the true meaning of obedience,” the Nubian went on. “Your chastisement, therefore, will have to wait a short while! In the meantime, you may reflect on your misdeeds . . and the punishment to come! ”With this he reached out to take her by the hair in one hand while, with the other, he hung the terrible weapon around her neck.
Face white, Charlotte stared up at him, defiance still shining in her eyes. The leather was cold against her flesh, the five terrible thongs hanging down between her breasts. Still she could not surrender. “Go to Hell! ” she whispered.
There was another distinct gasp from Meylissah.
The big black scowled again. “I shall return shortly, oh arrogant one, to teach you the error of your ways! And be assured, when I have finished, your pride and arrogance will be gone . . . and you may wish yourself in Hell! ”With that parting promise, he turned on his heel and left the cabin.
The tall Tunisian, Issa, looked down at the distraught Charlotte and shook his head. “I think perhaps you will regret that bite and your words of defiance, Inglése,” he said nonchalantly. “Zamil does not forget, nor forgive, very easily! ”He turned to Leila and Meylissah. “Stand up slaves! ” he ordered. What are your names? ” he asked quietly, untying her wrists.
Both girls gasped with relief as their hands were freed.
“Names? ” he barked.
“My . . . my . . . Master called me Leila . . . Lord,” replied the Malagan slaver’s dancer, rubbing at the marks on her wrists.
“Meylissah, Lord,” replied Meylissah.
The tall corsair reached out with both hands, weighing and testing a breast with each. Releasing Meylissah’s, he continued to toy gently with the gold ring transfixing Leila’s nipple. She suffered his touch without protest, even to the point of thrusting out her breasts for his touch. Issa smiled in satisfaction. “Goodly names, slaves,” he said cheerfully. “They suit you well. ”He jerked a commanding finger. “Go you now to the great cabin in the stern! Hurry! You shall wait on my Lord Dragut and the Rais Khalif! ”
He had hardly finished speaking before both girls were making for the door. He grinned in satisfaction, then flicked a glance at Charlotte and sighed. Still hot with anger, Charlotte’s tear-stained gaze met the Tunisian’s defiantly. With a frown, he touched the whip hanging around her neck. “Reflect on your misdeeds, nasrani! ” he said softly. “Later, Zamil will use this to stripe your white hide from head to toe. Then perhaps you will learn obedience to the will of men! ”
He turned to the girl who had been so cruelly tied on the bunk. “Your name? ” he asked.
“Fleur, Lord,” she replied.
“Are you obedient? ”
“Oh yes, Lord. ”
“Very well then. Remain as you are! ”
The braided leather of the whip was cold against Charlotte’s neck as Issa left the cabin, reminding her yet again of what she had become; just a thing regarded as little more than an animal to be bought and sold . . . or whipped . . . at the whim of these terrible men. She had a long while to consider. Zamil, evidently, had other duties to perform than the punishment of a rebellious slave.
Even as she reflected, the girl whose breasts had been so abused whispered a question.
“Qui est vous? ” she whispered.
Charlotte was frightened. Zamil had forbidden her to talk; yet she felt she must answer.
“Charlotte,” she whispered back.
“Anglaise? ”
“Yes . . . Anglaise. I am English. ”
“I am French. Name Fleur. My Captain call me Frenchy. ”
“Your Captain? ” whispered Charlotte; her horror-struck gaze fixed on the bruised and swollen breasts. “He did that to you? ”
The girl smiled wanly. “Oh no! My Captain is Captain Hawkins of English ship Bonaventure. Spanish catch. Now he slave too . . . chained to oar. ”
Charlotte’s gaze travelled over the welted and bruised flesh with horror. “The brutes, how could anyone be so cruel? ”
Fleur cupped her breasts tenderly. “Most not bad,” she whispered, “just use for pleasure . . . not hurt much. ”She looked down at the bruises and winced. “But First M
ate . . . he devil! Want hurt Frenchy all time! ”
“First Mate? The . . . the dead man? ”
The French girl nodded weakly.
“Who . . . who killed him? Was it Zamil? ”
“Zamil . . . you mean big black man? ”
Charlotte nodded.
“No! It was another . . . big man . . . blue eyes. ”
Charlotte took another deep breath. Khalif . . . it must have been he!
Suddenly, there was a blood-curdling scream from the deck, followed by the desperate sounds of a man pleading for his life. The pleadings stopped abruptly to howls and cheers from the pirates and Charlotte froze with dread. She looked at Fleur, who was also white-faced with fear. Trembling, Charlotte shrank back against the wall as the wailing began again. Oh God, they were torturing someone. The screams, even wilder and more terrified this time; were now accompanied by raucous cheers as if from a watching audience. Oh God . . . dear God . . . what were they doing to the poor man?
Minutes . . . or was it hours . . . later, the yelling stopped. She listened intently. A man spoke in a threatening tone and there was another despairing cry. Then the shrieks started again. Another victim, she realised. Mercifully, this time the noise did not go on as long as the others. There was a harsh shout and her heart jumped. It was Khalif’s voice, she was sure of it. A man shouted back angrily and she heard a fierce argument going on. Then the distinct sound of a scuffle and the thump of a body falling to the deck.
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