Date: Fri, 5 Sep 2014 00:23:45 +0200
From: Ben Hur <ben-hur-of-judah@outlook.com>
Subject: The Unique Experience Part XIV

THE UNIQUE EXPERIENCE: PART XIV

   After the former guard, a few minutes ago destined to become a galley
slave like all of us locked up here downstairs, was dragged away to one of
the cells at the other, dark, end of the corridor, silence returned. The
chief apparently again sat down behind his desk, just a few paces to the
right of my dungeon's barred door.

   I stayed in my place, in the middle of it. After only a few minutes
there were sounds once again at the far end of the corridor - the rattling
of chains announcing the arrival of new slaves. These, so I thought, must
be the two surviving Canadians of the second batch, who had given the
guards some problems with restraining them upstairs, that had caused the
failure of one of the guards, who by accompanying the third Canadian
downstairs on his own had not been able to prevent that newly branded slave
from escaping and committing suicide.

   Or had the unhappy guy indeed thought that he could escape by swimming,
although being heavily chained, and did he just drown by accident when his
chains got entangled on that invisible underwater mooring-pole crossbeam?
Perhaps a very good and strong swimmer - I myself wasn't really one - would
be able to swim with so many pounds of irons riveted to his limbs. The
chains as such didn't make the necessary movements really impossible, they
would add to the ponderous weight you would have to cope with - the same as
when trying to escape on land. It at least explained in part the chief's
fury when he heard of the unforeseen loss of slave G-41.

   I would never know - and in fact, it wasn't my problem. And I would
never have the chance to try it myself, if I would have dared to do that:
trying to escape by jumping chained into the sea.

   Be that as it may, for the moment it was more important that new slaves
were to be locked up. Two instead of the planned three this time. The first
of both newbies apparently had relatively high numbers, as I never got a
glimpse of him; he was already delivered to a cell before the procession
had reached my part of the corridor. But the second of the two Canadian
guys had a lower one and passed by, accompanied by two guards, who had to
make some effort to get him moving on. He wasn't quite willing to become a
galley slave, that became clear enough in the couple of seconds that the
trio was in my field of vision. Well, who of us downstairs here would be
willing? Perhaps a real, real masochist. But they hadn't chosen us for
being really good masochists, but for being really good rowers. Both
categories do not overlap necessarily.

   Willing or not, however, the new slave was locked up in his own dungeon
like all of us - out of my sight. The guards thereupon returned and passed
through the corridor. This time they apparently didn't take the stairs to
go up immediately, but continued on our floor to walk into the darker half.

   At least, I could hear a lot of shouting far away, as they apparently
opened the temporary cell of the future slave 41, to accompany him to the
upper floor to turn him into slave 41 indeed. But of course, as the fallen
guard will still have been handcuffed, he was no match for both his former
colleagues, who until now hadn't shown the slightest scruples to help to
turn a former comrade into a slave. Or had it to do not with a lack of
scruples but with a big amount of fear? Fear for their own chief, who in
case of insubordination might have decided to punish his other subordinates
in a severe way too?

   But why didn't they rebel in that case, knowing (thanks to the cruel
punishment of the negligent guard) that their own fate also might so easily
turn from good into evil? Or was there, if the whole unique experience -
how I hated meanwhile this fallacious paraphrase, but I couldn't succeed in
getting those damned two words out of my mind - would turn out to be
successful, a lot of material profit waiting for all the guards? Well, what
was intended with all? Were they just favoring their own sadism, was the
whole caused by some bet, were there real economic reasons for organizing
all this? I mean: who would think seriously about exploiting a galley for
whatever practical purpose in the twenty-first century?

   As I lay down on my back in the warm but fuggy straw of my dungeon,
thoughts and questions like these crossed my mind, but I couldn't find a
definitively convincing answer, and as no one was ready to shed light on
it, all inevitably stayed a big question for me.

   I don't know for how long I laid down on my back, thinking all over and
gazing at the vaulted ceiling of my cell - half an hour, an hour perhaps? -
but at some point there were sounds to be heard at the far end of the
corridor again. Was the substitute-slave-G-41 brought back?

   That indeed turned out to be the case. The inevitable chain-rattling and
optional shouting accompanied him during his frog march to his cell. The
new slave clearly hadn't accepted his fate yet. He was fighting back, and
scolding at his former colleagues, who had now turned out to be his
jailers. They (there were two, as usual) didn't say a word when they
dragged him - yes, according to the sounds his chains made on the floor, he
was dragged - through the corridor. The sounds became louder and louder as
they came nearer and nearer. Just before coming into sight the trio must
have passed the chief, who had condemned the failing guard to
slavery. Would he have looked at his victim from his desk? Presumably. And
would his former subordinate have looked back?

   If so, at least not for very long, as they soon came into my sight, and
I now could study G-41, who for now was silent. The former guard looked
like all of us - as a perfect slave. Nothing of his outward appearance
reminded anyone of his former status as a jailer. He was shaved the same
way now, he was chained the same way now, he was collared the same way now
- the light of the ceiling just for a moment being reflected by the slave
tag underneath. I couldn't read his number in that flash of a second so
quickly, but didn't doubt that there was 'Slave G-41' stamped on it. And
yes, he was branded too - of course he was. He wasn't spared the branding
iron, he had had to go through the same infernal pain of getting the skin
of his left chest burned like all of us. Because he now was one of us - and
one must grant that the slave guards were very honest in their treatment of
their slaves and didn't favor anybody.

   He looked exactly like all of us - and therefore I wasn't able to
recognize which guard in fact he was, or better: he had been. I couldn't
recognize if I had seen him ever before, and if yes, how he looked like
until an hour ago. Knowing nothing about, for example, his former
hairstyle, it was impossible for me to turn back with my mental eye to
before his transformation from a free man into a slave to identify
him. Although, because of his near number, slave G-41 would sit on the
galley not far away from me, I would never know if I had seen him before as
one of the guards, or if he as a human being was completely new to me,
because he hadn't performed any visible role in my own enslavement
procedure and had stayed offstage at those moments. The guards themselves
didn't make any remark that could help me, as for them he wasn't a former
colleague anymore, but just a new slave as all others - and therefore
addressed as that. They didn't use his former given name for that. When one
of them - they most of the time while dragging their victim forward had
remained rather silent - in the end said something to their victim, he just
started with saying: "Slave 41".

   As was the case with all of us, our past was completely wiped out - but
the difference, in a human sense, of course was that in the case of all
other new slaves their past had been unknown to the guards, whereas the
recent past of slave 41 was shared with the other guards. In a way this
made me shiver - although I hadn't the slightest reason to feel pity for
G-41, the fact that former comradeship could be that easily cut dead and
totally erased from the mental records of those guards, who just did as if
they didn't know their new prisoner personally, was alarming. Didn't those
guys possess any human feelings at all?

   I just told that the new slave had covered his last meters in the
corridor in silence - in contrast to his first - and had let himself, by
only passively resisting, be dragged to his dungeon. But now, when they
arrived and he was about to be locked up, this changed. I was too far
inside my own dungeon to see it - you will remember I had learned my lesson
in that respect - but there was no chance to overhear it. When confronted
with his dusky and dirty abode for the next days (?) slave 41 - as I just
will call him from now on, as there is no reason to do otherwise, as he HAD
become slave 41 meanwhile - apparently woke up from his stupor and started
to resist actively and to shout again, after one of the guards had just
opened the barred door of his cell and told him to get inside.

   "You damned bastards, you can't lock me up here!"

   The damned bastards didn't react verbally, but as slave 41 didn't do
what they had told him to do - to move inside - they made no ceremony of
it, and together threw him into his cell. That was even quite clear to me
although I wasn't able to watch it. Whereas the shouting and scolding of
the slave continued - I don't remember his words exactly, but they will
have been the usual ones to use in such circumstances - I heard, how the
barred door was shut and locked.

   But although continuing didn't make any sense now any longer, as the two
guards after having done their duty walked away, slave 41 didn't stop
shouting and scolding. He was totally outraged. With his fists he battered
with full force - well, his manacles and chains were no hindrance for that
- against the bars of his cell, and his furious roaring must have been
heard by all slaves from cell number 1 till those at the other end of the
corridor. Apparently G-41 hadn't accepted his fate yet (who would?). His
furious roaring made me wonder how it would have been, if he at our galley
had not become a rower, but an overseer, as perhaps formerly was
intended. His battering fists showed his strength - now it were his fists
that were battering powerless against the iron bars, that didn't give way
any inch, but in the alternative case he perhaps would have handled a
bullwhip, and if he would have done that with the same furor and
fanaticism, a poor slave would be the slave that would have got a stroke of
the lash from him then! Or were all overseers to be like that, and perhaps
even selected on the basis of their ability to hit hard?

   The battering lasted for minutes and minutes, and the sounds were
reflected several times by the bare stones of the floor, the wall and the
ceiling of the corridor; each hit against the bars seemed to re-echo a
thousand fold, and the non-ending tumult started to work on my nerves.

   Not only on mine - luckily.

   Suddenly I heard the chief, who until now all the time hadn't raised a
finger, rise from his desk, to walk with big steps to cell 41.

   "And now you are silent, slave 41! Immediately! Otherwise you will be
whipped for half an hour so severely that the skin of your back will look
afterwards like a deeply engraved street map of a densely populated
town. And you know what that looks like."

   To my astonishment the slave was silent now immediately. He apparently
knew pretty well how that looked like indeed, because, in contrast to all
other new slaves, he perhaps will have seen that before - or even created
such an engraved street map on the back of some other slave.

   Without saying anything more, and without deigning to look at one of the
other incarcerated slaves, the chief thereupon returned to his seat behind
the desk. Once he had spoken, silence was guaranteed.

   We slaves meanwhile just had to wait to see what would happen - as we
had to do all the time. What we now waited for were the last two of the
Canadian eight. As they had come to Saudi Arabia on the same airplane as
the first batch, to delay their arrival at the port their Arab companions
really must have made a royal sightseeing tour with quite a lot of extra
detours through the town of Djeddah. I had missed that opportunity, as I
was brought in a rather direct way by my guide to Hell, I said bitterly to
myself.

   Well, we didn't wait in vain. This time there were no accidents - at
least not as far as we knew - so in the end the last two of the Canadian
rowing team turned up in chains and were delivered downstairs as
planned. Both had higher numbers than I had, so I didn't get to see them
pass by, but the clanking of their chains betrayed their arrival. The
accompanying guards made no show of it, at least not here on our floor, so
the delivery was accompanied by no more comment by them than necessary.

   That was it for today - a very tumultuous day, with a stabbing in the
morning and a drowning in the afternoon. No more slaves were coming in
before bedtime. We were served our evening meal - exactly the same as
yesterday - and that was that. And again I was seized with cramps in my
bowels after finishing my dinner - presumably I wasn't the only slave who
had to cope with that - as my intestines apparently still weren't
accustomed to the disgusting tasteless slave chow we had to eat. But at
least the burn of the brand started to become less painful - the spot yet
still was very sensitive, so I didn't touch it - than in the beginning.

   And was I getting accustomed to living in heavy chains the whole time
already? Well, I at least now had some experience with managing them and
getting them out of the way as much as possible when eating, drinking,
shitting, pissing, sitting, standing, crawling, kneeling, lying down and
sleeping (no other activities were available in my tiny place). Of course I
still felt their immense weight all the time, as I felt the not less
immense weight of my tight collar too, and if there were already yet some
moments I forgot about the cuffs that were riveted to my limbs, the
slightest movement I made, causing the clanking of the links of the
connecting chains, helped to remind me of the fact that I would be wearing
them permanently.

   Well: although it wasn't easy to find a comfortable position for the
night - in fact it wasn't possible to find a really comfortable one in
those damned irons at all - I was, as the boring evening crept on, in the
end tired enough to fell asleep and thus end my second full day as a
slave. If I dreamed - I can't remember if I did so - it at least didn't
leave enough of an impression for me to recall afterwards.

   On the third day, everything already started to become routine. Such is
life: the first time you go through something it's new, the second time you
expect it, the third you don't expect otherwise. So I will not bother you
with telling about my awakening, my breakfast, my lunch, my dinner - and
all those endless hours without anything happening in between. Even the
arrival of new slaves - and they were to arrive also on my third full day
of being enslaved myself - started to become routine. At least, when
nothing special happened and everything went in good order - from the
viewpoint of the guards - and it did this day.

   Five slaves in total arrived individually, with rather long intervals
between them. No pairs or trios this time, let alone a whole rowing team of
eight men. It had already become that normal for me, hearing new slaves -
sometimes weeping, but most of them silently staring in front of themselves
- arriving, or seeing them passing by in the corridor, that I not always
took much notice of them. As all slaves looked, apart from their length and
the color of their skin, exactly the same and were only distinguishable
from each other by the unique numbers stamped on their slave tags and
branded on their skin, after the nth of them had arrived there was not very
much reason for curiosity from my side. It was a kind of endless repetition
of the same, even more boring than in the case of seeing the nth repetition
of a soccer play on television, as the outcome of each visible fragment of
the 'play' was always the same too.

   And the other slaves? The new one from yesterday, G-41, was clearly so
much intimidated by the chief - did he knew him well enough for being that?
- to behave really meekly like a lamb now. Without any word needing to be
said to him, he ate his bread for breakfast and lunch and his slave chow in
the evening. Well, better than all of us he would have already known the
daily rhythm downstairs when he entered the corridor as a slave.

   Most of the day he didn't show himself - only at feeding time was he
present at the ordered position directly behind the bars of his cell in
advance - and stayed in the invisible, dark back half of his dungeon. I
wondered, what was going on in his mind, as he might have been the only one
of us all who knew what kind of hell was awaiting us as galley slaves, once
we were chained to the oars. But he apparently realized that he had no
alternative other than to resign himself to his fate to prevent things
getting even worse for him than they already were.

   Cell 43 to the right of him was still empty, as was - of course - cell
45 right opposite mine; the fellow that belonged over there was still kept
in the dark part of the corridor. In cell 47 I sometimes could distinguish
my black rape partner, to call it like that, who didn't pay much attention
to what was going outside, at least less than I had done until now. But who
did know, how long he already was locked up inside, so perhaps even much
more used to - and thus bored by - what was going on when new slaves did
arrive? And cell 49 was still empty too. So there wasn't much opportunity
for organizing a big slave conference from behind the bars for me in my
section of the corridor yet. With every hour that crept by, I felt more and
more that I was wasting my time. You may believe it or not, but in a way I
even started to long for the galley - anything would be better than this.

   Only in the evening there was to be some delight again. After having had
dinner, I heard how, as with the day before yesterday, in the course of
half an hour or so, a lot of guards gathered together near the chief's
desk. They were just out of my sight, but I could hear them speaking,
although this time they spoke rather softly, so I couldn't understand what
they were saying most of the time. Nevertheless, it rather quickly became
clear to me that they were planning to organize another gang rape. A bit of
horror hit me. Would I be their victim again? Well, I was longing for some
variety in my slave life, but not for this kind. Fortunately they wanted
some variety too and thus decided to try out two other slaves. And
regarding the number in stock already, there was choice enough.

   Their choice, as became clear later, fell on slave 41 and on another one
I couldn't see, having his home further to the left. The fuck benches were
brought in again - I saw the pairs of guards bearing them passing by - and
then installed in the corridor out of my sight, probably somewhere between
the dungeons of G-41 and the other victim, of whom I never would learn who
it was. So I wasn't able to catch a glimpse of what was happening to both
slaves this evening, if I had longed for that - even with my nose pressing
through the bars of my dungeon I wouldn't able to see anything, as I indeed
later cautiously (not wanting to attract any attention again) tried
out. But because the whole didn't go without a lot of inevitably
accompanying sounds, I was able to enjoy the progress of the whole rape as
a bystander in all its auditory details still.

   First the fuck benches were installed, and only thereafter the two
chosen slaves were told that they were destined for use on them at this
evening party. How the unknown slave exactly reacted when he was taken out
of his cell, I never learned, but in the case of G-41 I couldn't overhear
it. For me it was a surprise that slave 41 was elected, as this time the
guards had deliberated at the chiefs desk in a softer tone of voice than in
my own case, so I hadn't been able to decipher from their words now on whom
they had their eyes. For slave 41 it was a surprise too.

   This time the chief himself gathered him up. He walked to the slave's
cell and, after having arrived, ordered two guards who had followed him:
"Get him out!"

   Slave 41 immediately understood what was waiting for him when the guards
opened the barred door and went inside to get hold of him. He protested
loudly when they seized him, and shouted: "No, you can't do his. You
fucking bastards! You can't fuck me that way! I'm not a fuck hole!"

   "Silence!", the chief now intervened.

   "Keep your bloody mouth shut, slave 41!" he shouted. "You ARE a fuck
hole now! You will be fucked as you've never been fucked before! Your ass
and your mouth at the same time. Deep throat, from the front and from
behind. By ALL of us, you damned slave! And you will not resist being
fucked in all your holes that way! Otherwise you will be severely whipped!"

   Again, this apparently was enough to silence slave 41. Did he know the
way the chief would whip a slave already pretty well from the past as a
bystander?

   Anyway, the two guards didn't much trouble afterwards in getting him out
of his dungeon and transporting him to one of the two fuck benches, where
he will have been stretched and bound the same way as I had been two
evenings ago. As it all happened outside my visual field, I can't tell you
more in detail about it. But he clearly didn't resist (very much), or at
least kept his mouth shut. And also the other slave, who for me not only
stayed nameless but even numberless, made not that much noise that I can
tell you about his treatment before the orgy really started more in detail.

   The first loud sounds were only heard again, when the band of guards -
again a dozen or less - moved over there and started their communal gang
rape indeed. I heard both slaves screaming regularly because of their harsh
treatment, but I think G-41 roared more. As I knew how his voice sounded, I
could recognize how his howling sounded too.

   If he was to be heard more often because his fellow was more used to
getting fucked in a crude way or because he himself was fucked in a more
crude way by the guards, I of course couldn't find out, as I wasn't able to
see what was going on, only able to hear how the results of what was going
on were perceived by the victims. Perhaps both was the case: that G-41 was
treated harder, as a kind of extra punishment for his failure, and that he
at the same time was less used to it as such than the anonymous guy with
whom he shared his fate of being reduced to a mere fuck hole for a couple
of hours. Because, all must have lasted as long as that till they all had
come into their own enough and were finished, although I hadn't a watch at
hand to confirm my estimates regarding time.

   Although I myself was rather tired and wanted to sleep, I didn't get a
real opportunity for trying to do so as long as the gang rape in the
corridor that caused so much noise was going on. Anyhow, also the endless
seeming gang rape finally yet had an end. If also this time the chief was
the last one to conquer the asses of both slaves, as had been the case with
slave G-47 and me, I don't know. But after a lot of regularly screaming,
roaring and moaning of both victims, suddenly vocal silence returned.

   I thereupon could imagine how both slaves were unfastened, and were
brought back to their respective cells - one completely out of my sight,
the other to number 41. The gradually swelling sound of clanking chains
announced his return. I was near enough to the bars of my own, to be able
to watch how cell 41 was opened and G-41, staggering on his feet, looking
as if he was completely used up and thus incapable of whatever kind of
resistance anymore, was pushed by the guards with force into his abode,
whereafter its barred door was immediately shut and securely locked.

   Shortly thereafter, four other guards passed in pairs carrying the fuck
benches with them, followed by the rest of the guys, wearing nothing, but
now sexually satisfied, returning to their own stay for the night. After
all were gone out of my sight, presumably most of them leaving the corridor
at the far right end by ascending the stairs, the usual silence installed
itself at our floor again.

   Only a very few jailers - two, three? - stayed downstairs for the night,
to keep an eye on the cells as was normally the case. Anyhow, night came
soon, because within fifteen minutes after the majority of the rapists left
the corridor, the light was switched off. After being thrown back in his
cell, G-41 hadn't showed himself up, having immediately crawled to the back
part of it, presumably to try to sleep, to recover from his anal and oral
exhaustion. So, after the lights being switched off, tried I. Very soon
after having found the least uncomfortable position in the straw I did fell
asleep indeed.

   This time I had very terrifying dreams again, about being raped and
branded, and even some of the scenes of the dreams of my first night
reappeared in nearly the same way. The guy with the apron was there again,
my breathless running along the endless harbor to catch my rowboat just in
time too. But contrary to the first night, at the same time while dreaming
this, I in some way was aware the whole time that I indeed was
dreaming. Was I in a way for a small part of my brain awake, to be sure
that I wouldn't miss the steps of the morning shift bringing my breakfast,
as I did after the first night?

   I in fact don't know, but anyhow I WAS already awake when the lights in
the corridor were turned on, and shortly after that the usual food cart
with our bread bowls was slowly driven through the gangway. The fourth day
of my slavery started, and didn't bring very much new to me, apart from the
arrival of five new slaves, in one case two at the same time. The only
other thing worth mentioning is that the cell opposite mine, cell number
45, shortly after lunch became occupied too. Apparently slave G-45, the one
that I, when sitting together with the Belgian twins upstairs on the day of
my arrival, had seen passing by and thus in a way overtaking us to be
locked up because of his unmanageability in one of the special complete
dark cells in the other half of the corridor, had calmed down enough yet to
be granted the luxury of an average (not completely dark but just normal
dusky and dirty) dungeon.
   He was brought in by two guards, and apparently in the meanwhile indeed
had accepted his fate for the time being, as he didn't protest or resist or
show any sign of displeasure whatever. He seemed completely broken by those
four days of isolation, as he let himself shove inside his new cell while
behaving wholly passive. He was an impressively big, muscular slave, but
because his spirit was totally gone, he seemed more a lethargic dummy to me
now than a living man. Is that what being locked up in complete darkness
does to somebody? Once inside his cell, just like G-41 two cells to the
left of him, G-45 didn't show himself for the rest of the day, only
appearing very shortly directly behind the bars when there was food to
receive or dinner stuff to return.

   So to suggest that now, after most cells around me being filled with
other slaves, it became rather cozy in my part of the corridor, wouldn't be
quite in accordance with the truth. Perhaps apart from this endless waiting
and this wasting of time, especially this impossibility to talk to somebody
else, this uninterrupted forced silence, made this imprisonment down here
so hard to endure. The only human contact possible for us slaves, as
talking to our direct neighbor wasn't physically possible and shouting to
our neighbors across the way wasn't allowed, was with the guards - but we
were not really on speaking terms with each other, and they already seemed
not very communicative as such too. The most intimate contact with them in
fact had been when they had entered my asshole one after each other, and I
didn't have a very fond memory of that.

   The only positive thing was that the pain of my brand and piercings
again was less compared with yesterday, and that I gradually - very
gradually - got at least a bit used to being in chains all the
time. Irrespective of how disgusting I regarded my irons at the same time,
like the enormous ring that pierced the gland of my cock so cruelly, they
had started to become a 'regular' part of my body. Meanwhile, I also
started to learn how to sleep in them without too many problems. And
luckily for the first time I succeeded in digesting the slave chow without
having to shit immediately afterwards.

    The fifth day brought a row of new slaves, eight or nine in total, but
as this had become mere routine already, I didn't pay much attention every
time to that if one entered. Of course I moreover not saw them all passing
by, as a big part of them had a higher number than me. Becoming lethargic
myself because of the complete boredom of my stay, I mostly just looked
rather indifferently through the bars of my cell when a fresh slave came
into view for a few seconds.

    The only exception was the arrival, on this fifth day, of slave 43, to
occupy the last but one free cell inside my field of vision. As he because
of his near number presumably at the oars also wouldn't sit far away from
me, I was more interested in him than in most of the others. He was brought
in rather late in the afternoon, and regarding the color of his skin he was
neither a white European nor a black African, but something in between, I
presume an Indian, or perhaps even an Arab. And he was rather small, which
later would become understandable to me in light of his slave number, as
soon as I got the system behind the numbering of the oarsmen in connection
to the seats to be distributed among them at the galley.

   For the rest, there was not much to say about G-43, as he after his
transformation into a chained and collared galley slave looked exactly like
all of us. And about the mental state of his mind I didn't get an
impression at all, as one of the guards covered my sight the whole time
during deliverance, and he himself, after being locked in, disappeared in
the darker back half of his dungeon, as apparently most slaves did. But as
soon as the guards were gone, I could hear him, I suppose while lying on
his back in the straw, groaning rather loudly, presumably because of the
heavy pain the branding had caused him just a couple of minutes earlier.

   Much groaning there was also to be heard that evening when the guards
for the third time arranged a rape orgy, still farther out of my sight than
the second time. It must have been really at the far left end of the
corridor, with two very low-numbered slaves. But the fuck benches brought
in again made the guards' intentions clear to me immediately and thereafter
they made enough noise to force the incarcerated slaves along the whole
corridor to witness all involuntarily in an auditory way. Again a big part
of the evening was filled with this apparently favorite kind of sexual
pleasure - at least, pleasure for the guards, not for the slaves. One of
the victims this time screamed like a stuck pig every time his asshole was
rammed by the horny cock of the next guard - at least the regular intervals
between his screams, that after some ten, fifteen seconds each time changed
into predictable loud moaning, suggested this.

   The sixth day was the day that a couple of Indians - already building a
kind of group before, like the Canadian rowing team? - were brought in,
about whom the chief and the guards had spoken on my second evening, before
I was raped. They came in two batches, both consisting of three slaves,
early in the morning, the first batch even already within half an hour
after breakfast - they must have arrived at night at the airport, and for
that reason, because of lack of sleep, looked rather fatigued, which of
course had made it easier to enslave them.

   There were, as far as I could see, no problems with the delivery of a
bigger group this time. Apparently after the disaster of a few days ago,
the guards had learned their lessons and taken extra safety measures to
prevent any risk of repetition. Not all of the six Indians were as calm and
meek when brought to his cell of course, but because of enough accompanying
jailers, the organization managed to handle all without any big
problems. And now there was no gate giving access to the sea open to offer
a slave the possibility of escaping his fate.

   Also several other new slaves were delivered that day apart from the
Indians, all being white (as far as I would see them). The tempo of
delivery today seemed to accelerate. Did the preparatory stage of the
unique experience finally draw near to its end? One of the new slaves was
the last one I was still missing explicitly, G-49, across the corridor just
within my view far to the right. He arrived shortly after dinner, if I may
call the standard slave chow that was our evening meal that. The guy was
rather small and tiny, and looked very, very pale. He cried rather loudly
the whole time during his arrival, and continued to do so after being
safely locked up in his cell.

   He hadn't really resisted when ordered to enter his dungeon, not cared
for the smell of the fuggy straw that also in his case will have taken his
breath away for a second, so that wasn't the problem, but one guard
apparently had become rather unnerved by his crying (which he perhaps had
done already all the way down) and thus shouted to him to shut up. The
crying thereupon turned into sobbing. As was the case with his neighbors,
he retired soon to the darker back half of his cell, and thus went out of
my sight. Well, why should he stay directly behind the bars in full view,
when any oral communication with other slaves was either impossible or
forbidden? Only the clanking of his chains would tell me, as was the case
with the four other slaves whose barred doors I had a look on, if he was
moving through his cell, was lying more or less motionless down on his back
or was even sleeping.

   As I said, the tempo of delivery of new slaves seemed to accelerate this
day. Even still very late in the evening this time three guys arrived, one
black, one white and one unknown (as he didn't come into my sight), and I
wondered how many cells downstairs after all yet stayed empty now, and thus
how long we would have to wait before we would be taken out of our dungeons
to the galley that was waiting for us. Well, it wouldn't be long now
anymore. My seventh day as a slave wasn't to be a day of rest, but the
first day of hard work.

   That this seventh day was to become another kind of day than those
before, I rather quickly recognized after breakfast, that gave me the first
opportunity to study slave 49 a bit. A study, which, I must confess, by
lack of personal points of contact, didn't result in much relevant extra
information about him. It was the same as with slave 41 to the far left,
and all others in between. Seen from my distance they were completely
depersonalized. The only guy I had learned to know a bit to be an
individual during this week was my fellow-sufferer at the fuck bench from
the second evening, G-47.

   However, our bowls must just have been returned by the guards carrying
the food cart upstairs, when there was a lot of noise to be heard at the
right end of the corridor. Not just one or two men entered, but quite
clearly this time a whole group. And thereupon I heard, how far away,
several cell doors were opened, accompanied by a lot of creaking. Although
I couldn't hear exactly what the guards were shouting, according to the
clanking of chains that was suddenly to be heard, the inhabitants of the
opened cells were ordered to get out. Thanks to the clanking becoming
gradually less, I could imagine how those slaves - probably those with the
highest numbers - shuffled through the corridor, and, after the clanking
quickly had disappeared, moved up the stairs. I didn't doubt it anymore:
today we would enter the galley.

   After some ten, fifteen minutes or so, the guards apparently returned -
or other guards came in - to gather the next batch. How many slaves were
taken out at he same time, I couldn't decipher, but regarding the
uninterrupted clanking of all chains, together creating a kind of iron
symphony, it was not just two or three. Again it took a few minutes to get
the chained slaves hobbling to the bottom of the stairs, and then again
some ten, fifteen minutes, before it was time for the third batch. So, this
way, the dungeons gradually were emptied. And each time when guards
returned, I could hear that they came nearer to my cell. With the seventh
shift they must already have been very near. Meanwhile I could understand
what they were shouting - after opening a cell it was each time more or
less the same: "Get out, slave, the galley is waiting for you".

   And now, when they were drawing nearer, I could distinguish all sounds
better, and thus count how many slaves were taken out together each time,
and how many guards were accompanying the new-built chain gang: six slaves
each time, and at least six accompanying guards in total (but presumably
quite a lot more), as every slave seemed to be taken out by another
guard. Yes, there must have been many more guards indeed, as not all slaves
were cooperating, and safety will have required two guards for each slave
on the average.

   A few of them - but rather a very few - apparently preferred the dark
dungeon over toiling at the oars. But most of them will, after several days
of doing nothing, like me have been so appalled by the total boredom of
being locked up on a few square feet without anything to kill the time in
their cell than straw, to prefer the latter. But the few who didn't
threatened to cause problems and delay and, as the guards didn't like that,
they didn't hesitate to use violence than. One guard in the sixth shift
just trailed with a colleague a slave on my side of the corridor out of his
cell, and regarding the cries of the victim, they meanwhile hit him with
their fists straight in his face.

   "No, no, I don't want to go to the galley", I heard him cry.

   "Take your place in the chain gang without delay, you fucking slave", I
thereupon heard one of the guards shouting irritably.

   I could hear the unlucky slave sob afterwards when he was forced into
the column.

   As said, with the seventh shift they had become very near already. From
my place in the back half of my dungeon I couldn't see anything, but also
when moving to the front - as I now did - no member of the slave crew came
into view. They just were too far to the right still.

   But this would change when the band of guards returned the next
time. Some of them came very clearly into view now, and whereas also five
other slaves that were invisible for me were taken out, it was also the
turn for number 49, the small guy who had only arrived yesterday. Two
guards appeared in front of his cell, and whereas one unlocked and opened
the grilled door, his colleague ordered G-49 to come out.

   The slave until then had been hiding himself in the back half of his
dungeon, but regarding the starting clanking of his chains, he rather
quickly obeyed. When he entered the corridor, I could see him better; he
seemed to me completely broken, as he rather apathetically shuffled between
his two captors to the right to join the chain gang as the last one, just
out of my sight. The mixed clanking of quite a lot of chains that started
within a few seconds betrayed that the slave caravan now was
moving. Gradually the noise diminished, till it completely faded away once
the slaves had reached the bottom of the stairs. Silence returned for a
couple of minutes, but I knew that I would be on the list next time.

   This time for my feeling the interval lasted very long, as I so to say
was counting off the minutes. Then, indeed, a band of guards was heard
arriving at the far end of the corridor again. Not long after that they
came into view - all of them, this time. There were twelve, accompanied by
the chief, and all dressed in the same pseudo-Roman way. Within a few
seconds they had spread themselves in pairs among this part of the
corridor, each pair approaching the bars of another inhabited cell. The
next batch of slaves to bring to the galley embraced the slave numbers from
43 to 48, three odd and three even numbers, three on each side of the
corridor - I was to be one of them, and from my visible neighbors across
the way only slave 41 was allowed to stay in his dungeon for a while.

   So two guards - two guys I had never seen before - turned themselves
toward my cell too, where I was waiting halfway - it had seemed to me
better not to be already waiting behind the bars for them, as this might
suggest some enthusiasm for joining the galley from my part, that in
reality was nonexistent, however much I was fed up meanwhile with being
locked up. I saw and heard how one of them unlocked the padlock, and then
opened the barred door, which, as in most cases, was accompanied with a lot
of creaking. In nearly the same moment - the twelve guards together made
the impression of being a rather disciplined battalion - this will have
happened with the doors of the cells keeping slaves 43, 44, 45, 47 and 48
secure, but I hope that you forgive that I didn't pay much attention to
that, but concentrated on the opening door of my own cell.

  "Get out, slave 46, the galley is waiting for you", the other guard
commanded.