Date: Tue, 11 Jan 2011 22:54:40 -0800 (PST)
From: Christian Debus <servus4u@ymail.com>
Subject: "The Galley Slave" Chapter 3

THE GALLEY SLAVE
"A Young Man's Odyssey into Slavery"
Chapter 3 "Arrival in Tripoli"
This is a story of erotic fiction meant for mature readers over the age of eighteen years
Written by Jean-Christophe
"To see all my stories go to groups.yahoo.com/group/SlaveNow"

"If one cannot say he has been a galeoto (galley slave), then he could not say
that he has been a slave" -Jaoa Mascarenhas, Portuguese galley slave
(1621-1626).

Chapter 3: :Arrival in Tripoli"

If I'd hoped for a quick release from the hold of the galley then I am doomed to
disappointment.

We all know instinctively that we have arrived at our destination and we wait
with mixed emotions for "something" to happen. The fact that we are still
imprisoned in this foul place serves to unnerve us and from a personal point of
view I want for nothing more than to be free of the vileness of our prison. Yet
another part of me fears this; the uncertainty of my fate weighs heavily on my
mind. What awaits me beyond the confines of the galley's hold?

We listen to the sounds of much activity above us. We can hear the galley slaves
being unchained from their benches and being driven under the whips of their
overseers off the vessel-to where we don't know. We overhear the happy chatter
and laughter of our captors, no doubt happy to be home and looking forward to
the rich bonuses they'll receive from such rich booty as we now provide.

Then we hear the sound of strange, exotic music which is alien to my ears and
played on instruments unknown to me. I can hear the shrill blaring of trumpets,
the loud beating of drums, the clashing of cymbals and the softer, lilting sound
of flute-like instruments accompanied by the frightening ululations of many
female voices. The music is alien to my English ears and I feel vaguely uneasy.
If I stood on the deck of the galley, I would see the reason for my uneasiness.
The residents of the city are gathering in large numbers to watch the
disembarkation of the newest slaves to arrive in Tripoli.

It is traditional for the city's residents to turn out in force to watch as the
galleys arrive home safely from their raiding missions and they are welcomed
with much fanfare and noise. The city regards the Corsairs as heroes and not as
pirates as we do. They see the pillaging and enslaving of Christians as part of
a holy battle against a hated religion and the return of a galley from a
successful voyage is reason for much rejoicing. And they are eager to catch
sight of any new, Christian slaves being unloaded and driven naked through the
crowded, narrow streets to the bagnio to await their sale. They are in festive
mood and wait impatiently for us to be unloaded.

And as we wait in the hold of the galley, we are unaware that we are to provide
them with such a spectacle.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Suddenly the hold is flooded with bright sunlight as the hatch is thrown open
and some of our captors descend into the gloom of our prison. Shouting
incomprehensively, they kick us to our feet and herd us up the steep wooden
steps onto the deck of the galley. Standing waiting for us are yet more
overseers armed with whips which they viciously use to herd us along. We aren't
given time to regain our land legs or to take stock of our surroundings and they
hurry us along the walkway to the gangplank leading down onto the wharf and the
waiting crowds.

The rowing benches are empty; the oar slaves have been taken away to begin their
land based labours and so all attention is now focused on us. As we crowd along
the walkway between the rowing pits, I catch a glimpse of the empty benches;
there are thirty three benches on either side and each is capable of holding
four or five slaves. This is a raiding galley and as such must be powered by the
maximum number of slaves possible. I don't have time to do the sums but if I had
time, I would see that it takes between two hundred and sixty-four to three
hundred and thirty miserable wretches to row this monstrous vessel.

What does impress itself on my mind is the filth and squalor of the rowing
benches. Each is only about forty centimetres wide-barely wide enough for a
slave to sit upon- and is covered in some type of animal skin. It's impossible
to say what type of animal these skins came from- perhaps a sheep or goat- for
each is discoloured by the sweat and other bodily fluids of the naked slaves
whose posteriors they protect from the friction of the rough, wooden benches. As
a galley slave, I will become well acquainted with these skins and loathsome and
noisome as they are, I will nevertheless be thankful for the protection they
provide against splinters or a blistered arse.

The empty chains and fetters are still in place awaiting the return of the
rowers and the deck below the benches is awash with their excrement and urine
which is slowly seeping through the gaps between the planks into the bilges
below. The slaves are absent but their scent lingers on.

The oars, so recently employed with much vigour, are now resting aboard the
galley and await removal to the warehouses where they will be secured under lock
and key and kept under armed guard as a precaution against any attempted escape
by the slaves. This is merely a precaution; all bids for freedom are futile and
are rewarded with mandatory and gruesome execution.

Once the cargo has been unloaded and the holds are empty, teams of slaves will
haul the galley into shallow water where its hull will be careened, scraped
clean and greased for its next voyage. A galley's speed is of the utmost
importance when pursuing its hapless victims at sea and it's necessary to keep
the shallow hull free of any impediments that could slow it down.

As I stagger down the gangplank onto the wharf, I'm overwhelmed by the loud
music and the noise of the waiting crowd which grows even louder as we are
forced to huddle together in a tight group. I look at my fellow slaves and see
we project a sorry picture. All of us a stark naked and our bodies are covered
in the filth of our recent prison; my nose tells me that we are malodorous.
Overwhelmed by the oppressive heat and deafening noise, I begin to tremble.

I guess the time to be close to midday-the sun appears to be at its zenith in a
cloudless, blue sky and beats down on us with fierce intensity. Bewildered, I
look around me and gaze beyond the waterfront into the town; I see a jumble of
cube like buildings tumbling up the hills on which the city is built.
Predominantly white, these buildings gleam in the brilliant sunlight and are
interspersed with others painted in pastel tones of blue, pink and yellow. And
for the first time, I see grey-green olive trees, tall, stately palms and the
glossy, dark green of citrus trees. The city is strange and exotic and the air
is rich with a spicy perfume which is unknown to me. But I'm not disposed to
admire it; I am swamped by fear.

The wharves around us are hives of activities. Everywhere I look I see gangs of
near-naked slaves toiling under the lash of their impatient overseers and their
suffering is all too obvious. I listen to the vicious crack of the whips, the
cruel `thwacking" sound as leather comes into contact with naked flesh and the
anguished cries of pain from the toiling, sweating slaves. And as I watch, I
realise this is to be my fate.

I push closer to my fellow slaves seeking to lose myself among them. Others are
of a like mind and soon we are a jostling huddle of human misery surrounded by a
sea of unsympathetic observers. The whips are brought into play and we are
ordered to "settle down". I don't know the words of this strange language but as
the whip cuts across my shoulders, I do understand their intent. My cry of pain
signals my compliance with the order.

Miserably, I stand with my fellow prisoners in a crush of excited spectators; I
hang my head in shame as we are visually inspected and discussed by them. I
don't need to know their language to understand their sneers and jibes are made
at our expense and I know instinctively that we are being evaluated; by their
animated conversations and gesticulations, it is obvious that our bodies are
being judged as to what future labour we can be put to and what we are worth in
monetary terms.

I'm not to know that this is a very important part of our sale into slavery.
Whenever a shipment of new slaves arrives in port it is the signal to all
potential buyers to crowd down onto the waterfront and watch as they are
unloaded. This way they catch a first glimpse of the slaves who will soon be
offered for sale. These prospective buyers like to gather as close as possible
to the wretched, new arrivals where they can appraise them without having to
touch them. Such hands on inspections come later in the complicated sales
process.

This first perusal of newly arrived slaves is used by the buyers to determine if
there are any suitable prospects that warrant their further attention. If a
buyer sees a suitable slave -or slaves- that interest him, then he will have an
opportunity for a "hands-on" inspection at the public viewing of the slaves at
the badestan prior to them being sold at auction.

Naturally, I'm not aware of the complicated system that exists for the selling
of all newly arrived slaves. But it is a system with which I'll become well
acquainted over the coming days. The local pasha-or ruler appointed by the
Ottomans-has first call on all new slaves and we'll be paraded before him
allowing him to make his choice from among us. Usually he takes one slave out of
every eight as his due and the rest of us will be returned to the bagnio and
prepared for sale.

Even then the system remains complicated; we'll be taken in small groups to the
badestan-or market place- where we'll be put on public display. One by one, each
slave is lead around the perimeter of the market by a dilaleen or auctioneer
loudly extolling the slave's good features and pausing to allow prospective
buyers to inspect the slave. These inspections are always accompanied by much
haggling and gesticulating as the auctioneer and a buyer debate the slave's
attributes; the dilaleen drawing the buyer's attention to such things as the
width of the slave's shoulders, his strong chest or the soundness of his teeth.
The buyer, not wishing to appear too eager, responds by denigrating the slave as
a poor specimen unworthy of his consideration. As the politics of the
marketplace are played out, the buyers place their bids against one another for
the right to own the slave.

But that isn't an end to the matter-not by a long shot. This is merely the
firing of the first salvo. What has been achieved here at the badestan is that
the slave has had a "reserve" price placed upon him and this is the amount of
money that will be paid to the Corsairs as their due for his capture and
delivery to the slave-markets of Tripoli. The unfortunate slave still has one
more process to endure before he becomes owned property.

The actual slave auction takes place before the pasha who once again has the
right of first refusal for any slave offered for sale. The price begins at the
value set by the buyers in the badestan and the difference between that price
and what the pasha offers is paid into the public coffers. Any unfortunate slave
thus bought by the pasha becomes state-owned and is employed on public works.
Those slaves who don't interest the pasha mount the auction block and are sold
to the highest bidder.

This then is the fate that awaits me-and my fellow slaves. But as we huddle on
the wharf like a mob of terrified sheep, we are unaware of this and we have many
vicissitudes to endure before we are finally sold.

We are surrounded by a jabbering, gesticulating crowd of prospective buyers who,
because of our filth keep their distance from us. Bitterly, I am reminded of
market-day in the village where I had spent my boyhood.

Often I had attended these with my yeoman father and watched with interest as
the local farmers inspected and discussed the livestock displayed in their pens
prior to sale. These market days had been exciting ones for me and had provided
a welcome break in the drudgery of my rural life. I'd always enjoyed the sights,
sounds and smells of market day; the animated conversations of the farmers, the
bleating, lowing and neighing of nervous animals and their earthy smells. And to
my boyish delight, there were the delicious odours of the ales, ciders and hot,
savoury, meat pies being sold at the various stalls set up around the perimeter
of the market-square.

These thoughts of those past times and events-now forever lost to me-overwhelm
me and I begin to weep and as I look at my fellow slaves, I see I'm not alone in
weeping; they too shed tears for their loss of freedom and fear for the future.
I recognise the similarities between us and the frightened livestock of my
boyhood memories as they were sold on market-day in my home village.

Our overseers allow generous time for us to be visually inspected by any
interested buyers and, as they wait patiently, they interact with the spectators
who crowd around us. We don't understand their words but we know we are the
butts of their crude jokes and the subjects of their lewd gestures as they point
to our nakedness.

Then, a richly robed, turbaned man mounted on a horse-I wonder why it's
necessary for him to ride a horse- decides the buyers have had sufficient time
to inspect us and gives orders to his subordinates to move us along. Now, once
more their whips are brought into play and we are forced into a long line of two
abreast. I find myself on the left side at about the halfway point in this
column of human misery. We stand motionless as the overseers quickly move down
both sides of the column attaching long chains to our outer ankles and
effectively joining us together one behind the other.

The mounted rider takes his place at the head of our column and watches as his
guards and overseers take up positions on either side of us; the guards are
armed with scimitars and spears and the overseers have discarded their long
whips for shorter ones made from bulls' pizzles. I ask myself why these are
being used over the longer whips that had been used to control us to date and
how "effective" are they? I'm soon to find out the answer to both questions.

An expectant hush settles over the watching crowd and they move apart to form a
narrow "avenue" for our column. They are still close enough to touch us should
they wish to and indeed one or two-obviously not too concerned with the filth
that covers our naked bodies- do lean forward to cruelly pinch the unfortunate
captives nearest to them. Others choose to spit at us; we are all easy targets
for them-and through my fear and misery I'm aware of the globs of their
expectorations striking my face and body.

I'm reminded of the public hangings of two criminals I'd once foolishly
witnessed as a boy. As they were dragged struggling and begging to the scaffold,
they too had been subjected to the same shame and humiliation from their
spectators that we now endure. I remember feeling great sympathy for the two
criminals-surely their deaths were enough punishment without the additional
contempt from the crowd- and I'd felt anger at the callousness shown to them as
they went to the gallows. Then, I'd wondered at the cruel inhumanity of it all
and now I do so again.

Then, with a shrill blast of a whistle from the mounted official and the loud
cracking of the overseers' whips our two lines of human misery begin the slow,
painful journey to the bagnio.

We are severely restricted by our shackles; our ankle chains force us to walk
with an awkward shuffle and we are not yet aware that we should all step forward
in unison from the same foot; confusion reigns as we stumble and fall over one
another. Little sympathy is shown to us; the overseers whip us to our feet and
our pain and discomfort are the sources of much merriment for the watching
crowd. Under the cruel barrage of the whips, we scramble to our feet and
struggle to keep in step with one another so that some semblance of order is
established. But weighed down by our chains, it is difficult for us to walk and
we can only shuffle forward slowly. Our journey through the town's narrow
streets and alleys is to be a tortuous one.

As we move away from the wharf, the crowd of onlookers continues to grow and our
guards force them to make way for us. They laugh and jeer at us and suddenly one
or two of them begin to chant in their incomprehensible tongue; even without
knowledge of their language, I'm able to discern that they are merely repeating
the same disparaging word over and over again.

Eventually all our tormentors join in a loud chanting of what is obviously a
derogatory word or name for us. If I spoke their language I would recognise
the word "slaves, slaves, slaves" repeated over and over. The crowd is in
festive mood and they give full voice to their joy at seeing us-their hated
enemies-so humiliated. For our part we do feel threatened and intimidated by
them. Ahead of me, a slave foolishly re-acts to the taunts of the crowd. His
protest is short-lived and the whips of two overseers quickly subdue him and
beat him into submission. His cries of outrage and pain only serve to further
delight our tormentors.

We shuffle noisily-our chains add to the general cacophony-across the wide,
sunlight area separating the wharves from the fortified walls that protect the
town. Now we are besieged by beggars and beardless, pimply-faced youths who add
to our misery. They are armed with canes, sticks, switches and palm fronds which
they use to flail us as we pass by.

Our efforts to protect ourselves are discouraged by the whips of our overseers;
it is made painfully clear to us that we must endure whatever taunts and
tribulations the crowd wishes to submit us to. Our nakedness is an enticing
target for them and, as we move forward, we are continually lashed with their
makeshift whips.

For the youths, our arses are particularly inviting and they ply their canes to
us with extreme vigour. I yelp each time I am viciously slashed across the
buttocks and I see the burgeoning, red stripes on the shoulders, backs and arses
of the slaves in front of me. It is impossible to put into words the shame and
humiliation I feel at the hands of my tormentors. In my misery, I recognise that
this is to become an integral part of my life as a slave of these accursed
people.

There is some small measure of relief from our relentless tormentors as we pass
through the massive gate tower into the town itself. The interior of the tower
is so confined that it is only wide enough for our column to pass through.
Temporarily, we are spared the whips of our overseers and the "make do" switches
of our audience.

Passing from the energy-sapping heat of the day into the cool, shaded interior
of the tower, I begin to shiver. I'm unsure whether this is caused by the sudden
change in the temperature or from the fear and panic that grips me as I enter
into the town.

Once more we are besieged; this time by the townspeople and as we pass along the
twisted streets and alleyways, we face new tribulations.

The sun doesn't penetrate down into the cool, narrow canyons formed by the tall,
two and three storied buildings lining both sides of the streets but the shade
provided by them is most welcome to our slow moving column. My nose wrinkles at
the pungent odours that permeate the air; my nostrils recognise the nauseating
smells of decaying vegetable matter and other putrefaction and yet it also
savours the scent of exotic herbs and spices and the delicious aromas of cooking
food. My belly, which since my capture, has only known the tasteless, dry
biscuits given to us by the Corsairs begins to rumble in a loud protest.

We continue along the mean, narrow streets of this slum and now we are assailed
by a new horror. Small boys, no doubt intent on causing us mischief, dart
between our legs and, pulling on our shackles, cause us to stumble and fall over
in a heap. No time is wasted on us; we are quickly whipped to our feet only to
have the whole thing repeated again and again much to the amusement of the
watching crowd.

The residents of these streets have turned out in force to watch as we pass by
and they add to our misery by pelting us with missiles of rotten eggs, decaying
fruit and vegetables, all manner of putrid refuse and animal dung. But these
aren't the worst of our tribulations. The inhabitants of the buildings on both
sides of the street lean out of the upper story windows of their homes and
shower us with the contents of their chamber-pots and commodes.

Vainly we cover our heads to shield ourselves from these assaults on our bodies
and our dignity only to suffer further whipping at the hands of our overseers.
Now, all too clearly, I see why they use the shorter, bull pizzle whips on us;
these streets and alleyways of the city are too narrow for their longer whips.

It is at this moment that my spirit breaks. The trauma of my capture and
enslavement finally overcomes me. Naked, shackled and whipped I am covered in
the filth of the galley slaves ordure and the putrefaction of this city. I am
powerless to fight back and I have no other recourse open to me than to accept
that I am now a slave to these people and as such I am reviled, despised and
subject to all the humiliation and pain they can throw at me.

As I begin to sob, I lower my head in submission and I shuffle forward in my
chains to the bagnio that awaits us.

To be continued....