Date: Tue, 25 Jan 2011 00:56:04 -0800 (PST)
From: Christian Debus <servus4u@ymail.com>
Subject: "The Galley Slave" Chapter 6

"THE GALLEY SLAVE"
A Young Man's Odyssey into Slavery
Chapter 6
"The interview"

This is a story of erotic fiction meant for adult readers over the age of
eighteen years

Written by Jean-Christophe
"To see all my stories go to groups.yahoo.com/group/SlaveNow'

Chapter 6: "The Interview"

The sound of loud laughter cuts through the red fog of my suffering. It's
now three days since I and my fellow captives were branded and for those
three days, I have drifted in and out of consciousness but I'm constantly
aware of the intense pain on the side of my left buttock.

Gradually, I am healing. My fever has broken and I'm no longer
sweating. True, the brand on my left flank is still raw but the pain has
now subsided into a dull throbbing ache.  As I look at my scorched flesh, I
am appalled. The red, festering symbol for slave contrasts angrily against
the smooth whiteness of my arse.

For the past three days, we have been allowed to rest in our pen and to
recover from the shock of our brandings. The first few hours after I was
branded are a blur of indescribable pain and semi- consciousness. The human
body has a great capacity for dealing with traumatic events and mine didn't
fail me. Mercifully my system "shut-down" and I drifted in and out of
wakefulness allowing time for my fractured mind to repair and my tortured
body to begin to heal itself.

All the time I was conscious of my pain - the constant ache of my new brand
certainly made its presence felt.  I was aware of my feverish sweating and
my restlessness and throughout I was also vaguely aware of Joachim lying
beside me. All round me my fellow slaves suffered much as I did and we each
fought our own personal battles against the pain and the awful truth that
we are now branded slaves.

My pain made me self-centred. All around me I heard the groans and cries of
my fellows but I was too wrapped in my own misery to show them any
concern. Like me, they lay on the filthy, straw- strewn floor and
suffered. And like me, they must adjust their minds and bodies to our new
circumstances.

Our handlers left us very much alone for the first twenty-four hours after
our brandings. Long experience has taught them that a newly branded slave
needs those first hours to rest and recuperate. During that time, as we lay
on the straw covered floor of our pen, we weren't given food or water nor
were we removed from our prison and taken away to attend to the "calls of
nature."  Indeed, during that first terrible day, none of us looked for
food or water and in our weakened state it's doubtful if we could have
walked the short distance to the sanitation pits.

Quite deliberately, we'd not been fed or watered on the morning of our
brandings and our empty bellies should have spared us the need to defecate
or urinate. But this wasn't the case. As we tossed and turned in our
delirium, many of us pissed and shat ourselves and now we lay in our own
filth.  After three days, the stench of this is overpowering and I am
reminded of the animal byre on the farm of my boyhood.  But infinitely
worse than our stink is the degradation I feel. I truly have been reduced
to a level more in keeping with an animal. I have become a branded
beast-of-burden.

During the second day, our overseers entered our pen and made us eat and
drink small quantities of food and water. Many of us would rather that we
be allowed to rest undisturbed but they met our resistance with
determination and if need be, they force fed and watered us.

Of course, they know what we don't. This is that we are at a critical point
in our transition into slavery. Many of the newly enslaved prisoners are
still reeling with the shock of their loss of freedom and this is
compounded with the trauma and pain of their brandings. These two factors,
following so closely on top of each other, can depress the new slave to
such an extent that he loses his will to live - for many death is
preferable to slavery - and he simply "gives in". He refuses to eat or
drink and wastes away. This is unacceptable to our new masters; a dead
slave is worthless whereas a live one has potential both in terms of profit
and labour and they won't allow us to cheat them of their booty.  From
their point of view we are valuable assets and must be kept alive for sale
in the slave market.

There are some among us who are troubled; however I'm not one of them.
Mainly they are the older members of our group who doubtlessly have wives
and families waiting for their safe return and for homecomings that are now
doomed never to happen. And being older and wiser, doubtlessly they know
what vicissitudes our new masters have in store for us. Perhaps these older
members of our group can visualise our futures?  Does some sixth sense tell
them our futures are to be brutal and short-lived?  If so, no wonder they
are despairing. But, in my youthful ignorance, I remain blissfully unaware.

Despite my capture, I still retain some of my youthful optimism but for how
much longer I can hold onto it I don't know. I am in the full vigour of my
youth and I fervently hope that one day I'll be free again. I believe with
all my heart, that one day soon I'll be rescued and then, all what is now
happening to me will be nothing more than a bad memory.

Vaguely, I have heard of groups of selfless Christians who dedicate their
lives to ransoming hapless, penniless captives from their corsair
slavery. I do recall hearing about these Samaritans during church sermons
and I know my parents occasionally donated money in retiring offerings to
them so that they could continue with their "good works." And even though I
don't yet know this, there are ambassadors and representatives from
Christian Europe who work tirelessly to negotiate these ransoms.

There is even an English consul in this benighted city that will negotiate
the ransom price for those few fortunate slaves whose English families can
afford the exorbitant sums demanded by their new masters.  A newly enslaved
captive, who hails from a wealthy background, can look forward to regaining
his freedom - eventually. However, these negotiations can be protracted and
frustrating and often leave the unfortunate slave in a limbo of uncertainty
as his master and family submit offer and counter offer before he finally
gains his freedom.

The rest of us - too poor to enter into ransom negotiations - must place
our forlorn hopes on the limited generosity of Christendom to free us from
our slavery to these accursed heathens.

The sound of laughter amid our suffering is insensitive. I wonder how our
captors can callously laugh and joke surrounded as they are by so much
misery.  But my fearful curiosity is aroused and I stir myself to join some
of my fellow slaves already standing at the front of our pen and peering
out into the courtyard through the bars of our prison.  I am apprehensive
and wonder what new horror awaits me.

Since my capture, I have accepted that each new day brings some new torment
or humiliation with it.  My long term hopes for freedom are at variance
with my immediate situation. Despairingly, in the shorter term, I have now
come to expect the worst. But, I ask myself - what can be worse than my
branding. What more can my captors do to me? Fearfully, I grasp the bars of
my prison to steady myself and to brace myself for the revelation of some
new torture awaiting me in the courtyard.  Almost immediately, I am joined
by Joachim.

The scene that greets us allays my fears. Unlike the morning of my
branding, there are no branding tables, no braziers or branding irons and
no other instruments of torture.

Instead, I see a long table and three seats have been set up but I am left
wondering for what purpose. And placed in front of the table is a wooden
block measuring three feet by three feet and approximately eighteen inches
high.  The thought flashes through my mind - is this an auction block?  And
if so - are we about to be sold?

Obviously the table and chairs have been carefully placed there and they
are shaded by a long oblong canopy of rich brocade held aloft on a pole at
each corner by a naked, white slave. Two more white slaves stand behind the
middle chair - which is almost of throne-size proportions - holding long
fans of ostrich feathers. And two more stand alongside this middle chair;
one on either side.  One slave holds a tray of sliced melon and honeyed
figs while the other holds a pitcher of sherbet water.

I can't help but make the contrast between these eight, white slaves and
the miserable, forlorn specimens who work within the bagnio. Unlike those
scrawny wretches, these slaves are a delight to the eye. They are of equal
height and all are young and handsome. Their nakedness is emphasised by the
gold collars they wear around their necks and by the matching gold bands
that encircle their more than generous genitalia. Their strong, muscular
bodies are highly glossed by a coating of oil which accentuates their
sleekness.

The uniform appearance of these slaves suggests they have been
"hand-picked" - they reflect pride of ownership - and it is quite obvious
they belong to person of some prominence. But I am left wondering about who
their master is and why they are present.

These activities are under the supervision of our Arab captors and six of
their gigantic, African overseers. And to one side, six of the miserable
white, bagno slaves huddle together like frightened animals seeking common
safety from a prowling predator.

Obviously the Arabs are waiting for someone of importance and pace
nervously back and forth while their black assistants have uncurled their
whips and are "limbering up" by cracking them noisily through the air. The
sounds of their whips reverberate like gunshots within the closed confines
of the courtyard and re-echo from the tall, stone walls enclosing our
prison.

I'm not sure if the overseers are doing this to intimidate us; perhaps we
are meant to cower into submission for what is to take place next. Either
way, with each crack of a whip, I find myself flinching involuntarily.

Like those in the courtyard, we too await the arrival of some unknown
official. We are left to wonder - who he is and what is to happen to us?

One virtue a new slave must quickly acquire is patience. He needs to learn
- and to understand - that any independent thought or action on his part is
now forbidden. He must learn all that is now required of him is to wait on
his master's commands. There are three rules which govern a slave's
life. He waits patiently for instruction; he listens intently and he gives
instant and unquestioning obedience to all orders. That is all that is
demanded of him and failure to comply with these simple rules can be
painful - yet salutary. Slowly, I am learning this basic truth but I'm yet
to fully comprehend its impact upon my life.  And as I await developments
within the courtyard, my impatience - fed by my apprehension - grows.

Suddenly a door in the far wall of the courtyard opens and four men
enter. I recognise one as the Arab in charge of the bagno. I'm sure this
individual has a title -eventually, I'm to learn that our captors are
inordinately fond of overblown titles that indicate their stations in life
- but I don't know what it is. However, I do know that he has an evil
temper which has been directed at us more than once in recent
days. Whenever, he approaches our pen he spits on us and loudly abuses us
in his strange, incomprehensible tongue. But the venom of his hate filled
words isn't lost on us. If I could understand him, I would know he refers
to us as "Nasrani dogs" or the "spawn of Shaitan".

The other man who walks at his side is a tall, bearded Arab of ascetic
appearance and haughty manner; both his bearing and his rich clothing
indicate he is a man of substance. He wears the traditional garb of the
Turk and his clothing is made of expensive blue and gold silk. He wears a
feather bedecked turban and the handle of a jewel encrusted dagger
protrudes from a rich brocaded waistband.

Walking some three paces behind him are two other men, who judging by the
gold collars fastened around their necks, are obviously his
slaves. Although they are white - and by their appearance, I judge them to
be either Greek or Italian - they are clothed in identical uniforms of
shapeless pantaloons made from a coarse, grey material and matching,
collarless shirts open to the waist. And as a sign of their true status
they wear the red, felt caps of slavery.  They wait as their master settles
into the throne like seat at the centre of the table before taking their
seats - one on either side of him.

My curiosity is aroused and I wonder about this autocratic man who I
instinctively know is here in connection with us.  Of course, I'm
unfamiliar with the protocols concerning the arrival of a new shipment of
slaves. If I did, I would know this man is an official representing the
local Pasha and is his "Registrar of Slaves" whose task it is to record the
arrival and personal details of all new slaves in Tripoli prior to their
sale in the slave market.

The two slaves sitting on either side of him are his scrivanos or
scribes. Each speak a number of European languages and because of this they
are of immense value to their master. In reality, it will be the scrivanos
who ask the questions of us and it will be they who record those details
into a ledger to be used by the auctioneer on the day we are presented to
the buying public for inspection and sale.

At a snap of their master's fingers, the two fan bearers begin to fan him
both to keep him cool and to ward off any annoying insects. The foulness of
this place attracts myriads of flies and other insects feasting off the
accumulated filth of so many incarcerated slaves and the noisome odours of
the place seem to bother the Registrar. At his sharp command, a slave hands
him an orange pomade which he holds under his nose.

We are ignored as the Registrar and the bagno "governor" converse
animatedly. Our Arab handlers and their black overseers hover close by
ready to move when the signal to begin is given. But to begin what, I
wonder?

Soon the order will be given and the black overseers will haul us - one by
one -out of the security of our pen and place us on the wooden block in
front of the Registrar and his scribes. There, we will stand trembling as
we are questioned. We'll be asked our name, age and place of birth, our
occupation and out religious affiliation. Our time on the podium will be
brief; perhaps no than a few minutes. That is unless the Registrar
intervenes.

Throughout the questioning, his gimlet eyes will sweep over our naked
bodies looking for signs of any hidden worth. He is expert at determining
if a new slave has the potential for ransom. He can assess us quickly and
any slave with a "soft" appearance warrants his further investigation. A
corpulent, well-fed body and sagging muscles will always arouse his
suspicions. These are indicators that the new slave could be a "man of
substance" - perhaps a rich merchant - and not a seaman or common worker. A
quick word with one of his scrivanos and further questions will be asked of
the slave and as a final test one of the black overseers will lead the
slave over to the table where the Registrar will examine his hands. Smooth,
no calloused hands confirm his suspicions and will help determine the
slave's destiny. Either he will be ransomed and regain his freedom upon the
payment of a negotiated sum or failing that, he will be condemned to an
onerous, lifetime of servitude.

                                                           >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

A new slave with ransom potential is a valuable asset and he will command a
high price in the slave market.  The dilaleen or auctioneer will tell
prospective buyers of the slave's potential for ransom and this will ensure
strong bidding for the right to own the slave and to negotiate his ransom
through the medium of the Christian consuls or agents stationed in the
city.

Today, the Registrar's eagle eye will fall on several among the new
captives who, in his judgement, aren't mere seamen but more than likely
wealthy passengers or merchants. He will follow up his visual assessment by
having his scrivanos ask them a series of judicious questions which will
either confirm or deny his suspicions.

However, the remainder - the common seamen and simple peasants - will not
be so fortunate. With no prospects of "buying" their freedom, they are
doomed to spend the remainders of their lives in bondage. But there is just
one, faint glimmer of hope for freedom that the new slaves are unaware
of. And perhaps it's best if they remain ignorant of this lest they build
up their hopes falsely. For this is a limited option and open to a few
fortunate slaves.

After they have been questioned by the "Registrar of Slaves" and his
scrivanos, a list of all their names and answers will be given to the
various representatives of the European countries. This isn't done out of
diplomatic niceties; the reason is far more pragmatic than that. The
corsairs are eager to squeeze the last English pound or Italian ducat out
of their accursed Christian enemies.

They know that limited sums of Christian money are sent -spasmodically- to
the Christian envoys in their city which allow them to randomly purchase
the freedom of a few selected slaves from their masters. Of course, not
every owner wants to ransom his slave. Some masters see a slave's true
worth in the amount of labour their whips can wring out of him. But there
are other owners who value money more highly than a slave and will happily
negotiate a ransom price.

But as of now the new slaves don't know this and it's perhaps as well they
don't.  They neither know the foreign consuls have great discretion in
"choosing" which slaves to ransom nor do they know the criteria used to
determine such a slave's eligibility. That decision is left very much to
the consuls.  Unfortunately the money at their disposal is never sufficient
to enter into ransom negotiations on behalf of every newly captured
slave. Therefore they must choose carefully which slave they consider needs
to be set free.

In effect, a consul has an unenviable task; he holds the power of life and
death in his hands. How then does he choose which slave is deserving of
redemption?  Does he choose randomly? Does he pick those slaves who are too
elderly, sick or weak to survive in bondage for any length of time?  Does
he consider the younger, stronger and fitter among the new slaves are
better equipped to endure the rigours of slavery and he then abandons them
to a cruel fate?

The answers to those questions are known only to the consul but obviously
he must consider the attitudes of the individuals and organisations that
provide him with the funds to buy freedom for these too few fortunate
slaves. And there is another factor at play in these negotiations. It is
less obvious and never spoken of; but it exists.  This is the "politics of
religion".

Christendom is opposed to the abominable corsair pirates and loudly
deplores the spectacle of good Christians serving as slaves to the
"heathen".  It condemns their cruel bondage and prays for the speedy
deliverance of all the Christian captives and urges the charitable giving
of money to buy their release.

But Christendom is divided into two camps and both are as implacably
opposed to one another as they are to their common enemy - the
corsairs. And this reflects in the attitudes of the consuls and agents who
try to negotiate the freedom of whichever slave they choose.

The individual consul's task is an invidious one. In choosing a slave for
ransom he must allow for the religious sensibilities of the country or
ruler he represents. He must consider whether they would approve of him
freeing a hated Papist or conversely would they accept him negotiating on
behalf of a Protestant heretic. He walks a very fine line and must choose
carefully.

Naturally, the corsairs are delighted at this discord between the Christian
co-religionists and they seek to exploit it to their advantage. In their
ransom negotiations, they play one group against the other and will only
grant a slave his freedom when the last pound or ducat has been squeezed
out of either faction.

Under these circumstances, freedom for a new slave is very much a "lottery"
and depends on factors far beyond his control. His fate is in the hands of
his new master and the Christian negotiators. In most cases he is unaware
of what is taking place. Should the slave finally gain his freedom then it
comes as a complete surprise to him. But such "redemptions" are the
exception rather than the rule.  For the majority there is to be no rescue
from their servitude.

                                                             >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

The rest of my fellow slaves have been aroused by the noise and activities
within the courtyard.  Whether it is out of curiosity or anxiety I can't
say, but they stir and gather at the front of the pen to peer out through
the bars of our prison. Our eyes reflect our fearful anticipation of what
is to happen to us next.  Impatiently, the black overseers continue to
limber up by snapping their whips loudly within the confines of the
courtyard causing us to flinch involuntarily with each ominous whip-crack.

Suddenly, the bagno "governor" speaks and the overseers move in our
direction. Panic grips us and we seek to move as far away as possible from
them. Like frightened animals, we blindly push and shove our way to the
rear of our pen fighting our way to the "safety" of the back wall. One
thing motivates us; we all seek to put as much distance between ourselves
and the overseers as possible.  None of us want to be the "first" selected
for whatever now confronts us. In the ensuing scrum, I lose sight of
Joachim; self-preservation is the uppermost thing in my mind.

The overseers unlock the doors and enter our pen. Quickly, they grab hold
of an unwilling victim and drag him kicking and screaming to the podium and
place him upon it. Confused and weeping, the trembling captive waits for
some new unimaginable horror to visit him.

Then soothingly, each of the scrivanos speaks to him in several languages
before they establish that the new slave is a young, Dutch sailor from
Joachim's ship. The sound of his mother tongue calms the captive and allays
his fears.  Quickly, the scrivano asks him his name, age, place of birth,
his occupation and religion.

The Registrar watches with interest. Obviously, this captive is a seaman
and has no ransom potential. Still he is a strapping fellow. Tall,
well-built and strongly muscled, the Registrar considers he could be chosen
by the Pasha when these new slaves are paraded before him tomorrow.  The
Pasha is entitled to every eighth slave as part of his penjic - or portion
- and mostly he chooses the strongest to serve as beylik slaves employed in
the quarries or on public works.

And, the Pasha sometimes indulges himself and chooses the youngest and
prettiest boys from among the new captives to serve him in his palace. He
has first choice and who can blame him for exercising his right to choose
from among the best of these newly arrived slaves. The Registrar is quick
to note there are several among this latest batch of slaves who would serve
admirably as garzons in a male harem. And better still there are several
cabin boys would make superb k"‡ekler or dancing boys after suitable
training.

Actually, there is one such lad, a beautiful blond with the bluest eyes,
who has attracted the Registrar's attention. He must talk to the Pasha
about acquiring this young slave for his own troupe of handsome, young,
male rakkas or dancers. The Registrar enjoys nothing better than being
entertained by his "dancing boys" dressed in filmy, female attire. He knows
some would disagree with him but, from his perspective, no one can perform
a belly dance better than a lithe, young, male slave.

Yes, he will speak with the Pasha about acquiring this slave for
himself. After all, the Pasha is indebted to him and owes him a favour or
two. It is time to "call in" one of these favours.

The Dutch seaman's time on the podium is brief. He has answered the
questions put to him by the scrivano and these have been recorded in the
Registrar's ledger. A black overseer orders him to step down and escorts
him to an empty - and thankfully - cleaner pen. No time is wasted and his
place on the podium is taken by another new slave.

The Registrar looks at him and wrinkles his nose in disgust at the sorry
sight this slave presents. The slave is ageing - somewhere in his forties
by the Registrar's reckoning - balding, with pendulous breasts and an
oversized, floppy belly that overhangs his miniscule genitalia. If the
slave ever did possess biceps these have long disappeared and have been
replaced with loose folds of sagging flesh.

The Registrar is an admirer of the male physique and chooses his slaves
carefully. To his mind a slave's natural state is complete nudity and one
need only to look at the eight slaves he has in attendance on him today to
see proof of this. All are magnificent in their nakedness.  And they are so
unlike this sorry specimen standing before him.

This slave disgusts him; he is virtually worthless as he is. The slave
obviously lacks strength and stamina and he is unsuited to hard manual
labour; most likely he'd expire within the year.  Placed on the auction
block, he would invite the ridicule of all serious buyers and be treated
with scorn. Possibly the slave is an educated man and could serve his
master as a scribe - that is if the master wasn't too discerning. But how
many owners would want to own this slave who reminds the Registrar of a
bloated toad. Certainly, there'd be no place for this ugly slave in the
Registrar's house hold.

Yet the slave has a hidden potential - the possibility of a rich
ransom. Unless the Registrar is mistaken this slave was a merchant or a
rich passenger on board his vessel when it was taken by the corsairs. He
speaks softly to the scrivano who relays his master's questions to the
slave and his answers prove the Registrar is correct in his assumption. The
slave is indeed a rich German merchant whose family will pay handsomely for
his release.

Suddenly the slave has assumed a new worth. As he is presented to the
buyers, his true status will be read out to them and they will
enthusiastically bid for the right to buy him and negotiate his ransom. For
this slave there is the hope of freedom. However it might be a long time
coming as his master negotiates protractedly with his family. But one day,
he will be set free. In that he can be certain. But even when he is free,
he'll always wear the slave brand on his body as a constant reminder of his
sojourn among the Barbary corsairs.

We watch the proceedings from the security of our pen with great
interest. After the first few interrogations we are re-assured - we now
know we aren't to be mistreated providing we do as we are told and do not
anger the overseers. And we allow ourselves to be led docilely out of the
pen and over to the podium, where for a few brief minutes, we are the
centre of attention.

Slowly, we are regaining some of our confidence and we answer our
interrogators in loud, clear voices. We don't know the importance of our
answers nor do we know of their consequences to our futures. But we are
relieved that we aren't to endure more pain and we live for the
moment. Tomorrow is another day and we are blissfully unconcerned about
what awaits us then.

One by one we are lead to the podium, questioned and retired to the new
pen. I watch as Joachim is led out and stands proudly tall in his
magnificent nakedness. I notice the tall Arab, who sits at the centre of
the table and who is obviously in charge of the proceedings, lean forward
for a closer look at Joachim. His eyes narrow to drink in the splendour of
Joachim's nude body and his tongue slides lasciviously across his lips. He
listens intently to all of Joachim's answers and whispers something to his
scrivano. Obviously, He is smitten with Joachim's blond, Germanic beauty.

In quick succession, others are lead to the podium and then finally it is
my turn. Assured that I'm not to be abused, I step up onto the block and
trembling with emotion, I face my questioners. Once they have established
my mother tongue is English, I tell them that my name is Tobias Matthews
and that I am indeed English born and I am twenty years old. I also tell
them that I was a farm lad before becoming a sailor and that I belong to
the newly reformed church in England.

The Registrar peers intently at me and I blush as I "sense" his eyes
sweeping downwards over my nakedness. He whispers softly to the scrivano
who tells me to turn slowly to the left in a full circle that brings me
back to my original position facing the table. Then at the Registrar's
command, a black overseer leads me to the table and I'm made to show him my
hands.  However, his look is cursory; obviously my calloused palms don't
impress him for I am lead away and placed in the holding pen where I seek
out Joachim.

We converse quietly and try to make sense of what has happened to us
today. We conclude - correctly -that we have been 'inventoried" for the
purpose of our sale in the slave market. But for now we are left to wonder
when that sale will take place and the manner in which we'll be sold.

As we talk we lose interest in the proceedings within the courtyard and we
barely notice the departure of the "Registrar of Slaves" and his retinue.

For the rest of the day, the overseers pay us no heed and we are left very
much alone. That is until late afternoon, when the bagno slaves, struggling
under heavy pots of a steaming stew of goat meat and barley, feed us.

And what a repast it is. We are allowed to eat as much as we want until our
hunger pangs subside and our rumbling bellies are full. And to "finish off"
we are given sizeable portions of fresh melon, citrus fruits, dates and
figs. We haven't eaten this well since the day before we were branded.

Finally, our hunger is satiated and as we lie bloated on the straw strewn
floor of our new pen, I hear the loud belching and farting brought about by
our overfilled bellies. I am reminded of the geese on my father's farm
being fattened up for the Christmas market.

Which is exactly as it is with us. We don't know it, but tomorrow, like
just those geese, we will be taken to the market and sold.


To be continued......