Date: Wed, 2 Mar 2011 15:02:54 -0800 (PST)
From: Christian Debus <servus4u@ymail.com>
Subject: "The Galley Slave" Chapter 7

"THE GALLEY SLAVE"
A Young Man's Odyssey into Slavery
Chapter 7

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 7

"May God preserve you from the galleys of Tripoli" - An Italian farewell
extended to Christians putting out to sea, circa 1580.

I'm unaware of it, but this is a route well-travelled; its path has been
worn smooth by the bare feet of countless slaves who have shuffled,
shackled together, from the bagnio to the Pasha's palace and then onto the
Badestan. Today, it is my turn to walk along its meandering route through
the narrow, twisting streets and alleys and across the broad, open squares
of the city to the palace of the Pasha of Tripoli.

Today I am to confront my destiny; within a few hours I will be an owned
slave with a master. But there are several steps in my odyssey that I must
still take and the visit to the Pasha's official residence is to be the
first of these.

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

We'd been awakened even before the first rays of the sun pierced the pre
-dawn darkness and in the flickering light of our handlers' torches, we'd
been released from our pens. It is as well that we were overfed last night
for this morning we weren't given food or water.  Instead, we were hustled
out to the sanitation pits and forced to squat as we emptied our bowels and
bladders. Today our bellies are to remain empty to avoid any unsightly
accidents as our bodies are inspected, poked and prodded by prospective
buyers in the market-place.

Our handlers wasted no time in preparing us for our sale. Firstly, we
worked in pairs and scrubbed one another clean -working from head to toe-
with a sweetly scented soap that went some way to masking the stink of the
accumulated filth of the galley holds and the bagnio's slave pens. Then we
coated each other's body with perfumed oil to highlight the muscle
definition of our bodies.

Quite deliberately, Joachim and I had sought each other out and we worked
as a pair. As Joachim scrubbed me clean and oiled my body, I had boyhood
memories of the careful attention taken by farmers as they prepared their
animals for sale on market-day. Often I had assisted my father as he
prepared a beast for sale. He'd been most fastidious with his preparations
and after the animal had been scrubbed clean it was allowed to dry before
its coat was currycombed and brushed to a lustrous sheen, its hooves
trimmed and horns buffed. It has to be said my father knew how to
favourably present an animal for sale.

And today, like the animals of my boyhood, I am being scrubbed clean and
buffed ready for parading in the market-place and presenting to the
buyers. Instinctively, I think we all know that these preparations are a
prelude to us being sold and our moods grow sombre. And with the
realisation of this, I am gripped by a nervous apprehension.

One unforeseen consequence of having Joachim wash and oil me results from
the highly charged closeness of his naked body. As his hands slide over my
own nakedness, I am mightily aroused. I say mightily - and this is no
exaggeration - for I can't recall an occasion when my cock has been so
massively erect and so throbbingly hard. I am embarrassed by this but then
I see that my nakedness has similarly affected Joachim. And a quick glance
shows that all my fellow slaves are also "enjoying the moment".

And I suppose it is the sight of so many infidel cocks standing stiff that
amuse our captors who crudely point at us and laugh raucously.

Despite their good humour, the overseers and their African assistants don't
have time to waste and they gesticulate that we must hurry. And to
emphasise their growing impatience, they lash out at us with their
whips. Momentarily, the walls of our prison resound with their shouted
commands and the loud cracking of their whips. The air is rent with our
outraged cries of pain as the lash falls on our unprotected backs and
shoulders.

The Africans work with quick efficiency to secure us by shackling our left
ankles to long coffle chains each capable of holding ten slaves. We are
spaced in single file some four or so feet apart and as we move through the
city we are to discover this distance between us isn't for our comfort or
convenience. Rather it is to provide ease of access to our backs for our
drivers' whips.

Next our wrists are tied together behind our heads and fastened by ropes
around our necks. This of course makes us helpless and easier to control by
our handlers. But they haven't yet finished with us. We have one more
indignity to suffer before we are ready to move out of the bagnio.

Our captors make much sport of us as they move from one to the other tying
cords around our genitals. The humiliation we feel as our cocks and balls
are roughly seized and tightly tied into a bundle add to their
merriment. They jabber away in their incomprehensible language, but we know
we are the butts of their crude humour and their unrestrained, ribald
laughter.

This tying of our genitals serves to thrust them forward into a prominent
display and I will discover this aids the prospective buyers as they later
inspect us. I have always been proud of my "endowment" and as I look down
upon myself I note that my pride isn't misplaced. I do indeed present well!

I count four full coffle chains of ten slaves and one partly filled one of
eight. I do my sums and realise there are forty-eight of us being driven
out of the bagnio to the market-place. I wonder what new horrors confront
us and I am racked with fear and uncertainty.

What is to become of me? Who will buy me? And more importantly- what type
of master will I have by day's end?

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

We move out of the bagno into the square fronting it. Unlike the day of our
frenetic arrival there are no crowds of chanting, jeering crowds to impede
our progress. This morning, we are to be spared their vitriolic abuse and
our bodies won't be lashed with their makeshift whips of leather belts,
knotted ropes and switches broken from trees. Nor, mercifully, are we spat
upon and bombarded with the rotting fruit and refuse that were so much
features of our first trip through the streets of this accursed city.

Our moods are melancholy as we shuffle through our sorrowful journey to the
Pasha's palace. We are forbidden to talk and the only sounds we make are
the sad clanking of our coffle chains and cries of pain as the angry whips
of our impatient overseers find their marks on our naked, exposed bodies.

For the most part we are ignored except for the odd, fanatical infidel
hater who vents his hatred of us with loud abuse and much shaking of his
fist. But we aren't touched or physically abused.

I'm not to know, but the citizens of the city do follow a set of rules. Any
newly arrived slave is "fair game" for their attentions on that first,
doleful trip from the hold of the galleys to the bagnio. But any slave in
transit from the bagnio to the slave market is "off limits" and apart from
some verbal abuse the citizens do respect this unwritten rule. But that
rule changes once the slave is actually in the badestan and is offered for
slave. His body is available to all and sundry for inspection; even to the
voyeurs who aren't buying.

These sales are of great interest to the city's residents and attract large
numbers of spectators who like to watch as a slave is sold. And they know
what we don't; before we are actually presented to the viewing public we
are to be taken before the Pasha to allow him to pick his penjic - or one
in every eight of us as his slaves. The penjic arouses great, public
interest and attracts a large audience. Already many have gathered in the
forecourt of the Pasha's residence and await our arrival. Still others
follow behind us accompanying us to our rendezvous.

It is early morning and, as yet, the sun's rays lack the oven like heat of
the day of our arrival.  The sun gently warms my naked body as, at the same
time, a gentle zephyr blowing up from the distant harbour cools it. The
breeze carries upon it a myriad of olfactory sensations. I smell the salty
tang of the harbour and a bewildering potpourri of other odours, both
pleasant and offensive. The heady, scented perfume of exotic plants and
flowers and the deliciously spicy, belly rumbling smells of oriental
cooking permeate the air and mingle with the less savoury stench of open
drains and other human detritus.

Yet, despite the cooling breeze, I am sweating profusely; my fear of the
unknown chills my very flesh.

I walk immediately behind Joachim and even though I am full of fear and
apprehension, I am able to marvel at his magnificent physique highlighted
to perfection by the coating of oil I had applied to it earlier.

As I shuffle forward, I watch the play of the muscles and tendons of his
powerful shoulders and back and my eyes are guiltily fixed on the erotic
undulations of his arse cheeks as he too shuffles forward. Already, this
morning, he has tasted the whip - as have I - and the flawless skin of his
back is marred by an angry red stripe running diagonally across his
shoulders. And even as I look, I hear an angry shout and the thwack of
leather striking his naked flesh as the lash raises a second, red welt on
his back. I hear his cry of pain and almost immediately I add my own to
Joachim's as the whip savagely cuts into my own back.

Our captors are eager to deliver us to our destination and remorselessly,
we are driven on by their angry curses and their savage whips. We respond
in the only way we can by quickening our shuffling pace. We are driven
onwards and upwards through the narrow, twisting streets and across broad,
paved squares. Our sad journey is all uphill; the Pasha's residence sits
like an eagle's eyrie atop a steep hill and keeps vigil over the sprawling
city and its busy harbour.

My senses are assailed by the early morning sights, sounds and smells of
this strange city. I hear the indistinct buzz of hundreds of tongues, the
loud shouting of hawkers drawing attention to their goods and wares and my
hunger is further taunted by those delicious, spicy smell of exotic foods.

Despite the bleakness and hopelessness of my situation, my curiosity is
nevertheless aroused and I take in the broad, panoramic vista of the lower
city and its harbour.

The strange - at least to my eyes - cube shaped buildings tumble
higgledy-piggledy down the steep slopes to the harbour front. They range
from the small to the large; from the simple, single-storied, humble
dwellings of the common people to the grand, multi-storied mansions and
palaces of the city's elite. Their bland, anonymous exteriors don't even
hint at their opulent interiors. They are so private that there is no way
that the mere passerby in the streets can glimpse the richly ornamented
courtyards, the lush, shady gardens and the tinkling water fountains that
speak of an advanced, civilised society. It is however a civilisation
blighted by the evil of cruel slavery.

Their mud-brick exteriors are painted in various pastel colours -
predominantly in gleaming white -but others are painted in soft shades of
pink, blue and yellow and all reflect the light of the early morning
sun. The play of light and shadow on the whole scene is further enhanced by
verdant splashes of green. Tall palm trees sway in the gentle breeze and
there are occasional glimpses of dark green citrus trees and the more
subdued grey-green of olive trees.

The monotony of the skyline is broken by strange, tall towers and I wonder
about their purpose. Do they serve the same as the ancient watch-towers at
home used to provide an early warning on the approach of an enemy?
Eventually, I'm to learn they serve a more peaceful purpose. I'll learn
they are called minarets and are used to call the devout citizens of the
city to their religious devotions.

Some of the minarets a tall and I am impressed by their grace and
beauty. Richly decorated in delicate, geometric designs and a strange, yet
beautiful calligraphy, they point heavenward like slim, bejewelled fingers
and reflect the architecture of the city's original Arab
inhabitants. Others are squarer and squatter and are the preferred
architecture of the more recent arrivals; the Ottoman Turkish overlords of
the city.

Despite my fear at the precariousness of my situation, I am entranced by
these unfamiliar, new surroundings.

The city finishes abruptly at its protecting walls which separate the
colour of the city from the drab, grey stone buildings crowding the
perimeter of the harbour front.  These are low and fortress-like in their
construction and some serve as the warehouses for the pirated, spoils of
war while others serve as the prisons for the hundreds of galley slaves now
toiling onshore before they are once more chained to the rowing benches and
taken to sea.

Beyond these buildings, the shallow, calm waters of the enclosed harbour
sparkle with a turquoise brilliance whilst outside the harbour defences,
the vivid blueness of the ocean darkens into an inky indigo at the far
horizon. The gentle breeze blowing from the North ruffles the ocean's
surface and even from this height and distance, I can see the whitecaps
travelling shore wards only to be denied entry to the harbour by the stout,
stone ramparts of the protecting mole.

The harbour's defences are simple yet devastatingly effective. Jutting out
into the harbour from opposite shores are the two stone fingers of the
mole. They appear to meet mid- harbour but from this elevation I can see
that, whilst they do indeed overlap, they don't join; there is a narrow,
angled gap between them that only allows for the passage of a single vessel
into the port. The engineers' cunning design ensures that no vessel can
sail directly into the harbour. Its angled opening ensures that any
approaching galley or ship must slow and change course twice as it seeks
the harbour's inner sanctuary.

The harbour itself is a scene of frenetic activity. Several trading galleys
are berthed at the wharves where gangs of stevedore slaves unload their
cargoes. Further out in the harbour, five war-galleys are being provisioned
and made ready to put to sea to wage war on any Christian ships unlucky to
stray into their paths. And yet more galleys have been dragged out of the
water onto slipways where their crews of galley-slaves are careening and
greasing their hulls before they too put out to sea.

I'm not to know it, but one of these galleys is destined to be my future
"home". It belongs to the trading merchant who will own me by day's end.

Soon, I will be exposed to the full horrors of life as a galley-slave. I
will experience at first hand the appalling conditions that exist on board
a sea-going galley. Chained to my oar, I will come to know my new master's
vessel as a stinking, festering, rat infested sewer. At first, I'll gag at
the overpowering stench of unwashed, naked bodies - too dried out from lack
of water to sweat much - and of the foul excrement, urine and vomit of my
fellow slaves. I will be plagued by lice and other vermin who'll feast on
the filth of my naked body.  And I'll discover the very timbers of the
galley reek from the accumulated smell of the countless slaves who have
toiled and died at the oars. And all too soon my own essence will permeate
these same timbers. But gradually, my sense of smell will dull until I am
all but inured to the foul stench of myself and my brothers in misfortune.

In due course, I'll remember the worried conversations of my former
shipmates as we sailed the "White Sea" and entered the domain of the
Barbary pirates. I'll recall what some of the older and more experienced
sailors had to say about the horrors of life aboard the galleys of their
mortal enemies. And especially, I'll recall the comment of one old seaman.
Prophetically, he said that you could -'smell a galley long before you saw
it.' Later, as I tug at my oar, his words will taunt me with their bitter
irony.

The galleys favoured by our captors are made for speed and manoeuvrability;
they are lightweight, shallow drafted and ride close to the sea's
surface. Periodically, when they become overburdened with the body wastes
of the oar slaves -and perhaps too noisome even for their crews - the
galleys are submerged in shallow water in an effort to wash away the build
up of shit and to rid them of their vermin. It is left to the galley's
unfortunate slaves to perform this task and to "clean up after themselves"
and it is one with which I'll become very familiar.

However, that is in the future! But not the too distant future, for within
days, I will be straining at my oar as my master carefully guides his
vessel out through the two protecting arms of the mole into the open sea to
begin our coast-hugging journey to Tunis.

Both arms of the mole are heavily fortified with heavy cannons pointing
seawards as a deterrent to any sea-going invasion. Two months from now,
beginning in October, the city's fleet of galleys will shelter within the
calm waters of the harbour. There, they'll stay until the following April,
safely protected from the winter gales and high seas that make it
impossible for them to put out to sea.

To the North, those living in the towns and villages on the southern
European shoreline will rest easy. During the winter months, they can sleep
soundly in their beds secure in the knowledge there'll be no night time,
slave-raiding raids by the predatory sea-wolves from North Africa.

The two arms of the mole will take the full brunt of Nature's winter fury
as they are pounded continuously by mountainous waves. Robust and seemingly
invincible, they will be sorely tested and slowly weakened by the seas
ferocious pounding and their maintenance is ongoing. Today, with time still
to spare before the onset of the winter gales, there is feverish activity
to strengthen the ramparts and to re-enforce any weak spots with new
stonework.

From my vantage-point high above the harbour, I see hundreds of tiny
figures at work on the harbour's defences; they scurry over the ramparts
like a swarm of industrious ants.  These are the beylik or public works
slaves and even from this distance I can see the sun glinting on their sun
darkened, naked bodies and the steady rise and fall of the overseers' whips
extracting the last ounce of strength from their tired, aching bodies and
driving them to the very edge of their endurance.

But I have allowed myself to become distracted by the sight of all this. At
first, I didn't realise the angry shouting of an overseer was directed at
me. Apparently, my dawdling has slowed the pace of my fellow slaves and I'm
to pay a heavy price for my inattentiveness. It isn't until his whip falls
thrice across my back and shoulders that I realise my offence. I answer his
cruel rebuke with three, loud screams of pain and quicken my step.

And my fellow slaves also pay the price for my lack of diligence. The whips
fall just as savagely on their shoulders as they do on mine.

Our progress through the narrow, twisting streets is slow and
torturous. The shackles around our ankles impede our progress and our
dawdling pace angers our handlers. The further we move into our journey the
more impatient they become. It would appear they are working within some
time constraint - there is an air of nervousness about them - and it is as
though they must deliver us to our destination by an appointed
time. Perhaps this is so and failure to have us at the appointed place on
time carries some penalty for them.  Quite obviously we are falling behind
and they are losing patience with us. Their angry shouts echo within the
narrow confines of the alleyways as they bring their whips into play to
drive us on.

Suddenly, we shuffle out of the shadowy gloom between the buildings and
into a large, open, sunlit square. This square separates the town from the
Pasha's palace and serves both as a buffer zone between him and his
subjects and as an assembly place for the city's residents when he
addresses them.

Patrolling the square are soldiers unlike any I have ever seen. They are
resplendent in their uniforms of voluminous, snowy white pantaloons; red
jackets heavily decorated with gold embroidery and they all wear matching
turbans and highly polished, black leather boots.  Each has a fearsome,
curved scimitar tucked into the wide sash wrapped around his slim waist;
some are also equipped with tall pikes and they strike terror into my
heart.

Yet there is something different about their appearances. They are unlike
our overseers who are darker complexioned and have black beards. The
soldiers - for the main part - have fairer skins and some even have blond
beards and blue eyes. To my eyes their presence seems out of place among
our swarthier masters.

There is so much about this city and our captors that I don't yet know. If
I did, I would recognise these soldiers as Janissaries or the warrior
slaves of the Ottoman Sultan in far away Constantinople.

As boys, these warriors were either stolen from or given as tribute to the
Turkish Sultan by his subjugated peoples and were trained as fearsome
warriors whose loyalty to him is unquestioning and absolute. They serve
their royal master with zeal and their presence in Tripoli ensures it
remains loyal to the Sublime Porte.  Their importance can't be under
estimated. It's true, the Sultan has appointed the Pasha to serve as his
regent but in truth it is the Janissaries who wield the real power. Ever
vigilant to the interests of their Master, the Sultan, they have the power
to 'make or break' - as many a pasha has found to his cost.

First and foremost they are soldiers of the Sultan but they aren't above
meddling in the affairs of state. Their privileged position allows them to
appoint members from among their number to serve on the 'Divan'- a
powerful, advisory body which assists the Pasha to govern. Although he
might not like their interference in his affairs, it would be unwise of the
Pasha to underestimate their influence with the Sultan or to ignore their
advice to him.

And today, as always, they guard the Pasha's palace. The palace is the
visible symbol of the Sultan's power and the local seat of his government
and they conscientiously ensure that nothing disrupts the public good
order.

As we shuffle into the square, they treat us with disdain. They look at us
dispassionately and they barely raise an eyebrow at our arrival.

There are two things in particular that concern the Janissaries this
morning. Firstly they carefully marshal the spectators assembling to watch
as the Pasha makes his choice from among us. Secondly, they are keeping
watch over a gang of some forty or fifty beylik slaves employed in
repairing the outer, defensive wall of the palace.

For the first time we are close to a work-gang and we gain an insight into
the fate that awaits those of us unlucky enough to be chosen by the Pasha
as his beylik slaves.

These miserable slaves are all white - but their facial characteristics
tell me they come from many Christian lands - and all are naked save for a
skimpy scrap of filthy material wrapped around their loins. They wear these
as a concession to the sensibilities of the local citizenry and not out of
any regard for their modesty or shame.

As I am to find out, a slave's nakedness isn't an issue with our
masters. The day I was captured and placed in the hold of the galley, I was
stripped naked and I have remained so ever since. And as a galley slave I
will remain naked for all my days.

The slaves' emaciated bodies have been blackened by the strong, North
African sun until they are barely recognisable as white Christians from
Europe. Their scarred backs wear the criss-crossed pattern of the lash and
even as we watch those backs are being laid open and bloodied by the whips
of their masters.

Suddenly there is a resounding crash of stone falling onto the stone
surface of the square. I see that a group of unfortunate slaves have
unwisely dropped a heavy quarried stone as they struggled to manoeuvre it
into a gap in the wall.

The overseers supervising their labours lose their tempers and cursing
loudly, they lay about with their whips. Indiscriminately, they aim their
whips in all directions at any unprotected flesh. Even the "innocent"
slaves - those who played no part in dropping the stone - aren't
spared. Their tired, aching bodies become targets for the overseers' spite
filled anger.  Vainly, the slaves try to avoid the savage onslaught and as
they futilely duck and weave to avoid the lash, their agonised shrieks
shatter the early morning peace.

It takes several minutes for the overseers' anger to be assuaged; several
minutes in which all the slaves are thoroughly whipped and loudly cursed as
"lazy dogs" or the "spawn of Shaitan". Perhaps it is the sight of so many
bloodied backs that finally appease the overseers; their anger subsides
into ill-humour and they allow the slaves to resume their labours.

The thoroughly chastened slaves, for their part, apply themselves to their
labours with renewed vigour and diligence. Their fear of the whip spurs
them to draw on unexpected reserves of strength and endurance.

For my part, I watch all this in horror. Is this to be my fate? Will my new
master work me as hard as these poor wretches and will I be subjected to
such horrendous punishments?  Despite the day's warmth I begin to shiver.

At last, we have reached our destination and we are driven shuffling
through the great wooden gates into the outer courtyard of the Pasha's
residence. Our arrival is greeted with loud murmuring from the assembled
spectators who are held back from us at a considerable distance by the
Janissaries.

Frightened and bewildered, I look around me and see we have been halted
before a low platform shaded by a heavily brocaded awning as protection
from the sun. The surface of this platform is richly carpeted and furnished
with deep, plush cushions; however their purpose escapes me. Eight, white
male slaves have assumed positions around the pile of cushions and their
poses tell me what functions they serve. Four of these slaves hold long
fans similar to the ones used yesterday as the Registrar of Slaves
interviewed us. The remaining four slaves hold platters of fruit and
pitchers of honeyed water. And like the Registrar's slaves these eight are
also magnificent specimens of young, Christian manhood.

Obviously, each has been chosen for his great beauty and superb physique;
they stand motionless and wait patiently for the arrival of their Master,
the Pasha. There is an indefinable quality about these eight slaves. They
possess a humility that befits their lowly station yet there is something
else. They stand tall and proud and it is a pride they derive from serving
so exalted a Master as the Pasha. He handpicked each of them individually
to serve him and he regards them with as much affection as he does the
thoroughbred Arab horses stabled behind the palace.

But then, there is very little difference between the Pasha's horses and
his slaves. All are thoroughbred animals reflecting his high status as the
Sultan's representative in Tripoli.

Quickly, our handlers hustle us into three lines one behind the other. The
first two rows hold twenty of us; the third row is made up of the remaining
eight. I find myself in the front row positioned two from one end. Joachim
stands alongside me in third place.

Our overseers order us to remain still and to stay silent. The crowd
presses forward to be closer to us for their visual inspections but they
are held back by the determined Janissaries.

Nevertheless, they are close enough to scrutinise us and even though I
don't understand what they are saying, I know they are comparing us with
one another and deciding which of us are worthy of their bids when we go to
auction.

It is a terrifying realisation to know that they see us as slaves - as mere
beasts of burden - and that soon they'll be bidding for us. My transition
from a newly captured prisoner into an owned slave is now but one step
away.

Suddenly, the excited buzz of both the potential buyers and the voyeurs is
stilled by a shrill, trumpet fanfare and the clashing of cymbals. As the
crowd fall silent, our overseers whip us to our knees and force our heads
to the ground in obeisance.

The Pasha enters and takes his place on the platform. As he settles down
into his cushions, his slaves begin to fan him as the others wait at his
elbow eager to serve him refreshments should he require them.

The Pasha's penjic is about to begin. Soon, one in every eight of us will
belong to him.


To be continued......