THE GALLEY SLAVE
"A Young Man's Odyssey into Slavery"
Chapter 13: The "Ghibli"

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

Written by Jean-Christophe (Chris)
Read my stories at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Jean-Christophe_Stories 

"The characters and ideas contained in this story are the writer's and shouldn't be used without permission"

Chapter 13: The "Ghibli"

The galley which, when at sea, is to be both my home and my prison rests in a stout, timber cradle on its slipway. After the galley's most recent return to port, its unhappy slaves were made to row it from its moorings over to the far shoreline of the inner harbour and there released from their chains, they'd dragged it ashore. This was a physically demanding task only made possible by the fury of the overseer's lash. There for the past few days, they'd been driven by those same whips in preparing the vessel for its final, trading voyage of the season. 

My new Master's galley, its hull careened and its rowers' pits cleared of the build-up of excrement deposited there by its chained, hapless victims during the last voyage is now ready to be hauled back into the water and towed over to a dock mooring for provisioning.

The Ghibli's shallow, black hull now cleaned of the marine growth, which if allowed to remain would slow its speed and add resistance to the oars slaves' rowing, gleams ominously in the early morning light. It's rowing benches, and the deck below them, have been scraped clean of all human detritus and fresh, animal skins have been re-attached to the benches. 

But no amount of scraping and no amount of scrubbing can ever remove the foul stench of slavery. So much suffering and so much pain has seeped into the blood and sweat stained timbers of the rowers' benches that the galley's stink is impossible to remove. True, its impact has been temporarily lessened but within days, the galley will be once again a floating cesspool and as noisome as before.  

The hull towers above me and I see written on its stern the name - "Ghibli". Of course I can't read this for the name is formed from strange, unrecognisable symbols so unlike the alphabet with which I am familiar. Yet - and despite my ignorance of their meaning - these symbols impress me with their intrinsic beauty. But this is true about so much of my captors. In the days since I was brought ashore in this exotic city to begin my captivity, I have seen many things to amaze me. 

Amid the cruelty of this place, there is an exotic beauty which is lost on the miserable slaves who toil within its walls. These wretches see only the ugliness of unrelenting labour and barbarous mistreatment at the hands of their masters. The plain, paint-washed, street-fronts of the houses hide the richness of their interiors; interiors which look inwards to the gracious courtyards and gardens wherein their fortunate occupants can relax in a cool haven amidst welcome shade against the day's oppressive heat. 

The play of sunlight and shade on the pastel-tinted facades of the city's building give it a vibrancy so unlike the drabness of the mist-shrouded, grey cities of my home. The gently, swaying date palms nod their feathery crowns in the cooling sea breezes blowing up from the harbour and the scented air is heavily laden with the perfume of both citrus trees and jasmine vines. 

And amid the barbarism there are unimaginable - at least to my mind - and civilising influences such as the reticulated water systems which power the tinkling, splashing fountains standing at the centres of Tripoli's many squares and which provide its citizens with a constant, fresh supply of clean, drinking water.

Eventually, I will learn that my owner named his galley after the ferocious wind which has its genesis, far to the south, in the hot sands of the vast Saharan Desert. From there it blows northwards with fiery, Hell's breath intensity over the stormy, white-capped waters of the Middle Sea and on to the southern coastal fringes of Christian Europe where it shortens the temper and frays the nerve of many an anxious resident.

This side of the harbour has been set aside for the beaching and careening of the many galleys and ships which have made Tripoli their home port. Chosen for its ample space and gently shelving beach, this area is ideal for the beaching and refurbishing of vessels. Along its foreshore are the ancillary workshops of the shipwrights, sail-makers and providores who service all the corsairs' vessels. 

And toiling in these workshops are Christian slaves who like us are semi-naked and wear the heavy, iron collars of their slavery around their necks. And like us, they wear the two brands of their slavery.

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

Yesterday afternoon, at the slave-market, Joachim, the young Lowlander, Hendrikus and I had been delivered into the hands of our new Master. He wasted no time in processing us into our new slavery and upon the return of his boatswain; he delivered us into his hands. The boatswain is a renegade Christian who'd "turned Turk" and had adopted the heathen name, Osmani. It fell to him to make us ready for our labours.

Osmani was frugal in his use of words to instruct us. I'm unsure whether this resulted from his naturally, surly disposition or his lack of understanding of our different tongues. However, I will learn that he does speak the universal language of slaves; the "Sabir" or the Lingua Franca of the Middle Sea of which I presently have no knowledge but must soon learn in order to survive.  

Except for telling us in what direction to walk, he'd kept silent and persuasively allowed his whip to keep us moving forward. He'd been instructed not to use his whip on Hendrikus who would, later that day, be presented to our Master's son, Daoud as a gift. His back was to remain in unmarked condition. Joachim and I weren't as fortunate; as galley slaves our bodies were open targets for Osmani's whip which he applied with vigorous enthusiasm. 

Mercifully our journey was a brief one. Tied into single file, we stumbled downhill from the slave-market, out through the city gates and on to the waterfront to our Master's warehouse. This is here he stores all his trade-goods and built into the warehouse are the onshore stables which house his galley slaves when they aren't at sea. 

As we entered through the stout, wooden doors into the warehouse's gloomy interior, my senses were assailed by a strange combination of smells. The ever-present odour of slavery permeated the building with its sickly-sweet smell of unwashed, sweat-sodden bodies, the foulness of unsanitary drains which caught at the back of my throat and made me gag and the fetid odour of the soiled, straw bedding used by the slaves. And yet these were mitigated to some degree by the pungency of the various spices, carpets and other trade goods my Master had stored here. 

It took several moments for my eyes to adjust from the outside intensity of the sun's glare to the shaded interior of the strong, double-walled, stone building. However, once they'd adjusted, I could see the warehouse was a veritable treasure trove. 

Strong shelves held bolts of exotic materials. They groaned under the weight of rare silks from the mysterious East, heavy, Italian brocades taken from captured Christian ships, colourful rugs from Persia and the uniquely patterned pottery from far-away Senegambia. 

Still more shelves buckled under the weight of ivory elephant tusks and I gazed in awe at their lengths and could only wonder at the size of the animals from which these had been prised - literally. I had never seen an elephant but I was aware of their existence. Once, when I was a small boy, I'd seen a drawing of one in an ancient Bestiary which belonged to a friend of my father's. 

Stacked around the walls were baskets, bales and earthenware containers - too numerous for me to count - in which were packed the exotic trade goods in which my Master galleys trades.

And at the far end of the warehouse, I saw the stout iron bars of the slave pens that were to house me whenever I was ashore from my Master's galley. 

On entering the warehouse, I was overwhelmed with a feeling of unease; as though some sixth sense was warning me of an impending ordeal. 

But what was to happen to me? What other torments could my captors subject me to? They'd stripped me naked, branded me, humiliated me and sold me into slavery at public auction. What more could they inflict upon me?

Even as these thoughts troubled me, two figures materialised out of the gloom and spoke to Osmani. I recognised them as seaman from their dress and later I will see them working alongside the boatswain as whip masters. Later, my ears will ring to their abusive exhortations for me to row harder and my back will feel the sting of their whips. But yesterday, they had other tasks to perform and they wasted no time in starting. 

Quickly, Joachim, Hendrikus and I were examined. This was followed by an animated discussion accompanied by much gesticulating between all three as they decided what was to be done to us.

Hendrikus was moved to one side as Joachim and I were forced to our knees while our scalps and beards were shorn back to shortened stubble. Then, heavy iron collars were placed around our necks. The name of our Master's galley was engraved on our collars and for me personally the collar's weight rested heavily on my spirits. And I supposed the same must be true of Joachim.

Hendrikus hair wasn't cropped nor was he collared with us. His collar would be fitted later and unlike the rough iron collar of my slavery, his will be the more expensive, ornate one of the pleasure slave. 

I'm not to know but later, Hendrikus will be given into the hands of our Master's eunuchs to be made ready for his new Master, Daoud. Hendrikus will keep his tousled, blond hair - somewhat shortened but longer than either Joachim's and mine - but his body will be stripped of all its hair. 

Made to lie on a marble bench, Hendrikus's body will be coated from head to foot with a solution of sugar and lemon heated until it has the consistency of molasses. Then, after several minutes, once it has cooled, the eunuchs will gently - and lovingly - use strong, silken threads to scrape the gelatinous mess and hair from his body leaving it as flawlessly smooth as that of a young virgin.

Lastly, the eunuchs will bathe Hendrikus seven times in a ritual that will both cleanse and purify him and then massage expensive, perfumed oil into his body. After this, Hendrikus will be ready for his presentation by our Master to his son, Daoud. Hendrikus will be made to kneel before his new Master and to kiss his feet in homage.  Daoud will graciously thank his father for his generous gift of this beautiful, young slave and signal his acceptance by fitting an ornate, gold collar around his new slave's neck. 

But Daoud will express even greater appreciation to his father the following morning once he has sampled the sexual delights of his new pleasure slave's body.

Hendrikus stood forlornly to one side and watched in wide-eyed fright as Osmani's assistants cropped our pubes as close to the skin as possible. Then, using lighted tapers, they seared the remaining hair from our bodies until we were left with just singed stubble on our chests, bellies, limbs and in our armpits.

Joachim and I are to discover this is done periodically to all our Master's galley slaves. A hirsute slave provides an inviting haven and a warm, moist breeding-ground for lice and other troublesome parasites.  If left unchecked, these unwelcome pests spread quickly among the oar-slaves debilitating them by their biting and blood-sucking and robbing them of their strength and vitality.

The singeing of the coarse, long hair on a slave's body somewhat - but not entirely - minimises this and could make for a happier, healthier slave. 

I wondered about Hendrikus's presence. If he isn't to share in Joachim's and my preparations, then why is he here? Perhaps he is waiting to be delivered to our Master after we'd been processed. Yes! That must be it!

But I was wrong! A fresh horror awaited all three of us. 

The two seamen took hold of Hendrikus and dragged him to a waist-high table in an obscured corner of the warehouse. I'd been so concerned with what was being done to me that I'd not noticed the table before. Sensing that something dreadful was to be done to him, Hendrikus began to struggle vainly in their firm grasp and pleaded with them to spare him any further tortures. 

His pleas were ignored as he was unceremoniously lifted high and laid full-length and face down on top of the table. Working quickly, Hendrikus was soon strapped down and immobilised with his arms pinioned firmly by his sides. His only movements were in the terrified twitching of his muscles and the sob induced contractions of his chest. 

It was at that moment that I realised what was happening to the young slave. I recognised the table as a branding bench and that Hendrikus was about to be branded for a second time. And if that was so, surely it followed that Joachim and I were also to be branded. 

The awful realisation of this caused my bile to rise and sour in my throat. I began to tremble and my knees threatened to give way. My sideway glance at Joachim showed me he'd come to the same conclusion as I had. The pallor of his face and the trembling of his limbs confirmed his fear was every bit as real as my own.  

Hendrikus hadn't yet realised he was to be branded. However, he did so when one of the seamen moved aside a packing case to reveal a small brazier of glowing, red hot coals from which protruded the handles of three, branding irons. Wisely, Osmani had instructed that the brazier was to be kept from our view until the very last moment. In doing so, he'd ensured that we didn't panic and struggled as we'd been shorn of our hair and collared. 

It was left to Osmani to do the branding and to his credit he wasted no time in doing so. He is much experienced at marking a slave and mercifully, his speed lessens the trauma of the branding-iron for its victim.

In a few fluid movements, he withdrew a branding-iron from its bed of hot coals and pressed the flickering, red-orange metal against the tender skin of the new slave's right, deltoid shoulder muscle.

In the momentary silence that followed, I heard the sickening sound of sizzling skin which was followed almost immediately by Hendrikus's agonised shriek of pain. The sound of his pain was terrible to hear. It began somewhere deep down in the young slave's being and rumbled forth most heartrendingly.

Once more, my nostrils were assailed by the sickening smell of scorched flesh and it returned me to the terrors of my own branding of just a few days ago. Dazedly, I watched as Hendrikus was released from the branding-bench and through the fog of my own fear, I heard his loud sobbing. But my chief concern wasn't for him; it was for me. In my blind panic, I cared for no one. My self-preservation overrode any concerns I had for either Hendrikus or Joachim. Such is the selfishness of slavery! 

Osmani's men wasted no time in taking hold of me and hustling me over to the bench. Even so, I struggled desperately to avoid this second branding but all to no avail. There was no matching the strength and determination of my two handlers who effortlessly lifted me high and belly-flopped me onto the bench with such force that I was temporarily winded. Wild-eyed, I followed Osmani as he walked towards me and panic stricken I turned my head to watch as he pulled a second branding iron form the brazier. 

I was convulsed by a violent shuddering; I could feel the stout bench move beneath my body's trembling terror and my resolve broke. Any residual courage I still retained fled and I heard my wild sobbing and my cowardly pleas for mercy. But no mercy was to be shown to me that day or on any of the others that followed.  

My fevered mind seethed with the question - "Why am I being branded for this second time?" 

From my rural youth, I knew that farm animals were marked with their owner's distinctive brand. My father's beasts all wore his ownership mark and I'd never considered branding as anything other than necessary. Then, the use of the branding-iron had made sense to me and, after all, it was only farm animals that were branded. 

But one market-day, I saw the true barbarism of the branding-iron when two, young criminals were publicly branded in the market square. I well remember their wild-eyed terror as their sentences were read out to the townsfolk, farmers and peasants who'd eagerly assembled to watch this diversion from the business of the markets. 

The market-square took on an almost carnival like feel as people gathered before the stocks and jostled one another for the best vantage points. I overheard their good-natured bantering as they talked in groups and the excited chatter of young boys scampering between their legs. Above the hubbub, I heard the loud cries of the hawkers selling their wares of hot, pork pies and rosy red apples. 

And worst of all,  I heard the fear-filled voices of the two hapless victims calling upon highest heaven to spare them and the answering taunts and jeers from the jovial crowd of onlookers.

I was repulsed by the spectacle and yet I was drawn to it like a moth to a candle. I wanted to walk away and yet I stayed. Both men had been judged guilty by the Puritans who ruled in our area and were condemned to wear the signs of their sins in perpetuity for all God-fearing folk to see.  I stayed and watched as the letter "B" - for blasphemer - was seared into the forehead of one of the hapless men and the letter "F" - for fornicator- into the forehead of the second man.  

I heard the sickening sizzle of blistering skin and smelt the scorching of burnt flesh. I remember the hapless victims' vain pleas for mercy, the pitiful begging to be spared and the anguished screams as the red-hot irons were applied to unmarked flesh. But most of all I recall the cruelty and callousness of the crowd who cheered loudly as the irons seared their permanent warnings against the consequence of sinning into the foreheads of the two criminals. 

Strapped to the bench and waiting for Osmani to brand me, memories of that day came flooding back to overwhelm me with its awfulness. 

Mercifully, Osmani worked quickly and my branding was over within moments of its beginning. The speed with which Osmani worked minimised my trauma but it did nothing to ease my suffering. 

I felt the agonising pain as the iron's red hot metal kissed my tender flesh and I heard my detached, anguished scream of protest at this latest assault on my body. 

Within moments, my ordeal was over and released from the bench, I was taken to stand alongside the still sobbing Hendrikus. There wrapped in my own misery, I watched as Joachim took his place on the bench and was branded.   

The answer to my question as to the reason for this second brand will, in the coming days, become painfully obvious. As my new brand blisters and scabs over, I will realise that, in our captors' eyes, both brands are indeed necessary. Each is independent of the other and yet they are complementary. My first brand - the one on my left flank - defines me as a slave. The second one I now wear of my right shoulder shows the world that like the cattle on my father's farm, I am owned property - the slave of my Master.

Today, this new brand shows as a livid obscenity against the naked, whiteness of my shoulder. I am unable to decipher its meaning and I am still too traumatised to give it any attention other than to regard it as a constant, throbbing reminder of yesterday's pain. 

Following on from our brandings, Hendrikus was taken away - we knew not where -and Joachim and I were placed in one of the slave cells. There we retreated to a corner, and huddled together, we gave way to our emotions. So much had happened to us in the preceding days and each day brings forth some new torment or some new humiliation for us to endure. When will our suffering be at an end?

Our first night in our new Master's slave stables proved uneventful. Neither Joachim nor I were of a mood to show much interest in our soon-to-be fellow oar-slaves when they arrived shortly after sunset. Vaguely, I was aware of them being shackled with their night chains and being feed before they were locked away in the cells for the night. 

The overseers in charge of these slaves ordered Joachim and me to our feet and after they'd examined us, they gave us food and water. If the choice had been mine, I would have refused the food but accepted the water to ease my parched throat made hoarse by my screaming as I was branded. 

But that choice wasn't mine to make and the overseers wouldn't tolerate any opposition to their commands. We were given bowls of an unappetising grey, porridge-like gruel which also contained a few portions of tough, gristly meat. As the overseers uncoiled their whips, they wordlessly convinced us that we should obey their order to eat or suffer the penalty for our disobedience. Neither of us had the will to fight them; we simply gave in and ate our first meal as galley slaves. 

After we'd finished eating, we were fitted with our night chains and returned to our cell. There, lying side by side, we spent our first, fitful night wondering what new horrors awaited us tomorrow. But before that, our fellow-slaves acknowledged our presence among them by asking what languages we spoke. Once it had been established that I was an Englishman, my fellow countrymen among the slaves besieged me with endless questions about "home". 

I will discover that the arrival of a new slave among their number creates much interest among the longer-serving galley slaves. Deprived of all knowledge of the world beyond their captivity, all slaves hunger nostalgically for the even the smallest morsel of information from their homelands. 


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This morning, as the first rays of the sun lightened the darkness of the eastern skies we were woken. In the early morning gloom, we'd been released from our pens, hurried along as we emptied our bladders and voided our bowels before we "feasted" on the hard, black biscuit and dates that are a staple part of the galley slave's diet. As I bit into my chunk of bread, I understood why my Master had paid particular attention to the soundness of my teeth when he'd examined me in the slave-market yesterday. Without strong teeth, I would have found it impossible to eat this galley-slave's fare. 

No time was wasted in making us ready for our day's labours. Once fed, our night shackles were removed and we were each given a loincloth to wear. 

As I was handed my loincloth, it foulness repulsed me. It consisted of an oblong piece of unbleached cotton or calico - its coarse weave opened it to conjecture as to which of the two - and probably it had once been in pristine condition. Now its colour is an indeterminate grey-brown. Doubtlessly, it has been stained numerous times by the copious sweating of the many slaves who have worn it and, even worse, stained by their bodily extrusions. And it has been given to me to wear. I'm unsure of what to do with it and look for guidance; I watch my fellow-slaves as they pass it lengthways between their legs and tie the four ends together; two on either side of their waists. Distastefully, I do the same.

When first captured, my enforced nakedness had shamed me. But since then I have become inured to a slave's nudity. After all, it is commonplace within the bagnio and the slave-market. And it will be even more so once I take my place on the rowers' bench.  

I suppose I should have been grateful for this concession to my modesty. But, as I passed the filthy rag between my legs and fastened it around my waist, I was overcome with disgust. I'd much rather remain naked than wear this objectionable item of clothing.

But I'm not to know the issuing of this loincloth wasn't done out of any consideration for my sensibilities. Rather it was done to protect the gaze of the city's free citizens from the utter obscenity of seeing any uncircumcised, Christian slaves. 

It is one thing to have a naked slave toiling at a galley's oar. But it is quite another matter for an uncircumcised infidel to defile the eyes of a believer with his foul nakedness.


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Today, only the Ghibli is resting on a slipway surrounded by her hull-scrapings and those of all the other galleys who preceded her. 

Most of the war galleys are still at sea. Their crews, ever hungry for more loot and the capture of new slaves, are ready for their final assaults on the fat, lumbering, cargo vessels of their Christian enemies before winter calls a halt to their depredations. 

Now the Ghibli awaits her return to the sea. Strong ropes have been attached to her bow and I, together with my fellow slaves, acting like so many tug-of-war teams, wait for the boatswain's whistle to take up the ropes' slack and begin the superhuman task of refloating the galley. 

Two, stout row-boats manned by slaves wait ready to tow the Ghibli back to her mooring on the far side of the harbour once we have returned her to the water. 

Above us, from the height of the ship's prow, our Master stands imperiously and looks down upon us. His boatswain, Osmani stands at his side waiting on his command.

I stand with Joachim on our rope and all around us our fellow galley-slaves await Osmani's order with nervous anticipation and fearful apprehension. 

Suddenly, the fear-heavy silence is shattered by a shrill whistle blast. Osmani has given the order for us to begin our labours. 

All around us whips whistle and crackle through the still morning air as our overseers command us to take up the slack in the tow ropes. As we hasten to obey, other slaves armed with heavy hammers knock out the wooden chocks holding the galley in its slipway. 

There is a loud groan of resistance as the Ghibli begins its slow slide downwards towards the water. I feel the galley's reluctance to yield to our efforts through the backward pull on my tow-rope and the intolerable strain this placed on my stressed body.

The morning's silence is broken by the creaking of timber grating against timber as we slowly inch the galley forwards. Anxious to avoid the whip, I strive with all my being to add my strength to that of my fellow slaves. 

But my efforts to avoid the whips of my Master's overseers are in vain. I stumble as my feet slip on the smooth, pebbly beach and instantly I feel the fiery sting of the lash as it cuts across my shoulders. My scream joins with those of all my fellow slaves who are being similarly whipped to perform feats of superhuman strength. 

However, through our efforts, the Ghibli gradually gathers momentum and slides down the slipway, until with a whoosh and a loud splash, she settles in the water ready for her next voyage. We barely have time to let go of the tow-ropes and leap aside lest we are dragged into the harbour and sucked under the water's turbulence. 

And even though we are exhausted to the point of collapse, there is to be no rest for us. As the two row boats tow the Ghibli to her berth, we are herded together and driven by the whips of our overseers around the harbour's shore and onto the wharf where the Ghibli awaits us.    

We aren't privy to our Master's plans. If we were, we'd know that he intends to sail with the early morning tide two days from now. There is much to be done before then and we are to provide the labour force.  The galley needs to be provisioned and watered for her latest voyage and our Master's trade goods have to be carried from his warehouse and stowed in the Ghibli's cargo hold. 

The next two days are to prove taxing for both Joachim and me.


To be continued.........

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