"THE GALLEY SLAVE"
A Young Man's Odyssey into Slavery
Chapter 7: "Taken before the Pasha"

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

Written by Jean-Christophe (Chris)
An archive of mt stories can be found 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. Please respect the integrity of the story abd don't do any rewrires, make alterations or add pictures."

Chapter 7: "Taken before the Pasha"

"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. 

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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?

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We move out of the bagnio 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 and accompany 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'm 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 devastingly 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 see 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 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 so. 

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'd 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...........    


