THE GALLEY SLAVE
"A Young Man's Odyssey into Slavery"
Chapter 1

This is story of erotic fiction meant to be read by adult readers
over the age of eighteen years.

Written by Jean-Christophe (Chris)
An archive of my 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"

Chapter 1: "Galleys on the Distant Horizon"

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

The sound of the tambour overrides the creak and splash of the
oars; it drowns out the laboured breathing of my fellow slaves,
the rattling of our chains and the sinister hiss and crack of the
overseers' whips as they scourge our sweating, straining, naked
bodies. And of course it dulls our answering screams as we cry
out in agony.

The sun hangs like a molten ball of red-hot metal in a cloudless
blue sky as our galley slices its way through the still,
mirror-like surface of the sea. The sun broils my naked body
already shredded by the whip, my throat is parched and my tongue
clings to the dry roof of my mouth. How long is it since we were
given our meagre ration of water? I don't know - for as long we
have been rowing and it does seem forever - but it was in the
semi-darkness of the predawn when I last tasted the cooling balm
of water and my belly rumbles from its hunger pangs.

We aren't fed first thing in the morning - our Master won't allow
it. In common with most galley-masters, he believes a slave's
belly should be empty when he is rowing; a full belly makes for a
sluggish slave. So our food intake is limited to once a day at
the end of our rowing shifts when the galley anchors for the
night. In the cool of the evening, we are given our daily ration
of dried dates and the weevil-infested biscuits soaked in what we
euphemistically call "slave wine". This vile concoction is
predominately stale tasting water and vinegar to which has been
added a few drops of olive oil. The oil is considered necessary
to keep our bowels open; again the thinking of our Master is that
a constipated slave isn't able to give of his best at the oar.
But quite the opposite effect can also result from this mixture
and can cause great distress to an unfortunate slave. This is one
the reasons why we are kept naked.

I am a new slave and this is my first voyage. I am twenty years
old and was a seaman aboard an English merchant ship trading
between Italy and my home-country. I was a peasant boy and I'd
enthusiastically "gone to sea" to escape the drudgery of my rural
existence. It's ironic that in escaping that drudgery, I have
condemned myself to one a thousand times more terrible. I think
of this constantly.

Oh, how I wish for the freedom of the green fields of rural
England instead of this torture I now suffer. Often, I wallow in
my self-pity and there are times when I lose concentration and
don't pull hard enough on my oar. Always waiting behind me is an
overseer whose whip snaps me out of my despondency and encourages
me to fully apply myself to my work.

My owner is a merchant and he owns four, small galleys which
trade along the North African coastline and further afield to the
Ottomans. Each galley is equipped with thirty oars-fifteen on
either side- and these are powered by three slaves apiece.
Starting at the bow on the port side, all the slaves are numbered
consecutively; I am number 27 - this has replaced my given name
of Caleb - and toiling alongside me are numbers 25 and 26. I sit
adjacent to the walkway which runs down the length of the galley
from bow to stern. This is the domain of our overseers and whip
masters who constantly prowl along its length looking for any
slave who isn't extending himself at the oar. Should a slave be
foolish enough not to give of his best then he can expect little
mercy. The whips rain down on him until the overseer is satisfied
he can give no more of himself. Even then they keep a sharp eye
on the offending slave to ensure there is no slackening of the
pace set by the constant boom of the drum. We pace our forward
and backward strokes of the oars to the individual beats of this
drum; the faster the beat then the faster we must row.

My position at the oar is the least desirable one. Positioned as
it is alongside the walkway I am an easy target for the whip
masters and several times this morning I have felt the fiery
sting of the lash on my back.

How can I describe the unendurable pain of a galley slave? Who
can imagine the unimaginable horrors of being worked like a
beast-of- burden for that is what we are. We are no longer men
deserving of respect and consideration, we have become animals
whose only purpose is to propel this galley on its voyage.
Stripped naked and shorn of our humanity the only demand made of
us is that we serve our Master until we die of ill-treatment and
exhaustion. Deprived of proper food and nourishment, we grow
leaner as our Master's profits grow fatter from our exertions.

Today as I row, my naked body is racked with pain. Rowing places
great stress on every muscle in my body and they scream out for
relief. But there will be no relief until sundown. Then our
Master will seek refuge from the open sea and anchor for the
night in some secluded cove or inlet. There his overseers will
feed and water us and we will be allowed to slump over our oars
to rest and recuperate before we are awakened in the pre-dawn
gloom, given our ration of slave wine and made ready for the new
day's rowing.

My body tries to tell me it has reached the limits of its
endurance, my mind screams out a silent "ENOUGH" but my fear of
the whip keeps me working. My sweat trickles down my naked body;
its saltiness irritates the lash marks on my back, stings my eyes
and enters my mouth and adds to my thirst. My muscles flex and
strain under the unrealistic demands made of them by the
overseers and my oxygen starved lungs gasp and gulp at the hot,
desert air drifting out over the sea from the nearby land.

We are never out of sight of the coastline; my Master prefers it
that way. We are a merchant galley and not a war one so he seeks
the security of a friendly port should we ever be confronted by
an unfriendly vessel.

Already we have had one narrow escape when several days ago - I'm
unsure of the exact number as time for a galley slave is measured
by the duration of his rowing sessions and the hours of an all
too short a rest period - we'd been chased by a man-o-war.
Briefly, I dared to hope that rescue was at hand. Those hopes
were cruelly dashed by the ever increasing beat of the tambour
and the constant lashing of our bodies as we were made to row
harder and faster to escape from our one chance of freedom. As
the whips cut into my back, I cried tears of frustration at the
cruel realisation of this.

The man-o-war was no match for our speed and manoeuvrability; we
quickly out sped it and found safety within a shallow inlet. The
man-o-war prowled the entrance to the cove for several hours like
some hungry predator waiting to pounce on its prey and I and my
fellow slaves stilled dared to hope. Eventually, it gave up and
we watched despairingly as it changed course and sailed away.

The victorious cheering of our Master and his crew added to our
despondency and gloom. Once our Master felt it was safe to leave
the sanctuary of the inlet, we were viciously whipped into action
and made to row even faster to make up for the time he'd lost.

As I strain at my oar, I am confronted by the ranks of the slaves
in front of me. It's possible to tell the period of service a
slave has seen at the oars by the darkness of his skin, the filth
of his body, the length of his matted hair and beard and the
lacerations on his back. These lacerations on a slave's
back speak of his suffering; the layering of these welts one on
top of the other tells of the time he has spent at the oar. The
early ones have dried and hardened into scar tissue while the
more recent one are still healing and the most recent ones have
opened his back and are bleeding. The bloody stripes on my own
back show that I have only recently been put to the oar.

The forward and backward motion of the oars places an intolerable
strain on my own striped back and I row with all my strength to
avoid the whip. As I strain forward on the oar, the cuts on my
back open and the sharp pain I feel is a constant reminder that I
must keep rowing; I must keep the beat of the drum and maintain
the pace of my fellow slaves or suffer the overseers' cruel
whips. I apply myself to the herculean task before me with all
the strength and vigour that my body possesses.

Inevitably, a galley slave's head becomes a void; empty of all
thoughts and impervious to all but the mind-numbing and
repetitious beating of the drum, the to and fro motion of his oar
and the awful pain he suffers. His body is no longer his own and
it ceases to function as a separate entity. He has become a mere
cog in the vast engine that powers the galley. This then is the
bleakness
of my life and I am without hope.

Yet there are brief respites in the dull monotony of our
existence. Whenever, we reach a port some of us are chosen to
load and unload the galley's cargo or to replenish its water
barrels. Because of our newness, my oar companion, 26 and I are
usually two of the fortunate few chosen for this task. How I look
forward to this; this chance to walk and to stretch my legs is a
welcome one. Even though we struggle under heavy loads and the
whips of our masters, I am overwhelmingly grateful for this brief
respite from the drudgery of the oars.

I have even learned to close my mind and ears to the jibes and
taunts of the port's citizens who have come to watch as we
labour. The spectacle of hated Nasrani slaves toiling under the
lash is one that both excites and delights them. I don't speak
their language, but my intuition tells me that the comments of
the youths who gather in great numbers to watch as we work are
derogatory and demeaning to us. I know instinctively that they
are laughing at our filthy nakedness and they cheer loudly each
time a whip cuts across an exposed back or a bare arse. But these
respites are all too rare and most of my time is spent chained to
my rowing bench.

I share my bench with numbers 25 and 26. Twenty-five is a
black-haired, Spaniard and has been at the oar for two years.
Twenty-six is like me, a new arrival, and is a blond German. He
was captured by the same corsairs who'd taken my vessel and we
travelled in chains to the slave-market where our Master had
bought us. Our Master is always on the lookout for young, robust
slaves to replace any tired and worn-out ones no longer capable
of pulling at the oar. Twenty-six and I had caught his eye and
he'd bought us. Now we toil alongside one another and we share a
bond of brotherhood in our common misery. It's not possible for
us to speak during the day but at night, as we lay slumped over
our oar, we do manage to steal a few brief moments when we
exchange whispered words and we offer mutual support and comfort
to one another. Invariably, our talks are abruptly ended by the
whip of an ever vigilant overseer who orders us to keep quiet, to
rest and save our energies for tomorrow's exertions.

During the night, I weep for my lost freedom and I'm sometimes
aware that 26 is also crying. Twenty-five, now reconciled to his
fate stopped crying many months ago. This behaviour is common for
a newly captured slave. The shock of capture at sea, the journey
into slavery in the foul-smelling bilge of a corsair galley and
the indignity of being sold naked on the auction block all
combine to traumatise the mind of a new slave.

I recall my own mounting despair as I stood on the deck of my
ship and watched as three sleek corsair galleys sliced their ways
through the azure blue sea towards us. It was early morning when
we were taken.

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