Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 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.



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

   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.



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

   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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