Silvana's Quest

by Caroline Swift

  A week later, she was given, all the same, a mule and, uncomfortably, made her way back to Zahra that, since her departure, had been under Ilka's supervision with Haroun and Fahdel in the background. Settling in, she realized Thanon was no more around. It was much later she learnt on the grapevine that he had been assigned by the priesthood to take the place apparently of the aging Sefket, with the ever-devoted Damiana at his side. Sic transit gloria.

  All went well down at Zahra for a time, until nemesis struck.

  The Débâcle

  Once within the gates of Mestria, Mila and her weary companion felt they were out of danger, despite the rough welcome they received. Immediately bound, they were brought before the priests and the mukhabarat in charge of both security and the custody of slaves impounded in the town.

  The gruelling interrogations appeared to satisfy the Mestrians. Mila was given a short jerkin that helped to cover much of what had been inflicted on her sparse body. That gesture raised her spirits. The waif of a menial who had helped her to break away from Zahra was consigned without further ado to the slave pound for felching and fornication. Mila did not raise a finger to protest, relieved to be rid of her.

  The mukharbarat listened to Mila's tale of woe and, to his credit, believed what he heard. Then her description of the approaches to and lay-out of the Bithynian outpost was noted and discussed with care, the information leading rapidly to the authorities' resolve to mount an attack on what was a short-staffed, wealthy locality. To be carried out by night, the assault aimed at setting fire to as much property as possible, particularly the brothel, and, at Mila's mention of the tempting inmates, seizing what slaves happened to come to hand. The prospect of a batch of Bithynian whores especially roused the Mestrians to take up arms, for the local stews were running desperately short of flesh, which worried the authorities.

  What interested Mila - and she admitted it - was the seizure of a blonde prostitute by the name of Silvana and the mukharbarat at her request promised to hand over the female in question to Mila in return for the information so cordially provided.

  The Mestrians had doubts regarding the vacationing nobles, for, as Mila pointed out, the so-called Master of Slaves, one Thanon, a retired Saronian dignitary of note - who, had she known it, had left - might well organize retaliation later. To take such a one prisoner could result in war or at least a strong riposte by the palace forces, once the sally became known. It was, the mukharbarat confirmed, rather the slaves that interested Mestria; should an odd noble or female courtier fall foul of the attack, the consequences could prove delicate.

  After Mila had been feasted on fish, oysters and water melon - a gesture she much appreciated - the somnolent garrison resembled a nest of hornets as preparations were made. An armed posse of reliable warriors was designated for the expedition along the coast two nights later, once the moon had set. Despite the advantage of her accompanying the troop, it was decided not to include Mila. But, by way of appreciation of their long-lost kinswoman and if she so desired, she was offered a male halberbier to fuck. Like the victuals, she readily accepted, being starved not only of nourishment but of sex. She was anxious to retrieve her strength in both ways for, if the hag Silvana were to appear, Mila would need resilience.

  The five Mestrian warriors, armed with scimitars and falchions and bearing a single pitch-pine torch, set out under the moon's last glimmers to traverse the distance separating them from the Bithynian border. Hours were needed to skirt the cliffs before risking the descent on to the sands where the flambeau would have to be masked.

  In Zahra, Silvana had drowsed off in her bunk. Though again herself after the Moon Festival, she felt exhausted by Ilka's sexual energy and the way the girl's mouth, still glued to the spicy clit, had squandered her through most of the evening. Sprawled out naked, both slept soundly in the heat of the night. Fahdel had already turned in, welcomed by the cook in the absence of the vanished scullion. Haroun dozed peacefully in his quarters, regretting his master's departure but pleased to be still with the mercurial blonde. The slaves tossed and turned on their palliasses, cursing the retention chains their mistress had reinstalled to prevent further escapes. Only the lapping of the waves disturbed the silence; after the gulls, even the nightjars and bats had long since retired to the cover of darkness. All was still.

  It was Odile, though weak after a sharp whipping and several orgasms in a distant residence of one of the few remaining courtiers, who heard the footsteps and mutterings of the Mestrians. Her nipples and vagina froze with alarm. When the first flames climbed up the wattle walls and consumed the brothel, she screamed in terror, waking the others. The first to seize the situation was Bastian. Tearing his chain out of the crumbling wall, he helped the others to free themselves. Rushing in, Silvana received a blow from a Mestrian fist and found herself being dragged out by the hair. The sparks leaping high into the night, the flimsy building collapsed; a moment later a line of petrified, coffled figures - all the slaves having returned from service in the residences - together with the disarmed Fahdel, was being driven eastward, and the march to Mestria began. Too stunned to fight or even yell for help - Thanon's residence anyway being empty - Silvana reeled forward, linked between Ilka in front and Crassos behind. Only Haroun - Mestria held eunuchs in contempt - remained on the sands, tongue-tied with fright at the glint of the receding scimitars; it had all taken place so swiftly, he had become a rooted mass of blubber, along with the cook. None of the slumbering resident guests had been in any way disturbed. The attack had been well prepared.

  Stumbling along the beach, Silvana guessed that Mila might well be behind the timing.

  The trudge through the hot night, although hastened by the raiders' whips, lasted until dawn. Once up, the sun struck the distant walls of Mestria; the place looked inhospitable and drab compared with the pennant-sumptuous towers of Saronis. The journey reminded Silvana of that other debilitating march of so long ago, from her village. But here no Thanon would be waiting for her with a smile at the head of a flight of marmoreal steps.

  Indeed, the coffle's reception, after the long march, was very different. Passing through a dilapidated gatehouse, the prisoners were halted, Fahdel being released and marched off down a dusty lane, not to be seen again. The others were led across a market place, already thronged with townsfolk anxious to catch a glimpse of the booty. The twang of the local dialect instantly reminded the three from the palace of Mila - Mila the Mestrian...

  Halted again before what appeared to be an ancient threshing floor, the captives heard a shout rise from the crowd. The robed authorities had entered, to stand on the raised area. Silvana's heart faltered suddenly at what she saw: there, some way behind the dignitaries, robed prelates and the security service's mukhabarat himself, stood Mila. Partly hidden by the leaves of a jacaranda and a nearby fig tree, the swine looked none the worse for her flight. Clad in a brief, belted jerkin and sandals, she wore that same callous grin the three older prisoners knew only too well; if the jacket hid some of the contusions, nothing concealed her look of hatred. Yes, there she was, the hyena - or rather the wasp that had extricated its striped body from the web Silvana had so scrupulously spun. The blonde's downy cheeks blanched, her uterus contracting with a lurch of foreboding. Adversity loomed ahead.

  The Mestrians consulted together in whispers; even if they had heard what was said, the kneeling captives would not have understood the terms. But what Silvana grasped only too readily was Mila's gesture in her direction; it was predatory and unambiguous and the man's remark that followed goose-fleshed her.

  "So, sister, this is the drab who had the gall to profane you, and you a Mestrian." The tone was cold, curt, sedulous, the official curing his teeth with a miswak root. Mila nodded and the man descended from the loggia, ordering the flaxen-haired woman to stand. "A fine, sturdily-made body indeed," he went on, "for a Bithynian strumpet." The coarse hands roamed over the breasts and muscul
ar belly to elongate the outer drapes of the vulva. "Rather curiously fashioned labia," he added, Silvana wishing for once she had one of the nearby vineleaves to cover her crotch, "and the harlot's been branded too." He scrutinized more closely the sex folds and then the nipples: "And riddled with piercings. What depraved neighbours we have out there to the west!" The sarcasm seemed to delight his colleagues who laughed tactfully, knowing full well what the holes were for.

  The prisoner caught the fragrance of balsam and cinnamon as the official cupped his hand over her rump, with the remark: "Enough flesh here to wear out a scourge or two." He then addressed the nude directly: "I'm informed you derive pleasure from being flogged - and are not averse to being tortured in certain ways." The hand had returned to maul the superb breasts. "Is this so, slave?"

  Silvana's initial qualms lessened a shade; the language was of the sort she was used to and liked, direct and blunt. Since Mila had an amused smile on her lips, there was no point in her presence in denying the fact. She decided to be frank. "Yes, great master, it is so. My body needs pain if it is to cross the threshold into pleasure..." she liked that phrase of Damiana's. Then abruptly, eyeing Mila, she added: "It depends on who deals with me. Some dominants are gifted and pleasing. Others," Mila received a derisive glance, "are just tyrants, imbeciles with no sense of the erotic, of sex, of..." She thought that would do, Mila menacingly close.

  The mukhabarat's eyes widened above the hooked beak at the avowal and then he moved on down the line, studying and manipulating each body with interest, particularly Ilka's, still rife with purple lash marks. As the functionary gazed lecherously at the girl's arse, Silvana became worried lest he ask the slut as to the provenance of the welts that clearly predated those received on the ghastly trek down under the whips. Apparently satisfied, he returned to the loggia, noticing again the brand marks on the two older girls and even on Mila.

  He addressed the scorpion. "Now, dear sister of ours, if I recall your wish of yesternight, it is the tow-headed one, the blonde with big breasts and a hefty rear, I believe you wish to expropriate for your own use." Mila bowed, at which the man added, "To that, having heard your account, we have no objection. Do as you wish with her, short of maiming her. She has the sort of body we'll be needing later in the lunapar and torture cellar." After a pause, he added: "You seem to know her. And the two others there. Am I correct?"

  A flinty smile again from Mila's half-lidded eyes fixed all three, who were only too used to that squint alighting on them when she donned her gauntlets and unclipped her whip.

  "Oh, yes, noble Mukhabarat," she replied. "I know them well. We're colleagues of sorts but it's that pale-skinned one over there I really want. And the other two, if possible, for all three owe me a debt."

  "Indeed? All three! I understood last night it was the heavily-fleshed slag you sought. You can have that one as agreed and retain her until you've done with her. As to the others, kindly point them out," which Mila did with a gloved index. "Well, you may have them for a night but thereafter they must be returned for general use. We are, alas, short of slave flesh these days and..." A hefty, bangled female muttered something to him. "Ah, yes," he added, "the prisoners will be made available tonight to recompense our valiant stalkers for bringing in a good bag of game - without casualties."

  Mila allowed herself a passing frown - a gesture of pique the three older prisoners knew so well from former occasions when the slut was made to wait. It pleased them to see her frustrated, even though the thwarted she-devil would later probably avenge herself doubly when given a free hand and a scourge.

  At a sign from the master of ceremonies and with an abruptness that took the bunch back, several men descended from the loggia, accompanied by two scantily clothed, lean females - most of the Mestrian women Silvana had glimpsed looked emaciated. Under a hail of lashes, the weary slaves were dragged to the far side of the square to be sluiced down with water from a well - a boon that not only cleansed them of caked dust and sweat but allowed them to drink. Later, after receiving a bowl of gruel each, the captives was led down a crowded lane among raucous cries from a jostling populace - an ordeal reminding Silvana, first of her village on account of the refuse, and then of her arrival many moons back at the foot of that marble stairway at the palace. Only then, at the summit, had stood the priests, nobles, courtiers gleaming with jewels and mother of pearl - and, above all, Thanon in dark velvet. Mestria clearly had no such ones to welcome them - no riches, no cool fountains, no sybaritic courtyards. No sleek Damianas and Salethas in clinging leather. Instead, there was Mila...

  The prisoners were conducted into a large, squalid building of brick and thatch, the ground strewn with rank straw and manure, the horses stabled beyond in narrow stalls. The guards hasped the rope to the wall, each slave kneeling between hooks, the wrists bound even tighter to the neck. Bereft of windows, the stable gradually darkened and it was only much later, when the officials filed in, that a candle or two shed some light on the place. Once the dignitaries were seated, using bales for thrones, the members of the triumphant posse entered and also took their seats. The company formed a semicircle round the stable's centre. It was then that Silvana saw the heavy matron of the loggia laying out the whips on a harness table; so different from the burnished models that were sponged, waxed and restored to their golden hooks after each session in the palace precincts, these rough, overused thongs looked particularly frightening. Silvana hoped the men of the posse would go easy on her more exhausted slaves. As for herself, she was no longer Mistress of Zahra, no longer a distinguished concubine, not even a palace slave - she was Mila's prisoner once again.

  One by one the captives were brought forward by granite-faced guards, hung by the wrists to the roof beam and given over to the brave handful of Mestrian raiders. While her colleagues were put to the whip, Silvana looked round the stable for a weak point that might be exploited later - if the stable was to be their temporary prison and as long as they were not too heavily chained and guarded. What caught her eye instead was human, at least claimed to be. It was Mila herself, silhouetted by a lantern in the stable doorway; she was leaning against the jamb, obviously waiting to see the men deal with the blonde. The slattern's grin was something the prisoner could well do without and she carefully avoided the squinting eyes.

  A moment later, Silvana was hanging in all her opulent beauty from the beam, watching the posse leader running the length of oxhide through his hand. Repeating to herself her own mantra: no pain, no gain, she slackened her buttocks and gritted her teeth. She need not have done so. The strokes were clumsy, curling round the buttocks, hardly marking the upper hams, and not even lashing the crotch and belly, and strangely never reaching the breasts. Silvana was almost disappointed. The beating was the work of an amateur whom she felt could do with some practice: she could show him if he or his deities offered her Mila...

  But when the man lowered his filthy pantaloons and brought out his erection, the performance on the contrary was far from inept, so much so that she had to clamp her thighs round his, locking her ankles behind, to do battle. When she came with a long whine of relief, she was almost sorry it was over; but at least she had more spunk than expected pumped into her; it was hot, rich and thick. If that was what Mestria termed a reward for a warrior, it was equally quite a treat for the prisoner. The lashes and climaxes had been worth waiting for. As she scrambled back to her place by the wall, she noticed Mila leaving; good riddance but probably she would be back soon enough to wreak her vengeance.

  The company having withdrawn, the captives were left to marinate where they were, with a single guard on duty. Oddly they were allowed to talk, the conversation dwelling on local conditions, what was going to follow. Then suddenly, silence fell, the glow of a second lantern revealing Mila again. But now, like an angel of death, she was in a black outfit, so tight that it seemed she had been poured into the tube of liquid pitch. Yet the bodice was spangled with s
ilver studs, like stars in the sky of hell itself - so, these Mestrian peasants, Silvana saw, could produce the same sort of costume one saw in Sefket's cellar! When women - or, for that matter, men - appeared rigged out like that up at the palace, it usually meant trouble for those who, on the contrary, had nothing on except manacles and chains...

  Mila strolled up and down the threshold like a famished puma; eyeing the three older girls. "Now they've had their fun with you," she said, "it'll be my turn tomorrow. We'll be the four of us together for a night and then you two will be put out to pasture. That's what they call chewing the cud. Picturesque, no? As for you, blondie," - the eyes flashed at Silvana - "you'll stay with me until I'm done with you. But not here in this manure. No, they've offered me one of their cozy punishment cells with a nice slab of black inkstone. Nothing, of course, like Precinct Three at the palace but then we're not at the palace, are we?" The puma spread her claws. "Yes, and one more thing, my little pomegranate," - that hurt Silvana - "I've found a heap of rings they use for bullocks' snouts. They ought to fit nicely in all those holes we bored in you - oh, so long ago! You'd like that, wouldn't you, my chick?" Again Silvana winced at another of her own 'endearments'.

  "So, until tomorrow. Sleep soundly in your straw... if it's wet, it's only from horse piss and your sweat." About to depart, she turned back. "Oh, yes, I nearly forget. The three of you are going to have your heads shaved in the morning. Like that you won't need to worry how your hair looks when you're hung by the legs or hooded up..." Then she was gone.