A Cruel Passing of Innocence

by J. D. Jensen

  During the previous daylight hours in their period of respite, the slave girls had been left almost entirely alone. They feasted gladly on the tasty food and exotic juices supplied in abundance by the scurrying girl and boy attendants, and set out on silver platters in the dormitory of their seclusion, which served as their quarters.

  Afterwards they walked freely in the courtyard, at first silent and timidly discrete. But when the whip-boys seemed only to stand by idly and sullen, in the shade, their black whips held casually and their expressions bored, the girls started to talk and make signs amongst themselves. Once or twice there was even the sound of muted giggling as they studied each other’s body adornments, pointing and smiling at their thin strands of intricate gold chain and tiny bells. Marvelling at the craftwork and glittering beauty, incredulous that such wealth could have been heaped upon their bodies, some of them seemed almost proud to be so endowed with their masters’ riches.

  The youngest two of the girls had seemed almost light-hearted and joyful, as if in misplaced euphoria in the post-traumatic aftermath of their mutilation, as though deceived into some false sense of optimism that life here might after all offer some scope for happiness. Yet Nassara feared these were misguided illusions. She pitied the girls in their naivety, oblivious to the reality of their masters’ intentions, and knew that for them the moment of reality would be all the more profound… whenever it finally came.

  The girls soon learned each other’s names, although, apart from Nassara and Belithza, few could communicate in any common tongue, except in occasional faltering words or phrases. In time they would learn words enough of necessity, particularly where those words were of their masters’ brutal language, spoken in the urgency of commands.

  Of the male slaves Nassara had only glimpsed them briefly. They, too, had been allowed a healing respite, it seemed. They enjoyed some restricted access to the courtyard once the girls had retired to their quarters to rest on their plush cushions. When Nassara heard the familiar jangling of the men’s iron chains below she rushed to the window grille to peer out. Immediately she spied Zheeno’s lean frame as the young men shuffled along the narrow pathways, despondent but curious at their surroundings, avoiding the eyes of the watching whip-boys. She could see that occasionally Zheeno’s gaze darted cautiously up towards the upper level of the buildings, as if discretely seeking where he thought she might be. She waved through the grille, hoping he would see her.

  During the slaves’ period of respite there was only one occasion when, nearly at the height of the day, all of them had been summoned to the courtyard to attend the prostrating ritual of servility and abasement. Herded as ever by the snarling whip-boys, with Ahmood standing haughtily at the habitual place of assembly, the slaves were marshalled into two lines.

  There were now only five male slaves, and five girl slaves remaining. The men stood again in the forward line, Nassara being almost directly behind Zheeno. She could look fondly at his naked back and haunches, hating the ugly black chains that hung from between his legs. How she yearned to embrace him and shower him with affectionate kisses.

  The slaves stood, faces downcast, awaiting the order they knew would come for them to prostrate themselves in the familiar, obsequious posture. For some time they waited patiently and motionless, listening in the tense silence to the gentle buzz of insects around the lush vegetation, and the trickling of the water fountains.

  ‘Abbaijsh!’ Ahmood’s shrill voice broke the silence at last, almost making Nassara jump, his eyes travelling the two lines of slaves, alert for even the slightest trace of slowness to obey.

  Immediately the slaves dropped to the ground in a flurry of jangling and tinkling of chains and bells, quickly forcing their bodies into the required position on the hot flagstones, although it took some while before they became entirely still, to mould their bodies into the unnatural posture, noses brushing the ground, backs dipped excruciatingly, buttocks thrust high in the air.

  Nassara sensed the proximity of the headman nearby, and soon, from the corner of her eye, she glimpsed his braided slippers as he walked unhurriedly behind the two rows of slaves.

  Ahmood, as attentive and alert as ever, paced one step behind him, his whip poised ready to prod or poke or lash out. But it seemed the headman’s inspection of his masters’ property gave him satisfaction. Once or twice he stopped to closely examine a particular slave, or to mumble a remark to Ahmood about some imperfection or other in the way a certain chain or bell hung. But generally satisfied, and nodding at Ahmood, he moved on, coming upon Ugimba, last in the line up, and suddenly he barked an order that made the poor girl wide-eyed with fear, making her jump frantically to her feet. Alas, as soon as she was standing still and upright it was immediately clear that in her eagerness to obey she had, once more, forgotten to lower her chin subserviently. Instead, her head was raised almost proudly, even defiantly, despite her expression of apprehension.

  ‘Ashasha ma-abbaishi!’ Ahmood snarled, repeating the order several times as if for the benefit of all slaves, warning against further similar indiscretions. With anger in his voice he lifted his whip and brought it cruelly down on Ugimba’s ebony buttocks.

  She yelped, momentarily dancing with the pain until she was able to regain some composure, her chin tucked down, understanding at last.

  This image of fear and naked humility seemed to fascinate the headman all the more, his eyes drawn to the brown pert buds of her nipples, now pierced by the two gold rings and their lengths of flowing links that dropped down to her flanks. His gaze roamed lustily over her dark flesh, and then slowly lowered to feast upon her loins. He stepped casually in front of her, his eyes hungrily focussing more clearly on her peeping sex, upon the ringed petals of pink flesh. His lips curled into a wicked smile and he said something to Ugimba, which of course she could not understand. Under the intensity of his gaze she fought to keep her composure, her eyes averted from his, fixing upon some point on the ground in front of her. Her breathing quickened, her breasts heaving, and this seemed to excite him all the more.

  Snatching Ahmood’s whip from him, making Ugimba flinch in renewed terror, he reached forward and placed the thin tip between her thighs, close to the twin bells hanging from her peeping lips. Then suddenly he yanked the whip upwards and Ugimba instantly jerked forward as the rings snagged against her sore flesh, her unwanted bells tinkling in little chimes of protest.

  If this had been the source of his amusement, the headman’s features scarcely gave any indication of it, only a sneer remaining on his lips. Calmly he continued to eye her ebony body, the toned curves of her form, before finally he moved away.

  Ahmood clapped his hands, and gratefully the slaves rose from their uncomfortable positions and dispersed with a sense of relief. Both male and female slaves had been directed to their respective quarters, and Nassara was able to exchange scarcely more than a fleeting smile with Zheeno, before he had to turn away, obedient to a whip-boy’s command. He shuffled off towards the male quarters without a backward glance, his squared shoulders glistening in the sun as he went. Nassara watched him until he was out of sight, a mixture of sadness and comfort in her thoughts.

  That night Ugimba lay gratefully beside Nassara amongst the satin cushions and silk coverings, with Belithza on Nassara’s other side. Even though Ugimba understood few words Belithza spoke quietly to her, smiling unconvincing reassurances, before settling down into her cushions.

  Nassara heard Ugimba weep silently, before eventually falling into a restless sleep. Then after a while listening to the quietened breathing of the slave girls around her, Nassara slept too.

  One or two of the girls were beginning to stir, yawning in the early beams of light that penetrated the window grille. Reclining still on her plump cushions, Nassara looked up at the latticed opening high up near the ceiling at the end of the dormitory.

  During the night, before the oil-lamps had been trimmed and
lowered by the attendants, she thought she caught sight of a figure behind the latticed grille, looking down upon the slaves in their nakedness. She tried to ignore the dark silhouette, sensing its brooding presence there, gloating over its human possessions below.

  The attendants were bringing food and drink again to start the day, but Nassara noticed they were somehow more intense and urgent than usual, their mood more sombre, their eyes avoiding contact with the girls.

  Belithza awoke beside Nassara, looking around, suspiciously taking in the morning activity. ‘I see no smiles on the lips of the servant youths this morning,’ she observed. ‘I feel dark shadows approaching. My skin goes cold. Oh, what bad things will come to us this day, Nassara?’

  ‘Do not make yourself so troubled, Belithza,’ Nassara comforted. ‘Perhaps things will go well for us. Make your spirit rise and have hope.’

  Yet Nassara felt those same dark thoughts brooding within her. She got up and went to where the platters of food were laid out, and taking some food and juice she watched her fellow slaves preparing for whatever the day might have in store. She looked back at Belithza’s anxious face, knowing her dark contemplations.

  Slightly apart from the others, Ugimba was seated on a cushion, combing her black hair with one of the silver combs provided for them, a distant look in her eyes. Every now and then she would glance down at her proud breasts, as if she felt a deep bitterness at the cruel defilement of their beauty by the chains and rings.

  On the far side of the dormitory, chatting together quietly and making signs and gestures whenever they failed to make themselves understood, Safarah sat with the fifth girl, Jammina. Occasionally they laughed together, often putting their hands up to their lips to suppress the sound of their giggling, as if indifferent to their humbled status or the nature of their surroundings, or even to their captivity and all that it entailed. Nassara reflected that perhaps their frivolity was a protective cloak against unwanted reality, shielding them from fresh wickedness.

  Jammina was the youngest of the five, Nassara thought, although without knowing how many seasons the girl had behind her. Her innocent eyes and delicate features reminded Nassara of a kitten, but the girl had beauty and a litheness that would, Nassara knew, be the desire of some lustful master, her body to be used at his will and whim.

  Nassara’s thoughts were suddenly interrupted, a surge of dread churning instantly in her stomach as Ahmood appeared, and feeling his dark eyes upon her she quickly turned her head away.

  Immediately the early morning murmurings of the slaves, and the bustle of the attendants came to a halt. Nassara felt the tension mount. Ahmood stood, as arrogant and severe as ever, surveying his charges, waiting for their full attention. This morning he wore a red sash over his crisp white tunic, and a tasselled cap on his head. Instinctively Nassara knew that this day would host an event of special significance, and her mind was at once filled with uneasy expectancy.

  Safarah and Jammina were once again attentive and serious, exchanging anxious glances, their recent innocent exuberance all but extinguished.

  ‘Ashasha trabaja!’ Ahmood shouted, and to accentuate the urgency of his words he lashed out with his whip against a pile of cushions. ‘Ashami! Prezza!’

  A look of consternation crossed the faces of the slaves, unfamiliar with these new commands.

  ‘His words mean “be quick to work”, I think,’ Belithza whispered to Nassara, rising hurriedly, as did Nassara, the other girls quickly following.

  They were led down the steps, but it was not to the cloistered courtyard they were taken. Instead Ahmood led them to where the steps went down into the gloomy subterranean world of passageways and cellars.

  Nassara’s heart sank, but then the reassuring bulk of Babbushan loomed in front of them, as did the silhouettes of the other bloated men. He beckoned her, and she could tell from his expression that here, at least, she had no further cause for fear this day.

  Soon, as before, she found herself ushered into the familiar cubicle and he gestured for her to get up on the raised stone slab, where already a towel had been laid, telling her to lie on her front.

  Immediately Achoochi was at her side, smiling down. He began to pour scented oil over her shoulders and back, and Babbushan started to massage the unguent into her skin, his large hands moving deftly over her, kneading the oil deep into her muscles.

  ‘This day the master of all masters, the sultan himself, and our master’s brothers will come here,’ he stated, his face close above hers. ‘For their eyes we must make your flesh glow like gold and your bodies must be as sleek as the young horses our masters race in the sand.’

  Nassara was confused. sultan? master of all masters? Our master’s brothers? Timidly she asked Babbushan, who appeared surprised at her lack of fundamental knowledge and replied harshly, ‘Slave girl, be quick to learn who your masters are. The sultan, whose name is so exulted that we humble beings are as lowly as the beetles we crush underfoot as we walk, is the master of masters. When we talk of him we do so in whispered voice. He is the master of all the sun sees from when it rises in the morning until it sets at night. They say he is a god amongst men.

  ‘Then there are the sons of the sultan god. He that is our master, Sulliman-Mahadji, is his firstborn. He is the master who brought you here.’

  Nassara immediately thought of the fierce, aquiline face of the leader sitting aloof on his white horse during the journey here. So this was her master, Sulliman-Mahadji. He who had inspected her when she was strapped to the trestle… he who had brought a rush of embarrassed blood to her cheeks as her eyes caught his.

  ‘Our master Sulliman-Mahadji has brothers and half-brothers. This day they shall see you. So be full of hope that you will find favour in their eyes. If you are favoured, be joyful. If you are not favoured…’

  Babbushan stopped talking, his sentence unfinished, but continued massaging her in silence for a while, Nassara trying to make sense of her thoughts, wondering if there were any fragments of hope for her in this place.

  ‘When they look upon you, Nassara, keep your buttocks high and tense,’ Babbushan spoke again. ‘The masters like to look deep into you there, just as they like to feast upon the lipped flower bud between your legs, wanting to open the bloom of your womanly flesh and see your dew glistening there.’ He paused for a moment, looking down sadly at her.

  ‘Whatever the masters command, obey instantly,’ he advised. ‘And do not shy away. Hold your body proudly for them, so they will want to know more of it. That is how to fulfil your purpose here, Nassara, and how to survive.’

  If there had been any doubt before, Nassara had none now. The path of her fate seemed clear, her mind coming to terms with it, and in some strange way this recognition of reality might give her strength to endure the vileness of what would come.

  As her body relaxed and moved under Babbushan’s steady manipulation, feeling the heat of his hands working into her muscles, she recalled the moment of her stepfather’s ugly defilement of her purity, and wondered if in some perverse sense that misplaced duty had been to shelter her from the shock of the unknown.

  And then within these calm reflections there was a matter that went unexplained. Whilst her purpose here, and that of her fellow girl slaves was all too apparent, she could not fathom what function Zheeno and his fellow male slaves might fulfil. It seemed to her unlikely that Zheeno and his companions were brought here to labour as ordinary manual workers, or as serving attendants, or to toil with their hands as other servant slaves. Were they not tall of stature, lean and muscled? Were not their fair skins like soft parchment and their handsome features finely cut? Did not the golden streaks of their hair remind her of blown straw?

  Such specimens of manhood were like the young sons of gods, not born to work as humble servants, not made to labour in the sun with soft hands and noble features. Lesser males could perform such duties, she reasoned. So wh
at other purpose did their new masters have for these captured young sons of gods? What manner of slavery awaited them here?

  The question troubled her, and with this moment of opportunity she resolved to ask Babbushan. He seemed to be her mentor and her source of enlightenment in the ways and practices of this terrible place. His demeanour was not hostile, but one that concealed behind its calm severity a hint of humanity and friendship. She tried to formulate the words clearly in her mind first, letting his hands continue to work in their steady rhythm on her body, before she could summon her courage to question him. At last, she turned her face towards him.

  ‘Am I now being prepared for the masters?’ she asked warily.

  He nodded almost imperceptibly, but his eyes looked away from hers, as if not wishing to confirm the inevitability of the coming truth. ‘Everything is for the masters. Be willing when the time comes. That time may be soon.’

  ‘I understand,’ Nassara smiled at him, as if grateful for his wisdom, ‘but what of the young men, Babbushan? I know my own purpose here, but what do the masters want of them?’

  Babbushan seemed disturbed, or even angered, at the girl’s questions. He snorted, his hands beginning to work roughly on her, kneading the crests of her buttocks until the pinching grasp of his fingers hurt her and she gasped aloud. ‘Ask no questions of what does not concern you. Be content to know your own purpose, and that if you serve the masters willingly no harm will come to you, your life here will be good, and you will want for nothing.’ His hands still worked harshly on her flesh as he continued. ‘You will be fed with plentiful food. You will not labour with raw hands in the dirt of the fields from dawn to dusk, as others must do beyond these walls. You will sleep in the coolness of fine quarters at night, in the comfort of velvet cushions, your body soothed and pampered with oils and perfumed spices that only masters themselves can possess. In return for all these things of life, you are only to give your body willingly to the masters who look after you, and obey humbly. You should not want for more. Take what you have, Nassara… take it and be content. Do not seek what concerns you not. Your life is now only for the masters.’