by J. D. Jensen
Then, sliding his hands under the twin chains that emerged from the cleft of her buttocks, his fingers delved into the valley there and began to work into her. Once he chided Achoochi for his slowness in pouring the oil, and his movements became impatient and irritable. Nassara realised she had asked too much, not wishing to destroy the slender thread of her relationship with the kindly man.
He slapped one buttock sharply, making her jump, grunting for her to turn over onto her back. Immediately his hands moved quickly over her belly, massaging deep into the flatness of its plain as the attendant hurried to pour oil.
‘I beg you not to be angry with me, Babbushan,’ she pleaded in a whispered tone, and immediately felt him soften, his movements becoming gentle again.
‘I say these things for your good, Nassara. Ask few questions here, and do only as you are told. That way you will survive and live a reasonable life, once you accept the way of things here.’
But Nassara was determined. ‘I only wish to know what will happen to the male slaves… and Zheeno…’
It was too much. Anger flashed in his beady eyes and he tugged irritably on the twin chains so that the rings in her nipples pulled painfully, making her gasp. ‘Listen to me, slave girl!’ he growled. ‘Forget about the male slaves and this Zheeno. Such talk is dangerous. Think only of yourself. You need all your strength to survive. There is no time for others here.’ Making her wince with pain he held on to the chain, rendering her nipple stretched and sore. Only when he saw the tears forming in her eyes did he relent.
‘Nassara, forget this Zheeno or it will go badly for him and for you,’ he went on. ‘Such things between slaves will not please the masters. I warn and beg you to heed my words.’ With that he stood back, gesturing for her to get up, watching her with anxious eyes. ‘Go now. Go to the courtyard and await your masters’ arrival… and remember my words. Be not slow to obey. Be willing and attentive to any master. I have made your body lustrous for them, like the hide of a groomed pony, and they will look favourably upon your beauty.’
‘I will, Babbushan,’ she acknowledged meekly. ‘I will do as you say, I promise. I am a slave but still I wish for life.’
The girls emerged from the cellars into the bright sunlight of the courtyard. The oily sheens of their lithe bodies glistened, enhancing the natural lustre of their diverse shades of skin hues. Beads of sweat stood out like sparkling pearls, before condensing into rivulets that ran down their nakedness in silvered streaks.
There was a commotion at the far end of the courtyard. Attendants were rushing around in all directions. Somewhere far inside the main part of the building behind the metal-studded gate entrance, beyond which no slave was permitted to venture, Nassara could hear the faint sound of a gong striking urgently. Almost immediately the grimfaced guards, wearing coloured plumes in their helmets, marched sombrely out of the gate and took up position under the shaded arches.
The headman appeared, dressed in an even more elaborately braided tunic than before, and wearing an ornate belt and jewel-encrusted dagger that sparkled in the sunlight. Slowly he made his way to the familiar place of assembly, flanked by two of his whip-boys.
Behind her, coming up from the cellar steps, Nassara heard the familiar jangling of iron chains. The herded young slaves were coming, trotting in single file, two harassing whip-boys on either side of them, their whips at instant readiness to strike.
Daring a glance behind her she sought out Zheeno. The men had been oiled just like the girls. Their fair-skinned torsos gleamed under the sun’s glare. Zheeno was there, trotting in line in a strangely shuffling motion, as if constrained by his newly fitted chains. His eyes, as ever, darted around, seeking her out, and he caught her look and smiled back. At once a feeling of love fleetingly lightened her heart, like a burst of sunlight from behind a passing cloud.
Ahmood, in front of the line of girl slaves, sprung into action. Raising his whip he gestured for them to drop down on all fours and to run like puppies, scrambling along on hands and feet, but some of the girls were confused.
‘Abbaijsh!’ he shouted, repeating the command until it was taken up by the other whip-boys, the still of the courtyard disturbed. ‘Maharamba!’
There was a flurry of activity from every quarter. More guards and servants appeared, as if having been called in the midst of performing other duties, hurrying to tidy their garments and compose themselves discretely, lining up beneath the covered arches.
Still the slave girls were slow to react, not understanding fully, and Ahmood lashed out in a fury with his whip, catching Safarah on one buttock. The girl cried out in fear and pain, a livid welt appearing on her skin immediately as she cringed away, her frightened eyes trying to make sense of the command.
‘Abbaijsh! Maharamba!’ Ahmood screamed the words again and impatiently jiggled the tip of the whip on the ground, making jerking, pointing motions with it, and both Belithza and Nassara understood, as did Ugimba.
‘We must scamper on our hands and feet like animals in the dirt!’ Belithza whispered urgently, an edge of loathing in her tone, and she repeated her words again to make it clear to her companions. ‘Like grovelling bitches we are to run where they tell us on our hands and feet.’
All five slave girls dropped down and began to scuttle on all fours along the pathway towards where the headman waited at his customary position at the place of assembly. Hurrying, the whip-boys almost breathing down their necks, the slaves, male and female alike, scrabbled in their haste in an ungainly, rolling gait, unaccustomed to such movements, struggling to coordinate their limbs.
The whip-boys goaded them remorselessly with harassing gestures and swirling whips, making the slaves pant and struggle for breath, making their chains and bells jingle in cruel urgency.
At last the slaves came to a halt under the headman’s disdainful gaze and formed quickly in their now familiar lines, glad at least to have respite from such unnatural propulsion. Ahmood barked his new command, which echoed in the confines of the courtyard walls. ‘Abbaijsha!’
Although the slaves, panting from their exertion, had already started to prostrate themselves in front of the headman, Ahmood shouted the command again, impatiently. Immediately their postures stiffened instinctively and buttocks thrust higher, spines dipped and heads lowered still further.
A tense silence gradually fell over the gathering, the last vestiges of tinkling bells and chains receding as the slaves became still and taut. Inwardly fighting to detach her mind from the numbing ordeal of maintaining the torturous posture, Nassara willed herself to shut out the aching discomfort, praying they would not have to remain there for long. In the tense silence that followed, only the sounds of laboured breathing could be heard above the familiar courtyard hum of insects and trickling water. An air of urgent expectancy hung over the waiting servants and slaves. Nassara was aware that the headman was critically surveying the two lines of slaves. Ahmood lurked to one side of him, as usual; only today he seemed nervous, as if somehow unsure whether the turn out of his charges would find favour in the master’s eye.
Remembering Babbushan’s words, Nassara was in no doubt that today the slaves had been assembled for the masters themselves. She knew with stomach churning certainty that their arrival would soon be upon them, her purpose soon to be fulfilled. Babbushan had spoken, too, of the master of all masters, and the sombre atmosphere of nervous expectation suggested the coming of some great man, or god, of unbridled power. Even the servant-masters appeared anxious.
Feeling the sweat trickling between her shoulders, Nassara wondered how much longer it would be and whether her aching limbs and back could hold out long enough, when the gong suddenly interrupted her drifting mind.
A small procession of richly clothed men emerged from the gates of the forbidden precincts of the building. They were ambling and talking casually amongst themselves, scarcely taking any notice of their surroundings or t
he assembled gathering of guards, servants and slaves.
Nassara kept her eyes fixed to the ground, not daring to venture a glance, terrified to draw attention to herself. It seemed another age before the soft padding of slippered feet approached, accompanied by the swish of silk finery, an occasional clink of jewellery, and the murmurings of idle conversation.
The headman walked beside the masters, bowing sometimes as they questioned him about some matter or other. The exulted party of such powerful men sauntered casually up and down, first in front, then behind the two lines of slaves, surveying the human offerings with scarcely more than casual indifference, occasionally pointing or making some observation, sometimes followed by wicked chuckles, bringing a chill to Nassara’s heart.
Every so often the browsing masters would stop and there would be the sound of muffled disturbance and scuffling, or a clink of chain or tinkle of bell, as some slave was picked out for further scrutiny. Sometimes the slave would be made to stand by the headman’s sharp command. He or she would tremble, head dutifully bowed while the masters examined their naked property. At other times they seemed content merely to view a slave in his or her prostrated state of servility, whilst casually discussing particular physical merits of the slave. Then the procession would move on, leaving the appraised slave to breath a sigh of relief and gladly resume the habitual posture.
Nassara was conscious that the group was approaching behind her as their pensive murmurings drew closer, making the hairs on the back of her neck rise. Fearful anticipation pulsed within her as she strained to maintain the required position.
The men came to Ugimba, beside her. One of them brushed the black girl’s skin with the slender tails of an elegant silver-hasped whip; a whip that bristled at its other extremity with an ominous cluster of long leather thongs. Another of the masters made some jeering comment when Ugimba winced at the brushing of the thongs over her back and buttocks, struggling to retain her wavering posture. Enjoying the inquisitive effect of his whip, the master cast it again over her skin, idly letting the thongs glide across her shoulder blades, then along her spine, where they swayed teasingly into the valley of her buttocks, tumbling between the two gold chains that descended beneath her.
Then the hasp of the whip suddenly jerked downward, plunging into the satin depths of the girl’s opened well, rummaging sickeningly into the rift until he withdrew the instrument and stood back. The other men laughed before moving on.
Looking back between her knees, Nassara counted at least four or five pairs of ornately slippered feet. They had stopped right behind her. She inwardly cringed, but not a muscle did she move, as if paralysed with fear. Conscious that the men were discussing her, although not understanding a word spoken, she knew they were appraising her intimately. She wondered whether they could see the tremor that gripped the tensed muscles of her limbs. Closing her eyes tightly to shut out the sordid reality of her debasement, she stifled the tears of fear and anger that brimmed there.
One of the men, making some light remark, stooped and touched her calf, making her cringe with dread and shock. Then running his fingers upward between her smooth thighs he began to explore her crudely. She could feel his loathsome breath on her skin, and trying not to move, willing him to leave her alone, she squeezed her eyes even tighter together, powerless to shut out the horrors of the moment.
The man’s fingers moved almost hesitantly into the exposed valley of her buttocks, busily feeling deeper, sliding beneath the twin lengths of chain, which caused a tinkling protest of her bells, tugging at the rings in her delicate sex lips.
Her flesh crawled, her mind trying to rid itself of the impure impositions upon her body. But all such attempts at banishment of thought were futile. The hand was exploring beneath the two chains, parting them, the fingers sliding up between the lips of her sex. Not moving, she felt his silky sleeve brush against her buttocks, and felt the vile passage of his thumb as it pressed against her tight rear opening, lodging itself at the opening, fingers fumbling at the delicate ringed lips, causing the bells to tinkle again, as if they, in their sheltered state knew of the wickedness of such defilement.
And her body rebelled, unable to defy the impure contact upon her flesh. She jerked forward, despite her head telling her to quickly regain the prudent rigidity of posture.
The man made some guttural exclamation, and the others laughed. He was unrelenting, pressing, sinking a finger deep within the folds of her breached sex and his thumb into her rear passage. Nassara gave a tiny gasp, running cold at the loathsome trespass as if all the latent heat within her had at once evaporated.
For some moments he continued to riffle there, feeling around the tight channels, her defensive reflex making her insides contract instinctively in objection. Remembering Babbushan’s words, even in her humbled torment, she tried to concentrate her mind on keeping her posture correct, straining to keep her buttocks thrust up – towards her transgressor – then suddenly it was over.
The man grunted and straightened up, as if she were no longer of consequence to them; a past distraction. Tired of their game they moved on, and only then did Nassara dare a sideways glance, immediately recognising the master she knew; Sulliman-Mahadji. For a moment his dark eyes flashed back at her, as if he had instinctively known that hers would seek him out, and there was a calm glint of satisfaction that seemed to dwell within them, as though he might now have the full measure of her soul and flesh, knowing the nature of his prize.
Nassara quickly averted her improper look, hastily dropping her gaze back to the stone slab beneath her, fearful of her impetuous act. But in that instant of eye contact she had detected some other emotion beneath the aloof coldness of his demeanour. Perhaps she glimpsed something more than the casual indifference reserved for other slaves. Perhaps he had marked her out for some greater purpose than just a master’s habitual indulgence, as though she were reserved for some particular duty to perform. Not that she could derive much comfort from that.
The masters stopped only briefly beside Belithza, gazing down at her with aloof indifference as if, for now at least, the quality of her flesh offered insufficient appeal, before they moved on to the next girl in line; Jammina.
Carefully peeping, Nassara observed them, looking down at the girl. For a moment there was silence, then a murmur of interest, and one of them bent low over Jammina, examining her more closely. Reaching out he ran a hand over her raised buttocks, as if to admire the smoothness and tightness of her skin. Then he fondled one cheek, his fingers kneading the firmness of its texture, such as one might have done to assess the ripeness of a peach before eating it. Nassara heard him mumble something, and at once the smiling headman barked an order.
Immediately Jammina scrambled to her feet, careful to keep her terrified eyes lowered. She stood there, rigid and trembling, as two of the masters moved to stand close beside her, one on either side. In leisurely tones they seemed to be discussing her youthful attributes, lustful eyes sweeping admiringly over her lithe figure, swarthy faces leering with desire.
Sometimes one master would nod at another’s comments, and then reach out and touch the girl appreciatively at some particular part of her that had aroused their common interest. Throughout Jammina stood trembling in her nakedness, not daring even to glance at her tormentors, not even flinching when one of them reached out and cupped one of her breasts. He sniggered, his fingers squeezing her flesh, and Nassara saw that only Sulliman-Mahadji stood aside, not joining in the amusement of the others. Once more she saw him glance back at her and again she quickly averted her eyes, swallowing nervously, cursing her own imprudence.
At that moment there was the sound of the gong striking, and immediately there was a flurry of further activity from the direction of the gated entrance to the forbidden precincts. Unable to resist the temptation, Nassara peered cautiously and saw that between two servants, who carried a raised canopy that shielded their master from th
e sun, came the figure of a small, obese man.
Clothed in richly braided finery and drapes of silk he tended to sway or roll as he walked slowly, his darting eyes immediately seeking out the array of prostrated slaves. It was almost as if he found it tiring to walk, or as if the very act of doing so were beneath his status. Behind him there were two servants who carried ornate sprays of ostrich feathers on poles, fanning their master constantly.
So this, Nassara realised at once, was the master of masters, the one they called the sultan, the god of man.
Even the group of masters, the sons of the sultan, who were still standing beside Jammina, terminated their frivolous inspection. Led away by Sulliman-Mahadji, all sibling masters becoming at once silent and respectful, moved towards the sultan as if to greet him, bowing respectfully.
So even masters have to bow in servility, Nassara thought, realising the power the man had over all men.
The sultan nodded a terse greeting, his eyes briefly studying his sons from behind the hook of his large nose, with an air of tolerant approval. But when his eyes alighted briefly on Sulliman-Mahadji a curt smile crossed his lips, then he turned, and with a casual gesture of his hand he waddled slowly along behind the line of male slaves, stopping briefly at each one before moving on again, making some occasional observation in a voice that was barely audible.
