A Cruel Passing of Innocence

by J. D. Jensen

  ‘The slave Zheeno will now be made ready for his new purpose… to be parted from his manly sack of potency… stunted… no more for him to rise with lust for other slaves, to be rendered as a dried-up spring in some forgotten riverbed of barren desert, so that his new labours he can perform without desiring the flesh of the slaves he will oil and tend with his hands.’

  Nassara tried to make sense of the words, which swirled confusingly in her turmoil, and a growing awareness began to chill the innermost depths of her stomach.

  ‘Take him!’ Mustaf-Kalig cried, waving his hand at the guards. ‘Prepare the slave! Lust will no more make him disobey the will of his masters! Take his manhood from him!’

  Zheeno, too, now understood his destiny. His eyes were wide with desperate fear, the chains pulling at his collar even tighter than before as the guards manoeuvred him to where the bowl sat menacingly upon the flagstones.

  He did not struggle, but there was an involuntary reluctance in his movement that only nature’s preserving instinct could bring about. If death itself were not his fear, this surely was a cruel fate beyond courageous acceptance of destiny.

  The fat man, who Nassara knew was Zheeno’s attendant, lumbered towards the bowl, taking from it one of the implements, then moved to where Zheeno had been made to stand. It was then that the final dreadful truth came upon her.

  ‘Oh no, leave him…!’ she gasped, trying to stumble towards him, straining desperately against her shackles, her two escorting whip-boys pulling her back, Ahmood lashing her thighs with his whip.

  ‘Silence, slave!’ he growled.

  The next few moments came to Nassara in a hazy torment of images and sound her eyes and ears tried to shut out. Neither wanting to look or look away she moaned in despair and misery as the anxious whip-boys held her tightly.

  At Ahmood’s command two other whip-boys hurried to get down on the ground on either side of Zheeno, grasping his ankles, forcing him to stand with his legs apart, anchoring his feet to the ground. The warrior guards braced themselves too, holding the collar chains so that Zheeno could not move, their expressionless faces never for an instant looking away from his.

  The fat man knelt before Zheeno, and with the sturdy tool, grimacing with the effort, he cut powerfully into the genital rings around Zheeno’s manhood, severing them from his flesh so that the chains fell to his ankles with a brief, hollow jangle of finality. Only the small metal ring beneath the head of his penis remained.

  Zheeno stood rigidly staring down at what was being done to him, barely able to breath, his features etched with a mixture of horrified resignation and determined courage.

  The fat man turned to look at his master, and Mustaf-Kalig nodded curtly. The fat man went again to the bowl, removing the other cutting implement from it, the curved blade glinting in the sun as he held it out briefly before returning to kneel between Zheeno’s outstretched, anchored legs.

  ‘Ojos arribaja, ashasha, prezza!’ Ahmood called out to the assembled slaves, glancing sideways at Nassara, as if to confirm that she must witness the spectacle too. ‘Eyes up and look!’

  Yet despite the imprudence of such defiance Nassara closed her eyes tightly, refusing to open them, even when the whip-boys on either side of her viciously shook the chains and made the collar pull roughly at her neck.

  ‘No… no, stop your evil…’ she mumbled feebly, knowing all hope was gone.

  Zheeno screamed suddenly; a long, piercing howl that echoed around the courtyard of paradise, and in empathy, not having seen but knowing, Nassara screamed too… and her scream mingled with his hollow, dying echo.

  For a moment, after that terrifying echo finally died away, a profound silence draped across the courtyard. Even the buzzing of the insects and the playful sounds of the fountains seemed to cease, before once more there was a bustle of hasty activity. Commands were shouted, chains jangled, and the insects and fountains resumed their lazy play.

  From fearful eyes Nassara could see blood dripping between Zheeno’s legs. He seemed to have collapsed, perhaps no longer conscious, his body strangely crumpled as it remained suspended by his collar, still held by the taut chains of the warrior-guards. The fat man was still kneeling before him, fussing with a wad of towelling that he held against Zheeno’s groin. The whip-boys slunk silently away, as if in timid awe at such evilness, their white tunics spattered with blood, their faces flushed from the effort of restraining writhing limbs.

  Then, staggering and barely conscious, Zheeno was dragged away, his bloody feet snagging and floundering on the flagstones. The discarded chains still attached to his ankle rings clanked as they dragged along the ground in his wake, while the procession of guards and servants escorted him away to the cellars, somewhere below in the gloom.

  But the punishment was not yet at an end, and the sun blazed harshly on the sweating flesh of slaves. Nassara’s turn was now to come, even though she had suffered enough in the witnessing of her lover’s dreadful ordeal, wondering if such cruel images would be the last she would ever have of her beloved Zheeno.

  Mustaf-Kalig was speaking again, whilst Ahmood was sternly looking at the assembled slaves, ready to admonish should any one of them look away before the lesson was done.

  ‘The ungrateful slave, Nassara, will now be flogged with the brush whip of serpents’ tails as she hangs by her feet, her nose against the ground so she can breath in the hot dust of her masters’ courtyard, her lungs gasping at the pain of the lashing serpents upon her buttocks.’ He looked at Nassara, his eyes cold and merciless. ‘The whip shall strike her twenty times as she hangs… twenty lashes…’ he held out his hands, and so that the assembled slaves and remaining servants could clearly see and count he repeated the gesture, his fingers spread.

  Along one side of the courtyard, near to the entrance into the inner sanctuaries of the palace was an open gallery where several stone pillars supported the vaulted ceiling above. Nassara was led to two of these pillars, and saw that on each of them, at the highest point, was a large metal ring set into the stonework. Ropes had already been threaded through them, and she knew at once that she was to be suspended there.

  Ahmood forced her roughly to the ground, to sit facing the assembled slaves and servants, her heavy collar painful on her chafed shoulders.

  ‘Abbaijsha! Esclavina! Ashami!’ Immediately whip-boys were at her feet, drawing the slack ends of the ropes quickly to each of her ankles before attaching them. Then for the first time she saw the instrument of her coming agony, knowing at once why it was called the brush whip of serpents’ tails. It lay ominously upon the ground nearby, its ragged tails a tumbled profusion of snake-like plaits, a dozen or so of them, each one the length of a man’s outstretched arm sprouting from the short handle.

  While the ropes were wound tightly several times around her ankles Nassara sat impassively. Her tears were dried now, her expression empty, concealing the hatred that burned within.

  There was a guttural command from the headman and a violent tug at her ankles made Nassara pitch forward, dragging her painfully onto her front as the bonds lifted her. Two of the warrior-guards heaved at the ropes, pulling her ankles up to the supporting rings on the pillars, and she was hoisted off the ground with jerking bursts of movement that made her small golden bells and slender chains of adornment jingle in protest. Immediately the heavy collar slipped, lodging heavily against her windpipe, making it difficult for her to breath.

  Her legs were now splayed wide apart, the ropes cutting painfully into her ankles. She swung for some moments in the deathly hush that had fallen over the courtyard, the blood rushing to her head. Her face was turned mercifully away from the gathered watchers, her dark hair tumbling down to the hot, dusty flagstones. She could vaguely make out a small, iron-grilled window set in the wall facing her, and for a moment she thought she could see the shape of someone behind it, watching her. It must be Sulliman-Mahadji, she knew,
hate simmering within her.

  The procedure of her hanging was not yet completed. The two whip-boys holding the collar chains attached them around the base of each pillar, tethering her utterly between them. Only her arms were free, and they draped limply down onto the flagstones.

  Once more there was silence. She felt the heat of the sun. Footsteps approached and she braced herself for the first lash, her eyes fixed on the iron grille with grim determination, imagining that she held the master in her look of hatred.

  The moments ticked by with sickening slowness. She was conscious only of the terrible pain in her ankles and the straining of her leg muscles, stretched almost beyond endurance.

  The first lash came. Her ears briefly caught the hiss of the tails slicing through the air, then the full might of the snakeskin thongs cut into her flesh, making her body buck involuntarily against the ropes and collar chains. The agony spread instantly across her buttocks, and even before she could catch her breath the whip lashed down again, then again, the thongs swatting against her in quick succession, the zipping of the flying tongues through the air clearly discernible to those gathered.

  Time and time again the serpents’ tails came viciously down upon her flesh. Yet still she did not cry out, even when the agony was like the sting of countless angry hornets. She gasped each time, but forced herself to keep her eyes open, fixed grimly on that iron-grilled window in front of her. Once or twice she beat her hands against the ground, in a vain attempt to quell the agony. She cried out each time now, her body convulsing in its agony, dancing in the ropes that suspended her. But nature began to show a measure of mercy, so much denied by her human masters. A vague numbness grew; spreading across her burning flesh so that now each new cut seemed scarcely more painful than the last. Gradually her cries became scarcely more than whimpers, desperate moans drifting from her parched lips. She breathed in rasping gulps of air, her lungs starved by the sheer excruciation of her punishment, and by the collar. The unremitting onslaught of vicious tongues made her writhe in a macabre, rhythmic dance of agony.

  She tasted the saltiness of her own sweat, her eyes dimming, no longer able to focus upon the window of the master’s watchfulness. Then just when she felt consciousness slipping away the flogging was over. The serpents’ tails had completed their work. She hung in the silent aftermath, quivering, rivulets of perspiration running from her buttocks, down her back. Vaguely, distantly, she heard the headman call out a command, and there were scurrying footsteps all around her.

  In that haze of semi-consciousness she was aware of the collar being unfastened from her neck, and she swung freely for a few moments before the warrior-guards lowered her. Her lungs heaved gratefully, sucking in the dusty air. She laid gasping and moaning on her front, feeling the numbing pain of her buttocks begin to throb with a dull, heavy persistence, shaking with agonised trauma and utter relief. When a pitcher of cold water was thrown over her she gasped, hearing Babbushan’s disjointed words coming to her from out of the haze.

  ‘Nassara, brave slave, I will take care of you now.’

  Nassara tried to answer, but only a dry croak came from her lips. The attendants fussed around, a wicker stretcher having been laid beside her. But her mind was drifting in her agony, the sounds and images distant, and she was vaguely aware of being carried out of the hot sun and down into the cool palace cellars, and she thought of Zheeno, knowing she might never see him again, her only consolation that he would live.

  Chapter 12

  Several sunrises had passed since the day of her flogging, but she was uncertain how long she had lain alone, on her front on the cool silk cushions. After her wounds had been tended to she was returned to the empty quarters of the slave girls. Her companions had still been in the courtyard, talking amongst themselves and reflecting upon the dreadful events.

  From time to time Achoochi came shyly to her, padding softly to where she lay, bringing bowls of food or pitchers of juices. Once, as he laid down the food, he reached out affectionately and touched her arm, smiling down at her sadly before scampering away, leaving her alone once more with her thoughts.

  Just before sunset her companions were ushered back into the dormitory by Ahmood. He glanced briefly over at her, with almost a gloating expression on his face, before turning and leaving, closing the heavy doors behind him.

  Belithza and Ugimba rushed to her, kneeling beside her, concern showing on their faces. Their eyes lingered on the ravaged nakedness of her buttocks, heavily greased with balm, although the network of red stripes was ripe and livid, bruising already forming in yellow-black tinges.

  The girls spoke soothingly, and Nassara listened with a look of calm and contained suffering, grimacing from time to time and sometimes forcing a tight smile to her lips. She was grateful for her companions’ words of comfort, yet impatient to know what news they had of Zheeno. Was he still in the palace? Did they know where he was, and what state he was in? There was so much she was desperate to hear.

  ‘From what the boy servants say, he is kept alone in a cell while his wound heals,’ Belithza said hesitantly, glancing anxiously at Ugimba. ‘But Nassara, my friend, he will soon be taken from here, far away. For your own good you must forget him. Think of yourself now. Life here is a lesser burden than you think, and you will adapt speedily to the duties. What at first was such pain and so disgusting, performing the masters’ wicked tasks, soon becomes easier to endure. Put Zheeno out of your mind. Tempt no fresh cruelty upon yourself.’

  When Belithza saw the look of mild surprise, even a hint of disdain, in Nassara’s eyes she quickly went on. ‘Oh yes, Nassara, you must put aside such thoughts. Even in my hate for the masters I think of survival and of life. We are too young to die… to die in agony, tied to pillars of stone and whipped by such cruel tongues of wickedness, our bodies thrown to the dogs and rats to eat our flesh. Oh no, my dear friend, perform the masters’ tasks and smile with lying eyes that show nothing of your hatred. Then you can live, at least. Think of only this, Nassara.’

  Although Belithza’s narrowed eyes blazed with resentment and revulsion as she spoke, it seemed to Nassara that her friend had been quick to conform to the regime, having learned speedily the necessities for survival. Nassara felt gladness for her all the same, knowing her torment would be less in her acceptance of the masters’ ways, whereas so recently her path had seemed one of dangerous rebellion. She smiled sadly up at her, but for a moment Belithza seemed hurt and ashamed, as though knowing her thoughts.

  ‘I beg you, Nassara, help yourself. Do not defy the evil masters, who are so strong and we so weak.’ Belithza glanced over at where Safarah and Jammina were talking together, oblivious of Nassara, as if her punishment might have somehow been an event of normality, brought upon herself, perhaps, by her own guilt and indiscretion. The two girls sat together, admiring some trinket of shiny beads that one of them had been given by her master. Occasionally they laughed quietly together. Perhaps the night ahead would have promise of more glittering trinkets with which to adorn their nakedness… nakedness which, it seemed, had become an acceptable cloak of their own contentment. ‘Look there, Nassara, see how our two companions bear their slavery now. See how their faces light with joy at small gifts. How their eyes are no longer full of fear. Their skins glow proudly, if not with happiness, then with acceptance of their lives here.’

  Grimacing with a sudden spasm of pain, Nassara nodded, smiling at Belithza. ‘You speak with wisdom,’ she said. ‘I am pleased for you that you see things clearly now. I am pleased, too, for Safarah and Jammina. It is best that way.’

  Nassara glanced at Ugimba, and saw the silent grief etched on the girl’s face. Not for her the acquiescence and quiet acceptance of her lot, Nassara realised, knowing her suffering at the sadistic hands of Mustaf-Kalig. Nightly he took her to reap abuse upon her flesh, taking his delight in her torment. The blue-black traces of welts and fresh pinches of bruised flesh were still evi
dent on her body. Yet Ugimba said nothing, even though the expression on her face, and the sad dullness of her beautiful eyes, conveyed the burden of her soul.

  Despite her own dejection and the throbbing pain of her body, Nassara reached out with a surge of compassion and gently touched Ugimba on the satin skin of her leg. ‘It will get better for you, I am sure,’ she said, although she felt the emptiness of her own words, quickly looking away.

  Soon darkness came, and the slave girls lay silent, waiting and dozing fretfully, not knowing whether a summons might come that night, and listening out for the slightest sound of footsteps or sliding bolts.

  ‘I see you, Nassara,’ he said calmly. ‘I see, too, that you have been tended well, and that the agonies of your punishment have all but disappeared.’

  Sulliman-Mahadji’s pensive eyes travelled up and down her freshly oiled body as she stood before him in the half-light, her leash removed, Ahmood having quickly taken his leave.

  ‘I see you, master,’ was all she said. She spoke coldly, not with the servility required for masters, keeping her body erect, her chin defiantly set.

  For a moment she thought of Babbushan. How gentle he had been with her. How well he tended her ravaged flesh as Achoochi held out the pots of lotions and ointments, which at first stung her welts until soothing relief finally came. She had not even needed to ask Babbushan about Zheeno. The fat man had looked sadly down at her while he worked, and knowing what her desperate ears sought from him, he whispered to her that dreadful confirmation of what she already knew.