by Syra Bond
Sappho groaned and dropped to her knees. She stretched her arms out like the girl, reaching forward as she bowed down and raised her buttocks as high as she could. She wanted her wrists tied in the same way as the girl. She wanted to feel the drying leather thongs tightening. She wanted to experience the pain of captivity, of submission. She gasped as she felt a wave of pleasure running through her. Just to hold her buttocks up for everyone to see, just to be ready for one of the men to take her, was enough. She did not need to feel their bodies against hers. She did not need to be penetrated, or smacked, or thrashed with a cane, or whipped. She shuddered and trembled as her joy coursed through her. She shouted out again. This time louder. This time, a scream.
She heard it in her head; shrill, piercing, a shriek. It was all she could do. Her head was full of it. Shouts and screams, howling, voices. She dropped forward gasping. But she could still hear the voice above her own frantic breathing. She felt a moment of panic. What was happening? Everything was out of control. The world was in turmoil.
The voice boomed out.
'Now! Now! Take hold of the imposters. Stop them now before they corrupt our ceremonies to Apollo. Stop them now, before they bring his anger down on us for blasphemy and irreverence.'
She heard stamping feet and noisy clatter. She turned and saw Priam's cruel son, Prince Polydorus, standing next to the statue of Apollo.
'Take them!' he shouted, pointing down at Chryseis and Sappho. A large ruby set in a golden ring flashed on his forefinger. 'Take them!'
He marched down the steps towards the altar. The men threw off the fleeces and took hold of Chryseis and Sappho. Sappho was dragged to her feet. She looked around wide-eyed and confused.
'And any of their followers! Take them too! Are there any here who see these pretenders as the true priests of Apollo? Are there any who think the great god of prophesy, Apollo, could be served by such as these? If there are, speak now.'
All the worshippers shrunk back. Polydorus' reputation for cruelty and quickness of action were well known. No one dared stand against him or his ways. Many shook their heads, many shouted his name, none proclaimed allegiance to Chryseis and Sappho.
'Then it is settled!' he roared triumphantly. 'I will take over as the priest of Apollo. My act will finish the reign of the priest Pelador and his faithless daughter. Bind these two with the wet thongs they had prepared for others. Let them feel the pain of the drying leather as they come to terms with being in the thrall of Polydorus.'
Sappho and Chryseis were dragged outside. Polydorus marched behind them in victory. The worshippers crowded around the door of the temple, afraid to speak against Polydorus, fearful for their own lives. Sappho blinked in the bright sunlight. Her robe was ripped from her, and naked she was flung to her knees.
Polydorus climbed up into a small trap pulled by two tall women with large feathered headdresses. They were both naked except for tight leather thongs between their legs. These were secured at their waists onto shiny leather belts with elegantly worked silver buckles. They had metal bits in their mouths which led from rings at the ends into leather reins, which were drawn through small silver hoops on the front of the brightly painted trap.
Polydorus pulled the reins into his hands and tugged them. The two women's heads were pulled back. They bit the reins. Their eyes opened wide with expectation. They snorted as they fought with the frustration of waiting for their orders to move.
'Take these pretenders away,' he shouted. 'They will serve me, and anyone who cares to pay. I will use them as entertainment for anyone who can afford it. That will be a fitting occupation for the "priestesses" of Apollo - the slaves of Polydorus, the Trojan whores. Take them away!'
He snapped at the reins and the women, relieved to move, pulled him away on the ornate trap.
A cage was brought on the back of a cart and Sappho and Chryseis were forced into it through an opening in the side. The door was slammed shut and locked. There was barely enough room inside for the two of them, and they were squashed together and unable to move as the cart was pulled away.
Sappho could already feel the wet thongs shrinking. Her wrists were already tight together but now they were being drawn against each other with agonising pressure. She could not move, but with her eyes she drew Chryseis' attention to them, showing her that she too shared her friend's suffering. But now it was not a recognition of sharing the pain required as an entrant to the priesthood. Now it was an acknowledgement of sharing the suffering of being plunged into servitude and slavery. Her bonds were testaments to a future which promised only fear and the unknown.
Chapter 2
Torture in the Greek camp
It had been ten years since the Greek army had arrived at Troy. Their beached ships, dark and forbidding against the turquoise sea, were dried out, their planks shrunk. Armour, piled in heaps outside the now ragged tents, was more dented, less bright than when it had first been carried enthusiastically onto the Trojan sand. Swords, stained with blood and entrails from defeated adversaries, and speared into the ground like large crowns, had duller edges and were more chipped. Achilles, though still angry at Agamemnon over his theft of Sappho, no longer withheld his support. His friend and lover, Patroclus, had been killed. Achilles had gained revenge with the merciless killing of Priam's brave son, and the best warrior of Troy, Hector. Defying the convention of respect to those fallen in war, he then contemptuously trailed Hector's dead body behind his chariot, beneath the walls of Troy. For two days he continued his deathly parade, defiling the once perfect body, bringing terror and anger and dishonouring the inhabitants of the great besieged city.
Achilles, the greatest warrior Greece had ever known, his long black hair streaming behind him, and reinvigorated by his conquest of Hector, again led his ferocious Myrmidons into battle. But for all the killing, all the sacrifice, there was no gain. Troy was too strong to be entered, its walls too tall and thick, its army too brave and determined to protect its sovereign right. And so still the war saw no victory. The two armies opposed each other across the great plain of Troy in entrenched stalemate. There was no going forward, and there was no going back. The beautiful Helen was still within the Trojan walls. Helen, lover and ally of Priam's handsome son Paris. Helen, the object of Agamemnon's mission to gain the return of his brother's wayward wife. Helen, the cause of this dreadful conflict.
During this time the alliance of Praxis, the blind slave master, and Calliope, the former slave, had firmed. Now Calliope was never out of the company of Praxis, never excluded from his confidence, always in his favour. She shared in his plans, his hatred of Ajax, and his desire to gain increasing power. With her strengthened influence and standing she had become more beautiful. She kept her dark hair cropped short. It contrasted with her pale smooth skin, itself aglow with the satiny gloss of youth. Her head was perfectly formed, smooth and oiled. She stood erect, her body always held to its full height, her square shoulders pressed back, her arms trailing loosely at her sides. Her breasts were firm and her dark nipples always erect. She had a noble bearing and usually went naked. If she did wear clothing it was only a silk scarf around her waist, or a leather belt slung diagonally across her chest. Her pubic hair was carefully shaved and her labia was tight and pink. By day the faceted gold ring in her clitoris glittered in the bright sunlight, by night it reflected the shimmering torches or flickering lamps. As she walked, confidently thrusting each hip forward in turn, the crease at the base of her buttocks deepened slightly and directed the eye into the dark crevice that lay beyond. Sometimes, as she strode forward, the lips of her sex could be seen; a beautiful silhouette outlining the perfection of the moist flesh. Her statuesque form was at once alluring, divine and bewitching. The blind Praxis called her his 'angel'. She stood before him when he requested, so he could run his hands up and down her body.
Master Wang still attended Praxis and led him everywhere, but now he was not his master's only aid, for Calliope was always clinging to Praxis' muscular arm.
The longer the deadlock with Troy continued, the more the bored soldiers sought entertainment and distraction. Praxis made it his business to supply their needs. He had several large tents set up between the beached ships. Each was joined by a covered walkway. Banners and flags fluttered from poles near the entrances to the tents. Multi-coloured bunting hung from the centre poles on ribbons pegged to the ground.
At the end of the largest tent were two huge claw-footed chairs. Calliope sat naked in one, Praxis, resplendent in burnished armour, in the other. Calliope sat with her knees slightly apart. The golden ring in her clitoris gleamed in the lamplight. When the flaps of the tent were drawn aside to allow customers to enter or leave, the facets of the ring caught the rays of the evening sun and flashed with coloured beams of light. No one who entered could avoid the captivating lustre of golden brilliance.
Eva was dragged in through the entrance. Since being abandoned to the beggars and vagrants at the gate of Troy by Sappho and Calliope, she had been enslaved to Praxis. He had brought her back to the Greek encampment as part of his booty, and humiliated her with torture and suffering every day of her captivity. But no matter what depravity she was subjected to, she managed to assert her pride as a northern princess of noble birth. Her defiance was indomitable, her resistance to suffering inexhaustible.
Eva spat dust and sand from her mouth. She had been agonisingly bound. Her arms were pulled behind her back, her legs bent back and her ankles and wrists bound together. She was dirty and dishevelled. A torn cotton smock hung loosely around her shoulders. Her long red hair was knotted and tangled in a mass of dishevelled curls. Her skin was pale and covered in reddened scratches and smudges of caked mud. Her elbows and knees were bruised and dirty. But when she looked from side to side her bright blue eyes still shone piercingly.
She glared at Praxis, fixing his unseeing eyes with a defiant stare.
'Is it my dear Eva?' he asked, holding his hands out in front of him.
'Yes, my lord. She has been brought for her daily torture. What have you planned for her?'
Eva flashed her eyes at Calliope. She stared at the beautiful woman. Calliope stared back, returning the haughty resentment that Eva displayed. Eva spat again. Her shoulders ached and pains between them travelled down her arms and into her bound ankles. She closed her eyes for a moment, as if to compose herself for what lay ahead.
'Something special, my angel. Let me show you.'
Calliope smiled and rested back on the claw-footed chair. She allowed her knees to drift apart. The golden ring in her clitoris twinkled in the light from the oil lamps fixed to the poles of the huge tent. Its golden reflection played in spangled shards on the insides of her thighs.
Eva looked at her tormentors. She despised Calliope's beauty, her oiled skin, her ease of manner, her lack of fear, her freedom. She had suffered so much, she could no longer imagine what it would be like to be free, to be bathed and oiled, to be ennobled and admired. She bit her lip and craned her head back to try and ease the pain in her shoulders. But there was no relief. She rolled onto her side and felt the saliva on her lips running down her mud-covered cheek. A wave of shame flooded over her. She felt desperate and humiliated.
'Master Wang!' shouted Praxis.
Wang scuttled out from the shadows cast by heavily folded curtains drawn between the tent poles.
'Master?' he fawned, running up and dropping to his knees in front of Praxis. He touched his red pillbox hat with his fingers. He looked like a spider, his spindly arms sticking out from the loose sleeves of his shiny silk robe.
'Take her to the oars. Have her hauled up high.'
Wang did not hesitate. He motioned to two soldiers who stood guard. They pushed one spear underneath Eva's arms, beneath her armpits. The other they thrust underneath the bend of her knees. They lifted her sharply.
Eva gasped for breath as her weight was taken on her upper arms and legs. The pain was intense. She could not keep her mouth closed. She panted in time with the shocks of pain as they jolted her roughly outside and over to one of the black-planked ships, then dropped her unceremoniously to the ground.
Two ends of a rope were lowered from one of the oars which poked out horizontally from the side of the ship. The soldiers secured one end to the spear that jutted out from Eva's left side and the other to the end that jutted out from the right. Another rope was dangled from the next oar and this was attached in the same way to the spear wedged behind Eva's knees. They hoisted her up several feet from the ground, just above head height. She did not spin on the ropes, but swayed giddily from side to side, the pressure caused by her weight increasing and the pain building accordingly.
Praxis was led out by Wang. Calliope held his other arm. She walked proudly alongside him, smiling at the soldiers who had gathered for the entertainment. If she caught their eye they looked down, fearful of her wrath, or the wrath of her protector.
'Is she tied like a filthy wild hog?' asked Praxis.
'Yes, master. Yes.'
'Good. Now we will make her squeal like a hog!'
Wang waved to soldiers leaning over the side of the ship. One emptied a bucket of water over the side. Eva did not see it. She did not know what to expect. The water fell through the air, starting in a barely fragmented mass before quickly breaking into a myriad shower of droplets.
They landed with great force, striking her across the back of her head. She gulped in shock, for a moment not knowing what was happening. The water ran around her face and dripped from her chin. She watched it splash to the ground below her and soak away into the hot sand.
Another bucketful was thrown down. It struck her between the shoulder blades. It was cold and shocked her. The jolt made her rear back as much as she could against her bonds. She tightened her body. The water ran between the cleft of her buttocks and between her legs. She tightened her buttocks and thighs as it ran coolly over her sex. She shivered. Another dousing bucketful fell. This one also struck her in her back, but slightly higher than the other. It ran around her chest and dripped from the tips of her aching nipples.
There was a pause. Eva choked as she tried to blow wet tangled hair away from her face. It stuck to her cheeks in strands and caught in the corners of her mouth. Calliope walked beneath her. Eva stared down, drenched, shocked and helpless.
'She certainly needs a wash, my lord. It's hard to tell the colour of her skin beneath the grime. I think she needs more.'
'As you wish, my angel. I only want to hear her screams. She has been silent too long today. I am growing impatient for the sound of suffering.'
Wang waved up to the men on the deck of the ship. A hose of leather was dangled over the side. It ran from a water butt set in the centre of the ship's deck. Eva heard the gurgling above her as a huge force of water erupted from the end of it. She listened to the torrent as it spewed down towards her. She felt the shock of it as it struck her fully across the buttocks. It was heavy, powerful, and painful. It drenched her. It reddened her skin and glazed its surface with a cold sheen. A silver mist rose around her. It rained back onto her like a storm. It streamed around her body and flowed to the ground.
The cold water ran back along her arms into the straining nape of her neck. It rushed over her head. It soaked her hair, pulling it down across her face. It tugged heavily at its ends before cascading to the hot dry sand beneath. It ran from her bound ankles, down the back of her legs into the crease of her buttocks. She tried to tighten against it, as if tension in her body would somehow stop the drenching onslaught. It was hopeless, the force was too great and, as it splashed against her sex lips they opened, the flow entering and penetrating.
She gasped, struggling to get her breath back against the shock. She swung from side to side on the ropes, surrounded by a fog of spray, drenched by the waterfall. She heard Praxis' cruel laughter, and amidst the deluge of water she saw Calliope prowling beneath like a stalking panther.
Eva shivered with cold. The heat of the sun was burning her s
kin, but she was filled with the coldness of the water as it flowed deeper inside her. She felt dizzy and disorientated. She screamed. She could barely hear Praxis' exclamations of pleasure. Her face was covered with the wet strands of her soaking red hair. Her body was engulfed with pain.
She fought to keep herself conscious, fearing the dreadful abyss of darkness which beckoned. Her hips ached. Her whole body strained against the constricting bonds that held her body captive, and the pain which emanated from within it.
Calliope stood beneath with her mouth wide open. Eva watched her taking the overflowing water between her lips. She let her mouth fill then overflow down her body. Eva watched the pool of water churning inside Calliope's mouth. She sensed Calliope's excitement, allowing her mouth to fill to the brim, feeling the force of the water as it ran down her cheeks onto her breasts, down her stomach, down to her feet.
Eva realised the water Calliope was drinking so eagerly had run across her own body, had picked up the grime from her own skin, was a drain of her own suffering. Suddenly she felt a strange burst of excitement. She arched her back, trying to encourage more water from the hose, trying to bring down a greater torrent so it could wash over her and nourish further Calliope below.
She watched Calliope running her hands across her breasts, teasing her erect nipples, pinching them, squeezing them. She watched her choke as, when she gasped for breath, the water ran down her throat. She watched her hands between her thighs. She saw her open her sex lips, exposing them to the dirty water that rained down on her.
Eva looked deep into her eyes. She saw the yeaning, the desire they held. She felt her clitoris hardening against the water, responding to the chilly saturation with its own heat, its own desire. Then she felt a warmth against her flesh. It was the warmth of her urine. She could not hold it back. It trickled from her. It mixed with the cascade from the hose. It ran from her sex and flowed down into Calliope's eager mouth.
