A Cruel Passing of Innocence (6 page)

The slaves, staring with disbelief, moved out into a large courtyard, bordered by pillars and intricate archways. Everywhere there were clusters of giant urns and tall pots, and a variety of rich, blossoming plants and lush foliage. Here and there stone statues of unknown figures stood, gazing down sightlessly on the maze of pathways that ran between raised stone structures draped with thick trails of greenery. Running water tumbled deliciously from fountains that ran down into lily-strewn pools beneath, making ripples on the glittering surface.

The mere thought of cool, clean water was enough to torment the parched lips of the thirsty slaves as they gazed upon the extraordinary scene. But above all it was the breathtaking beauty and tranquillity that struck Nassara, such a contrast to the dreadful ugliness outside, and the evil sordidness of their ordeal thus far. She stood there, lost in awe and confusion, not daring to muster even the merest glimmer of hope out of such recent despair.

Was this, Nassara pondered as her senses absorbed the bright, peaceful, scented place, just another cruel stage of their journey of misery? For one brief moment she wondered if she might have died along the way, having now entered paradise. But the welt on her buttock throbbed, and she knew she was indeed alive to its pain, and the reality if her living thirst grew with every passing moment.

A sound came from along one of the pathways and several servant boys and girls came running, each carrying an earthenware jug. Barefoot, dressed only in pure white loincloths, their brown bodies moving lithely as they approached the waiting arrivals, they offered water.

A girl with smiling eyes handed Nassara her jug, and drinking gratefully from it, Nassara marvelled at how cool and fresh the nectar was in her mouth, blissfully quenching the thirst that had nagged at her for so long. She gasped words of thanks to the girl, but the large eyes that occupied much of her pretty face were immediately lowered, avoiding Nassara's gaze, as if in warning or disapproval.

From somewhere there was a sudden clapping of hands, and a large man dressed in a white and blue robe, a strange gold-braided red hat perched on his head, appeared as if out of nowhere, his expression stern but not cruel.

The attendants were quick now to retrieve the jugs, pulling them from the hands of the slaves. Then they scurried away along one of the paths, without a single backward glance.

Moving silently out from one of the archways came six taller youths. Dark-skinned with jet-black hair, their eyes unsmiling, they stood a respectful distance behind the large man. They stood straight, their imperious heads held high in haughty arrogance as they calmly surveyed the slaves. They were dressed in immaculate white tunics that covered them down to their ankles, but what particularly caught Nassara's eye was the rigid whip that each one held.

Each whip was almost as much as the drop from the boys' waists to their feet. The black leather tapered gradually down from the handle – no more than the circumference of Nassara's middle finger – to a willowy tip almost needle thin. At the very extremity were a few tiny strands of red, coarse thread.

As the boys haughtily scanned the faces and bodies of the new arrivals with an air of distaste, the wispy red tips of their whips reposed lightly beside their feet, on the cool stone slabs of the courtyard, as if impatient to unleash their purpose. Even paradise, it seemed, was not a place without its whip-men, although here at least they were whip-boys, whose cruelty surely could not equal that of their zealous elders.

The large man clapped his hands again and the tallest of the whip-boys, who seemed to be the leader, strode instantly to stand just in front of the two lines of slaves. Zheeno and the other young men were standing in the front line, and Nassara and her female companions stood behind, still chained one to another, waiting anxiously to see what they must now endure.

The whip-boy's eyes were black with fiery intensity and he shouted one single, shrill word of command.

‘Abbaijsh!'

Pointing first with his whip at the ground, he tapped the air in a downward, impatient motion. At the same time the other whip-boys ran instantly to move around to the side and back of the assembled slaves, hovering menacingly.

‘Abbaijsh!' he screamed again, his lips curled into a fierce scowl and his piercing eyes darting over the slaves, seeking out anyone slow to obey. ‘Abbaijsh!'

Nassara immediately understood and she, and some of the other slaves, quickly knelt down on the cool slabs, but one or two of the young men in the front were slow to comprehend. The lead whip-boy, his face thunderous, lashed out, catching the buttock of the nearest male slave, making him gasp and cower away.

The other slaves were filled with sudden understanding, and scrambled quickly to kneel. Nassara noticed with relief that Zheeno had understood, instantly obeying, and within moments all the slaves were kneeling, their eyes cast down and anxious. But still the lead whip-boy was not satisfied.

‘Abbaijsh!' he screamed again, suddenly getting down onto his knees in front of the slaves, as though to demonstrate what posture they were to adopt. Spreading his legs apart he bent right forward so that his back was arched and his face almost touching the stone slabs, his arms spread out in front of him and his rump thrust out behind. ‘Abbaijsh!'

Gradually the slaves understood the refinement of the required perversity of posture, and quickly copied him. Moving their knees outward they leaned forward, prostrating themselves as low as they could, straining forward. Chains rattled until the slaves were finally still again, stretched out, submissive, waiting, not daring to move a muscle, trembling with the unfamiliar tension, fearful of what might come.

But Belithza, still shackled to Nassara, had not spread herself to the satisfaction of one of the whip-boys, who stood over her angrily. ‘Abbaijsh!' he shouted down at her, then when she scarcely moved he bent and roughly pushed her nose down against the ground, grabbing one of her thighs and pulling it further out. Then upright again, and looking down contemptuously, he lashed her raised buttocks.

‘Ooooh…!' she yelped, biting her lip, struggling to retain the new uncomfortable posture.

Nassara scarcely dared glance at Belithza's agonised features as she involuntarily lowered her torso still further, her spine dipped, her buttocks raised, her nipples brushing the stone floor.

There was silence again, apart from the gentle sound of running water in the lily pools. At last the lead whip-boy seemed satisfied and nodded approvingly, scanning the prostrated slaves, searching for any sign that might indicate a lapse in their display of servility. He went back to the large man, who still stood as motionless as any statue, surveying the scene with disdainful amusement. The whip-boy gave a little bow and the large man nodded, clapping his hands again.

Several liveried guards, who had earlier opened the outer doors, came back into the courtyard, hurrying to the chained lines of grovelling slaves. With iron unlocking tools they busied themselves, bending to remove the studded leather collars, pulling roughly at craned necks and grunting with effort until the shackles dropped, jangling to the ground.

Nassara was glad to feel the cumbersome collar fall away, careful not to move from her submissive posture, keeping her forehead pressed to the flagstones. It seemed to her that this humbling posture was to be the deferential mark of their humility and obedience to their new masters. From henceforth she knew that no sooner had the command
abbaijsh
passed from the lips of the whip-boys, or their masters, than slaves must instantly fall and prostrate themselves, remaining motionless, cast down like paralysed statues until the masters' gracious release.

The courtyard grew steadily hotter. She did not know how long they stayed in that position, listening to the quietly padding feet of the vigilant boys and the trickling of water.

After a while she became stiff, aching in the unnatural posture. Once one of the whip-boys knelt behind her, and she sensed his scowling face close to her buttocks. He nudged the dip of her back with the tip of his whip, indicating that she should dip still further and spread her knees still wider.

The strain became acute, but just as she thought she could bear it no longer the head whip-boy shouted another command. ‘Arribaja!' He gestured with his whip in upward movements, indicating that the slaves were to rise. Nassara got quickly to her feet, grateful for the respite from the straining posture of debasement.

But there were further lessons of servility. It seemed that in standing a slave must display sufficient poise of humility and respect. Heads held too high and eyes not cast down were acts of disrespect, and any slave showing disrespect was roughly seized by the hair until he or she did.

Glancing from beneath her eyelashes Nassara saw the large man surveying his assembled slaves. Warily he watched the young men, who now released from their shackles could perhaps pose a threat to his authority. But Nassara noticed that the vigilant guards, tall and muscled, were armed with sheathed knives, and cold tentacles of hopelessness ensnared her.

Already the minds of slaves were reduced to the inevitability of their slavery, and the need for shackles was gone.

The slaves were led across the courtyard, through an arched doorway into the cool, gloomy interior, and down a flight of stone steps. The lead boy walked jauntily ahead, his whip over one shoulder, never looking back, as if certain of his authority, knowing that slaves would follow obediently.

Batteries of oil lamps flickered from iron frames along the walls. As the slaves descended it became hot and steamy. Nassara became increasingly anxious, wondering what fresh ordeal awaited them. What dreadful place was this that belched steam and heat from the bowels of the ground?

But the humid air was sweetly perfumed, and they came to a huge pillared chamber where, beneath the vaulted ceiling, a vast pool of dark water stretched out, a misty haze of vapour hanging over it. At one end was a passageway, and the peaceful place echoed with the gentle lapping of the water.

Beside the tiled pool stood several fat men, their arms folded across their immense chests. Nassara had never set eyes upon men of such girth and bloated dimensions. Hairless and with beady eyes the fat men were stripped to the waist, wearing only lengths of towelling wound around their flabby bellies. These strange men stood silently watching the arrival of the naked slaves, yet Nassara noticed they seemed not unkindly in their demeanour.

The slaves were separated, the lead whip-boy motioning impatiently for the male slaves to go to one side of the vaulted passageway, the slave girls to the other. On either side were a number of arched doorways leading into small cubicles, and the fat men stood expressionless, waiting for their respective slave. When Nassara came to the chamber she had been directed to, one of them pointed for her to go inside.

Stepping warily into the confined space, and feeling her anxiety growing with every second, Nassara found herself standing in front of a raised stone platform as long as she was tall. With her heart beating faster she tried to imagine what fate awaited her, yet somehow the fat man behind her seemed strangely reassuring. Now she could see him close up his countenance was almost gentle and kindly. His lumbering movements were slow, without any appearance of malice or cruel intent. Perhaps he was a slave, too.

He moved close and instinctively she drew away, but he put a firm hand on her shoulder, guiding her to the platform, and spreading down a large towel he motioned for her to lie facedown upon it.

Oiled hands rested upon her shoulder, massaging and rubbing her skin, and she realised the servant girl from the courtyard who had given her water was standing silently nearby. She moved forward and poured warm, scented oil onto Nassara's skin from a jar, and further back in the shadows was one of the servant boys. He held a bowl, and catching her puzzled eye, gave her a timid smile of friendly innocence.

The fat man's podgy fingers moved progressively down her back, working the oil into her flesh. His firm but gentle motions pressed and soothed away her aches and pains, leaving her glowing with a luxurious inner warmth. Kneading the muscles of her flanks and waist, his hands moved down to the small of her back, gradually reaching the steep rise of her buttocks. More oil poured from the lip of the jar, spreading over them and into the valley between.

His fingers paused, as if considerately, at the thin welt dissecting one cheek. The cut was still inflamed, a vivid streak ripening into a raised ridge. The fat man applied some ointment from another bottle, before his hands continued again in their previous rhythm. Reaching the upper crests of her buttocks, Nassara felt his fingers slide between the dividing scarps, and more oil flowed into the opened vulnerability. Without heed of the intimacy of such ungracious encroachment, he continued to massage her there. Pleasant waves of pleasure spread from her thighs and lower belly, radiating to every part of her body, soothing and calming, healing and cleansing her ravaged flesh. Her mind was infused by some potent drug of peacefulness, almost dissolving those humbling traces of shame that came from this stranger touching her so intimately.

‘I am Babbushan, and I am to look after you for the masters, Nassara.' The voice was rather high-pitched, close by her ear, and she was surprised he spoke her language or knew her name. ‘Turn your body to me,' he commanded, indicating that he had finished his work on her buttocks.