A Cruel Passing of Innocence (11 page)

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 what 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.'

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.