The lash tore into my back and warm blood trickled down my side.
“Bow! Forehead on the floor!” the fat man beside me snarled in his strangely high voice.
Reluctantly, already on my knees on the deep floral carpet, I put my forehead between my two trembling hands.
“What is your name?” asked the boy standing before me. Although I couldn’t see him, he sounded more interested than officious, more gentle than cruel.
“Ngammiwiha,” I muttered.
Instantly, the lash stung my back once more, and I felt a second warm trickle. I flinched. “Speak up, brat!” the man ordered.
“Ngammiwiha,” I said, louder.
I heard the man whip the lash back to strike again when the boy before me cried out, “Hold! See what you’ve done to his tender skin? You will not strike him again without my permission. Do you understand?”
“Yes, your Highness,” the man responded reluctantly.
Tears were in my eyes. I could feel the warm blood running in rivulets down my back. I had sworn to myself that I would never, never cry out, and I did not then although I was close to doing so.
“You may sit back on your heels,” said the boy. I did so and looked cautiously up through my tears. The boy before me seemed about my age although clearly he had never suffered hunger as I had. He wore a white, flowing, robe embroidered with gold at the neck and wrists which whispered softly as he moved. Looking down at me, the boy said, “That is too long and difficult to pronounce. I shall call you Gemji, since in your language the word means ‘Pale One’. Do you understand?”
Still kneeling, I nodded miserably.
Looking at me,he said, “You can call me Zwahe, which I believe means ‘Prince’ in your speech.” He was wrong. In reality it meant “Wise One,” but I dared not correct him. He took my hand gently and motioned for me to rise. To the man he said, “Remove his clothes.”
To me this was a most shameful insult. My people were never seen naked except in our own huts. The man reached over, tore off the sash around my waist, and ripped the seam of my dirty brown garment, which fell to the floor. I stood, shivering, my hands in front of my privates, tears welling in my eyes.
Slowly Zwahe, as I came to call him, walked around me, inspecting me up and down carefully. He opened my mouth and examined my teeth. Then he pushed my eyelids back and remarked on the paleness of my eyes. Walking behind me, he scrutinized the bloody lash marks and then spread my cheeks and examined the opening closely. “You have never been ill-used back here?”
I shook my head. The man began to raise his lash, but the prince, for prince he certainly was, stopped him with a wave of his hand.
When Zwahe stood once more before me, he reached forward and removed my hands from protecting my privates. Humiliated but fearing the lash again, I bowed my head. The prince gently fingered my scrotum to ascertain that everything was in order.
Completing his examination, Zwahe said to me, “You are very beautiful. I have never before seen a person with skin so pale that it is nearly transparent and with such white hair and with eyes of such pale blue. I have heard of albinos before, but you are the first I have ever seen. Why were you squinting in the square?”
“Light hurts my eyes, Zwahe.”
The prince nodded. “Then we shall have to get you a hat. When I saw you in the market, I knew I had to have you. You came dear, you know. I had to bid against a man who wanted to use you as a sex slave.”
I shuddered.
“You are the most expensive slave I have ever purchased. So,” he said, looking meaningfully at the man, “you are to treat him very carefully. No more lashes unless I call for them. Do you understand?”
Clearly the fat man was unhappy, but he only bowed his head and said, “Yes, Excellency.”
“Fine. Now take him, have him cleaned, have the lash marks on his back and the chain marks on his wrists and ankles treated, and give him a robe to wear. He is to have the room next to this one. You can move across the hall.”
“But Ex…”
“That is an order,” the prince interrupted. “Do it…now!!”
The man frowned darkly. “Come.” I turned to go and was savagely yanked back around. “Never turn your back on any member of the royal family!” the man ordered through clenched teeth as the two of us backed slowly out of the room.
In the hallway, the man said, “So, you are to be his favorite. We’ll see about that. You call me Hiwah, understand?” Miserable, I nodded. Hiwah dragged me still naked through hall after hall. I was very afraid we would meet people while I was naked, but we met nobody. I had not much chance to look about, though I was able to make out something of the splendor of the building: the gleaming white walls perhaps twenty feet high, the green stone pillars, the golden sconces. I could see that between the tops of the walls and the ceiling was an opening to the outside about two feet high.
Finally, Hiwah stopped before a door. He waved his hand about waist high and the door slid silently open. He shoved me into a small room where I stood, hands once again shielding my genitals, and gazed slowly about the room. There was no magnificence here: wooden walls, a pallet on the floor, a stool, a chamber pot, and, in the middle of the small room, a large metal tub. Again there was an opening between the top of two of the walls and the ceiling and daylight flowed in.
“Wait here,” Hiwah ordered and left, the door sliding silently closed behind him. After a moment, I tried to open the door with the same motion, but it didn’t budge. Finally I sat on the stool, hands covering my crotch, head bowed, tears flowing.
I will never see Papa or Mama again, I thought. I will never see my friends, nor play in the forest, nor swim in the clear cold river. Nearly sixteen winters I ran free, and now, suddenly, I am a slave. But I vowed never to provoke another beating. That would be useless and hopeless. No, I shall have to play their game until I find a way to escape.
The door suddenly opened to laughter and giggles. Half a dozen girls paraded in, each carrying two heavy, steaming jugs which they emptied into the tub. I blushed hotly in embarrassment as the girls looked me over carefully, pointing at me and giggling before they left and closed the door.
A moment later the door again slid open. An older woman entered and ordered brusquely, “Get in the tub.” Still glowing crimson and holding my hands protectively, I climbed into the tub. The water was hot, nearly too hot for my sensitive skin to bear. The woman knelt beside the tub, poured a fragrant ointment into one hand and began to rub it into my back. It was cool and soothing. It made my back tingle a little, a new and calming sensation for me, and I decided I liked it. She rubbed over the welts on my back, which felt for a moment as though they were burning but then, slowly, the pain faded and I felt them no more. She rubbed the ointment on the cruel chain marks on my wrists and ankles. The woman took a brush, poured some of the liquid on it, and began to scrub my shoulders. I cried out, pain searing me. She stopped, looked at the bleeding caused by the brush, and muttered to herself.
“Your skin is too sensitive,” she declared. “How am I ever supposed to get you clean?” She shrugged, put down the brush, treated the bleeding with more ointment, and ordered me to immerse myself completely in the hot water.
Am I to be drowned, I asked myself? Is she going to kill me and tell the prince it was an accident?
As I lay, holding my breath, I felt her hands on my chest, slowly rubbing, gently washing and comforting me. When I could hold my breath no longer, I popped up, fearful she would push me back down, but she did not. Instead, she held my head, turning my face towards her. “The prince is right,” she murmured. “You are beautiful. Odd, but strangely beautiful.” She took some more of the liquid on her hands and began to work it gently into my face. Frightened for a moment that it would hurt my eyes, I discovered, to the contrary, that it soothed them. I began to relax.
She chuckled. “You don’t have to hide yourself,” she said, gesturing towards my crotch. “There’s nothing down there that I haven’t seen a million times, and,” she added, amused, “most were much more remarkable than yours.”
The bathing continued. She cleaned my hair, which hung to my shoulders in my people’s way, she scrubbed my arms, my legs, my feet, my privates, and she had me turn over so she could wash my backside, cleaning the crack gently, almost affectionately. When she finished, she had me stand and climb out of the tub. She draped towels around me and began to dry me, patting more than rubbing, beginning at my hair and working her way down to my feet. She sat me on the stool and began to cut my hair. I feared she would cut it all off but found that she was simply trimming it to a length that came just below my ears. With a gentle brush, she arranged my hair with a part down the middle in the custom of the Conquerors. Then she sprayed me all over, even in my crack, with a sweet-smelling scent and dressed me in plain, white under short and a pale-blue robe, which, she observed, matched my eyes. The robe was not nearly as splendid as the prince’s, of course, yet still finer than anything I had ever worn. It was light and cool, and, like that of the prince, it whispered softly, seeming to caress my delicate skin as I moved. She fitted sandals to my feet, stood back and looked at me, saying to herself, “Not perfect, but he’ll have to do for now.”
She motioned me to follow her, and once again I was led through the halls, around corners, upstairs, downstairs, until finally we passed before an ornate, golden door. Outside the door stood two guards, splendidly clad in garments of crimson and gold. A few yards to the left of the door in the same wall was another door, less ornate but still finely carved. She waved, and, as it slid open, she motioned for me to enter. I found myself in a white-stone room which must have been an antechamber to the one next door, for there was a door in the right wall. In the room was a bed, a table, two stools, and a chamber pot. Against one wall was a tub like the one in which I had just bathed. On the table were two unlit candles and, to my astonishment, a small lyre. Again, daylight flowed in from high openings.
Gesturing to the door in the right wall, the woman said, “That door is to the prince’s chamber. It is not locked, but you are never to open it without the invitation of the prince himself. Do you understand?” I nodded. “Good. I am to be your servant.” Surprised, I looked up at her. “My name is Jiraha. Any time you need me, tell the guards in the hall and they will send for me. You are free to wander in the halls, but never open any door without permission. Do you understand?” I nodded again. “At the far end of this hall is a door which opens into a garden. You may go there if you wish. You need no permission. However, the wall of the garden has another door which goes into the prince’s private garden. There you do not go unless he invites you. Understand?” I nodded a third time. “Finally, never speak in our people’s language unless you are first addressed in it. There could be terrible consequences if you did.” I did not know the Conquerors’ language well, but I did know it enough, I thought, to get by.
The woman left, promising to send food, which arrived in a few minutes. There were savory meats, delicious vegetables and fruits, and a red, slightly tart wine. When I finished eating, I took up the lyre and began to strum it quietly, feeling its soul tingling through my fingers and then feeling my own soul merge with that of the lyre. It is truly a noble instrument, I thought. How did they know I knew how to play?
In a few minutes I began to hum and then sing softly, more tears trickling down my cheeks. It was a sad song, a lament of my people. I sang, knowing that I would never see them again, that the life I had known was over.
Sitting with my back to the throne-room door, I did not hear it slide open. Moments later I felt a touch on my shoulder. I sprang to my feet, fell to my knees and bowed, saying, “Zwahe, I apologize. I did not hear you enter.”
“Stand,” the prince ordered. I stood as he walked slowly around me. “Yes,” he said, the blue suits you well. Let us sit.” We sat on the stools — he confident, self-assured; I nervous, wondering what was to happen.
“Gemji, you do not need to bow when we are alone together.” The prince gazed at me thoughtfully. “I wonder what you understand. Do you understand that I bought you and you are my slave?”
“Yes, Zwahe.”
Nodding, the prince continued, “I have no other slaves my age. I live in a palace of adults, mostly old men and women. I have no brothers, no sisters, no mother. I do not know how to play as children do. Do you, Gemji?”
“Yes, Zwahe.”
Then to my surprise, he said, “Good. You will teach me. That will be your job.” Pausing for a moment, he continued, “You play the lyre beautifully, but that was a very sad song you were singing. I don’t know your language well enough to understand what it was about. Can you tell me?”
I thought for a moment, still feeling the tears in my eyes. Finally I shook my head, no.
“All right, Gemji. It must be a very private song.” He paused a moment before continuing, “You need to understand, Gemji, that when we are with other people, you must bow, you must call me Zwahe, you must not look at my face without permission, and you must not, under any circumstances, touch me. But when we are alone together, you may look at me without bowing, but you mustn’t touch me, at least for now. I don’t let anybody touch me except my father and my personal slave who washes and dresses me. You have met him. His name is Hiwah. Do you remember?” I nodded. “I believe he is not very happy right now because I moved him out of this room and across the hall. If I were you, I would avoid him for a while.”
Again he paused. “Now I must leave you. I will return to you tomorrow after you have broken your fast, and you will teach me how to play.” With that he rose, went silently through his door and closed it soundlessly.
I sat, sighing and wondering to myself, how can a boy be his age and not know how to play? He must be very lonely. A few moments later I rose and went to the hall door. I waved my hand, and the door opened. As I walked slowly toward the end of the hall, I gazed up at the raised ceiling and realized the green stone pillars represented tree trunks, with boughs and leaves artfully carved and with more colorful leaves painted on the ceiling. I was aware of a faint scent in the air, sweet and pleasant. Wondering if the door to the garden would work for me I waved my hand. The door slid open, revealing a colorful formal garden.
I looked about in the late-afternoon light. The garden was not large, perhaps sixty yards square. It was surrounded by high walls of purest white stone. There were walkways of the same stone around the base of the walls. Four more walkways, one from the mid-point of each wall, met at a fountain in the middle. Together the walkways formed four cultivated squares rioting with colorful flowers — glowing pinks, brilliant purples, lively yellows, radiant greens. There were lilies and orchids and other flowers which I could not name. The fragrances from the flowers were nearly overwhelming. Slowly I sniffed the scent of each color, trying to memorize it so I would recognize it again. I thought a yellow flower gave off the same scent Jiraha had sprayed on me. Even on my privates and in my crack, I thought, smiling to myself. It was the first time since being captured that I had smiled.
Finally, I sat on one of the fountain benches, gazing into the water, then raising my eyes to look at the white-marble figure in the middle. It was a naked boy, perhaps thirteen or fourteen, his chest and muscles just beginning to develop. The statue stood with his left arm reaching up diagonally to the opposite shoulder and one leg bent a little forward. In his right hand he held his penis, a large, erect penis. My eyes widened at the sight of it. Fascinated, I watched as the penis spewed forth a stream of water which arched up and forward a foot or so before falling and tinkling gently in the pool below. My, I thought, I wonder if they ever really grow that big. I felt my own growing beneath my robe and, looking down, saw that it was forming a little tent. With reluctance, I turned aside and, still sitting, looked vacantly over the rest of the garden while my tent subsided.
I thought back over the last 24 hours and all that had happened. When I was captured, I had heavy chains around my wrists and ankles and was led along with several of my friends through the jungle. The slave dealers, for that’s who they were, led us along a narrow path which at times was overgrown with vines and ferns. We walked for what felt like hours, the chains seeming to become heavier and heavier as we walked, cutting the flesh of our wrists and ankles. I was thirsty but was given no water.
At last we emerged from the jungle into a grassy field. The light was blinding and I had to squint my eyes nearly shut against the glare. We came to buildings which were different from any I had ever seen before. They were white and appeared to have many rooms. The buildings grew more numerous until we were in a place where there were wall-to-wall buildings on either side of us seeming to stretch a great distance. Rolling down the wide path were vehicles on wheels pulled by giant animals I had never before seen. We passed a harbor which was full of seagoing ships with tall masts and furled sails. I was unable to look at the water for the glare. I was both awed and frightened by what I was able to make out through the slits in my eyelids. Although I knew some of the language of the Conquerors, it was to be a long time before I learned the words for what I was seeing — stores, businesses, ships, carriages, horses, city.
We were taken to a large, dark, dank building where we were forced to sit on the dirt floor still in our chains, which were now attached to large beams. Able to open my eyes at last, I looked about but there was little to see save the other captives. I was very weary, so I tried to lie down but found that I could not unless those on either side of me also lay down. As I sat, I dozed and lost all track of time. After a long wait, somebody brought us water and small bits of bread, not enough to satisfy a still-growing boy by any means.
Many hours later we were led out into the bright morning sunshine of a new day. Again, I had to squint against the painful glare. We were taken to the center of the city and forced to stand in a row while Conquerors walked past us, examining us closely. Finally, one of the captives, a good friend, was led onto a platform, and there were a few moments of shouting until it suddenly stopped and the captive was led down to a man who gave something to the slave dealer. We’re being sold, I thought. I’m going to be a slave!
The process continued for some time until I, the last captive, was led up on the stage. The dealer began to talk loudly, turning me slowly as he talked. Somebody called from the crowd gathered below and then somebody else called. Several voices called out, but eventually most dropped away until only two were left. Their calling continued for some time until there was a pause, the slave dealer shouted something, and led me off the stage to a splendidly clad boy and two soldiers. The boy said something to the two soldiers who nodded, held me by my arms, and led me away.
We walked through the city and up a hill, at the top of which was a magnificent, sparkling, white-stone building. It had a large, white wall around it and huge, solid wooden doors in the wall. Reaching the doors, one of the soldiers pounded his sword hilt on the door and shouted something. The doors opened, and the three of us entered.
I was taken through hallways and shoved into a small room where I was ordered to wait. I sat shivering, not from cold but from fear. What was to become of me?
Perhaps an hour later, a soldier entered, removed my chains and led me through a door and into a large room, where I was commanded to kneel.
I sighed as my mind returned to the present. Now, I was alone in the palace garden, tired, hungry and extremely downhearted.
The sky was darkening. Gazing up I could make out some of the constellations I knew so well. There was the hunter, the cross, the lamb. I wondered if my friends and my family were looking at them even as I was. Sighing to myself, I rose, went to the hallway door, opened it, and walked back to my door.
The daylight had faded, and the hallway was now lit by a pastel glow which seemed to have no source. It was soothing, and as I watched, it slowly changed colors.
Within my room there was the same glow. I marveled at it, unable to ascertain its source. I saw that the candles on the table had been lit although they were not needed and there was food and wine. I ate and drank, loneliness gnawing at my heart. Then, pulling off my robe and dropping my under shorts, I used my chamber pot and lay on the bed. Although I usually slept in the dark at my home, I had never slept alone before. Slowly, the glowing light faded until only the dim light from the two candles remained. Turning on one side I wept, large, salty tears of desolation streaming from my eyes and dampening the bedding. At some point, I knew not when, I slept.