"What about this one? He's strong, good teeth, pretty face. All kinds of useful." Their captor called into the milling crowd, gripping Murphy's jaw roughly and turning him in the direction of some noble women. They fluttered their fans, sizing him up, eyes calculating, their expressions of polite interest.
There were a lot of people at their stall, inspecting them like pieces of meat at a butchery. Bellamy and Murphy were sweating in the hot sun, beaten and bloody and naked save for sack loincloths. They were restrained with shackles around their ankles and wrists, attached together with heavy chains that were padlocked to a ring in the ground. The heavy manacles had worn their skin down to almost the bone, ankles, and wrists a bloody agonizing mess, their feet in similar condition from the weeks of walking barefoot through the mountains to reach this slave market.
Their captor, a swarthy man with stained teeth and a beer gut, was dressed richly and his fat fingers glittered with gold rings. He and his men had been carried here on a palanquin by Bellamy, Murphy, and the other dozen or so slaves chained beside them.
The crowds interest grew as he approached Bellamy. "This ladies and gentlemen is our main attraction." Bellamy gritted his teeth, his exhaustion conquering his rage as this fat man listed all his physical attributes in effort to sell him for a pretty penny.
"Yeah, he has a lot of muscles, but look, his back and arms are hideously scarred, he's had a whip taken to him. He's too pretty for the field, too beaten to serve and that great scar on his face ruins any chance for companionship, doesn't it?" A man from the crowd scoffed, turning away.
The fat man back peddled, clearly, he wanted to sell him as a companion but was losing his audience with this approach.
"But this one hasn't ever had the whip." He said, turning back to Murphy, who though ragged and bloody, certainly looked in a better condition than his friend.
A few people made offers, all too low for the fat man to even consider so he shooed the people away, not wanting them to crowd his stall if they weren't buying.
Throughout the day he managed to sell several other slaves, making solid profit. He was starting to wonder however how he was ever going to sell his two supposed pretty boys when a most glamorous woman approached.
The sun setting behind her lit her golden hair like a halo, the thin gold bands around her head, her arms and wrists sparkled delicately as she paused in front of Bellamy and Murphy. Her face was beautiful, her eyes a stunning blue, her lips a narrow rosebud. Her skin was a glowing ivory and she was draped in white Grecian robes, the material stark and eye-catching against the dirty ground.
A slave was carrying a large fan behind her, she was dressed in a simple white shift that clung to voluptuous body in a decidedly suggestive way. Her eyes were golden brown, her skin soft caramel, her lashes impossibly long, and her thick chestnut hair braided down her back, almost reached the ground.
Bellamy wasn't sure who was more beautiful. Beside the first woman stood an incredibly intimidating man. His skin was brown and tattooed in various places with blue ink. He had no hair on his head and was more muscular than both Bellamy and Murphy put together. He stood with his feet apart, eyes trained on the fat man, wearing naught but flowing white pants, barefoot, and holding a broad sword loosely in front of him.
Bellamy was stunned, only coming out of his trance like staring when the golden-haired woman spoke. "Jasper inspect these slaves." She ordered, her voice brisk, husky, deep but still feminine.
A young man Bellamy had previously failed to notice scurried out from behind the sword guy, he was well dressed, skinny, pale and had a wild mop of dark hair. He carried a parchment and a quill, and had a satchel hanging from his shoulder that appeared to be filled with more parchments.
He hovered close to the chained men, making notes, referring to his lists and then checking their bodies. He prodded them, opened their mouths, checked their teeth, checked their eyes, their reflexes, and performed several other irritating and degrading tests until he was satisfied.
"I believe they are suitable Wanheda." He stated, swooping a low bow to the golden-haired women he had addressed as Wanheda.
Wanheda nodded imperiously.
Jasper turned to the fat man. "Three gold pieces each." He offered, extending his hand to seal the deal.
The fat man scoffed. "Not likely, they got pretty faces and they're strong. No less than 10 gold each." He spat, oozing self-importance.
Jasper turned to Wanheda, raising an eyebrow in question.
Wanheda shook her head and held up five fingers with an impatient sigh.
Jasper turned back to their captor. "Three gold pieces each and you may keep your sorry little life."
He gestured to the guy with sword, who stepped forward menacingly. "Final offer."
"Why that's preposterous." The fait man spluttered, his eyes darting around in fear and indignation. "You can't be serious."
Wanheda raised a finger, and then, almost indiscernibly, the man with the sword had lunged forward. His sword snaked through the air so fast you saw nothing but the flash of metal in the sunlight, and watched as the fat man's robs split in half and dropped to his feet, exposing his tiny manhood.
The fat man stood in horrified shock for a second amidst jeers and laughter from the nearby crowd before dropping to his knees and gathering his split robes around him, spluttering and choking on his words in anger and terror. Jasper walked past the cowering man, dropping the six pieces of gold in front of him in disgust and stooping to collect the keys to the prisoner's padlocks.
Bellamy watched him unlock his chains, hostile, but quiet. Surely whatever this Wanheda had planned couldn't be worse than the hell she was buying them from. Murphy seemed to be thinking the same thing, he hadn't fought back or resisted at all, which was uncharacteristic for him.
Agony and hunger had a way of knocking the fight right out of you though.
They were led through the market, the pace slower than expected, Wanheda gliding, her prisoners stumbling in her wake, exhausted and more dragged by her muscled body guard than walking of their own motivation.
Their journey ended at the palace that overlooked the market. It's white marble walls ethereal in the dusk, its peaks and spires glistening gold in the last light of the day.
At the main gates, they parted ways with Wanheda and her entourage. They were taken into custody by several guards.
This was the beginning of a gruelling process.
Bellamy was separated from Murphy and taken to a brightly lit stone room. Male and female slaves swarmed around him.
First, he was unchained, stripped, and splashed with scalding hot water.
Then he was thrown into a cold bath, there he was scrubbed head to toe. His skin, hair, ears, mouth, hands, feet, everywhere, was caked with blood and dirt and sand. He was scrubbed until every inch of him was clean and his skin was rubbed raw. He was roughly dried off, his finger and toe nails were cut, as was his hair, then a stinging ointment was applied to his wounds. He was dressed in a pair of flowing white pants exactly like the sword man, and most of these slaves wore.
His hair was combed, a sweet-smelling water spritzed into it, his teeth roughly clean with a stick and a bitter white powder and a foul smelling green salve was slathered over the scar across his face.
He was then bound to a chair. The only bind was a silk rope around his waist, tied out of reach beneath the chair. He was relieved to have no ties around his wrists and ankles, the wounds there smarted terribly with every movement.
The chair was in an empty cell. It was cold. Bellamy was left alone for the first time since his arrival. He sat alone in the cold quiet for what seemed like hours, his hunger, thirst, and pain broken by the relief of sitting and the healing his body was being treated to.
There was nothing in his cell besides him and the chair, and the door in front of him. He watched the door, hopeful it would open. And lo and behold, it did.
The girl from earlier, the one fanning Wanheda, entered, carrying a bowl of water and a cotton cloth.
She was silent as she approached him. She stood before him and held the bowl to his lips, allowing him to drink, quenching his dry mouth and throat.
Bellamy gulped greedily, the water cold and sweet, the cleanest he'd ever had. The girl removed the bowl after a moment, setting it down on the floor and kneeling beside it.
She dipped the cloth into it and began wiping the foul salve off his face.
Bellamy swallowed, regaining his previously lost voice as his vocal cords had been hydrated, his dry mouth refreshed.
"What's your name?" He asked, his voice still a little cracked. "Who is Wanheda and what is this place?"
The girl glanced at him, before continuing her task. He persisted, asking her questions until she finished cleaning the slave and stood, collecting the bowl, and turning to leave. When she reached the door she paused, looking back, her deep eyes brimming with an indistinguishable emotion.
"My name is Raven." She consented, her tone neutral, her voice beautiful. "I am coming back with food. And then you go to Wanheda."
Bellamy processed this new information calmly. He was mostly just excited to eat.
True to her word the beautiful Raven did return, bringing with her a plate of meat, gravy, and bread. This she allowed Bellamy to feed himself. She stood watch as he wolfed it down, the relief of food in his belly indescribably good as he licked his plate and returned the empty vessel to Raven, sighing in satisfaction.
Raven accepted it back, her hand lingering on his fingers briefly. "Do as Wanheda says. To survive her is to please her."
"What does she want?" He asked, his question of curiosity turning to desperation as Raven dropped his hand and hurried toward the door. "Wait, why, tell me more than that!" He demanded as she let him go and hurried for the door, leaving him alone again.
His anxiousness for what was coming next dulled as he grew sleepy, his belly full and in the least pain than he'd been in in months. He began nodding off, his heavy lids shutting, and the blackness of sleep overtaking him.
"Wake up!"
Bellamy's eyes flew open, bright light flooding his vision as he jumped in surprise.
All around him were gossamer silks, white walls, gold detailing, stands of fruit and wine scattered about and in front of him a vast bed of such comfort and excess he could barely comprehend it.
The sheer wealth and beauty of the room was overwhelming, but none of it compared to Wanheda, who was sheathed in only an entirely transparent gown and was seated on the lavish bed.
She stood, the fabric of her dress concealing nothing, her supple curves, her round breasts, hard nipples, and the mound between her thighs on full display.
"What is your name and who is your god?" She asked, her deep voice quiet and commanding.
Bellamy shivered at the intensity of her presence.
"I am Bellamy Blake, and I have no god."
Wanheda smiled, gliding to him, closing the gap between them in seconds.
She reached out a delicate hand, his arms hanging uselessly at his sides, too enthralled by her intoxicating touch to defend himself as she wrapped her fingers around his throat.
"Well Bellamy Blake," She breathed, her breath hot against him, her eyes filled with lust.
"I am your god now."
