Captured

Prologue



The Middle Kingdoms, 14th Century


“Sold!” yelled the auctioneer, his grizzled beard saturated with the slimy residue of his spittle. “You have made a fine bargain for this one. She will keep your bed warm and your cock hard.” Straightening his stained turban and wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his grimy burnoose, he extended his arms as if to bestow his blessing on the crowd. “Everyone is pleased at Husaybah’s auction!”

Lady Claudine Asherton held her head high and clutched the sides of her torn bodice together. She refused to look at any of the men or women surrounding the large platform but stared off into the distance. Standing far out of their reach, away from the pawing hands and lurid grins, she prayed for a means of escape.

Husaybah with his putrid breath and rotted teeth hovered nearby waiting for his payment. The successful bidder had difficulty making his way to the auction platform. The men in the crowd blocked his way, disgruntled that this stranger had outbid them.

“Hey, Golden Hair, you do not want to go with that fat pig,” called an old man so thin a slight desert breeze could blow him over. “Come with me and I will make you scream with joy at what my cock can do!”

“Ha! She will scream but not from joy when she sees that shriveled piece of meat you call a cock!” yelled another bidder, leaning back and cupping his crotch. “This is what she wants. Hard enough to stay buried in her cunt for days!”

“Look at those tits! They are so big they could feed me and all my brothers--at the same time!” shouted a young man in a red turban, encouraged by the crowd’s laughter.

Ignoring the vulgar suggestions, she gripped the ends of her gown tighter. The stench of unwashed bodies drifted up onto the platform, but she concentrated on the other smells and sounds of the marketplace. The calls of the merchants, hawking their wares to the boisterous crowd. The preaching of the holy man, admonishing all to turn to Allah or be damned.

The odor of cooked meat mixed with the stink of the men surrounding the platform conspired to send her stomach roiling with fear and disgust. The crowd swayed like some misdirected wave fighting to reach the shore, wrecking what little composure she maintained.

Gripping her bodice with one hand, she pulled her waist length blonde hair over her shoulders. It would serve to protect her modesty, if indeed, any remained after the auctioneer had shredded her gown so that the bidders could better see her attributes.

The native women on the block fared no better than she. Most worse. Their lightweight garments tore easily, leaving them exposed and nearly naked. Although her forest green brocade gown caused her to swelter in the glaring heat of the day, it was difficult to rend. The auctioneer had used that as a lure. If the bidders wanted to see the color of the hair between her thighs, they would have to pay for the pleasure.

Many of the women on the block sobbed openly or wept silently. Sold into slavery by bored husbands, mercenary brothers or greedy fathers, their futures were sealed. As was hers.

Captured when her traveling party was slaughtered by a marauding band of thieves, Lady Asherton was spared. Westerners, especially ones with golden hair and pale skin, fetched a handsome price in the markets of the East.

She glanced at the rotund man counting out gold pieces. Fine silk robes of red and white fluttered in the morning breeze. His round face, almost as red as his robes, puffed with excitement. Beads of sweat dribbled off his bald pate as the auctioneer ignored his chattering disbelief at winning her. Her new master was a portly man but was still dwarfed by the bulk of the auctioneer.

“Bind her hands? Well, yes, I suppose so. I would not want her to escape.” He was well past the age of virility, and the thought of bedding him brought the taste of bile to her mouth. With an effort, she pushed the acid back down her throat and gazed off into the distance. She had been forced to do worse. She would survive.

“Give me your hand.” Husaybah grabbed her wrist, looping a length of hemp around it. Then, he repeated the action with her other wrist. Her breasts spilled through the torn bodice, leaving them exposed for all to view. Pawing at one, the auctioneer squeezed it until she winced.

“No, no. Leave her alone,” the little man cried, jumping from foot to foot. “I do not want her damaged. She must be unblemished!” The crowd surged forward, not wanting to miss the exchange.

The auctioneer shrugged, now caressing her breast. “She is a fine piece of Western flesh. So pale and golden, not like these Eastern beauties with their dark hair and walnut tits.” He rolled her nipple in his fingers as the little man continued his dance.

“I would have liked to keep this one for myself. Just look at her wide mouth. My cock would leap for joy to be down her throat."

“Get your filthy hands off me, you bastard!” she hissed, spitting in his face. The crowd stilled, waiting for Husaybah’s retribution.

The auctioneer made to backhand her, but she didn’t flinch. She would not give him the satisfaction. The little man stuck out his arm to forestall the blow. “No, no you have your payment. She belongs to me now. Do not touch her!”

With one last grope, Husaybah released his hold of her breast. Claudine neither shrank away nor showed any sign that he existed.

Whether it was a newly found courage or a sensible fear for the mood of the crowd, the fussy little man hurried to grab her bound wrists and lead her down the narrow steps of the platform. Elbowing his way through the crowd, he directed her to three camels lying in the sand heavily laden with baggage.

Claudine eyed the little man and her mouth went dry. How could she bed such as him? She must not think. Thinking would only serve to drive her mad. She had vowed to survive. Surely there was some way out of this hell...



Chapter One



Six Months Later


François Minaret cursed the sun, the sand and the hot wind that brought no relief, but stopped short of cursing his brother for sending him on this fool’s mission. Ahead lay another town with another filthy marketplace, and it was certain to be another dead-end. Still he would be grateful for a cooked meal and a soft bed.

“Well, Lucifer, another Godforsaken hole.” With an affectionate pat on the neck, he addressed the massive warhorse beneath him. “Yet another village, although this one looks to be of no consequence. But still, we may find word of our quarry here.”

The horse, as black as its name, continued its slow prodding gait, seemingly unconcerned with its surroundings as Francois nudged it forward. Common sense told him he should have traded Lucifer for a camel to ease the desert crossing, but no amount of logic could have persuaded him to part with his trusted friend.

François’ hair and neck were obscured by the long kufiyah. He had taken to wearing the scarf-like head covering to keep the hot sun from cooking his flesh and the frequent sandstorms from gagging him.

Looking up, he saw not a cloud dotted the sky. He had forgotten the last time it had rained. Weeks? Months? Journeying by day he roasted, by night he froze. So he had compromised, setting off in the predawn hours. When the heat became unbearable, he found shelter, what little there was. When the sun set, he and Lucifer continued on their hopeless quest.

This was the last town, by God’s Teeth. If his search here turned up empty, he was back to Bethany and its tree-filled mountains, bubbling springs and majestic lakes. He never wanted to see another grain of sand, smell another camel or eat another goat. His brother’s orders be damned.

He might miss the women, though. The ones who crooked their fingers and spread their thighs, many times not requiring payment, but simply wanting the distinction of being speared by a Westerner. He was more than happy to oblige. Watching their eyes widen and their mouths open at their first sight of him naked never failed to please him. The dark hair of his chest and groin fascinated them, and he did not tire of hearing that the size of his cock surpassed anything they had had thus far.

But there were enough lusty wenches back in Bethany to keep him satisfied for many years to come. And--he searched the sky--there was blessed rain in Bethany.

Passing through the city gate, he welcomed the noise and commotion as he made his way to the marketplace. Too many days had he spent alone. Beggars and ragged children clamored around Lucifer making progress impossible without endangering them. Stealthily, so that none could see where his money pouch was concealed on his person, he selected a few coppers and tossed them to distract the growing crowd.

Westerners were rare in this part of the world. Travelers from the Middle Kingdoms did not often venture this far East ... at least not willingly. As he neared the marketplace, vendors held up all manner of wares from silks and bangles to small animals, both alive and dead ... many of questionable origin.

He signaled his disinterest as he searched for an inn. A meal, a bath and a wench. In that order. But first a good measure of mead or whatever the hell passed as spirits here.

A loud gong distracted him. Men and women seemed to forget what they were doing and hurried to follow the sound. Stalls and shops were left unattended. A minstrel show? An execution? Curiosity got the better of him, and he joined the procession down the narrow street.

The alleyway emptied into a large open square, dominated by a huge platform elevated over four feet above the ground. The booming sound continued as townspeople poured into the square from many avenues. A man, as big as a camel, marched about the platform holding a large gong before him, beating it at measured intervals.

“What goes on here?” François called to a young boy of no more than fourteen. He wore a dirty rag of a tunic, but looked as happy as a king.

“The auction! Husaybah presents an auction!”

“Auction, eh? Well, he certainly attracts a large crowd.” From atop Lucifer, no one had a better view than François. Dozens of people now occupied the square with more pouring in every minute. They were of all ages and stations from withered old men to shouting children to fat matrons with prosperous husbands.

He grimaced at the stench of unwashed bodies crowding into the small square. Mixed with the smells of overcooked meat and roving animals, it was a wonder each person did not fall over from the sheer force of the odor.

François stayed to the back of the throng, searching for a breath of clean air and suppressing the need to gag. Lucifer stomped his dissatisfaction with the noise and the close contact. Someone jostled his flank and the warhorse snorted and made to rear. François held him in check, but noted an empty ring of space now circled them.

Evidently, Husaybah’s auctions were an event of some note. The beginnings of unease edged the corners of his mind. What could Husaybah have that would draw such interest? Were these people here to bid on the auction ... or to watch the spectacle?

The gong ceased and with it, a hush blanketed the crowd. Anticipation so tangible he could taste it surrounded the square. The grotesquely large man, wearing a stained burnoose and dirty turban, plodded to the center of the platform. Husaybah, the auctioneer. His shaggy beard was in need of a trim and his bulbous eyes reminded François of a roasted pig’s. Spreading his hands wide, the man turned in a circle.

“My friends! I have a treat for you today! There is something here for everyone, from the most discriminating buyer to those seeking a bargain. Come, let us begin!”

François glanced around, noticing a large cart on the far side of the platform. It was a goodly distance, and he could discern only a huge pile of rags on its bed.

At the sound of the fat man’s voice, several piles of rags stirred. François took a deep breath and let it out in a rush. He should have recognized the signs, but too long in the saddle and too long in the desert had fogged his brain. Scrubbing his hand across his unshaven jaw, he looked out over the crowd. He looked at the back of Lucifer’s head. He looked anywhere but at the platform. This is what he had come for, only he had hoped to find a meal and some sleep to fortify himself before he had to face it again.

He sealed away his disgust, not wanting to attract attention that could turn the crowd against him. He had learned from experience any indication that a Westerner disapproved of this practice could easily transform the crowd into a mob. And he and Lucifer would not fare well. They had barely escaped with their lives that first time.

“Look! He begins!” yelled an old crone, pointing a bony finger.

A young woman with long raven hair, her wrists tied before her and her mouth gagged, was dragged to the center of the platform.

“Look at this fine example of female flesh,” called the auctioneer, grabbing the girl’s chin and turning her head. “She has all her teeth, but more important, she has shapely thighs and tits the size of melons. This slave will keep any man--or woman--warm on a cold desert night.”

“So you say, Husaybah!” called a man old enough to have fathered God. “I will not spend my money without seeing for myself!”

“You are a hard customer, Farzad, but you are right. Why believe me when you can believe your own eyes?” The auctioneer gripped the center of the girl’s lightweight abaya and tore it to her knees. She tried to shield herself and would have screamed her protest had she not been gagged. Husaybah stepped behind her and raised her bound hands over her head. With his other hand, he reached and caressed one large globe, pinching the nipple. The girl squirmed and struggled against the fat auctioneer, but he paid her as much attention as a bothersome fly.

Several women and a few men protested the auctioneer’s treatment but were quickly silenced by the crowd’s laughter. François shut his eyes against the sight, wishing he could drive his broadsword into the auctioneer’s belly and slice, ever so slowly, upward. Would that he could buy them all and set them free, but there was nothing to be done. He was a stranger and only one man at that. He could not change the world alone.

“Five denarii!” called the man named Farzad.

“Ten!” yelled another.

The bidding continued. François watched as the auctioneer slid his hand from her breast to her downy mound. The girl shuddered and bucked as he worked his fingers between her clenched thighs and stroked her clit.

The bidding took on a frenzied air, which was just what the auctioneer planned. In the end, the girl went for forty denarii to the grizzled man named Farzad. François hoped the old swine had a seizure the first time he tried to mount her.

And so it went. Young girls sold for what was between their legs, young men for the strength of their shoulders to be worked to death before they could grow old, aging men and women for what little life they had left.

He grew numb with disgust and resigned to the failure of his mission. All signs, all evidence, all information had pointed to the slave markets of the East, but each one failed to turn up a clue so that now, he was willing to admit defeat.

“Boy!” he called down to the ragged youth whose attention vacillated between the auction and the novelty of a Westerner. The youth grinned up at him in anticipation. “Do you come to every auction?”

The boy bobbed his head. “We are a small town, too small to have an auction every day, so when I hear Husaybah’s gong, I run fast to get a good place. I have not missed an auction since I was seven years old.”

“And how old are you?”

The youth pulled himself up to his full height. “I am fourteen. I am called David.”

“I see.” François nodded gravely; evidently he had stumbled upon a good source of information or, at least, a willing one. “Do you remember seeing a Westerner for sale? A woman? It could be several months ago.”

The boy bobbed his head again. “There have been a few. Husaybah likes Western women. They always bring a high price. Just last week he had two.”

François leaned down to better hear. Could it be his luck had changed? “What did they look like? Can you describe them?” He tried to keep the excitement from his voice.

The boy thought for a moment. “One had black hair and was no older than me. The other had yellow hair...”

“Yellow hair? Long?”

The boy nodded.

“What else? What else?” His heart thudded against his ribs. Was the boy telling the truth? Could he be close to finding her?

“Yes, long yellow hair and she was fat, very fat and as old as my grandmother. Husaybah was mad that she did not fetch a larger price.”

François’ excitement slid out the soles of his boots. Another dead end. “There were no more?”

The boy shook his head, smiling at his own importance in helping the Westerner. François flipped him a copper. “Thank you” was all he could choke out. Another false hope.

There was a ripple in the crowd as a young boy of perhaps eight or nine years of age was led bound and gagged to the center of the platform. He was clad only in a ragged loincloth, his small torso and spindly limbs exposed to the crowd.

“Here we have a tasty morsel! Fresh and never been touched! I came by him just this morning.” The auctioneer lifted the child by his tied wrists and slowly twirled him like a pig on a spit. “What am I bid for this sweet lamb?” He dropped the child onto the platform where he landed in a heap of gangly arms and legs. “Come, come, do not be shy!”

François’ stomach coiled. Had he stopped and eaten before the auction, his meal would now be on the ground beneath Lucifer’s hooves. Attendance at slave auctions required a certain amount of detachment, an aloof separation. Were he to think of every slave as a living, breathing being, he would certainly go mad--or be killed trying to save them.

The boy was lithe and shrank away when the auctioneer reached down to pull him up by his cropped black hair. It took all of François’ control not to pummel the auctioneer to a bloody pulp.

“One denarius!” shouted Farzad. “He’s no bigger than a rat and not worth even that!”

“Five denarii,” shouted another old man, leering. “I can think of plenty to do with a succulent rat such as this.”

“Ten denarii!”

The bidding continued at a wild pace. François looked away, disgusted at himself for being even an unwilling participant of this revolting spectacle. A rustle in the crowd caught his attention. To his immediate left, three camels lumbered their way to the platform, brushing past Lucifer. The riders, paying scant attention to the people before them, plowed through. Those who did not move quickly were stepped on, their cries ignored. Yet, no one raised a voice against the riders.

“Husaybah! Why was I not informed of today’s auction?” The speaker sat atop the lead camel, a wiry man with a protruding nose and watery eyes that darted from person to person as if looking for his next victim. Neither old nor young himself, he projected the air of a man who did not accept challenges to his authority lightly. The men with him could not be more than twenty years of age. Their thick arms and muscled thighs bore testament to much physical labor, most likely in maintaining their master’s hold on the people of the village.

“A thousand pardons, al-Kalee. I sent word this morning. My worthless servant assured me you were told.” The auctioneer bowed, his rotund body barely able to bend in half.

François nudged Lucifer forward, skirting the crowd to position himself where he could observe the little drama without obstruction.

“Well, I was not.” The man called al-Kalee stroked his long drooping mustache as he leveled Husaybah with a withering look. A look that showed he neither believed nor would forget Husaybah’s lie.

“A thousand pardons. I will see that he is beaten for not performing his duties.” Another bow.

“See that he is.” Al-Kalee continued to stroke his mustache, a glimmer of excitement leapt into his eyes. “I will watch when you do. Do not fail to notify me or I promise your regret then will be genuine.” His attention shifted to the platform.

“What do you have left? I am in need of a few ... amusements.” He turned to his henchmen, raising an eyebrow. François had seen that look before, bored, imperious and trouble for whomever was so unfortunate as to catch his notice.

“This is the last one. The bidding is already at fifty denarii.” The auctioneer’s smile oiled across his face as he again picked up the trembling boy by his bound wrists and twirled him, allowing al-Kalee to examine the slim form from all sides.

“He is overpriced. But I will take him for fifty-one denarii. Give him to Bashar. Kahn will pay you.” Al-Kalee turned his camel as his henchmen pushed to the platform.

“Fifty-five denarii!” The bid was out before he knew he had opened his mouth. The silent crowd turned as one in his direction.

“What!” shouted al-Kalee, twisting his head sharply at the sound of the unexpected bid.

“Westerner! Keep silent!” The young ragged boy pulled at his boot. “No one bids against al-Kalee!”

François ignored the warning and shook off the thin fingers clutching his leg. He might not be able to save all of them, but by God’s Breath, he would save that child from a repulsive life where, even at his young age, he would beg for death. François nudged Lucifer forward, easing his way to the platform and coming to a halt next to al-Kalee.

Husaybah dropped the boy, who scurried to the far edge of the platform. Terrified eyes bounced from François to al-Kalee and back to François.

“I said, ‘fifty-five denarii.’ ” His voice was low with enough edge to demand everyone’s attention. Lifting his gaze from the boy, he caught al-Kalee’s eye and held it for a long minute. Although his opponent was on the much taller camel and should have had the advantage of height, François and Lucifer loomed larger.

“Did you hear that, Auctioneer? I bid fifty-five denarii.” His gaze did not waver from al-Kalee’s. The man’s eyes flashed at the challenge. “Or do you not run an honest market? In my travels, I have heard great praise regarding Husaybah and the fairness of his trade. Am I now to believe it is all lies and Husaybah cheats his bidders?”

A collective gasp escaped the crowd. All interest in the child vanished. Husaybah sputtered, his piggy eyes wagging between the two opponents. “No... I...What?”

François’ face remained schooled in a blank mask. Challenging the local ruffian on his own ground, surrounded by people who obviously both feared and revered him was not the smartest thing François had done in recent months. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of the small boy on the block--he would willingly do it again.

“No, Husaybah. The...Westerner is correct,” al-Kalee agreed, his eyes shifting to the auctioneer. “We must all bid to obtain the prize in an auction. My bid is fifty-six denarii.”

Husaybah heaved a sigh of relief and returned his attention to the boy who had crawled to the back of the platform. He stomped to the child, grabbed his arm and dragged him before the two bidders.

“Sixty denarii.”

“Sixty-one.”

“Seventy denarii.”

“Seventy-one.”

François wavered. On this journey, he had gone to great lengths to hide the size of his purse. Revealing his monetary worth was a sure way to find his throat slit and his purse gone. By masquerading as a poor soldier of fortune, he had been able to avoid the attention of those who would gladly relieve him of the burden of his purse, his mount and his life.

But now, it did not matter. He would be a target regardless. Therefore, it was pointless to waste the remainder of the day, haggling with this scoundrel and his pittance one denarius bids.

He directed his attention back to Husaybah. A small stream of saliva ran from the side of the auctioneer’s mouth into his beard as he tasted the profits to be reaped by two such determined bidders. François shifted his gaze back to al-Kalee who stared at the child. Hunger and lust smeared his craggy face. Wide-eyed, the boy cowered like a sheep before wolves. If François’ had had any doubts about his actions, they vanished faster than a thief in the marketplace. Al-Kalee would not leave today with that child.

“Five gold pieces.” His tone was measured and even as if he had just offered a few denarii for a withered crone.

Had their tongues suddenly vanished, the crowd could not have grown more silent. All eyes focused on him. Husaybah sputtered but could not seem to form words. Al-Kalee’s eyes narrowed, his thin lips pursed, but he did not utter a sound. François watched as his opponent calculated the value of the bid. One gold piece was worth twenty-five denarii. Did he crave that scrap of a child at such a dear cost?

“The bid is five gold pieces. Will you top that by making it six?” François asked, shifting Lucifer towards the platform.

He reached into his shirt and found the pouch. Using his fingers, he counted out five pieces without removing his purse. “Are there any more bids, Auctioneer?”

Husaybah sprang to life. “Yes, yes. The bid is at five gold pieces. Does anyone wish to outbid that?” He looked to al-Kalee. Greed suppressed fear in Husaybah’s eyes. “No? Then sold! You owe me five gold pieces, Westerner. Now!” He rubbed his hands together and a bit of spittle escaped his mouth.

“You will live to regret your benevolent gesture, you impertinent son of a sow,” spat al-Kalee, reining his camel away from the platform. “But in any case, you will not live long!” With a swat of his crop, al-Kalee’s camel lumbered from the square. A few well-placed swats at any unlucky enough to be in his way quickly cleared his path, his men following in his wake.

François edged his mount closer to the platform and held out his hand, displaying the five gold coins. “Give me the boy.”

The auctioneer’s eyes glimmered as bright as the gold. Dragging the cowering child along the rough wood of the platform, he extended his hand to grasp the money.

François snatched his hand back. “First, give me the boy.”

“Go ahead, Husaybah! Give him the boy! He is not much but the Westerner paid well for that young Eastern flesh!”

“Westerner!” shouted a wizened hag. “I will sell you both my daughters for only one gold piece!”

François ignored them, hoping the old woman was taunting him; but he feared she was not. “Give me the boy,” he repeated, reining in his temper. Losing it now could forfeit both his life and the boy’s.

Casting him a disgusted look, the auctioneer grabbed the child’s arm and threw him at François. As his new possession landed across Lucifer’s saddle, the mighty horse pawed the ground but held his stance. “Here is your money, fat man,” he called tossing the coins. “May you rot in hell,” he muttered under his breath.