The Slave Raid

This is a short story of slavery meant for adult readers over the age of eighteen years.

Written by Jean-Christophe (Chris): August, 2014 

The characters and ideas contained in this story are purely fictitious and don’t relate to any specific persons or events. Please respect the integrity of the story and don’t do any rewrites, make alterations or add other artists’ pictures.

Another short story I rediscovered during my "clean-up".

I wrote this short, standalone story for another group. It was prompted by a 1965 movie, “The Naked Prey” which starred Cornel Wilde as the nameless, “naked prey”.  Captured by an African tribe he is stripped naked, turned loose into the wild without weapons and given a head start before several warriors armed with spears and assegais pursue him like a wild animal. At one stage in the movie, the prey watches as slavers raid a native village and enslave its inhabitants. This scene had a lasting effect upon me and has stayed with me through the years. Often, I try to imagine the horror, the disbelief and despair of those natives as they were dragged from the warm security of their huts, stripped naked, chained into a coffle and driven off into slavery.

I recall at the time, that this scene from the movie strengthened my abhorrence of chattel slavery which I consider to be a crime against humanity. We can write stories about historical slavery – as I do – but we can never condone or excuse its practice. Historical slavery is an abstract. However, the more recent African slave trade and its aftermath is something we can all identify with in one form or another. Some might try to rationalise it while others condemn it for what it was – an evil practice.

I have tried to recreate this scene in this short story but I have set it in another place and at another time. This new setting probably reflects my passion for history but regardless of time, place or race, I hope it reflects my abhorrence of chattel slavery as an evil institution that can never be excused. ………… Chris

Somewhere in Germania libera, 3rd century AD

Note: Germania libera translates as “free Germany” and is that area not controlled by Rome unlike the two Roman provinces of Lesser and Superior Germania.

“Get to your feet! Now!”

The young slave refuses to move and if anything he defies me. He rolls his body into a tight ball and seems to hug the earth upon which he lies.

My name is Lucius and as a peddler of prime, human flesh catering to Rome’s elite. I have seen this phenomenon many times before with the newly enslaved. I suppose one can understand the shock and trauma these newly captured slaves undergo. They are, at first, uncomprehending of their changed circumstances and my considerable experience tells me it will take several days of travelling in my coffle before they come to their senses and yield to my overseers’ whips. But submit they will!

In a way, I can’t blame the slave and I do have a degree of sympathy for his plight. I mean, less a than thirty minutes ago, he was fast asleep in the warm darkness of his parents’ hut  probably inebriated from the large quantities of mead he’d consumed last night at his older brother’s wedding feast.

This older brother already wears the heavy wooden, travelling yoke around his neck and waits to be joined by his younger brother. The older slave stands dazed and naked in the predawn chill as he uncomprehendingly looks around in panic for his new wife. But she has been separated, stripped naked and chained by the neck to the other saleable females and the children old and fit enough to travel.

I hope, not unkindly, these newlyweds were able to consummate their marriage before our unannounced arrival in their village. Looking at the young husband, I don’t doubt for one moment that he vigorously fucked his new wife not once but several times since they’d left last night’s festivities and retired to their bridal hut. 

He is really a superb specimen and I’m sure he’ll fetch a high price when he mounts the auction block. One has only to look at his pendulous balls and larger than usual cock to know that his breeding potential will be readily recognized by the most discerning slave owner. His new bride has the nubile body of the young girl whose figure has been unspoiled by the rigours of child bearing. She too is a potential breeder and in my many years’ experience as a slave-raider, I know it’s quite possible that her new husband had already successfully impregnated her before their wedding night. Quite possibly, her future owner could be getting two slaves for the price of one. Stranger things have happened. 

As is my custom, once I have all the fit and able bodied securely shackled, the old, the infirm and the very young will be mercifully put to the sword. I say mercifully because I offer them a quick death rather than a slow lingering one of starvation and neglect. Without the young men to grow the crops and to hunt for game and without the younger women to cook and care for them they are doomed to die slowly and painfully.

Pandemonium reigns all around me. The predawn gloom is nightmarishly illuminated by the flickering light of burning huts and the early morning silence is broken by the heartrending shrieks of family members being torn from one another and placed in shackles. 

My men search the huts and surrounding vegetation for those who try to hide from us. However, they are too well versed in the taking of slaves and they know what cunning bolt holes to search for and under which bushes to look for those who vainly try to escape their new destiny.

I watch as these latest captives are hauled from their hiding places and dragged kicking and screaming into the center of the village, I supervise as the sexes are separated and the  men and youths are taken to one side and stripped naked before they are paired off ready to have the wooden yokes of slavery placed around their necks. I hear their futile cursing and their cries of outrage and finally despair as it dawns on them that they are now merely slaves.

The flames from the burning huts add a surreal element to the scenes being played out all around me. The new slaves’ pale, naked bodies are bathed in the angry, orange glow of the many fires burning around them and the flickering flames burnish their long, braided, blond, hair.

But our work here is nearly done and I am anxious to move my new slaves away from the village before I give the order to slaughter those unable to make the long trek to the Danube river fort at Castra Regina.

I’m not a philosophical man but I am struck by the vagaries of fate and their effects on the lives of these simple, rural folk. They’d have suspected nothing was amiss as they retired to their huts in the early hours of the morning after the night’s wedding festivities. And slave-raiding wouldn’t have concerned them at all. To their knowledge the slave-raiders operated far to the south in the Roman provinces of Lesser and Superior Germania and as they fell drunkenly into their beds they’d have felt safe in the knowledge that no previous slave-raid has ever taken place this far north. How wrong they were for there is always a first time for everything.

For many years the southern areas have been over-harvested and the quality of the livestock from there is now, at best, categorized as “low grade”. Certainly, the agents at the slave-stations on the Danube and Rhine rivers think so and are demanding higher quality slaves to meet the insatiable demands of the discerning Roman buyers. And of course, a slave needs to be robust enough to endure the rigors of travelling from the harvesting-field to the auction-block. Even among the fittest and strongest of slaves the deathrates within the coffle remain high. The bleached bones of those dead slaves serve as signposts marking out the long miles along the slave routes traversing the hostile countryside of Germania. Hopefully none of my new slaves will add their bones to those already there.

This is my first trip to this region which is outside Rome’s control. While I’ve never harvested slaves this far north before, necessity has now driven me here. I’ve always gathered up my new slaves in the more settled south with its close proximity to my home at Castra Regina on the German side of the river Danube. Certainly, slave-gathering can be financially rewarding and this attracts many inexperienced novices eager for quick profits with minimum effort and their unprofessionalism really cruels it for the genuine slaver like me. Put quite simply, my old hunting-grounds have been ‘over farmed’ by them and so I need to look further afield. As far as I know, I am the first slaver to travel this far north into Germania libera in search of suitable slaves.

But inevitably, when my latest coffle of slaves stands naked in Rome’s Graecostadium slave-market, their handsome features and superb peasants’ physiques will attract the attention of my fellow slavers who’ll then flock north to the new hunting grounds that I’ve successfully opened up.

The young slave still hasn’t obeyed my order to stand and so I uncoil my whip and begin to lash him continuously. As a new slave he must learn to obey instantly and I will brook no resistance from him. And he must learn that lesson quickly. As my whip cuts through the thin fabric of the tunic he wears, he screams in outraged pain and tries to roll away from me. Nevertheless, my whip is a long one and there’s no escaping its painful reach. I continue to rain blows down upon him all the time commanding him to.

 “Get to your feet, slave!”

Deliberately, I call him slave! It’s important that he know from the outset that this is now his true status and that he is my slave until such time as he arrives at Rome’s busy slave-market.

It is a contest of wills between us; but it is a contest that I will win.  Inevitably, he tires and finally it occurs to him that I hold the whip hand – literally - and that he has to capitulate. Unsteadily, he climbs to his feet and glares sullenly at me. I will allow him this serious breach of etiquette just this once; there’ll be time over the coming days, as he travels in my coffle, to correct his bad behaviour and turn it into servile acceptance of his new condition.

I nod to two of my helpers and as one pinions the boy’s arms, the other uses his knife to quickly cut away the new slave’s tunic. Immediately, I am struck by his manly, semi-naked beauty; he still wears a loincloth but this is quickly torn from his hips and he stands before me in all his naked glory. He shouts in shocked outrage and struggles violently to break free. However, he is no match for my overseers who are well practised in restraining a struggling, new slave. Vainly, he continues to struggle but a resounding cuff to the ear from one of my overseers convinces him to remain still as I visually appraise his naked body.

I estimate his age at about eighteen and he has the blond hair and piercing blue eyes common to all Northern barbarians. As a peasant, he has obviously worked hard from an early age and his musculature is as developed as any I have seen on a newly enslaved, adult male. Indeed it is most impressive and I’m sure it will excite the most jaded of Rome’s buyers.

His well-developed chest is covered by a light dusting of hair that matches his long, blond braids while a most delightful treasure trail of darker hair bisects his firm, flat stomach emphasizing the ridged abdominal muscles and the deep indent of his belly button.  His limbs are long and strongly-muscled; his forearms and legs are covered with a fine, golden down with the texture of fine, silken thread.

His more than generous cock is both thick and long and nestles in the thick bush of his golden pubes. His heavy, pendulous balls hang low - one slightly more so than its twin - between his strong thighs. He is uncircumcised - a thing not uncommon among the barbarians - and I suppose his new owner will have the offending skin promptly removed once he is bought.

The slave has the most handsome features with a clean, open face, eyes the colour of the sparkling Mediterranean on a summer’s day, an aquiline nose and full red lips which, when parted, show his even, white teeth to perfection. His dimpled chin is covered by the thick, golden stubble of his beard which further attests to his obvious masculinity. 

I motion to his handlers to turn him so that his back faces me. And I’m not disappointed!

The slave’s back is as flawless as his front. Broad of shoulder, it tapers down to a trim, narrow waist which then flares out into the firm, muscular globes of his delightfully curvaceous buttocks. His arse is a sheer delight to behold and promises much; it is divided by a deep, mysterious crevasse which holds the prospect of much pleasure to be enjoyed by some lucky purchaser.

As a long time slaver, I know the boy’s good looks will be his major selling point. A slave of such rare beauty is always eagerly sought after by the rich and lecherous men of Rome.

My scrutiny of him is now finished and I watch as the slave is yoked by the neck to his older brother. They are now ready to begin their long march to Rome’s ever-hungry slave-market in the Graecostadium.

And as I slowly walk down the long coffle visually appraising my other naked, male captives, I see that the boy is not alone with his magnificent body and handsome features. His brothers in misfortune are as equally impressive and all are worthy of sale in the saepta, that exclusive area of Rome’s slave-market where only the choicest and primest of specimens are sold to Rome’s wealthiest and most discerning citizens.

As I gaze upon my new slaves, I know instinctively that I will be rewarded most generously for my daring raid into this new territory of unsuspecting, Germanic tribes.

However, it is a journey I must soon repeat while the goddess, Fortuna still smiles upon me and before my greedy rivals quickly follow in my footsteps. There is still much gold to be made before they too discover this new, lucrative harvest-ground of slaves.

End.

Artwork found on the internet; source unknown.