The oldest "trick" in the book!

Max always considered himself to be "hot stuff" with the opposite sex. Vainly, he'd seen his good looks and imposing physique as  "chick magnets" and to date, they'd worked in Max's favour.

Unfortunately for Max, his body had attracted the attention of a gang of illicit slavers who cater for an exclusive and very wealthy clientele of gay men who'll pay handsomely for a slave such as Max will make.

Stealthily, over time, the slavers stalked Max's movements noting his living and leisure activities, his favourite bars and seeking out his weaknesses; principally, his liking of sex with beautiful women.

Biding their time, the slavers used an old but tested method - the "honey pot" in the shape of a beautiful, leggy blonde - to lure Max to a seedy room in an isolated motel on the outskirts of town. 

There, after a few preliminaries and a spiked drink, poor Max passed out and when he regained consciousness, he found himself shackled and gagged. Here we see him awaiting the arrival of the anonymous, black  van which will deliver him to the slaver's training facility where he'll be quickly processed and made ready for the next clandestine slave auction.

Poor Max!. He doesn't know it as yet but there'll be no more fucking for him. From now on, he'll be on the receiving end.

Without doubt, Max will prove a popular lot and the bidding for him will be intense.

Picture randomly found on the internet. The text is mine.  

Glaucus of Korinthos

or

The Spoils of War

Part 2: “Face to Face with the Romans”

This is a story of erotic fiction meant for adult readers over the age of eighteen years. 

Written by Jean-Christophe (Chris)  

“The characters and ideas contained in this story are from the writer’s imagination and shouldn’t be used without his permission. Please, respect the integrity of the story and don’t do any rewrites, make alterations or add other people’s pictures.” 

Chapter 2: “Face to face with the Romans”

Chapter 1 was posted last December. I hope to post more chapters soon. 

We have been stopped in our tracks. I watch as the Roman Decurion and his two companions advance toward us. Using their unsheathed swords, they gesture for us to stop. Desperately, I look around for a means of escape. But there isn’t any. They stand before us halting further flight while behind us a Roman patrol has set up a blockade preventing anyone from escaping the clutches of the marauding bands of soldiers. 

All around me are the terrible sounds of pillage and rape; the sorrowful cries of a city in its death throes. I hear the terrified, panic-stricken citizenry confronted by a triumphant, merciless enemy. I listen to the pain filled screams of people being put to the sword, the vain begging to be spared, the pitiful pleading of our virtuous matrons and maidens to the gods to spare them the shame and horror of being raped. I hear the sounds of smashing from within the houses as they are looted for valuables. I hear the angry shouts of the marauding soldiers as they seek out the bolt-holes of men, women and children trying to hide themselves from a wrathful enemy.  And I watch in horror as all the comely, young men, women and children are dragged away to slavery and uncertain futures. 

I am filled with panic and dread; I don’t know what to do. I look to Perimedes and Diagoras for support and instead I see their ashen faces and fear filled eyes.  Already, once before, they have lived through these terrible events when their home had been destroyed and they’d been hauled away into slavery. For the two brothers there is a sense of deja-vu and of history repeating itself. 

Over the years, I learned something of their background and Father had been mistaken in thinking they’d come from some mysterious land to the North. They belonged to a people called the Keltoi who dwelt in a fertile, green land beyond the river well known to us as the Rhodanos. I know of this area and its history through the scholarship of my tutors. The tutors had told me that Ionian Greeks from Phocaea had journeyed there some four hundred years ago and established a trading colony called Massalia on the Mediterranean coast which today is famous for two exports; its excellent wines and prime slaves to meet the insatiable demands of its Roman allies. 

Massalia’s existence had long been threatened by the Carthaginians, the Etruscans and the Keltoi. In order to survive, Massalia had entered into an alliance with the Roman Senate and people and enjoyed the protection of the Roman army. 

I know that Rome has been locked in a bitter war with the Carthaginians for political and economic control of the Middle Sea and soon a fierce war of attrition will be waged by Scipio Africanus at the very gates of Carthage itself. And like Korinthos, it will fall to the might of the Roman war machine; her buildings and temples will be levelled, her culture trampled underfoot, her treasures and wealth carried off to Rome, her people put to the sword or enslaved and the very earth on which she once stood will be salted. 

Once Perimedes had tearfully told me of his family who lived in a Keltoi settlement which had been overrun by the Romans and their allies from Massalia. The attack on their settlement was unexpected and undertaken as an offensive action by the Romans who’d quickly triumphed over the numerically weaker Keltoi. 

Roman justice is swift and without mercy and what followed is now being repeated all around me in Korinthos. 

And as always, following closely on the heels of the Roman army were the vile jackals who feast on human misery – the slave-traders. These pariahs have a nose for a bargain and with fat purses attached to their belts; they soon had their slave coffles full for the return journey to Massalia. 

Perimedes was distressed as he told me these things and not wishing to add to that distress, I’d not pushed him for more details. 

However, I did hear that the family had been sold in the slave market at Massalia. His mother and two sisters had been separated and sold to different owners and his father and older, warrior brother had been bought by a low grade lanista from Nimes to train and fight as gladiators in the provincial arenas of Gaul. Despite their adversities, the gods of fortune smiled on Perimedes and Diagoras allowing them to stay together. Bought by a travelling slave-trader, they’d found their way to the slave-market at Korinthos and into my father’s household. 

Despite my panic, I try to stay outwardly calm. I am after all the master - albeit a very young one – and I must assume responsibility for my slaves, Perimedes and Diagoras. I am fortunate that I speak fluently in Latin, a vulgar language that I truly despise. It had been a constant source of friction between my Latin tutor and me; I’d not always applied myself diligently to my Latin studies but he’d persevered and I did eventually learn to speak it flawlessly. 

I regard Latin as a barbaric tongue spoken by a coarse, common people whose aristocratic elite have discarded in in favour of my own beloved Greek; the language that lends itself to logical thinking. Can the Roman tongue express itself as eloquently as Greek in the fields of the sciences, the arts, poetry, theatre and rational debate?  Of course, it can’t! 

But now I am glad that I speak Latin. I can at least converse with these three Roman soldiers who now confront us with their swords pressed against our bellies. But suddenly, my courage deserts me and I am lost for words. Like Perimedes and Diagoras, I quake from sheer terror. Will the Romans slaughter us and take our valuables as booty of war? 

I listen as the Romans discuss us not knowing that I can understand their every word. I struggle inwardly to speak and to reason with them but something about their demeanours cautions me to keep a still tongue in my head. I decide this is a time when discretion is indeed the better part of valour. 

The Romans are delighted with their catch and I hear myself described as a ‘snotty-nosed, Greek brat just ripe for fucking’ as they begin to rough-handle all three of us. Their venom is directed at me more so than at Perimedes or Diagoras. Quite obviously, the Romans recognise them as slaves and I as their master. Certainly, I take the brunt of their abuse. I’m roughly manhandled one to the other and my head is viciously cuffed by all three. They are joined by their companions still struggling under the heavy loads of their loot; quickly they encircle us like ravenous wolves ready to pounce on their helpless prey. 

The decurion speaks to his men and they seize the valuables that we are carrying. It is useless to protest and anyway my fear prevents me from doing so. The soldiers are unaware that I speak Latin but I have to confess I am having difficulty in understanding them. These are rough soldiers, recruited from the dregs of Roman society and they converse in Vulgar Latin which is so different to the language that I’d learned from my refined, Latin tutor. 

However, I understand enough of their obscenities to know they don’t bode us well. I listen in horror as they describe Perimedes, Diagoras and me as ‘three young arse-holes’ begging for an injection of a good, Roman cock. They leave no doubt in my mind that the three of us are to be raped.  Quickly they strip us of our clothes and naked, we are forced to our knees. Futilely, all three of us struggle, but we are no match for the burly Romans. I forget about Perimedes and Diagoras; they can fight their own battles. My only thought is for my self- preservation. 

My shoulders are seized and my head is roughly forced to the cobblestones so that my arse is elevated. I continue to struggle uselessly but I am no match for the combined strength of my captors. My legs are kicked apart and self-consciously, I’m aware of a new sense freedom as my balls hang low and my sphincter is stretched open. From the corners of my eyes, I see that Perimedes and Diagoras struggle as vainly as I do. The thought races through my mind. Did they endure this same treatment at the hands of their Roman conquerors eight years ago? They have never spoken of it, but then would they. Who could blame them for keeping their disgrace and shame from my father and me? 

My mind is a blur; it is a fog of confusion and humiliation. Questions tumble through my fevered brain. How many soldiers will rape me and what will become of the three of us when the Romans have had their way with us? Will they put us to the sword? One part of me sees that as preferable to living with the shame of having being used by these Romans as a male whore. Yet another part of me doesn’t want to die. But if I survive, what will my life be?  However, I already know the answer to that question. I know it will be as a slave to the Romans. This prospect fills me with dread yet I want to live. 

Slavery is preferable to death! 

Behind me I hear the fumbling of our abusers as they prepare to rape us. Looking back between my legs I see the lower body of a soldier but I’m not able to see him as he unties the knots of his linen subligaculum allowing his rampant cock to spring free. I listen to the ribald comments of his comrades as they urge him on - no doubt impatient for their turn to use me. 

Then, as I brace myself for the worst – salvation! A voice, heavy with authority, calls the soldiers to order. I hear the clatter of their armour and weapons as they snap to attention and in unison; they shout their salute to a superior officer. 

“Hail, Tribune Flaccus Marcus Bruscius!” 

Silence now replaces the soldiers’ unruly behaviour. I kneel with my forehead still pressed to the cobblestones; too scared to move. 

“Who are these men?” 

The voice is deep and well-modulated – I estimate it as that of a young man in his mid –thirties – and spoken with a refined accent. It is similar to the Latin with which I am familiar. 

“Tribune,” the Decurion answers, “it’s only a young Greek and his two slaves. We stopped them trying to flee the city.” 

“I see! And were they carrying anything with them? Do they carry any documents or other valuables?” 

“They carried only these, Tribune!” 

Still on my knees, I don’t see the Decurion pass my confiscated papers and other family possessions to the Tribune.  

“Get them to their feet!” 

Perimedes, Diagoras and I are ordered to our feet not by words but by well-aimed kicks to our arses with metal, hobnailed caligae or marching sandals. Hastily, I scramble to my feet and try to cover my naked shame with my cupped hands. 

Curious, I look to see who our saviour is and I am confronted by a tall aristocratic Roman – and I am correct – he is aged in his mid- thirties. He wears his uniform with pride and if I knew Roman customs and army rankings, I would see by the wide purple stripe on his tunic that he is ‘tribunis laticlavus’ - the senatorial tribune and the most senior of the six tribunes in a legion which places him second in command of his legion. Later, I will learn that his name is Flaccus Marcus Bruscius. 

The tribune’s eyes bore into me and as they slowly rove over my naked body I blush profusely. As a Greek, my nakedness doesn’t normally shame me. But always my nudity has been at my instigation. This is different; my present nakedness is not of my choosing. I have been stripped naked and now stand before this Roman as naked as any slave on a display platform. And I have the sense that he sees me in this light. 

“Is that true, Greek? Were you trying to flee the city?” 

He asks the question in flawless Greek and emboldened, I answer him in flawless Latin. 

“No Sir!” Despite my loathing at addressing him as ‘Sir’, I decide that I should maintain a certain civility towards him. After all he holds all the cards. “I was trying to return to my father’s house on the far side of the city.” 

“You speak Latin? Obviously, you are well educated.  What is your name boy?” 

I bristle at his use of ‘boy’ in addressing me. Through my Latin studies, I know the term is often used in a demeaning manner reserved for slaves. Many Roman masters will give a ‘special’ slave a name that is a corruption of their own names and ‘puer’ the Latin word for boy. For example, should a master be called Lucius or Marcus he’ll name his ‘special’ slave Lucipor or Marcipor – literally Lucius’s boy or Marcus’s boy. Is this how the Tribune sees me? Does he see me as ‘his boy’? 

“I am Glaucus, son of Clearchus of Korinthos.” I answer proudly. 

“Tell me Glaucus, son of Clearchus of Korinthos.” Is he mocking me I wonder? “Who are your companions?” 

“They are my slaves, Perimedes and Diagoras.” 

“I see! And where is your father’s house?” 

“It’s on the far side of the city, Sir.” 

“Then Glaucus, you will take me there. And your slaves will accompany us.” 

He turns to the decurion and instructs him to. 

“Bind their wrists behind their backs and fasten them by the neck one behind the other with Glaucus, the son of Clearchus in the lead.” 

“But Tribune! We don’t have any cord to bind them.” 

“By Priapus, man. Improvise! Use their clothing to make their bindings. They no longer have need of clothing.” 

“Tribune!  What of the valuables we took from them? What do you want done with those?” 

“Give me all the documents they were carrying and keep the trinkets to share among you. You keep them; they are legitimate spoils of war. Just as these three are. I claim Glaucus, son of Clearchus together with all his father’s possessions and his two slaves, Perimedes and Diagoras as my ‘spoils of war’.  All three are now to become my slaves.”

The artwork is by the incomparable Baron who interprets slavery in the Ancient World so erotically beautiful. The text is mine 

Relegated!

Until yesterday, "Doof" had been his Arab master's favourite slave! 

Purchased just eight months ago, he has served the noble Emir Anwar conscientiously and with diligence both as a body-slave and bed-buck and he has always been held in the highest esteem by his master. 

Naturally, there were rewards for willingly submitting and surrendering his body to the emir. Doof lived in his master's private quarters; the most luxurious within the vast palace complex and ate the the finest foods - often fed to him by his master as one feeds a favoured, pet dog - unlike the other slaves who existed on a bland diet. And there were times when the emir had Doof accompany him on business trips both as a personal slave and to be loaned out as a "sweetener" to his business associates. It would be true to say, Doof had successfully "sealed negotiations" for several very lucrative contracts on behalf of his master.

Yes, it could be said, Doof lived a charmed existence allowing for the fact that he is just a lowly slave.

However, all that changed yesterday when the emir visited the local slave-market and was enchanted by a young, newly enslaved Scandinavian with Viking good looks. He was bewitched by the slave's imposing physique, blond hair and cornflower blue eyes and had purchased him as a replacement for Doof.

Such is the fickleness of a master! Slaves can be bought, sold and replaced at the merest whim of his owner. And so this is now Doof's fate.

The emir's major domo has just informed Doof the emir no longer requires his services and he is to be taken to the stables and trained as a litter-bearer and to pull a light carriage.

Here we see Doof looking wistfully from his master's private balcony and contemplating all that is now lost to him.

Picture found on the internet and source unknown. Text is mine.    

Surely one for the connoisseur!

Skank & Dreyfus, purveyors of premium slaves to a discerning clientele are pleased to list this slave in the catalogue for our next auction scheduled for next Thursday. 

Seldom do we have the opportunity of offering a genuine "ginger" of this high calibre - note the fiery red hair and pubes which complement the skin tone and highlight the blue eyes - to our esteemed clients and I think you'll agree that this unusual slave is is a true rarity.

Mere words don't do justice in describing this slave and you are invited to visit our display rooms for a visual and hands-on inspection during the  business hours of 0900 hours to 1630 hours in the days leading up to Thursday's auction.

You won't be disappointed!

Picture found on the internet and source unknown. The words are mine.

A simple choice.

"The choice is yours to make, Nasrani! Submit to becoming a slave and yielding your infidel mouth and ass to an Arab master or lose you balls and become a neutered dog condemned to spend the rest of your miserable days serving as a eunuch in a harem. Quickly, make your choice; I grow impatient!"

Artwork by the great Madahv. The text is mine.

Cover Art:

I have always liked the old style "cover art" used to visually to arouse our interest in a comic or novel. 

And whose interest wouldn't be spiked by a cover such as the one displayed here. The sight of near naked galley-slaves straining at the oars would have aroused my interest and I would have bought the comic or novel just for the suggestion of what it contained.

A Modern Day Slave Raid (continued)

The former vacationers at the proudly gay Patroclus Resort are now slaves!

After their capture, they'd been stripped naked and bound with stout ropes before being loaded onto a fast vessel anchored just offshore to begin the first leg of their trip into slavery.  From there, they'd been taken back to the pirates' lair on the North African coast for assessment and processing. After a thorough medical examination which all the new slaves passed with flying colours, the next step was to brand them with the pirates' mark certifying to any potential buyers that they were indeed slaves. 

The branding was a terrifying experience for the new slaves. As each slave was strapped face down onto the branding bench, he struggled with hidden reserves of inner strength he didn't know he possessed but his struggling proved futile. It took the pirates just moments to immobilise the slave face down and ass up as the red-hot branding seared itself into the tender flesh of his left buttock thus marking him for life as an owned property. Naturally, the air was rent with the slaves' loud, agonising screams as they felt the excruciating pain of the branding iron while the sickening smell of their scorched flesh assailed their nostrils.

After being branded, they were left to heal as they were conditioned like fattening cattle for their eventual sale in some hellish slave-market. They were exercised, well-fed and their bodies groomed and oiled until their captors were satisfied that they were marketable.

Now they were split into smaller groups and sent on consignment to different slave-markets throughout North Africa and the Middle-East for auction.

The attached picture shows one such group being openly displayed and inspected by interested buyers just hours before they mount the auction-block and are sold.

The beautiful artwork for this vignette is by Amalaric while the text is mine.

Undergoing assessment! 

The premier slave dealership of Skank and Dreyfus is contracted

by the government to process criminals sentenced to slavery through the courts and to turn them into marketable commodities.

The process of doing this is a long one and it takes several months to turn a sullen and surly criminal into a docile, compliant, and obedient slave. Our training methods are necessarily harsh as the "trainees" are subjected to rigorous training and punishment.

Once the criminal is sentenced, his training as a slave begins immediately and he is transported to the Skank and Dreyfus processing centre to begin his journey into slavery. 

The first step in this journey is for the new slave to be evaluated by one of our experienced assessors. As can be seen in this picture, on arrival at the processing centre, the slaves are hosed down and hung up in threes to dry. 

Being suspended like this, first of all, immobilises the slave and makes his naked body fully available for close quarter inspection. And being suspended by the wrists highlights the slave's musculature  making it easier for our assessor to gauge his physical strengths and weaknesses.

The assessor pays particular attention to the slave's ass and genitals and his recommendation will determine the slave's future role either as a "pleasure slave" or as a beast-of-burden".

Careful attention is shown to the slave's ass; is he a virgin and if not, the assessor notes the tightness and elasticity of the slave's asshole to determine whether or not he can be sold as a "bed buck". 

Here at Skank and Dreyfus, we take pride in the quality of our products and we'll never sell a slave under false pretences. 

And the slave's cock and balls are also carefully examined for any physical defects or abnormalities. At this stage, the slave's potency isn't tested; that happens during the next step of the processing when the slave visits the vet for a more detailed examination. 

The assessor also notes if a new slave requires "skinning" and if so, then the next stop for the unfortunate slave is the skinning/branding bench.

As you can see from this "behind the scenes" picture much work goes into producing the high quality slaves which we are justifiably proud to offer to you, our valued and discerning clients.  

Picture found on the internet and source unknown. The text is mine.   

The Aftermath of the Third Servile War (73-71 BC)

From the pages of history we are aware of the slave rebellion known as the Third Servile War lead by Spartacus against Rome's tyranny. The story of Spartacus has inspired many novels, epic movies and a number of television series. 

At first the slaves in revolt were victorious but eventually they were defeated with thousands being killed in battle and others captured alive. They suffered a dreadful fate at the hands of Gnaeus Pompey the Great and Marcus Licinius Crassus.

It is recorded that Pompey crucified 5,000 captured slaves and Crassus a further 6,000. This drawing is of the 6,000 slaves crucified by Crassus along the Appian Way between Rome and Capua.

I have always wondered about the logistics of so many crucifixions. How many trees were felled and how long did it take to fashion them into crucifixes? And of course, there were the spikes needed to fasten the 11,000 victims to their crosses. Assuming each slave required three spikes to nail him to the cross that amounts to 33,000. The blacksmiths must have been busy.

Drawing sourced from the internet; the text is mine.

Cave Canem! (Beware of the dog)

In a recent exchange with a reader, he mentioned the Romans using slaves as watch dogs chained at the entrance of their homes.

As preposterous as this might seem, there is evidence to support this as shown in this painting of 1881 by the artist Jean-Leon Gerome.

Ancient Romans regarded their slaves as non-humans - indeed they were described as 'talking tools' and had the status of animals - and it follows that no task was considered too humiliating or too demeaning for a slave to perform.

On my visits to Pompeii, I have seen mosaics at the entrances of some of the bigger and grander homes that show a real dog on a chain with the words 'Cave Canem'. I had always assumed these referred to four-legged canines. Now I'm not so sure!

Picture in the public domain. Text is mine.

A Modern Day Slave Raid

The "pink dollar" is a large part of today's economy and is eagerly sought after by enterprising merchants and business men.

Recognising that most gay men have large, disposable incomes, a consortium of businessmen have established a resort for gay men known as "The Patroclus Club" on the shores of the Mediterranean Sea to cater for the European gay community. Here, gay men are assured of the outmost privacy and there are no restrictions in place to limit their activities.

As the resort states in its glossy brochures extolling the advantages of vacationing there -  "At Patroclus Resort anything goes and the gay man is free to be himself." Needless to say, the resort is well patronised.

It is mid-autumn and the club is at near full capacity with guests from all over Europe and North America all relaxing before the onset of winter.

It is mid-morning and as the club's patrons relax in the resort's bars or eat brunch in its restaurants, shop in the clothing and souvenir stores or lie on the warm, golden sands working on their tans, they are unaware they are under attack from modern day, Barbary pirates - until too late.

As we see in the above picture, the pirates are rounding up the club's guests, stripping them naked and immobilising them. Soon they will be loaded onto fast vessels waiting just offshore and sped away into modern day slavery. 

In the clandestine slave-markets of the Africa, Asia and the Middle-East there is great demand for slaves who share the sexual orientation of the resort's guests. On sale day, the auctioneer will extol the virtues of these new slaves as they stand naked and shackled on the auction-block, declaring they are fully "broken in" and come ready for instant use.

The artwork for this story is one of Amalaric's earlier works entitled "Pirates raid the coast of Southern California" and from memory, it was used to illustrate one of his marvellous stories. However, the text is mine and shouldn't be confused with his story. 

New Blog

Currently, I am establishing a back-up "Slaves through the Ages" blog at bdsmlr.org which will be similar to this site. However, as there is more flexibility at bdsmlr.org in what they allow you to post, some posts will differ. 

With the loss of my tumblr blogs, I am conscious of the content of the posts I make to this site and err on the side of caution.

And of course, I have the added assurance should I lose one site, I still have another so all is not lost as was the case with tumblr.

Should you be interested, the link to the new site which I should warn is still in the preliminary stages is as follows:

http://SlavesthroughtheAges.bdsmlr.com/

Chris 

Dahomey, West Africa, 1784

Work in the fields has ended for the day and these young men are skylarking on the banks of the great river that flows to the far distant ocean.

As they wrestle one another, they are blissfully unaware of the danger lurking in the nearby trees. Hidden from their view, a group of Arab slavers are observing them and waiting for an opportune time to seize them to add to their slave coffle. 

The slavers wait patiently and as the young men grow more boisterous they become oblivious to their surroundings and the lurking danger.

Wrestling and grappling with one another, they don't hear the soft whirring of the weighted, rope nets hurled by the Arabs to capture them. Too late, they find themselves enmeshed in the nets and as they struggle to free themselves, they are overpowered by the slavers who waste no time in securing them for the trip back to the Arabs' camp some miles downstream.

The youths have made the slavers' task easier by being naked and there is no need to strip them. With their hands tied securely behind them and roped together at the neck, they begin the first leg of their long journey to the slave-markets of the New World.

Their howls of protests and pleas to be set free leave their new Arab masters unimpressed and any resistance is discouraged by the liberal use of their captors' whips. For the six, unfortunate youths their trip from freedom to slavery will be a long and painful one. 

Source of picture unknown; text is mine. 

The Galley Slave

Looking at him now, you would never know the galley slave toiling at the oar and under the whip was once a proud Byzantine nobleman, Alexios Tifernas and friend of the last Roman Emperor, Constantine X1 Palaeologus. 

After the fall of Constantinople in 1453, Alexios was taken prisoner and unlike so many other noblemen who were beheaded by the victorious Ottoman Sultan Mehmet, his life was spared. He didn't know the reason why he'd not been killed but he thanked all the saints of his Orthodox church for sparing him.

However, his relief was short lived; instead of a quick death, he was condemned to the lingering and brutal existence of a galley slave aboard an Ottoman warship waging war against the Western infidels of Rome. 

No longer does Alexios wear the rich garments of a Byzantine nobleman. Now he is stark naked and he wears both the heavy shackles that chain him to an oar and the stripes of the Moslem whip upon his back and shoulders. 

Between voyages, Alexios together with all his fellow slaves, have their scalps shaved - once he'd proudly boasted long, blond curls - and their bodies are stripped of all hair to deny a haven for disease carrying vermin. 

Here we see the once proud aristocrat sweating and straining at the oar as his back is constantly lashed by an impatient slave-driver urging him to keep the beat of the hortator's drum.

One wonders if Alexios still thanks his Orthodox saints for sparing him for such a fate or does he now envy those noblemen so cruelly put to death by the victorious Ottomans.  

Source of picture unknown and taken from the internet; the text is mine.