The Turkish Ransom (closed for Monique_Minx)

[Tio_Narratore]

The Crusade had been good to Dionysiac Mirabond, good in many ways. He was a Chevalier to the Archbishop of Arles when the call went out for men at arms to free the Holy Land from the Seljuks, and, under the direction of his patron, he raised a light cavalry of more than a hundred and fifty lancers and crossbowmen. His cavalry, with the rest of Archbidop Aicard’s forces, joined the army of Raymond de Saint-Gilles.

His cavalry was successful in all their battles, often outflanking the Turks and gaining land for the Crusade. And loot for themselves. Gold and goods. Each soldier returned with more wealth than had required him to serve and each also gained a prized weapon, a dagger of Damascene steel, sharper than any European blade. Dionysiac’s great prize, however, was neither gold nor goods; it was a Seljuk general, the favorite of the Caliph, captured during a surprise flank attack on the Turkish forces.

On their return to Arles, the Chevalier Miramond was raised to Marqués of Les-Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer, and charged with the protection of the Camargue, Aigues-Mortes and of Arles itself from invasion by sea. He garrisoned two hundred mounted men-at-arms in Les Saintes-Maries, and another two hundred at Aigues-Mortes, all good chevaliers, or nearly of that status, capable not only of fighting, but of training and leading the general levy. All was calm since their return from the campaign, and now he awaited the Seljuk emissary with a ransom for their general.

That day was soon to come, and three corsairs were spotted making their way to the harbor of Les-Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer. Miramond’s deputies met the contingent at the wharf and led them, and the ransom their men carried, to the Marqués’ stronghold.

The Seljuk general was enjoying a meal with his captor when his ransom arrived. Miramond had kept his captive well, as would be expected; a spacious and well-appointed room with fine food, following his religious laws, and two young handmaidens to see to his needs. Both men greeted the Emissary and his deputies. After the formalities were observed, the ransom was brought in for Miramond’s approval. As he rose to take the seat at the head of the hall, it was clear why his men had nick-named him “Femna-pièch”- “broad chest.” And not only was he broad of chest, his six-foot tall frame towered over the Turks. He sat, and the first of the offerings were brought before him.

“Ten chests of Damascene swords, fine cloths, and other goods, for your Lordship,” the Emissary announced.

Miramond quickly scanned and nodded his approval.

The next part of the ransom was brought in. Another ten large chests were brought before the Marqués.

“Gold and silver and jewels,” declared the Turk.

Much of it seemed to be looted from Christian Churches. Miramond reflected on how the gifting of such to the right ecclesiastical authorities would gain him favor.

“And now,” the Emissary announced, “ninety nubile female slaves at your Lordship’s disposal.”

Rows of young women, clad in diaphanous dress and chained in lines of ten, were brought before the Marqués. He looked on approvingly.

“Lastly,” began the Seljuk, “Ten virgins for your Lordship’s personal service.”

Ten attractive young women were marched before Miramond. His smile at the sight - and the prospect - clearly showed his approval. He rose and inspected the girls, one by one; all were fit to serve as whores to any Lord. The inspection finished, he addressed them.

“Who among you wishes to be the first I deflower, to be the premier concubine of the Lord of this estate?

 

[monique_minx]

For some of the women by her side, this may not have seemed so bad. To be traded as a slave to a wealthy French noble rather than toil in fields, it might even be a step up in the world. For Safiye bint Harun al-Konya, she could be walking to her own public execution. Her father was a vizier to the Seljuk Empire, she was supposed to be safe from such concerns but when they couldn't round out the number of virgins for the ransom, they began to pluck from noble houses. Her father was considered generous and selfless for offering his daughter even though she'd been betrothed to another.

'Yes, he was the selfless, the generous...and I, the meat.' She thought to herself as she entered the stronghold with the other women.

At only 18, she was surely beautiful. Almond shaped eyes of hazel-green beneath thick black lashes set into sun-warmed marble skin that could be considered flawless, untainted. Her high cheekbones framed an elegant face complete with a softly aquiline nose that bespoke her eastern heritage. Her silk kaftan was a pomegranate red, embroidered with tiraz bands of gold thread that crossed her sleeves. She wore a light muslin veil in a yashmak-style, a requirement for travelling and diplomacy intended to represent her chastity, dignity and seclusion. Her hair was so black it often seemed blue in the right lighting and was loose down her back but still in clean, well-kept condition.

She'd not have chosen her clothing, she'd begged her father not to let her stand out from the others but he'd insisted it was somehow important and her concerns went by the wayside. Safiye displayed none of the apprehension she felt, years of training inside the women's court had taught her to carefully school her expression as she was finally led before the Marqués himself. Still, she would consider him imposing and several inches taller than she was at a glance. She coolly held his gaze as he walked the line of virgins including her, her back straight and chin level as it would be on any other diplomatic mission. Though, this would surely be her last.

When he was done at last, he posed his question for the virgins alone and started them turning, looking at each other. Safiye couldn't help but snort in both surprise and disgust.

"Is that a prize my Lord? Or a punishment?" She asked aloud, stirring whispers that died as swiftly as they began.

 

[Tio_Narratore]

The whispers were punctuated by a loud crack as the slave driver raced up to the woman and brought his rod down so hard across her cheek that it tore off her veil and almost sent her reeling to the stone floor.

“Küstah orospu,” he shouted.

“You insolent bitch,” echoed the Emissary. “Down on the floor and pray for forgiveness.”

He motioned to his guards, and two of them forced her to her knees. They turned her hands palm down on the stone, and each guard placed one of his feet firmly on a hand to hold it in place. Another came up and stepped on the small of her back, pressing down hard to keep her knees and toes on the floor. The Emissary himself took a position at her head and stepped roughly on her neck to keep her forehead and nose to the stone floor.

“One hundred,” he ordered as he looked to the driver.

The slave driver removed the young woman’s sandals, baring the soles of her feet to his rod. One blow after the other, counting out the blows. Each strike was sharp, but only enough to sting. Each strike added to the ones before, though, was horrific, and by the tenth, welts were forming on her soles. Twenty, and purple bruises appeared. Fifty, and welts were torn open and bleeding. At the hundredth, her soles were nothing but swollen, bloody pulp. The Marqués just watched and listened, never having seen such extreme bastinado.

“Now, slave,” the Emissary called out as the driver counted out the last strike, “you can crawl into heaven and cede your virginity to some holy martyr.”

With that, he took his own foot from the girl’s neck and nodded to one of the guards. The guard drew his scimitar and yanked her head up by the hair. As the blade neared her throat, Miramond intervened.

“Hold!,” he shouted, and his voice, strong and insistent, stopped the guard just as the steel touched her skin, drawing a thin line of scarlet across her flesh.

“I allowed you to punish her because her insolence reflected on you,” he said, his enraged eyes focusing on the Emissary, “but her virginity is mine, not some martyr’s ghost. And her life is mine, not yours.”

He looked to his deputy who immediately drew a dagger and held it to the Turkish general’s throat.

“If you wish to give me the lifeless body of a slave, then you shall return with the lifeless body of a commander.”

The Emissary called his men off the girl.

“Now you may leave,” the Marqués ordered, rather than suggested.

As the Turks left with their ransomed commander, Miramond spent a few moments in contemplation, of the slave girl, of her arrogance, of her beauty. As she lay on the floor, her feet bloodied and swollen, her neck still trickling a thin stream of blood, he addressed her.

“Girl, you asked if to be the first to lose her virginity to me, your master, was a prize or a punishment. Well, tomorrow evening you’ll have your answer. You shall be the first.”

He turned then to the other virgins.

“Take care of this one of you, and on the morrow, after evening meal, prepare her for her first night in the manner you would in your homeland.”

“Take them to the hall and find them bedding and food,” he commanded, of a deputy “Appoint two of our maids to see to their needs,”

 

[monique_minx]

Safiye was unprepared for the crack of the rod against her cheek and it very nearly sent her to ground. She cried out and clasped her face, her eyes watered with pain. She heard their curses and felt guards approach her, their grip was unforgiving and she grunted as her knees hit the hard stone floor. She kissed the floor with her forehead and ceded to the weight against her.

'One hundred what?!' She wondered in terror.

She felt her shoes being removed and whimpered in apprehension, the first blow made her jolt and her unasked question was answered within a few strokes. She tried desperately to breathe through all the pain but the more strokes that landed on already injured skin, the worse the pain became and her cries became louder and louder. At some point they turned into full blown screams and her tears flowed freely down her face.

"No more! I beg you! Merhamet!"

Mercy. She begged for mercy.
And then she screamed all over again.

These men wouldn't have laid a finger on her in their homeland and Safiye felt the very real change in her status for the first time. She was practically lifeless when he dragged her up by her hair, the pain incomparable to her bloodied and useless feet. She heard some threat and felt some cold steel but her eyes weren't really seeing, she was in shock at this point. There was an exchange of shouting from the men then and she was released to collapse onto the floor at last. Left to herself for a good long while as some scuffling and exodus occurred.

“Girl, you asked if to be the first to lose her virginity to me, your master, was a prize or a punishment. Well, tomorrow evening you’ll have your answer. You shall be the first.”

She heard his words and had no witty retort, no fight to offer. She tried to peer up at him but her muscles refused to respond to her brain's commands. She passed into blissful unconsciousness as he'd turned to give orders to others.

When she woke, Safiye was in a room she didn't recognise, on a soft bed that wasn't her own. And lords but her body hurt! She touched at her throat where she remembered the kiss of a blade and a sharp pain and found it covered in some bandage that encircled her throat. She threw back the sheet that covered her as she sat up and looked upon her feet as she remembered everything slowly. They were covered in bloodied bandages too, soaked in some poultice by all appearances.

Safiye reached out a hand to her feet but collapsed back onto the bed, crying her eyes out. Tears flooded down over her temples, into her hair and ears. Body wrenching sobs left her, wracking her until she had released everything she had to give.

Safiye didn't recall passing out again but when she awoke, she was fed and given much water before she was told it was time to prepare which came as a shock to her - had it been more than 24 hours already? The other ladies helped relieve her off her under things and Safiye tried to stand but immediately collapsed back onto the bed with a cry. Her poor feet were unable to hold her yet so she leaned back on one untorn heel and two of the ladies took her underarms, helping her hobble to a large basin, big enough for her to sit in. She put her feet up over the side so they'd not be touched as they performed the ghusl - a full body purification that had been meant for her wedding night.

They washed her in water scented with lavender and cleaned her hair before combing it out with rose oil until it fell upon her shoulders in beautiful waves. The rose oil was then applied to her wrists, neck, breasts, navel, inner thighs and behind her knees. The faded henna on her fingertips and palms was redrawn but her feet were left alone. They oiled her like a bride.

She was finally dressed in a light robe of white silk and kohl was applied to the rims of her eyes. The ladies intended to say a long and traditional prayer but Safiye wouldn't allow that.

"This is not my wedding. We say sabr and we are done." She said a quick prayer for patience and endurance.

None of the ladies argued with her even in her wretched state. Safiye opted not to have a veil, traditionally she'd have had the option but the memory of it being struck from her face the day before had her working her bruised jaw and she decided it would feel like a farce or some pointless protection that would not save her. They may anoint her like a bride but this was no covenant - this was conquest.

When she finished the preparations, Safiye sat before the polished silver mirror and appraised herself for a moment. She felt like a sacrifice more than a lover. And once she was in that room, she would be more than at his mercy. Without aid of the ladies, she was still unable to walk even on her single heel. The Emissary had one thing right - she would be crawling for a time to come, even if it wasn't to her death. Finally, she was given Willow bark tea for the pain to help her manage for the rest of the evening. She'd have preferred something stronger but it would dull her senses too much.

"It's time." One of the other virgins murmured to her and loaned her shoulder.

Safiye was aided at a slow hobble towards Miramond's chambers and helped inside, the two ladies stood by her to aid her and allow Dionysiac to see her fully before they'd leave her, waiting to be dismissed. She'd be forced to go to her knees or sit on something once they did leave.

"My Lord." She spoke softly, bowing her head.