Zamarada and the Bastard (closed)

[haremfaery]

Reference Post

People:
All characters are totally made up and have nothing to do with the real history of the region.

Bahri Şehzade: The first is the ruler's given name. The second means Imperial Prince and means Bahri is a male descendant of an Ottoman sovereign.

Compte Claude de Lansac: A made up name and county. Father of Hugues Darrot.

Haseki Kadin: Title for the Sultana Consort, mother of the imperial price(s). Her given name is Fatima.

Hugues Darrot: Bastard son of a French nobleman.

Bahri Şehzade of Damacus: Ruler. Sehzade is his title, Bahri is his given name.

Yazid: Slavemaster in Damascus.

Zamarada: Harem slave and almeh. Her name means emerald in Arabic. An almeh was similar to a courtesan or geisha. These women were specially trained in the arts for entertainment, and also educated enough to be able to converse wittily. Originally from Circassia. Circassian women were thought to be the most beautiful in the world and no harem was considered complete without one.


Places:

Damascus: Where our story begins

 

[haremfaery]

Zamarada was cursed. She had been born a beautiful child and retained that beauty into young womanhood. She did not go through an awkward stage at puberty and only seemed to become more radiant. Her hair was a sun streaked auburn, her eyes deep green flecked with gold. Her skin was flawless, not a mole or a freckle marred it's bronzed perfection.

Zamarada was cursed. Like all of her people, she was intelligent and clever. She loved stories and memorized them easily along with poems of all sorts. She had her father's gift with instruments. She could play almost anything with little instruction. She had her mother's voice and could sing like the nightingale in the Mandarin's court. She also had her mother's gift for dancing. She danced lightly, her feet barely disturbing the ground, or, when the drums were pounding, she became earthy, tossing her hair and dancing with abandon.

Zamarada was a passionate girl, quick to anger or to happiness. Her moods changed as quickly as the clouds over the mountains of her homeland. She had strong opinions and was not afraid to voice them, even if women were supposed to stay quiet and not interfere in the conversations of men. Her father indulged her nonetheless.

And Zamarada was cursed. She must be. What else could explain what happened to her?

When the raiders came to her village, she would have been safe had she stayed hidden with the other girls and most of the women. But she had to act when she saw her father and brothers attacked. She snatched up a fallen sword and dashed at the raiders. She was able to give a few some lasting scars before she was grabbed and thrown over a horse. At the time, they did not know what a gem they had stolen. The rider thwacked her across her bottom with the flat of his sword to quiet her. "This one fights like a she-demon." He grinned. She would bring much gold in the slave market if she were half as fair as she was vicious. And he would take some of the spirit out of her by the time she was presented.

----​

Zamarada had done a good job of blocking out her early days as a slave, especially after she became the almeh to Bahri Şehzade's harem in Damascus, even though she was still a slave. Her talents elevated her status and worth and shielded her somewhat from the intrigue in the harem.

Most of her days were spent entertaining the Haseki Kadin (mother to three of his sons and therefore his favorite), along with the other consorts and slaves of the harem.

Bahri Şehzade, of course had taken her to his bed soon after her arrival, a formality for all newcomers to the harem. But she was not a sex slave and worth far more for her other talents. He called on her to entertain his guests, or to act as a translator. He played chess, backgammon, and card games with her as she was able to play and make witty remarks, and always allowed him to win without making it obvious.

Bahri Şehzade gave her books of history, philsophy, poetry, so they could discuss them together. When Bahri Şehzade was meloncholy or choleric, or otherwise out of sorts, he would call for her to sing to him and soothe him with her sweet voice.

The Haseki Kadin was not blind to this. She thought Bahri Şehzade's interest would run it's course. As it usually did. Zamarada was a new bauble and soon would lose her luster. But she didn't. Bahri Şehzade seemed more and more infatuated with the emerald-eyed beauty.

Bahri Şehzade may rule the kingdom, but the Haseki Kadin ruled the harem. She was ruthless in maintaining her power. She meted out favors and punishments. She found every occasion to punish Zamarada. The punishments were carefully administered to leave no marks but maximum pain. If Zamarada complained to Bahri Şehzade, Haseki Kadin would deny it and say the girl was disruptive and trying to undermine the smooth workings of the harem. The eunuchs backed Haseki Kadin. Zamarada suffered in silence once she realized it was futile to do anything else though it chafed her to do so. Self-preservation won out.

Zamada thought that despite her problems with Haseki Kadin, the affection Bahri Şehzade held for her would protect her. It was that very affection that made her a target.

-----​

Fatima, Haseki Kadin, had been laying plans for Zamarada for some time with the help of a trusted eunuch. He contacted an eminent slaver dealer to tell him that an almeh would be available for sale and that she should be sold to a master who would take her far from Damascus. When Fatima heard what the slaver thought he could get for such a one, she was even more impatient to have Zamarada out of the harem. The slaver put out word to his most distinguished buyers, sending messages to cities far and near to optimize interest. And price.

Meanwhile, every chance she got, Fatima, mother of princes, told Bahri Şehzade how disruptive and disobedient Zamarada was. How she disrespected Bahri Şehzade when he could not hear her. She slowly and steadily planted the seeds until finally Bahri Şehzade saw everything that Zamarada did in a sinister light.

Swiftly arrangements were made. Fatima could not have Bahri Şehzade change his mind. One morning, Zamarada was told to prepare herself for an outing with Bahri Şehzade. She replaced her soft embroidered slippers with sturdier shoes and placed a cloak and head covering over her usual clothes. She wore green, Bahri Şehzade's favorite color for her. She had not been outside the palace in some time. She hoped they would hunt with falcons, she loved the majestic birds.

It was with great excitement that Zamarada followed her eunuch escort. She knew something was wrong when they led her to a side entrance and into a palanquin and locked the door. No one would answer any of her questions. No one spoke at all. She couldn't see out of the palanquin, there were only scrollwork openings to allow air flow so it was impossible to see where she was going. Although, she had been outside the palace so few times, she wouldn't know where she was going anyway.

 

[Gotham_Central]

The most striking thing about Hugues Darrot, the thing that stuck with you, was his eyes. Though tey were the color of dark chocolate, young Paulo was certain they were the sort of eyes that a man might use to sweep the ladies of some high lords court into a shadowed corner, there to despoil what virtue they may retain. But Darrot was not a passionate man. No. He was cold, intuitive, analytical and dispassionate and his eyes spoke to the truth of him as a hard, skeptical man, a confident, and insightful. They were the eyes of a competent and experienced killer. And they were why Paulo had been standing outside the hunched door to the tiny cabin beneath the aft castle, reluctant to knock and thereby encounter the man. The Frenchman unnerved him. His shipmates had tormented him about his concern, but he was certain that they too saw the danger in having such a man aboard ship. His familiarity with the blade he carried along with the angry red scar that marked his left jaw line, clearly the result of swordplay of some sort… Paulo was certain of it, the man was clearly of a piratical bent.

“Go below, Paulo,” he mocked the orders he’d be given as he baulked timed and again rather than knock, “wake the passengers, Paulo.” Surely the man would hear the chaos of the port soon enough and deduce for himelf that they’d reach Sidon.

Reluctantly, he wrapped on the door, waited, and then rapped again before calling out, “Gentilhomme Hugues, Signore Darrot, we are in sight of Sidon, the captain wishes you are to be made aware.”

Nothing.

“Signore Darrot,” Paulo knocked again.

Maybe he would simply call out from within and not… The door opened. Paulo’s voice failed him as he found himself face to face with the passenger. He considered the Frenchman’s scared face, the close cropped hair, sharp features and the earring he wore. Yes, this man was certainly a pirate and he and his shipmates had all certainly survived only through the intervention of the prayers of the Holy Mother herself.

“See to it that my companions are awakened, have them meet me on the forecastle, and communicate my thanks to the captain,” Darrot barked in near perfect Italian, saving Paulo the trouble of thinking in French while confronted with the man. The door closed as abruptly as it had opened.

“Sì, right away, signore,” Paulo called through the closed door as he hurried to the ladder and the mid-deck cabins. The young sailor descended the ladder at a haphazard pace.

------​

The three Frenchmen stood huddled close on the forecastle. Darrot was leaning out over the bowsprit, his eyes fixed on the distant shores of Sidon and it’s surrounding. His casual grace spoke to his familiarity with the sea. Burnett and Gentry, stood to either side. Burnett, the youngest of the three and only just a year in Darrot’s service, fought for his balance against the motion of the ship. While Gentry, who had been Hugues’ friend and companion since they were young men, leaned against the gunwale, gripping the tack line tightly for support as his did. All three were over dressed and out of place.

“The Venetian’s agent is said to operate from tavern house near the docks,” Gentry watched the sailors as they scrambled through the rigging.

“And we’re certain that he can be trusted?” Burnette questioned.

“Of course not,” Hugues laughed, “But we can trust his master to be greedy; to many people know we spoke to him about passage through the dessert to Damascus. If he double crosses us, word will get out.” He fidgeted absently with the pewter signet ring he wore, the symbol of his station in his father’s court. Sometimes, it seemed to weigh as much as the world itself. “What concerns me is the woman…” He looked to Gentry, “Are we certain that the woman is there?”

“No one can be certain,” Gentry shrugged, “but your father’s is convinced”

“What is the Compte’s fixation with these- what are they called again?” Burnett’s brow knitted in confusion.

“Circassians, they are a ethnic group from near the Black Sea. They are said to be the perfection of Caucasian beauty, pale flesh, raven hair…” Hugues explained.

“So, why come to the Holy Land? Why not broker an introduction through a friend at Catherine’s court? Surely your father knows someone within the Czarist states?” Burnett caught the port tack line to avoid falling as the shallow waters tossed the ship with greater strength.

“Because my father doesn’t want just any Circassian consort…” Hugues let his gaze wander along the shore line, not bothered by the chop of the waves.

When his master didn’t explain, Burnett looked to Gentry curiously, ” Alors pourquoi ?”

Gentry slipped from the gunwale and leaned close, behind Hugues, “When one of these Muslim bastards gets a Circassian woman into his harem, she is given… Comment puis-je dire cela? Special training.” Gentry couldn’t help but smile a broken toothed grin, “You understand?”

The young Burnett was clueless.

“They are taught to please a man in bed… exceedingly well.” Hugues added.

“Oh, I see,” Burnett was suddenly very attentive, “are these women common among the Turks?”

“They are exceedingly rare, often captives, always slaves of the heathen princes,” Gentry slid back against the gunwale.”

“They are slaves? White women held in slavery by the Turks?” Burnett was concerned by the prospect.

Hugues nodded. Gentry shrugged.

“Here,” Hugues dug a heavy pouch from inside his dark green frock coat.

He tossed the pouch, heavy with his gather’s coin, more toward than to Burnett, forcing the young man to lunge at it to prevent it from flying over the side and into the water. As Burnett clutched it tightly in both hands before finally tucking it into his frockcoat, Hugues turned his attention back to the shore. The docks of Sidon was now close enough to make out the men busy on the waterfront.

“When we make port, see to our luggage and secure us a room, nothing extravagant, yes?” Hugues asked, shooting Burnett a knowing look.

The young man, recalling the chastisement he’d received in Venice, nodded sheepishly.

“Gentry and I will find the Venitian’s man and arrange a place in the next caravan to Damascus.”

 

[haremfaery]

The palanquin stopped. The head eunuch opened the door and handed Zamarada out. "Where are we? Where is Bahri Şehzade?" She looked aorund frantically. This was no place her master would bring her. She saw a wooden platform, a stage of sorts, with naked men women and children of all shapes and sizes, all skin colors, lined up wearing shackles. Her eyes went wide. She knew what this place was.

She tried to pull away. "No. No, no, no. This is a mistake. Kasib, please. I have been a friend to you." She tried to control the panic in her voice.

Kasib tightened his grip on her hand and put his other hand on her elbow. "I am sorry, Zamarada. Haseki Kadin has gotten her wish. You are to be sold. Bahri Şehzade, blessings upon him, agreed to it to keep peace in the harem."

"To keep peace with the mother of his sons, you mean." She looked at the platform and the people lined up on it. She squared her shoulders. "But I am an almeh, not a common slave."

"The slavemaster has sent word that one such as you is available. Do not worry, I am sure he will find a master worthy of you." The eunuch said a bit sarcastically. He was aware of Zamarada's vanity.

-----​

The next weeks were a nightmare for Zamarada. Memories of when she had first been stolen away from her family re-emerged. The slavemaster, Yazid, had her strip so he could inspect her body. His fingers probed every part of her. "I need to know that you are in good condition for potential buyers. He put her in a small room off his own, although more times than not he brought her to his bed at night despite her protests that she was not and had never been a sex slave. "My jewel, that is not for you to decide. I must assess your skills. And I find them lacking for one who is not a virgin. But I will remedy that."

She cried night and day and wallowed in self pity until Yazid threatened that he would put her on display naked every day until she was sold. Yazid's punishments were more straightforward than those of Hazeki Kadin. But again, he was careful to leave no lasting marks. He used a cane on the soles of her feet. He withheld food. "You can easily go a few days without it. It will get rid of your harem fat." He pinched her bottom. He made her stand or sit in uncofmrtable positions for long periods of time. He made her dance for him until she was too exhausted to fight him. "Bahri Şehzade has made you a spoiled child. You are not a stupid girl, learn your place and your life will be easier for it."

She lost track of the days and resigned herself to the reality that Bahri Şehzade would not take her back. She would be sold to the highest bidder. She only hoped her new master would be as kind as Bahri Şehzade.

 

[Gotham_Central]

The Procurer of Flesh

The palace of Farooq al-Din sat atop a steep rise within the el Amara district of ancient Damascus, near the city’s Christian Quarter and on the banks of the Barada River. Its southern verandas opened onto the gardens that were the envy of even the city’s most wealthy citizens and offered a most picturesque vista. Inside those walls, beside the gardens, within the gilded rooms of the palace, the stench of the slave market was a distant world. Only the gold of the market flowed up the hill, up the hill and into the coffers of Farooq, or as he was called, Qawad min Lahm, the Procurer of Flesh.

Hugues Darrot reclined amid the teeming number of pillows that marked his seat at Farooq’s table. His frockcoat was absent, sat aside in favor of the light cotton robes of his hosts; far better suited to the arid heat. He absently swirled the spiced pomegranate juice around the bottom of his cup and considered his next words with care. “Your hospitality is as gracious as I was told to expect, sayyid. I am humbled to be so well received by so great a man as Farooq al Din of Damascus.”

Gentry and Burnette, neither of which spoke the local tongue, watched their host for some indication of their master’s words.

Farooq smiled, allowing his eyes to fall in feigned humility, “You are too kind, Hugues Darrot.”

“I speak only the truth; though I fear I am less honorable as a guest than you are as a host,” Hugues leaned forward, sat the cup onto the table, and adjusted his posture to a more serious pose.

Farooq measured the words but said nothing. His gaze held Hugues and he studied the man intently.

“You have received us with great kindness. Yet I must repay that grace and generosity with matters of business. Less than fitting tribute to the sumptuous fair you placed before us,” Hugues heaped the praise onto his host, but not without due merit.

“Surely such matters can wait until after prayers tomorrow,” Farooq dismissed the topic with a wave of his hand.

Gentry and Burnette watched Hugues intently as he edged even closer to Farooq, his tone low and conspiratorial.

“Were it my choice alone, sayyid, I would not trouble you with such matters,” Hugues caught the slave trader’s gaze and held them, “But my master, the Compte NAME, is most anxious to acquire the Circassian woman. I ask that you forgive my insistence on the matter, but I would not be serving him truly were I to risk the purchase to a later time.”

“She will be placed upon the block in the fullness of time,” Farooq dismissed him.

“I would avoid the risk of the market, sayyid, and buy her from you now.” Hugues stated flatly.

“A Circassian, any Circassian, is a rare commodity; this one is both beautiful and skilled; once favored of her master. Why would I risk such profits as she represents to sell her now, before she has even stepped onto the block?”

“Precisely because she is so rare a commodity.”

Hugues answer caught Farooq off guard and the slaver trader could not help but laugh aloud.

“Consider, sayyid, many will come to the market for just a glimpse of so valuable a slave, but how many will come to place serious bids for her purchase?” Hugues let the words sink in for a moment. “How many men in all the world can afford such a woman? And of them, how many are of a mind to buy? And of them, how many have agents in the city?”

Farooq shifted uncomfortably among the silk pillows on which he reclined, “Fewer than two hundred Circassians have ever come to market in Genoa or Venice. So rare a commodity must command an appropriate price.”

“Place a price on the woman,” Hugues challenged.

Farooq shifted further, unconsciously withdrawing from Hugues and his persistence, “20 Lydian coins.” He spat the price out almost as a challenge.

Hugues looked to Gentry, “Lydian coins?”

“Rare among the Turks, gold coins, not silver; maybe a hundred livre apiece,” Gentry answered.

Hugues failed to mask the shock of the price, “He’s asking 2000 livre for this Cicassian woman!”

“Of course he is,” Gentry shock his head and drained his cup. The asking price was more money than Gentry has even held in his entire life.

“Sayyid,” Hugues turned back to the slave trader, “I am certain that your price is true and fair. Just as I am certain that the woman will only command such a price if at least two stand to contest one another for her. If such is not the case, then you can be assured only of… less.”

“I am confident of a contest at the block,” Farooq held his cup up to be refilled.

A servant stepped from the shadows, refilling his master’s cup as Hugues considered his next step. Two thousand livre would all but wipe out the funds his father had provided for the journey and the acquisition. It would leave them to travel overland most, if not all the way home, and forcing them to forage for every meal of every day. But worst of all, it would leave him little to set aside for his own enrichment. It wasn’t that Hugues was a dishonest man, only that he was a man with an eye to his own future; he preferred his father to think him a wastrel than to risk his future on an absence of wealth; two thousand livre would simply not do.

“Confident enough to risk twelve Lydian coins, here, tonight? It is a true and honest offer. One which I will pay before the sun rises,” Hugues raised his cup to be filled in turn.

Farooq sipped the pomegranate juice, relaxed almost casually. He studied Hugues befire speaking, “Eighteen Lydian coins.”

“If there is no contest, if those who would challenge my master’s acquisition either fail to appear or are somehow… dissuaded from driving up the price… I will pay far less,” Hugues knew he could count on Gentry to intimidate most men, but certainly not all. “She may be my master’s for only ten Lydian coins, or only eight. Thirteen Lydian coins.”

Farooq frowned at the pittance of the counter offer.

“The weight of thirteen Lydian coins, sayyid, it is a fair offer. An offer that secures my master his prize and both enriches the great Farooq al-Din and shows him to be the merchant of great renown. As I have said, if I must wait till she stands on the block, then I may pay more, or I may pay much less. Which do you think most likely?”

Farooq stewed in his doubts for a moment, staring at the Frenchman with ire and consternation, then allowed a smile to spread across his face and erupt into a deep, joyous laugh. “Thirteen Lydian coins in weight, done and done.” He laughed and called the servants to freshen the cups of all at his table.

“This is a good thing?” Gentry asked, feeling naked without his sword.

“This is a good thing,” Hugues raised his cup as Gentry’s and Burnette’s were filled. “Let us drink to the health and wealth of Farooq al-Din.”

Each lifted their cup and drained it of a healthy measure of its contents.

“At the risk of being an even worse guest, sayyid. I would pay the price and take possession of my lord’s prize yet this evening.” Hugues sat the cup down gentle on the table.

“I will have her brought to you this evening,” Farooq emptied his cup and sat it aside.

“If it’s all the same to you, I would go with your men and secure her as soon as the coin has been paid.”

 

[haremfaery]

"I am sorry, sayyid. The Circassian is in the harem. You do not expect that I would keep her with lesser slaves? She is a flower that requires special care. And, sayyid, her things must be packed. She has instruments and clothing. She is not only beautiful, but an accomplished entertainer. Were I a deceitful man, I would keep her possessions and sell them to help make up for your hard bargaining." Farooq gestured to a servant who left the room. "You may take her tonight and tomorrow I will send porters with her things to wherever you are staying. Or, wait for her things to be packed and enjoy my hospitality." He cocked his head at a servant who refilled their drinks then disappeared to return a few minutes later with a tray of fruit.

Farooq would be sad to see Zamarada go, but not too sad for he loved gold more than her singing or dancing, or even her plush lips around his cock. A mouth was a mouth and others were just as good. Some were much better.

~~~~~​

One of Farooq's eunuch's slipped away from the room as soon the sale was sealed. Zamarada needed to prepare herself, her instruments and clothing needed to be packed, and most important to Ahmed, overseer of Farooq al-Din's female slaves, he would be the one to tell her who her new master would be. He nearly giggled with glee. While the woman was beautiful, he found her haughty. He would relish the look on her face. No sultan's palace for her. No marble baths. No private gardens. He would be happy to see her and her sharp tongue go.

Ahmed entered the women's chambers. Two other women were there with Zamarada. A sloe-eyed beauty from the Far East with a boyish figure and sweet plump-bottomed Coptic. Zamarada was playing her oud to pass the time. He knew Farooq had sampled all of their pleasures since none were virgins, the better to set their prices and sing their praises on the block.

The women turned to him expecting to be told which one Farooq wanted in his bed later.

"Zamarada, prepare yourself. Farooq sayyid has sold you. You leave us tonight."

Zamarada did not know if she should be sad or relieved. Her short time with the slavemaster was neither a good or bad experience. Knowing her value, he treated her well. She had been punished once upon her arrival, but she suspected it was merely perfunctional since the soles of her feet were caned enough to make her cry but not enough to impair her dancing. Her took her to his bed, but his lusts were simple ones.

"Who is my new master? Where is his harem?"

Ahmed's smile was closer to a sneer. "Not in the empire. Not in a harem. Your new master is an infidel."

That brought Zamarada up short. "But ... How?"

Ahmed laughed at loud. "How? Foolish woman, because this infidel Frank has your price."

Zamarada glared at the eunuch. "But the Franks have no harems. What am I to do for him?"

"Suck his cock." Ahmed O'd his lips. "He is ugly. And hairy. Perhaps you should let him take you from behind so you don't have to look at him."

"Son of a pig! I am an almeh. He could pay far less if he wanted a sex slave." She knew the eunuch was taunting her. Perhaps everything he said was a lie meant only to upset her.

"Get dressed, Zamarada. He is taking you tonight." Ahmed made an exagerated obesience and left.

Zamarada fumed for a moment before the other two women came to hug and stroke her. "We'll help you."

They led Zamarada to their sleeping chamber. Female servants were already folding her clothing and putting her instruments in their cases. Zamarada dressed in a flurry. Her thoughts went from one question to another. What kind of man would her Frankish master be? She had heard Europeans did not bathe often and that their food was bland since they lacked the variety of spices.

She put on clothes that she wore when the Şehzade had her entertain his guests. She slipped on leather slippers, not the soft shoes she would normally wear. Over everthing her friends helped her on with an abaya, the shapeless garment women wore when going out.

She heard a commotion in the outer chamber and pulled her veil over her face as she entered the room.


((If you want me to change anything, just let me know.))