A Cruel Passing of Innocence by J.D. Jensen

the moment of reality would be all the more profound… whenever it finally came.
    The girls soon learned each other’s names, although, apart from Nassara and Belithza, few could communicate in any common tongue, except in occasional faltering words or phrases. In time they would learn words enough of necessity, particularly where those words were of their masters’ brutal language, spoken in the urgency of commands.
    Of the male slaves Nassara had only glimpsed them briefly. They, too, had been allowed a healing respite, it seemed. They enjoyed some restricted access to the courtyard once the girls had retired to their quarters to rest on their plush cushions. When Nassara heard the familiar jangling of the men’s iron chains below she rushed to the window grille to peer out. Immediately she spied Zheeno’s lean frame as the young men shuffled along the narrow pathways, despondent but curious at their surroundings, avoiding the eyes of the watching whip-boys. She could see that occasionally Zheeno’s gaze darted cautiously up towards the upper level of the buildings, as if discretely seeking where he thought she might be. She waved through the grille, hoping he would see her.
    During the slaves’ period of respite there was only one occasion when, nearly at the height of the day, all of them had been summoned to the courtyard to attend the prostrating ritual of servility and abasement. Herded as ever by the snarling whip-boys, with Ahmood standing haughtily at the habitual place of assembly, the slaves were marshalled into two lines.
    There were now only five male slaves, and five girl slaves remaining. The men stood again in the forward line, Nassara being almost directly behind Zheeno. She could look fondly at his naked back and haunches, hating the ugly black chains that hung from between his legs. How she yearned to embrace him and shower him with affectionate kisses.
    The slaves stood, faces downcast, awaiting the order they knew would come for them to prostrate themselves in the familiar, obsequious posture. For some time they waited patiently and motionless, listening in the tense silence to the gentle buzz of insects around the lush vegetation, and the trickling of the water fountains.
    â€˜Abbaijsh!’ Ahmood’s shrill voice broke the silence at last, almost making Nassara jump, his eyes travelling the two lines of slaves, alert for even the slightest trace of slowness to obey.
    Immediately the slaves dropped to the ground in a flurry of jangling and tinkling of chains and bells, quickly forcing their bodies into the required position on the hot flagstones, although it took some while before they became entirely still, to mould their bodies into the unnatural posture, noses brushing the ground, backs dipped excruciatingly, buttocks thrust high in the air.
    Nassara sensed the proximity of the headman nearby, and soon, from the corner of her eye, she glimpsed his braided slippers as he walked unhurriedly behind the two rows of slaves.
    Ahmood, as attentive and alert as ever, paced one step behind him, his whip poised ready to prod or poke or lash out. But it seemed the headman’s inspection of his masters’ property gave him satisfaction. Once or twice he stopped to closely examine a particular slave, or to mumble a remark to Ahmood about some imperfection or other in the way a certain chain or bell hung. But generally satisfied, and nodding at Ahmood, he moved on, coming upon Ugimba, last in the line up, and suddenly he barked an order that made the poor girl wide-eyed with fear, making her jump frantically to her feet. Alas, as soon as she was standing still and upright it was immediately clear that in her eagerness to obey she had, once more, forgotten to lower her chin subserviently. Instead, her head was raised almost proudly, even defiantly, despite her expression of apprehension.
    â€˜Ashasha ma-abbaishi!’ Ahmood snarled, repeating the order several times as if