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GalleymanA Garth tribute

The time traveller is buffeted into another confusing world. Where everyone knows who he is - except himself

A rendsz’ world story

rendszeretlen

GalleymanContents1. The hole 22. Foul-breath 53. Courtyard activity 74. That’s him! 95. Aboard ship 126. Put-down 147. Stripped, teased 178. Stand-off 199. Man-power 2310. All at sea 2511. Singled-out, standing-out 2812. Captain 3013. Confrontation 3314. Orders, ya see …. 3515. Daily grind 3816. The welcome 4117. The newcomer 4318. Puppet 4519. The fans 4720. Mob 5021. Offering 5222. Mob sacrifice 5623. Bloodlust 5824. Sundown 6025. Parade 6326. Safety of the palace 6627. The Council 6928. Sentencing 72End 76 Garth was a comic-strip character appearing in the British newspaper Daily Mirror 1943 – 1947. A time-traveller for whom time came looking.

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Avi Dar models for Garth

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1. The hole

“Let’s have ya, shithead!”Garth had heard the steps clattering to him through the darkness. The first signs of life he’d heard in hours. “Move ya ass. On ya stinking feet.”Garth had already been up before they had opened the bars. Anxious to find out what was going on. Curious to find out where he’d landed this time. Almost pleased to hear sounds. Oddly glad when lanterns had appeared out of the blackness. Revealing a half-dozen swarthy-looking armed ruffians outside the bars to this hole. This was their way of telling him where he’d been dumped. By the look of them - not some friendly tea-party.

“Turn round, asshole … Ya hear?”Garth had come-to here. In a black hole. No windows. Barely able to see even when his eyes had adjusted to the dark. Not a soul around, not a sound. Eerie. He’d almost started wondering if he’d been dumped here by mistake. In some abandoned dungeon. For hours he’d been stuck here. He had almost started convincing himself he could rot a lifetime here. An underground hole? A cave? Hard to tell, the only light came from a small hole way up high. Hard to estimate how high above, maybe fifty feet? More or less an air-hole.

It had been with some sense of relief when the clatter of boots on rock had echoed down towards him. He hadn’t been forgotten. Not by half.“Ya deaf, shitface? Turn the fuck round. Or ya wanna we make ya?”They had a jump on him. They knew why Garth was in this inescapable hole. Alone, no sign of human life. Not another prisoner, not another sound. Isolated. Like this hole was for him alone, like this whole dungeon had been cleared to take him. He was getting the idea he had been singled out. There had to be some reason why he was holed up in this place. “Not telling ya again. The wall, shit-face. Face the wall and touch it. Hands on the walk, mothafucker.”THEY knew, these cretins who’d rushed into his hole. They knew exactly who he was. And why he was here. Big rough-looking brutes. Armed with clubs. Ready for anything.

Garth had spent hours trying to find a way out. In the dim light, he found the doorway. Prison bars. Sturdy, locked, resistant to his utmost efforts to shake the hinges free of the rock. Gripping on the bars, putting all his weight and muscled strength into his efforts. Nothing gave. That was when he first felt the pains in his back. He hurt. Like he’d taken a beating. The whole of his back hurt when he rattled at the bars. Muscles ached, flesh felt bruised. A beating. He couldn’t see in this dim overhead light. Maybe beaten with

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canes. It didn’t smart like a whip would have done. But sometime his back had taken some working-over. Not that he recalled. That was worrying. He couldn’t recall in any of his other travels experiencing something he did not remember. He had been beaten. But Garth had not the first inkling of getting beaten. Not while he had been in this Space-and-Time. THAT was unusual. That was inexplicable.

“Face the fucking wall. Ya hear?” Angry, his welcome party was not quite turning out how he had hoped it would. Was he someone significant? A reason why he was isolated in a prison cell. Deep in the rock. Or were these ruffians just brutes? Gaolers who got off on man-handling their prisoners. Somehow Garth got the feeling they were just waiting for him to given them the chance to go at him, In the light of the flickering lanterns, Garth saw their brutish faces. He could read the eagerness on their faces. Only waiting for the excuse. The clubs they held in their hands - not brought along for the fun-of-it. Handled like this was not the first time. No point in having himself done-over. Garth turned. Not going to give them justification. And finish up worse than he was hurting now. By the way they were handling themselves, judging by the aggressive looks he was getting, - he’d be needing to preserve his strength.

More like some funnel upside-down. That was how he’d envisaged this hole before. Up there a hole, way above his head. The only source of light. More a way-in for air. No way of telling how high. He’d tried searching in the darkness for footholds. He’d once managed to claw his way up, maybe to his own height. Again as his hand clutched at small fissure for grip, he noticed the hurt in his back. But then there had been no more places to grip at. And it began to feel like he was climbing against gravity. Like he was in some funnel upside down. As it this cave was narrower at the top than the bottom where he lay. If he found handholds, he’d be rock-climbing with all his weight offering to collapse down. Fall back down to this rock-floor. And even if his luck held out …. Even if he got to that hole way up high … what was saying it was big enough for him to creep through?

Reluctant Garth had accepted his fate. Accepting that his captors knew what they were doing when they had shoved him in here, - whoever they were, whenever that had been. There was no way out. Cussing he bowed to the vagaries of Space-and-Time. Settling down on the hard rock floor, leaning his burning back against the rough stone-wall. Garth had waited. Trusting that Space-and-Time had not abandoned him to die forgotten in this hole.

“Ya listening, fuck-head. Hands on the wall.”Fate hadn’t, it had sent these half-dozen goons for him. Ordering him about. Menacing clubs tight in their grips hanging by their legs. Looking like they were itching to go for him. Though Garth had not the first idea why. Clubs …, he thought to himself. Not guns. Did that say something about where he

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was? For now, best play along, though - he’d learned that many times when he first landed somewhere. Go with the flow until he got the lay of the land. He turned round, faced the dark rock wall. As told. His arms had reached out, his hands were pressed against the darkened rock-wall. As told. Playing along, playing for time.

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2. Foul-breath

He was an aggressive bugger, without any reason. Garth had given him no trouble. No reason to take it out on him. Which made the cretin one of those cowardly morons who only dared take it out on prisoners when they couldn‘t hit back. Or … and there was this nagging feeling at the back of Garth’s mind … the way they were handling him, their hostility, - and he sensed from them a prickle of fear of him too …. Garth couldn’t lose the feeling they knew something he did not. Like who he was. Like whatever it was he was supposed to have done …. That was what gave them to right to push him around. Like take a cane to his back. Pin him up against a wall and beat the crap out of his defenceless back. How else had he got his injuries? Something was up … Garth just did not know what …..

The brute looked every bit what he was. A mean-minded bugger. Not the goon who had come in shouting his mouth off and ordering Garth around. This one had trapped Garth in the collar. And then he’d seemed to take a shine to him. Giving Garth a hard thump in his backbone, - just because he could. It seemed he was jealously claiming Garth for his own. Garth was big, people turned their heads in the street - at his size, his confident muscular stance, his good looks. This bugger was cut from the same block, - except the good-looks part. Maybe even bulkier than Garth himself. On top of that, he stank. Reeked of old sweat. Squeezing Garth’s neck into the collar-restraint the stench from his raised arms hit Garth in the nose. Bare-to-the-waist, smelly. Dirty, skin marked and fight-scarred. An unsavoury character all round. And he seemed to really have it in for Garth.

When he had felt something fumbling around his neck, Garth’s instincts were to take his hands off the wall. Stop whatever the bugger was doing around his neck.Bad breath assailed his breathing. The big body behind was pressed against his own bare back. Bare-to-the-waist, both of them. Their combined heat inflamed Garth’s back. Reminded him of that beating he must have taken.“Do me a favour ….” Foul-breath snarled down Garth’s ear with an eagerness, “ …. make a move ….” The smell could have made Garth retch.

Gingerly Garth remembered himself. Did he want another punishing beating? Making him even less able to look out for himself? He remembered the keenness with which they’d been eying him. Weapons quivering in their hands. Betting they couldn’t wait to lay into him. Clubs ready, just itching. Breathing deep, calming his annoyance, Garth put his hands back on the wall.

In thanks, a hand gripped in his hair, twisted and yanked his head back. Right back. Almost pulling his hands off the rockface. Something hard dug at

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Garth’s throat, a collar made out of thick leather. Heavy-duty, a slave-collar. When it had been tied in the back, Garth couldn’t lower his chin to the normal position. The heavy-duty collar bit in under his chin, forcing his head up all the time. What the hell!

And there must have been some sort of handle. Or a strap built into the back of the collar. Like something you’d used on a rabid dog. A dog-catcher special. Made to keep a safe hand on a wild snarling animal till you had it secure in the bag. The symbolism ran through Garth’s head, held still by the handle while another goon was tying his arms behind his back. Garth tried the usual trick. Flexing his forearms, hoping to create some sort of give later. Trusting they’d not notice his efforts in the gloom.But the cord was pulled tight. Bitingly tight, cutting into the skin. Cutting off any chance of give later on. Garth registered away the thought …. they were no fools. No virgins at this kind of work either.

“Let’s have a look at ya, shithole ….”On his orders, that grip in the scruff of his neck whipped Garth roughly around. A flare of anger burst. But when Garth tried to twist his head and glare at Foul-breath for shoving him around, eager to show the prick Garth wasn’t one to push around, - he couldn’t. He couldn’t turn his head, he realised. His head was trapped in the collar, forced to look up. The tightness of the restraint on his neck limited movement, slowed him down. All he could do was glance out the side of his eyes. Or twist his whole body round.He did that. But Foul-breath shook him by the collar, had hold of him by some handle behind.“Face front, shitface.”He shook Garth by the scruff of the neck. Shook him like grabbing a bad dog by its mane and disciplining it.“Do as ya’re motherfucking-told …”

Garth saw himself as they saw him. In the gloom of this hole deep in the ground. Bare-to-the-waist, with this thick collar around his neck making him permanently took upwards. His only clothing a pair of thick homespun breeches down to the knee. Gripped by a foul-smelling hulk of a brute, unable to help himself out with his hands tied behind his back. Things not looking so good.

One positive sign, though …. They wouldn’t have done all this if they weren’t taken him off. Out of here. Leaving this hole behind. Out to the outside with any luck. Outside was better than stuck rotting in this hole. At least, outside held some chance of getting away. Or finding out what the hell was happening.

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3. Courtyard activity

Garth HAD been buried deep underground. Isolated from all other human beings - like he had the plague or something. But there was no way he wasn’t going to find his way to the surface, not with Foul-breath gripping him by that slave-collar and laying a trail of stinking body-odour all the way. Still those thoughts niggling away. The beating he’d taken. The way these guards seemed to know exactly what his crimes were. And why they were keeping such a close guard on him. Like they feared whatever he might do to them if he got the chance and turned.

Not that Foul-breath would have given Garth even half that chance. If Garth hesitated, unable to see his way because of this stupid collar forcing his chin up, if he paused for one second, trying to test out where the next step was - Foul-breath shook him by the neck. Rattled his brain - like he’d got some slathering beast by its mane and was shaking it till it obeyed. That rattled Garth’s temper too. But arms tied behind his back and disabled by this crippling collar, all he could do was shove back. And got a punch in his backbone for his efforts. And still those thoughts ….Where the hell was he? Who did they think he was? What the hell had been happening to his body?Relief flooded him as he was shoved out into the outside. A wan early light, just as day had dawned. But he was out of that underground cell. Relief that he was not going to rot in some hole for the rest of his life. Jostled across some courtyard, high stone walls all around. An early-morning courtyard but plenty of signs of activity already. And as he was barged across the courtyard, Garth saw eyes turn on him. From all sides. Curious faces, hate-filled looks. Silence fell as eyes followed him. Watching him as Garth was jostled in his neck-brace and bound arms across the courtyard.Others were lined up by a wall. A gang of men. In rags, bedraggled. Closely guarded too. More criminals, prisoners? Men looking worse-for-wear were barged aside by Foul-breath. Garth found himself used as a battering ram to shove men aside. The grip on his collar tightened. A number of kicks behind his knee had Garth stumbling. A push on his neck brace - Garth was collapsing to the dirt. Finishing up on his back. Bawling out when unseen a heel stomped down into his gut. Not expecting it, unprepared. Jolting up, the neck-brace cutting painfully into his neck. Seething, pain clawed across his face. Angry at the sight of Foul-breath, his tormentor, leering down at him from above.Hands grabbed at his ankles. Pulling his legs up. Dragging him on his back. Pain on his flesh there reminding him of the caning his back had taken, dragged over the gritty sand. All happening fast, all taking him unawares. His ankles lifted, his legs up in the air, up on his shoulders. Feeling his calves pressed down over something hard. Unable to see because of the collar. But hands on his shins, feeling his ankles pressed down hard, almost bending him

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up on his shoulders.Impossible to see, impossible to work out what they were doing to him. That damned neck-brace stopping him from seeing. Garth tried, he bent himself up. But all he saw sneering at him was that bugger Foul-breath. Seated on something by Garth’s knees.Weight was pressing down on his legs, keeping him secure, trapped. Something cold was being put around his ankle. Felt like metal. Then heat. Searing heat. Eye-watering heat. A burning heat on his ankle.

He hated this fucker. His brother had died because of him, killed in some failed attempt to round him up. When he’d heard about the fucker cooped-up in the dungeon, he had promised himself a piece of his ass. He had wormed his way into this detachment, deliberately. Worming himself into getting close to this murderer. FUCK it. Because of this bastard, he was having to feed his brother’s wife. And all those fucking kids. And she wasn’t even minded to show some appreciation when he needed some. Not till he slapped the bitch around a bit. This fucker owed.Seated across the drum, he pressed down hard on the legs. Grinning to himself at making the fucker have to arch his back off the dirt, up on his shoulders. Watching intently, peering at his face. Gonna enjoy the pain whipping across his mug when he was welded into the manacles. He’d happily have given the fucker helluva beating back there in that hole. But THEY had a purpose in keeping the fucker alive. The powers-that-be. All the big noises. He’d happily have slaughtered this fucker for free for them. Not on, apparently. Unfortunately the big noises had other plans for this fucker. Didn’t mean, though, he couldn’t give him a hard time.He sat astride the metal drum. Pressed down hard on his ankles. Making the fucker in the dirt arch up on his shoulders. He could see the prick peering over the collar, Trying to work out what was going on. Pressing down harder still, enjoyed the wince of pain that escaped. Not going to help the prick out and let him anticipate the scorching heat.The manacle was clasped around the ankle, held in place. Eagerly he watched as the smith retrieved the rivet from the coals. Glowing white-hot. Inserted it into the manacle. Bent it, twisted it so that fucker would never escape this manacle again.His spirits lifted. A grin spread across his face. The prick hissed out loud. Quickly he twisted round. To see the shock on his kisser. Down there on his back in the dirt. Hissing out as the manacle heated up. As white-hot heat burned at his flesh.Garth yelled out. A sudden red-hot searing pain on his leg. Not knowing why. There’d been pressure down on that leg. Then suddenly a burning pain. Stinging. Smarting. Making him hiss out loud.Pressure on the other leg now - the same kind of pressure as before. Garth steeled himself. Whatever had just been done to his leg - it was about to happen to the other one too.

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4. That’s him!

Had someone …. the thought was too incredible … but had someone occupied his body? . Garth’s head couldn’t put this together. And from the way everyone looked at him, from the rough treatment and looks he got from everyone, someone EVERYONE hated. Or feared? THEY knew exactly who he was. And who he was repulsed them. WHAT he was, what he had done - it seemed to arouse the worst in them. The person …. fiend, monster that he had become …. not the most popular guy on the block. Whatever Garth himself had been before in Time-and-Space, - NOW he was in their chains, now he was their captive, he’d been stuck in the middle of this gang of … criminals, slaves …? Hated, feared - any excuse to go for him. They all seemed to have it in for him.

That guard who had Garth brought up from the cells, some kind of sergeant Garth supposed, he had ordered the gang of prisoner secured together. Garth had been shoved forward by his new-found friend with stinking breath. He’d used Garth’s body like a battering ram to barge the other criminals in the line apart. Under the officer’s instructions Foul-breath grabbed him by the collar, shook it, rattled Garth’s brain a few times - just for the sake of it - and then shoved him into the middle of the line. Instantly Garth felt the men either side edge away from him. Repulsed by him. Disgusted by contact with him. Like he had the plague. He didn’t think it was Foul-breath’s stench. It was HIM, it was Garth. He was the one who repelled them. Made them try and turn away.

In that hole, that first moment, - it was like someone had taken him over. That hurt in his back, from a beating he could not remember. Someone else’s body. Not his own? He couldn’t see himself, not with this collar on. But as far as he could tell he hadn’t changed, he felt the same as before. But from the way they all looked at him ….. he might as well have come-to in some arch-fiend’s body. The devil-himself. He was bewildered, had no idea what was going on. But he’d been getting one picture loud-and-clear. THEY knew exactly the identity of the man. Knew precisely who Garth had become. And they didn’t like him much. And were only too willing to show it.

Foul-breath stood not far off, waiting for a chance. For Garth to give him the excuse.. But made to draw back by the sergeant’s snapped-out order. But only after a few hard parting-punches. He was a bully, a sadist. Who took it out on weaker men. Or on men who would stand up for themselves - if they weren’t made useless by ropes and leg-irons. His parting shot had been a couple of humiliating slaps across the back of Garth’s head. Hands tied,


Garth couldn’t help himself. Because of the collar, he couldn’t even snap his head round and give him the glare. All he could do was wait. Wait in line, think and puzzle things out. But he was coming up with nothing much. Standing waiting to be moved out somewhere, stripped to the waist in a pair of breeches he did not recognised. Wrists tied, ankles scorched, welded into leg irons and stuck in the middle of a gang of 5, similarly attired. What the hell was this all about? One moment Garth had known exactly where he was - more importantly WHO he was - then suddenly his life was upside down. Thanks to a collision in Time and Space.

He got the feeling the men either side in the line shivered at him being so close. Like they could catch something deadly off him. Like they were desperate to get away. They couldn’t of course, they were a chain-gang. A length of chain had been passed between their legs irons, binding them all together. One of them made a run for it, - or more accurately if Garth tried to get away, - he’d have to drag the others along. That was why he’d been stuck in the middle. They were not losing him, they were determined on that.Roughly, with a few smarting blows from canes, they had been turned round to face one way, in-line one behind the other. Right hand on the shoulder in front, - all except for Garth, He was the only one whose hands were tied behind. Put in the middle, chained together in a line. Singled-out, Garth couldn’t miss that. None of them was going to make a run for it. But they were making extra sure that Garth stayed put.He was different, he was special. He was being singled out.

Garth was getting the message, loud-and-clear, - hated. And feared. Feared how he’d retaliate? Feared he’d make a go at getting away? Feared at what he could do to them if he did get free? That was why he was stuck in the middle of this gang, why his hands were tied, his and only his - they feared he’d try something on? But what could he possibly do? Who the hell did they think he was? Was he supposed to have any special powers? Like he was some wizard who could do them harm? He could conjure up the devil? It was his own body, sure, he confident of that, it felt the same. But then he couldn’t see - and everyone seemed to recognise him as someone else. He’d never been here before. But he was someone they did not trust, a man they feared. And that fear had turned to hate. Hate, contempt. Giving them all - and Garth’s self-appointed bullying guardian-angel, him above all - any excuse to push him around.

They hung around, standing in single file, chained to each other. Anxious, worried about what was happening to them. Chained together with the other criminals in his line, Garth tried to get an angle on things, twisting with his collared neck the best he could to see. But not getting much wiser. Stood there while the sun got up. Hearing the sergeant issuing orders and getting


more guards together. Increasing their escort. Because of him?Garth grabbed the chance. To look around. Still trying to piece this jigsaw together. If he had to guess, … from the architecture, from the way people dressed … how about this was somewhere like the Med? Southern Spain? Near East? And from the way others were dressed … he’d go for about 1800. But ….. But then again it could be the other side of the universe. And so what? What mattered was what was happening to him? Who they thought he was. And what they were going to do about it.

“That’s him.”Evidently whoever had merged personalities with Garth was some celebrity. Recognisable. There was a crowd already outside the gate. They spotted him, straightaway, they were waiting for him, looking out for him. Eventually the slave-gang had got moved out. Helped to shuffle along by the guard barking One-Two. The close-bound slaves hobbled by chains, a hand on the shoulder in front, were shuffled out under guard out of the gate. Stepping out in-line, One-Two, One-Two.

“That’s the fucker.”Something foul-smelling got Garth on the side of his face.“Get him!”A mob of young men, come prepared. Dollops of horse-shit at the ready. Pelting the helpless slave-gang hobbling out in a line. Not only Garth getting it in the neck. The men either side getting hit. In the face. Horse-shit. Taking missiles of foul-smelling shit splattering on their bodies. Because they were next to Garth. Going to make him popular with the other prisoners, that was. But the mob’s shots were aimed at him. Their abuse too. Their collection of stinking missiles was reserved for him. Bad shots some of them but it was him singled out. The guards laughing, doing nothing about this attack. Garth stuck in that neck-brace. Unable to avert his face. Getting what he deserved. A dollop of horse-shit in the face. Getting what they all knew he deserved. And going to be in for much more.


5. Aboard ship

“Get that pile of shit up here.”The captain of the guard looked up. Music to his ears. The ship’s captain was gesturing. Inviting him to get the prisoner on board. Taking the sucker off his hands. Couldn’t happen fast enough, soon the turd was going to be the ship captain’s nightmare.

His heart had slowed down now. Pounding as they had run their gauntlet through the town. His orders to his men seemed to have worked out OK, keep it light, let the crowd have their fun. Let them let off steam. Just don’t let them get in close. Then animal instincts could take over. Fun wouldn’t be enough. Blood-lust. Keep it good-natured, gesturing we’re all in this together., We hate the bastard too. That’s why we’re taking the brute to get strung up.

The rabble had come prepared, plenty of ammunition to throw, bags of anger and abuse too. The soldiers called a halt at rocks, though. When a rock had got that self-appointed escort in the head, he’d lost it. Typical. It would have to be that mindless dickhead. Got a stone on his forehead, meant for his own personal charge. The prick had flipped, lost it. Took the nearest bystander in the crowd, thrashed him, took the poor sucker apart. Wrong person, of course - but it seemed to have worked. The sight of brutal violence did quieten the crowd.Serve-him-right, though …. The prick had to be breathing down the prisoner’s neck, didn’t he. Did the prick have anything in his head? They were enjoying themselves dishing out horse-shit, the mob. Pelting the fucker they hated. The prick acted like the prisoner’s second skin. Had a hand on the collar all the time. Inevitable - of course, the prick was going to get it in the neck. Take some of the punishment. Get more than his fair share of horseshit. Not that anyone would notice. Not with the way he stank.

There were already loads of men down on the dock starting to load up the boat, Garth noticed, dressed in rags. More prisoners. Slaves? He’d already spotted the oars sticking out the side of the boat, pretty good clue as to why he’d been brought here like this. Slave-galley or prison ship? It seemed that was his punishment. For whatever crime he had committed. For whatever he was supposed to have done and got the crowd all worked-up. Stuck on some galley pulling on the oars. On arrival, his own chain-gang had been put to work straightaway. Released from the line. Set to work hauling cargo. With these other slaves. All except him. For Garth it seemed there was something else.


“What ya waiting for? Get that cocksucker up here.”

At the shout, Foul-breath grabbed Garth’s collar, his self-appointed guardian angel, it seemed. Stuck to him like glue. Grabbed hold of the collar, rattled him a bit. For the bullyish fun of it. Then gave Garth a hard shove, jostled him forward, taking him - him and only him - alone aboard, following the sergeant over a gangplank. The rest were still back on the dock, loading up the ship. Him and only him. Singled out for special treatment.Garth was already well pissed-off with this cretin. Having himself jerked around, his neck pulled and yanked. Nearly unbalancing him on the plank - the prick got right up Garth’s nose. He couldn’t wait to be free of this neck brace. When he had his hands free, he’d grab the chance. Show the prick what he thought. For now, though, the moron held all the cards. There was nothing Garth could do to help himself.Once on board, twisting his body round to see, Garth saw an empty ship. Just row after row of tree-trunks, lined-up in two lines. The poles the prisoners sat on. And the oars. A slave-ship. Was he finishing up as some galley-slave?


6. Put-down

“Put him in the middle, you.”Over this neck-brace Garth peered down his nose to see. The speaker was some short beefy brute, shaved head. Big and brawny, top open down to his navel. Deeply tanned. The same voice that had commanded Garth brought onto the galley. Full of himself by the way he held himself. Captain of this ship?His order was snapped at Foul-breath. Who did as told - for the continued pleasure of shoving Garth down the centre of the ship. The big bully who thought himself something special as he yanked on Garth’s string - he propelled Garth forward by the collar. Foul-breath never passed up on a single chance. Any excuse to shove his weight around. Willingly he did as told. Yanking Garth by the strap on his neck-brace. Dragging him between the rows of slave-benches.

“That’ll do. Put him there.”The same voice. From behind. “You thick, fuckface? In the middle I said ….”Foul-breath shoved Garth in between the rows of benches, jarring on the collar, moving Garth over to the side of the ship.“Not there, fuckhead. You got a brain? By the gangway, dickhead ….”Garth felt the bristle from his guardian angel at being shouted down at like this, - especially in front of his prisoner. But he himself paid for it with Foul-breath yanking him back. Ordered to re-position him. The increased yanking on the collar , - proof the sucker did not like being talked to like that. Getting his own back, on Garth. The bully taking it out on the defenceless prisoner. Jerking him around by his neck-brace for being jerked around himself. Garth felt his neck crick at the yank. Nearly getting up-ended as he was jarred backwards. Pulled clumsily between the benches until he was back in the middle of the ship again, stood by the gangway running between the rows of benches. Yanked around and make to face front. Garth was trying to calm himself, he had had enough of this prick. Struggling to stop the anger flaring in his veins at having his string pulled like this. Then hearing as he was twisted round, seeing the ship’s captain dig his elbow in the rib’s of the sergeant ….“Best place for the fucker ….”Garth saw the captain flick an imaginary whip in the air.

“Yeah, fuck-face …. That’ll do. Found some brain at last, have ya?The captain had turned back on Foul-breath ….“ … that’ll do all right.”Garth could tell this ship’s captain was going to be no best-buddy, but he appreciated the bugger for putting his bully-boy down. Garth would have liked to do more to the prick. But he’d settle for the captain’s help.


Suddenly Garth’s moronic tormentor was looking less than he made himself out to be. Garth could tell he didn’t like it. But what was he going to do? This was the captain’s territory, his ship - and they were surrounded by his crew. Bully-boy had been getting right up Garth’s nose with all this yanking on the neck-brace - suddenly he was being cut down to size. The bully being bullied. “Fuck-face”. Garth couldn’t have put it better himself.But was the prick cute enough to notice? Chances were, the cretin was just too thick.

“Nail the fucker ….”The words froze Garth. Suddenly his fresh-found satisfaction chilled. He did not feel so cocky anymore.“Make sure the sonovabitch ain’t gonna run away ….” The captain explained.

“What ya waiting for, fuck-face?”The captain snapped at Garth’s self-appointed guardian. “Hold the evil turd tight. You can manage to do that? Right?”Foul-breath did not have to be asked twice. But as his bound arms were grabbed and Garth was held tight in place, a chill feeling in his gut made him struggle. “Nail him, …. not gonna run away ….” Even if his guardian angel was not flavour-of-the-month on board this ship, he could still enjoy himself helping out while these sadists drove a nail through his feet.

He struggled, despite his bound hands and the neck-brace incapacitating him. But Foul-breath had a tight grip on both biceps. When Garth still tried to fight himself free, he got a head-butt hard into his skull. Head reeling, Garth still persisted. Helping hands from the crew were suddenly on his ankles. Holding him still.Garth was sweating. Because of the neck-brace he couldn’t see what was going on around his feet. But he’s seen a sailor approach, heavy-duty hammer in his hand. Then he’d disappeared. Crouching down in Garth’s front, near his feet. Garth heard his leg-chain rattle. More heavy-duty rattling was going on around his feet. Then some banging underneath him. Nailing - not his feet, nailing his leg-chain to the deck? Going to make sure whoever they thought he was didn’t slip overboard in the middle of the night. As if ……

Perversely feeling a sense of relief, needing to get a handle on this change in scene, all the better to reason out his best strategy, Garth’s look grabbed hold of the short-arsed brute in charge. Garth saw the look on his face change as the captain caught Garth returning his stare. A scowl transformed the face. Deep-brown from the sun, shaven head. Short brute but it spoke in a body language right now that was all foul-temper. For some slave daring to look him in the face. But now his feet were not being threatened with a nailing, Garth calmed himself. He pulled himself tall in Foul-breath’s grip. Ignoring the hammering


at the chain down by his feet, he looked defiant in his slave-collar. Putting down a marker. Letting this captain know what he had on his hands - best he could manage like this anyway.

Best thing he could do was look straight ahead, back at the ship’s captain. Next to him, the soldier who’d brought him here was deep in conversation, passing on instructions, the captain listening. But glowering at Garth. A deep angry scowl was knitting his forehead. Both of them were turned towards Garth watching his leg-irons being nailed to the deck. Their beady eyes on. But Garth thought the captain seemed to tremble - with anger, at Garth’s insolence. A prisoner, a slave - daring to return his stare.Garth saw the soldier prod the captain in the chest. But he got no response. The ship’s captain was too focussed on this brash display of disrespect from a slave. The soldier had to prod him again. When the ship’s captain saw what was up, he put his hand out and accept the bag of money. No doubt his fee. For keeping his anger-slitted eye on Garth - aboard a slave-galley. His domain, his territory, his rules.

“What ya waiting for? Fuckface.”The ship’s captain snarled over towards Garth. But his words were for Foul-breath. His maulers were still gripped tight on Garth’s arms, his stinking breath hot against Garth’s ear.“Git the fucker naked …. Wake up, pig-face. Strip the turd.”


7. Stripped, teased

Hands tied behind his back, movement restricted by that neck-brace ,,his leg-irons seemingly pinioned to the deck - what was Garth going to do to resist? Without this collar, his head-butt would have smashed the prick’s nose in. He’d happily have kneed the smirking cretin in the balls when he stood right in Garth’s face and leered at him. But Garth was unsure how much play he had in his leg-chains now. And to make the move and fail - it was only going to give the moron something to crow about. Stood there gleefully waving some big evil-looking knife under Garth’s nose. And the crew would have been warned too. They wanted him naked, they’d have him out of his clothes whether Garth gave them a hard time or not. Best not to give the moron the excuse.

Forced to look upwards by this frustrating collar, he felt the blade slide in between his belly and the waistband. Garth heard the first tearing sounds, slicing through the thick homespun cloth, hot knife through butter. That damned blade was razor sharp. Foul-breath could see where he was going. No accident that the blade managed to touch Garth’s dick. Made contact and then stopped. Just as Garth himself froze. Foul-breath plumed his stench into Garth’s face again. A sneering wink. Making eye-contact with his charge again. The gloating moron telling Garth he could. If he felt like it … he could. And who-the-fuck was going to stop him? Just a little flick …. Just a moment’s little mishap ….. Once a man …… never again ….Garth suspected he’d not. This cretin was some bottom-feeder, nothing important. He’d heard how the shop’s captain had put the cretin down. He had noticed how Foul-breath had not answered back. Out-numbered here, did not belong, no right to do anything of the sort. Fuck-face - as the ship’s captain had said. And Fuck-face was not going to push his luck - or so Garth had to hope.

But put a razor-sharp blade in some humiliated cretin’s hand - Garth would not bet on it. Especially this prick. Best not push it too far. Let the dickhead have his little game. Playing the bully was all this “fuckface” knew. Let the moron play his little games. Power-play, nothing more. Some moron playing the big I-AM. Because he’d got some stud tied up and naked like this …Otherwise, if Garth’s hands were free, he’d soon have had the punk shitting his pants …..Garth curled his lip. Calling his bluff. Aboard someone else’s ship. Garth suspected he was the captain’s slave now, he was in-charge. Was foul-breath going to try it on? Garth’s look invited him. A calculated risk.


Garth saw the moron’s look darken. Angry at being called out. How crazy was this dickhead? How irrational? Angry at being rightly read. Hesitating. As if tempted. As if wondering if he dared. But in truth, knowing he’d have to face that captain. And the crew. Probably finish up on these benches himself. Make some wrong move - his blade snicking Garth in the wrong place - the prick would have to answer for that. Answer for his move to the captain of this ship. His ship. His crew all-around. Garth sensed the turmoil. He sensed the change of tactic. Foul-breath backing down. Covering up. Throwing Garth a noisy kiss. Telling his prisoner to kiss his ass.

Down the knife slid, easily slicing down one leg. As far as Foul-breath could reach without losing eye-contact. Rocking his mocking head in Garth’s face, toying with him, trying to provoke anger, smirking into his face. Shrugging, asking, What ya gonna do about this, shitface? Cheap bully tactics again.Nothing, thought Garth. Nothing he could do. Sure this dickhead counted for nothing aboard this boat. Confident enough not to let himself get riled. Knowing there were bigger fish to fry on this ship.

Foul-breath went behind. Garth felt the strap on the neck-brace grabbed. And then a hand in the waistband of his breeches from behind was yanking and pulling. Ripping and tugging. Tearing the breeches down off one leg. Garth stood, his pulse beating with his anger, a flush of anger at being mauled around like this. But calming his face. Standing tall and proud. Making himself THE MAN to where things counted, to the captain of the ship. The man who mattered.

Garth saw he was watching him, the short-arsed ugly brute. Observing closely as Garth’s covering was part-ripped off him. Humiliatingly stripped, forced naked, not able to stop them doing just what they wanted with him. All eyes on him. Gloating at his helplessness. Stripping him of dignity with his breeches. Revealing his dick. Stood looking stupid with the other leg still intact. Draped off his other hip. Stripping him of his clothes but …. Garth pulled himself up, his stuck out the breadth of his powerful chest. Not robbed of his dignity, he insisted. To himself. To his gloating audience. Soon Foul-breath would be gone, - when they put to sea. Then Garth had other worries, since joining this ship his target had shifted. Foul-breath did not count. It was the ship’s captain that mattered - Garth’s new keeper. Money had changed hands. That was where Garth had to plant his attitude.


8. Stand-off

“How long you gonna need, fuckface?”Foul-breath had lost it, the dickhead was nobody’s friend. Put-down by the captain. Smirked at by the ship’s crew. A joke! But a prick that didn’t like being laughed at. Garth could feel the anger pluming off him, didn’t like being talked at like that. He scowled at the ship’s captain. He bristled at the smirking crew. “Ya gonna move ya ass?”They all stared back at each other, glowering. Like a stand-off in some cowboy movie, Garth felt. Fuck-face had pushed his luck too far. The captain resented this prick pushing his weight about on his ship. The crew disliked the way he acted like this prisoner belonged to him - and no one else could be trusted with this prize.

Damn-it! Garth suddenly felt a flush of anger himself. Damned prick, you asking for it? Fuck-face? The cretin WAS asking for it, - with his finger there. If Garth had only one hand free ….. Deep-down he seethed. The cretin had planted a sweaty hand gripped on Garth bared ass-cheek. Fingers digging in, clutching at him underneath. Digging in for Garth’s arsehole, the prick! Like he had to make up for being got at himself. He had to find someone else to take his anger out on. Someone who couldn’t fight him back.This guy was some bottom-feeder, lowest of the low. Maybe even the cretin knew that too. But he didn’t like reminding of it from some stuck-up ship’s captain. Or being treated like a prick by this crew. He was a bully, he was used to pushing his weight around. Didn’t like it when he himself got the treatment. So he got his rocks off where he could sticking his finger up Garth’s hole. And like fucking hell he expected his prisoner to behave. Behaved bullied.

He couldn’t get back at the captain. But he was going to get his own back. Especially with Garth incapacitated like this. Hands tied behind, restricted by the slave-collar. His leg-irons pinned to the deck. The way the prick liked his victims. This prisoner was gonna know his place. With a finger stuck in his arse. What he deserved. But smugly Garth snorted to himself, not gonna let the prick get to him. Pleased in a perverse way, enjoying the sense of satisfaction at what this meant. Being groped by a finger in his crack was not what he’d wish for himself. But it was a sign that Garth had got right up the cretin’s nose for standing his ground. And that the treatment the crew were dishing out to the


prick was getting to him too. A sign that the prick was losing it. Losing out to the ship’s crew.

Garth held himself erect, ignoring the moron. Knowing that ignoring the prick was going to irritate even more. Giving the ship’s captain the eye. That was where the action was now. Feeling down his other side the cold touch of metal as the prick sliced his blade down the breeches on the other leg. This time going down all the way, down to Garth’s knee. To emphasise Foul-breath’s idea of him putting one over one Garth, he screwed the fingers of the other hand deeper at Garth’s crack. Trying to get a rise out of him. Probing, digging at the entrance to his back-passage. Rising to the occasion, Garth made himself not flinch. Letting the prick get on with it, irritating him that he couldn’t get Garth to react. Avoiding contracting his muscles. Like he didn’t give-a-fuck for what some lowlife cretin might be trying on.

A sarcastic kiss slurped in the middle of Garth’s back. Irked that he couldn’t make his prisoner react, a wet sloppy taunting kiss, the tongue slicking up between Garth’s shoulder blades. Garth tried not to scoff as he drove his defiance into the ship captain’s gaze. This prick, a helpless case. His refusal to squirm and protest at the finger digging at his back entrance getting under the prick’s skin. As his knife cut through the final vestiges of Garth’s covering. A tug yanked at Garth’s breeches. He felt them flutter to the ground at his feet. So what? This crew had seen a man’s crutch often enough. Was there anyone here gonna be amused at the sight of his dick? Then that friggin’ finger was back. Poking him, determined to tempt Garth into a bad move. Giving Foul-breath the excuse. Try harder, dickhead!

Stood naked. A lone slave on an empty slave-galley. Watched by his new keeper, this bully of a captain. Garth knew the focus of his wariness had shifted. His new bully-master stood in front. Stood behind him, groping Garth’s arse, was the bully-as-was, the has-been. BUT - try as he might to tell himself otherwise, - still it WAS annoying having some dickhead’s finger slicking up through Garth’s crack. If ever they met again …..“C’mon, dickhead. I haven’t got all day …”The captain snapped out his impatience. Manna from heaven. Another put-down. Garth tried not to smirk. The self-deluded prick who thought he ruled the roost had hit rock-bottom once again. Reluctant, with a final dig of his finger, the stinking prick snapped out of his feeble efforts at a personal conflict with Garth. Garth sensed his unwillingness - but interesting, in this stand-off with the crew, it was Garth’s bully who backed down. He did as told. The bully bullied into doing as told.

Garth felt Foul-breath’s fingers fumbling in the cords behind his neck. Relieved when the neck-brace fell away. Able for the first time in hours to move his head. Like crazy wanting to give it to this cretin who’d been feeling


him up. But first things first ….. Wincing as he cricked his neck and the tension released itself. But progress at last. Free of that brace.Even better when the sharp blade sliced through his wrist restraints. Garth’s hands were free at last. Itching to lash out. If only he could be so rash …. Just a quick backward jab with his elbow. Then a hard punch to the jaw as the sucker went down. …. Tempting. Seductive. To give Foul-breath back for what Garth had had to put up with.

“YOU …. You ugly-looking turd ….” The ship’s captain was addressing Garth direct for the first time.“ … hands behind your head ….”Garth knew what he would prefer. Now his hands were free. Now he was free to lash out. Foul-breath was top of his wish-list. But ….. He hesitated. Unsure how best to handle his new keeper, the one who counted now. This ship’s captain. Could he risk just one punch? Floor the sucker? Would the captain applaud?

“Ya want I get them make ya ….”THAT made it easier to decide. He may not like Foul-breath. But Garth was reminded, HE was public enemy number one. And the way the captain had been prickling for Garth eying him back …. He may not like old Foul-breath …. As much was he might approve of the dickhead being floored ….. But if Garth did it ….. That was going to be something else …..

Garth again eyed the ship’s captain back. Firm, chest out. Here was the real actor in this new plot. Garth pulled himself up tall. He gave his new keeper a full view of the muscular power the captain had received in his charge. And all the problems a physique like his could bring along. More, his bearing let the captain know he was not dealing with some snivelling slave. They locked eyes. A stand-off. The captain insistent, determined to have his way. Garth equally insistent, - doggedly passing on the message. He was not someone easily pushed around.

His jaw set firm, Garth stood his ground. Then slowly …. Breath-takingly slowly …. Almost defiantly slowly …. Garth raised his hands. Did as told. Placed them on top of his head. As told. But his movements spelling it out. Doing it not because he’d been ordered. Writing out the message. Spelling it out with his body-language. He was doing this because strategically it seemed the right thing to do. Not because some short-arsed brawny brute had snapped out an order at a cowering slave. Done because Garth deemed it wise. Prudent. Because HE had decided not to take a beating. He was going along with things, - for now. Obeying the captain’s orders - as long as it suited his purpose.

The pair of them locked glares. Long, sustained. The captain threw him a fiery glare. Garth returned with a what-the-hell stare. He could see a tremor on the captain’s skin. Fists were clenched. A conflict flared between them,


the stand-off could have gone on for hours, the battle of wills could have lasted forever.

“Ya gonna tidy up or what, fuck-face?”As a diversion, the captain had turned on Garth’s bully. Foul-breath, fuck-face.“Ya expect us to tidy up your mess ….?”From behind, Garth felt Foul-breath letting him go. The finger dug into his backside gone. Foul-breath went down on his knees, grovelling. Gathering together Garth’s torn clothes. Knowing his place. Bottom of the pile. Under the rest of the shit.Only one man lower than him.


9. Man-power

It was harsh. Harsh and brutal. And so were the crew. The ship had a mast and sails. There was wind, there were sea breezes But it seemed that man-power was the energy of choice. Cargo had been loaded while Garth had been stood there alone on the ship. The other prisoners hauling heavy loads on-board and stowing it below. But clearly no one was rushing for delivery. This ship moved only at the speed of men rowing. Truly, Garth seemed to have landed up on a slave-galley. Or a prison-ship.The boat and its crew seemed to know only one purpose. Breaking down their charges by back-breaking hard-work. From first light to sundown, pulling this weighty boat through the waters. Not going anywhere, it seemed. Just imprisoning their charges away from land, no escape. Forced into never-ending back-breaking work. Encouraged by the crew. Watched over by mean-minded warders. Wielding their canes. Lashing out. Any prisoner who got it into his head to take a break, - any idiot who showed any signs of flagging - they got their minds changed by a barrage of stinging blows across a bare back.

And what the killing labour did not break, the broiling sun did. Unstinting, the cruel rays of a vicious sun. Never a cloud in the sky. Beating down on them. Draining them of strength. Frying their brains. As the heat reached its peak, even the crew began to suffer. Parading up and down the gangways. Foul-tempered. The harsh heat getting to them too. Also sweltering. Taking it out of their charges. Surly. Hitting out. Letting off steam.

Garth was still learning, getting to understand the routine. His second day on this boat. Since daybreak he’d been toiling under the broiling sun. Naked like the rest, perched on some tree trunk for a seat, worn smooth by hundreds of sweaty backsides imprisoned here. Stained filthy by dozens of arses sweating their guts out. This was a sea-going vessel. But only slave-power was used. Garth was being kept prisoner on some hard-labour ship. Like a prison-camp. A heavy-duty chain-gang. Enforced man-muscle preferred over sail. Tortured into exhaustion, drained of energy under a broiling sun. Pulling every-minute, every-hour, all-day, hauling on those oars.

Leg irons hammered to the deck kept him seated at the oar night and day. Him and only him. That banging around his feet had been a crew member beating a thick ugly nail into the deck and bending it over the leg-chains. Him and only him chained to the deck. But who was going to jump overboard, out at sea? No matter, Garth - or his alter ego - were special. He’d been nailed. He wasn’t going anywhere.Time-and-Space had delivered him somewhere strange again. He had no


idea in what time or even on which planet he had landed. But he’d turned up somewhere as prisoner condemned to life as a galley-slave. And he finished up with someone occupying his body, someone they all hated. Or feared. Someone who deserved having the crap beaten out of him. Worked to death most like. That someone had taken over his body. Garth looked down at himself. He saw just that. Himself. Nothing had changed. Tall, well-built. His blond hair dirty and matted with his sweat. His hairless chest now caked white with his dried-on salts. HE hadn’t changed.But then others looked at him. They saw something else. Someone else. Someone they recognised, someone they knew. Something who deserved every god-damned awful thing the world could come up with. Universally hated. Even by these other prisoners. Deserving the worst possible. And delivered to the full with the force of their hatred for him. Who did they see?

He looked down at his legs imprisoned in chains. The light dusting of blond hair on his shins looked exactly the same. So was his bare belly, his powerful abs. What was it they could see that he could not?But they DID. It was just Garth had no idea what. So he couldn’t start to deal with this. Inmate on some prison-ship. Brutally harsh work. Cruel warders. Getting stinging lashes if he took a breather. Everyone hating him, spurning him. Like he was in solitary for some unspeakable crime. But surrounded by other inmates. Shunning him. How the hell did he get himself into this?


10. All at sea

Garth grunted as again he hauled the oar into his chest. He saw the looming threat as he looked up - another poor victim due for punishment. Another work-slave pinned at the mast. Arms wrapped around the mast. Stood naked under the heat of the sun. Stood there for a whipping. When the poor sucker had sweated it out for hours. Stuck hugging the mast. His back sweltering under cruel rays of a harsh sun. Tortured all day, reduced to a husk, dried of all strength by the sun. Part of this harsh regime, part of life’s daily routine.

Yesterday too, - every day it seemed, someone was dragged to the mast. Yesterday as the sun set, the rowing ceased, the lashing had begun. Like this was some sadistic idea of rewarding the prisoners for doing a good day’s work. Like this was the prisoners’ evening’s entertainment. Reward for work well. An object lesson to the watching slaves, more like. Lashed across a tortured back. Brutal beating of a body that had nothing left. Howls of agony after the first few strikes. Reinforcing the harshness of this regime. A reminder - slack off - this is what you got. Pull a face, …. defy your whipmaster - forty lashes at the mast.And if everyone pulled their weight …. if there was no defiant behaviour …. what the hell! Any one would do. Grab someone at random. Tie him at the mast. It was the message that counted, not the man.

The other inmates were nut-brown in colour, muscled from the torture of heavy work, deep-tanned by exposure to the sun. Skins hardened to leather by the sea-salt air. But exposed at the mast, not moving all day, - still skin burned. Like meat on a grill. Cruel rays of the sun. Flail ing off layers. Its heat sucking every ounce of strength out of human flesh. Sucking up a man’s strength like some vampire, but one living on human sweat. Draining, dehydrating. And then at the end of the day, the prisoner turned into a mere dried-out shell of his former self, his spirit desiccated, his will cracked - then the beatings began.Garth wondered, When was it going to be him? The way things had gone since he’d come-around here …. The way the crew sneered at him …. The contempt he got from the captain. The regularity with which the lashes from the overseer’s cane came stinging across his shoulders ….. Garth was under no illusions, - his turn at the mast would come.

The oarsmen around would not speak, shunned him. Did he have the plague? Fearful of coming into contact with someone who clearly spelled out only trouble. Like just even being near to him was poisonous. Case-in-point, today’s sucker sweating it out at the mast, - it was the oarsman who’d been seated next to Garth. Coincidence? He hardly thought so. It was like the


threat of Garth’s own performance at the mast was creeping ever closer to him. Crawling in under Garth’s skin.From the others Garth could learn nothing at all. About where he was. About who the hell he was. They weren’t going to talk to him. Guilty of some foul crime. Even looking at him was going to poison them. Like he was in solitary confinement. Like being surrounded by other people was his personal hell. Like he was their own hell. He was someone who warranted the worst possible - or so they all thought. Last night after their labours Garth had tried to get to talk, to understand. They’d shunned him, shut him out, no one would even look at him.Suddenly his back took a jolt. Taking several lashes with the cane, once again - his thoughts elsewhere, the overseer thought Garth had been slacking off. Garth took a half-dozen eye-watering lashes. He put his back into things again. He imagined his back was already striped a vivid red.

He’d seen how the captain had checked him over on arrival, stood there naked, hands on his head. Garth assumed men built like him were an asset on a slave-ship, he looked like he was built for hard-labour. But by now Garth had started to doubt the strength in his back was too valuable to be wasted. By the way that ship’s captain’s gaze had narrowed as he’d eyed his precious charge, judging by the hatred in that look that had cut through the air at him - Garth suspected the captain would not worry too much about damaging brute-muscle. Plenty of others here to draw on for raw-energy. Besides, where were they going? This was the journey, this paddling around in the ocean. Going nowhere, they could have been going around in circles. All that mattered here was working these prisoners to death.~It wouldn’t be long, soon enough Garth suspected he himself was going to finish up roped to that mast. And sooner rather than later.

But at least the captain had found the time to put Foul-breath in his place. Some small satisfaction - but the best Garth had had these past few days. When Foul-breath had taken his finger out of Garth’s arse and unloaded a couple of hard punches into his side, the captain had snapped at him.“What you doing, prick?”The captain’s rage tore across the deck. A blistering look, enough to stop a rhino in its tracks, Garth saw Foul-breath hesitate, his next punch not landing. His clenched fist quivering.“He’s mine. This cocksucking bastard ….” The captain roared “ who d’ya think the turd belong to? That shitting hide is mine …..”Foul-breath did look taken-aback. The ferocity on the captain’s face was startling.“Get the fuck off my ship ….!”Foul-breath didn’t move.“NOW, fuckhead.”Garth was surprised how Foul-breath jumped to it. Garth allowed himself a little smile. But was wise enough not to let it reach his lips.


But he couldn’t stop himself when a crew member stuck out a leg. And Foul-breath went down, falling between the rows of galley-seats. Bashing his head on a bench. Then Garth did actually laugh. But instantly he froze his reaction. Catching the ship’s captain glowering at him.At the gunwale Foul-breath turned. Needing to save face. A finger digging across the ship at Garth’s bare chest. Several times poking at the air, warning him. Then with a quick defiant snap of his head, at a safe distance, Foul-breath faced the ship captain. His finger still digging through the air at Garth’s chest. Anger so bursting in his chest, he could barely get the words out.“Treat the fucker well ….”Garth had every belief that the ship’s captain didn’t need the advice.

They HAD treated him well. That glower from the ship’s captain had said it all. Catching Garth laugh at Foul-breath being shown up. Hearing Garth’s derisory snort when the prick had bashed his head falling. Laugh, you cocksucking turd? The captain’s look said it, words were not needed. I’ll give you some-fucking-thing to laugh about. And they had. Ever since, once the captain got him at sea.


11. Singled-out, standing-out

Singled-out, treated as something special. Only Garth had been brought aboard ship early, the other prisoners were labouring away, loading cargo onto the boat. Burdened under heavy sacks, backs glistening with the sweat of heavy labour and the rising heat. Crossing the gangplank onto the boat. Seeing the newcomer there. Standing alone. Staring at him. Stood tall but naked. Hands on his head. Their looks said they knew him, who he was, what he was. Their glances were less than friendly. Not welcoming. Oddly Garth thought they looked hostile. Even other prisoners were throwing him a look of disgust. Even criminals condemned to being worked to death on a galley-ship, men reduced to beasts of burden - even they could not disguise their disgust.

Still he was stood there, advertising his arrival, naked and arms in prisoner-mode, as the prisoners took their seats, Cargo loaded, returning to the benches where they laboured out the rest of their lives. Garth got their looks. His face took their hate. The other prisoners discarded their clothing into a bucket, passing by him, naked now too, hostile looks thrown, seemingly shying away from him as they passed. No one dared touch him. They feared the crew too much for that. But they would have, he felt they could have hit out at him. And by the strength of the hatred in their eyes, he reckoned then they would not have stopped themselves, they could have really beaten him up. Bad enough they were condemned to this life. But to have to share it with some shit like him …..!

The guy condemned to sit next to him objected. All other benches taken. He turned on the crew when he saw there was no other space. A pair of crew members went for him with their fists. They silenced his objections, they tamed his insolence, - as if a slave had any say in any matter. Forcing his backside down onto the bench next to Garth. Garth still stood, the only one standing now. Stood out, singled-out. Seeing next to him the look of hatred, daggers looking up at him from the slave-bench. Seeing the prisoner shuffle as far away as he could. Like he’d catch something off Garth.As indeed he did.

The slave-masters too seemed to be wary of him - but that only made them downright spiteful. And resentful. Like they hated him because he inspired fear in them. Like all bullies when they came up against someone who knew how to stand up for himself. The guards in fear of the guarded. They didn’t like what they felt. They’d deliberately chosen for him a place in the middle, alongside the gangway where the whipmaster patrolled. In the right place for his shoulders to take the first strokes when the slaves were being whipped into shape. Cracking the whip to order them to put their backs into rowing.


Then it was no coincidence that an overseer seemed to be alongside Garth when they needed to crack the whip.

That guy at the mast right now. He was the poor sucker who had been seated right next to him. Randomly selected? Like hell. Garth couldn’t see a single reason why he’d been dragged out. Picked on for no reason. Not because he had been slacking at the oars. Not because he had mouthed off at one of the whipmasters. Not because he had complained about the food. Poor sucker. He’d objected to be seated next to scum. Was it because he had been unlucky enough to be sitting next to him? As if Garth’s mere presence was poison. As if he oozed venom out of his sweaty pores. Was this a not-too-subtle a message to the rest of the prisoners? This sucker was to be avoided at all costs? Not that they needed any encouragement.Or was it a warning to Garth? His own turn at the mast was getting ever closer.

From yesterday’s demonstration Garth could only conclude this pinioning of slave-meat to the mast was a daily thing. Used as a lesson to the others - when the sun began to set and the day’s labours were deemed enough, the slaves would be reminded. Garth had watched the punishment parade the previous evening. Some poor bugger had been tied to the mast all day, spared the effort to row. Given a day-off-work. Idling the day away at the mast. In effect, lined up for some punishment-parade. Waiting for hours with nerves on-edge for his turn to start. Apprehensive Garth had witnessed how yesterday the whipmaster had gone for the poor bugger. Nothing held back. Uneasily wondering when they’d be coming for him.

Lashed with a bundle of canes tied together. Not cutting, not weakening by blood-loss. Bludgeoning the poor sucker. Clubbing labour-hardened muscle. Tenderising muscle to mush. After hanging for a day in the sun. Motionless under a vicious sun, back red and sore, exhausted. The whipmaster had tortured the poor bastard, brutally. Lashing out at him. Poor sod, he’d started crying almost from the start. Soon twisted into screams. Forty lashes Garth had counted. Lashing away till his screams turned to a plaintive sob. Beaten to remind the slaves at their oars that it could be their time the next day. This was their life, this was the ship’s regime. A dead cert they’d be here if they did not put their back into every pull on the oars.Or maybe the crew would do it just for a bit of fun. Grab anyone. Because the slavers could …. Bullies. Done just for fun ….

So this was his fate, was it? This was where Space-and-Time had collided and dumped him. For how long? How long before another collision moved him on? How long was he supposed to survive this? From the looks he got, it might be better to ask, How long were they going to let him survive …? It was clear as the sun on his neck, they knew exactly who he was. Public enemy Number One. Or something like that.


12. Captain

“Ya cocksucking bastard Full-o’-yaself, ain’t ya?”The captain’s snarl spat into Garth’s ear.“Time we got to understand know each other better… just you and me. Sort out where we stand ….”Stuck a few hours like this, the sun up, no breeze, Garth had started drifting away. The only sounds the slap of the waves, the dig of oars in tandem into the sea. The grunt of dozens of muscled men struggling to move this ship along. The sun was already hot, he’d felt sweat trickling down his back. And it was only going to get hotter. No breeze to cool him down. The more he sweated, Garth knew he’d get more dehydrated. And no one was going to pop along with the drinks. The more dehydrated he got, the hotter he would get, his body temperature rising as his body had nothing to cool it down. And the hotter his brain got, the more he’d drift off. Eventually seeing things, imagining illusions. Delusions. And on-and-on. For a whole day under the sun. A vicious cruel-minded ride. Just as well, some distraction happened along. The ship’s captain had called in for a chat. As Garth had suspected, today his time had to come. His time with his hands roped above his head, pinned against the mast. His third day at sea, he’d watched as two other poor bastards had got it at the mast. Like that was some demonstration for him. For Garth to see how things went. Today it was his turn. To find out for himself how it went.

With first light, they had come for him. Why fight? Why resist? They would do it anyway. Today was his turn, the captain’s decision. Fight them back - and he’d have invited them to break his defiance - and lose face. Before the crew. And the other prisoners, he thought, - they would not mind seeing him take a bashing either. A day pinned there, tied to the mast. The daily routine, it would happen to each and every prisoner, the same way. Just routine. Today it was him. But for the others, Garth suspected his turn was going to be a kind of treat. They’d be looking forward to sunset.What was that about him? Or this alter-ego of his? What got to the others like this?

Tied facing the mast in the sun. The sweat trickling down your back, - from the broiling heat of the sun, from the tension of knowing you were going to get dozens of strokes with the bound canes as the sun lost its heat. Garth’s semi-professional eye had latched on to the tool they had used. About half-dozen switches of cane bound together, a cudgel, plenty of whip, bags of spring. Not a whip that cut, not meant to tear open flesh and caused bleeding. Not going to weaken enough that some slave that could not pull on the oars. But back muscle beaten to pulp. Flesh falling under the force. Skin pummelled with stinging pain. Springy canes hitting at the back with eye-watering shock.


Garth’s neighbour had spent the previous day before at the mast. Like it had been some warning for him. To let Garth concentrate. A demonstration of what he himself would get. When the beatings on his neighbour had got going, Garth had started counting late - but almost from the start he had been shouting out as pain burst on his sun-burnt skin.. As crippling force hit out at a body broken by weakness. Garth had got to over 3 dozen before the poor sucker was let off.

Dragged back to the bench, slumped over his oar. Moaning, shuddering as the heat of pain still reverberated through his flesh. Garth had looked at him, his eyes full of sympathy, wanting to express his praise for the way the guy had taken it. But hate had filled the prisoner’s face, the man had twisted his gaze away. He had even found the strength to shuffle away. Avoid all contact. Ever since, there had been no contact, not a single glance. It was clear he blamed Garth. He had taken the punishment-parade that day for being seated next to him. He had been lashed at the mast because of Garth. Or his alter-ego.

As if to reinforce Garth’s suspicions that his treatment would be even worse, the captain himself had put in an appearance. Coming up behind his hated prisoner roped to the mast, he yanked back on Garth’s head. Nearly tugging hair out at the roots. Tugging back on the scalp till Garth was forced to look straight upwards at the sky.“Left to me, motherfucker, I’d have ya thrown over the side …”Again that inescapable feeling, everyone here knew who he was. Everyone knew the personality who had taken over Garth’s body. Garth’s alter ego had a reputation. “Waste of space ….”The captain tugged back even harder. Wanting to get a rise. Wanting to see his prisoner hurt. Everyone had an axe to grind. The crew with their canes twitching for Garth’s shoulders to taste their sting. The other slaves – keeping Garth in solitary, avoiding his gaze. They all wanted to put him down. He suspected none of the other prisoners would be wasting sympathy for the victim of today’s punishment parade. They all knew who he was. What he had done - everyone but Garth.

And looking up from his punishing efforts at the oar, Garth would catch the captain glaring at him. Eyes full of hate. Looking like he only wanted one excuse, one wrong move and Garth would be the victim at the mast. Foul-breath’s taunting was gone, here was the source of power. This captain set the tone. If Garth backed down, he knew he’d be every whipmaster’s toy. Garth returned the stare. Putting all his effort into hauling on the oar. But his gaze fixed on the captain. Not flinching under the force of that laser beam. Jerking at a stroke of the overseer’s cane across his back. But not faltering under the power of the captain’s fiery glare. Garth could not afford to back


down like that. He’d be inviting every bully to go for him.

But still he’d finished up here. Today’s victim. Star of today’s punishment parade. At the mast, the captain’s grip twisted in his Garth’s hair. His head tugged back, face seeing only sky.“Throw ya into the sea. Tie a rope around ya legs, drag ya behind. Do it myself ..”The captain’s laugh spat into the side of Garth’s upturned face.“Invite ‘em to join ya. The friends the like of you deserve. The sharks. Bait thrown over the side. Rotten meat, stinking fish. Drawing ‘em in, attracted to the feed …..”

Balls, the captain thought to himself, this sucker was worth too much to him. But then the evil turd behaves like he reckons that too. Knowing the High Council have sent for him. And they will want to settle with the fucker. THAT is why he thinks he can give me attitude the way. Why the fucker’s so full-of-himself. Reckons he’s fucking immune. Can’t be touched. So he can eye back the captain of a ship. And tell him to go fuck himself. The captain was hissing down Garth’s ear. Im-fucking-mune, eh. Angry at the thought of this piece-of-shit suckering him, he tugged back on his prisoner’s scalp. Head cricked painfully back, helpless at the mast.“Left to me …. Thrown ya over the side ….”

Not fucking likely. And lose all that dough? But how was this fucker going to know that?“Stand there. Watch. Seeing them come. Smelling the bait. Cheer ‘em on. The sharks. Coming for stinking fish.”To emphasise how much he’d enjoy the scene, the captain tugged even harder backwards on Garth’s scalp. Yanking a grimace out of the prisoner’s hair.“Coming here … fins cutting through the waves ….. smelling out rotten flesh.”The captain snorted. Enjoying his little joke.“And finding something even more rotten - stinking even stronger ….”The hard tug spat out the words. YOU. Fucking you.


13. Confrontation

“Left to me ….,” he’d said.Garth could not miss the implication. There was someone above this captain. This captain was answerable to someone else, then. But the thought didn’t get any further. Suddenly Garth bawled out in surprise. The grip in the back of his head had tightened. A split second later his forehead thudded into the mast.“If I had any say in the matter ….,” he’d snarled.Reality was smashed as Garth’s forehead again was pounded into the solid wood of the mast.“FUCK!”Garth roared out. In shock.He was ignored.“Not up to me ….” The captain insisted. His grip in Garth’s hair in the back of his head murderously tight. Threatening him with another blow.“But ……”Pain burst with blinding light. A thump got him in the kidneys, hard, painful. Jarring his front into the mast. Before he could catch breath, the grip in Garth’s scalp tightened, his head tugged back. Then again an unstoppable force slammed his head into solid wood.“But if it was …..”

Madness took over. Garth took a vicious onslaught from two directions. Hard punches slammed into his kidney. Quickly followed by that warning tug backwards and a push that shoved his head into the mast. Not a chance to stop it. His face smashed pitilessly into hardwood. His back bursting in pain. And again. Skull, into his back. And again.

He hadn’t passed out. No luxury for him of slipping into unconsciousness. A hammering pain in his head. An acidic rush in his guts. Flooding his throat. Stinging. Burning. Fires of pain in his back. Throbbing in his insides.Garth hadn’t completely passed out. But pain did have him in its grip. The attack had dragged him down to the nether reaches of his consciousness. But it was when he started to claw his way back to the surface of his reality that the true shock kicked back in. The ringing in his ears - shrill. Ear-piercing. Smarting. Replaced by a pounding in his head. A jack-hammer thud jarring in his brain. Wincing at the hurt. Grimacing at the pain. Thudding mercilessly in his head.

Garth opened his eyes. Seeing only a haze. Blinking, peering beyond the blur, fighting his way through the sickening rush of gore in his guts. Smarting at acidic fluids flooding his nose - there, beyond his reality, on the other side


of this crippling pain -- he sensed some monster lurking. At first he thought it was his imagination playing tricks on him. Seeing some sub-human form floating before his eyes. The lack of fluids making his brain mis-fire. His head in a swirl. Loss of consciousness beckoned him back down. Tempted Garth to sink into a blackout. But there was peril. Somewhere around, somewhere close. Over the years he’d learned to trust his instincts. Now his warrior-guts were signalling danger. Instinct warned, clanging warnings of imminent risk. Biting down on his suffering, fighting back. Clawing his way through the pain. Digging deep into reserves. Tingling with anticipation of danger. Every pore on his skin warned of the foe breathing down his neck.

He couldn’t move. Shock. He was stuck against the mast. Like it had half-swallowed him. Or rather, like his front was glued to it. Melted by pain against it. Bewilderment battled in the swirling haze of his head. It was like the mast was sucking him in. Like glutinous suckers on his front were absorbing him into the wood. Confused Garth’s still bleary brain pulled on his arms. No movement. Confused, shocked. Brain in a whirl. Was he really being eaten alive? His fighting spirit tugged back. Fought to escape the gluttonous mast. Nothing gave. Being eaten alive? Crazy. His chaotic mind tried to pull his chest away from the mast. Head thumping. His vision swirling in a worrying mass of watery shapes. Something approaching panic rushed in to fill the void of rational thought. Pushing himself away from the mast. Stuck. Trying to flee this carnivorous greed. Nothing budged. It was like the mast was eating him alive. Crazy.


14. Orders, ya see ….

Garth felt the whip handle gliding greedily over his back. His first sense of reality … coming back after that head-banging. Vision slowly clearing. Ripping himself back to get a grip, feeling a whip handle being traced down his backbone. Stood at the mast. Where he’d seen others take a beating …. Things rushing back to reality …..“A back - like this - muscled, broad - just begging for it ….”Garth worked out his predicament. Through the painful throbbing in his head, he had forced his brain to focus. Willed his vision to clear. Not being eaten alive - of course …..He was jammed right tight against the mast. It had not taken on supernatural powers. When he had been stunned, sailors had worked rope in the crook of his elbows and tied it around the other side of the mast. His bent arms were hugging the wood tight. So tight his head was forced over to one side. No room to turn the other way.”Attitude like ya’s …. Just beggin’ for it ….”

His vision had cleared. Looking over his meaty arms hugging the mast, he saw the captain. Right up against his face. Leering. A sadistic smirk in his eyes. His stinking breath clouding over Garth’s face. Stroking his back with a whip.“Left to me ….” he repeated, “… you’d get everything you deserve … and more … Think ya can dis me, eh? Give it ya personally, I would.”The handle tapped lightly at Garth’s shoulders. “My personal treat …..,” the captain smirked with the prospect of pleasure.Garth had no reason to doubt it. He had the headache to prove it. And he’d already seen these couple of days what those forty strokes could do.“Give it to ya maself … every single fucking lash …..”And with all he could give …. Garth finished the thought for the sadistic prick.“Break ya …. Ya evil-face turd ….”

His head was still thumping, Garth was stuck tight against this mast. Couldn’t move, not even turn his head away from the sick moron enjoying his fifteen minutes of fame. But he wasn’t going to let the prick get away with this. He put on his best sneer.“So what’s stopping you …?”A calculated risk. Even in his state, he’d heard that implication, “….if left to me”. This moron was not a free agent. He was in some other sucker’s pay.Garth’s intuition was rewarded by a hardening in the look. Telling him he’d guessed right. But had he gone too far? The captain’s eyes narrowed, his mouth tightened. Garth could almost hear the blood boiling. And if the captain HAD been free to do as pleased ….. Garth was left in no doubt what he’d get …. And how ….


Then the brute smiled. A smile that was going to get nowhere near his eyes. One that spoke of pleasure being delayed. But postponed, not lost.“Orders ….” The captain eventually let out. As if that answered Garth’s question. “And bags of cash.”The whip handle was again coaxing its threat across the breadth of Garth’s bare back.“Fucking hell ….. this is just begging for it ….”The handle tapped eagerly at the muscle of Garth’s back. “This attitude of yours ….,” his voice mocked Garth’s insolence,“What’s stopping ya, eh ….?”Laughing as he mimicked in some falsetto.“.. just fucking begging for it …ya’re ….”The whip-handle was tracing a path down Garth’s backbone. He could feel the movement as it dug at every bone in his spine.“Could get a hard-on just seeing this flesh come apart …. ya know that ….?”Garth could feel the hardness of his trapped muscle twitch to the touch of the captain’s threat.“Whip ya right down to the motherfucking bone ….”Garth did not have a doubt. But he was putting his trust in that little phrase “left to me …” The prick wouldn’t dare …. Would he?

“But don’t worry your little head …..”The captain was leering. The spit in the words shot at Garth’s face. Eyes sadistic. Did he know what was coming Garth’s way?“My job …. Deliver you up … in one piece …. Then I’m made for life ….”Garth tried not to narrow his gaze in an effort to understand. But obviously he failed. The captain had caught his failure to understand.“This …..” the whip handle stroked over his upper back. Garth could have sworn he had seen the captain’s eyes briefly glazed over. As if his mind’s eye caught the sight of Garth’s back being flayed under the lash. The boner in the captain’s pants driving each-and-every stroke.“…. this belongs …. not to me.”His shrug showed the captain’s regret. “To some other motherfucker. They wants the pleasure for themselves …”

Garth remembered the sight of money changing hands when he was handed over. But it seemed he was to be handed over again. And then probably his punishment would start in earnest. Again he wished to hell he could get a handle on whom they all thought he was. And why he was such a threat. Why he was universally despised. Even feared.“And paying me for the pleasure. Handsomely. Paid to do nothing. Just to hold back …” Again the whip-handle travelled menacingly slowly down the whole length of Garth’s bare back, shoulders to backside. Unable to turn his head any other way, Garth saw the prick purse his lips. In sheer pleasure at the thought of what might have been.


“Paid not to give it out. Not to give this motherfucking attitude of yours what it fucking-well deserves ….”But he wouldn’t. Garth had been right. He couldn’t. He did not dare. The cretin’s words were reassuring to Garth. Telling him the captain was being rewarded to make sure someone else could have that pleasure ….

“THIS …. this belongs to someone else.”The handle tapped slowly at Garth’s back. Reluctant its owner couldn’t go for it himself. Someone else wanted Garth’s back delivered in one piece. Not to be torn to shreds here by a sadist’s whip. The handle was tapping lightly on Garth’s backside. The smirk on the captain’s face returned. The light this time had leapt to his eyes.“But no one said anything about rape …..”


15. Daily grind

They hadn’t indeed. Nothing said about hands-off with male rape. Garth had endured a day at the mast with that whip-handle sticking out of his arse.Gloating at his victim helpless, tied tight-hugging the mast, the captain had ordered Garth’s legs splayed. Like with his arms, rope was inserted in the crook of his knees, pulled tight and tied around the other side of the mast. For all his cussing and struggling soon Garth’s thighs too were hugging the mast. Spread wide by its breadth. And his backside prey to whatever came.A braided whip-handle.

Never a friend to having something forcibly jammed up his back passage, Garth did the best he could. He resisted, he swore. He cussed that god-damned captain to hell. He promised the sailor told to get on with the job that he was the first on Garth’s list.But they knew …. All talk. Not a thing Garth could do to stop this. And it was with a sadist’s pleasure that the sailor took his time. Getting a rise out of giving it to … whatever monster Garth was supposed to be. Probably taking a look at the captain from time-to-time. His captain’s grim nodding of approval promising an extra bonus. And rounds of drinks with the crew that night. Motivated to grind that braided handle deeper inside. Working it in where it did not belong. Twisting and turning his weapon. Taking his time, sometimes jamming it in, forcibly. Sniggering at the twitch of pain cracking up Garth’s back. Sometimes toyingly pulling it out. Only to disappoint, screwing it painfully slowly back in. Twisting the handle grunting pleasurably with the effort - like screwing a bolt into a tight hole. Feeling the resistance, feeling the prisoner fighting him back. The sailor feeling himself strengthening between the legs. Going to give it to this sucker. The turd thought he had some say in this matter? No prisoner was gonna show up his whipmaster. His strength against the victim’s bolshiness. A whipmaster could be as bloody-minded as a mule too. Seriously … wanna resist …? …. wanna give it a try….? No contest. Not tied up like this. Legs splayed.

It had been there stuck at the mast when the penny had dropped. Before the cruel rays of the sun fried his brains out completely. Before dehydration broke down his powerful body and turned a muscular hunk into a mere husk trapped gripping the mast. A day under the broiling sun, shamed before the crew and prisoners. Hugging the mast like some long-lost friend. As the other slaves were forced to pull on their oars. Hauling on the tools of their own torture. Before their eyes, the hated monster with his backside raped. Universally despised, the very mention of his name making you shudder with disgust. Brought down to


size. His backside plugged with a whip. No one felt a whimper of sympathy. This shaming - rightly done. Didn’t matter that one day they too would know the mast. They wouldn’t get what he was getting. This monster there with a whip stuck up his arse deserved all he was getting - and more. With any luck, at sundown today the captain would have him flayed alive.

And still Garth still had no idea why.That was when the penny had dropped. When he had time to think … while his brain still had the capacity to think … he saw the light, so far he had got it all wrong. Thinking someone had taken over his body. This man who could only arouse looks of disgust. No such thing. The other way round. HE had entered this guy’s torso. That was why they saw what they did. The physique hugging this mast was not his tall blond sleek hunk. He had looked down at himself, naked, hauling on the oars - his eyes had seen what he expected. His brain had computed what it expected to see.But when his neighbour threw him a sideways glance, his lips curled into a snarl of disgust. Someone else was sitting next to him. Not some time-traveller from planet Earth. A monster they collectively loathed WAS at the oars. That object of hate was a prisoner among them. Condemned to a lifetime as galley-slave for the crimes he had done. Someone else’s body. Some brute, murderer, killer - whatever …. But it was Garth’s personality that was filling that body out. Garth’s personality had fused with an object of widespread hate. He was trapped inside some monster’s body.But STILL he was no closer to knowing what his alter-ego had done.

Garth had got dowsed with his sweat. Sweating in his efforts to fight back. Trying to stop the bastards. RAPE! He had tried to resist. At the very least he had made it hard for them. But legs splayed wide like this … together with the pain of a persistent fist hammering into his spine …..they had raped his arse with the whip-handle. And like that he had sweated out his embarrassment for a broiling tortured day.That discomfort of his back-passage being jammed-packed infuriated him. The heat of the sun sucked the strength out of him. Hugging the mast. Unable to move. Dehydrating. Upper body clamped to the mast. The rays of the sun gnawing like rats’ teeth at his skin. Legs trapped. His backside violated. Lorded over by a sneering captain’s whip.

“No one said anything about not raping the fucker ….” Those were the last mocking words Garth had heard from the captain. His hand had flicked at the handle sticking out. To make his prisoner hiss out. Enjoying the reaction, doing it again. A sadist having his fun. Dignity violated. As much as Garth’s arse.Hours trapped in one position all day. Burning up, his body temperature


soaring as sweat drained his body of liquid. Losing salts. Periodically the cramps had set in. In different places. Gnawing away at him, dragging him out of his semi-conscious state. Cruelly dragging him back to awareness. Biting cramps in his arms, painful spasms gnawing away at his bent thighs. No amount of struggling could manage to stretch a single muscle, trapped like this hugging the mast. Impossible to move. Moaning to himself as the cramps threatened to weaken his resolve. Making himself get a grip. Forcing himself to ride out these waves of agony till the spasms passed.

A stinging rap across his shoulders brought Garth back. He’d been under, swirling deep in a heat-induced hallucination. Shock of unwarned pain now spluttered out of his mouth. Pain and exhaustion blurring his eyesight. But sensing trouble had returned. Smelling-out trouble before he could see it. Now after hours, suffering under a pitiless sun, the captain was back. Garth could smell him, the predator on the prowl. And just for what he had done to Garth, for the shameful abuse of his backside, the sound of his voice alone could awaken rabid hatred in Garth’s guts.“What they want …… a back intact …..”

The words made no sense to Garth. But the pain did. Forty strokes of the belt. The captain’s own thick leather belt.On top of everything else …. The heat, the shame …. No cutting whip. A broad strap of leather slamming into a sun-scorched back. Bludgeoning muscle. But no cuts to the skin. A back intact ….The captain had laid on himself. The other slaves looking on. End of the day, resting at their oars, on their painful seats Time for the punishment game … the sun setting … end of the day, what they expected to see …. A slave at the mast … getting his forty lashes. Today delivered by the captain himself.

But today it was different. No ordinary prisoner roped to the mast. Today’s victim aroused no sympathy. Forty strokes of the belt. Laid on with all the captain’s brawny strength. It was only exhaustion that stopped the prisoners from cheering with every stroke. Today not using the whip. Beating the cries out of the victim with the captain’s own belt. A thick sweated-encrusted monster. Tearing into the back of the prisoner. The victim they knew to hate.

His cries proved he was no better than them, this evil monster. Just like all the rest of them. Human flesh, tortured muscle. No demon or fiend. A man taking a belting - and no one wanted it to stop. The first few thwacks of thick leather into sunburned flesh had him crying out. For all his evil, for all his devilish powers, - no holding that back. Some smirked, - pleased they could witness this themselves.Not a wisp of sympathy was felt for his cries. Shouts of pain beaten out of him. This animal. This abhorrent beast. They craved his pain, they urged another lash to tear cries out of his evil back. Brutally beaten before their


eyes. Beaten like a dog. Not brutal enough for them. Beaten for the repulsive brute he was. Deserving every stinging burst of pain torn out of his broad back. Applauding in their blood as his torso was hammered into the mast. Hammered by pain, pounded by their hate. Rejoicing at his cries bursting up at the skies.


16. The welcome

A job well done.“Give my love to your fans.”The captain winked at his difficult prisoner. Delivery completed. He could already hear the chink of cash. Made for life.Garth had scarcely had chance to react. The captain’s leering greeting was followed by a hard slap across the back of his head. Then the captain shoved Garth over to his fresh guards.

They had come for him, troops. The ship had hit land. The high gunwales prevented sight but as they hauled on their torture-oars Garth had spotted higher ground. Land rising to one side. Then the bustle and orders as the boat was manoeuvred into the quay. Again the overseer had taken up his favourite post, right behind Garth and he struck out at his bruised back to underscore his orders as the boat was edged towards land. After being done-over with the strap at the mast, work at the oars had been hell. No allowances, the harshest of regimes. Next day his broken back was put to work. It was agonisingly inflamed. Left at the mast for the night. After spending a night immobile, his flesh was bruised and fiery red. Bruises had tensed up. Jostled back to his bench, every haul on the oar had been torture. Every pore in his back cried put with every pull. And still the overseer positioned himself behind. And used his cane to coerce the slaves to put their back into it. Drumming out the message on Garth’s damaged muscle. For days now. It had been hell.

Land. Was this some chink of hope? Some opportunity. The merest glimmer of a chance of escape? By the way they had singled him out …. Judging by the hatred that seemed focused on him every second of the day …. Garth suspected that there’d be little let-up in this vigilance. They were gonna keep an eye on him. But land was better than being miles out at sea. A chance was a chance, you just had to spot it. And grab it. It was up to him to be ready.

After all the shouting and bustling, it seemed the boat was at rest. Ropes had been thrown over, ship tied up. Docked in some port. Despite knowing he had to be vigilant for every single slightest chance, Garth slumped like all the others over the oars. Five days they had been at sea. Five days the boat had been driven only by slave-power. There was a collective relief that the hard labour for now was done.Garth had had it worse than most these past two days. His body on fire from his beating. Yet still forced for endless hours a day to haul on the oars, every pull slicing agony through the bruised muscles of his back.


The arrival of newcomers on the boat instantly caught his attention, it woke him up from his dozing. A warning to be on his guard. Crucial - judging from the way the newcomer had shot his eyes over the sordid lines of galley-slaves. And the finger the ship’s captain had pointed straight at him. Garth was suddenly caught in the spotlight. Like some rabbit trapped in a car’s headlights. The newcomer homed in on Garth. He had come for Garth. Garth and no one else.

Tall, well-built, in military-like uniform. Laser-beam vision straight into Garth’s face. Garth knew better than to flinch. He eyed this sucker back. He felt his backbone stiffen, shoulders back, his torso rose to show his attitude under the scrutiny. He was acting to-form. Instinctively. Not going to let some newcomer psych him out. Bugger that!Those arms sticking out of the sleeveless tunic …. He could take care of himself. But - Garth indicated with returning his strong glare - so could Garth. A strong chin jutted back defiant. Bruised back or not, Garth didn’t take to being intimidated.


17. The newcomer

Garth saw this officer snarl something at the ship’s captain. The pecking order was not lost on Garth. Now the ship’s captain was some also-ran. First Foul-breath, then this captain. Was Garth moving up in the world? Or just into more shit?The captain had done his bit, now the military was taking over. Garth knew to re-direct his focus on these new guards, on this military-figure. Who had mounted the ship for one reason only. For Garth. Or rather, he had come for the bugger whose body Garth had merged with.

In response - saving face before his own crew - the captain snapped out an order. Somewhat nervous Garth saw his slave-overseer approach with an axe. Relieved when it was used just to smash apart his leg irons. Releasing Garth from the restraints that had kept him at his bench. Now what?“On ya fucking feet, dickhead.”The overseer’s tight grip in the scruff of Garth’s neck irritated. His temper flared. Like god-damned hell was he taking this anymore of this! But reason hit home fast, Garth let himself be dragged to his feet. There were bigger fish to fry, best get a feel for these new suckers. His size and bearing showed he was rising above some scum. His anger was transformed into a sneer. Looking down at the overseer now he was not chained down to the bench. Sensing the man hesitate. Letting go Garth’s neck when the prisoner’s powerful shoulders shook off this grip. Saving face by a gesture with his head. Telling him to move his ass. Garth did. But only after reducing the overseer to size with a glare. Walking with his broken leg irons clunking towards the soldier. And off this ship.He’d soon be gone, it seemed. No way could that whipmaster get back at him for putting him down. In minutes the overseer would have been some bit-player in Garth’s past. And that rape-lover …. that piss-artist of a captain, - soon be gone too. This newcomer, this soldier with the laser beam vision. That was where Garth’s future problems lay.

“Clothing,” the military newcomer snapped. “Can’t have him going about like that …..”As if anticipated, another overseer came forward. Meekly Garth let him tie some kind of covering around his waist. When finished, he looked down. A bit of rag on his front, covering his genitals, just. And behind, another scrap of cloth barely covered his crack. Looking down at the sides, Garth might just as well have been naked. Hardly some gesture towards decency. But better than Garth had known these last five days of torture at the oars. Were things looking up?Hardly.


Without any orders from that soldier - as if this was all pre-planned - Garth’s overseer found some courage, he grabbed hold of an arm. Yanked it behind. Garth let it happen, a half-dozen soldiers stood nearby. He indulged cord being looped around his wrist. The other wrist was crossed over. Again more yanking and tugging as the cord was bound around Garth’s crossed-over wrists. The overseer getting his own back, a little bit, an insignificant little bit as far as Garth was concerned. He was getting off this ship. Several times the petty-minded overseer tugged. Garth winced lightly at the bite of thin cord deliberately knotted tight digging into thin flesh. Understandable they’d take special care of him. Garth was feared, hated, he was wanted. He was being tight bound, his arms behind his back, trussed-up for delivery. Gift-wrapped.They were taking no chances with him - whoever they thought he was.

Arms bound behind, some kind of minimal covering hiding his privates, Garth had been barged forwards. The split leg chains dragged eerily over the ship’ deck, clanking as he shuffled forward. Leering, the ship’s captain, Garth’s former nemesis, took him. Grabbed Garth by the hair in the back of his neck.

Smirking into Garth’s face. Shaking his head by the scalp.“Give your public a big kiss from me …”A fond farewell. Garth’s glower returned the favour. Garth was leaving the ship, good riddance. Life was taking some other direction. Bye-bye, cap. Been great knowing you.

As if reading Garth’s sarcastic mind, the captain gripped tighter on his prisoner’s neck. He hammered his fist deep into Garth’s gut. Quickly bending Garth up, the captain knee-kicked his sense of superiority into Garth’s abs.“Say hello to your admirers from me.”A fist hammered into the back of Garth’s bent neck. He was shoved aside. Falling into his new guards.“Give ‘ em my love ….”


18. Puppet

Your admirers? The captain’s words flashed through Garth’s mind as he careened across the deck into the guards. The sounds of scraping leg chains rattled as he fell clumsily against the soldiers. What the hell did that ship’s captain mean?Your public? The frown of confusion was wiped off his face as angrily he turned back to face the captain who had shoved him into these soldiers. Catching the captain grinning at him. Blowing him a mock kiss. His dirty fingers waggling in an idiotic wave of goodbye. Garth felt so incensed at that slap across the back of his head, all his instincts were to go for the sucker.Then suddenly he was grabbed by the scruff of the neck. Bent up double. A hammer blow thudded into his backbone. Then roughly a soldier shoved Garth round, a boot caught him in the backside and sent him sprawling across the deck.

Raising his head off the deck, Garth saw the legs of the captain who had brought these soldiers on board. Brought them to get him. Already hands were awkwardly yanking Garth upright. Soldiers gripped him tight by the biceps, his wrists tied useless behind. Into Garth’s face bored the stern eyes of the military man. Emotionless. No anger, no hate. Empty, a soldier doing his job. He had his orders, he’d carry them out. If Garth made it hard for him, this soldier looked like the kind who’d insist.With a nod, as if approving the goods received, the captain tossed something towards the captain. Garth watched it fly through the air. The captain caught the bag, it chinked as he grabbed it. Cash-on-delivery. Payment for goods received. With a taunting smirk, the captain blew Garth a mock kiss. Thanks for earning the captain a fortune.What had the bastard said, Garth hugging the mast in his restraints? Left to him, the captain would do all kinds of things to Garth. But he had his orders. “Deliver you up … in one piece …. I’m made for life ….” No wonder the sucker looked content. At Garth’s expense.

Suddenly the grip on his neck tightened. Garth was being steered over to the side of the ship. To the gangplank where the rest of the soldiers stood lined-up. His welcome committee. The broken leg irons scraping ominously on the wooden deck as he stumbled across.A big bugger blocked his way. A head above Garth. A chest on him that looked like borrowed from an ox. And arms sticking out of his tunic that would make most men’s thighs look puny. Instinctively Garth’s gut reactions sized him up as he was being delivered to this wall of a monster blocking his way.

He made to pull away as the brute lunged some kind of tool at him. But the grip on his neck had anticipated his move. Something passed over his head.


It felt metallic as it settled around his neck. Then it tightened as some force yanked Garth forward. Towards the brute. Then almost in the same move something hard jabbed into his throat.Like a puppet on a string. Garth was trapped in this contraption around his neck. Some kind of metal coil, like a noose around his neck. The coil passed through a pole, through the inside. When the brute pulled on his end of the coil, the pole jabbed hard into Garth’s throat. Digging against his Adam’s apple.

A dog-catcher’s noose. What they used to snare dogs gone wild. Kept at arm’s length, a snarling rabid wild animal. The symbolism could not have been clearer. Garth’s first reaction was he was choking. The coil tight around the back of his neck yanking him forward, jamming his windpipe into the pole, pressed forward by the noose in his neck, digging hard into his throat. But then the tension lessened, minisculely. Not so squeezingly tight. But the sucker could do with Garth as he wanted. Hands tied behind his back. This noose-contraption around his neck. The sucker only had to pull, Garth had no option but to follow. Garth gave him a hard time, the brute only needed to tug on the coil. Throttling Garth. As if to prove his power, the brawny sucker gave a tug. The bastard yanked. Garth followed. Dragged by the neck off the boat. The rabid dog caught in the dog-catcher’s noose.


19. The fans

“Give my love to your fans …”Was that how the captain had put it?“Say hello to your admirers …”Garth hadn’t understood.

They’d turned out.“There he is ….”Turned out in their hundreds to greet him. A roar broke from the quay.“Kill the bastard ….”Like a giant wave that pounded onto the shore. A thunderous crash of surf.“Hanging’s too good for him ….”In an instant Garth met his fans.

Garth understood. The instant his minder dragged him by the neck over the gunwale and onto the gangplank down onto land, he saw. His welcome committee. The quayside was crowded. Buzzing like a bees’ hive. Droning like a disturbed hornets’ nest. Seeing him hauled like a slavering beast off the ship, jeers rose off the quay. Boos and shouts. Rising like a wall of hate. There must have been hundreds to greet his arrival. Bawling and yelling abuse. Fists raised in anger. At seeing him. At greeting the monster being dragged like a wild animal down to the quay. Dragged by the neck like a mad dog into their midst.

Garth saw them, a mob. Seething, yelling. He saw that they saw an object of hate. Being dragged near-naked, delivered to them. Hatred lit up the air. Looking down, he saw himself. The tall blond giant. A total stranger in these parts. But THEY saw something else. They saw a brute. They recognised a monster. Hatred for him lit up the air. Hanging was too good for him.But what did they see? Who did they see? They saw someone else.

Rows of soldiers worked to hold them back. Holding spears out to the side, each soldier gripping his neighbour’s shaft. Forming a wall, pushing the mob back. Struggling with the rabble’s mutinous force. Pressing forward, shaking their fists. Bursting to get their hand son the murderous dog.The cries of abuse were so loud the press of the mob was so strong …. the hatred in the air so powerful - Garth sensed his heart-rate lift. If they broke through the protective wall of soldiers … he’d be lynched.What did they see?

The captain of the guard could not admit it to others. He dared not show it. But this task had him nervous. A horse was waiting for him. He’d mounted to move the prisoner out. But his attention had been on the press of the yelling mob. From his sear, looking down, looking to the world imperious on his


steed, - but he felt a shiver of foreboding. Here on the quay was an unstoppable outburst of hatred. Aimed at the prisoner, his prisoner. Whom he was tasked to deliver to the High Council. But in-between was a deafening inferno of rage. The whole of the town, it seemed, had rushed out. The docks were crowded, the streets down to the quay pulsed with anger and fear. Fear and hate. This was a lynch-mob. It had only one thing in mind. The wall of soldiers he had ordered seemed feeble against such force. Even with the reinforcements he had brought, he could never hold them back. If something blew. His men helpless. Against all that hate. He was jumpy. All it would take was a single spark ….

“Move this cocksucker out ….”Later Garth realised that was the first time this captain had expressed any strength of emotion. Maybe he too had got caught up in the violence of the mood on the quay. Right now Garth was overwhelmed by surprise. Confused. Not a little nervous. Just taking in the size of the crowd turned out, to greet him. Anxiously sensing the strength of their feelings. Directed at him. Not anger, rage. Murderous hate. He had got bad looks since arriving in this dimension. He had got the cold shoulder from the other slaves. The crew had taken their feelings out on his bare back. The captain thought his crimes justified rape. And a murderous beating with that belt.But this … this was mob-rule. Worse than what he’d known so far … by a hundred times. If these snarling wild dogs broke loose ……

Suddenly his head took a vicious yank. The monstrous brute on the other end of his noose tugged so hard, it bent Garth in half. Bent forward. Wincing at the pain as metal coil dug into the scruff off his neck. The dog-catcher’s neck-noose was yanked downwards. Bending Garth in half from the waist. Snorting at the pain as the pole was dug hard into his throat. Gouging away at his voice-box. The angle of the pole forced his head up. Painfully cricking the back of his neck as his torso was bent forward. And yanked forward, making him move. The broken leg chains rattling behind. An ominous chinking to underscore the seething jeers from the crowd. Crowd? Mob. Rabble, more like.

Snot snorted out of his nose. A pained gurgle escaped his throat at the yank. An eye watered. He jerked at a smarting pain that burst at the tops of his legs. An encouraging lash of the cane. Under the stinging burn he stumbled forward. The dog-catcher complemented his move, yanking on the snare, the coil cutting into the back of his neck. Garth was on the move. A mad dog in the dog-catcher’s noose. Another stinging burn lashed across his bare backside. Bent-up double like this, yanked forward by the neck, Garth realised that meagre covering had ridden up, his backside was exposed. The least of his worries. Someone behind was swiping away at this bare arse. To the cheers of the jeering crowd. Playing to the mob. Cries of abuse increased as others hailed


this caning of his bare arse. Dragged away. Like some rabid beast too dangerous to touch. His heart pounding. Dragged into the heart of a lynch-mob. Out for his blood. Yells of approval as his bare arse took the heat. Seeing him beaten only fuelling their cries. Pouring fuel on this raging bloodlust. His back shuddered under another biting sting. As he was yanked helpless into the midst of a seething mob.


20. MobIt probably wasn’t a long walk. Maybe only a few hundred yards. But his journey to this torture frame seemed endless. Endlessly long. Continuously menacing. Walking through an inferno of hate. Yells of abuse surrounded him. Threats thrown into the air rained down on his bent back. Garth wondered for his life. Whether he’d make it. Head forced up while bent double. Hearing the torrents of abuse. Seeing the faces twisted in revulsion. Worrying that the soldiers struggled to clear a path through the rabid mob. It was frightening, worse than the jeering as his chain-gang had been marched shuffling to the galley ship. MUCH. Hundreds of them. They wanted only one thing. His blood. Fury burning in every eye. They could easily break free, it would take nothing. The soldiers guarding him would not stand a chance. They’d trample d him to death. Crushed under this mob of boiling rage.

Garth was being dragged by the neck, it hurt. The metal coil sliced into the back of his neck. The pole in front was dig chokingly tight into his throat. And the noose kept his head up. To see the hatred. But such pain was the least of his problems. His heart pounded at this raging torrent of menace. He trembled at the storm of rage that he was stumbled through. A narrow tunnel of life slowly punched by his guards through a firestorm of hated and rage. Knowing with every laboured step he took that the protective wall around him could be breached at any moment. All it took … only a tiny breach. One incensed man from this mob breaking through. And the protective dam would break. The seething mass would break through.

Oddly, perversely, the very security of his life rested in the hands of these soldiers who were sent to bring him to bring him. To bring him to justice. To imprisonment . Or worse.Slowly the soldiers fractured a way through the torrent of abuse. Breaking out into a square. Houses all around. The jarring sounds of loathing echoed off the walls. Echoes of abuse bouncing in the air. Jostling and barging with the hate-filled boos. Yelling for his blood. Even more harbingers of loathing had gathered here. Like they knew. Like it had been announced. The monster that had taken Garth over - it had been broadcast that the beast would be brought here. Brought to them. And they had come to rip it to shreds. They had rushed here in their hundreds. The square seething. Yelling hatred. Snarling wild beasts - come to fight over a helpless prey.

“Say hello to your public for me ….”That had been the captain’s mock-greeting. Sarcastic sneers. Garth’s fans.Here they were. If Garth had taken to heart the good captain’s advice, no one would have heard a god-damned word. Saying hello, no one wanted to know. The air rang with anger. Clanging jeers. Wanting to take a hammer to his body and smash it to broken pieces. Foul abuse from all sides thickened


the air. Obscene threats of what they’d do to him, given the chance. Garth was being dragged helpless by the neck through a surge of threatening hatred. The abhorrence for him pressed back in a rage against the soldiers trying to clear a path. Garth’s alter ego was certainly some object of total odium. The situation was frightening. If they broke through, they’d lynch him. Or kick him to death. Or worse ….The shouts of loathing echoed off the buildings as his guards pressed back against the seething throng. Jerked by the dog-catcher’s noose, hands tied behind. Goat dragged to the slaughter. Sometimes forced to a halt while the guards beat a path through the seething mass. Stood still somehow even more dangerous. Men around him objecting to the guards blows, men wanting to beat the fucker to death. Some cheers bursting out in acclaim when a stinging cane burst across his bare backside. Cheers from those who could see saw Garth’s wince of pain. Saw his back jerk under the smarting burn. Pain, suffering. They wanted the monster’s pain.

In an instant Garth recognised the sight. He’d been in enough tight corners in this Time-and-Space vortex to recognise a torture frame. Stood in the middle of the square. And helpless against the might of his brawny dog-catcher, Garth was being yanked over there.Stood in the middle of some square. Surrounded by this sea of raging fire. Heart pounding, eyes disbelieving. Brief relief when the pressure on his throat from the noose was gone. Not-too-carefully, the metal-coil in the scruff of his neck had been scraped off the back of his head. No one cared. The soldiers were nervous too.Stood under some torture frame. Surrounded by the jeering mob. Fists raised. Curses rained into the air. Still he was not safe. Hands tied useless behind his back. In the middle of some town square. Surrounded by a seething noisy mob. Protected against them by a thin line of soldiers who’d also happily see him dead. More than dead, butchered.Garth’s prospects had been better.

“People!”The captain tried his best, Seated on his stallion. Shouting into the mob’s rabid fury.“People!” His arm raised trying to get some attention. Trying against a deluge of abuse to speak. Trying to pass on his orders, Do as bid. Orders from his high command.

Meanwhile, positioned under the punishment frame, his guards had changed roles. From breaking through the crowd, they set about fitting up their prisoner. Positioning him for the punishment due. To given the people what they wanted. Lusted for.Grabbing Garth’s ankles, pulling his legs wide. The soldiers gripping tight on Garth’s arms stopping him from unbalancing. Preparing him to face his admirers. To placate their fury. Stood for them under a torture frame.


21. Offering

Surprisingly Garth found himself not resisting. He did not fight back. He made no attempt to escape. Where could he go? Oddly these soldiers trussing him up under a torture frame, - they were his protection from the mob. In his agitated state, in face of this seething rabble craving his blood, Garth saw himself with two choices.To be summarily executed. Maybe here beaten to death. Or be thrown to the dogs.

Guards had grabbed hold of his ankles and roughly spread his legs wide. Only the tight grip on his arms stopped him from tipping over. And another pair of soldiers were approaching from the front. Holding between them a long wooden joist, the thickness of a man ‘s leg. Set out tying his ankles to it. Keeping his legs splayed out wide.What was keeping Garth submissive was the sight beyond the captain on his horse. And whether he could be effective. Still seated there, a muscular arm raised, demanding the rabble to quieten down. Trying to calm these seething flames. The man was his security against this mob. On his words Garth’s life was going to depend.“People!”Again he called out, again he was met by words of advice.“Kill him!”“Whatcha waiting for?”“Stone the fucker.”

Garth could see beyond the captain’s horse that the guards had spread themselves out. To him they seemed to have re-doubled their determination. As if they too feared a break-out. Not very re-assuring. Backs bent broader, the wall of defence strengthening. Anxious things might break loose any moment. Facing out towards the threatening crowd, visibly struggling to hold the mob back. Their spears held out sideways, grabbed by the next soldier in line. Forcibly pressing the rabble back. Garth’s thin line of defence.“Hanging’s too good ….”It was a fragile line protecting Garth from a seething lynch-mob. It would take only the slightest flip for the balance to tip. Take nothing for the mob to surge forward. Easy as hell to break through that protective wall. He’d be lynched. Trampled to death. Have the life kicked out of him by a pack of snarling rabid dogs.

“You ain’t got the guts … we’ll do him for ya ..”What held Garth back from resisting these soldiers was the realisation that these men binding him into a punishment frame were his best protection. His one chance to stay alive. And if the mob saw him make any attempt at escaping …. if it looked like he


might even just dare to fight himself free from his guards …. it was damned obvious what this seething rabble would do. He himself would have flicked the switch.

Wary of the volatile mood in this market square, feeling cagey as calls for his violent death continuously echoed off the walls, Garth found himself letting himself be bound. Ironic. Expecting full-well to be murdered here. Not beheaded. Not hanged. Under this frame, tortured to death. To the cheers of the shrieking mob. Yet he was trapped. His only alternative - to throw himself on the mercy of the mob.His hands were still tied behind, guards had him tight by the biceps. Crazy. He was going along with his own execution. He wasn’t about to run off into that mob. Knowing whatever tortures these soldiers had in mind for his death, the mob would be worse.He felt strong rope looping around his ankles binding with unbreakable bonds a thin tree-trunk to the front of his legs. Stood with his legs spread extra-wide. Warily watching the mood of the mob. Calling for him to be stoned to death.“Give it to him.”“We want him done now.”

Garth looked to the soldier on his horse. His arm still raised. In that gesture was an authority greater than that vested in a soldier on a horse. Some of the rabble were settling down in response to his raised hand. Feeling the weight of authority behind his stature. But still cat-calls cried out.“Let’s go get him?”“Yeah, let’s take him.”The soldier did not flinch. Like he knew they would not dare. But Garth did not feel so sure. “People!”It was as if the soldier had grown taller, it seemed like his authority had taken on a greater height. Voices in the crowd started shushing. Telling the rabble-rousers to quieten down.

As if on signal, as if the captain had been waiting for that gesture, the captain clenched his upraised hand into a fist. A demonstration of his military power. Of the might that ruled over this land.“The Council has heard …..”More shushing around the crowd. Others jeered at the mention of the Council. A few anonymous curses called out. Some murmurs in assent. Not too willing to hear what the Council had to say.“They know your anger ….,” the captain’s voice from his mount bounced off the walls. Filling the market square. As if invested with some higher might.But still some did not want to know, A few more cries from the assembled crowd. “Fuck the Council!”


But more shushed the rabble-rousers. Feeling a bit mollified. Hearing their anger was being recognised.“Your understandable anger ….”

Garth’s attention was suddenly diverted. He felt momentary relief that the mob was being stilled. But out of the corner of his eye, movement at one of the uprights to this punishment frame ….. A pair of soldiers …. Loosening a rope. Garth caught movement - above his head another beam, like the one at his ankles, was being lowered. A thin tree-trunk jerkily lowered to down him. On a rope, another joist stopped just above his head. “Anger at what this prisoner has done …..” The captain was just managing to keep the rabble under control. Like Garth, they were watching as the punishment frame was being set-up.

Not risking provoking, not giving the rabble-rousers any excuse to get the mob excited again Garth had to indulge the soldiers. A wrong move on his part …. They’d be howling for blood again. His hands were released from the cord on his wrists, arms raised, spread wide. His wrists tied with strong rope to the branch dangling off the frame’s top-beam.

“His sentence is to be passed.”Single shouts from the crowd.“NO! He’s as guilty as hell ….”“No trial. Kill him.”“Finish him off.”“Stone him.”

The soldier’s clenched fist opened. The flat of his palm demanding attention.“No trial,” he agreed. “His actions have spoken for themselves ….”Shouts of agreement bounced off the walls. Everyone knew what Garth’s alter ego had done. Only he was in the dark. But for this rabble, clearly he was as guilty as hell. They wanted him gone.“His fate is sealed,” the captain promised. “He has condemned himself ….”

“Too right.”Garth looked from the soldier to the crowd. For now stilled. Just. Him in the middle of the market square, tied under a punishment frame, legs splayed out wide, arms wide-spread. Clad in only skimpiest of rags, stood in a helpless human X. With just one soldier on a horse keeping him from the mob’s violence.

“The Council will pronounce his fate. Declare the manner of his execution.”“Butcher him. He butchered others …”“Death’s too easy ….”These voices now rang out as isolated threats. The rabble were listening.“Today. Sentenced today,” the captain assured them.Assured? But how much would it take for the spark to fly, he wondered to


himself?“The Council has heard your anger. It appreciates your demands ….”

Garth saw the soldier cast a glance back at him. The first look in a long time. An indication that he now thought he had the crowd in the palm of his raised hand.

“He is condemned. Today he will be sentenced by the Council.”Shouts of approval. “But first …..” the captain surveyed the crowd. Looking about him. Looking at some individuals in the crowd looking up at him. As if his words were for each-and-every-one of them.Then assured that he had their attention, his eyes lasered-in on Garth. Spread-eagled under the frame. The mob’s sacrifice.“But first, the Council offers you his pain.”


22. Mob sacrifice

The tugging on the rope had left him with his feet about a foot up in the air. Already the movement had got him rocking and swaying, this whole contraption dangling off a single rope creaking over the frame’s top beam. Arms stretched out-wide, Garth was already feeling the pull in his armpits. The strain building down the length of his sides. Bloody-minded pride determined he’d show these bastards. Was going to put on a good show. He didn’t give a shit who his alter-ego was. Someone’s body had collided with his being. And because of that, Garth was taking a whipping. What the hell this bloke was supposed to have done, it was Garth gonna be getting it. This was himself being put to the test. He was going to give the best of himself. He owed that to himself. Whatever this captain had in mind for him … it was not going to be some tea-party. Not with these snarling mad-dogs demanding blood. That soldier on his horse was duty-bound to give this blood-crazed mob what they were howling for. Or they’d give it him too. But like hell was Garth going to whimper. He was going to show the man he was. His sense of what he was demanded that. At the very least.

“The Council offers you his pain ….”Garth was gritting his teeth. Into the growing strain. Steeling his resolve in anticipation of what was coming down the line.“Twenty lashes …,” the captain proudly announced.“WHAT ….?”The astonishment in the crowd was palpable.“Fucking joking, ain’t ya ….?”Murmurs of protest hit back. Disappointed. Let-down.“Not enough …”Irate voices burst from the crowd.“Twenty - a fucking joke …”Fists were raised. The mood got darker.“Flay the fucker alive …”

Garth had already spotted him advancing. The massive brick-shithouse that had dragged him of the boat. Snaring that noose around his neck and yanking him all the way here. The brute had stripped to the waist, in anticipation. All brawn, all heavyweight muscle on the guy. Not gonna be a tea-party at all ….“Call that a whip?” A voice mocked from the crowd.Dangling from the brute’s hand, Garth spotted some heavy-duty cane. Encased in menacing braided leather, being swished ominous from the ogre’s huge hand. To show the crowd what it could do the cane was being swished, it cut hissing at the air. Springy. Supple, flexible. Built to sting. The brute himself was built to unleash some brutish force. Twenty of those. From a


brute built like that.“Whip? You’re having a laugh, ain’t ya …..?”

The captain heard voices in the crowd hush the joker. It was about to start, some in the mob wanted to concentrate. Didn’t want to miss a thing, not miss a single sound. It wasn’t a whip. He didn’t dare use a whip. Or damage the prisoner. That was not his job. The Council had booked that pleasure for themselves, they would decide on that.

Suddenly Garth heard a rush of air. A sound like a gathering storm. Confusion in Garth’s head. The sky overhead was cloudless, a harsh sun burning down. In the last second he realised the sound was behind. Surprise yanked a cry out of him. Pain tore at his throat and burst free. Smarting burns slathered across his back. They had shown the mob what that cane could do.“Twenty front, twenty back,” the captain declared.But the crowd was already yelling out its approval. Bursting out at the first cry of pain from the hated prisoner. THIS was what they had come to see.


23. Bloodlust

When Garth’s feet touched the ground, he did not notice. When the strain on his shoulders eased, nothing registered in his brain. He was exhausted. When the jerking pains in his armpits had stopped, when his suspended body was no longer twisting and jolting from the brutal lashings - Garth was not aware. He knew only the inferno roaring in his head. He trembled, his body burst in sudden shudders. Flames torching his torso - from agonised shoulders to the fires scorching his backside.Shattered. He’d not eaten since the previous night. Barely a sip of water had passed his lips since the slaves had been lashed into their efforts as the galley had neared land. Lived on his nerves since putting a foot on-shore. Expecting any moment to be lynched. Looking about himself, deluged by the hatred he aroused in the mob. A seething rabble scarcely held back by a thin line of guards.

Then suspended. Near-naked, raised up, on display for the screaming crowd to howl at. See him brutally beaten. Lashed with unmitigated force. Getting them cheering. The mob had been offered his suffering. They were to be fed it in pitiless volumes. Getting them foaming at the mouth. To feed their bloodlust for this criminal. In the hope of holding down their mutinous mood, they were thrown his cries. Brutishly beaten out of him. He didn’t cry out, he got it even harder. Feeding the blood-crazed horde. His pain thrown to the dogs. Viciously bounced off the walls. Pounding the air with his shouts as brute force struggled to pacify a baying mob.

Edgily the captain of the guard risked a glance back at the prisoner. But his concern was for this mob. Still rumbling like a volcano about to blow. He’d given that what they wanted. He’d given them more than he’d said. But they’d tasted blood. There was no stopping them, it seemed. Insatiable.The dog’s broken body had been lowered back to the ground. His knees slumped under him. At the first whippings the dog had dared not cry out. For the first blows his face had shown that pitiless demeanour that had fired up his crimes. That same bloody-minded evil that had eventually brought him here. But his defiance only made the mob howl. Like wild animals. Snarling in fury at his arrogance. Baying like feral beasts calling to the moon. The rabble would not be placated by just a whipping, they demanded his pain. And now they wanted more.

Without needing to be told, his two whipmasters automatically had bent to the task. They knew their duty, they knew what the mob hankered for. They hated this bastard too. The two biggest of his men. Built like bulls. Built for force. They put their backs into it, they fed the mob, honoured to do the


business. Their heart was in it too, this beast was going to scream. They wanted it, the crowd demanded it. Give ‘em what they craved …. What they ALL wanted, people and soldiers alike.

They went for it, the beast dare defy, they moved in on the dog. Giving him their all, to smash his resistance to bits. Every bit of brute strength they could muster, the force of their lashings was going to break the back of his insolence. They’d feed this mob’s greed. Till the mob’s gluttony could take no more. A blow across his arse had sent his legs forward in a swing. Countered from the front by a thwack across his waist, bending him up. Cracking a cry out of his tortured throat. A lash cracked biting down his back, from shoulder to waist. Pain spinning him round. Jerking and swinging off the overhead rope. Pain jolting and stabbing in his armpits. Caught unawares by a lash into his side. Shocking him, spinning him round again. Into the pitiless bite of the cane from behind. Spinning. Jerking. Swinging. Yelling out. Shouts wrenched from his helpless torso. Cry, fucker, cry.

The mob howled. The air electrifying. Sadistic, the soldier behind gave the leg brace a kick. Sent the fucker swinging. Swinging forward straight into a smacker right across his waist. Pain threw his legs up. Gravity dropped his legs back down. Swinging back. Another hard kick forward. Got him swinging, got him rushing right into the path of body-crunching blows across his ribs. Stunning him from in-front.The crowd’s jeering burst. Voices laughed out. What they’d come to see …. Seeing him swinging. Rushing forward into a blinding hit. Pain bursting in a tortured twist of his body. His spurt of cries bursting like welcome rain over their heads.

Agony breaking from his mouth. Their faces lifted. Eyes a-glow. His cries making them yell out louder their cheers. Bawling with approval. Bawling for blood. Bathing their sweaty faces in showers of his rasping shouts. Bathing their anger in the agony of his cries. Their blood was up, the captain could see. They were eating their fill. Cheering in union at another tortured cry. Cheering his men on. In this together, people and soldiers. A crippling blow across his front, slicing pain out of him, burning him from shoulder to waist.More. They wanted more. Forty lashes. Who was counting? The mob wanted more.


24. Sundown

Nervously the captain of the guard eyed the crowd. They were getting restless again.“Finish the fucking job!”They’d tasted blood, they wanted more. They wanted to end it all - here and now. Out of nervousness he had given them more than promised. Or rather he’d not called a halt when his two men had reached the target. They had worked their butts off. That sucker dangling like meat after the hunt had stopped his insubordination son enough. His men hadn’t needed telling twice, they were up-for-it too. But there was be no satisfying this rabble’s lust. Their craving for revenge. Not after what this dog had done.“Not enough!”It would take nothing. Just a shove. Just a movement. Pushing one of his guards aside. There’d be no stopping them. Mob rule. Break out in the blink of an eye.

He’d already given them more than promised. When the count had stopped at forty, his men had taken a breather. Sweat had been running down their faces. A thick viscous coating of effort glistened off their bare torsos. But when the beatings stopped, the boos started. Not enough. The mob had their blood up. These canings had just got them going. And they weren’t in the mood to let it stop.With a nod, the captain told his men to continue. Willingly they put their backs into it again. Giving him to think. Work out a plan to get the prisoner back. A sting of pain slicked across the dog’s front. Body twisting off the overhead rope. Torso shaken like he was having a bad fit. A yelp of pain like treading on a dog’s paw. The dog was exhausted. Forty body-breaking blows. The last half he had not managed to hold back. The sheer force of the blows had beaten the cries out of him. He’d been worked into the ground rowing here. The captain had seen his back, the crew on the galley had put him through it all right. By the time these brick shit-houses had got in their twenty blows each, pain was twisting out of his every pore. Shouts clawed out of his guts.

But that had just got this rabble going. There probably wasn’t a floppy dick in this square. Their blood was up. This second round, the count was slower now. No need to break the sucker down, his men had done that. Every mind-crippling blow into his back sent a cry bouncing off the walls. Every stinging thwack into his belly had him spinning wildly under the frame. His sharp cry cutting at the air.But the captain couldn’t thrown the scum to the dogs. He couldn’t let them rip him to shreds. The High Council wanted that pleasure. His orders was to deliver the dog in one piece. Theirs was the right to finish him off. A mad dog. They wanted to pleasure of seeing the dog put-down.


But someone had miscalculated. This “little demonstration” in the square … this exercise in “calming the anger” in the streets …. pouring oil on water …. it had done just the opposite. They’d come out in force. The packs of wolves were circling. Howling for blood. The captain was walking a knife’s edge. Along the sharpest, finest-honed blade. One slip and …. Got to get out of this alive. Got to get the prisoner back. Or the Council would feed the captain his own balls.

Getting him down from the frame, - chancey. The mood got suddenly angrier. Like taking a dog’s bone away. It took some time to bundle the asshole ready to move him out. A dangerously long time. Already the protests were getting stronger. The raised fists more widespread.He risked a backwards glance. He’d had the escort party tightly form around the dog. Two of his men had the arm brace, held at shoulder height. The dog was done-for, he could not hold himself up. The other two guards in the escort awaited his command. The captain could see the dog’s body shuddering. Each breath he took trembled through his punished frame. Those powerful muscles of his straining shoulders unaccountably spasming. Broken by the ferocity of the beating.

“Let us at him.”The captain made himself not look nervous. He had his orders. He was to deliver the dog to the Council. But between the Council and his prisoner stood hundreds, snarling. Bursting to finish it off. Angry. Not placated by the whipping they had watched. Not “calmed”. Worked up by it. Foaming at the mouth.The captain had made it up, his plan. Thinking on his feet. No idea if this was going to work.

His arm raised above his head. Bidding the crowd to listen to his words. Listen to the authority invested in him. By the Council. But – truth was - what he had to say, no one had given him permission. He was making it all up.“Be here at sundown …..” he promised. “… for the sentencing …..”Quickly his head flashed back to the escort. He nodded. Ordering his men to move the prisoner out.“For this scum’s execution. The Council will declare …..”Heavens knew what they’d declare ….., he thought. But once he had this sucker back to the Council, it was no longer his problem.

From behind, a tortured cry sliced through the air. The captain did not need to turn and look. He knew what had happened. He was watching how the crowd would react. More important that the scum’s suffering was the reaction of the crowd. Voices broke the menacing silence. Cheers. Jeers. Laughing faces. The prisoner’s leg-brace had now been lifted too. The dog was now stretched out between the soldiers, two on the front beam, two on


the back. Dangling down in-between. The mob cheered, the captain had hoped they would. So far, so good. The soldiers holding the beams made themselves comfortable. Jiggling their burden about. Grinning at his sharp groans. Hearing cheers from the crowds. Cheering at the scumbag’s fresh suffering. The captain knew to capitalise on the diversion. He clicked his fingers, soldiers began to re-group. Creating a wedge. A wedge to force their way through the mob. Towards the palace, to the Council, to deliver the goods. To get rid of this problem.

“Don’t be late ….” The captain urged.“Sundown. HERE.”Relieved to see they were hanging on his words.“The dog will be brought back to the people. Condemned. Given back to you. For his sentence to be carried out.”

Tortured groans of a man at the end of his tether. Cries that for now were stilling the curious mob. Cheers went up with each outburst of pain. Laughter and jeers that still the scumbag’s suffering was not done. The captain gestured. His men started to move the prisoner out.


25. Parade

Garth had been out of it. The torment that flooded his body was mindless. Had he ever been so exhausted before? But right then such rational thoughts were beyond him. He was on fire. His head had been plunged into a lava stream. No thinking. No understanding. Just a body-crippling awareness of torture breaking like fire over him.

The captain saw from his horse the sea of faces, between him and the palace. Suddenly sensing a change of mood. Their rejoicing at the prisoner’s pain had been changing into a sense of loss. It was over. They were taking the monster away. But they’d craved more. Post-coital frustration.Damn-it, he’d given the dogs what they wanted. He’d fed their hunger. But they needed more. They’d tasted blood. More, still they needed to be fed, still ravenous. They’d had a taste. It had just made them hunger for more. Mob-rule, - things could flare up in the blinking of an eye. They could not get enough. They needed MORE.

Fearing an onset of the angry mood, he twisted around. To the soldiers bearing their burden on their shoulders he snapped out an order. He ordered the prisoner lifted. Shown. Displayed. He ordered him hoisted up. To be seen. Shown to the rabble.On a count of three, his guards obeyed. With grunts the four soldiers roughly shoved him up. With grunts of jerky effort they heaved him up, they hoisted their muscled burden up in the air. Straight-up. At arms’ length. Holding him up, showing him to the yelling crowd. It took an effort to hoist up him the air. The sonovabitch was heavy with muscle. Even more of a struggle to hold him there. Arms straight above their heads. Their object of hate shown dangling. Face-down, stretched out between the two beams. Hoisted high above the crowd. Cheers broke free. Cheers to welcome the sight of the monster strung out for them. Hearts lifted, seeing his broken body getting further torture. Displayed to greet their jeers. Cheers that lifted louder when his loud groan broke from the monster’s throat. Beaten and broken, strung-out for their cheers.Other soldiers rushed in the help. Jiggling their burden as they helped take the weight. Arms straight-up above their heads. Stretching him out. Grins among the guards quickly exchanged as they heard him cry. Staccato groans above their head that broke tortured from his throat.

Screams inside his head shattered Garth’s world. Agonies tore through his bones. Wrenched from a semi-consciousness into an inferno of torture. Cobwebs in his brain flushed out, crystal-clear. All fog shattered by a blistering light. A piercing voice. Garth’s, his own voice. Somewhere. Out there. Crying out. Crying out in harmony with his pain.


The captain kicked his horse onwards. Leading the escort. His men in front forcing a path through the mob. Towards the palace. To the Council. Driving a wedge through the crowd. The rabble now cheering. Cheering at the sight of the monster strung out for them to jeer. Strung out to suffer more. Held up so they could see his agony. Tortured as he passed. Welcoming the prisoner’s every cry. Some pressed close by the soldiers slapped them on the back. Applauding this torture of the scumbag. Laughing, smiling at the soldiers as they jeered back at his broken cries.

Behind him, the prisoner’s escort was bringing up the tortured scum. The captain did not have to turn to see. The cries from the crowd confirmed the scene. Pleased at this sight. Celebrating his every tortured cry. Jeering as his head lifted in agonies. Seeing his misery scratched over his hated face.Still trapped in the restraints, one wooden beam spreading his ankles, the other tied to each wrist, stretching out his limbs. Strung-out in-between. The captain heard another pained groan escape from behind. His escort had the scumbag aloft, his beams held at full arms’ length. Hoisted up high, his torture on-offer for the crowd to see. Back-bent, every joint under torture, every muscle racked. The captain was gratified hearing them cheer. Cheering this suffering, willingly opening up the way to mock the dog as he passed through their midst. In appreciation they moved aside to let the hated monster pass. To see him suffer. Passing close by them, hearing his pains. Hearts lifted, they cheered his agonies.

Carried by his escort, held up high, at arms’ height. Dangling down off his restraints, strung out under the beams. A piece of luck, an ingenious move. The captain had not expected this way of transporting him to arouse such delight. The crowd’s joy in his torture. In appreciation allowing the soldiers to pass. So his torture could go on and on, his pageant of horror. So they could see it close-up. Enjoy hearing his tortured groans backed by the shouts of their jeering friends. They could not see enough of him suffering. Applauding wildly as he passed. Dangling down between his two pairs of escorts. Face-down. Arms pulled back, feet dragged upwards. His lashed back twisted unnaturally back. Held up high for all to see and enjoy. His twisted body tortured with every uneven step. Every joint pulled against nature. Every muscle in his limbs straining the wrong way. Tortured right before their eyes as he passed. THIS was what they had come to see.

Groaning. Sharp broken cries that were wrenched from his lips. Calling out in pain as their own soldiers paraded him for their enjoyment. Groaning out loud when the agonies of his broken body became too much. His every cracked cry excited the crowd. Hearing him. Seeing him tortured. Cheering at his agonised groans. Jeering at the dog contorted by his bonds into this abnormal twist. The dog had committed crimes, hateful crimes, monstrous


deeds the Council had said. He was hated, he had put the fears of hell into them. Now he was getting what he deserved. His suffering was their every desire. They’d let him pass so they could see. Paraded in this mindless carnival of torture.

Relieved, the captain of the guard saw the crowd parting. Cheerfully greeting his escort, applauding this exhibition. Relishing the procession of agony as the monster was paraded for their sport. Parting to let this pageant pass. Still feeling nervous, though. Still anxious things could flip. In the blinking of an eye. But the monster’s agonies were the answer to punching a hole through the mob.The captain could not get his victim to the Council soon enough.


26. Safety of the palace

“Get the fuck up!”Yanked up by a tug in his hair. A deluge of water sloshed in his face. Totally exhausted, by pain, by this endless onslaught on his nervous system, Garth nearly toppled back over. But the grip in his hair tightened. Keeping him up on his knees. Followed by a crippling fist thudded into the back of his neck. Head in a whirl, Garth thought he’d pass out.

The grip in his scalp tugged, his head shaken from side to side. “Ya hear me, motherfucker? Stay up!”That thump into his shoulder could have sent Garth smashing back into the dirt. But another painful tug kept him there on his knees.

The slow shuffle from the market place had passed in a firestorm of agony. Starved of food and drink for hours, brutally whipped at the torture frame. Then held aloft, hanging off his beams, face-down. Every nano-second tore agonies out of his flesh. Every slow step through the jeering crowd dragged torture through his joints. The horrors of this attack on human suffering were monstrous. Out of himself, beyond himself, delirious with his pains. Beyond all control. Cries clawed out of him as he was walked through the cheering mob, walked agonisingly slowly as people shuffled apart for this torture-sacrifice to pass. Cheering at the sight of the monster being made to pay. Delirious that Garth was being brutally used. That the hated prisoner was still being made to suffer, pain dragged out of him. His every tortured cry was met with a burst of jeering. Hell, sheer hell.

Out of it, not knowing where he was, what was happening. Gone mad with suffering. Not aware they had brought him to the palace. Grunts of efforts around as his guards gritted their teeth at their efforts and carried him into the dusty hard-clay yard. With relief jerkily lowering him to their shoulders when the gates shut behind. Cursing the heavy burden they had borne. Glad to be rid of this brute now the crowd could not see.Unceremoniously dropping him in the dirt. Easing their aching shoulders, ignoring his burst of pained cries. Happy to drop the fucker. Unconcerned at the tortured cries as his front hit the hard-clay. Shit, the sonovabitch was heavy. Leaving him, down on his front in the dirt. Stretched out between the poles on his limbs. After all, fuck-head here was going nowhere fast.


Exhausted, his head in a swoon, Garth had been unable to move. Just lay stretched out in the dirt. A journey through hell. He had barely heard the bawling mob. The pains in his joints had shrieked louder in his ears. The agony in his beaten back had roared like a firestorm in his head. Pain had detonated throughout his body when they had dropped him. Flattened into the dirt. But it had not seemed like reprieve. An explosion that burst out in all his tortured body. Suddenly overwhelmed. Tortured nerves, tortured bones, tortured all - for a while Garth had blacked out.

“Move it, motherfucker.”Guards were hauling him up. None-too-patiently. Kicking boots into his side. Their curses encouraging the murderous shitbag up on all fours.“Get him up. Up on his knees.”The captain snapped out an order, the prisoner needed helping up. He seemed to hear nothing of the captain’s order. Seemingly not even aware that his men had him by the biceps, he was being roughly dragged up. Even the bucket of water in his face did little to bring him round. It took a fist slapped across the back of his head to get some reaction. But still his soldiers had to grab hold of him, the brute nearly collapsed. The captain nodded re-assured, this pile-of-dog-shit wouldn’t be going anywhere fast.

Relieved they had broken through the mob rule, knowing it had been touch-and-go, the captain felt significantly more at ease now they had got behind the barred gates of the palace. Locking the seething mob out. His duty done. The threat from the rabble removed, now he could feel again in-charge. He nodded. Ordering another bucketful of water to bring the dog-shit round.

Instinct made Garth search for liquid. His tongue slicked out. Licking at his arm, grabbing what he could off his shoulder muscle.“Let’s see your hands on your head.”Garth heard not a word of the captain’s command. The savagery of their whipping. His nerves racing in over-load from the brutality of their punishment frame. Facing a blood-crazed mob. Expecting any moment for his head to be kicked-in. The torture of being transported like that, his whiplashed back torched by the fires of hell - near-swooning still, Garth heard nothing the captain said. Barely a part of this world. Hardly in a state to worry if he was alive or dead.

The stinging burn across his back tore a cry out of a rasping throat. Eyes ripped open wide, mouth torn apart by an agonised cry. A fatally wounded animal at the end of its tether. A cane had lashed across the searing red-crimson welts already marking his broad shoulders. In a moment Garth was wrenched back to reality. Back to an awareness that was only pain.“Ya hear? Ya cocksucking bastard. Heads on ya head.”It took another blistering lashing with the cane across his back for Garth to come-to more.


Garth had heard the words like down some echoing tunnel. But the crippling burn across his back had got his attention.“Keep him like that. Hands on his head.”Garth was still on his knees, tiredness barely letting him stay up. Close-guarded. A commanding voice issuing orders. Around him, a sharp voice hovering around his head. Instructing the soldiers guarding him. The sun was rising he felt, the heat on his stinging back feeling intense. In all his travels, Garth had often got himself into problems. It seemed sometimes that trouble came and sought him out. Probably he’d been in worse situations. But the way he felt, the way his head kept swirling and exhaustion was rushing up and swatting him in the face - Garth couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember feeling worse than this was. Not right now.

“He much as flinches - give it to him.”The captain barked out his orders. When he returned accompanied by the Council to hand over his charge, he wanted it to look just right. The damned motherfucker who had kept them on the run for years. Sight of the turd on his knees. Visibly broken. Hands on his head. Looking submissive. Obviously done-in. First impressions counted. The captain had done his duty well. The Council finding the cocksucking evil turd looking like that - it couldn’t do his chances of promotion any harm.With a stern look at the guards, the captain turned on his heels. To give the Council their best news in years.


27. The Council

She eyed the scapegoat on his knees. They had done a good job, those bounty hunters, secretly hired to find the right candidate. Without doubt they had heard their fee. This dupe did look the part. Those dark brooding looks - had there been anyone in the square that had not believed they were jeering the right man? Those arms raised with hands on his head. Strong, biceps peaked hard, bulging - just what was needed to commit his kind of atrocity. Those glowering eyes - who had not believed a man with eyes like that could not eat a baby’s heart - raw? Incredible atrocities. Almost unbelievable. But tell a story often enough …. What the Council had not spread, the rumour-mongers had. These tales of his barbarism had kept the scum shivering in their beds for months. “Since we heard the good news of his capture, we have met three times to consider ….,” she said addressing the Council.

His head was all scrambled. Confused messages he could not make sense of. Out there was some droning going on. A different sound from the swirl of white noise filling Garth’s head. Only slowly was his addled brain catching on. Seemingly more pressing had been the sickening feeling in his belly threatening to erupt. The enormous strain in his raised arms, the monstrous weight of his hands crushing down on his head. Now something new. A droning, a humming sound that had not been there before. Like an angry hornets’ nest in his ears. And something in his guts said, this noise spelled out danger. Something was yelling at him to get his head together. The time for his thinking to re-group itself was over-due. Get your act together, Garth ….“ ….. Consider how to rid us of this scum. Three times we’ve met to decide. And still there is no unanimity ….. What to do. His execution. How to dispose of this swine …..”

It was a voice. A human voice. Had Garth heard it right? Had the word execution penetrated his exhaustion? Fear clutched suddenly at his heart. His situation came rushing back to his consciousness. Like a drowning man, he struck out for the surface. Struggling against fearsome currents. Buffeted by powerful forces trying to drag him back down. Digging into his last reserves. Fighting for life.

“Council, we must unite. The people will it so. They are angry ….”The droning hesitated.“ … and we all know what that means …”Garth broke through to the surface. A sickening feeling socked him in the face as his exhaustion fought back. Trying to force him under again.“But the one thing we all agree on ….”The voice droned on. Garth knew he had to listen.


“ … the dog must die. His execution will be public. And no one wants this killing to be quick.”

Garth blinked the torment from his eyes. He tried to wipe his vision clear on his raised bicep. On his knees still, he had seemingly been like this for a lifetime. Hands straining to stay on his head. Sub-consciously remembering he’d be in for more lashes across his tortured back if he didn’t. More body-crippling punishment he could not afford. Not right now. Not at these words. He’d needed to wake up.“The people will it so …..”Garth shook his head. To clear the blinding fog. A woman. Was that a woman’s voice? Looking around, blinking several times, shaking his head. Other blurred figures standing a distance away, a semi-circle, facing him, looking down on him.

“The cross - some say. Tied, not nailed. With a platform. The longer to die. So the people can watch. Enjoy his suffering.”Was his vision deceiving him? Could he see a flicker of a smile on her face?“Make a picnic of it. Enjoy him dying over several days ….”A shiver ran down Garth’s spine. She was talking about him. Or rather his alter ego who had taken over him.

“Others say throw him to the beasts. Want this swine torn apart by wild animals. Ripped to shreds. Snarling, feral beasts …..”Garth had been struggling to breathe. His chest had been shaking with his exhaustion. His upper body rocking to the spasms as he struggled to suck in life-restoring strength. But suddenly he was not breathing. He was holding his breath. Those words had penetrated his swirling brain. Thrown to wild beasts. This woman was talking about him.

“And then there are the others. Stoning they say. The captain of the guard has reported, some people demanded to have him stoned. Stone him themselves.”

Seemingly endless hours under the blistering sun he’d been here. Forced to kneel there, hands on head, to await this news. At first Garth had been too exhausted. It took all his strength to hold that pose. Hands on his head - under penalty of more beatings. Not knowing how much more he could take. He had to rebuild his strength, not take more.For a time his strength would return. He had always enjoyed amazing powers of recovery. For a time his head had turned things over. He had no idea where he was. What place this was. Or who the hell he was supposed to be. What the hell he was supposed to have done. To deserve this. This brutality against him.


Many times in life Time-and-Space again had buffeted him around. But this time the eternal forces had collided big-time. Not just whisking him here. He had been transformed, someone else had taken over him, fused a body and his being into one. Someone the world-and-its-dog loathed. Despised. Wanted to destroy. Like putting down a mad dog. This alter ego aroused universal hatred. No idea why. Garth was a victim of the forces of the universe.

Moments of lucidity had washed over him. The severity of his situation weighing heavily on him. Seemingly no way out. Then exhaustion would re-assert itself. Kneeling, a broiling sun burning into his head. Vicious rays incinerating his whiplashed skin. His mind retreating from this suffering, retreating into a swoon.It was all he could do to keep himself in the pose. Needing to avoid more beatings if he was to save himself. Knowing any more punishment might rob him of any chance. Rob him of seizing any luck to get out of this.Was he down to relying on Time-and-Space to come rushing to his rescue? Garth knew better than to put his faith in them. In such unpredictable help. It was down to himself. He needed to keep his wits about him.

“Council. Members are unwilling to agree. Yet the people demand our action.”Exhaustion threatened to creep up on Garth. “And we know the consequences of not acting wisely …..”Against the threat of being overwhelmed by tiredness again, Garth grabbed hold of himself. His sixth sense warned something portentous was imminent.“You cannot agree among yourselves. As Leader, the decision falls to me ….”The words of doom were bashing around in Garth’s head. He made himself get a grip.

“My decision, then. This swine’s sentence ….”


28. The sentence

“My verdict is as follows ….”Garth blinked hard. Bleary-eyed he looked up. A woman talking. His age, good looking, well-dressed. His type maybe. Under other circumstances … Concentrate!“A compromise,” she said. Looking to the Council members. Needing to please all, probably completely satisfying none.A woman? Was she really about to condemn Garth to die? This attractive woman? Condemn him for doing what?

She knew she had to choose her words well. There were ears around. Not privy to the Council’s plan. Not been in on the panic that had formulated this plot. But for months now the Council had been in-the-know. They understood the meaning behind her words. And the pressing need to act.Her eyes fixed on this smokescreen they had created. On its knees before them, broken. But still, even in this state, in his near-nakedness lay a brooding threat, strongly-built. Looking believable. Looking like the stuff of evil from fairy tales. Tales of barbarity that the people themselves had enhanced as they had woven their own stories of make-belief around some alarming MONSTER out there.

“To be taken out. Tomorrow at dawn. Put on the cross. Roped. A support given to take his weight. The longer for him to flag and weaken.”She looked about her. Judging the reaction of the other Council members. Already she saw some signs of disagreement. But her look froze them. Not allowing dissension at this point. They had to stand united. Against the threat of mutiny. To fool the mob.“Let the people come and see. Let them curse him for his crimes. Enjoy the sight of this monstrosity dying slowly before their eyes …. Drowning in his own torment …. ”

Garth started. A chill fluttered to the pit of his guts. Like every Brit brought up in Sunday school, Garth had a healthy respect for what crucifixion meant. He was pretty-damned sure he did not want to be in that company. “Not die, though ….”Her eyes returned to the brute. Appraising the strength in that body. Seeing a physical toughness there. Recognising a flash of spirit snarl back at her words. Judging this dupe did suit her purpose.“Not allowed to die …..”Yes, those head-hunters had chosen well, she thought, he looked like he had the toughness to survive. To play his part in these ordeals.


“After two days …. taken down. Dragged through the streets.”Garth thought he heard murmurs of approval. His mind’s eye saw again his recent parade through the streets and the seething mob.“Brought to the people’s arena. The people will have arrived. Drawn to the arena by the announcement of his execution. Drawn there to the howls of the dogs …”

Her eyes took in the power of those shoulders. Imagining how he’d look after two days stretched out on the cross. Seeing that broad chest heaving for breath as he struggled through the streets. Jostled by guards towards the arena. Their frenzied cheers welcoming him as he was shoved through the streets. Towards his blood-crazed public. And his execution.“The people drawn to the arena by the sounds of dogs baying for blood.”A coldness filled her eyes as they met those of the prisoner on his knees. Looking up at her as she pronounced his death. A steely resolve had grown in his face. That brokenness of spirit gone, an icy firmness filled his grim-looking face. Not broken, defiant yet. But there was no hesitation in her words. His execution was what the people wanted. What the Council needed. To survive.

“When the people are assembled …,” she continued. “ … greeting this monster as he deserves ….”Again Garth heard the snarling mob. The blood-crazed cries. Jeering, crying for his life.“ … let the dogs loose. The hunting hounds. Let them have him.”The shiver that pass through Garth’s guts was real. But he did not show it on his face.“The dogs will not be fed. From today ……”Fucking evil bitch! Garth could not put it any other way.“To have them eager for the hunt.”

Garth was shocked, horrified. But no one would tell from his appearance. Not shocked that it was a woman who could pronounce such a death with cold indifference. No, not death. What she had ordered was butchery. Carnage.In his travels, Garth had learned, when it came to bestiality the female of the species was no better than the male. The mistake came in thinking it might be otherwise.In an act of defiance, in a gesture to show that this sentencing had not frozen his blood, Garth lowered his hands. Disobedient. Insolent. A study in baiting. Steel-eyed staring down the bitch who had just ordered his slaughter, he took his hands off his head and rested them on his thighs. No longer in prisoner-pose. Seemingly relaxed - as if taking tea. Putting on a show. Sheer arrogant defiance.

A slash stung across his shoulders. Already burning and hurting from their tortures.


“On your head. Motherfucker!”Garth twisted his head around. His fists already balled tight for a fight. His eyes turned to steel. Freezing the guard. Whose arm was already raised for another blow.

The guard hesitated. Frozen by that glare from this fiend. Realising his stupid mistake. The brute was not bound, his hands were free. He possessed magical powers. This monstrosity-made-man who slaughtered men in the blink of an eye. The guard suddenly realised what he had done. The demon was free, totally free. Free to go for him.But another movement reminded him too. Of his position. He was supposed to be guarding this monster. Reminded him of his audience. He was being watched by the High Council. The guard froze in indecisiveness. Trapped between fear and fear.

The Council Leader solved the dilemma.“Enough,” she dismissed the soldier with a wave of the hand. This was no fiend, - as she well knew. No demonic powers. Just some sucker taken captive because he looked the part. Self-assured she was unconcerned that the prisoner was defying his guards. Undisturbed by some audacious show of arrogance. In fact, seeing maybe there was some mileage in that. That rabble was still out there, slavering for his blood. The sight of him fighting back, threatening to break free, the prospect of some demon in their midst, free to wreak devastation on them still - that would put the shits under them. What better way to convince them that their Council was indeed their saviour? Saving them from his destruction. Getting rid of the monstrosity.

Garth turned his head slowly back. In control of his actions. Out to make a point. He stared fixedly into his fate, grim-faced, eyes-slitted. Sentence was passed. No one objected. This woman, whoever she was, whatever this place was, whatever time this was - she had passed an inhumane sentence on him. No one seemed to object. Only Garth had something to say about this. And he was about to be butchered.But she wasn’t finished with him ….

“The captain-of-the-guard informs, the people are in an angry mood. Very close to chaos breaking out.”She eyed the other Council members back. They knew exactly what she was talking about. What they had feared for months. The reason they had hatched this plot.“He says the people want this dog stoned. They want their bit of flesh …. Do it themselves …”For Garth her cold words conjured up memories as he himself had felt the mood perilously close to mob-rule breaking out. Driven to kick his head in. Trample him to death.


“Today the swine will be taken back to the market place.” Her eyes stopped on Garth. Despite his determination to look defiant, he felt a tremble at being offered back to the mob.“At sundown. This sentence will be announced to the people.”There was a murmuring of approval from the semi-circle assembled.“In celebration, the people will have their moment. They are angry, they want their own revenge. They want to take action themselves.”Garth used the anxiety in his gut to put on a grim look of determination. Putting a brave face on things.

She allowed herself a slight smile. At the ingenuity of her idea. At the compromise with the people’s anger she would reach. And win favours for the Council.“The captain is transporting to the square baskets. Fruit. Eggs. Horse shit.”Steely eyes dwelt on the tough-looking man on his knees. Beaten, lashed. But a fire in his eyes still. Still fight in him. She smiled to herself. When the people saw that …. The threat still alive in him …..“Let the people at him. They can pelt him as much as they wish.”They’ll love him, she thought. All that defiance. All that snarling spirit in his guts. As they pelted him with shit. Determined as hell as to wipe that look off his face.“Let them vent their anger. Show this dog a people’s hate.”

Garth wasn’t one for giving in. Her words of sentencing had brought his spirit back. A resolve to see this through now flushed through his blood. Over his bloody body ….. Bloody-minded, going to survive, at all costs. However bad he felt now, it looked like it could only get worse. Best to get a grip on himself. Overcome this exhaustion, get back his strength of mind. He’d need to be alert to every slight chance that came.

Time-and-Space. Garth did not have much faith in its ability. Not trusting it to intervene. Always too random, at all times fickle. But nothing dared, nothing gained. No harm in appealing to those mighty forces of the universe. Two days on the cross. Tortured by crucifixion for two days. Then ripped apart by starving dogs. The mob screaming with joy as foaming jaws tore flesh from bone. His flesh. His cracking bones.

That was the time-frame - two days max. Garth might not be too sure whether there was some Higher Being out there. And if there was, …. whether the Bugger even cared. But if there was … He’d better get his finger out. Two days max.Time-and-Space had just so long to bump into each other again. And send Garth careening out of here …….


End


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