A Cruel Passing of Innocence by J.D. Jensen

moment.
    A sound came from along one of the pathways and several servant boys and girls came running, each carrying an earthenware jug. Barefoot, dressed only in pure white loincloths, their brown bodies moving lithely as they approached the waiting arrivals, they offered water.
    A girl with smiling eyes handed Nassara her jug, and drinking gratefully from it, Nassara marvelled at how cool and fresh the nectar was in her mouth, blissfully quenching the thirst that had nagged at her for so long. She gasped words of thanks to the girl, but the large eyes that occupied much of her pretty face were immediately lowered, avoiding Nassara’s gaze, as if in warning or disapproval.
    From somewhere there was a sudden clapping of hands, and a large man dressed in a white and blue robe, a strange gold-braided red hat perched on his head, appeared as if out of nowhere, his expression stern but not cruel.
    The attendants were quick now to retrieve the jugs, pulling them from the hands of the slaves. Then they scurried away along one of the paths, without a single backward glance.
    Moving silently out from one of the archways came six taller youths. Dark-skinned with jet-black hair, their eyes unsmiling, they stood a respectful distance behind the large man. They stood straight, their imperious heads held high in haughty arrogance as they calmly surveyed the slaves. They were dressed in immaculate white tunics that covered them down to their ankles, but what particularly caught Nassara’s eye was the rigid whip that each one held.
    Each whip was almost as much as the drop from the boys’ waists to their feet. The black leather tapered gradually down from the handle – no more than the circumference of Nassara’s middle finger – to a willowy tip almost needle thin. At the very extremity were a few tiny strands of red, coarse thread.
    As the boys haughtily scanned the faces and bodies of the new arrivals with an air of distaste, the wispy red tips of their whips reposed lightly beside their feet, on the cool stone slabs of the courtyard, as if impatient to unleash their purpose. Even paradise, it seemed, was not a place without its whip-men, although here at least they were whip-boys, whose cruelty surely could not equal that of their zealous elders.
    The large man clapped his hands again and the tallest of the whip-boys, who seemed to be the leader, strode instantly to stand just in front of the two lines of slaves. Zheeno and the other young men were standing in the front line, and Nassara and her female companions stood behind, still chained one to another, waiting anxiously to see what they must now endure.
    The whip-boy’s eyes were black with fiery intensity and he shouted one single, shrill word of command.
    â€˜Abbaijsh!’
    Pointing first with his whip at the ground, he tapped the air in a downward, impatient motion. At the same time the other whip-boys ran instantly to move around to the side and back of the assembled slaves, hovering menacingly.
    â€˜Abbaijsh!’ he screamed again, his lips curled into a fierce scowl and his piercing eyes darting over the slaves, seeking out anyone slow to obey. ‘Abbaijsh!’
    Nassara immediately understood and she, and some of the other slaves, quickly knelt down on the cool slabs, but one or two of the young men in the front were slow to comprehend. The lead whip-boy, his face thunderous, lashed out, catching the buttock of the nearest male slave, making him gasp and cower away.
    The other slaves were filled with sudden understanding, and scrambled quickly to kneel. Nassara noticed with relief that Zheeno had understood, instantly obeying, and within moments all the slaves were kneeling, their eyes cast down and anxious. But still the lead whip-boy was not satisfied.
    â€˜Abbaijsh!’ he screamed again, suddenly getting down onto his knees in front of the slaves, as though to demonstrate what posture they were to adopt. Spreading his legs apart