Hundreds of slaves were caged or tied up. Women wailed, children cried or stared out through the bars at the crowds with blank faces. Men in strange turbans, dressed in long loose pants covered with what appeared to be short skirts and jewelled boleros ambled past each stall looking into the enclosures. Others shrouded in long thick gowns with their heads wrapped in different coloured fabric called to the passers-by or inspected the people caged. The colours, along with the unremitting sound of voices, warbled and babbled like water flowing over rocks and crevices. People moved everywhere.

The sun burnt hot on Sam's naked back, sweat stung his eyes. The soles of his feet fried on the scoring dry earth. He couldn't understand any of what was being said. He had heard of this place. Of people being taken captive and sold as slaves. It had been so unbelievable while he was cocooned within his safe life in England.

Samuel should have felt despair. Instead, what he took in, fed the smouldering fire deep inside of him. Its coals grew warmer. He would watch, learn and wait. Three men's faces were etched into his brain. Sam vowed he would spend the rest of his life to find and kill them.

The rope around his neck yanked him forward to move with the line of prisoner's he was attached to. They were led up a short flight of stairs. Sam was tied with his arms above his head. His legs were spread and shackled at each ankle to the floor.

A man, dressed in thick heavy garb, raised his hand and called out over the heads of the crowd. A group gathered in front of the platform. The man continued to speak, and then held his palm toward the slaves Samuel was tied with.

One by one strange bargain hunters walked along the dais stopping here and there to inspect a prisoner's face, teeth, limbs and genitals. A short plump man dressed in regal colours stopped in front of Samuel, and looked up into his face. He took hold of Sam's mouth and forced it opened by squeezing firmly on his bottom jaw. He gripped the hair that hung over Sam's face, and then wrenched backwards.

The man smiled showing yellow stained teeth. He said something that Sam could not understand, just before his pants were yanked down to his ankles. The man chuckled and nodded his head. He gripped Samuel's length and caressed it with his fingers.

Sam jerked his hips back. The man's hand dropped. He lifted his fist and slammed it into Sam's stomach.

"Aar..." Sam groaned. The breath forced from his lungs. His strength left him, Samuel's knees buckled until he hung loosely by his wrists. He looked up and peered through his hair. Every detail of this man's face etched in his skull. Another to remember.

A babble of words came to him. Someone cut the rope which bound his hands. He dropped to the floor. His ankles were released, and then he was dragged by two men, one on each arm, along the platform and down the stairs.

Captain Lios stepped in front of them. He seized the hair at the top of Samuel's head, yanked his face up and smirked. "I told you your arse was going to cop a pounding. This pasha likes to spread a man's arse cheeks wide." He laughed, and then spat in Sam's face. "Good luck, My Lord."

Nine nights Samuel was locked in a dark cell. The only light a slow burning torch in the corridor. Though he was completely naked, he was given plenty of water and food. Sam worked to get his body stronger. He ran on the spot, did sit-ups, push-ups and used the cot he slept on as a weight. He heard others moaning and calling out in languages he couldn't understand.

Sam watched as each day a cell door was opened, and the prisoner removed, to be brought back hours later buckled in pain.

On the tenth day, a large muscle-bound man unlocked Samuel's cell. He motioned Sam toward him with his hand. "Yati!" When Sam didn't move, he repeated the action. "Yati!" Sam thought he must want him to follow, so stepped forward. The man threw a cloth at him and indicated he should wrap it around his hips. Once he finished tying a knot in the fabric, Samuel expected to be bound, and was relieved when he wasn't. He was led up a set of stone stairs, along corridors and open arched verandahs, and then into a large high-ceilinged room. Its white walls were decorated with colourful geometric patterns and ornate sculptures. Sam couldn't help but be awed.

The room had a gathering of people who watched him follow the guard to a long table that spanned the width of the room. The short fat man with yellow teeth, was sat in the middle, sucking on a slice of roast meat, juices dribbled down his chin.

"Ah..." He dropped what was left of the mangled slice, lifted his hand out towards Samuel, and then swept it around the room. "Alnaas, ma rayuk fieabdi aljadid."

A loud murmur echoed off the walls. Sam had no idea what had been said. He ran his eyes along the table. Only men were seated there.

Again, the man spoke. "Khalil, yutarjam!"

A man three places to the left stood and bowed his head. He focused on Samuel. "You speak English."

Samuel jerked his head once and stared at this man.

"I am Khalil, lieutenant and servant of Pasha Akbar." He indicated the fat man with his hand. "Your master." Khalil tilted his head. "He has asked me to translate. Pasha Akbar has introduced you as the son of a King."

Sam said nothing. What was he supposed to say to that? He brought his hands together in front of him, looked back at Akbar and waited. The man spoke again.

Khalil translated. "Pasha Akbar wants to know if this is true. Are you the son of a King?"

Samuel ran this question through his head. If he lied and said yes, would they free him? If they found out he lied, would they kill him? Should he take the risk and lie? "No," he said. "Not his son. I am of his line. His blood flows through my veins."

"It would serve you well, to bow your head at your master, when you finish speaking." Khalil lifted his eyebrows and jerked his head at Samuel. "No good will come to you if you refuse."

Sam stared into Khalil's eyes, turned slightly and bowed his head at Pasha Akbar. A flurry of words passed between Akbar and Khalil.

"Your master wants to know what you are exactly, if the King's blood is your blood."

"I am an earl. The Earl of Irvine. My father and now older brother are The Duke of Irvine. Cousin and second cousin to the king." Sam tilted his head once more, and waited for Khalil to translate.

"Pasha Akbar is impressed. What are you called by?"

"Samuel." Again, Sam lowered his head.

Khalil passed this on to Akbar, and when he faced Sam again, he smiled. "Pasha Akbar has given you a new name. From now on you shall be known as, Mlik Sámi. This means King Samuel." Khalil chuckled. "Pasha Akbar has declared you King of the slaves." Khalil raised his arms in a celebratory display and addressed the room of people in Arabic. "All hail Mlik Sámi!" The room erupted in laughter and repeated Khalil's words.

Samuel had no understanding of what the crowd chanted until Khalil translated. "They welcome you to your new kingdom, and wish you every success in reigning over the rats and mice that live in your cell." Khalil laughed again, and then said, "Pasha Akbar wants you, to never forget, that you are powerless. Now, you must thank him for giving you this honour, by kissing his hand."

Sam felt fire in his chest. He glanced at the smug faces of the people around him. Pride wanted him to refuse, but common sense told him to play this out, so he stepped forward, took hold of Akbar's greasy hand, and bent to place his lips on the back of it. Akbar flicked his hand over so its palm faced upward. He sneered, wiped the filth on his fingers over Sam's lips, and then gripped Sam's chin before he spoke.

"Pasha Akbar says you are a pretty one. He likes the way you look and hopes you will perform well for him." Khalil translated Akbar's words and watched the young man slowly pull his jaw from Akbar's hold, to stand straight and tall in front of him. He had the feeling that this slave would not react the way the pasha expected him to. There was fire in his eyes that burned black instead of orange. Khalil felt sure this man would not allow his body to be violated without a struggle. Sex slave. No. Muharib. Yes. Khalil would wait and watch. With training he could turn this slave into a warrior.

The future looks very grime for Sam, I can't see him getting out of the situation he's in :(

Next week we'll see how he and Shay cope with the changes in their lives.  Do you think Frederick will come to Sam's rescue?

Muharib – warrior or fighter.

I apologise if my Arabic translations are incorrect and any help offered with corrections would be greatly appreciated. 

Top picture taken from Alamy - british-captain-witnessing-the-miseries-of-christian-slaves-in-algiers

2nd picture taken from Wikiwand