18. Betia

Monday, October 6th. 10 o'clock.

Jorge was still savoring the last bites of his breakfast when one of the pages burst into the room. He was young, one of those servants responsible for attending the table, tidying the bedroom, and taking care of the countless minor tasks of everyday life. Since he had to attend the Eli personally, he had made an effort to learn Spanish, although his command of the language left much to be desired.

—Eli, look, the letter has arrived—he said, extending a handwritten envelope, sealed with wax.

Jorge took it with some indifference and observed the recipient: "Uchchatá Jorge Tharakos." On the back, the identity of the sender: "Uchchatári Lakua Asier."

That morning he had other plans. He wanted to return to the slave market and finish his inspection of the personal servants' booth. He was thinking of acquiring a new companion for Alex in his pleasure pursuits, and he was not thrilled with the idea that this letter forced him to change his agenda.

—Notify Eukario.

—Yes, Eli.

The protocol officer soon arrived. Jorge handed him the letter with an impatient gesture. Eukario broke the seal, unfurled the parchment, and began to translate aloud:

—“The Most High Lakua Asier, usher of Internal Affairs of the Free Republic of Ketiris, would be profoundly honored to receive High Jorge Tharakos, lord of the Tharakos estate, next Wednesday, October eighth, at her main residence in Asier. This memorable occasion will serve to strengthen ties between such illustrious estates. The Most High Lakua Asier hopes that High Jorge Tharakos will accept this cordial invitation and present himself, on the specified date, in the capital of the island of Betia, where an evening banquet will be held in his honor. This meeting serves no other purpose than the one stated and, therefore, has no agenda. High Jorge Tharakos may attend with the entourage he deems appropriate”—he read.

Jorge drummed his fingers on the table with a thoughtful air.

—Tell me, Eukario, who is this woman? And why does she invite me to dine the day after tomorrow?

Eukario took a few seconds before responding. It was not an ordinary question.

—The Most High Lakua Asier is one of the most influential figures in the country, Eli. She rules her estate with an iron hand and holds one of the most important seats on the State Council. She was a close ally of the late Benassur Gurión, whom she frequently hosted at her large house. Her responsibilities encompass the internal affairs of the country: security, public order, education, labor, finance, resource distribution… and, of course, our ketirita mines.

Jorge nodded, still inspecting the broken wax seal between his fingers.

—I’ve heard that Betia is an island governed by women. Is that true?

—Any Ketirí may visit it, but their laws establish that governance falls to women, just as in Alfar, men rule. It is natural for them to live separately. But yes, I have been to Betia, Eli. It is a beautiful island, perhaps more so than Alfar.

—And tell me, how did Benassur travel there? Not by plane, I imagine.

—Both islands have airports, but they are too close for it to be worth flying. The usual practice is to travel by galley. His, Eli, is docked at North Port, just a short distance from here. It’s a short sea journey, about three hours, or even less if the rowers are pushed hard.

Jorge immediately recalled those old Roman movies, with dozens of naked, sweaty bodies striving to the rhythm of drums and whips. Was Eukario referring to something similar?

—And what do you think she wants from me? Should I accept the invitation?

Eukario let out a slight smile.

—I don’t think it’s exactly an invitation you can decline, Eli. You may, of course, refuse to attend, but that would mean starting off on the wrong foot with the most powerful woman in the country. I do not advise it. It’s logical that she wants to meet you and ensure that ketirita production is still in good hands. Yusuf treated her extensively; he used to accompany High Benassur Gurión on his periodic visits to Betia.

Jorge sighed and set the envelope aside.

—Okay, I’ll go. But you will come with me, Eukario.

The protocol officer bowed his head respectfully.

—Thank you very much, Eli. I haven’t traveled to Betia in quite some time.

The rest of that day and the next Jorge spent preparing for the visit. He summoned a goldsmith to make him a gold ring with his initials; from then on, he could seal wax with it and offer it as a matter of honor in the greetings.

He reviewed with Miceros the outfits he would wear, ensuring that he could change at least a couple of times and even handle a prolonged stay, something he did not wish for at all but considered prudent to plan for. It was also the right time to reflect on transportation. From North Port, he was informed that it was just two kilometers away, a distance perfectly walkable. However, he would choose to debut the litter, a platform carried on the shoulders of slaves, which he would undoubtedly have to use in Betia. The galley required forty-eight rowers, who would come from the recent purchase of strong slaves; Taruk was in charge of selecting the most suitable for that task, while the overseer, a vilicus specialized in coordinating and disciplining rowers, took care of synchronizing the crew. While it was not appropriate to arrive with food at the hostess's house, it was considered a courteous gesture to bring a gift. Following Eukario's advice, he chose a small burner made of pure ketirita, sculpted in the shape of an icosahedron; the intrinsic value of the material was so high that it was obscene even to mention it. The night before the visit, Jorge called for Yusuf to join him for dinner. He wanted to talk with him and prepare for the upcoming meeting with Lakua.

—Hello, Yusuf. I would like to have dinner with you tonight.

—It is an honor and a pleasure, Eli.

Jorge nodded as the food was served.

—As everyone knows, tomorrow I will visit the estate of the Most High Lakua Asier in Betia. I will need your help during this stay.

—I will do everything in my power, Eli. I know her well; I used to visit her often when accompanying High Benassur.

Jorge leaned slightly toward him.

—I have heard that. What is she like? Do you think this visit puts me in a delicate position? Or even a dangerous one?

—Lakua Asier is one of the most powerful people in Ketiris, even more so than Kamar Abumón himself. There are rumors that the State Council considers her a potential successor to the Most High Mario Baraka, who is the current hegemon if he decides to step down. But she is also a fair woman, someone you can trust… as long as you do not betray her. They say she never forgives a betrayal.

—And what is your relationship with her?

—She only knows me through my connection with Benassur, but I believe she has come to trust me. Without wanting to sound presumptuous, I would say she even appreciates me.

Jorge understood that, at that moment, Yusuf was nothing less than essential to him.

—Very well. Tomorrow I want to present myself as what I am: a new citizen of Ketiris, committed to its traditions and customs.

—Without a doubt, she will want to find out if you are someone trustworthy, Eli. It would not be strange for her to try to decipher any connection you have with the recent attacks against our security.

Jorge frowned.

—Attacks? What attacks? And what could I have to do with all this?

Yusuf finished his plate calmly, wiped his mouth with the napkin, and took a sip of water before responding.

—As you know, Eli, our small country remains completely independent of foreign influence. This is possible thanks to a unique technology we developed, a kind of double shield. On one hand, we block any unauthorized electrical or electronic device from functioning within our borders. On the other, we prevent radars, sonars, or any other detection device based on waves from extracting information from Ketiris.

He paused, as if weighing his words.

—This technology, although complex, has a vulnerability: it depends on a single system, an interconnected network that generates what we call "the interference." While there are multiple devices and security protocols to prevent a malfunction from taking it out of service, if the interference disappeared, all our protection would fall with it.

—And have there been attempts to sabotage this system?

—Several times, without success. But a few months ago, the network was disabled for a few minutes… some say for hours.

Jorge felt a chill.

—What happened?

—Nothing. The technicians under Lakua's orders managed to restore it, and at least on the surface, there were no major consequences.

—Is it known who was responsible?

—That information is beyond my reach, Eli. I can't even assure you it was an attack; some believe it was a technical failure. Officially, the system is invulnerable, so accepting that it was sabotage would mean admitting that it isn't.

—Did this happen before or after my arrival in the country?

—Before. I don’t know the exact date, but it definitely was months before your trip to Kenya.

Jorge nodded slowly, reflecting.

—I suppose that, being responsible for the country's security, Lakua will want to ensure that I have nothing to do with this… And now the ketirita is mine, so to speak.

—For the most part, yes. There are other smaller operations, but her mines are the principal ones.

—Tell me, Yusuf, who are Ketiris's biggest rivals? Do we have allies?

Yusuf smiled slightly.

—I wouldn’t say we have enemies, Eli, but we do have rivals. Our main buyers are the United States and the European Union, although China is quickly becoming an excellent customer. On the other hand, Arab countries generally hate us; to them, we are small and infidels, plain and simple.

Jorge nodded.

—Then let’s focus on making a good impression. After all, we have nothing to hide and therefore nothing to fear. I count on you. Eukario will also accompany us, but although he is in charge of protocol, I would prefer to have you as my interpreter. I suppose our hostess doesn't speak Spanish.

—I don’t think so, Eli. But she does speak French.

—Oh, good, I do too. We could communicate that way.

—No, Eli —Yusuf said patiently—. Courtesy requires that you address her in Ketirí, and therefore, through an interpreter.

—Of course, yes, that makes sense. It’s an official visit —Jorge admitted with a sigh of resignation—. I count on you then.

—Always at your service, Eli.

Jorge meditated in silence, aware that tomorrow's meeting could be much more than just a formal act. After a moment, he got up from the table and, with a carefree gesture, gave a loud slap on the bare backside of Alex, who waited, as always, standing behind him. Then, the two diners went off to their rooms.

Wednesday, October 8th. 10 o'clock.

On Wednesday, the day of the visit, Jorge had breakfast earlier than usual. He did not want to be late for the appointment. The invitation was for an "evening banquet," and, as Eukario had explained to him, the correct procedure was to appear at the big house in the late afternoon, around six. There was plenty of time, but the crossing would take a couple of hours, perhaps a little more. To make matters worse, that morning was the first since his arrival that it dawned raining; until then, all the days in his new home had been sunny.

He looked out at the expanse in front of the entrance and saw that a kind of elongated cabin had been arranged on some support benches. Two long poles in front and two behind made it clear that it was a litter, whose interior seemed quite comfortable. Eukario and Yusuf were waiting next to the structure, holding two beautiful horses, while a bit further away were the eight porters and another eight slaves in charge of the luggage.

Jorge inspected the litter with curiosity. As soon as he stepped outside the building's protection, his slave Alex hurried to cover him with a canvas umbrella, although he himself remained indifferent to the fine rain sliding down his bare skin. Jorge had ordered him not to accompany him, and he saw how the Russian moaned sadly when they separated, although he could not help but wonder if that lament was genuine or simply part of his role.

Eukario and Yusuf respectfully greeted their master, and Jorge, somewhat awkwardly, settled into the interior of the cabin; he had first ensured that it was waterproof. To his surprise, it turned out to be extraordinarily comfortable, with soft padding and curtains he could close completely to isolate himself from the outside.

Once ready, the eight porters knelt in their previously assigned positions. Yusuf, with the precision of someone who has performed that gesture countless times, closed some metal rings integrated into the carrying poles and secured them with fasteners, trapping the slaves by their necks.

Jorge calculated that the whole set weighed about two hundred kilos, including his own body, but he underestimated that figure by more than sixty. An ingenious system of metal springs, hidden in the structure, provided impeccable suspension, effectively cushioning any bumps during the journey.

The slaves had been carefully chosen to be of equal height and, following prior orders, had been completely shaved, like all the others. Their broad backs, still intact, offered a smooth, uniform surface, almost a silent invitation.

With a barely perceptible gesture, Jorge indicated to Yusuf to give the order to depart. The porters, aware of the importance of this first task under the eye of their new master, gently lifted the litter and began to move forward.

The convoy set off toward North Port. The colors of the Tharakos estate dominated the scene: they were reflected in the clothing of the three men and in the tight bicolored bracelets that adorned the biceps of the slaves. Beyond that detail, their bodies remained completely naked, exposed to the humid morning air.

Yusuf led the procession, followed by the litter, with Eukario behind it and, closing the march, the slaves in charge of transportation. They all maintained a coordinated step with the litter, which marked the rhythm as the slowest element of the group.

The rain soon stopped, but mud still covered the ground, making it treacherous. One slave slightly slipped, although he managed to regain his balance before completely stumbling.

Jorge drew the curtains of the litter, leaving only the front one open. From his position, he could see the rump of Yusuf’s mount and the four front porters, who advanced precisely, being careful with every movement to avoid jolts. Their bodies were powerful and seemed well-trained; their muscular butts moved rhythmically, and their massive backs were completely tense. The shoulders were starting to show the weight they were carrying, as the wood was resting directly on the flesh of the slaves, without any cloth or anything else in between. Since the pole would cause a laceration that would be very visible if they switched sides, Miceros had arranged for them to never change shoulders, so soon the wood would cause deep wounds that would make the slaves start to bleed for their master: a high honor. The sweat and the silent moans of the slaves were very exciting, and Jorge decided to masturbate. He lay face down on the soft mattress, allowing the swaying of the cabin to turn into a gentle rub on his erect penis. He looked at the butts of the four slaves, so athletic, beautiful… and completely his. He checked that if he jostled the floor of the cabin, the resulting vibration created a painful jolt in the shoulders of the porters, and he entertained himself making the poor brutes suffer, until the excitement and movement were such that a spurt of sperm shot out beneath his abdomen. He then closed all the curtains, cleaned himself with cloths and clean wipes that foresighted hands had placed in the cabin, and after this joyful relief, opened the curtains just in time to see that he had arrived at the end of the short journey: North Port. Specifically, he was at a small berth where a two-masted ship, now empty, awaited him. The slaves knelt, and Jorge exited the cabin, checking that all eight had their shoulders raw.

The ship, made of solid wood, was not new, but its excellent condition evidenced meticulous maintenance. The hull had been recently repainted, and at the top of both masts, gallants with rampant dragons waved, proud emblems of the Tharakos estate. It measured just over thirty meters in length and about six in breadth. Eight rows of oars protruded from the side, each handled by three rowers, necessary to propel the vessel with strength and precision.

At the foot of the wharf, Yusuf and a man of marine stature waited, whom Jorge assumed would be the captain.

—Sharos, Tharakos —greeted the stranger with a slight bow as Jorge approached.

—Captain Noa Kampala will take us to Asier, Eli —Yusuf explained.

Jorge surveyed the overcast sky before addressing the sailor:

—I hope the cloudy weather won't be an inconvenience, Captain.

Yusuf translated, and the captain responded confidently.

—He says the conditions are optimal for navigation and that the Sea Horse will carry us safely.

Jorge looked up at the name engraved on the hull: HIPATHAL.

—is that the name of the ship? Sea Horse?

—Yes, Eli, although you may change it if you like.

—It is perfect as it is. Ask how long the crossing will take.

A brief exchange in Ketirí ensued, and Yusuf conveyed the response:

—If we rely solely on the rowers, it will take about three hours. But High Benassur used to order the sails to be raised, in which case we could arrive in just two.

Jorge pondered for a moment.

—Could we do it in two and a half hours using only oars?

The captain heard the translation and nodded with a confident smile.

—If the overseer puts in the effort, it will be possible.

It was eleven in the morning; the cloudy weather enveloped the port in a dim, almost intimate light. The salty breeze brought with it the murmur of water against the wooden pilings and the occasional cry of a seagull drifting over the gray sea. Jorge decided he preferred pure muscle power for this crossing. Nothing could compare to the beauty of bodies molded by effort, to the perfect synchronization of flesh tamed by the will of its master.

While they talked, the slaves had already boarded. On deck, the rowers were chained to the benches with shackles on their ankles; a long chain ran along the bench, securing them to the ship. The sound of metal clashing struck him as strangely pleasing, an echo of dominance and resilience. Those who carried the bundles, at the stern, secured the cargo and stood waiting for orders, while the porters received ointments for their sore shoulders from the vilicus.

Jorge calmly boarded the Hipathal, followed by Yusuf and Eukario. The captain, the last to board, ordered the removal of the gangway and tossed the moorings to the ground staff. There was a slight tremor beneath his feet as the ship was freed completely.

For a moment, Jorge wondered if those brutes would know how to row effectively, but his doubts dissipated as soon as he saw their bodies tense in unison. The muscles, hardened by effort, responded with precision. At the overseer’s command, the slaves plunged their oars into the water and began to propel the vessel with a hypnotic sway, a dance of naked torsos and slippery skin.

Jorge settled into the best position to observe them. From his seat, he could see the line of their backs arching with each stroke, their shoulder blades jutting out like wings about to unfurl. Sweat began to bead on the skin of some, tracing grooves along their chiseled musculature. The rhythm was firm, contained, and the dull panting of the rowers mixed with the sound of the oars hitting the water.

The chains jingled softly with each movement, reminding Jorge that those men could not stop or decide their own pace. They were brute force put at his service, flesh shaped by obedience. He leaned slightly toward Yusuf and whispered, as if he did not wish to break the harmony of the moment:

—The Hipathal moves powerfully. I like it.

Yusuf nodded with a slight smile but said nothing. Jorge let out a sigh, crossed one leg over the other, and enjoyed the spectacle of his power in motion.

The voyage had only just begun. A few minutes later, land faded from view, although the captain seemed entirely confident with the helm in his hands; the sun could be seen peeking through the clouds, and Jorge began to notice that the rhythm was no longer as intense as at the start.

—Tell the slaves not to be so lazy; I met a vilicus in Sunrut who knew how to do his job well; let’s see if the one I bought is worth it. I want him to arrive more exhausted than the last rower.

Yusuf explained to Noa that the Eli desired maximum speed with the whip.

The overseer was a mulatto, over two meters tall, specialized in disciplining rowing slaves; like the rest of the slaves, he had been shaved by electrolysis except for his eyebrows; he was the one who had applied treatment to the porters from the litter. He took a huge whip in each hand from a box and soon proved to be fully ambidextrous, whipping with the same overwhelming strength with both arms. His skill was such that he could hit and mark in the same gesture the three backs of the rowers sharing a bench; within minutes, streams of blood traced down all their backs, and the punishment did not spare their chests, arms, or glutes. He moved along the ship with a fierce glare, panting, fully complying with the order to be the most exhausted of the slaves.

Jorge enjoyed the thought that the scent of sweat and blood mixed with the sea breeze made for an unbeatable perfume. He might have masturbated right there, but although he knew that none of those present would have been startled by it, he figured it was better to hold back for the moment, and simply watched as the overseer glistened, drenched in sweat under the sun. He even laughed heartily when, in a sway, the mulatto fell backward and almost broke a bone; it took him a while to stop limping.

The ship sped forward thanks to the wild choreography, and the rowers, exhausted, occasionally let out cries of pain that rose above the constant cracking of the whips. The mist, thick and dense, began to clear little by little, and on the horizon, along the line of the sea, the blurry outline of the coast appeared. The silhouette of a port began to take shape slowly. The ship, under the attentive gaze of Eukario and Captain Noa, adjusted its course, heading for the mouth of the port. The entrance was narrow, guarded by giant stone columns that rose majestically, marking the way to safe refuge. Eukario showed very good humor during the crossing, and Jorge remembered that he had spoken about the island to which they were arriving, so he asked him to share interesting or important facts about Betia; he gladly obliged.

—You know, Eli, that just as in Alfar all estates belong to men, in Betia the owners are women. This island is just a little smaller than Alfar, but unlike its older sister, Betia lacks mountains; its geology is more similar to that of a tropical coral island, with gentle undulations permanently covered in lush green plants and sandy or clayey soils where stones rarely appear, which indeed have to be brought from nearby islands for building construction. Instead, the land is fertile and humid; the best fruits come from Betia, and agricultural operations alternate with livestock farms and fish farming.

—What kind of livestock is raised? The meat I tasted at the estate seemed delicious but different from the beef I knew in Spain.

—Betia has a unique species, Eli, a water buffalo endemic to the island. It is the main livestock animal here, and most of them live freely in nature, which gives their meat a more special flavor.

—So they live in the four estates on the island?

—No, Eli. Unlike Alfar, where every inch of land belongs to one of the six estates, in Betia, the four existing estates form an outer ring that leaves a huge common area in the center where buffalo and many other animals live. It’s a beautiful place, with a large inland lake.

As they conversed, Captain Noa gently brought the galley to the dock, tied the ropes, and after a few minutes of waiting, Jorge was able to jump ashore once again.

It was only two in the afternoon, and apparently, the big house of Madam Asier was about ten kilometers away, meaning an hour and a half of travel if they pushed the pace (as Jorge intended); nonetheless, both Eukario and Yusuf thought it best to arrive as soon as possible so they could rest and prepare for the official reception, better than arriving just on time, and Jorge decided to heed this advice. He climbed back into the cabin of his litter and watched as his porters once again lifted the weight, bearing it on their already wounded shoulders, while their healthy arms were on display; undoubtedly, they would remember these next ten kilometers for a long time. Sweat beaded on their tanned backs, tracing the tense musculature of their shoulders and sliding rivulets of moisture down the curvature of their bare backs. Each of them kept their head held high, jaws clenched, focused on their task with an almost reverential devotion.

Jorge watched them with satisfaction, following with his gaze the powerful expansion of their torsos as they took deep breaths and the subtle tremors of their muscles as the weight of the litter settled with each step. The effort transformed their bodies into a fascinating display of strength and endurance, and the master enjoyed it with the calmness of someone who knows that this spectacle was only for him.

The terrain made the crossing easier, and the porters maintained a brisk pace, stepping firmly and decisively on the ground and moving their muscular asses with determination. The heat began to intensify, and the drops of sweat became denser, gliding down to disappear between the lines of their shoulder blades or descending down their taut bellies. Occasionally, one of them would let out a deep exhalation, as if trying to release the pressure of his effort, but none broke composure or slowed their pace.

Eukario and Yusuf rode alongside the litter, both attentive to the path and the endurance of the slaves. Jorge, however, allowed himself the pleasure of immersing in that vision, in that parade of skin and muscle, in the way their bodies responded perfectly to the task assigned. He knew they would arrive earlier than expected, that his order to push the pace had been executed without hesitation. But he was not in a hurry.

The continuous swaying of the litter, the warmth of the air, the cadence of the strides, and the rhythmic panting of the porters composed a symphony of power and obedience. Jorge closed his eyes for a moment, letting himself be carried away by the sensuality of the moment, by the certainty that every drop of sweat, every accelerated heartbeat, every tensed muscle existed only for him.

Closing the procession were the eight slaves carrying the heavy chests with clothes, personal items, and provisions. They traveled along a well-paved road, always near the sea and interesting structures; Jorge signaled Eukario to come closer to his side so they could converse.

—I thought Betia would have only women, but apparently, we are not the only men here—Jorge said as he crossed paths with some Ketirí men.

—Certainly, Eli. Some tasks are performed by men even in Betia.

—Tasks of strength, like stowing, mining, and things like that?

—Oh no, Eli, that is done by female slaves; you can see for yourself—he said, pointing to a group of naked women pulling large ropes to unload a heavy cargo of stones. Although they seemed to be performing the task without supervision, the whip marks on their bodies were clear. The slaves were young and vigorous, many with shaved heads or in the early stages of growth, and the majority had pubic hair shaved off, although some did not lack it. Many had iron rings embedded in their nipples, and some had been punished with the amputation of a breast, nose, or ear; they all displayed truly athletic bodies.

—None of the men you see live permanently in Betia, Eli. Generally, they are just passing through, like us, or are on a commercial mission. And from the moment we set foot on the island, we are subject to their laws, which always grant primacy to women over men.

—Yes, I’ve heard that before, and I confess that I do not like the idea at all, Eukario.

—But that should not disturb you, Eli. You are noble, and the laws of the country always protect you. It is, essentially, a matter of protocol, and that’s why I am here—said the employee in a serene tone, trying to convey calmness.

It was not yet three-thirty in the afternoon when, in the distance, the profile of an imposing building, of such white granite that it resembled marble, appeared. The procession stopped in front of a control booth; there, an officer signaled for Yusuf to follow her without delay. They crossed gardens of almost dreamlike beauty, whose paths seemed to invite one to explore every nook, until finally arriving at a pavilion designated by Madam Asier for them to prepare for the evening reception.

As they advanced, Jorge could not help but feel an intoxicating mix of unease and pleasure. The surroundings exuded a particular sensuality: the softness of the air, the murmur of fountains in the gardens, and the almost unreal glow of that building that seemed to have been sculpted in light. That moment, when the legend of Betia intertwined with his own fears and desires, reminded him that in every detail of the island—every aroma, every texture—lay the promise of a unique experience, a dance of power and subtlety that only Betia could offer.

They had finally arrived at the threshold of a new chapter in a land of contrasts, where strength was measured in delicateness and in the passion of the forbidden.