They shaved him, then tattooed a red narcissus on his pubis, a decorative substitute for what he was about to lose. White ribbons were bound around his stomach and upper thighs to prevent excessive bleeding. They bathed his genitals in hot pepper-water.

“I thought I’d burst into flames. But worse was still to come.”

“Poor, poor Narcissus,” Rebekah cooed. “Pox on their house! How could they do this to you?”

They wound another stretch of cloth tightly about him, starting at the tip of the penis and going inward to the roots.

With a quick flash of a razor, they severed his penis and testicles.

His screams erupted to the seventh heaven.

The wound was cauterized with hot oil left on a single burner all night. They inserted a pewter needle into the opening of the root of his penis and applied puffball fungus and alum, then shrouded the wound with calico saturated in water and secured with strips of a fabric known for its blotting quality.

Narcissus wiped his forehead dry and stared at the shuddering Rebekah, expecting her to flee like the others before her. She steadied herself, aimed her distressed stare at him, and whispered, “Go on, Narcissus, my heart is breaking for you.”

“They held me from the armpits and walked me around the desert until I was about to dry up and crumble.”

Then they buried him up to the neck under the hot desert sand, the most effective balm in the world. They did not give him water. If his passages swelled up, he would not be able to urinate and would be doomed to an agonizing death.

For four suns and four nights he hallucinated, the desert sand and hungry-eyed slave traders chasing him. Mirages of gelded calves loomed, disintegrated into the haze, and reappeared to haunt him with endless bleating. The pain, thirst, and the impossibility of relieving himself were unbearable. After the fourth sun had set, they unwrapped the strips of cloth and pulled out the needle. A spurt of bloody urine flowed. They raised their heads in a prayer of thanks.

“And as a priceless gift, they handed me this crystal jar. See the relief cut around the edges? I’m luckier than other eunuchs. With a lucrative trade of organs, only honest slave dealers give the owner back his parts.”

Narcissus hugged the jar that housed his manhood, his only hope of redemption preserved in brine.

“Narcissus,” Rebekah said gently. “I promise you release today. But on the condition you admit Gold Dust to the harem. If you don’t keep your promise, I swear on everything you believe in that this will be your last.”

She lowered herself next to him, forcing him down, pressing her palm to his mouth to stop his feeble protests. Kneading his hairless thighs, she felt his flesh respond as if it were warm dough in her hands. His body, liquid and buttery, devoid of muscles, gave way to her touch; a pale film of moisture covered him. She parted his thighs. He was bare between his legs, a bloody narcissus tattooed on his pubis. She controlled the urge to vomit. The opening of his urethra gaped at her. Nothing there. No penis. Clean-cut.