“We’re going to be lined up and shot,” Maisie Collins whispered bitterly. “Oh, damn, I’ve never felt this helpless!”
“But surely they’ll rape us first!” Daphne offered with ingenuous optimism.
“More likely they’ll try and convert us to their cause,” Trudy rejoined thoughtfully. “It would be quite a feather in their cap. How d’you think the troop’s loyalty would stand up to whatever they did to us to make us say yes?”
One troop of the enemy took formation ahead, another behind the crestfallen column of captives. On each side there marched a soldier who had exchanged his gun for a whip which he cracked with skill and gusto and a delighted show of white teeth.
“We march into Moghata Town,” the senior officer ordered. “My men are directed to whip any of you who decide to lag.”
The cavalcade of triumph and disaster fell into step. There was much clinking of metal links from maiden throats and a good many gasps of dismay and distress from maiden lips as the coffle exerted its compulsion on their necks. Small hands wrenched desperately at the steel bands about their wrists, but none was dilatory. Soon, adjusting to their shame, they were stepping out briskly on streets lined with vociferous and enthusiastic citizenry who ogled breasts and buttocks, chains and shame, with lustful appreciation.
It was, of course, a gala occasion. Nicholas Nykobe vied with Khalief Abhad in showmanship. In either victory or defeat the President’s Guard was a feather in any mountebank’s cap. When they reached the Town Square it became bitterly reminiscent of their day of triumph in Tulabe. But Moghata was short on population. It also lacked a brass band. There was, however, the inevitable platform.
The coffle of captive girls was lined up to face the Square. The chain linking them was locked at each end to a convenient anchorage. They constituted a safe and captive audience and a highly decorative display. There was nothing they could do but stand.
Taking swift glances back over her captive shoulder at Nykobe as he made his speech, Trudy recognised power, perhaps some sort of faith. Certainly he was triumphant. From time to time during his resounding redundancies his eye glinted in her direction. Despite her plight she thrilled and felt him as a presence. He knew she was there! She was not forgotten. Nykobe would do something with her! She was sure of it. But what!
Since the speakers delivered their oratory in the dialect, the white captives could only gauge its quality by the rise and fall of dramatically emphasised periods. The festivities were officially declared with the lighting of a sizeable bonfire, Its fuel piled where the apprehensive troop was illuminated by its flames. When the conflagration was at its peak a sonorous command from the platform imposed a hushed stillness on all.
The Guard uniform was designed for convenience. They came off easily. Privileged members of Nykobe’s Army removed them from their chained and cringing owners. Others fought with laces to remove boots and socks. It took but a little while to render the prideful troop stark-naked. None could rebel. They endured their stripping in a mortified silence. In a space of minutes they had ceased to be prisoners of war and had been reduced to slavery. Behind them the sonorous voice declaimed in exaltation as the cherished uniforms of a decadent foe were ceremoniously burned before their wearer’s eyes. The citizens of Moghata howled in glee.
“The whole lot of them will screw us,” said Maisie in morose conviction.
“It’s better than being shot, love,” said Daphne. Trudy said nothing. She agreed with both.
But their nakedness was not an end. It was a beginning. Whilst vendors of food and drink were besieged with carefree coin and a platoon of drums beat out its paean of victory, the nude units of the coffle were herded upon the platform. There they were made to stand on its outer limits as a square facing whoever cared to stare up at their breasts and hairy triangles. The crowd was encouraged to look its fill but to keep moving so that this spectacle of pride brought low might be enjoyed by all. Two of the captives who strove to turn away their female treasures were soundly whipped by the grinning attendants. After that they all stuck out their chests, separated their feet, and tried not to meet any eyes. The whipped girls sobbed but could not dry their tears.
At the end of fifteen minutes of naked exposure the twenty girls listened in shock as Nicholas Nykobe, in ringing jubilation, informed his subjects that the captives were to be turned to the advantage of the State. They were to be sold as slaves, and the money so obtained used to purchase the armaments by which freedom would be achieved. Such beauty should not languish unprofitably in a prison but should make its own unique contribution to the glory of the People’s Party.
“I told you we’d be fucked,” Maisie said without gratitude.
“But who on earth would buy us all?” Daphne demanded.
“Probably a brothel.” It was all Trudy could think of.
Like all else in this torn and troubled land the proceedings were incongruous and faintly absurd. The merrymakers retreated to their food and drink, their places round the platform taken by an oddly assorted medley of bidders, mostly Arabs. Kaftans milled side by side with worsted and gabardines in a unity of intent. They had money and wanted girls. To the chained Trudy up on the platform they emanated a force, a tide which would engulf and sweep her to a fate she could only fear.
It was announced that, to expedite what might have been a lengthy battle of bids, the girls were to be sold as a job lot, their chains went with them. It was hinted that the forces of Zindawba were not so far distant as to merit delay.
The warehouse was cheerless. Their purchaser, a business type Semitic formally attired, addressed them briefly. They were to avoid panic. They would not be killed. Most of them would be sold into privileged and enviable situations. Whilst in his own possession they would he kept well chained in deference to their maiden fears and natural impulse to escape. Rebellion would be punished. He introduced them to the lithe female colleague who stood beside him with the whip. Lilith was their Mistress, she was to be obeyed.
The troop was dejectedly obedient. What else could it be! Passivity was implicit in their chains. At Lilith’s command they extended their coffle to its utmost length and each girl bent forward from the hips to present a row of twenty girlish and variously pigmented bottoms for the approval of their purchaser.
“You will keep still while you are beaten,” Lilith commanded evenly. “You may weep if you desire. Mr. Saud believes it for Your own good that you suffer sufficiently now to ensure your rational behaviour in what is expected of you later.” She made it sound like a sensible idea for which they should be grateful.
Mr. Saud used a cane. He applied it with businesslike deliberation and some zest. His task was formidable but he obviously desired no aid. He struck Sergeant Galla’s proffered posterior a resounding thwack His progress down the line was acknowledged with gasps and moans and small cries of hurt. As he approached the end, Lilith’s voice was incisive:
“Stay as you are. Mr. Saud is not finished.”
Trudy accepted her blow in mute misery. But, as one of twenty chained and helpless victims, expostulation could yield her only extra punishment. Couldn’t the silly idiot realise they’d all been caned and whipped enough to know what pain was like! But perhaps not. After all they were an elite!
Mr. Saud’s stock in trade was girls. From them he made his living. Their responses were vital to his trade. On his second journey down the line of bent behinds his hand sought evidence, testing.
“Separate your legs properly and keep them apart. Do not protest. Forget modesty,” Lilith’s instruction was faintly bored.