When it ended she was not released. True, there was brandy, held to her dry lips by an adoring Assad. Thoughtful hands released enough of the tension on her arms so that her heels could rest upon the planks. The President’s Mistress smiled her gratitude. She knew herself too potent an exhibit to quickly discard. Her wealed skin would make a fine backdrop for the inevitable speeches. Breathing heavily but thankfully in an aftermath of infinite relief she leaned against the rope by which her arms were still suspended and listened, absently, to the flow of rhetoric.
Trudy listened too! So did W.O. Ringbolt. So also did Moghata! Listened not to a speech but to a rousing declaration of retribution by a ruler deeply affronted by injustice. The President’s Guard of Khalief Abhad had been stripped naked in this Square! In this Square they had been chained and forced to watch the burning of their uniforms. In this Square they had been sold into slavery . . . !
Khalief Abhad was enjoying his own thunder. So was Caroline. So was Trudy and the Troop. The citizens of Moghata were dubious. Their dubiety was justified by the final thunderclap. The President was in excellent voice:
“Retribution! . . . Justice . . . An eye for an eye! A bitter shame Moghata must erase by sacrifice . . . !” Within the next twenty minutes the twenty most pulchritudinous maidens of the town would render themselves naked to his authority within this Square.
The silence was electric. The President allowed just enough for a proper effect before explaining, casually, his confidence the good and loyal people of Moghata would prefer this relatively trivial tribute to the burning of their town and the bulldozing of its ashes.
Caroline watched breathlessly, the scorching excoriations on her skin almost forgotten in the drama of the moment. The Troop envied her the vantage of her view. The townsfolk looked at each other askance. Sundry damsels who, a few minutes previously, had been enthusiastic applauders of Caroline’s penance began a prudent shuffle to the rear. A retreat ruthlessly terminated by the firm clutch of a parental hand. A girl was just a girl, but a house or a shop was something else again! In Moghata it had suddenly become a bad day for daughters.
Not all the maids were modest. One superbly endowed young woman strode arrogantly forward. Declaimed in ringing tones: “Long live Nicholas Nykobe!” Threw aside her garments as though their touch offended. Then, disdainfully, offered her hands to the closest soldier to be hound, her whole bearing proclaiming scorn as they were handcuffed behind her back.
Several others followed her example, noble in their Cause. They stood, breasts heaving, heads high as their wrists were locked. For a little while they would bask in glory: and there was always the possibility the President would admire their breasts and wish to examine them personally. They kept their feet nicely apart to obstruct no view, looking jealously at each other’s pubic bush.
But their number was few! After a dragging lapse of minutes, middle-aged matrons broke ranks and delivered to the military a trickle of damsels who had to be physically pulled into a prominence they did not desire. Firm fingers on reluctant arms made it clear which way a daughter’s duty lay. The daughters wept to no avail and eyed the Army’s rampant cocks, clearly visible beneath military pants, with apprehension. Mothers walked back with the coverings of chastity over one arm whilst she who had worn them tearfully positioned her arms for the handcuffs. When the supply of metal restraints gave out, the soldiers resorted to rope and laughed enjoyably at the feminine protests as they tied the knots: “Please, suh, not so tight,” or, “That’s hurting me, you dumb ox!” and the inevitable. “Yo’ don’ need to tie me. I promise I be good.”
The stretching out of the length of the coffle chain and its metal collars caused sensation. The completed assembly of twenty youthful females eyed it with disfavour. Some struggled uselessly as the collar was raised to their neck. Others accepted the metal band without demur, their spirits already passive from the clutch of cuffs upon their wrists and an awareness of vulnerability. The soldiers’ hands left no fur unfelt! It took several of them to subdue the more militant adherents to the Cause while her throat was circled and locked and the trailing links joined her to her sisters in ignominy. When the order to bend and protrude their bottoms was fully digested there was a further fracas with the recalcitrants: a problem easily dealt with by whipping whatever portions of their person they exposed until their bottom was bent and shining with the rest. The twenty proffered posteriors was an impressive sight. The President of Zindawba was an opportunist.
He announced resoundingly that since a white woman had given her all for the Republic he could do no less. Warm as the day might be, he himself would personally thrash the twenty naked bottoms of a delinquent town. He would use the ignoble cane, as had been done to the members of his Guard, and would deliver the same number of strokes. Failure to hold still for the honour of his attention would earn a flogging.
It might be said that never had so many winced so well. The recipients of the strokes winced, their families winced for them, the Troop winced in bitter sympathy, and Caroline winced as the cane buried itself in young and girlish flesh with an outrageous splat. Tears flowed freely and feminine exclamations of dolor were loud and varied. Only the most hardy and optimistic damsels spread their legs and thrust back with their pudendums in the hope their pouting labia might spark an executive interest in what they had to offer.
But the biggest sensation was yet to come. The President, only mildly sweating after his exertions, resumed the platform and explained that since his Guard had been sold into slavery and the money received by unworthy members of the Republic, an obligation upon the nation remained unfulfilled. Zindawba believed in trade. It believed in trust. Its reputation for integrity must remain unsullied by default. Restitution was imperative, its means were obvious . . . !
The Troop’s heart bled for the surrogate twenty.
The twenty themselves shuffled and clinked their chains and snubbed each other’s necks until they desisted in a dolorous recognition of impotence. Tears flowed afresh. Caroline looked down in pity and wondered what their slavery would be.
Mr. Saud glowed. His relief was obvious, his gratitude effusive. Shaking the Presidential hand upon the platform he spoke glowingly of the New Republic and its ruler. He lied colourfully as to his conviction that his investment in Zindawban damsels would not be forfeit to the fortunes of war. He assured concerned parents of their daughters’ prospects in their new life. Each would achieve a bliss beyond the capacity of Moghata to bestow. Their brief discomfort in the coffle was but a conditioning prelude to glory . . .
Mr. Saud even got his truck back. The twenty hostages to a rebel Cause were loaded therein to the chime of chains, and Mr. Saud and his entourage departed in a cloud of dust. The President’s Brass Band played the Zindawban national anthem with elan.
11
Slave Girls in Penitence
Flexing against the discomfort of hands bound behind her back, Trudy Ramsay recalled the words of a fictional character, uttered in disgust to the effect. “The Law is an Ass!” She recalled references to the blindness of Justice, and an abstruse affirmation that “Justice must always SEEM to be done!” She sympathised with all of them. Particularly she sympathised with herself. When the Court asked her how she pleaded, she said she was sorry but she didn’t know. She wanted to cry but would not disgrace the Troop.