It was only when they reached up to touch her that Vicky saw the little silver knives in their hands, and she wriggled helplessly, her head twisting to watch the blades.
With expert economical movements the two women slit the fabric of Vicky's clothing, from the yoke of her blouse at the throat, down in a single stroke to the hem of her skirt, and the dress fell away like an autumn leaf, and dropped into the mud below her.
Ras Kullah clapped his hands with glee, and the dense pack of dark bodies swayed and growled, pressing a little closer.
With the same unhurried knife strokes, the sheer silk of Vicky's underwear was cut away and discarded, and she hung there naked and vulnerable, unable to cover her pale smooth body, with the long finely sculptured limbs spread and pinioned.
She dropped her head forward so that the golden hair fell forward and covered her face.
One of the Galla women moved around until she faced Vicky directly. She reached out with the little silver knife and touched the point to the white skin just below the base of her throat where a pulse beat visibly like a tiny trapped animal, and slowly, achingly slowly, she drew the blade downwards.
Vicky's whole body convulsed, every limb stiffened and her back arched rigidly so that the shape of the muscle stood out clearly beneath the smooth unblemished skin.
Her head flew back, her eyes wide and staring, her mouth gaping open and she screamed.
The woman drew the knife on downwards, between the tense straining breasts. The white skin opened to the shallow carefully controlled razor point, and a vivid scarlet line marked the slow track of the blade as it moved on inexorably downwards.
The voice of the crowd rose, a gathering roar like the sound of a storm wind coming from afar, and Ras Kullah leaned forward on his cushions.
His eyes shone and the wet pink lips were parted.
Two things happened simultaneously. From the darkness beyond the station buildings, Priscilla the Pig burst out into the torch-lit area.
Up until that moment when Jake Barton thrust down fully on the throttle, the gentle hum of the engine had been drowned by the animal roar of the crowd.
The heavy steel hull, driven by the full thrust of the old Bentley engine, ploughed into the crowd and went through it like a combine harvester through a field of standing wheat. Without any slackening of speed, it tore a pathway through the dense pack, directly towards the clearing where Vicky hung on the tripod of lances.
At the same moment, Gareth Swales stepped out of the black oblong of the warehouse door, directly behind where Ras Kullah sat.
He had the Italian rifle over the crook of his injured arm, and he fired without lifting the butt to his shoulder.
The bullet smashed into the elbow of the Galla woman's knife arm, and the arm snapped like a twig, the knife flew from the nerveless fingers and the woman shrieked and collapsed into the mud at Vicky's feet.
The second woman swirled, her right hand drew back like the head of a striking adder, and she aimed the knife blade at Vicky's soft white stomach; as she began the stroke that would plunge it hilt-deep, Gareth moved the rifle muzzle fractionally and fired again.
The heavy bullet caught the woman in the exact centre of her golden forehead. The black hole -appeared there like a third empty eye socket, and her head snapped backwards as though from a heavy blow.
As she went down, Gareth worked the bolt of the rifle and dropped the muzzle, again only fractionally, but as Ras Kullah twisted around desperately on his cushions, his mouth wide open and a gurgling cry keening from the thick wet lips, the muzzle of the rifle was aimed directly into the pink pit of his throat and Gareth fired the third shot. It shattered the front teeth in Ras Kullah's upper jaw, before plunging on into his throat and then exiting through the back of the neck. The Ras went over backwards, and flapped and jumped like a maimed frog.
Garet stepped over him, and jumped down lightly into the yard. A Galla rushed at him with a broadsword held high above his head. Gareth fired again without lifting the rifle, stepped over the body and reached Vicky's side just as Jake Barton swung the car to a skidding halt next to them and tumbled out of the driver's hatch with a Harari dagger in his hand.
In the turret above them, Sara fired the Vickers in a long continuous blast, swinging it back and forth in its limited traverse and the Galla crowd scattered panic-stricken into the night.
Jake slashed the thongs that held Vicky suspended and she fell forward into his arms.
Gareth stooped and gathered Vicky's torn clothing out of the mud and bundled it under his injured armpit.
"Shall we move on now, old son?" he asked Jake genially.
"I think the fun is over," and between them they lifted Vicky up the side of the hull.
The drums brought Count Aldo Belli out of a troubled dream-plagued sleep and he sat bolt upright from his hard couch on the floorboards of the hull, with his eyes wide and staring, and -fumbled frantically for his pistol.
"Gino!" he shouted. "Gino!" and there was no reply. Only that terrible rhythm in the night, pounding against his head so that he thought it might drive him mad. He tried to close his ears, pressing the palms of his hands to them, but the sound came through, like a gigantic pulse, the heartbeat of this cruel and savage land.
He could bear it no longer, and he crawled up inside the hull until he reached the rear hatch of the tank, and thrust his head out.
"Gino!" He was answered instantly. The little sergeant's head popped up from where he had been cowering in his blankets on the rocky ground between the steel tracks. The Count could hear his teeth clattering in his skull like typewriter keys.
"Send the driver to fetch Major Castelani, immediately."
"Immediately." Gino's head disappeared, and a few moments later appeared again so abruptly that the Count let out a startled cry and pointed the loaded pistol between his eyes.
"Excellency,"squawked Gino.
"Idiot," snarled the Count, his voice husky with terror. "I could have killed you, don't you realize I have the reactions of a leopard?"
"Excellency, may I enter the machine?".
Aldo Belli thought about the request for a moment, and then enjoyed a perverse pleasure in refusing.
"Make me a cup of coffee," he ordered, but when it came he found that the incessant cacophony of drums that filled his head had worked on his nerves to the point where he could not hold the mug steady, and the rim rattled against his teeth.
"Goat's urine!" snapped the Count, hoping that Gino had not noticed the unsteady hand. "You are trying to poison me," he accused and tossed the steaming liquid over the side, and at that moment the stocky figure of the Major loomed out of the darkness of the gorge.
"The men are standing to, Colonel he growled. "In another fifteen minutes it will be light enough-" "Good. Good." The Count cut him short. "I have decided that I should return immediately to headquarters. General Badoglio will expect me-" "Excellent Colonel," the Major interrupted in his turn. "I have received intelligence that large bands of the enemy have infiltrated our lines, and are operating in the rear areas.
There is a good chance you might be able to bring them to account."
Castelani, by this time, knew his man intimately.
"Of course, with the small escort that can be spared, it will be a desperate business."
"On the other hand, the Count mused aloud, "I
wonder if my heart does not lie here with my boys? There comes a time when a warrior must trust his heart rather than his head and I warn you, Castellani, my fighting blood is aroused."
"Indeed, Colonel."