Spoils of War by Jack Norman

EXTRACT

 

Rebecca estimated that there were thirty or forty young women milling about in the circular well of the large bowl of an amphitheatre. They were all naked and confused, and guarded by black men who were clad only in blue loincloths. There were some sinister slavers there too, keeping a watchful eye, clad in their sleeveless leather waistcoats and short blue and gold tabards. Many of the women crossed their arms over their bodies in vain efforts to shield their nudity. Rebecca had long given up on that.

She had already been in the arena for two hours or more. Only a few of the other women were already assembled there when the slavers' men had brought Rebecca in and stripped and marked her. It was a long, bewildering wait, and for what? God help me! The terror of battle, the siege and the bombardment had been bad enough. Now this, spoils of war.

More young women kept arriving. Often they came in small batches and at other times in ones and twos or threes. Men kept bringing them in, running them into the room, just as they had run Rebecca. All of the captives arrived breathless, plainly scared out of their wits. Many of them wept and sobbed. Some had been badly treated, judging by their unkempt state and torn clothing. Most, though, were simply in shock. The new arrivals usually stared in horror at the naked women already assembled there, walking like a docile herd, breasts bobbing fluidly and buttocks swaying. A few new arrivals wailed when they too were stripped and marked, but most accepted it resignedly and joined the enforced slow promenade, walking aimlessly back and forth, round and round.

'Walk! Silence! No talking!'

Rebecca understood enough of the language to know those words, repeatedly snarled by the guards in heavy accents.

No words of explanation then.

Walk. Silence. No talking. That was all.

None of the women needed telling twice, yet they were told over and over again. It kept them quiet for the most part, except for the sobs and the occasional wail, and it kept them moving in the large circular arena. Rebecca walked aimlessly along with all the other women, milling about, casting wild glances at each other as they wove in and out, sometimes abruptly changing course, trying to avoid passing close to the black men who strode or stood imperiously in their midst. The loins of most of the women were furred with hair, some abundantly so. Rebecca, though, was completely shaved there; it was a daily habit she had continued from her usual Earth toilet regime. She had never even considered what the women of Waters Meet practised in this respect, but it was now evident that they went au natural. Rebecca was aware that the smooth slit of her own plump sex lips attracted the curious eyes of the other women.

Julia, her friend from Utah - the only other American there - had a full bush too. When they had brought Julia in, Rebecca had been astonished to see that the usually reserved and religious young woman had stripped herself eagerly, without any force from the guards. Julia had been wearing a strange, all-in-one undergarment under her long gown, akin to a white swimsuit but with short capped sleeves and fitted to the legs down to the knees. She had torn this garment away with particular relish, it seemed to Rebecca. Then Julia had jumped to present her pert right breast for marking, before walking calmly into the arena, stark naked and displaying the luxuriant dark bush at her loins.

Rebecca had only caught glimpses of Julia since and resolved to keep her distance, anyway. It would have been too difficult to keep silent....

As Rebecca walked, her mind raced over recent events. The citizens of Waters Meet had been tense for weeks. News of the approaching army had been rife, not that Abramo had told her. There were precious few others she could converse with either. Eventually, she had sought out Julia. Julia, a young Mormon woman with a degree in anthropology and linguistics from Utah State University, had been working on the anthropology project in the city for much longer than herself, and she spoke the language fluently. Only then had Rebecca discovered the awful truth.

The sophisticated, civilised and altruistic Antrabon royal dynasty, hosts and protectors for the project, were at war. Indeed, they had been at war for years, but nothing had come of it except for the occasional border skirmishes. Now though, an army of confederated states from the barbarous Dark Continent were on the march. City after city had fallen already. The tide of invaders was sweeping across the country. Now they were approaching the capital. By the time Rebecca found that out, it had been too late to leave and the city was encircled. Julia said it was rumoured that the King had fled, leaving his family behind.

'Walk! Silence! No talking!'

A whip cracked and a woman screeched somewhere across the arena, which was something like a large circus-ring. As Rebecca aimlessly meandered in and out of the other naked women, her eye kept returning to the glyph that had been drawn on her right breast in thick black grease-paint. Her breasts bobbed fluidly with each step, and the mark repeatedly caught her eye. What did it mean? She didn't recognise the strange mark. A number, perhaps? All of the other women in the bizarre promenade bore a black mark too, daubed thickly above the areola of their right nipples. The marks all seemed to be subtly different.

The glyph had been placed on Rebecca when they stripped her. One man had held her shoulders from behind while another cupped her right breast. His hand, clad in fingerless gloves of smooth leather, had squeezed her breast flesh to plump it up. He had used a crayon-like stick to inscribe the mark just above the brown halo of her nipple. After that, her bottom was sharply smacked to send her scurrying into the arena.

'Walk! Silence! No talking!'

Rebecca tried to make sense of everything. While the city was under siege, the slavers had begun to arrive like vultures gathering for a meal. They must have been on friendly terms with the invaders for, unlike most other people, they had no trouble getting into the city. They seemed to come and go as they liked, in fact, presumably with the blessing of the King's City Administrator and High Council too. None of the King's Guard seemed to bother them.

Abramo had pointed out the slavers as they sat in groups in the shade of tavern verandahs, or as they strolled the streets in twos and threes. They wore leather waistcoats and were otherwise shirtless, and their bare arms were adorned with heavy arm bracelets. Their tabards were little more than blue neck scarves, with a bold gold squiggle on the short bib at the front. They had kept their own company. Nobody wanted to mix with them. Their eyes had seemed to be everywhere, particularly when younger women of the city were passing. More than once, Rebecca had experienced an uncomfortable feeling that she was being coldly assessed, stripped by their frank and unhurried stares. She had told Abramo as much, and he had nodded without comment.

Once, though, when she had gotten too close to a slaver, Abramo had intervened. The slaver reminded her of a Mongolian from Earth: short, squat, yellow-skinned, with a wispy beard and straggly moustache. This stocky, bow-legged slaver had gripped her wrist tightly and then had the temerity to hold her at arms length as his slanted eyes flitted over her from head to foot. There was little for him to see, given the all-enveloping style of women's dresses in Waters Meet, but Rebecca had felt utterly helplessness and terrified in the man's grasp. It was his blatant, cool assessment that scared her most. Fortunately, Abramo had been nearby and he had spoken to the slaver. Even so, the odious man had released his grip on her wrist only after a lengthy exchange with Abramo, and Rebecca had understood none of it. Then, at Abramo's bidding, she had been glad to flee back to her quarters above the City Library, running breathlessly, leaving them to it, still in conversation.

'Rebecca!' a woman hissed.

She recognised the American accent immediately. It was Julia, the bright and cheerful girl from Wisconsin who had been working on the project for months. Julia obviously deemed it safe to speak.

'What's happening to us?' Rebecca whispered.

'Slavers! The Tribute-'

Julia's words were cut off abruptly when she squealed in pain and her whole body jerked as a leather strap wrapped around her buttocks. She skipped away from the near naked black man in the blue loincloth who was wielding the broad lash.

The man raised his whip threateningly at Rebecca. 'Walk! Silence!'

Rebecca turned on her heel and walked in the opposite direction. These men, the ones in blue loincloths, seemed to belong to the slavers. Even as the city fell, a group of them had come for her. That was no random snatch in the mayhem of a battle. They had known precisely who they wanted and where to find her.

Now they had her. It seemed that she had been reduced to the status of a naked slave. Abramo, her protector, was probably dead.

She kept glancing up at the rows of seats that stretched up on every side of the arena. It was a large theatre in the round with the central arena sunk at the centre. Other men were gathering in the tiers of seats. Soldiers, mostly. Their full tabards marked them as such. Bearded and rough. They had the look of men who hadn't slept. Wild men. Strong. Unforgiving. That's what they everyone said about men of this army and they certainly looked it. These battle-weary warriors were taking their places in the serried rows of seats. They sauntered in, paused to look down at the naked women, and then strolled on to find a seat. There were some men of a different class there too: robed and imperious, clean and fastidious, and they kept their distance from the common soldiery, sitting in small knots in the front rows.

'Run!'

What? This was a new command. Rebecca hesitated.

A whip cracked and a woman squealed in pain.

'Run!'

This time the whole mass of women broke into a clumsy jog. Rebecca had no option but to do the same. Run to where? There was little room to run, even though the circular stage was large. More whips cracked and more women screamed. The women and girls clumsily bumped and banged against each other, soft flesh pressing against soft flesh, as they tried to escape the lashes.

A blonde girl with large swaying breasts, running towards Rebecca, suddenly leapt and shrieked as a broad blade of black leather curled round her buttocks. Rebecca darted away from the whip. She kept trying to catch sight of Julia in the seething mass of naked flesh, but it was like an ever-changing kaleidoscope of breasts and buttocks and swishing hair as the women darted this way and that to avoid the whips.

Presently, though, a pattern emerged. The guards stood in the centre of the ring, wielding their long whips. Rebecca tried to keep back from the stinging lashes, as did all the other women. Anxious to avoid those spiteful whips, the stumbling women naturally gravitated to the perimeter of the circular arena, as if by centrifugal force. Most of them ran clockwise, like exotic circus ponies, and those who didn't soon turned tail to avoid being buffeted and sent stumbling towards the lashes. The centre of the arena gradually cleared, and the women ran three or four deep around its edge. Breasts bobbed in unison with every step.

Rebecca jogged amidst a small huddle of young women, trying to be anonymous. She ran round and round the small circuit, counting each lap at first and then just running.

Each time she passed the entrance tunnel, Rebecca considered breaking off and making a dash for freedom. The tunnel was well-guarded though. Besides, being naked and helpless and without the language, where could she go? So she ran on. Her breathing was becoming ragged and her bouncing breasts were beginning to ache. The cracking whips kept them running at a steady pace.

Even now, slavers were whipping more women into the arena to join the circling herd. The vast auditorium was filling too. It had become a sea of faces. There was a low buzz of male conversation in the air, and the occasional guffaw. Rebecca could smell the caramel stench of human flesh. The soldiers had had little time for bathing those past few days. She was sweating herself.

'Faster!'

The rhythm of the whips increased. Faster! Faster! Faster still! Soon Rebecca was galloping around the arena, tits flapping.

Was this to be it then? Were they to be sold or apportioned off to the clamorous mob of victorious soldiery? She wanted to tell them somehow that she didn't belong here. She was not of this world.