Some work in progress

Eventually, she’d managed to acquire all the things she’d been asked to buy and, basket laden, she made her way back towards the mansion and whatever fate would befall her.

She was still within the precinct of the market when she spotted the soldiers, about ten of them and in their midst a tall negro, with his hands bound behind his back. They were pushing and shoving him forward. Many people stopped to watch. Tamarr knew what was coming. A public punishment. She wondered what he’d done to deserve such a thing.

All around her the crowd surged to see the spectacle. There was no question of her getting away as she was wedged firmly, her basket pressing uncomfortably into her bosom. She tried to shift it only to make matters worse.

The soldiers stopped at a post that had been erected as a stake to tie convicts where they could be lashed, or worse. One of them untied their prisoner and retied his hands to a ring set in the wood for that purpose.

One of the soldiers, better dressed than the others, addressed the crowd. “See today what befalls any slave who dare strike his master.” He turned away and motioned to another soldier. “Proceed.”

The man took a whip from his belt and whisked it around in the air making it snap. Then with a swing of his arm, the whip flashed across the negro’s back. In response, he groaned loudly. Tamarr noticed where the whip had flayed the man’s flesh blood was already welling up.

The whip snapped again. And again.

Tamarr could barely bring herself to look at the savagery. She closed her eyes. It was then she heard the murmur from those around her. One voice muttered, “This is Buneb’s doing. When Nefertiti ruled, she’d never have permitted this.” Another one answered, “Keep your voice down, you don’t know who’s listening.” But the first voice reposted, “Why do we put up with this?”

Tamarr opened her eyes and tried to spot who’d spoken. But she couldn’t without turning her head and giving away that she’d eavesdropped on their conversation. And what then?

The whipping eventually ceased. The prisoner had collapsed, his back a mass of torn flesh. Blood flowed freely from it, big drops falling into the dirt to colour it red. Two soldiers untied him and dragged him away.

The spectacle over, the crowd began to break up as people went about their business. Tamarr found she could move. She shuffled between the moving mass of people, using her basket as a shield to prod a path through the throng.

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Arma Ultimatus final cover