A Rebel In Chains

You're blindfolded, but all your other senses are making up for it. You can hear the roar of the crowd in the middle distance, and smell the sweat and the wine and the crushed flowers. Everything hurts. Your knees, bare on the hardwood floor of the chariot. Your wrists and ankles, chafed by the cruel iron manacles. Your lips, crushed and bruised by tight hard leather. And your head, still aching from the gauntleted backhand which left you dazed and helpless at the climax of the battle, and led directly to your capture.

So much regret. So much shame.

You had the numbers. Your rebel army, drawn by your charisma and growing martial reputation, outnumbered the garrison by at least two thousand. Your men were fresher, and better fed, and fighting for a commander they truly believed in. The victory was yours for the taking. But the general outmanoeuvred you, overwhelmed your vanguard with light cavalry, and personally captured you. And when they saw you were taken, the rest of your army lost heart and surrendered.

You groan quietly.

"Silence, prisoner."

After months of campaigning it feels wrong to be out of your armour. But the general, laughing, said you had no business wearing it. After the battle was over he had you washed, dressed in what he called "more becoming" garments of silk and satin, and brought to his tent for an evening of one-sided conversation. It's strange how clothing can change so completely the way you feel about yourself. In your girlish finery you feel more like a captured princess than a defeated rebel commander.

The sound changes as the crowd sees your chariot approaching. The general removes the blindfold and you blink feebly into the unaccustomed light. He's smiling down at you.

"They're calling for you. They want to see you."

You mewl through the gag, pleading for mercy. You don't want to be seen like this. Anything would be better than such public humiliation. But he is in no mood to be merciful, and takes a firmer grip on the chain connected to your heavy iron collar. Pulling it upwards. Forcing you to lift your chin, kneel up obediently in your chains.

The crowd spots you and the roars turn to delighted jeers. The general waves to his adoring public.

"The rebellion is over," he declaims, "and the chief rebel comes before you today. Behold their mighty leader, their greatest warrior, defeated and humbled, collared and leashed, chained and muzzled. On her knees, where she belongs."

He lifts the chain still higher and you are forced to rise up, back arched awkwardly, and gaze out at the throng, who laugh and applaud. You blush, fighting back the tears. Humiliation overwhelms you. To be so demeaned. To be so reduced: from a hardened soldier, a respected adversary, to a decorative prisoner in chains. A pretty, helpless slavegirl.

"Plmnphm. Hnfm mmrcm!"

The crowd only laugh the louder when you mewl through your gag. They love the gratuitous humiliation of it - for who is there left to rescue you? Who would come and free you if only you could call for help? What possible reason did he have to strap that cruel muzzle over your lips, other than to put you firmly in your place? You may not speak, prisoner, the gag says. You exist now only to be displayed.

"This is how rebellion ends," the general continues. "Gaze at this humbled damsel and see the fate awaiting all who oppose their rightful ruler. Defeat, humiliation, and captivity. Isn't that right, wench?"

The gloating, the jeering. It's all too much to bear. You drop your eyes, cheeks burning, and wish with all your heart to be anywhere else. But it no longer matters what you think. You're not giving the orders any more. You're a captive, and nothing more.

And you'd better get used to those chains.

FIN