“I’m Porphyro, and she’s my Madeline,” Meg cried.
“Do her, do her,” everyone chanted.
“Up the bum, up the bum,” Di called out.
No one was paying attention to Fiamma’s face.
In the blinding white light she lay on the marble tomb, our victim, bound hands and feet, as on an altar, with the priestess, Ann, brandishing her book, watching what was happening, the slaves gathered around the victim, leaning over her, the rest of us, inserting whatever came to hand – it was mainly sticks, though Lizzie, who was always more elegant than the rest, had found the stem of a wild rose – into Fiamma’s behind. One by one we thrust something hard and sharp into her tight, child’s orifices, while she gagged and tried to scream.