Kuryakin had a small bowl of couscous shoved into his hand; he dug his fingers into the sticky semolina, scooping up greedily into his mouth, though he paused at first to at least savor the somewhat bland flavor of this meal before wolfing the rest of it down; licking the bowl, then his fingers for every last morsel. Then he quenched his thirst from another bowl filled with water that had been set beside him. The water at least gave his belly a feeling of being full for the moment.
He watched as the people chained around him were lead off to the main square, sometimes one at a time, or in groups of two to three taken to be paraded around before the potential buyers.
Once they had been viewed by the crowds that had gathered, the bidding commenced as the victims were chained to a platform in the center of the square. The interested parties would approach to view each offering, mostly women of varying ages and appearance.
They were pawed and touched with a rude familiarity as the buyers stuck their fingers into the mouths, checking the teeth, pulling away at the clothing sometimes taking it off completely as they examined the woman's breasts and the width of her hips.
Then each woman's chin would be lifted as a series of questions were asked of her, though no one could hear them, nor the answers. Some of the women cried, some cried out only to have their faces slapped into silence.
But most of the slave's faces were filled with a sense of resignation or indifference as they had surrendered themselves to their fate. Few offered resistance and when they did it was met with the sting of the auctioneer's whip on their backs.
A group of young girls were the next to be taken out; the humiliation evident on their faces as they were stripped this time and groped.
While the women were of all colors, shapes and sizes and ages, there was one particular golden haired beauty purchased for quite a high price of thirty Moroccan francs by a representative of a well dressed wealthy man who sat in a shaded sedan chair. It was covered in saffron colored cloth offering shade to him as he signalled his instructions to his man.
Illya watched as the girl was lead away by a rope tied to her hands like a wide-eyed child, though the heavy iron collar had been removed from her graceful neck.
Then it was finally the Russian's turn along with the two burly Thrush men. They were among the few males to be auctioned today, and with the exception of the blond girl, the only white people as all the others were either of Nubian, Arabic or Spanish extraction.
They were paraded as the others had been before them, but Illya tried showing a little resistance, as standing next to the larger men made him look rather puny. He was shoved along, and while being pushed he spotted the homing disc in the sand. He staggered, pretending to fall then barely grabbed it with his fingers as he was pulled to his feet.
He held onto it, filled with a sense of triumph that he had the luck to find it, wondering what were the odds.
"Who cared...odds?" Illya chided himself; all that mattered was that he had the disc as he squeezed it tightly in the palm of his hand.
Illya, Marv and the other unnamed Thrushie were lead to the platform and stripped of their robes, and immediately a murmur went up among the crowd as the two men beside the Russian were quite muscular.
The were all ordered to kneel as the cursory examinations began and as one potential buyer bent over fondling him, Illya resisted with a head butt.
The auctioneer brought his whip down on the Russian's pale back, this time a few of the lashes breaking the skin, and though in pain; he continued to stare at the auctioneer with a look of defiance in his blue eyes.
The bidding commenced immediately, as the auctioneer called out each subsequent price and the numbers climbed for the offers on the two men but not for the skinny blond slave.
Illya could hear some comments in the crowd regarding his scars, murmuring the supposition that he was a slave who was a trouble maker and hard to control. That did not bode well for him being sold to a wealthy buyer.
The final bids were made, money bags changed hands and the Thrush men were taken away with their heads bowed, lead by their chains with their new masters, leaving Illya Kuryakin alone on the platform.
The auctioneer called out to the crowd, trying to cajole someone into buying the man, citing the beauty of his golden hair and his eyes the color of the sky. Not saying it blatantly, but hinting that someone who liked boys would surely enjoy the company of the small blond slave.
He could see the resignation in the auctioneer's eyes as the man reached for the dagger in his belt; preparing to slit the throat of this worthless merchandise. No one wanted to buy the Russian.
A sense of panic filled Illya, that was when he decided to speak up, trying to goad someone into buying him, He called out in Arabic, French, German, Russian, saying that he was clever and spoke many languages and that he could read and write in all of them. He could be valuable as a translator for business transactions with any infidel and that he could help make his master a very rich man as he was also wise with numbers and money.
The auctioneer stopped, standing in awe of a slave who would do such a thing. This he had never seen before, and decided to sheathe his knife, watching how this would unfold.
A man approached Kuryakin, pulling his chin up roughly. "How many languages do you speak?
"At last count fifteen, more if you count some of the varying dialects," he answered in Arabic.
The man continued to question him, asking him to add numbers in his head, throwing a few more questions at him in Italian and Spanish, to which Illya responded correctly in kind.
"You bear many scars, are you a bad slave along with being a bold liar?"
"I was considered a warrior in my country, and received my scars in battle and as you can see I survived," Illya answered with a crooked smile.
The man laughed. "You a warrior ha! An intellectual I could believe! But you are a bold and clever one, I'll give you that much. Twenty darahim!" the man called out.
Someone else took the bait following suit, raising their hand calling out another bid, followed by another and another... thirty darahim, then forty, then finally the bidding worked it's way up to a hundred darahim. A small fortune by most standards was finally settled upon for one small skinny slave who had the audacity to sell himself.
Illya watched as the price was paid, then a bag filled with a larger sum of money was handed to the auctioneer as a familiar dark wooden box was passed to the the man sitting in the dark blue sedan chair. That was an unexpected bonus to the Russian as he had assumed the diamonds had been lost.
This added a small complication to his hopes for escape, as it meant that he still had part of his mission to accomplish, as his retrieval of the diamonds would ensure they would not make it into the hands of Thrush.
Illya hoped that Napoleon was alright, and had managed to find the lab; completing its destruction as he had been unable to. And he hoped that his partner was able to pick up the signal from the homing device.
That was a lot of hopes for one usually pessimistic Russian.
He was lead from the platform, orderd to sit beside his so called master, the man in the blue sedan chair in the full sun and not on the shady side, that would have been within his view. And the one thing the master did not want was to look at his latest filthy, half naked acquisition.
Illya watched the scene on the auction block repeat itself over and over until all those who had been chained to the inner walsl were now sold, or had their throats slit. He could not understand why those who had been unsaleable were not just set free.
Watching the senseless execution of innocents who had gotten themselves caught in the nets of slavers hung over his heart like a pall. He had always tried to avoid the involvement of such guiltless people in his own work, though sometimes he failed. But it was never deliberate...not like this.
Finally when the master's last purchases had been made, his new slaves where kicked into rising to their feet. They were all tired, and suffering from thirst but were given nothing.
"Yalla!" The guards shouted at them, seven people sold into slavery. One Nubian woman, the rest men... four Arabs, one light skinned Spaniard and one very pale blond Russian U.N.C.L.E. agent.
Like the others before them, they were lead away by the chains attached to their rough iron collars, following behind their new master being carried most regally in his sedan chair.
The streets in this part of the city were almost hypnotic to the tired and hungry Russian, the buzz of the thronging crowds squeezed into the narrow streets, the riot of colors, smells and sounds surrounded him. It was almost like skirting the edge of a very private ritual as he drifted into a daze.
As they exited the square, Jemaa el Fna, meaning assembly of the dead, where executions once took place back in the 13th century. They continued past the outer walls that were lined with stalls and their merchants hawking their own wares, seemingly oblivious to the sale of human flesh withing the inner square.
The slaves walked slowly behind the master's sedan; bombarded with street entertainers, acrobats and musicians all taking what seemed to be their accustomed places. All hoping to catch the generous eye of some wealthy passerby, such as Illya's new master.
There were monkeys leaping, snakes hissing, drums pounding in the cacophony of life. The scent of cooking food from the dozens of sellers offering anything from goat's head soup to fried testicles assaulting the hungry slave's senses. Illya tried to turn off those senses, focusing on just putting one foot in front of the other, keeping himself moving forward.
As the sun began to set small gaslights swaying from their hooks on the walls enhanced an almost ethereal atmosphere as dancers and musicians came into their own, as they were surrounded by small groups of onlookers as they performed.
Once away from the sights and sounds of the the Kasbah, they reached a much wider and passable street where they stopped and Illya watched in amazement as the master stepped from his sedan chair, climbing into a 1959 white Rolls Royce Phantom V.
Kuryakin and the other slaves were loaded into the back of a Bedford RL diesel powered lorry, sitting there together in silence, most of them just staring down at their feet, not wishing to look at each other as the heard the sound of iron locks clicking into place.
Who ever this master was, it was obvious that he had money and lots of it. The Russian knew that in order to effect his escape; he would have to gain the man's trust. That would take time, but that was a commodity that he could least afford, as the longer he stayed in bondage, the greater the possibility that it could become permanent. He had to somehow work his way into this master's confidence quickly, that at least allowing him to find out where the diamonds would be kept. Once he found them, he would escape. He had to believe that.
If Napoleon, like the Amerikansii Cavlary arrived in the nick of time, the the escape would become a rescue. Either way, it did not matter as long as it happened soon so he would regain his freedom with those dangerous diamonds in his possession.
He could not assume that his partner would be able to find him. The homing disc had it's limitations, even though he knew that Napoleon had a more powerful tracking unit in their jeep; it too could only track a signal so far.
The lorry finally pulled to a halt as the last rays of the sun bathed the line of the Atlas mountains in purple, though they were still far in the distance. The shrieking cry of swallows filled the air as they prepared to nest.
It was time for evening prayers, and those who were Muslim were taken from the back of the truck, given crude mats to kneel upon as they bowed with reverence facing Mecca; Illya found this a surprising consideration given to slaves, making him wonder what kind of man this master was?