Historically, this sort of thing was said to have happened a few times, in Arab countries, when some army was in dire straits; an example was made in order to inspire the troops. How well it worked isn't really addressed.
I didn't really know what to expect when the Emir told me he had something he wanted me to witness; and I still didn't really understand when two of his servants entered the hall holding a truly beautiful young girl, unveiled, dressed in the almost-transparent silks of the harems, by her arms. She came along with them willingly enough, but she stumbled occasionally. As they drew close, she looked up at me with a trace of curiosity in her huge dark eyes. She looked as if she was about to fall asleep--it seemed obvious enough to me that she'd been drugged. The men led her on until they stood on the circular floor in front of the Emir's throne. There they stopped, and one of the Emir's personal attendants stepped up in front of them. He glanced at the Emir; the ruler nodded.
With quick movements, the man stripped the girl down as far as her waist. Her breasts, though rather large, were firm and high. She glanced down at her bare chest, then lifted her head with an effort. Her long dark hair spilled over her shoulders, tangling slightly.
"She is the loveliest in the seraglio," the Emir said. His voice was soft, tender. "The best, the most beautiful; she is innocent of all crimes, she is, in truth, my favorite." As the girl smiled slightly at his words, he looked around at the assembled members of his elite guard, who stood in two lines on one side of the spacious hall. "But we are about to go into battle. In battle, those who are our favorites, those who are our brothers, our friends, are killed; we must not let that sway us, we must push ever on. Even when one of our favorites, like Ayesha here, dies. This she knows; this you should know as well." He lowered his voice. "This you should see..."
Having finished his speech, the Emir nodded to the man standing in front of the girl, and he, in turn, drew a small but ornate knife from his belt. I gasped; the girl looked at it with sleepy eyes, evidently without surprise. She did not struggle, but the two men holding her arms gripped them more tightly as the Emir's assistant pressed the point of the blade against her abdomen, halfway between her breastbone and her navel. Here he paused.
"Now," the Emir said with a nod, "let it be done."
The man responded instantly, driving the blade into her body, angling it slightly upwards and pulling upwards on the hilt a little once it was deep.
Her eyes fell closed, her body stiffened and quivered and her hands clenched into fists, but she still offered no resistance; her expression did not denote pain nor surprise, and she did not cry out. Blood streamed down her stomach, soaking her diaphanous pants quickly. The executioner made no move to remove the blade; he held it quite still, letting her blood stream out around it.
Then, after a rather long interval, he slowly pulled it out. Even more blood came gushing out; the girl's knees were slightly bent, the men holding her were supporting her. When they let her go, she crumpled to the floor.
The Emir watched her; eventually, she raised her head and looked up at him. His expression spoke a command. Slowly, painfully, holding her pierced belly with her hand, she struggled to her feet and staggered across the room toward a very suggestive-looking block. Once there, she went down on her knees again and laid her head on it. Fumbling, she swept her hair up with one hand to expose her neck. Beneath her, blood still drained from the wound in her belly, pooling on the floor.
The Emir again stared at her for a while, then signaled to his executioner; this man strode quickly
to her side and raised his sword. At another signal from his master, the blade descended across her
exposed neck, and her head tumbled to the floor. Her decapitated body, spouting blood in a torrent,
twitched wildly for a few seconds before becoming still.