old slave
FELIS RESPICIENS
See The Fixer and my comment. I agree.
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Aelia
- Thread starter King Diocletian
- Start date
See The Fixer and my comment. I agree.
windar
Teller of Tales
Well, I've had happy endings in some of my stories.
King Diocletian
Magistrate
Rustius hammered on the door. Had Quintus left her altogether? What was he thinking? After raping Aelia, Rustius had returned to his chamber but she’d remained on his mind. He wanted more. He wanted to feel that soft smooth skin against his own again, to feel the resistance of her firm breasts to his hands, to stroke those long, powerful legs. He’d squeezed her thighs, but her calves fascinated him. He loved a good firm calf yet he’d neglected hers. Why was there no sound? With a mounting sense of unease, he opened the door.
He saw the pale body spread out there in the flickering light and for a moment he was relieved. But almost instantly he knew something wasn’t right. He took two paces forward and realised it wasn’t her. He hastened up, saw the unnatural angle of Quintus head and knew he was dead. The bitch! The fool! He kicked at the dead body and then turned and ran. Within a minute of him finding the body, the giant bell above the gate was ringing the alarm.
*
Aelia heard the bell and knew what it meant. She cursed. What should she do? In the darkness she knew it was possible she could remain undetected, but she had no idea how to get out. And when dawn came, she was fucked. She remained in the shadows by the wall and kept edging along, desperately hoping she would find an exit. She saw the flames of torches spearing across the yard, heard the boots of dozens of soldiers on the ground. She heard shouts, saw them organising, the flames beginning to sweep in rows across the open area where they’d made her run the gauntlet. She had to be quick. She sprinted through the shadow, keeping the wall to her right.
She saw, too late, something projecting from the wall. She couldn’t stop, and banged her knee hard on it, stumbling and then falling. Her first thought was the pain in her right knee. Her second was to wonder how loud she’d been. She lay still for a moment, waiting for the initial pain to recede. Then she looked up. The flames were approaching. Shit! Shit! Shit! She pushed herself up and started to run, but it was no good. She was limping, barely able to bend her right leg, and they were upon her.
A blow to the back of her knee sent her down. There were six of them, all on top of her, holding her arms down, pinning her legs. She tried to fight back, but it was hopeless. There were too many of them and she was weakened by the flogging. One of them punched her hard in the stomach, once, twice, a third time. She coughed, gasping for air, as they spun her over onto her front. Her arms were twisted up behind her. One of them kicked her in the ribs and as she gasped in pain, she felt a loop of cord being tightened over her wrists. When she was bound, then pulled her to her feet. There was another punch to the lower belly, and then she was dragged across the yard.
Rustius was waiting for her at the door to her cell. The soldiers held her facing him. He smiled, walked up to her and slapped her hard across the face. Her head fell and she could taste blood as he grabbed at the neck of the tunic and ripped it. As the soldiers pulled at it, it soon lay it tatters around her feet. When she was naked, he punched her again, in her belly. She doubled over, held up only by the grip of the soldiers. Rustius opened the door to her cell. “Fasten her down,” he said.
Aelia tried to remain calm. Her knee was throbbing and she was struggled to get her breath. She remained bent over, trying to recover, trying to think as they tossed Quintus’s body aside. She couldn’t resist as they slammed her down and fastened the cuffs again, drawing her out, so her body was stretched in an X-shape. She would be raped again, she knew. Rustius sent the soldiers from the room.
“Stupid bitch,” he said, and kicked her, hard, between her legs. Then he was on her, slapping and pawing, squeezing her breasts painfully, before he raped her. When he’d done, he wiped his penis on her face. She thought of biting at him, but realised it was not the time to anger him any further. He opened the door and the six soldiers trooped in. They seemed euphoric, laughing and joking, drawing lots to decide the order before each of them raped her in turn. She stared at the ceiling, trying to ignore their rough hands on her, the frenzied thrusting inside her. She wouldn’t break. She wouldn’t let them see how this shamed her, how she hated being powerless against men she could have destroyed in single combat.
When it was over, they kicked her a couple of times and then there was a sudden burst of laughter. She could feel their cum oozing out of her raw cunt, still feel the pressure of their fingers on her breasts. Spittle dotted her chest where they’d sucked at her breasts and spat on her. What were they doing?
She soon found out. They dropped Quintus's body onto her, positioning his mouth between her legs. She suddenly understood what was happening. She jerked at her bonds but to no avail. One of the soldiers pinched her nose. A punch in the pit of her stomach forced her mouth open against he will. It was brief, but it was long enough. They pushed Quintus’s cock and balls into her mouth. Her teeth closed around him, his cock pushing to her throat. She gagged, but coughing couldn’t dislodge him. They stepped back and laughed, their enemy, stripped, beaten, humiliated, raped and now forced to simulate a sex act with the corpse of the deputy who had betrayed her.
She tried to push Quintus’s body away, but her bonds were too tight. His corpse was cool, beginning to stiffen, and she knew she was trapped. She turned her head, but it was no good: the combination of penis and scrotum was too big, his weight too much. And the more she struggled, the more it looked as though she were fellating him. “Corpse-fucker!” shouted one of the soldiers and there was raucous laughter. Another grabbed Quintus’s head and moved it up and down as though he were pleasuring her. There was more laughter.
“Keep a guard on her,” said Rustius finally. “Make sure she sucks him till morning.”
He saw the pale body spread out there in the flickering light and for a moment he was relieved. But almost instantly he knew something wasn’t right. He took two paces forward and realised it wasn’t her. He hastened up, saw the unnatural angle of Quintus head and knew he was dead. The bitch! The fool! He kicked at the dead body and then turned and ran. Within a minute of him finding the body, the giant bell above the gate was ringing the alarm.
*
Aelia heard the bell and knew what it meant. She cursed. What should she do? In the darkness she knew it was possible she could remain undetected, but she had no idea how to get out. And when dawn came, she was fucked. She remained in the shadows by the wall and kept edging along, desperately hoping she would find an exit. She saw the flames of torches spearing across the yard, heard the boots of dozens of soldiers on the ground. She heard shouts, saw them organising, the flames beginning to sweep in rows across the open area where they’d made her run the gauntlet. She had to be quick. She sprinted through the shadow, keeping the wall to her right.
She saw, too late, something projecting from the wall. She couldn’t stop, and banged her knee hard on it, stumbling and then falling. Her first thought was the pain in her right knee. Her second was to wonder how loud she’d been. She lay still for a moment, waiting for the initial pain to recede. Then she looked up. The flames were approaching. Shit! Shit! Shit! She pushed herself up and started to run, but it was no good. She was limping, barely able to bend her right leg, and they were upon her.
A blow to the back of her knee sent her down. There were six of them, all on top of her, holding her arms down, pinning her legs. She tried to fight back, but it was hopeless. There were too many of them and she was weakened by the flogging. One of them punched her hard in the stomach, once, twice, a third time. She coughed, gasping for air, as they spun her over onto her front. Her arms were twisted up behind her. One of them kicked her in the ribs and as she gasped in pain, she felt a loop of cord being tightened over her wrists. When she was bound, then pulled her to her feet. There was another punch to the lower belly, and then she was dragged across the yard.
Rustius was waiting for her at the door to her cell. The soldiers held her facing him. He smiled, walked up to her and slapped her hard across the face. Her head fell and she could taste blood as he grabbed at the neck of the tunic and ripped it. As the soldiers pulled at it, it soon lay it tatters around her feet. When she was naked, he punched her again, in her belly. She doubled over, held up only by the grip of the soldiers. Rustius opened the door to her cell. “Fasten her down,” he said.
Aelia tried to remain calm. Her knee was throbbing and she was struggled to get her breath. She remained bent over, trying to recover, trying to think as they tossed Quintus’s body aside. She couldn’t resist as they slammed her down and fastened the cuffs again, drawing her out, so her body was stretched in an X-shape. She would be raped again, she knew. Rustius sent the soldiers from the room.
“Stupid bitch,” he said, and kicked her, hard, between her legs. Then he was on her, slapping and pawing, squeezing her breasts painfully, before he raped her. When he’d done, he wiped his penis on her face. She thought of biting at him, but realised it was not the time to anger him any further. He opened the door and the six soldiers trooped in. They seemed euphoric, laughing and joking, drawing lots to decide the order before each of them raped her in turn. She stared at the ceiling, trying to ignore their rough hands on her, the frenzied thrusting inside her. She wouldn’t break. She wouldn’t let them see how this shamed her, how she hated being powerless against men she could have destroyed in single combat.
When it was over, they kicked her a couple of times and then there was a sudden burst of laughter. She could feel their cum oozing out of her raw cunt, still feel the pressure of their fingers on her breasts. Spittle dotted her chest where they’d sucked at her breasts and spat on her. What were they doing?
She soon found out. They dropped Quintus's body onto her, positioning his mouth between her legs. She suddenly understood what was happening. She jerked at her bonds but to no avail. One of the soldiers pinched her nose. A punch in the pit of her stomach forced her mouth open against he will. It was brief, but it was long enough. They pushed Quintus’s cock and balls into her mouth. Her teeth closed around him, his cock pushing to her throat. She gagged, but coughing couldn’t dislodge him. They stepped back and laughed, their enemy, stripped, beaten, humiliated, raped and now forced to simulate a sex act with the corpse of the deputy who had betrayed her.
She tried to push Quintus’s body away, but her bonds were too tight. His corpse was cool, beginning to stiffen, and she knew she was trapped. She turned her head, but it was no good: the combination of penis and scrotum was too big, his weight too much. And the more she struggled, the more it looked as though she were fellating him. “Corpse-fucker!” shouted one of the soldiers and there was raucous laughter. Another grabbed Quintus’s head and moved it up and down as though he were pleasuring her. There was more laughter.
“Keep a guard on her,” said Rustius finally. “Make sure she sucks him till morning.”
Tricia
Governor
Great Point!!! But treason can lead to the cross!
Tricia
Governor
Is there any other way to treat an enemy?
King Diocletian
Magistrate
Shit! They had her. Clemens stood back but in the morning rush he was discreet enough. He’d waited outside the fortress all night, terrified of what might be going on inside, terrified of being recognised – although who would recognise him, a scrawny 18-year-old? Already she seemed smaller somehow, shoulders hunched, dressed in just a brief tunic as she sat in a cage on the back of a cart that carried her from the fortress. There were welts on her legs and grazes on her knees suggesting she’d been beaten. A group of eight soldiers kept taunting her, poking her through the bars. He had no doubt she’d been raped.
*
The governor looked at the prisoner before him. It was the Aelia he remembered, but she’d blossomed into a beautiful woman, limbs long and golden, breasts pressing against her tunic. She was, perhaps, even more beautiful than her mother had been. He was no fool. He knew she’d been beaten and raped and that they’d given her a cursory wash to make her presentable, but she was still a formidable presence, even standing head-bowed, weighed down by the heaviest chains.
“Aelia,” he said. “Look at me.”
She raised her head and he saw her defiant brown eyes. “You have committed untold acts of murder, theft and banditry. Do you deny that?”
“No,” she said. Her refusal to be intimidated irritated him.
“Have you a defence?” the governor asked.
She looked at him sullenly. “No,” she said calmly.
The governor was momentarily taken aback, but he retained his calm. “Do you have anything to say in your defence?” he said, trying to inject a note of menace into his voice. She stood unmoved. A soldier clipped her round the back of the head. She barely flinched.
“Is this how you treat a defendant?” she asked, pulling down at her tunic so it covered a little more of her thighs. “You beat her, you put her in chains, you abuse her?”
“You have murdered my men. You have wreaked a campaign of violence and banditry. You don’t deny your guilt, do you?”
‘You murdered my father. You raped my mother. You plundered my home. You don’t deny your guilt, do you?”
The governor let his tongue flick along his upper lip. He began a long slow circuit around her. He searched his memory. When had it been? Ten years ago, perhaps. He remembered her mother, Mariam, tall, dark and elegant. He remembered Lepidus lusting after her. Had he raped her? He hadn’t realised that. And he knew that her father, Septimus, had been murdered on the road though the hills. Bandits, they said. Could that have been Lepidus? Perhaps it could. Her buttocks were astonishing, pushing against the tunic, her thighs strong and toned. What a woman she was! She’d clearly been beaten severely with flat straps, her back showing red and bruised through tears in the tunic, streaks on her legs. Mariam had committed suicide but there’d been a scandal with fees owed to the priests, hadn’t there? Lepidus was dead; there would be no answers there. He feared he needed to speak to the priests.
He came to stand in front of her again. Her breasts strained at the smock. “I will give you a final chance to offer a defence,” he said.
“When you are the law, there is no law,” she said.
“Then you are guilty. Multiple murders, robbery, sedition, banditry. The sentence is death.”
She didn’t move, still standing hunched, weighed down by her chains.
“The only question is how you are executed. I understand there’s some debate as to whether you are a citizen or not."
He turned to Mommius. “Bring her back to me tomorrow,” he said. “I will consider the sentence over night. Take her away.”
The soldiers closed on her. He turned to Mommius. “See if you can avoid beating or raping her before then,” he said.
*
The governor looked at the prisoner before him. It was the Aelia he remembered, but she’d blossomed into a beautiful woman, limbs long and golden, breasts pressing against her tunic. She was, perhaps, even more beautiful than her mother had been. He was no fool. He knew she’d been beaten and raped and that they’d given her a cursory wash to make her presentable, but she was still a formidable presence, even standing head-bowed, weighed down by the heaviest chains.
“Aelia,” he said. “Look at me.”
She raised her head and he saw her defiant brown eyes. “You have committed untold acts of murder, theft and banditry. Do you deny that?”
“No,” she said. Her refusal to be intimidated irritated him.
“Have you a defence?” the governor asked.
She looked at him sullenly. “No,” she said calmly.
The governor was momentarily taken aback, but he retained his calm. “Do you have anything to say in your defence?” he said, trying to inject a note of menace into his voice. She stood unmoved. A soldier clipped her round the back of the head. She barely flinched.
“Is this how you treat a defendant?” she asked, pulling down at her tunic so it covered a little more of her thighs. “You beat her, you put her in chains, you abuse her?”
“You have murdered my men. You have wreaked a campaign of violence and banditry. You don’t deny your guilt, do you?”
‘You murdered my father. You raped my mother. You plundered my home. You don’t deny your guilt, do you?”
The governor let his tongue flick along his upper lip. He began a long slow circuit around her. He searched his memory. When had it been? Ten years ago, perhaps. He remembered her mother, Mariam, tall, dark and elegant. He remembered Lepidus lusting after her. Had he raped her? He hadn’t realised that. And he knew that her father, Septimus, had been murdered on the road though the hills. Bandits, they said. Could that have been Lepidus? Perhaps it could. Her buttocks were astonishing, pushing against the tunic, her thighs strong and toned. What a woman she was! She’d clearly been beaten severely with flat straps, her back showing red and bruised through tears in the tunic, streaks on her legs. Mariam had committed suicide but there’d been a scandal with fees owed to the priests, hadn’t there? Lepidus was dead; there would be no answers there. He feared he needed to speak to the priests.
He came to stand in front of her again. Her breasts strained at the smock. “I will give you a final chance to offer a defence,” he said.
“When you are the law, there is no law,” she said.
“Then you are guilty. Multiple murders, robbery, sedition, banditry. The sentence is death.”
She didn’t move, still standing hunched, weighed down by her chains.
“The only question is how you are executed. I understand there’s some debate as to whether you are a citizen or not."
He turned to Mommius. “Bring her back to me tomorrow,” he said. “I will consider the sentence over night. Take her away.”
The soldiers closed on her. He turned to Mommius. “See if you can avoid beating or raping her before then,” he said.
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King Diocletian
Magistrate
Mommius had seen Aelia locked up beneath the governor’s residence, still in her heavy chains. Rustius, having been briefed by Quintus, was preparing an assault on the bandit camp, but he’d been summoned back to the governor to go over the thorny business of whether she were a citizen or not. If they decided she was, she would be beheaded. If not, then she would be crucified. Mommius didn’t really understand the problem: there were arguments both ways but given the arguments for crucifixion were overwhelming, why would they not decide she was not a citizen? He’d pointed that out to the governor. The legion wanted her crucified. The people had to see how Rome treated rebels. At the moment there may be some who sympathised with her, but hanging her on the cross would emphasise her defeat. Other would be scared off from similar acts. And, unpalatable as it may be to admit it, there were few acts more likely to bring support behind a governor than stripping a beautiful woman naked and putting her on display in public.
But the governor seemed reluctant. “I fear we may have done her and her family a grave wrong,” he said.
Before Mommius had had a chance to ask what the governor meant by that, a delegation of priests turned up. Mommius loathed them, with their fawning, their insidiousness, and he suspected the governor only tolerated them because not to do so risked public disorder. He’d assumed they wished to speak on Aelia’s behalf – the priests would always protect their own, which was the main reason they were so popular in their own community, and when they demanded Aelia be handed over to them, it seemed to confirm what he’d suspected. But when the governor wearily asked why, it turned out they wanted to try her themselves – and not simply to acquit her.
“Whatever crimes she has committed against your law,” Caiaphas, the chief priest, “said she must also answer to our law.”
“To which of your laws are you referring?” asked the governor with what seemed to Mommius a s lightly ironic tone.
“You may remember, sir, nine years ago, she fled with her family owing the temple significant sums.”
“Her family’s property was seized and the temple was handsomely recompensed, Caiaphas.”
“Yes, sir, it was. But this is not merely about money. She blasphemed and must pay the penalty.”
“She blasphemed? She was a girl at the time. Fifteen, sixteen?”
“Old enough. There must be expiation.”
“What would you do to her?”
“The courts cannot be pre-empted, sir, but flogging would be usual. And then we would hand her back for you to try her as you desire.”
The governor nodded and promised him an answer by nightfall. Mommius couldn’t see what the problem was: let the priests flog her, then crucify her. This was even better. The locals always sided with the priests. Everybody would come together to punish a public menace.
“We must do it, mustn’t we?” the governor said to him sadly. “We and the priests wronged this girl nine years ago and now we must let the priests flog her and the crucify her so that those sins never come out.”
“She is a murderer and a bandit,” Mommius replied.
But the governor seemed reluctant. “I fear we may have done her and her family a grave wrong,” he said.
Before Mommius had had a chance to ask what the governor meant by that, a delegation of priests turned up. Mommius loathed them, with their fawning, their insidiousness, and he suspected the governor only tolerated them because not to do so risked public disorder. He’d assumed they wished to speak on Aelia’s behalf – the priests would always protect their own, which was the main reason they were so popular in their own community, and when they demanded Aelia be handed over to them, it seemed to confirm what he’d suspected. But when the governor wearily asked why, it turned out they wanted to try her themselves – and not simply to acquit her.
“Whatever crimes she has committed against your law,” Caiaphas, the chief priest, “said she must also answer to our law.”
“To which of your laws are you referring?” asked the governor with what seemed to Mommius a s lightly ironic tone.
“You may remember, sir, nine years ago, she fled with her family owing the temple significant sums.”
“Her family’s property was seized and the temple was handsomely recompensed, Caiaphas.”
“Yes, sir, it was. But this is not merely about money. She blasphemed and must pay the penalty.”
“She blasphemed? She was a girl at the time. Fifteen, sixteen?”
“Old enough. There must be expiation.”
“What would you do to her?”
“The courts cannot be pre-empted, sir, but flogging would be usual. And then we would hand her back for you to try her as you desire.”
The governor nodded and promised him an answer by nightfall. Mommius couldn’t see what the problem was: let the priests flog her, then crucify her. This was even better. The locals always sided with the priests. Everybody would come together to punish a public menace.
“We must do it, mustn’t we?” the governor said to him sadly. “We and the priests wronged this girl nine years ago and now we must let the priests flog her and the crucify her so that those sins never come out.”
“She is a murderer and a bandit,” Mommius replied.
King Diocletian
Magistrate
Aelia had been kept in a cell at the governor’s residence all day. She’d sat on the filthy floor of a dark cell in her chains, the heat almost unbearable. She’d heard rats scurrying away and had grown used to the flies that settled on her and she’d even managed some sleep. At some point a woman had come, given her water and bread and soothed her beaten back, buttocks and legs with balm. She spent two days there. The chains were exhausting, but the balm was a tremendous release and the
gentleness of the woman almost brought her to tears. And at least she wasn’t being raped.
Just as night was falling on the third day, the soldiers came for her, taunting her and shoving her about as they led her to see the governor again. “Corpse-fucker,” one said as his hand slid under her tunic. She was too weak to throw him off.
She knew the governor remembered her. She wondered if there was any way she could seduce him, but even as the thought formed, it was quelled by a greater part of her that was revolted. It was over and she would die as best she could. She stood shackled before him, head bowed, arms and shoulders exhausted. His face was grim, but what really alarmed her was the presence of three of the high priests.
“Aelia,” he said. She looked up, trying to ignore the pains in her neck from the collar she wore. “It seems your crimes are religious as well as secular.” He nodded to Caiaphas, the most senior of the high priests.
There was no point fighting. She wanted to scream abuse at him. She remembered him, his obsequiousness, his demands for money. She hated him but he had won. “Aelia,” he said. “When you fled justice nine years ago, you were tried in absentia by the priests. You owed taxes and, although these have been seized from your property, the disrespect you showed must be punished. You are sentenced to 39 lashes to be administered in the temple yard tomorrow. We will then hand you back to the temporal authorities.”
The governor took on the sentencing. She knew what it would be. “It has been determined that whateever claim yu may have had to citizenship was forfeit when you fled justice and that therefore you will feel the full anger of the law. Sentence is death by crucifixion to be administered, in deference to local custom, on the day after their Sabbath, that is, three days from now.”
Her head fell, but she said nothing. She had nothing to say.
They returned her to the fort. She expected more punishment and probably rape. Still in her chains, she slept fitfully, but it was at least sleep, even if she did dream of herself stripped before a crowd, pictured herself hanging high on a cross. It was only when she woke and saw a shaft of sunlight piercing the gloom of her cell that she realised why the fort might be quiet.
She just hoped her people had had the sense to flee.
gentleness of the woman almost brought her to tears. And at least she wasn’t being raped.
Just as night was falling on the third day, the soldiers came for her, taunting her and shoving her about as they led her to see the governor again. “Corpse-fucker,” one said as his hand slid under her tunic. She was too weak to throw him off.
She knew the governor remembered her. She wondered if there was any way she could seduce him, but even as the thought formed, it was quelled by a greater part of her that was revolted. It was over and she would die as best she could. She stood shackled before him, head bowed, arms and shoulders exhausted. His face was grim, but what really alarmed her was the presence of three of the high priests.
“Aelia,” he said. She looked up, trying to ignore the pains in her neck from the collar she wore. “It seems your crimes are religious as well as secular.” He nodded to Caiaphas, the most senior of the high priests.
There was no point fighting. She wanted to scream abuse at him. She remembered him, his obsequiousness, his demands for money. She hated him but he had won. “Aelia,” he said. “When you fled justice nine years ago, you were tried in absentia by the priests. You owed taxes and, although these have been seized from your property, the disrespect you showed must be punished. You are sentenced to 39 lashes to be administered in the temple yard tomorrow. We will then hand you back to the temporal authorities.”
The governor took on the sentencing. She knew what it would be. “It has been determined that whateever claim yu may have had to citizenship was forfeit when you fled justice and that therefore you will feel the full anger of the law. Sentence is death by crucifixion to be administered, in deference to local custom, on the day after their Sabbath, that is, three days from now.”
Her head fell, but she said nothing. She had nothing to say.
They returned her to the fort. She expected more punishment and probably rape. Still in her chains, she slept fitfully, but it was at least sleep, even if she did dream of herself stripped before a crowd, pictured herself hanging high on a cross. It was only when she woke and saw a shaft of sunlight piercing the gloom of her cell that she realised why the fort might be quiet.
She just hoped her people had had the sense to flee.
King Diocletian
Magistrate
Mommius followed the procession at a safe distance. He’d thought she should have been transported to the temple in the sealed carriage, as she had been taken to the governor’s residence, but the priests had insisted she be paraded. And so, wrists bound behind her, she was marched by the temple guard through the streets. Four legionaries followed them, just in case. Mommius wished he could have offered more men, but the majority of them were up in the hills, finishing off her rebellion. And he needn’t have worried. The temple guard were brusque with her, the people either indifferent or mocking. The priests had clearly done their work in blackening her name. And she was a spectacular sight, long, strong legs bare from mid-thigh, breasts swelling against her tunic, small expanses of golden skin visible through the odd tear, her face, framed by hair that now hung lank and dusty, still defiantly beautiful. By the time they got her to the temple, a small crowd was following.
“The Bandit Queen!”
“They’ve caught the Bandit Queen!”
“She deserves the cross,” somebody said and Clemens knew that was what would happen. But not yet: why were they taking her away from the fortress? He heard the lustful taunts of the crowd. There was no thought of her as a saviour: there was some sympathy, perhaps, but most spoke of how her crimes deserved death. And there were those, of course, who thought of what crucifixion meant: watching a beautiful woman die naked in agony in front of them. Clemens couldn’t bear to hear it, the bastards who ogled her and then cheerily discussed what her breasts would look like as she hung naked before them.
In the square outside the temple gates, there was already a mob, taking their positions around the platform on which she would be flogged. Mommius looked at the frame on which she would be beaten: a simple bench from which hung leather straps that would be raised at 45 degrees so the crowds could see her buttocks as the rods landed. There was still more than an hour before the sentence was scheduled to be executed. The crowds jeered as she was led past them. She didn’t even glance at the frame.
She was taken to the back of the courtyard, where a staircase led down into the vaults beneath the temple. They buffeted her as they dragged her down there, cuffing her and taunting, making the noise of the canes that would be used upon her. The high priests had gathered in a small hall there, and she was thrown down at their feet, landing heavily on her knees and tipping over onto one shoulder before she righted herself. Caiaphas shook his head as he looked at her. “You are a disgraceful creature,” he said. “Crucifixion is the least you deserve.”
Mommius didn’t really understand what followed. Some kind of ceremony, designed to cleanse her, he thought. Then the priests left to take their places by the platform and she was left to the temple guard. They slapped her around and spat on her, then they showed her the rods, whippy white canes, perhaps six feet long and as broad as a man’s thumb. They flexed them, demonstrating how they cut through the air. She knelt, head bowed, trying to ignore them. Finally, the signal came.
“The Bandit Queen!”
“They’ve caught the Bandit Queen!”
“She deserves the cross,” somebody said and Clemens knew that was what would happen. But not yet: why were they taking her away from the fortress? He heard the lustful taunts of the crowd. There was no thought of her as a saviour: there was some sympathy, perhaps, but most spoke of how her crimes deserved death. And there were those, of course, who thought of what crucifixion meant: watching a beautiful woman die naked in agony in front of them. Clemens couldn’t bear to hear it, the bastards who ogled her and then cheerily discussed what her breasts would look like as she hung naked before them.
In the square outside the temple gates, there was already a mob, taking their positions around the platform on which she would be flogged. Mommius looked at the frame on which she would be beaten: a simple bench from which hung leather straps that would be raised at 45 degrees so the crowds could see her buttocks as the rods landed. There was still more than an hour before the sentence was scheduled to be executed. The crowds jeered as she was led past them. She didn’t even glance at the frame.
She was taken to the back of the courtyard, where a staircase led down into the vaults beneath the temple. They buffeted her as they dragged her down there, cuffing her and taunting, making the noise of the canes that would be used upon her. The high priests had gathered in a small hall there, and she was thrown down at their feet, landing heavily on her knees and tipping over onto one shoulder before she righted herself. Caiaphas shook his head as he looked at her. “You are a disgraceful creature,” he said. “Crucifixion is the least you deserve.”
Mommius didn’t really understand what followed. Some kind of ceremony, designed to cleanse her, he thought. Then the priests left to take their places by the platform and she was left to the temple guard. They slapped her around and spat on her, then they showed her the rods, whippy white canes, perhaps six feet long and as broad as a man’s thumb. They flexed them, demonstrating how they cut through the air. She knelt, head bowed, trying to ignore them. Finally, the signal came.
GabriellaSivilla
Governor
I really love this story! And I close my eyes imagining to be the poor Aelia, suffering all she suffers, all her humilations. The part describing her in the temple is, in my opinion, particularly vivid and inspiting:
"Mommius didn’t really understand what followed. Some kind of ceremony, designed to cleanse her, he thought. Then the priests left to take their places by the platform and she was left to the temple guard. They slapped her around and spat on her, then they showed her the rods, whippy white canes, perhaps six feet long and as broad as a man’s thumb. They flexed them, demonstrating how they cut through the air. She knelt, head bowed, trying to ignore them. Finally, the signal came."
...few words, that give the idea of the terror she must feel in the deep of her heart: they spit on her, they show her the instruments of her torture, tauting her. What most terrible?
Sweet kisses Diocletian, go on!
"Mommius didn’t really understand what followed. Some kind of ceremony, designed to cleanse her, he thought. Then the priests left to take their places by the platform and she was left to the temple guard. They slapped her around and spat on her, then they showed her the rods, whippy white canes, perhaps six feet long and as broad as a man’s thumb. They flexed them, demonstrating how they cut through the air. She knelt, head bowed, trying to ignore them. Finally, the signal came."
...few words, that give the idea of the terror she must feel in the deep of her heart: they spit on her, they show her the instruments of her torture, tauting her. What most terrible?
Sweet kisses Diocletian, go on!
King Diocletian
Magistrate
Remain calm, Aelia told herself. What they were about to do to her would hurt dreadfully but if she could accept the pain and humiliation, they couldn’t win. She would be stoic, and that would inspire others. They dragged her out of the temple and up onto the platform. There were people everywhere. The temple guard had to fight their way through as hands grasped at her, pawing at her breasts and backside. She was spat at and abused. “Strip the whore!” “Make the traitor bleed!” “Bitch!” No sympathy from her own people. She saw the fury and the lust and the pleasure in their eyes and she had a crushing sense that she had lost.
Half pushed, half-pulled she climbed the steps. The square was packed, people everywhere. They sat of roofs, leaned from windows. There were children sitting on their fathers’ shoulders. The priests sat under a canopy with a couple of Roman leaders on a dais outside the temple. And they all stared at her. She saw the frame to which she’d be secured: two uprights linked by a cross bar about four feet off the ground and before it a long bench to which she’d be fastened before the end was lifted and fastened to the crossbar. She was pushed to her knees. She took deep breaths.
“For public indecency and blasphemy,” Caiaphas announced to whistles and jeers, “the prisoner before you, Aelia, has been sentenced to 39 lashes.” The crowd roared their approval. “The secular authorities have also tried her, for multiple acts of murder, robbery, banditry, kidnapping and sedition. She will be crucified on Sunday.” There were great whoops and cheers. Why did the people hate her? She was pulled to her feet and the bonds removed, although the guards maintained their grip.
Clemens looked on, appalled. 39 lashes? The maximum possible under the law. And the crowd, so hostile. How could they not understand what she had been trying to do? These weren’t Romans: they were locals. Why did they hate her? Because she had Roman blood? Because they liked the authorities? Because they believed the priests? Because she was a woman? Because she had taken a role women weren’t meant to take? Because they wanted to watch her beauty and dignity being destroyed?
“Strip her!” came the order.
There was a cheer. Clemens suddenly understood that he would see her naked. How often had he dreamed of that? But it wasn’t supposed to be like this. Aelia looked as discomforted as he’d ever seen her as two of the temple guard approached her. She was held by two guards but he wondered if she might break free.
There was no chance. In an instant they’d pulled her tunic up and over her head and she was naked, every bit as gorgeous as he’d imagined. Her skin was bruised, the marks on her thighs showing clearly she’d been raped, but she was radiant still, body slender and powerful, breasts high and full. There was a gasp from the crowd, but even as they were taking in the full extent of her charms, the guards were escorting her to the bench. She walked slowly, unresisting, not humiliated exactly, but smaller, weaker for being naked.
Clemens saw her back, the red marks, the welts, and realised just how severely they’d already beaten her. And he saw her buttocks, just as firm as he’d always imagined they would be when he’d walked behind her. He hated himself for appreciating her sexuality, for lusting after her like the rest of the mob, but he didn’t mean to. He wanted to save her – but even as that thought occurred to him he realised how hopeless it was and also how behind the hope there was the thought of reward: if he saved her, would that make her love him?
He couldn’t believe she’d just accept it but she lay on the bench, reaching out her arms towards the ropes. Her wrists and ankles were fastened. Clemens couldn’t take it in. This was going to happen. She was stretched out. They lifted the bench and he saw her breasts pushed against the wood. They clipped it to the bar and she was ready, stretched out at 45 degrees, buttocks exposed.
Half pushed, half-pulled she climbed the steps. The square was packed, people everywhere. They sat of roofs, leaned from windows. There were children sitting on their fathers’ shoulders. The priests sat under a canopy with a couple of Roman leaders on a dais outside the temple. And they all stared at her. She saw the frame to which she’d be secured: two uprights linked by a cross bar about four feet off the ground and before it a long bench to which she’d be fastened before the end was lifted and fastened to the crossbar. She was pushed to her knees. She took deep breaths.
“For public indecency and blasphemy,” Caiaphas announced to whistles and jeers, “the prisoner before you, Aelia, has been sentenced to 39 lashes.” The crowd roared their approval. “The secular authorities have also tried her, for multiple acts of murder, robbery, banditry, kidnapping and sedition. She will be crucified on Sunday.” There were great whoops and cheers. Why did the people hate her? She was pulled to her feet and the bonds removed, although the guards maintained their grip.
Clemens looked on, appalled. 39 lashes? The maximum possible under the law. And the crowd, so hostile. How could they not understand what she had been trying to do? These weren’t Romans: they were locals. Why did they hate her? Because she had Roman blood? Because they liked the authorities? Because they believed the priests? Because she was a woman? Because she had taken a role women weren’t meant to take? Because they wanted to watch her beauty and dignity being destroyed?
“Strip her!” came the order.
There was a cheer. Clemens suddenly understood that he would see her naked. How often had he dreamed of that? But it wasn’t supposed to be like this. Aelia looked as discomforted as he’d ever seen her as two of the temple guard approached her. She was held by two guards but he wondered if she might break free.
There was no chance. In an instant they’d pulled her tunic up and over her head and she was naked, every bit as gorgeous as he’d imagined. Her skin was bruised, the marks on her thighs showing clearly she’d been raped, but she was radiant still, body slender and powerful, breasts high and full. There was a gasp from the crowd, but even as they were taking in the full extent of her charms, the guards were escorting her to the bench. She walked slowly, unresisting, not humiliated exactly, but smaller, weaker for being naked.
Clemens saw her back, the red marks, the welts, and realised just how severely they’d already beaten her. And he saw her buttocks, just as firm as he’d always imagined they would be when he’d walked behind her. He hated himself for appreciating her sexuality, for lusting after her like the rest of the mob, but he didn’t mean to. He wanted to save her – but even as that thought occurred to him he realised how hopeless it was and also how behind the hope there was the thought of reward: if he saved her, would that make her love him?
He couldn’t believe she’d just accept it but she lay on the bench, reaching out her arms towards the ropes. Her wrists and ankles were fastened. Clemens couldn’t take it in. This was going to happen. She was stretched out. They lifted the bench and he saw her breasts pushed against the wood. They clipped it to the bar and she was ready, stretched out at 45 degrees, buttocks exposed.
King Diocletian
Magistrate
Mommius folded his arms with satisfaction. This was the beginning of it, the formal start of her execution. The two temple guards charged with thrashing her stepped forward, flexing their canes. There was relish in their actions and the crowd clearly appreciated it. They whipped them through the air, a terrifying sound although Aelia seemed unmoved as through crowds oohed and aahed. Then the first of them caressed her with it, running the cane down her back to her buttocks. He tapped them, then took three paces back and swept in. The lash was impossibly hard, the cane a blur as it cut deep into the firm flesh. She gave a twitch and a sight gasp. “One,” said Caiaphas, a look of smug cruelty on his face.
The left-hander struck, low on the curve of her buttocks. She yelped. It was worse than she’d expected it to be, far worse than running the gauntlet. She was a static target and the canes, obviously, hurt far more than the straps. She willed herself to remain calm. She would not give them the satisfaction of seeing she was suffering. She had to retain her dignity, then perhaps she could inspire others to defy Rome and the priests. The third landed square across her shoulders and drove the breath from her in a heavy grunt. Already, she could feel the sweat beading on her brow and her upper lip. She would remain calm.
The fourth whipped high on her buttocks, thudding against her pelvis. She heard the roar of the mob as the pain resounded through her. They were enjoying this. They saw her as trouble. She could be as stoical as she liked and they would still just see an uppity woman getting her comeuppance – and one with Roman blood, too. Both sides could come together in celebrating her torment. But she pushed such thoughts away. She had to endure. There was nothing else.
Clemens was struggling not to weep. He’d never felt so powerless. There she was, his leader, his beloved, being flogged, and he could do nothing. He wanted to turn away but he was transfixed by the horror, her long, lean frame stretched out on the frame, defenceless against the brutal strokes of the rod. He saw the stripes vivid across the smooth skin, eight of them now, from her thighs to her shoulders. A ninth landed across her shoulder-blades and she grunted. The crowd cheered as the tenth stroke crashed into her upper thighs. What was wrong with them? Why could they not see what she could have done? He looked at them. Two old women pointing and jeering. A group of teenage boys laughing, making lewd comments. A father with his young son, shaking his head sadly. A fat, toothless old man openly salivating at the sight of a naked woman. The soldiers, cold-faced. Three women in their thirties howling for them to lash her harder. A slightly older couple watching with approving nods. A group of youngish women giggling and making the noise of the cane. Why did they hate her? Was it for the threat she had posed? Did they love the Romans? Did they love the priests? Or was it just the sight of a beautiful girl, stripped and abused like this, a lust for her body, a lust for cruelty.
Mommius wiped the sweat from his brow. This was going better than he’d ever expected. He’d feared support for her but getting the priests to condemn her had been a masterstroke. This crowd hated her. If they could only make her scream it would be even better. She needed to be seen to be broken. But what a woman she was. He watched the cane smash into her buttocks. He heard her grunt. He saw the flesh flatten, then return to its pert roundness. He saw the pale line slowly growing a deeper red. Fifteen, came the call. And still she didn’t scream. But this was only the beginning. She had two nights and a day at the fortress even before she was scourged and led out to die on the cross. The stronger she was the better. The sixteenth landed and still they hadn’t got her howling, even though her body was streaked with red and brown and purple.
Her body was on fire. Aelia gritted her teeth and pushed her forehead into the bench. The pain was awful. The lash landed low on her thighs, just above the knees. Her legs jerked involuntarily, ankles kicking against the cuffs. She grunted, it taking all her strength not to shout out. Her eyes were watering. Sweat was coursing off her. She clenched her fists. And yet even as she prepared to absorb another blow she knew that the more lashes that were inflicted on her here, the less time she’d exist last on the cross. She was on the journey into death.
Clemens could barely look and yet some grim fascination kept him watching. The guards inflicting the beating were tough men, lashing with all their might. She was strong and brave but she was naked and defenceless, her skin now ravaged with bruises and welts. As a lash cut low across her back, a little above her waist, she gave an agonised gasp of pain. Twenty-four. She twitched, body shaking and the other flogger, cold-faced, struck hard into her shoulders. She gave a roar, bellowing through gritted teeth, fists clenched, head lifting slightly so he could see that noble profile, sweat dripping from it. The crowd hooted in glee.
At last, though Mommius. He’d worried she was so tough she’d take the beating without showing she was suffering and the whole point of this public punishment was to show her weakness, to humiliate her, to make clear that when you took on Rome you lost, and the consequences were severe. She absorbed a couple more, but the twenty-seventh, smashed into her thighs brought a shriek of pain. She controlled it, swallowing the shout, but her suffering was clear. He didn’t really understand the local custom of capping floggings at 39 lashes. She could clearly have taken several times that before death might have become an issue, but he understood it played to their favour here. It was severe, would hurt her, but it wouldn’t weaken her unduly. They could scourge her and she’d still last several hours on the cross, and that was vital. She had to hang in pain as long as possible, her shame and degradation were essential. He would have a physician look in on her that night, let her recover a little before she was handed over to the legion.
She was sweating so much her body was slithering on the bench, increasing the strain on her arms. The whole of the back of her body was on fire. A lash slapped just below her shoulder blades. She felt faint, a nausea sweeping over her. “Thirty,” came the call. Just nine more. She could do nine more. She clenched her fists. She could take this. But another voice in her head shouted back that what was to come was worse. The next blow clipped hard into her shoulders and, despite herself, she screamed, head flying back, spraying sweat. She heard the roar of appreciation from the crowd.
Clemens but his lower lip. He couldn’t be seen crying but this was awful. His heroine humiliated and howling as they flogged her, the mob cheering her agony. He’d had faith in her. He remembered raids when they’d seemed in trouble and she’d suddenly killed a man and the balance of the fight had changed. He’d listened to her calm speeches outlining their strategy. He’d believed she could do anything. But they’d won. Now she was naked and screaming, as helpless as anyone else. He saw the relish on the guard’s face as he lashed her hard across her buttocks. She bucked, legs and shoulders lifting and gave a desperate grunt of pain. He saw her face above her arm momentarily, flushed and twisted in pain, damp with sweat and tears, snot hanging from her nostrils. Thirty-three.
It occurred to Mommius quite abruptly that he could fuck her. Why not? Why let the soldiers have all the fun? His wife would never know. What he wouldn’t give to have those long legs wrapped around him. His wife tended merely to lie there to accept him as though it was her duty when he wanted something a little more stimulating and this one, he suspected, like that whore in Caesarea all those years ago, was capable of wildness. She shrieked again, blood oozing from the left side of her back where the latest lash had opened a welt. She wouldn’t be wild that night, he knew, and besides he would probably have to have her chained down but still, to possess that string body, to feel those breasts flattened against his chest, he would do it. The thirty-seventh lash bit into the flesh above her waist and she gave an agonised groan. He’d watched plenty of thrashings before and he knew she was bearing up well. It was when they stopped screaming that you began to worry, when they bodies became a carcass absorbing the blows. But this one had plenty of fight left in her.
The sweat stung her eyes. It dripped from her forehead and nose. She could feel the layer of damp between her body and the bench. Just two more. But it was agony. Her back, buttocks and thighs burned. She lay her right cheek against the bench and waited. She could feel blood trickling in a couple of places down her back. Her shoulders and wrists ached from the strain of holding her. She was acutely aware of the crowd, their breathing, their excitement, their smell. She heard the whoosh of the cane, felt the impact drove the breath from her. She squawked and then the familiar swell of pain began, shock becoming agony building and building as the mob cheered their approval and then slowly ebbing again. She shuddered. She felt sick.
Clemens watched as the flogger prepared to administer the final lash. He could almost see the thought process. Where would he put it? On the finely muscled back, now bruised and torn? On those sumptuous buttocks, streaked and bloodied? Or on those long lissom thighs, striped with purples and browns? He went low, just above the knees. She jerked savagely, holding back a scream so it was an agonised gargle, then falling back onto the bench, torso heaving. Clemens felt a terrible dryness in his throat, a pain that extended from his chest to his eyes. They were killing her brutally and there was no hope.
The left-hander struck, low on the curve of her buttocks. She yelped. It was worse than she’d expected it to be, far worse than running the gauntlet. She was a static target and the canes, obviously, hurt far more than the straps. She willed herself to remain calm. She would not give them the satisfaction of seeing she was suffering. She had to retain her dignity, then perhaps she could inspire others to defy Rome and the priests. The third landed square across her shoulders and drove the breath from her in a heavy grunt. Already, she could feel the sweat beading on her brow and her upper lip. She would remain calm.
The fourth whipped high on her buttocks, thudding against her pelvis. She heard the roar of the mob as the pain resounded through her. They were enjoying this. They saw her as trouble. She could be as stoical as she liked and they would still just see an uppity woman getting her comeuppance – and one with Roman blood, too. Both sides could come together in celebrating her torment. But she pushed such thoughts away. She had to endure. There was nothing else.
Clemens was struggling not to weep. He’d never felt so powerless. There she was, his leader, his beloved, being flogged, and he could do nothing. He wanted to turn away but he was transfixed by the horror, her long, lean frame stretched out on the frame, defenceless against the brutal strokes of the rod. He saw the stripes vivid across the smooth skin, eight of them now, from her thighs to her shoulders. A ninth landed across her shoulder-blades and she grunted. The crowd cheered as the tenth stroke crashed into her upper thighs. What was wrong with them? Why could they not see what she could have done? He looked at them. Two old women pointing and jeering. A group of teenage boys laughing, making lewd comments. A father with his young son, shaking his head sadly. A fat, toothless old man openly salivating at the sight of a naked woman. The soldiers, cold-faced. Three women in their thirties howling for them to lash her harder. A slightly older couple watching with approving nods. A group of youngish women giggling and making the noise of the cane. Why did they hate her? Was it for the threat she had posed? Did they love the Romans? Did they love the priests? Or was it just the sight of a beautiful girl, stripped and abused like this, a lust for her body, a lust for cruelty.
Mommius wiped the sweat from his brow. This was going better than he’d ever expected. He’d feared support for her but getting the priests to condemn her had been a masterstroke. This crowd hated her. If they could only make her scream it would be even better. She needed to be seen to be broken. But what a woman she was. He watched the cane smash into her buttocks. He heard her grunt. He saw the flesh flatten, then return to its pert roundness. He saw the pale line slowly growing a deeper red. Fifteen, came the call. And still she didn’t scream. But this was only the beginning. She had two nights and a day at the fortress even before she was scourged and led out to die on the cross. The stronger she was the better. The sixteenth landed and still they hadn’t got her howling, even though her body was streaked with red and brown and purple.
Her body was on fire. Aelia gritted her teeth and pushed her forehead into the bench. The pain was awful. The lash landed low on her thighs, just above the knees. Her legs jerked involuntarily, ankles kicking against the cuffs. She grunted, it taking all her strength not to shout out. Her eyes were watering. Sweat was coursing off her. She clenched her fists. And yet even as she prepared to absorb another blow she knew that the more lashes that were inflicted on her here, the less time she’d exist last on the cross. She was on the journey into death.
Clemens could barely look and yet some grim fascination kept him watching. The guards inflicting the beating were tough men, lashing with all their might. She was strong and brave but she was naked and defenceless, her skin now ravaged with bruises and welts. As a lash cut low across her back, a little above her waist, she gave an agonised gasp of pain. Twenty-four. She twitched, body shaking and the other flogger, cold-faced, struck hard into her shoulders. She gave a roar, bellowing through gritted teeth, fists clenched, head lifting slightly so he could see that noble profile, sweat dripping from it. The crowd hooted in glee.
At last, though Mommius. He’d worried she was so tough she’d take the beating without showing she was suffering and the whole point of this public punishment was to show her weakness, to humiliate her, to make clear that when you took on Rome you lost, and the consequences were severe. She absorbed a couple more, but the twenty-seventh, smashed into her thighs brought a shriek of pain. She controlled it, swallowing the shout, but her suffering was clear. He didn’t really understand the local custom of capping floggings at 39 lashes. She could clearly have taken several times that before death might have become an issue, but he understood it played to their favour here. It was severe, would hurt her, but it wouldn’t weaken her unduly. They could scourge her and she’d still last several hours on the cross, and that was vital. She had to hang in pain as long as possible, her shame and degradation were essential. He would have a physician look in on her that night, let her recover a little before she was handed over to the legion.
She was sweating so much her body was slithering on the bench, increasing the strain on her arms. The whole of the back of her body was on fire. A lash slapped just below her shoulder blades. She felt faint, a nausea sweeping over her. “Thirty,” came the call. Just nine more. She could do nine more. She clenched her fists. She could take this. But another voice in her head shouted back that what was to come was worse. The next blow clipped hard into her shoulders and, despite herself, she screamed, head flying back, spraying sweat. She heard the roar of appreciation from the crowd.
Clemens but his lower lip. He couldn’t be seen crying but this was awful. His heroine humiliated and howling as they flogged her, the mob cheering her agony. He’d had faith in her. He remembered raids when they’d seemed in trouble and she’d suddenly killed a man and the balance of the fight had changed. He’d listened to her calm speeches outlining their strategy. He’d believed she could do anything. But they’d won. Now she was naked and screaming, as helpless as anyone else. He saw the relish on the guard’s face as he lashed her hard across her buttocks. She bucked, legs and shoulders lifting and gave a desperate grunt of pain. He saw her face above her arm momentarily, flushed and twisted in pain, damp with sweat and tears, snot hanging from her nostrils. Thirty-three.
It occurred to Mommius quite abruptly that he could fuck her. Why not? Why let the soldiers have all the fun? His wife would never know. What he wouldn’t give to have those long legs wrapped around him. His wife tended merely to lie there to accept him as though it was her duty when he wanted something a little more stimulating and this one, he suspected, like that whore in Caesarea all those years ago, was capable of wildness. She shrieked again, blood oozing from the left side of her back where the latest lash had opened a welt. She wouldn’t be wild that night, he knew, and besides he would probably have to have her chained down but still, to possess that string body, to feel those breasts flattened against his chest, he would do it. The thirty-seventh lash bit into the flesh above her waist and she gave an agonised groan. He’d watched plenty of thrashings before and he knew she was bearing up well. It was when they stopped screaming that you began to worry, when they bodies became a carcass absorbing the blows. But this one had plenty of fight left in her.
The sweat stung her eyes. It dripped from her forehead and nose. She could feel the layer of damp between her body and the bench. Just two more. But it was agony. Her back, buttocks and thighs burned. She lay her right cheek against the bench and waited. She could feel blood trickling in a couple of places down her back. Her shoulders and wrists ached from the strain of holding her. She was acutely aware of the crowd, their breathing, their excitement, their smell. She heard the whoosh of the cane, felt the impact drove the breath from her. She squawked and then the familiar swell of pain began, shock becoming agony building and building as the mob cheered their approval and then slowly ebbing again. She shuddered. She felt sick.
Clemens watched as the flogger prepared to administer the final lash. He could almost see the thought process. Where would he put it? On the finely muscled back, now bruised and torn? On those sumptuous buttocks, streaked and bloodied? Or on those long lissom thighs, striped with purples and browns? He went low, just above the knees. She jerked savagely, holding back a scream so it was an agonised gargle, then falling back onto the bench, torso heaving. Clemens felt a terrible dryness in his throat, a pain that extended from his chest to his eyes. They were killing her brutally and there was no hope.
xso
Tribune
GabriellaSivilla
Governor
Finally the flogging! soooo hot! I would really love to be there, thrashing in the bonds, screaming from pain... Thanks King!
King Diocletian
Magistrate
Mommius approached her cell. What state would she be in? He thought of how she’d looked as they’d unfastened her from the bench. Without the support of the guards, she’d have fallen. As it was, she seemed pitifully weak as they’d hauled her to the front of the platform, a guard grasping each arm, her legs trailing on the stone. Another had pulled her head up by the hair, making her take in the sight of the mob jeering her nakedness, now fully exposed to them. Then they’d turned her so the beaten back of her body was visible. From neck to knee the skin was bruised and torn, blood oozing in perhaps a dozen places. The crowd roared their approval. And then they’d dragged her limp form back into the temple compound.
He’d stayed a little way away, watching as the priests taunted her. She lay naked on the ground, beaten into semi-consciousness, but that didn’t stop them, circling her, prodding her, telling her how disgusting she was to have defied them. Caiaphas had her pulled to a kneeling position. Her head flopped forward until a guard, grabbing a hank of hair, forced her to look at him. He’d said something, Mommius couldn’t tell what, and then he’d slapped her hard across the face. The guards had released their grip and she’d fallen back into the dirt as the priests had walked away, Caiaphas spitting on her prone form as he’d gone.
Only then had Mommius approached, directing the guards to dress her. They’d made sure every part of her was fondled and groped as they pulled the tunic over her head. They’d fastened her in full chains again and he’d directed them to take her not to the fort but to the governor’s residence. There, he could protect her a little, have his way with her before he sent her back to be scourged before her crucifixion. All the while she’d been unresisting, seeming only vaguely conscious of what was going on. Two soldiers guarded her cell. They unlocked the door, threw back the bolts and he entered.
She was sprawled on the hard earth, lying on her right shoulder, legs half-tucked beneath her. She glanced up at his entrance but seemed too exhausted to move, weighed down by the chains. Her tunic had ridden up so her legs were almost completely bare and was badly stained in placed by blood. “Get her up,” Mommius ordered, and the soldiers pulled her to her feet. She was just about strong enough to stand, but she bent under the chains. He walked over to her and lifted her chin. Her eyes glinted with sullen defiance. He ran his thumb over the bruise by the side of her mouth where Caiaphas had slapped her. He turned back to the soldiers and made for the door. “Clean her up,” he said. “Get a physician to put something on those wounds. We can’t have her dying before the main event.”
He walked out. “And when you’re done,” he said, “prepare her for me. I’ll be back in two hours.”
Mommius found himself strangely agitated. He paced about, couldn’t settle. He’d thought he’d have a nice dinner before fucking her, but he was too eager to get on with it. He had a couple of mouthfuls of wine – not too much; he had to function – and tried to settle to some admin work but he couldn’t get the thought of her out of his head: the long powerful legs, the slender waist, the high, proud breasts. He went back a little early.
She was prepared just as he’d ordered. They’d placed two flaming torches in brackets just inside the door, and the smell of herbs and unguent was evidence that some sort of balm had been applied. Her tunic lay in the corner, while she was naked on the floor, wrists bound to a patibulum, legs gently bent. He could see the strain on her arms, the muscles taut, emphasising her power. He walked around her, admiringly. Her breasts were slightly flattened but admirably pert. Her body was grazed and scratched in places, the odd welt apparent on her ribs and the side of her buttocks, but her front had largely escaped damage. He could feel his cock rising already.
He looked down at her exhausted face. She gazed back at him, her dark eyes expressing sadness and resentment but little fear. He kicked her gently on the shoulder. She barely flickered. He took her legs and parted them, rucked up his toga and fell on her.
Would they all rape her before this was done? Aelia lay unresisting as he groped and nibbled at her and then, mercifully quickly, parted her labia and inserted himself. She was too weak to resist as he lifted her legs either side of his head, resting her calves on his shoulders. What was he, the eighth man to rape her? Could she kick him? Smack her heels together on his skull? But what was the point? They’d just find some other way to make this worse. He was relatively gentle at least. He seemed to be doing it for his own enjoyment rather than to hurt her or to punish her which was something. Untied, even after the flogging, she could have crushed him but bound as she was she was helpless. She knew she would be taken back to the fort before her death and she knew she would suffer terribly there even before the crucifixion. How many would fuck her? Ten, twenty? Maybe Rustius would keep her for himself.
When would he finish? He was kissing her inexpertly, dribbling on her face and her breasts, his cock twitching inside her. This was nowhere near as painful as the other rapes. Maybe his penis was tiny. “I’ve bound you like this,” he said, “so that when you’re up there you’ll remember me. You’ll hang on the cross and feel the strain on your arms and you will think of me.” He suddenly grabbed at her waist and shuddered and she understood he was coming. She felt the warm spurt inside her and was revolted. He clawed a final time at her breasts and then left with an order to clean her up and let her sleep.
He’d stayed a little way away, watching as the priests taunted her. She lay naked on the ground, beaten into semi-consciousness, but that didn’t stop them, circling her, prodding her, telling her how disgusting she was to have defied them. Caiaphas had her pulled to a kneeling position. Her head flopped forward until a guard, grabbing a hank of hair, forced her to look at him. He’d said something, Mommius couldn’t tell what, and then he’d slapped her hard across the face. The guards had released their grip and she’d fallen back into the dirt as the priests had walked away, Caiaphas spitting on her prone form as he’d gone.
Only then had Mommius approached, directing the guards to dress her. They’d made sure every part of her was fondled and groped as they pulled the tunic over her head. They’d fastened her in full chains again and he’d directed them to take her not to the fort but to the governor’s residence. There, he could protect her a little, have his way with her before he sent her back to be scourged before her crucifixion. All the while she’d been unresisting, seeming only vaguely conscious of what was going on. Two soldiers guarded her cell. They unlocked the door, threw back the bolts and he entered.
She was sprawled on the hard earth, lying on her right shoulder, legs half-tucked beneath her. She glanced up at his entrance but seemed too exhausted to move, weighed down by the chains. Her tunic had ridden up so her legs were almost completely bare and was badly stained in placed by blood. “Get her up,” Mommius ordered, and the soldiers pulled her to her feet. She was just about strong enough to stand, but she bent under the chains. He walked over to her and lifted her chin. Her eyes glinted with sullen defiance. He ran his thumb over the bruise by the side of her mouth where Caiaphas had slapped her. He turned back to the soldiers and made for the door. “Clean her up,” he said. “Get a physician to put something on those wounds. We can’t have her dying before the main event.”
He walked out. “And when you’re done,” he said, “prepare her for me. I’ll be back in two hours.”
Mommius found himself strangely agitated. He paced about, couldn’t settle. He’d thought he’d have a nice dinner before fucking her, but he was too eager to get on with it. He had a couple of mouthfuls of wine – not too much; he had to function – and tried to settle to some admin work but he couldn’t get the thought of her out of his head: the long powerful legs, the slender waist, the high, proud breasts. He went back a little early.
She was prepared just as he’d ordered. They’d placed two flaming torches in brackets just inside the door, and the smell of herbs and unguent was evidence that some sort of balm had been applied. Her tunic lay in the corner, while she was naked on the floor, wrists bound to a patibulum, legs gently bent. He could see the strain on her arms, the muscles taut, emphasising her power. He walked around her, admiringly. Her breasts were slightly flattened but admirably pert. Her body was grazed and scratched in places, the odd welt apparent on her ribs and the side of her buttocks, but her front had largely escaped damage. He could feel his cock rising already.
He looked down at her exhausted face. She gazed back at him, her dark eyes expressing sadness and resentment but little fear. He kicked her gently on the shoulder. She barely flickered. He took her legs and parted them, rucked up his toga and fell on her.
Would they all rape her before this was done? Aelia lay unresisting as he groped and nibbled at her and then, mercifully quickly, parted her labia and inserted himself. She was too weak to resist as he lifted her legs either side of his head, resting her calves on his shoulders. What was he, the eighth man to rape her? Could she kick him? Smack her heels together on his skull? But what was the point? They’d just find some other way to make this worse. He was relatively gentle at least. He seemed to be doing it for his own enjoyment rather than to hurt her or to punish her which was something. Untied, even after the flogging, she could have crushed him but bound as she was she was helpless. She knew she would be taken back to the fort before her death and she knew she would suffer terribly there even before the crucifixion. How many would fuck her? Ten, twenty? Maybe Rustius would keep her for himself.
When would he finish? He was kissing her inexpertly, dribbling on her face and her breasts, his cock twitching inside her. This was nowhere near as painful as the other rapes. Maybe his penis was tiny. “I’ve bound you like this,” he said, “so that when you’re up there you’ll remember me. You’ll hang on the cross and feel the strain on your arms and you will think of me.” He suddenly grabbed at her waist and shuddered and she understood he was coming. She felt the warm spurt inside her and was revolted. He clawed a final time at her breasts and then left with an order to clean her up and let her sleep.
King Diocletian
Magistrate
It had been an extraordinary triumph. The bandit camp had fallen with barely a fight. Many, Rustius suspected, had already deserted, but he wasn’t going to let that detract from the glory he derived from it. They’d slaughtered perhaps 40 and taken around 120 prisoners, men, women and children. Shackled or roped together, they now huddled against the wall of the fort, directly across from where the body of Quintus now hung by its feet. Some would be executed, but most would be sold into slavery, but before that there was fun to be had. He already had his eye on a pretty dark-haired girl of perhaps 19 or 20 who would sit on his cock that night after he’d had another go at Aelia.
The legion had come out en masse, and packed the yard. There were those on duty who guarded the prisoners, although they seemed a miserable defeated bunch now, but many, many others there to have their sport with the bandits.
Aelia was dragged from her cell, barely able to haul along the chains. She’d been brought from the governor’s residence earlier that afternoon and it had been all Rustius had been able to do not to fuck her there and then. When she saw her people in the light of a vast array of torches, she gave a cry of pain. This was her defeat. Rustius was looking forward to this. This would be her humiliation and then he would have her again, feel that firm body under his, the soft roundness of her breasts, the tight warmth of her pussy. “Here she is,” he said mockingly, “the Bandit Queen. Hail her!”
She set her mouth tight and stared at the ground as they made her stand before her people. A murmur passed among them shocked by the sight of their leader dishevelled and in chains. “But let us dress her,” he said, “more like a queen.”
Four soldiers hastened forward and removed her chains. He was a little wary, but he doubted she posed any real danger now. She straightened slowly, stretching her back, rubbing her wrists where the irons had chafed. One punched her, needlessly, in the belly and, as she staggered forward, the other three pulled the tunic off her. She was naked again, smoothly luscious in the flickering light. She glanced awkwardly at her people and he realised being naked in front of her friends shamed her perhaps more than being naked in front of her enemies. The soldiers shoved her to her knees and then came the moment he’d been waiting for since a young centurion had suggested the refinement on their way back from the hills.
The centurion, a slightly plump southerner by the name of Sextus, walked proudly forward, carrying before him a circle of thorny desert vine, twisted together to form a crown. It was larger than Rustius had expected when Sextus had explained it too him, a length twisted round perhaps six times, long thorns protruding cruelly. “Let us crown the Bandit Queen,” Rustius boomed.
*
Aelia felt exhausted. Everything hurt. Her wrists and ankles bled. Her knee was bruised from her attempt to escape. Her back and buttocks were still stiff and sore from the beating and she still felt a dreadful pain inside her from the rapes. And the chains had been horribly heavy. Every muscle ached. Seeing her people like that was the final straw. She was defeated. Her enemies would have their revenge and she would suffer awfully. Then to be stripped in front of them, for them to see her shame and abjection, that was the worst of all. There was no hope.
She knelt on the coarse sand, a soldier holding each arm so her back was straight, her breasts pushed out. She looked up to see a centurion approaching, holding something in his hands. It took her a while to work out what it was – a wreath, perhaps, but then she saw the spines and understood. He stopped in front of her and raised the crown high. There were hoots of mocking laughter from the soldiers, gasps of horror from her people. He rammed it down. She shouted as the thorns lacerated her scalp and forehead. Some broke off and fell gently to earth, but many more dug in. He stepped back, grinning at his handiwork, then stepped forward again and twisted. She could feel the thorns dragging on her skin, feel the tears. Another soldier approached with a staff and began tapping at the crown, driving the spikes in deeper. Blood began to roll from her forehead and scalp, dripping drown her face, onto her bare shoulders and the ground.
She stared down, watching the red drops fall into the sand. Shame encompassed her. She heard more laughter and saw a guard approaching holding a tattered red cloth. It was wet, dripping with water. What new torment was this? “Your robe, my queen,” he said, and there was another gale of laughter. They draped it over her shoulders and as they knotted it at her neck, she understood why it was wet. They’d soaked it in salt-water. Her wounds began to burn. There were roars of glee as they saw the realisation dawn on her, the pain getting worse and worse. The cloth was probably long enough to reach to mid-thigh had she been standing. It bunched on the ground around her, clinging to her, a sheath of agony. She stared at the ground and willed herself not to weep.
Another soldier approached. Was there more? He carried a cane out before him. Were they going to thrash her again? But he placed it in her hands and she saw blood upon it. Her blood? Was this one of the rods they’d lashed with? “Your sceptre, my queen,” he said, and there was more laughter.
The legion had come out en masse, and packed the yard. There were those on duty who guarded the prisoners, although they seemed a miserable defeated bunch now, but many, many others there to have their sport with the bandits.
Aelia was dragged from her cell, barely able to haul along the chains. She’d been brought from the governor’s residence earlier that afternoon and it had been all Rustius had been able to do not to fuck her there and then. When she saw her people in the light of a vast array of torches, she gave a cry of pain. This was her defeat. Rustius was looking forward to this. This would be her humiliation and then he would have her again, feel that firm body under his, the soft roundness of her breasts, the tight warmth of her pussy. “Here she is,” he said mockingly, “the Bandit Queen. Hail her!”
She set her mouth tight and stared at the ground as they made her stand before her people. A murmur passed among them shocked by the sight of their leader dishevelled and in chains. “But let us dress her,” he said, “more like a queen.”
Four soldiers hastened forward and removed her chains. He was a little wary, but he doubted she posed any real danger now. She straightened slowly, stretching her back, rubbing her wrists where the irons had chafed. One punched her, needlessly, in the belly and, as she staggered forward, the other three pulled the tunic off her. She was naked again, smoothly luscious in the flickering light. She glanced awkwardly at her people and he realised being naked in front of her friends shamed her perhaps more than being naked in front of her enemies. The soldiers shoved her to her knees and then came the moment he’d been waiting for since a young centurion had suggested the refinement on their way back from the hills.
The centurion, a slightly plump southerner by the name of Sextus, walked proudly forward, carrying before him a circle of thorny desert vine, twisted together to form a crown. It was larger than Rustius had expected when Sextus had explained it too him, a length twisted round perhaps six times, long thorns protruding cruelly. “Let us crown the Bandit Queen,” Rustius boomed.
*
Aelia felt exhausted. Everything hurt. Her wrists and ankles bled. Her knee was bruised from her attempt to escape. Her back and buttocks were still stiff and sore from the beating and she still felt a dreadful pain inside her from the rapes. And the chains had been horribly heavy. Every muscle ached. Seeing her people like that was the final straw. She was defeated. Her enemies would have their revenge and she would suffer awfully. Then to be stripped in front of them, for them to see her shame and abjection, that was the worst of all. There was no hope.
She knelt on the coarse sand, a soldier holding each arm so her back was straight, her breasts pushed out. She looked up to see a centurion approaching, holding something in his hands. It took her a while to work out what it was – a wreath, perhaps, but then she saw the spines and understood. He stopped in front of her and raised the crown high. There were hoots of mocking laughter from the soldiers, gasps of horror from her people. He rammed it down. She shouted as the thorns lacerated her scalp and forehead. Some broke off and fell gently to earth, but many more dug in. He stepped back, grinning at his handiwork, then stepped forward again and twisted. She could feel the thorns dragging on her skin, feel the tears. Another soldier approached with a staff and began tapping at the crown, driving the spikes in deeper. Blood began to roll from her forehead and scalp, dripping drown her face, onto her bare shoulders and the ground.
She stared down, watching the red drops fall into the sand. Shame encompassed her. She heard more laughter and saw a guard approaching holding a tattered red cloth. It was wet, dripping with water. What new torment was this? “Your robe, my queen,” he said, and there was another gale of laughter. They draped it over her shoulders and as they knotted it at her neck, she understood why it was wet. They’d soaked it in salt-water. Her wounds began to burn. There were roars of glee as they saw the realisation dawn on her, the pain getting worse and worse. The cloth was probably long enough to reach to mid-thigh had she been standing. It bunched on the ground around her, clinging to her, a sheath of agony. She stared at the ground and willed herself not to weep.
Another soldier approached. Was there more? He carried a cane out before him. Were they going to thrash her again? But he placed it in her hands and she saw blood upon it. Her blood? Was this one of the rods they’d lashed with? “Your sceptre, my queen,” he said, and there was more laughter.