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Aelia
- Thread starter King Diocletian
- Start date
GabriellaSivilla
Governor
Wonderful! The coronation of the Bandit Queen, naked, raped, kneeling and bleeding in front of her tormentors taunting her! So HOT! 
King Diocletian
Magistrate
Sextus took centre-stage again. “The bandit queen will now sit in judgement over her people,” he said. Rustius was enjoying this. The boy had a flair for humiliation. He clearly had further plans. A table had been set behind the whipping post and on it lay a pair of straps, a pair of canes, a pair of bullwhips and a pair of scourges. Aelia looked broken beside him, ridiculous in her costume and clearly in pain, in full view of both the legion and the people she had led. Two male prisoners were dragged in front of her. Both were bound, both young and muscular.
“Choose one to be flogged, great queen,” said Sextus. “Point with your sceptre at the one you want punished.”
Aelia didn’t even look up. Joseph and Daniel were two of her best warriors. She wasn’t going to choose between them. “Choose, queen,” said Sextus. “If you do not, we will scourge both of them and then take the youngest two prisoners here and scourge them as well.”
She was paralysed with indecision. She just looked down. “Flog me!” shouted Daniel. ‘I’ll bear the wounds with pride.” Even as Joseph began protest and volunteer, she nodded. Daniel was older, stronger, better equipped to survive. If it had to be one of them it was better it was him.
“Point at the one you wish beaten,” Sextus insisted and slowly, reluctantly, she gestured at Daniel. Soldiers grabbed him, and dragged him to a column on the dais where Rustius stood that they used as a whipping post. They stripped him roughly and fastened his wrists in iron cuffs so he hugged the stone.
“Now,” said Sextus, “the sentence.”
Rustius leaned forward. Sextus held out a cloth bag towards her. “In here,” Sextus said, “are four tiles, marked with a I, a II, a III and a IV. Each number represents a multiple of five. How many lashes does the condemned deserve?”
She had no wish to participate in this. She would have done anything to avoid it but she knew if she disobeyed them they would do something terrible. There were youngsters among the prisoners: she couldn’t let them be scourged.
“I’m sorry,” she said, hopelessly. She reached into the bag and drew out a tile. Sextus took it from her. “Ten lashes,” he said.
“Daniel,” he called. “You’re lucky.”
He offered her another bag. “Now choose the implement,” he said. “A strap, a rod, a bullwhip or a scourge?”
Aelia turned away but reached into the bag with her hand. “A rod,” Sextus called. “Announce the sentence, great queen.”
She looked at him with fury in her eyes. A lash struck across the wet cloak on her shoulders and she yelled. “Ten lashes with the rod,” she muttered.
Two lictors immediately set to work thrashing the man at the post, who took his punishment stoically enough before being released from the post, bound again and sent back naked into massed huddle of prisoners.
‘Our second case,” Sextus announced. Rustius watched with renewed interest as two women were hustled forward. Both looked to be in their late thirties or perhaps early forties. One was elegant and slender, of medium height with raven hair and a sweet face; the other was slightly taller, her hair a mid brown and her skin a little paler. Both had clearly been picked for their looks. Rustius licked his lips. He’d watch one flogged and he might enjoy the other one later.
Aelia was appalled. She looked from Judith to Esther and back again. Both looked terrified. Watching Daniel caned had been bad enough, however bravely he’d taken it. These weren’t women who could take a beating. “Pick one,” the centurion hissed. Aelia shook her head, sending fresh spasms of pain through her scalp. The centurion turned and gave an order. Aelia saw two soldiers making for a boy amid the throng of prisoners. Tears began to well in her eyes. She raised her sceptre and pointed at Esther. She was slightly younger, perhaps slightly tougher. They dragged Judith back and threw her down, laughing. Then they marched Esther over to the post.
The taller one with the lighter hair. Rustius could see the panic in her as they approached. They stripped her with casual brutality. He saw round, heavy breasts before they fastened her up to be beaten. Aelia drew out the tiles and then, with a glance at the boy they’d threatened, read out the punishment. “Fifteen lashes with the strap.” That meant somebody was going to get twenty with either the bullwhip or the scourge. Rustius would enjoy this flogging but he had high hopes Sextus had even better lined up.
Aelia could hardly see Esther’s flogging through a mixture of tears and blood. She just heard the sound of leather on flesh, heard the screams, heard the jeers and the jokes as her friend was thrashed. Only as they brought two more victims forward did she blink sufficiently to see Esther, naked, wrists bound with cord, back and buttocks red and bruised, being flung down among the other prisoners.
“Choose one to be flogged, great queen,” said Sextus. “Point with your sceptre at the one you want punished.”
Aelia didn’t even look up. Joseph and Daniel were two of her best warriors. She wasn’t going to choose between them. “Choose, queen,” said Sextus. “If you do not, we will scourge both of them and then take the youngest two prisoners here and scourge them as well.”
She was paralysed with indecision. She just looked down. “Flog me!” shouted Daniel. ‘I’ll bear the wounds with pride.” Even as Joseph began protest and volunteer, she nodded. Daniel was older, stronger, better equipped to survive. If it had to be one of them it was better it was him.
“Point at the one you wish beaten,” Sextus insisted and slowly, reluctantly, she gestured at Daniel. Soldiers grabbed him, and dragged him to a column on the dais where Rustius stood that they used as a whipping post. They stripped him roughly and fastened his wrists in iron cuffs so he hugged the stone.
“Now,” said Sextus, “the sentence.”
Rustius leaned forward. Sextus held out a cloth bag towards her. “In here,” Sextus said, “are four tiles, marked with a I, a II, a III and a IV. Each number represents a multiple of five. How many lashes does the condemned deserve?”
She had no wish to participate in this. She would have done anything to avoid it but she knew if she disobeyed them they would do something terrible. There were youngsters among the prisoners: she couldn’t let them be scourged.
“I’m sorry,” she said, hopelessly. She reached into the bag and drew out a tile. Sextus took it from her. “Ten lashes,” he said.
“Daniel,” he called. “You’re lucky.”
He offered her another bag. “Now choose the implement,” he said. “A strap, a rod, a bullwhip or a scourge?”
Aelia turned away but reached into the bag with her hand. “A rod,” Sextus called. “Announce the sentence, great queen.”
She looked at him with fury in her eyes. A lash struck across the wet cloak on her shoulders and she yelled. “Ten lashes with the rod,” she muttered.
Two lictors immediately set to work thrashing the man at the post, who took his punishment stoically enough before being released from the post, bound again and sent back naked into massed huddle of prisoners.
‘Our second case,” Sextus announced. Rustius watched with renewed interest as two women were hustled forward. Both looked to be in their late thirties or perhaps early forties. One was elegant and slender, of medium height with raven hair and a sweet face; the other was slightly taller, her hair a mid brown and her skin a little paler. Both had clearly been picked for their looks. Rustius licked his lips. He’d watch one flogged and he might enjoy the other one later.
Aelia was appalled. She looked from Judith to Esther and back again. Both looked terrified. Watching Daniel caned had been bad enough, however bravely he’d taken it. These weren’t women who could take a beating. “Pick one,” the centurion hissed. Aelia shook her head, sending fresh spasms of pain through her scalp. The centurion turned and gave an order. Aelia saw two soldiers making for a boy amid the throng of prisoners. Tears began to well in her eyes. She raised her sceptre and pointed at Esther. She was slightly younger, perhaps slightly tougher. They dragged Judith back and threw her down, laughing. Then they marched Esther over to the post.
The taller one with the lighter hair. Rustius could see the panic in her as they approached. They stripped her with casual brutality. He saw round, heavy breasts before they fastened her up to be beaten. Aelia drew out the tiles and then, with a glance at the boy they’d threatened, read out the punishment. “Fifteen lashes with the strap.” That meant somebody was going to get twenty with either the bullwhip or the scourge. Rustius would enjoy this flogging but he had high hopes Sextus had even better lined up.
Aelia could hardly see Esther’s flogging through a mixture of tears and blood. She just heard the sound of leather on flesh, heard the screams, heard the jeers and the jokes as her friend was thrashed. Only as they brought two more victims forward did she blink sufficiently to see Esther, naked, wrists bound with cord, back and buttocks red and bruised, being flung down among the other prisoners.
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King Diocletian
Magistrate
It got worse. The next two were both young. There was Shena, a beautiful girl of mixed race, 19 years old, her skin the colour of cinnamon, her hair a dark frizz that stood up from a smooth serious face. She was tough, a fighter. Hand her over or Ruth, a slender girl of about the same age who understood herbs like nobody she’d ever met. There was no question. Shena nodded to her long before she’d gestured with the cane.
This one was stunning, thought Rustius as they ripped the shift from her. High, pert breasts, a stomach with clearly defined muscles, firm skin of a deep bronze. He would have her if she wasn’t too badly damaged by this flogging. She was a fighter, you could tell, and the soldiers knocked her around a little as they fastened her on the post. Aelia took the tiles and, her voice barely more than a whisper, read out the sentence. “Twenty lashes with the bullwhip.”
There was clear relish on the part of lictors as they picked up the heavy bullwhips, each perhaps six feet long. Perhaps he wouldn’t be fucking her, Rustius thought, but he would take pleasure from watching her suffer. He saw her adjust her feet, shuffling in the dust, the muscles flexing in her powerful calves as she set herself. She kept her forehead pressed against the stone, resisting the temptation to look at her tormentors. A strong girl, but you could only be so strong against whips like those. It’s true they had longer whips that would have sliced her apart, but the bullwhips were fearsome and they were wielded with great force and skill. From the first lash they raised deep brown welts upon her skin, first on her back, then on her buttocks and thighs and then across her back again. After five the lashes were drawing screams. By 10 there was blood running from a number of tears. By 15 she was weakening and by 20 she was bloody and sobbing. But as they cut her down Rustius saw her breasts were unblemished, her belly still flat and pure – and he was sure her tigerish energy would return soon enough. There we so many choices.
Aelia felt broken. It wasn’t just the pain of the beating and the salt and the crown, or the shame of her nudity and being dressed up like this, it was the horror of sending her own people to be flogged. The last two, she wasn’t surprised to see, were attractive women in their late twenties. There was Rachel, lean and strong with her sun-kissed hair, or there was Naomi, shorter, dark haired, with a sweet smile and large, soft breasts. Rachel, Aelia suspected, was tougher, but her son and daughter were among the crowd. She couldn't let them see their mother stripped and savaged. “Naomi,” she whispered. They gave her the bag, but they all knew what tiles remained. “Five with the scourge,” she said.
Rustius was delighted: the tits on this one. Five with the scourge was plenty. It would tear lumps of flesh from its victim and give Aelia a foresight of what awaited her. The eagerness of the soldiers was animalistic. They ripped her tunic away, their glee as her breasts bounced loose obvious. She fought them, but they dragged her to the post and fastened her. She was short enough that her arms were raised high above her head, meaning her tits, which just protruded beyond her torso, were prime targets. The lictors took up the scourges, awful whips of three thongs of perhaps three feet in length, shards of bone knotted along their length and vicious hooks fixed at their ends. They shook them, letting the bone and the metal jangle together, taunting their victim, and ran them mockingly over her face.
Aelia knew this was what she’d have to take. Poor Naomi, smooth back slightly stretched, ready to be ravaged. She’d known it would be awful, but Aelia was still horrified by the effect of the first lash. It smashed across Naomi’s shoulders and then was dragged. She gave a gasp, her head went back, the muscles in her neck stood out, and then she shrieked. First there was a streak of deep red and then blood bubbled within it, particularly thick where the hooks had bitten. She kept shrieking, fingers reaching up in terror. The soldiers laughed. The second lash was worse, thrown around her waist so the hooks caught in the soft skin below her rib cage. Naomi was part-turned as the lictor dragged the lash, tearing three deep furrows in the skin. Aelia averted her eyes, but she couldn’t escape Naomi’s screams.
Rustius knew exactly where the next one was going, the right-hander aiming his hooks over her slim back towards the outside of her right breast. The hooks fell a little short, but gouged chunks of flesh from under her armpit. Her howls of pain reached a new pitch. The left-hander, though, did make contact with her breast, the claws leaving blood dripping freely down her ribs. The fifth and final lash was delivered into the heart of her back, raked downwards to leave her a bloody mess. She was shaking violently as they loosed her, seemingly in a state of shock, as they shoved her back into the mass of prisoners.
Sextus ordered Aelia to her feet. She got up, enveloped in horror. The centurion spat in her face. She felt again the eyes of her people on her and understood the magnitude of her failure. They made her parade up and down, mockingly bowing before her. Her face was covered in blood, her shoulders and back burning. She felt weak with shame. They made her stand with the rod clasped before her, resting on her right shoulder, and then began an awful process of sorting her people. She understood all too well what was happening: men and children and old women to one side, anything fuckable to the other. She saw Shena, bent over, struggling, naked, in pain, being pulled from the line at Rustius’s order. He walked up and down and then pointed at Leah, Naomi’s younger sister. There was little doubt what would happen to them as they were placed in chains and led away. The others were lined up and groups of soldiers formed around them as they took their pick. The centurion who’d arranged her humiliation walked slowly between them, making his choice.
Eventually he walked up to Ruth, poor delicate Ruth, and stripped her. She stood in terror, arms loosed clasped in front of her and he knocked her to the ground with a kick to the back of her knee. Then he was upon her and the rapes began. Aelia looked away but the sounds were bad enough, a mass wailing as her women were brutalised before their husbands, their brothers, their fathers, their children and her. They made her endure it for perhaps half an hour, and then her cloak was removed, yanked painfully away from the open wounds where it had stuck. They carefully lifted the crown from her head, struck her a couple of times with the rod, and led her away to be fastened out in the cell where she’d sent her first nights of captivity.
This one was stunning, thought Rustius as they ripped the shift from her. High, pert breasts, a stomach with clearly defined muscles, firm skin of a deep bronze. He would have her if she wasn’t too badly damaged by this flogging. She was a fighter, you could tell, and the soldiers knocked her around a little as they fastened her on the post. Aelia took the tiles and, her voice barely more than a whisper, read out the sentence. “Twenty lashes with the bullwhip.”
There was clear relish on the part of lictors as they picked up the heavy bullwhips, each perhaps six feet long. Perhaps he wouldn’t be fucking her, Rustius thought, but he would take pleasure from watching her suffer. He saw her adjust her feet, shuffling in the dust, the muscles flexing in her powerful calves as she set herself. She kept her forehead pressed against the stone, resisting the temptation to look at her tormentors. A strong girl, but you could only be so strong against whips like those. It’s true they had longer whips that would have sliced her apart, but the bullwhips were fearsome and they were wielded with great force and skill. From the first lash they raised deep brown welts upon her skin, first on her back, then on her buttocks and thighs and then across her back again. After five the lashes were drawing screams. By 10 there was blood running from a number of tears. By 15 she was weakening and by 20 she was bloody and sobbing. But as they cut her down Rustius saw her breasts were unblemished, her belly still flat and pure – and he was sure her tigerish energy would return soon enough. There we so many choices.
Aelia felt broken. It wasn’t just the pain of the beating and the salt and the crown, or the shame of her nudity and being dressed up like this, it was the horror of sending her own people to be flogged. The last two, she wasn’t surprised to see, were attractive women in their late twenties. There was Rachel, lean and strong with her sun-kissed hair, or there was Naomi, shorter, dark haired, with a sweet smile and large, soft breasts. Rachel, Aelia suspected, was tougher, but her son and daughter were among the crowd. She couldn't let them see their mother stripped and savaged. “Naomi,” she whispered. They gave her the bag, but they all knew what tiles remained. “Five with the scourge,” she said.
Rustius was delighted: the tits on this one. Five with the scourge was plenty. It would tear lumps of flesh from its victim and give Aelia a foresight of what awaited her. The eagerness of the soldiers was animalistic. They ripped her tunic away, their glee as her breasts bounced loose obvious. She fought them, but they dragged her to the post and fastened her. She was short enough that her arms were raised high above her head, meaning her tits, which just protruded beyond her torso, were prime targets. The lictors took up the scourges, awful whips of three thongs of perhaps three feet in length, shards of bone knotted along their length and vicious hooks fixed at their ends. They shook them, letting the bone and the metal jangle together, taunting their victim, and ran them mockingly over her face.
Aelia knew this was what she’d have to take. Poor Naomi, smooth back slightly stretched, ready to be ravaged. She’d known it would be awful, but Aelia was still horrified by the effect of the first lash. It smashed across Naomi’s shoulders and then was dragged. She gave a gasp, her head went back, the muscles in her neck stood out, and then she shrieked. First there was a streak of deep red and then blood bubbled within it, particularly thick where the hooks had bitten. She kept shrieking, fingers reaching up in terror. The soldiers laughed. The second lash was worse, thrown around her waist so the hooks caught in the soft skin below her rib cage. Naomi was part-turned as the lictor dragged the lash, tearing three deep furrows in the skin. Aelia averted her eyes, but she couldn’t escape Naomi’s screams.
Rustius knew exactly where the next one was going, the right-hander aiming his hooks over her slim back towards the outside of her right breast. The hooks fell a little short, but gouged chunks of flesh from under her armpit. Her howls of pain reached a new pitch. The left-hander, though, did make contact with her breast, the claws leaving blood dripping freely down her ribs. The fifth and final lash was delivered into the heart of her back, raked downwards to leave her a bloody mess. She was shaking violently as they loosed her, seemingly in a state of shock, as they shoved her back into the mass of prisoners.
Sextus ordered Aelia to her feet. She got up, enveloped in horror. The centurion spat in her face. She felt again the eyes of her people on her and understood the magnitude of her failure. They made her parade up and down, mockingly bowing before her. Her face was covered in blood, her shoulders and back burning. She felt weak with shame. They made her stand with the rod clasped before her, resting on her right shoulder, and then began an awful process of sorting her people. She understood all too well what was happening: men and children and old women to one side, anything fuckable to the other. She saw Shena, bent over, struggling, naked, in pain, being pulled from the line at Rustius’s order. He walked up and down and then pointed at Leah, Naomi’s younger sister. There was little doubt what would happen to them as they were placed in chains and led away. The others were lined up and groups of soldiers formed around them as they took their pick. The centurion who’d arranged her humiliation walked slowly between them, making his choice.
Eventually he walked up to Ruth, poor delicate Ruth, and stripped her. She stood in terror, arms loosed clasped in front of her and he knocked her to the ground with a kick to the back of her knee. Then he was upon her and the rapes began. Aelia looked away but the sounds were bad enough, a mass wailing as her women were brutalised before their husbands, their brothers, their fathers, their children and her. They made her endure it for perhaps half an hour, and then her cloak was removed, yanked painfully away from the open wounds where it had stuck. They carefully lifted the crown from her head, struck her a couple of times with the rod, and led her away to be fastened out in the cell where she’d sent her first nights of captivity.
King Diocletian
Magistrate
There’d been a lottery. Just five winning tiles: Rustius didn’t want her ruined. He would go first of course, that was a given. And then he had a night with the other two he’d chosen: the mixed race one who’d been bullwhipped and the one with the pretty eyes he’d noticed when they’d first arrived. A tiger and a lamb, he suspected. He’d have fun. Right now they were naked and in chains in his room. But first Aelia. He would have her, then the five lottery winners and then he’d arranged for her to be drugged so she’d sleep. They needed her strong for the following day. She’d be taken out at dawn and scourged, then she’d carry her cross out to Golgotha where she’d be crucified. Mommius had been clear: she had to last at least a day, although that might have been easier if they hadn’t let the priests flog her. Still, she was strong and with a proper sedile she’d last. He looked down at her naked body in the torchlight, so long, so smooth. He prodded her in the cunt with his boot. She barely moved. He knelt over her trim waist, took a breast and squeezed. She moaned.
Good. She could still feel pain, then. He placed his hands on her cheekbones and lifted her a little. Her face was caked in dried blood. “We’ve won,” he said softly. He saw the defeat in her dark eyes, pain and sadness and shame. He ran his thumbs down the shallow grooves that led from her nose to the edges of her lips. “You could have been anything,” he said. “You could have married an official from Rome. You could have been a merchant’s wife. You could have been one of our whores. But instead you chose this.” He kissed her, hard, feeling the pure teeth against his tongue. “If you think what we’ve done to you so far is bad, wait till tomorrow.”
He jabbed two fingers inside her, parting her lips. He jabbed at her clitoris, seeing her pain and humiliation. “You die on the cross,” he said. “You die naked and in agony. And your people are sold into slavery. You did that to them. You killed them. You stripped them. You flogged them. You raped them.” He traced the outline of her areola with his other hand. “You did that. You lost.”
He began to lick her breasts, grasping at the firm muscles of her buttocks as he did so, feeling the welts where she’d been caned. He dug his fingers into her firm flesh, relishing her gasp of pain, and her revulsion as he entered her. He thrust and paused, taking her bloodied head in his hands. “You killed my men,” he said, “and now you pay.” And then he surrendered himself to her tight warmth, hands grasping her narrow waist as he pounded himself to climax. When he was done, he wiped his cock on her face. “I’ll enjoy watching you die,” he said.
Good. She could still feel pain, then. He placed his hands on her cheekbones and lifted her a little. Her face was caked in dried blood. “We’ve won,” he said softly. He saw the defeat in her dark eyes, pain and sadness and shame. He ran his thumbs down the shallow grooves that led from her nose to the edges of her lips. “You could have been anything,” he said. “You could have married an official from Rome. You could have been a merchant’s wife. You could have been one of our whores. But instead you chose this.” He kissed her, hard, feeling the pure teeth against his tongue. “If you think what we’ve done to you so far is bad, wait till tomorrow.”
He jabbed two fingers inside her, parting her lips. He jabbed at her clitoris, seeing her pain and humiliation. “You die on the cross,” he said. “You die naked and in agony. And your people are sold into slavery. You did that to them. You killed them. You stripped them. You flogged them. You raped them.” He traced the outline of her areola with his other hand. “You did that. You lost.”
He began to lick her breasts, grasping at the firm muscles of her buttocks as he did so, feeling the welts where she’d been caned. He dug his fingers into her firm flesh, relishing her gasp of pain, and her revulsion as he entered her. He thrust and paused, taking her bloodied head in his hands. “You killed my men,” he said, “and now you pay.” And then he surrendered himself to her tight warmth, hands grasping her narrow waist as he pounded himself to climax. When he was done, he wiped his cock on her face. “I’ll enjoy watching you die,” he said.
King Diocletian
Magistrate
Aelia was woken by a sharp kick between her legs. There were soldiers unfastening her limbs. She felt groggy, head aching, back sore, a pain inside her. This was the day she died – if she was lucky. There was a stickiness on her thighs and she remembered the rapes, the five soldiers who’d won the lottery hammering away, abusing her and shouting the names of the men she’d killed. There’d be no mercy. She could only hope their hatred made them kill her quicker. She’d been made to drink something. She had no idea what it was, some kind of herbal conconction, but it had knocked her out and her gut now churned. They abused her even then as they dragged her outside into the grey light of dawn, probably the last she’d ever see. They threw buckets of cold water over her, sluicing off the blood and the sweat and the cum, then put her, dripping wet, in heavy chains and locked her in another cell. She was going to die. She was going to die terribly. She wondered if they’d kill any of her people but she suspected they had too much value as slaves for that.
Eventually they came for her again. The sun was up and the parade ground gleamed in the early morning light. The legion had been assembled, standing in ranks around the whipping column beside which two lictors stood, the terrible scourges, the ones they’d used on poor Naomi, already in their hands. Naked, bent under the weight of the chains, she was led forward. She saw Mommius and a few other officials in togas seated in front of the soldiers and beside them, standing, a number of senior priests. They were all here to watch her suffering. From the street outside she could hear a hubbub. The people had turned out then, to watch her death. They brought her to the post where Rustius, the only man to have raped her on two separate occasions, announced the sentence. Thirty lashes. Was that good or bad? She no longer had the power to work it out. The more blood she lost, she knew, the quicker it would be over.
They removed the chains. She straightened, slowly. She was stiff and sore. She felt terrible already. There was a moment of stillness and silence and then, as she rubbed her wrists, two soldiers seized her arms. She saw the leer on the face of one of them as he slammed her into the stone pillar. The breath was knocked out of her body but she wouldn’t have had the strength to resist anyway as her wrists were fastened in the chains behind the post, leaving her hugging the stone, back taut, almost immobile for the whips. Her breasts pressed against the cool stone. She bit her lower lip. She wouldn’t let them see how scared she was.
The lictors came forward, the bones of the whips clinking together. One of them grabbed her hair and tipped her head back and the other draped the scourge over her face, drawing the shards and the hooks across her soft cheeks. She clenched her teeth. She would not show fear. They moved into position behind her. A soldier twisted her wet hair into a rough pony-tail and pushed over her shoulder, running his hand over her breast as he did so. She pushed her forehead, pocked with scars and dried blood, against the stone. She would not show she was humiliated.
What a woman she was, Rustius reflected. There was a nobility about her as she stood waiting to be ripped apart. Her forehead was covered in scratches and small scars from the crown. Her skin was bruised and marked by welts, broken in a number of places and yet there was still an alluring smoothness about it, the firm muscles of her back and buttocks set in relief by the low sun. The scourge would savage her but even after a third beating in a little over a week he suspected her death would not be quick. He wished he could have fucked her again. She had a remarkable body, so firm and yet so soft. But nobody would ever fuck her again. He nodded to the centurion and he gave the order for the flogging to begin.
Aelia lowered her head. She felt surprisingly calm, as though her body had lost the capacity for fear. She heard the hooks and the bones tinkle as the left-handed flogger measured his stroke. She blew out, trying to stay calm. She heard his boots on the sand, two steps, a slight grunt of effort. She heard the whistle of the whip and then the crash as it landed on her shoulders. For a moment she felt only shock. Her head had flown back, her mouth was open and the breath wouldn’t come. Then the pain arrive and it was terrible. The cane had been awful but this was much, much worse. When her breath returned it was in a series of short, sharp gasps. “One,” called the centurion. She blinked repeatedly, staring at the stone before her. There was a band of fire across her shoulders, dotted with more intense conflagrations. There was a long wait. Agony and the prospect of more agony. It came from her left, and landed across the middle of her back. The ends, weighted by the hooks, reached around to claw at her ribs.
Eventually they came for her again. The sun was up and the parade ground gleamed in the early morning light. The legion had been assembled, standing in ranks around the whipping column beside which two lictors stood, the terrible scourges, the ones they’d used on poor Naomi, already in their hands. Naked, bent under the weight of the chains, she was led forward. She saw Mommius and a few other officials in togas seated in front of the soldiers and beside them, standing, a number of senior priests. They were all here to watch her suffering. From the street outside she could hear a hubbub. The people had turned out then, to watch her death. They brought her to the post where Rustius, the only man to have raped her on two separate occasions, announced the sentence. Thirty lashes. Was that good or bad? She no longer had the power to work it out. The more blood she lost, she knew, the quicker it would be over.
They removed the chains. She straightened, slowly. She was stiff and sore. She felt terrible already. There was a moment of stillness and silence and then, as she rubbed her wrists, two soldiers seized her arms. She saw the leer on the face of one of them as he slammed her into the stone pillar. The breath was knocked out of her body but she wouldn’t have had the strength to resist anyway as her wrists were fastened in the chains behind the post, leaving her hugging the stone, back taut, almost immobile for the whips. Her breasts pressed against the cool stone. She bit her lower lip. She wouldn’t let them see how scared she was.
The lictors came forward, the bones of the whips clinking together. One of them grabbed her hair and tipped her head back and the other draped the scourge over her face, drawing the shards and the hooks across her soft cheeks. She clenched her teeth. She would not show fear. They moved into position behind her. A soldier twisted her wet hair into a rough pony-tail and pushed over her shoulder, running his hand over her breast as he did so. She pushed her forehead, pocked with scars and dried blood, against the stone. She would not show she was humiliated.
What a woman she was, Rustius reflected. There was a nobility about her as she stood waiting to be ripped apart. Her forehead was covered in scratches and small scars from the crown. Her skin was bruised and marked by welts, broken in a number of places and yet there was still an alluring smoothness about it, the firm muscles of her back and buttocks set in relief by the low sun. The scourge would savage her but even after a third beating in a little over a week he suspected her death would not be quick. He wished he could have fucked her again. She had a remarkable body, so firm and yet so soft. But nobody would ever fuck her again. He nodded to the centurion and he gave the order for the flogging to begin.
Aelia lowered her head. She felt surprisingly calm, as though her body had lost the capacity for fear. She heard the hooks and the bones tinkle as the left-handed flogger measured his stroke. She blew out, trying to stay calm. She heard his boots on the sand, two steps, a slight grunt of effort. She heard the whistle of the whip and then the crash as it landed on her shoulders. For a moment she felt only shock. Her head had flown back, her mouth was open and the breath wouldn’t come. Then the pain arrive and it was terrible. The cane had been awful but this was much, much worse. When her breath returned it was in a series of short, sharp gasps. “One,” called the centurion. She blinked repeatedly, staring at the stone before her. There was a band of fire across her shoulders, dotted with more intense conflagrations. There was a long wait. Agony and the prospect of more agony. It came from her left, and landed across the middle of her back. The ends, weighted by the hooks, reached around to claw at her ribs.
xso
Tribune
Poor girl!, caned and scourged + raped and humiliated! Thanks for another exciting part, looking forward being a 'spectator' when it is time for her final walk.
GabriellaSivilla
Governor
You are a master of the whipping scenes! Cannot wait to know where the next blow will land... and will do...
King Diocletian
Magistrate
There was something vaguely disgusting about the spectacle, Mommius thought. The girl was a menace, obviously, but did anyone deserve this? She was naked in front of her enemies, had already been beaten twice and now was taking a third flogging, once that would tear the skin from her back. The third lash landed just above her waist. Blood began to bubble immediately. The first two lashes already throbbed pink, gouges two of three inches long where the hooks had scored her skin, blood dribbling from rents left by the shards of bone. It was astonishing she hadn’t cried out.
The fourth brought more reaction. It was whipped low across her buttocks and the hooks bit deep. She shouted, her legs leaving the ground and briefly straddling the post. Almost instantly, blood began to dribble down her right leg. She gave a shudder and Mommius instantly felt a sense of concern. How long would she last on the cross? The orders had been clear: a day at least. He knew the human body was resilient and he knew she was tough but the abuse she’d taken had been severe. He watched her helplessness as the whipping went on, slow and meticulous. He thought of the feel of her body under his hands, the slippery muscularity beneath the soft skin. She would keep resisting, keep fighting.
*
Clemens hadn’t slept. He waited outside the fortress, hopelessly. He’d heard shouts and screams all night and then, just before dawn, the great gates had opened and a group of prisoners had been led out. They all wore iron collars linked to the next prisoner by a yard of chain, their wrists bound behind them. He’d hidden his face away at first, concerned somebody might show some sign of recognition, but he realised they were all too broken for that and so he’d stood back in the shadows, watching as his people were led away to the slave traders. Some were in tears, some limped, all walked with head-down weariness. What had happened in there?
He’d seen Naomi, face a mask of horror, had hated himself for watching how her breasts swayed beneath her tattered shift, then saw how her back was stained with blood. Had they whipped her as well? And then he’d seen Ruth, shuffling along, sobbing constantly. And most shocking of all was Shena. So tough, so brave, and now a bedraggled sight in her bloodied shift, defiance knocked out of her.
And then he’d waited some more, on the verge of tears himself, before he heard what he’d been dreading. First there was shout, the hoots and jeers, then screams. Horrible, horrible screams.
*
The pain was far worse than anything she’d imagined possible. She stared up at the cloudless sky, mouth open, gasping for breath in between her howls of pain. Any attempt at dignity had gone. She was shaking, spots danced before her eyes and her back was a white hot sheet of pain. It felt as though she had no skin left. Another lash thumped into her and she felt the tear as the hooks ripped into her skin. There was a moment when she thought her heart had stopped and she was paralysed, frozen in agony, before the shock eased and the pain grew. She could hear their taunts, sense their enjoyment. Their revenge was brutal. She had no idea how many she’d taken: it was just a world of pain.
The whips were heavy with blood. A fine spray was sent up as the thongs were drawn back and thrown through the air. Her back was a battered mess, the skin shredded. Blood ran from open wounds, dripped to the sand. The lash landed, clawing at her ribs. A spatter of blood leapt from her back. She gave an anguished gasp and then roared with pain. Her whole body shuddered. Her head lolled back, damp tendrils of hair clinging to her bloodied shoulders. “Twenty,” came the call. She was shaking, feet shuffling limply. Rustius looked on with satisfaction. This was what a punishment should be.
He watched the left-hander shake his whip, blood falling from it, measure his run and then thrash her, dragging the scourge from the upper left past of her back down and to the centre. A fine spray of blood was thrown up, there was the slap of the lash on her finely muscled form and then the tear as the bone-shards and the hooks ripped into the flesh. Her scream rasped in her throat. She thrust her head forward so her forehead pushed against the stone, and then she seemed to subside, legs slowly giving way so she slid down the column to hang, knees slightly bent, upper arms straining.
Mommius looked at the priests. How he hated them, standing there in their little huddle, faces so judgmental, hypocrites who would preach purity but were clearly relishing the torture of a beautiful naked woman. Another lash landed, another spray of blood went up, there was more wailing, more cheers from the men, but Caiaphas simply turned up his nose, pursing his lips and shaking his head at the priest next to him. He patted at his upper lip with a cloth, but his gaze was soon fixed on her again. Mommius had come to quite admire the girl. She was screaming now, hanging limp on the post, but she was far braver than anyone else he’d ever watched being flogged and she’d taken astonishing punishment before her legs had given way. And she was a great fuck. He remembered the feel of that powerful core, the strength of her thighs, the tightness of her cunt. And the sense of her resigned fury as he’d had his way.
Her world was just pain now, constant fire in her back onto which was overlaid new white hot agony every 30 seconds or so. She could feel the blood running down over her buttocks, sense it dripping into the sand. Tears and mucus leaked from her face, falling onto her chest. The stone was rough against her breasts. Her arms felt dreadfully tried and she was aware beyond the terrible pain of her back that her wrists were aching. She heard the whoosh, felt the impact and the tear and the pain rose up again. Shapes danced in front of her eyes. Her heart was pounding. “Twenty-nine,” she heard. Was that right? Just one more. She could survive this. But for what? To die more publicly, in even worse pain. For her people, for her ideals, she would endure. The final lash ripped across her skin and it was over. She retched, tasting bile. Her head fell back.
The fourth brought more reaction. It was whipped low across her buttocks and the hooks bit deep. She shouted, her legs leaving the ground and briefly straddling the post. Almost instantly, blood began to dribble down her right leg. She gave a shudder and Mommius instantly felt a sense of concern. How long would she last on the cross? The orders had been clear: a day at least. He knew the human body was resilient and he knew she was tough but the abuse she’d taken had been severe. He watched her helplessness as the whipping went on, slow and meticulous. He thought of the feel of her body under his hands, the slippery muscularity beneath the soft skin. She would keep resisting, keep fighting.
*
Clemens hadn’t slept. He waited outside the fortress, hopelessly. He’d heard shouts and screams all night and then, just before dawn, the great gates had opened and a group of prisoners had been led out. They all wore iron collars linked to the next prisoner by a yard of chain, their wrists bound behind them. He’d hidden his face away at first, concerned somebody might show some sign of recognition, but he realised they were all too broken for that and so he’d stood back in the shadows, watching as his people were led away to the slave traders. Some were in tears, some limped, all walked with head-down weariness. What had happened in there?
He’d seen Naomi, face a mask of horror, had hated himself for watching how her breasts swayed beneath her tattered shift, then saw how her back was stained with blood. Had they whipped her as well? And then he’d seen Ruth, shuffling along, sobbing constantly. And most shocking of all was Shena. So tough, so brave, and now a bedraggled sight in her bloodied shift, defiance knocked out of her.
And then he’d waited some more, on the verge of tears himself, before he heard what he’d been dreading. First there was shout, the hoots and jeers, then screams. Horrible, horrible screams.
*
The pain was far worse than anything she’d imagined possible. She stared up at the cloudless sky, mouth open, gasping for breath in between her howls of pain. Any attempt at dignity had gone. She was shaking, spots danced before her eyes and her back was a white hot sheet of pain. It felt as though she had no skin left. Another lash thumped into her and she felt the tear as the hooks ripped into her skin. There was a moment when she thought her heart had stopped and she was paralysed, frozen in agony, before the shock eased and the pain grew. She could hear their taunts, sense their enjoyment. Their revenge was brutal. She had no idea how many she’d taken: it was just a world of pain.
The whips were heavy with blood. A fine spray was sent up as the thongs were drawn back and thrown through the air. Her back was a battered mess, the skin shredded. Blood ran from open wounds, dripped to the sand. The lash landed, clawing at her ribs. A spatter of blood leapt from her back. She gave an anguished gasp and then roared with pain. Her whole body shuddered. Her head lolled back, damp tendrils of hair clinging to her bloodied shoulders. “Twenty,” came the call. She was shaking, feet shuffling limply. Rustius looked on with satisfaction. This was what a punishment should be.
He watched the left-hander shake his whip, blood falling from it, measure his run and then thrash her, dragging the scourge from the upper left past of her back down and to the centre. A fine spray of blood was thrown up, there was the slap of the lash on her finely muscled form and then the tear as the bone-shards and the hooks ripped into the flesh. Her scream rasped in her throat. She thrust her head forward so her forehead pushed against the stone, and then she seemed to subside, legs slowly giving way so she slid down the column to hang, knees slightly bent, upper arms straining.
Mommius looked at the priests. How he hated them, standing there in their little huddle, faces so judgmental, hypocrites who would preach purity but were clearly relishing the torture of a beautiful naked woman. Another lash landed, another spray of blood went up, there was more wailing, more cheers from the men, but Caiaphas simply turned up his nose, pursing his lips and shaking his head at the priest next to him. He patted at his upper lip with a cloth, but his gaze was soon fixed on her again. Mommius had come to quite admire the girl. She was screaming now, hanging limp on the post, but she was far braver than anyone else he’d ever watched being flogged and she’d taken astonishing punishment before her legs had given way. And she was a great fuck. He remembered the feel of that powerful core, the strength of her thighs, the tightness of her cunt. And the sense of her resigned fury as he’d had his way.
Her world was just pain now, constant fire in her back onto which was overlaid new white hot agony every 30 seconds or so. She could feel the blood running down over her buttocks, sense it dripping into the sand. Tears and mucus leaked from her face, falling onto her chest. The stone was rough against her breasts. Her arms felt dreadfully tried and she was aware beyond the terrible pain of her back that her wrists were aching. She heard the whoosh, felt the impact and the tear and the pain rose up again. Shapes danced in front of her eyes. Her heart was pounding. “Twenty-nine,” she heard. Was that right? Just one more. She could survive this. But for what? To die more publicly, in even worse pain. For her people, for her ideals, she would endure. The final lash ripped across her skin and it was over. She retched, tasting bile. Her head fell back.
xso
Tribune
Smashing,thanks!
King Diocletian
Magistrate
They loosed her right wrist and she fell to hang by her left, her body swinging so she faced her tormentors. After the red of her back, the front of her body was shockingly pale, smoothly pure. Her head lolled, legs tucked underneath her. They unfastened her left wrist and she fell awkwardly onto her side. A boot to the belly caused her to grunt and shifted her a couple on inches. She ignored an order to stand. Rustius signalled to the execution squad and they pulled her up by the arms and the hair, hurling abuse at her as she moaned in pain. They dragged her before him and threw her down. She sprawled on all fours, then finally looked up at him. Her back was ravaged, covered in blood. Tendrils of sweat-damp hair clung to her face and to the open wounds of her back. Her breasts hung down deliciously. They forced her into a kneeling position and he looked into her exhausted brown eyes, saw the perfect whiteness of her front teeth between her lips as she panted.
“Salt!” he ordered and she closed her eyes in terrified resignation.
Two soldiers gripped each arm as another two approached with bowl of salt. Rustius saw her set her teeth. She knew how painful this was going to be. But it was necessary. Not just to hurt her but to stem some of the bleeding, to keep her alive. One soldier held the bowl, the other took a small handful of salt and slowly sprinkled it on her bloody back. The effect was remarkable. It began slowly but inexorably the pain built. Her jaw clenched and her eyes widened and then she roared like some animal and it took all the strength of the soldiers to hold her down. The soldier tipped more salt onto her, then ground his hands in her wounds. She screamed an inhuman scream, high-pitched and terrified, fought for a few moments and then fell calm, hanging between the soldiers, great sobs racking her shivering body. The soldier pulled his hands away, red with her blood and grabbed her face. “For my brother,” he said, and spat on her. They dragged her up and Rustius saw her anguished depression, teeth clenched together. They turned her to face the legion and tossed her towards them. There was a great cheer as she sprawled naked before them. Rustius had feared they would never break her, but this was the moment when she was finally defeated. Her fingers clawed at the sand and he could see from the quiver of her bloodied shoulders that she was weeping.
They let her lie in her humiliation for a couple of minutes, as the next implements of her disgrace were brought out. They tipped two buckets of water over her, bringing her back from the semi-consciousness into which she had slumped and sluicing away much of the blood, sand and salt. They pulled her to her knees and smoothed her wet hair back from her forehead. Rustius saw the weariness in her as they pulled her hair to yank her head up. Sextus advanced with the crown, still showing the blood from the previous night. He rolled it over her chest to general hilarity as the thorns teased her nipples, then raised the crown and lowered it onto her head, twisting cruelly so the thorns dug in. “Hail the bandit queen!” he shouted and there was a mixture of laughter and shouts of “Hail!”
Rustius heard a new burst of laughter. What was this? Two soldiers dragged the naked corpse of Quintus over to her. “Say goodbye,” Sextus taunted. They shoved her face into his crotch, pushing his penis against her lips, a blow to the back of her head causing a shout of pain that opened her teeth far enough for them to force his cock briefly insider her mouth. Then they draped him over her in a mockery of an embrace. “Such love,” Sextus said, then gave the signal for them to bring the patibulum.
By the gate, other soldiers scattered shards of broken pottery, a final cruelty before she left the fortress. Rustius wanted to ensure she didn’t walk with any dignity to her death and had thought about beating her feet or slicing the soles with a knife. But Sextus’s idea was better. Make her inflict the damage on herself. Make her understand their ingenuity when it came to hurting her. Make her suffer as they hosannahed her out of the gate on the road to Golgotha.
“Salt!” he ordered and she closed her eyes in terrified resignation.
Two soldiers gripped each arm as another two approached with bowl of salt. Rustius saw her set her teeth. She knew how painful this was going to be. But it was necessary. Not just to hurt her but to stem some of the bleeding, to keep her alive. One soldier held the bowl, the other took a small handful of salt and slowly sprinkled it on her bloody back. The effect was remarkable. It began slowly but inexorably the pain built. Her jaw clenched and her eyes widened and then she roared like some animal and it took all the strength of the soldiers to hold her down. The soldier tipped more salt onto her, then ground his hands in her wounds. She screamed an inhuman scream, high-pitched and terrified, fought for a few moments and then fell calm, hanging between the soldiers, great sobs racking her shivering body. The soldier pulled his hands away, red with her blood and grabbed her face. “For my brother,” he said, and spat on her. They dragged her up and Rustius saw her anguished depression, teeth clenched together. They turned her to face the legion and tossed her towards them. There was a great cheer as she sprawled naked before them. Rustius had feared they would never break her, but this was the moment when she was finally defeated. Her fingers clawed at the sand and he could see from the quiver of her bloodied shoulders that she was weeping.
They let her lie in her humiliation for a couple of minutes, as the next implements of her disgrace were brought out. They tipped two buckets of water over her, bringing her back from the semi-consciousness into which she had slumped and sluicing away much of the blood, sand and salt. They pulled her to her knees and smoothed her wet hair back from her forehead. Rustius saw the weariness in her as they pulled her hair to yank her head up. Sextus advanced with the crown, still showing the blood from the previous night. He rolled it over her chest to general hilarity as the thorns teased her nipples, then raised the crown and lowered it onto her head, twisting cruelly so the thorns dug in. “Hail the bandit queen!” he shouted and there was a mixture of laughter and shouts of “Hail!”
Rustius heard a new burst of laughter. What was this? Two soldiers dragged the naked corpse of Quintus over to her. “Say goodbye,” Sextus taunted. They shoved her face into his crotch, pushing his penis against her lips, a blow to the back of her head causing a shout of pain that opened her teeth far enough for them to force his cock briefly insider her mouth. Then they draped him over her in a mockery of an embrace. “Such love,” Sextus said, then gave the signal for them to bring the patibulum.
By the gate, other soldiers scattered shards of broken pottery, a final cruelty before she left the fortress. Rustius wanted to ensure she didn’t walk with any dignity to her death and had thought about beating her feet or slicing the soles with a knife. But Sextus’s idea was better. Make her inflict the damage on herself. Make her understand their ingenuity when it came to hurting her. Make her suffer as they hosannahed her out of the gate on the road to Golgotha.
GabriellaSivilla
Governor
wow, so realistically cruel! breathtaking details!!! This is a masterpiece!
mp5stab
Hair and Nails
The detail with the salt... I'll have to remember that! (Of course you'd rub salt in the wounds! Painful and it make them last longer. You have to properly brine your meat to preserve it ) Of course half the reason it worked was because of how well it was written and described. I don't think I could do it justice with illustration. One wonders just like Mommius how Aelia will even be strong enough to lift herself once the nails go through her, let alone last a whole day on the cross after all of this brutality. Especially now that her back muscles have been ripped up by the scourge, does she have much fight left? Just how strong is she?
King Diocletian
Magistrate
Clemens had never seen so many people gathered in one place. Everybody there to watch her march to Golgotha, to see the Bandit Queen shamed and executed. The street had filled up around him so much he’d been forced to stand to avoid being trampled on. And he wanted to see her. He had to let her see him so she knew she wasn’t alone. The mob, he was aware, would turn on any victim. It was just sport for them, especially if the victim was a beautiful young woman.
The huge gates to the fortress began to open. His stomach lurched. The hubbub died away as the crowd realised what was happening. A dozen legionaries marched out, clearing space as the crowd backed off. They bore staves in case the crowd grew unruly, swords at their waists. Then another two soldiers and behind them, there she was, bent under the crossbeam over which her arms had been wrapped, another group of soldiers behind her. His first impression was of her nakedness, her olive skin unadorned by anything other than blood, breasts bobbing as she staggered under the weight. She seemed somehow so insubstantial, this great woman in whom he’d invested so much hope.
The crowd immediately erupted into shouts and jeers. She looked up in his direction but he suspected she understoof nothing, such was the mask of hurt. And perhaps anyway she couldn’t see through the blood ran from her forehead over her face. The crown was a touch of evil, designed just to hurt and humiliate. The mob, of course, loved it. “Hail the Bandit Queen!” came the shout and there was laughter. Clemens could barely hold back the tears. “Look at her royal tits!” “Why don’t you steal some clothes, Bandit Queen?”
The soldiers pushed through the mob and she turned to her right to make her shameful procession through the crowded streets and out of the city to the hill where she would die. Clemens saw the pale side of her breast, hating the way his body still responded to her, and then he saw her back. It had been bad enough after her caning but this was something else, the skin torn away so from neck to waist she was a mass of red. Their revenge on her was terrible. He felt sick. He looked away but his eyes were drawn inexorably back to the wounds, the deep grooves, the tears, the rents, the bruises. He thought in places he could see her vertebrae but it was hard to be sure of anything as she staggered forwards under the weight of the beam, the crowds milling around her, jeering and laughing. Why? Why did they hate her? Why couldn’t they understand what she’d tried to do? A group of young women, giggling, barged past him. Clemens felt overwhelmed. It suddenly seemed very hot, the air oppressive. People flowed past him, trying to get closer to Aelia, pushing against the soldiers who held them back. He watched her unsteady progress and saw her turn down a narrower street to the right, a soldier flicking a strap at her to guide her. He thought he heard her shout above the hubbub but he felt so faint by then he couldn’t be sure. He needed water, then he would catch up with her on the hill.
*
Aelia could barely see. Sweat and blood stung her eyes but when she blinked away the tears and the sting for long enough, all she saw was a mass of faces. Some were twisted in hate, some were laughing, some were spitting, but they were all united in their hostility to her. The patibulum was heavy. Even fresh and fit it would have been a challenge and she was far from that. Her back burned with an intensity she could never have imagined, the muscles ruined. Her forehead and scalp throbbed with pain, her feet were in agony and every muscle resented the onward plod. Her heart thumped. And she was naked. Each sway of her breasts was a reminder of her defeat.
It was hot, terribly hot. She could barely breathe. The soldiers surrounded her, pushing through the crowd, holding them back with staves, but that did nothing to halt the shower of spittle. A man of about 40 burst through her guard. “Whore!” he shouted and spat in her face before the soldiers bundled him away. Perhaps one of them might kill her, she thought. Each step was agony, her feet lacerated by the shards of pottery, her legs aching with the strain. She was drenched with sweat and spittle, her thighs slipping against each other when she stumbled. She saw something moving in her peripheral vision but couldn’t get out of the way. She felt a blow to her right cheek, damp and foul and saw for a moment the head of a rotting fish as it slithered down her body and was gone. As she hesitated, a guard lashed her, his strap smacking against her thigh. No matter how much agony she was in, there was still scope for more pain. And this was only the beginning.
The huge gates to the fortress began to open. His stomach lurched. The hubbub died away as the crowd realised what was happening. A dozen legionaries marched out, clearing space as the crowd backed off. They bore staves in case the crowd grew unruly, swords at their waists. Then another two soldiers and behind them, there she was, bent under the crossbeam over which her arms had been wrapped, another group of soldiers behind her. His first impression was of her nakedness, her olive skin unadorned by anything other than blood, breasts bobbing as she staggered under the weight. She seemed somehow so insubstantial, this great woman in whom he’d invested so much hope.
The crowd immediately erupted into shouts and jeers. She looked up in his direction but he suspected she understoof nothing, such was the mask of hurt. And perhaps anyway she couldn’t see through the blood ran from her forehead over her face. The crown was a touch of evil, designed just to hurt and humiliate. The mob, of course, loved it. “Hail the Bandit Queen!” came the shout and there was laughter. Clemens could barely hold back the tears. “Look at her royal tits!” “Why don’t you steal some clothes, Bandit Queen?”
The soldiers pushed through the mob and she turned to her right to make her shameful procession through the crowded streets and out of the city to the hill where she would die. Clemens saw the pale side of her breast, hating the way his body still responded to her, and then he saw her back. It had been bad enough after her caning but this was something else, the skin torn away so from neck to waist she was a mass of red. Their revenge on her was terrible. He felt sick. He looked away but his eyes were drawn inexorably back to the wounds, the deep grooves, the tears, the rents, the bruises. He thought in places he could see her vertebrae but it was hard to be sure of anything as she staggered forwards under the weight of the beam, the crowds milling around her, jeering and laughing. Why? Why did they hate her? Why couldn’t they understand what she’d tried to do? A group of young women, giggling, barged past him. Clemens felt overwhelmed. It suddenly seemed very hot, the air oppressive. People flowed past him, trying to get closer to Aelia, pushing against the soldiers who held them back. He watched her unsteady progress and saw her turn down a narrower street to the right, a soldier flicking a strap at her to guide her. He thought he heard her shout above the hubbub but he felt so faint by then he couldn’t be sure. He needed water, then he would catch up with her on the hill.
*
Aelia could barely see. Sweat and blood stung her eyes but when she blinked away the tears and the sting for long enough, all she saw was a mass of faces. Some were twisted in hate, some were laughing, some were spitting, but they were all united in their hostility to her. The patibulum was heavy. Even fresh and fit it would have been a challenge and she was far from that. Her back burned with an intensity she could never have imagined, the muscles ruined. Her forehead and scalp throbbed with pain, her feet were in agony and every muscle resented the onward plod. Her heart thumped. And she was naked. Each sway of her breasts was a reminder of her defeat.
It was hot, terribly hot. She could barely breathe. The soldiers surrounded her, pushing through the crowd, holding them back with staves, but that did nothing to halt the shower of spittle. A man of about 40 burst through her guard. “Whore!” he shouted and spat in her face before the soldiers bundled him away. Perhaps one of them might kill her, she thought. Each step was agony, her feet lacerated by the shards of pottery, her legs aching with the strain. She was drenched with sweat and spittle, her thighs slipping against each other when she stumbled. She saw something moving in her peripheral vision but couldn’t get out of the way. She felt a blow to her right cheek, damp and foul and saw for a moment the head of a rotting fish as it slithered down her body and was gone. As she hesitated, a guard lashed her, his strap smacking against her thigh. No matter how much agony she was in, there was still scope for more pain. And this was only the beginning.
King Diocletian
Magistrate
There was no point getting caught up in the crush, so Rustius waited several minutes, had a drink and only then mounted his horse and rode out into the street. Her trail was clear. Spots of blood, drying spittle, all manner of filth: rotting vegetables, fish and meat, various types of shit. It really hadn’t taken much to turn the mob against her. He rode on, soon catching up with the procession. He watched from a distance, a huge press of people, the soldiers struggling to hold them back, and there, at the centre of it all, Aelia, bent under the weight of the patibulum, back vividly red, buttocks a mix of blacks and purples, legs still that delicious gold.
The mood, he saw, was as he’d have hoped. There was always the danger with a rebel leader that the crowd would rally behind them, but if Aelia had ever had any real hold in the city, it had gone now. The priests had done their job of blackening her name, and nobody would rally behind such a broken, defeated figure, no matter how charismatic or brave. Those close to her seemed to hate her, or at least to relish to the opportunity to abuse a woman of such beauty and class. He thought again of fucking her. What a body she had, the skin so smooth, the muscles so firm, the breasts so soft. Those shoulders… powerful but feminine. The thought of those alone would make a hundred whores disappoint him.
He had no wish to get too close to the mob, so he turned back and went down a side alley, making for one of the other gates of the city. There were plenty of people there was well, making their way out towards Golgotha. Her death was becoming one of the year’s great social events. He saw Mommius walking with another administrator and greeted him. He’d thought him an idiot a week ago but these last days had brought them together. He suspected he’d fucked her as well, the old goat. Their alliance could be useful.
Mommius watched Rustius ride on. Not such a brute as he had seemed. “A friend of yours?” his companion, a grey-haired civil servant called Ligarius asked teasingly.
“A good soldier,” he replied. “Men like him are vital to the Republic.”
“And did he arrange this spectacle today?” Ligarius’s distaste was clear in his tone.
“The governor sentenced her to the cross.”
“There are plenty have been crucified without being paraded naked round the streets wearing a crown of thorns.”
“You didn’t enjoy the sight?”
“I knew her father. I knew her as a child.”
“She’s a criminal. She threatened the Republic. She deserves this.” He didn’t like being forced to justify this. Had it gone too far? He didn’t know. What was too far? She had to die and the legion wanted its revenge.
“She’s been brutalised. She’s been severely beaten, scourged, humiliated. They’ve raped her. They’ve been playing with her for days. And now they kill her by dragging her naked through the streets so the worst kind of humanity can laugh at her and nailing her up to hang in agony for hours. You think she deserves this?”
“Yes,” said Mommius, deciding to shock the sanctimonious fool. “I raped her.”
Ligarius looked incredulous for a moment then laughed. “You?”
“Yes. After the priests had flogged her. And it felt good.”
Ligarius shook his head. “I bet it did,” he said sourly.
“The people must see that rebellion will be crushed.”
The mood, he saw, was as he’d have hoped. There was always the danger with a rebel leader that the crowd would rally behind them, but if Aelia had ever had any real hold in the city, it had gone now. The priests had done their job of blackening her name, and nobody would rally behind such a broken, defeated figure, no matter how charismatic or brave. Those close to her seemed to hate her, or at least to relish to the opportunity to abuse a woman of such beauty and class. He thought again of fucking her. What a body she had, the skin so smooth, the muscles so firm, the breasts so soft. Those shoulders… powerful but feminine. The thought of those alone would make a hundred whores disappoint him.
He had no wish to get too close to the mob, so he turned back and went down a side alley, making for one of the other gates of the city. There were plenty of people there was well, making their way out towards Golgotha. Her death was becoming one of the year’s great social events. He saw Mommius walking with another administrator and greeted him. He’d thought him an idiot a week ago but these last days had brought them together. He suspected he’d fucked her as well, the old goat. Their alliance could be useful.
Mommius watched Rustius ride on. Not such a brute as he had seemed. “A friend of yours?” his companion, a grey-haired civil servant called Ligarius asked teasingly.
“A good soldier,” he replied. “Men like him are vital to the Republic.”
“And did he arrange this spectacle today?” Ligarius’s distaste was clear in his tone.
“The governor sentenced her to the cross.”
“There are plenty have been crucified without being paraded naked round the streets wearing a crown of thorns.”
“You didn’t enjoy the sight?”
“I knew her father. I knew her as a child.”
“She’s a criminal. She threatened the Republic. She deserves this.” He didn’t like being forced to justify this. Had it gone too far? He didn’t know. What was too far? She had to die and the legion wanted its revenge.
“She’s been brutalised. She’s been severely beaten, scourged, humiliated. They’ve raped her. They’ve been playing with her for days. And now they kill her by dragging her naked through the streets so the worst kind of humanity can laugh at her and nailing her up to hang in agony for hours. You think she deserves this?”
“Yes,” said Mommius, deciding to shock the sanctimonious fool. “I raped her.”
Ligarius looked incredulous for a moment then laughed. “You?”
“Yes. After the priests had flogged her. And it felt good.”
Ligarius shook his head. “I bet it did,” he said sourly.
“The people must see that rebellion will be crushed.”