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Roman Holiday
- Thread starter windar
- Start date
Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
We can take a try.
Let Barb do like that woman in miniskirt in Saudi-Arabia :
And walk around like this in Vatican City.
We can take a try.
Let Barb do like that woman in miniskirt in Saudi-Arabia :
And walk around like this in Vatican City.
What would they do to her in the Vatican? Not much.
But in Saudi . . . . .
Crucifixion is still on the books there I believe.
Repertor
Artifex Imaginum
We can take a try.
Let Barb do like that woman in miniskirt in Saudi-Arabia :
And walk around like this in Vatican City.
There's a huge whipping post in the center of St. Peter's Square.
Repertor
Artifex Imaginum
windar
Teller of Tales
There's obviously a great CF story there. Perhaps one day there will be an Arabic edition of "The Bronx Crux Murders" and Stan and Barb can do a book tour of the Kingdom
. I suspect Stan might run into some problems there as well...
windar
Teller of Tales
3.
Fifty thousand people in a stadium make a lot of noise. Stan couldn’t make out the conversations around him, for they were in a language that was foreign to him, but he joined in the shouts, glad that the Yankees had shaken off the doldrums of the last decade and were competing in the World Series. But as he looked around the large stadium, it looked strangely unfamiliar. This wasn’t The House That Ruth Built; it was The House That Vespasian Built, the Colosseum, and the fans weren’t wearing the home team pinstripes, but rather they were dressed like they were attending a fraternity party. Stan looked down and saw that he, too, was wearing a toga and sandals.
Stan turned from examining his costume to look out over at the floor of the stadium, where the grass would have been at the home of the Bronx Bombers. But there was no grass here, just a vast expanse of sand under the pitiless Roman sun. In the center of that expanse was a wooden pole, standing upright, its end sunk into the ground.
Soon, the dull roar was superseded by rhythmic clapping, punctuated by loud shouts as a barred gate in one of the walls on the other side of the stadium was swung open by a uniformed guard. Through the door came a female figure, barefoot, clad in a toga and flanked by a muscular guard on each side. The woman appeared to be struggling, as the guards yanked on her arms, pulling her roughly through the gateway into the arena.
Once inside, she continued her fruitless struggles as they dragged her towards the pole in the center. She managed to deliver a kick to the shins of one of the brutes holding her arms, but it seemed to have no more effect on him than a gust of wind does on a locomotive. Despite her efforts, the two guards quickly maneuvered her to the post, where one pinned her back against the wood with his ample weight while the other took hold of her wrists and raised them over her head, fastening them in a pair of shackles that were firmly attached to the wood.
All throughout this process, the spectators in Stan’s box and throughout the stadium were jeering and laughing raucously. Once the poor girl was secured, one of the brutes took hold of her toga at the shoulder and jerked the cloth viciously down her body, the force of his arms twisting her body first one way, then the other. In seconds, the cloth lay at the woman’s feet, leaving her completely naked against the post.
Once they had stripped her, the guards moved over to another barred gate in the stadium wall. They stood at attention beside it as a man in the VIP area stood and gestured for silence. Slowly the noise ebbed until the stadium fell into an expectant quiet, like the calm before a storm.
The man extracted a scroll from beneath his toga and began reading in a loud voice. Stan caught very little of what he said, but he heard “Barbara” and “ad bestia”. Barbara? Did that mean the woman down there tied to the post was Barb? And she was the best? Stan already knew that.
Stan began pushing his way through the crowd to try to get to the wall of the stadium to see if it really was Barb. “Excuse me,” he apologized as he shoved a couple of toga-clad notables out of the way. Finally, he reached the front of the stands and stared across the expanse of sand. The woman appeared from this distance to be about Barb’s size and build, with brown hair, her skin looking quite lovely under the strong sun. Her tan would be the envy of her friends when they got back to New York.
“Barb!” he yelled. “Is that you?”
The woman on the post looked in his direction. “Stan, is that you?” she cried.
“Shit,” Stan muttered, “Not again with the last minute rescue.” He didn’t know what these Romans had planned for Barb, but the fact that she was naked and tied to a post didn’t augur well for her. Stan doubted they were planning to award her the Order of Caesar.
His fears were confirmed when the guards opened the gate and rolled out two cages on wheeled carts. They opened the door of the cages and immediately scurried through the gate, shutting it tight behind them. Now Barb was left alone on the stadium floor with whatever was in those cages. And whatever was in those cages didn’t seem too happy to judge by the mighty roar that came from one of them.
No sooner had the echoes of the animal cry died down, then the producer of that sound, a massive, well-muscled male lion with a thick mane, emerged from one of the cages. Shortly thereafter, his companion, a large and very sleek female lion emerged from the other cage. The two big cats strolled calmly, but purposefully towards the post to which Barb was tied.
Approaching her, they circled a few time, their tales swishing lazily in the heat. They nuzzled her legs, their tongues tasting the salty sweat on her skin, brought out by the hot sun and the panic of her desperate situation. The male lion licked up her thighs and into the cleft between her legs, sniffing and tasting her sweet essence, just as Stan had done many times.
This invasion of the territory that he considered his was too much for Stan. He looked down over the wall. It looked to be perhaps ten feet from the top of the wall to the floor of the arena below and the sand looked to be quite deep and soft. Throwing caution to the winds, Stan lifted one leg over the wall, then the other, and let himself drop to the dirt, rolling as he hit the ground to absorb the impact.
The crowd began protesting loudly at this unexpected development in the promised spectacle of the lions satiating their appetites on the delectable young woman. Stan ran towards the post as the two big cats turned away from Barb and towards the intruder. “Barb! Barb!” he yelled as the female lion began running at full speed towards him, followed closely by her mate.
The agile predator leapt into the air, coming down with its full weight on Stan, knocking him to the ground and gripping his neck in its powerful jaws, its teeth digging into the tender skin of his neck.
Suddenly Stan opened his eyes. Hovering over him, her hot breath on his neck, wasn’t the female lion, but Barb, naked, yelling “Stan, wake up! You’re having a nightmare!”
Stan shook himself awake. “Shit, Barb,” he said, “It was so goddamned real. We were in the Coliseum and you were tied naked to a pole in the middle of the arena and two lions were about to attack you. I jumped over the wall and tried to save you.” Stan could feel his heart pounding in his chest.
“Calm down, Stan, it was just a dream. We’re here in the hotel and there are no lions. Not even a pussy cat.”
“What, no pussy?” Stan asked.
Barb punched him in the arm. “Idiot! Why do I put up with you?”
“Because I’m there to rescue you from all kinds of messes you get yourself into?” Stan retorted.
“Well, perhaps,” Barb replied. “You really jumped over the wall unarmed into an arena with two lions just to save me?”
“Yeah, that’s the kind of guy I am,” Stan said.
“In your dreams, Goldman. And occasionally in real life, I guess.”
“How soon you forget, Moore, who found you on that cross.”
“Yeah, yeah. Now I’m mad at that professor Luisa hooked us up with for that tour of the Coliseum after that big lunch she treated us to.”
“I thought he knew his stuff about the history of the place,” Stan said.
“He did, but he described them so well he gave you nightmares. Or maybe it was the fourth slice of pizza you had for dinner and the fourth glass of wine you had with it that did it. All I know is that every time we get involved with a professor of Roman history, it leads to trouble.”
“You have a point there, Moore. Fortunately, tomorrow’s tour is with the Carabinieri. No professors, only fellow cops. So there should be no problems, right?”
“I hope so, Stan, because your yelling scared the shit out of me.”
“Well come over here and let’s cuddle, babe. After all, I braved the lions for you.”
“In your dreams, Goldman, in your dreams.”
Fifty thousand people in a stadium make a lot of noise. Stan couldn’t make out the conversations around him, for they were in a language that was foreign to him, but he joined in the shouts, glad that the Yankees had shaken off the doldrums of the last decade and were competing in the World Series. But as he looked around the large stadium, it looked strangely unfamiliar. This wasn’t The House That Ruth Built; it was The House That Vespasian Built, the Colosseum, and the fans weren’t wearing the home team pinstripes, but rather they were dressed like they were attending a fraternity party. Stan looked down and saw that he, too, was wearing a toga and sandals.
Stan turned from examining his costume to look out over at the floor of the stadium, where the grass would have been at the home of the Bronx Bombers. But there was no grass here, just a vast expanse of sand under the pitiless Roman sun. In the center of that expanse was a wooden pole, standing upright, its end sunk into the ground.
Soon, the dull roar was superseded by rhythmic clapping, punctuated by loud shouts as a barred gate in one of the walls on the other side of the stadium was swung open by a uniformed guard. Through the door came a female figure, barefoot, clad in a toga and flanked by a muscular guard on each side. The woman appeared to be struggling, as the guards yanked on her arms, pulling her roughly through the gateway into the arena.
Once inside, she continued her fruitless struggles as they dragged her towards the pole in the center. She managed to deliver a kick to the shins of one of the brutes holding her arms, but it seemed to have no more effect on him than a gust of wind does on a locomotive. Despite her efforts, the two guards quickly maneuvered her to the post, where one pinned her back against the wood with his ample weight while the other took hold of her wrists and raised them over her head, fastening them in a pair of shackles that were firmly attached to the wood.
All throughout this process, the spectators in Stan’s box and throughout the stadium were jeering and laughing raucously. Once the poor girl was secured, one of the brutes took hold of her toga at the shoulder and jerked the cloth viciously down her body, the force of his arms twisting her body first one way, then the other. In seconds, the cloth lay at the woman’s feet, leaving her completely naked against the post.
Once they had stripped her, the guards moved over to another barred gate in the stadium wall. They stood at attention beside it as a man in the VIP area stood and gestured for silence. Slowly the noise ebbed until the stadium fell into an expectant quiet, like the calm before a storm.
The man extracted a scroll from beneath his toga and began reading in a loud voice. Stan caught very little of what he said, but he heard “Barbara” and “ad bestia”. Barbara? Did that mean the woman down there tied to the post was Barb? And she was the best? Stan already knew that.
Stan began pushing his way through the crowd to try to get to the wall of the stadium to see if it really was Barb. “Excuse me,” he apologized as he shoved a couple of toga-clad notables out of the way. Finally, he reached the front of the stands and stared across the expanse of sand. The woman appeared from this distance to be about Barb’s size and build, with brown hair, her skin looking quite lovely under the strong sun. Her tan would be the envy of her friends when they got back to New York.
“Barb!” he yelled. “Is that you?”
The woman on the post looked in his direction. “Stan, is that you?” she cried.
“Shit,” Stan muttered, “Not again with the last minute rescue.” He didn’t know what these Romans had planned for Barb, but the fact that she was naked and tied to a post didn’t augur well for her. Stan doubted they were planning to award her the Order of Caesar.
His fears were confirmed when the guards opened the gate and rolled out two cages on wheeled carts. They opened the door of the cages and immediately scurried through the gate, shutting it tight behind them. Now Barb was left alone on the stadium floor with whatever was in those cages. And whatever was in those cages didn’t seem too happy to judge by the mighty roar that came from one of them.
No sooner had the echoes of the animal cry died down, then the producer of that sound, a massive, well-muscled male lion with a thick mane, emerged from one of the cages. Shortly thereafter, his companion, a large and very sleek female lion emerged from the other cage. The two big cats strolled calmly, but purposefully towards the post to which Barb was tied.
Approaching her, they circled a few time, their tales swishing lazily in the heat. They nuzzled her legs, their tongues tasting the salty sweat on her skin, brought out by the hot sun and the panic of her desperate situation. The male lion licked up her thighs and into the cleft between her legs, sniffing and tasting her sweet essence, just as Stan had done many times.
This invasion of the territory that he considered his was too much for Stan. He looked down over the wall. It looked to be perhaps ten feet from the top of the wall to the floor of the arena below and the sand looked to be quite deep and soft. Throwing caution to the winds, Stan lifted one leg over the wall, then the other, and let himself drop to the dirt, rolling as he hit the ground to absorb the impact.
The crowd began protesting loudly at this unexpected development in the promised spectacle of the lions satiating their appetites on the delectable young woman. Stan ran towards the post as the two big cats turned away from Barb and towards the intruder. “Barb! Barb!” he yelled as the female lion began running at full speed towards him, followed closely by her mate.
The agile predator leapt into the air, coming down with its full weight on Stan, knocking him to the ground and gripping his neck in its powerful jaws, its teeth digging into the tender skin of his neck.
Suddenly Stan opened his eyes. Hovering over him, her hot breath on his neck, wasn’t the female lion, but Barb, naked, yelling “Stan, wake up! You’re having a nightmare!”
Stan shook himself awake. “Shit, Barb,” he said, “It was so goddamned real. We were in the Coliseum and you were tied naked to a pole in the middle of the arena and two lions were about to attack you. I jumped over the wall and tried to save you.” Stan could feel his heart pounding in his chest.
“Calm down, Stan, it was just a dream. We’re here in the hotel and there are no lions. Not even a pussy cat.”
“What, no pussy?” Stan asked.
Barb punched him in the arm. “Idiot! Why do I put up with you?”
“Because I’m there to rescue you from all kinds of messes you get yourself into?” Stan retorted.
“Well, perhaps,” Barb replied. “You really jumped over the wall unarmed into an arena with two lions just to save me?”
“Yeah, that’s the kind of guy I am,” Stan said.
“In your dreams, Goldman. And occasionally in real life, I guess.”
“How soon you forget, Moore, who found you on that cross.”
“Yeah, yeah. Now I’m mad at that professor Luisa hooked us up with for that tour of the Coliseum after that big lunch she treated us to.”
“I thought he knew his stuff about the history of the place,” Stan said.
“He did, but he described them so well he gave you nightmares. Or maybe it was the fourth slice of pizza you had for dinner and the fourth glass of wine you had with it that did it. All I know is that every time we get involved with a professor of Roman history, it leads to trouble.”
“You have a point there, Moore. Fortunately, tomorrow’s tour is with the Carabinieri. No professors, only fellow cops. So there should be no problems, right?”
“I hope so, Stan, because your yelling scared the shit out of me.”
“Well come over here and let’s cuddle, babe. After all, I braved the lions for you.”
“In your dreams, Goldman, in your dreams.”
We can take a try.
Let Barb do like that woman in miniskirt in Saudi-Arabia :
And walk around like this in Vatican City.
What would they do to her in the Vatican? Not much.
But in Saudi . . . . .
Crucifixion is still on the books there I believe.
I think you all need to read my old story "Barb's Bazaar Story"
http://www.cruxforums.com/xf/threads/barbs-bazaar-story.3654/
Also available as an ebook in the archive.
“Calm down, Stan, it was just a dream. We’re here in the hotel and there are no lions. Not even a pussy cat.”
“What, no pussy?” Stan asked.
Barb punched him in the arm. “Idiot! Why do I put up with you?”
“Because I’m there to rescue you from all kinds of messes you get yourself into?” Stan retorted.
What messes?
“What, no pussy?” Stan asked.
Barb punched him in the arm. “Idiot! Why do I put up with you?”
“Because I’m there to rescue you from all kinds of messes you get yourself into?” Stan retorted.
What messes?
xso
Tribune
Those lions seems to have great tongues! They seem to aim for the right place!
windar
Teller of Tales
windar
Teller of Tales
4.
It’s one of those oddities of our time that you can work closely with someone through email and phone calls without ever having met them in person. That was the case with Stan Goldman and Roberto Speroni, a high level officer in the Carabinieri, Italy’s paramilitary national police force, sort of like a cross between the FBI and the National Guard, as best Stan understood it.
About a decade ago, Stan had been working a murder that he had linked to a New York Mafia family with tentacles all through the Old Country. Speroni had been the point person on the Italian end and they had been in close contact by phone and email for more than a year. They still exchanged emails every now and then, on holidays, birthdays and other occasions. Of course, Stan had alerted Roberto of his trip several weeks ago and they had arranged to finally meet in person.
Roberto had looked much as Stan would have imagined. Tall, close to Stan’s age, with olive-colored skin and a mustache and goatee. He had given Stan and Barb a tour of his headquarters and they had talked shop for a good while over the similarities and differences between police procedures in the two countries. Now they were having dinner in a lovely trattoria in Trastevere, a neighborhood almost as over-run with chic bars and restaurants as Park Slope.
Between the main course and dessert, Barb excused herself to go to the ladies room. Stan couldn’t help noticing Roberto’s eyes glued to her tight little behind as she wriggled through the maze of tables in the outdoor dining area.
“I don’t know how in hell you got a girlfriend like that, Stan,” Roberto said.
“Me neither. You like her?”
“She’s beautiful and intelligent, so what is not to like?”
“Yes she is and I want to give her a birthday she will remember for a long time, Bob.” Roberto had insisted that they call him Bob.
“She doesn’t seem the type that would go for what you have in mind, Stan. She seems very independent, a woman with a strong mind.”
“She is, Bob, for sure. But trust me that there is another side of Barb that she shows every now and then in private. She will complain about this to me for the next five years at least if we are still together, but she will love it in the moment.”
“I believe you Stan. I have arrested many people that you would never imagine could do what they did, but they did it. I’m sure you have too.”
“Tell me about it,” Stan replied. “Is everything ready, as we discussed?”
“Yes, I have made sure, Stan,” Bob answered. “It is all arranged.”
“Good,” Stan said, seeing by Bob’s face that Barb was making her way back to the table.
After dessert and espresso and a delightful grappa, along with some more conversation, Bob announced that he had a special treat in honor of Barb’s birthday, which was tomorrow. He had arranged for a nighttime tour of the Mamartine Prison, the old Roman Tullianum.
As Bob drove the short distance to the ancient lockup, he explained that the Romans did not have imprisonment as a punishment, so, rather than a long-term prison, the Tullianum had been used to hold those arrested before their trial and then, afterwards, for those convicted and sentenced to death, a place to await their execution, which was usually carried out in a matter of a few days.
“Sort of like Rikers Island, rather than the State Pen,” Barb said.
“Yes, exactly,” Bob replied. “And I have read that your Rikers Island is a very bad place, just like the Tullianum.”
“I don’t think either is the Hilton,” Stan added. No one seemed interested in challenging that assertion.
They soon pulled up in front of the building, a strange mélange of architectural styles. As he opened the barred gate that fronted the bottom floor, a relic of ancient times, Bob explained that the upper floors were a church, actually two churches, built in Renaissance times over what was a venerated spot in Christianity, because legend had it that St. Peter and St. Paul had been held there before being executed.
As they descended a stone stairway to the underground cells, Bob explained that Paul, as a Roman citizen had been executed by beheading, while Peter, as a Jew, had been crucified.
“Just like Donnelly told us,” Barb noted, referring to Alan Donnelly, the law professor, expert on Roman Law, who had been one of the two masterminds behind the Bronx crux murders, including Barb’s own crucifixion.
“Legend has it that St. Peter was crucified upside down,” Bob told them. “Supposedly it was at his own request, because he considered himself unworthy of being crucified in the same manner as Jesus.”
“Wow, Barb , aren’t you glad they didn’t do that to you?” Stan said. “You would have missed the great view you had of the shootout when I came to save your ass.”
Barb punched Stan in the arm hard enough to make him yelp. “Asshole!” she spat.
They walked through the dingy corridors, lit only by a few bare bulbs in the ceiling every five meters or so, glancing into the cells that lined both sides. Bob told them of the other historical figures who were believed to have been imprisoned there.
Prominent among them was Vercingatorix, the leader of the Gauls, whom Julius Caesar had defeated and brought to Rome as a captive. After being displayed in the triumphal parade, he had been executed, supposedly by strangulation right here in his cell, though which one had been his was unknown.
Another important prisoner was Simon bar Giora, who had led the Jewish revolt against Rome shortly after the time of Christ. He had been held here before being executed by being thrown off a high rock. “Jeez, my guys always get it, don’t we!” Stan exclaimed.
“I can show you the old Jewish Ghetto and some memorials to those killed by the Nazis and Italian Fascists, if you’d like,” Bob told him.
“Maybe later,” Stan said. “For now, can we go inside one of the cells and see what it’s like?”
“Certainly,” Bob replied, extracting a set of keys from his pants pocket and opening the barred door of one of the cells. “Ladies first,” he said holding the door and indicating that Barb should enter. She walked inside, looking around her at the dark and dismal surroundings, with its impenetrable stone walls and floor, into which just a few shafts of light from the corridor penetrated.
“Stan, come in and see,” she said. “You can imagine what it would be like to be locked in here awaiting execution by crucifixion or some other horrible means.”
Stan held back by the door, watching as Barb entered the deepest recesses of the cell. Suddenly, he stepped out of the cell and took hold of the barred door, closing it forcefully, then took the key offered to him by Roberto and turned the lock.
Barb rushed towards the iron gate, a look of mixed anger and fear on her face. “What the fuck, Goldman?” she yelled.
Stan smiled at her. “You’ve been a very bad girl Barbara. Posing as a Vestal Virgin when everyone knows you’re no virgin. We’ll see what the Emperor has to say about that. I don’t think he’ll be happy.”
“Very funny Goldman,” she said. “Now stop fucking around and let me out.”
Stan turned to Bob. “What do you say, Bob? Should I let her out? This is your jurisdiction after all.”
“I think the charges are very serious, Stan. We must convene a trial. Certainly this girl is very rude and ill-spoken,” the Italian policeman said.
“Fuck you too, asshole,” Barb spat at Bob.
“The girl definitely has a dirty mouth, unbecoming a tender of the sacred flame,” Stan interjected. “Let’s go and see what the brass upstairs wants to do with her.”
“I think that is what the proper procedure would be, Stan,” Bob said as the two men turned to leave. They could hear Barb’s shouted curses and pleas all the way down the stone corridor.
It’s one of those oddities of our time that you can work closely with someone through email and phone calls without ever having met them in person. That was the case with Stan Goldman and Roberto Speroni, a high level officer in the Carabinieri, Italy’s paramilitary national police force, sort of like a cross between the FBI and the National Guard, as best Stan understood it.
About a decade ago, Stan had been working a murder that he had linked to a New York Mafia family with tentacles all through the Old Country. Speroni had been the point person on the Italian end and they had been in close contact by phone and email for more than a year. They still exchanged emails every now and then, on holidays, birthdays and other occasions. Of course, Stan had alerted Roberto of his trip several weeks ago and they had arranged to finally meet in person.
Roberto had looked much as Stan would have imagined. Tall, close to Stan’s age, with olive-colored skin and a mustache and goatee. He had given Stan and Barb a tour of his headquarters and they had talked shop for a good while over the similarities and differences between police procedures in the two countries. Now they were having dinner in a lovely trattoria in Trastevere, a neighborhood almost as over-run with chic bars and restaurants as Park Slope.
Between the main course and dessert, Barb excused herself to go to the ladies room. Stan couldn’t help noticing Roberto’s eyes glued to her tight little behind as she wriggled through the maze of tables in the outdoor dining area.
“I don’t know how in hell you got a girlfriend like that, Stan,” Roberto said.
“Me neither. You like her?”
“She’s beautiful and intelligent, so what is not to like?”
“Yes she is and I want to give her a birthday she will remember for a long time, Bob.” Roberto had insisted that they call him Bob.
“She doesn’t seem the type that would go for what you have in mind, Stan. She seems very independent, a woman with a strong mind.”
“She is, Bob, for sure. But trust me that there is another side of Barb that she shows every now and then in private. She will complain about this to me for the next five years at least if we are still together, but she will love it in the moment.”
“I believe you Stan. I have arrested many people that you would never imagine could do what they did, but they did it. I’m sure you have too.”
“Tell me about it,” Stan replied. “Is everything ready, as we discussed?”
“Yes, I have made sure, Stan,” Bob answered. “It is all arranged.”
“Good,” Stan said, seeing by Bob’s face that Barb was making her way back to the table.
After dessert and espresso and a delightful grappa, along with some more conversation, Bob announced that he had a special treat in honor of Barb’s birthday, which was tomorrow. He had arranged for a nighttime tour of the Mamartine Prison, the old Roman Tullianum.
As Bob drove the short distance to the ancient lockup, he explained that the Romans did not have imprisonment as a punishment, so, rather than a long-term prison, the Tullianum had been used to hold those arrested before their trial and then, afterwards, for those convicted and sentenced to death, a place to await their execution, which was usually carried out in a matter of a few days.
“Sort of like Rikers Island, rather than the State Pen,” Barb said.
“Yes, exactly,” Bob replied. “And I have read that your Rikers Island is a very bad place, just like the Tullianum.”
“I don’t think either is the Hilton,” Stan added. No one seemed interested in challenging that assertion.
They soon pulled up in front of the building, a strange mélange of architectural styles. As he opened the barred gate that fronted the bottom floor, a relic of ancient times, Bob explained that the upper floors were a church, actually two churches, built in Renaissance times over what was a venerated spot in Christianity, because legend had it that St. Peter and St. Paul had been held there before being executed.
As they descended a stone stairway to the underground cells, Bob explained that Paul, as a Roman citizen had been executed by beheading, while Peter, as a Jew, had been crucified.
“Just like Donnelly told us,” Barb noted, referring to Alan Donnelly, the law professor, expert on Roman Law, who had been one of the two masterminds behind the Bronx crux murders, including Barb’s own crucifixion.
“Legend has it that St. Peter was crucified upside down,” Bob told them. “Supposedly it was at his own request, because he considered himself unworthy of being crucified in the same manner as Jesus.”
“Wow, Barb , aren’t you glad they didn’t do that to you?” Stan said. “You would have missed the great view you had of the shootout when I came to save your ass.”
Barb punched Stan in the arm hard enough to make him yelp. “Asshole!” she spat.
They walked through the dingy corridors, lit only by a few bare bulbs in the ceiling every five meters or so, glancing into the cells that lined both sides. Bob told them of the other historical figures who were believed to have been imprisoned there.
Prominent among them was Vercingatorix, the leader of the Gauls, whom Julius Caesar had defeated and brought to Rome as a captive. After being displayed in the triumphal parade, he had been executed, supposedly by strangulation right here in his cell, though which one had been his was unknown.
Another important prisoner was Simon bar Giora, who had led the Jewish revolt against Rome shortly after the time of Christ. He had been held here before being executed by being thrown off a high rock. “Jeez, my guys always get it, don’t we!” Stan exclaimed.
“I can show you the old Jewish Ghetto and some memorials to those killed by the Nazis and Italian Fascists, if you’d like,” Bob told him.
“Maybe later,” Stan said. “For now, can we go inside one of the cells and see what it’s like?”
“Certainly,” Bob replied, extracting a set of keys from his pants pocket and opening the barred door of one of the cells. “Ladies first,” he said holding the door and indicating that Barb should enter. She walked inside, looking around her at the dark and dismal surroundings, with its impenetrable stone walls and floor, into which just a few shafts of light from the corridor penetrated.
“Stan, come in and see,” she said. “You can imagine what it would be like to be locked in here awaiting execution by crucifixion or some other horrible means.”
Stan held back by the door, watching as Barb entered the deepest recesses of the cell. Suddenly, he stepped out of the cell and took hold of the barred door, closing it forcefully, then took the key offered to him by Roberto and turned the lock.
Barb rushed towards the iron gate, a look of mixed anger and fear on her face. “What the fuck, Goldman?” she yelled.
Stan smiled at her. “You’ve been a very bad girl Barbara. Posing as a Vestal Virgin when everyone knows you’re no virgin. We’ll see what the Emperor has to say about that. I don’t think he’ll be happy.”
“Very funny Goldman,” she said. “Now stop fucking around and let me out.”
Stan turned to Bob. “What do you say, Bob? Should I let her out? This is your jurisdiction after all.”
“I think the charges are very serious, Stan. We must convene a trial. Certainly this girl is very rude and ill-spoken,” the Italian policeman said.
“Fuck you too, asshole,” Barb spat at Bob.
“The girl definitely has a dirty mouth, unbecoming a tender of the sacred flame,” Stan interjected. “Let’s go and see what the brass upstairs wants to do with her.”
“I think that is what the proper procedure would be, Stan,” Bob said as the two men turned to leave. They could hear Barb’s shouted curses and pleas all the way down the stone corridor.
windar
Teller of Tales
xso
Tribune
Nice place!
xso
Tribune
Indeed! Will be very interesting to follow this story! Is Stan one of the bad guys now, or is he just trying to satisfy Barb's kinky sides? Is just another dream or reality?Almost an infinite number of ways for Barb to end up in a pickle!
Looking forward to the following parts!