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The Fate of a Goth Girl

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Praefectus Praetorio said:
After only three efforts, Galerius was already panting loudly from the exertion, and beads of sweat broke out on his brow. This Goth bitch was making a fool of him! Be calm, he told himself, trying to catch his breath. Make this next one count.
Taking his time, he slowly drew the whip back and drove it forward to land flat on the girl's shoulders. This time the whip landed solidly, all the thongs and balls and wires making good contact.
Though the lad’s weakness kept him from delivering a truly punishing blow, Barbaria felt, for the first time, a taste of the terrifying pain that a Roman scrouging could inflict. Swallowing a cry of pain, she drew on the proud bravery of her tribespeople to lash out again at the fat Roman, “Lucky shot, crassa parva puella (gross little girl)! If you had any lacertos (muscles or sinews), it might have hurt.”

Galerius couldn’t believe that this girl was still taunting him – him, Filium Praeses! She was supposed to be begging for mercy at this point! He had to teach her a lesson. As he wound up his next blow, sweat dripped into his eyes and he was momentarily blinded. Only a few of the thongs made contact, this time with her round, pert, right buttcheek. While most of the force of the blow was wasted, the ends, sliding across the soft skin, opened several red cuts from the wires. Frustrated with his efforts, Antonious lashed out again, landing a wild blow, this time on her left forearm.
Six of his ten lashes were gone, and Galerius had inflicted surprisingly little damage. He was now bent over, his hands on his knees, panting hard and sweat pouring down his fat body. Even their officers' reproving looks did not keep the milites from chuckling and making derisive remarks under their breath.
Piso called out, "You look tired Galerie. Do you want Tertius Amelius to take over your last four with his fresh arm?" The whole assembly burst out laughing.

Friþugairns remained weeping on his knees for over a minute as the villagers gathered quietly and respectfully around their beloved leader. At last, he regained control and again stood tall among them. "Call my garaginondos (counselors) together, quickly," he instructed the young men around him in a soft, controlled voice. They hurried off to obey while the headman walked calmly toward the center of the camp clearing.
It was only a few minutes later that a half-dozen chiefs were gathered around the central campfire, waiting for the word of their leader.

“Þiufaþos meins (my companions),” the elder began, “I have sad news for our people. The Romans have arrested dauhtar meins (my daughter), Barbaþais.” Shock and outrage swept over the assembly.
“They say she is a criminal and have determined ushramjan (to crucify) her for her missadeþos (crimes).” The chiefs erupted in shouts of “Ni (no)!” “Ni aiw (never)!” and various curses!
One of the men spoke up and said, “We must lisan harjis nasjan (gather our host to save) her!” The rest of the chiefs joined in to shout agreement as one.
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Whisper this but it seems like the fates are conspiring in the Goth sluts favour!
 
Fossy said:
Whisper this but it seems like the fates are conspiring in the Goth sluts favour!
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We all have a soft spot for a certain Goth slut here.

I have received some questions about the military ranks used here. Rather than clogging the thread, I have posted an extended entry in Roman Resources

Roman Resources

I'm not sure if this is actually new information, but....... https://www.theguardian.com/world/2021/mar/22/vesuvius-wiped-out-all-life-pompeii-15-minutes-study-pyroclastic-flow-cloud-gases-ash
www.cruxforums.com

You might consider reading this evening if you have trouble falling asleep.
 
Fossy said:
Whisper this but it seems like the fates are conspiring in the Goth sluts favour!
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Towards the end of the fourth century and even more so in the fifth, Rome's power and glory will fade at such a rate that it will shake the ancient world ... But in 383 AD with a small Gothic village in Gaul - at that time most of the Goths were actually still in the east on the Danube - the balance of power is still open... But the future definitely looks much better for the Goths than for the Romans!
 
Rupert_137 said:
Towards the end of the fourth century and even more so in the fifth, Rome's power and glory will fade at such a rate that it will shake the ancient world ... But in 383 AD with a small Gothic village in Gaul - at that time most of the Goths were actually still in the east on the Danube - the balance of power is still open... But the future definitely looks much better for the Goths than for the Romans!
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Please don't read ahead, my friend. ;) I like to juggle multiple balls at one time.
 
Praefectus Praetorio said:
Now, as he looked at his fat son, stuffing mammoth pieces of panem dulcem (“sweet bread’ - bread soaked in milk and liberally dipped in honey) into his mouth, barely chewing but swallowing as fast as possible, he was mildly disgusted.
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A few of my more jaded readers have inquired concerning recipes for the food described. This is a simple one

Siligineos rasos frangis, et buccellas maiores facies. In lacte infundis, frigis ex oleo, mel superfundis et inferes.
Remove the crust from a loaf, break up into largish morsels. Steep in milk, fry in oil, pour honey over, and serve.
 
Praefectus Praetorio said:
A few of my more jaded readers have inquired concerning recipes for the food described. This is a simple one

Siligineos rasos frangis, et buccellas maiores facies. In lacte infundis, frigis ex oleo, mel superfundis et inferes.
Remove the crust from a loaf, break up into largish morsels. Steep in milk, fry in oil, pour honey over, and serve.
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Are we sure that this wasn't a part of a narrative describing our Goth Slut's response to unwanted sexual attention ... barely chewing but swallowing as fast as possible, (s)he was mildly disgusted ...
 
For the more breast-inclined (no - nothing to do with our heroine!) Stuffed Sow's Udder.

Sumen Plenum: Teritur piper, careum, echinus salsus. Consuitur et sic conquitur. Manducatur cum allece sinapi.
Pound pepper, caraway, and salted sea-urchin. [Stuff the udder], sew up, and thus cook. You eat it with *allec [and] mustard.

*allec -the heavy dregs from the bottom of a large vat where the garum sauce was made. If you don't happen to have that available in your pantry, Pissala, a Niçois salt-fish paste, popular today in the Narbonne area of Southern France would make a reasonable substitute
 
I am sorry for the late post. Some things in RL have discouraged me from writing. I may miss posting tomorrow. I hope to be back on track before the end of the week.

Gasping for breath and sweating profusely, Galerius was stung deeply by the Quaestor’s suggestion that the senile old goat could deliver his strokes for him. Forcing himself upright and wiping the sweat from his eyes, he prepared to deliver another blow. Somehow, with his four remaining, he swore that he would break this bitch.

Despite her defiant air, Barbaria was beginning to feel the cumulative effect of the six lashes with the terrible weapon. She was sweating in the heat, and the salt stung her cuts. Tired from twenty-four hours of almost constant abuse and torture, the girl's reserves of rebellious strength were rapidly eroding. She knew she faced dozens of more strokes. And these would be from far stronger and more accurate attackers. But for now, she concentrated her mind and her strength on resisting giving any satisfaction to this bastard. "Niþan mik, Fraujos (help me, Freyja)!” she prayed quietly to her patroness.

Galerius took his time and his aim, for once, was true. This time, the flagrum swept down and around her right flank, pounding her rib cage and a few weighted thong ends, even making it to the base of her right breast. The pain was greater than any before and took her breath away. Stars shot to her eyes as the girl barely stifled her scream. "Iesus,” she murmured in Gothic to herself.
The lad was sorely disappointed not to draw a cry of pain from the Goth. That was as good a shot as he could do, and his arm was feeling numb and weak.
Somehow, Barbaria found the strength to shout defiance even through the blinding pain.

“So that’s the best you have, parva puella?" She cried. "It seems your bracchium (arm – with an implication of military strength) is as flaccidum (flaccid, feeble) as your mentula (dick)!”
This verbal barb stuck deep and caused loud laughter throughout the atrium. Galerius was too tired to even reply to the insult. He just swung the flagrum in a half-hearted effort, his arm almost shot. Number eight was true to the center of her back, but the force was far less than before. Even so, the heavy whip knocked the slavegirl's breath away.
Gritting her teeth and gasping at the increasing pain, Barbaria, nevertheless, knew she had won. She could take two more from his tired arm and not emit one cry.
Shaking her ass at the Governor's son, she called out, “Here’s your target crassa puella (fat girl), give me your flaccida mentula (limp dick)!”
Tears of frustration ran down Galerius’ cheeks. This bitch had whipped him!

Antonious delivered his last two strokes with only a half-hearted effort and his arm aching. Ironically, they were his best aimed, striking exactly on the middle of her tight little ass and then in the small of her back. But the force behind them was so reduced, that Barbaria managed to hold her voice even as her back hurt more and more and rivulets of blood began to ooze from her numerous cuts. Whatever else befell her, the Goth could take pride in besting the spoiled Roman youth.
 
Praefectus Praetorio said:
I am sorry for the late post. Some things in RL have discouraged me from writing. I may miss posting tomorrow. I hope to be back on track before the end of the week.

Gasping for breath and sweating profusely, Galerius was stung deeply by the Quaestor’s suggestion that the senile old goat could deliver his strokes for him. Forcing himself upright and wiping the sweat from his eyes, he prepared to deliver another blow. Somehow, with his four remaining, he swore that he would break this bitch.

Despite her defiant air, Barbaria was beginning to feel the cumulative effect of the six lashes with the terrible weapon. She was sweating in the heat, and the salt stung her cuts. Tired from twenty-four hours of almost constant abuse and torture, the girl's reserves of rebellious strength were rapidly eroding. She knew she faced dozens of more strokes. And these would be from far stronger and more accurate attackers. But for now, she concentrated her mind and her strength on resisting giving any satisfaction to this bastard. "Niþan mik, Fraujos (help me, Freyja)!” she prayed quietly to her patroness.

Galerius took his time and his aim, for once, was true. This time, the flagrum swept down and around her right flank, pounding her rib cage and a few weighted thong ends, even making it to the base of her right breast. The pain was greater than any before and took her breath away. Stars shot to her eyes as the girl barely stifled her scream. "Iesus,” she murmured in Gothic to herself.
The lad was sorely disappointed not to draw a cry of pain from the Goth. That was as good a shot as he could do, and his arm was feeling numb and weak.
Somehow, Barbaria found the strength to shout defiance even through the blinding pain.

“So that’s the best you have, parva puella?" She cried. "It seems your bracchium (arm – with an implication of military strength) is as flaccidum (flaccid, feeble) as your mentula (dick)!”
This verbal barb stuck deep and caused loud laughter throughout the atrium. Galerius was too tired to even reply to the insult. He just swung the flagrum in a half-hearted effort, his arm almost shot. Number eight was true to the center of her back, but the force was far less than before. Even so, the heavy whip knocked the slavegirl's breath away.
Gritting her teeth and gasping at the increasing pain, Barbaria, nevertheless, knew she had won. She could take two more from his tired arm and not emit one cry.
Shaking her ass at the Governor's son, she called out, “Here’s your target crassa puella (fat girl), give me your flaccida mentula (limp dick)!”
Tears of frustration ran down Galerius’ cheeks. This bitch had whipped him!

Antonious delivered his last two strokes with only a half-hearted effort and his arm aching. Ironically, they were his best aimed, striking exactly on the middle of her tight little ass and then in the small of her back. But the force behind them was so reduced, that Barbaria managed to hold her voice even as her back hurt more and more and rivulets of blood began to ooze from her numerous cuts. Whatever else befell her, the Goth could take pride in besting the spoiled Roman youth.
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Where does the slut find her rebellious reserves of strength from! Made of stern stuff these Goths ... but will a turn be taken for the worse as the ante of her torture is stepped up, or will a cloud of horseback Goths come riding over the hills in time to save her ... looking forward to finding out.
 
I managed a short entry. I appreciate your patience (and the patience of Barbaria at the post - don't worry, dear, more is soon to come).

Praeses Antonious instructed that his comites (retinue – advisors and staff) and his two lictores (lictors – bodyguards denoting his rank) be prepared to accompany him well before noon to the harena. If he was forced to decide the Goth slavegirl's fate, he might as well do it with all the majesty of his position. He also ordered that a sumptuous prandium (luncheon) be provided in the Imperial Box for himself and his guests. Privately, he cursed his son and that lugubrious Quaestor for getting him into this affair.

Sextus gave a deep sigh of relief as his patrol emerged from the old-growth oak forest (whose wood the Romans had used for many generations to build crosses in Gaul) and entered the cleared and rolling agros (farmland) that supplied Narbo with sustenance. In the woods, the danger of an ambush was always present. Even 374 years later, any good Roman soldier knew about the Germans ambushing the three legions of ‎Publius Quinctilius Varus and slaughtering them, almost to the last man in Teutoburg Forest.
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Now, in the open agros, threats could be seen at a great distance, giving the Tesserarius plenty of time to assemble even his tirones (new recruits) for defense.
Judging from the sun's position, Sextus thought it was the hora quarta (10 AM). His Centurio had asked that he try to have his patrol at the harena well before meridiem (noon). He should be able to do so with no difficulty. Given the long march already completed on a hot day, Sextus allowed his men a brief break.

Mogurix and two soldiers rushed to Galerius's side as he completed the ten lashes. He looked almost worse off than the Goth and might collapse at any moment.
The Optio took the heavy flagrum, and the two other men helped the lad to his seat between Piso and Claudius. One servant began to fan the perspiring youth, while a soldier brought a chilled goblet of poscae (sour wine and water, spiced with cumin, myrrh, and salt; legionaries swore by the utility of this elixir which was effectively the Gatorade of the legions). Marcus helped hold the goblet to his mouth and gradually had him drink to rehydrate. Even with the attention, it was clear that Galerius was only semi-aware.

Centurion Gaius Calixtus took this opportunity to speak privately with the Quaestor. A brief discussion ended with Piso nodding in the affirmative. Gaius then stepped out to address the audience.
 
Praefectus Praetorio said:
Centurion Gaius Calixtus took this opportunity to speak privately with the Quaestor. A brief discussion ended with Piso nodding in the affirmative. Gaius then stepped out to address the audience.
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Some good news hopes Barbaria?
 
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