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Barbaria1

Rebel Leader
Staff member
To kill such a sexy young girl seemed a waste.
Then, Lucius had a thought. He called for writing materials and penned two notes. Then he had one of his slaves go to deliver them. That’s all I can do, he thought. We shall see in the morning what comes of it.
So, does this mean there’s still hope :rolleyes:
 

Praefectus Praetorio

Brother of the Quill
So, does this mean there’s still hope
While there is life, there is hope ... maybe.
I've said it before, "Hope springs eternal in Barbara's lovely breasts.
Lycus and Piso both had thoughts
Playing with our emotions again
Don't I just love to do that? I figure that this way I will keep both the pro- and anti- cruxers here in tenterhooks, wondering how this will end. This way I keep them both captive readers. :icon_pc:
 

Praefectus Praetorio

Brother of the Quill
Barb vaguely remembered the soldiers carrying her into their castra convivium (mess room). There, they had tied her down on a short bench. The ropes stretched her legs wide and her ass just off the end. That was the position she was still in now, a position designed to expose her holes to any attacker. And attack her they did! Dozens (Barbara soon lost any count) of men lined up to plow the Goth's sweet and tempting fields. Her full, soft breasts her fondled, sucked, and bitten. The only pause was when someone would toss a buck of water on her loins, and another would use a coarse rag or even a scrubbing brush to clean out the accumulated spunk for the next rapists. This action was sure to bring her back to life, screaming in pain. Even before she recovered from this brutal cleaning, more men would resume roughly fucking her.
The Goth girl soon lost all sense of time and place, awash in a sea of pain and degradation. She was barely aware when others began raping her mouth and spilling their seed either down her throat or over her face and up her nose. The foul smell and taste of their discharge overwhelmed her senses, causing her to gag repeatedly. The closest thing that Barb had to a rational thought during all that time was a prayer to die then and there.

Marcus Claudius read the note from Quaestor Piso one more time. It was simple enough. Lucius was asking Marcus, as a favor, to attend the punishment and execution of the Goth slave Barbara on the morrow. The patrician was not in the habit of attending such events. He found the raucous and lustful cheers of the common rabble to be unseemly and far sub dignitate (beneath his dignity). He well understood the reasons for allowing the crowd to slake their blood-lust in this way, but he took no pleasure in it.
Claudius had marveled at the severity of the sentence that the Quaestor had handed down. But he felt in no way moved by the girl’s fate. Another Gothic slut executed made no difference to him. Still, she was stunningly beautiful, he thought. It was a terrible waste for the stupidus (moron), Galerius, to insist on her death.
Marcus instructed the slave to return to Piso and inform him that Marcus Julius Claudius Gallicus would attend as asked. After all, as the most senior and respected man in Narbo, he could hardly refuse.

Now, many hours later, Barbara had been left to lie, bound, on the rough bench with semen caked over her body. The girl tried not to think about the burning pain in her vagina and rectum. She was sure that the damage there was permanent.
Somehow, her exhaustion overcame her agony and despair, and the Goth fell into a fitful sleep in the early morning hours. But her slumbering teemed with such horrible dreams that she might very well just have been waking.
After only the shortest of respites, she woke to the morning sounds of a military camp. The girl opened her eyes and slowly, painfully, came back to her reality. As she saw the new day dawning, she knew it was the day she would die.

A contubernium (squad, tentmates) of six soldiers entered the room where Barbara was tied, chatting among themselves.
“What happened to the first four contubernia?” asked one.
“The Centurio sent them to check on the German village. He is concerned about trouble there,” replied another.
“Thirty men? Almost half the praesidio? He must expect real trouble,” said the first.
“I gather not,” replied the other. “But, you know the Centurio. He never does things by half.”
“Indeed”

Gaius Claudius Antonious, Praeses provinciae Gallia Narbonensis (Provincial Governor of Narboean Gaul), reclined at ientaculum (breakfast), munching on dates, and goat cheese with honey. He was waiting for his son to appear. On his lectum medium (middle sofa, the highest status position in the dining room, where he reclined to eat) lay the Quaestor's note.
 
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Praefectus Praetorio

Brother of the Quill
Barb vaguely remembered the soldiers carrying her into their castra convivium (mess room). There, they had tied her down on a short bench. The ropes stretched her legs wide and her ass just off the end. That was the position she was still in now, a position designed to expose her holes to any attacker. And attack her they did! Dozens (Barbara soon lost any count) of men lined up to plow the Goth's sweet and tempting fields. Her full, soft breasts her fondled, sucked, and bitten. The only pause was when someone would toss a buck of water on her loins, and another would use a coarse rag or even a scrubbing brush to clean out the accumulated spunk for the next rapists. This action was sure to bring her back to life, screaming in pain. Even before she recovered from this brutal cleaning, more men would resume roughly fucking her.
The Goth girl soon lost all sense of time and place, awash in a sea of pain and degradation. She was barely aware when others began raping her mouth and spilling their seed either down her throat or over her face and up her nose. The foul smell and taste of their discharge overwhelmed her senses, causing her to gag repeatedly. The closest thing that Barb had to a rational thought during all that time was a prayer to die then and there.

Marcus Claudius read the note from Quaestor Piso one more time. It was simple enough. Lucius was asking Marcus, as a favor, to attend the punishment and execution of the Goth slave Barbara on the morrow. The patrician was not in the habit of attending such events. He found the raucous and lustful cheers of the common rabble to be unseemly and far sub dignitate (beneath his dignity). He well understood the reasons for allowing the crowd to slake their blood-lust in this way, but he took no pleasure in it.
Claudius had marveled at the severity of the sentence that the Quaestor had handed down. But he felt in no way moved by the girl’s fate. Another Gothic slut executed made no difference to him. Still, she was stunningly beautiful, he thought. It was a terrible waste for the stupidus (moron), Galerius, to insist on her death.
Marcus instructed the slave to return to Piso and inform him that Marcus Julius Claudius Gallicus would attend as asked. After all, as the most senior and respected man in Narbo, he could hardly refuse.

Now, many hours later, Barbara had been left to lie, bound, on the rough bench with semen caked over her body. The girl tried not to think about the burning pain in her vagina and rectum. She was sure that the damage there was permanent.
Somehow, her exhaustion overcame her agony and despair, and the Goth fell into a fitful sleep in the early morning hours. But her slumbering teemed with such horrible dreams that she might very well just have been waking.
After only the shortest of respites, she woke to the morning sounds of a military camp. The girl opened her eyes and slowly, painfully, came back to her reality. As she saw the new day dawning, she knew it was the day she would die.

A contubernium (squad, tentmates) of six soldiers entered the room where Barbara was tied, chatting among themselves.
“What happened to the first four contubernia?” asked one.
“The Centurio sent them to check on the German village. He is concerned about trouble there,” replied another.
“Thirty men? Almost half the praesidio? He must expect real trouble,” said the first.
“I gather not,” replied the other. “But, you know the Centurio. He never does things by half.”
“Indeed”

Gaius Claudius Antonious, Praeses provinciae Gallia Narbonensis (Provincial Governor of Narboean Gaul), reclined at ientaculum (breakfast), munching on dates, and goat cheese with honey. He was waiting for his son to appear. On his lectum medium (middle sofa, the highest status position in the dining room, where he reclined to eat) lay the Quaestor's note.
Imbedded in today's post is a borrow from an 1882 work. Anyone catch it?

With the introduction of a new character at the end, I need to post an updated cast.

Dramatis Personae (named characters in order of appearance)

Barbara – 24, Serva, Goth girl, daughter of the tribe’s shaman.

Marcus Lycus – 45, Mercator, wealthy slave trader

Septimus Silva – 34, Bello Praeconem, top auctioneer in Narbo.

Marcus Julius Claudius Gallicus - 54, Senator, extremely wealthy patriarch of a respected family in the Province

Galerius Corvus Antonious – 20, Iuventa, the spoiled and repulsive son of the Governor.

Lucius Piso - 43, Quaestor (Latin: investigator; a magistrate, the lowest ranking position in the cursus honorum; a financial official controlling funds and audits and in antiquity charged with investigations and prosecutions).

Tertius Aemilius – 72, Senex, Beloved elder aristocrat; nicknamed, Servus olim amoris (old slave of love) for his tendency to be captivated by the sexual beauty of young women.

Gaius Calixtus – 39, Centurio, commanding the Narbo garrison. Hard-as-nails veteran, yet taciturn and soft-spoken.

Mogurix Acaunissa – 29, Optio centuriae (chosen man of the century). Second-in-command of the Narbo Garrison.

Gaius Claudius Antonious – 55, Praeses provinciae Gallia Narbonensis, father of Galerius, widower.
Often accompanied by his entourage, his comites (companions)
 

Fossy

Tribune
"Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!"

After drinking her fill of water, Barbara knelt quietly in the center of the atrium. As the pompous Romans walked by, leering at her chained and naked body, she whispered pleas for mercy. A sign of how traumatized she had been was that she unconsciously uttered these pleas in Gothic, not Latin or the local Gallic.
In fact, the Goth girl was well on her way to losing touch with the reality around her. The abuse, humiliation, and torture that she had endured during the last twenty-four hours was more than enough to unsettle even the strongest mind. Especially damaging mentally had been the horror, blind and helpless in the sack, as animals with fang and tooth and talon, attacked her. Barb shivered to think of it.
As the soldiers removed her collars and chains and loosed the bands on her legs, the girl made no move except to wrap her freed arms around herself and rock gently forward and back as she tried to deal with the continuing pain. She did not hear the Centurion giving orders or even the lustful cheers of the men when they learned that she was to be their plaything for the night. However, as two dozen men came and surrounded her, she looked up at them in justified fear and apprehension. A half dozen grabbed her and hoisted her high over their shoulders, ignoring her cries of fear. They carried her as they would some valuable booty from a victory as the others went along shouting encouragement and rude threats.

Tertius thanked Silva as the auctioneer and a soldier bade him adieu at his door. That young man was a credit to his generation, the old man thought. He knew how to show respect to his elders, unlike so many these days. All the old morals seemed to be fading. Modern society was becoming too coarse, he observed. It had no use for the old.
After a very long bath, followed by a full rubdown by his favorite and youngest slavegirl, Silvia, Tertius Aemilius went to his cubiculum (bedchamber) alone, as always. His beloved wife had died fifteen years ago after forty years of a loving and intimate marriage. From age sixteen to fifty-six, they had shared everything in life. Even now, the old man refused to allow another to take her place beside him in the night. Any erotic activities (which were far fewer than he may have wished) with his slaves were conducted elsewhere.
Tertius sipped the foul-tasting Elixer with Ippomarathron et Glukoriza (fennel and licorice) prescribed by the local medicus (doctor) to calm his stomach and kidneys and reduce painful urination during the night. He gnawed on a dried rhubarb stalk to control his flatulence. None of it worked well, he thought; getting old was not fun. However, when he climbed into bed, a smile came to his face and a slight stirring came to his loins, as he remembered his stallion-like performance with that Goth slavegirl and her cries of excitement at his efforts. Dies! That had been wonderful!
Maybe he would go to see her punishment tomorrow, Tertius thought. He suddenly felt great sorrow for her. The Quaestor had been much too harsh with his judgment. It was all because of the tantrum of that sorry excuse for a son of the Praesidis. Perhaps he would mention his doubts to Piso in the morning. The Aemilius name still carried a lot of weight in Gallia Narbonensis, Tertius thought. Besides, he did want to see that lovely girl again. One last chance to relive his triumph of today.
It has to be said that often, when one is alone, uncontrolled flatulence can often be a source of satisfying comfort ... maybe Tertius should have settled for this and stewed his rhubarb for a pleasant tasting dessert ...
 

Fossy

Tribune
Marcus Lycus arrived at his house before sunset and instructed the servants to put away the equipment and leftovers from the mini-banquet. It had been an expensive effort, he thought to himself, but well worth it. The favor of the Quaestor was invaluable for a mercatori who specialized in slave trading. And the good-will of the centurionis praesdii might someday be useful. Though Marcus, like most of the influential people in Narbo, loathed the foppish filium Praesidis (son of the Governor), the favor of the Praesidis was most important for any citizen, especially a slaver.
Anxious to wash off the castrorum atrium's dust, Marcus ordered that his bath be drawn immediately. He also gave instructions that his three favorite slavegirls attend him there.

The mercator (trader) lay back with his eyes closed as the three, well-trained girls, nude as always, sensuously worked his body. Vita bona est (Life is good), he whispered under his breath.
Even after the wonderfully arousing and draining encounter with the Goth slave, Marcus swiftly regained an erection. It wasn’t just the erotic ministration of his slaves, he thought, it was the memory of how that tight little ass moved around his pounding prick, accompanied by her cries of pain. Despite lacking proper training, the new girl was stunningly sexual. What a prize!
It was a pity, Marcus thought, that, by this time tomorrow, she would be hanging dead on a cross. The practical man of business in him rebelled at the waste. All because of the petulance of that spoiled brat! And, Lycus thought, the silliness of the Quaestor going along in sentencing the girl to death. It was completely unnecessary. Perhaps tomorrow, he would speak to the Quaestor and suggest that her life be spared. Marcus toyed with the idea of offering some money to Piso and Antonious to buy the girl back. Yes, he thought! She would be very nice to train and later could be sold for good money.
With his plan settled in his mind, the slave trader turned his attention back to his increasing arousal and to the pleasant take of deciding which of the three girls would have the honor to share his bed for the night.

Barbara lay quietly on the bench, breathing in short, shallow gasps. She had no idea of the time. It must be sometime between midnight and dawn, she surmised. What day was it? Had it really been only a day and a half since she was walking carefree down that country lane on a hot, languid summer afternoon, thinking of the trivia of her everyday life? She had been proud of herself after a successful plea with the neighboring tribe not to retaliate against the Romans for their latest slight. Peace was vital, she had said. Then those soldier bullies appeared, and her life was changed in a moment.
The girl tried to stretch a leg to relieve the cramping pain of the stressed position. However, the tight ropes on her wrists and ankles prevented any relief. Most of her body hurt. The angry welts from the rods and the deep bruises from the Optio's staff still cried out with pain. The hurt from the scratches and bites from the animals reminded her again of the horror of the hood and sack.

It was well after dark by the time Lucius Piso entered his domum (house). The supervision of the Goth girl’s punishment had forced him to reschedule an audit of the finances of a fraternal organization. He had gone there straight from the castris. As he entered his house, his loyal slaves (Lucius was a considerate and fair master) flocked around to welcome their dominum and make him comfortable. A parva portio (small snack) was laid out and his bath drawn.
As the Quaestor reclined comfortably domi (at home, locative case). He thought back to the slavegirl’s case. The half-wit of a filius Praesidis had stampeded Lucius into that very harsh sentence. Now, with the luxury of unhurried thought, Piso was thinking that the death penalty was too extreme for her offense. He smiled at recollecting the high scream from Galerius when she kicked his balls. It served the bastard right!
However, Piso, as Quaestor, had publicly pronounced the sentence and it might seem like levitas aut dubitatio (lacking seriousness or showing indecision) on his part to change his mind tomorrow. It all didn’t matter much anyway, he thought. Life or death for that Goth slut was inconsequential. But, he couldn’t help remembering what it was like to take her from behind like that. To kill such a sexy young girl seemed a waste.
Then, Lucius had a thought. He called for writing materials and penned two notes. Then he had one of his slaves go to deliver them. That’s all I can do, he thought. We shall see in the morning what comes of it.
And so it came to pass that the Goth Slut's 'tight little' could well become her saving grace ... wonderful stuff as always.
 

Fossy

Tribune
Barb vaguely remembered the soldiers carrying her into their castra convivium (mess room). There, they had tied her down on a short bench. The ropes stretched her legs wide and her ass just off the end. That was the position she was still in now, a position designed to expose her holes to any attacker. And attack her they did! Dozens (Barbara soon lost any count) of men lined up to plow the Goth's sweet and tempting fields. Her full, soft breasts her fondled, sucked, and bitten. The only pause was when someone would toss a buck of water on her loins, and another would use a coarse rag or even a scrubbing brush to clean out the accumulated spunk for the next rapists. This action was sure to bring her back to life, screaming in pain. Even before she recovered from this brutal cleaning, more men would resume roughly fucking her.
The Goth girl soon lost all sense of time and place, awash in a sea of pain and degradation. She was barely aware when others began raping her mouth and spilling their seed either down her throat or over her face and up her nose. The foul smell and taste of their discharge overwhelmed her senses, causing her to gag repeatedly. The closest thing that Barb had to a rational thought during all that time was a prayer to die then and there.

Marcus Claudius read the note from Quaestor Piso one more time. It was simple enough. Lucius was asking Marcus, as a favor, to attend the punishment and execution of the Goth slave Barbara on the morrow. The patrician was not in the habit of attending such events. He found the raucous and lustful cheers of the common rabble to be unseemly and far sub dignitate (beneath his dignity). He well understood the reasons for allowing the crowd to slake their blood-lust in this way, but he took no pleasure in it.
Claudius had marveled at the severity of the sentence that the Quaestor had handed down. But he felt in no way moved by the girl’s fate. Another Gothic slut executed made no difference to him. Still, she was stunningly beautiful, he thought. It was a terrible waste for the stupidus (moron), Galerius, to insist on her death.
Marcus instructed the slave to return to Piso and inform him that Marcus Julius Claudius Gallicus would attend as asked. After all, as the most senior and respected man in Narbo, he could hardly refuse.

Now, many hours later, Barbara had been left to lie, bound, on the rough bench with semen caked over her body. The girl tried not to think about the burning pain in her vagina and rectum. She was sure that the damage there was permanent.
Somehow, her exhaustion overcame her agony and despair, and the Goth fell into a fitful sleep in the early morning hours. But her slumbering teemed with such horrible dreams that she might very well just have been waking.
After only the shortest of respites, she woke to the morning sounds of a military camp. The girl opened her eyes and slowly, painfully, came back to her reality. As she saw the new day dawning, she knew it was the day she would die.

A contubernium (squad, tentmates) of six soldiers entered the room where Barbara was tied, chatting among themselves.
“What happened to the first four contubernia?” asked one.
“The Centurio sent them to check on the German village. He is concerned about trouble there,” replied another.
“Thirty men? Almost half the praesidio? He must expect real trouble,” said the first.
“I gather not,” replied the other. “But, you know the Centurio. He never does things by half.”
“Indeed”

Gaius Claudius Antonious, Praeses provinciae Gallia Narbonensis (Provincial Governor of Narboean Gaul), reclined at ientaculum (breakfast), munching on dates, and goat cheese with honey. He was waiting for his son to appear. On his lectum medium (middle sofa, the highest status position in the dining room, where he reclined to eat) lay the Quaestor's note.
"... spilling their seed either down her throat or over her face and up her nose ..." - "Please put me back in the sack!" The Goth Slut could be heard shouting ...

And today is the day she will die ... excellent as always PrPr!
 

Praefectus Praetorio

Brother of the Quill
"... spilling their seed either down her throat or over her face and up her nose ..." - "Please put me back in the sack!" The Goth Slut could be heard shouting ...

And today is the day she will die ... excellent as always PrPr!
You might edit your color choice. After nose, it is very hard to read.
 

Praefectus Praetorio

Brother of the Quill
From Gilbert and Sullivan's Iolanthe; or, The Peer and the Peri

The Lord Chancellor's Nightmare Song
Love unrequited, robs me of my rest,
Love, hopeless love, my ardent soul encumbers,
Love, nightmare like, lies heavy of my chest,
And weaves itself into my midnight slumbers.
When you're lying awake with a dismal headache and
Repose is taboo'd by anxiety,
I conceive you may use any language you choose to
Indulge in, without impropriety;
For your brain is on fire, the bed-clothes conspire of
Usual slumber to plunder you:
First your counter-pane goes, and uncovers your toes,
And your sheet slips demurely from under you;
Then the blanketing tickles, you feel like mixed
Pickles, so terribly sharp is the pricking,
And you're hot and you're cross, and you tumble and
Toss 'til there's nothing 'twixt you and the
Ticking.
Then the bed-clothes all creep to the ground in a heap
And you pick 'em all up in a tangle;
Next your pillow resigns and politely declines to
Remain at it's usual angle!
Well, you get some repose in the form of a dose, with
Hot eye-balls and head ever aching,
But your slumbering teems with such horrible dreams
That you'd very much better be waking;

For you dream you are crossing the channel, and
Tossing about in a steamer from harwich,
Which is something between a large bathing machine and
A very small second class carriage,
And you're giving a treat (penny ice and cold meat) to
A party of friends and relations,
They're a ravenous horde, and they all come on board
At sloane square and south kensington stations.
And bound on that journey you find your attorney
(who started that morning from devon);
He's a bit undersiz'd and you don't feel surpris'd
When he tells you he's only eleven.
Well you're driving like mad with this singular lad
(by the bye the ship's now a four wheeler),
And you're playing round games, and he calls you bad
Names when you tell him that "ties pay the dealer";
But this you can't stand so you throw up your hand,
And you find you're as cold as an icicle;
In your shirt and your socks (the black silk with gold
Clocks) crossing sal'sbury plain on a bicycle:
And he and the crew are on bicycles too, which they've
Somehow or other invested in,
And he's telling the tars all the particulars of a
Company he's interested in;
It's a scheme of devices, to get at low prices, all
Good from cough mixtures to cables
(Which tickled the sailors), by treating retailers
As though they were all vegetables;
You get a good spadesman to plant a small tradesman
(First take off his boots with a boot tree),
And his legs will take root, and his fingers will
Shoot, and they'll blossom and bud like a fruit tree;
>From the green grocer tree you get grapes and green
Pea, cauliflower, pine apple and cranberries,
While the pastry cook plant cherry brandy will grant,
Apple puffs, and three corners, and banburys;
The shares are a penny and ever so many
Are taken by Rothschild and Baring,
And just as a few are allotted to you,
You awake with a shudder despairing
You're a regular wreck, with a crick in the neck, and
No wonder you snore, for your head's on the floor
And you've needles and pins from your soles to your
Shins, and your flesh is acreep, for your left leg's asleep,
And you've cramp in your toes, and a fly on your nose,
And some fluff in your lung, and a feverish tongue,
And a thirst that's intense,
And a general sense that you haven't been sleeping in clover;
But the darkness has pass'd, and it's daylight at
Last, and the night has been long, ditto, ditto my song,
And thank goodness they're both of them over!

It is named Nightmare because that what it describes. Performers call it that because of the terrible tongue-twister lyrics.
 

Praefectus Praetorio

Brother of the Quill
The Last Day

The soldiers turned their attention to the girl, naked, filthy, and still stretched on the bench. Her eyes were staring blankly at the ceiling, her lovely, black hair, now caked and mated with semen, falling toward the floor and she was frantically chanting something in her native tongue:

Atta unsar, þu in himinam,
weihnai namo þein.
qimai þiudinassus þeins,
wairþai wilja þeins,
swe in himina jah ana airþai.
Hlaif unsarana þana sinteinan gif uns himma daga.
jah aflet uns þatei skulans sijaima,
swaswe jah weis afletam þaim skulam unsaraim...


The first soldier cuffed her jaw. “What are you saying, scortillum (little whore)?” he asked.
“Probably calling on her pagan gods to help her turn us all in raras (into frogs),” ventured the other.
“She’s a pagan heretic, the Quaestor said,” added a third. “A filthy heretic! She’ll burn in hell for all eternity after we finish with her. A fitting end for germanicae sentinae (dregs)!”
The first added, “Remember boys, some of our own are out this very day in danger among that same germani to keep our people safe. This girl is just like them. She’d slit our throats in our sleep if she had a chance. She deserves everything she gets.”
Iuste (Right you are),” replied another, seeming to go along with the group. Inside, however, he had many doubts about the justice of torturing this beautiful, harmless girl to death. And, while he couldn't know it, there were others among the soldiers who felt the same way.

Ave, Pater,” (Hail/Good morning, Father), said Galerius, entering the triclinium (dining room) and eagerly grabbing food from the central mensa. Through an already full mouth, he asked, “Was your business in Ruscino (a town fifteen miles south of Narbo on the Via Domitia, now called Roussillon) successful?”
Gaius looked at his son and heir. His late wife, whom he dearly loved, had doted on her only child, insisting on spoiling the boy. Since her death four years ago, the Praeses had attempted to put some spine into the lad to make him a worthy successor. But he was beginning to believe it was too late. The iuventa (callow young man) was addicted to food, wine, and sensual pleasures. His brutal treatment of the servants was disgraceful. Gaius feared the boy was a laughingstock of all the optimates (“best men,” the people who “mattered”) in the city. 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.

“Here.” the Praeses said, “Read this,” handing the note from Quaestor Piso across to Galerius.
The lad casually looked at the note. A moment later, he almost spat out the bread.
 

Praefectus Praetorio

Brother of the Quill
Atta unsar, þu in himinam,
weihnai namo þein.
qimai þiudinassus þeins,
wairþai wilja þeins,
swe in himina jah ana airþai.
Hlaif unsarana þana sinteinan gif uns himma daga.
jah aflet uns þatei skulans sijaima,
swaswe jah weis afletam þaim skulam unsaraim...
The Gothic translation of the Lord's Prayer. It was cut off by the soldier's slap just as she said, "as we forgive those who trespass (lit. practice skullduggery [þaim skulam] - the Goths had no words for 'debt' or 'trespass,' so this was the best that Bishop Ulfilas could come up with) against us..."
 
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