Quiet Paul
Tribune
Barbaria waits....
A while has passed since the prosecutor pronounced the dreaded sentence that chills the blood : 'Barbaria, for your crimes you are condemned to death. You will be taken from her, and after the customary preparations, you will be nailed, naked, by your wrists and feet, to a stout wooden cross, which will be raised in full public view. Upon it, you will die a horrible, wretched and painful death. However grievous your suffering, no attemt to ease your torment or hasten your death will be permitted'.
On hearing the sentence, Barbaria trembles, then retches . For now, her waiting is over.
Barbaria is taken out to the public square, where a soldier slits her robe with a sword, tearing it from her body. As she vainly attempts to cover her breasts another soldier removes her loin cloth. No more will her desirable body be protected, shielded by clothing.
Now she is tied, arms raised, to a post, her toes barely touching the ground. And now the awful scourging begins. Forty-nine strokes, stinging, striping, flaying skin. Back, shoulders, breasts, buttocks, and the worst, the tender personal place between her legs.,Her body twisting, jumping, twitching, trying, uselessly, to avoid the lash. Wounds hurting, blood streaming, a vicious, agonising overture.
Released, her body slumps, exhausted. Roused by a pail of filthy water she is dragged to her feet, and hauled away, legs trailing.
Thrown into a corner, she is allowed minutes to recover. Then dragged up again, and a rough thorny crown placed on her head. Pressed down firmly, and then twisted. Barbaria groans deeply as the thorns bite, searing her precious scalp, blood seeping, pouring through long, flowing, red-brown hair.
The heavy, rough beam, stained with the blood and sweat of its previous victims, is strapped across her shoulders, rough ropes grinding into her arms. Forced up, carrying her own instrument of death to her own place of execution. Rough ground, stumbling, fainting, whipped to continue. Bruising as she falls, re-opening whip-wounds, breasts battered, bleeding, hurting, aching terribly.
Barbaria arrives at the place and falls heavily. Turned over on her pained, sliced back, and left alone. Now waiting, fearful, trembling. Voices, movement. To her right an animal screams. Not an animal though, she realises as she turns her aching head to look, but a girl, like her. Arching, straining,as she is nailed. More howling, screaming. Barbaria waits, stomach churning, quivering with fear. She knows what will happen, that soon she will be screaming. But how awful will it really be?
All Barbaria can do is wait, helplessly, loathed, desperate, terrified.
To be continued ....
A while has passed since the prosecutor pronounced the dreaded sentence that chills the blood : 'Barbaria, for your crimes you are condemned to death. You will be taken from her, and after the customary preparations, you will be nailed, naked, by your wrists and feet, to a stout wooden cross, which will be raised in full public view. Upon it, you will die a horrible, wretched and painful death. However grievous your suffering, no attemt to ease your torment or hasten your death will be permitted'.
On hearing the sentence, Barbaria trembles, then retches . For now, her waiting is over.
Barbaria is taken out to the public square, where a soldier slits her robe with a sword, tearing it from her body. As she vainly attempts to cover her breasts another soldier removes her loin cloth. No more will her desirable body be protected, shielded by clothing.
Now she is tied, arms raised, to a post, her toes barely touching the ground. And now the awful scourging begins. Forty-nine strokes, stinging, striping, flaying skin. Back, shoulders, breasts, buttocks, and the worst, the tender personal place between her legs.,Her body twisting, jumping, twitching, trying, uselessly, to avoid the lash. Wounds hurting, blood streaming, a vicious, agonising overture.
Released, her body slumps, exhausted. Roused by a pail of filthy water she is dragged to her feet, and hauled away, legs trailing.
Thrown into a corner, she is allowed minutes to recover. Then dragged up again, and a rough thorny crown placed on her head. Pressed down firmly, and then twisted. Barbaria groans deeply as the thorns bite, searing her precious scalp, blood seeping, pouring through long, flowing, red-brown hair.
The heavy, rough beam, stained with the blood and sweat of its previous victims, is strapped across her shoulders, rough ropes grinding into her arms. Forced up, carrying her own instrument of death to her own place of execution. Rough ground, stumbling, fainting, whipped to continue. Bruising as she falls, re-opening whip-wounds, breasts battered, bleeding, hurting, aching terribly.
Barbaria arrives at the place and falls heavily. Turned over on her pained, sliced back, and left alone. Now waiting, fearful, trembling. Voices, movement. To her right an animal screams. Not an animal though, she realises as she turns her aching head to look, but a girl, like her. Arching, straining,as she is nailed. More howling, screaming. Barbaria waits, stomach churning, quivering with fear. She knows what will happen, that soon she will be screaming. But how awful will it really be?
All Barbaria can do is wait, helplessly, loathed, desperate, terrified.
To be continued ....
