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Rome's Revenge

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Eulalia

Eulalia

Poet Laureate
Staff member
Here's the first part of a story as promised (well, sort of) on the 'Impalations' thread.
Like I said there, don't hold your breath, I don't turn out wonderful tales at the amazing rate THT and RR achieve, and I'm going to be busy/ away over the coming days, but I hope this will whet some appetites :)

Rome's Revenge​

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I​


It was Cunben who brought the news. A distant cousin of mine, same tribe – Iceni, of course - but a different kin-group. I rather liked him, I think he quite fancied me – after this horrible war, I'd hoped Mum and Dad might "make enquiries" of his parents...

But tonight he was pale as death, visibly shaking, looking like he hadn't eaten for days, his hollow, dark eyes full of the terror of a hunted deer.

It was as bad as it could be. Boudicca's army defeated, the Queen dead on her own sword, thousands of her warriors slain, those who'd got away from the field being hunted down and hacked to death in ditches. He'd seen my Dad fall, fighting bravely. He thought all the other men from the village could well be dead, he, Cunben, could be the sole survivor.

We women would have to take charge, just as Boudicca had done. While Cunben got some hot soup and bread in him and a few hours much-needed sleep, we all took turns to keep watch. Well, I stayed up all night, like most of the girls, we couldn't sleep.

We watched silently on the palisade, alert to every soft rustling in the bushes – deer, badgers, foxes, al the creatures of the night, an owl silhouetted by the full moon, the brook chattering by my cosy round house at the foot of the village.

We didn't talk. The older women were meeting in the headman's house, seeking guidance from the spirits of our land and our tribe. We youngsters didn't dare to talk, partly for fear what each of us was thinking and dreading, partly certain that even our whispers would be heard inRome.

But when Mum came out to keep me company, I had to ask her, very softly, "Where will Cunben go?" She glanced around, as if she too feared some Roman spy-ghost was hovering above us. "Into theFens," she whispered, "the Romans won't find him there, maybe he'll meet up with other men who've got away."

I waited a long time, thinking, plucked up courage to ask, "So he'll go down to the Mere?" "Mm" I paused, then, "Mum, can I go with him just as far as the Mere?" I caught the twinkle in her eye, a little knowing smile. "There's lots of hazels down there, I know they're ripe – we'll need to stock up with nuts." She chuckled very lightly, gave me a hug. "Oh yes pet, we'll need hazelnuts. All right, but no larking about, he's got to get down to the Mere as soon as it gets light, you can gather nuts on your way back up." I nodded, I understood, it's serious now, deadly serious. No larking about.

So at first cock-crow, he and I had supped a quick bowl of gruel and we set off together. We both knew the path, this was where we'd played as kids, run with the dogs, herded the goats, gone to pick ripe hazelnuts. We didn't talk, still ruled by an instinct to keep quiet, and he'd seen things too horrible to talk about.

So had I. The woodland above the village was no longer lovely. The tall timber trees had been felled down to build defences, all the good coppice-wood hacked down for weapon-handles. Only twisted stems and brambly undergrowth remained, stunted spikes of sapling jutting up reminded me of that forest of hideously pointed sharp stakes around Boudicca's dun – and what I'd seen on them...

My stomach churned at the memory, we hurried on, he in his he in his huntsman's skin-shoes, me in bare feet – I've always gone barefoot, feel able to walk or run much better when my skin's in contact with the Earth, even when it's flinty or thorny. Cunben was striding swiftly, I was running to keep up, but managing well. Over the ridge and into the bushy valley running down to the Mere. I was right about the hazelnuts, although all the good straight growth from this year had been cut, the nuts grow on the old wood, and the pruning had provoked a fine harvest. Squirrels were already feasting, and the finches, I'll need to hurry and fill my big bag before they take them all!

Suddenly Cunben turned and spoke, his voice hoarse with tension, "Sula, come with me!" "Wh-what? I'm coming with you to the Mere..." "Come with me into theFens" "oh, Cunben, I can't ... I can't leave Mum and my sisters..." He stopped, took my shoulders in his hands and looked hard into my eyes, I could see only two deep, dark wells of horror in his. "Look girl, when the Romans get to the village, you'll all be made slaves, or even worse – mums and daughters, grannies and babies, you'll all be parted. And what they'll do to a girl like you ...." His voice trailed away, his hands on my arms were shaking violently.

"Oh, Cunben!" I started to cry, he flung his arms round me, began kissing me. It was lovely, I could hardly bear to stop, though I knew we must. For seconds we clung together, lips sucking lips, tongues licking tongues, wind rustling the hazels, a lark singing overhead, cattle mooing on the hill, darks barking in the distant village, then we both froze –

"That's not one of our dogs, that's a hunting hound!" Cunben already knew, he'd turned and raced off down the glen, I hurtled after, my bare feet hardly touching the roots and brambles on the scrubland soil.

We were still a good half-mile from the Mere, we heard the hound's cry again, nearer, oh Goddess Andraste! It's in the valley! We glanced at one another, I pointed to a side-path that would take us away from where the sound came from and still head for the Mere, we sprinted along it.

The third time we heard it, it was closer still, there were men shouting too. We were behind a low hillock. "Quick," I panted, you go on, I'm going to check," and I scrambled up the mound, peered over.

Oh no! I'd misjudged the direction, the dog was all too visible, racing across the bare heathland scarcely a hundred yards away, and a man in Roman soldier's tunic was no far behind him. Before I could hide, the beast spotted me, swerved with a loud yelp, the man saw me too, "Ecce! Puella!" I heard him shout.

I leaped down the bank and raced down the track behind Cunben, he was well ahead, good I thought. The ground was getting muddy, lots of rushy clumps on the woodland floor, we can't be far from the Mere.

But then Cunben slipped, slithered in the mud, fell on his face, and instantly a huge black body hurled from among the hazels and fell on him, grabbing his shoulder in its teeth.

"Run! Run Sula! Run!" Cunben yelled. My instinct was to run, but not away – the men must be saved, I ran towards him, ignoring his furious commands, I threw myself right onto the hound, and screamed "You run, Cunben, go, go, go!"

My sudden onslaught had startled the huge beast enough for it to let go of Cunben's neck, instinctively he rolled over and jumped to his feet. He glanced down at me, now wrestling with the monster, again I shrieked "Run!"

Without another moment's pause, he was off, down through the alder and willowcarr, down towards the Mere.

And me, I was fighting with a hound whose body was as big as mine and twice as heavy. No way could I escape, that wasn't my task now, I was just determined to keep the beast's attention – lucky there was only one!

In a moment, it had lunged at my legs, I squealed as its teeth seized my thigh, kicking, twisting, hurling my hips, punching at its belly, I was letting it capture me, but I was sure putting up a fight – a true Icena!
 
thanks for nice comments and "likes" -​
they've encouraged me to do a second chapter,​
for the weekend reading while I'm away ​
:)​
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II​


It was only seconds – seconds of sharp agony in my teeth-torn leg – till men appeared, four of them. Two yelled and hauled the dog off me, two grabbed my hair and arms and dragged me back from it. They were shouting to each other, waving towards the Mere, the two with the dog set off the way Cunben had run. Oh, Andraste! They've seen him!

I wasn't going to make things easy for the other two, I kicked and twisted, spit and scratched and bit till one of them managed to fling me face-down in the soft mud, knelt with his full weight on my slim trunk, and jerked my arms up behind my back while his colleague used a thin leather to tie my wrists so tight I squealed.

They kicked me, spitting some Roman swear-word, tugged me up by my hair so I was kneeling, one stood over me with his short, sharp sword-point held at my throat, the other climbed up the bank, no doubt to try and spot Cunben.

I was kneeling, panting, praying to Andraste and the spirits of the Mere. He'd got a minute or two's advantage, he knew the country ... I heard a splash, ducks flew up from the water, the dog barked, my whole body jerked in terror, the soldier pressed his blade more tightly on my neck. But all went quiet again.

It seemed a lifetime, kneeling there, waiting in dread. At last, the two men trudged back, the hound with them, no Cunben, I was trembling, sobbing with relief.

But the Romans were furious, they started hitting and kicking me in frustration, yelling rubbish in Latin that I couldn't understand, if I'd said anything in British they'd have been none the wiser.

Eventually, their rage cooled a little and a bit more sense prevailed. They hauled me to my feet and began to march me back up the track towards the village. As we climbed the ridge, I glanced back across the wide, silent water. Cunben must have waded far enough out to throw the dog off his scent, and deep enough into the reed-beds for the soldiers to loose him – even Iceni hunters would have a job finding a fugitive in that watery maze.

So, though I was bruised and bitten, and my lip was bleeding from one of their punches, I felt elated as my four grumpy captors led me back up the path I knew much better than them. But as we approached the ridge, my heart sank again, at the sight of a black, billowing cloud of smoke rising over the shattered woodland. When we reached the crest, I saw what I'd feared – our beautiful little village in flames, and next to it a great number of tiny figures hurrying about, already erecting an alien-looking square enclosure on the infield outside the village gate.

By the time we reached it, a fence of palings already surrounded this newly-conquered space, neat rows of tents were lined up inside. Around the inside of the fence ran a path, on which stood a long queue of dejected women and children, all my friends, neighbours and kinsfolk from the village. They made me join the line.

No-one was talking, the woman in front of me glanced back but didn't even return my smile, just gave a brief, vacant, hopeless look. The leader of the men who'd captured me hurried away, the others chatted with the spear-wielding guards who were wandering up and down, glaring threateningly at the herded women, lustily at the younger girls, including me.

I could see at the head of the line a table, some men sitting there, guards standing around. As each woman came up, she was there for a minute or two, then led off by a pair of guards out of view. After a little while, a couple of those guards came down to where I stood, and without a word they grabbed my upper arms and quick-marched me up to the table – evidently I'm a priority!

One of the seated men wore everyday Roman military gear, but a cut above the rest, his tunic had an autumnal tint of gold, his cloak a purplish berry-red, the brass buckle on his broad, polished leather belt proclaimed some small importance. He looked bad-tempered. Beside him, a plump, self-satisfied civilian in a rather ostentatiously embroidered imitation of a toga. As soon as he spoke, I knew by his accent he was an Atrebate, one of those slimy southerners who've jumped into bed with the Romans, collaborating as an interpreter. I almost spat as he asked me my name.

"Sula, Sir, short for Sulalia."

He smirked, turned to the officer, "Sulalia 'garrulatrix' significat!"
The soldier guffawed, "Bene, garrulatrix nunc nobis garrulabit!"
"Now, 'Chatterbox', you're going to chatter to us, aren't you?" sneered the Atrebate.
He's half-right, Sulalia's the name of the stream that chatters past my home, my poor roundhouse now just a heap of smouldering ashes. I was named after it, perhaps it was a good name for me, but no, I'm not going to chatter now ...

"Father's name?"
I stayed silent, blood still oozed from my lip, trickled down my chin.
"Father's name?" The Atrebate shouted, the officer glared, his hand tightened to a fist. A junior soldier sat at the end of the table, equipped with wax tablets and stylus, ready to take down whatever I said. As I stayed dumb, he looked among a stack of tablets already full of writing. He found what he was looking for, spoke quietly to the officer.

"Sulalia nomen filiae Arcti est."

The officer frowned, "Hm, Arctus. Unus turpissimorum!"
"You're the daughter of Arctus, aren't you?" growled the Atrebate.
I nodded, whispered "He's dead."
"We know that. And your brothers, Arctugen and Arctumal."
I choked back a sob, they know more than I do. Not a surprise. Clearly they've got a file on us already, they know my Dad was the leader of a warband, they know he's dead, and my brothers. But they don't know about Cunben.

"That young man who was with you when our soldiers caught you, what was his name?"

Again, I stood silent. The officer's face had changed, no longer irritable, impatient, it was now set firm, cold and hard. We stared at each other, neither of us blinking.
"Tell us his name. And where he's hiding," the Atrebate snapped. Those cold eyes pierced me like javelins, I felt a cold sweat under my light tunic, a quivering between my parted thighs, instinctively I pressed my bare feet on the meadow turf. I stood my ground.

The officer nodded to the pair of guards. "Ad ferrarium!"

Once more they seized my arms and marched me away, along dead-straight paths between strictly laid-out squares of rectangular tents, so unlike the spiralling ways among the roundhouses of our curvaceous village. Rectangles have corners, and it was to a corner of the enclosure they brought me, one partitioned off with a paling fence, an acrid smoke stung my eyes as we approached, when we entered I saw two huge, nearly-naked men at work, hammering sparks out of iron on anvils, like the ironsmiths with their mysterious skills who visit our village in the winter.

One glanced across as we entered, a guard spoke briefly, the smith nodded towards a corner of the workplace and carried on hammering. I was pushed, fell on my knees and left there, waiting.The heat from a couple of huge firebaskets was powerful, I wanted to strip off like the two smiths, the metallic smoke was burning my lungs. Lit by the brightness of the braziers, my bare thighs glistened, the red wound from the hound-bite livid on the right.

Deafened by the constant hammering and the roaring fires, I though again of Cunben. He'll have found a boat by now – a light hunting skiff. The Romans haven't begun to search around the Mere, and the boat-noost's well-hidden. He'll be paddling noiselessly through that labyrinth of reed-beds and alder-carr, following the secret signs the Iceni hunters know. Mile after mile. He'll head for one of the islands, maybe a few more men from Boudicca's army will be there. And the marsh-men, the Metarii, they're not exactly friendly, very suspicious of strangers, but whenever an Iceni hunter's got lost or injured, they've looked after him, he's come back safe. They'll take care of Cunben!

And as for me, now I've got my part to play. A daughter of Boudicca, a slavegirl of Andraste the Unconquered, I'm an Icena – I'll put up a fight!
​
 
I think there might be!;) ​
Here's a little bit more of Rome's Revenge -​
​
III​


After what felt a very long time for me kneeling on the gritty ground, the two guards reappeared. "Praeparanda est Icenuncula!" he announced with a grin, "Bene!" replied the smiths, and started putting away their tools. The guards strolled over, staring down at me. I bowed my head, straightened my back, no point in being awkward with them now, better to conserve my strength for the fight I knew was coming.

They looked at my simple coarse-woven clothing, one of them rudely lifted my breasts with his sandaled foot. "Nullae gemmae" he muttered, the other pointed to my arms, still tied painfully tight behind my shoulders. "Armillae," he said, "A, non malae!" replied his colleague, sounding a bit happier. He set about the unsoldierly task of untying a girl's hair. I'd put it up quickly this morning before I set out with Cunben, just fixed it with a couple of pins and that pretty green and gold headband Grannie wove for me. He pulled out the pins, peered at them to see if they were silver – they weren't, and the little curly decorations on their heads were of no value to him, he tossed them onto the smiths' scrap-metal heap. But he kept the band, tucked it in his belt, a gift no doubt for his girl-friend.

I shook my head, my hair tumbled loose over my shoulders, down to my hips, as they hauled me to my feet. They untied my arms, I wanted to stretch them with relief at their release, but they quickly grabbed them and tugged off my bangles, weighed them in the palms of their hands, popped them into their belt-pouches, the only loot of any value – precious little – this captive yielded.

But the cord round my waist, a plait of white and woad-blue threads, was untied and kept, the other guy's girl will get a present too!. The guard who'd taken it off me eyed it, flicked it at me suddenly like a whip, I flinched, they laughed, I bit my lip – not a good start, I told myself crossly, keep your nerve, Sula!

And so I stood, my smock hanging loose, feet apart, hands behind bum, my eyes meeting their girl-hungry gaze. The smiths had finished clearing away, they were enjoying the sight of me too.

"Teipsam nuda!" snapped one of the guards. I didn't understand. His colleague drew a knife, thrust it at my breasts, I cringed, he slashed the shoulder of my smock so it ripped and flapped loose, baring my breast. "Nuda!" he yelled. I understood now, "All right, let me ..."

I grappled with my torn smock, pulled it off over my trailing hair. Instinctively, I turned away from them, to the corner of the enclosure, as I loosened the strings on my light linen shift, let it slip down my legs to the ground. Both tits bare now. One of them grabbed my arms, swung me round, made me stand facing the eight male eyes, conscious of my female assets' whiteness, their slow surging up and down, their quivering to my racing heart.

Their was nothing on me now but a rag wrapped round my loins, the guard whipped it off. I kept my legs apart, my hands behind, for those endless seconds as they drank me in, the hot smoky air rich with the scents of one frightened woman, four excited men.

But then they seized my arms and led me across to the blacksmith's anvil, the heat of the huge braziers embracing my nakedness. The older smith pulled on huge leather gauntlets and took an iron manacle from where he'd hung it, over the edge of the fire-basket. It was smouldering, not red-hot, but hot enough to soften the metal, hot enough when he pressed it over my stretched-out, slender left wrist for me to leap off the turf with the pain, but my guards held me tight, no chance of pulling away.

With a mighty pair of pincers, he tightened the burning band around my wrist where my pretty bangle had been, I smelt my skin singeing. My arm absorbed the burning pain as I watched him fetch another. Knowing what was coming made it worse, I closed my eyes, gritted my teeth, told myself I'm an Icena, got to be brave ...

My scream echoed round the valley as he tightened the iron on my right wrist. Now they pushed me forward, the two guards gripping my arms and trunk, the younger smith knelt down and lifted my leg, planting my foot firmly on the anvil, holding my calf and thigh with a vice-grip, while his senior fitted a manacle on my right ankle, and finally one my left.

All four joints hurting now, I was struggling vigorously as the heat spread up my arms and legs, it took all four of them to drag me, arms held wide by the muscular smiths, one guard behind me hugging my torso, groping at my swinging breasts, the other hauling my hair.

Short chains attached to the shackles jingled as they wrestled me spitting and shrieking and trying to bite, across to the far corner of the smithy, where there was a kind of stall for horses to stand in while they were shod. At the front, it had a pair of very sturdy square oak pillars, taller than any man, much higher than me. Towards the top of each was an iron harness-loop to hold the reins out of the way.

They forced me to stand between these pillars, facing outwards, stretched my arms up on either side towards the loops. The two smiths tugged the chains from my wrist-irons through the rings, and clamped them tight with pincers. So now I was stretched, hauled up on tip-toes, crucified between the two oak columns.

My legs were still free, I was kicking, squirming, thrashing about. But the smiths dragged two hefty blocks of stone from the back of the stall, each so big it took both mighty men to move it. They placed them either side of me, quite wide apart. There were iron loops on them, my legs were drawn wide, my ankle-irons linked to the weights, I could just press my toes against them, but they would surely prevent any kicking.

And so I hung now X-crosswise, arms and legs stretched wide, still throbbing with the heat of the irons, aching now from my panicky struggles, I'd only succeeded in racking myself. Sweat streaming down my face and body gleamed in the glow of the fires and the setting sun, evening insects buzzed around, quick to investigate their new grazing-ground, my living flesh.

The two smiths were busy selecting long-handled irons from their rack of tools, placing them in the braziers, I turned my eyes away, not wanting to think what might be coming. The guards found a bench and placed it before me, ready for my interrogators. So, young Icena, prepared for the fight – how am I going to do?
​
 
Maybe y
Eulalia said:
I think there might be!;) ​
Here's a little bit more of Rome's Revenge -​
​
III....................​
.......So, young Icena, prepared for the fight – how am I going to do?
​
Click to expand...

I would like to think that you bravely resist long and hard in unimaginable agony but eventually your torturers succeed in breaking you and you tearfully confess to all the charges against you.

However this does not stop your vile inquisitors and they proceed with more sophisticated instruments like these beautiful breast spikes . . . . . :p

Temp_01.jpg
 
it's nice there are some men who know what women really want! :D​
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IV​


Pretty soon, they arrived, the important officer, the junior with the collection of wax tablets, the plump Atrebate, they were accompanied by a male slave bearing a big jug of wine and a trayful of goblets. After a hard day setting up camp, destroying our village and herding in the women and children for slaves, they were looking forward to an relaxing evening.

The Atrebate waddled across to me, looking more smug than ever, his face already flushed wine-purple. "Well Chatterbox," he sneered, "Time for a chat, eh?" He reached out and squeezed my naked nipple with his podgy fingers, I winced in disgust." You're going to tell us his name, aren't you?"

I gritted my teeth, clamped my jaw shut. "Tell – us – his –name!" he snarled, squeezing my breast so tight his ill-trimmed nails sunk into my skin, started to twist it violently back and forth. I squirmed, kept silent, felt my mouth filling with saliva. As he gave a sharp and painful tug that jerked me towards him, I rounded my lips an spat, right in his face.

He hit my cheek as he stepped back, wiped his face with a glare of deep hatred in his eyes – the other men watching seemed unsurprised, I heard the guard near me stifle a snigger. But the officer spoke to the smiths, "Signum ei inure." "In fronte?" "Etiam."

The younger smith picked up a cable formed of twisted wires, tied in a noose, went behind me and slipped it over my head, twisting it tight at the back so it squeezed tight around my brows, above my ears, cutting right into my eye-sockets. With this in one hand, and my hair gripped in the other, he jerked my head back.

I was gasping with the pain, but there was worse to come, I knew. I heard the other smith's footsteps, smelt burning hot metal, felt fiery warmth close to my forehead, then screamed as ferocious heat seared into my skin, from above my nose, between my eyebrows, up to my hair-line, a loud hiss of sizzling skin accompanied my agonised shrieking.

It took only a couple of seconds, time enough for me to imagine it was burning right through my skull and into my brain, then the branding-iron was withdrawn, the cable-noose removed, I swung my head wildly, tossing my hair like a wind-witch, as the fire continued to eat into my skin and the bone beneath.

"That'll teach you, little slut! Now the world will know, you're a stinking Icena whore." I opened my eyes, they were sore from the scraping of the wires, I saw the piggy face of the Atrebate, croaked hoarsely, "If that's what it shows, I'll wear it with pride!"

He turned to the officer, "Catula se superba esse dicit!", then back to me, "We'll see about that, bitch-whelp!" The Romans were evidently amused at my spunkiness, the officer was grinning as he ordered the guards, "Catulam verberate!"

One of them rummaged in a kit-bag, brought out the instrument of punishment. I'm used to the sting of the strap, felt it often enough when I was a naughty kid. Dad brought us up strictly, either behave, or expect a red bum!

But what came out of the bag to be used on me was something I'd never seen before, a mares-tail of slender black leather lashes, each an elbow's length, each with a sharp-pointed lead stud near the tip. The strands were plaited to form a flexible handle, the guard swung it so they rattled like hailstones as he strode round behind me.

"Now tell us his name." Once more I clamped my jaw, my whole face still stinging with the burning in my forehead. The guard swung his arm up, I heard the swish of the thongs, glanced back to see them swooping down, shrieked as they ripped across my bare shoulders.

There was a pause as my cry echoed round the camp, my body twisted to absorb the agony, then a backhand stroke to cross the lines of the first, it was like a hunting-party's arrows all piercing into the hide of a hunted doe – and I was the doe. I could feel warm blood trickling down my back as he paused before a third, and then a fourth, a bit lower down, thrashing my ribs.

"His name?" the Atrebate intoned. I twisted my torso, braced myself in readiness. The fifth lash, then the sixth, across my buttocks, the stud-tipped thongs curled round my loins, ripping deep gashes in the soft flesh below my hips. My pelvis leapt and swung with such agonised vigour, I felt one of the heavy blocks restraining my feet move slightly.

My interrogator went and muttered to the scribe, who handed him a writing-tablet. He returned to me, held it in front of my eyes, still burning and watery, I peered at it through haze, but of course the scratches on it meant nothing to me. Then he slapped my tit with it, but that hurt less than the word he spoke, "Cunben!"

I tensed with horror and rage, the bastards knew all along! Some village woman will have named him, in hope of some special favours for herself or her kids – Cunben's kin aren't popular with everyone, he's a bit of a rebel ....

"Cunben's his name, isn't it, bitch?" He slapped my breast again, I just sighed, hung my head. He pulled my hair, forcing me to look into his eyes. "You could have saved yourself all that pain, couldn't you, you silly sow?" I kept silent. "That'll teach you not to waste our valuable time. Now you're going to tell us where he's hiding."

I was struggling to keep a clear head, the burning in my brow was making my mind wander, in dark places haunted by fiery demons, panic was threatening to seize me, betrayed by violent shaking of my arms and legs that rattled my bond-chains.

"No," I thought, forcing myself to listen to reason, "His name doesn't matter, the longer this goes on, the better his chance of getting away. In any case, I don't know for sure where he'll go in the Fens, and I won't tell them what I do know .. I've got to hold out, as long as I can... I've got to fight on.!"
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This is superb! You the loyal, indomitable heroine facing terrible agonies as you desperately try to hold back telling where your dear Cunben has gone. Your love for him is to be tested to destruction as you are suspended naked with legs and arms apart, your most sensitive parts perfectly exposed for the muscular hunks to bring their vile instruments of torture to bear on you . . . .

Phew, heavy stuff! Looking forward immensely to Part V
 
thanks Pooper :)​
here's a bit more​
​
V​

The other guard had taken the scourge, his turn now. Not a bad looker, taller than the one who'd just thrashed me, dark hair, ochre skin, he's from somewhere warm. For all my whipped soreness, my aching arms and legs, my still burning brow, I was feeling something of the excited arousal I rmember from rough play with my brothers, a bit bigger, a bit stronger than me, but I was never easily beaten.

"Where's he hiding?" growled the Atrebate, impatiently.
"In the Fens... Sir," I muttered. He smacked my face, "We know bloody well he's in the fucking Fens, where in the Fens?"

The guard with the scourge was still standing in fromt of me, I was expecting him to go round behind, but no, he lifted his arms and swung, the thongs wrapped around my chest under my armpit, the stinging met he scars his colleague had inflicted, the studs peppered over my shoulderblade, I twisted sharply at the pain in my ribs, but at once felt a second thrash, backhand, around the other side. A couple more round my loins, ribbing my buttocks and upper thighs, I was dancing as freely as my chains permitted, squealing shrilly.

Must try to get them to pause, even just for a minute or two. "Look, Sir, the men go hunting in the Fens – eels in the spring, wildfowl in the autumn – we women never go with them, we don't know where they go ..."

"Men talk," he snarled, "you'll have heard them name places where they went. 'Went', yes, I thought sadly, they won't be going any more. I just shook my head. The guard stood back, I watched him, I was panting, sweat trickling, I seemed to have an inkling of what was coming next, but there was nothing I could do to protect myself.

He swung the thongs right across my breasts, aiming so the cruel studs bit deep into the left one, and deep furrows ploughed over both, my scream turned to a groan, the men around all showed delight, this is what they like to see!

"Come on vermin, tell us where they hunt!" "I don't know," I sobbed, it was half-true, yes I had heard some names, but they meant nothing to me, and I'm not going to betray them – not just Cunben, other Iceni should be gathering there too ...

The handsome brute swung another lash, across the top-front of my thighs, I kicked and twisted my pelvis in response, but gave no answer. The next blow had me screaming uncontrollably, he landed the bunch of piercing studs right on the triangle of Andraste, blood spurted from my tenderest flesh, pain tore through my woman-parts.

I was becoming crazed with pain, the ability of these ruthless men to inflict such hideous agony was overwhelming even my determination to resist, my loyalty to Cunben and my tribe.

"Sir," I gasped, "There are islands, lots of them ... " "Yes, we know that – go on." "Each village has its oven islands, different ones for eel-trapping and bird-catching." "Hm, that's what we'd expect. But WHAT ARE THEIR NAMES?" he suddenly yelled, an inch from my burning face.

I looked down into the shadows under me, stayed silent. The Atrebate withdrew, the guard positioned himself again, suddenly upswept the scourge so the thongs struck between my bare, parted thighs, the pellets darting deep into the fleshy lips around my girl-gate, my cry echoed for long seconds all around the valley, pain conquered my body too much for me even to writhe.

I had to say something, had to play for time, my brain whirled as I tried to think of names that would put them off the scent, if only for a short time. I dredged out names I'd heard them mention that weren't our islands – "Narionissi ... Blotugia..."

​
My head dropped, I heard the Atrebate grunt, the officer said something in Latin, then all went quiet, I think I lost consciousness ...
 
VI​

"Mendacule!" A tooth-cracking punch on the side of my face roused me, it was the officer, his face red with fury in the fireglow – plenty of drink too, to judge by the way he staggered backwards, almost toppled by his own violence.

Oh Gods of the Iceni, how quickly they've rumbled my little fibs. I don't know how long I'd hung delirious with pain, but it was still dark, stars blinking through the smoky air, pain still biting where the whipthongs had embraced me.

And now it was punishment time. The officer and the interpreter stood watching, silent, no need for words. I saw the blacksmith pull on his gauntlets, take a long, straight rod from the still-glowing embers in the brazier. I shrank as he strode forward, bearing its bright tip towards me like a huge, shining, erect penis.

The officer pointed towards my groin, I felt sick with terror at the meaning of his gesture. He swung his finger in a diagonal line, the smith nodded. I shrieked till my lungs ached as he pressed the white-hot edge of the iron against the top of my right thigh, right in the crack where my leg forms its angle with my abdomen.

He held it, turning it, rolling it a little to and fro, torturing me relentlessly while I howled and cried for mercy, till the air was rich with the scent of my sizzling skin, and the brightness of the metal dulled to crimson muddied by shreds of smoking skin.

The pain did not cease as he drew the instrument away, but continued to eat into my flesh, sending sharp pangs down my leg and into my secret parts. My hips gyrated slowly, unable to cope with the agony.

The smith looked at the officer, who nodded. He returned to the brazier and, deaf to my helpless pleading, drew out a second iron, brought that across, and repeated the hideous torment on the top of my left thigh, completing the conquest of pain through both my legs and the whole of my lower body, leaving me groaning as I swung, twisting, on the chains that held me helpless.

Only now did the smug Atrebate speak, while the officer returned to the bench where his junior was busy as ever with his writing tablets. "You see where fibs get you, little liar?" He leaned forward, twisted my clit at the apex of the pain in my groin between his filthy fingernails. I squealed, blurting "S-sorry Sir..."

"Too late to be sorry, whore's brat. Now you're going to tell us the truth." I sighed, hung my head, thoughts tormenting me – if they know those islands belonged to another village, they probably know ours too – maybe it's just another trick? At least they can't be far off knowing ...

The pain was eating its way up my body like some monster from the marsh, joining the soreness of my still oozing whip-weals. Surely there can't be anything worse? Surely they can't do any more?

My long, panting silence was finally broken by the officer's quiet, cruel voice, "Faber, cunnum eius ure." I heard a rattle of iron, I dared not look. I smelt hot metal. He approached slowly, as if reluctant, or pretending reluctance. My downcast eyes glimpsed firelight below me, fierce heat filled the air between my thighs, cooking my already tortured thighs, I felt my pubic curls beginning to singe and shrivel, unbearable burning in my cunt-lips ...

"NOOOOOOOO!" I screamed, "No! No! Don't do it!" The smith paused, holding the iron just where it was, I was fighting to haul myself up with my chained wrists, striving to increase the space between the white-hot tip and my tenderest flesh. "Andatācos!" I yelled.

The smith glanced at the officer, still keeping the iron where it was. " Andatācos!" I repeated, "Andatācos and Ixaoscona." The officer nodded, the smith withdrew the dreadful iron, I slumped, retching, sick at what I'd just said.

The adjutant was fussing with his tablets, trying to peer at them in the flickering firelight, watched earnestly by the officer and the interpreter. At last he spoke, "A, vere, Andatācus insula est, hinc non remota – quinque milia ... " "Bene," commented the officer, "et Isca, Iscosc-" "Ixaoscona" I mumbled helpfully, resigned to cooperating. The soldier shuffled the tablets a bit more, then, "Illa propior est, non nisi tres milia."

The officer stood, frowned briefly at me, his conquered victim, then strode away, followed by his assistant. The Atrebate sneered, "You can spend a few hours praying to your goddess that they'll catch your Cunben – it'll be worse for you if they don't!"

I was sobbing, wretched at my failure, longing only to die. The evil fat Briton waddled to the gateway of the enclosure, then turned for a final shot, "Don't think we've finished with you, whore's cunt – there's more for you to chatter about, but it can wait till dawn."
 
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