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Moriturae Te Salutant

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The gladiatrices

Sophonia and Cecilia have not witnessed the atrocious end of their mates. Their fine physique has won for them the privilege of being reserved for one of the gladiatorial fights to the death. The sadistic patricians particularly appreciated the fact that they are sisters, too. In the small cell reserved for gladiators, Lentulus Batiatus, the landlord who manages the famous school for gladiators at Capua, has been trying to teach them the basics of their weapons. Two half-naked slaves, their skins oiled and criss-crossed by scars, now attend him, carrying their battledresses.

For the moment, Sophonia and Cecilia remain snuggled together in a corner of the cell. They are entwined together, reflecting on the terrible sentence of Regulus which still rings in their ears. They accepted, yes, they chose to fight, each of them hoping to give the other a quick death, instead of the abominable torment reserved for the winner of the duel. Each hugs the other's face, soaking up her streaming tears reassuringly.

Then, proud and courageous, they rise up and embrace lingeringly. Surrounded by a sort of phantasmagoric penumbra, they let the slaves equip them, almost swooning at the powerful aroma of musk which comes from their bulging biceps. Holding hands, they pass under the massive portcullis which has been just raised in front of them. Their eyelids blink, brutally dazzled by the intense reflection glaring from the nearly-white sand, then they cast a frenzied gaze at the imperial box.

They are no longer conscious of being naked under their armour, but Sophonia is troubled by the jolting of her full, firm, pear-shaped breasts. Her large brown nipples are visible from the highest platforms, drawing admiring whistles from the least polite men. Lentulus Batiatus' voice exhorts them, while a fanfare of trumpets and tambourines can be heard. With slow steps, their heart unsettled by the insults and whoops of mirth from the crowd, they step forward hesitantly, their bronzed ankles hardly rising from the sand. But their steps become more firm when they remember the last words of Agatha to them, "Die with dignity, my sisters, like Christian women, and forgive them just as Jesus forgave us."

Each one now eyes naively the other's armament. All they have understood is that Cecilia is armed as a retiario, with a heavy fishing net and a three-pronged fork, whose use suits particularly well her slim and harmonious body. Short hair, fine, regal features in a long face with very red lips, she seems ready to bring down a deer before immobilizing and piercing it. She is only wearing chest armour, she is naked from the belt down, revealing as an ideal target a broad dark patch which she no longer tires to hide by closing her legs.

Sophonia, more bulky, broad-faced and merry-eyed, is equipped only with an ocrea, like of pair of leggings which cover her from her thighs to her crotch, lightly camouflaging her fair, silky pubic hair. She wears her weapons awkwardly, the heavy leather shield and the large sword of the mirmillo, with which must deflect the blows from the three-pronged fork and slash at the borad-meshed net. It's the most traditional kind of gladiatorial duel, to which the crowd is accustomed.

At last they arrive in front of the balcony housing Nero and his party, to deliver the ritual formula with a single voice, "Ave, Caesare, moriturae te salutant!" An ineffable emotion floods them,while jeers give way to applause. They cannot avoid shedding new tears while murmuring, "Forgive me, I beg you, for I must kill you." "I forgive you, as you must forgive me, as I want to save you from a more atrocious death." "FAREWELL! See you in a few minutes."

Unconsciously, they have widened the space between themselves. While the bucinae blast out their clear, sharp notes, they present their weapons with a tragic gesture. Sweat runs from their proud faces, which the storm of battle gradually humbles to the spectators' great delight. Eyes locked, their stances grow stronger as they circle around each other, closing in little by little.

The hearts of Agatha and the three remaining actresses beat as hard as theirs. Today, it's no more wooden sabres and birch-bark shields, in a dance conducted by the cane of Paulus Gracchus, the director of their small troupe. They hold their breath as Sophonia delivers the first sword-stroke. It lightly slices the net, though not in its crucial part, while easily dodging the riposte of the three-pronged fork, thrust by Cecilia without conviction. In this short contact, she realized what a dreadful trap the lead-weighted meshes could become. Soophonia's second sword-slash slightly grazes her sister's hip. They stop at this first blood, shocked at their own violence, "But - you really wanted to kill me!" "Yes, like you! Oh, let me help you depart first, I beg you!"

Sophonia attacks again. The drops of crimson blood dotting the sand wake Cecilia out of her hypnotic lethargy. The harpoon hits hard against the shield, the net flies seeking for the ankles. The crowd howls with pleasure when Sophonia jumps with both feet, like she did when they were children playing hopscotch. Her breasts have hit her shield painfully, she moves back to regain her balance.

Cecilia keeps thrusting with her trident, but Sophonia suddenly drops to her knee on the ground and raises her shield. Carried forward by her onrush, Cecilia is forced to do the splits on the sand. She is rewarded too by a glancing blow from the sword, deflected by her harpoon but slipping under her buttocks. Fully alert now, she feels hideously humiliated, just like a schoolgirl, the more so as the sand, intruding inside her damp vulva, its lips imperceptibly open, itches atrociously.

In an uncontrollable reflex action, she thrusts with the three-pronged fork while stumbling straight ahead. One of the lethal points sinks deeply into the base of her sister's right breast. Their mixed blood, crimson against vermilion, interlace now in curious geometrical figures tracing their attacks and counter-attacks.

They break, split, cross their weapons, while panting like true gladiators in this sublime duel which crucifies the watching Christian women. The heat and the sight of blood gradually transform the two of them into real tiger-cats, mouths, breath short. Sophonia is the first to lose her balance, the increasingly heavy shield at the end of her wrist is not rising quickly enough under the well-directed blows.

The mob cries suddenly when the sharp points of the trident pierce her generous left breast. Her heart is not affected by the thrust, but a geyser of blood stains the golden sand as the barbed prongs withdraw, badly maiming the fat tissue and part of the globules of the mammary gland. Sophonia sinks slowly to the ground, almost beneath the prison window-bars, as if she were performing a bad melodrama. She moves her hand to her breast with a long moan of suffering, trying to stop the life force which is ebbing out from her. She lies facing Agatha and her sisters, then finds the strenght to crawl slowly to the grid, while Cecilia throws her weapons down to kneel and pray, while waiting for her executioners. Agatha's arm passes through the grid to try to relieve Sophonia's martyrdom, but dying girl's hand falls heavily before she can grab it to accompany her into the darkness whither she is sinking.

It is two of the oldest centurions who take Cecilia under the armpits with surprising gentleness. She lets them move her, her mind has already left this world. She places herself in the middle of the Saint Andrew's cross, painted black, lying in the center of the arena. Spreadeagled between the supports on which she has been bound, she does not care about the spectacle offered by her open and soiled slit. She does not hear the obscene remarks of the men, nor does she see the patricians' sneers of disgust. She barely hears a cart crossing the arena, she closes her eyes while the slaves set up their equipment.

When silence returns, something over her head is hiding the sun from her. A huge metal strainer is hanging from a chain fixed on a mobile gantry. The fumes from a brazier of glowing embers lightly tickles her nostrils. Turning her head, she spies a large cauldron in which she distinctly hears liquid boiling. When each of the centurions plunges a large ladle into the boiling oil, Cecilia lets out a wild scream as her atrocious fate is revealed, "NO, NO, NO, NOOOOOOOOOOO! I don't want...!!!! AGATHA, I'm afraid! Sto-o-o-o-op!!!"

Agatha cries at the same time. She would like to share the torment, to divide the pain. For a brief moment, she thinks she can feel in her own flesh the hundreds of greasy drops falling on the skin of the young Christian girl. One of centurions keeps pouring oil into the thurible while the other torturer pushes it with a slow swinging movement, carefully sprinkling all the splendid body of the young martyr. He lets out the loud laugh of hardened soldier, "Keep still, my daughter, I'm giving you a blessing!"

Drops of oil sizzle on her gleaming skin. The crowd listens in a religious silence the wild moans which have followed the demented howls. Her voice broken, Cecilia can only twist violently in her bonds, unable to escape from the ravaging burns, heightening the pleasure of the Romans, fascinated by the luscious swaying of her elegant body. Her ceaseless groans are mixed with the splatter of more viscous drops, which bite into the tender flesh of her thighs, her vulva, her armpits whose hairs are melting, her caramel-coloured nipples hardened by the anguish and crossed with red marks. Her bosom made for love is gradually devastated by deep craters, the skin bursts in Byzantine patterns, while the simmering oil returns to thread through the same open wounds.

When the integument of the young martyr is entirely ruined, the soldiers raise the cross. The crowd lets out an astonished "Oh!", because the bloody body which is presented to them does not deserve to be called a woman any more. While one of the centurions fixes the cross in a deep hole, the other seizes a whip of peacock[1] feathers with which strips of her hanging skin wil be delicately torn away at a simple touch. The centurion is an expert with this instrument, he playing it as a musician plays his lyre. He could indefinitely prolong the torment flaying Cecilia. Under this instrument which does not tear the flesh, her blistered and boiled skin disappears by tiny layers, but the smooth abrasion over innumerable nerve-ends is a much more terrible torture. She is in a state of shock, while Nero has interrupted his feast for the first time in three hours. He orders that these two particularly inventive centurions be rewarded with a thousand sesterces each.

The sun hides behind the Triumphal Gate. Some start to rise, others prefer to stay for the lowering of the cross by four slaves. A flock of crows lands on the ropes of a sun-screen. They wait until the body of Cecilia is deposited on one of the towers. Agatha steps back, covering her ears. She knows a long night without sleep has just begun.


[1] French casouar, 'cassowary', native to New Guinea and a rara avis indeed in Nero's Rome, even allowing for some very exotic imports. I think peacocks' tail-feathers, seemingly delicate but actually tough, would work in the way described.
 
Chapter IV Dawn of the fourth day.

In the horror of the night

Cecilia's unbearable screams kept piercing their ears all through the evening, before becoming throbbing sobs, then scarecely audible moans. They saw everything without being able to intervene, pushed back from the grille ten or twenty times by the lances of the legionaries. They had to witness the atrocious banquet, the spectacle of the progressive mutilation of this perfect body, lacerated by the indifferent beaks. The black flock which descended on the platform ceased whirling after the most powerful predators had taken their favourite bits.

Cecilia very quickly lost her eyes, burst into bloody jelly which shone on the smooth feathers. She did not know where the next blow would fall, and she screamed without restraint. In the torches' red halo, the crows flew from time to time over the last spectators present, eyeing them with unsettling attention. Their orange beaks were stained by bright blood, whose drops flew when they shook their heads trying to catch scraps of flesh which were escaping them.

Of course, the most tender parts of her body were the first to be ripped out. Her nipples were an offer which competed with her exposed sex and pale thighs. After the first mutilation of her arching body, the sculpture of living flesh became a target for all the companies of crows nesting in the city, coming in wave upon wave to keep shredding the body of the celestial maiden.

In the small hours of the morning, the Christian women can steal a few minutes of sleep, have accentuates their stupor without truly resting them. They count and recount to themselves in silence, everyone cursing herself for hoping she will not be the first to be called. In the arena, slaves hasten to clear the sand and remove Cecilia's carcass from the tower. They also check on the solidity of the works built atop the euripe, the water-filled ditch which separates the beasts from the tiers of spectators.

The rattle of chains, scraping, roaring, signal the awakening of arena's underbelly. The day will be terrible, since ten of them will be delivered for grazing to the elephants and buffaloes, while others will be crucified or directly tortured.

Agatha is almost exhausted, she lives each torment as if it were hers, she has insulted the Romans and received a whip blow which still streaks her beautifully terrible face, heightening the fire of her glance. Now, she does not fight any more, she does not even raise her head when the centurions come to take their infamous tribute. She knows anyway that her hour has not yet arrived, that Regulus has chosen her to be pearl of the spectacle, and that as an additional punishment she will have to watch the torture of all of her friends.

Some among her sisters have still the strength to rebel in a pitiful attempt to escape from the inevitable. The cracking of the whips is soon louder than the moans and supplications. A few Christian females who had managed to retain a scrap of clothing are now stripped of the last vestige of their decency. They must now wait, standing, their hands at their sides, under pain of being whipped if they try to hide from the lascivious glances their slits and their poor breasts, ravaged by blows and the twistings during rapes.
 
The Romans have fun

The crowd has come early to awake the sleeping walls of the enclosure. The day promises to be even hotter, and the men fill their gourds with the full-bodied wine offered by attendants from the imperial palace. "Wine and tortured Christian women, it's good to live under Nero!" sing the thirsty throats. The women wear light clothes in almost transparent fabrics, simply ornamented with jewels and glistening gems, and brightly coloured veils. Dresses cut most scandalously low have appeared today, as if the sensual atmosphere were a prelude to a huge orgy. Even the old women feel they will have their chance in the midst of so many males excited by the tortures.

The herald enters the arena with much pomp, to the clangour of cymbals. Having obtained silence with a solemn gesture, he recites the sombre programme before giving way for the usual juggling shows. While acrobats pass from one turret to another walking on ropes, their hands firmly grasping their poles, the traditional procession of the Lictors, their fasces, axes bundled in rods, perfectly aligned, start to pay their homage to Rome's first magistrates.

In the patricians' enclosure, Clodia yawns, not bothering to hide her boredom from her husband, senator Marcus Gaius. With a tired gesture she turns to her friend Fulvia and resumes her unfinished diatribe against the latest fashion trends. They do not know that they will again see Agatha and her sisters, who charmed them so much a week ago.

The instruments fall silent. In this solemn moment conversations cease, because everyone is taking an interest in the faces and bodies of the torture victims, relishing in advance the punishments which are reserved for them. Two Christian women advance, staggering under the whipstrokes.

Clodia frowns and turns to her husband, half-rising from her seat: "It's disgusting! Couldn't these wretches cover their sex? They must be given at least a subligar, a little loincloth, or I'm leaving right now!" Irritated,Marcus turns his head away hissing through half-open lips: "You'll do nothing of the sort. No way are you going to show us up in the eyes of that idiot who rules us. Pretend you're looking and applaud, just sit down and keep quiet." Defeated, but not subdued, Clodia sits down, pretending she is arranging her dress: "As soon as these cursed games are finished, don't you dare refuse me one more time going to spend a whole month in our villa on Capri!!"
 
The war elephants

A prodigious bellowing sounds under the columns of the Triumphal Gate. The eyes of the crowd are divided between the arrival of the African elephants and the flagellation of the young Christian women. They run in the arena to escape the centurions' long, slicing lashes. A dozen of them in number, they have cornered with the two young nudes at the foot of one of the turrets with mighty whipstrokes. The long slender straps with bevelled edges slash without respite the backs, buttocks and soft breasts the two young women present to them in turn.

Crazed with pain, the victims try to lessen the effect of the atrocious rhinoceros-hide thongs by continuously changing their postures. To the great glee of the crowd, and particularly of the older slaves, they seem to leap about ceaselessly on the sand, upright or lying, twisting like worms at the end of a line, while protesting their innocence, crying for a morsel of mercy.

At last they are lying in the sand, their torsos marbled with purple streaks. They are hardly conscious of being raised, while the ground trembles under their bodies. Their blinking eyes look up at the shadows which invade the sky above their heads. The trunks of the two old males rise like trumpets issue a challenge which echoes around the tiers. The mahouts force to their knees the war elephants, tamed by military discipline, elephants whose legs have reduced to bloody pulp so many of Rome's enemies.

The young Christians find the strength to pray, and in their cell, the other martyrs pray with them, while they are strapped to the armour girding the deep skulls of the elephants. The immense ears flap, irritated by this additional burden which almost completely obscures the monsters' vision. After moving them some fifty metres apart with jabs of their goads, the mahouts slide off down their flanks.

The elephants can hardly see one another, but each begins seeking its rival immediately. After a long aggressive bout of trumpeting which enables them to find their bearings, they move heavily to the cheers of the crowd. They charge with the blind rage which characterizes these duels to the death. Sharp-edged defenses cross in this first clash of weapons. Like knights after breaking the first lance, they move apart.

Their quivering trunks fall heavily as they advance more slowly, so as not to overshoot. Perched on the hot combat helmets, their feet pushing helplessly on the tops of the rough trunks, the young virgins shut their eyes tight. The head-on crash is terrible, irreperably crushing the legs of the youthful martyrs. Burst flesh mixes with streams of blood which blind and infuriate the pachyderms.still more.

The mastodons are firmly locked together on the sand and they push head to head. The screams of unbearable pain from both the martyrs mix with the wild bellowing. The heads of the elephants tilt lower and lower while they become stuck more firmly in the sand. From time to time, the crowd can glimpse the white flash of a tooth emerging from the tangle of carapaces and burst flesh. It always finds its mark, lacerating a little more each time their poor tortured bodies.

Pierced, crushed, the young Christians are long dead when one of the mastodons falls slowly onto its side. The crowd remains quiet for some time, not moved by pity or regret, but because of the awesome power displayed in this joust from another age, which had seemed about to smash the arena enclosures.

The winner of the duel is freed from the shapeless mass of flesh which splatters its face. With the carcass of its defeated rival harnessed to its powerful flanks, the mountain of flesh leaves the place majestically.
 
The Chariot Duel

At the other end of the arena, two young nursing mothers whose clothing has been spared make their appearance. Ribbons of linen underline the frequency of their breast-feeding. They advance slowly, ready to die, with the grief of having lost their new born babies, skewered by the legionaries. Their breasts overflowing with life are sore from not having fulfilled their feeding function for four days. Milk drips from the rags, to their great shame.Agathahas never given birth, but she perfectly understands what a burden must be overpowering them.

She startles - Regulusis at her side! The cheat has entered the cell quietly, while the Christian women were absorbed with the epic combat. He murmurs softly in her ear, "Don't you think that these poor Christians look ridiculous swinging their big milk-full tits?" Agatha is gobsmacked by this new familiarity so completely out of tune with his earlier remarks. Before she can utter a word, Regulus adds, "Since their boobs are no use to them any more, Nero, in his imperial kindness, has decided to have them removed." He takes Agatha's chin firmly between his fingers and forces her gaze implacably towards two trigae, three-horse chariots, which have just begun their lap of honour, soon to become a lap of horror!

The action begins very swiftly, as the two young mothers are brutally seized. After a short struggle, they are presented naked to the crowd, the grip of the sturdy centurions holding them tightly under the armpits. Their thrashing legs allow brief glimpses of their pink vulvas, hidden by deep brown bushes. The centurions enjoy turning their prey to all sides of the arena, lifting their well-charged udders, pressing them, forcing creamy milk to spout out, then licking their fingers. They explain in a loud voice how the aurigae, charioteers, will proceed.

Those who will drive the chariots are parading even now, wearing helmets crested with exotic plumes, their visors wide open. Their powerful chests are naked, but their forearms are covered with leather arm-guards carrying the colours ofRome's two major districts. Their fine destriers of Arab bloodstock seem to draw the chariots on a cloud of dust.

Punters weigh up the drachmas in their purses, trying to decide which is the better team. Everyone has noticed the two great scythes which protrude perpendicularly in front of the wheels, right beneath the chariot-axles. The pitilessly sharp-edged blades flash with blazing gleams, reflecting the sun as it approaches its zenith. One of the charioteers earns a delighted cheer when he beheads a wooden stake at the end of a skilful charge.

The centurions have put their victims in front of two Saint Andrew's crosses planted very low on the ground, a score of steps away from Nero's box. The ankles and wrists of the young mothers are tied with very long ropes to four thick bronze spikes, sunk firmly into the ground. To keep the women perfectly taut and facing the ground, the centurions use tourniquets to tighten their bonds. The poor martyrs start groaning under the atrocious tension racking them, while their dangling breasts are presented to the lust of the rabble. They are soon so tightly stretched that their noble tits stop their sensual swinging. The winner will be the one who is the first to slice off two breasts without breaking his scythe on the bronze spikes!

It is Nerohimself who brings down his arm to signal the start of the devilish race. Experienced drivers, the aurigae crack their whips over their thoroughbreds' hindquarters to set them off at a trot. It's important not to go too fast to be able to manoeuvre the chariot, yet no to be outrun. Travelling at about the same speed, the chariots arrive at the same time by the crosses. They have imperceptibly slowed down to change their course. A miss for one driver, a mere grazing of the body for the other. A collective clamour greets the first blood.

At the other end of the arena, the aurigae hastily get down from their trigae to make some adjustments, one to his wheels, the other to his blade. Then they set out again almost simultaneously, very fast. Their infernal run is better, they pass more quickly, closer. The blades seem to tear the incandescent air. A hideous cry arises. A breast has been deeply carved, dark blood sprinkles the sand under the belly of one of the Christians. The third round will inevitably signal the severing of at least one breast, all the spectators are sure of it, and hold their breath at the beginning of the run.

Alone, Calpurnia is quietly eating an apple, not showing the least solidarity of sex with the two young torture victims. Drusilla turns her head, quite shocked at hearing her teeth crunching merrily at the acid fruit. Very soon, a first breast lies under the flank of a Christian woman, sprinkled by a fountain of crimson blood. The atrocious cries of the young Christian are smothered by the cheers of the crowd.

The second charioteer is not long in being successful too, his scythe, skilfully aimed after avoiding the bronze stake, slices into the living flesh and completes the separation of the breast he had already cut. A few seconds later, despising the anguished screams of the young mothers, the drivers sever the remaining two udders at one and the same time.

So the one who sliced off the first breast is declared the winner. The young women have fortunately passed out, they don't see their breasts exhibited in front of the crowd on silver shields, held high by the charioteers. The superb delicacies which decorate the great gladiators' shields seem to tickle the appetite of the crowd the voracious crowd as four beautiful bunches of juicy grapes. Drusilla looks with horrified fascination at her neighbor, an old man with a crooked nose. The adam's apple in his emaciated chicken neck, covered with a thin, white, badly-shaven thatch, is rising spasmodically while he observes the breasts obligingly paraded under his eyes.
 
A splendid sacrifice

Agatha cannot believe what she has just heard. Regulus repeats gently that he is ready to spare the remaining Christian women if she makes him the gift of her body. She shakes her head, incredulous; it is a trap, she does not believe him. Confused feelings are agitating her, while she is still physically attracted by him. Perhaps she will be able to kill him, or to let the girls escape, or help them in some other way, by pleading to Nero for mercy!

So she very quickly makes up her mind. Anything is better than remaining in this hell. She refuses the hand which Regulus holds out to her and walks out ahead of him. The Christian women make her guard of honour, as they have a premonition that the young woman will sacrifice herself for them. Some kneel and kiss her stola. Agatha blushes and begs them ro rise, caressing their tresses.

She is standing naked in front of Regulus. He looks for a long moment at the splendid body that he has dreamed possessing from the first moment. He can ask anything, obtain everything. He knows that she is a virgin, that she is about to discover love, pain and humiliation with him, all at the same time.

He orders her to turn around, because he does not want to embrace her, nor to see her big eyes piercing his mind. With crude words, he commands her to kneel down and spread her legs, positioning her hands on a bench. The gladiators' rest-room has never known such a beautiful woman. Prostitutes have impregnated the crimson draperies with the aromas of their strong perfumes, which blends with the smell of rutting beasts exhaled by the conscripts of the arena.

For a long while he caresses her perfect, quivering form. Agatha cannot prevent herself from being swept over by a wave of desire, in spite of the humiliating posture that her sisters'murderer has compelled her to adopt. When her armpits are gently brushed by long and experienced fingers, she closes her eyes and bites her lip. Regulus' curpped hands are cupped under her breasts. He raises her big boobs gently and plays with their oblong teats. When they become very hard, Agatha awaits the relief of being penetrated by the perfectly rigid sword that is rising between her thick labia. She has forgotten everything for the moment, this instant of discovering her womanhood.

It is she who decides to spread her thighs to admit the virile member more deeply. She hastens her deflowering by brutally impaling herself, even while Regulus was still playing with the opening of her vulva. She is aware that her blood, mixed with her intimate fluids, is oozing down her leg, but she does not care, focusing only on her first true woman-orgasm as it mounts in intensity. Dazzling pleasure submerges her, while Regulus just holds his weapon deep inside her, not taking any active part.

Agatha rises up at the end of a few long, long seconds, short of breath, ashamed at having achieved her pleasure on such a tragic day. Now she finds the hard column of flesh, stained by herself, pointing towards her nose. She knows what is expected fof her now. She is opening her mouth to protest when she glimpses, dangling from the belt of the imperial guard commander, the keys of their cell. Like a whore, she gently closes her lips on the oozing glans. She knows that she must lead the centurion to the gates of absolute oblivion in order to steal the keys to their freedom.

Shocked by the bitter taste of the penis covered with her own blood, she tries to imagine she is an Egyptian courtesan, softly kissing Pharaoh under the shade of exotic palm trees. She lovingly tickles his testicles, holding them with her left hand. Her right hand caresses Regulus' loin, while her tongue drags along his member, giving it a prologned cleansing. Regulus takes her head by the hair, pushing it away when the shivers of pleasure which seize him become unbearable.

Agatha is becoming used to the taste of very salty seafood which swamps her as the first drops of seminal fluid mingle with her own blood. Now she is handling the marble rod with her left fist, as if she were going to milk it in her mouth. Her right hand keeps moving gently towards her enemy's belt..

His swollen sex starts now hammering in the depths of her throat, Regulus cannot wait any more for release. Following her sensual female's instinct, she draws breath with irresistible force to receive the come. Her hand grabs the key with admirable self-control. She pumps Regulus forcefully one last time, he throws his head back with a long choking cry. Agatha nimbly pushes the key into the bottom of her natural cavity, its torn hymen is no longer an obstacle. When she raises her head, dizzy with shame, she can read deceit in Regulus glare, glistening with sadism.

"At least bring me before Nero, so that I can ask mercy for my sisters!"

"I'm afraid Nero is not available at this moment, he's in the middle of his meal. If you disturb him, I fear still more terrible torments will befall you!"

He has to laugh at his own witty remark. Agatha coldly hates him, even if a part of him is encrusted in the depths of her genitals. She refrains from lunging at his neck, not wanting to risk the key. She just says: "You Romans are monsters!" Regulus sternly corrects her, "No, we are simply the masters of the world."
 
This is perhaps the most wickedly barbarous tale I've ever the pleasure to assimilate, measurably increasing the dark mass of my fetish-fantasy cosmos... :D

Bully! Bravo! & G'don Ya! to all you hard-working crux-aficionados ... :cool:

Sir Nob
 
The end of the lovers

When they go down again to the cell, murmurs greet Agatha's courage. The women know for sure what the young girls can only guess. Agatha is no longer a virgin, but the sacrifice of her chastity will be useless, because Regulus has just invited two more fighters to follow him. Casilda and Elagia are pointed out, they refuse to believe what they have heard. Matching them to fight to the death is absurd, they cannot even think about it. They hide their faces to mask their pain and fear. Agatha has just time to wipe their tears before Lentulus Batiatus' gladiators seize the poor victims to prepare them.

In the preparation room, they are completely undressed ceremoniouly, an honour granted to fighters even if they are nothing but poor wretches, trembling with fear and cold. Both lovers, their eyes veiled with tears, can see the beloved body of the other soiled by the glances of hairy, disgusting people. The vulvas caressed so often now look scarlet with shame, their breasts - medium in size but finely shaped - are dressed up for an embrace which will not be loving any more.

Regulus inspects with expert eye the shapely bodies made for loving, and he knows that the spectacle will be one of quality. Perversely, he reminds them that Nero often spares the winner of a good match if the crowd asks for it. Casilda and Elagia are still hearing Regulus' words while Lentulus Batiatus explains the handling of their weapons to them.

Pushed at spear-point, they pass under the gloomy portcullis and slowly make their entry in the arena, sicae in hand. This short dagger, with edges sharp as a razor, is used by the vigorous natives of Thrace,[1] when they fight naked in duels to the death at the gladiatorial schools, under the burning gaze of the patricians.

Casilda and Elagia do not realize immediately why the crowd is cheering. They peer stupidly around looking for other combatants. When their buttocks have been jabbed anew, till they are standing in the middle of the arena with the sun casting their long shadows, only then do they understand abruptly how their lives will be turned upside down in a few moments.

They rub their eyes, half-blinded, deafened by the shouting crowd, dazzled by the glare of the jewels glowing among all the colours of the rainbow in the stands. They turn around in confusion and end up stumbling over each other. They gasp in alarm, this contact throws them into a panic, and they awkwardly adopt fighting stances.

Their minds are vacant, their young souls revolted by the idea of dying. To kill not to die is a reflex, preceding even conscious thought of killing to survive. The daggers are gripped with more strongly in their fists, the dance of death which the crowd knows so well can begin. They turn towards the imperial box and say together, "Ave Caesar, moriturae te salutant!"

Clodia recovers some interest in this spectacle, which is no longer the sordid butchery of the morning. She recalls at once those engagements that her husband makes her watch from time to time in Capua, at the home of that pig Batiatus who devours her with his eyes. She finds his technical explanations to his husband extremely boring, but she is fascinated by the long wild beasts' phalluses that beat on the thighs of the fighters, even if she pretends to feel nothing. Marcus Gaius is not easily deceived, he knows quite well the following night his wife will not let him sleep until dawn. Sometimes, a cut on the prick, a favoured target, makes her come, her tongue sticking against her palate, her lip nibbled till it bleeds. Marcus Gaius rises a little from his seat, for a fleeting moment he thinks he has recognized the gladiatrices.

The lovers take their guard in a reflex action, like so many gladiators before them. Their dear pubic mounds now appear to them as the black holes of hell, into which neither wants to fall. Each rival's breasts seem to jump grotesquely, the taste of their kisses is brutally repugnant. They are suddenly ashamed of their difference, revealed in full daylight, and each one wants to punish the other for this. Passion as much as the sunshine is quickly overheating their young bodies. Sweat mixes with the scented oils which have anointed their breasts.

Elagia is the first to lunge, and she falls on her face on the sand, to the laughter of the crowd. Casilda remains motionless, unable to press her advantage. Elagia rolls in the ground to get away, and rises up. Casilda rushes on at last, the sica pointing right in front of her. She would have skewered a bear, but Elagia evades her like a raging bull, swinging her bright blade in reaction. Casilda's shoulder is stabbed deeply, her collarbone can be seen for a brief moment before it is swamped by a red tide. Grimacing, she bends her knee and throws herself into a furious charge against the one she loved yesterday. Elagia manages to seize her wrist before the blade of the sica is forced right into her belly. A deep wound draws a belt of blood around her.

They roll together in the ground, their mouths trying to bite. They have explored each other's body for so long they know their deepest secrets. The blades of the sicae swing at the ends of their grabbing wrists, to pierce an eye, to slash a cheek which has given such comfort, to gouge the nipples tenderly sucked till dawn.

They scream with pain and anger each time the razors split their skin under a layer of brown sand. The spectacle is of a truly exceptional beauty and brutality. No doubt the crowd will ask for the winner to be spared.

The fight goes on for several minutes, the pool of blood under the two furies widens more and more. In fact, those grappling gorily in the middle of the arena have become frenzied animals. A sharp-edged sica finally emerges from this pile of flesh. The point of the knife rises mechanically to slash at the labia of a lacerated pussy. With a loud sound, it rebounds on the pubic bone and sinks into the fragile calyx[2] of the glowing flower. As if in slow motion, the blade rises and falls one last time. The young bodies remain still, melded together in the arena, bound for eternity.

The crowd applauds at length, Nero hastens to steal the cheers by standing and raising his arm.


[1] Original has 'les thraces, les vifs natifs de Thessalie': Thessaly is a long way from Thrace and I don't think it was thought of as a source of desperate fighters. But the Thracians were regarded by Romans as savages, lowest of the low.
[2] Original has 'pistil', but 'calyx' seems a more appropriate botanical image for the vulva.
 
The end of the afternoon is bringing shade to the tiers on the east side of the Coliseum, when four new Christian women are pushed into the slaughterhouse. Shocked by the duel to the death which has just been fought, they are thanking God for being saved from a similar fight, and hoping for a quick death. But when a herd of buffalo enters through the Triumphal Gate, they sense the foreboding that their death will be atrocious too, and fall to their knees, hiding their faces.

They have lost their strength and let themselves be stripped with no resistance in front of the turrets. Lying face up, their limbs are tied with heavy ropes, the bonds on her wrists are then fixed to the bronze pins which have already witnessed their sisters' torture. Then the ropes around their ankles are tied to the yokes of the buffaloes. The eight torturers who will whip the buffaloes are stationed all over the arena.

When the male animals slowly start moving, the bodies of the torture-victims are prodigiously stretched, with a wrenching crack of their joints. Howls of anguish mingle in a choral unison of pain, sobs and pleas.

The live instruments of torture are slowed down, keeping the beautiful bodies fully stretched, their open vulvas offered to the lust of the crowd. Four centurions advance, carrying thick, roughly trimmed ropes. The bristles are really splinters which the soldiers try to avoid as they place one end of the rope over the belly of each victim, before passing the other end under her back. They take hold of the two ends of the ropes and move back a few paces.

The women in the crowd have realised well before the men what is about to happen, and they try to hide their embarrassment, imagining in advance the sufferings the women must endure as the legionaries start a two-handed sawing movement with their primitive instrument of torture. To a slow rhythm, so the ropes can find their base in the natural openings, they pull on the rough ropes first one way, then the other, shouting encouragement to one other all the while. Now they are getting enjoyment by ravaging the love-niches, these men who have previously known only ancillary pleasures, hastily consummated.

The legionaries have now found a steadier rhythm, which lets the ropes move more vigorously, simply exploiting the living mucus. In a short time the first drops of blood appear, forced out by the hellish toing and froing. In spite of being appallingly stretched, the bellies manage to pulsate in the vain hope of saving the sacred wells from the biting bristles. But unrelentingly, the cords dig fatal furrows into the female crotches. Their surface flesh is brutally shredded, more serious wounds paint their vulvas with a tragic lipstick, lips open for a bloody kiss. The clitoris hoods, haven for so many secrets, disappear too, while the women howl with the misery of losing their feminity.

This is the signal that the torturers were waiting for before urging on the buffaloes. The mob is getting excited once more, betting on which pair of buffaloes will be the first to tear the limbs off a Christian woman. They do not have long to wait, the weakest of the martyrs is quickly dismembered. Her torso has barely hit the ground when her sisters quickly join her in the salvation of death.

The meagre snack of gruel and stale bread is hardly touched by the handful of surviving Christian women. They lie prostrate, squeezed in each other's arms. Sulpicia strives to comfort them with her farm-girl's simple words. She raises the heads of the youngest in her strong arms, tidies a tangled lock of hair, arranges a fold, and promises to remain at their side to the bitter end. Agatha seems petrified in a corner, her eyes closed.

When darkness has completely conquered the foul dungeon, barely lit by the flicker of a meagre lamp fixed at the top of the wall facing the grid, she rises up nimbly, slips silently along the side, leans her head through the bars, and carefully inserts the key into the bolt. A loud click echoes painfully in her head. She holds her breath a few moments. Not a sound except distant snoring. She pushes gently against the heavy grid, it refuses to budge an inch. She pushes again, unwilling to to believe it. Nothing. She desperately looks everywhere before discovering a second bolt above her head. With an heavy heart, she very quickly inserts her key. She tries to make it turn. Nothing happens. She understands at once the trap the vile Roman has prepared for her. She can almost hear him laughing, high up there in Caesar's lodging.

She turns around and casts a long look at her sisters, who are standing watching her, unable to breathe. She reads the infinite disappointment on their tired features, some are trying to choke a little sob out of respect for her. She falls to her knees and lets out a scream of animal hatred.
 
Remember, I offered to take her from all this and give her the comfort of the cross...

T

...what, that was a different thread??? ...Are you sure, Ulrika??? ...Well the same applies here! ...What? Oh, don't be jealous. Get me a drink and remember you'll always have Admi...
 
thehangingtree said:
Remember, I offered to take her from all this and give her the comfort of the cross...

T

...what, that was a different thread??? ...Are you sure, Ulrika??? ...Well the same applies here! ...What? Oh, don't be jealous. Get me a drink and remember you'll always have Admi...
Click to expand...
and......................?
 
w're busy too
 
Chapter V - Fifth day - An ordinary day

Old men hoping to recover a bit of their long-lost sexual vigour have got up very early this morning. Patrician women have covered their heads with Oriental-style mitrae, turbans. Virgins or sluts, they all come in slave-borne sedan-chairs. After the naumachiae, staged naval battles which take place on the water-flooded trenches, everyone is looking at the war machine,[1] pride of Roman engineers, brought in by the centurions during the night. When the emperor rises to impose silence on the bucinae, the musicians put down their trumpets, the performers stop their mimes, and all greet the Caesar with respect. With a pout on his fat lips, Nero addresses the enflamed crowd, praising Rome's warlike virtues, and explaining how its enemies would be broken on the turrets.

Calpurnia is a little surprised at the concentric circles, in the colours of the rainbow, drawn in the centres of the turrets. When she realises what they are, she leans towards her young cousin's neck giggling, "It's so funny, look, they're going to hold a shooting match!" Drusilla shrugs her shoulders without answering. She certainly wouldn't have come back, but she couldn't think of anything else to do with the day. She wonders what the little Romanwho's sitting a bit below her to the right could be thinking. The young lad is fascinated, his eyes sparkling, his mother seems to be keeping a close watch on him.

A military exercise

Six Christian women will serve as live projectiles for two veteran centurions. Helped by the slaves, they have been checking since dawn on the sinister shooting ranges. Now they have to carry out some sordid adjustments. Using the whip, they force their poor victims to pass one by one across a weighbridge for livestock. Their weights are carefully recorded on a papyrus, while the women groan like animals being led to the slaughterhouse.

One of the martyrs suddenly tries to make a dash for it on her agile bare feet, but she's caught again, promptly bound and ruthlessly flogged until she breaks down. She begs loudly for forgiveness, trying to bury herself in the sand to hide her pathetic flesh from the merciless lashing. It is just a bloody heap the slaves bind and roll in heavy chains before kicking her to the base of the huge catapult. Her eyes closed, she is lifted and placed in the wide spoon like a ball. While the slaves turn the cranks to tension the terrible war machine, the young Christian emerges from her shock. She lets out an atrocious scream when she realizes that she is unable to move at all, coiled at the bottom of the wooden pan. Suddenly, she heards an impressive "Click!", followed by a terrible shock as the spoon strikes against the stop. For a brief moment she is flying through the air with an extraordinary feeling of well-being and freedom. For this fleeting moment of weightlessness she believes she is ascending to heaven, then her heart stops just before exploding as her body splatters against the turret.

Some shouting signals amused disgust as the pulp of the martyred body slowly oozes down the turret wall. The centurion has scored an eight, duly recorded on a large panel. The second Christian woman has gone mad, shaking her head from side to side unable to stop, laughing continuously. Her strident laughter unsettles the other centurion, he hits her to shut her up while she too is placed in the pan. A long whistle...
She turns into a mere fleshy blob, which flows gently down the side of the tower. Only a five, a bad shot, which upsets the centurion still more. His rival compensates the small weight of his next projectile with additional chains. The tiny Christian girl disappears under the huge rings, but this does not prevent her from protesting vigorously. To keep his concentration, the artilleryman leans a over her for a moment, knife in hand. Gurgling sounds can soon be heard, a severed tongue seems to lick the sand.

A seven rewards the consistency of the elder of the two centurions. A nine leaves both marksmen almost neck and neck. Another eight scored with the next to last Christian compels the younger centurion to gauge the last martyr really carefully. She's a big girl, the slaves have done their worst in binding her. To force her to keep motionless at the bottom of the spoon, the centurion needs more chains without adding more weight. A brilliant solution quickly flashes up in his mind. While the slaves seize her thick ankles and lift her panting body upside down, the torturer makes his sword hiss as it slashes off her two large, cumbersome breasts. With no more delay, the slaves deliver the moaning package of pain to the fearful machine. The spectators focus on the trajectory of the human missile. With a sickening sound, a bloody jelly forms a ring around the ten. Gamblers yell with delight, slapping their bellies while sesterces change hands.

The afternoon is consecrated to drafting the epitaphs[2] which the Romans engrave on public columns in memory of their ancestors, so the Christian women get a brief respite.


[1] Original 'la tellam, cette machine a guerre a bascule': this baffles me, I can find no record of tellam or any similar word for a catapult, and it doesn't seem that the Romans used counterweight (bascule) prinicples in their ballistic technology, but it's not something I know anything about.
[2] Original has venationes, but that means 'hunts' or, in the arena, man vs. wild animal combats. I know of no word for an epitaph or inscription which could be confused with venatio.
 
Chapter VI Sixth day – The Final Tortures

The last night of those condemned to death has been pitiable. The Christian women now number just ten, the tragic Roman golden number, reserved for one more day of spectacle. Sulpicia and Agathahave been comforting their sisters all night long, caressing their faces, encouraging them to pray and eat a little to regain strength. All to no avail; the tearful young women are at the end of their tether, undermined by the anguish of waiting they no longer have the power to complain or resist.

In the early morning, the jangling bells which herald the opening of Coliseum echo like the death knell on their poor sinful lives. Standing in the ray of light which has appeared through the bars of the window on to the arena, Agatha looks like an angel of light who has arrived to give them the comfort of a merciful absolution. They have all forgotten that Agatha has not received any of the sacraments, so much do they want to listen to her comforting words.

The squeaking of the rusty grid is a dagger-stab piercing their entrails. Four Christian women chosen by the guards are torn from their sisters arms, while yet again Agatha and Sulpicia are pushed back by spear-points. Naked, the girls are led to the base of the gangways which lead to the tops of the turrets. Each one is forced to climb her Via Crucis carrying the chains of a ship's anchor. They struggle under the enormous burden, driven on by whip blows which seek their fine ankles.

Exhausted, they end their climb to their Calvary and collapse on the platforms. The slaves allow them no rest, binding their legs in the enormous chains. None of them can get up to greet the arrival of the centurions. While the slaves hurry off down, each of the centurions displays to the crowd a large wicker basket, and a torch held in the other hand. Haggard and exhausted, as soon as Nero gives his signal, the young women see them tug the handles apart and invert the baskets.

As royal cobras wriggle free, Agatha grasps what Roman wickedness this is. With their hands free but their legs bound, the young women will be unable to escape the trap which the centurions are creating for them, driving on the reptiles with their torches. Their worst nightmare comes true as the snakes squirm rapidy in front of them. Ten cobras are now twisting around the martyrs, who crawl without hope along the edges of the towers. They are too terrified to just keep begging, so with the strength which utter fear conveys, they haul on the enormous chains that hold them.

Hissing from the menacing heads comes closer and closer, no hope, no grace can be expected. One of the Christian women courageously chooses her end. With a great scream she hurls herself down from the edge of the turret. The others move ceaselessly until their strength fails them. The great greeny-brown reptile heads swing over their prey, tails tapping furiously on the floorboards.

A gasp, then another, accompanied by horrible cries, then the withdrawal of the flat heads, with fangs still oozing, seeming to observe the effect of their attack. One after another they are bitten, and each bite, as it is greeted by the crowd, injects a little more venom in Agatha's heart. It's Sulpicia who now has to comfort her trembling body, she who comforted the others so much.

She can't help for long. The centurions seize her, pushing her with the tips of their spears like a cow being goaded on. The last Christian women, except Agatha, are presented to the jubilant crowd, while Sulpicia is prepared in the gladiators preparation room. The tall youngster has the privilege of chosing her weapons. She takes a scutulum, a small shield which may enable her to parry the blows of beasts' claws, and a trident too. Completely naked, she refuses the coat of mail which she is offered, not wanting to be weighed down. She now faces the galdiator before her eye to eye. He can recognize an exceptional woman, and he quietly gives her some brief advice, as between equals, fighter to fighter.

When she enters the arena, the last Christian females, a mother and her three young daughters, are perched at the top of the turret facing Nero. They are chained together, as if welded for a tragic tableau. They raise their arms to the sky, begging from their God forgiveness and a speedy death. Echoing their prayers, a roaring rises from the menagerie. While Sulpicia is still disoriented by the vastness of the arena, she too can hear the sinister warning. She runs straight towards the start of the gangway - just in time!

Three Galilean lions, large males whose broad manes flap like banners, move nimbly in front of her. They observe her idly, almost bored, purring gently. They move cunningly by her sides to test her. As each approach grows bolder, they meet a trident poked firmly under their noses. They gradually grow irritated, impatient to get the food they have been promised. They have not been fed for three days. The odour of the young Christian's menstrual blood which spreads on the sand, provokes their brutal appetite.

With a great roar, the youngest leaps on Sulpicia. To cheers from the the crowd, she steps sideways at the last moment and the beast passes over her head, while she rewards him with a vigorous blow with her trident. The lion lets out a horrible howl of rage as it falls to the ground. He's seriously injured and licks his deep wounds furiously.

An old male has expertly observed the first blood-spill. While Sulpicia goes back on guard, he bends his run at the last moment. The power of the young athlete enables her to follow the charge to the end and present the harpoon points again in front of the animal's nose. She darts her weapon like a whip lash. An astonished shout from the crowd! The beast shakes his head wildly, he has lost an eye.

For the first time, the crowd seems to be supporting one of the Christian women, andNeroas a canny politician does not miss this subtle change of mood. Sulpicia is alerted by the warnings of crowd, but she turns just a little too late. Claws seize her legs and she rolls on the ground. The last beast hesitates a little, then crosses the gangway to the anxious cries of the crowd.

Marcus Gaius seizes the arms of Clodia and her friend Fulvia, "That's her! I recognize her!" "Which one?" "She and the others, they're actresses. Yes, you must remember them, that play of Plautus, in the theatre on the Via Appia! It's horrible, all these young actresses who charmed us so much. They ended up completely exhausted, it was so hot" "Oh, no, not them!!! I even went to congratulate the one who played Athena!" "Marcus, you must go and see Nero and appeal to him for mercy, at least for that one!"

Agatha slowly emerges from her dazed state. She passes her head through the bars, letting the light northern breeze refresh her fevered cheeks. As in a dream, she has watched Sulpicia crossing the cursed barrier. She has now regained her wits. Her body starts to gently vibrate in time with her friend's first feints. When she falls to the ground, brought down by the bite to her leg, Agatha shakes the bars like a mad woman. Without even realizing what she is doing, she takes the key lying forgotten in a corner and leaves the cell.

Nobody is in sight. All the gladiators and slaves are watching the spectacle from a gallery a bit higher up. She emerges into the arena to cries of surprise. A splendid, naked Juno, she seizes a mirmillon gladiator's long sword and covers her noble face with a helmet in the shape of a fish head. Sulpicia is wrestling in a powerful clinch with the fallen beast. She tries to avoid the claw-scrapes which are tearing her sides and the rending bites that are lacerating her breasts. She is now severely wounded and her screams of pain mingle with the roars of the beast.

Calpurnia lays her hand on Drusilla's shoulder. At the same time, thousands of Romans are holding their breath. Stretched out on his triclinium, dining couch, Nero himself has pushed back the slave who is gently fondling his rod, hidden by magnificent hangings woven in golden thread. Captivated by the evenly-matched duel, he rises and leans on the railing.

Agatha has distracted the old male before he could jump on Sulpicia. Now she keeps dancing around him, luring him across the gangway. The beast shakes his mane wildly, trying to get rid of his ruined eye which is hanging down loosely across his muzzle. Frenzied with pain and rage, half blinded, he charges without care. Sulpicia is slowly weakening. A claw has found her side, it remains embedded in her flesh, mauling it in jerks. With a supreme effort, her hand catches the handle of the trident behind her head. She finds the strength to seize it and stab furiously into the blood-dripping mane.

The last lion arrives at the top of the turret smelling the scent of the young Christians. Excited by the shouting crowd, he leaps immediately on the prostrated family, who scatter amid screams. He quickly moves against his chosen prey, his muzzle dips down towards the young woman's lower abdomen. His powerful jaws close on the fleshy lips of her vulva, the martyr shrieks and batters the fatal jaws with her small fists.

Sulpicia manages to push away the dying beast whose cold fur seems to cling to her flesh, and staggers to her feet. Agatha strikes a blow with the sword which deflects the old male's frantic onrush. His muzzle terribly slashed, a fang broken, he howls as he scatters thousands of drops of blood in the azure air. Then he charges again. Agatha accepts the deadly challenge. She runs towards him and abruptly stops his charge. A knee on the ground, shielding her breasts, she sinks her weapon into the lion's heart.

Sulpicia has collapsed. She is bathed in her own blood, her arms spread. Carried by the impact, her hand still contracted its the massive hilt, Agatha rises up and pulls free the heavy bronze sword. She hacks at the panting body, time and again. Then she runs towards her friend. She raises her head, but Sulpicia finds the strength to push her back, "The others..." before closing her eyes again, forever.

The crowd is on the brink of hysteria whileAgathacrosses the gangway. Her feet seem to fly on the bridge and rebound on the oak boards with every tread. She arrives at a shambles. Two of the sisters lie dying, the last is seriously wounded, and the beast is just turning away from the mother's corpse to finish that girl off.

Agatha has had the good sense to put the sun behind her, and this dazzles the young, impatient and now-satisfied male. He advances slowly, growling in a deep tone. Agatha moves back to the edge of the turret. She excites him with her sword, and the beast plays with the point like a cat with a woollen ball. Then she suddenly lunges forward and to her side. The young beast howls in anger, his sensitive, quivering nostrils nicked. He instantly leaps forward, right into the sun. His prey evades him, the blazing shadow opens her arms, and the lion falls down, a deadly fall streaked with terror.

The crowd remains dumbstruck with astonishment. Then her name soars up, taken at first by hundreds, then by thousands of throats: "AGATHA - AGATHA!" and soon it's a clamour "AGATHA, AGATHA, AGATHA!".

Regulusvery quickly joinsNeroin his box, he can scent danger. Quite simply, he can't allow her - the one to whom he made his boastful promise to killNeroin order to win her heart - to be spared.

Nero's soft cheeks are shaking with fury. Everywhere the clamour rises, demanding mercy for this stupid Christian woman who has ruined the games, perfect until now. He has just sent Marcus Gaius away from the door of the imperial box with a dusty answer, and now he is hesitating for a long instant. Regulus perceives his quandary and whispers some words into his ear. Reassured, Nero leans over the platform:
"Romans, I have just learned that these infamous Christians, not satisfied with having burned your houses and your temples, have sacrificed some new-born babies to their despicable God in the residence of the noble senator Albus, after they'd murdered him!" He stops, conscious of his effect, before continuing with a voice broken by the emotion "I solemnly request of you, oh Romans, say what should be the fate of these monsters?" "DEATH!", answers the unanimous, upset crowd.

Agatha screams in vain to drown the lies of her sisters' assassin. Her futile protest is carried away by the thundering tide of the mob's curses. Nero takes his time to confront the woman who has defied, even for a short moment, the will of the living God. Then his thumb turns slowly over and points towards the ground. Two centurions go up to the turret. They are armed with a net to capture the rebel, but they will not need it. Agatha remains sitting, but Clodia leaves her seat, seized by an attack of nerves. Marcus Gaius, troubled that he has irritated Nero, runs behind her into the corridor which skirts the vomitorium.

A burst of general laughter greets the entry of a young lion, a stray latecomer who was still asleep a few minutes earlier. He smells the carcasses of his kindred for a few moments, then leans over Sulpicia, shaking her corpse with cautious little kicks. Drusilla hears a childish voice pipe up a little lower and to her right, "Mum, look at that poor lion who didn't get his Christian!" Instead of giggling like everyone around her, Drusilla finally takes her decision. She raises her cousin's arm from around her neck and releases herself from the disgusting contact. She knows that sooner or later, she will find her own way to the catacombs.
 
Chapter VII Seventh day - The martyrdom of Saint Agatha

Clodia is shaking her fan nervously as she waits in her sedan-chair. She has just noticed a silhouette moving with the hesitant steps of a sleepwalker through the magnificent portico of the Coliseum. Her glance strays over the carceres, the monument's prison-cells, she veils herself when a cruel clamour arises. The girl approaching is weeping silently. Clodia raises the light curtain to noiselessly open her door. She takes Drusilla in her arms. The plebeian girl and the patrician woman have no need to exchange a single word.

This last morning, in the boxes occupied by courtesans, the rising breeze moves a sea of umbellae, broad colourful parasols held stoically by slaves, happy just not to be in the arena themselves. It's a holiday, because the revolt of the Christians is going to be definitively crushed with the torture of the one identified by Nero as the last queen of the sect, a supposed little daughter of this Jesus Iscariot.

The four turrets have blazed all night long, lighting with hellish flames the slaves who have been building an immense square platform made of oak. It is crowned by another, smaller and circular, able to turn on a carefully lubricated axle. About five metres from the ground, well visible from everywhere, a large Saint Andrew's cross has been set up.

The centurions assigned to the torture of Agatha get themselves ready in the ergastulum, the room where slaves are punished. They are the last three, who have not yet participated in any tormenting. Marcellus Aurelius is the oldest. He regrets bitterly that the lions did not take Agatha's life from her, then all would be over by now. He was one of the guards which killed the Christian babies in Albus' villa to avenge the senator's murder. Today his thirst for revenge is appeased, he is shaken by Nero's lie and the courage of the Christian women.

Cuttlefish ink covers a large panel fixed on one of the turrets, announcing Agatha's crimes. A shaming epitaph, nevertheless the tyrant's lies raise a wave of indignation, and the murmurs rise to clamours when Agatha enters the arena. Some are enraged enough to try to cross the spina, the track which separates them from the sand, but they have to pull back when they are threatened with the centurions' pila.

Clodia sits down at her husband's side. She whispers something to his ear. Incredulous, he makes her repeat, before he turns to Fulvia and appraises her of how Albus actually died. The conspiracy of the patricians begins at this precise moment.

Marcellus Aurelius is not appointed to take part in Agatha's first torments. He holds the arm of this superb woman without violence as she advances without quivering towards the centre of the arena. Something is happening to him. He still does not know what is it. He just wishes that all this could end very quickly, just a blow of the sword and a drunken evening with whores to forget everything.

The other centurion is about to push Agatha to make her march up the steps to the scaffold but she evades him, climbs quickly and speaks out with a strong voice, "People of Rome, my brothers and sisters, the Christians are innocent of Regulus' crimes. I die for my God. Pray for me!"

Nero gasps. Regulus turns pale. They both know the moral strength of the Christian woman has moved the crowd, which is starting to recall once again the splendid battle she fought against the lions. They do not need to confer to know important it is that she renounces her faith. Regulus quickly descends to the arena. The humidity is exceptional for late morning.

Drusilla has also returned. She is not beside Calpurnia. She seeks out among the crowd some faces ready to cry like her. There are now as many expressionless faces as there are looks of hatred or lubricity.

The two impassive legionaries have seized Agatha. She does not want to be manhandled any more than necessary, so she undresses herself. She contemplates the stupid mob looking at such a beauty, her arms swinging without provocation. At the same time the women are jealous before this perfect body, and touched by such chaste grace. A few human beasts simply enjoy the spectacle of on of those figures which will always be luscious to their eyes, and always beyond reach of their lust. They comfort themselves with great draughts of wine, and they chew on joints of meat as if Agatha's breasts were filling their mouths. Now the most excited just dare to relieve themselves in the stinking latrines.

While the light dress carelessly discarded by Agatha blows about in the gusty breeze, Regulus mounts the staircase at a frantic pace. His face is hidden by a Fury's mask, used by the Greek actors and very familiar to Agatha.

He spits out his commands and Agatha is soon strapped to the rough beams of the cross, head down. Her superb body swings a few moments, trying to find its poise. Men nudge their mates with their elbows, commenting on her suggestive swaying, but Marcellus Aurelius looks away. Like Clodia, he has learned from some centurions that Regulus killed Albus with his own hands. His universe is cracking up.

In the patricians' enclosures lamprey roes are offered round, marinaded in spiced olive oil, and a crazy rumour is spreading along the walkways behind the tiers. On the banks of the Tiber, within a few miles of the suburbs, a huge black cloud seems to be raking up dust and the leaves.

Regulus contemplates the splendid body for a few moments, the body he has possessed and which he has to ruin now, knowing for sure that Agatha will hold out for a long time. His fingers brush the fine muscular figure of his lover. All the women in the arena perceive this without knowing why, it's as if they all felt caressed at the same moment. All of them hold their breath, whether in hatred, love, respect or tenderness.

He holds out his hand and it's Marcellus Aurelius who is nearest to the wooden pliers. The other centurion starts to poke the brazier where the pincers will turn red-hot. With a neutral heart, he has melted a lead ingot in a brownish clay bowl. Regulus bends forward for a moment to the beautiful face which starts to blush a little. "You can still stop everything: abjure now and become my slave forever!" Agatha turns pale and closes her eyes without answering. Regulus regretfully moves slowly back. "Centurion, do your duty."
 
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