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Rome's Revenge

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just a wee short chapter - but a bit of a change of tone​
(I like emotional roller-coasters!)​
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VII​

I was hanging, sobbing, half-crazed with pain, when I saw through a haze of tears something move in front of my face. I cringed in terror, a hand took my head and eased it back, gently, not roughly, a voice said, "Water, kid, drink it – you need it." Indeed, it was a generous bowl of fresh water, I lapped it up eagerly, my mouth was burning dry.

It was the younger smith who'd brought it, and as I drank he went on talking, to my surprise in British – a strange accent, strange grammar, but I could understand him. "You no do so bad kid, you take plenty whip – men not take that much." I paused, let the cool water refresh my dry throat, looked into his eyes, they were hazel, lighter than mine, his hair a sandy brown. "Th-thankyou, Sir," I said hoarsely – I knew he was the lowest of the low among the soldiers, but it's best to be polite to all of them. He grinned, gave me the bowl again. "Hot iron, no man can take, makes all men talk. You no do bad girl." He patted my bum, it was still stinging from the lash, but he was gentle.

I'd finished the water. The last few sips tasted slightly bitter, not nasty, but like there was some flavour in the water, some herb perhaps. I looked at him again, plucked up courage to ask him, "Sir, are you a Briton?" He smiled, shook his head, "No, Gaul." Ah, I thought, that makes sense. Their tongue's not much different from ours. "My people travellers," he went on, "Ironsmiths. Roman army want smiths, that good for me." I nodded, remembering the travelling ironsmiths that visit – used to visit – our village. "But this no good, hurting girls, me no like."

I smiled weakly, he went away with the bowl but soon came back with a handful of damp leaves. I was feeling very drowsy, exhausted by the pain no doubt, but my head was feeling woozy too – was there something in that water?
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He pointed to my thighs, the livid red weals across their tops still torturing me. "Legs hurt very?" "Oh yes Sir," I sobbed, "They're hurting terribly." "I know," he said, " me blacksmith, me burn sometime, very very bad." He took some of the leaves, pressed them onto my burnt skin, I winced, yelped, but then felt a soothing coolness, a sense of the fire being drawn out from my flesh. "These leaves good," he said, "We smiths know them, good for burn." I was almost fainting, as I felt the cruel pain subsiding, I whispered, "Was there something in that water too?" He just smiled. "Thankyou Sir," I breathed, then fell into oblivion.
 
VIII​

When I began to come round, it was light, the two smiths were already at work on their anvils. I hazily recalled the Atrebate's threat, perhaps they've overslept? More likely they're preoccupied with trying to catch Cunben – and with flushing out the last hope of any resistance in the Fens, I thought gloomily. But he and his friends know the Fens much better than the Romans, they should be able to keep out of their grip. Unless some traitor's guiding them... The thought chilled me.

The pain of the burns on my thighs and my forehead was still there, but not so vicious, the soreness from the scourging too. My arms and shoulders were aching now, from more or less hanging by wrists for so long. But I felt my legs were free to move, the young blacksmith must have released the chains, I could press with my toes on the ground, even rest my feet a bit.

As I exercised my legs, stretching them and swinging them back and forth in turn, the chains on the ankle-irons jingled. The young smith who'd talked to me last night heard this, stopped what he was doing, went to fetch another bowl of water for me. His colleague grunted something, they exchanged a few words, then the older one shrugged and resumed his hammering.

He brought me the water, I lapped it up again – I think it was just water this time, no strange taste. He didn't say anything this time, he looked anxious, glancing frequently over his shoulder.

His caution was justified, even before I'd finished the bowlful, there were footsteps and men's voices approaching. He snatched the bowl away and put it among the clutter of the smithy, then began fitting my ankles back to the restraining blocks. The two guards entered the compound, I was relieved the interrogation party wasn't with them, my friend was clearly relieved too – they'd come just to make sure I was ready, and he was getting me ready.

The guards looked me up and down, the taller, dark one even gave me a cheerful morning grin as if to greet me. The other set down a big kit-bag, I knew what was in there. I returned his smile, weakly. It's strange, I thought, I can't hate these men, although they hurt me so much, it's like we're playing a game, they're my opponents, hardly my friends, and it's a really tough game, but they're just playing their part.

The interrogators are a different matter, they embody the power of Rome in all its ruthless cruelty – I remembered what they did to our Queen Boudicca and her daughters and my heart quickened – but even the coldly efficient officer doesn't rouse hatred in me. Only one of them does, that loathsome Atrebate!

And as I thought of him, he arrived, along with the officer and the lieutenant with the writing things. The officer looked grim-faced, the interpreter obviously hungover. Not promising!

He approached me, clutched at my sore fanny to make me squeal. "Now turd," he burped, "Were you at Boudicca's sacrifice?" Boudicca's sacrifice! The memory made me quake all too visibly. I didn't answer, the guard took the scourge out of the kit-bag. "You know we're going to make you talk, you stupid little sow, why do you make it worse for yourself?"

I nodded, I was just frightened where this line of questioning would lead. "Yes, Sir," I whispered softly, "we all were there, all the Iceni nation." "Nation! Pf!" he spat, into my face as I'd spat in his yesterday. "You saw what happened?" "Y-yes Sir." The memory of what I saw – and heard, and smelt – there was indeed terrifyingly vivid, the vision of it flashed before my tearful eyes like an army of vengeful ghosts. "What did you do?" "I – I didn't do anything, Sir ... I just watched ...."

The guard walked round behind me, swung the lash, my buttocks stung, I leapt, squealed, "No Sir, honest, I did nothing!" "You sang?" I hung my head. Another thrash around my loins, then another, fiercer, cutting right round my hip so the studs tore my lower abdomen. "Only Andraste's hymn, Sir ..." "Liar!" Another lash, catching my thighs, making me dance. "You were cheering and jeering, weren't you?" "No, no Sir! Owwww!" A blow around my ribs, another higher up, slicing into my armpit, the studs stinging into my breast.

The officer was just watching, I don't know if he understood my words at all, he seemed to be leaving it all to the Atrebate this morning. Not interested in my words, just determined to break me?

The line of questioning changed a little. "Was your father there?" "Yes Sir, everyone was there." "And your brothers?" I sighed, nodded. "What did they do?" My heart sank, it dawned on me where this was leading. They know Dad was the leader of a warband. The know he'd have played a leading part. I felt sick, ready to vomit, at the thought of what he did.

"I-I don't know, Sir ... I d-didn't see..." The taller guard took over the beating. He didn't use the scourge, instead he held a slim, springy stem of willow like we cut on the Mere. He swung it two or three times so I heard it whistle, then whacked it across my breasts, I screamed. It was a new kind of pain, my hide's so bruised and torn by the scourging, now a more concentrated assault will cruelly exacerbate the pain in each hyper-sensitive part.

The question was repeated, I held my silence. Although my father and brothers are dead, I know I'm going have to pay for what they did. The caning continued, on my bum, on my thighs, my ribs, hips, right across my tenderest part. I squealed with each blow, jerking and jolting in my shackles, quite unable to protect myself.

The guard paused, the Atrebate came close, took hold of both my scarred and throbbing tits, twisting them in his fingers. "You saw what happened to the women?" I nodded, all too vividly I saw it. "You saw what they did to girls like you?" "Yes! Yes!" I suddenly shrieked, "I didn't want it! I wanted them to stop! What could I ...." I broke down, sobbing frantically.

I heard the officer's voice at last, addressing the smiths, "Mammas urete." The older smith pulled on his gauntlets, and lifted a huge, long-handled pair of pincers from the furnace. He carried them across to me, held them, glowing bright and smouldering, before my eyes. All I could think of was the sight of the Roman women, what they did to them, their look of horror staring accusingly into my eyes.

"Your father and your brothers played a big part, didn't they?" snarled the interrogator, "Torturing Roman women and young girls to death!" The pincers closed on my flesh, above and below the aureole on my left breast, already bruised and bleeding from the scourge. The pain was unspeakable as they slowly seared deeper and deeper, until they clamped together and then tugged a steaming, sizzling mass of flesh slowly, twisting and tearing.

"Yes Sir, yes, Sir ... they did ..." "Did you see them tearing their breasts off?" "Mm, y-yes ..." "And what did you see them do with the breasts?" I retched, grunted out "Th-they forced them in their mouths, Sir ..." "And?" "And sewed them...."

The smith had taken the pincers back to the fire. Now he fetched another pair. I cried out, "No! No! Please, no more!", but he approached relentlessly. The Atrebate was scenting victory, he pressed on with his questioning, "What did they do to the women then?" The irons were before my face again, I knew there was no escape, but I tried to answer, "They – they stuck them on stakes, Sir." "What sort of stakes?" "The sharp-pointed stakes aroundBoudicca's fort." "How did they stick them on those stakes?" "They trussed up the women and put them on the spikes ...." I was shaking violently, the very thought was maddening me, "And they pushed them down ... so the spikes went right in..." "Where?" "Into their cunts, Sir."

I was trembling from my shackled wrists down to my feet, sobbing hysterically. The smith was still so close with the pincers, the heat was singeing my pale cheeks. He looked across at the officer, the officer nodded, "Eam punire." My wailing must have terrified the spirits of the marshes as my right breast suffered the same fate as its twin.

Blood and fat oozed from my mutilated glands as the smith departed and the officer with his assistant both rose and came across to me, hanging limp, whining still. The Atrebate instructed me what I had to do next, "Repeat exactly what he says. It's the confession you've made. I'll tell you what it means."
 
IX​


"Confiteor ..." "I confess" "quia hostis Romae sum" "that I'm an enemy of Rome." "Sicarium Boudiccae fugentem adiuvi," "I helped one of Boudicca's terrorists on the run," "et praeterea, ad holocaustam nefariam ipsius ut ancilla adfui" "and what's more, I was present at her wicked mass-sacrifice, as a girl-assistant." "Supplicium meum iustum ergo accipio." "So I accept my just punishment."

So I choked out the words I was commanded to utter, shuddering in both pain and humiliation as I mouthed them. The young smith then released my ankles and my right wrist – the officer signalled to him not to proceed, I was still chained by my left wrist as I pressed my thumb in the soft wax at the corner of the writing-tablet held up to me by the lieutenant, conscious, though the scribble on it meant nothing to me, that I was sealing my own fate.

After that, the officer, assistant and interpreter hurried away, the smith released my left wrist, I fell onto my knees, hugging my horribly tormented and still-bleeding breasts.

For a few minutes they let me stay, the young smith retrieved the water-bowl and refilled it from the smithy's tank, I took it in my hands and drank it gratefully. But as soon as I'd handed it back to him, the two guards came – they'd taken off their military gear, down to their tunics – and grabbed me by my shoulders.

They hauled me to my feet and made me stagger across to the bench where my interrogators had sat. I had to lie on it face-down, my tortured breasts hurting as they pressed on the grainy wood, my arms stretched out in front, but my knees on the ground, so my sorely scourged bum was lifted up and presented to them at the end of the bench. They made no attempt to fix me, though I knew they easily could, I was too exhausted, too defeated, to do anything but wait in the position they'd posed me.

Meanwhile, the four of them, two guards and two smiths, sat down on the turf in a ring, the older smith produced a dice-box, they started shaking and throwing dice in turns, making remarks that aroused loud guffaws – remarks I guessed, from their frequent glances in my direction, had to do with me.

Suddenly one, the older blacksmith, cried "Par sex! Virginitas perditae mea est!" He stood up, the others turned to watch. He strode towards me, tucking up his tunic, revealing a proudly erect, spear-hard penis. I hid my face, pressing it down on the bench under my veil of hair, I didn't want to look.

He flung himself on me, the bench jolted but it was sturdy, firmly-grounded. I screamed as I felt his weapon pushed into my sore vulva, where his hot iron had inflicted such pain. With three or four thrusts my secret passage where no man had been was forced, the invader drove in. As he pounded within me, he was grappling at my mutilated tits with his huge, rough-nailed hands, biting like a bloodhound on the back of my neck, I felt like the whole of my quite small, pain-racked body was being engulfed, devoured, by his crushing mass, like a child being gobbled up by a fen-dragon in the stories my grannie used to tell.

Suddenly my hot body felt even greater warmth erupt inside, spasms seized my tight abdominal muscles as I sensed wetness filling my cavities. At last he drew back, with a final tug at my torso that bent me up gasping, hair flailing, sweat splashing, then dropped me again.

He returned to his companions, sent his junior for a jug and some clay cups, I smelt fermented malt in the liquid they shared, while the three resumed their game of dice. His coarse remarks had them in gales of laughter, at least he enjoyed it, I thought.

The next to roll a double six was the tall, dishy guard, so expert with the nine-tailed scorpion. I prepared myself for him as he approached, lifting my rump, curving in my back and holding my head up to present my figure to best advantage. I don't know why, this man who'd flogged me so savagely aroused some strange, deep instinct in me, I wanted to please him.

He was more careful in positioning himself, didn't just hurl himself on me, but just as vigorous in his attack. And he had a little extra – a leather strap, a foot or so long and quite broad, the kind Dad used to use when we were naughty, and as he pumped his tool inside me, he smacked my thigh and hip with it, like I was a racehorse being urged on to victory.

I responded with more movement than the giant smith allowed me, pushing with my pelvis and wriggling my body in response to my assailant's powerful thrusting and the sharp stimulus of his spanking. The game went on a bit longer, and when he did ejaculate, he stayed in me for little while, both our bodies quivering. For all my pain, and the degradation I knew they were inflicting, something made me whisper, "Thankyou Sir."

Now it was between the other guard and my friend, the young smith. The guard won me next, he had a different idea. Jerking me up by my hair, he walked me over to one of the smithy anvils, indicated that I should kneel down on the turf with my bum against it, then forced me to lean back, so I was bent right over the hard iron block, my head on the ground, hair streaming on the turf, he made me stretch my arms out above my head.

In this uncomfortable position, my thighs were forced wide open, the youth – he was no more than my age, but battle-hardened and, to judge by his performance, no novice at girl-using either – hitched up his tunic, knelt down, laid his body on mine, and began a slow, relentless drive into my now warm, wet womanhood.

He wasn't as rough as the blacksmith, though he used his hands on my poor tits with little concern for the pain he was causing me, I felt how my yelps strengthened the force of his tool inside me, and the sight of my anguished face twisting back and forth, panting to the rhythm of his driving, must have added to his delight.

When he'd done, I hauled myself back from the painful position he'd forced me into, and remained kneeling, breathing hard. Only one of them left now, the decent younger smith. When I looked up, he was approaching. I gave him a weak smile, I knew he didn't want to do it, at least not here with the others watching, not in this way. But he'll have to, he knows how they'd mock him if he refused.

He returned my smile, stood over me looking down and said quietly, "You lie on grass." "Here?" He nodded. I lay back on the soft turf, it was not very comfortable, lots of sharp bits of iron from the hammering stung my bruised back, but it was much better than being crushed on the bench or stretched back over the anvil.

Remembering his kindness to me last night, I resolved to play his willing slave. I placed my hands behind my head, lifting my poor wounded breasts as I breathed expectantly. I flexed my legs, planted my soles firmly on the turf, opening my thighs for him. He readied himself, knelt down between them, then lay on me.

As he fucked me, I pressed down with my calves and shoulder-blades to lift my hips up and down, responding to his movements. He was gentle, but moved his cock in out of me teasingly, I felt it growing harder and harder, finally he pushed it well up inside and delivered his gift of semen. "You good girl," he said softly. "You're not bad," I replied with a smile, then squealed in surprise as he leant down and kissed me, long, hard and passionately, like my kiss with Cunben yesterday morning. His companions whooped and jeered, I just whispered "Thankyou!"
 
found a quoom
bod0001TIT.jpg​
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and the complete story too I'll uploaded it next week in a new quoom-thread :D​
 
Eul i believe you are one of the best writers here , this story is amazing .I think it would be better an anal impalement.
 
X​


When I got back to my knees, thinking this part of my ordeal was over, I was sickened to see the hateful Atrebate had returned, and was standing, gloating, his cock exposed and all too obviously erect poking through the folds of his fancy toga. I sighed – how will he want me?

"Open your mouth," came the answer to my silent question. He stationed himself close in front of me, gripping me by my hair. "And don't you try any tricks, you know I can make you suffer far worse than you've done so far, far worse than what's planned for you."

I knew he was right, though the temptation to bite hard took some resisting. I opened wide, as he poked his tool in, I began to lick, gently at first, quicker, more vigorously as I felt it grow yet harder, until it pressed my soft palate. Then I closed my lips around it and began to suck, lifting my fingers to stroke his bag gently, rubbing my tortured breasts against his flexing knees as he powered his juices up into the pipe.

He kept his grip on my hair, jerking my head back and forth to the rhythm of his pumping, he managed to delay the eruption for what seemed an endless space, then his seed burst and flooded down my gullet.

"Shut your mouth!" he barked as he withdrew, I obeyed, swallowing all his slime. He kicked me in my abdomen, I fell forward into a position of utter subjection, total defeat. He enjoyed his triumph as he rearranged his robes, then departed.

The young smith was waiting with my clothes. I got up and pulled them on, my shift and smock were both torn when they stripped me, I managed to drape the shift by a ragged thread around my waist, and the smock hung over one shoulder, no belt to tie it, that had gone for booty.

Now the older smith clamped the chains from the wrist-irons together behind my back, so my arms were held no more than a hand-span apart. The chains from my ankles were joined too, allowing more generous movement, enough to walk at a reasonable marching pace, but no chance of running.

The two guards took hold of my upper arms and led me away, out at last from the smithy compound, my place of torture and degradation. I was walking unsteadily, not much troubled by the clinking chains, but like I'd just stepped out of a boat after a long windy voyage on the Mere. I hung my head, my long, dishevelled hair swung round my cheeks, smelling of sweat and smoke. Pain flowed from all the weals, burns and bruises those monsters had inflicted, combining now into a general sense of relentless hurt that had invaded every creek and channel within me. And worse, my mind felt black despair, broken, defeated, knowing whatever was to come will only be worse still.

Plodding though the rows of tents, I was vaguely aware that the camp seemed quiet, few men about, they must be out on a massive operation in the Fens, determined with Roman efficiency to snuff out any hope of continued resistance – determined, too, to capture my Cunben.

When we came to the far side of the camp, I looked up to see a large stockade, like our men put up for cattle in the autumn. Inside it were women and children, most of them huddled under wide makeshift awnings, glancing anxiously, silent but for a few little ones chasing a ball made out of rags, unaware of the dreadful reason for their change of playground.

A sentry opened a gate, my guards led me in. I peered around to try to spot my mother or sisters, but couldn't make out their faces in the crowd under the shadow of the awning. And I wasn't allowed to joint them, I was taken to the side of the area where there was a wooden cage with metal bars, the kind used for valuable or fierce animals by rich merchants at the yearly bartering-fair, much posher than anything we'd ever had in the village.

Another sentry was on duty beside it, he opened a hatch in the boarded top with a key, my guards lifted me up – the cage was about breast-high to me – swung me over and dropped me in. As I fell on my knees on the plank base littered with foul-smelling straw, the lid slammed down just above my head.

I wasn't alone, two other girls had to shift their bodies so I could nestle in there with them, it wasn't big enough for one to lie down in, never mind three. They were girls I knew, though not from my kin-group and close friends of mine. One was Dovagna, a bit older than me – I didn't like her much, a bit of a bossy-boots, but in this hole I naturally returned her greeting, "Hi Sula," my strained, tortured voice matching her hoarse whisper.

The other, Trilluna, a sweet little thing with long curly locks and big doe eyes – I could believe Dovagna had said or done something to provoke the Romans, but they could only have picked on poor Trilluna for the crime of looking delicious. She returned my smile, but her face was white and strained, her lip quivered as she tried to hold the tears I could see in her eyes.

Both girls' wrists were tied with ropes behind their backs, not shackled like mine, and their legs were free. I could see they'd had some rough treatment, Dovagna's face was badly bruised, both girls had whip-weals and gashes on their arms and legs, their clothes were torn and bloodstained.

We didn't talk much, what we knew we shared from the past day and night were things too awful and too recent to put into any words, and the dread we shared of what was to come would only be stoked up by talking. So we concentrated on keeping still, trying to bear without too much fidgeting the discomfort and continuing pain from beatings and torture, coping life in our minuscule household.

When the sun was high, a pair of soldiers came with buckets and poured the contents into a couple of troughs inside the front of the cage, water at one end, a messy stew of gristle and vegetable peelings at the other. With our wrists restrained, we had to kneel and lap like bitches, and performed difficult contortions so each of us got a share of both food and water.

Hygiene was a bigger challenge. Dovagna indicated a hole in the base which we were to use for a toilet, positioning ourselves over it entailed even more complex manoeuvres by all three occupants. Flies of course were attracted, there was little we could do to stop them crawling over our bodies, especially attracted to our oozing wounds.

As the hours passed, we all lapsed into a kind of haunted vacancy, dozing briefly but constantly disturbed by spasms of pain or hideous dreams, waking each other when we suddenly jerked in vicious pain or utter terror. Trilluna at one point stared shrieking hysterically, I could do little for her but urged her to rest on me, at last her head fell sobbing onto my still burning breast. It was physically painful for me, but comforting too to feel I was giving some little help to the innocent creature.


We were fed again before sunset. Still the camp seemed eerily quiet, the only sounds were babies crying in the stockade, and the birds and animals of the night. We three prize captives in the cage stayed squeezed together in the gathering darkness, sensing each other's sweaty fear – why have we been picked out? What special fate have they reserved for us?
admihoek said:
found a quoom

and the complete story too I'll uploaded it next week in a new quoom-thread :D
Click to expand...

here - don't miss it!​
another Quoom classic,​
thanks Admi for finding it -​
it will give me more ideas for​
Rome's Revenge.​
 
hmm. 3 victims.. I guess that will give the option to have plenty of variety in the executions, for those that would wonder what orifice will make it more agonizing
 
Eulalia said:
We were fed again before sunset. Still the camp seemed eerily quiet, the only sounds were babies crying in the stockade, and the birds and animals of the night. We three prize captives in the cage stayed squeezed together in the gathering darkness, sensing each other's sweaty fear – why have we been picked out? What special fate have they reserved for us?
Click to expand...

I can't wait to find out!
 
XI​


Sleep wasn't easy, but exhaustion kept us dozing fitfully, propped against the bars of the cage, disturbed each time one of us jerked in a spasm of pain or cried out at another nightmare. Well into the night, I became conscious of new noises from beyond our enclosure, rattling of armour and equipment, men's voices, quite a lot of laughter, even cheering. The troops were back from sweeping up the remnants of the rebellion. Happy Romans mean unhappiness for us Iceni.

Before dawn, we were fed another dose of swill, soon after that soldiers came and hauled the three of us out of the cage. As we stood, instinctively stretching and flexing our limbs as much as our bondage would allow, relieved to be out of that living tomb, I recognised the men who'd extracted us as pair of guards who'd whipped, and raped, me yesterday. Funny – for all their cruelty, I felt a sense of relief rather than horror at seeing their familiar faces. There was a hint of a grin on the tall dark one's lips as my eyes met his, he got a flash of girl-teeth in return.

We were marched out of the enclosure through a camp already busy. Soldiers were shouting orders to the uncomprehending women and children, apparently trying to herd them into some sort of a line. In the military area, tents were being rolled up, even the paling fence systematically dismantled, each man will carry a portion to the next stopping-place. Outside, equipment was being loaded onto wagons, horses and oxen being harnessed.

There was a small detachment, about a dozen, already lined up three abreast in marching order, we three girls were positioned in the middle of them, our guards either side. A mounted officer rode up, he was the one who'd questioned me.
"Parati?" he shouted. "Parati sumus!" responded the tall guard. "Pro-ficiscere!" came the command, and off we set.

We tramped along the muddy track running south from our village, I didn't look back, I knew it was a still-smouldering wreck, a place I knew I'd never see again. But it was a clear, fresh morning, for all the soreness in my tortured body, it was good to be out of that cage and striding along with the soldiers.

The chain between my ankles wasn't too much trouble, it jingled as I stepped along, I couldn't keep in step with the soldiers, but neither could the other two girls, we just had to walk briskly to keep up with their marching pace.

My ripped tunic hung down from my right shoulder, exposing my scarred left breast, and my scourged shoulder too – convenient for the whip which the tall guard was carrying, not the cruel scorpion he'd used on me yesterday, but a long horse-switch. He was beside me on my left, just swinging it in time to his marching – at least for now! His colleague away to the right of Trilluna and Dovagna was armed with a sharp-pointed goad.

We headed uphill onto the trackway across the heathland, nice soft sandy walking for bare feet. I knew the route, I'd been along it with my brothers to the autumn bartering, and it was the way we'd travelled to that terrible scene at Boudicca's dun. Over to the right, the endless watery flatness of the Fens stretched away to the horizon, to the left more sandy country with low hills, patches of woodland, Iceni villages nestling in hollows, from where smoke drifted ominously.

After a good hour we were beginning to flag, the sun was climbing, our throats were dry. Trilluna was beginning to pant, then I heard her yelp, the guard had prodded her with his goad, the one by me noticed and swung his whip, giving Trilluna a lash and me one for good measure, while Dovagna got a jab of the goad. We all breathed hard and quickened our pace.

Quite soon, the man at front right called "Stāte!" The detachment paused. We were above a small hollow in the hillside where there was a spring. We were allowed to sit on the bank by the trackside while the soldiers hurried down to drink and fill their water-skins, our guards let us drink from theirs, which was a great relief. Looking back the way we'd come, I could see dust rising and glimpses of marching men and trundling wagons, and a good way back a long, slow line, must be the women and children.

When we were getting up to resume our march, one of the soldiers shouted, he'd seen away to the left another group like ours, heading up a side-route towards us. We waited some more minutes, the platoon arrived, and, after a brief discussion between our guards and a couple with them, two bewildered looking girls were extracted from their ranks and brought across to join our party, walking behind us.

They were clearly Iceni, I thought I recognised one of them, probably met her at some fair. They were both bruised, that one had a swollen lip still trickling blood, their wrists were bound behind their backs, their country clothes torn and blood smeared. Their guards joined ours, marching alongside, likewise equipped, one with a whip, the other with a goad – the 'stimulator' with the goad walked on my side, my bum well within his range.

So, I thought as we pressed on along the ridgeway, three girls from our village, two from that one, all of us chosen, softened up with some rough handling, now we're being force-marched together – where?
 
XII​

The soldiers started singing as they marched, the gods know what they were singing about, probably how they'd smashed us barbarians, but it helped keep up the pace, I hummed along with it. Dovagna was plodding on stolidly, though her grumpy, sullen expression wasn't doing her any favours, that's just asking for the whip. And Trilluna wasn't managing too badly, though she obviously hadn't been hardened to outdoor life – some Iceni parents protect their daughters far too much, our Dad might have been bit harsh, but he expected his daughters to be as tough as his sons, brave like Boudicca, and I'm grateful for that.

The guys with whips and goads were using them on us to keep us up to speed, but more for amusement, just to pass the journey. After the scourging I'd taken, any flick of the lash or prod of the spike was sharply painful, I squealed pretty loudly, which just encouraged them. Still, it felt to me like the rough games I used to have with my brothers, getting hurt was what I expected, so I played along with the guards, giving a little skip when my bare shoulders felt the leather, a twerk of my hips at a jab in my bum or thigh.

We paused a few more times at watering places – it was a dry, windswept stretch of heathland we had to cross, thirsty country – and as we progressed more parties joined us, bringing further clutches of captive girls to join the march behind us, two or three from some villages, half a dozen or more from larger ones, all bruised and dishevelled, all bound, mostly with ropes, though I noticed a few wearing chains like me, and knew what they must have been through. Behind us, though I couldn't see, I realised the procession must be stretching back for miles, this was a huge operation, an entire army on the move. And we girls, now two dozen, maybe more than thirty, are marching with the advance guard, priority prisoners!

As the sun moved lower in the sky more or less ahead of us, we climbed a long, tiring slope up to what was clearly a fort – a fort of the Britons, with huge embankments and ditches around it, not a Roman rectangle. But it had evidently been commandeered, a Roman officer rode out across a causeway to greet us, he directed our soldiers in through the impressive timber gateway, the huge gates swung wide open.

Within the fort, round patches of ash and a few charred stakes were all that remained of buildings of the Britons, it had been razed flat, to serve as a Roman camping place. Just inside the gate, the soldiers halted and began unpacking. We girls were ordered with hand-waving by our guards to settle on the grass below the inner embankment. With amazing rapidity, they extracted the wooden stakes they each were carrying, and erected a fence around us, then set equally swiftly to putting up their tents around the outside of it.

We couldn't see much of what was going on outside the fence, sounds of troop after troop of armed men came in, much shouting, some hammering. After a long while, wailing of babies was the only hint that the silent mass of captive women were passing by. Tired after the day's march, we stretched our limbs on the grass.

After a while, two large troughs were carried in, one for water, the other for pig-food, we girls had to crawl on our knees in a row, pausing to lap at the troughs for minute or so, then kicked to move on and let the next batch through.

It was dark now, firelight flickered around the fort, the scent of wood smoke filled the evening air, while the soldiers had tents to sleep in, we just laid our heads on the turf and soon fell asleep.

But we were kept under guard. Pairs of men from the ones who'd escorted us had to do sentry duty for part of the night. They weren't happy about this, but in this dark corner of the fort, they could find consolation.

I was roughly woken, so was Trilluna who was sleeping alongside me. It wasn't the guards who'd brought us from our village, I think it was the couple who'd joined up with us at the first stop, the one with the goad who'd enjoyed poking my buttocks. He and his companion had decided to seek us out in the starlight.

They were quick and efficient, like they were well-practised. We were only half-awake when they'd dropped on us, holding us down by our shoulders – the irons on my wrists dug cruelly into my back – grunting threateningly. I knew what to do, flexed my legs and opened my thighs, so my smock slipped up and gave him free passage. He hurt, his thrust was violent, no foreplay, no gentle rubbing, just rammed in and pump-pump-pump until his sperm burst, then out again, spat on my face, and left me.

Trilluna was having a rough time with her assailant, she was bleating painfully while he pounded with his heavy weight on her slender frame. When he left her, she burst into tears. I nestled up alongside her, tried to comfort her. Through her sobs, she told me she was bleeding, she had been all day and now it was worse. Something those brutes had done to her.

I knew my shift was already in rags. With some awkward fiddling, I managed to lift the hem of my smock with my chained hands, and ripped a strip off the shift, rolled it between my fingers, then turned myself over and passed it to Trilluna, who managed to stuff it into herself – it'll help a bit. We soon sank back into weary sleep.
 
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thanks Tree - as often in my stories, it's a long, slow build-up,
I do tend to get absorbed in the details of how I'd be feeling,
how I'd behave under such extreme circumstances,
as well as details, little incidents that I hope bring it to life,
but I wonder how readers feel about that -
it's good to have feedback
 
but I wonder how readers feel about that -Eul

As you know I also like to explore the emotion. I would not torture a condemned prisoner- including flagellation- unless the audience wanted to watch her die or if I were in an advancing (or retreating) army and wanted to be sure if the cruxed is saved from the cross death would still come... perhaps a bit more comfortably...

T
 
Eulalia,
What a great story. I have read several of your stories and you have inspired me to write one of my own. I am not an artist, so I cannot draw or make the great 3D art that is on this great site. After reading a few of your stories, I have decided to write one so I can contribute to this little community we have here.I know for a fact my story will pale next to yours,because I am no writer,I have never written a story before. I have also never started a thread before. I will post it on 10/5/13. I hope nobody laughs at my little story, I am a little nervous about posting it. The story is titled: Sofi & I , A Lovers Sacrifice. It is a crucifixion story.
 
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