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The Fate of a Goth Girl

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Shall we return to ask how Barbaþais is doing?

Barbaria hung in agony from the nails in her wrists. The blinding flashes of pain had mellowed slightly to a constant mind-numbing throbbing that seemed to drive all other thoughts from her mind. She dared not put any pressure on her broken feet that burned with pain. Her mouth felt like sand, and her thirst would have been all-consuming were it not for the unbearable pain in the rest of her body. Despite her dehydration, sweat still ran down her skin as the summer sun added to the girl's torture.
After a few minutes, her labored breathing became more and more difficult as the outstretched position of her arms restricted the muscles of her chest. Barb endured it for as long as she could but, in the end, was forced to try to raise her body to get life-sustaining air. Even struggling against the pain, she could not pull herself up solely by her pinned arms. Now, desperate for air, she pressed down her bent legs to get an additional lift. As the pain magnified from her feet and wrists, the girl managed to raise herself to level with the patibulum and gasp in a lungful of sweet air.
Scattered cheers came from the crowd as they recognized the beginning of the “crucis saltatio (dance of the cross)." This dance happened when the dying person moved up and down on the cross to balance the pain of the nailings with the need to breathe. After a few deep gulps of life-saving oxygen, the pain from the nails and the trembling of her tired muscles forced the Goth to slide slowly down the pole. As she did so, the rough wood scraped and tore at the deep scourge cuts on her back.
Crying with the pain, Babaria was in despair. A few minutes ago, she had disgraced herself in front of these cruel strangers by pissing herself before them. Their loud, cruel taunts had cut her to the quick. Worst were those high, squeaky laughs and giggles and jeers of that pig, Galerius. God, she hated him!
Another few minutes of hanging and being restricted to shallow breaths forced Barbaria to lift herself even as her wounds screamed in pain again. The terrifying cycle of pain, leading to death, had begun. Each time she struggled upward, the crowd would taunt her with jeers and cat-calls. Then they cheered each time she slipped painfully back down.

The Goth girl was rapidly tiring. She no longer could find the energy to defy these devils or fight back. She knew she was dying and began to wish for her death to come soon and end her unbearable pain. She hung limply, her head down, her long beautiful dark hair shadowing her lovely face.

One of the soldiers came up to the Optio with a sponge and a jug of posca mixed with myrrh. He asked if he should offer it, as was customary, to the condemned. The blend of the elixir and the analgesic spice was believed to aid the victim in enduring the ordeal of the cross*.
Mogurix looked up at Calixtus and pointed to the jug. The Centurion thought for a moment and then decided the refreshment might rehydrate the girl and allow her to last longer. The soon she was dead, the better. He shook his head no.


*posca (sour wine and water, spiced with cumin and salt). The reader will recall this was the elixir given to Galerius to help him recover from his exhaustion at flogging the same girl. Many scholars believe that the drink offered to Jesus in Matthew 27:48, Mark 15:36, and John 19:29 was either posca or a mixture of posca and myrrh (a mild palliative).
 
Last edited:
Praefectus Praetorio said:
Shall we return to ask how Barbaþais is doing?

Barbaria hung in agony from the nails in her wrists. The blinding flashes of pain had mellowed slightly to a constant mind-numbing throbbing that seemed to drive all other thoughts from her mind. She dared not put any pressure on her broken feet that burned with pain. Her mouth felt like sand, and her thirst would have been all-consuming were it not for the unbearable pain in the rest of her body. Despite her dehydration, sweat still ran down her skin as the summer sun added to the girl's torture.
After a few minutes, her labored breathing became more and more difficult as the outstretched position of her arms restricted the muscles of her chest. Barb endured it for as long as she could but, in the end, was forced to try to raise her body to get life-sustaining air. Even struggling against the pain, she could not pull herself up solely by her pinned arms. Now, desperate for air, she pressed down her bent legs to get an additional lift. As the pain magnified from her feet and wrists, the girl managed to raise herself to level with the patibulum and gasp in a lungful of sweet air.
Scattered cheers came from the crowd as they recognized the beginning of the “crucis saltatio (dance of the cross)." This dance happened when the dying person moved up and down on the cross to balance the pain of the nailings with the need to breathe. After a few deep gulps of life-saving oxygen, the pain from the nails and the trembling of her tired muscles forced the Goth to slide slowly down the pole. As she did so, the rough wood scraped and tore at the deep scourge cuts on her back.
Crying with the pain, Babaria was in despair. A few minutes ago, she had disgraced herself in front of these cruel strangers by pissing herself before them. Their loud, cruel taunts had cut her to the quick. Worst were those high, squeaky laughs and giggles and jeers of that pig, Galerius. God, she hated him!
Another few minutes of hanging and being restricted to shallow breaths forced Barbaria to lift herself even as her wounds screamed in pain again. The terrifying cycle of pain, leading to death, had begun. Each time she struggled upward, the crowd would taunt her with jeers and cat-calls. Then they cheered each time she slipped painfully back down.

The Goth girl was rapidly tiring. She no longer could find the energy to defy these devils or fight back. She knew she was dying and began to wish for her death to come soon and end her unbearable pain. She hung limply, her head down, her long beautiful dark hair shadowing her lovely face.

One of the soldiers came up to the Optio with a sponge and a jug of posca mixed with myrrh. He asked if he should offer it, as was customary, to the condemned. The blend of the elixir and the analgesic spice was believed to aid the victim in enduring the ordeal of the cross*.
Mogurix looked up at Calixtus and pointed to the jug. The Centurion thought for a moment and then decided the refreshment might rehydrate the girl and allow her to last longer. The soon she was dead, the better. He shook his head no.


*posca (sour wine and water, spiced with cumin and salt). The reader will recall this was the elixir given to Galerius to help him recover from his exhaustion at flogging the same girl. Many scholars believe that the drink offered to Jesus in Matthew 27:48, Mark 15:36, and John 19:29 was either posca or a mixture of posca and myrrh (a mild palliative).
Click to expand...
... The soon she was dead, the better. He shook his head no ... - how very compassionate
... Galerius. God, she hated him! ... The Goth Slut still has enough sass in her to fuel 'hate', even during these dying moments!

Very authentic PrPr ...
 
Galerius (the dear boy) gets in a final dig:

Galerius raised himself to sit on his couch with a large grunt and waved over servants to aid him in standing. He shuffled slowly toward the steps, carrying the piece of wood and chuckling to himself. The servants panted while helping the corpulent youth down the steps.
Mogurix saw the little group approaching and looked up quizzically at his Centurion. Calixtus just shrugged his shoulders and pulled a face as if to say, “Let the idiot have his way.”
Galerius waddled up to the Optio, panting heavily with a bit of drool dampening his triple chin. He handed the officer the wooden plaque, pointed to the cross, and spoke a few words with the Gaul. Mogurix nodded and called over a soldier. The man fetched a tall stool, set it on the ground before Barbaria, and climbed up. Barb seemed not to notice as her head hung down behind a veil of hair. Another soldier handed him the hammer and some nails, and the plaque. The soldier held the wood and a nail to the stipes above Barb's head and began nailing them in place. The first shock of the hammer blow sent new and terrible flashes of electrical pain into Barb’s hands and feet and then up her arms and legs. She raised her head and cried out at the sudden pain. Galerius giggled with joy. As the hammering continued, the girl groaned in agony at each cruel vibration. Once the plaque was secure, the soldier climbed down and removed the stool.

The printing on the titulus was large enough to be read by many of the closer spectators, and a subdued murmur began, which built into some scattered laughter as people repeated the phrase to their neighbor. The merriment and mockery continued to grow.
Barbaria, of course, had no way to see the words. Galerius came and stood right before her, savoring the still lush sensuality of her body and the dominating pain on her countenance. His whole body seemed to shake with gelatinous shivers as he laughed. The Goth raised her head and saw the corpulent youth standing before her, his arms crossed and an idiotic grin on his face. She hated him. She hated that he was enjoying this so much! But she had no more energy for defiance. She could barely deal with the pain, let alone fight with him. He had won; she was defeated. The girl just wanted him to go away and it all to end.

“Where is your Goth pride now, lupa?” he taunted. Where is your fight? Have we finally demonstrated to you how superior we Romans are?” Barb thought to answer, to shout defiance at the bastard. But no more. She could only think to herself, "Ni aiw (never),” and even that was only half-hearted.
“Do you know what your Titulus reads, lupa?” Galerius was laughing and enjoying every moment of teasing the poor dying girl. He loved the way her breasts quivered with her labored breathing, how her tummy was clenching with the strain of lifting her body, how her pussy was open and exposed as if she was offering herself for his pleasure. God! How he has shown this stupid bitch who he was!

“Serva nomine nulla (A slave girl named nothing)!” he said in a loud, almost girly voice so that all in the arena heard him. He cackled, "You are my slave and nothing more than a smudge of sentina (dregs or bilge water)!" Galerius laughed at what he thought was a clever insult.
Hearing Galerius’s voice and words stirred something down inside Barbaria. Her resentment at that demeaning title energized her. It stirred back up to a fever pitch her hatred for the fat, disgusting Roman. And it touched the fierce pride she had as the only child of the greatest chieftain of the Goth people! Romans were not better than Goths! Romans were cruel animals, like this disgusting pig. Barbaria could not consent to die as an unnamed slave! She screamed in pain as she pulled herself high upright on her cross, and took in a deep breath.

“Namo mein ist Barbaþais, Dauhtar Friþugairnis (My name is Barbaria, Daughter of Fritigernus)!" she cried out in a surprisingly strong voice that carried throughout the amphitheater. The mob fell silent at the unexpected ferocity of the crucified girl's outburst. Staring defiantly at Galerius, her voice dripping with hate, she spat out the words, "Diabaulus þuk nimai (go to hell)!” Somehow she found enough moisture in the mouth to spit at the fat lad and, miraculously, a wad hit him in the face. With that, all her reserves of energy expended, she collapsed down to hang, groaning in agony.
 
Last edited:
Praefectus Praetorio said:
Galerius (the dear boy) gets in a final dig:

Galerius raised himself to sit on his couch with a large grunt and waved over servants to aid him in standing. He shuffled slowly toward the steps, carrying the piece of wood and chuckling to himself. The servants panted while helping the corpulent youth down the steps.
Mogurix saw the little group approaching and looked up quizzically at his Centurion. Calixtus just shrugged his shoulders and pulled a face as if to say, “Let the idiot have his way.”
Galerius waddled up to the Optio, panting heavily with a bit of drool dampening his triple chin. He handed the officer the wooden plaque, pointed to the cross, and spoke a few words with the Gaul. Mogurix nodded and called over a soldier. The man fetched a tall stool, set it on the ground before Barbaria, and climbed up. Barb seemed not to notice as her head hung down behind a veil of hair. Another soldier handed him the hammer and some nails, and the plaque. The soldier held the wood and a nail to the stipes above Barb's head and began nailing them in place. The first shock of the hammer blow sent new and terrible flashes of electrical pain into Barb’s hands and feet and then up her arms and legs. She raised her head and cried out at the sudden pain. Galerius giggled with joy. As the hammering continued, the girl groaned in agony at each cruel vibration. Once the plaque was secure, the soldier climbed down and removed the stool.

The printing on the titulus was large enough to be read by many of the closer spectators, and a subdued murmur began, which built into some scattered laughter as people repeated the phrase to their neighbor. The merriment and mockery continued to grow.
Barbaria, of course, had no way to see the words. Galerius came and stood right before her, savoring the still lush sensuality of her body and the dominating pain on her countenance. His whole body seemed to shake with gelatinous shivers as he laughed. The Goth raised her head and saw the corpulent youth standing before her, his arms crossed and an idiotic grin on his face. She hated him. She hated that he was enjoying this so much! But she had no more energy for defiance. She could barely deal with the pain, let alone fight with him. He had won; she was defeated. The girl just wanted him to go away and it all to end.

“Where is your Goth pride now, lupa?” he taunted. Where is your fight? Have we finally demonstrated to you how superior we Romans are?” Barb thought to answer, to shout defiance at the bastard. But no more. She could only think to herself, "Ni aiw (never),” and even that was only half-hearted.
“Do you know what your Titulus reads, lupa?” Galerius was laughing and enjoying every moment of teasing the poor dying girl. He loved the way her breasts quivered with her labored breathing, how her tummy was clenching with the strain of lifting her body, how her pussy was open and exposed as if she was offering herself for his pleasure. God! How he has shown this stupid bitch who he was!

“Serva nomine nulla (A slave girl named nothing)!” he said in a loud, almost girly voice so that all in the arena heard him. He cackled, "You are my slave and nothing more than a smudge of sentina (dregs or bilge water)!" Galerius laughed at what he thought was a clever insult.
Hearing Galerius’s voice and words stirred something down inside Barbaria. Her resentment at that demeaning title energized her. It stirred back up to a fever pitch her hatred for the fat, disgusting Roman. And it touched the fierce pride she had as the only child of the greatest chieftain of the Goth people! Romans were not better than Goths! Romans were cruel animals, like this disgusting pig. Barbaria could not consent to die as an unnamed slave! She screamed in pain as she pulled herself high upright on her cross, and took in a deep breath.

“Namo mein ist Barbaþais, Dauhtar Friþugairnis (My name is Barbaria, Daughter of Fritigernus)!" she cried out in a surprisingly strong voice that carried throughout the amphitheater. The mob fell silent at the unexpected ferocity of the crucified girl's outburst. Staring defiantly at Galerius, her voice dripping with hate, she spat out the words, "Diabaulus þuk nimai (go to hell)!” Somehow she found enough moisture in the mouth to spit at the fat lad and, miraculously, a wad hit him in the face. With that, all her reserves of energy expended, she collapsed down to hang, groaning in agony.
Click to expand...
Seems like the Goth girl had the last word, after all.. :enamorado:
 
Praefectus Praetorio said:
Galerius (the dear boy) gets in a final dig:

Galerius raised himself to sit on his couch with a large grunt and waved over servants to aid him in standing. He shuffled slowly toward the steps, carrying the piece of wood and chuckling to himself. The servants panted while helping the corpulent youth down the steps.
Mogurix saw the little group approaching and looked up quizzically at his Centurion. Calixtus just shrugged his shoulders and pulled a face as if to say, “Let the idiot have his way.”
Galerius waddled up to the Optio, panting heavily with a bit of drool dampening his triple chin. He handed the officer the wooden plaque, pointed to the cross, and spoke a few words with the Gaul. Mogurix nodded and called over a soldier. The man fetched a tall stool, set it on the ground before Barbaria, and climbed up. Barb seemed not to notice as her head hung down behind a veil of hair. Another soldier handed him the hammer and some nails, and the plaque. The soldier held the wood and a nail to the stipes above Barb's head and began nailing them in place. The first shock of the hammer blow sent new and terrible flashes of electrical pain into Barb’s hands and feet and then up her arms and legs. She raised her head and cried out at the sudden pain. Galerius giggled with joy. As the hammering continued, the girl groaned in agony at each cruel vibration. Once the plaque was secure, the soldier climbed down and removed the stool.

The printing on the titulus was large enough to be read by many of the closer spectators, and a subdued murmur began, which built into some scattered laughter as people repeated the phrase to their neighbor. The merriment and mockery continued to grow.
Barbaria, of course, had no way to see the words. Galerius came and stood right before her, savoring the still lush sensuality of her body and the dominating pain on her countenance. His whole body seemed to shake with gelatinous shivers as he laughed. The Goth raised her head and saw the corpulent youth standing before her, his arms crossed and an idiotic grin on his face. She hated him. She hated that he was enjoying this so much! But she had no more energy for defiance. She could barely deal with the pain, let alone fight with him. He had won; she was defeated. The girl just wanted him to go away and it all to end.

“Where is your Goth pride now, lupa?” he taunted. Where is your fight? Have we finally demonstrated to you how superior we Romans are?” Barb thought to answer, to shout defiance at the bastard. But no more. She could only think to herself, "Ni aiw (never),” and even that was only half-hearted.
“Do you know what your Titulus reads, lupa?” Galerius was laughing and enjoying every moment of teasing the poor dying girl. He loved the way her breasts quivered with her labored breathing, how her tummy was clenching with the strain of lifting her body, how her pussy was open and exposed as if she was offering herself for his pleasure. God! How he has shown this stupid bitch who he was!

“Serva nomine nulla (A slave girl named nothing)!” he said in a loud, almost girly voice so that all in the arena heard him. He cackled, "You are my slave and nothing more than a smudge of sentina (dregs or bilge water)!" Galerius laughed at what he thought was a clever insult.
Hearing Galerius’s voice and words stirred something down inside Barbaria. Her resentment at that demeaning title energized her. It stirred back up to a fever pitch her hatred for the fat, disgusting Roman. And it touched the fierce pride she had as the only child of the greatest chieftain of the Goth people! Romans were not better than Goths! Romans were cruel animals, like this disgusting pig. Barbaria could not consent to die as an unnamed slave! She screamed in pain as she pulled herself high upright on her cross, and took in a deep breath.

“Namo mein ist Barbaþais, Dauhtar Friþugairnis (My name is Barbaria, Daughter of Fritigernus)!" she cried out in a surprisingly strong voice that carried throughout the amphitheater. The mob fell silent at the unexpected ferocity of the crucified girl's outburst. Staring defiantly at Galerius, her voice dripping with hate, she spat out the words, "Diabaulus þuk nimai (go to hell)!” Somehow she found enough moisture in the mouth to spit at the fat lad and, miraculously, a wad hit him in the face. With that, all her reserves of energy expended, she collapsed down to hang, groaning in agony.
Click to expand...
Namo mein ist Barbaþais, Dauhtar Friþugairnis (My name is Barbaria, Daughter of Fritigernus)!" she cried out - way to go Barb, defiant to the very end!
 
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