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Moriturae
te salutant
Chapter
I First day. Year 64 A.D. - Rome in flames
Nero
Rome is in
flames. Since the beginning of the evening. The mob was impotent, the
processions of water carriers became exhausted trying in vain to isolate the
suburba wooden huts. Then the brick houses blazed up, the stables released
cohorts of panicked horses.
The old
eucalypti lining the main avenues draw up an incandescent triumph to the
stupefied crowd which tramples the ashes of the shops. The thermal baths and
the amphitheatres of strong columns shelter a mob who wails and curses.
Patricians mix with prostitutes. Actors still equipped with their scene masks
drink in the same gourd as legionnaries. And the clamour spreads more and
more... the Christians... the Christians... THE
CHRISTIANS...
Surrounded
by his small court of slaves and parents, Nero leans over the balustrade of the
hanging garden, on the roof of his palace. He watches as in full day a Rome
whose every detail of shade and fire invades his dilated pupils. Incandescent
brushwood mixed with strange, wild fireflies, which he drives away with the
reverse of his hand, are slowly falling down from a ceiling of stars.
All day he
has feared the rain, which would have wasted the living scenery that the God is
composing for his subdits. He has feared also the ineptitude of his sicaries,
commissioned to spread the fire in the city and the poison in the spirits. He
smiles and turns over while fixing a large floor of immense pearly roses from
Sicily. Afsilla is laughing with Regulus, the chief of his Praetorian guard. He
surprises a complicity a little too marked, a particular modulation of this
laughter. Afsilla knows he has seen her, she laughs louder now, as if she had
heard one of these stories of which only the slaves have the right to laugh. Clearing
a passage amid the guards, who have removed their helmets in the heat of this
unique night, she approaches him, without lowering her eyes. He turns over.
The flames
which approach now the Coliseum have lost their strength. They blunt on the
stones of the palaces and the noblest houses. The beautiful districts are
gaining the battle. The heady scents of the African flowers, mixed with the
young growths of dill, again fill up the delicate sense of smell of the king of
the world. A hand slips gently under his toga, raising the folds of his belly.
Afsilla's heavy braids, carefully twisted with golden torques, have invaded his
thighs. He does not need to lower his eyes to see the swollen lips of the young
Ethiopian seizing his member. He is not hearing any more the roll of the
tesserae, the dice launched by the veterans of the wars in Hispania. He has
closed his eyes and knows that all the glances are fixed on his abolla, his war
coat which hides the sublimely impudic act. Afsilla is very excited too, he has
understood that her fingers have only left his member to meet her clitoris. His
penis is very small, but Afsilla, as an expert fellatrix, always manages to
stretch his male member to the utmost, without hurting him, first by moving her
tongue over the length of his prick, then, impaled to the throat, by probing
the base of his balls with a darting point, before going up slowly while
aspiring with all her force the first drops, colourless but already bitter.
Néron cannot groan in public, but he feels grabbed, emptied by each prolonged
suction. When he is about to surrender, Afsilla slackens her pressure, because
she is not yet ready to come. He feels that the rhythm of her index increases,
because he benefits of the delicious echo of her tongue, which circles wilder
and wilder around his glans, in increasingly tightened concentric circles,
which move from his foreskin to assault now his open meatus. When Afsilla
tightens her thighs, she feels a first, long squirt of thick sperm striking the
bottom of her throat. She leans forward and enjoys the contractions of the
emptying rod. Her freed hand moves on the majestic testicles, which she handles
as small fragile nuts, attending his last shudders. Nero has to push on the
head of his mistress, as if fearing that the power of Afsilla's aspiration
would take away a vital part from his being.
Afsilla
Afsilla
emerges from the darkness. While rising, she catches, above his heavy chin and
his aquiline nose, the long glance that Nero casts on Regulus. Regulus, his
face a beautifully tragic mask, which now watches her in despair. In the
crossfire of these glances exchanged without a word, Afsilla can read her fate.
She puts her hand on Nero's arm, with false joy, trying to win some time.
“Caesar,
it was good to drink to your health! ”
Nero gets
clear firmly, without violence. He tightens the belt of his coat and approaches
Regulus. He murmurs some words to his ear. Regulus, his face pale, knows that
his loyalty can be proven only by punishing her treason. He closes his eyes a
few moments. Then he gives short orders in their language to two Scythian
mercenaries. Nero has moved slightly back for better appreciating the spectacle
than he has ordered. He bumps against a dresser mostly filled up and plunges
his hand in a dish of pig tongues glassed with violet petals. He gives an order
to a slave, who sprints away.
The two mercenaries have seized Afsilla, who
remained stupidly in the center of a circle from of which everyone carefully
moved away. She can't believe she will suffer this fate, the fate she has
already seen time and again. Her young body full with life, still quivering
from her orgasm, can't quite simply admit what her panicking mind tries to say.
When her ebony shoulders, made to carry chains, are bound, she does not resist.
Anaesthetized, she allows herself to be led under the low and thick branch of a
gigantic larch whose compact needles bring a little freshness to the night. She
shivers when the frozen links are encrusted under her armpits, roll up around
her elbows, and draw on her wrists. She is slowly raised from the ground and
hears the steel scraping the bark of the conifer. She seeks a friendly glance.
Hatred, jealousy and rape shall be her last visions. One of the Scythians has
brought two large whips made of rhinoceros leather. She feels almost relieved.
Thus, Nero wants just to punish her for being untrue? She would have cried with
joy. She has not seen two legionnaries approaching from her back, who have
planted in the ground, right under her legs, their heavy pilum. The broad round
ends in oak, one almost touching the other, shine under the moon. She becomes
aware of their presence at the same time that she is gently lowered down. She
lets out a long howl of terror, her large breasts with purple aureoles jumping.
“Noooooo, not this, kill me quiiiiick”
The
Scythians have carelessly spread her thighs, which they hold firmly, while they
push the stakes into the living flesh. Her dilated pores exhale a heavy perfume
of absolute terror. The first pilum slips quickly into her lubricated matrix
and immediately bumps painfully against the mouth of her uterus. It's almost
with relief that she feels her anus, pierced a moment later, sharing the
unbearable pressure. She avoids voicing her revolt and her fear, she saves her
breath, careful of any movement which would likely propagate the wave of pain
to her voluptuous body. Inch by inch, the chain is lowered by one of the
legionaries.
Nero takes
the lyre which his slave offers him with trembling hands. He cherishes the
cords on the same slow rhythm as the legionary, until he ends up dictating
himself the tempo of the descent. Afsilla perspires abundantly. Her thighs and
her ankles have started a hopeless combat to clutch the wood, well polished by
the use. At first, she believed that her toes, her toenails, could hang on some
bumps. But she has very quickly slipped down, and she feels now that her organs
are at the breaking point. She starts groaning. The crowd watches with
fascination the broad rivulets of sweat which shine on her almost black skin
and drip on the ground.
“AAAAAHHH”.
Afsilla lets out a savage cry. The point of the stake has pierced a membrane.
She cries her unbearable pain. Blood mixes soon with the sweat of her spasming
body. Her thighs manage to arch up over a node, in a desperate effort to slow
down the progression of her body on the two phalli. A whip cracks on her
buttocks, in the motionless night. “Nerooooo”. The second blow finds the base
of her strong breasts.
“NEROOOO!
! ! ” She stiffens in a wild contraction, her legs slacken a short moment
before hardening themselves again and she lets out a tearing cry which covers
the dissonant notes of the lyre. She has just released a long jet of urine
which runs along the lance and mixes with her blood. The spectators have
unconsciously approached, because they know that Afsilla will be unable to
fight much longer. Two whip lashes crack together now, one of the Scythians
aims for the base of her breasts, the other for their top, they compress them
and shingle them at the same time, and tear them while bringing the thin straps back. The stakes are brutally
inserted a full foot. Afsilla wails, a wail of little girl which paralyses even
the most jealous of the other slaves. Now, her legs are trembling and are not
opposing any more the slow descent of her body, seized with incredibly erotic
shudders. Blood and shit ooze from her holes. The pain suffocates her beyond
any understanding. This pain which the pressure of the stakes pushes always
further, always higher up her body. Her right tit has been just slashed open,
and the women are hiding their faces, while some legionaries dare applauding
since the living God seems happy. Another well-aimed blow in the same furrow
cuts out an open wound. Afsilla watches her almost severed breast which hangs
above her navel. She is no longer aware of the ruin of her body, no longer
fearing dying. Her spirit is sinking in the dark. The chain goes down a bit
quicker, Nero adds to the notes of his lyre some verses inspired by the beauty
of the tortured victim. The crowd lets out a “oh” of amused surprise when the
point of a stake emerges from Afsilla's groin. ” AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH”. Noisy
comments bet on the appearance of the other.
“YYYYYYYEEEEEEEEHH”
The oblong and erect nipple of her left tit has just been cut off. Afsilla is
not yet dead, her entrails are simply drawn aside by the rounded end which have
not touched the heart. She no longer has the strength to groan, she is not
feeling any more the last whip blows, struck with no real conviction, which
tear off her breasts to scraps, parts of which now lie under her legs. She has
just enough clearness to feel the pilum perforating at the same time her
entrails and diaphragm, and finding her tracheal artery a few moments later. She
is strangled, garrotted when the stake shocks her teeth. She finds the force to
relax her jaws to let the lance slip, and she falls to her knees amid her own
debris, her eyes still open with inexpressible horror, finally crowned with a
last, harmonious grimace.
Chapter II Second day - From the
Catacombs to the arena
Under the aqueduct of Via Sicilia
Agatha brushes off with her hand a
rebellious lock, which has escaped from her sumptuous deep-brown hair to her
forehead. On the bricked portic which separates the Via Appia from the garden
of senator Albus' rich villa, she can read the usual warning “Cave canem”,
which frames a dog drawn in the mosaics. She has been successful, she has led
to a safe haven, the small group of Christians whose security priest Navatonius
entrusted to her. He gave them his blessing in the last cave of the oozing
catacombs, by extending the palm of his protective hand over the poor fearful
herd. Then he set out again to help those of his flock who could not escape the
avenging fury of the Romans. She is proud to have been able to decipher the
labyrinth of the catacombs, proud of the confidence placed on her ‘til the
early morning by the Christians. Still shocked by the cruelty of the
rabble, their own neighbours or friends, who are tracking them since the
beginning of the night.
She then managed to guide them in
the network of the pestilent sewers, the cloaca maxima, counting and recounting
the stragglers once and again. At the tail of the column, she manages to
identify, in spite of the darkness, the majority of her friends, members like
her of a small theatre company. Casilda and Elagia, linked by a tender passion
known only to her, close the march while encouraging the weakest ones by
carrying their poor belongings. Sulpicia, the robust farm girl, helps a young
mother by carrying her baby. Sophonia and Cecilia, gymnast sisters, are
screening the flanks of the procession which swerves in the undergrounds. Drops
running out of leaking vaults stream down at each turning, which marks an
intersection of two streets over their heads. With her infant in her arms,
Livia has joined her and says simply “Thank you, Agatha”, when the light
appears through a ventilation hole. The sun rises idly over the white villa of
Albus, the only Christian senator of Rome, when the runaways come out of the
darkness. Agatha is deeply relieved to have fulfilled her mission. Proud, happy
and in love. Because she hopes to meet Regulus, who she has finally converted;
Regulus, the centurion with fine hands and soft voice, who takes her so
strongly in his arms. She would give her life away to leave with him this
morning, since he promised to abandon Nero and his black mistress.
In Albus park
The multicoloured flowers of the
park deploy their corollas under the caress of the first sun rays, and exhale
perfumes unknown to the townsmen, but not to Agatha. While she moves quietly in
the morning fog, checking the place, Regulus, upright at the edge of the square
marble swimming pool, watches her from afar, his heart heavy. Agatha has seen
him in turn; her heart beats fast, she starts running while supporting her big
bosom, awkwardly at first, before taking off her sandals to run more quickly.
She abruptly finishes her dash, stopped within a few meters of Regulus by his glance,
cold and relentless. She lets out a cry of horror when he moves aside.
Senator Albus is lying behind him, his neck tied around the base of a funerary
column. Soldiers come out from behind every tree, seizing the hundred scattered
Christians. At an order from Regulus, who is thus giving the emperor a second
proof of loyalty, the males, the elder and the babies are given to the sword,
among the moans and howls of their wives and mothers. The surviving Christian
females are then aligned in front of him. He slowly passes their rows in
review. He diverts his eyes from the blazing glance which Agatha casts him. An
idea comes to him, and he murmurs an order to a legionary. He takes by the arm
ten of the most beautiful Christians, including Agatha and her friends, and
moves them to the front row. The legionary returns, carrying stylet and wax
tablets found in the library of Albus. He hands over to each Christian woman
one of the plates, on which Regulus orders them to engrave their names.
The legionaries thread a cord
through the edge of the plates, and tie them around their necks. A sinister
procession of about sixty dust-covered women and girls is marched off, the
soldiers pushing them with their lances in front of them. Bowed heads hardly
conceal the stains left by sobs on their ashen skins.
An afternoon at the forum
There is a crowd squeezing under the
arcades. Craftsmen emerging from the streets or the smaller alleys, sailors
whose ships just arrived, matrons of the red district with the voice seized by
wine, blacksmiths, freed slaves who enjoy their new freedom, charlatans, the
low people attracted by the rumour of the capture of the Christian families,
all are moving in haste towards the forum. The official herald, speaker of the
circus games, repeats every two minutes his sinister speech, perched under the
gilded gantry which separates the oldest city forum, that which saw the birth
of the Republic, from the Field of Mars. “Approach, Romans, approach. Nero
invites you to attend the torments of the Christians who put fire at your
residences. Tomorrow, in the Coliseum. In the honor of the ides of July.
Approach, approach… ”. Everyone in the crowd is happy to be thus exempted from
the traditional offerings to the Lares gods. Merry clamours go up everywhere.
Clodia, wife of senator Marcus
Gaius, orders her hand-chair to stop. She listens to the rumour with her friend
Fulvia during a few moments. “Ah, Fulvia, Nero is smart enough,
definitely, there is what people wants, not senator speeches”. “You are quite
right. Hold, hear what Juvenal was saying yesterday, in the library of the
Caracalla baths: since votes are no longer sold, people is making fun of
everything: those which formerly gave full powers, the fasces, the legions, all
they want now is bread and games, panem et circenses”. The cries of joy cover
the speech. Clodia looks upwards and hails a baker apprentice who is pushing a
hoop in front of him: “What has just been said? ”. The young boy puts his hands
to amplify his voice: “He said that those which can write will be able to vote
and choose the torment of the Christian women”. Terrified, Clodia sinks deep in
her seat and signals the carriers to go on.
She knows that she will be unable to
squirm away once again, without being accused of supportingt this Jesus Christ,
who keeps disturbing the public order sixty years after his death. Her family
lost part of her fortune at the time of the second slave revolt, and she knows
that the interests of her social class are incompatible with the doctrines of
the Christians. She accepts the idea she will have to attend these bestial
rejoicings, and then drives away these annoying thoughts from her mind.
Chapter III Third day. In the arena
of the Coliseum
The arrival
Agatha has taken the head of the
small column of captives which has just passed under the triumphal arch of
Constantin. The last traces of the fire which has just devastated Rome are
extinguished now. Madly worried, the women and young girls did not sleep for a
moment last night. The howls of the crowd which form their terrifying guard of
honour terrorises them. They know well that if they were not being screened by
two lines of legionaries, who permanently push back the waves of this human
flood, they would be grabbed and crushed by these hideous jaws. At her sides,
Regulus has placed all her friends, who can be identified by their names. They
seem to support Agatha like a bodyguard, and she feels stronger now. The
procession soon emerges in front of the Coliseum, and just like each Roman
always does, they mark a pause in front of the impressive external enclosure
composed of four levels, which can house close to seventy thousand spectators.
All the eyes follow the eighty arcades of the ground floor, before going up up
to the last level where full walls, supported by pilasters, are divided into
compartments hosting bronze shields, and one of every two decorated with square
windows. Over them thunder the velae, veils in flax supported by masts,
extended to protect from the rain and heat the noble spectators of the last
row.
The Christian females and the crowd
take different ways. The young women are introduced into the arena by a service
door service has just been opened in front of them, while the crowd invades the
steps after having crossed the four main gates. Exclamations of surprise rise
everywhere: since the previous day, the sappers of four centuries of the third
legion, which have distinguished itself in Germania, have built with their axes
four turris, the siege towers so high like walls, whose broad platforms
dispersed at the four corners of the arena seem to touch the middle steps.
Nero wants that the crowd can fully
benefit from the torment of the young Christian women from every place. Of
course he has been assured that the most spectacular tortures will be applied
in the tower located just opposite the imperial lodge. Excepting Agatha and her
sisters, who joined them a little later, the Christian women have immediately
descended a large staircase made of blackened stones, cold and dark like a
sepulchre. At the end of a labyrinth of badly lit rooms, their cells await
them. They look with fright at the small underground city which nourishes the
games. The sand of the arena rests on a gigantic wooden floor, circa ninety meters
long and sixty meters broad. In the underground, baths, kitchens, the reserves,
the areas assigned to the material, elevators, machineries, lifts and cages
with the wild beasts. Narrow corridors run from the beasts enclosure to several
trap doors. Some bellows have crossed the walls, and the Christian females have
gathered together, trembling. They advance along the main corridor with quicker
steps, sobbing, as if their cells were going to afford them a durable
protection.
During this time, bakers, blacksmiths,
craftsmen, tradesmen, knights of minor nobility, retired soldiers coming from
their villulae in Campania, servants rewarded with one day off by their Master,
maidens with reddening faces, continue to press forward in the rows. In
contrast with this haste, the patricians, sure to find a place in their lodge,
leisurely cross the bridge which separates them from the voting room. They
discuss with animation the torments which are scheduled for this noon, and for
which each of them has engraved on a small papyrus the name of one of the
Christian females which have been paraded before them, to their good pleasure.
The opening of the games
While the last spectators take seat
accompanied by the protests of those which already sat, the herald charged with
making the panegyric of the games declares them open in Mercury honor. To
entertain the crowd before Nero's triumph, lightly armed velites occupy the
center of the arena and engage in mock fights. They are replaced a few moments
later by acrobats who endlessly juggle with balls. When some whistles are
already rising, a clamour announces the arrival of Nero, and silence is made.
Greeted by the grave sound of the cymbals, covered by his white imperial coat,
Nero appears through the Triumphal Gate. A clamour of astonished approval rises
from the step rows. Because instead of the usual Arab stallions draped with
clinking and scintillating mantlets, four young Christian women are drawing the
quadrigae, the four-wheeled imperial chariot. In a state of perfect nudity,
each one pushes her yoke, panting. A kind of barbarian halter girds their young
and firm breasts, swollen by the appalling compression. They stop, groan, set
out again under the crowd applause, which rewards their foolish efforts. Nero
forced them to made the whole turn of the circular arena, very close to the
first steps, so that the plebs can appreciate the twisting of the buttocks
stimulated by the flagrum, the whip reserved to fugitive slaves. When one of
the Christian girls bends a knee, her own sisters exhort her to rise up and the
increase their efforts, trying to relieve her pain. The feet trail over the
sand while Nero's whip whistles. The mockeries of the crowd gain in intensity
while the overworked thighs seem about to break. The finishing line looks so
far from the Triumphal Gate… Dark scratches mark now the backs of the martyrs.
Nero slows down the rate of blows from the riding crop, because he does not
want to risk having to step down from his chariot in front of the crowd.
The deep furrows left in the coarse
sand by the chariot wheels are lined by the traces of the rivulets of sweat
which leak ceaselessly from the shining skins. Laughter rises when they mix
with the menstrual blood of the youngest Christian girl, whose legs are trembling.
Now, the mark of each station of their interminable supplice remains in the
burning sand.
Calpurnia is chewing juniper bars,
because she fears that her mouth could keep the odor of her last customer's
sperm. The courtisan leans on the neck of Drusilla, her young cousin, and
mutters “That's disgusting. I hope we will see good tortures. I think there is
an ass with a member like your thigh… ”. Drusilla reddens, they are her first
games, and she is very disturbed to see these poor women naked in front of the
rabble. She has mixed feelings, she is not sure how she feels at the moment,
but her heart is beating very quickly.
Enters the Legion
Preceded by the labarum, the
imperial standard, each of the three maniples which represents the III Legion
is separated from the following by ten Christian females charged with chains.
Many have lost their stola, torn from them during the endless rapes which they
suffered last night in the camp reserved to the winners of the Sicambres in
Germania. At first the legionaries walked in a cadenced step, then, as they
approach the senators lodge, they accelerate their pace and in the end they are
trotting in a gymnastic step. Little used to this particular pace, the chained
ankles of the Christian women got mixed up. The centurions prick with their
sword their buttocks, while the troop continues to hop on the spot tor to keep
the rhythm. When the frightened and ashamed Christian women have been gathered
in a herd more or less ordered, the legionaries retake their walk, their chests
swollen with pride. They imperceptibly narrow their tread to avoid a new
disaster. At the end of the parade, the Christian women are descended to their
cells, while Nero regains his lodge. Some carefully chosen legionaries and
centurions remain. Helped by a small troop of slaves who will sweep and clean
the sand throughout all the games, they busily prepare the torments.
In the dungeon
The Christian women recover with
difficulty from their circuit. Only the horrible fear which ties their entrails
manages to slow down the sudden starts which shake their chests. Many are
praying now, while gasping at the slightest noise. The most curious go to the
bottom of the immense room. They realize that the cell is lower than the arena
by a half level. In front of them, at chest height and all along the width of
the room, there are bars, but they can touch the sand with the hand. Agatha and
Elagia mechanically take a fistful of hot sand in their hand, and they let it
filter down while exchanging a long powerless glance.
When the heavy bronze grid opens
with a sinister groaning, they turn over and run towards the entry. Regulus has
reserved for himself the pleasure of telling them the result of the vote. He
recites with an impassible voice the torments which will be applied to them. By
his extreme zeal, he wants to express to Nero his thanks for having spared his
life. He wants to see the traces of his treason quickly gone. He has not seen
Agatha moving on his back and sneaking between the two legionaries who are
escorting him. When he turns back, the spittle surprises and blinds him. The
two legionaries raise their swords, but he stops them. “Wait… I have something
better for her… and I will do it myself”. A mean smile darkens the beauty of
his somewhat female traits. He casts a long glance on these naked women to
enjoy their fear and hopelessness before adding “Pray to your God, yes……
you will give him plenty of work”. He gives a last order, ”And they must be
washed immediately, they stink as much as the tigers! ! ”.
Delivered to the animals
While the Christian women are forced
to proceed to their ablutions, their throats tightened by the knowledge of the
torments, the first animals are brought in the arena. Three large brown asses
from Thessalia are paraded, drawn by a slave. They are preceding a pack of
mastiffs from Abyssinia, impatient and famished, whose raucous barkings are
choked by their muzzles. Next, a slave carries a cage partially covered with a
red cloth.
With cords of hemp which they
slacken gently, the legionaries lower down light footbridges from the turris.
Each ass goes slowly up into one of the towers. The slave moves towards the
turris which faces the imperial lodge. Five Christian women, including Livia,
are brought into the arena. Agatha grabs the bars. She feels in her own flesh
the vulnerability of her friend, she bites her fist when hearing the sentences
read aloud by him who she will not name any more, at the point of being not
interested in her own fate. The legionaries seize four Christian women to
escort them to the top of the towers. Three of them find an ass waiting for
them, the forefeet resting on a broad console. To the blow of whips, they are
forced on their knees under the woolly bellies and are obliged at the same time
to do a fellatio to the gigantic members, stinking and hairy. Agatha pulls
back, deeply shocked. When the asses began rutting, the Christian women are
forced to take their place on the consoles and to raise their buttocks to
present their vulva to the excited animals. A concert of obscene jokes greets
the spectacle of an ass whose immense sex must be guided into the virgin hole
of the youngest Christian girl. Calpurnia lets her finger move discreetly
between her legs, while Drusilla has her tongue stuck to the palate. The
spasmodic rapes seem to go on indefinitely, because the asses lack the
stability to be able to ejaculate at the bottom of the matrices which they
brush and pierce alternatively.
Livia has been strapped to a marble
table. She lies with her legs and sex wide open in front of Nero. In spite of
her bound neck, she manages to raise her head slightly when a whirring rumour
greets the presentation of the cage to the Caesar. She barely distinguishes a
familiar animal, before quivering in horror when she recognizes the muzzle of a
large rat. She is perfectly aware that the fragile vulvar lips of a woman who
has just given birth are a prime target for the enormous rodent. She lets out a
howl of despair “NOOOOOOO, Caesar, meeeeercyyyyyy!”.
The last Christian woman, a bit
plump, remains in the middle of the arena. Suddenly, she is surrounded by ten
legionaries who drive her with the points of their lances towards a portic. She
stops in front of a carpet of glass shards barring her way, but when the
pressure of the iron points against her buttocks becomes unbearable, she must
cross it while howling in pain. Arriving close to the portic, she falls down,
sobbing, while the blood oozing from her feet soaks the sand. Two legionaries
advance. While one of them holds her arms pinned to her back despite her lack
of resistence, the second one pierces from the sides her two large hanging
breasts. The two legionaries seize the lance by each side of the handle and
carelessly drag her under the portic. Despite her atrocious howls, she is
promptly raised by her breasts, and the lance rests now on the bars of the
portic. The Christian woman, suffocated by the pain, soon stops her struggling,
trying not to increase her immeasurable suffering.
Livia is no longer begging. She
remains still as a stone since the hot cage was attached over her belly. She
hopes that the rat perhaps will fall asleep on the heat of her skin, she
believes she can calm her down by remaining motionless, in spite of feeling the
revolting tickling of the muzzle over her pubic hairs. If only her purple clit
was not so prominent... She screams with all her force when a slave advances
carrying a red-hot poker.
The mastiffs are released. In
no time at all they are smelling the blood and tracking the bloody scent in the
sand. The swiftest already seek to bite the feet streaming with blood. The
captive violently raises her legs when she hears the first barkings. She cries
“Jesus, my God, protect me”. But nothing can stop the cruel game, and the crowd
patiently awaits the inevitable outcome. Every time the poor bloody feet fall
down, the jaws snip the empty air. In this exhausting game, each jolt is a new
excruciating torture for the impaled breasts. The tearings in her teats
gradually widen, and small scarlet streams run down her mutilated chest. At the
end of her strength, the young Christian fails to raise her right leg quickly
enough, and the jaws of the largest of the molasses sink on it. Under the
clamour of the public, the breasts are slowly stretched before literally
bursting like a ripe water melon.
While the dogs devour their prey,
the asses are now held firmly, and another opening is offered to them. Very
prudish, the Christian women, now firmly strapped over the consoles, do not
practise sodomy. Whereas the asses manage with difficulty to nudge the point of
their members into the tightened anuses, some legionaries move behind them and
whip them violently. The Christian females pass out at the same time.
Livia's shrieks struck Agatha at the
bottom of her heart. She can't prevent herself from looking at the tower while
quivering. Her belly contracts by imagining what Livia is feeling. Frenzied by
the burns, the rodent seeks to escape through the natural exit which it can
see. It digs with its irregular claws the hole which its teeth have widened. It
splatters in blood and chokes a little on the belly whose wild spasms prevent
it from finding its balance. In this atrocious fight, Livia is gradually losing
her forces, but the rat is faring hardly better. It struggles to flee, devours
the scraps of flesh made for the most delicate caresses, and becomes as insane
as Livia under the permanent burn of the poker. Livia's wild howls continue a
short moment after the predator ceases moving, then stop abruptly. Agatha bites
her fist and cries.
After some slaps, the Christian
women emerge from the merciless void. They have been abandoned on the towers.
They are groaning and starting to recover when the mastiffs are released. When
they invade the platforms, each Christian woman throws herself down from the
towers. In tortoise formation, shields over the heads and pilum pointed in the
air, the kneeling legionaries spit the bodies of the martyrs.
The gladiatrix
Sophonia and Cecilia have not witnessed the
atrocious end of their mates. Their privigeled constitution has won them being
reserved for one of the combats to the death. The sadistic patricians have
particularly appreciated that they are sisters too. In the cell reserved for
the gladiators, Lentulus Batiatus, the landowner who manages the famous
gladiator school at Capua, is trying to teach them the basics of their weapons.
Two half-naked slaves, their skins oiled and criss-crossed by scars, attend
him, carrying their battle dresses. For the time being, Sophonia and Cecilia
remain in a corner of the cell. They have decided to re-dress Regulus's
terrible sentence, which still rings on their ears. They accepted, yes, they
chose to fight, each one hoping to give the other a prompt death, instead of
the abominable torment reserved for the winner of their duel to the death. Each
one hugs the face of the other and soaks her streaming tears in a reassuring
way. Then, proud and courageous, they rise up and embrace lengthily. Surrounded
by a ghostly halo, they let the slaves
equip them, enervated by the powerful musk odor which comes from their bulging
biceps. Holding hands, they cross the monumental grid which has been just
raised in front of them. Their eyelids blink, brutally dazzled by the intense
reverberation spouting from the almost white sand, then cast a frenzied look at
the imperial lodge.
They are not aware any more of being naked
under their armour, but Sophonia is troubled by the tottering of her full,
firm, pear-shaped breasts. Her large brown nipples are visible from the highest
platforms, which causes admiring whistles from the least discrete men. Lentulus
Batiatus' voice exhorts them, while a concert of tubae and tambourines can be
heard. With slow steps, the heart upset by the insults and the cries of joy
from the crowd, they walk on hesitantly, because their bronzed ankles hardly
rise from the sand. Then, their steps become more firm when they remember the
last words of Agathe to them: “Die with dignity, my sisters, like Christian
women, and forgive them just like Jesus forgave us”.
Each one now eyes with naivety the armament of
the other. All they have understood is that Cecilia has the armament of a
retiario, composed of a heavy fisherman net and a three-pronged fork, whose use
suits particularly well her slim and harmonious body. Short hair, fine traits
in a long face with very red lips, she seems ready to overcome a deer before
immobilizing and piercing it. She is only bearing chest armour, and is naked
from the belt down, revealing like an ideal target a broad dark patch which she
does not try any more to hide by closing her legs.
Sophonia, more bulky, broad-faced and
merry-eyed, is equipped only with a ocrea, a kind of leggings which covers her
from the thighs to the crotch, slightly hiding her fair and silky pubic hair.
She wears her weapons awkwardly, the heavy leather shield and the large sword
of the mirmillo, which shall deflect the blows from the three-pronged fork and
cut the net of broad mesh. It's the more traditional duel to which the crowd is
accustomed.
They finally arrive in front of the lodge
housing Nero and his suit, to deliver the ritual formula with a single voice: “
Ave, Caesar, moriturae the salutant”. An unknown emotion submerges them while
the gibes made place for the applauses. They cannot avoid shedding new tears
while murmuring: “ Forgive me, I beg you, because I must kill you”. “ I forgive
you, as you must also do it, because I want to save you from this atrocious
death”. “FAREWELL”. “See you in a few minutes”.
Unconsciously, they have opened the distance
between them. While the bucinae hammer their clear and sharp notes, they
rea-align their weapons with a tragic gesture. Sweat runs from their proud
faces, which the storm of battle gradually overcomes, to the spectators' great
happiness. Eyes locked, their stance strengthens while they describe a circle
which narrows little by little.
The heart of Agatha and the three remaining
actresses beats as hard as theirs. Today, it's no more wooden sabres and
paperboard shields, in a dance led by the cane of Paulus Gracchus, the director
of their small troupe. They held their breathing when Sophonia delivered the
first sword blow. It slightly sliced the net, but not in its main frame, while
avoiding easily the reply of the three-pronged fork, thrust without conviction
by Cecilia. In this short contact, she realized what a dreadful trap the
lead-ballasted meshes could become. Her second sword blow slightly bruises her
sister's hip. They stop at this first blood, surprised by their own violence: “But… you really wanted to kill me! ”
“Yes, like you… Oh, let me help you leaving
first, I beg you… ”. Sophonia attacks again.
The drops of crimson blood dotting the sand awaken Cecilia of her
hypnotic lethargy. The harpoon hits hard against the shield, while the net
flies looking for the ankles. The crowd howls with pleasure when Sophonia jumps
with both feet, as when they were children at play. Her breasts have hit
painfully her shield, and she moves back to regain her spirits. Cecilia keeps
thrusting with her harpoon, but Sophonia suddenly puts a knee on the ground and
raised her shield. Carried by her dash, Cecilia is forced to make the splits on
the sand. She is rewarded also by a passing blow from the sword, which is
deflected by her harpoon but slips under her buttocks. Fully awaken now, she
feels hideously humiliated, just like a schoolgirl, still more so because the
sand, intruding inside her wet vulva whose lips remained slightly open, itches
her atrociously.
In an unstoppable reflex, she thrusts with the
three-pronged fork while stumbling right to her front. One of the lethal points
sinks deeply at the base of her sister's right breast. Their mixed bloods,
crimson blood against vermilion blood, intersect now in curious geometrical
figures left by the attacks and counter-attacks. They break, split, cross their
irons while panting like true gladiators in this sublime duel which crucifies
the watching Christian women. The heat and the sight of blood gradually
transform them into true tiger-cats, the mouth open, the breath short. Sophonia
is the first to lose her balance, the increasingly heavy shield at the end of
her wrist is not raising quickly enough under the well-directed blows. The
plebs cries suddenly when the sharp-edged points of the three-pronged fork
pierce her opulent left breast. The heart is not affected by the thrust, but a
geyser of blood stains the gilded sand when the trimmed points withdraw, badly
maiming the fat tissues and most of the breast gland. Sophonia collapses slowly
to the ground, almost under the prison bars, as if she was playing a bad
performance. She moves the hand to her breast with a long moan of suffering,
trying to stop the life flow which is ebbing out from her. She lies facing
Agatha and her sisters, then finds the force to slowly crawl to the grid, while
Cecilia threws her weapons down to kneel and pray, while waiting for her
scions. The arm of Agatha goes through the grid to relieve her martyrdom, but
the hand of Sophonia falls down heavily before she can grab it, to remember it
in the darkness on which she is falling.
They are two of the oldest centurions who take
Cecilia under the armpits with a surprising softness. She lets them move her,
because her mind has already left this world. She places herself in the middle
of the Saint-Andrew's cross, painted in black and lying down in the center of
the arena. Spreadeagled between the poles on which she has been bound, she does
not care about the spectacle offered by her open and soiled slit. She is not
hearing the obscene remarks of the men, nor is seeing the patrician's pouts of
disgust. She barely hears a chariot crossing the arena, she closes her eyes
while the slaves set up their material. When silence returns, something over
her head is hiding the sun from her. A huge censer is hanging from a chain
fixed on a mobile gantry. The breath of a forge of incandescent embers slightly
pricks her nostrils, and turning her head, she sights a large cauldron in which
she distinctly hears a liquid boiling. When each of the centurions plunges a
large ladle in the burning oil, Cecilia lets out a savage scream as her
atrocious fate is revealed: “ NO, NO, NO, NOOOOOOOOOOO, I do not want!!!!
AGATHA, I am afraid, stooooop”.
Agatha cries at the same time. She would like
to share her torment, to divide her 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 in the censer
while the other torturer pushes it with a slow swinging movement, carefully
sprinkling all the splendid body of the young martyr. He lets out a loud laugh
of hardened soldier: “ Hold, my daughter, I bless you, too!”. The oil drops
crackle on the shining skin. The crowd listens in a religious silence the wild
moanings which have followed the irrational howls. Her voice broken, Cecilia
can only twist vigorously in her bonds, unable to escape the devastating burns,
but heightening the pleasure of the Romans, fascinated by the luscious swaying
of her elegant body. The ceaseless groans are mixed with the splatter of more
viscous drops, which bite in the tender flesh of the thighs, the vulva, the
armpits whose hairs are melting, the nipples hardened by the anguish and
crossed with red marks. The chest made for love is gradually devastated by deep
craters, the skin bursts in Byzantine drawings when the melted oil returns to
tap the same open wounds.
When the dermis of the young martyr is entirely
ruined, the soldiers raise the cross. The crowd lets out a “oh” of
astonishment, 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 casuary feathers. Thus, the
strips of hanging skin are torn off delicately by a simple touch. The centurion
is an expert in this instrument, which he plays like a musician plays his lyre.
He could indefinitely prolong the torment which suffocates Cecilia. Under this
prop which does not tear off the flesh, the skin of the blisters and the bulbs
disappears by tiny layers, but the smoothness of the abrasion over the many
nervous terminations is a torment much more terrible. She is in a state of
shock, whereas Nero has stopped his meal for the first time in three hours. He
orders that the two particularly inventive centurions are rewarded with a
thousand sesterces each.
The sun hids behind the Triumphal Gate. Some
start to rise, others prefer to attend the lowering of the cross by four
slaves. A flight of ravens lands on the stay of a sail. They wait until the
body of Cecilia is deposited on one of the towers. Agatha steps back, covering
her ears. They knows that a long night without sleep has just begun.
Chapter IV Dawn of the fourth day.
A night of horror
Cecilia's unbearable screams kept drilling
their ears all through the evening, before becoming throbbing sobs, then
inaudible moans. They saw everything without being able to intervene, pushed
back from the grid ten times, 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 unconcerned beaks. The black
flight which fell down 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 ravens flew from time to time over the last spectators
present, eyeing them with worrying fixation. The orange beaks were stained by
bright blood, whose drops flew around when they shook the head trying to catch
scraps of flesh which were escaping them. Of course, the most tender parts of
the body where the first to be jagged out. The nipples were an offer which
rivalized with the open sex and the pale thighs. After the first mutilations of
the arching body, the statue of bright flesh became a beacon for all the bands
of ravens which nested in the city, and which came in successive waves to keep
shredding the body of the celestial maiden.
In the early morning, the Christian women could
steal a few minutes of sleep, which have accentuated her stupor without truly
resting them. They count and recount themselves in silence, everyone cursing
herself for hoping not being called the first. In the arena, the slaves hasten
to clear the sand and to remove Cecilia's carcass from the tower. They also
check up the solidity of the works built atop the euripe, the water-filled
ditch which isolates the beasts from the spectators. The rattle of chains,
frictions, roarings, attest the awakening of arena's belly. The day will be
terrible, since ten of them will be delivered as grazing ground 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 is not even raising 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 force to
rebel, in a pitiful attempt to escape from the inevitable. The cracking of the
whips soon is louder than the moanings 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 along
their sides, under penalty of being whipped if they try hiding from the
luscious glances their slits and their poor breasts, ravaged by the blows and
the twistings during rapes.
The Romans have fun
The plebs come early to awake the sleeping
walls. The day is still hotter than expected, and the men fill their gourds
with the thick wine offered by the intendants of 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 fabrics almost translucid, only
embossed by jewels of glowing gems and by veils of bright colors. Dresses most
scandalously cut low have appeared today, as if the atmosphere of sensuality
were a prelude to an huge orgy. Even the old women feel that they will have
their chance in the middle of so many males excited by the tortures.
The herald enters the arena with much pompa,
under the hammering of the cymbals. Having obtained silence with a solemn
gesture, he recits the somber program before leaving room to the usual juggling
spectacles. While funambulists pass from a turris to another by walking on
ropes, the hands firmly grabbing their pole, the traditional procession of the
lictors, their fasced axes perfectly aligned, start giving their homage to
Rome's first magistrates.
In the patrician lodge, Clodia yawns, not
worrying to hide her boredom from her husband, senator Marcus Gaius; with tired
gesture, she turns toward her friend Fulvia and re-takes her unfinished
diatribe on the latest tendencies of mode. They do not know that they will see
again Agatha and her sisters, who charmed them so much a week earlier.
The instruments keep silent. In this solemn
moment the conversations cease, because everyone take interest in the face and
the body of the torture victims, enjoying in advance the punishment which is
reserved to them. Two Christian women advance while staggering under the whip
blows. Clodia frowns and turns to her husband while half-rising: “ It's
disgusting! Could not these wretches cover their sex? They must receive at
least a subligar, or I'm leaving just now”. Annoyed, Marcus turns his head away
while muttering: “ You will do nothing. There is no question of making us
conspicuous under the eyes of the fool who is governing us. Pretend you are
looking and applaud, but 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 refuse me again going for a whole month in our
villa at Capri! ! ”.
The war elephants
An extraordinary trumpeting passes under the
columns of the Triumphal Gate. The eyes of the crowd are divided between the
arrival of the African elephants and the scourging of the young Christian
women. They run in the arena to escape the centurions' cutting long whips. In
number of them, with great whip blows they have cornered the two young stripped
bodies at the foot of one of the turris. The long thin straps of bevelled edges
slash without respite the backs, the buttocks and the breasts that the two
young women present to them. Crazy with pain, they try to lessen the effect of
the atrocious wicks of rhinoceros leather by continuously shifting their
position. To the big glee of the crowd, and particularly the former slaves,
they seem to hop ceaselessly on the sand, upright or lying, twisting like worms
at the end of a line while protesting their innocence, crying for a bit of
mercy.
At last they lay in the sand, their breasts
marbled by purple trails. They are hardly conscious of being raised while the
ground trembles under their bodies. Their blinking eyes look up at the shade
which invades the sky above their heads. The trunks of the two old males rise
like tubae to let out a challenge which echoes among the steps. The mahouts
force to their knees the war elephants, tamed by military discipline, whose
legs reduced to bloody pulp so many of Rome's ennemies. The young Christians
find the strength to pray, and in their cell, other martyrs pray with them
while they are strapped to the protections girding the deep cranium of the
elephants. The immense ears crack, irritated by this additional burden which
darkens almost completely the sight of the pachyderms. After moving them apart
by some fifty meters at spade point, the mahouts let themselves slip along
their flanks. The elephants can hardly see one another, but each one begins
seeking its rival immediately. After a long aggressive trumpeting which allows
them to find their bearings, they move heavily under the cries of the crowd.
They charge with the blind rage which characterizes these duels to the death.
Sharp-edged defenses are crossed in this first weapons lunge. Like knights
having broken the first lance, they move apart. The quivering trunks fall down
heavily when they advance more slowly not to overshoot. Perched on the hot
combat helmets, their feet pushing helplessly on the top of the rough trunk,
the young virgins shut their eyes closed. The head-on crash is terrible,
irremediably crushing the legs of the young martyrs. Burst flesh mixes with the
drains of blood which blind and excite still more the pachyderms. The
mastodonts are firmly locked in the sand and they push head to head. The
screams of unbearable pain of both martyrs mix with the wild trumpetings. 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 which emerges from the tangle of carapaces and burst flesh. It finds
always its mark, lacerating little by little the poor bodies of the tortured victims.
Pierced, crushed, the young Christians are long dead when one of the mastodonts
falls down slowly on its side. The crowd remains quiet for some time, not by
pity or regrets, but because of the monstrous power released by this tournament
of another age which seemed about to break 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.
Chariot duel
At the other end of the arena, two young
mothers whose clothing has been was saved made their appearance. Strips of flax
underline the frequency of their breast feeding. They advance slowly, ready to
die, with the grieg of having lost their new born babies, spit by the
legionaries. Their breasts overflowing with life are sore from not having
fulfilled their feeding function for four days. Milk drips from the strips, to
their great shame. Agatha has never given birth, but she perfectly understands
what weight is overpowering them. She is startled! Regulus is at her side. The
cheater has entered the cell quietly, while the Christian women were absorbed
by the combat epic. He murmurs softly in her ear “Don't you think that these poor
Christian women look ridiculous with their big swinging tits?”. Agatha is
disconcerted by this new familiarity which clashes completely with his previous
remarks. Before she could utter a word, Regulus adds “Since their breasts are
not useful to them any more, Nero, in his imperial kindness, has decided to
have them removed”. He firmly takes Agatha's chin between his fingers and
implacably forces her glance towards the two trigae which have just begun an
honor lap, which shall become soon an horror lap.
The action starts very quickly when the two
young mothers are brutally seized. After a short fray, they are presented naked
to the crowd, held by the robust centurions, who firmly hold them under the
armpits. Their thrashing legs allow brief glimpses of their pink vulvas, hidden
by their very brown bushes. The centurions enjoy turning their preys towards
all sides of the arena, raising the strong udders, pressing them to make spout
out creamy milk and then licking their fingers. They explain in a loud voice
how the aurigas will proceed.
The chariot drivers are parading at this very
moment. They carry helmets crested with exotic feathers, with visors fully
open. Their powerful chests are naked, but their forearms are covered with
leather arm-rings carrying the colors of Rome's two larger districts. Their
fine destriers of Arab blood seem to drive the chariots on a cloud of dust. The
bidders weigh up the drachmas in their purses while trying to decide what's the
best team. Everyone has noticed the two great sickles which spout out
perpendicularly in front of the wheels, right under the chariots axle. The
pitilessly sharp-edged blades throw blazing flashes while reflecting the sun
which is reaching its zenith. One of the aurigas wins a fine success when he
beheads a wooden stake at the end of a skilful rush.
The centurions have put back their victims in
front of two Saint Andrew's crosses planted very low on the ground, a score of
steps away from Nero's lodge. The ankles and the wrists of the young mothers
are tied with very long ropes to four broad bronze pins, firmly sunk into the
earth. In order to keep the Christian women perfectly rigid and facing the
ground, the centurions use swivels to tighten their bonds. The poor martyrs
start groaning under the atrocious pressure which quarters them, while their
dangling breasts are presented to the lust of the rabble. They are soon so
tightly stretched that the noble tits stop their sensual swinging. The winner
will be the one who is the first to slice two breasts without breaking its
scythe on the bronze piles…
It's Nero who lowers the arm to give the start
to the devilish race. As veteran drivers, the aurigas have cracked their whips
on the hinds of the horses to put them at a trot. It's important to go slowly
enough to be able to manoeuver the chariot, without being outrun. At about the
same speed, the chariots arrive at the same time near the crosses. They have
imperceptibly slowed down to change their course. A miss for one driver, a
simple brushing of the breasts for the other. A collective clamour greets the
first blood. Quickly, at the other end of the arena, the aurigas go down from
their trigae to make some adjustments, one the wheels, the other the sickle.
Then they set out again almost simultaneously, very fast. Their infernal run is
better, they pass more quickly, nearer. The blades seem to tear the
incandescent air. An atrocious cry rises. A breast has been deeply sliced, and
dark blood flows on the sand under the belly of one of the Christian women. The
third turn will inevitably signal the dichotomy of at least a breast, all the
spectators are sure about it and they hold their breathing at the beginning of
the run.
Alone, Calpurnia eats an apple quietly, without
expressing the least solidarity of gender regarding the two young torture
victims. Drusilla turns her head, almost shocked of hearing her teeth crunching
merrily at the acid fruit. Very quickly, a first breast lies under the sides of
a Christian woman, sprinkled by a fountain of crimson blood. The atrocious
cries of the young Christian are choked by the cheers of the crowd. The second
auriga is not long in being successful too, his scythe, skilfully placed after
having avoided the bronze stake, slices in the living flesh and completes the
ablation of the breast already cut. A few seconds later, despising the
anguished screams of the young mothers, the aurigas sever at the same time the
two other udders. Thus, the one who sliced the first breast off 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
aurigas. The superb charms which decorate the secutor, the large shield of the
mirmillo, seem to present to the voracious crowd four beautiful juicy grape
fruits. Drusilla looks with horrified fascination at her neighbor, an old man
with a crooked nose. The glotis of his emaciated chicken neck, covered with a
thin white badly-shaven thatch, is raising spasmodically while he watches the
breasts obligingly walked under his eyes.
A splendid sacrifice
Agatha cannot believe what she has just heard.
Regulus repeats gently that he is ready to save the last Christian women if she
makes him gift of her body. She shakes her head, incredulous; it is a trap, she
does not believe him. Confused feelings agitate her, whereas 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 another way, by pleading to Nero for mercy…
Then, very quickly, she makes her decision. Anything is better than remaining
in this hell. She refuses the hand which Regulus helds to her and she comes
out, preceding him. The Christian women make her an honor guard, because they
have the feeling that the young woman will sacrifice herself for them. Some
kneel and kiss her stola. Agatha blushes and begs them ro rise, caressing their
braids.
She is standing naked in front of Regulus. He
looks for a long moment at the splendid body that he dreamed to possess from
the first moment. He can ask anything, obtain everything. He knows that she is
a virgin, and that she will discover love with him, and pain humiliation at the
same time. He orders her to turn around, because he does not want to kiss her,
nor to see her large eyes piercing his mind. Harshly, he commands her to bend
down and spread her legs by posing her hands on a bench. The gladiators resting
room has never known such a beautiful woman. The prostitutes have impregnated
the crimson draperies with the scents of their strong perfumes, which mixed
with the rutting beast smell exhaled by the arena convicts. He caresses at
length the perfect protruding forms. Agatha cannot prevent being submerged by a
wave of desire, in spite of the humiliating posture that her sisters' killer
has obliged her to adopt.
When her armpits are gently brushed by long and
experienced fingers, she closes her eyes and bits her lip. Regulus' curving
hands soon close over her breasts. He raises gently her big tits and plays with
their oblong points. When they become very hard, Agatha awaits the relief of
being penetrated by the perfectly rigid sword rising between her large labia.
She has forgotten everything now, at the instant of discovering womanhood. It's
her who decides to spread her thighs to accept the male member more deeply. She
hastens her deflowering by brutally impaling herself, 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 the rise of her first true woman orgasm. She is submerged by a blinding
pleasure while Regulus just keeps his weapon deeply inside her, without taking
any active part. When Agatha rises up after a long moment, her breath short,
ashamed of having gained her pleasure in such a tragic day, she finds the hard
column of flesh, stained by herself, pointing towards her nose. She knows what
is now expected from her; 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 scent of the
penis covered with her own blood, she tries to imagines she is an Egyptian
courtisan, softly kissing the Pharaoh under the shade of the exotic palm trees.
She lovingly tickles his testicles,
holding them with her left hand. Her right hand caresses Regulus' side,
while her tongue drags along his member, which she cleans thoroughly. Regulus
tooks her head by the hair, pushing it away when the shivers of pleasure which
submerge him become unbearable.
Agatha is becoming used to the salty taste,
which submerges her as the first sperm gouts adds to her own blood. Now, she is
handling the marble rod with her left wrist, as if she were going to milk it in
her mouth. Her right hand keeps moving gently towards her enemy's belt. The
swollen sex starts now hammering her throat's bottom: Regulus cannot wait any
more to obtain release. Following her instinct of sensual woman, she draws
breath with irresistible force to receive the come. Her hand grabs the key with
an admirable self-control. She strongly pumps Regulus one last time, and he
throws his head back with a long choking cry. Agatha nimbly pushes the key at
the bottom of her natural cavity, whose torn hymen is no more an obstacle. When
she raises the head, dizzy with shame, she can read the deceit in Regulus
glance, sparkling 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 is in the middle of his meal. If you disturbed him, I fear that still
more terrible torments would fall on you”.
He has to laugh at his own witty remark. Agatha
coldly hates him, even if a part of him is encrusted at the bottom of her
matrix. She refrains from throwing at his neck, not wanting to risk the key.
She just says: “You Romans are monsters”. Regulus gloomily corrects her, “No,
we are simply the masters of the world”.
The end of the lovers
When they go down again to the cell, murmurs
greet Agatha's courage; the women are certain of what the girls can just guess.
Agatha is no longer a virgin, but the sacrifice of her decency will be useless,
because Regulus has just invited two more fighters to follow him. Casilda and
Elagia point themselves with a finger. They refuse to believe what they have
heard. Matching them to fight to the death is absurd, they cannot even consider
it. They hide their faces to mask their pain and their fear. Agatha has time to
wipe their tears right before Lentulus Batiatus' gladiators seize the poor
victims to prepare them.
In the calling room, they are entirely
undressed with ceremony, an honor awarded 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, the breasts of medium size but finely drawn are dressed up for a combat
which will not be love any more. Regulus inspects with expert eye the
harmonious 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 combat if the crowd asks for it. Casilda and Elagia are still hearing
Regulus' words while Lentulus Batiatus explains them the handling of their
weapons. Pushed at lance point, they pass under the lugubrious harrow and
slowly make their entry in the arena, sica in hand. This short dagger, of edges
sharp as a razor, is used by thraces, Thessalia's lively natives, when they
fight naked in duels to the death at the gladiatorial schools, under the
burning glance of the patricians. Casilda and Elagia do not realize immediately
why the crowd is cheering. They stupidly look around for other combatants. When
theirs buttocks are again pricked till they stand in the middle of the arena,
the sun drawing their huge shade, they abruptly understand how their life will
change 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 colors
in the stands. They turn around in confusion and finish stumbling on each
other. They gasp in alarm, this contact throws them into a panic, and they
awkwardly adopt a combat stand. Their mind empty, the young soults are revolted
by the idea of dying. To kill not to die is a reflex, preceding the thought of
killing to survive. The daggers are grabbed with more strength at the end of
the wrists, the dance of death which the crowd knows so well can start. They
turn towards the imperial lodge and say together:
“Ave
Caesar, moriturae te salutant”.
Clodia regains some interest for the spectacle,
which is no longer the sordid butchery of the morning. She remembers
immediately the engagements which her husband forces her to watch from time to
time in Capua, at the home of this pig Batiatus who devours her with his eyes.
She founds the technical explanations to his husband extremely boring, but she
is fascinated by the long animal sexes which beats on the thighs of the
fighters, even if she pretends to feel nothing. Marcus Gaius is not easily
deceived, as he knows quite well that the next night her wife will not let him
sleep before dawn. Sometimes, a cut on the prick, a favoured target, makes her
come, tongue stuck against her palate, lip nibbled till blood. Marcus Gaius
slightly rises from his seat, because for a fleeting moment he thinks she has
recognized the gladiatrixes.
The lovers fall in guard by reflex, like so
many gladiators before them. The dear pubic mounds now appear to them as the
black holes of hell, into which none wants to fall. The breasts of the rival
seems 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 sun rays
are quickly overheating the young bodies. Sweat mixes with the scented oils
which have ointed their breasts. Elagia is the first to lunge, and she falls on
her nose to the sand, under the crowd's laughter. 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 pointed right in front of her. She
would have pierced a bear, but Elagia evades her as if she is a raging bull,
swinging her bright blade in a reflex. Casilda's shoulder line is deeply
stabbed, the clavicle can be seen for a short moment before being swamped by a
red tide. Grimacing, she bends her knee and throws herselfs in a furious
charge, against the one she loved yesterday. Elagia manages to seize her wrist
before the blade of the sica is fully inserted in her belly. A deep wound draws
a belt of blood around her. They roll together in the ground, their lips trying
to bit. They have explored their bodies for so long that they know their utmost
secrets. The blades of the sicae swing at the end of their grabbed wrists to
pierce an eye, to slash a cheek which comforted so much, to cut out the nipples
tenderly sucked till dawn. They scream with pain and anger each time the razors
split the skins under the layer of brown sand. The spectacle is of a beauty and
brutality truly exceptional. There is no doubt that the crowd will ask for the
winner to be spared. The fight goes on for several minutes, and the pool of
blood under the two furies widens more and more. In fact, those bloodily
grappling 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 on the fragile pistil of
the burning flower. As in slow camera, the blade rises and falls down one last
time. The young bodies remain still, melded together in the arena, bound for
eternity.
The crowd applauds lengthily and Nero hastens
to steal the cheers by rising and saluting.
The end of the afternoon is drawing shades in
the steps on the east side of the Coliseum, when four new Christian women are
pushed into the slaughter-house. Shocked by the combat to the death which has
just been held, they thank God for being saved from a similar duel and hope for
a prompt death. When a buffalo herd enters through the Triumphal Gate, they
have the foreboding that their death will be atrocious too, and they fall to
their knees, hiding their faces. They have lost their strength and they let
themselves be undressed with no resistance in front of the turris. Lying face
up, their members are tied to big ropes, the straps on her wrists are fixed at
the bronze pins which already saw the torment of their sisters. Then, the ropes
around their ankles are tied to the yoke of a buffalo. The eight torturers who
will whip the buffaloes are spread all over the arena. When the males slowly
start moving, the bodies of the tortured victims are prodigiously extended,
with a wretched cracking of their joints. The howls of anguish mix in a single
chorus of pain, sobs and pleas. The living torture instruments are slowed down,
keeping the beautiful bodies fully stretched, their open vulvas offered to the
lust of the crowd. Four centurions advance, carrying badly trimmed ropes. The
barbs are true splinters which try to avoid while placing one end the ropes
over the bellies of their victims, before passing the other end under their
backs. They take both ends of the ropes and then move back some steps. The
women in the crowd have understood well before the men what is about to happen,
and the was envisaged and they try to hide their embarrassment, imagining in
advance the sufferings the Christian women must endure while the legionaries
have started a see-saw movement with their primitive torture instrument. At a
slow rhythm, so that the ropes can find a base in the natural openings, they
pull on the rough ropes first with one hand, then with the other, while
shouting mutual encouragements. They who only know the hastily taken favours
from slave women, now gain their pleasure by ravaging the love nests. The
legionaries have now found a steady rate, which allows the rope to bite more
deeply, touching just the wet tissues. In a short time the first drops of blood
appear, driven out by the infernal to and from. In spite of appalling traction,
the bellies manage to shake in the vain hope of saving the sacred wells from
the biting splinters. But, unrelentingly, the cords dig a fatal furrow in the
female crotches. The surface flesh is brutally shredded, the more serious
wounds paint with a tragic lipstick the vulvas, open for a bloody kiss. The
clitoris hoods, haven for so many secrets, disappear too, while the Christian
women howl the pain of losing their feminity.
It is the signal that the torturers were
waiting to excite the buffaloes. The plebs regain their spirits, betting on the
first pair of buffaloes which will tear off the members of its Christian woman.
They must not wait for long, because the weakest of the Christian women is
quickly dismembered. Her chest has barely touched the ground when her sisters
quickly accompany her in the release of death.
The
light meal of raw grain and stale bread is hardly touched by the handful of
surviving Christian women. They are lying, pressing the ones against the
others. Sulpicia endeavours to comfort them with her simple words of farm girl.
She raises the head of the young ones in her strong arms, rectifies a braid,
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
invaded the foul dungeon, hardly lit by the gleam of a thin torch posed in top
of the wall facing the grid, she rises up nimbly. She slips silently by 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 noise except distant snorting. She pushes gently against the
heavy grid, without refuses to budge an inch. She pushes again, refusing to
believe it. Nothing. She desperately looks everywhere before discovering a
second bolt over her head. With an heavy heart, she inserts very quickly her
key. She tries making it turn. Nothing. She understands at once the trap that
the infamous Roman prepared for her. She can almost hear him laughing, high in
the Caesar's lodge. She turns around and casts a long look at her sisters, who
are standing, watching her unable to breathe. She reads the endless
disappointment on their tired features, and some try choke a small sob in
respect for her. She falls to her knees and lets out a scream of animal hatred.
Chapter V - Fifth day - An ordinary day
Old men hoping to regain a bit of their sexual
strength, lost so long ago, have risen very early this morning. The patrician
women have covered their heads with Oriental-style mitras. Virgins or depraved,
they all come in hand-chairs. After the naumachias, staged naval engagements
which take place on the water-filled moats, everyone is looking at the tellam,
this counter-weight war machine, pride of Roman engineers, brought in by the
centuries during the night. When the emperor rises to impose silence on the
bucinae, the musicians put back their wind instrument, the histrions stop their
mimes, and all greet the Caesar with respect.
With a pout from his fat lips, Nero addresses
the inflamed crowd, praising Rome's warlike virtues, and explaining how its
enemies would be broken on the turris.
Calpurnia is a bit surprised by the concentric
circles, coloured like the rainbow, drawn in the middle of the turris. When she
understands, she leans towards her young cousin's neck: “It's funny, look
there, they will hold a shooting contest”. Drusilla shrugs her shoulders
without answering; she should not have returned, but she had no other plans for
today. She wonders what the little Roman who sits a bit below and to her right
could be thinking now. The young boy is fascinated, his eyes brilliant, and his
mother seems to supervise him closely.
Military exercise
Six Christian women will serve as living
projectiles for the two old centurions. Helped by the slaves, they have been
checking since dawn their somber ranges. They must now carry out some
adjustments, and amid whip blows they force their poor victims to pass one
after the other over a cattle weighing set. Their weights are carefully
recorded on a papyrus, while the Christian women groan like animals being led
to the slaughter-house. One of the martyrs suddenly tries to flee on her naked and
nimble feet, before being taken again. She is promptly bound and soundly
whipped until she breaks down. She voices her regret aloud, while trying to
sink in the sand to hide her pathetic flesh from the merciless slashes. It's
just a bloody heap which 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 broad spoon like a ball. While the slaves turn the cranks to tense the
terrible war machine, the young Christian woman 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 when the spoon strucks against the stop.
For a short instant, she flies through the air with an extraordinary feeling of
well-being and freedom. She believes she is ascending to the sky during this
moment of fleeting ingravity, then her heart stops just before exploding as her
body splashes against the turris. Some shouts of revolted amusement follow,
while the pulp of the martyrized body slowly oozes down the wall of the turris.
The centurion has scored an eight, duly recorded on a large panel. The second
Christian woman has turned insane and shakes her head from right to left,
unable to stop, while continuously laughing. Her strident laughter upsets the
other centurion, who hits her to make her stop while she too is placed in the
pan. A long whistle...
She turns into just a fleshy blob, which flows
gently down the side of the tower. Only a five, a bad shoot, 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, which does not prevent her from protesting vigorously. To keep his
concentration, the gunner leans a short moment over her, knife in hand. Choking
sounds can be heard soon, while a severed tongue falls on the sand. A seven
rewards the regularity of the elder centurion. A nine leaves both gunners
almost on a tie. Another eight obtained while striking with the previous to
last Christian forces the youngest of the two centurions to measure really well
the last martyr, a large girl whom the slaves have bound with the greatest
malice. To held her motionless at the bottom of the spoon, the centurion needs
more chains without adding more weight. He quickly finds a brilliant answer.
While the slaves seize her thick ankles and lift her panting body upside down,
the torturer swungs his sword and slashes off the two large, cumbersome
breasts. Without delay, the slaves quickly deliver the moaning package of pain
to the frightening machine. The spectators concentrate on the run of the human
missile. With a nauseating noise, a bloody frost takes shape around the ten.
Some bet pursers cry out with joy and hit themselves in the belly, while
sesterces change hands.
The afternoon will be devoted to drafting
venationes, these epitaphs which the Romans engrave on public columns in memory
of their ancestors, and the Christian women gain a short respite.
Chapter
VI Sixth day - the Last torments
The
last night of the condemned to death has been pathetic. The remaining Christian
women number just ten, the tragic Roman golden number for one day of spectacle.
Sulpicia and Agatha have comforted 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 forces, undermined
by the anguish of the waiting, they no longer have the strength to complain or
resist.
In the
early morning, the tinkling bells which herald the opening of Coliseum resound
like the death knell of their poor sinful lives. Standing up in the ray of
light which has appeared through the bars of the arena, Agatha looks like an
angel of light arrived to give them the comfort of a merciful absolution. They
have all forgotten that Agatha did not receive any sacrament, so much they want
to listen to her appeasing words.
The
squeaking of the rusted grid is a stab which pierces their entrails. The four
Christian women chosen by the guards are torn off from their sisters arms,
while once again Agatha and Sulpicia are pushed back by the lance points.
Naked, they are led to the base of the footbridges which lead to the top of the
turris. Each one is forced to climb her via crucis while carrying the chains of
a ship's anchor. They struggle under the enormous burden, stimulated by whip
blows which seek their fine ankles. Exhausted, they end their calvary by
falling down on the platforms. The slaves don't leave them any respite, and
they circle their legs with the enormous links. None can rise up to greet the
arrival of the centurions. While the slaves hurriedly go down again, each
centurion presents to the crowd a large wicker basket, while holding a torch
with the other hand. Defeated, exhausted, the young Christian women see them
seizing the handles together and reversing the baskets as soon as Nero makes
his signal.
When
the cobras escape their prison, Agatha understands all the Roman wickedness.
With their hands free, but their legs bound, the young women will be unable to
escape the trap which the centurions prepare to them by pushing back the
reptiles with their torches. Their worst nightmare comes true when the snakes
undulate very quickly in front of them. Ten cobras are now turning around the
martyrs, which crawl hopelessly along the edges of the tower. They are too much
terrorized to just keep begging, and with the strength which gives an absolute
fear, they pull on the enormous chains which are holding them. The hissing from
the menacing heads come 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 turris. The others move unceasingly
until their forces betray them. The reptilian big green and brown heads swing
over their preys, their tails keep furiously tapping against the floor. A gasp,
then another, accompanied by horrible cries, then the withdrawal of the flat
heads, whose fangs are still oozing, and which seem to observe the effect of
their attacks. One after the other, they are pricked, and each bite 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 at the end of their
lances just like the cattle is prickled to move on. The last Christian women,
except Agatha, are presented to the jubilant crowd while Sulpicia is prepared
in the gladiators calling room. The tall youngster has the privilege to choose
her weapons. She takes a scutulum, kind of small shield which will enable her
to avoid the blows from beast claws, as well as from a trident. Completely
naked, she refuses the mail coat which is offered to her, in order not to be
weighed down. She now watches with piercing eyes the gladiator who is facing
her. He can recognize an exceptional woman, and he quietly gives her some brief
advice, from fighter to fighter.
When
she enters the arena, the last Christian females, a mother and her three young
girls, are perched at the top of the turris which is facing Nero. They are
chained together, as welded for a tragic set-piece. They raise their arms to
the sky to beseech the forgiveness of their God and a fast death. Echoing their
prayers, a roaring comes from the beasts area. While Sulpicia is still
disoriented by the vastness of the arena, she can also hear the sinister
warning. She runs immediately towards the start of the footbridge. Just in
time.
Three
Galilea lions, large males whose broad manes flap like banners, nimbly move in
front of her. They observe her idly, almost bored, while purring gently. They
move cunningly on her sides, to test her. With each bolder dash, they meet a
trident fork pointed firmly under their snouts. They gradually grow irritated,
impatient to obtain the food which they have been promised. They have not been
not fed for three days. The odor of the young Christian's menstrual blood,
which spreads on the sand, brutally pokes their appetite. With a big roar, the
youngest leaps on Sulpicia. Under the crowd's cheering, she steps sideway at
the last time and the beast passes over her head, while she rewards him with a
vigorous trident blow. The lion lets out an horrible howling of rage while
falling down on the ground. He's seriously wounded and licks his deep wounds
furiously. An old male has expertly observed the first blood running. While
Sulpicia goes back in guard, he curves his run at the last moment. The power of
the young athlete enables her to follow the run until the end, and to present again
the harpoon points in front of the animal's snout. She darts her weapon like a
whip lash. An astonished shout from the crowd. The beasts shakes her head
wildly, he has lost an eye. For the first time, the crowd seems to support one
of the Christian women, and Nero, as a cunny politician, does not miss this
subtle change. Sulpicia is alerted by the warnings of crowd, but she turns over
just a little too late. Claws seize her legs, and she rolls on the ground. The
last beast hesitates a little, then crosses the footbridge under the anguished
cries of the crowd.
Marcus
Gaius seizes the arms of Clodia and her friend Fulvia: “She's her! I can
recognize her”.
“Which
one?”.
“She
and the others, they are actresses. Yes, you must remember them, Plauto's play,
in the Via Appia theatre! ”.
“It's
horrible, all these young actresses who charmed us so much… They finished
completely exhausted, it was so hot”.
“Oh,
no, not them! ! ! I even went to congratulate the one who played Athena”.
“Marcus,
you must go see Nero and request him mercy, for this one at least”.
Agatha
slowly emerges from her dazed state. She passes her head through the bars,
letting the light northern breeze refresh her feverish 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 with her friend's first feints. When
she falls to the ground, brought down by the leg blow, Agatha shakes the bars
like a mad woman. Without even realizing what she is doing, she tooks the key
forgotten in a corner and leaves the cell.
Nobody
in sight. All the gladiators and slaves are watching the spectacle from a
cabin, a bit higher up. She emerges on the arena, under cries of surprise. A
splendid, naked Juno, she seizes a long mirmillon’s sword and covers her noble
face with a helmet in the shape of a fish head.
Sulpicia
is wrestling in a powerful embrace with the fallen beast. She tries to avoid
the claw blows which streak her sides and the stinking bites which lacerate her
breasts. She is now severely wounded and her pain screams mix with the beast
roars. Calpurnia poses her hand on Drusilla's shoulder. At the same time,
thousands of Romans are holding their breath. Laying in his triclinium, the
three-places bed, Nero himself has pushed back the slave who is fondling his
rod gently, hidden by magnificent hangings woven in golden thread. Captivated
by the uncertain duel, he rises and leans on the railing.
Agatha
distracts the old male before he jumps on Sulpicia. She keeps turning around
him, pressing him to cross the footbridge. The beast shakes his mane wildly,
trying to get rid of his ruined eye which is hanging loosely. Frenzied by the
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, which
it is mauling in jerks. With a supreme effort, her hand finds the end of the
trident behind her head. She finds the strength to seize it and stab furiously
the blood-dripping mane.
The
last lion arrives at the top of the turris by smelling the track of the young
Christians. Excited by the shouting crowd, he leaps immediately on the
prostrated family, which scatters amid screams. He quickly moves against the
chosen prey, and his snout slips down towards the pubis of the young woman. His
powerful jaws close on the vulva fleshy lips, while the martyr shrieks and hits
the killing snout with her small fists.
Sulpicia
manages to push away the dying beast, whose cold fur seems to cling to her
flesh, and she staggers to her feet. Agatha strucks a sword blow which deflects
the old male frantic course. His snout terribly slashed, a broken fang, he
howls while he scatters myriads of blood droplets 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 brushing her breast, she sinks
her weapon in the lion's heart.
Sulpicia
has collapsed. She bathes in her own blood, arms spread. Carried by the impact,
her hand still contracted on the massive sword, Agatha rises up and pulls free
the heavy bronze sword. She cuts down at the panting body, time and again. Then
she runs towards her friend. She raises her head, but Sulpicia finds the force
to push her back: “The others…. ”, before closing again her eyes forever.
The
crowd is on the brink of hysteria when Agatha crosses the footbridge. Her feet
seem to fly on the footbridge and to rebound on the oak logs with each tread.
She encounters a disaster. Two of the sisters lie dying, the last is seriously
wounded, and the beast in turning away from the mother's body to complete his
work. Agatha has been clever enough to put the sun to her back, and this
dazzles the young, impatient and satisfied male. He advances slowly, grunting
in a low tone. Agatha moves back to the edge of the turris. 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 quivering and sensitive snout notched. He instantly leaps
forward, facing the sun. The prey evades him, the blazing shade opens her arms,
and the lion falls down, a deadly fall streaked with terror.
The
crowd remains dumb with surprise. Then her name soars up, taken at first by
hundreds, then by thousands of throats: “AGATHA - AGATHA - “ and soon a clamour
“AGATHA, AGATHA, AGATHA ”.
Regulus
very quickly joins Nero in his lodge, because he can scent the danger. Quite
simply, he can't allow to live the only one who heard him promising to kill
Nero, to conquer her heart. Nero's soft cheeks are shaking with spite.
Everywhere the acclamations rise, claiming mercy for the stupid Christian woman
who has ruined the games, perfect until now. It has just gotten rid of Marcus Gaius
at the door of his cabin, and is hesitating since a long moment. Regulus
perceives his embarrassment and whispers some words to his ear. Relieved, Nero
leans over the platform:
“Romans,
I have just learned that these infamous Christians, not satisfied with having
burned your houses and your temples, sacrificed to their wretched God some
babies, in the residence of the noble senator Albus, after having killed him”
He stops, conscious of his effect, before continuing with a voice broken by the
emotion “I require solemnly of you, oh Romans, which fate for these monsters?
”. “DEATH”, answers the unanimous and upset crowd. Agatha screams in vain to
cover the lies of her sisters' assassin. Her vain protest is carried away by
the thundering tide of the plebs 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 turris. 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
nerves. Marcus Gaius, troubled by Nero's irritation, runs behind her in the
corridor which skirts the vomitorium.
A burst of general laughter greets the entry of
a young lion, a stray latecomer who was still sleeping a few minutes before. He
smells the carcasses of his kindred for a few moments, then leans on Sulpicia,
shaking her corpse with little, cautious leg blows.
Drusilla hears a childish voice rising a little
lower and to her right: “Mom, look at that poor lion which does not have her
Christian”. Instead of giggling like everyone around her, Drusilla finally
takes her decision. She raises her cousin's arm, placed 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 nervously shaking her fan, while
waiting in her hand-chair. She has just noticed a silhouette moving with the
hesitant steps of a sleepwalker through the magnificent portic of the Coliseum.
Her glance wanders on the carceres, the enclosures of the monument, and is
veiled when the cruel clamours go up. The approaching girl is crying in
silence. Clodia raises the light curtain to silently open her door. She takes
Drusilla in her arms. The plebeian girl and the patrician woman need not
exchanging a single word.
This
last morning, in the lodges occupied by the courtesans, the rising breeze moves
a sea of umbellae, broad colourful umbrellas stoically held by slaves, happy
not to be themselves in the arena. It's a holiday, because the revolt of the
Christians will be definitively crushed with the torment of the one marked by
Nero as the last queen of the sect, a small putative girl of this Jesus
Iscariote. The four turris have burned all through the night, illuminating with
infernal flames the slaves who were building an immense platform square made
with oaks. It is crowned by another, smaller but circular, and able to swivel
on a carefully lubricated axis. Approximately five meters from the ground, well
visible from everywhere, a large Saint Andrew's cross was drawn up.
The centurions assigned to the torment of
Agatha prepare in the ergastulum, the room where slaves are punished. They are
the last three who have not participated in any torment. Marcellus Aurelius is
the elder. He regrets bitterly that the lions did not take the life from
Agatha, because 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
that his thirst for revenge is appeased, he is shaken by Nero's lie and the courage
of the Christian women. The cuttlefish ink covers the large panel fixed on a
turris, which reports Agatha's crimes. An ashaming epitaph, the tyrant's lies
raise nevertheless an indignation wave, and the murmurs become clamours when
Agatha enters the arena. Some exhalted try to cross the spina, the track which
separates them from the arena, but they must move back when the pilums of the
centurions threaten them.
Clodia
sits down at her husband's side. She whispers something to his ear. She has to
repeat it twice, before he incredulously turns to Fulvia and explains her 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 without violence the arm of this
superb woman who firmly advances towards the center of the arena. Something is
happening to him. He still does not know what is it. He just wishes that all
could end very quickly, a blow of sword and a drunken evening with whores to forget
everything. The other centurion is about to push Agatha to make her climb the
steps of the estrade, but she evades him, climbs them quickly and speaks with a
strong voice: “People of Rome, my brothers, the Christians are innocent of
Regulus' crimes. I die for my God. Pray for me”.
Nero gasps. Regulus turns pale. They both know
that the moral strength of the Christian woman has moved a crowd which starts
to remember again the splendid combat that she fought against the lions. They
do not need to confer to know how much important it's that she abjures from her
faith. Regulus goes down quickly to the arena. The moistness of the atmosphere
is exceptional for an end of morning.
Drusilla has also returned. She is not beside
Calpurnia. She seeks in the crowd some faces ready to cry like her. There are
now as many impassive faces as masks of hatred or lubricity.
The two impassive legionaries have seized
Agatha. She does not want to be touched more than necessary, and she undresses
herself. She contemplates the stupid mob looking at such a beauty, her arms
swinging, without provocation. The women are at the same time jealous in front
of this perfect body, and touched by such a virginal grace. A few human beasts
simply enjoy the spectacle of these forms which to their eyes will be always
lustful, and out of reach. They comfort themselves with great draughts of wine,
and they bite at meat sticks as if Agatha's breasts were filling their mouths.
Now, the most excited dare to relieve themselves only in the stinking latrinae.
While the stola dropped by Agatha flies away in
the nervous breeze, Regulus crosses the staircase with big strides. His face is
hidden by one of these masks of fury, so familiar to Agatha and used by the
Greek histrions. He spits his orders and Agatha is soon strapped to the rough
branches of the cross, head down. The superb body swings a few moments, trying
to find its place. Men hit their mates with the elbow, commenting on the
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 patrician lodges circulate murena eggs
marinated in spiced olive oil, and an insane rumour spreads along the
deambulatorium. On the edges of the Tiber, within a few miles of the suburbs, a
large black cloud rakes the dust and the leaves.
Regulus
contemplates a few moments the splendid body which he possessed and which he
has to ruin now, because, surely, Agatha will resist for a long time. His
fingers brush the fine and muscular hip of his lover. All women in the arena
perceive it without knowing why, it's as if they felt loved at the same moment.
They all hold their breath in hatred, love, respect or tenderness. He holds his
hand and it's Marcellus Aurelius who is closer 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 bar in a brownish clay bowl. Regulus
leans one moment on the beautiful face which begins to slightly flush. “You can
still stop everything: abjure now and become my slave forever”. Agatha becomes
pale and closes her eyes without answering. Regulus regretfully moves slowly
back. “Centurion, do your job”.
Drusilla
has dared covering her ears with her hands, not wishing to hear Agatha's first
screams. When she reopens her eyes, ready to be seized, she realizes with
surprise that nobody has noticed her gesture, so divided is the crowd in its
reactions.
The other centurion is doing his work
thoroughly. At first he has caressed the long retracted nipples, playing with
the breast tips and stretching them, raising the full and firm tits. This
ritual preparation is incredibly erotic, because the sweating skin frequently
slips under the soldier's rough fingers. To be finally effective, the torturer
ends up holding with a firm hand the left breast, forcing the nipple to bulge
out. The women held their breath at this precise moment, when the leather bit
of the pliers seize the delicate breast tip. The centurion seems to hesitate
one moment, as seized by a doubt. He regains his wits very quickly and firmly
clamp down the jaws of his terrible instrument.
Agatha's scream is terrible. The centurion has
instructions not to tear off the nipple, which retracts, badly chewed up, and
sweat beads slip down the young martyr's face. She is still groaning when her
other breast is equally devastated. Her continuing howls strike the crowd,
because they come from a courageous fighter, and many start to identify
themselves with her torment. The air is becoming heavy.
Regulus
pushes back the centurion. He hisses between his teeth: “That's nothing for
now, you still will be able to nourish your children if you want to live. Do
it, abjure…”. Time seems to become still in the arena. A singular luminosity
lights the Coliseum, as if the sun was prematurely throwing its last rays of
the day. Two thin blood trails ooze from the aureolas mangled by the infernal
pliers. They are spreading on the admirable face, weaving a savage mask of
pain. Agatha groans “I loved you… GO TO HELL”.
Regulus takes care to satisfy all the public.
He gestures to the slaves appointed with slowly making turn the gear. Their
sandals deeply inserted in the sand, arching with their pushing effort, the
chest driving the large bars which resemble the circular rudder of a ship. Amid
the crowd, some start to shout “Abjure, Agatha ! ! ! Abjure, Agatha ! ! ! ”.
A slave has just helped Nero to vomit, to make
place for an excellent cake of honeyed bilberries from Sicily. He is displeased
with the turning of events, but the position of the Christian woman inspires to
him an evil idea for better ridiculing her. He pushes back the analecta, the
slave appointed to collect the remainders of the meals. His orders hammered at
the ear of a large eunuch are short and precise. Before Regulus gives the order
to re-start the torment, his eyes raised towards the threatening horizon, a
Nero slave goes up in great strides on the platform. The huge mandinga shakes
his shoulders, letting his rough sisura fall down, and remains naked in front
of the crowd, revealing an exceptional size, even for a black. The men laugh
with jealousy, wishing to be armed themselves with such a club to whip Agatha's
buttocks. But the huge sex tosses from one buttock to another, an ebony liana
which can only whip but unable to penetrate. The distress of the large negro is
almost comic now. He awkwardly tries to introduce his rod, too large, too soft,
in the smaller of the openings offered to him. Under the hootings of the crowd,
he ends up giving up, his face crimson. The word of miracle starts to spread in
some steps.
The archers are waiting for the black giant at
the feet of the platform. Their bow-strings are quickly loosened. While the
huge corpse is carried away to the tigers, Regulus approaches again: ”You
bewitched him, didn't you, bloody Christian? Very well, you will regret that
this sex did not penetrate you”.
Marcus
Aurelius feels an enormous weight on his chest, to which is added the very low
atmospheric pressure. He is tired, is tired beyond any understanding. But he
rises nevertheless to seize a hollow ox horn.
He has just gone up on the platform and his
eyes have found the young woman's intense glance. Don't do it, she appears to
say with her huge green eyes, which he cannot leave any more, although they are
upside down. Softly, he slowly introduces the point of the horn, careful of not
wounding the tender opening with the asperities of its notched edges. He has
not yet taken the decision with his mind, but his body has already started
protecting the young martyr.
With a mechanical step, he goes down again to
seek the molten lead bucket which is still bubbling. He slowly goes up on the
platform and then he becomes completely still. The crowd perceives by instinct
that something is about to happen. From afar, a thunderclap seems to signal the
start of the disaster. Very quickly, Marcus Aurelius throws the bowl and its
contents against Regulus. He leaps down the steps, while seizing a pilum, and
rushes towards the imperial lodge. From every corner lances and arrows come
whistling. His body pierced, the centurion launches his pilum in a supreme and
terrible effort. The heavy lance, driven in the doric column, quivers a long
moment over Nero's head. Lying on the floor, the king of the world has soiled
himself.
The hallucinated glance of the legionary
alerted Regulus just in time, and his combat instinct made him step back. A
split second was enough for him to escape the burning rain. Some drops end
consuming his tunic, which he furiously throws behind. The crowd starts to
thunder, in echo with the thunderclaps which are coming closer, a kind of deafening
murmur of reprobation, from where only a few acclamations rise up, asking for
the torment of the martyr to begin again.
Nero has
changed clothes very quickly, he throws his soiled peplum on the face of the
large eunuch. The slave already knows that he will be dead this evening, for
having witnessed the tyrant's weakness. Regulus feels that the deep heart of
the crowd is changing. The torment should be accelerated, even if Agatha is to
perish before having denied her God. A sharp wind seems to send in vanguard
some rain drops. He removes his helmet and leans on Agatha. He looks for an
instant at the grotesque outgrowth which covers the beloved mound. With no more
hesitation, he gives it a violent blow of his fist.
“HAA”, makes Agatha, while letting out a long
moaning. The horn has almost disappeared at the bottom of her vagina, painfully
blocked by the collar of her matrix. Only the edge is visible, a disconcerting
white collar perched at the top of an exuberant jungle. It is a vulva of bone
which seems to yawn for the whole arena. A smoking handle is handed over to
Regulus by the last centurion. The women can almost feel the noxious touch of
the molten lead, but it's not in the Saturn temple that this priest will make
the offering. Regulus raises the ladle very high, within sight of everyone and
especially of Agatha. The burning liquid runs gently. The first drops hesitate
over the edges of the horn, have time to smoke and cool off, embroidering a
silver-plated collar which thickens very quickly. The flow accelerates a
little. A sudden start and a long wail let the crowd know that the delicate
membranes have just been attacked. A small cloud of smoke escapes, in rhythm
with the jets which seem to strike the perfect body. They punctuate the
suffering which upsets the admirable forms for the pleasure of crowd.
A deaf cracking splits the heart of the less
cruel people. The tendons of Agatha's members, seized with pain, are yielding
one after the other, because the fire has started to reach her entrails. Her
shrieks touch even Regulus. The lips torn by her own bites murmur: “Kill me….
now, right now! !”.
“First you must abjure, don't be obstinated… ”.
The face, disfigured by the suffering, falls down. Regulus needs a diversion,
he must gain back the crowd's feelings. His fingers seize with care the edge of
the horn, and he pulls it back. When he raises his head, he is surprised to see
how much the horizon has been covered by the black cloud. He moves aside now to
let the centurion do his work, careful not to hinder Nero's view.
The red-hot pincers are shining in the arena,
because the sun has withdrawn completely.
“ffffsssiiiizzzzzzzzzzzzz”.
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhh”.
“ffffsssiiiizzzzzzzzzzzzz”.
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhh”.
“ffffsssiiiizzzzzzzzzzzzz”.
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhh”.
“ffffsssiiiizzzzzzzzzzzzz”.
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhh”.
Ten, twenty times, the horrible sizzling
precedes the scream of agony. Every time the pincers seem to be seeking for a
target a few seconds, but this is only to let the Christian woman better enjoy
the waiting. The first to cover with unpleasant blisters of scarlet pus are the
sides of the proud nipples, after the wooden bites have left bluish trails over
them. Then these blisters are thoroughly crushed, and the newly heated pliers
come biting more deeply at the scraps of flesh of the young servant of God. In
spite of the violent swinging of her bust to escape them, the fire kisses
gradually destroy the luscious breasts. They accompany them without respite in
their frantic movements, which now are slowing down. Larger pliers are awaiting
their turn, and the women have understood from the beginning their tragic
function.
Regulus
tries to score a success. He pushes back the dedicated centurion. His hand
plunges in the outraged slit. He shows to the silent crowd the moulding of the
profaned sex. The dark sculpture looks like a representation of rape and evil.
Another lead cover seems to weigh on the arena. The crowd lowers the head under
a first lightning flash. Displeased with the failed effect, Regulus seizes
himself a pair of enormous pincers.
“YYYYYYYYYYEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEH”. He has seized a
smoking long nipple, and is crushing it while turning his instrument. He now
pulls a little, then strongly and strongly. He steps back when the nipple and
its broad aureola come off at the same time, blackened with burned blood.
Regulus hears a murmur of extatic anguish: “Quo vadis, Domine?”
The
centurion has revived Agatha with salts. It's him who tears off the other
nipple, he has bit more deeply in the flesh and puts some effort to twist and
tear the muscle. Regulus turns his head to weight the feeling of this plebs
from which himself has risen, and his instinct lets him know that something
serious is happening. A darkness like the end of the world seems to have fallen
down on the arena. A light rain makes its appearance. Regulus does not have
even a glance for the superb, devastated body. His arm rises to shorten the
butchery and he plunges himself the sword in the beloved belly, from the
mutilated sex to the sternum. A haruspice hastens to excavate the entrails with
his wooden culticula, in order to predict the future as Nero has ordered him.
He soon raises a face gray with concern and chooses a lie: “Caesar, I have seen
your long life, you will be surrounded by the love and respect of your whole
people”. Nero rises up. He greets the crowd without knowing that his days are
counted too. Without knowing that the Seventh legion, under command of Consul Alba
is one day march away, and that the time is coming when he will have to beg a
faithful slave to help him sink a sword into his own chest.
A downpour is now driving the crowd out.
THE END
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