Moriturae te salutant

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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