couldn’t bring herself to do it. At the very least, Spartacus and his comrades deserved someone to stand witness to their terrible fate.
‘Continue, Polles,’ directed the king.
‘The traitors are to be whipped first. Forty lashes for each man.’ He indicated the tools on the table beside him with an evil smile. ‘Then the real torture will begin. When we’re done, I will slit their throats and move on to the other scumbags.’ He glanced at Kotys.
‘Luckily for you miserable goat-turds,’ the king thundered, ‘the tribe cannot afford to lose so many warriors. I have therefore decided that one in six of you will die. Ten men, drawn by lot. The rest of you will swear undying allegiance to me, and will provide a hostage as surety of this newfound allegiance.’
The crowd’s unhappiness soared, and they pressed forward at the bodyguards, who used their javelin butts to restore control. Ariadne’s rage knew no bounds. She had to stop herself from leaping out at the king and trying to kill him. Dionysus, help me, please .
‘Start with Spartacus,’ commanded Kotys.
Ariadne could not watch, but she nor could she block her ears to the horror. There was a sibilant whisper as the whip hissed through the air. Next came the crack as it connected with Spartacus’ flesh. Last – and worst of all – came his stifled groan. Within a couple of heartbeats, Polles brought the whip down again. And again. And again. It was unbearable. To stop herself from crying out, Ariadne bit the inside of her lip. It wasn’t long before the metallic taste of blood filled her mouth, but rather than release her grip, she clamped her teeth even tighter. Somehow, the agonising pain filling her head made it easier to listen to Spartacus’ ordeal.
By the time that Spartacus had counted twenty lashes, he could feel his strength slipping away. He was angered, but unsurprised. During his time with the legions, he had seen soldiers whipped on plenty of occasions. By forty lashes, he’d be semi-conscious, the flesh of his back in tatters. If Polles was ordered to continue beyond that, he would know nothing after sixty strokes. From that point, he could easily die from his injuries. That thought brought a fleeting, sour smile to Spartacus’ lips. Kotys wouldn’t want him to die under the lash. It would end at fifty strokes. Only then would the true pain begin. He’d seen the table covered in the tools of the trade: the pliers, probes and serrated blades, the glowing brazier alongside. Still his experience didn’t seem real. It felt like a complete aberration. Beaten and tortured to death in my own village. How … ironic .
Spartacus didn’t hear the challenge of the sentry at the gate.
Kotys, Polles, Ariadne and those watching the gory spectacle were also oblivious.
It was when the column of men filed inside the walls that people began to notice. Heads began to turn. Men asked questions of each other. Some even broke away to go and speak with the newcomers. Ariadne craned her head, but the throng prevented her from seeing anything. Eventually, even the king became aware that something was going on and ordered Polles to cease.
With a disappointed look, the champion obeyed.
Sucking in a ragged breath, Spartacus sagged against the wooden frame. He had no idea why Polles had stopped. The short delay was welcome, however. It would give him the chance to recover some of his strength. Allow him to endure more of the pain when it resumed. He caught Ariadne looking at him, and the agonised expression on her face tore at his conscience. He tried to smile in reassurance, but succeeded only in grimacing. Great Rider, protect her at least .
‘Let them approach,’ shouted Kotys.
There was a short delay as his bodyguards manhandled people out of the way to create a path leading towards the gate. Curious, Spartacus squinted to see who, or what, had halted his punishment.
The first person to come striding into sight was a shaven-headed, blocky
‘Continue, Polles,’ directed the king.
‘The traitors are to be whipped first. Forty lashes for each man.’ He indicated the tools on the table beside him with an evil smile. ‘Then the real torture will begin. When we’re done, I will slit their throats and move on to the other scumbags.’ He glanced at Kotys.
‘Luckily for you miserable goat-turds,’ the king thundered, ‘the tribe cannot afford to lose so many warriors. I have therefore decided that one in six of you will die. Ten men, drawn by lot. The rest of you will swear undying allegiance to me, and will provide a hostage as surety of this newfound allegiance.’
The crowd’s unhappiness soared, and they pressed forward at the bodyguards, who used their javelin butts to restore control. Ariadne’s rage knew no bounds. She had to stop herself from leaping out at the king and trying to kill him. Dionysus, help me, please .
‘Start with Spartacus,’ commanded Kotys.
Ariadne could not watch, but she nor could she block her ears to the horror. There was a sibilant whisper as the whip hissed through the air. Next came the crack as it connected with Spartacus’ flesh. Last – and worst of all – came his stifled groan. Within a couple of heartbeats, Polles brought the whip down again. And again. And again. It was unbearable. To stop herself from crying out, Ariadne bit the inside of her lip. It wasn’t long before the metallic taste of blood filled her mouth, but rather than release her grip, she clamped her teeth even tighter. Somehow, the agonising pain filling her head made it easier to listen to Spartacus’ ordeal.
By the time that Spartacus had counted twenty lashes, he could feel his strength slipping away. He was angered, but unsurprised. During his time with the legions, he had seen soldiers whipped on plenty of occasions. By forty lashes, he’d be semi-conscious, the flesh of his back in tatters. If Polles was ordered to continue beyond that, he would know nothing after sixty strokes. From that point, he could easily die from his injuries. That thought brought a fleeting, sour smile to Spartacus’ lips. Kotys wouldn’t want him to die under the lash. It would end at fifty strokes. Only then would the true pain begin. He’d seen the table covered in the tools of the trade: the pliers, probes and serrated blades, the glowing brazier alongside. Still his experience didn’t seem real. It felt like a complete aberration. Beaten and tortured to death in my own village. How … ironic .
Spartacus didn’t hear the challenge of the sentry at the gate.
Kotys, Polles, Ariadne and those watching the gory spectacle were also oblivious.
It was when the column of men filed inside the walls that people began to notice. Heads began to turn. Men asked questions of each other. Some even broke away to go and speak with the newcomers. Ariadne craned her head, but the throng prevented her from seeing anything. Eventually, even the king became aware that something was going on and ordered Polles to cease.
With a disappointed look, the champion obeyed.
Sucking in a ragged breath, Spartacus sagged against the wooden frame. He had no idea why Polles had stopped. The short delay was welcome, however. It would give him the chance to recover some of his strength. Allow him to endure more of the pain when it resumed. He caught Ariadne looking at him, and the agonised expression on her face tore at his conscience. He tried to smile in reassurance, but succeeded only in grimacing. Great Rider, protect her at least .
‘Let them approach,’ shouted Kotys.
There was a short delay as his bodyguards manhandled people out of the way to create a path leading towards the gate. Curious, Spartacus squinted to see who, or what, had halted his punishment.
The first person to come striding into sight was a shaven-headed, blocky
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