Fists of Iron: Barbarian of Rome Chronicles Volume Two by Nick Morris Page B

that he’d been impressed by her speed and agility, and she’d killed well. He heard later that she’d achieved considerable success before being disembowelled by a boar in the old Etruscan town of Sabatia. A pity, as he would have liked to see her perform again, as she’d displayed a unique but no less deadly gracefulness quite unlike anything he’d witnessed in her male counter-parts.
    Drilgisa was shackled to the cross shaped punishment post. He wore only a loin cloth.
    The flogging was to be administered by Quartus; a ludus guard physically and temperamentally suited to the task. The brawny guard wore only a thin tunic, ready for the exertion ahead. Quartus was a mean natured bastard, but Belua had to admit that he was unmatched when it came to accurately laying on with the lash. He stood close-by, flexing his arms and stretching his shoulders.
    The familiar lash had six leather thongs, the ends of which were tightly knotted to ensure grippage on contact with the victim’s flesh. Dark stains were clearly visible, testament to the lash’s history. Quartus casually drew the thongs through the fingers of one hand as if savouring the touch of the soiled leather.
    Belua turned his attention to the assembled men.
    “For disobedience Drilgisa will suffer fifty strokes of the lash. Let it be a lesson to all.” He knew that few words were necessary. The lash would speak for it itself.
    His warning was met by silence and a few slowly nodding heads.
    He strode to the punishment post. Standing close he spoke quietly to Drligisa,
    “Remember that it was your pride that brought you to this.” He produced a small roll of leather from the inside of his tunic and placed it against Drilgisa’s lips. “Here, this will stop you biting off your tongue.”
    He watched the Dacian bite into it, empty eyes staring straight ahead.
    He beckoned Quartus forwards.
    “Ready,” he asked.
    Quartus nodded and Belua stood back.
    The swish of leather sang in the hushed quiet. Quartus grunted as he put the full weight of his body into the blow. Drilgisa’s body jerked as the lash’s tentacles wrapped around his back and sides, seeming to stick for a brief moment.
    Bright red welts bloomed across Drilgisa’s flesh.
    “One,” Belua barked.
    Drilgisa was ready for the second stroke and the muscles stood out on the backs of his arms and across his shoulders as he tensed them.
    Quartus paused to get his breath on the twentieth stroke. Drilgisa’s body constantly shook under the punishment, his back a scarlet latticework of raised flesh. The skin was ruptured in places and blood trickled like dark honey. The Dacian had not as yet cried out.
    “Proceed,” Belua instructed the red-faced guard. He looked to the assembled troupe, quickly scanning the array of sombre faces. He noted that young Cito, a new arrival from Syria, had emptied his breakfast onto the palaestra. He’ll get used to it , he mused.
    At the fortieth stroke Quartus rested again. His blows has become more ragged as he’d tired, and a number had struck Drilgisa around the neck and head.
    “Be careful,” Belua growled. “If you blind him you’ll take his place.”
    Quartus nodded that he understood and then drew back his arm. The blow landed, accompanied by a wet thwacking sound. The Dacian’s legs crumpled, leaving him hanging like a bloody puppet from his shackles. The roll of leather dropped from his slack mouth to the floor. It was stained bright red.
    The fiftieth stroke had been delivered and Belua watched impassively as two guards released Drilgisa from his chains. He’d been unconscious for a while. Laid face down one of the guards doused his back with clean water before applying a coat of finely ground salt to help prevent infection.
    ”Take him to the infirmary,” Belua instructed
    Quartus, bathed in sweat, wiped the blood and bits of skin from his lash with a wet rag. “Didn’t make a sound.” He directed his comment at Belua. “He‘s the first. I must