Sacrifices

Part three.

Close friends since early boyhood, the two boys after that holiday became inseparable, always hanging out together, even after Drusus' father a year later, following the sudden death of the last member of the ruling dynasty, was proclaimed emperor by the troops he successfully had led from victory to victory before entering the Senate. Not that the sudden rise to power and fame went to his son's head or made the two boys run wild. Unlike Drusus' younger step-brother, Publius, who became loathed and feared by the ordinary citizens of Rome when he began roaming round town with a gang of similar minded friends, they took their studies of law seriously, worked out in the gym every day and trained hard with a retired centurion to prepare for joining the army. Only their sex habits were rather wild, but they kept that part of their life strictly private and it was only their slaves who suffered. Marcus even won the Emperor's approval when he lured his friend away from his unbecoming infatuation with the slavegirl. When they turned seventeen they had to part. Drusus to go to Gallia and Marcus to earn his spurs in Judaea.

He went as an honorary aide to his uncle, but begged to see active service. The legate only reluctantly allowed it. Fighting the fierce tribes, who fearlessly placed their fate and destiny in the hands of their one and only god, was dangerous, and Marcus was his brother's only child, but at last the young man was given nominal command of a small troop of battle-scarred veterans, whose main task was to protect him with their lives. However, just a week later they were ambushed by a much larger force and cut off from other Roman troops, without any other option but to try fighting they way out.

It was a tired and bruised youngster, who in triumph led his little troop and their seven captives back to camp after having killed almost double that number, two of them with his own sword. His men hailed him and his uncle had to admit that there was more to the lad than he or his father had expected. As a reward and in recognition of his hard won position as a commander in his own right he was given the task of ridding the Empire of the captured rebels. It was done in the old-established way, by crucifixion. But Marcus wanted more than that and took his time; found out to which tribe the captives belonged, located their main village and raided it one morning at dawn. He brought the prisoners with him and they were helpless witnesses to the slaughter of their fellows, mostly old men, women and children, forced to see their houses burnt down and their crops destroyed. Seven teenage girls were spared, only to be dragged off for the next step in Marcus' revenge for the killing of one of his men in the skirmish.

Back in Judaea's capital city the male prisoners were marched naked to the main square at noon three days in a row for a public flogging. First suspended in a hogtie to have the soles of their feet beaten to bloody pulp, next dangling by their wrists to have their backs flogged until the ribs were visible and last upside down while their fronts suffered the same treatment. Each time they were left hanging until dusk. On the fourth day they were tied spread-eagle on a raised scaffold for all to see. Then the girls, naked and with their hands tied behind their backs, were brought to their knees beside them and, encouraged by a whip lashing across their budding breasts or frail shoulders, forced to suck on the helpless men's cocks until they, in spite of all efforts to stay limp, stood up, angry and waving, waiting for release. That came when two soldiers grabbed each of the girls to raise her over one of the poles, spreading her legs and lowering her onto it, pressing down until she with a scream indicated the she was no longer a virgin. Just then, when the first lover of her young life, perhaps a brother or a cousin, was staring at her in horror and shame, a soldier ensured that he stayed the first by slitting her throat, letting her lifeless body drop to the prisoner's chest, soaking him in her warm blood.

The scene of horror was left undisturbed but for the prisoners' shouts of anger or cries of sorrow, until dusk, when they were brought back to their cells. Finally, at dawn on the fifth day, they were stretched on the crosses, their wrists nailed to the crossbar and their feet on either side of the supporting pole with big iron spikes though their heels. Then a sharpened wooden dowel was rammed up their arseholes, but not far enough to cause the vital organs any harm, and nailed to the pole as a cruel seat when the crosses and their screaming burdens were heaved into holes in the ground and secured upright. When they at last were hanging there, a gruesome reminder to their countrymen of the ruthlessness of their conquerors, twine was tied around their genitals, cutting off the blood supply, and they were castrated. Their manhoods were nailed to the pole between their thighs. Two of them lasted three days on the crosses.

Marcus' revenge was praised by the common soldiers, and if the legate was dismayed by his nephew's brutality, he didn't show it, just gave him command of a larger force and sent them down south to root out a rebels' nest in the desert. Once again the young man, teenage boy rather, barely eighteen, showed bravery and cunning. Against the advice of his second in command, an experienced decurion his uncle had chosen carefully, he split up his troop in smaller groups, told them to leave all heavy equipment behind and gave them three days to steal into positions around the enemy camp. On the fourth dawn he made the agreed signal, a short, blinding burst of Greek fire, the secret weapon he had learned about as a young boy when his father briefly commanded the Misenium fleet, then, confident that his other men were ready, moved in his own troop. The raid came as a complete surprise for the rebels, who, even if outnumbering the Romans three to one, were mown down like hay by a scythe when attacked simultaneously from five different directions. Most of them were killed before they could arm themselves and the rest soon overpowered and taken prisoner.

The survivors were forced to destroy their own camp before the long march back towards the main city and Roman headquarters began. Each prisoner carried two pieces of timber, saved before their huts were burned, and once every ten miles of the ninety between battlefield and city a cross was made up and a naked man hung upon it, head down, widespread feet nailed to the crossbar by his heels and his severed genitals stuffed into his mouth. The veterans banged their swords on their shields when the legate promoted his nephew centurion, one of the youngest in Roman history, secretly doubting the future of the young hothead, who was expected to become an administrator, eventually a senator like his father, not a warrior. But for the greater cause, the sake of the Empire, the old commander overruled his family feelings and gave him command of a special force with orders to quell the natives' century old rebellion.

And he did, ruthlessly and mercilessly, became known among the terrified local tribes as ‘The Scourge of Judaea'. His devoted men conducted long, swift marches across country to make devastating dawn attacks on camps and villages, killing and destroying everyone and everything in their wake. If a rebel or his relatives died in such a raid, they could count themselves lucky, it was at least swift. If not, they were dragged off to a fate far worse. Crucifixion awaited them, of course, but before that they would be tortured and abused. Marcus' sadistic streak surfaced in earnest and he rewarded his men with the spoils of war. The business minded Romans usually turned the nations, they suppressed, into slaves. Rome depended on a steady supply. But the monotheistic people of Judaea were considered unsuitable for slavery, especially if rebelling against the invaders, so no one interfered if a successful commander destroyed what he had conquered.

Accordingly, the unlucky prisoners, teenage girls and boys not least, were left to the mercy, or rather lack thereof, of the legionnaires, who had their fill of raping virgin holes, whether it was a boyish arse or a girl's cunt or backdoor. And of course not only that. The victims were dead anyway, weren't they? Would decorate a cross within a few days. So why not have a little extra fun, now a poor legionnaire had the chance of savouring what the upper classes of the society they were fighting for considered their birthright. A trussed up, thoroughly whipped, screaming youngster is much more fun when it's your turn to rape her or him. And their revered commander set the example.

Until he met Rachel.

Marcus had long lost count of, if not the number of battles he had fought during the last 18 months, then the number of men he had killed and the endless succession of defenceless bodies trussed up on his bed, striped by his whip, ravaged by his hands and cock, when he one day was inspecting yet another batch of naked and chained captives and his eyes fell on a strikingly beautiful girl. Unlike her fellows she stood tall and proud, shoulders back and perfect breasts thrust out. When she saw him looking, her dark eyes caught his and held them boldly as if challenging him to conquer her. The young man suddenly felt a stab in his heart and heat rising in his loins and had to take a grip of himself to tear his eyes away and get back to the grim reality of lewdly grinning legionnaires and terrified prisoners. As usual they were dragged to a long horizontal bar, ten at a time, hung across it on their stomachs, wrists lashed to ankles and whipped until their arses were glowing crimson and they had screamed themselves hoarse. Then their torturers dropped the whips, raised their tunics to reveal ten hard and bobbing cocks, grabbed the flaming buttocks to wrench them apart and buried their tools in the virgin arseholes with one violent thrust. The air was filled with screams of pain and bellows of lust and Marcus was looking on with a grim smile, satisfied with the ferocity of his men, but this time something forced his eyes away from the scene. The other prisoners were looking shamed at the fate of their fellows and terrified that it would soon be their turn, but the dark girl was still standing calm and erect, looking steadily at him, even if it was obvious that she would be among the next ten across the bar. Marcus tried to tear his eyes away, but once again they were caught and held. Mentally shaking his head at his weakness he turned to the decurion beside him.

"Take her to my tent, now!" He nodded towards the girl.

The older man grinned lewdly, banged a fist on his breastplate and went over to drag her out of the line. Some of the other soldiers were nudging each other, exchanging smug smiles. Their beloved commander was in for a good, if not very restful night.

When he a couple of hours later after witnessing the initial punishment of the captives entered his tent, he found the girl leaning against the central pole, wrists and elbows lashed together behind it. She didn't utter a sound, but her calm eyes watched him when he caressed her firm breasts, pinching the nipples, and slid his hand down her flat belly to dug a finger between the pussy lips, sparsely covered by fine black hair. "I'm a virgin, Lord".

Her voice was husky, but calm as her eyes and he looked surprised at her.

"You speak Latin?"

"Yes, Lord".

Marcus took a step back and sat down on a campstool, reaching for a beaker of wine.

"How old are you?"

"Sixteen, Lord".

Her eyes followed the beaker when he raised it to have a sip.

"Thirsty?"

"Yes, Lord".

"Good!" He emptied the glass and she sighed.

"So you've never had a man?"

"Yes, Lord, but not inside me".

His eyebrows rose questioningly. "Then how?"

"A woman can please a man with her mouth, Lord".

"True, and you have?"

"Yes, Lord".

"More than once?"

"Many times, lord".

"Why?"

"I'm a slave, Lord, and served my master and his sons".

"Why didn't they make full use of you then?"

"They were planning to sell me and virgins fetch a higher price, Lord. I was taught your tongue for the same reason".

He nodded his understanding and filled the beaker again, then rose to circle her. The straight back and pert little arse displayed a pattern of fresh and faded stripes.

"You've been whipped recently, why?"

"Slaves are whipped, Lord".

"As a punishment or for fun?"

"Both, Lord".

He went back in front of her and held the beaker to her lips. She drank deeply and sent him a grateful smile.

"Thank you, Lord".

Marcus sat down again. "So you are not of the rebel tribe?"

"I am, Lord".

"Then why a slave?"

"My parents sold me, Lord. We were seven sisters and girls need dowries".

He nodded. "You should have lied about your ancestry. It might have spared you a painful end".

"You would have discovered the truth anyway, Lord. One of my master's sons is among the prisoners. He would not have gone to his death without making sure that I followed".

"So you know that you'll be crucified?

"Yes, Lord". Her eyes didn't waver.

"But are not afraid?"

"I am, Lord, but giving in to my fear won't make my death easier".

He nodded again and rose to untie the ropes cutting deeply into her delicate skin. Her arms fell limply by her sides, but she didn't move or tried rubbing her wrists.

"Show me your skills".

He sat down again, drawing up the hem of his tunic. She dropped gracefully to her knees and ambled closer to catch his erect cock in a small hand and bend over it to let her tongue slide slowly up and down the shaft, then bowed lower so suck on his balls. She hadn't lied, she really was a skilled cocksucker, who knew how to please a man, bringing him the point of erupting again and again, sucking, blowing, licking, until Marcus almost went wild with lust and she at last took him all the way down her throat and he exploded, shooting his hot semen directly into her belly. Later that night, after he had shared his evening meal with her, she lost her virginity, twice. But for once Marcus didn't mix pleasure with pain, even tried to take her as gently as possible.

She was sound asleep on the floor beside his bed, while he rested on an elbow, looking down at the naked beauty. He had hogtied her, securely, but not too painfully, she was after all a prisoner and he couldn't risk her trying to escape. But he'd fucked her unrestrained and she'd willingly given herself to him, smiling when he slowly penetrated her virgin hole, not even flinching when he burst through the hymen. Only when he increased his speed did she close her eyes, losing herself in the throes of passion and screaming out her lust when his hot sperm washed the entrance to her womb. Afterwards, when he tried to withdraw, she'd wrapped her arms and legs around him, and begun rotating her hips until he was hard again and ready to come in another even more Earth-shattering explosion. Never in his young life had he felt so satisfied as when he at last rolled off her and she bent over his crotch to lick the spent tool clean of sperm and blood. Never before had a slavegirl been so loving, so willing, so eager to satisfy him. She had served a glass of wine and snuggled up to him, planting soft kisses all over his chest and sucking gently on his nipples. When he once again felt ready and told her to get on hands and knees, she had willingly spread her legs to expose her slightly swollen sex, expecting him to take her there again. When he instead pressed his tool further up against her brown globes, she had dropped her shoulders to the ground and reached back to open her arse for him. With a contented sigh he lay down to sleep, a tender smile playing on his lips.

She was already awake and had managed to get on her knees in spite of the hogtie, when he the next morning opened his eyes and swung his legs to the floor, stretching luxuriously. The bound girl smiled timidly and, before he was fully awake, shuffled closer to engulf his half-erect cock. He looked startled at her, then with an evil grin let loose a stream of hot piss, wondering how she would handle that. The girl didn't even flinch, just seemed to open her throat to swallow the acrid drink. When it stopped, she bobbed her head a couple of times to suck the member clean, then began swirling her tongue around it. Once again Marcus marvelled over her submissiveness while the heat in his loins rose and he at last spewed another fluid into the working mouth. She licked him clean for the second time and sat back on her heels, looking very smug.

"Good morning. What's your name, girl?"

"Rachel, Lord. Good morning".

"You've done that before?"

"Many, many times, lord".

He nodded and rose to untie her.

"Time to whip you. Do I have to tie you up again?"

"No, Lord".

She was still smiling when getting to her feet in one fluent movement, turning to embrace the tent pole. Marcus grabbed a short whip, but her striped back didn't excite him, as a helpless girl's naked hide usually did. What he felt was not lust, but pity. Yet he had to do it or his men might wonder about him, if he was going soft. A first step towards losing their respect. Gritting his teeth he lashed out, but only hard enough to mark her.

After sharing his breakfast of hot wine, sweetened with honey, and the simple biscuits that were a soldiers fare when on the march, he led her out to his hugely grinning men.

"Good night, Marcus Delius?", the old decurion asked.

"Couldn't be better. I think I'll make use of her again tonight".

The men quickly and efficiently broke camp and marched off, driving the coffle of shackled prisoners along with frequent use of their whips. Marcus didn't make his chosen girl join her fellows, but let her walk beside his horse, leading her by a rope tied to her cuffed wrists.

The march back to the city lasted six days and Marcus hardly let Rachel out of his sight. She walked with him, effortlessly keeping pace with the swift marching soldiers, always with her head held high and a sweet smile playing on her lips. She shared his meals, slept on the floor beside his bed, and every night opened her mouth or her legs, welcoming him. Never once did she show any sign of fear of what was waiting for her at the end of their journey, never once did she lose her calm composure, never once did she fail to satisfy his sexual demands. And, apart from the mild morning whippings he felt compelled to give her, never once did Marcus hurt her. He didn't even think of tying her up, but she urged him to try, and rewarded him with wild cries of lust, when he hammered her defenceless body. For the first time in his life he didn't fuck a girl, but made love to her. And for the first time he felt a girl responding to him, willingly, passionately, desperately trying to fulfil his, and her own demands.

As the days, and nights, went by, he realised that he was falling in love with this beautiful creature, that all he wanted out of his life was to spend the remainder of it with her. Looking at her, listening to her sweet voice, making love to her. But that was not possible, he himself had seen to that. The Romans had cemented their rule over Judaea, all but quelled further outbreaks of rebellion before they even began, thanks to the ruthlessness of the Legate's nephew, Marcus Delius Peronius, the Scourge of Judaea. Yet the tables could be turned easily if he showed any sign of softening. Prisoners had to be flogged, tortured and crucified publicly, each and every time another uprising had been put down. All of them, without exception or word would spread that there was a chance of surviving, even if it were as a slave. No, Rachel had to die, but that brutal reality was tearing him apart and on the fourth night he woke up, bathed in sweat, from a nightmare. He'd seen himself sitting proudly on his horse, as so often before, watching the gruesome nailing of the helpless men and women to their crosses, heard their desperate screams when their limbs were mutilated, seen their naked bodies writhing when the crosses were raised and their burning lungs forced them into self-torment, trying to heave themselves upright to breathe. And he'd seen his lovely girl raise her head and look directly into his eyes, smiling her last goodbye, before she too had to give voice to her agony. That was unbearable and he lay awake for the rest of the night, tossing and turning, desperately seeking a way out. At last, just before dawn, he found it.

The following night he did something he'd never even contemplated. When Rachel once again, smiling, dropped to her knees in front of him and reached for the hem of his tunic, he grabbed her hands and rose with her, embracing her supple body, kissing her deeply until both of them were gasping for breath. Then he led her to his bed, made her lie down and knelt by her feet, gently spreading her legs, and bowed over her crotch. She tasted sweeter than honey, her juices were more intoxicating than any wine he'd ever drunk and her passionate cries of ecstasy more beautiful than any music when she came and came under his working tongue. After that they made quiet love, for a long, long time. When they at last lay entwined on his bed, spent but more satisfied than ever, he whispered that she had nothing to fear, that she wouldn't suffer on the cross, that she would stay his forever. Then he rose to pour two beakers of spiced wine, offering one of them to her and watched her empty it, smiling happily. He embraced and lay down with her body in his arms, pressing it to his own nakedness, while her breathing turned shallow and she fell asleep. It took less than an hour before the mixture of sedative and poison made her go limp. Marcus embraced her one last time, then let go to put an ear to her chest. There was no heartbeat and he kissed her still warm lips softly, tears welling in his eyes, then went in search of the decurion.

When he an hour later carried the lifeless body from his tent, wrapped in a cloak, a deep grave had been prepared beside the sparkling pond of the oasis where they were camped that night. The old decurion and ten of his men were lined up, staring in awe at their commander. Never before had they heard about a prisoner fucked to death. Marcus was already a legend among the common soldiers, now his name would be spread all over the world. The gravedigger, son of Rachel's former owner, was on his knees beside the hole.

The young Roman stepped into it to lay down his burden, gently straightening her limbs and smoothing the red cloth, then jumped up.

"Fill it in, but only half way up".

He watched the captive working to cover the remains of his first true love, then turned to the decurion. "Tie him up and cut out his tongue!"

The legionnaires grabbed the terrified youngster, bound his wrists, elbows, knees, and ankles and forced his mouth open to grab his tongue in a pair of pliers. A swift slash with a knife made him scream unintelligibly, blood welling in his mouth.

"Cock and balls!"

Marcus watched impassively while he was castrated and his manhood stuffed into his bleeding mouth, then gestured towards the open grave. The man, who had violated the mouth that had offered the Roman endless love, was thrown on top of his former slavegirl, and, still writhing and screaming, buried with her. Large stones were rolled on top of the fresh grave to prevent scavenging animals digging up the bodies, before Marcus with a grim smile to his soldiers swept back to the tent, to spend the remainder of the night hugging himself, crying out his agony.

Even his men were surprised by the ferocity of their commander when they the following day reached the main city. All of the prisoners, male or female were whipped until they hung unconscious and bleeding in their bonds, three days in a row, before finally meeting their deaths on a cross. Marcus was watching the last torment, sitting stiffly on his horse, just like in his dream, imagining Rachel among the screaming victims, and, when it finally was over, raised his baton in salute and wheeled his horse around to ride back to the legate's residence. He'd barely reached the courtyard before he slumped in the saddle and would have fallen to the ground, were it not for his trusty guard who grabbed and dragged his lifeless body to the house.

The next fortnight went by in a blur while Marcus lay semiconscious, shivering in fever, hovering between life and death. His deeply concerned uncle called for all the doctors he could find, at last even a couple of Judaeans. They prepared a potion they promised would beat down the fever. The legate allowed it, but ordered their two eldest sons brought to his house and forced to swallow parts of the potion to prove that their fathers were not trying to take revenge on ‘The Scourge of Judaea'. They were not and Marcus recovered, but was as weak as a baby and seemed apathetic. His uncle put his condition down to traumatic stress after his hard and dangerous command and decided to send him back to Rome to recuperate. The young man made no protest, didn't seem to care, and spent most of the long sea voyage sitting on deck, wrapped in his cloak and staring emptily at the glittering sea.

His father was shocked to see him and worried about his mental health, not least when Marcus seemed completely uninterested in sex. No matter what slave, female or male, young or mature, virgin or experienced he found in his room, he passively let them take care of his personal needs and then sent them away. Exasperated, the senator at last persuaded him to join a small flotilla of the fleet on it's long voyage past the Pillars of Hercules and up the coast of Gallia to Britannia. It did help. Marcus slowly came out of his stupor, began taking an interest in his surroundings, not least the handling of the ship. They made several landfalls on the coast of Gallia and Belgia and even ventured a bit further North, towards the unexplored tracts called Ultima Thule, before eventually sailing up the river Thamesis to reach Londinium. There he found a message waiting for him with the present proconsul, telling that his father had been appointed to the post. As governor he would have his headquarters in the main Roman city, but wanted a villa in the country as well and asked his son to explore the possibilities. The proconsul suggested the pleasant town of Aquae Sulis, which offered the additional benefit of hot springs. Marcus went down there by the straight, paved Roman road and indeed found it very pleasant, yes even more, he fell in love with it and was happy to find an excellent villa for sale on a hill above town, with a breathtaking view across the landscape. Even the cold climate of Britannia suited him after the long time spent in the deserts of Judaea.

It was a composed and matured Marcus, who after a happy reunion with Drusus at Massilia returned to Rome. Yet his father was still worried, the boy wasn't cured. In fact he admitted not to have had sex at all during the long voyage, claiming that he wasn't in the mood, but never revealing the reason why: That the image of his lost first love loomed up every time he felt tempted by a slavegirl or that he saw her pain-contorted face from his dream whenever his hands itched to hurt a slave.

Armin and Thor changed that. The two blond giants owed him their lives, they were strong, and they quite obviously not only accepted that he used them hard, but welcomed it as an opportunity to show their fierce loyalty. They were truly his to do with whatever he liked without remorse. And he did, used them relentlessly, tied them up and whipped them on his bed, before fucking their holes with abandon.

The new proconsul watched his son's antics with relief. When first told about his helping himself to the galley slaves, he'd made his dissatisfaction clear, didn't want a fight with the fleet, but when discovering that Marcus' sexual needs had been reawakened, he was delighted. That he kept strictly to the two Germans and still never touched a slavegirl was of less importance. His taste for female flesh would return, given time, and if not, it was of little importance, as long as he wasn't turned completely away from sex. To become a senator as his father, the young man would have to marry a suitable girl and produce at least one child. There was no reason to fear that he would be unable to fuck his wife the few times necessary and then live the separate lives of most Patrician families. He would be twenty-four when they returned to Rome after the end proconsul's term of office. Right in time for marriage.

Everyone was happy, even the two slaves, who had to endure the harsh treatment, but in accordance with their tribal custom and beliefs would have done the same to any slave they themselves had won. And their young master was kinder than they would have been, much kinder. Treated them more like comrades in arms than as slaves and even allowed them frequent use of his slavegirls. He saw no reason not to, doubting that he would ever again be lusting for a girl.

Until he saw his first and only love reborn in the helpless sacrifice. It was as if he heard Rachel whispering: "I'm back and this time you can keep me forever".