The following totally fictitious writings of Faibhar are intended for the sole readership of those of LEGAL AGE. The ADULT ONLY material contained within is also for personal use only where local standards permit scenes of extreme violence, torture, sex and crucifixion. Please do not read further if any of these subjects offend, or if you are not of legal age. Your sole enjoyment and cooperation in not using this story in any other application without the express permission of the author is requested. The ancient Batavian Revolt against the Romans is well detailed by many writers, including Tacitus. While many names and places used in the following adhere to historic accounts, "Arena Conquest!" is totally a work of FICTION. In short: The following DID NOT HAPPEN. Any resemblance to persons or places, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Thank you and enjoy. F.
Ancient Arena Shock, Part One "The seer is awaiting your questioning, your excellency..." Verginius Flatulus Rufus Caesar recognized the baritone of his proconsul calling for him on the other side of the curtain to his bedroom but paid more attention to another sip of the Opimian Falernia. According to that boring parvenu Trimalchio who sold him the wine it was supposed to be over a century old. He was too wise to trust that odious freedman's word. No doubt the conniving bastard sold rugs on the side. Still, the vintage was better than that Rhine swill the locals downed he had to admit. There were some perks to being the great Julius's nephew...the virtual autonomy he exercised over this outpost, however remote from Rome...the cases of wine...and of course, other amenities. Breaking wind, though he so detested the trait that had saddled him with his nickname and the attendant derisive comments, Flatulus stirred under the fur blanket. He considered again the closed curtain to his bedroom. In the foreground the warm cover bobbed up and down. Unseen, he knew where the two slaves servicing his now flaccid cock. "Have someone else interrogate her." That should dismiss the proconsul smiled Flatulus. "As you wish, your highness, but..." Flatulus used the wine to wash down another bite of the tasty dulcia domestica, savoring each stubby finger licked. The dessert was indeed scrumptious. He fit in another bite. "Speak Sophrus," he said to the curtain. The gangly aide was ugly to the extreme, though Flatulus did trust his judgment on certain matters. " 'But' what?" "You won't be disappointed." Flatulus passed more gas. Shrugging in consternation he said, "This had better be good Sophrus..." He brushed aside the two heads under the covers with their soft warm tits and swung his bare legs out onto the floor. As one, the slaves compliantly helped their master don warm clothes. The wine might not be one-hundred years old as Trimalchio claimed, but it was heady. Flatulus swayed into a small stand, the only other piece of furniture in the room. An Etruscan vase on the small table teetered and fell to the mosaic floor. Black shards of ceramic scattered as it hit and broke. Flatulus paid scarcely any attention: the mess would give housekeeping something to do. With another butt burp Flatulus waddled from the room. "She is much younger than I expected," Flatulus whispered to Sophrus as the two stood side-by-side looking into the steam bath, or caldarium, where Veleda was held. "Lovelier, too. A bit on the thin side, perhaps, but well proportioned." The two stood behind a column before approaching closer and savored the sight. Hands manacled behind her head, long legs split to each side, the local's bottom rested over a steam hole. Two stakes kept the nude from falling forward or backward; one angled toward her sternum, the other pointed at the middle of her back. Billowing towers of steam rose, clouding gray shadows over the glistening torso and its owner's head. "How long has she been here?" "Several hours, your excellency." "Very well," Flatulus said as he stepped from behind the column and walked across the steaming tile until his sandaled feet stopped in front of her upper thighs. "They tell me that your name is Veleda." She did not bother to raise her head and look up, but did murmur. "That is what I am called." "And Veleda, they also tell me that you are a seer...one who can foretell the future and one of status amongst your people. Is that correct?" Veleda remained silent and stared down at the coral tile. Her body ached and she felt hot all over, but certainly would say no more to the one before her. Instinctively, she knew it must be the local ruler of the Roman town called Xantan. Flatulus waited patiently. When hearing no reply to his question, an involuntary reflex caused more intestinal gas to escape. "They also say that you are a Batavii." Flatulus looked to Sophrus for help, but the tall crane-like man did nothing but stare down at the female. "Some of the Batavii are good fighters. They've done mercenary work for us." Veleda shifted her arms slightly. Steam billowed into her face. It felt like it was burning her insides. "Despite that track record, however," Flatulus stroked his chin as he slowly walked around. Thin or not, her body looked very desirable. Long strands of blond hair darkened by the hours of time spent in the steam hung limply down her naked back. "I suspect that the Batavii are planning an uprising, starting with the Fortress Vetera." She said little at the mention of the Roman garrison along the Rhine river, but knew all too well that her people soon would lay siege to it and with it the city of Xantan. "Regardless of how much we Romans give your people, you still seem bent on restoring your own silly royalty, religion, freedom and escaping taxes...," Flatulus said as he squatted down to look directly into the Batavii's face. "And, I strongly suspect the leader of that uprising is Civilis - your lover." Point made, Flatulus farted as he rose back up. Looking down he mockingly said, "He is your lover, is he not? And chief instigator of a revolt." He reached down and gripped the female's hot moist chin. Lifting up her head he said, "What say you seer," he sneeringly said, "about that future?" Flatulus let the abruptly head drop as he released his grip. Turning away he said to Sophrus, "Bring her to my quarters, but clean her up first." Flatulus mashed pancakes and milk with more boiled veal and shoved the concoction into his corpulent mouth. To ease digestion, he swallowed another cup of wine. He looked up as the curtains to his bedroom parted. In the doorway Sophrus towered over the Batavii. "Enter. Both of you." Flatulus felt no embarrassment for being naked in front of his proconsul. He rolled his fat frame over the top of the fur spread and lay on his back. At the sight of the Batavii, he immediately felt stirrings in his groin. He grabbed the cup and took another swallow. "Undress her and lay her alongside of me." Sophrus did his best to balance holding up the girl as he undid the shoulder clasp to her short tunica. He propped her up as the see-through fell to the floor. Her freshly-washed hair fell forward with her head and knees buckled as he struggled with the dead weight to lay her on the bed alongside his wale of a leader. "By the gods, Sophrus. What did you do to her?" "She is merely drugged, your excellency." Flatulus nodded his approval and let another blast from his rear fly into the bedspread as the lightly oiled and perfumed maiden was laid alongside. He languidly rolled toward her, a hand lifted to caress one full tit. Between his fingers he could feel her pulse. Slowly he lowered his mouth to cover the large pink nipple. Her heat entered between his lips. He sucked. and chewed. Aware that Sophrus had not left the room, Flatulus stopped sucking the engorged nipple and turned toward him to say, "Man, do I have a dream." "That I can well imagine, your excellency..." Flatulus protested. He grabbed for a handful of honey melons and said, "Of course, she is mine tonight. But....tomorrow!" Lines of consternation deepened across Sophrus's forehead as he anticipated his master. "But, sir. Tomorrow is the gladiatorial show. Its been planned for weeks. The populace will be outraged if it is cancelled." Flatulus laughed and chugged another cup of Trimalchio's not so bad vintage and said, "Oh no. No, the show will go on. Except that, with all this rumor of an uprising, it will do the locals some good to watch before the gladiators arrive what Romans do to insurgents. Sort of a lasting lesson during the prelim, held right in the middle of the arena so that all can see." Sophrus troubled another glance down at the bulbous shape snuggling against the sleek and slumbering Batavaii seer and said, "But your excellence...that means a crucifixion and all that goes with it." Flatulus waved an arm enveloped in rolls of fat, filled the room with another gust of his own gasses and said, "Yes, yes and with a lovely female! Now go on, get out of here. We both have work to do." The last thing he saw as he parted the curtains to leave was that of his master reaching for more pastries while rolling atop the pale body of the Batavii. Her listless legs easily parted. Sophrus saw enough for the time being. He better be about his new project. Seer-iously, Veleda had trouble recalling the recent past, much less foretelling future events. Desperately she wished for Civilis to come and rid her of this horror. Shards of nightmares kept returning. Her head fiercely pounded as she tried to remember. There was the spa, and then the putrid figure of Flatulus on top of her. Again her fingers parted the robe she now wore to feel where only soft warm skin remained. The familiar moss of soft curls was gone. One of her breasts felt too tender to examine, bruised and scratched as it now was. And all because of Flatulus. She felt like retching once more. Hope for her lover's arrival kept whatever was left inside her stomach down. Until he came, Veleda would need to fend for herself. Foretelling the immediate future was another story. On the other side of the arched door she faced were sounds of a crowd. An announcer was telling them that exotic animals would soon come to the arena along with gladiators, but first there was to be a demonstration warning all that might consider a revolt. Veleda's teeth chattered as she listened to the announcements on the other side of the door. Light entering bottom of the huge wood hardly stole away the cold. She hugged her arms tighter. The lightweight wool robe provided scant protection. Bare toes and feet were bluish. Both the elements and her current fate, what was and what was to be, caused shivers. The daylight blinded as the door creaked open. The sun over Germania might be presently weak, but the contrast between it and the gloomy tunnel was great. Veleda shielded her eyes, slowly spinning as she stepped out into the arena. On the highest ring she made out standing legionnaires. Below them spun a sea of waving arms and shouting faces. Banners flapped in the cool breeze. Aromatic smoke from small grills swirled about. Veleda's eyes slowly adjusted to the bright spectacle around her. The capacity crowd cheered as the arena door slid open and the Batavii appeared. Any skepticism over delays in the scheduled program of gladiators vanished. Locals and Romans, males and females of every caste, tradesmen, slaves and citizens all lustfully applauded. And then a hush fell. A pause froze all. Across from where the Batavii entered, from a lower tier, erupted an extended noise like some kind of ancient whoopee cushion. Flatulus stood. Waving to both sides of the crowd, he faced toward the center of the arena where Veleda stood. The thumb of one plump hand turned down as he returned to his seat. Veleda started as all around her deafening noise roared. Thousands of boots and sandals stomped in unison. The arena shook. Thousands of voices chanted, "We will cru-ci-fy you. We will cru-ci-..." She ran back toward the door. It was now closed. Her fists pounded on it. Frantically searching the arena, Veleda saw arches and doors ringing the perimeter but all of them were closed. Something hit her head. She looked up. Wild faces shouted down at her and through more things. Their ring was the lowest but it was too high to reach by jumping. Veleda ran back toward the center. Despite the cold she panted breath that could be seen in the frigid air. The crowd sang their chants even louder as two doors on the opposite side of the arena opened. From each door they saw emerge legionaries. Out of one came three rugged members of the 5th legion Alaudae. Three from the 15th legion Primegenia stepped from the second door. Both doors closed behind the soldiers. Veleda saw them approach. All of them frightened. Inside the arena ring they formed a smaller ring, with her in the center. Their ring got tighter. Veleda ran in fright, but just as she got closer to one group of legionaries she turned and ran back almost to another. The chanting settled as the tightening ring of military surrounded the loosely clad female, watching as first one and then the other soldier grabbed their distressed prey. The hard ground winded. Veleda felt the heated breath of the men on her. They grunted and cursed. Cold air flooded over her legs as she felt her robe lifted. She twisted. Pounded her fists up. The attack increased in fury. The brown cloaks swarmed. Crested bronze helmets bobbed. Two bare feminine legs kicked out until meaty masculine hands held them down by the ankles. The crowd rose to its feet as the first soldier adjusted himself between the held legs and with a great grunt thrust. The Batavii's shriek thrilled all. The cry brought ecstasy to the arena. Veleda unsteadily wavered on her feet. Arms at her sides, she did not protest as one of them tied a rope around her waist to cinch tighter the robe and led her to the center of the arena. Through half-closed eyes she saw a short stone pillar had been planted in the dirt. She bent over the stone and manacles on her wrists were chained to rings on the pillar's sides, holding her tight. Flatulus eased to one hip as he sat on the cushion and was careful not to make too much noise as he felt more gas escape. Smiling at the crowd as he lived up to his namesake, Flatulus kept one eye on the center of the arena where the Batavii seer now bent over the post. He approvingly gazed as one the heaviest of the legionaries swung the thick looking scourge through the air. The man quickly spun and hit the middle of the female's back. Her chest slammed on top of the pillar. Knives of fire sliced through her back. Veleda choked and coughed as the tips of her hair scattered the ground below. Her knees buckled. She felt hands pulling her off of the stone until bent in her original position. Dry heaves returned with the second hit. Veleda sobbed atop the pillar. This time her knees strengthened and she raised herself back up. Looking down at the hardened earth Veleda saw tiny mud puddles formed by her own flying sweat. Now drops of blood pooled in some of the puddles. The arena crowd sang no more chants. Most sat fascinated by the half-bent Batavii. They listened for every swish of the scourge strands, the sounds of thudding and tearing as its barbed lashes hit. Bloody shreds of robe hung. Lacerations showed across naked flesh. The female held to her feet, but then began to sway and finally collapsed. Soldiers on the arena floor loitered around the collapsed Batavii. The whipping ceased as water was brought to douse the one to be crucified. To Be Continued...
Ancient Arena Shock, Part II and Conclusion Whatever could, mud brick and wood, sandals boots and shoes, a thousand voices of differing timbre, all resumed the thunderous shake of the filled arena at Xantan. In ground-shaking peal the chant arose, if anything louder than previously. Only sentries lining the stadium's upper ring remained impervious and stood steadfast, refusing to participate in the cacophony. "We shall, We shall, We shall..." Sophrus, proconsul to the smelly porcine nephew of Rome's emperor, concerned himself with penetrating more than just the crowd noise. His stringy frame bent, features set and he plunged face-first through the gaseous cloud. Verginus Flatulus Rufus Caesar, the local ruler noted mainly for his constant bursts of flatulence, heedlessly sat at the cloud's core. Sophrus shouted to be heard over the din and explained that what was next to occur in the arena had to do with the high standing in which the local Batavii held their seers. "CRU-CI-FY-YOUuuuuu!" Flatulus laughingly waved to the stomping, cheering crowd and grabbed another fistful of the scrumptious pancakes. Washing the gustatory delight with an even heavier swig of Trimalchio's one-hundred year old wine, Flatulus relaxed blithely unconcerned as another salvo of noxious fumes exploded into the plush cushion on which he was perched. Swallowing and chewing, Flatulus turned his attention back to the center of the arena. Legionaires pulled the soaked seer to her knees. The mere sight of her sodden robe, rent as it was, sent chills through his hefty girth as he watched The scourge left the garment nothing but tatters, not that it being whole would make much difference in this cool Germania air. But still... A bare knee and upper thigh showed through a long tear in the robe as she was positioned. One of the soldiers held her wrists behind her. Flatulus privately smiled at the two chest-high points poking the front of the wet robe caused by little erections of flesh he knew only too well from last night's dalliance. Of course then they weren't so chilled. Organization amongst the chanting crowd dissolved into a massive roar as first one long sleeve of the already shredded robe was ripped away. Another pulled away until the female knelt naked from the waist up. All watched her tits shake and trembled as they were freed, topped by the elongated nipples, shriveled skin around each base perhaps seeking more warmth. Many of the attendees were heard to ponder if all Batavii were as physically well endowed as the maiden stripped before them. Sophrus straightened, hoping against hope some miracle could shift the wind. Together with his height he just might be delivered from Flatulus's odiferous revenge. Duty commanded that he remain by his master's side, but he did his best to crane his back away to escape further insult to his olfactory, not to mention other senses. Flatulus chortled and pointed to the arena center as he drank more of the Opimian Falernia swill. Another legionaire, one who looked to be from the 5th legion Alaudae, held the tight circle of thorns above the Batavii's head. One seer was about to be royally crowned, a coronation Verginis Flatulus Rufus Caesar wasn't going to miss. Her lover Civils wasn't going to come Veleda despaired as she felt her chin lifted up. Above black spikes shot crazy diagonals across the gray sky. Lungs deeply inhaled and her fingers tightly balled, nails digging into her palms. At her shrill scream the crowd leapt to its feet. Contortions caused serpentine crimson lines to run down her face. Another brutish pounding of the crown caused another scream. The female somehow broke free. Her hand flew up as she scuttled across the arena floor and tried to knock off the piercing thorns, her attempt only succeeding in pricking her hand. The move provoked gales of laughter in the arena. Alert legionaries quickly regained control of their prisoner. Flatulus let go another blast and settled back in his chair. He drained the cup, amazed that even in this chilly weather he felt his face perspiring and heart thumping. Ordering more of the same wine, he watched as a heavy timber, or patibulum, was fastened across the female's bare shoulders. She had to be helped up once her arms were tied around the crossbeam. Its weight bent her forward and she was led close to the rim. With some prodding, the bleeding figure staggered around the perimeter leaving tracks on the partially frosted arena floor, completing a full circle before collapsing to her knees in front of Flatulus's box. With all of the gravity he could muster, Flatulus semi-jovially, semi-authoritatively gave a final nod to the soldiers. As they left for a return with the condemned to the center Flatulus could not help but pass more gas. Sophrus winced and poured fresh wine into Flatulus's cup, wondering as he did if the vintage's bouquet would somehow be upset by the pungency of this latest outburst by his boss. A stir arose in the crowd again. Stomping feet returned. The "We shall,We shall..." chant resumed. During the circular review, despite its agonizingly slow pace, most got great looks at the Batavii. The crowd smelled blood in the cold air. Slaves had planted a tall upright in the center of the arena as the laboring Batavii was displayed along the outer circle. It faced where Flatulus sat, complete with sign, or titulus, near the top that proclaimed a rebel. When firmly in place the slaves left. The party crossed its weak shadow before stopping near its base. Veleda deeply sighed as the burden was lifted. Shoulders slumped as the lower half of her robe was torn away. Cold no longer mattered. Nor did nudity, or the many shrill yells aimed at her from the arena crowd. She was merely happy to be free of the weight. The exotic beast at first appeared frightened by the horde of humans, or perhaps it merely reacted to the crisp air that was so unlike its native habitat. Once acclimated though, the tiger deliberately stalked toward the arena center. It too smelled blood in the cold air. Veleda tried to slow her throbbing body. There were so many pains and now adding to them was panic. High above the arena floor, nailed to the cross, Veleda fought to breathe. Every time her lungs and mind no longer permitted suffocating, she had to writhe upward for a second to exhale and inhale. Almost immediately she would slide back down when the pressure exerted on the single spike nailing her feet became too great. At the rate she was going, the effort needed would tax remaining strength. She needed to slow her pace. Word shot around the arena that the beast was a true tiger. They sat with rapt attention as the striped feline approached the upright, its massive head lifting, nostrils sniffing and then pink tongue beginning to lap at blood from the Batavii's wounded feet. It growled once. A great paw swung. The Batavii screamed. Bright furrows of fresh blood streamed down the clawed calf. The animal rose, placed its forepaws on the upright. The crowd gaped as they saw huge white teeth clamp down on the female's lower leg. She wailed. Veleda screamed hysterically as she shook. She saw the tiger raise and open its jaws to bite her. She and the upright trembled under the cat's weight. And then there fell a pall before pandemonium broke. Veleda saw it drop, an arrow's shaft protruding from its neck. It lay still on the ground. Impulsively, her eyes rose. The sentries she had seen before on the upper ring of the arena were gone. The crowd below seemed to nervously stir, and then they began screaming in fright. Veleda looked to the gladiator archers who had killed the tiger, but saw them pivot and start to shoot more arrows into the crowd. Civilis with his fierce and brave fighters had at long last arrived. Flatulus began a series of flatulence that he was unable or unwilling to stop. His fat head swivled to Sophrus for help and that's when he saw his gangly proconsul laying back, dead eyes turned heavenward, an arrow protruding from his aide's chest. People all around were screaming. The packed crowd panicked. Bodies shoved other bodies in their haste to exit. Flatulus clamored to his feet, but made the fateful mistake of reaching for one more handful of pancakes. As he did personal gas erupted loudly. A nearby fallen torch connected with the exiting flammable fumes. The connection produced a fiery spear that shot right into the rear of Flatulus's toga. Catapults commandeered from the armory at Fortress Vetera began lobbing glowing balls of oil from outside of the arena into the tiers. Men and women scrambled to rush from under their onslaught. No longer did the crowd focus any attention on the tortured Batavii's crucifix. All attempts were made to flee the burning oil. Civilis rushed to the center of the arena, stepped over the fallen body of the tiger, and focused on treating the bleeding leg of the crucified. He suspected the victim was one of his own people, but had no idea it belonged to his lover, Veleda. That is, until he heard his name murmured. The face high above with its shroud of tangled hair did reveal some hints of beauty, but dark contortions masked its true identity. Civilis could see encrusted scabs where rivulets were no longer were fresh amongst the ravaged features. "It's...me," Veleda said in hoarse tones. Crushed with the realization that it was his lover on the cross, Civilis sank to his knees and wept. Slowly standing, he winced as he looked up at the tortured and said weakly with a shrug, "Better late than never, right?" Veleda shut her swollen eyes for a long moment. Sounds of the arena chaos surrounded them. She finally reopened her eyes. Head still downcast she said, "Maybe. But NOT soon enough..." Civilis helplessly stood looking up at the tragic face and figure looming above. He so wanted to help but really did not know what to do, or where to even start. His lover's cracked lips parted again and he strained up to hear her rasping words, faint enough on their own but with the entire clamor around nearly impossible to detect. "If you truly love me...," Veleda chose her words deliberately, "use your sword." And so, Civilis at last had an answer to his dilemma. He drew his blade and put an end to the final chapter of Arena Shock.
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