Date: December 16, 1999
Place: Plaza - The Eyrie - Haven
Cast: Caius, Diana, Theron
Scene: Caius Antoninus, a Ceterion in the Praetorian Guard, nearly sparked another bloody feud between the Empyre and the Varati kingdom when he attempted to attack Khalid Atar during Haven's recent battle with a monstrous leviathan. He was thwarted by a Hound, yet the Praetorian Guard has decided to mete out its own unique justice for the transgression.

Plaza - The Eyrie - Haven:
      A broad expanse of tiles constructs the plaza of the Praetorian headquarters. Serving as both a drilling field as well as a place to simply commune and discuss the orders of the day, the plaza has multiple roles in the day-to-day operations of the Praetorian Cohort stationed in Haven. In the center of the plaza, constructed from carefully planned and placed tiles is the insignia of the Praetorian Guard, its polished surface showing the signs of wear. If one is perceptive enough, blood stains can be found around the plaza, evidence of the fierceness of the warrior caste's drills.
      Surrounding the plaza on the right, left, and towards the back is the Eyrie, a small fortress that contains the inner workings of the Praetorian Guard. A curious structure, its sides curve inwards around the plaza, while in the center rises the Eyrie, angled forward as it pierces the heights of the sky.

The Imperator -- for at this moment, he is very much his title -- strides out of the Plaza, accompanied by two Ceterions who are escorting the prisoner, Ceterion Antoninus. In his hand is a whip, coiled around his palm. The entirety of the Eyrie who are not on duty are lined up in formation. At the least a legion. All at attention and awaiting this morning's entertainment.

Ceterion Antoninus walks slowly from the Eyrie, limp well-disguised. If his appearance differs greatly from his normally immaculate state, his bearing does not. Head held high, shoulders squared (despite the nasty desire of his right wing to cramp) the tall Empyrean enters the plaza, eyes set ahead of him, deviating to neither side.

As the others slowly filter in, the darkling officer emerges from the growing crowd of spectators. She steps out a bit to remove her gladius and baldric and places them into the care of one of her own Ceterions. Taking several deep breaths -- she prepares herself for the likely unpleasant episode to transpire. Nimble fingers sweep her locks up into a makeshift bun, securing it with a simple piece of leather twine before turning to gaze upon the prisoner's arrival. Diana offers a curt yet somber nod before moving over towards the Imperator.

Theron turns to regard Caius. "Ceterion, do you remember when I spoke to you of responsibility, and that I, as your Imperator, felt that I had failed you?" He sweeps on, assuming that the man remembers just that, "It seems that Optio Zorelle felt the same way, and so, in place of flogging you, you will flog her." He gestures to the two Ceterions to step away, "Will you prepare yourself, please?"

Caius offers only a curt nod to the Imperator's query. Wings composed at his back suddenly stiffen, however, once Theron's latter pronouncement is made. Never... not in all his life, have any words shocked him so greatly as those he just heard spoken. His cold blue eyes have gone wide, thinking for a moment that surely he heard incorrectly. His stern lips part to allow a gasp of disbelief to mar his composure. For a moment, there are no words.

If the darkling woman notices the unmistakable shock and surprise from her own Ceterion, she does not show it. Instead, she makes her way slowly over to a small table bearing a couple of different whips. Diana does well to keep any thoughts and feelings on the matter buried deeply within her, lest she show some faltering smit of weakness. Nay, never any weakness from this officer -- at least not in the open. Silently, she lifts her gaze to look upon the prisoner, an impressive mask of indifference evident upon her features. Is she some sort of masochistic sadist? With a slow nod, she moves over to the designated area, beginning to work at removing the shoulder clasp-ties of her chiton to bare her back.

Theron seems to have gained that mask of indifference as well, considering. To say that there aren't gapes from the crowd would be lying. He holds out the whip, and says crisply, "Ten strokes, Ceterion. See to it immediately -- we have other things on the agenda today, duties to fulfill."

Caius looks much like a man who has found himself impaled upon an enemy's spear. He finds words after a moment... odd words, these, lacking the Ceterion's typical eloquence, volume, and poise, loud enough only for Theron. "Imperator... this--this cannot be. She... has done no wrong..." For half an instant, he is silent, before one last word travels the distance between them, "Please..." Unnoticed by the man, his heart has doubled its rate, his every muscle has tensed... his wings shake for want of the resolve to hold them still...

The darkling officer appears untouched by the pleas, if she can even make them out in the whispers spoken to the Imperator. Finally, she manages to relieve the ties, retying the front two behind her neck to offer some protection. The back half of her chiton falls helplessly to her waist, leaving her back barren and in open view. To say such a view is upsetting is an understatement. There is no question this is not the first time Diana has been the recipient of lashings -- several hundred scars marring her slender back, leaving little untouched. It is highly questionable if she will feel anything at all beneath all that hideous tissue. She makes her way to the designated cross before slipping her hands into each of the small roped holders. Upon completion, another guard steps forward long enough to tighten the restraints before moving back to his place. She waits there, in silence as she prepares herself for the blows to come.

Theron stares straight at Caius and says quietly, "She asked me, Ceterion, and I have agreed. This is the only way that you will realize that your actions not only diminish yourself, but others. Your commanding officers, your fellow Guard, the Empyre. Had we flogged you, you would have shrugged it off, as I expect you'll shrug of your time in the stocks. She wanted that as well, but I refused. This is your punishment, Caius, and you shall do it." He glances to where Diana waits, his jaw tightening barely. "Do not leave her there, on display for the rest of them. Now, do it. I will hear no more arguments. If you hold yourself to have any sort of honor, you will not say another word." Okay, that last bit might have been unnecessary, but he must get Caius to do this. Now.

Cruel fate... as Theron speaks, the Ceterion before him swallows, seeking in vain to wet a mouth gone dry. His eyes harden into icy globes, full to their lids of desperation... but with each drawn breath, another measure of the soldier's determination is restored. Hard words, heavy words -- these that have been spoken to him. For an eternal heartbeat, this choice is weighed... to refuse is to stand twice insubordinate... to answer is to brand himself dishonorable... and to obey is no less hateful, no less shameful, and all the more painful. Hands gone to fists, as Caius studies the unyielding face of the Imperator. One long heartbeat. "I must suffer the fortieth lash... before giving one unto an innocent." So be it. He fights the urge to let his head hang, holding it instead upright and proud. He will keep his pride, even if forced to stand without honor. Cruel fate indeed.

The woman waits, head resting upon the base of the makeshift cross as she listens intently to the exchange. The mention of innocents elicits a slow response from the woman, the first the officer has spoken since they gathering arrived. "You would suffer the fortieth lash, yet you would partake in equal actions that would harm innocents the same. You cannot be a man of conviction, Ceterion, if your convictions are not certain." She pauses before continuing, "It is one thing to profess, it is another to live as such. You have made your choice -- and once more you gave into that anger. Each time you do, others suffer as a result. Now, it is time to answer as a man for those faulty choices."

Theron thrusts the piece of coiled, braided leather at the Ceterion, then stands back, and simply waits. He arranges to stand so that his hands are at his back, but his back does not show to the assembled host, so they will not see his fists clench each time the tip of the whip meets skin. Before he goes, though, he does add one last, soft rejoinder, "And do not think to lighten the force with which you strike, else I shall be forced to order double the strikes." Again, that may have not been necessary, but it's said nonetheless.

Caius finds himself holding the braided leather of the lash. Diana's words strike and hold. Unblinking gaze still upon Theron, lash coiled in whitened fingers, his voice is raised one final time... if others hear now, then so be it. "The Optio speaks truly, Imperator. In my actions, I have erred. My fault is proven..." A confession... the first admission he has uttered. The tall man's voice remains level and even, "I beg you, Imperator, do not add another crime to those already upon my head." One final plea... this is the Praetorian Guard, and not some Orator's college, that such words come before deed... but this is no typical punishment either.

Theron has no other words, than, "She waits, Ceterion." No, there is no mercy here. You don't have to tell him how hard this is. After all, that's his woman up there, you know. Just get it over with, damnit.

A slow salute is given the Imperator. Few might note that Caius' eyes close for a moment as he turns precisely upon his sandaled heel. Five measured strides, hampered still by that limp, carry the Ceterion to his ordered post. A second salute is offered to the Optio... his Optio, the one who has requested the Ceterion's own lashes. The whip uncoils in Caius' left hand even as his fist strikes cloth. "Amen," is his single murmured word as his left arm is drawn back quickly... the lash's wooden handle gripped tight enough to make the man's shoulder shake.

Bracing herself for the worst, the darkling woman takes a deep breath as her muscles tense. Her hands grip the arms of the cross tightly, as her head tilts forward a bit to brace itself against the long body. It is always the anticipation that is the worst. Still, she fights to keep up her mask of indifference, her demeanor very much like a seasoned soldier accepting his dues.

Theron murmurs something under his breath that only Benedict can hear, but otherwise, holds completely still. Just do it, already, this has already been about ten thousand years too long. Can we just move it along?

The motion is a smooth one. Caius' left arm snaps forward, the leather length of the lash cutting the air with an audible hiss for an instant before the sharp crack echoes for a moment throughout the Eyrie's plaza. Theron's wish is granted: Caius' strength was not held from the blow.

"One," comes the Ceterion's grim and formal pronouncement.

The contact with her flesh elicits a slight spasm followed by the tightening of her hands upon the cross arms. Diana bites hard upon her tongue, her face thankfully shielded from view as the lashings commence.

Theron flinches, barely. Well, so they will say later. If nothing else, this might do something to the rumors about the Imperator and the Optio. Some will swear up and down that it's not true, the others yes. In any case, he continues to stand there till the bitter end.

The lash-wielder draws his sword arm back once again, as the scourge repeats its sharp report. Caius' wings flare to afford him added balance... balance that the force of his harm threatens to rob him of. Once again, the assembled Praetors are 'treated' to a wicked strike.

"Two," is the only word uttered in the whole of the Plaza.

Two down and only eight more to go -- the darkling woman winces at the sharp pain. The sting of the whip only seems to dampen in comparison to the pain of the open air striking her open wounds. A Praetor must learn to be strong, and all else aside, the young darkling appears to be holding her composure impressively well. Her tell-tale eyes are hidden, buried beneath the obstruction of the large cross base. She does not cry out, not even a hiss or whimper, keeping all bottled tightly within her. Yet for all her bravado, she is only a woman, with a build far more delicate than most within the guard. Diana's body jolts at the connection of the second lash, perhaps more from the force than anything else.

Theron keeps reminding himself that this is all Caius' fault. Well, the need for punishment. But the rest is all him. He should be up there taking it, and there are so many reasons for it, so many against. Indeed, were an Atlantean to inform the audience in the studio as well as the one at home, they'd a) lynch the Atlantean for being in the Eyrie, but were he allowed to speak, they'd b) be surprised at how pragmatic the Imperator is in his thoughts, how the molten lava of his temper, his emotions, do not manage to burst through the ice wall of his pragmatism.

As cold in tone as he had seemed in his gaze, Caius announces, "Three." A fourth lash and report are delivered by the soldier's powerful arm to the ears of the Imperator... and to the back of the Optio. Blood wells up from the torn skin at Diana's back. Caius is tempted for a moment to hate Theron... to hate himself, even to hate Diana. But of these three, the only one hate settles upon is the man who calls out coldly, "Four."

By the fourth lashing, her composure begins to falter. It is one thing to harden oneself against pain, it is another thing entirely to escape the past memories which seek to flood her thoughts with each new tear of the flesh. Her head lolls slightly, trying hard to keep up her reserve and strength. She did ask to take this punishment, but not so to gain any undue attention. Diana has no doubt that it is likely not an easy thing for some to watch -- and it is perhaps for the sake of those few she strives to remain indifferent. But the heavy sting of the hot air mingled with blood and the salt of sweat begins to wear the seasoned warrior-woman down. Still, she refuses to cry out... holding strongly to that one little bit of power she has.

The Imperator does not cry halt, nor does he step forward to stop this travesty. My god, does the man have nerves of steel, heart of stone? No, he must see this out. No matter how painful. Now he understands those times when young and being thrashed for some infraction, when his father would tell him, 'this will hurt me worse that it hurts you.' The brief thought crosses his mind, 'Will she hate me for allowing him to do this?'

Blood has begun to color the lash, seeping into the cruel leather. The scourge drinks further of the darkling's life as it is curled through the air to bite into the heavy scars on her back. Tough, those scars... but strong is the arm behind this whip. More of the Optio's blood is given to the heat of Haven's air.

"Five," comes the cruel announcement.

A few of the watching guards begin to become increasingly unsettled as the lashings reach the halfway mark. While some may not care overly much for the darkling woman, there is no question that there is something almost unnerving in allowing a woman to take such a punishment. A few of the men wince as the lashes continue to connect with the Optio's skin -- while some of the women openly gasp with each breath. Still, not a one dares to interrupt.

The fifth lash seemingly breaks the former resolve of the woman, her body throwing a slight spasm in protest to the pain. Rope burns begin to formulate upon her wrists, as the woman continues to grasp tightly. While still Diana holds her tongue, it is becoming evident with each passing moment that the woman is indeed in pain. Her head arches back, jaw clenched tightly to keep from screaming. If she can hold but for a little longer... the thoughts repeat over and over again in her mind like a silent prayer to the lares.

Theron can feel the stares, hears every gasp as though it were a shriek. He cannot falter, he will not. This is his punishment. He wonders if Caius realizes that, too. Strange how his mind wanders off, probably some sort of protection so that he doesn't concentrate too much on the here and now.

The punishment is unrelenting. Like the gruesome tolls of some hateful bell, the voice of Caius sounds out the woman's pain. "Six," comes the toll... a painful sixth; the tip of the lash curled a touch too far, wrapping around Diana's side, marking it's path with a jagged cut. To any who study the Ceterion's face, gone is the shock of before... gone is the shaken look to his features... in their place is seen as unyielding a mask of resolve as ever a man might hope to wear. His powerfully muscled arm rears back to ready the next strike.

It is the cut to the side that brings the tears -- where leather meets with delicate and unblemished soft skin. Her legs falter a bit in their support, quite possibly to the point of letting her crumble to the ground if not for the fact her hands are bound tightly to the arms of the cross. Added weight is applied to her wrists, the ropes digging in further as her body starts to lose its strength. Diana tries hard to focus upon something other than the pain -- to practice the countless detachments of her mind that have kept her all these years. Her muscles relax, unable to keep the fight from them no matter how hard she tries. Embarking into the final stretch, it takes nearly all her resolve to keep herself in the present rather than to give in to the pain and welcoming darkness which begins to whisper her name.

To those standing particularly close to the Imperator, the vein that passes near his temple starts throbbing steadily. You can see it. Were one of a mind, they could take the man's pulse. Those paying the closest kind of attention could also hear the grinding of teeth.

A hiss and a wet crack, as the ruddied lash connects once again with Diana's tortured back. As the officer sags against her bonds, the lash drives her against them. "Seven," announces his deep voice. As Caius turns his back, and shifts his shoulders to gather force for the next he blinks hard... a speck of blood has flown from the whip and colored his brow. The next blow continues, uncaring...

Her back arches inward as her body thrusts against the pole in retaliation to the seventh strike. A scream seeks to tear her apart from inside, trying hard to break free. She manages to subdue it to the point of a shrill whimper -- her strength faltering all too much to continue the fight much longer. Three lashes, just three to go and she may sleep. The deep feeling of nausea begins to rise from the pit of her stomach, carrying with it all the pain and energy she has tried so hard to reign control over. Her thoughts begin to wander as a slow sleeping lull, shock begins to take over her body -- cutting her off from all feeling. Diana endures the punishment with a near-crumpled stance, the support of the cross and ties likely the only thing that seems to keep her still upon her feet.

Theron waits and waits and waits, wanting so much to roust the lot of them away, but this is important. This must be seen. Not that it will be the usual punishment, for he can already see some of the dumber Ceterions scheming this as a way to get back at a hated Optio. But for this man, please, the Imperator, begs of the lares, using that word, 'please.' Please let this be his last lesson. How many more are there?

A hard downward motion -- much akin to hurling a javelin -- and Caius' left arm brings the gory lash down hard upon Diana's back. To any who are able to note such a thing in the midst of such brutality, great care is taken to avoid striking the Optio's sagging wings. Of course, this means intense punishment, and pain, are directed at the already ruined lower back.

"Eight," intones a voice that many stones would shudder to hear.

Vision blurring beneath the force of her own silent tears, she can hardly discern where one pain ends and the next begins. A wave of sheer numbness overtakes her, perhaps in relief, while the hollow cry of number eight echoes from a distance. Diana is losing ground, waltzing the line between the waking and dream worlds. Her flesh has been seared and stripped by the lashings in many places, thick sores seeking to seal themselves -- reopened by the force of each lash. A sticky sheen of deep crimson slicks the surface of her back and might by some standards be considered quite unsettling to the stomach. Her head falls against the body of the cross once more -- eyes slipping to a close, as the uprising contents of her stomach fall to the ground before her.

And just when you didn't think it could get any worse, a nod is given and a bucket of cold water splashes over the darkling. This is always expected, that the object of the flogging will faint from the pain. The bucket goes into hand-off, in case another is needed. Still, the Imperator stands and watches. His hands opening and closing madly behind his back.

For once, not a trace of a smile or any good humor on Benedict's face. He watches as impassively as his boss does.

The bloodied bell of Caius' voice is heard again, as the lash -- this instrument of torture and discipline -- fills its cruel purpose again. Blood splatters, mingling with water and bile on the stones of the Eyrie plaza.

"Nine," announces the grim herald. Muscle... bare muscle now, scents the Haven air with blood.

The splash of cold water jars the woman wide awake -- snapping her back to the tainted reality of blood, sweat, and tears. The heavy taste of bile remains upon her tongue, eliciting another wash of sickness over her. She is beyond the strength to cry, to scream, wishing -- no, praying to the lares for the final lash to come and be done with her as the ninth cracks loudly upon the air. She had almost forgotten -- almost... just how much pain the lash brings. Paint her the fool for not remembering that which she should have. Diana hangs limply from the cross, her legs beneath her finally crumpling from the pain and exhaustion. She is awake, or at least faintly so as the seconds seem to loom for an eternity in wait of the final lash.

Ten. Ten. Now. As soon as possible. Please. While we're still young. Let this be the end. Let this be the end to it all, for if Caius doesn't learn from this, he never will. Theron might just have to throttle him at that point, and really, wouldn't it be a mercy. Those who are watching stay rigidly at attention, though they cannot help the oft involuntary sounds of amazement at this sight.

If he were weak before, Caius betrays no such sentiment now as the last lash screams towards it mark.

"Ten," he states with near-heartless neutrality. Even as that long-awaited word passes his cruel lips, the Ceterion coils the length of the whip, heedless of the blood which colors his hands crimson... in the literal sense now, added to the figurative. Stepping forward before the Eyrie walls are able to report his word back to him, Caius reaches to the harsh ropes which bind Diana's raw wrists to the cross.

As the tenth lash is delivered, the darkling woman all but collapses upon the cross. Apparently unable to withhold the masking of her pain any longer, she buries her head upon its surface -- eyes closing in a final relief. Her energy has been usurped by the ordeal -- leaving her as little more than a broken little doll draped in blood. If she is aware of the Ceterion's efforts to unbind her, she gives no notice -- the hazy realm between conscious and dark finally dragging Diana down into its depths.

Theron gestures to the Ceterions who were standing by to do that. He calls out, "Ceterion Antoninus, leave off that, it is time that you take up the second half of the punishment." No, he's not allowing there to be a time of leisure, of reflection of what happened, there'll be plenty time enough for that in the stocks.

In fact, Benedict heads for the darkling, and with surprising gentleness takes over seeing after her, directing the Ceterion to herd Caius over to the Imperator.

Theron, for his part, takes the time to issue dismissed commands to the audience.

Caius looks up as his name is called... the first words not of his own throat in... several eternities. Stepping back once Diana is in the care of the appointed pair, the Ceterion needs no shepherds to bring him before Theron. Indeed, no backward glance is given to his Optio... no, the Imperator holds the cold-eyed man's sole attention. As he draws nearer, a speck of Diana's lifeblood still marks his brow.

Unable to truly resist anything more at this point, the darkling woman allows herself to be taken from the cross. No sooner are her hands released from their binding than she begins an immediate descent downwards -- her own muscles turned to jelly. Diana does not speak, but the stench of bile and blood emanate heavily from her half-aware form.

Diana is caught by Benedict and sends someone off for a healer, then hijacking another, he sees her into the Eyrie and for those paying attention straight into the Imperator's quarters. So much for that.

Theron regards Caius coolly, now that's over, holding his hand out for the whip, "You will now be escorted to the Rialto, to be put in stocks. You will be guarded by two Ceterions who will make sure that no serious harm comes to you. You may be allowed to speak as you will to any who will speak with you. But I hope -- sincerely hope -- Caius, that you will use this time to think -- to reflect upon this."

The coiled whip nearly drips with blood... Diana's blood. The blood of Theron's future wife... and if the Imperator had, by some insanity, forgotten this, he is reminded by a single look into Caius' eyes. The whip changes hands. His words, are low, deliberate, and measured. "Aye. Imperator. Marcellus." Further words vanish behind the Ceterion's stone-faced demeanor.

There is no dispute as the darkling woman is released from the burden of the cross and silently taken back to the Imperator's own quarters. Her blood and bile still stain the ground for now -- though a few lower Ceterions do manage to begin preparations to clean up the mess. While Diana may not be conscious of the last several lashings or emotions that have transpired as a result, there is one certainty. Not a guard among the Praetorians would have wished to be her this day -- not a single one.

Well, if nothing else, this is going to cement a lot of people's theories on whether Theron murdered his first wife. Take a poll right now, and you'd have a resounding "Yes!" to it. But he can hardly forget that this is Diana's blood on the whip. He takes it, turning away from Caius, but not before uttering a, "Vale, Ceterion Antoninus." With that, the two who are his escort, numbed by pretty much everything, keep quiet the entire way to the Rialto.

FIN  

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