The Fall of the Palmyra
by Tamira K
Western Asia, 272 A.D.
Some of what follows is true…
CHAPTER I
Zenobia, queen of Palmyra, sat upon her throne while lazily and repetitively lifting fistfuls of gold coins from a chest next to her before letting them slip through her fingers and back into the chest. Occasionally one or two bounced onto the granite floor and the red carpet that led from her throne to the great doors at the end of the room. She was listening to the shouts and bustle of her assembling armies when a heavy knock echoed throughout the throne room. She straightened in her seat and signaled for her guards to open the palace doors.
Maintaining a regal posture, she hid the thrill of excitement that ran through her centre, sparked by the sight of the figure silhouetted by the morning sun. A mane of black hair was tied back and his resplendent custom-made uniform added inhuman proportions to his already hulkish frame. He bowed, placed his galea under his arm and strode towards her. She was delighted to see that his new bronze breastplate was adorned with her personal insignia: a white peacock in full display. In response, she lifted her chest, prompting her over-tunic to part slightly, and was slightly disappointed when he respectfully knelt at her feet without seeming to notice.
‘My queen,’ he said. To her, his deep, gravelly tone suited the dry landscapes of their home.
‘Arise, General Zabdas,’ she said. ‘Are your armies ready to confront the Roman legion?’
‘They are, my queen. My men have an unbreakable will and we have word of the intended attack. To protect against false information, I shall have a second legion in waiting. The invaders shall meet a wall of iron shields and steel blades. We shall cut them down and drive them back; all the way to the Colosseum itself, if we must.’
‘A victory will secure you tremendous rewards,’ said Zenobia, letting another fistful of gold fall from her hand.
‘My greatest reward is protecting your honour,’ he replied.
Zenobia smiled and let her eyes drift over his huge biceps. ‘Once it is done, my reign will no longer be questioned by the leaders of Rome and I shall be declared Empress.’
‘Yes, my queen,’ said Zabdas, impassioned by the thought.
She stood from her throne and went to him. She adored the way his shaggy black beard and sun-bronzed skin made his grey eyes gleam, and she wanted to get one last look before he set off on his quest. She looked up at him and spoke in a low tone, ‘That day, General Zabdas, I will have you by my side.’
She softened with a look that caused his loins to stir. He cast a stern look at the Praetorian Guards flanking the throne. They averted their eyes to indicate a sense of privacy for the queen and her general.
He took her hand, ‘Nothing could strengthen my resolve more than those words, my queen,’ he said and bowed his lips to the back of her hand. ‘I will not fail you.’
‘No,’ said Zenobia, ‘you will not.’
CHAPTER II
General Zabdas sat upon a mighty black horse with a 70,000-strong army behind him, and gazed across the shimmering plain of Emesea. His second-in-command, Septimius Zabbai, was by his side.
‘There,’ said Zabbai and pointed to a small trail of dust in the distance.
A single rider on a white horse galloped at full speed toward them. He slowed as he reached them and saluted. Zabdas signalled his permission to speak.
‘They’re here, General Zabdas. Approaching from the north. A Roman army of no more than fifty-thousand men.’
‘Very good,’ said Zabdas, ‘Join your brothers.’
‘We will crush them with ease,’ said Zabbai. ‘Fifty thousand men who have travelled from Antiokia–‘
‘Under the command of Emperor Aurelian,’ Zabdas interrupted. ‘We have retreated from him once. It will not happen again. Septimius, I want you to take the rear ranks—twenty-thousand men—and wait in the hills that overlook the city. Should any Romans break through or launch a surprise attack, you will be waiting.’
Zabbai saluted. ‘For the queen,’ he said.
They clasped forearms, ‘For the new empire,’ said Zabdas.
Zabbai smiled and rode for the rear ranks.
Zabdas’s horse kicked up dust as he turned to face his army and bellowed with a strength that echoed across the plain, ‘Today is the day! The defeat of Immae was bruising, but it has given us an advantage: I now know the mindset of their devious leader! Today you fight with a renewed purpose: to restore your pride and the pride of your queen! To revenge your fallen brothers-in-arms! To protect your families! And to create a new, invincible empire here in your new home! Let no Roman take this from you! Fight with your heart and soul, like the legion of our men who sit with the Gods and cheer for your victory! A victory for Empress Zenobia!’
A roar of appreciation filled the sky like nothing he had ever heard before and he led the way in beating the handle of his sword against his breastplate before holding it aloft, which was imitated by his army.
Several men amongst the front ranks pointed to the distance. Zabdas turned to see the Roman cavalry begin to emerge through the shimmering haze reflected from the hot, cracked earth. He squinted until he recognised the familiar sky blue plumage that decorated the golden galea of Emperor Aurelian. Never before had a nemesis given Zabdas such a taste for blood, but, true to his word, he had learned from the defeat at Immae and resisted the urge to send his eager cavalry forth to meet the Romans.
‘Patience!’ he warned, raising a hand and imagining the deepest levels of painful torture that he would unleash on captured enemies, particularly Aurelian. He wanted him captured alive.
From their approach, Zabdas could tell that the Romans were tired and suffering from the heat. When they reached a comfortable distance, he pointed his sword, signalling his heavy cavalry to attack.
The front ranks thundered into battle. To untutored bystanders, the battle would seem like nothing but chaotic violence, but Zabdas watched and calculated every move, directing each section of his army to attack in specific places at specific moments. Aurelian’s men fought bravely but were no match for Zabdas’s forces. He recognised that his speech had lifted their spirits like never before. And, amid the clashes of iron and steel, he saw Aurelian’s helmet and galloped in to join the carnage and seize his foe.
After slicing, kicking and stabbing his way through the crowd, he watched Aurelian toppled from his horse. They locked eyes and he saw the look of exhaustion on the emperor’s face that recognised defeat was imminent.
Zabdas smiled.
‘Retreat!’ cried Aurelian, mounting the horse of a dead cavalryman and fleeing through the crowd.
The repeated cry of retreat went up from the Roman army and they hastened in the direction from which they had come.
‘Victory!’ bellowed Zabdas, holding up his sword, which prompted his cavalry to chase their opponents. This had not been his intention, but, caught in a swell of superiority, he joined the pursuit.
The men yelled triumphantly as their horses pounded across the great plain. Zabdas’s horse took the lead and it was only when he reached the head of the cavalry that he realised the Romans were slowing. Turning to face him and his men after such a short retreat triggered a feeling of great unease. That’s when he spotted previously hidden legions of Roman infantry, who flanked his army on both sides.
He held up his hand, but it was too late.
The Romans encircled them and carved their way through the ensnared Palmyrene army. The circle closed until Zabdas and all but one hundred of his men were dead.
Covered in sweat, dust and the blood of his own men, Zabdas knelt by the side of his slaughtered horse, with several Roman sword tips pointed at his throat.
Emperor Aurelian made his way through the crowd and looked down on him. A smile spread across his lips.
Zabdas grasped for a dropped sword and swiped away the blades at his neck, cut down two infantrymen and was ready to hack at Aurelian when he was clubbed on the back of his head by a legionary. He fell, face-first, into the dust.
CHAPTER III
A bucketful of water emptied over Zabdas’s head.
His natural reaction was to hurl a fist in the direction of the assault but his arm was held fast. He couldn’t move.
He knew that he had been unconscious for some time. Water streamed from his hair and blurred his vision. He shook it away and found himself to be in a large, dry dungeon cell, well lit by flaming torches around the walls. Two Roman guards, so enormous that they could only just fit their shoulders through the doorway, left the cell. One held the dripping bucket.
Zabdas realised he had been stripped of all clothes except a loincloth. Steel manacles were clasped around his ankles and attached to two chains that were bolted to the floor, allowing minimal movement of his legs. There were two holes in the floor beneath his feet that were uncomfortable to stand upon, so he lifted his heels slightly, which allowed the water to drain into the holes and disappear.
He looked up. Steel manacles held his wrists and were attached to two separate chains that each ran to large iron eye-hooks in the ceiling before travelling back down to two hefty wooden cranks at either side of the room. He pulled at the chains but only succeeded in lifting himself off the floor a little.
Another crank at the far end of the cell held a taut chain that ran straight up into a hole in the ceiling.
He then noticed something else in the ceiling above him that perplexed him: a rectangular carving, flush to the surface, about six feet long and one foot wide; like a suspended inset wall.
The guards’ footsteps traversed a stone staircase and slammed a door behind them. The resulting echo gave Zabdas a clue as to the enormous scale of the dungeon.
There was a strangely comforting aroma in the air, which reminded him of Zenobia’s bath room, which he had once been privileged to visit. He was trying to place why when he registered the gentle clinking of chains from somewhere outside his cell, accompanied by a muted groaning.
‘Who is that?’ called Zabdas.
‘General Zabdas? It’s Worod, heavy cavalryman, sir.’
‘Why are you moaning?’
‘That’s me, General Zabdas,’ another voice croaked from a more distant part of the basement. ‘Infantryman Hairan. I’m strung from the ceiling by my wrists, sir.’
‘As am I,’ said Worod, followed by a babble of other voices confirming themselves to all be in the same position.
‘Silence!’ said Zabdas. The authority of his voice was unswaged by his predicament. ‘I am also hung by the wrists. You are men of honour, warriors under my command and protectors of Zenobia, queen of Palmyra. Steel yourselves to the knowledge that our captors intend to do much more than hang us by the arms. We each—and your families—depend on you to remain strong and reveal nothing! If I any man here makes such piteous noises again, he will answer to me! Do you understand?’
‘Yes General Zabdas!’ called the men in unison, their courage and solidarity fully renewed.
He estimated from the chorus the same one hundred men who knelt with him when the slaying ceased were now in the dungeon with him. He could only hope that Zabbai would be aware of the situation and mount a stealthy surprise attack to free them all.
‘Your men have great faith in you,’ said a female voice from behind him.
Zabdas didn’t react. He was unable to see the rear of the cell.
‘That’s quite extraordinary as you have now led them in two gargantuan and humiliating defeats,’ said the voice. Light footsteps brought forth a pretty Roman maiden of no more than twenty five years, with a head of long golden curls and a full-length toga the sky blue colour of Aurelian’s galea plumes. ‘I suppose it may be due to your stature. Many a man has cast a spell simply by accident of birth. Was your mother very tall as well?’
Zabdas bristled. ‘Their faith goes far beyond the mortal plain. Their faith in me, the Gods and the divine Queen Zenobia—‘
The young woman held a hand to her mouth and tittered. ‘That’s all very inspiring,’ she mocked, ‘but I am only concerned with the here-and-now and what I want to know is… where is the rest of your army?’
Zabdas took his opportunity to condescend. ‘Under pain of torture I would speak not to your false gods, your Emperor or your master, let alone say a word to the insolent handmaiden, wench or whore who stands below me now.’
She looked up at him, unfazed by his words. ‘Oh, my masters don’t torture. They gave up on that a long time ago, when I proved my skills to be beyond their capacities. My name is Flavia and this is my dungeon.’
‘It marks your intelligence, that you see it as a promotion to be kept below ground,’ said Zabdas.
‘Enough jousting,’ said Flavia. ‘Where are your remaining legions?’
Zabdas’s countenance was resolute.
Flavia looked him up and down. ‘Some call you The Black Lion. I assume it’s because you are so very hairy? Hairy arms, hairy legs, hairy stomach, hairy chest, hairy face. Even here…’ she said and gently touched the ends of the hairs of his right armpit.
A rush of gooseflesh swept over Zabdas’s arms and shoulder blades and he sensed an unfamiliar restlessness.
‘Marilla. Sabina…’ said Flavia, and there was more movement behind him. Two young brunette women stepped forward. Marilla wore a sunlight yellow toga and carried a fresh bucket of water. Sabina wore a pale pink toga. In one hand she held a bucket of soap and water. In the other, she held a razor blade.
Zabdas steeled himself for agony and, perhaps, death.
But instead of cutting him, the subordinates proceeded to wash his entire body while Flavia stood back and watched. He perceived some admiration in the eyes of the young women as they smothered sudsy water over his huge, glistening muscles.
‘What is this?’ he said.
‘Preparation,’ said Flavia.
He reacted as Sabine flashed the razor and smiled at him. She then knelt and very carefully began to shave, beginning at the tops of his feet. The hair drifted into the suds as easily as if it had not been attached.
‘You see now why the blade must be so sharp?’ asked Flavia.
‘Yes, Mistress,’ said Sabina. ‘It’s not dragging at the skin.’
With the exception of his loincloth-covered area, Sabina shaved all the way up from his feet to his throat. She then took a pinch of his ragged beard and he pulled away.
‘Take care,’ said Marilla. ‘This is not where you want her to cut you.’
His eyes remained fixed on Sabine as she gently and neatly shaved off his signature beard.
‘There you go,’ said Flavia. ‘Less like an animal. One might say you looked handsome. Just one last part to go.’
‘By the gods, you will not shave my head! Cut me if you will!’ said Zabdas.
‘Oh, be calm! I’m not speaking of your head,’ said Flavia and pointed Sabina towards his armpits.
He noticed that Sabina’s nod and smile held a hint of enthusiasm. ‘You women are strange in the mind,’ he said.
Sabina looked insulted. ‘I need more shaving bubbles,’ she said.
With deliberate slowness Marilla reached into the murky bucket and rolled the bar of soap between her palms to build a creamy foam. She then dropped it back into the water and stepped before Zabdas, looking him in the eye the entire time.
Experienced in the ways of mental as well as physical battle, Zabdas refused to be intimidated by these little women and held Marilla’s unwavering stare as she raised her palms began to spread the foam over his underarms.
At first her touch was sloppy and deserved no particular attention, but then she began to scoop at underarm hairs, in slow and repetitive jellyfish motions.
They held each other’s gaze, both refusing to blink. Marilla felt her eyes begin to tear up and recognised a hint of victory in Zabdas’s. Maddened, she responded by drawing her fingertips across his slick underarms. Confusion wiped away his smug look as Zabdas fought against his compulsion to struggle as a brief snort left the back of his throat.
Marilla looked to Flavia and Sabina. All three smiled to one another.
‘Shave him,’ said Flavia.
Sabina stepped forward and carefully did so, all the while with an unnervingly serene smile. ‘All done,’ she said and wiped the remaining drips from his body with a cloth.
The women stood in a line, admiring their newly shaved subject.
Zabdas retained a defiant disposition whilst experiencing a novel disconcertion; he could not remember a time when his body was not covered in hair. His masculine arms and chest had been admired by women and envied by men. Whilst the shave was a seemingly childish taunt, and despite his level of undress being unchanged, he felt even more exposed than ever. This was highlighted as the fresh air met his skin without the insulating shield of manly fur, bringing with it an unfamiliar sensitivity.
CHAPTER IV
‘Shall we oil him?’ asked Marilla.
‘No,’ said Flavia with an analytical air, ‘His sweat will do.’
Zabdas shook his head at the insolent young woman. He was used to a life of armour-clad combat in the African and Asian sun. He did not sweat easily.
‘Candles,’ said Flavia and her assistants bowed acquiescence and stepped out of Zabdas’s sight. ‘I may as well ask again: where is the rest of Zenobia’s army, Barbarian?”
‘Empress Zenobia by your tongue,’ said Zabdas, ‘and I am a General, you worthless quim.’
Her explression showed no change as she stepped forward and spoke, ‘By the time the sun sets, you will wish I was calling you by a term as respected as “barbarian”.’
Just then Zabdas sensed heat on the soles of his feet and looked down just in time to see Marilla and Sabina drop large candles into the holes beneath him. They settled inside, low enough to be untouchable but raised enough for the flames to lick above floor level. Zabdas stood higher on tiptoes but the heat was difficult to avoid.
Flavia walked to the far end of the room and stood by the solitary crank. She nodded to the others and they turned the cranks at Zabdas’s sides, slackening the chains that held his wrists.
‘It’s not wise for you to loosen my arms,’ he said.
‘It’s sweet that you are already concerned for our welfare. However, I don’t think you’ll have to capacity to strike us when you are so busy with this…’ said Flavia and indicated the ceiling above him at the same time as releasing her crank. The chain rushed into the ceiling and Zabdas looked up just in time to see the suspended brick wall drop towards him. He planted his feet, caught it and, with gritted teeth, growled with all his might to keep it from dropping onto his skull.
‘Pah!’ he barked as the flames from the candles began to sear at his heels and he strained to once again stand on tiptoes whilst holding up the brick construction.
‘I do love my little toys!’ said Flavia and clapped her hands.
Every muscle in Zabdas’s body strained as he not only focussed on protecting himself from the weight and the candles, but also did his damnedest to prevent from displaying his level of struggle. He cursed himself as all three factors combined to produce a drip of perspiration that ran from his hairline and over his freshly shaved cheek. It wasn’t long before a sheen coated his body that reflected the flaming wall torches.
‘And there you have it, ladies,’ said Flavia. ‘Away you go.’
Marilla and Sabina approached him from both sides.
‘You’d better not drop that wall, Barbarian,’ said Marilla.
‘Yes,’ said Sabina, adopting a patronising tone, ‘you don’t want to get your little self squished, do you?’
As she spoke they rested one hand each onto either side of his naked waist. It took him by surprise when he heard himself say, ‘No…’
‘Wait,’ Flavia commanded. ‘Are you begging already, Barbarian?’
‘I am not!’ said Zabdas, irritated at his own unwitting subversion. He didn’t know why he didn’t want them to touch him there. He had never said that to anyone before. He could just sense it would cause his knees to buckle. He tightened his abdominals.
‘Ooh, ladies. These muscles will do nothing but assist you. I bet you know just where to go,’ said Flavia.
‘We do,’ the assistants said in unison.
Flavia looked intently into Zabdas’s eyes and nodded.
‘No!’ said Zabdas again and as he cursed himself for doing so the young women wriggled their fingertips into the muscles of his waist.
An alien feeling instantly overcame Zabdas’s senses. He held his breath to keep it at bay, but a turmoil instantly raged in the pit of his stomach. Wide-eyed, he clenched his jaw in a bizarre grimace and nodded his head back and forth in an attempt to cope but the strain from both internal and external forces welled up and found their release with a sound that rasped at his rear teeth.
He felt the will ebbing from him but he knew that as soon as he gave up resistance he wouldn’t have the strength to hold up the great weight above him. Veins throbbed in his neck and forehead as his complexion turned to that of a pomegranate.
The women stopped.
Zabdas gasped for breath and heaved to straighten his arms. No sooner was he in as solid a stance as he could maintain when the sound of a bullwhip cracked behind him and he felt a whisk of air on the back of his neck.
‘Don’t let this make you drop it,’ said Marilla and this time the crack of the whip was accompanied by a stinging pain diagonally across his back. Another crack and a symmetrically identical slice of pain into formed an X that covered his whole back. He held Flavia’s gaze. This was a sensation with which he was familiar and could endure until unconsciousness took him.
Sabina crouched before him as another lash from the bullwhip struck an inch from his spine.
He was about to cast insults when Sabina grabbed a little further up his waist than before and began to vibrate her fingertips over his lower ribs. A brief frustrated protest was cut short when the sensations overwhelmed him once more. He held his lips tight, scrunched his eyes and threw his head back, trying to make sense of what was happening to him. Sabina watched with a look of undiluted glee.
Another lash made him jump; the polarity of sensations was impossible to ignore. His muscles trembled and he began to weaken. He opened his eyes to see his hands holding the wall above him and sharpen his focus on the consequence of losing control.
‘Oh, you’re having too much fun, Sabina!’ said Marilla, casting the whip aside and grabbing his upper ribs from behind. He jolted and was unable to deny the compulsions building inside him. Once again, the desire to laugh rattled a long and undignified snort from the back of his throat.
His arms and legs began to shake uncontrollably. He turned a deep shade of crimson as the realisation came that he was going to drop the wall. He gave an unintelligible cry as his knees buckled. The women stopped and he closed his eyes, expecting the inevitable unimaginable pain… but it didn’t come.
The women laughed.
‘General!?’ called one of the men from a nearby cell.
‘Look at you cower!’ said Sabina.
Zabdas opened his eyes to see the brick wall dangling just half a foot lower than it had been when he was struggling to hold it.
‘I didn’t let it go completely, you foolish barbarian,’ said Flavia. ‘How am I going to interrogate you if you’re crushed to death?’
Zabdas glowered at her then winced as he was once again standing on the flames. He raised his heels.
‘That’s right: stand on tiptoes,’ mocked Marilla, ‘you look so masculine in that pose!’ She and Sabina tittered together.
‘General? Are you—?’ the soldier called again.
‘I’m well!’ called Zabdas. ‘Now be silent!’
CHAPTER V
Flavia wound the mechanism that raised the wall back into place. ‘You might be wondering how I am able to wind this so easily. No, it’s not because I am stronger than you—though I might be—it’s because I devised these ingenious devices—’
‘What are you doing to me?’ Zabdas interrupted.
‘We’re interrogating you,’ said Flavia.
‘I know…! I mean, what fiendish techniques…?’
Flavia smiled and walked up to him. ‘You sheltered male… we’re tickling you. You are becoming our little tickle toy.’
Zabdas had witnessed such antics but considered them childish and never taken part. He had never considered that they would be so tumultuous to endure. Flavia placed her fingertips at his waist. Aware of his susceptibility in the region, he tensed.
‘I can tell you’ve never experienced it before,’ she said. ‘Who could have guessed that such a warrior could be so naive? Especially as it is also a game of tactics. You see, all I need to do is let you know I’m going to tickle your armpits…’
As she spoke Sabina and Marilla turned the cranks as the sides of the room. The chains became taut and his arms were stretched, lifting him onto his tiptoes and rendering him utterly immobile. Flavia walked her fingers slowly up his abdominals and along his ribcage on a clear path to his armpits. The realisation that he could not bring his arms down mixed with the memory of the time she touched his armpit hair and he felt the urge to avoid her.
‘…and you can do all you want to try and resist…’ she continued, her fingertips drawing close to the smooth dips of his lower armpits.
Zabdas tensed his upper body, causing his shining muscles to protrude, and braced himself to resist the touch at his underarms when something caused him to jolt and look at Flavia in confusion. While a frown occupied his forehead, from his mouth came an incremental laugh: ‘Ho…! Ho-ho…! Ho-ho-ho-ho…! Ho-ho-ho-ha ha ha ha haaa…!’
As laughter crept from his throat, he looked down to see Marilla’s hands between his legs, close to his loincloth, clasping the insides of his thighs with firm pincer movements. He tried his hardest to rock from side to side, but the chains held him fast; forcing him to endure the incessant sensations.
‘…and while I distract you up there, we attack elsewhere!’ Flavia had to speak louder to complete her sentence over his laughter and watched with sadistic delight as Zabdas did all he could to process what was happening to him whilst trying, unsuccessfully, to regain control of his emotions.
‘Oh, you do have a nice laugh, barbarian,’ taunted Marilla from between his legs. ‘I wonder if your men enjoy hearing it?’
Reminded of his other soldiers, Zabdas immediately bit his lips shut but this didn’t prevent his body from continuing to convulse as laughter rumbled within his great chest. He shook his head in anguish; there was nothing he could do to stop laughing.
‘Of course,’ continued Flavia, ‘it should then be obvious that, while we are attacking you down low…’
Sabina leapt in front of him, ‘I attack you up high!’ she said and wriggled her fingers rapidly towards his armpits.
His eyes widened and he shook his head with a pleading desperation but the gleeful young woman took no notice and her fingers soon scurried into the smooth, freshly shaved hollows of his underarms.
A shock of surprise puffed out his cheeks and, an instant later, blew his lips open with a hefty bellow of laughter that echoed throughout the dungeon corridor.
‘Ooh! You are ticklish on your silky underarms, aren’t you, Tickle Toy?’ said Sabina. ‘All the more slippery because you are sweating so much!’
The taunting infuriated Zabdas but he was unable to do anything but laugh as the maddening sensations overwhelmed him.
Flavia revelled in the sight of her prodigies forcing the huge warrior to lose control. ‘I think he is regressing in his ranks,’ she said. ‘If he continues to be so obviously under our command, we should probably call him “Slave”.’
A wild response from Zabdas caused the chains to clank in the eye hooks and dust fell from the ceiling. Marilla and Sabina stumbled back in surprise and the room fell silent. Zabdas snarled with fury, fuelled even further by the murmuring from his men as they discussed the queer sounds coming from their General’s cell.
‘Do not mock me,’ he said, his cheeks quivering with rage as much as the strange torture he had just endured.
‘Why ever not?’ asked Flavia with total composure.
‘You have no honour, whore. I am a General—‘
‘Let us say this, then: if you do not laugh in the next thirty seconds, I will address you as General. But if you do laugh, you are asking us—begging us—to call you our slave. And I think it’s my turn…’ she said as she stepped behind him and crouched.
‘I will not play your games,’ he announced.
‘You concede already?’ said Flavia.
‘I do not—!’
‘Count from thirty to one,’ Flavia said to Sabina.
Sabina and Marilla stood side by side and Sabina began her countdown. ‘Thirty… twenty-nine…’
‘You think you are experienced in the ways of war, but if you think of the number of battles in which you have fought, you can multiply it twenty-fold to find the number of men I have had at my mercy,’ said Flavia.
‘…twenty-one… twenty…’
‘And from my experience, the way you have reacted thus far informs me that you are going to be totally and utterly vulnerable on the soles of your feet…’
Zabdas felt a familiar tingle. In combat sparring or on the field of battle, this feeling came fast. He felt it in his neck or torso when a sword or spear was thrust or swung at him and it helped him react with lightning speed to defend himself from every deadly attack. This time the sensation grew, for the first ever time, in the soles of his feet and was not able to be resolved because the chains that held his wrists gave no slack. He was not on tiptoes by choice.
‘…eleven… ten…’
Flavia saw his toes clench reflexively to perform the most he could to protect himself and she smirked.
‘… six… five…’
Zabdas tensed every fibre of his being. To retain his honour he just needed to resist for—
‘PAAA HA HA HA HA HA HAAA!’
Bolts of energy fired through his limbs and into his brain before he even recognised that he was being touched. Flavia’s experienced dexterity brought her fingernails in contact with the bare soles of his huge feet in a way that had exactly the right pressure and speed to have the greatest effect.
His masculine laughter filled the dungeon even louder than before as he twisted desperately in his suspended position. Sweat flew from his hair. It was all he could do to grasp the chains to prevent the manacles from cutting into his wrists. He had before been captured and tortured with pain while his torturers watched in frustration as, however great the pain, it had not brought forth any cries of agony or pleads for mercy. So to now hear nothing but his own involuntary loud laughter whilst two beautiful young maidens watched him and whispered in humour to one another was humiliating and surreal.
‘Enou…! Enou…! Enou…!’ he called. Wheezing laughter stole the end of the word each time he tried to say it.
Flavia stopped and blotting his sweat from her brow with the hem of her toga, joined her amused students. The other soldiers were once again muttering among themselves.
Zabdas tried to again order silence, but an exhaustion in his body and the dryness of his mouth prevented him from producing a volume that could be heard outside his cell.
‘…one,’ said Sabina, prompting a giggle from Marilla.
‘Now, Slave. You will tell me the location of your remaining barbarians,’ said Flavia.
‘I will not,’ said Zabdas as he watched sweat drip from his hair onto the floor.
Flavia sighed. ‘You are a stubborn slave, I will admit. But I have a deal of your men to get through before this night is over.’
Zabdas recounted all the things that relied on his resistance: the lives of his men and his lifelong friend, Septimius; the respect of the queen to whom he had pledged his life; a future of riches untold and to rule my Zenobia’s side; to enjoy a life of carnal adventure with the beautiful queen; the fate of Palmyra; and his pride, honour and eternal legacy.
He straightened his posture and looked Flavia in the eye with an iron resolve. ‘I will tell you nothing.’
CHAPTER VI
‘Get the wax,’ said Flavia.
Marilla and Sabina went to the rear of the cell and returned with two more buckets, this time they steamed with melted wax. Zabdas then understood why he was reminded of Zenobia’s bath room: she bathed her beautiful body by the light of a thousand candles.
Flavia signalled the women. Marilla pulled a large brush from her bucket and proceeded to paint the hot wax over Zabdas’s armpits, while Sabina poured her bucket over his feet.
The pain was intense but more familiar than tickling and so easier to endure. He welcomed it as he would welcome a hot bath, whilst recognising that it was again more intense due to his lack of hair. The initial sting of heat gradually reduced as the wax cooled, leaving a thick, smooth crust that coated his feet and armpits and he was grateful that it left them inaccessible to the women’s touch.
Flavia went to him and began gently teasing his stomach. As much as he tried, he couldn’t help but titter.
‘Aw. Pathetic slave. You are even undermined by this…? Then I dread to imagine how you will respond to what happens next.’
‘Do y-your worst, whore,’ said Zabdas. ‘For my p-people, Empress Zenobia and the Palmyra Emp-pire, I will tell you n-nothing!’ he managed to say before melting into deeper giggles.
‘We’ll see,’ she said stepped to the crank at the front of the cell. ‘This time, I will let it go completely…’
She flicked a safety catch and the chain rushed into the ceiling. The wall dropped in a rush of dust. Stretched to his fullest, Zabdas caught the wall again. It felt heavier this time.
‘You’d better not laugh, Slave,’ Marilla spoke breathily into his ear, causing a rush of goosepimples down his neck.
‘Definitely not,’ Sabina joined in. ‘If you were squished, we would have to torture your men instead.’
Marilla then drew his shiver down his back and legs with a light drag of her fingernails as she knelt by his feet and began to pick away lumps of the dried wax. Sabina did the same with the wax at his armpits. He shut his eyes and he focussed all strength to hold the wall in place and ignoring the game they were playing with the wax until something pricked at his subconscious, making him extremely uneasy. It was only when Marilla’s fingernail scratched at a patch of freshly exposed warm skin on the sole of his foot that he understood: he was ten times more sensitive than before.
If there had been hair left on his body, it would have stood on end. He did not fear pain or a noble death, but there was nothing noble about this. If he dropped the wall, his death would be heard by one hundred of his men and his enduring legacy would not be that of General Zabdas, the conquering warrior, but Zabdas, the man who died because he could not resist being tickled by three young women. Fear washed over him and with it brought a fear of the techniques used by these devilish women.
‘Let me,’ said Flavia, who took Sabina’s place and peeled away great chunks of wax.
Zabdas opened his eyes.
Flavia smiled. She recognised the fear. ‘Something wrong, Slave?’
‘Do not…’ he said, piteousness undermining his authority.
‘You cannot command us. You must beg,’ said Flavia.
‘Please. Do not.’
‘“Do not” what?’
‘Do not tickle me. Ple-hee hee-hee…’
Zabdas’s dread increased and he started to laugh as Marilla’s method became to tickle the wax away from his soles.
‘No! No-ho-ho-ho…!’ he laughed, and shook more. The tickling at his soles was unbearable.
He then realised that four hands were at his underarms – while Flavia pulled away wax from the lower dips of his armpits, Sabina reached up from behind and peeled away strips from the upper parts.
‘Where are your legions?’ said Flavia.
‘P-p-please! Have mercy!’ Zabdas begged.
‘Tickle him!’ Flavia commanded. In response Sabina began tickling away the wax of his upper armpits as Flavia did the same to his lower armpits.
Zabdas’s next plea struck a feminine tone that amused the women and shocked his men as a high-pitched squealing laughter bounced off the walls of the dungeon. His muscles began to tremble and he didn’t know how much longer he could hold up the brick wall.
‘Plee-ee-ease! Stop tickling me-ee-ee!’
‘Beg us!’ laughed Flavia, her fingers speeding over his smooth skin. ‘Beg us so your men can hear!’
Zabdas’s senses were so overcome that he complied without question: ‘I’m begging you! Pleee-ee-ee-ease! Stop tickling me!’
Shouts of angry protest came from the outer cells at the sound of the General being so humiliated.
Flavia felt turned on with power. ‘And where are your remaining legions!?’
‘Please!’ he begged as sweat dripped from his every pore and his huge muscles trembled.
‘Tickle him more!’ Flavia shouted.
Zabdas was about to protest when the tickling overpowered him. All energy left his mind and his deep, bellowing laughter returned. The wall was going to fall.
‘Th….! Th….! Th…!’ he tried to speak, his eyes wide and manic.
Flavia reduced the pace of her fingers.
‘Th-they are in th-the hills… that overlook the city!’ he yelled through a barrage of laughter.
Flavia stepped back in victory. The women stopped tickling. Zabdas’s laughter had melted into tears – tears forced from him by his surreal torture and his sense of complete loss. As his senses returned to him, he realised what he had done.
Flavia wound the wall back into the ceiling to the shouts of anger now directed at Zabdas, his humiliating defeat and a treachery they would never forgive.
‘Let us go and eat,’ Flavia said to Marilla and Sabina as she watched Zabdas hanging from his chains; sobbing and beaten. ‘Perhaps we will open one or two of the other cells so that the General’s men can deal with him.’
THE END.
by Tamira K
Western Asia, 272 A.D.
Some of what follows is true…
CHAPTER I
Zenobia, queen of Palmyra, sat upon her throne while lazily and repetitively lifting fistfuls of gold coins from a chest next to her before letting them slip through her fingers and back into the chest. Occasionally one or two bounced onto the granite floor and the red carpet that led from her throne to the great doors at the end of the room. She was listening to the shouts and bustle of her assembling armies when a heavy knock echoed throughout the throne room. She straightened in her seat and signaled for her guards to open the palace doors.
Maintaining a regal posture, she hid the thrill of excitement that ran through her centre, sparked by the sight of the figure silhouetted by the morning sun. A mane of black hair was tied back and his resplendent custom-made uniform added inhuman proportions to his already hulkish frame. He bowed, placed his galea under his arm and strode towards her. She was delighted to see that his new bronze breastplate was adorned with her personal insignia: a white peacock in full display. In response, she lifted her chest, prompting her over-tunic to part slightly, and was slightly disappointed when he respectfully knelt at her feet without seeming to notice.
‘My queen,’ he said. To her, his deep, gravelly tone suited the dry landscapes of their home.
‘Arise, General Zabdas,’ she said. ‘Are your armies ready to confront the Roman legion?’
‘They are, my queen. My men have an unbreakable will and we have word of the intended attack. To protect against false information, I shall have a second legion in waiting. The invaders shall meet a wall of iron shields and steel blades. We shall cut them down and drive them back; all the way to the Colosseum itself, if we must.’
‘A victory will secure you tremendous rewards,’ said Zenobia, letting another fistful of gold fall from her hand.
‘My greatest reward is protecting your honour,’ he replied.
Zenobia smiled and let her eyes drift over his huge biceps. ‘Once it is done, my reign will no longer be questioned by the leaders of Rome and I shall be declared Empress.’
‘Yes, my queen,’ said Zabdas, impassioned by the thought.
She stood from her throne and went to him. She adored the way his shaggy black beard and sun-bronzed skin made his grey eyes gleam, and she wanted to get one last look before he set off on his quest. She looked up at him and spoke in a low tone, ‘That day, General Zabdas, I will have you by my side.’
She softened with a look that caused his loins to stir. He cast a stern look at the Praetorian Guards flanking the throne. They averted their eyes to indicate a sense of privacy for the queen and her general.
He took her hand, ‘Nothing could strengthen my resolve more than those words, my queen,’ he said and bowed his lips to the back of her hand. ‘I will not fail you.’
‘No,’ said Zenobia, ‘you will not.’
CHAPTER II
General Zabdas sat upon a mighty black horse with a 70,000-strong army behind him, and gazed across the shimmering plain of Emesea. His second-in-command, Septimius Zabbai, was by his side.
‘There,’ said Zabbai and pointed to a small trail of dust in the distance.
A single rider on a white horse galloped at full speed toward them. He slowed as he reached them and saluted. Zabdas signalled his permission to speak.
‘They’re here, General Zabdas. Approaching from the north. A Roman army of no more than fifty-thousand men.’
‘Very good,’ said Zabdas, ‘Join your brothers.’
‘We will crush them with ease,’ said Zabbai. ‘Fifty thousand men who have travelled from Antiokia–‘
‘Under the command of Emperor Aurelian,’ Zabdas interrupted. ‘We have retreated from him once. It will not happen again. Septimius, I want you to take the rear ranks—twenty-thousand men—and wait in the hills that overlook the city. Should any Romans break through or launch a surprise attack, you will be waiting.’
Zabbai saluted. ‘For the queen,’ he said.
They clasped forearms, ‘For the new empire,’ said Zabdas.
Zabbai smiled and rode for the rear ranks.
Zabdas’s horse kicked up dust as he turned to face his army and bellowed with a strength that echoed across the plain, ‘Today is the day! The defeat of Immae was bruising, but it has given us an advantage: I now know the mindset of their devious leader! Today you fight with a renewed purpose: to restore your pride and the pride of your queen! To revenge your fallen brothers-in-arms! To protect your families! And to create a new, invincible empire here in your new home! Let no Roman take this from you! Fight with your heart and soul, like the legion of our men who sit with the Gods and cheer for your victory! A victory for Empress Zenobia!’
A roar of appreciation filled the sky like nothing he had ever heard before and he led the way in beating the handle of his sword against his breastplate before holding it aloft, which was imitated by his army.
Several men amongst the front ranks pointed to the distance. Zabdas turned to see the Roman cavalry begin to emerge through the shimmering haze reflected from the hot, cracked earth. He squinted until he recognised the familiar sky blue plumage that decorated the golden galea of Emperor Aurelian. Never before had a nemesis given Zabdas such a taste for blood, but, true to his word, he had learned from the defeat at Immae and resisted the urge to send his eager cavalry forth to meet the Romans.
‘Patience!’ he warned, raising a hand and imagining the deepest levels of painful torture that he would unleash on captured enemies, particularly Aurelian. He wanted him captured alive.
From their approach, Zabdas could tell that the Romans were tired and suffering from the heat. When they reached a comfortable distance, he pointed his sword, signalling his heavy cavalry to attack.
The front ranks thundered into battle. To untutored bystanders, the battle would seem like nothing but chaotic violence, but Zabdas watched and calculated every move, directing each section of his army to attack in specific places at specific moments. Aurelian’s men fought bravely but were no match for Zabdas’s forces. He recognised that his speech had lifted their spirits like never before. And, amid the clashes of iron and steel, he saw Aurelian’s helmet and galloped in to join the carnage and seize his foe.
After slicing, kicking and stabbing his way through the crowd, he watched Aurelian toppled from his horse. They locked eyes and he saw the look of exhaustion on the emperor’s face that recognised defeat was imminent.
Zabdas smiled.
‘Retreat!’ cried Aurelian, mounting the horse of a dead cavalryman and fleeing through the crowd.
The repeated cry of retreat went up from the Roman army and they hastened in the direction from which they had come.
‘Victory!’ bellowed Zabdas, holding up his sword, which prompted his cavalry to chase their opponents. This had not been his intention, but, caught in a swell of superiority, he joined the pursuit.
The men yelled triumphantly as their horses pounded across the great plain. Zabdas’s horse took the lead and it was only when he reached the head of the cavalry that he realised the Romans were slowing. Turning to face him and his men after such a short retreat triggered a feeling of great unease. That’s when he spotted previously hidden legions of Roman infantry, who flanked his army on both sides.
He held up his hand, but it was too late.
The Romans encircled them and carved their way through the ensnared Palmyrene army. The circle closed until Zabdas and all but one hundred of his men were dead.
Covered in sweat, dust and the blood of his own men, Zabdas knelt by the side of his slaughtered horse, with several Roman sword tips pointed at his throat.
Emperor Aurelian made his way through the crowd and looked down on him. A smile spread across his lips.
Zabdas grasped for a dropped sword and swiped away the blades at his neck, cut down two infantrymen and was ready to hack at Aurelian when he was clubbed on the back of his head by a legionary. He fell, face-first, into the dust.
CHAPTER III
A bucketful of water emptied over Zabdas’s head.
His natural reaction was to hurl a fist in the direction of the assault but his arm was held fast. He couldn’t move.
He knew that he had been unconscious for some time. Water streamed from his hair and blurred his vision. He shook it away and found himself to be in a large, dry dungeon cell, well lit by flaming torches around the walls. Two Roman guards, so enormous that they could only just fit their shoulders through the doorway, left the cell. One held the dripping bucket.
Zabdas realised he had been stripped of all clothes except a loincloth. Steel manacles were clasped around his ankles and attached to two chains that were bolted to the floor, allowing minimal movement of his legs. There were two holes in the floor beneath his feet that were uncomfortable to stand upon, so he lifted his heels slightly, which allowed the water to drain into the holes and disappear.
He looked up. Steel manacles held his wrists and were attached to two separate chains that each ran to large iron eye-hooks in the ceiling before travelling back down to two hefty wooden cranks at either side of the room. He pulled at the chains but only succeeded in lifting himself off the floor a little.
Another crank at the far end of the cell held a taut chain that ran straight up into a hole in the ceiling.
He then noticed something else in the ceiling above him that perplexed him: a rectangular carving, flush to the surface, about six feet long and one foot wide; like a suspended inset wall.
The guards’ footsteps traversed a stone staircase and slammed a door behind them. The resulting echo gave Zabdas a clue as to the enormous scale of the dungeon.
There was a strangely comforting aroma in the air, which reminded him of Zenobia’s bath room, which he had once been privileged to visit. He was trying to place why when he registered the gentle clinking of chains from somewhere outside his cell, accompanied by a muted groaning.
‘Who is that?’ called Zabdas.
‘General Zabdas? It’s Worod, heavy cavalryman, sir.’
‘Why are you moaning?’
‘That’s me, General Zabdas,’ another voice croaked from a more distant part of the basement. ‘Infantryman Hairan. I’m strung from the ceiling by my wrists, sir.’
‘As am I,’ said Worod, followed by a babble of other voices confirming themselves to all be in the same position.
‘Silence!’ said Zabdas. The authority of his voice was unswaged by his predicament. ‘I am also hung by the wrists. You are men of honour, warriors under my command and protectors of Zenobia, queen of Palmyra. Steel yourselves to the knowledge that our captors intend to do much more than hang us by the arms. We each—and your families—depend on you to remain strong and reveal nothing! If I any man here makes such piteous noises again, he will answer to me! Do you understand?’
‘Yes General Zabdas!’ called the men in unison, their courage and solidarity fully renewed.
He estimated from the chorus the same one hundred men who knelt with him when the slaying ceased were now in the dungeon with him. He could only hope that Zabbai would be aware of the situation and mount a stealthy surprise attack to free them all.
‘Your men have great faith in you,’ said a female voice from behind him.
Zabdas didn’t react. He was unable to see the rear of the cell.
‘That’s quite extraordinary as you have now led them in two gargantuan and humiliating defeats,’ said the voice. Light footsteps brought forth a pretty Roman maiden of no more than twenty five years, with a head of long golden curls and a full-length toga the sky blue colour of Aurelian’s galea plumes. ‘I suppose it may be due to your stature. Many a man has cast a spell simply by accident of birth. Was your mother very tall as well?’
Zabdas bristled. ‘Their faith goes far beyond the mortal plain. Their faith in me, the Gods and the divine Queen Zenobia—‘
The young woman held a hand to her mouth and tittered. ‘That’s all very inspiring,’ she mocked, ‘but I am only concerned with the here-and-now and what I want to know is… where is the rest of your army?’
Zabdas took his opportunity to condescend. ‘Under pain of torture I would speak not to your false gods, your Emperor or your master, let alone say a word to the insolent handmaiden, wench or whore who stands below me now.’
She looked up at him, unfazed by his words. ‘Oh, my masters don’t torture. They gave up on that a long time ago, when I proved my skills to be beyond their capacities. My name is Flavia and this is my dungeon.’
‘It marks your intelligence, that you see it as a promotion to be kept below ground,’ said Zabdas.
‘Enough jousting,’ said Flavia. ‘Where are your remaining legions?’
Zabdas’s countenance was resolute.
Flavia looked him up and down. ‘Some call you The Black Lion. I assume it’s because you are so very hairy? Hairy arms, hairy legs, hairy stomach, hairy chest, hairy face. Even here…’ she said and gently touched the ends of the hairs of his right armpit.
A rush of gooseflesh swept over Zabdas’s arms and shoulder blades and he sensed an unfamiliar restlessness.
‘Marilla. Sabina…’ said Flavia, and there was more movement behind him. Two young brunette women stepped forward. Marilla wore a sunlight yellow toga and carried a fresh bucket of water. Sabina wore a pale pink toga. In one hand she held a bucket of soap and water. In the other, she held a razor blade.
Zabdas steeled himself for agony and, perhaps, death.
But instead of cutting him, the subordinates proceeded to wash his entire body while Flavia stood back and watched. He perceived some admiration in the eyes of the young women as they smothered sudsy water over his huge, glistening muscles.
‘What is this?’ he said.
‘Preparation,’ said Flavia.
He reacted as Sabine flashed the razor and smiled at him. She then knelt and very carefully began to shave, beginning at the tops of his feet. The hair drifted into the suds as easily as if it had not been attached.
‘You see now why the blade must be so sharp?’ asked Flavia.
‘Yes, Mistress,’ said Sabina. ‘It’s not dragging at the skin.’
With the exception of his loincloth-covered area, Sabina shaved all the way up from his feet to his throat. She then took a pinch of his ragged beard and he pulled away.
‘Take care,’ said Marilla. ‘This is not where you want her to cut you.’
His eyes remained fixed on Sabine as she gently and neatly shaved off his signature beard.
‘There you go,’ said Flavia. ‘Less like an animal. One might say you looked handsome. Just one last part to go.’
‘By the gods, you will not shave my head! Cut me if you will!’ said Zabdas.
‘Oh, be calm! I’m not speaking of your head,’ said Flavia and pointed Sabina towards his armpits.
He noticed that Sabina’s nod and smile held a hint of enthusiasm. ‘You women are strange in the mind,’ he said.
Sabina looked insulted. ‘I need more shaving bubbles,’ she said.
With deliberate slowness Marilla reached into the murky bucket and rolled the bar of soap between her palms to build a creamy foam. She then dropped it back into the water and stepped before Zabdas, looking him in the eye the entire time.
Experienced in the ways of mental as well as physical battle, Zabdas refused to be intimidated by these little women and held Marilla’s unwavering stare as she raised her palms began to spread the foam over his underarms.
At first her touch was sloppy and deserved no particular attention, but then she began to scoop at underarm hairs, in slow and repetitive jellyfish motions.
They held each other’s gaze, both refusing to blink. Marilla felt her eyes begin to tear up and recognised a hint of victory in Zabdas’s. Maddened, she responded by drawing her fingertips across his slick underarms. Confusion wiped away his smug look as Zabdas fought against his compulsion to struggle as a brief snort left the back of his throat.
Marilla looked to Flavia and Sabina. All three smiled to one another.
‘Shave him,’ said Flavia.
Sabina stepped forward and carefully did so, all the while with an unnervingly serene smile. ‘All done,’ she said and wiped the remaining drips from his body with a cloth.
The women stood in a line, admiring their newly shaved subject.
Zabdas retained a defiant disposition whilst experiencing a novel disconcertion; he could not remember a time when his body was not covered in hair. His masculine arms and chest had been admired by women and envied by men. Whilst the shave was a seemingly childish taunt, and despite his level of undress being unchanged, he felt even more exposed than ever. This was highlighted as the fresh air met his skin without the insulating shield of manly fur, bringing with it an unfamiliar sensitivity.
CHAPTER IV
‘Shall we oil him?’ asked Marilla.
‘No,’ said Flavia with an analytical air, ‘His sweat will do.’
Zabdas shook his head at the insolent young woman. He was used to a life of armour-clad combat in the African and Asian sun. He did not sweat easily.
‘Candles,’ said Flavia and her assistants bowed acquiescence and stepped out of Zabdas’s sight. ‘I may as well ask again: where is the rest of Zenobia’s army, Barbarian?”
‘Empress Zenobia by your tongue,’ said Zabdas, ‘and I am a General, you worthless quim.’
Her explression showed no change as she stepped forward and spoke, ‘By the time the sun sets, you will wish I was calling you by a term as respected as “barbarian”.’
Just then Zabdas sensed heat on the soles of his feet and looked down just in time to see Marilla and Sabina drop large candles into the holes beneath him. They settled inside, low enough to be untouchable but raised enough for the flames to lick above floor level. Zabdas stood higher on tiptoes but the heat was difficult to avoid.
Flavia walked to the far end of the room and stood by the solitary crank. She nodded to the others and they turned the cranks at Zabdas’s sides, slackening the chains that held his wrists.
‘It’s not wise for you to loosen my arms,’ he said.
‘It’s sweet that you are already concerned for our welfare. However, I don’t think you’ll have to capacity to strike us when you are so busy with this…’ said Flavia and indicated the ceiling above him at the same time as releasing her crank. The chain rushed into the ceiling and Zabdas looked up just in time to see the suspended brick wall drop towards him. He planted his feet, caught it and, with gritted teeth, growled with all his might to keep it from dropping onto his skull.
‘Pah!’ he barked as the flames from the candles began to sear at his heels and he strained to once again stand on tiptoes whilst holding up the brick construction.
‘I do love my little toys!’ said Flavia and clapped her hands.
Every muscle in Zabdas’s body strained as he not only focussed on protecting himself from the weight and the candles, but also did his damnedest to prevent from displaying his level of struggle. He cursed himself as all three factors combined to produce a drip of perspiration that ran from his hairline and over his freshly shaved cheek. It wasn’t long before a sheen coated his body that reflected the flaming wall torches.
‘And there you have it, ladies,’ said Flavia. ‘Away you go.’
Marilla and Sabina approached him from both sides.
‘You’d better not drop that wall, Barbarian,’ said Marilla.
‘Yes,’ said Sabina, adopting a patronising tone, ‘you don’t want to get your little self squished, do you?’
As she spoke they rested one hand each onto either side of his naked waist. It took him by surprise when he heard himself say, ‘No…’
‘Wait,’ Flavia commanded. ‘Are you begging already, Barbarian?’
‘I am not!’ said Zabdas, irritated at his own unwitting subversion. He didn’t know why he didn’t want them to touch him there. He had never said that to anyone before. He could just sense it would cause his knees to buckle. He tightened his abdominals.
‘Ooh, ladies. These muscles will do nothing but assist you. I bet you know just where to go,’ said Flavia.
‘We do,’ the assistants said in unison.
Flavia looked intently into Zabdas’s eyes and nodded.
‘No!’ said Zabdas again and as he cursed himself for doing so the young women wriggled their fingertips into the muscles of his waist.
An alien feeling instantly overcame Zabdas’s senses. He held his breath to keep it at bay, but a turmoil instantly raged in the pit of his stomach. Wide-eyed, he clenched his jaw in a bizarre grimace and nodded his head back and forth in an attempt to cope but the strain from both internal and external forces welled up and found their release with a sound that rasped at his rear teeth.
He felt the will ebbing from him but he knew that as soon as he gave up resistance he wouldn’t have the strength to hold up the great weight above him. Veins throbbed in his neck and forehead as his complexion turned to that of a pomegranate.
The women stopped.
Zabdas gasped for breath and heaved to straighten his arms. No sooner was he in as solid a stance as he could maintain when the sound of a bullwhip cracked behind him and he felt a whisk of air on the back of his neck.
‘Don’t let this make you drop it,’ said Marilla and this time the crack of the whip was accompanied by a stinging pain diagonally across his back. Another crack and a symmetrically identical slice of pain into formed an X that covered his whole back. He held Flavia’s gaze. This was a sensation with which he was familiar and could endure until unconsciousness took him.
Sabina crouched before him as another lash from the bullwhip struck an inch from his spine.
He was about to cast insults when Sabina grabbed a little further up his waist than before and began to vibrate her fingertips over his lower ribs. A brief frustrated protest was cut short when the sensations overwhelmed him once more. He held his lips tight, scrunched his eyes and threw his head back, trying to make sense of what was happening to him. Sabina watched with a look of undiluted glee.
Another lash made him jump; the polarity of sensations was impossible to ignore. His muscles trembled and he began to weaken. He opened his eyes to see his hands holding the wall above him and sharpen his focus on the consequence of losing control.
‘Oh, you’re having too much fun, Sabina!’ said Marilla, casting the whip aside and grabbing his upper ribs from behind. He jolted and was unable to deny the compulsions building inside him. Once again, the desire to laugh rattled a long and undignified snort from the back of his throat.
His arms and legs began to shake uncontrollably. He turned a deep shade of crimson as the realisation came that he was going to drop the wall. He gave an unintelligible cry as his knees buckled. The women stopped and he closed his eyes, expecting the inevitable unimaginable pain… but it didn’t come.
The women laughed.
‘General!?’ called one of the men from a nearby cell.
‘Look at you cower!’ said Sabina.
Zabdas opened his eyes to see the brick wall dangling just half a foot lower than it had been when he was struggling to hold it.
‘I didn’t let it go completely, you foolish barbarian,’ said Flavia. ‘How am I going to interrogate you if you’re crushed to death?’
Zabdas glowered at her then winced as he was once again standing on the flames. He raised his heels.
‘That’s right: stand on tiptoes,’ mocked Marilla, ‘you look so masculine in that pose!’ She and Sabina tittered together.
‘General? Are you—?’ the soldier called again.
‘I’m well!’ called Zabdas. ‘Now be silent!’
CHAPTER V
Flavia wound the mechanism that raised the wall back into place. ‘You might be wondering how I am able to wind this so easily. No, it’s not because I am stronger than you—though I might be—it’s because I devised these ingenious devices—’
‘What are you doing to me?’ Zabdas interrupted.
‘We’re interrogating you,’ said Flavia.
‘I know…! I mean, what fiendish techniques…?’
Flavia smiled and walked up to him. ‘You sheltered male… we’re tickling you. You are becoming our little tickle toy.’
Zabdas had witnessed such antics but considered them childish and never taken part. He had never considered that they would be so tumultuous to endure. Flavia placed her fingertips at his waist. Aware of his susceptibility in the region, he tensed.
‘I can tell you’ve never experienced it before,’ she said. ‘Who could have guessed that such a warrior could be so naive? Especially as it is also a game of tactics. You see, all I need to do is let you know I’m going to tickle your armpits…’
As she spoke Sabina and Marilla turned the cranks as the sides of the room. The chains became taut and his arms were stretched, lifting him onto his tiptoes and rendering him utterly immobile. Flavia walked her fingers slowly up his abdominals and along his ribcage on a clear path to his armpits. The realisation that he could not bring his arms down mixed with the memory of the time she touched his armpit hair and he felt the urge to avoid her.
‘…and you can do all you want to try and resist…’ she continued, her fingertips drawing close to the smooth dips of his lower armpits.
Zabdas tensed his upper body, causing his shining muscles to protrude, and braced himself to resist the touch at his underarms when something caused him to jolt and look at Flavia in confusion. While a frown occupied his forehead, from his mouth came an incremental laugh: ‘Ho…! Ho-ho…! Ho-ho-ho-ho…! Ho-ho-ho-ha ha ha ha haaa…!’
As laughter crept from his throat, he looked down to see Marilla’s hands between his legs, close to his loincloth, clasping the insides of his thighs with firm pincer movements. He tried his hardest to rock from side to side, but the chains held him fast; forcing him to endure the incessant sensations.
‘…and while I distract you up there, we attack elsewhere!’ Flavia had to speak louder to complete her sentence over his laughter and watched with sadistic delight as Zabdas did all he could to process what was happening to him whilst trying, unsuccessfully, to regain control of his emotions.
‘Oh, you do have a nice laugh, barbarian,’ taunted Marilla from between his legs. ‘I wonder if your men enjoy hearing it?’
Reminded of his other soldiers, Zabdas immediately bit his lips shut but this didn’t prevent his body from continuing to convulse as laughter rumbled within his great chest. He shook his head in anguish; there was nothing he could do to stop laughing.
‘Of course,’ continued Flavia, ‘it should then be obvious that, while we are attacking you down low…’
Sabina leapt in front of him, ‘I attack you up high!’ she said and wriggled her fingers rapidly towards his armpits.
His eyes widened and he shook his head with a pleading desperation but the gleeful young woman took no notice and her fingers soon scurried into the smooth, freshly shaved hollows of his underarms.
A shock of surprise puffed out his cheeks and, an instant later, blew his lips open with a hefty bellow of laughter that echoed throughout the dungeon corridor.
‘Ooh! You are ticklish on your silky underarms, aren’t you, Tickle Toy?’ said Sabina. ‘All the more slippery because you are sweating so much!’
The taunting infuriated Zabdas but he was unable to do anything but laugh as the maddening sensations overwhelmed him.
Flavia revelled in the sight of her prodigies forcing the huge warrior to lose control. ‘I think he is regressing in his ranks,’ she said. ‘If he continues to be so obviously under our command, we should probably call him “Slave”.’
A wild response from Zabdas caused the chains to clank in the eye hooks and dust fell from the ceiling. Marilla and Sabina stumbled back in surprise and the room fell silent. Zabdas snarled with fury, fuelled even further by the murmuring from his men as they discussed the queer sounds coming from their General’s cell.
‘Do not mock me,’ he said, his cheeks quivering with rage as much as the strange torture he had just endured.
‘Why ever not?’ asked Flavia with total composure.
‘You have no honour, whore. I am a General—‘
‘Let us say this, then: if you do not laugh in the next thirty seconds, I will address you as General. But if you do laugh, you are asking us—begging us—to call you our slave. And I think it’s my turn…’ she said as she stepped behind him and crouched.
‘I will not play your games,’ he announced.
‘You concede already?’ said Flavia.
‘I do not—!’
‘Count from thirty to one,’ Flavia said to Sabina.
Sabina and Marilla stood side by side and Sabina began her countdown. ‘Thirty… twenty-nine…’
‘You think you are experienced in the ways of war, but if you think of the number of battles in which you have fought, you can multiply it twenty-fold to find the number of men I have had at my mercy,’ said Flavia.
‘…twenty-one… twenty…’
‘And from my experience, the way you have reacted thus far informs me that you are going to be totally and utterly vulnerable on the soles of your feet…’
Zabdas felt a familiar tingle. In combat sparring or on the field of battle, this feeling came fast. He felt it in his neck or torso when a sword or spear was thrust or swung at him and it helped him react with lightning speed to defend himself from every deadly attack. This time the sensation grew, for the first ever time, in the soles of his feet and was not able to be resolved because the chains that held his wrists gave no slack. He was not on tiptoes by choice.
‘…eleven… ten…’
Flavia saw his toes clench reflexively to perform the most he could to protect himself and she smirked.
‘… six… five…’
Zabdas tensed every fibre of his being. To retain his honour he just needed to resist for—
‘PAAA HA HA HA HA HA HAAA!’
Bolts of energy fired through his limbs and into his brain before he even recognised that he was being touched. Flavia’s experienced dexterity brought her fingernails in contact with the bare soles of his huge feet in a way that had exactly the right pressure and speed to have the greatest effect.
His masculine laughter filled the dungeon even louder than before as he twisted desperately in his suspended position. Sweat flew from his hair. It was all he could do to grasp the chains to prevent the manacles from cutting into his wrists. He had before been captured and tortured with pain while his torturers watched in frustration as, however great the pain, it had not brought forth any cries of agony or pleads for mercy. So to now hear nothing but his own involuntary loud laughter whilst two beautiful young maidens watched him and whispered in humour to one another was humiliating and surreal.
‘Enou…! Enou…! Enou…!’ he called. Wheezing laughter stole the end of the word each time he tried to say it.
Flavia stopped and blotting his sweat from her brow with the hem of her toga, joined her amused students. The other soldiers were once again muttering among themselves.
Zabdas tried to again order silence, but an exhaustion in his body and the dryness of his mouth prevented him from producing a volume that could be heard outside his cell.
‘…one,’ said Sabina, prompting a giggle from Marilla.
‘Now, Slave. You will tell me the location of your remaining barbarians,’ said Flavia.
‘I will not,’ said Zabdas as he watched sweat drip from his hair onto the floor.
Flavia sighed. ‘You are a stubborn slave, I will admit. But I have a deal of your men to get through before this night is over.’
Zabdas recounted all the things that relied on his resistance: the lives of his men and his lifelong friend, Septimius; the respect of the queen to whom he had pledged his life; a future of riches untold and to rule my Zenobia’s side; to enjoy a life of carnal adventure with the beautiful queen; the fate of Palmyra; and his pride, honour and eternal legacy.
He straightened his posture and looked Flavia in the eye with an iron resolve. ‘I will tell you nothing.’
CHAPTER VI
‘Get the wax,’ said Flavia.
Marilla and Sabina went to the rear of the cell and returned with two more buckets, this time they steamed with melted wax. Zabdas then understood why he was reminded of Zenobia’s bath room: she bathed her beautiful body by the light of a thousand candles.
Flavia signalled the women. Marilla pulled a large brush from her bucket and proceeded to paint the hot wax over Zabdas’s armpits, while Sabina poured her bucket over his feet.
The pain was intense but more familiar than tickling and so easier to endure. He welcomed it as he would welcome a hot bath, whilst recognising that it was again more intense due to his lack of hair. The initial sting of heat gradually reduced as the wax cooled, leaving a thick, smooth crust that coated his feet and armpits and he was grateful that it left them inaccessible to the women’s touch.
Flavia went to him and began gently teasing his stomach. As much as he tried, he couldn’t help but titter.
‘Aw. Pathetic slave. You are even undermined by this…? Then I dread to imagine how you will respond to what happens next.’
‘Do y-your worst, whore,’ said Zabdas. ‘For my p-people, Empress Zenobia and the Palmyra Emp-pire, I will tell you n-nothing!’ he managed to say before melting into deeper giggles.
‘We’ll see,’ she said stepped to the crank at the front of the cell. ‘This time, I will let it go completely…’
She flicked a safety catch and the chain rushed into the ceiling. The wall dropped in a rush of dust. Stretched to his fullest, Zabdas caught the wall again. It felt heavier this time.
‘You’d better not laugh, Slave,’ Marilla spoke breathily into his ear, causing a rush of goosepimples down his neck.
‘Definitely not,’ Sabina joined in. ‘If you were squished, we would have to torture your men instead.’
Marilla then drew his shiver down his back and legs with a light drag of her fingernails as she knelt by his feet and began to pick away lumps of the dried wax. Sabina did the same with the wax at his armpits. He shut his eyes and he focussed all strength to hold the wall in place and ignoring the game they were playing with the wax until something pricked at his subconscious, making him extremely uneasy. It was only when Marilla’s fingernail scratched at a patch of freshly exposed warm skin on the sole of his foot that he understood: he was ten times more sensitive than before.
If there had been hair left on his body, it would have stood on end. He did not fear pain or a noble death, but there was nothing noble about this. If he dropped the wall, his death would be heard by one hundred of his men and his enduring legacy would not be that of General Zabdas, the conquering warrior, but Zabdas, the man who died because he could not resist being tickled by three young women. Fear washed over him and with it brought a fear of the techniques used by these devilish women.
‘Let me,’ said Flavia, who took Sabina’s place and peeled away great chunks of wax.
Zabdas opened his eyes.
Flavia smiled. She recognised the fear. ‘Something wrong, Slave?’
‘Do not…’ he said, piteousness undermining his authority.
‘You cannot command us. You must beg,’ said Flavia.
‘Please. Do not.’
‘“Do not” what?’
‘Do not tickle me. Ple-hee hee-hee…’
Zabdas’s dread increased and he started to laugh as Marilla’s method became to tickle the wax away from his soles.
‘No! No-ho-ho-ho…!’ he laughed, and shook more. The tickling at his soles was unbearable.
He then realised that four hands were at his underarms – while Flavia pulled away wax from the lower dips of his armpits, Sabina reached up from behind and peeled away strips from the upper parts.
‘Where are your legions?’ said Flavia.
‘P-p-please! Have mercy!’ Zabdas begged.
‘Tickle him!’ Flavia commanded. In response Sabina began tickling away the wax of his upper armpits as Flavia did the same to his lower armpits.
Zabdas’s next plea struck a feminine tone that amused the women and shocked his men as a high-pitched squealing laughter bounced off the walls of the dungeon. His muscles began to tremble and he didn’t know how much longer he could hold up the brick wall.
‘Plee-ee-ease! Stop tickling me-ee-ee!’
‘Beg us!’ laughed Flavia, her fingers speeding over his smooth skin. ‘Beg us so your men can hear!’
Zabdas’s senses were so overcome that he complied without question: ‘I’m begging you! Pleee-ee-ee-ease! Stop tickling me!’
Shouts of angry protest came from the outer cells at the sound of the General being so humiliated.
Flavia felt turned on with power. ‘And where are your remaining legions!?’
‘Please!’ he begged as sweat dripped from his every pore and his huge muscles trembled.
‘Tickle him more!’ Flavia shouted.
Zabdas was about to protest when the tickling overpowered him. All energy left his mind and his deep, bellowing laughter returned. The wall was going to fall.
‘Th….! Th….! Th…!’ he tried to speak, his eyes wide and manic.
Flavia reduced the pace of her fingers.
‘Th-they are in th-the hills… that overlook the city!’ he yelled through a barrage of laughter.
Flavia stepped back in victory. The women stopped tickling. Zabdas’s laughter had melted into tears – tears forced from him by his surreal torture and his sense of complete loss. As his senses returned to him, he realised what he had done.
Flavia wound the wall back into the ceiling to the shouts of anger now directed at Zabdas, his humiliating defeat and a treachery they would never forgive.
‘Let us go and eat,’ Flavia said to Marilla and Sabina as she watched Zabdas hanging from his chains; sobbing and beaten. ‘Perhaps we will open one or two of the other cells so that the General’s men can deal with him.’
THE END.
I'll leave you to imagine how the rest of the prisoners were punished... 
