Mercy

Eastern Thrace, 377 A.D.

Zura was a beautiful girl.

The great Lord God gifted her with golden blonde hair, bright amber eyes, and flawless skin. Her face seem crafted by the Lord Himself, in the visage of his loyal angels. Her figure was fit and nubile, the epitome of health and youth. Her bosom and hips were supple and curvaceous, the very picture of fertility. In the countryside village of Silistra, no woman or girl could rival Zura's beauty, not even her sisters.

When Zura walked through the market, men and women alike would pause their business to bask in the radiance she exuded. Men wanted her, women wanted to be her.

On a near daily basis, Zura's father was approached by men asking if they could have her hand in marriage. They would trade anything, do anything, pay any dowry, just to have the Jewel of Silistra as their wife.

But Zura's father was a difficult man to bargain with, for he owned the largest vineyard in all of the Thracian countryside. People came from near and far to trade for his wine, the quality of which was rivaled by few in all the Roman Empire... as was his youngest daughter's beauty. Few could afford his wine, and even fewer could afford the price he levied for his daughter's hand.

Yes, Zura was a very beautiful girl...

... until the Goths attacked.

They came under the cover of night, when the moon was absent and stars were obscured by heralding storm clouds. The darkness cloaked their approach, the thunder masked their marching feet.

The barbarian tribe razed the village; destroying homes, setting fire to the streets, and plundering the market and farms. Few villagers could stand against their brutality, the likes of which did not seem human. Despite the swords and spears they wielded, the Goths seemed more akin to animals. They wore no armor and bore no shields—only loincloths, boots, and cloaks made from wolfskin protected their hairy tanned skin. At times, the line between man and wolf seem blurred, such was their ferocity.

They ran through the streets, through the countryside, laying waste to everything in their path. Blood, fear, anguish, and death was the turbulence of their wake. Young and old, sick and healthy alike; men, woman, and even children fell to their wrath.

Few were spared.

Among them was Zura.

Being on a large hill that overlooked the village, her father's villa was among the first to be attacked. She had to watch the Goths invade and take her home-she had to watch her mother and father, her sisters and brothers, and even her nieces and nephews fall to the claws and blades of the relentless Gothic horde...

One of Zura's suitors—a guest at the villa, a decorated veteran soldier from Rome—could do nothing to protect her. He fell immediately to the savagery of the Goths, his skull cleaved in two, his limbs torn from his body, and his heart ripped out of his chest.

Zura screamed in grief and fear as the Goths dragged her through the burning streets of her once proud village, asking God why she was spared to witness the destruction of her home and her people. Why hadn't they killed her like the rest?

When the village was taken and its last pitiful defender had fallen... Zura got her answer. In the smoldering, smoking ruins of Silistra, the Gothic savages took her.

They took her.

They ripped at her dyed and embroidered clothes, pulled at her golden hair, grabbed at her breasts, scratched at her fair skin, and plundered and violated her once-untouched chastity.

Zura was a beautiful girl, until the Goths stripped her of her worth, bludgeoned away her beauty, and stole her purity. They were relentless, when one barbarian finished, she would passed on to another.

For days after they forced themselves into the village, the Goths forced themselves inside her. Zura never saw respite. The drive to fright and resist was soon quelled. She lost hope-lost faith-in the God that was supposed to love her. Why had He gifted her with such beauty, the very thing that made her the favorite plaything of these savage animals? With every thrust forced inside her, they scoured and chipped away at a piece of her soul... until she laid empty and broken beneath their feverish rutting bodies.

Her body was a husk. These animals could do with it as they pleased, because her soul was no longer present. Zura was a pale shade of what she once was.

The famed Jewel of Silistra was now the favored Whore of the Goths.

/ / / / / / / / /

Zura tried to will away the throbbing around her bruised black eye, the stinging in her split lip, and the pain between her thighs... but it was difficult, seeing that she was laying wet and shivering under a leafless tree, bound to it by shackles, as were the few other girls the Goths saw fit to "spare."

The cloudy night sky continued to drizzle—the rain had not stopped since the morning after the attack—turning the ground to muck, and chilling the girls to the bone. Their only defense against the cold were thin woolen tunics that covered nothing, and the red mud that caked their skin, still stained by the spilt blood of the fallen villagers.

Zura heard the sound of footsteps, and the fearful whimpers of the other girls.

"That one," said a low raspy voice.

Zura felt the chains of her shackles being pulled at as the other girls moved away from the speaker, but she did not move. There was no use trying to escape, and the other girls needn't worry. Zura knew who the warrior wanted.

Rough hands grabbed her hair and pulled her to her feet. She stood there, trembling, trying to keep balance as they unbound her. It was amazing she still could stand after the countless assaults her womanhood had suffered over the past few days.

"Come with me," the warrior said.

Zura recognized him; she had memorized his beady eyes, crooked nose, and yellow teeth. He was the savage that made use of her most frequently. And it wasn't only her, the animal's libido seemed insatiable; he had taken pleasure from each of the five captured girls at least once. Zura allowed herself a small smirk. At least he would be quick.

"What are you laughing at, slave?!" the warrior spat.

"Noth—umph!"

The man had brought his fist to her face. "Do not speak!"

Zura spat blood into the mud, along with it a tooth. She had lost count how many teeth had been beaten out of her jaw.

The man held her tightly by the neck and spat his words directly to her face, "The only reason I do not slash tongue from mouth is so that it can still wrap itself around my cock."

Zura reeled back at his putrid breath, but said nothing.

The warrior grabbed her tightly by the hair and pulled her alongside himself as he walked. Zura struggled to keep up; walking was now a laborious chore. Her once graceful gait was now a shambling limp. Cramps and soreness between her thighs were her constant companions now.

She was led away from the Gothic camp, and up a beaten path, one she recognized despite the blood that still stained it. She looked ahead. She was being led to her father's villa, her home.

As Zura walked through the courtyard, she noticed her favorite olive tree, the one her nieces and nephews loved to climb. There was a smoldering black pit underneath it... a pyre housing the charred bones of her family... with those of their servants.

Zura lamented at such disrespect, to think that the Goths had her family-the richest and proudest in the region-share an equal grave with filthy wretched slaves?

But wasn't that all she was now, too? A slave, cattle—mere property of the barbarian Goths that raped her, nearly every hour of the day?

She was escorted through the bloodstained halls of her former home. Where was she being taken? The warriors usually had no care or preference where they had their way with her, be it in their tents or open view of others by the campfire.

Finally, she was shoved through a curtain and into a room.

"Ritheus, your whore," the warrior said, kicking Zura's shin to force her to her knees.

Zura kneeled in her father's chamber, the biggest room of the villa. The flat stone walls were bathed in soft light from the oil-lamps and candles that decorated the room. A large wooden tub in the corner was being filled with warm water by another warrior, whilst a table in the opposite corner was being served with food. The fine linen cloths on the bed were replaced by animal skins and furs. Her father's blood had been washed from the floor, but the stain was still plainly there.

A giant man stood in the center of the room, facing the window, his back draped by a coarse fur cloak. With a deep baritone voice, he told the other Goths, "Leave us."

The warriors quit the room, leaving Zura alone with the man they called Ritheus.

He stood tall, well over six and a half feet. He had a protruding belly, and his frame was bulky and wide, but despite that, his broad chest and thick arms were rippling with hard sculpted muscle.

On his head was a mantle skinned from a bear, the beast's snout and ears still attached.

Zura knew this man. She recalled his name, in the past having heard it spoken by Roman soldiers that visited her father. Ritheus Ursus, a fierce Gothic tribal chief, known for having the aspect, strength, and brutality of the terrible brown bears that dominated the forests and mountains north of the Danube River.

She also knew him as the man that had choked her youngest niece to death, decapitated her father, and cleaved her suitor's skull in two. The very axe that had done those terrible deeds leaned against the corner of the room, blade still glistening with viscera.

Ritheus took off his mantle and loincloth and turned to Zura, revealing a bald head and a bushy black beard, so long it was braided into a plait that extended nearly to his navel. Extraordinary endowment dangled between his thighs.

For the first time in days, fear struck Zura's heart, and the urge to flee was rekindled. Surely this beast of a man would give her the most brutal raping yet, making her previous tortures seem like the caresses of a tender lover...

"Girl. Come to me," he commanded.

Zura did not rise from her knees, fear holding her fast to the floor. She stole a glance over her shoulder, towards the entrance to the room. She knew the corridors of her father's villa better than these savages, she could possibly...

... but she didn't get a chance. Ritheus walked over to her, his heavy footsteps reverberating through the floor. He grabbed her by the arm and brought her to her feet.

"Do not think to run," Ritheus said. "Other girls like you have tried, and my men have killed them in pursuit. They know not how to restrain themselves."

Zura trembled in fright, flashes of memory coming to her eyes... her mother and sisters fleeing the Gothic warriors, only to be stricken down and ravaged on the spot.

To her surprise, instead of leading her to the bed, Ritheus led her to the bathtub and placed a strigil into her trembling hands.

He sank into the bathtub slowly, the girth of his massive body causing water to spill onto the floor. A low growl rumbled out of his lips. Or perhaps that was a sigh of relief, Zura thought. The man's voice was so deep it was hard to tell.

"I would have you clean me," he said.

Is that all? Zura questioned silently, not daring to speak out loud. She surely doubted it, but she would comply, if only to delay the brutal pummeling that was to come.

"The oil is there," Ritheus said, pointing at a clay bottle placed nearby.

As Zura took the bottle, Ritheus turned his back to her, indicating that was where she should start. She poured the oil onto his back, spread it across his skin. She marveled at the rough and bumpy texture, the other Goths did not have skin so coarse. Zura shifted her body to allow the candle light to fall upon Ritheus' back.

His dark tan skin was covered in a network of terrible scars. They extended from his shoulders and neck, all the way down to his buttocks. Not an inch of skin lay unblemished by jagged bumpy tissue. Afraid that she may cause him discomfort by taking the strigil to his marred skin, Zura hesitated.

"Proceed, you will not harm me," Ritheus said.

Zura did as she was told and began to scrape away the dirt and grime from his back. Ritheus did not seem to be in any pain or discomfort, he only moved to give her more access.

Finally, when she was done with his back, he said, "Strip."

Zura knew what was to come, so she ignored his command. If he was going to take her, why not tear away her pathetic excuse for clothes himself? What was stopping him? A small girl like her had no hope of resisting a giant man like him.

With a growl of annoyance, Ritheus said, "Strip, girl, so that you may enter the tub and continue."

Zura took off her sole piece of clothing, and entered the tub. Ritheus threw his plaited beard over his shoulder so that she had access to his chest. His back was not the only part of his body that held scars. His sinuous arms, thick legs, and broad chest all held hefty wounds that had long since healed, testaments to the life a tenacious warrior.

Zura continued cleaning him, taking her time and sparring no inch of skin, knowing that the longer she took to perform her task, the longer her body remained uninvaded by turgid Gothic flesh.

When she was done, Ritheus surprised her yet again by leaving the tub, not once a laying a hand on her. He stomped to the bed and redressed.

Zura sat in the tub, at a loss for what to do.

Ritheus sat himself at a table, grabbed a chunk of horsemeat and took a generous bite. "You may clean yourself, if you so wish," he said, mouth full.

Zura did so, thanking God for yet another delay. She took the oil and strigil to her skin and happily scraped away the dirt, mud, and blood that had caked itself onto her body. She paid particular attention to her thighs, where putrid Goth seed that had long since dried itself.

Once clean, Zura still remained a far cry from her former glory. Her once flawless skin was still marred by bruises, scratches, and bite marks inflicted by the men that made cruel and rough use of her body. Her once golden and flowing hair was tattered and in clumps, red scrabs peppered her scalp where locks had been torn out. Yet the damage was not only external... nothing could wash away the darkness smeared open her soul by the unwelcome touch of these barbarians.

She stepped out of the tub, once again uncertain about what to do.

"Come to the bed," Ritheus said, gesturing that she come over.

She did not refuse him, knowing it would be foolish to do so. She sat at the edge of bed, still naked and wet from the bath. Was he going to take her now?

"Here," Ritheus said, grabbing a chunk of bread and tossing it to her. "Feed yourself, lest you wither away into nothing."

Zura caught the loaf and stared at it. Does he jest?

Ritheus gazed at her with hard eyes.

Zura bowed her head slightly, and said, "Gratitude." She took a bite.

It was stale old bread, but how savory did it taste as it entered her mouth, and filled her aching stomach. Cramps in her harrowed womb had masked a hunger that was now brought to the surface. The warriors of the camp hardly fed her and the other girls. Either from cruelty or neglect, she wasn't sure.

Finishing the loaf, Zura eyed a hunk of horsemeat. She glanced at Ritheus, and a small nod of his head indicated his approval. Zura tore into it quickly and savagely, in a manner unfit a girl of delicate upbringing.

Ritheus handed her a cup of wine, and Zura gulped it down quickly. "Such a gluttonous appetite for so small a girl," Ritheus said.

Daring once again to speak, Zura said, "Your men seldom feed me and the others... if we occupy their attention, it is for other means than nourishing us."

Ritheus said nothing, he only nodded in understanding. Finishing the last of his meal, he cleared the table and placed a map upon it. He sat there, studying it intently, and stroking his beard.

Zura watched him in anxious expectation, slowly chewing her food. Was he waiting for her to finish her meal? Why had he not taken her yet? No other Goth warrior had expressed such patience, such restraint, especially when she sat naked and bare in front of him.

Finally, Zura could not hold her nervous anticipation any longer. Better to have it over with quickly, than be in this state of torturous uncertainty. She asked him, "W-will... will you take me now?"

Ritheus did not look up from the map, but said, "No."

Zura could not believe her ears. He must be joking, playing at a cruel jest. She was certain nearly half his army had known the flesh of either her or one of the other girls of her village, during and after the attack. They were savage barbarians, it was in their very nature to rape and pillage, plunder and kill, to take what was not theirs. At her own self-disgust, Zura felt almost insulted. Had the Jewel of Silistra been so badly tarnished that even this base animal did not want her?

She dared to ask, "Why?"

Ritheus removed his eyes from the map and steeled them on her. "I too have known the lash of slavery."

Zura readily believed him, recalling the scars on his back. They were clearly lashes from a whip. "Who was your master?"

"My masters were the Huns and I lived under their whip for many years. They killed and enslaved many of my people, and pillaged and took our villages. I saw my own sister forced upon by their soldiers."

Zura scowled. Was he serious?

Ritheus scoffed. "Yes, I understand the irony, but such is war. I will not fault my men for reaping the spoils of battle, but I myself will not partake. My wife and others follow our army only a few camps away. My men have stained you with filth and disease, and I will not spread it to her."

Bearing the insult, Zura asked, "Why not lead your men by example? Show them the path of mercy."

"They would never take it."

"Why?"

"Because every last one of them would gladly see you Romans suffer at the end of their blades and their cocks rather than allow a single one of you to walk free."

"Why did you attack my village then? We are not Roman, we're Thracian!"

"The shadow of Rome casts itself over your village, and you gladly suckle at her breast!" Ritheus roared angrily. "You are Roman, and we will see every village and city fall in our wake!"

"Why do you hate us so? We have done you no wrong!"

"You stupid, spoiled girl," Ritheus growled. "Standing high atop your pedestal, ignorant to what goes on in the muck beneath you."

"What do you mean?"

"As every one of my men has fucked you, the Roman Empire have fucked us in kind!" Ritheus yelled, leaping to his feet. He towered over Zura menacingly. "Beaten and broken, we Goths were driven from our lands in the north by the Hunnic horde. We asked you Romans simply for humble refuge, to hide and lick our wounds, yet the second we crossed the Danube we were yet again enslaved, then left to starve! What do you think happens when you beat, cage, and starve a dog? It lashes back with the intensity of a wolf!"

Zura reeled back, fearing Ritheus would strike her in his rage. He may not want to take pleasure from her flesh, but nothing stopped him from beating her to balm the sore wounds inflicted by her people.

But he didn't do anything. With a low growling breath, he calmed himself and turned away. He sat back down at the table and put his attention back to the map.

Zura watched him again for a long while, eventually gathering the courage to say, "If you will not take me, what is to become of me this night?"

"I must keep appearances for the sake of my men," Ritheus said. "Take the bed and rest yourself."