Varinia held back a cry when the whip hit her neck again, but she let out one when the lash fell on her back. They were not the desperate cries I was expecting, it was as if she had the strength of her ancestors behind her, perhaps even her gods.

In my investigation of her life I discovered the source of her inspiration, although I did not find the physical evidence itself. I first heard about the hidden scrolls from one of the house servants. Varinia had a few servants and she treated them well, so there was no reason for anyone to betray her trust. I knew that well in advance. She was known for her kindness. People knew who mistreated a servant and who didn't. Most did and were justified to do so. Servants and slaves were dealt with harshly if they did not do their duties effectively.

But Varinia was known for forgiving transgressions, big and small. To her servants it was the spirit of her grandfather that guided her thoughts and actions and some claimed that they could see him in her eyes.

The forgiving mistress was not forgiven now. She was treated worse than a common slave, she was condemned to a torturous death that no one deserved, not even traitors to the Empire. It was her misfortune to carry a legacy that had such lethal claims on someone.

It was time again to try and pry the information I sought. I was close to her face again and I could hear her hoarse breathing. I feared that the brace was pressing her neck too tightly, or maybe that she was pressing against it with the intention of ending her own life.

But the whip was harsh enough to make her move back at times, allowing for air to flow freely into her lungs. She still ignored my presence, which I must say was not surprising. She had mastered the art of ignoring men. She could be in a crowd and see through everyone, as if they were not there and this was most disturbing to those who were seeking her gaze.

I moved away again, letting the whip continue its persuasive work. I had time, we were not even in the middle of the day and I was not pressed with the need to secure the information right then. The spectacle could proceed.

Varinia's servants were most helpful, without coercion, by providing information, mostly in the form of innocent praises to a lady who was held in high regard by all who knew her. Thus we knew of her strength of character, her fairness and steadiness.

From the time her grandmother died, leaving her the land and homes she had. Those possessions a present from the man who gave her her freedom, a man, a Roman, a Senator, who loved her even unto death, who was her master and managed her escape at the time of Spartacus' crucifixion.

She hid at first, but later, when she was no longer a threat, and when Spartacus was nothing but a memory to some and a legend to others, she took over her new lands and homes and raised her son as a free man, a Roman citizen and, most importantly, a son of a legend. He was never up to such high standards, he was prone to indulging in the pleasures of his youth and enjoyed the riches bestowed upon him undeservedly.

Surely Varinia's father was aware by now that his daughter was in dire distress. News travel fast by ship and horse. It only takes days now for people to learn of the events at any point of the Empire.

Many things go unreported and unrecorded, but the heir of Spartacus' fame was not one of those events that happen in the shadows of anonymity. We were sure he would try to rescue her, maybe it was him who was behind the plot, but no one we questioned knew where he was.

The last report was that he sailed before his mother's death to Hispania in search of adventure. It was not a surprise to anyone that Varinia took over the land and the house when the old woman died. She was prepared and it came naturally to her. She knew how to lead. Soon, she was using her small fortune to raise, what we think is, an army of rebels.

Again, I approached the young woman and tried to make contact with her eyes, again she denied me the pleasure. Again I nodded to the executioner to continue. I could see he was growing tired. His face, under the mask, was wet, so were his arms. Every time he sent the whip against his victim, his sweat flew as well.

Varinia's back was wet with her sweat and his. I pitied the woman as I moved away, secure in the knowledge that she was going to last the day. My intention was that at the end of the day she would be ready to divulge the information she had, and before nightfall we could proceed with her crucifixion. I was saddened by the thought that by the next day she might be a hanging corpse.

I heard the lash cracking and the girl moaning and I turned to see the faces in the crowd. I saw pity and anger, and both were growing, like weeds.