When we went to collect her, we found her at home, as if she was expecting us. She was not surprised or afraid. There was a certain peace in her which was not only intriguing and perplexing, but somewhat frightening.

I had heard of the stories that fed her soul. Not only of the strength of her grandfather and of the inspiration she found in the life and death of an ancient rebel, but also because she was one of those who worshiped a goddess who was crucified before the skies were filled with light. Back in the beginning of time.

As we approached her she sat impassively, as if we were part of a divine design that she already knew. I do not lie when I say that apprehension grew in our soldiers as we walked her away and to the cart awaiting outside. There was no need to chain her or drag her as she walked of her own will and in front of us. her servants were standing, defenseless and crying. Who would care for them now?

Varinia cried in pain now as the wounds on her back grew in number and size. The lashes fell on fresh wounds, making them bigger and more painful to bear. I was again in front of her, hoping to hear a few words, maybe even one, that would indicate to me that she was willing to share what she knew.

We questioned her over the course of three days, letting her rest at night. We did not use torture then, only words. She was always silent, as she is now, as if she could not talk. We begged but it didn't matter. Only once she spoke and her words chilled our hearts. "My fate is sealed, don't waste more time, because you will only grow older and nothing will change."

Still with her eyes closed, denying my existence, Varinia suffered the pain of the whip, gasping for air at times, breathing in her torment at other times. She was enduring the torture as expected and we were to reach the next stage of this drama. I saw no need to interrogate her further. I would let her body tell me when she would be willing to tell her tale of treason and terror.

The spoken portrait I gathered was not in agreement with what we suspected she was. At times, I even doubted our sources. Perhaps we were all wrong and she was not conspiring. Perhaps she only suffered what most women suffered from, a big and out-of-control mouth.

The difference, perhaps, was that while most women had plenty to complain about their husbands, this young lady directed her dissatisfaction to the Empire itself. Perhaps all I had in my hands was a nag.

I know many husbands use the whip to shut the mouth of their nagging wives but in moderation, as permitted by law and custom. So, it would not be unjust to punish the affront of the young woman with the whip. But 20 lashes would be the adequate number for the transgression of defying the Empire by word. Perhaps another 20 for insulting Octavian in public.

Other, more savage peoples, turn their fury to the transgressor in more lethal ways. Take the followers of Jehovah, for instance. The sole mention of the name of their god makes them mad to the point of stoning to death the law-breaker.

But in the case of the young Varinia, her public transgression had already been paid long before this moment. She had received more than 20 lashes, more than 40 even, I wasn't counting. I felt that if we were just and that famed discourse was all she did against Rome and Octavian, then we were done with her punishment.

We could send her home, to the servants who now are either crying for her return or taking off with her wealth to parts unknown.

I asked only once, in all fairness to the woman who seemed to know her fate, if in her view she was innocent of the charges. The hiss of the whip cutting the air broke the silence, the crack on her back filled my ears and just before I turned to walk away again I heard the soft sound of the pained voice."Ask me again at the seventh day.".

I looked at her closely, expecting to hear more, but her lips were no longer moving. I asked her to repeat what she had said, as if I had not heard or understood clearly. She did not say a word. Had I heard that? Had she said that? Or was it just my imagination? Maybe she was moaning in pain and I thought I heard words. But, at the same time, what she had said seemed so clear to me. I felt a cold air filling my brain.

I was not ready to be here for seven days.