Her fate was sealed long before I started my investigation into her life, but I didn't know that. She had made the mistake her father hadn't made. She had become a public Thracian, who flaunted her background and lineage. She became a prominent figure in her town and in the Territories. Before I began my long and grueling task, she was the comment of many who saw in her the rising of a queen.

If there was anyone who could one day become the power in Thrace, it was her, and Octavian knew that very well and he knew, too, that she could not be simply made to disappear. She had to be destroyed, broken down, executed in front of her own people so they would know that the end of the queen was in front of them, so their hope would come to a hanging, humiliating end.

All I had to do was provide the excuse, the argument, the occasion as well. But I was first told that I was looking for 'the leader' and that she knew who the 'leader' was.

She had to declare that there was such leader, other than herself, so she would lower her rank as well. It was better for the Empire to kill the hope of many while showing that she wasn't that hope after all.

The lash broke Varinia's garment with one heavy and hard blow that crashed down and under the timber.

Varinia's servant was dragged unconscious to the wheel of pain, the rack. She was chained to it before she recovered, her wrists were hooked to the chains in the top part of the wheel and her ankles were shackled to the chains that were attached to rings on the wooden base of the wheel.

Her arms were still loose, she was almost hanging off the side of the wheel, her head leaning back, her body resting on the curve.

The torturer threw water on her to wake her, she reacted with a scream and a jerk of her body as if trying to get up on her feet.

She was as strong as she seemed, she resisted the heavy lashing and was still capable of resisting more, but her spirit was weak, she was afraid and the recent lashing with the whip embedded with shards of bone was effective in showing her how painful her torture could be.

I believed she was ready to talk, but before asking the questions, I commanded the torturer to stretch her on the rack.

He pushed the wheel to the first level. I heard the creaking of the wheel as it pulled the woman to a stretching point, her arms were tight above her head, her legs were off the wooden base and her feet pointing down. I calmly walked to her.

Varinia'a back was once again exposed to the whip and the gaze of the crowd. But it was still hiding her modesty in some way. We were far from the most humiliating and painful part of the execution, we were moving slowly, dramatically, feeding the people's imagination, their fears, their expectations.

When I first began to look for a connection between Varinia and the rebel tribes, I searched amongst those she knew, it was the easiest way. Most of her servants and friends and admirers were locals, city dwellers, free Thracians who were far from becoming rebels. There were a few young men who were spirited enough to become trouble in the future, but not a serious threat, soon they would be overcome with the needs of feeding families, the greed for power and position would simply blend into the Empire.

But there were the very few, the one or two slaves that came from those tribes, and the one on the rack that day was our better option.

Varinia didn't know that we were going to bring out of the woman what she didn't even know.

I stood in front of the stretched woman and held her head with my hand, pulling her hair as I grabbed her to make her face me. She was suffering under the pull of the rack but she was not yet at a breaking point. There were three or four levels before the bones broke apart.

"Tell me first, where does your lady keep her secrets?".

"What secrets?", she whispered in pain.

I stepped back to let the torturer do his job. He took a long rod and struck the woman across her belly. She screamed out in pain. He hit her again, across her chest. Again, she screamed in pain. A third time he hit her across her breasts, and again a guttural scream came from the bottom of her lungs. She could hardly move her body, she was tightly stretched, so all she could do was to raise her head and move her feet and hands. But the force of the blows on her body made her bounce up and down on the rack.

After the third stroke, I walked back to her.

"Tell me now, where does your lady keep her secret documents, letters, scrolls?".

The lash was again breaking Varinia's skin, the heavy timber was pulling her arms and shoulders back, while her neck strained inside the iron brace. But she did not scream in pain or beg for mercy. She held her own, with courage, and some elegance.

I could not help from wondering if what was happening now was actually causing the opposite effect than that we were looking for.

If I was Thracian I would look with admiration on this woman, who is suffering for her people, and I would hate those who are causing her pain.

I feared that I was no longer safe in the Territories, since I was representing the faceless Empire during this execution.

The face of the Empire was my face. It was not Octavian they saw as the perpetrator of this crime, it was me.

The lash took me away from my meditations and for some reason I saw myself walking, again, to be closer to Varinia, to look at her face, to beg her to help me put a stop to her suffering.