Victory

The chanting started and, on a signal from the chief, the guards dragged their prisoner out of his cage. He looked to be little more than a boy, and was clearly terrified, but he had marched with the legions and so was the enemy of every Germanic tribesman fighting to retain their freedom in the dark forests that had been their home for untold years.

As he stood snivelling, the wagon bearing the body of one of their own fallen trundled into the glade. One of the greatest of their warriors, his loss had been a terrible blow, and he would be sent on his way to the afterlife in a style befitting his status. They had dressed him in his finest battle attire, and he made for a magnificent sight as he made his entrance. The men stood with bowed heads while the womenfolk raised their heads and wailed their lamentations to the stars.

The prisoner was pulled over beside the body and stripped naked. This invader was not fit to be compared to the warrior at whose funeral he was an unwelcome presence. If the dead man was to be dressed appropriately, then so would the interloper. Two women stepped forward and forced him into one of the dresses that was typical attire for the females of the tribe. They painted his face with rudimentary make-up to continue his humiliation. The prisoner, understanding the symbolism, stood with his head bowed. He was clearly trembling with fear, confirming to the tribe his complete unworthiness. What would come next would be a fitting insult.

The dead warrior's clothes were adjusted, and the prisoner's eyes widened with horror as he realised what was to come. The high priests had used their great knowledge of embalming, and the warrior's erection stood proud. The prisoner struggled futilely as he was lifted up and positioned over it, before being firmly lowered. He cried out as he was penetrated—a mix of pain and revulsion as he felt his sphincter being stretched to accommodate the engorged phallus. Once the guards had pressed down on their captive to ensure the entirety of the corpse's member was fully sheathed inside the prisoner, the two bodies were chained together to consolidate their union.

The young Roman was now in tears at the enormity of his humiliation. The platform bearing this obscene tableau was then lifted from the wagon by four tall men, one at each corner, and was borne high through the camp for all to see. The women heckled and jeered the teenage soldier as he was paraded around. He had no understanding of their language, but the meaning was clear—dressed as a woman and sexually coupled to their fallen hero, he was less than a man and worthy only of contempt. Periodically, and to a great cheer, the bearers bounced their load up and down on their shoulders, the prisoner's eyes bulging in horror as the abomination inside him was induced to thrust in a grotesque parody of intercourse.

Finally the procession reached the funeral pyre. The ersatz female straddling the corpse lost whatever composure remained to him, thrashing around and crying hysterically. The platform was raised to the top of the pyre and the assembled throng sang ever louder. The boy's effort to free himself became ever more fraught, but the chains securing him to his companion on their imminent journey to the afterlife proved unyielding. The fire was lit and the chant started to rise to a crescendo. As the flames reached the prisoner's skirts, his screams of terror turned to shrill screams of pain. He bucked and leapt as his clothing burned, by now totally oblivious to the sensation of the corpse's manhood moving deep inside him as he struggled. The flames rose higher, licking at his skin, setting his hair alight, searing the flesh of the living and the dead, and before long the pyre was ablaze, the mix of flame and smoke quickly obscuring the figures in the centre. A brief gust of wind allowed some of the tribesmen one last sight, a moving figure atop a stationary one, clothing and hair now burnt away, skin blistering and blackening in the ferocious heat, body twisting and writhing uncontrollably as he pulled frantically at his chains, eyes bulging and mouth wide, shrieking in agony as he was roasted alive. As he raised his head to give one last ear-splitting scream, the central supports of the pyre collapsed and the funeral platform plunged into the roaring inferno.

The tribe switched from their funeral chants to bellowing their traditional war songs, every man, woman and child giving it their all as if their message of defiance could be heard in distant Rome. Despite the loss of their friend and leader, it had been a great victory.