Tarquin had dragged Aelia by her wrist back to camp, his grip cutting off the blood from her arm until it became deathly white. She had tripped while they were weaving through the tents, and he had simply grabbed her by the collar of her toga and pulled her across the floor until they came to the pole in front of his tent. When he finally dropped her, her clothing was torn and her legs had ghastly grazes running from thigh to calf.
“Tie her to the pole!” Tarquin yelled to anyone who would listen.
“Shall we use the silver, General?” The loyal centurion asked.
“No, we need to save that for the wolves, we won’t be getting another supply of it. She is a traitor to her own kind. Use the rope and fasten her to it tightly.” He instructed, before storming into his tent.
Quintus followed hi
