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The c***k of the whip sent the birds scattering into the sky. They cawed their displeasure at the violence of the men below as they flew over the village and to the mountains beyond.
The whip cracked again.
Aaron did well. He didn't start to moan until the fourth lash. By the seventh, he screamed in earnest.
No one had given him a belt to bite down on. There hadn’t been time when the soldiers hauled him from his house and tied him to the post in the square.
I clutched the little wooden box of salve hidden in my pocket, letting the corners bite deep into my palm.
The soldier passed forty lashes, not caring that Aaron’s back had already turned to pulp.
I squeezed my way to the back of the crowd, unwilling to watch Aaron’s blood stain the packed dirt.
Behind the rest of the villager
