So for today, I'm going to share with you an excerpt from my new short story Martyr. Available on Amazon.com and Smashwords.com now.
If you like what you see here, email me at author@jeffjake.com. I have ten coupon codes for a free download of the story at Smashwords.com. The first ten that I receive will get one of the codes (Also please note that I will only give out coupons to those that email me before the end of 2012. I will not be giving out coupons past 12-31-2012 @ midnight).
ROME 92 A.D.
Marcus stumbles and falls to the ground. The impact is violent enough that he sees stars when his face hits the cracked, dry earth below his feet. Behind him the guards laugh. As he starts to climb back to his feet, one of the guards plants a foot to his side, knocking the wind from his lungs. Lying on his back, trying to catch his breath, the other guard kicks him again. A sickening pop accompanies the blow, as one of his ribs gives way under the strain of the centurions boot. The fractured rib slips, causing immediate pain and difficulty breathing. The guards laugh and point. It feels like a dagger has been thrust into his side. The pain is so intense he breaks into a clammy sweat.
Slowly, painfully, Marcus rises to his feet. Looking skyward, he asks for strength. The centurion called Thaddeus notices the gesture and stops laughing. Pulling the scourge from his belt he rears back and rakes it across Marcus’s back. Lightning white-hot pain shoots to his core as the barb encrusted leather straps pull chunks of flesh from his back. Blood flows freely from the jagged wounds. Marcus drops to his knees, tears streaming down his face from the pain and sorrow of what lies ahead for him. His second guard, Celsus, grabs him by the hair and drags him to his feet.
Celsus's pockmarked face leans close to Marcus’s ear, his rancid breath washing over his face, “Let’s see your God save you now Christian dog.” Pulling away Celsus spits in his face.
From outside the gate, the roar of the crowd can be heard. Chants calling for death reach the waiting men’s ears. The rhythmic stomping of feet send vibrations that can be felt as the people demand the death of another gladiator. The screams and shouts crescendo into a frenzy as the man is put to death. In front of Marcus a large iron gate rumbles and recedes into the ceiling. Two attendants drag the body of the vanquished man off the field and past the waiting trio. Grabbing Marcus by each arm, Thaddeus and Celsus drag him to the threshold of the gate.
Before him lies the greatest arena of all times, the Anfiteatro Flavio or better known as the Coliseum. From here, Marcus can see that the stands are full of people today. Even without cheers for blood, the crowd of 50,000 generates a hum that makes it difficult to hear. Looking down at his feet, he sees the smear of blood left by the man that was dragged from the field. The sight causes a pang of fear to shudder through his body. From across the field, atop the fifteen foot wall, a man’s voice carries and echoes down the almost 300 feet.
“Citizens! Today we have an execution for your entertainment!” Cheers go up from the crowd.
Thaddeus and Celsus shove him out into the arena; the bright sun causes him to shield his eyes. Behind him the two continue to push him further onto the dusty field, puffs of dust rising from his bare feet with each step. From the stands, Marcus can hear calls of hate and death.
“KILL HIM!”
“FEED HIM TO THE LIONS!”
“KILL ALL THE CHRISTIANS!”
Marcus stumbles and falls to the ground. The impact is violent enough that he sees stars when his face hits the cracked, dry earth below his feet. Behind him the guards laugh. As he starts to climb back to his feet, one of the guards plants a foot to his side, knocking the wind from his lungs. Lying on his back, trying to catch his breath, the other guard kicks him again. A sickening pop accompanies the blow, as one of his ribs gives way under the strain of the centurions boot. The fractured rib slips, causing immediate pain and difficulty breathing. The guards laugh and point. It feels like a dagger has been thrust into his side. The pain is so intense he breaks into a clammy sweat.
Slowly, painfully, Marcus rises to his feet. Looking skyward, he asks for strength. The centurion called Thaddeus notices the gesture and stops laughing. Pulling the scourge from his belt he rears back and rakes it across Marcus’s back. Lightning white-hot pain shoots to his core as the barb encrusted leather straps pull chunks of flesh from his back. Blood flows freely from the jagged wounds. Marcus drops to his knees, tears streaming down his face from the pain and sorrow of what lies ahead for him. His second guard, Celsus, grabs him by the hair and drags him to his feet.
Celsus's pockmarked face leans close to Marcus’s ear, his rancid breath washing over his face, “Let’s see your God save you now Christian dog.” Pulling away Celsus spits in his face.
From outside the gate, the roar of the crowd can be heard. Chants calling for death reach the waiting men’s ears. The rhythmic stomping of feet send vibrations that can be felt as the people demand the death of another gladiator. The screams and shouts crescendo into a frenzy as the man is put to death. In front of Marcus a large iron gate rumbles and recedes into the ceiling. Two attendants drag the body of the vanquished man off the field and past the waiting trio. Grabbing Marcus by each arm, Thaddeus and Celsus drag him to the threshold of the gate.
Before him lies the greatest arena of all times, the Anfiteatro Flavio or better known as the Coliseum. From here, Marcus can see that the stands are full of people today. Even without cheers for blood, the crowd of 50,000 generates a hum that makes it difficult to hear. Looking down at his feet, he sees the smear of blood left by the man that was dragged from the field. The sight causes a pang of fear to shudder through his body. From across the field, atop the fifteen foot wall, a man’s voice carries and echoes down the almost 300 feet.
“Citizens! Today we have an execution for your entertainment!” Cheers go up from the crowd.
Thaddeus and Celsus shove him out into the arena; the bright sun causes him to shield his eyes. Behind him the two continue to push him further onto the dusty field, puffs of dust rising from his bare feet with each step. From the stands, Marcus can hear calls of hate and death.
“KILL HIM!”
“FEED HIM TO THE LIONS!”
“KILL ALL THE CHRISTIANS!”
The calls for death catching on and spreading until hundreds are chanting for his demise. Talons of fear grip him and work on his sanity. Marcus thinks of his wife and two little girls. What has he done to them? Now they wouldn’t have a father or husband. He couldn’t believe that his faith had brought him to this place. The stress upsets his stomach and he vomits what little he has had to eat and drink. His two handlers simply laugh and kick him to spur him further into the stadium. In the stands, the crowd picks up on his fear, taunting and jeering at the man about to die.
At the center of the arena, his guards stop him. Celsus grabs the back of his hair and kicks his legs out from under him, driving him to the ground. With a violent jerk of his hair, he then forces Marcus to his knees. Celsus wiggles his fingers in front of Marcus’s face to clear his hand of the hair he has pulled from his head. With a brutal backhand, Thaddeus instructs Marcus to look at his emperor. The crowd continues its cheers at the brutality.
-Red
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