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    Barbarian . . . Queen

    Chapter Two

    Flogged

    As the Queen slowly descended the wet, slippery stone stairs to the lowest level of the dungeon, her heart beat furiously; not because she was disobeying her husband, but in anticipation of seeing the bloodthirsty monster manacled behind the strongest of iron bars.

    Not wanting to be seen by her, Gabrielle stopped in the shadows but within view of the cell. Quietly she stood and watched, waiting for her eyes to become used to the darkness.

    The only light was from sputtering torches near the cell that cast a weak light onto the crumpled form. For a long while neither woman moved, then slowly the prisoner raised her head and cocked it to one side, listening. And with great difficulty from her many injuries and the weight of the chains that held her, she stood up, staring at the darkness that hid the queen.

    "Surely, she can’t see me," Gabrielle thought to herself. "She can’t know I’m here."

    For a longer time, Xena only stared, then with hate and contempt in her voice, she said, "I know you’re there! Your heart beats loud enough to wake the dead. I can smell the fear that drips from your armpits. And your sweet-smelling womanly perfume offends my nostrils. Come closer, into the light, let me see you."

    Paralyzed with fear and unable to draw a breath, Queen Gabrielle wanted to run away, back up the stairs, but couldn’t move.

    Xena suddenly jumped at the bars, clanging her chains against them and let out a blood-curdling, deafening war cry. And then followed it with a cruel, mocking laugh.

    At the horrific noise, the spell was broken and the queen turned and ran back up the stairs, slipping on the slimy stones, and tripping on the hem of her gown. She ran until she had reached the safety of her room, the horrendous laugh of the evil woman echoing in her ears.

    At midday, on the third day after her capture, Xena was dragged from her cell and chained at the wrists between two posts, each arm stretched out and up until her feet barely touched the sand.

    King Belos gave the signal to begin, and with each lash the crowd roared its approval. With each crack of the whip, blood stained the coarsely woven rags that covered her.

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