“Put him to the stone!”
Maciste didn’t know what the general’s order had meant. Was that some Parthian way of saying, Stone the fucker? He wouldn’t put it past this general. He’d enjoy the spectacle. Seeing the prince who’d given him so much trouble crumbling under the weight of the assault .. dozens of rocks slung at him. Smacking into his head. Breaking bones.
And from the enthusiastic way that the soldiers were bundling him away, Maciste could easily believe he had better steel himself for that. For an ignominious death. Helpless as he was battered to death. Pounded by a hailstorm of rocks. The just death afforded to the foulest of criminals.
And the women? What about them? What message would they carry away when they were released? That their prince, Menander, their only hope of ridding themselves of these invaders … he’d been stoned to death? Like some low-born thief. What good would that do for people’s morale? In truth, it would be Maciste’s blooded and battered corpse left to rot in the sun .. not their true prince. But they had no reason to believe Menander still lived.
Roughly Maciste shoved off the hands clutching at him, irritated, nervous. His elbow jabbed backwards at the guard gripping his neck. Made him grunt and fall back. Spears jabbed towards him. He could not fight them. No hope of fighting them off, he could never win. But he would let them know he was not to be messed with.
If these Parthian brutes were going to stone him to death, they’d remember he went down fighting. He’d go down head held-high. He’d show them. Upright and proud against these morons’ abuse. He’d show them, make himself proud. His fortitude and courage would go with him to his grave.
Incredible. Tiradates watched another futile confrontation. The fool did not know when to give up. Again this prick-of-a-prince was shoving his weight around, asserting his authority over his men. Reckless prick, only making things worse for himself. The men ‘d never let him get away with this. Why? He couldn’t win, he wasn’t going anywhere. No escape.
But if the prick insisted on riling the men. More fool him!
More serious .. more annoying, these fuckers were taking it. His own men .. letting the prick get away with it. Maddeningly, they’d backed off. Bowing to some idea of a nobleman’s in-built authority. That showed weakness.
Fuck ‘em! That got right up Tiradates’ nose. He himself had had to crawl his way up out of the dirt. Looked down on by well-born fuckers like this prince. Stuck-up arseholes like this one-time prince were nothing. Needed showing their place. Under the fucking-thumb.
His army didn’t take shit from some stuck-up has-been prince. He’d make those fuckers pay, these men yielding to some over-muscled slave. This fucking prince was the enemy, the goat-shaggers’ king. And now a FUCKING-SLAVE!
They’d got him. Now was payback-time. Still the prick was at it. His moves made them back off. His own men! Who were the fucking-victors here? The morons had obeyed. OBEYED. How the fuck ….! His own men obeying the enemy? Taking orders from a prisoner. A fucking slave.
He’d have a word. More than a word. He’d have these morons skinned alive. They’d keep this motherfucker under pressure .. or their skins ‘d be flayed off their backs. Tiradates would have words to say about this.
Still days before they were back in court. And they were going to be on to him every-motherfucking-minute of every cocksucking hour of the prick’s waking day. And more!
A good bollocking. The only language this soldier scum understood. Tear them off a strip. Give them a motherfucker of a warning. Get a grip. Squeeze that sucker – or else.
Break the fucker. OR FUCKING ELSE!
Feeble-minded cretins like these – they’d know to save their own skin. They’d keep up the pressure alright. No prick-of-a-prince gonna put them on punishment detail. Or have them stripped naked and whipped out of their skin before the rest of the men. Tiradates would put a fire under their balls. They’d do for this prick-of-a-prince alright.
Let’s see how tough you are then, motherfucker – shoving your weight around like it’s your fucking-right. A few ball-crunching days under pressure. Squeezed till your nuts pop. Every minute of every motherfucking-day.