Margo stared Why, it’s just a boy!
Perhaps thirteen or fourteen, he huddled at Quintus Flaminius’ feet and waited. Flaminius spoke harshly to him, pointing at Margo for emphasis. The boy kissed Margo’s feet, startling her badly, then huddled almost in a fetal ball beside her toes. Flaminius clapped his hands again. Collared slaves carried out a brazier on poles and set it down near Quintus. Heat shimmered in the spring air. A long iron rod had been thrust into glowing coals.
Flaminius snapped out something to his slave. The boy looked up …. A wild cry broke from ashen lips. He started back, trying to scramble to his feet, then flung himself at Flaminius’ legs, clinging to his calves and pleading, “Domine, domine…”
Was he acknowledging Flaminius as his master? Or just begging mercy with the only word he had wit to retain?
The slaves who’d carried the brazier into the courtyard seized him, holding him immobile. Flaminius picked up the iron rod with great deliberation, then nodded to his men. They stripped the boy’s tunic back from his thighs. He whimpered….
The sickening smell of seared flesh and a high, ragged scream jolted Margo. Oh, God… .
They branded him with a lurid “F” across the thigh. Margo gagged and feared she might pass out. By all rights the boy should have. He didn’t. He just lay on the ground moaning and clutching at the dirt with thin fingers. Flaminius reheated the branding iron. Slaves held the boy again. This time Flaminius moved the iron toward the boy’s face ….