Chapter Three
Major Lorne stood at the back of the crowd that had gathered before the rough stone statue of their god in the center of the plaza. At this point he was the only person standing as the hum of prayers continued. Discreetly he had queried Tamal to learn that giving obeisance himself, as an offender, would be seen as a mockery. And, since he offered himself willingly for the punishment, he was not guarded. That just left him with too much time on his hands to consider what he'd done. He wondered if that maybe was the purpose of so much time to stand, unattended. Because there was no missing the occasional glances the priests shot at him to see if he'd changed his mind and run.
Still wracking his brain for a peaceful way out of this mess that wouldn't cost them a trading partner and possibly leave them with yet another hostile group out there that could turn even more societies against them in the future, Lorne turned his attention back toward his team. From where he stood near the outer ring of the plaza, he could see the road leading up the hill to the gate. Just barely he could make out the three darker figures moving at a fair clip. Hoping they would follow orders and not do something stupid like call in Weir or Sheppard, which could wind up undoing all he'd started and still possibly lead to bloodshed, he turned his attention back to the gathered group.
Eyeing the plaza, he could already guess how this was going to go down. On either side of the statue and a couple of meters forward of it were two thin stone pillars. He could clearly make out ancient notches worn into the stone from centuries of use holding ropes. And, unless he completely missed his guess, this was not only going to be very public, but likely to draw quite a crowd. Glancing up the hill once more, he was relieved to see his team had already disappeared as the prayers wound down to silence.
In the silence the gathered crowd began to rise to their feet, bowing many times as they backed away from the statue. Tamal and a group of three priests of various colored robes approached with ropes. Still terrified, but feeling a sort of calm now that he was committed to this course of action, Lorne nodded. Stepping up to the pillars they had motioned to, he unclipped his P90 and set it on the ground beside where he assumed he would be standing. No one indicated otherwise, so he continued by unzipping his vest and shrugging out of it, placing it on top of his P90.
He was almost surprised at how steady his hands were. Almost. But as he continued to strip down until completely naked as he'd been instructed, he could feel his heart racing still. He just hoped that none of his humiliation and fear showed through in his expression.
Holding out his arms, he signaled he was ready. Two robed figures approached, gently pushing down on his shoulders to signal that he should kneel. Doing so, he kept his arms out. Well, at least he wouldn't have to worry about hanging by his wrists. Though he'd never known anyone with personal experience in such things, he'd heard enough stories of how this typically played out to guess. His imagination was more than happy to fill in any blanks.
Forcing himself to remain focused, Lorne waited. Once they'd tied his wrists to their satisfaction, the two robed figures stepped back. Behind him somewhere, he heard another one taking position with what he knew was going to be the whip or lash or cane or switch of some kind. Trying not to let his imagination take off, he waited. Someone behind him shouted something in a language he didn't understand. A split second later fiery agony unlike anything his imagination could have conjured seared across his back just below the shoulder blades. Gasping in shock, he couldn't even scream the pain was so surprising. He could feel a trickle of blood running underneath his right shoulder blade and down his back.
Somewhere behind him the voice shouted another phrase. Again the fiery agony seared a line across his back, leaving another trickle of blood. His fists and teeth clenched, the Major bit back a scream. Falling back on his training, he began a low chant intended to replace the screams he knew would likely not be long behind.
In a voice just above a whisper he started, "Evan Lorne—"
Shout. Whip crack. Searing agony.
"Major, United States—"
Shout. Whip crack. Searing agony.
"Air Force. Five seven—"
Shout. Whip crack. Searing agony.
This time he had to breathe before he could continue. "…three nine eight two one—"
Shout. Whip crack. Searing agony.
He could feel the blood trickling down his back to his thighs. "…eight. May sixth nineteen—"
Shout. Whip crack. Searing agony.
This time a small cry escaped his lips before he could clamp down on it. "…seventy. Evan Lorne. Major—"
Shout. Whip crack. Searing agony punctuated with a brief scream. By the ninth he found he could only continue the chant mentally. By the end of the first nineteen, he was hanging from the ropes, again thankful he hadn't been made to stand. His shoulders already protested the position, he didn't need to imagine what his full body weight would have done. When they paused to pray and ask for Que'lake's mercy, he wanted to scream at them to get it over with. He no longer felt his back. All he could feel was the burning of his flesh on fire where the whip had touched him again and again and again.
Gradually he began to regain some of his senses. Mentally he took up his chant again, not trusting the shuddering muscles in his jaws to make him sound anything other than pathetic. Forcing himself upright, he waited. It wasn't a long wait.
An eternity later the noise had stopped, though the pain had not. Nearly insensate from the overwhelming fiery agony in his back and shoulders, he let himself hang limply. Gradually his spatial sense began to inform him of the departing crowds. Realizing it must be over, he struggled to force himself upright again so that he would not end up on his face when they cut the ropes. As expected a few seconds later, they cut the ropes, but didn't bother to let him down gently. On his knees, he shook his arms trying to get some feeling back in them before he attempted to pick up his clothes.
"I cannot help you, but I can give you this," Tamal said from close behind him, startling him.
Not really trusting his balance at this point, Lorne put one hand to the ground as he turned slightly to face the man. Only now did he realize he was sitting in a small pool of his own blood. Frowning, his pain hazed mind tried to make sense of why this was important. Seeing the large cloth Tamal was holding out, Lorne took it with a shaking hand. Slowly his mind began to piece it all together. He still had to get back to Atlantis. And, if he was going to keep his team from finding out what had actually happened, he was going to need to clean up as much as possible. There was no hope for his still bleeding back, but maybe…
"You must leave before the sun sets. You, too, have been exiled. My people admire your courage and sacrifice, but do not wish to risk further insult to Que'lake by allowing you to remain within our city. To remain here after dark is to submit yourself for execution," Tamal warned. "Please, hurry. You must be beyond sight of the city walls once the sun had gone beyond the mountains."
Shaking off his hazy thoughts, Lorne struggled to focus. "Understood."
Eldest Tamal nodded once, and then turned away. Struggling on legs that shook badly enough to possibly not support him, Lorne wiped off as much of the blood as he could. He could still feel his back bleeding, but had formed a rough plan for how to deal with that. Mentally lashing himself, now, he forced his trembling body to obey his commands. Before long he was back into his clothes and headed toward the open city gates. With a sigh of relief, he realized he'd made it out just in time, as twilight began to fall on the path ahead.