Dressed in the tattered remains of the clothing we were captured in we are forced to carry out crosses to site where we be nailed to them. There are few soldiers to oversee our execution. There is not a need for many. The able bodied men of our village had been killed in the battle as they overran our village. The women and men too old to carry a cross were slaughtered as were the children. They were the lucky ones as they died horribly but swiftly.
Few of us had even heard of crucifixion and only I had seen one. It is an unspeakably terrible death that I could not bring myself to talk about. Soon the score of us will all know firsthand.
We arrive at the site they had chosen. A row of holes had been dug and piles of rock are heaped next to each one. On horseback a man not in Roman garb tells us in our tongue to strip and lay by the crosses we have brought here. I recognized him as a merchant that came to our village often. He is fluent in many languages and was hired by Romans to translate between them and the mercenaries that accompany us and to tell us what to do.
I know all the women here. Often when it is warm we bathe together naked in the stream. Many hesitate but I know we must disrobe or be disrobed and peel that tattered remains of the shrift I wear from my body and lay by my cross. Slowly the others follow my lead. The merchant barks something to the mercenaries I do not understand but get the meaning as they descend upon us. Quickly our wrists are bound to the cross. One of the men starts with me to unlock the shackles from my ankles and the smelly men tie my ankles to the cross. This was unexpected as the crucifixion I had seen the man had been nailed to the wood.
In short order we are all bound to the crosses. I look about and think after a while I doubt one is better than the other and the end result is the same.
The merchant talks to the Roman soldier that seems to be in charge then looks down the row of us lying helpless on the crosses. He raises his voice and in our tongue declares “As enemies of Roman you will be made examples for all who pass. You will be nailed to your crosses, raised and hang crucified until your bodies rot and fall from the cross. You will suffer long and horribly before you die but take solace ask word of your fate spreads your agony will save hundreds if not thousands of your people’s lives!”
Two mercenaries walk up to me. One carries a leather bucket I can see the heads of rough iron spikes peering out the top while the other carries a heavy mallet. He kneels next to one of my wrists and is handed a spike that he presses the point against my wrist. I slam my eyes shut as I see the mallet streaking for the head of the spike.
The pain is intense but I manage to suppress a scream. I must be strong for my friends! I do well when the other wrist is nailed. Perhaps stunned I offer no resistance as several gather about my legs. They untie my ankles and hole my knees splayed wide and bent while my feet are place one over the other on the wood of the cross.
The pain is too much. Do I cry out when the mallet shatters bone in my feet? I do not recall. I lay pinned to the wood as they move down they row and nail all of us. I raise my head and look down my body at the spike piercing my feet. Can it hurt worse than this?
As they go down the row I stare up at the sky. Tears welling in my eyes blur my sight. Why is this happening?
We are all attached to the crosses. Ropes are removed. A team of mercenaries gather about my cross. It seems ‘first nailed, first raised’ is the rule here. The half-dozen men effortless raise me and the cross. I feel my backside slide down the wood and as I open my mouth to scream the cross bottoms hard in the hole.
Next thing I recall they are finishing packing the pile of rock around the base of the cross to steady it. As they finish raising my friends I look down the road back towards my village and see smoke starting to rise as they have plundered anything of value and will leave no shelter. That was late yesterday. But I have a few questions for you if you would be so kind as to answer.
“If can I will” he replies.
Hundreds passed and barely slowed. Why would you stop and talk to me?
“I am an artist and a historian. If I do not record this perhaps no one would.”
You were drawing; may I see it?
“Of course” he replied. He held the charcoal sketch up. I almost laugh as he shows it to me and protest that I am not that pretty when I am not crucified.
“But you are now. I regret I must continue my journey” he says. He gets up and starts down the road. I call to him “do you have a name?”
He keeps walking away and says “I am known as ‘Tree’.”
I ask him if he wants to know mine.
“You are already seared into my mind” he says as stops and looks back at me. “I fear a name would haunt me forever. But if it offers you a small comfort do tell.
“I am…”
The poor girl seemed to choke and her body convulsed. She seemed to look up at the sky and ask the gods to take her before her head slumped forward as she expired.
Tree
Few of us had even heard of crucifixion and only I had seen one. It is an unspeakably terrible death that I could not bring myself to talk about. Soon the score of us will all know firsthand.
We arrive at the site they had chosen. A row of holes had been dug and piles of rock are heaped next to each one. On horseback a man not in Roman garb tells us in our tongue to strip and lay by the crosses we have brought here. I recognized him as a merchant that came to our village often. He is fluent in many languages and was hired by Romans to translate between them and the mercenaries that accompany us and to tell us what to do.
I know all the women here. Often when it is warm we bathe together naked in the stream. Many hesitate but I know we must disrobe or be disrobed and peel that tattered remains of the shrift I wear from my body and lay by my cross. Slowly the others follow my lead. The merchant barks something to the mercenaries I do not understand but get the meaning as they descend upon us. Quickly our wrists are bound to the cross. One of the men starts with me to unlock the shackles from my ankles and the smelly men tie my ankles to the cross. This was unexpected as the crucifixion I had seen the man had been nailed to the wood.
In short order we are all bound to the crosses. I look about and think after a while I doubt one is better than the other and the end result is the same.
The merchant talks to the Roman soldier that seems to be in charge then looks down the row of us lying helpless on the crosses. He raises his voice and in our tongue declares “As enemies of Roman you will be made examples for all who pass. You will be nailed to your crosses, raised and hang crucified until your bodies rot and fall from the cross. You will suffer long and horribly before you die but take solace ask word of your fate spreads your agony will save hundreds if not thousands of your people’s lives!”
Two mercenaries walk up to me. One carries a leather bucket I can see the heads of rough iron spikes peering out the top while the other carries a heavy mallet. He kneels next to one of my wrists and is handed a spike that he presses the point against my wrist. I slam my eyes shut as I see the mallet streaking for the head of the spike.
The pain is intense but I manage to suppress a scream. I must be strong for my friends! I do well when the other wrist is nailed. Perhaps stunned I offer no resistance as several gather about my legs. They untie my ankles and hole my knees splayed wide and bent while my feet are place one over the other on the wood of the cross.
The pain is too much. Do I cry out when the mallet shatters bone in my feet? I do not recall. I lay pinned to the wood as they move down they row and nail all of us. I raise my head and look down my body at the spike piercing my feet. Can it hurt worse than this?
As they go down the row I stare up at the sky. Tears welling in my eyes blur my sight. Why is this happening?
We are all attached to the crosses. Ropes are removed. A team of mercenaries gather about my cross. It seems ‘first nailed, first raised’ is the rule here. The half-dozen men effortless raise me and the cross. I feel my backside slide down the wood and as I open my mouth to scream the cross bottoms hard in the hole.
Next thing I recall they are finishing packing the pile of rock around the base of the cross to steady it. As they finish raising my friends I look down the road back towards my village and see smoke starting to rise as they have plundered anything of value and will leave no shelter. That was late yesterday. But I have a few questions for you if you would be so kind as to answer.
“If can I will” he replies.
Hundreds passed and barely slowed. Why would you stop and talk to me?
“I am an artist and a historian. If I do not record this perhaps no one would.”
You were drawing; may I see it?
“Of course” he replied. He held the charcoal sketch up. I almost laugh as he shows it to me and protest that I am not that pretty when I am not crucified.
“But you are now. I regret I must continue my journey” he says. He gets up and starts down the road. I call to him “do you have a name?”
He keeps walking away and says “I am known as ‘Tree’.”
I ask him if he wants to know mine.
“You are already seared into my mind” he says as stops and looks back at me. “I fear a name would haunt me forever. But if it offers you a small comfort do tell.
“I am…”
The poor girl seemed to choke and her body convulsed. She seemed to look up at the sky and ask the gods to take her before her head slumped forward as she expired.
Tree
it !!!
....great 
