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Aelia

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I find this change of scene perfect. First we are following poor Aelia, in the middle of the mob, experiencing just a bit of what she must be enduring. The insults, cat calls, people hating her. Must be really terrible, feeling to be in the hands of people hating you, condamned to die a hideous death. A second later we are in a side street and the horror of the thing seems a bit farther. One is even telling that this punishment seems to be too harsh. But then we hear Mommius saying that she deserved it, he seems to be even proud to have raped her, and waiting for more tortures. No hope for her!

About the salt, I guess that it was not unusual among Romans rubbing salt in the wounds or pouring salted water; it should have some anti-bacterial properties, I do not think they had many other alternatives. In the case of a condamned this most probably had the effect to limit the bleeding and the infections, so that it could last more on the cross. Of course this was excruciating, but who cares!

There is one scene that has striken me so much. When Aelia has just been scourged and is unfastened by the pillar, but that they have unfastened only one wrist, so that her body is half turned toward her tortures, her head hanging, her chest heaving, her back a mess of welts, her skin in ribbons, and her front still almost intact, creamy, silky. Striking!!!
 
Clemens waited outside the gate. After the tightly-packed alleys it was a relief to have space. He’d drunk some water but the heat was still terrible beneath an increasingly clouded sky.


“They say she’s a beauty,” he heard a well-dressed man next to him say to his companion. Merchants, by the look of them.


“Apparently so, and they’ve stripped her quite naked. Great tits, I’m told.”


Clemens moved away but every conversation stung him.


“No better than a whore.”


“Fucked a dozen men a night to keep them loyal.”


“Screamed like a child as soon as they showed her the whip.”


“The longest legs you’ve ever seen.”


“Flogged her three times, scourged her half to death.”


“She used to sleep with corpses.”


“I saw her beaten by the temple. Best ass you ever saw.”


“A common slut with ideas above her station.”


Everywhere he went, the voices hammered into his soul.

*

Aelia took another step forward. Her foot hurt as she set it down. The jarring sent waves of pain through her back. Her shoulders ached from the weight of the beam, which had rubbed the skin raw where it rested across her neck. She was almost blind with sweat and blood and spittle. Her head screamed. Every muscle moaned. She tried to set the other foot forward but something was wrong. The muscles of her leg were numb. She stumbled, tried to recover, but the weight was too much. She tipped forward and landed painfully on her left knee. The shock sent spasms of agony flowing from her back. She felt nauseous and faint. She blinked her way to sight. The left end of the beam rested on the road. She had to get up. A lash struck across her ribcage on right, stinging surprising sharply.


“Get up, you lazy whore!” a soldier shouted.


Another blow hit her, this time across the bloodied heart of her back. Her vision went black and she retched. Another lash, and another. Even as vomit rose in her throat she summoned the energy to stand. A shove set her toppling forward but her legs responded and, as the crowd laughed, she trotted on. Her heart was pounding. She took great gulps of air. Everything was a daze. Faces, taunting, pointing everywhere, her muscles like lead. Onward she pushed.


The walk felt eternal. Every now and again she would lose herself and would take four or five paces in a numb haze, but then an insult would penetrate to her consciousness and she would feel shame again, or a loose stone or a lash or a heavy step would spark a new wave of pain. She was naked, breasts swaying, buttocks and everything else exposed. They’d won. All she could do was walk on, endure this march of shame and pain to something much worse.


She fell, legs buckling beneath her, but the pressure of the mob prevented her going down heavily. Instead she collapsed to her knees and slowly subsided to lie face down in the dirt, the beam an impossible weight. The crown pushed harder into her forehead, stones dug into her breasts. Maybe she could just lie there and wait for death. But they began to beat her again, blow after blow until she began to struggle, and then hands helped her up. She was filthy, grime and dust clinging to her sweat-drenched body, mingling with the filth they’d thrown at her and the spittle. They lashed her again, on the inside of her left thigh and she was moving, blood seeping from her knees.


She trudged on, head down, seeing nothing but the dusty road. Blood and sweat dripped from her. Still they pelted her with shit and rotting food. Still they jostled to add their own insult and their own spittle. Were these the people she’d thought she could save? Life was nothing but pain. One foot in front of the other, breasts jogging, back screaming, heat and exhaustion. A hand touched her shoulder and she paused. She looked up. She was at the gate, leaving Jerusalem for the final time. She felt a ball of sadness rise in her throat. A soldier held a goatskin to her lips and she drank. She hadn’t realised how thirsty she was. Some sort of bitter herb had been added to the liquid. She didn’t care. A painkiller, maybe? But they wouldn’t be so merciful. Something to keep her strength up, probably. She drank and drank, water dribbling down her chin, splashing on her breasts and then it was removed from her lips and a kick to her backside began the procession again.
 
Mommius had wondered whether they should keep a couple of her people back to help her with the patibulum. It was common enough for prisoners to collapse on the way to Golgotha, women especially, and there weren’t many who’d been abused quite as badly as Aelia had been. But Rustius had been clear. She had to be alone. She had to know she was alone. If the soldiers had to drag her, then they would. There could be no comfort for her. Shame, isolation, pain: that was her punishment. When Mommius saw her again, he knew Rustius had been right.


She was strong enough. She would make it up the hill. She was suffering, her body gleaming with sweat, her hair wet, her face anguished, the dignity with which she had once moved gone. She was covered in filth and streaked with sweat, her shoulders and chest spattered with blood, her back a raw mass of wounds. The soldiers were pitiless, flicking at her with their straps. The mob had thinned out a little, but there were still dozens surrounding her, jeering and spitting.


“Why do they hate her so much?” he asked Ligarius, who stared in fascination at her breasts as they bounced and swung as she struggled towards them.


“I thought that was what you wanted?” he said without averting his gaze.


“Oh, it is. It is. But she’s one of them. She tried to oppose us.”


“She’s also one of us,” Ligarius said. “And she opposed their priests. We may see this as Rome putting down a local insurgency, but they see her as a Roman and this is their chance to assert themselves.”


“They see her as Roman?” Mommius was startled but he could see the logic.


“Of course. Her father was a fine man. Just married with his cock not his brain.”


“But these are Roman soldiers executing her in the Roman way. The sentence of a Roman governor.”


“And also of the local priests. To them she’s a stuck-up Roman bitch. That’s what the priests have told them.”


Mommius felt a stab of pity for her. By being of both societies she belonged to neither. She stumbled again and fell to her knees. They lashed her, three, four, five times across the bloody mess of her back. She barely reacted, her eyes closed, her face blank. They pulled her up and pushed her on.


It had taken her almost an hour to reach the gate, a journey she could normally have done in ten minutes. It would be at least another half hour, he thought, before they reached the site of execution.
 
Clemens had taken a position midway up the hillside. The road was lined with people three or four deep, all of them from what he could make out, gleefully looking forward to seeing a beautiful girl naked, to watching a rebel die. He saw her come through the gate, bent over, shuffling, still surrounded by the mob and followed by a crowd that must have numbered in the hundreds. He felt an ache in his throat, a dull sense of horror. Her approach was agonisingly slow, each step a great effort, the soldiers goading her with their straps.


“She’s wearing a crown,” somebody shouted as she came closer.


“Hail the bandit queen!” There was laughter. Clemens was disgusted. He wanted to shout at them that they weren’t clever, that people had been shouting that all day, but a profound fatigue had seized him. Briefly the press around her parted and he was granted a clear sight of her. She was bent over at perhaps 45 degrees form the waist so her breasts dangled free, swinging as she staggered on. Her beauty still had the capacity to shock him, even then, the round cheeks, the sweetly upturned nose, the gentle power of her shoulders. But her face now had a haggard aspect. She looked exhausted, numb to the taunts of the mob, barely feeling the slaps of the strap.


“Look at that arse,” a soldier standing near him said to another. “What I’d have given to fuck her.”


“You know Caius offered Publius a week’s salary to take his place?”


“Did he? Don’t blame him. Fucking Publius. I’d have put money on his tile coming out. Lucky fucking prick.”


“Tight as anything, he said. Just lay there and took it. Fuck, those tits.”


The words were like a punch to Clemens’s kidneys. “What you looking at?” the first soldier said, and he realised he’d been staring at him.


“There was a lottery to rape her?” he croaked, although he could barely say the word “rape”.


“Yes, just Rustius and five lucky souls,” the second soldier said. “Perk of the job. We all got as much as we wanted last night, mind. Plenty of good cunt there. You should sign up, son. Look like you could do with some.” He laughed and the pair followed the procession.


Clemens vomited by the side of the road.
 
Rustius had seen her at the gate and, satisfied, rode on. She would die near the top of the hill, where as many as possible could see her. It was a grim place, dotted with old crosses, many with decomposing corpses still pinned to them, bones littered among the rocks. Crows circled constantly. Flies buzzed. Rustius had ordered a tall stipes, partly so she could be seen and partly because he wanted to make sure she was out of reach of the mob. It wouldn’t do for one of her people to end her suffering too soon with a merciful knife, or for some over-enthusiastic mockery to finish her. Fifteen feet long, it lay by the shaft, three feet deep, that they’d dug for it.


“All good?” he asked of the carnifex, whose name he could never remember. The legion would help, but this man was the expert.


“Yes, sir. We’re ready.”


There were buckets of water there to throw over her. Rustius wanted her nudity seen. He didn’t want her hiding her shame behind whatever crap they’d thrown at her. And there were goatskins filled with herb-infused water. It would clear her head, make sure she felt what they were doing to her. The crowd had been gathering since dawn and now numbered three or four thousand. A few dozen soldiers guarded the site along with the carnifex and his four assistants. Many soldiers had just come to watch. And there was Marcus, a strange expression on his face. He was a good, honest soldier, a brave man and a widower. Both his sons had been killed by Aelia. Everybody had agreed that he should take on the job of holding her down as they nailed her to the patibulum.


Rustius heard the procession approaching and turned. They were still a couple of hundred yards away. He’d been right to increase the security. His men were everywhere. There were too many people. He felt instinctively nervous. But the mood seemed largely jovial. There were still those spitting at Aelia, mocking her, but for most people, this was a holiday.


He mopped at his brow. It was disgustingly hot and humid. He glanced at the sky: clouds as far as the horizon. He wondered if it would rain. That would kill the mood. Although it might keep her alive longer. But the governor was supposed to be coming later on, which might be good for his career, might get him away from this shithole. He didn’t want rain keeping the governor at home.


A voice greeted him. Caiaphas, surrounded as ever by his coterie of priests. He nodded at him. Of course he was here early to get a good position to watch her agonies. Of course he was. He hated him. He hoped Caiaphas didn’t think they were friends, just because they’d collaborated in Aelia’s execution. Did Caiaphas have any idea how brave she was? He hated her. She had to die and die in agony, but he had some respect for her courage. He hated Caiaphas more.
 
I love these changes of perspectives, from the point of view of the victim to the point of view of the onlookers and executioners! I think they greatly add to the drama! :) :span1:Really, these insights about what it must be for the mob or the guards to take part to this procession are quite original and breathtaking. The tension about what is going to happen builds up more and more... :popcorn:
 
This was it, then. She’d passed half a dozen crosses on the way up the hill. She saw the bodies hanging there. She saw the flies and the crows. She knew how she’d end. She also knew that whatever those herbs had been they were taking effect, unless it was just the process of rehydration. When had she last eaten? She had no idea. They’d given her water after raping her but it must be 24 hours since she’d eaten. Would that hasten the end? Or was it just so she didn’t shit herself up there? She saw the stipes and the carnfices, saw the hole and the nails, saw the spot where she’d die. She stumbled on to stand beside them. They pushed her to her knees and removed the beam.


There was a moment of relief as the weight was taken from her, but then the blood began to flow again and a wave of pain swept through her shoulders and her arms. She lowered her hands slowly, moaning softly as she did so. A goatskin was held to her lips and she drank greedily. It had been infused with herbs and honey and she gulped it down. The sense of relief on her raw throat was incredible. Then rough hands were on her, pulling her to her feet. She saw them fixing the beam to the upright. She shouldn’t have drunk, she realised. It would keep her alive longer. She was suddenly acutely conscious of her nakedness. The soldiers stepped away and, as she brought up an arm to cover her breasts and moved her hand over her cunt, she was struck by water. She shouted in shock and stumbled and then another bucket was thrown at her and another. She stayed on her feet. In the extreme heat the cool was almost a blessing. The worst of the filth was sluiced from her. Another bucket was tipped over her. The water stung the open wounds. The pain was terrible, but somehow it was good pain, cleansing pain. She heard the noise of a hammer. Another bucket was thrown over her. She stood, shoulders hunched, water dripping from her, horribly naked before the crowds.


“See how the whore covers herself at last!” shouted somebody, horribly loud. There was laughter. She bit her lower lip. She could feel tears. She would not cry. She would not cry. When had she last worn clothes? When had she last not been naked? Two soldiers seized her arms and pulled them behind her, fastening her wrists with a cord. Could they not allow her even that dignity?


They dragged her to where Rustius stood next to Mommius. “Aelia,” Rustius said, the mob falling silent as his voice boomed across the hilltop. She looked up, determined to act with honour. She looked above the mob, at the hot grey sky. “The sentence is death by crucifixion.”


She gave the slightest of nods. “A final drink,” Rustius commanded and the goatskin was held to her lips again. Despite herself, she drank. And then they hustled her over to the cross, a bleak T on the dusty ground.
 
This was it, then. She’d passed half a dozen crosses on the way up the hill. She saw the bodies hanging there. She saw the flies and the crows. She knew how she’d end. She also knew that whatever those herbs had been they were taking effect, unless it was just the process of rehydration. When had she last eaten? She had no idea. They’d given her water after raping her but it must be 24 hours since she’d eaten. Would that hasten the end? Or was it just so she didn’t shit herself up there? She saw the stipes and the carnfices, saw the hole and the nails, saw the spot where she’d die. She stumbled on to stand beside them. They pushed her to her knees and removed the beam.


There was a moment of relief as the weight was taken from her, but then the blood began to flow again and a wave of pain swept through her shoulders and her arms. She lowered her hands slowly, moaning softly as she did so. A goatskin was held to her lips and she drank greedily. It had been infused with herbs and honey and she gulped it down. The sense of relief on her raw throat was incredible. Then rough hands were on her, pulling her to her feet. She saw them fixing the beam to the upright. She shouldn’t have drunk, she realised. It would keep her alive longer. She was suddenly acutely conscious of her nakedness. The soldiers stepped away and, as she brought up an arm to cover her breasts and moved her hand over her cunt, she was struck by water. She shouted in shock and stumbled and then another bucket was thrown at her and another. She stayed on her feet. In the extreme heat the cool was almost a blessing. The worst of the filth was sluiced from her. Another bucket was tipped over her. The water stung the open wounds. The pain was terrible, but somehow it was good pain, cleansing pain. She heard the noise of a hammer. Another bucket was thrown over her. She stood, shoulders hunched, water dripping from her, horribly naked before the crowds.


“See how the whore covers herself at last!” shouted somebody, horribly loud. There was laughter. She bit her lower lip. She could feel tears. She would not cry. She would not cry. When had she last worn clothes? When had she last not been naked? Two soldiers seized her arms and pulled them behind her, fastening her wrists with a cord. Could they not allow her even that dignity?


They dragged her to where Rustius stood next to Mommius. “Aelia,” Rustius said, the mob falling silent as his voice boomed across the hilltop. She looked up, determined to act with honour. She looked above the mob, at the hot grey sky. “The sentence is death by crucifixion.”


She gave the slightest of nods. “A final drink,” Rustius commanded and the goatskin was held to her lips again. Despite herself, she drank. And then they hustled her over to the cross, a bleak T on the dusty ground.
I love the way you are building this up!
 
Mommius had never actually watched a crucifixion close-up before. He’d ridden past the crosses, of course, and he’d gone, in his younger days especially, to see notorious cases, but the precise details of this stage were unknown to him. With a man or a less beautiful woman, he knew, they wouldn’t have made such a point of exposing them. They’d pushed her down onto the cross, unfastened her wrists and then bound her in position with cords around her wrists, her elbows, her waist, her knees and her ankles, immobilising her. She’d closed her eyes and her teeth were gritted but the pain when her whipped back was pushed onto the coarse wood was clear. A grey-haired soldier, face grim, approached and knelt beside her. He punched her, hard, in the gut. She gave a grunt of pain and bucked, pulling fruitlessly at the cords, eyes and mouth suddenly wide open. The soldier straddled her, sitting on her firm belly, hands pushing on her breasts.


Mommius pushed closer. He heard Ligarius’s chuckle, but the older man remained by his side. “You killed my sons,” the soldier said, his fingers teasing her nipples. “You deserve all this and more.”


A carnifex approached, holding two nails. He ran the points gently over her face, laughing as she squirmed. “You like this?” the soldier asked, circling the areolae with his fingers. “Are you a fucking whore? Is this how you spent you days, on your back with your arms outspread?”


Her eyes were closed, head tipped awkwardly back to the crowd dug in. The soldier spat. “You fuck corpses,” he said. “Did you fuck my sons? Is that what you fucking did? Killed my sons then fucked them?”<


The carnifex placed the point of the nail on her wrist. The soldier grabbed her face, his fingers pushing into the soft cheeks. “Watch!” he said. “Watch the nail go in!”

*

Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Aelia looked along her arm, bound to the cross. She wanted to close her eyes, but she couldn’t not look. The nail was pushed against her wrist. The carnifex touched the head with his hammer, raised it, and in a blur brought it down. The pain was instantaneous. A flash of white agony burned through her. Her head snapped clear of the soldier’s hand. Her back arched and her stomach pushed against his weight. His hands suddenly were on her breasts pushing her down. She was shrieking, mad, short bursts as her tensed body refused to take in air. She heard the chink of the hammer on the nail again, felt the reverberation along her arm, felt a new burst of pain. She’d banged her head on the beam and she could feel fresh damp where the wounds in her scalp had been reopened. The hammered came down again. She bucked and retched, awful animalistic sounds rasping from her throat and when her eyes opened again, she saw him, the soldier, grinning.

Two more blows and it was done, her left wrist pinned forever to the wood. She looked disbelievingly along the wood to her hand, hooked into a claw, the head of the nail protruding. The pain was like nothing she’d ever felt. She was shaking. She mustn’t cry, yet it seemed as though she had no control. Pain was in charge of her body now. She felt the fingers circling her nipples again, the endless taunting and she felt anger. Anger might get her through. She clenched her teeth. Her breathing was so hard that she was blowing out small gobbets of spittle. She could feel them landing on her face. Should she spit on him? But even as she thought that, she felt the second nail pushed against her right wrist, and all thoughts of bravery or resistance disappeared.
 
The soldier grabbed her face, his fingers pushing into the soft cheeks. “Watch!” he said. “Watch the nail go in!”
An extra cruel touch.
When I'm having a needle in my arm, I look away, not cos I'm frightened,
but I think I'm less likely to move instinctively.
It I were made to watch a nail being driven in, I certainly would cringe,
but hopefully the bonds are too tight for that to dislodge the nail from its true course...
 
Mommius had never actually watched a crucifixion close-up before. He’d ridden past the crosses, of course, and he’d gone, in his younger days especially, to see notorious cases, but the precise details of this stage were unknown to him. With a man or a less beautiful woman, he knew, they wouldn’t have made such a point of exposing them. They’d pushed her down onto the cross, unfastened her wrists and then bound her in position with cords around her wrists, her elbows, her waist, her knees and her ankles, immobilising her. She’d closed her eyes and her teeth were gritted but the pain when her whipped back was pushed onto the coarse wood was clear. A grey-haired soldier, face grim, approached and knelt beside her. He punched her, hard, in the gut. She gave a grunt of pain and bucked, pulling fruitlessly at the cords, eyes and mouth suddenly wide open. The soldier straddled her, sitting on her firm belly, hands pushing on her breasts.


Mommius pushed closer. He heard Ligarius’s chuckle, but the older man remained by his side. “You killed my sons,” the soldier said, his fingers teasing her nipples. “You deserve all this and more.”


A carnifex approached, holding two nails. He ran the points gently over her face, laughing as she squirmed. “You like this?” the soldier asked, circling the areolae with his fingers. “Are you a fucking whore? Is this how you spent you days, on your back with your arms outspread?”


Her eyes were closed, head tipped awkwardly back to the crowd dug in. The soldier spat. “You fuck corpses,” he said. “Did you fuck my sons? Is that what you fucking did? Killed my sons then fucked them?”<


The carnifex placed the point of the nail on her wrist. The soldier grabbed her face, his fingers pushing into the soft cheeks. “Watch!” he said. “Watch the nail go in!”

*

Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Aelia looked along her arm, bound to the cross. She wanted to close her eyes, but she couldn’t not look. The nail was pushed against her wrist. The carnifex touched the head with his hammer, raised it, and in a blur brought it down. The pain was instantaneous. A flash of white agony burned through her. Her head snapped clear of the soldier’s hand. Her back arched and her stomach pushed against his weight. His hands suddenly were on her breasts pushing her down. She was shrieking, mad, short bursts as her tensed body refused to take in air. She heard the chink of the hammer on the nail again, felt the reverberation along her arm, felt a new burst of pain. She’d banged her head on the beam and she could feel fresh damp where the wounds in her scalp had been reopened. The hammered came down again. She bucked and retched, awful animalistic sounds rasping from her throat and when her eyes opened again, she saw him, the soldier, grinning.

Two more blows and it was done, her left wrist pinned forever to the wood. She looked disbelievingly along the wood to her hand, hooked into a claw, the head of the nail protruding. The pain was like nothing she’d ever felt. She was shaking. She mustn’t cry, yet it seemed as though she had no control. Pain was in charge of her body now. She felt the fingers circling her nipples again, the endless taunting and she felt anger. Anger might get her through. She clenched her teeth. Her breathing was so hard that she was blowing out small gobbets of spittle. She could feel them landing on her face. Should she spit on him? But even as she thought that, she felt the second nail pushed against her right wrist, and all thoughts of bravery or resistance disappeared.
A very hot description of the first two nails...I envy the old soldier that straddles her.......
 
The nails always told you a lot. That she was screaming like that was a good sign, Rustius knew. Some prisoners were so exhausted they just lay there. She still had strength to howl. He’d seen Caiaphas turn away as though sickened as they’d hammered in the first nail, but he was back watching the second, hand held delicately to mouth as though appalled by the brutality of it all, the hypocritical prick.


And she was an alluring sight, the smooth softness of her skin stretched out on the hard roughness of the cross, back arching, thrusting up as though in the throes of ecstasy. It wasn’t compensation for losing his sons, of course, but Marcus would remember this for a long time, that long body, that slender waist, pushing up against him, writhing beneath him as he fiddled with her tits. He’d never execute another one like this, Rustius knew.


Clemens didn’t know why he was putting himself through this, but he felt as though, if she could see him, maybe it wouldn’t be quite so bad. He pushed closer. The crowds had left a rough circle about five yards in radius around the cross, the soldiers with their staves making sure nobody got too close before it was erected. Or nobody apart from the priests, the officers and a couple of administrators. Her howls of pain cut through him. His brave Aelia. His love. The soldier who was sitting on her stood and he saw her, stretched out, golden skin pale against the dark wood, breasts proud on her heaving chest. The soldier squatted over her again, facing her feet this time and sat, heavily. Her grunt of pain, the fading murmur of a half-scream as the pain radiated out from her back, was clear in the still air.


It was still ferociously hot, her body damp with sweat. A carnifex snipped the cord binding her ankles and the one binding her knees. They took her feet, the soles black with blood and dust, and, bending her knees at 45 degrees, placed them flat on the cross. There was some discussion and they shuffled them up a little. Two of them gripped her left leg below the knee as the one with the hammer placed the nail in position. At the last, Clemens turned away. The sound was bad enough. The clink of metal on metal followed by Aelia’s roar.


Her legs were implausibly long. Mommius wasn’t surprised there’d been a disagreement over exactly where to nail her. He couldn’t remember the exact theory but he remembered a carnifex telling him once back in Rome that you wanted the feet high enough that they could push up and take the strain on their legs to spare the arms, but that if they were too high the body would hang too far forward off the cross, negating the effect of any sedile.


“You fucked her?” Ligarius asked. “You actually fucked her?”


“Yes,” he said. He wasn’t sure now he should have mentioned it.


“I remember her mother,” Ligarius said, admiringly. “A beauty, but too dark-skinned for me. But this one… Those legs…”


Mommius waited for her shrieks to subside as they nailed her right foot. “Amazing,” he said. “I tied her to a beam like this and wrapped her legs around me. The skin inside her thighs – like silk. But she’s strong. She’ll last.”


The hammer sounded again. The soldiers seemed to be struggling to hold her as she thrashed in agony, her skin slippery with sweat. Marcus placed his hand on her mons and pushed down.


“I think she was a virgin when we caught her, you know?” Mommius went on.


“A virgin? I thought she was such a whore she fucked corpses?”


The air was rent again by her screams. “She was betrayed for a fuck,” Mommius said. “Then she killed him and the soldiers for a joke lay them together.”


The hammer struck for the final time. Her squeal sounded exhausted.


“You’ve made her suffer this week,” Ligarius said.


“Don’t take on Rome and lose.”
 
The nails always told you a lot. That she was screaming like that was a good sign, Rustius knew. Some prisoners were so exhausted they just lay there. She still had strength to howl. He’d seen Caiaphas turn away as though sickened as they’d hammered in the first nail, but he was back watching the second, hand held delicately to mouth as though appalled by the brutality of it all, the hypocritical prick.


And she was an alluring sight, the smooth softness of her skin stretched out on the hard roughness of the cross, back arching, thrusting up as though in the throes of ecstasy. It wasn’t compensation for losing his sons, of course, but Marcus would remember this for a long time, that long body, that slender waist, pushing up against him, writhing beneath him as he fiddled with her tits. He’d never execute another one like this, Rustius knew.


Clemens didn’t know why he was putting himself through this, but he felt as though, if she could see him, maybe it wouldn’t be quite so bad. He pushed closer. The crowds had left a rough circle about five yards in radius around the cross, the soldiers with their staves making sure nobody got too close before it was erected. Or nobody apart from the priests, the officers and a couple of administrators. Her howls of pain cut through him. His brave Aelia. His love. The soldier who was sitting on her stood and he saw her, stretched out, golden skin pale against the dark wood, breasts proud on her heaving chest. The soldier squatted over her again, facing her feet this time and sat, heavily. Her grunt of pain, the fading murmur of a half-scream as the pain radiated out from her back, was clear in the still air.


It was still ferociously hot, her body damp with sweat. A carnifex snipped the cord binding her ankles and the one binding her knees. They took her feet, the soles black with blood and dust, and, bending her knees at 45 degrees, placed them flat on the cross. There was some discussion and they shuffled them up a little. Two of them gripped her left leg below the knee as the one with the hammer placed the nail in position. At the last, Clemens turned away. The sound was bad enough. The clink of metal on metal followed by Aelia’s roar.


Her legs were implausibly long. Mommius wasn’t surprised there’d been a disagreement over exactly where to nail her. He couldn’t remember the exact theory but he remembered a carnifex telling him once back in Rome that you wanted the feet high enough that they could push up and take the strain on their legs to spare the arms, but that if they were too high the body would hang too far forward off the cross, negating the effect of any sedile.


“You fucked her?” Ligarius asked. “You actually fucked her?”


“Yes,” he said. He wasn’t sure now he should have mentioned it.


“I remember her mother,” Ligarius said, admiringly. “A beauty, but too dark-skinned for me. But this one… Those legs…”


Mommius waited for her shrieks to subside as they nailed her right foot. “Amazing,” he said. “I tied her to a beam like this and wrapped her legs around me. The skin inside her thighs – like silk. But she’s strong. She’ll last.”


The hammer sounded again. The soldiers seemed to be struggling to hold her as she thrashed in agony, her skin slippery with sweat. Marcus placed his hand on her mons and pushed down.


“I think she was a virgin when we caught her, you know?” Mommius went on.


“A virgin? I thought she was such a whore she fucked corpses?”


The air was rent again by her screams. “She was betrayed for a fuck,” Mommius said. “Then she killed him and the soldiers for a joke lay them together.”


The hammer struck for the final time. Her squeal sounded exhausted.


“You’ve made her suffer this week,” Ligarius said.


“Don’t take on Rome and lose.”
A very different, but superbly written, crucifixion scene. The way Ligarius and Mommius casually chat as she suffers; Rustius' thoughts as he holds her down savouring the moment; Clemens, unable to help himself admiring 'breasts proud on her heaving chest.'

You brought it to life as though I were Clemens, watching. Thank you, King Diocletian.
 
Being a Jewish rebel in the Roman Empire was one singularly unrewarding life choice. Thousands embarked on it nonetheless.

King Diocletian, thank you for the story! All the floggings are amazingly written, and the crucifixion scene is powerful.
 
Aelia stared up at the relentlessly grey sky, head resting on the thorns. The pain was astonishing. Worse than anything she could have imagined. The soldier stuck two fingers inside her and jabbed as he got to his feet. He turned and looked down at her. “I hope you last a week,” he said, and spat. She flinched instinctively and suffered new spasms of pain. The spittle landed on her left cheek, just below her eye. Another soldier put a hand on his shoulder and led him away. She would not cry. The pain was so bad she could barely breathe. She would not cry. She knew she needed to relax, but how was that possible?


Hands touched her knees and pulled her legs apart. What was this? What new torment? She felt a wave of despair wash over her. Tears pricked at her eyes. A knot of sorrow balled in her throat. She heard the hammer. Where was the nail? Where was the new pain coming? The stipes shook and the fires in her back burned again. But where was the nail? With great effort she lifted her head. She peered between her breasts and saw them hammering it into the wood between her thighs. “Little seat for you,” said the carnifex and smiled. She told herself she wouldn’t use it. She told herself it would just keep her alive for longer. But she’d told herself she wouldn’t drink and when they held the goatskin to her lips again, she drank, feeling the sweet relief of the cool liquid on a throat ravaged by screaming.


A centurion handed a titulum to a carnifex. He held it for her to see, smirking. “REBEL. MURDERER. THIEF. NECROPHILIAC WHORE,” it said. Of course, there would be no dignity there. There was only about six inches from the top of her head to the end of the cross, but that was enough. Placing the board so the top extended above the edge of the cross, they attached it with two nails, the hammering shaking the frame, causing her yet more anguish.


The four executioners and four soldiers lifted the cross. She felt a strange weightlessness, a sense of panic. She would not cry. They carried it the five or six feet so the bottom end was above the hole. They lowered that end, and she felt her wrists begin to take the strain. She gasped with the pain. This was even worse. How could anything be worse? She was whimpering. She told herself to be brave. She would not cry. The base of the cross banged on the ground as they positioned it. She shrieked, eyes widening in terror. Slowly they raised the patibulum. The pain in her wrists got worse. She slid, suddenly, down the stipes, the rough wood tearing at her back, and then her perineum hit the sedile. Her mouth opened wide but she couldn’t scream. The pain was overwhelming. Up and up the patibulum went. She got higher and higher. The crowds, denied a sight of her for long, cheered as she came into view and she saw them, and Jerusalem and the hills beyond. At last a sickly rasping gurgle came from her throat. Every muscle was taut. Every inch of her was in agony. The cross was almost vertical. She was high in the air, her lovely tortured body naked and exposed and visible for miles around. Don’t cry.
 
"She got higher and higher. The crowds, denied a sight of her for long, cheered as she came into view and she saw them, and Jerusalem and the hills beyond. At last a sickly rasping gurgle came from her throat. Every muscle was taut. Every inch of her was in agony. The cross was almost vertical. She was high in the air, her lovely tortured body naked and exposed and visible for miles around. Don’t cry."

Wow! Breathtaking! It seems as I were there, seeing for the first time everything from above, the crowd and the city at a distance... WOW! :) This scene is awesome!
 
Aelia stared up at the relentlessly grey sky, head resting on the thorns. The pain was astonishing. Worse than anything she could have imagined. The soldier stuck two fingers inside her and jabbed as he got to his feet. He turned and looked down at her. “I hope you last a week,” he said, and spat. She flinched instinctively and suffered new spasms of pain. The spittle landed on her left cheek, just below her eye. Another soldier put a hand on his shoulder and led him away. She would not cry. The pain was so bad she could barely breathe. She would not cry. She knew she needed to relax, but how was that possible?


Hands touched her knees and pulled her legs apart. What was this? What new torment? She felt a wave of despair wash over her. Tears pricked at her eyes. A knot of sorrow balled in her throat. She heard the hammer. Where was the nail? Where was the new pain coming? The stipes shook and the fires in her back burned again. But where was the nail? With great effort she lifted her head. She peered between her breasts and saw them hammering it into the wood between her thighs. “Little seat for you,” said the carnifex and smiled. She told herself she wouldn’t use it. She told herself it would just keep her alive for longer. But she’d told herself she wouldn’t drink and when they held the goatskin to her lips again, she drank, feeling the sweet relief of the cool liquid on a throat ravaged by screaming.


A centurion handed a titulum to a carnifex. He held it for her to see, smirking. “REBEL. MURDERER. THIEF. NECROPHILIAC WHORE,” it said. Of course, there would be no dignity there. There was only about six inches from the top of her head to the end of the cross, but that was enough. Placing the board so the top extended above the edge of the cross, they attached it with two nails, the hammering shaking the frame, causing her yet more anguish.


The four executioners and four soldiers lifted the cross. She felt a strange weightlessness, a sense of panic. She would not cry. They carried it the five or six feet so the bottom end was above the hole. They lowered that end, and she felt her wrists begin to take the strain. She gasped with the pain. This was even worse. How could anything be worse? She was whimpering. She told herself to be brave. She would not cry. The base of the cross banged on the ground as they positioned it. She shrieked, eyes widening in terror. Slowly they raised the patibulum. The pain in her wrists got worse. She slid, suddenly, down the stipes, the rough wood tearing at her back, and then her perineum hit the sedile. Her mouth opened wide but she couldn’t scream. The pain was overwhelming. Up and up the patibulum went. She got higher and higher. The crowds, denied a sight of her for long, cheered as she came into view and she saw them, and Jerusalem and the hills beyond. At last a sickly rasping gurgle came from her throat. Every muscle was taut. Every inch of her was in agony. The cross was almost vertical. She was high in the air, her lovely tortured body naked and exposed and visible for miles around. Don’t cry.
I salute you, executioner King D, to a job very well done!
 
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