Naraku
Draconarius
This is a long one (12,376 words). and, since some people (you know who) don't seem to like when I post stories in one long post; I'm breaking this into three parts. I'll post the second tomorrow night and the finale Monday. It's my first crux story. Hope you like it.
The pain in his shoulders had become too much to bear. Basilius of Corinth forced himself to stand. The grinding of the nails against the bones in his feet and wrists sent fresh waves of pain through his body. But, the pain wasn't really new, in fact it was becoming familiar. How long had it been? The sun had just risen when the line of twenty-three half naked men and women had been marched through the Porta Collina and up the Via Nomentana, each bearing the patibulum on their shoulders. Now, the sun was high, approaching midday. It had been beating down on them for at least three hours through a nearly cloudless sky. How many more hours would it continue?
Basilius looked to his right. On a cross three paces away was Berenice, the daughter of a Jewish wool merchant. She had pulled herself upright. Her lean body glistened with sweat. Her curly, dark hair hung over her small breasts. She turned to look at him. When he had first been placed beside her, she had smiled at him, as if she was pleased that he was joining her and the others on an adventure. Now, she only looked at him with a fatigued blank stare. The same as he looked at her.
Three paces beyond Berenice, he could see Chrysanthe. He knew little about her except that she was a Greek like himself and married to a potter. She was a mature woman, with large breasts and wide hips and her black hair piled on top of her head. She hung by her arms, not trying to stand like Basilius and Berenice. Basilius knew that, with her feet nailed to the side by side against the stipes like his own, her knees were forced apart, exposing her sex. The humiliation of being exposed naked in public was part of the cruelty of crucifixion. It was shameful for him; how much worse was it for a teenage maiden like Berenice or a matron like Chrysanthe?
Further down, he could just make out Anatolios, a young Greek, about the same age as Berenice. He was apprenticed to the glass maker Meliton of Rhodes. He was upright and moving around quite a lot; given how long he had been on the cross. The energy of youth, Besilius thought. Although he was only five or six years older, he was already fatigued.
Basilius could not see beyond Anatolios, due to the distance and the downhill grade of the road. But, he knew who was down there. As they had emerged from the city gate and came to the line of stipes – round post, essentially tree trunks stripped of their branches and bark, set up along the north side of the road, about two paces from the curb – the first in line had been pulled aside and a team of executioners began his crucifixion. His name was Philon, a Jewish convert and leader of their community. As he was being nailed to the cross beam and his screams echoed in their ears, they continued to march to the next post. The next in line was Syntyche, the wife of Meliton, Anatolios' mentor. Another team of executioners took her aside. Three paces later, the next in line was pulled over. He didn't know her name or background, she was from a different group of Christians. She thrashed about quite a lot as they drove the nails through her wrist. Then, Apollonios of Ephesus was pulled out of line. He was an actor and singer and Besilius liked him. He was always quick with a joke and had tried to keep their spirits up while they were in prison. He wasn't making any jokes now. Miriam was the next. She was the daughter of a merchant in Ostia who had left her family rather than renounce her faith in Jesus. She seemed to be at peace as they lay her down in front of the upright. She still screamed like the others when they began the nailing. He didn't know the name of the next man. He was a dark complexioned, perhaps an Egyptian. Eugenius was the next one, the one that would be hanging on the cross to Anatolios' right. Then there was Anatolios, Chrysanthe, and Berenice.
And then, it was his turn. The two men who had nailed Syntyche to her cross, would do the same with him. There were three pairs of executioners. When one pair finished with their victim, they moved down two places to their next job. So, the men that had just nailed Berenice's wrists and were raising her to a standing posture in front of the stipes, were the same team that had crucified Philon. The third member of the execution team was the man who been following each of them from the beginning. The man who had been beating them with a flagellum the whole way. With such a large group, there was no time for a proper scourging. It would have been mid-afternoon before they could get the crucifixions underway. So, they had been beaten across the shoulders and backs as they marched. It wasn't as thorough as the standard scourging, but it still left bloody wounds in their flesh.
Basilius wanted to look away as they lifted Berenice off the ground, one man holding each end of the crossbeam. But, he couldn't. Her flagellator stood on a stool behind the post and helped lift the patibulum onto the tenon at the top. She was screaming and kicking as her feet left the ground and her weight was entirely supported by her nailed wrists. After the beam had been dropped into place, the men began pulling the remains of her chiton off her hips.
Then, he felt his left arm being untied and held in position. He wanted to look away again, but, again he couldn't. He watched them place the nail at the heel of his hand and raise the hammer. What followed was lost in a haze of searing pain. He was a sculptor, he had struck his hand by accident many times over the years. All of the pain from all of those injuries was now being experienced at once and magnified a hundred fold. He wasn't aware of them nailing his right wrist. He wasn't aware of his screaming. He didn't remember being forced to stand. But, he did stand and they did lift him up off the ground and they did drop the patibulum into place. Then came a surprise. He was still standing. Basilius was taller than the average man. The stipes were only about two meters high, only a few fingers taller than Basilius himself. So, he stood on the balls of his feet, gasping for breath, as they pulled his tunic down to his ankles. They lifted his left leg and bent it at the knee, turning it outward so that his foot was flat against the stipes. Then, there was the pain again. He didn't watch them drive the nail through the top of his foot. But, he felt it. He felt the right foot being nailed, too. Then, they left him and moved on.
His calves were beginning to cramp. With the soles of his feet nailed against the side of the stipes, he could not really straighten his legs and his ankles flexed at an extreme angle. The pain of the nails in his feet was become too great and his lower back was spasming. Basilius could not hold himself upright for much longer. But, his shoulders still ached and he knew he had to give them more time to recover. The sound of groaning to his left drew his attention. Stephanos of Palmyra was straining to raise himself. Sweat glistened on his bald pate and dripped from his gray beard. Basilius thought that an old man like him wouldn't last long on the cross. And, he realized, that would make him one of the lucky ones. He remembered watching them lift Stephanos' petibulum up, as the shock of having his own feet nailed had begun to wear off. They had pulled his tunic off and began nailing his feet as the next team was nailing the hands of Menodora, wife of Eusebius, the tavern keeper. Now, she was hanging by her arms, her hair falling forward over her breasts. Manasses, one of the sons of Philon was on the next cross. The young man, about the same age as Basilius, was standing by his nailed feet with his head back, gazing to the heavens. Nine others were hanging on crosses beyond, but, because the road went over the crest of a hill, Basilius couldn't see them. He knew their names of course, but he couldn't recall the order in which they had been marched past him. He could only be sure of the last two: Sapphira, wife of Simeon and her daughter Salome. Now, somewhere up the Via Nomentana, they were nailed to crosses side by side.
What must that be like, he wondered, for a mother and daughter to be watching each other die, on the cross? What must it have been like for Manasses, to walk past the cross where his father was hanging naked? What must it have been like for Philon, to see his son being marched to his death?
Basilius had no family. His mother died giving birth and his father had left him to be raised by an uncle and trained as a sculptor. He had learned well, well enough to have left the provincial confines of Corinth and head for the glamour and wealth of Rome. Glamour and wealth had not come as rapidly as he had wished, but he had gotten enough commissions to pay for his food and lodgings and each successful commission had led to new connections among Rome's wealth citizens. With each commission his reputation had grown. He had even met a man who said he might be able to get him work on Nero's new palace.
He had also met Christians. He already knew about this new sect, based on the religion of the Jews, but gaining new converts among non-Jews, including Greeks like himself. He had heard of them in Corinth, even listened to one of their leaders preach in the agora. He liked much of what he heard. In Rome, he listened to more of them and attended their meetings and finally, just a few months ago, he had been baptized by Philon and become one of them. Now, he realized, they were his family. He was being crucified with his brothers and sisters.
"I don't get it. Why did they start the fire?"
Three men, in the garb of common workers, were walking down the road toward the city.
"Who knows," said the oldest of the three, "They're part of some crazy cult."
"I thought they were Jews." said the youngest, who had asked the original question.
"No, look at this guy," said the older one, pointing at Basilius, "He's got his foreskin."
"It started in Judea," the third man said, "A local holy man or something named Christos...claimed to be a son of the Jewish god and that he was the true king of Judea. The governor had him crucified for spreading sedition. But, his followers said he came back from the dead and they started a new cult worshiping him."
"But, why burn the city?"
"I heard they wanted to burn the city down so this Christos would come back and rule over a new kingdom."
"That's crazy."
Of course it was crazy. And totally false. The Christians had nothing to do with the Fire. Basilius had watched that night, from his home on the Capitoline Hill, as the fire spread through the tightly packed dwellings north of the Circus Maximus, toward the slopes of the Palatine and Caelian. Of course the Christians hadn't started the fire. Many of them had died in the fire and many more had lost their homes. Most of those hanging on these crosses had been burned out by the fire. He had been one of the lucky ones and had taken some of them in. They were in his house when the Praetorians came to arrest them. Basilius wanted to call out to these men, to tell them the truth and remind them that, just after the fire, rumors had spread blaming Nero. Only later was a new rumor spread blaming the Christians. A rumor that may have been started to shift the anger of the mob away from the Emperor. He wanted to tell them. But, his throat was raw from screaming and dry from thirst and it was doubtful they would have believed him in any case.
"Did you hear about the Emperor's party the other night?" said the older man, "My friend, Sixtus the spice merchant told me. He had a bunch of these Christians nailed naked to posts with pitch soaked cloth wrapped around their legs and at nightfall, he had them lit up as torches in his garden. Now, that's how you deal with arsonists."
So, Basilius thought, that was what had happened. Four days ago, some thirty of his companions had been taken from the prison, where they had been held in a large common cell. Among them were Meliton the baker, Philon's wife and oldest son, Berenice's brother and Simeon, the husband of Sapphira and father of Salome. Was that their fate, to serve as amusements for Nero and his perverse entourage?
"I heard there's gonna be a bunch of them executed in the Circus on Friday. Maybe we'll get the same sort of show.", added the younger man.
"Maybe," said the elder as they continued walking, "But, it looks like there'll be some more out here soon."
He was right. For several hours, slaves had been erecting posts along the south side of the Via Nomentana, setup two paces back from the road and three paces apart. There could be no doubt as to their purpose. Like the stipes to which he and the others were affixed, these were roughly dressed wood, about three meters long with two meters above the ground once in position. Each post had a tenon cut into the top on which to secure the patibulum,. It was clear that soon there would be a new group of Christians coming to join their brothers and sisters on the cross.
Who would they be? Basilius didn't want to think about it. He knew who had been left behind in the cell. He didn't want to think about any of them suffering as he did. He didn't want to think about her suffering as he did.
His legs could not support him any longer. He tried to lower himself slowly, tried to minimize the grinding of the nails on bone, the scraping of the rough wood along his lacerated back. Most of all, he wanted to avoid the shock of a sudden drop, the jolt from his nailed wrist, the wrenching of his shoulders. He was successful in the last part at least, as he lowered into a crouching position.
"Ah, now he's a handsome one."
A trio of young women were walking east, away from the city. Each wore a sleeveless linen stola, had their hair pinned up and wore earrings and other jewelry. All were fashionable, though not extravagant. They must have been women of the middle class, well off but not aristocrats. Thus, they strolled unescorted, fanning themselves in the midday heat.
"Yes," continued the tallest one, looking at Basilius, "Quite handsome. Well muscled. And quite well equipped, too."
"Oh, Blandina," said the short, plump one, "You are so bad."
"He does have lovely blue eyes." said the third girl.
Basilius had always been considered handsome. And, his blue eyes – rare among Greeks – had always gotten him attention. As a youth, he had often posed for his master, portraying Adonis or Apollo or Perseus or some other god or demigod. Even now, in his mid twenties, he was still a good looking man and many women had sought his attention. Including some married Roman ladies. And more than a few men as well. And, although he was now ashamed of it, he had taken advantage of this attention, both for pleasure and to advance his career.
"I liked that one back there better." said the plump girl, pointing back toward Anatolios, "But, at least they both have normal cocks, not like those others, or this old fellow." She pointed to Stephanos, on Basilius' left.
"That's because the others are Jews." said Blandina, "The Jews cut away the foreskin of their male babies."
"But," said the third one, "the Christos cult is a Jewish cult, right? Don't they require converts to get their foreskins cut?"
"I guess they'd never get any converts if they did." said Blandina, "Not many men would agree to that."
"Not many women, either," the third one added, "Those 'sleeveless' cocks look so weird..."
"True", said Blandina, "But, they all look the same when they get hard."
"How would you know?" the plump one asked in a mocking tone.
"Never mind, Hilaria."
The three women proceeded, laughing along their way. He saw them stop and laugh in front of Manasses, then head on their way.
Yes, he was considered handsome. And, yes he had used his good looks to his advantage. But, then he met her. Debborah of Emmaus, daughter of Matthias. She was young and beautiful. But, he had seen many women who were young and beautiful. She was more. She was sweet and gentle and pure. And she was a Christian. She had taken him to their meetings and he had listened and began to feel the same sense of peace and joy that she felt. Philon had baptized him and he had asked Debborah to marry him. She had said yes. And then, Rome burned.
They had spent a week in the prison. Most of Philon's congregation along with others. They had prayed and waited, fed on thin gruel and stale bread. An aedile had come the first day and asked if any of them were Roman citizens. Those that were, about a dozen, had been removed. They had to be given a formal trial and could not be put to death by infamous means. In short, they could not be crucified. Then the first group was taken, the ones he now knew had served as torches in Nero's garden. Then, that morning they had selected another twenty-eight.
Along the Via Nomentana
by Naraku
by Naraku
The pain in his shoulders had become too much to bear. Basilius of Corinth forced himself to stand. The grinding of the nails against the bones in his feet and wrists sent fresh waves of pain through his body. But, the pain wasn't really new, in fact it was becoming familiar. How long had it been? The sun had just risen when the line of twenty-three half naked men and women had been marched through the Porta Collina and up the Via Nomentana, each bearing the patibulum on their shoulders. Now, the sun was high, approaching midday. It had been beating down on them for at least three hours through a nearly cloudless sky. How many more hours would it continue?
Basilius looked to his right. On a cross three paces away was Berenice, the daughter of a Jewish wool merchant. She had pulled herself upright. Her lean body glistened with sweat. Her curly, dark hair hung over her small breasts. She turned to look at him. When he had first been placed beside her, she had smiled at him, as if she was pleased that he was joining her and the others on an adventure. Now, she only looked at him with a fatigued blank stare. The same as he looked at her.
Three paces beyond Berenice, he could see Chrysanthe. He knew little about her except that she was a Greek like himself and married to a potter. She was a mature woman, with large breasts and wide hips and her black hair piled on top of her head. She hung by her arms, not trying to stand like Basilius and Berenice. Basilius knew that, with her feet nailed to the side by side against the stipes like his own, her knees were forced apart, exposing her sex. The humiliation of being exposed naked in public was part of the cruelty of crucifixion. It was shameful for him; how much worse was it for a teenage maiden like Berenice or a matron like Chrysanthe?
Further down, he could just make out Anatolios, a young Greek, about the same age as Berenice. He was apprenticed to the glass maker Meliton of Rhodes. He was upright and moving around quite a lot; given how long he had been on the cross. The energy of youth, Besilius thought. Although he was only five or six years older, he was already fatigued.
Basilius could not see beyond Anatolios, due to the distance and the downhill grade of the road. But, he knew who was down there. As they had emerged from the city gate and came to the line of stipes – round post, essentially tree trunks stripped of their branches and bark, set up along the north side of the road, about two paces from the curb – the first in line had been pulled aside and a team of executioners began his crucifixion. His name was Philon, a Jewish convert and leader of their community. As he was being nailed to the cross beam and his screams echoed in their ears, they continued to march to the next post. The next in line was Syntyche, the wife of Meliton, Anatolios' mentor. Another team of executioners took her aside. Three paces later, the next in line was pulled over. He didn't know her name or background, she was from a different group of Christians. She thrashed about quite a lot as they drove the nails through her wrist. Then, Apollonios of Ephesus was pulled out of line. He was an actor and singer and Besilius liked him. He was always quick with a joke and had tried to keep their spirits up while they were in prison. He wasn't making any jokes now. Miriam was the next. She was the daughter of a merchant in Ostia who had left her family rather than renounce her faith in Jesus. She seemed to be at peace as they lay her down in front of the upright. She still screamed like the others when they began the nailing. He didn't know the name of the next man. He was a dark complexioned, perhaps an Egyptian. Eugenius was the next one, the one that would be hanging on the cross to Anatolios' right. Then there was Anatolios, Chrysanthe, and Berenice.
And then, it was his turn. The two men who had nailed Syntyche to her cross, would do the same with him. There were three pairs of executioners. When one pair finished with their victim, they moved down two places to their next job. So, the men that had just nailed Berenice's wrists and were raising her to a standing posture in front of the stipes, were the same team that had crucified Philon. The third member of the execution team was the man who been following each of them from the beginning. The man who had been beating them with a flagellum the whole way. With such a large group, there was no time for a proper scourging. It would have been mid-afternoon before they could get the crucifixions underway. So, they had been beaten across the shoulders and backs as they marched. It wasn't as thorough as the standard scourging, but it still left bloody wounds in their flesh.
Basilius wanted to look away as they lifted Berenice off the ground, one man holding each end of the crossbeam. But, he couldn't. Her flagellator stood on a stool behind the post and helped lift the patibulum onto the tenon at the top. She was screaming and kicking as her feet left the ground and her weight was entirely supported by her nailed wrists. After the beam had been dropped into place, the men began pulling the remains of her chiton off her hips.
Then, he felt his left arm being untied and held in position. He wanted to look away again, but, again he couldn't. He watched them place the nail at the heel of his hand and raise the hammer. What followed was lost in a haze of searing pain. He was a sculptor, he had struck his hand by accident many times over the years. All of the pain from all of those injuries was now being experienced at once and magnified a hundred fold. He wasn't aware of them nailing his right wrist. He wasn't aware of his screaming. He didn't remember being forced to stand. But, he did stand and they did lift him up off the ground and they did drop the patibulum into place. Then came a surprise. He was still standing. Basilius was taller than the average man. The stipes were only about two meters high, only a few fingers taller than Basilius himself. So, he stood on the balls of his feet, gasping for breath, as they pulled his tunic down to his ankles. They lifted his left leg and bent it at the knee, turning it outward so that his foot was flat against the stipes. Then, there was the pain again. He didn't watch them drive the nail through the top of his foot. But, he felt it. He felt the right foot being nailed, too. Then, they left him and moved on.
His calves were beginning to cramp. With the soles of his feet nailed against the side of the stipes, he could not really straighten his legs and his ankles flexed at an extreme angle. The pain of the nails in his feet was become too great and his lower back was spasming. Basilius could not hold himself upright for much longer. But, his shoulders still ached and he knew he had to give them more time to recover. The sound of groaning to his left drew his attention. Stephanos of Palmyra was straining to raise himself. Sweat glistened on his bald pate and dripped from his gray beard. Basilius thought that an old man like him wouldn't last long on the cross. And, he realized, that would make him one of the lucky ones. He remembered watching them lift Stephanos' petibulum up, as the shock of having his own feet nailed had begun to wear off. They had pulled his tunic off and began nailing his feet as the next team was nailing the hands of Menodora, wife of Eusebius, the tavern keeper. Now, she was hanging by her arms, her hair falling forward over her breasts. Manasses, one of the sons of Philon was on the next cross. The young man, about the same age as Basilius, was standing by his nailed feet with his head back, gazing to the heavens. Nine others were hanging on crosses beyond, but, because the road went over the crest of a hill, Basilius couldn't see them. He knew their names of course, but he couldn't recall the order in which they had been marched past him. He could only be sure of the last two: Sapphira, wife of Simeon and her daughter Salome. Now, somewhere up the Via Nomentana, they were nailed to crosses side by side.
What must that be like, he wondered, for a mother and daughter to be watching each other die, on the cross? What must it have been like for Manasses, to walk past the cross where his father was hanging naked? What must it have been like for Philon, to see his son being marched to his death?
Basilius had no family. His mother died giving birth and his father had left him to be raised by an uncle and trained as a sculptor. He had learned well, well enough to have left the provincial confines of Corinth and head for the glamour and wealth of Rome. Glamour and wealth had not come as rapidly as he had wished, but he had gotten enough commissions to pay for his food and lodgings and each successful commission had led to new connections among Rome's wealth citizens. With each commission his reputation had grown. He had even met a man who said he might be able to get him work on Nero's new palace.
He had also met Christians. He already knew about this new sect, based on the religion of the Jews, but gaining new converts among non-Jews, including Greeks like himself. He had heard of them in Corinth, even listened to one of their leaders preach in the agora. He liked much of what he heard. In Rome, he listened to more of them and attended their meetings and finally, just a few months ago, he had been baptized by Philon and become one of them. Now, he realized, they were his family. He was being crucified with his brothers and sisters.
"I don't get it. Why did they start the fire?"
Three men, in the garb of common workers, were walking down the road toward the city.
"Who knows," said the oldest of the three, "They're part of some crazy cult."
"I thought they were Jews." said the youngest, who had asked the original question.
"No, look at this guy," said the older one, pointing at Basilius, "He's got his foreskin."
"It started in Judea," the third man said, "A local holy man or something named Christos...claimed to be a son of the Jewish god and that he was the true king of Judea. The governor had him crucified for spreading sedition. But, his followers said he came back from the dead and they started a new cult worshiping him."
"But, why burn the city?"
"I heard they wanted to burn the city down so this Christos would come back and rule over a new kingdom."
"That's crazy."
Of course it was crazy. And totally false. The Christians had nothing to do with the Fire. Basilius had watched that night, from his home on the Capitoline Hill, as the fire spread through the tightly packed dwellings north of the Circus Maximus, toward the slopes of the Palatine and Caelian. Of course the Christians hadn't started the fire. Many of them had died in the fire and many more had lost their homes. Most of those hanging on these crosses had been burned out by the fire. He had been one of the lucky ones and had taken some of them in. They were in his house when the Praetorians came to arrest them. Basilius wanted to call out to these men, to tell them the truth and remind them that, just after the fire, rumors had spread blaming Nero. Only later was a new rumor spread blaming the Christians. A rumor that may have been started to shift the anger of the mob away from the Emperor. He wanted to tell them. But, his throat was raw from screaming and dry from thirst and it was doubtful they would have believed him in any case.
"Did you hear about the Emperor's party the other night?" said the older man, "My friend, Sixtus the spice merchant told me. He had a bunch of these Christians nailed naked to posts with pitch soaked cloth wrapped around their legs and at nightfall, he had them lit up as torches in his garden. Now, that's how you deal with arsonists."
So, Basilius thought, that was what had happened. Four days ago, some thirty of his companions had been taken from the prison, where they had been held in a large common cell. Among them were Meliton the baker, Philon's wife and oldest son, Berenice's brother and Simeon, the husband of Sapphira and father of Salome. Was that their fate, to serve as amusements for Nero and his perverse entourage?
"I heard there's gonna be a bunch of them executed in the Circus on Friday. Maybe we'll get the same sort of show.", added the younger man.
"Maybe," said the elder as they continued walking, "But, it looks like there'll be some more out here soon."
He was right. For several hours, slaves had been erecting posts along the south side of the Via Nomentana, setup two paces back from the road and three paces apart. There could be no doubt as to their purpose. Like the stipes to which he and the others were affixed, these were roughly dressed wood, about three meters long with two meters above the ground once in position. Each post had a tenon cut into the top on which to secure the patibulum,. It was clear that soon there would be a new group of Christians coming to join their brothers and sisters on the cross.
Who would they be? Basilius didn't want to think about it. He knew who had been left behind in the cell. He didn't want to think about any of them suffering as he did. He didn't want to think about her suffering as he did.
His legs could not support him any longer. He tried to lower himself slowly, tried to minimize the grinding of the nails on bone, the scraping of the rough wood along his lacerated back. Most of all, he wanted to avoid the shock of a sudden drop, the jolt from his nailed wrist, the wrenching of his shoulders. He was successful in the last part at least, as he lowered into a crouching position.
"Ah, now he's a handsome one."
A trio of young women were walking east, away from the city. Each wore a sleeveless linen stola, had their hair pinned up and wore earrings and other jewelry. All were fashionable, though not extravagant. They must have been women of the middle class, well off but not aristocrats. Thus, they strolled unescorted, fanning themselves in the midday heat.
"Yes," continued the tallest one, looking at Basilius, "Quite handsome. Well muscled. And quite well equipped, too."
"Oh, Blandina," said the short, plump one, "You are so bad."
"He does have lovely blue eyes." said the third girl.
Basilius had always been considered handsome. And, his blue eyes – rare among Greeks – had always gotten him attention. As a youth, he had often posed for his master, portraying Adonis or Apollo or Perseus or some other god or demigod. Even now, in his mid twenties, he was still a good looking man and many women had sought his attention. Including some married Roman ladies. And more than a few men as well. And, although he was now ashamed of it, he had taken advantage of this attention, both for pleasure and to advance his career.
"I liked that one back there better." said the plump girl, pointing back toward Anatolios, "But, at least they both have normal cocks, not like those others, or this old fellow." She pointed to Stephanos, on Basilius' left.
"That's because the others are Jews." said Blandina, "The Jews cut away the foreskin of their male babies."
"But," said the third one, "the Christos cult is a Jewish cult, right? Don't they require converts to get their foreskins cut?"
"I guess they'd never get any converts if they did." said Blandina, "Not many men would agree to that."
"Not many women, either," the third one added, "Those 'sleeveless' cocks look so weird..."
"True", said Blandina, "But, they all look the same when they get hard."
"How would you know?" the plump one asked in a mocking tone.
"Never mind, Hilaria."
The three women proceeded, laughing along their way. He saw them stop and laugh in front of Manasses, then head on their way.
Yes, he was considered handsome. And, yes he had used his good looks to his advantage. But, then he met her. Debborah of Emmaus, daughter of Matthias. She was young and beautiful. But, he had seen many women who were young and beautiful. She was more. She was sweet and gentle and pure. And she was a Christian. She had taken him to their meetings and he had listened and began to feel the same sense of peace and joy that she felt. Philon had baptized him and he had asked Debborah to marry him. She had said yes. And then, Rome burned.
They had spent a week in the prison. Most of Philon's congregation along with others. They had prayed and waited, fed on thin gruel and stale bread. An aedile had come the first day and asked if any of them were Roman citizens. Those that were, about a dozen, had been removed. They had to be given a formal trial and could not be put to death by infamous means. In short, they could not be crucified. Then the first group was taken, the ones he now knew had served as torches in Nero's garden. Then, that morning they had selected another twenty-eight.
