malins
Stumbling Seeker
that association just came up with me as the perspective of the story retreats for that moment to the whole of it, where Delia's suffering is one of many, and even the Emperor is just a random fate.
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Carfulena Delia
- Thread starter Marcius
- Start date
Nicely done, Marcius.
The actual crucifixion is well conducted, well described. The elements we like are present, and more. The girl, shapely and helpless, is crucified with businesslike competence. Her suffering is intense and confronting.
All good.
Then her fate is placed in context, just one small brutality in a world of pain and inevitable death.
Nothing to see here, move along.
The actual crucifixion is well conducted, well described. The elements we like are present, and more. The girl, shapely and helpless, is crucified with businesslike competence. Her suffering is intense and confronting.
All good.
Then her fate is placed in context, just one small brutality in a world of pain and inevitable death.
Nothing to see here, move along.
That too depends on perspective. When you are well fed, you can afford an abstract view of the wider world. When you are starving, there is only the famine struck village. For Dela, the whole world is the cross. Nothing else matters.
It is a "Phlebas".
Marcius
Tribune
Yes, #4 is the closest thing to what I imagine. Delia's colouring is a bit darker and she's been well whipped, but it'll do.
I'll make some editorial changes and create a Word doc of the amended version once the story is finished.
Last edited:
Good service!
M
montycrusto
Guest
Especially since the Old English word "cniht" originally meant "servant" - and the word went through a complete transformation of meaning in the Middle Ages.
yes, or just a young boy
Marcius
Tribune
Crispus wiped sweat off his forehead and strode towards the soldiers who looked tired but satisfied, their job well done.
‘Keep her well watered, men, for I want the slut to linger.’
‘Castus!’ Silo called out. ‘Yours is the first watch, go get her some water. And don’t get drunk with them,’ he nodded at the two public slaves hovering around, evidently tasked with watching over the crucified men.
Crispus had a good look at the crucified girl. Delia hung limply, her rib-cage stretched, its arch standing out in stark definition, her stomach drawn in. Her breathing was short, quickened, and shallow. Veins pulsed in her neck. Delia’s eyes wide open, she stared back at the spectators ogling her body, her large dark eyes full of suffering and hate.
Castus returned with a bucket of water and a sponge-stick. He wetted the sponge well, then brought it to Delia’s lips. Her throat was parched and sore from screaming, and she desperately sucked at the sponge. She could not get enough of the warm, foul-tasting liquid.
‘More,’ she moaned when Castus took the almost-dried sponge away.
‘Later, girl,’ Castus hauled the bucket away.
Delia closed her eyes. She was crucified facing south, and her body was bared to the hot sun of Baetica. She felt its heat everywhere on her skin, mixed with the horrible, slow-burning pain of tension spreading along her arms, back, sides, and thighs. The nails in her wrists were spreading the small bones there apart under her weight and served as yet another source of gnawing agony. Her breathing was laboured, for her position made it difficult to her to exhale properly.
Delia knew that she had to raise herself.
She strained her legs, pushing down on the spikes in her feet, and pulled at the spikes in her wrists. Terrible pain spearing through her extremities, fresh blood flowed from her wounds, but she kept going up, her lips drawn back in a rictus, her clenched teeth shining between them.
The blunted tip of the cornu grazed her tender skin between her legs when Delia moved her body towards the stipes. She was sliding up the rough wood, her weals re-opening and bleeding, but she did not care, or even notice, until her trembling legs were as straight as she could have made them.
Her head almost obscuring the titulus, her eyes closed, she breathed and breathed and breathed until the muscles in her thighs felt as if they were about to burst and she sank down to hang from the cross again.
Crispus looked at the streaks of glossy blood running down her feet, then spun on his heels and walked to Rectus’ litter.
‘Shall we go, quaestor?’
‘Keep her well watered, men, for I want the slut to linger.’
‘Castus!’ Silo called out. ‘Yours is the first watch, go get her some water. And don’t get drunk with them,’ he nodded at the two public slaves hovering around, evidently tasked with watching over the crucified men.
Crispus had a good look at the crucified girl. Delia hung limply, her rib-cage stretched, its arch standing out in stark definition, her stomach drawn in. Her breathing was short, quickened, and shallow. Veins pulsed in her neck. Delia’s eyes wide open, she stared back at the spectators ogling her body, her large dark eyes full of suffering and hate.
Castus returned with a bucket of water and a sponge-stick. He wetted the sponge well, then brought it to Delia’s lips. Her throat was parched and sore from screaming, and she desperately sucked at the sponge. She could not get enough of the warm, foul-tasting liquid.
‘More,’ she moaned when Castus took the almost-dried sponge away.
‘Later, girl,’ Castus hauled the bucket away.
Delia closed her eyes. She was crucified facing south, and her body was bared to the hot sun of Baetica. She felt its heat everywhere on her skin, mixed with the horrible, slow-burning pain of tension spreading along her arms, back, sides, and thighs. The nails in her wrists were spreading the small bones there apart under her weight and served as yet another source of gnawing agony. Her breathing was laboured, for her position made it difficult to her to exhale properly.
Delia knew that she had to raise herself.
She strained her legs, pushing down on the spikes in her feet, and pulled at the spikes in her wrists. Terrible pain spearing through her extremities, fresh blood flowed from her wounds, but she kept going up, her lips drawn back in a rictus, her clenched teeth shining between them.
The blunted tip of the cornu grazed her tender skin between her legs when Delia moved her body towards the stipes. She was sliding up the rough wood, her weals re-opening and bleeding, but she did not care, or even notice, until her trembling legs were as straight as she could have made them.
Her head almost obscuring the titulus, her eyes closed, she breathed and breathed and breathed until the muscles in her thighs felt as if they were about to burst and she sank down to hang from the cross again.
Crispus looked at the streaks of glossy blood running down her feet, then spun on his heels and walked to Rectus’ litter.
‘Shall we go, quaestor?’
"Knight" was common when I was studying ancient history years ago, but to retain the Roman feel you could use the term "equestrian". Basically the meaning behind it is horseman, the cavalry of the old Republic. So in Roman times the meaning changed to something more like middle class, between the plebs and the aristocracy. You could be an equestrian and be much wealthier than a senator, of course, as in modern times noble birth is no guarantee of great wealth!
Yes it's one of mine, I was very happy with the overall effect.
Based on one of Makar's girls with some small changes.
M
montycrusto
Guest
This is so vividly written Marcius! Amazing writing! I almost feel I'm crucified too - certainly I'm hanging on every word
Marcius
Tribune
Or much more powerful than a run-of-the-mill senator -- Guard Prefects certainly were.
The thing is, the OED permits 'equestrian' in the Roman setting to be adjective only. Granted, the OED entry is from 1891 and a lot has changed since then, but I think I'll stick to using the word in collocations like 'equestrian order'. Crispus is about to make prefect anyway, and it rolls off the tongue (keyboard?) much better.
Marcius
Tribune
‘Bradua remains in Caesar’s favour, even if his governorship of Britain under the Divine Trajan showed that he’s not a general...’
‘He likes all things Greek, too, so he sleeps with Balbilla, sister of the late King Philopappus...’
‘When in Italy, seek out young Ceionius Commodus from your native Bononia, he’s to be mint-magistrate next year...’
Crispus nodded, looking absent-mindedly at the city wall. On the way back to the city Rectus was chattering incessantly about this or that Roman senator, but the advice regarding the young senator-to-be was very useful. The Ceionii were the richest family in Bononia, but Crispus had had no opportunity to get acquainted with the young heir, a step-son and a ward of the late Avidius Nigrinus. Crispus had dealt with the guardian only.
It would do Crispus much good to become useful to a Ceionius. But first things first.
‘Quaestor, about this letter to the governor of Germania Inferior...’
‘Consider it sent, brother!’
Prefect Crispus. Prefect of an ala, and then, perhaps, a great prefecture some day? The Corn Supply, the Night Watch, Egypt? Maybe even the Praetorian Guard?
Crispus reclined with a satisfied look on his face.
Back at the execution ground, the watchers were engaged in conversation under the sun-awning hung on the two dead trees.
‘So, this runaway from the mines, she’s, like, from Rome. A senator’s daughter, or of someone like that. Important, you know? He begat her on a slave, of course,’ Castus said, pouring himself more white wine from the jug and watering it, then taking a gulp. ‘Auh, it’s plonk, but better than nothing.’
‘True,’ Germanus, one of the public slaves, grabbed the jug. ‘A whore from Rome here up on the cross, it doesn’t happen every day. Right, Malchus?’
Malchus just nodded, looking at where the three crucified were groaning faintly.
‘And yours, what did they do?’ Castus pointed to the crosses.
‘Fucking thieves,’ Germanus spat. ‘Look, soldier, it’s high time to water your “Roma” and our two fuckers.’
‘Is she’s riding the cornu yet? I want to see that,’ Malchus leered.
Castus drank some more and stood up. He and the two slaves agreed to take turns in watering their three charges. Germanus had taken his, they had sent Malchus to fetch some wine instead, and now it was for him to walk under the blazing sun carrying the heavy pitcher and the sponge-stick.
He did water the two groaning thieves who had been crucified yesterday, their red skin by now covered with nasty blisters, and then walked up to Delia.
‘Aquam... date aquam,’ the girl croaked when she saw the figure of a soldier in front of her. Delia had just sagged to hang from her wrists again, her eyes closed in exhaustion, the sun burning through her eyelids, boring down on her sweaty, bare skin that by then was itching horribly, her many weals red and swollen.
The ox-cart laden with empty amphorae rattled down the road. The driver was looking at the girl, his mouth open. He was the only one there, besides Castus and the crucified slaves. The spectators had left, having enjoyed to the full the sight of a suffering naked young woman.
Castus looked around. The huge bulk of the amphitheatre. The cemetery. Thick black smoke rising from the unseen ustrina – in such a weather, the corpses had to be burnt quickly.
The half-naked bustuaria with her stomach on the cippus, her customer, one of the men who watched the crucifixion of Delia taking her from behind, roughly.
Fuck.
Castus let Delia drink. The girl eagerly sucked on the sponge until the soldier withdrew it and left.
The cruelty of the cross was incessant, making Delia exchange the stretch in her arms and chest and the lack of breath for the moments of horrible strain in her legs and the risk of crashing on to the cornu. But the pain of her stretch and strain grew worse with each movement of the dance of the crucified. Soon she would have to take the cornu inside her.
Sucking on the sponge had interfered with the hard work that was her breathing. When she rose again and eased her hips back towards the post, she felt her quivering legs giving way under her, her body swaying to one side, almost tearing the opposite arm out of its socket, terrible pain spearing from her wrist into her armpit and her chest. Crying aloud in anguish, Delia pulled herself upright, the point of the cornu scratching her buttock. Now it was somewhere under her. But there was no strength in her legs to raise her further.
Moaning in pain and shame, the girl looked down, then centred her nether lips on the cornu and slowly let it slide inside her. Delia felt the rough, splintery wood painfully stretching the abused walls of her cunnus. All of the nerves in her womanly parts screamed in protest at this unnatural intrusion.
She could not do it to herself. She pushed down on the spikes in her legs, but the cramped, knotted muscles did not obey her. The cornu was going deeper and deeper. Delia wailed hoarsely when it hit her womb and pushed at it, fresh pain enveloping her pelvis. When it seemed to her that the cornu was about to tear her apart, she felt its base under her.
Now she could breathe.
‘He likes all things Greek, too, so he sleeps with Balbilla, sister of the late King Philopappus...’
‘When in Italy, seek out young Ceionius Commodus from your native Bononia, he’s to be mint-magistrate next year...’
Crispus nodded, looking absent-mindedly at the city wall. On the way back to the city Rectus was chattering incessantly about this or that Roman senator, but the advice regarding the young senator-to-be was very useful. The Ceionii were the richest family in Bononia, but Crispus had had no opportunity to get acquainted with the young heir, a step-son and a ward of the late Avidius Nigrinus. Crispus had dealt with the guardian only.
It would do Crispus much good to become useful to a Ceionius. But first things first.
‘Quaestor, about this letter to the governor of Germania Inferior...’
‘Consider it sent, brother!’
Prefect Crispus. Prefect of an ala, and then, perhaps, a great prefecture some day? The Corn Supply, the Night Watch, Egypt? Maybe even the Praetorian Guard?
Crispus reclined with a satisfied look on his face.
Back at the execution ground, the watchers were engaged in conversation under the sun-awning hung on the two dead trees.
‘So, this runaway from the mines, she’s, like, from Rome. A senator’s daughter, or of someone like that. Important, you know? He begat her on a slave, of course,’ Castus said, pouring himself more white wine from the jug and watering it, then taking a gulp. ‘Auh, it’s plonk, but better than nothing.’
‘True,’ Germanus, one of the public slaves, grabbed the jug. ‘A whore from Rome here up on the cross, it doesn’t happen every day. Right, Malchus?’
Malchus just nodded, looking at where the three crucified were groaning faintly.
‘And yours, what did they do?’ Castus pointed to the crosses.
‘Fucking thieves,’ Germanus spat. ‘Look, soldier, it’s high time to water your “Roma” and our two fuckers.’
‘Is she’s riding the cornu yet? I want to see that,’ Malchus leered.
Castus drank some more and stood up. He and the two slaves agreed to take turns in watering their three charges. Germanus had taken his, they had sent Malchus to fetch some wine instead, and now it was for him to walk under the blazing sun carrying the heavy pitcher and the sponge-stick.
He did water the two groaning thieves who had been crucified yesterday, their red skin by now covered with nasty blisters, and then walked up to Delia.
‘Aquam... date aquam,’ the girl croaked when she saw the figure of a soldier in front of her. Delia had just sagged to hang from her wrists again, her eyes closed in exhaustion, the sun burning through her eyelids, boring down on her sweaty, bare skin that by then was itching horribly, her many weals red and swollen.
The ox-cart laden with empty amphorae rattled down the road. The driver was looking at the girl, his mouth open. He was the only one there, besides Castus and the crucified slaves. The spectators had left, having enjoyed to the full the sight of a suffering naked young woman.
Castus looked around. The huge bulk of the amphitheatre. The cemetery. Thick black smoke rising from the unseen ustrina – in such a weather, the corpses had to be burnt quickly.
The half-naked bustuaria with her stomach on the cippus, her customer, one of the men who watched the crucifixion of Delia taking her from behind, roughly.
Fuck.
Castus let Delia drink. The girl eagerly sucked on the sponge until the soldier withdrew it and left.
The cruelty of the cross was incessant, making Delia exchange the stretch in her arms and chest and the lack of breath for the moments of horrible strain in her legs and the risk of crashing on to the cornu. But the pain of her stretch and strain grew worse with each movement of the dance of the crucified. Soon she would have to take the cornu inside her.
Sucking on the sponge had interfered with the hard work that was her breathing. When she rose again and eased her hips back towards the post, she felt her quivering legs giving way under her, her body swaying to one side, almost tearing the opposite arm out of its socket, terrible pain spearing from her wrist into her armpit and her chest. Crying aloud in anguish, Delia pulled herself upright, the point of the cornu scratching her buttock. Now it was somewhere under her. But there was no strength in her legs to raise her further.
Moaning in pain and shame, the girl looked down, then centred her nether lips on the cornu and slowly let it slide inside her. Delia felt the rough, splintery wood painfully stretching the abused walls of her cunnus. All of the nerves in her womanly parts screamed in protest at this unnatural intrusion.
She could not do it to herself. She pushed down on the spikes in her legs, but the cramped, knotted muscles did not obey her. The cornu was going deeper and deeper. Delia wailed hoarsely when it hit her womb and pushed at it, fresh pain enveloping her pelvis. When it seemed to her that the cornu was about to tear her apart, she felt its base under her.
Now she could breathe.