11: The Way of the Cross
The grotesque donkey-ride took me back through the fort to the prison under the Praesidium. Though the Procurator had ordered the decision of the crowd to be implemented "immediately", it was now near midnight, I was completely exhausted, even the Centurion and his men needed some sleep – though the soldiers still had the energy to rape me again, in my mouth and back-passage as well as my sex, before dropping me into the Condemned Pit. I slept fitfully, in pain from the Scourging. The nailing of a crucifixa that I'd been made to watch as a twelve-year-old was a scene seared in my memory, and now it kept flashing into my dreams, time after time I awoke shrieking, "No! No!" But, unlike any other nightmare, this one was real, I was bathed in sweat knowing the hours were gliding away before I would be suffering the same.
I was roused with a rattling on the grid above my head, as it was lifted I struggled to my knees, ready to be hauled up. They took me out to the courtyard, it was dark and chilly before dawn. I was still wearing the loincloth, the shit-stained, blood-soaked relic of the slave-tunic I had on when they arrested me so many nights ago in the Garden of Olives. They draped the crimson blanket over my shoulders, then ordered me to kneel and replaced the thorny coronet. Now my heart pounded as I saw them bring the new, dreadful burden – the patibulum on which I shall hang, a plank of pinewood a cubit longer than my armspan, a couple of handspans wide and as thick as my wrist. They laid it across my shoulders and, unshackling my wrists, bound it with straps to my outstretched arms. "Up!" ordered the Centurion, I got to my feet helped by the men lifting the plank. When they let go, I wavered unsteadily, staggering a few steps on my still-manacled feet before I managed to find my balance and stay upright, ready to walk the Way of the Cross.
A soldier stood behind me. He screwed a wooden baton into a hole in the centre of the bar; with this, he'll be able to control me, forcing my head up to face the crowd and the road to Golgotha, or bending me forward for beating. In his right hand, he was equipped with a pointed goad. His companion carried a whip. A distant cock crowed, birds were just starting to greet the day, as we set off from the Headquarters, out through the east gate of the fort, and on to the stony road through the poorest quarter of Jerusalem that leads out to the stinking valley of Gehenna and the Hill of Golgotha.
There were many people about already in this noisy, smelly part of the city. The sight of a crucifixa on her way to Golgotha was nothing new, but my bruised and still–bleeding body, displayed with my arms spread wide attracted plenty of attention from men and boys, and some whores on the way home from their night's work had a raucous laugh at my expense. The street was so narrow, those on either side had to duck or stand back to the wall to avoid the Crossbar, though I tried to keep it clear of them – I knew if I hit anyone, even by accident, I'd suffer for it. And they were close enough to grab at me, groping my tits and fanny, rubbing greasy hands over my bare skin with relish. My guards did nothing to prevent this, only goading and whip-flicking me whenever I paused or staggered off-line under this attention. A pair of soldiers marched ahead, clearing the way, accompanied by a band of street urchins yelling, clapping and blowing improvised palm-leaf horns, announcing the coming of the Princess of Judaea. Aemilianus, on his grey stallion, rode behind.
At last we passed through the Fish Gate, out of the lower city. The sun was just rising over theMount of Olives, and closer – though still a long walk away – I could see the Hill of Calvary, the Crosses of Golgotha silhouetted on its table-like top. I felt a sudden sickness, my shoulders, aching from their burden, shook. I tumbled forward on my knees. At once the soldiers began kicking and thrashing me, "Get up turd! Lazy cow, up on your feet or we'll make you crawl the rest of the way!" I made one attempt to rise but fell sideways. My driver poked the goad right into my arse, I roared in pain. Desperately I made a second attempt and, somehow, I got onto both feet and, after staggering drunkenly for some moments, managed to start walking forwards again. The rabble that were now accompanying our procession spat and cheered mockingly.
On down the rough track into the valley of Gehenna, where smoke from the ever-smouldering heaps lingered as an acrid mist in the early morning air. I was already panting, this foul miasma sucked into my lungs made me choke and retch. It filled the soldiers' throats too – they cleared them by hawking up spittle and spraying it over me. At the lowest part of the valley, where we waded through a shallow stream of foul water, I stumbled again. A soldier pushed my face down into the filthy mud, then stamped on my head, holding me there. "You want a drink, cunt? You can lap up the pigs' piss!" At last he released me, I lifted my head choking, gasping for breath. This time I couldn't get to my feet. Men were gathered around me, masturbating shamelessly, drenching me with their semen. After I'd made two or three vain efforts under a hail of whip-lashing, Aemilianus ordered me to lick their spilt cum from the mud, then he signalled to the guards to help me up by lifting the Crossbar. Jerked upright, I plodded on, deep in the valley of humiliation.
The path began to rise, we were at the foot of Calvary now. The sun was growing hot, sweat was pouring down my face and body. The pain in my shoulders was continuous, and my whole body, still aching from its ordeal at the Whipping Post and in the Torture Chamber, protested at every step. My eyes were fixed on the dark Crosses on the hilltop ahead, but they began to swim, fade in and out of vision, a grey wave seemed to sweep towards me, I fell forward yet again.
The next thing I was aware of was a woman gently wiping my forehead with a damp towel. Aemilianus, dismounted, was standing beside me, I heard him saying "We don't want her dying before she's even on the Cross!" I faded out of consciousness again. When I next became aware, the woman with the towel had gone – who she was I shall never know, but I'm grateful to her for that moment of kindness – the Decurion had arrived with a villainous looking old merchant and a pair of handsome African girls, twins I guessed, their tall bronze bodies quite naked except for gleaming copper necklets, bracelets and anklets. Aemilianus haggled with him briefly, soon they'd agreed a price to hire them. The bewildered couple were made to kneel either side of me, take the Crossbar on the shoulders, and lift it and me up. From here, I was assisted, almost carried, by these two dark beauties with their jangling ornaments, striding long-legged up the rugged path to The Place of Execution.
As we approached the summit, the path grew ever steeper, and wound around so the Crosses were hidden from view, then we turned a sharp bend and there, right in front of us, was the first of them. It carried a living body, a soft, shapely European girl, perhaps a German. Her head rolled slightly as we passed her, a pair of sad blue eyes opened and watched us pass, then sank to her chest under a curtain of honey-coloured hair. On we went, past several more Crosses, some with half-eaten, decomposing bodies, some with still living victims, male and female, young and old. The warm air, wafting the scents of rotting flesh, hummed with flies. Crows cawed, vultures rustled their wings, bones littered the path we were treading, crunching under my bare feet. I felt a deep sense of unspeakable horror, my very bowels shuddering, I felt them discharging down my thighs, but there wasn't much shit, I had hardly eaten yesterday morning, and nothing since.
And ugly old man had joined our group and was apparently indicating to Aemilianus where I was to be executed. We rounded a rocky crag at the highest part of the hilltop and I was confronted by a still more shocking sight, a girl – no, half a girl, her legs had gone, carried off no doubt by jackals, her torso dangling from nailed wrists, her face pecked clean, eye-sockets empty, teeth grinning, long hair burnt to bronze wire by the sun. She'd been slim, younger than me, hardly more than a kid. The ghastly knowledge that I shall soon look like her overwhelmed me, I let out a despairing cry, "O God, please let me die! Let me die now!" The soldiers and the crowd following us jeered triumphantly at this evidence of my despair. "Does the princess expect special treatment?" sneered Aemilianus, "It seems Father isn't listening to his daughter, is he?"
We stopped, my helpers and I were ordered to kneel. As the patibulum was unstrapped from my shoulders, I looked round to thank the two girls, but they were already being returned to the old slave-merchant, their eyes glazed at the horror they were witnessing, terror at whatever might be coming for them ext.
"Stand up straight you cunt!" ordered Aemilianus, "I'll have no lolling about on my parade-ground!". The crimson blanket was pulled off my shoulders. The gang that had accompanied us all the way from the city were stood around me now, ogling, enjoying. My hands being at last free, I clutched at my breasts – I don't know what made me do it, I should have been well used to having them exposed by now - was it shame? Was it a feeble attempt at self-defence? Or were some other, stranger feelings stirring within me, aroused by the very extremity of cruelty and degradation that my female body was about to experience?
