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Old crux story by Dr Adolphus

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phlebas

PRIMUS POENUS
Staff member
I've been going through my archive looking for some things lately, and I found this old story by Dr Adolphus, who contributed to the old Crux group back in the distant past. The chapter names suggest that there were two earlier parts, but I do have the meaty bit and you can work out the background from the narrative. In 3 surviving parts, it's pretty complete as it is.

December 2000


CRUX GALACTICA

A tale of universal Mastery


by Dr Adolphus


CAPUT III: Outside a prison wall

There was no crowd yet. Caterina was highly esteemed among her comrades but
little known elsewhere and not even the street urchins had turned out to
watch her nailing. To the drivers passing by on the road this was a familiar
scene, as little noticed as the advertising displays further out. Just
background stimulation; live wallpaper; something to get the populace in a
good mood for work in the morning. The motivating satisfaction that came
with witnessing someone else's suffering, however subliminally, was a winner
every time. No doubt the odd pervert or two would come and gloat later in
the day. Maybe when the taverns closed tonight the fresher victims could
expect some lewd taunting.

The prison's senior mechanic stood beside the lowered access platform, his
colleague in the cab staring imaginatively at Caterina's body, eyes up and
down like a yo-yo. Knowing what was to come, Caterina found the motion
distinctly disturbing. Once the condemned woman, the decurio, the prison
mechanic and two common soldiers had stepped up onto the access platform, the
decurio lifted up and pressed the portable handset to communicate to the cab
their desire for elevation. The deck was railed on three sides, with a gate
on one of these, but the fourth was open against the wall as it now rose to
cross level and its padded edge made firm contact. Brakes were tightly
applied.

Caterina knew there was no hope of a reprieve. She might as well get things
done as wait tensely for the inevitable. Her last duty would be to display
the dignity appropriate to her class and former rank. Unbidden, she stepped
to the wall, laid her back to it and raised her arms to the pose she had seen
so many times before. She had watched her first public execution at the age
of seven and had even ordered the crucifixion of a number of insolent slaves
at her villa in Gaul. She had never imagined that she would one day be a
recipient of nails herself.

As the mechanic unzipped his bag of tools, the two soldiers stepped forward
to hold Caterina in place for nailing. One stood each side, his heavy,
uniformed body pressed against her breasts and flanks, one each of her strong
thighs squeezed between their legs as they pushed against her crotch,
scraping her back deliberately on the rough concrete behind. With both
hands, each held her arms out straight and tight against the wall. The
mechanic was now tying the red plastic bracelet around Caterina's right
wrist. These bracelets had been devised as a means of holding the nails in
place, ready for the application of compressed air, which would root them in
the wood. Consequently, each bracelet had a long conical protrusion on one
side, a plastic trellis that would grip the nail but collapse under impact to
leave a rose-like stub of no more than an inch. The mechanic made sure that
Caterina's wrist was correctly positioned against the wood. The nail would
enter the block about two-thirds across its width. Good. He checked that
the other wrist would also be able to make clean contact with wood and then
he brought out a nail.

The nail threaded easily through its groove and the tip came to rest against
Caterina's pulsating skin. With her arm held tight by the soldiers, she
waited for the blow. The mechanic lifted the pneumatic hammer from its rest
at the back of the deck and stepped forward, a long tail of hose snaking
behind him. The hammer was placed over the nail head and held in place with
his right hand, his thumb on the trigger. His gloved left pressed against
Caterina's right palm, holding it steady. Her thumb and fingers gripped
grimly at the industrial rubber, seeking warmth and consolation, her face
looking straight ahead, determined to remain serenely composed, as she braced
herself for instant agony.

There was a click as the trigger was pressed, a hiss of air, a dull thud and
nothing. Within seconds, Caterina's nerves were making a swift recovery from
the numbing shock of impact, telling her in no uncertain terms that something
truly terrible had happened to her wrist. It began with intense tingling in
her hand, then, as she turned her wrist, the throbbing moved upwards along
her pinned forearm. She took next to no notice as the mechanic let go her
hand, withdrew the hammer, and stepped across to her left wrist ready to
repeat his penetration.

The nailing process had been the subject of exhaustive study over the
centuries as the regulations had been progressively refined and modernised.
The latest edition specified that the red plastic bracelets were to be
secured tightly with the hole for nailing directly adjoining the median
nerve. Beneath the hole, adhering to the underside of the bracelet, was a
ring of surgical gauze, mirrored on the opposite side of the wrist by a
circular patch. These and the sheer force of impact acted to seal the wound,
staunching any flow of blood that might otherwise hasten the victim's demise.
The gauze was impregnated with an irritant chemical that would cause
maddening itching. Try as they might, no victim's finger could provide her
with relief.

Already Caterina was feeling this effect but as she flexed her fingers to try
to ease the sensation she learnt a painfully sharp lesson in human anatomy.
The arm is one entity. The median nerve runs all the way up to the spine.
Electro-chemical impulses run up and down and all must pass through the bony
junction of the wrist. Caterina wanted to scream but the pain was too
overwhelming to relieve and the pressure of the men's forearms against her
chest would prevent her. She would eagerly have had her arm amputated rather
than endure the searing fire now consuming her consciousness.

Then she felt the mechanic's gloved hand pressing against hers. Her last
lover. She looked towards him with a strength of emotion like nothing she
had ever experienced, straining through her pain to turn her face to the left
to catch a glimpse of his features. He was not looking at her at all. It
didn't pay in his job to feel anything for the women whose bodies he
punctured with unrelenting steel. He repaid her affection with an efficient
squeeze of the trigger. Caterina felt possessed by her executioners. Two
were still pressed firmly against her body to keep it still, their faces
breathing hard against her neck. Her naked breasts were crushed beneath
their warmth, her nipples rising in sympathy with the two erect manhoods
resting against her bare thighs. As the nailing proceeded, they moved
against her with a surreptitious, earthy rhythm, two strong legs pressed to
her sex as it helplessly dampened their uniforms. Both were experienced
crucifiers and knew that with both the woman's arms nailed, their weight
would be superfluous to her securing. Both pressed even tighter as the
mechanic fired the second nail into Caterina and the resulting shockwave of
pain was experienced as all but indistinguishable from her orgasm.

She was not left in peace for a moment as the soldiers stepped back. The
decurio pressed a button on the remote control unit he held in his hand,
signalling for the deck to be raised a very short way. Caterina felt the
ground rise beneath her feet, forcing her arms upwards, beyond the
horizontal, stretching them horribly against the nails in her immoveable
wrists as her knees buckled under her. The soldiers stepped forward, an arm
swiftly placed under each knee to steady and lift her further, spreading her
thighs wide. The mechanic knelt between them to unscrew one of the wood
blocks, grunting distractedly at the musky aroma assaulting his nostrils. In
place of the wood block, he inserted and secured a tightly-fitting - and
viciously large - hard rubber cornu, the velvety surface of its stem
impregnated with the same irritant chemical as the nail-pads. Caterina's
legs were released as the deck was again lowered. She felt the greased
bulbous head of the cornu bob mischievously beneath her perineum as she again
struggled to stand.

The three men stepped back to admire the morning's workmanship. The city's
whores always did good business after a woman was crucified. The girls would
be left sore and exhausted once the legionaries of Roma had disgorged their
pent-up emotions. The decurio snorted contemptuously. He was a noted
stickler for discipline; this was a job just like any other and he wanted it
done professionally, but it was oh, so easy for him to say that. He'd
forgotten what it was like to be young.

The decurio pressed the button yet again, this time signalling to the cab
that the woman was now all but secured. Slowly the deck began to lower
further. Caterina's feet went down with it but her hands stayed put. She
realised with amazement and terror that her body was being drawn down to rest
upon the nails in her painfully swivelling wrists and this time there was no
compensating action she could take. She could make her legs shorter but she
could not make them longer. Just as she thought that all the slack in her
arms had been taken up, the pesky cornu rubbed at her well-rounded bottom and
came to rest between its cheeks. She pressed back on it for support, then
realised her mistake.

At once the men moved forward again. The legionaries lifted her legs by the
calves, pushing back so that the cornu went deeper as Caterina moaned in
despair. Her legs were then bent into a right-angle at the knee. The
mechanic knelt before her and placed one foot over the other before binding
them both with the final red bracelet. The feet were pressed firmly to
another wood block in the wall, the nail was threaded through the plastic
trellis to scratch against the top of Caterina's foot and it was time for the
last painful injection of steel into her flesh.

Caterina looked down at the mechanic's head as he pushed the pneumatic hammer
against the head of the nail. She could feel only wonder at the thoroughness
of Roma. All this trouble, taken only so that she might, no, must, dedicate
what remained of her life to teach by example the need for loyalty to its
laws, for devotion to military duty, for utter submission to its imperial
will. She took the final nail into her body with a sense of relief. There
was nothing more they could do to her. This was her fervent delusion.
 
CRUX GALACTICA


A tale of universal mastery


by Dr Adolphus


CAPUT IV: On the cross


If Caterina thought that was all, she was soon proved wrong. Once a small footrest had been tucked beneath her toes and nailed in place to complete the ensemble, the decurio stepped forward with a blister pack of medicinal capsules, burst one out and offered it to Caterina.


"Pain killer. Take it."


To her right, Caterina's cross-companion, the green girl from Julia, moaned pitifully and turned her head towards her, but was too far gone to speak. Her eyes spoke painfully for her and Caterina got the message. The decurio insisted.


"Take it. We'll only force-feed you otherwise. Don't make our work unpleasant for us or we'll make your death even more unpleasant for you."


Caterina relented. Where was the point in arguing with Roma? Roma always won. It had to. This was a rule of the universe now. She was given a water-bottle to sip from and swallowed.


"Good", grinned the decurio. "Now, you know that wasn't pain-killer so I may as well tell you what to expect from it. The capsule contains numerous small beads that will dissolve slowly in your stomach and bowels. Some have thicker coatings than others so timing is impeccable. The beads will gradually release a variety of chemicals into your body, causing intense pain in all non-vital organs and systems. Others are anti-biotics, administered prophylactically; we wouldn't want you catching anything deadly in the cold up here at nights. Others again provide nutrition. You're going to be up here for quite some time so we want to ensure you are well provided for."


"Bastards", moaned Caterina, shaking with frustrated hatred, but the men took no notice. The access deck was on its final descent to earth. Soon it would drive away, the decurio and mechanic would return to other duties and the other men would be left to watch over the scene until relieved in their turn.
Caterina's crucifixion had begun.


At first she fought, learning new realities with reluctance, burning up her resistance, cursing her pain. From time to time, as she exchanged glances with the green slave girl to her left, realisations registered. She had watched crucifixion victims before but there was a terrible new sharpness to what she saw now, a preview of her own suffering to come. The girl had been on the cross overnight, maybe even for days. Her eyes were now hauntingly empty of feeling, weary of life, her breathing was starting to become just a fluttering, a tortuous sipping of the dreaded poison that went on sustaining an existence past any notion of meaning. Eventually Caterina joined her in submission, crying, moaning gently, whimpering softly, as her movements on the cross dictated. At last, she struggled up and screamed out like an animal, a long howl of despair that rent the air before her quaking limbs gave way once more.


Occasionally a passer-by would look up and grin. Caterina wondered what her titulus was displaying to them. 'Caterina Ianevia. Star-galley captain. Crucified for dereliction of duty.' Something like that. Nothing to be proud or ashamed of any more, whatever it might be.


In the middle of the morning, a camera crew arrived. The reporter with them spoke briefly to the guards. The one who seemed to take charge checked their papers perfunctorily, as if this were a regular occurrence, and nodded. The crew got to work.


"Caterina Ianevia. She had it all. A girl from a comfortable patrician background. An uncle in the senate, her mother's father a famous orator and poet. But military service too was in her blood. She became one of our youngest star-galley captains. But slackness cost her her life. On a routine mission in the Augustan quadrant she decided to take things easy for a while. Put down on a primitive planet where wine and women for her crew were cheap. While one of her decurios got involved in an argument, she looked the other way. Before she knew it he was dead, stabbed in a brawl. She panicked and pulled her crew out, leaving his body and equipment behind. A clear breach of the Prime Directive. In no time at all this planet could be a technological super-power, a thorn in our side that will take a hundred legions to hold down. All because she failed to think. She has plenty of time to think now… This is Brutus Lanius, for the Home Justice channel, at the Wall of Death."


Go on, thought Caterina. Twist the truth a little more. I hope you share my point of view one day. You deserve it. I have to breathe. I have to BREATHE. She lifted, she could not help but show the pain on her face that nails and cramps and cornu caused her. Right on cue, the camera would catch it all at that very moment. Dignity was the first victim of the cross.


Around noon, the green girl's death came slowly. Her head hung down, the movements of her limbs became ever less pronounced, her chest barely rose and fell as she lifted. Then, with a gush of pink urine, the murderess slid down to join her Master in Hades. The two soldiers on guard laughed as the iron-rich liquid dribbled down the wall into the drain beneath the cross.


"Watch your feet, Marcus! You never know, she might be corrosive."


"No, that was her temper. Stabbed her Owner over and over during sex, they say. Didn't like being his plaything. Still, what a way to go, huh?"


"A slave's a slave, Horatius. She should have learnt her place faster and got on with it."


"Sure, I'm not defending her, obstinate little fool. I was on the detail that put her up. Fought like a tigress until she was scourged. Even put up a struggle when we nailed her. She just didn't understand the need for justice."


For an instant, Caterina felt a sorrow unworthy of a Roman. The poor girl could not have been more than twenty Roman years old, maybe even less in terms of her own biology. Perhaps she had been only recently enslaved, plucked from some alien market place or as the spoils of galactic conquest, living only to satisfy the cruel whims of the man for whom she existed. Then Caterina remembered the girl was only a slave. There were millions more like her, possessed bodies upon which the might of Roma rested, their very lives worth less than many of the furnishings of her villa. The two females had nothing in common, not even common humanity. And yet, here they were, both nailed upon the cross to die for their imperfections.


The decurio was back later in the afternoon, checking up on the relief watch.
He chided them for not gutting the girl. She was of sensitive biochemistry, that was what made her so excellent as a pleasure slave, he explained. That
soft green snatch up there was a thousand times more sensitive than a Roman girl's. It could pulse and squeeze and come in waves of exquisite ecstasy worth a million sesterces. Only the richest could afford such a girl. It was a shame the pureblooded ones were so bad-tempered. Even with genetic modification it might be some generations yet before they could be fully domesticated and bred for submissiveness.


Mimza's skin, a lustrous light green earlier in the day, had turned lime by the time of death and in parts was now a dull yellowish-grey. One of the guards went for a gutting scythe, a sharp blade, angled inwards, mounted on a long pole, and spilt the girl's digestive and reproductive organs on the ground. Green blood smeared the wall and dripped stickily through the grating of the drain cover.


"By Mithras, what a stench there is from copper blood", grimaced the decurio.
He walked away on his rounds and left his men and their charges to endure it.


They had to wait until late afternoon before the water-wagon came by. The public health authorities insisted that the Wall of Death be washed down daily, and this was done towards the end of the day. High pressure hoses not only cleaned the wall but watered the victims. It was the only chance to drink that they would be given for now. For some the shock of cold water hitting their bodies could be fatal and this was the moment for the old senator to give up his struggle, leaving Caterina alone on the wall. Once the watering was complete, the access platform was driven back on to the scene for the bodies of the senator and the Julian girl to be taken down and burnt. Centuries ago, bodies were left to rot, but such unhygienic atrocities were unworthy of the refined Roma of today. Perhaps the new emperor might restore the old ways for the better education of the people.


Caterina watched as the depositions took place. She longed to join the dead in their blessed freedom and cried out as the Julian girl was removed from her side.


"By all the gods!" she begged. "Have mercy and end it for me! I cannot take any more!"


The decurio looked across at her quizzically before bellowing back his reply.


"Hang there and suffer, bitch. One day is nothing. You've got all week ahead of you."


There would be no escape.
 
CRUX GALACTICA

A tale of universal Mastery


by Dr Adolphus


CAPUT V: Waiting for death

Soon, Caterina was alone on the wall. Her guards below ignored her presence.
Did the decurio mean what he said? A week? She would go out of her mind
long before; she was sure of that. As the sun set, the film of sweat on her
body cooled. Her hair, blasted this way and that by the west wind and the
water, hung in strands about her face. Midges clouded about her. Throbbing
veins stood out on her thighs and forearms. All the most tender parts of her
body still ached from her dawn scourging. The useless fingers of each hand
had curled fixed like an eagle's talons, far more fierce and real than those
of the gold embroidered bird she had once worn with such pride on her scarlet
starfleet uniform, perched on its thunderbolt above those bold initials:
S.P.Q.R.

Slower than before, Caterina raised her weight to expel more air and grasp at
life with instinctive determination, each new rising a repeated agony behind
and below. Sliding down again, her back raked by raw concrete, she relaxed
her will. Her bladder emptied out over her feet to the drain below.

Caterina passed a chill night, shivering, trapped on the cross, massive
cramps now making her life unbearable. And yet they must be borne. A
courting couple walked past and waved cruelly, pausing to stand beneath her
cross to embrace and enjoy the thrill of passionate life in the midst of
passionate death. For what was amor if not Roma reversed? The stars were
her constant companions but Roma intruded even into the night sky, the glow
of its street lamps radiating off the seven hills, mocking her memories.
Worst of all were the floodlights that blazed into life once the sun had
fully set. Located beside the road deck they shone with almost blinding
intensity at the Wall of Death, turning night into day for all who passed by
or just hung around.

At the first light of dawn the decurio was back, to await the arrival of the
access platform. There was no sign of a fresh victim. Had he lied last
night? Was it now to end for her, Caterina thought, hoped, as the deck was
raised, bearing the decurio alone.

"Breakfast, Captain?", he asked sarcastically, offering another capsule with
water. Caterina wanted water but not the capsule. Both would prolong her
life but one she craved as much as she was repelled by the other. He made
her take both, holding her jaw tightly until he was satisfied she had
swallowed. Later in the week, he explained, she might become too weak to
swallow. Then an intravenous injection would be used. So, she thought,
bitterly, this is how it will never end.

She must have looked unusually vulnerable, emotionally as well as physically
in his power. Something about her face, her body, who knows what? Whatever,
the decurio paused. He reached up to cup Caterina's left breast, then her
nipple, rolling and pinching it in his fingers, watching her expression as he
played with her, gazing into her wild, despair-torn eyes. His left hand
reached between her legs, fingers drawn along the moistening crack between to
take and twist her rousing bud. Soon, his victim's sopping slit was sending
streams of juice dribbling down her sticky, trembling thighs as his fingers
groped greedily with a vigorous and vicious contempt. As she raised herself
up, writhing, undulating for him, squeezing tightly, ready to come, he
extracted his hand and backed away, to her utter dismay, ran his index finger
beneath his nostrils and grinned. Her body and soul called after him,
enflamed with an aching torture within, desperate for release. The deck was
descending; he waved and left her to suffer.

On her second night, Caterina endured worse torments still. A large group of
revellers, homeward bound from an inspiring evening out at the New Flavian
Amphitheatre, passed alongside the Wall of Death, raising lighted matches to
toast the undersides of her trapped and tortured toes where they overhung her
footrest. The guards offered no objection, standing by, laughing at her
predicament and her futile cries for help. The entertainment continued until
boredom set in, Caterina's toes now throbbing with pain, the worst of it in
the sensitive valleys between each toe, where the flaming heads had been
circled round like whirling, torch-bearing dancers.

By her third night, Caterina had lost all sense of time. It was actually
late on the fifth day of her crucifixion that the decurio emerged with a
small group of men. They seemed to be talking about how best to arrange
fresh victims on the wall. There had been some insurrection or other, in
Occidentia as far as Caterina could make out. The eastern, Atlantic coast?
Liberal colonists protesting against the new emperor's taxation policies?
Demanding representation in the senate? That sort of thing. The
ring-leaders were to be paraded through the city in a great Triumph and then
crucified. They would need the whole wall for this purpose. Caterina hoped
that this meant an end to her agony but no such relief was forthcoming. It
just meant that no new victims would join her that week.

Crucifixion was now a semi-industrial process. Places were booked in
advance, just like hospital beds. Seven days were allowed for death to
occur. This could be cut to five if necessary to fit in a rush of victims
but further reductions needed special dispensation. Early deaths meant a
shorter waiting list but ruined the point of the exercise. The decurio
looked somewhat alarmed that the star-galley captain, one of the best-looking
victims in weeks, might not get her full time on the cross but the leading
centurion swiftly re-assured him.

"We'll start them on the Ides. That gives this one two more days. You'll
have to break her legs after that. Then scrub everything down and get it all
neat and tidy. We want a clean wall for the colonists, no stains. The
censor wants some publicity shots to send back over there. Something that'll
make a nice change from the subversive material they're accustomed to. Who
knows, maybe even a spot of photo-manipulation to improve on reality? Stuff
like that always get the message across hard."

What were two more days to one who has lost everything? Two more
skin-parching, thirst-cursing, mind-scorching days. Two more bone-chilling,
teeth-chattering, limb-trembling nights? Was it all a dream, this nightmare?
Caterina knew nothing for sure. The voices. Did they come from down below,
or up above? From inside her head, or outside in some other world
altogether? Was she lost in a parallel universe, an all-consuming alternate
reality, the black hole of pain? She closed her eyes and her mind stood
still. Only her doomed body's helpless, unceasing, senseless movement
disturbed the illusion.

When, on the seventh day, no-one came to inject her thigh with
life-prolonging drugs, Caterina knew the end was near. Just before the
water-wagon was due that afternoon, Caterina noticed the decurio walking
towards her guards. They saluted. He chatted briefly, then dismissed them.
They could have the evening off. He knew they would be busy tomorrow. His
detachment would have plenty of work to do scourging and nailing the men and
women from Occidentia. As usual, the victims were mostly women, many of them
exceptionally beautiful, selected from the guilty not so much for the
enormity of their crimes as of their breasts. He'd need to use all of his
team in turn. There was only so much stimulation a soldier should be
expected to take.

Alone with Caterina completely, the decurio unslung his shoulder-ballista and
altered the setting from piercing to fragmentation, grinning wickedly at the
one little bit of fun he allowed himself at moments like this. Break her
legs? Like Hades he would. He aimed at the point where Caterina's mossy
triangle converged, at the sex he had tempted so tantalisingly. He
remembered the big-bodied woman whose nailing he had supervised as the week
began, a woman long gone and replaced by this hopeless wretch, this shadow of
a human being, that he would now clean off the face of the earth. He pulled
the trigger with a devastating, efficient, and brutally Roman ruthlessness.

Blood spattered around her in a gory supernova, splashing her breasts and
thighs as Caterina expended her life in a brief, agonised convulsion of
blasted limbs and torso. Overcome by forces beyond mortal control, she very
quickly ceased to experience the world. This magnificent woman of patrician
birth now hung slumped in tatters against her cross. Descendant of star
captains and conquerors of planets, of the victors of Roma's great battles
against China and India, Persia and Scythia, of the vanquishers of Punic and
Etruscan power. Perhaps even one of the seed of Romulus himself. What was
it the poet had said? It is good to be well-descended, but the glory belongs
to one's ancestors. Caterina could sink no further.
 
You can find the rest of the story in the Crux Foundation archive. It is the third story down: "Crux Galactica"


You will need the password to get in. It can be found at the Crux Foundation in Frequently Asked Questions. You will need to register and login.


The Crux Foundation does not seem very active any more, but there is lots of good stuff on the site and the archive.
 
Last edited:
You can find the rest of the story in the Crux Foundation archive. It is the third story down: "Crux Galactica"


You will need the password to get in. It can be found at the Crux Foundation in Frequently Asked Questions. You will need to register and login.


The Crux Foundation does not seem very active any more, but there is lots of good stuff on the site and the archive.

This Links works well:

 
Thanks for that link. Many of the stories have stood the test of time, and deserve to be remembered.

Some of my favourites are: Dr Adolphus "Crux Galactica" (of course) with its future technology versions of scourging and crucifixion. I like the part where the victim is so alone on the cros that even the touch of her tormentor is almost welcomed.

And the Star Trek jokes: Caledonius is Scotty, hand ballista instead of phaser, a green Orion slave girl and the doomed Caterina Ianevia is Kathryn Janeway!
 
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