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I've only gotten to this chapter 3 as of this reply, but I want to say that is absolutely wonderful writing Jolly! A sci-fi crux story? It seems to me at this point. I must read on! Hope I don't see the end until I get there!
 
Chapter 8: ...but wait until tomorrow.

She stared at the Centurion – she knew it was a centurion. He wore the shining bronze breastplate, and carried a helmet with a red plume on it. Romans were no strangers here. She had seen them all her life.

Where was here? What was her life? She must have had one. Her memory said she was a slave girl.

She remembered no master, no father or mother, no house. Just the fact that she was a slave and knew about Romans. Romans were dangerous – the conquerors, of what or whom she couldn’t say.

The centurion looked familiar she thought. He had a face like a butcher, she decided. She thought she had seen him before, but the memory wouldn’t come. She was a slave girl.

Why was she here in this cell, a prisoner of the Romans? She couldn’t remember doing anything wrong.

“Up, wench,” said the centurion. “The Tribune is to pass judgement on your sorry carcass, and he won’t be kept waiting.” As if to emphasize the point, two legionnaires quickly entered the cell and pulled her roughly off the straw covered floor and onto her bare feet. The flimsy burlap of her dress, if you could call it that, slipped off one shoulder. The soldiers hustled her out of the cell and she stumbled along in their grip down a dark hallway and into a larger guard room.

There she was told to stand still while another man in a leather apron attached manacles to her ankles, connected with a chain. Then her wrists were manacled as well. When she was dressed in her chains the centurion motioned the soldiers to move on.

She stared at the iron bracelets on her wrists as one of the soldiers grasped the chain that connected them and pulled her forward. His comrade gave her a shove in the back, and she stumbled toward a flight of stone stairs going up.

What is happening? I didn’t do anything. Where was I before this?

“Hey,” she said to the centurion, “why am I here? You can’t do this. I haven’t done anything.”

The soldier behind her cuffed her in the back of the head, but said nothing. They kept her moving up the stairs.

The stairs led up to a large hall, filled with people – serving girls, villagers, Romans in togas, Romans in armour. The centurion marched forward smartly with the legionnaires pulling her along behind, stumbling in her confusion. She looked around the room, but found nobody she recognized, and few friendly faces. The hall was filled with the buzz of conversation, but nobody seemed particularly interested in a prisoner being brought in. A serving girl hurried past with a tray without paying any attention except to go around them.

She couldn’t make out anything anyone was saying. Mouths moved, but even those closest to her didn’t seem to be making any sound. The noise was like a background crowd noise, unintelligible, like white noise.

She was pulled to a stop in front of a tall slim man in a white toga with a purple sash. He held a black rod trimmed with gold.

“So, this is the girl,” he asked? This one spoke – the background crowd noise continued in the background.

“Yes, Tribune,” said the centurion. “Found in our purge of renegades and those who insult the gods.”

“And the charge?”

“Trying to escape her rightful fate,” said the centurion.

“I don’t suppose there’s a chance she’s innocent,” asked the Tribune. “Girl,” he said, addressing her directly, “who is your master? What house do you serve?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I know I am a slave. I can’t remember anything. I don’t remember a master.”

“Or don’t recognize any master, eh?” said the Tribune. “Sad. She will be crucified tomorrow. See to it.”

“Yes Tribune,” said the centurion. “Hail Caesar!”

“No,” she cried.

“Take her away,” said the Tribune. He turned abruptly and went back across the hall, standing with some other men in togas. They appeared to converse, but there was no sound, nothing except the crowd noise.

Her own guards just said, “move!”

She was dragged back down into the cellars to the cell and dumped into it. The door clanged shut. At some point, food was pushed in – just a lump of bread, a carrot, and a clay jar of warm water. She didn’t see who brought it. There was no sound in the dungeon except her own breathing.

Crucified. That terrified her. She had tried to escape. What had she tried to escape? Life as a slave? She was a slave, but she couldn’t remember actually being a slave. And why couldn’t she remember her name? A feeling of complete loneliness hit her and she broke down and sobbed. She had nobody, knew nobody, and didn’t even remember herself.

The day wore on, and her sobs dried up. She drank some of the water and ate the carrot. She couldn’t manage the dry bread. What little light there was in the cell diminished and finally she was left in the dark, huddled in the corner of the cell, hugging her knees with her manacled arms, waiting. Ultimately she fell asleep.

In her dream, there was a bridge to a bright valley with thatched cottages, and a man who was looking for her. There was a town. Her friend, a dark skinned pretty girl who cooked some sort of spicy food, was concerned. She tried to call out across the bridge, tried to get there, but the chains held her back. She knew if she got back there, she would remember. She would be a person again, have a life. Something wasn’t allowing her to cross the bridge to the bright safe green valley.

“On your feet, whore!” shouted a soldier. She was awakened with a kick to her ribs. Gasping she thrashed around, trying to shrink back from the soldiers as they grabbed her again by the arms and dragged her, protesting, out of the cell and up the stairs, down another corridor and finally out into a courtyard. The sun was shining and she blinked. They left her standing with one soldier while the soldier in charge went to talk to the centurion across the courtyard.

The courtyard was empty, except for some guards around the sides and the soldiers that had accompanied her. They all stood in a waiting position, but did not talk to each other. This is strange, she thought. It’s like a painting; a representation of something.

Was the village in her dream a memory? Was it real? Is that where she was trying to escape to? Or was it just a dream. She couldn’t trust dreams, but it seemed like the only pleasant memory she had – a man who was looking for her, and the memory of a friend.

She had to believe in the dream. She would believe it was real, because without it she had nothing.

“Let’s get on with it,” said the centurion marching over. “The lictor is waiting.”

Once again she was pulled roughly forward to the centre of the courtyard where a tall post was erected. The manacle chains at her wrists were looped over a metal hook high up the post, leaving her standing with her arms raised above her head. Then the soldiers stepped back and stood quietly.

A man in breeches, but no tunic walked over to the post where she stood. He was holding a multi-tailed whip. He looked into her eyes and grinned, then he moved behind her. He surprised her by ripping the back of her burlap dress and then tearing it off her shoulders. The shredded garment fell to the ground around her ankles leaving her naked and pressed against the post. She felt the warmth of the sun on her copper skin. A light breeze made her shiver slightly. That and the shame of being stripped made her press her breasts against the post. Her nipples were hard which increased her embarrassment and she felt herself blush. She pressed her pubic hair against the post, trying to hide.

Even so, it seemed that now there was only the man in breeches and her. The other soldiers, even the centurion, were not paying any attention to her. They stood silent as statues, as if they were parked, not needed for this scene.

The man in the breeches stepped back with his whip. She heard the whish of the whip through the air and felt the impact of the strands against her upper back, small bone fragments leaving cuts across her skin. It burned. She gasped at the impact and whimpered as she felt the pain.

The second lash tore deeper and she gasped for breath, crying out. The whip tore across her back again and again. By the tenth stroke she was trying to scream, but only choked moans and exclamations came out.

Eleven - she couldn’t breathe. Twelve. She didn’t know why she was counting. The pain felt real, even in the eerily quiet courtyard. At thirteen she took a deep breath and screamed as the lash tore across the middle of her back. Fourteen hit her thighs and her legs collapsed. She hung there moaning, tears rolling down her cheek.

“Stop, please,” she croaked.

Still the strokes fell on her back, her ribs, her shoulders, and her buttocks.

“Stop,” barked the centurion. Was that twenty? She had lost count. Her back was raw, a canvas of pain. She winced as the two soldiers unhooked her arms and held her up until she managed to stand with what seemed to be sheer willpower.

The man with the breeches and whip came forward and picked up the remains of her dress. He crudely wrapped it around her waist in a sort of short skirt and tied it at her hips. Then the soldiers dragged her toward the gate of the courtyard.

A workman brought a rough beam of wood out of a side doorway and dropped it on the ground. That done he went back through the doorway and disappeared. She stared at the beam on the ground in front of her.

At that moment, a strangely dressed man simply walked through the gate. He was wearing some sort of mottled green tunic and some sort of breeches. There were some insignia on the clothes, a lion, a crown. He had some sort of frame on his face that held two shining circles of glass in front of his eyes. His feet were in high leather black boots, but completely enclosed, not like the caligae of the Romans. She had never seen clothes like these before, she thought, and yet he looked familiar. He was moving deliberately toward her. The soldiers and even the centurion didn’t seem to see him.

She watched him cross the short distance from the gate toward her. She looked at his face. It was the man from her dream the night before, the man who had been looking for her as she looked across the bridge. As he approached he was trying to say something, but the words seemed lost. No sound got to her and she couldn’t hear the words. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a black rectangular object, waving it at her as he advanced. A green illuminated button suddenly appeared in the surface of the black rectangle.

But as the green button appeared, the soldiers suddenly seemed to notice him. The guards at the walls and the gates closed on him, spears leveled at him. Her own guards drew their short swords and blocked his advance. He looked around wildly for a moment and then darted past two soldiers, avoiding their spears, and disappeared out the gate. The soldiers went back to their former places, standing calmly again as if nothing had happened, the man in green totally forgotten.

Have I just missed being rescued? she wondered. Why do I know that man? But she had other things to think about now.

The soldiers lifted the beam and laid it on her raw shoulders. She cried out at the pressure of the rough wood on her lacerated shoulders. One of the soldiers unlocked her wrist manacles and they dropped to the ground. Her arms were lifted out to her sides and bound with rope to the beam. Then they tied a rope halter around her neck and pulled her forward toward the gates.

All this was done in silence, apart from her gasps and whimpers. If only that man had been able to help her. She felt he was important, and now she’d never know why. She staggered under the weight of the beam, hampered by the leg manacles that she still wore, but they pulled her the twenty yards or so to the gates. They didn’t seem to mind that she was moving slowly.

She passed through the fortified gate and suddenly noise erupted around her. It was like being hit with a tidal wave of sound. Hundreds of villagers in drab clothing, merchants in finery, soldiers, slaves, old men and women in black robes. They all appeared to be shouting. Sometimes a wet piece of food hit her, as if thrown from the crowd. She staggered back and almost fell under the weight of the beam from the suddenness of the sound.

“Whore!” someone shouted. She stared at the crowds, aware of her almost nakedness, unable to cover her breasts.

“Nasty bitch,” yelled a man.

The only intelligible sounds were insults. Everyone seemed angry and against her. There was no sign of the man in the strange mottled green clothes.

Through the constantly jeering crowds she was pulled by her handlers, staggering forward under the weight of the wooden beam. She was tired and thirsty, the dust was choking her and sweat was stinging the wounds on her back. Her arms were slightly numb from being raised for so long. She staggered on, pulled relentlessly by the soldier holding her rope halter.

So tired, she thought.

“Please,” she croaked. “Water.”

“Move slave,” said the centurion. She had stopped listening to the insults of the crowd. She just heard the oppressive noise.

The walk seemed endless, and she was exhausted, her throat burning with dry dust and thirst. At one point she fell under the weight of the beam. She lay gasping on the ground, unable to will herself to move.

Let me die here, she thought. At least I won’t know I’m alone then. At least there won’t be this pain. She still didn’t know why they were doing this. The world around her was incomprehensible. It didn’t make sense. Only the pain and exhaustion were real.

Two legionnaires grabbed her arms and the beam and pulled her up, standing her on her feet again. The centurion slapped her across the face, stunning her.

“Move!” he said, and she shuffled forward again. She occasionally glanced at the crowd, hoping for a friendly face, a helper, a rescuer. She thought she caught a glimpse of green in the crowd, but there was a tree there when she looked more closely, not the man she looked for, and she didn’t have energy to concentrate on anything except staying upright.

Her shoulders screamed in pain, her neck throbbed from where the beam pressed against it. Sweat stung her eyes as she stumbled into an open circular area. The crowd formed around the perimeter, defined by a ring of Roman legionnaires.

Her two soldiers pushed her to the centre of the circular area and two other men came forward with knives and cut the ropes binding her arms to the beam. Her arms dropped, as they lifted the beam off her shoulders and laid it across a longer piece of wood lying on the ground. She collapsed into the dirt, taking panting sobbing gasps of air. She wouldn’t be able to run away now, she thought, even if someone opened a clear path. She wiped sweat and tears from her face, only to get dirt in her eyes.

She had a flash of memory of a green park, a clear stream. Cold sweetness on her tongue shared with a laughing friend. Then it was gone, and she was back in the dirt, her back a bloodied mess, her hair covered in dust and rotten fruit.

She felt the soldiers’ hands take hold of her arms again and she was half lifted and half dragged backwards and finally dropped on her back. She felt rough wood scrape along her wounded back and cried out in pain. They didn’t appear to care.

Two men in breeches and leather aprons loomed over her, grinning wickedly at her. One of them pinched her right nipple. The other reached down and tore off her burlap skirt. It hadn’t really done much to protect her modesty, but it was the last garment she had, and the jeers from the crowd rose to a crescendo as it was torn away, leaving her naked and exposed to the view of what seemed like thousands of unfriendly people.

She lay on the wooden thing, closing her eyes and trying to focus on anything but her humiliation and helplessness. She felt hand pulling at her arms and stretching them out to her sides and slightly above her head, felt more wood under her wrists as they turned her palms outward and held them down. She looked up her right arm.

She was lying on a cross, she realized, and while two soldiers held down her arms, the men with the aprons were binding her wrists down to the crossbeams. She didn’t have the strength to fight them.

“Please stop,” she whispered.

“Filthy cow,” said one of the soldiers. The binding continued.

When that was done, the men with aprons stood up. They stared up and down her body as they walked to where her feet lay on either side of the stipes. One of them grabbed her ankles and pulled her down the stipes until her arms were stretched in a shallow “V” shape. Then they bent her knees slightly so her feet could lay flat on the stipes. The two soldiers held her feet down, crossed over each other so that her knees were slightly bent and forced apart, while the men with aprons bound her feet in place against the stipes.

“I’m here, Natia!” came a cry from the perimeter of the circle. She woke from her stupor and looked in the direction of the voice. The man in green was back, pushing through the crowd and then charging desperately at one of the Roman guards.

Natia. Was that a name? Was that her? How does he know me?

“I’m coming!” the man yelled. This was followed by an expletive as he engaged the Roman in a struggle. There were too many Romans. The man in green had no chance against so many. Other Romans were closing in on him now. One of them swung his spear like a club and hit the man in green hard on the back of the head with a spear butt.

The man in green stiffened at the impact of the spear butt, stunned. He stumbled once, and then began to fall. Then he vanished. One instant he was there, and the next he was gone. She gave a cry of frustration and despair as this happened. The Roman guards didn’t seem surprised. They simply went back to guarding the perimeter, as if vanishing strangers happened every day.

This can’t be real, she thought. None of this makes sense. It’s a dream. I have to wake up.

Her attention was pulled back to where she was by the sound of clanking metal. One of the men with aprons was holding a hammer and three long iron spikes. He grinned down at her humourlessly.

The centurion appeared in her line of sight. He took off his helmet and tucked it under one arm, his red cloak fluttering slightly in the breeze. He pulled a parchment from his belt. Then he turned to address the crowd.

“This slave has tried to escape. She will not escape death. All the gods reject her and Rome rejects her. By order of the Tribune and by the power of Rome, she will be nailed to this cross and hang until she is dead.” The crowd cheered.

The man with the hammer and spikes knelt down beside her right wrist. The crowd grew silent, watching. There was no sign of the man in green.

I have to wake up, she thought.

To be continued…
 
Chapter 8: ...but wait until tomorrow.

She stared at the Centurion – she knew it was a centurion. He wore the shining bronze breastplate, and carried a helmet with a red plume on it. Romans were no strangers here. She had seen them all her life.

Where was here? What was her life? She must have had one. Her memory said she was a slave girl.

She remembered no master, no father or mother, no house. Just the fact that she was a slave and knew about Romans. Romans were dangerous – the conquerors, of what or whom she couldn’t say.

The centurion looked familiar she thought. He had a face like a butcher, she decided. She thought she had seen him before, but the memory wouldn’t come. She was a slave girl.

Why was she here in this cell, a prisoner of the Romans? She couldn’t remember doing anything wrong.

“Up, wench,” said the centurion. “The Tribune is to pass judgement on your sorry carcass, and he won’t be kept waiting.” As if to emphasize the point, two legionnaires quickly entered the cell and pulled her roughly off the straw covered floor and onto her bare feet. The flimsy burlap of her dress, if you could call it that, slipped off one shoulder. The soldiers hustled her out of the cell and she stumbled along in their grip down a dark hallway and into a larger guard room.

There she was told to stand still while another man in a leather apron attached manacles to her ankles, connected with a chain. Then her wrists were manacled as well. When she was dressed in her chains the centurion motioned the soldiers to move on.

She stared at the iron bracelets on her wrists as one of the soldiers grasped the chain that connected them and pulled her forward. His comrade gave her a shove in the back, and she stumbled toward a flight of stone stairs going up.

What is happening? I didn’t do anything. Where was I before this?

“Hey,” she said to the centurion, “why am I here? You can’t do this. I haven’t done anything.”

The soldier behind her cuffed her in the back of the head, but said nothing. They kept her moving up the stairs.

The stairs led up to a large hall, filled with people – serving girls, villagers, Romans in togas, Romans in armour. The centurion marched forward smartly with the legionnaires pulling her along behind, stumbling in her confusion. She looked around the room, but found nobody she recognized, and few friendly faces. The hall was filled with the buzz of conversation, but nobody seemed particularly interested in a prisoner being brought in. A serving girl hurried past with a tray without paying any attention except to go around them.

She couldn’t make out anything anyone was saying. Mouths moved, but even those closest to her didn’t seem to be making any sound. The noise was like a background crowd noise, unintelligible, like white noise.

She was pulled to a stop in front of a tall slim man in a white toga with a purple sash. He held a black rod trimmed with gold.

“So, this is the girl,” he asked? This one spoke – the background crowd noise continued in the background.

“Yes, Tribune,” said the centurion. “Found in our purge of renegades and those who insult the gods.”

“And the charge?”

“Trying to escape her rightful fate,” said the centurion.

“I don’t suppose there’s a chance she’s innocent,” asked the Tribune. “Girl,” he said, addressing her directly, “who is your master? What house do you serve?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I know I am a slave. I can’t remember anything. I don’t remember a master.”

“Or don’t recognize any master, eh?” said the Tribune. “Sad. She will be crucified tomorrow. See to it.”

“Yes Tribune,” said the centurion. “Hail Caesar!”

“No,” she cried.

“Take her away,” said the Tribune. He turned abruptly and went back across the hall, standing with some other men in togas. They appeared to converse, but there was no sound, nothing except the crowd noise.

Her own guards just said, “move!”

She was dragged back down into the cellars to the cell and dumped into it. The door clanged shut. At some point, food was pushed in – just a lump of bread, a carrot, and a clay jar of warm water. She didn’t see who brought it. There was no sound in the dungeon except her own breathing.

Crucified. That terrified her. She had tried to escape. What had she tried to escape? Life as a slave? She was a slave, but she couldn’t remember actually being a slave. And why couldn’t she remember her name? A feeling of complete loneliness hit her and she broke down and sobbed. She had nobody, knew nobody, and didn’t even remember herself.

The day wore on, and her sobs dried up. She drank some of the water and ate the carrot. She couldn’t manage the dry bread. What little light there was in the cell diminished and finally she was left in the dark, huddled in the corner of the cell, hugging her knees with her manacled arms, waiting. Ultimately she fell asleep.

In her dream, there was a bridge to a bright valley with thatched cottages, and a man who was looking for her. There was a town. Her friend, a dark skinned pretty girl who cooked some sort of spicy food, was concerned. She tried to call out across the bridge, tried to get there, but the chains held her back. She knew if she got back there, she would remember. She would be a person again, have a life. Something wasn’t allowing her to cross the bridge to the bright safe green valley.

“On your feet, whore!” shouted a soldier. She was awakened with a kick to her ribs. Gasping she thrashed around, trying to shrink back from the soldiers as they grabbed her again by the arms and dragged her, protesting, out of the cell and up the stairs, down another corridor and finally out into a courtyard. The sun was shining and she blinked. They left her standing with one soldier while the soldier in charge went to talk to the centurion across the courtyard.

The courtyard was empty, except for some guards around the sides and the soldiers that had accompanied her. They all stood in a waiting position, but did not talk to each other. This is strange, she thought. It’s like a painting; a representation of something.

Was the village in her dream a memory? Was it real? Is that where she was trying to escape to? Or was it just a dream. She couldn’t trust dreams, but it seemed like the only pleasant memory she had – a man who was looking for her, and the memory of a friend.

She had to believe in the dream. She would believe it was real, because without it she had nothing.

“Let’s get on with it,” said the centurion marching over. “The lictor is waiting.”

Once again she was pulled roughly forward to the centre of the courtyard where a tall post was erected. The manacle chains at her wrists were looped over a metal hook high up the post, leaving her standing with her arms raised above her head. Then the soldiers stepped back and stood quietly.

A man in breeches, but no tunic walked over to the post where she stood. He was holding a multi-tailed whip. He looked into her eyes and grinned, then he moved behind her. He surprised her by ripping the back of her burlap dress and then tearing it off her shoulders. The shredded garment fell to the ground around her ankles leaving her naked and pressed against the post. She felt the warmth of the sun on her copper skin. A light breeze made her shiver slightly. That and the shame of being stripped made her press her breasts against the post. Her nipples were hard which increased her embarrassment and she felt herself blush. She pressed her pubic hair against the post, trying to hide.

Even so, it seemed that now there was only the man in breeches and her. The other soldiers, even the centurion, were not paying any attention to her. They stood silent as statues, as if they were parked, not needed for this scene.

The man in the breeches stepped back with his whip. She heard the whish of the whip through the air and felt the impact of the strands against her upper back, small bone fragments leaving cuts across her skin. It burned. She gasped at the impact and whimpered as she felt the pain.

The second lash tore deeper and she gasped for breath, crying out. The whip tore across her back again and again. By the tenth stroke she was trying to scream, but only choked moans and exclamations came out.

Eleven - she couldn’t breathe. Twelve. She didn’t know why she was counting. The pain felt real, even in the eerily quiet courtyard. At thirteen she took a deep breath and screamed as the lash tore across the middle of her back. Fourteen hit her thighs and her legs collapsed. She hung there moaning, tears rolling down her cheek.

“Stop, please,” she croaked.

Still the strokes fell on her back, her ribs, her shoulders, and her buttocks.

“Stop,” barked the centurion. Was that twenty? She had lost count. Her back was raw, a canvas of pain. She winced as the two soldiers unhooked her arms and held her up until she managed to stand with what seemed to be sheer willpower.

The man with the breeches and whip came forward and picked up the remains of her dress. He crudely wrapped it around her waist in a sort of short skirt and tied it at her hips. Then the soldiers dragged her toward the gate of the courtyard.

A workman brought a rough beam of wood out of a side doorway and dropped it on the ground. That done he went back through the doorway and disappeared. She stared at the beam on the ground in front of her.

At that moment, a strangely dressed man simply walked through the gate. He was wearing some sort of mottled green tunic and some sort of breeches. There were some insignia on the clothes, a lion, a crown. He had some sort of frame on his face that held two shining circles of glass in front of his eyes. His feet were in high leather black boots, but completely enclosed, not like the caligae of the Romans. She had never seen clothes like these before, she thought, and yet he looked familiar. He was moving deliberately toward her. The soldiers and even the centurion didn’t seem to see him.

She watched him cross the short distance from the gate toward her. She looked at his face. It was the man from her dream the night before, the man who had been looking for her as she looked across the bridge. As he approached he was trying to say something, but the words seemed lost. No sound got to her and she couldn’t hear the words. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a black rectangular object, waving it at her as he advanced. A green illuminated button suddenly appeared in the surface of the black rectangle.

But as the green button appeared, the soldiers suddenly seemed to notice him. The guards at the walls and the gates closed on him, spears leveled at him. Her own guards drew their short swords and blocked his advance. He looked around wildly for a moment and then darted past two soldiers, avoiding their spears, and disappeared out the gate. The soldiers went back to their former places, standing calmly again as if nothing had happened, the man in green totally forgotten.

Have I just missed being rescued? she wondered. Why do I know that man? But she had other things to think about now.

The soldiers lifted the beam and laid it on her raw shoulders. She cried out at the pressure of the rough wood on her lacerated shoulders. One of the soldiers unlocked her wrist manacles and they dropped to the ground. Her arms were lifted out to her sides and bound with rope to the beam. Then they tied a rope halter around her neck and pulled her forward toward the gates.

All this was done in silence, apart from her gasps and whimpers. If only that man had been able to help her. She felt he was important, and now she’d never know why. She staggered under the weight of the beam, hampered by the leg manacles that she still wore, but they pulled her the twenty yards or so to the gates. They didn’t seem to mind that she was moving slowly.

She passed through the fortified gate and suddenly noise erupted around her. It was like being hit with a tidal wave of sound. Hundreds of villagers in drab clothing, merchants in finery, soldiers, slaves, old men and women in black robes. They all appeared to be shouting. Sometimes a wet piece of food hit her, as if thrown from the crowd. She staggered back and almost fell under the weight of the beam from the suddenness of the sound.

“Whore!” someone shouted. She stared at the crowds, aware of her almost nakedness, unable to cover her breasts.

“Nasty bitch,” yelled a man.

The only intelligible sounds were insults. Everyone seemed angry and against her. There was no sign of the man in the strange mottled green clothes.

Through the constantly jeering crowds she was pulled by her handlers, staggering forward under the weight of the wooden beam. She was tired and thirsty, the dust was choking her and sweat was stinging the wounds on her back. Her arms were slightly numb from being raised for so long. She staggered on, pulled relentlessly by the soldier holding her rope halter.

So tired, she thought.

“Please,” she croaked. “Water.”

“Move slave,” said the centurion. She had stopped listening to the insults of the crowd. She just heard the oppressive noise.

The walk seemed endless, and she was exhausted, her throat burning with dry dust and thirst. At one point she fell under the weight of the beam. She lay gasping on the ground, unable to will herself to move.

Let me die here, she thought. At least I won’t know I’m alone then. At least there won’t be this pain. She still didn’t know why they were doing this. The world around her was incomprehensible. It didn’t make sense. Only the pain and exhaustion were real.

Two legionnaires grabbed her arms and the beam and pulled her up, standing her on her feet again. The centurion slapped her across the face, stunning her.

“Move!” he said, and she shuffled forward again. She occasionally glanced at the crowd, hoping for a friendly face, a helper, a rescuer. She thought she caught a glimpse of green in the crowd, but there was a tree there when she looked more closely, not the man she looked for, and she didn’t have energy to concentrate on anything except staying upright.

Her shoulders screamed in pain, her neck throbbed from where the beam pressed against it. Sweat stung her eyes as she stumbled into an open circular area. The crowd formed around the perimeter, defined by a ring of Roman legionnaires.

Her two soldiers pushed her to the centre of the circular area and two other men came forward with knives and cut the ropes binding her arms to the beam. Her arms dropped, as they lifted the beam off her shoulders and laid it across a longer piece of wood lying on the ground. She collapsed into the dirt, taking panting sobbing gasps of air. She wouldn’t be able to run away now, she thought, even if someone opened a clear path. She wiped sweat and tears from her face, only to get dirt in her eyes.

She had a flash of memory of a green park, a clear stream. Cold sweetness on her tongue shared with a laughing friend. Then it was gone, and she was back in the dirt, her back a bloodied mess, her hair covered in dust and rotten fruit.

She felt the soldiers’ hands take hold of her arms again and she was half lifted and half dragged backwards and finally dropped on her back. She felt rough wood scrape along her wounded back and cried out in pain. They didn’t appear to care.

Two men in breeches and leather aprons loomed over her, grinning wickedly at her. One of them pinched her right nipple. The other reached down and tore off her burlap skirt. It hadn’t really done much to protect her modesty, but it was the last garment she had, and the jeers from the crowd rose to a crescendo as it was torn away, leaving her naked and exposed to the view of what seemed like thousands of unfriendly people.

She lay on the wooden thing, closing her eyes and trying to focus on anything but her humiliation and helplessness. She felt hand pulling at her arms and stretching them out to her sides and slightly above her head, felt more wood under her wrists as they turned her palms outward and held them down. She looked up her right arm.

She was lying on a cross, she realized, and while two soldiers held down her arms, the men with the aprons were binding her wrists down to the crossbeams. She didn’t have the strength to fight them.

“Please stop,” she whispered.

“Filthy cow,” said one of the soldiers. The binding continued.

When that was done, the men with aprons stood up. They stared up and down her body as they walked to where her feet lay on either side of the stipes. One of them grabbed her ankles and pulled her down the stipes until her arms were stretched in a shallow “V” shape. Then they bent her knees slightly so her feet could lay flat on the stipes. The two soldiers held her feet down, crossed over each other so that her knees were slightly bent and forced apart, while the men with aprons bound her feet in place against the stipes.

“I’m here, Natia!” came a cry from the perimeter of the circle. She woke from her stupor and looked in the direction of the voice. The man in green was back, pushing through the crowd and then charging desperately at one of the Roman guards.

Natia. Was that a name? Was that her? How does he know me?

“I’m coming!” the man yelled. This was followed by an expletive as he engaged the Roman in a struggle. There were too many Romans. The man in green had no chance against so many. Other Romans were closing in on him now. One of them swung his spear like a club and hit the man in green hard on the back of the head with a spear butt.

The man in green stiffened at the impact of the spear butt, stunned. He stumbled once, and then began to fall. Then he vanished. One instant he was there, and the next he was gone. She gave a cry of frustration and despair as this happened. The Roman guards didn’t seem surprised. They simply went back to guarding the perimeter, as if vanishing strangers happened every day.

This can’t be real, she thought. None of this makes sense. It’s a dream. I have to wake up.

Her attention was pulled back to where she was by the sound of clanking metal. One of the men with aprons was holding a hammer and three long iron spikes. He grinned down at her humourlessly.

The centurion appeared in her line of sight. He took off his helmet and tucked it under one arm, his red cloak fluttering slightly in the breeze. He pulled a parchment from his belt. Then he turned to address the crowd.

“This slave has tried to escape. She will not escape death. All the gods reject her and Rome rejects her. By order of the Tribune and by the power of Rome, she will be nailed to this cross and hang until she is dead.” The crowd cheered.

The man with the hammer and spikes knelt down beside her right wrist. The crowd grew silent, watching. There was no sign of the man in green.

I have to wake up, she thought.

To be continued…
Jolly, you have less scruples than even I!!!!
 
"A bridge to a bright valley with thatched cottages, and a man who was looking for her. There was a town. Her friend, a dark skinned pretty girl who cooked some sort of spicy food"
Sweet memories but vague memories. Where do they come from? Have they ever been true.
And who is that strange green man who suddenly pops up and vanishes again?

It's all so airy, so elusive.
At this moment there is only one reality: the centurion, the soldiers, the post...

CFR 1034.jpg
 
It's all so airy, so elusive.
I'm not trying to be deliberately elusive. The thing is, the whole story happens from "her" point of view, so when she loses her memory, we tend to lose ours as well. The "dreams" give hints of who these people are. I'm also trying to maintain an internal logic regarding how the "boxes" are supposed to work, without being too contradictory, but now that she's caught in the Roman scenario again, and has no memory, she doesn't know where she is. She might grasp that something doesn't seem "real" and is perhaps a bit surreal, but she doesn't know if she's in a box or that she's in a box, and she certainly has no idea how they work, so all we get is things happening. She has, as you say, only the post, the Romans, the whip, and the cross as her realities. The man in green, I thought might be obvious, although here she does not know him.
 
I'm not trying to be deliberately elusive. The thing is, the whole story happens from "her" point of view, so when she loses her memory, we tend to lose ours as well. The "dreams" give hints of who these people are. I'm also trying to maintain an internal logic regarding how the "boxes" are supposed to work, without being too contradictory, but now that she's caught in the Roman scenario again, and has no memory, she doesn't know where she is. She might grasp that something doesn't seem "real" and is perhaps a bit surreal, but she doesn't know if she's in a box or that she's in a box, and she certainly has no idea how they work, so all we get is things happening. She has, as you say, only the post, the Romans, the whip, and the cross as her realities. The man in green, I thought might be obvious, although here she does not know him.
That's what I was meaning. I was trying to express what her confused mind is thinking.
 
It's very confusing being her, in some ways. Who's the man in green? What's going on.
But in other ways it's really very simple being her.
Submit. Suffer. Endure humiliating and painful punishment in front of a crowd. Wonder when it will all end.
Wonder if there is a future?
Nice work Jolly.
 
She passed through the fortified gate and suddenly noise erupted around her. It was like being hit with a tidal wave of sound. Hundreds of villagers in drab clothing, merchants in finery, soldiers, slaves, old men and women in black robes. They all appeared to be shouting.
“Move slave,” said the centurion. She had stopped listening to the insults of the crowd. She just heard the oppressive noise.
CFR 1035.jpg
 
The crowd grew silent, watching.

I have to wake up, she thought.

To be continued…

The crowd grew silent...

I have to wake up, she thought.Anothe

The crowd grew even more silent. The last thing they wanted was to wake her up!

Another stunning chapter from Jollyrei....

"A bridge to a bright valley with thatched cottages, and a man who was looking for her. There was a town. Her friend, a dark skinned pretty girl who cooked some sort of spicy food"
Sweet memories but vague memories. Where do they come from? Have they ever been true.
And who is that strange green man who suddenly pops up and vanishes again?

It's all so airy, so elusive.
At this moment there is only one reality: the centurion, the soldiers, the post...

View attachment 518472
And two stunning images from Repertor!

:goodjob::goodjob::goodjob:
 
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