The Father

[Jollyrei]

I haven't posted a story in a while. This is a short one I wrote some time ago, and just recently got around to editing. I wrote it following a discussion here (somewhere) on what it might be like, being a family member of a condemned person, say the father of a crucified girl.

The Father
by Jollyrei

She was his daughter, Ninian, his pretty, vivacious 19 year old beauty. The girl that all the boys came to see. He remembered her as a little girl, a toddler, as he threw her in the air and caught her. She shrieked with laughter as she went up, and giggled as he caught her and snuggled her cheek with his rough beard.

She had run with her cousin, Aedan, both of them 4 years old, climbing trees, chasing the sheep. “She’ll be trouble someday,” his friends had said in amusement.

He remembered the horrible moment that a friend had rushed into his barn to tell him that she had been taken by the Roman occupiers. She had been in the market, again with Aedan. Aedan made some sort of comment, insulting a Roman official. The Romans were always looking for seditious types and thought Aedan fit the bill. Aedan fought the Roman trying to arrest him.

Ninian, had yelled for the Roman to get off her cousin. She threw something; a stick, a stone, whatever. It didn’t matter, they arrested her as well. The two were dragged to the Roman fort outside the village.

He had run to the fortress to see the Centurion. He was just a Gaulish farmer. He raised sheep and grew vegetables for sale in the market. He wasn’t influential, but he begged to see his daughter. He pleaded with the Centurion to let her go. He was allowed to see her, but he was told she and Aedan would be tried for sedition by the Tribune. No chance of letting her go before that.

“Help me, papa!” she cried. “I just wanted them to let Aedan go. I didn’t mean to throw the stone. It was the heat of the moment. I couldn’t just let them take Aedan.”

“I know,” he told her as he held her close. “But they say I can’t take you home. I’ll do everything I can.” And then, like a father, he added, “I’ll get you out.”

“I’m afraid, Papa,” she said, trembling slightly.

“It’ll be okay,” he murmured, stroking her hair. Then they made him leave.

He went back to the Centurion, who didn’t want to see him. “Please keep her safe,” he pleaded. “I don’t want my girl getting hurt.”

“If she’s guilty of sedition,” said the Centurion, “the Tribune will have her crucified. She’ll be hurt then.” Seeing the look of shock and panic on his face, the Centurion relented a bit and said, “Don’t lose hope yet. I’ll see what I can do.”

He wasn’t allowed to be at the trial or hearing. Aedan tried to escape in the night by attacking the guard that brought him food, shouting about Gaulish freedom and anti-Roman slogans, and yelling about past battles where Gauls had fought the Romans. He had been killed in the struggle, with the Romans convinced they had killed a rebel. Ninian was taken before the Tribune alone, but her association with Aedan did not improve her prospects, his friends said sympathetically. Pray to the gods for help, they suggested.

The Romans wouldn’t let him see her. They wouldn’t tell him what was happening to her. Flashes of Ninian’s life went through his mind. Bandaging her knee at 8 years old, after she and Aedan had fallen while climbing some rocks. The 14 year old girl at her mother’s grave, standing bravely, trying not to weep as her mother was laid to rest. When she was little, he could always make things "better" with a kiss on her forehead.

He hated not being able to do anything. But it was a small stone she had thrown, wasn’t it? It would be alright. Surely Romans had teenaged kids. They would let her go. He tried to reassure himself, angry that he couldn’t just go get her. He couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t work, couldn’t sleep.

“They’re bringing Ninian out!” yelled a friend, running out to his farmstead to tell him. Hoping desperately, he ran to the village, to the marketplace. He got there, as the Romans came out of their fort, pulling Ninian along with them. He tried to push through the crowd. “My daughter,” he said to people whose annoyance turned to concern and something like pity. She was being pushed through the market. Her simple dress was dirty and torn. She had a bruise on one cheek. Her hands were shackled together in front of her. A leather clad Roman was pulling her along with a chain attached to her shackles, flanked by soldiers. She looked tired and dazed.

In the centre of the marketplace was a platform, used for announcements and public punishments. The tall post in the centre of the platform stood ominously.

“Ninian!” he called desperately, not knowing what to do. She heard him.

“Papa!” she yelled, suddenly alert, “help, Papa…” A soldier cuffed the side of her face and she staggered under the blow, as she was pulled up the short steps onto the platform. The centurion stood beside her. He made an announcement, letting people know what this was about.

“Ninian of this village has been found guilty of sedition against the authority of Rome. She will be punished today for her crime, an example to all who would oppose order and the might of Rome. She will be flogged here, and will then be taken out of the town where she will hang on the cross until she is dead.”

“No!” Ninian cried. “I did nothing.”

“No!” he shouted, “You can’t!”

She struggled and argued as the leather clad man pushed her against the tall post, unshackling her hands and reshackling them to the chains hanging from the post. The crowd was louder now, sympathetic, but not moving to get themselves in trouble with the armed Romans.

He watched as the man tore the back of her dress, baring her shoulders and then tore again to pull the dress down to her waist where it hung on her hips precariously, showing the upper curve of her bottom.

“Stop this!” he shouted. “Let her go!” He tried to push toward the platform, but two of his friends held him back.

“What are you going to do?” they whispered urgently to him. “You can’t take all those soldiers on.” He looked at them desperately, knowing that they were right. He didn’t want them to be right. He should take his daughter, make her safe. That was what fathers did. Here he was, in a full marketplace with people who had known her all her life, and none of these people would help her. That’s all he saw, not people who were afraid for their own lives and families, but just people who were happy it wasn’t their son or daughter chained to the whipping post.

The first lash surprised him, it curled suddenly out and cracked against his daughter’s skin, she gasped and stiffened, her back arching and her breasts tightening as she strained up. He pulled against the restraining arms of his friends. “Let me go!” he yelled, and “Stop! No!”, but he was held back until he was sobbing at the pain Ninian was suffering.

Her back was crisscrossed with red welts and small trickles of blood by the fifth lash, and all he could do was watch, as the sixth and seventh lashes fell on her exposed back. The whip curled around her sides, cutting into the sides of her breasts as she gasped, yelped and screamed in pain. She jerked in pain with each stroke. Strokes cut into the skirt of her dress, below the waist, it slid further down her hips and finally slipped to the ground, leaving her standing bleeding and naked in front of the whole village. A couple of young men she had known since childhood whistled appreciatively as her shapely bottom was exposed, as the dark triangular patch of hair between her thighs occasionally came into view.

“No more,” she sobbed, “please…” as the lashes continued. He didn’t know how many there were. His friends said 20. He looked at his poor naked daughter, no longer standing but hanging by her chains, her back, bottom and thighs red and bleeding.

“Let her go now,” he shouted, hot tears blinding him, “please, just let her go.”

The Roman who had done the whipping went and unshackled Ninian from the post where she collapsed. She tried to push herself up, pulling up the rags of her dress, trying to cover herself, wincing and sobbing at the humiliation and pain.

“Help me,” she whimpered, “please, someone, help me. Papa.”

 

[Jollyrei]

The Father, cont.

The Roman pulled Ninian into a sitting position and helped her drape the shreds of her dress over herself, tying it roughly in place. He gave her a ladle of water from a bucket. She drank it.

As she was drinking, the Roman went to the side of the platform, picked up a heavy rough hewn beam of wood about 5 feet in length, carried it over to her and dropped it in front of her.

She stared at it without recognition. The crowd was agitated, but still did not move to rebel against the events unfolding, even as they understood that the beam was the patibulum for a cross. “Please,” she said, “I want to go home.”

Standing, still held by his friends, he could only cry, his voice hoarse now, as he croaked, “Ninian, my baby, please, let her go.”

The leather clad Roman pulled the ladle out of Ninian’s hands and pulled her into a kneeling position. Two soldiers picked up the heavy beam, and laid it on her shoulders.

She cringed as the weight of the wood pressed down on her wounded shoulders. They stretched her arms up and bound her by the elbows to the beam, forcing her to steady it. Then they lifted her to her feet. She stood swaying, in her ragged dress, under the weight of her patibulum, as the soldiers formed up around her.

He saw his daughter pulled to her feet, the rough patibulum tied to her shoulders. She was obviously in pain and very tired, but she scanned the crowd. His eyes met hers. He wondered what she must think of him, he who had told her it would be okay. The soldiers formed around her and he lost the eye contact. He saw one of them give her a prod and the procession moved forward slowly off the platform and down to the market.

He was about 10 feet away from her as she passed, not looking anywhere except the ground, placing her feet, concentrating on the weight on her shoulders as she stumbled forward, always prodded by the soldiers.

“Where are they taking her?” he asked. “What are they doing? Why is she carrying the wood?”

“Listen,” his friends said, “go home. She’s gone. Nothing you can do. We’re sorry.”

“But,” he started.

“They’re going to crucify her,” said his oldest friend sadly. “I’ve seen it in other places. They hang the person on a cross made of wood, until they die. You don’t want to see it happening to her.”

“I have to stop this,” he said. “They can’t do that to her. My daughter!” he said vehemently. He pulled away and moved after the procession of soldiers.

The crowd was big enough that he couldn’t get close. It moved slowly with Ninian and her escort. Up ahead, he caught glimpses of her patibulum swaying, once or twice the whole crowd stopped, as someone laughed and said, “she fell again,” or something. People who knew her, he thought, laughing that she was falling down, carrying a heavy beam that would kill her.

The procession and crowd slowly moved out of the town, and started up a small hill. He saw that at the top of the hill, another post had been erected. He had a chilling feeling that this was where they were going. This was where they were conducting his daughter. He saw her up ahead, surrounded by four soldiers. Other soldiers were doing crowd control. The crowd was making noises like they didn’t approve. There were murmurs of sympathy and sadness about Ninian’s eventual fate. “Poor girl,” he heard from one woman. But nobody moved to rescue her.

“She’s fallen again,” said someone.

He pushed forward, elbowing his way through the crowd, making it to where the soldiers were. They were cutting the patibulum off Ninian’s shoulders. She lay heaving deep breaths on the ground, unable to carry the heavy beam any further. A soldier saw him forcing his way through and laughing said, “Here, this guy really wants to get to the top. He can carry it.”

He was grabbed by the soldiers. “Ninian,” he cried out, “Papa’s here! Let go of me you Roman bastard,” he growled, trying to get to his daughter.

The soldier hit him with the butt of his spear. “None of your insolence, Gaul. We can always find another cross. Meanwhile, you will carry hers, or get a taste of the whip.”

They forced him to pick up the beam. It was easy for him. As he lifted it, Ninian looked up, her tired, sad, frightened look piercing him to the heart. She didn’t say anything.

“I’m here,” he said to her. It felt futile.

“Move,” said the soldier in charge. He never did learn the Roman ranks.

The whip flicked him lightly across the shoulder, just enough to surprise and sting. He started walking up the hill, carrying the beam over one shoulder. He wondered how many Romans he could hurt or kill with it before they killed him. Not a good plan.

Behind him, Ninian was dragged to her feet, and without her burden, she shuffled forward up the hill behind her father, who didn’t seem to know he was carrying the instrument of her death.

He reached the top, where he found three men waiting. Grim looking men wearing aprons. Romans again. They directed him to drop the beam at the base of the post, which he did. Two of them immediately tied ropes around it and slung them up over the post.

The rest of the procession was right behind him, the four soldiers at the front cresting the top, with Ninian stumbling forward. She saw the tall post, and stopped, shrinking back. He thought she looked like she was saying something, but there was no mistaking the fear in her eyes. One of the soldiers prodded her with a spear butt and she staggered forward. Finally, the procession came to a stop in front of the upright post. The three grim Romans were standing by the post waiting, while soldiers set up a perimeter around the hilltop, preventing the crowd from encroaching.

He decided he had had enough of this. He strode forward, grasped Ninian by the shoulder and pulled her to him. She cried out as his embrace inflamed her scourged back, but melted into what had always been the safety of her father’s arms. She broke down and sobbed. “Stop them, Papa,” she cried. “Please, don’t let them…”

The Romans seemed taken by surprise, as he gathered Ninian against him and started to move quickly to the perimeter. “That’s enough!” he growled. “I’m taking her home, see. Now, get out of our way!” He reached the perimeter. A few people in the crowd started a cheer, as they watched him apparently just take his daughter and leave.

A well swung spear butt took his legs out from under him. Another swing against his head, and he was stunned. Two soldiers, grabbed him before he recovered, pulled Ninian from his arms, and threw him outside the perimeter of soldiers, out into the crowd.

Friendly hands caught him. “Here, give him a drink. Lucky he wasn’t crucified as well. At least he tried, brave fellow!” He spluttered on the mead they gave him, and staggered to his feet. Ninian! Where was she?

He heard her crying, “No, please, no. I didn’t do anything, I’m not a rebel, stop.”

She was being pulled back toward the upright post, and held finally to stand in front of the officer Roman. The crowd quieted down, as they watched the crying girl, watching as the officer unrolled a scroll.

In a clear voice, so the crowd could hear, the officer said, “The woman, Ninian, standing here, has been tried and found guilty of sedition, and sentenced to die. Let her death be an example of what happens to those who oppose the might of Rome.”

Two of the grim looking romans came forward from the upright, and took Ninian from the soldiers. “No,” she cried, “please, no.”

She struggled as they held her arms and tore her dress from her again. The two men tore the ragged cloth away from the struggling girl until she stood naked. They left her dress lying on the ground as they pulled her back toward the upright. She staggered backward.

One of them kicked her feet out from under her and she was pulled down onto her back on the grass.

“No,” her father shouted hoarsely from the crowd. “Let her go. Stop.”

He watched as the two men stretched her arms up above her head, binding her forearms to the patibulum. Then one of the men grasped her ankles while the other held down her left wrist on the wood. Ninian struggled, stretched naked on the ground for everyone to see, as the third Roman knelt down holding a heavy hammer and a 6 inch square tapered spike. She increased her futile struggles and loud cries of terror, as he placed the spike to her slim wrist.

“NO! I’m sorry. I won’t do it again. No, please, NO!”

The father watched as the hammer came down. He heard the sound of the contact with the nail. Ninian’s naked body arched as the nail went through her wrist, and she screamed.

He wanted to leave. He didn’t want to see this. He didn’t want to hear her scream and cry out. He couldn’t tear himself away.

He pushed forward against the soldiers at the perimeter as his daughter’s cries pierced the morning air and the sound of the hammer told of the firm seating of the nail affixing his little girl to the wood.

“Stop, Roman bastards, stop!” He was beaten back again by the soldiers, and finally held by some other men in the crowd to save him from getting himself in more trouble. Helplessly he watched the Roman place the second spike at his daughter’s other wrist. She was shaking her head from side to side, delirious in her pain, as the hammer came down, crushing the other wrist. Again she tensed and arched against the man holding her ankles, howling like an animal as the nail was hammered home.

They let go of her legs then and she lay splayed out, covered in sweat, as they went to her and pulled her up into a sitting position, crying as she was lifted by the nails in her wrists. Then they lifted the patibulum up, dragging her to her feet.

He found himself sobbing as they pulled her, staggering backward to the upright, and with the help of the ropes lifted her up off her feet, fixing the patibulum finally at the top of the upright. “No,” he cried. “My daughter. My baby.”

He watched as they bound his daughter’s legs splayed open with the soles of her feet flat against the wood of the upright, as she hung from her arms, gasping and whimpering. Her legs thus open, her whole body, breasts stomach, and her private parts, framed by the thatch of dark hair, were on display. He was appalled at the obscenity being forced on her. Her feet bound, she was able to push up slightly, which she did, to catch a breath and finally take the weight off the nails in her wrists.

As she did so, the executioner placed a third spike at the instep of her right foot and hammered it into the flesh. He stared in shock, as he watched his daughter collapse on the cross, screaming again, as the merciless Roman hammered the nail through the foot into the wood. He collapsed sobbing again as the process was repeated on the other foot. He thought he would never stop hearing his daughter’s screams.

When he looked up, the Romans were breaking up the perimeter, and setting a contingent to guard the cross. Ninian was hanging crucified, her once beautiful hair matted to her face, eyes red from crying, wincing and gasping in pain and the effort to breathe. Some of the young boys from the town were taking the time to view the naked girl on display. He roused himself and chased them away, expending more rage than he normally would, and getting some laughs from the soldiers.

He launched himself at the cross then, pulling with his hands at the nails in his daughter’s foot, crying how he would save her. He didn’t see Ninian looking down her naked body at him, crying in despair over her shame, and almost sympathy at the impotence her father felt at not being able to help her.

A Roman officer finally wandered over and hit him with a truncheon, sending him onto his back. He lay there and howled out his grief and anger at his his weakness and inability to protect or help his only child.

“Papa,” she cried.

He dragged himself to reality. He saw her struggling through her agony to speak again. “Papa, please.”

He went to her and touched her foot gently, still crying. “Oh, Ninian,” he sobbed. “I failed you. I should have died, rather than let them do this to you.”

He looked up at her, displayed in her lewd crouch on the cross, thighs spread wide, exposed and vulnerable. He looked away, embarrassed by where his gaze had been, but not before he noticed the stains of dried blood and other dried stains around her vulva and upper thighs. She saw where he was looking, and blushed with shame.

“Don’t look,” she gasped, struggling to raise herself and close her legs a little. “Don’t see me like this.” She tried to straighten her legs, but could only go so high, never getting her legs quite straight because of the way her feet were nailed to the stipes. She cried out in pain and frustration. “Don’t…see me…like this,” she sobbed out.

“They raped you,” he said. “I told them not to hurt you, and they raped you.” As if him telling the Romans to do something should have had some effect.

“I think that might…be the…least…of our worries now,” she said, straining with the effort of holding herself up, and breathing deep gulps of air. “Won’t need…husband…now.”

He looked at her in shock, tears welling up again. “Oh, Ninian…”

“Joke, Papa,” she gasped. “My last joke.”

“I wanted to protect you,” he said. “I failed.”

“No, Papa,” she said. “Would…still…be…here. Even if…you died…to save me. Now I will die…for throwing…one small stone.”

He broke down then again. “Oh my baby. My sweet little girl.”

They left him there. Gradually as the day wore on, hour by hour, Ninian was no longer as vigorous at moving on the cross, her strength ebbing away. The pain drove her into a stupor, the boys got their fill of the tormented pretty naked woman, and the rest of the crowd moved away as well. The show was mostly over, and the villagers left, not wanting to be associated with allowing the death of one of their people, possibly embarrassed that they were too afraid for their own lives to have bothered to help her. He was left alone, keeping his grief-filled vigil at the base of the cross, watching the blood trickle down her arms, and run down her feet down the stipes of the cross, watching his daughter die, inch by inch, not even able to soothe her pain.

Once, the Romans let him give his daughter some water soaked into a sponge. They looked at him in disgust, the father of a rebel whore. He held the sponge to her lips on a stick, and she sucked the water gratefully. She even thanked him. He felt exhausted, futile. He told her so.

“No,” she gasped, “don’t go. Don’t want…die…alone.”

The soldiers lit a fire at night. It cast odd shadows over Ninian on her cross, unable to sleep, hardly awake. Her moans letting him know she was alive. She had not looked up to recognize him since just before sundown. Her effort was all in conserving the last few hours of life she had. He didn’t go to the fire, and he doubted it would warm him anyway. He preferred the cold in his misery, watching his child’s life drain away.

At dawn, he shuddered awake from a fitful unconsciousness, back to the nightmare reality.

Ninian was taking shallow breathes, and her eyes seemed dim as she saw him. A small flicker of recognition. “Water,” she whispered. He got the sponge and lifted it to her parched lips. She struggled up, groaning and crying from the pain of the nails and the effort to catch a breath of cool air. Then she cried out as her leg cramped and slumped back in the horrible crouch, too tired now to be ashamed of her nakedness.

“Ninian,” he said sadly.

“So much…pain…Papa,” she whispered, trying to catch another breath.

She sagged, hanging now from her arms. She couldn’t seem to push on her legs. She tried and failed, sinking back exhausted, a tear running down her face. “Papa…love…” she said.

“I love you, baby,” he said.

“So sorry,” she gasped and her head slumped forward. “Can’t…”

“It’s okay,” he said to her, feeling the grief of loss, knowing these were the last moments of the life of his daughter. “Go to where your mother is. Have peace.”

“Oh,” she said, and almost smiled. She didn’t speak or raise her head again. Half an hour later, she twitched and gave a sigh, her body shuddering. Then she stopped breathing altogether.

The Centurion let him have the body. The executioners took the nails out and dropped Ninian’s body to the ground like a sack. He gathered her to his arms and held her limp naked body, rocking her against him, numb, wondering what to do now.

Finally he wrapped her in a sheet to carry her home. He brushed her matted hair from her face, and kissed her on the forehead. This time, it didn’t make things better.

FIN.

 

[Barbaria1]

Whewwwww. Wonderfully written, perfectly paced, provocative theme, REALLY WELL DONE!

 

[phlebas]

Jolly, as a father of a daughter this one has hit me, hard.
Take that as a compliment. That's all I can really say right now.

 

[Deleted member jedakk]

Yes, what Phlebas said. I have a grown daughter too, and as well-written as this is, it was really, really hard to read. All we want to do is protect them, not let anything bad happen to them. Truly heartbreaking. which means you captured the story well.

 

[jacksjg89]

Beautiful story. Love the emotion, the impotent fight, and the reluctant acceptance. I feel the love in this story. However, not having a daughter I could relate this too, it was still very erotic. I think the eroticism would be less so otherwise.

 

[old slave]

Phew!!
Also have a daughter and she would thrown that stone.
Also like to think I would have behaved like that father, done my best, but in the face of that authority, it would not have been easy, would I have had the courage? Would I have taken my friend's advice that "You don’t want to see it happening to her" and stayed away?
So many stories here on CF raise such emotional personal questions.

 

[Loxuru]

Good story! The most striking is the disproportion between the offense and the punishment.
Clearly : "Who is not with us, is our enemy!"
A warning from history as an underlying message?

 

[Wragg]

The Father, cont.

The Roman pulled Ninian into a sitting position and helped her drape the shreds of her dress over herself, tying it roughly in place. He gave her a ladle of water from a bucket. She drank it.

As she was drinking, the Roman went to the side of the platform, picked up a heavy rough hewn beam of wood about 5 feet in length, carried it over to her and dropped it in front of her.

She stared at it without recognition. The crowd was agitated, but still did not move to rebel against the events unfolding, even as they understood that the beam was the patibulum for a cross. “Please,” she said, “I want to go home.”

Standing, still held by his friends, he could only cry, his voice hoarse now, as he croaked, “Ninian, my baby, please, let her go.”

The leather clad Roman pulled the ladle out of Ninian’s hands and pulled her into a kneeling position. Two soldiers picked up the heavy beam, and laid it on her shoulders.

She cringed as the weight of the wood pressed down on her wounded shoulders. They stretched her arms up and bound her by the elbows to the beam, forcing her to steady it. Then they lifted her to her feet. She stood swaying, in her ragged dress, under the weight of her patibulum, as the soldiers formed up around her.

He saw his daughter pulled to her feet, the rough patibulum tied to her shoulders. She was obviously in pain and very tired, but she scanned the crowd. His eyes met hers. He wondered what she must think of him, he who had told her it would be okay. The soldiers formed around her and he lost the eye contact. He saw one of them give her a prod and the procession moved forward slowly off the platform and down to the market.

He was about 10 feet away from her as she passed, not looking anywhere except the ground, placing her feet, concentrating on the weight on her shoulders as she stumbled forward, always prodded by the soldiers.

“Where are they taking her?” he asked. “What are they doing? Why is she carrying the wood?”

“Listen,” his friends said, “go home. She’s gone. Nothing you can do. We’re sorry.”

“But,” he started.

“They’re going to crucify her,” said his oldest friend sadly. “I’ve seen it in other places. They hang the person on a cross made of wood, until they die. You don’t want to see it happening to her.”

“I have to stop this,” he said. “They can’t do that to her. My daughter!” he said vehemently. He pulled away and moved after the procession of soldiers.

The crowd was big enough that he couldn’t get close. It moved slowly with Ninian and her escort. Up ahead, he caught glimpses of her patibulum swaying, once or twice the whole crowd stopped, as someone laughed and said, “she fell again,” or something. People who knew her, he thought, laughing that she was falling down, carrying a heavy beam that would kill her.

The procession and crowd slowly moved out of the town, and started up a small hill. He saw that at the top of the hill, another post had been erected. He had a chilling feeling that this was where they were going. This was where they were conducting his daughter. He saw her up ahead, surrounded by four soldiers. Other soldiers were doing crowd control. The crowd was making noises like they didn’t approve. There were murmurs of sympathy and sadness about Ninian’s eventual fate. “Poor girl,” he heard from one woman. But nobody moved to rescue her.

“She’s fallen again,” said someone.

He pushed forward, elbowing his way through the crowd, making it to where the soldiers were. They were cutting the patibulum off Ninian’s shoulders. She lay heaving deep breaths on the ground, unable to carry the heavy beam any further. A soldier saw him forcing his way through and laughing said, “Here, this guy really wants to get to the top. He can carry it.”

He was grabbed by the soldiers. “Ninian,” he cried out, “Papa’s here! Let go of me you Roman bastard,” he growled, trying to get to his daughter.

The soldier hit him with the butt of his spear. “None of your insolence, Gaul. We can always find another cross. Meanwhile, you will carry hers, or get a taste of the whip.”

They forced him to pick up the beam. It was easy for him. As he lifted it, Ninian looked up, her tired, sad, frightened look piercing him to the heart. She didn’t say anything.

“I’m here,” he said to her. It felt futile.

“Move,” said the soldier in charge. He never did learn the Roman ranks.

The whip flicked him lightly across the shoulder, just enough to surprise and sting. He started walking up the hill, carrying the beam over one shoulder. He wondered how many Romans he could hurt or kill with it before they killed him. Not a good plan.

Behind him, Ninian was dragged to her feet, and without her burden, she shuffled forward up the hill behind her father, who didn’t seem to know he was carrying the instrument of her death.

He reached the top, where he found three men waiting. Grim looking men wearing aprons. Romans again. They directed him to drop the beam at the base of the post, which he did. Two of them immediately tied ropes around it and slung them up over the post.

The rest of the procession was right behind him, the four soldiers at the front cresting the top, with Ninian stumbling forward. She saw the tall post, and stopped, shrinking back. He thought she looked like she was saying something, but there was no mistaking the fear in her eyes. One of the soldiers prodded her with a spear butt and she staggered forward. Finally, the procession came to a stop in front of the upright post. The three grim Romans were standing by the post waiting, while soldiers set up a perimeter around the hilltop, preventing the crowd from encroaching.

He decided he had had enough of this. He strode forward, grasped Ninian by the shoulder and pulled her to him. She cried out as his embrace inflamed her scourged back, but melted into what had always been the safety of her father’s arms. She broke down and sobbed. “Stop them, Papa,” she cried. “Please, don’t let them…”

The Romans seemed taken by surprise, as he gathered Ninian against him and started to move quickly to the perimeter. “That’s enough!” he growled. “I’m taking her home, see. Now, get out of our way!” He reached the perimeter. A few people in the crowd started a cheer, as they watched him apparently just take his daughter and leave.

A well swung spear butt took his legs out from under him. Another swing against his head, and he was stunned. Two soldiers, grabbed him before he recovered, pulled Ninian from his arms, and threw him outside the perimeter of soldiers, out into the crowd.

Friendly hands caught him. “Here, give him a drink. Lucky he wasn’t crucified as well. At least he tried, brave fellow!” He spluttered on the mead they gave him, and staggered to his feet. Ninian! Where was she?

He heard her crying, “No, please, no. I didn’t do anything, I’m not a rebel, stop.”

She was being pulled back toward the upright post, and held finally to stand in front of the officer Roman. The crowd quieted down, as they watched the crying girl, watching as the officer unrolled a scroll.

In a clear voice, so the crowd could hear, the officer said, “The woman, Ninian, standing here, has been tried and found guilty of sedition, and sentenced to die. Let her death be an example of what happens to those who oppose the might of Rome.”

Two of the grim looking romans came forward from the upright, and took Ninian from the soldiers. “No,” she cried, “please, no.”

She struggled as they held her arms and tore her dress from her again. The two men tore the ragged cloth away from the struggling girl until she stood naked. They left her dress lying on the ground as they pulled her back toward the upright. She staggered backward.

One of them kicked her feet out from under her and she was pulled down onto her back on the grass.

“No,” her father shouted hoarsely from the crowd. “Let her go. Stop.”

He watched as the two men stretched her arms up above her head, binding her forearms to the patibulum. Then one of the men grasped her ankles while the other held down her left wrist on the wood. Ninian struggled, stretched naked on the ground for everyone to see, as the third Roman knelt down holding a heavy hammer and a 6 inch square tapered spike. She increased her futile struggles and loud cries of terror, as he placed the spike to her slim wrist.

“NO! I’m sorry. I won’t do it again. No, please, NO!”

The father watched as the hammer came down. He heard the sound of the contact with the nail. Ninian’s naked body arched as the nail went through her wrist, and she screamed.

He wanted to leave. He didn’t want to see this. He didn’t want to hear her scream and cry out. He couldn’t tear himself away.

He pushed forward against the soldiers at the perimeter as his daughter’s cries pierced the morning air and the sound of the hammer told of the firm seating of the nail affixing his little girl to the wood.

“Stop, Roman bastards, stop!” He was beaten back again by the soldiers, and finally held by some other men in the crowd to save him from getting himself in more trouble. Helplessly he watched the Roman place the second spike at his daughter’s other wrist. She was shaking her head from side to side, delirious in her pain, as the hammer came down, crushing the other wrist. Again she tensed and arched against the man holding her ankles, howling like an animal as the nail was hammered home.

They let go of her legs then and she lay splayed out, covered in sweat, as they went to her and pulled her up into a sitting position, crying as she was lifted by the nails in her wrists. Then they lifted the patibulum up, dragging her to her feet.

He found himself sobbing as they pulled her, staggering backward to the upright, and with the help of the ropes lifted her up off her feet, fixing the patibulum finally at the top of the upright. “No,” he cried. “My daughter. My baby.”

He watched as they bound his daughter’s legs splayed open with the soles of her feet flat against the wood of the upright, as she hung from her arms, gasping and whimpering. Her legs thus open, her whole body, breasts stomach, and her private parts, framed by the thatch of dark hair, were on display. He was appalled at the obscenity being forced on her. Her feet bound, she was able to push up slightly, which she did, to catch a breath and finally take the weight off the nails in her wrists.

As she did so, the executioner placed a third spike at the instep of her right foot and hammered it into the flesh. He stared in shock, as he watched his daughter collapse on the cross, screaming again, as the merciless Roman hammered the nail through the foot into the wood. He collapsed sobbing again as the process was repeated on the other foot. He thought he would never stop hearing his daughter’s screams.

When he looked up, the Romans were breaking up the perimeter, and setting a contingent to guard the cross. Ninian was hanging crucified, her once beautiful hair matted to her face, eyes red from crying, wincing and gasping in pain and the effort to breathe. Some of the young boys from the town were taking the time to view the naked girl on display. He roused himself and chased them away, expending more rage than he normally would, and getting some laughs from the soldiers.

He launched himself at the cross then, pulling with his hands at the nails in his daughter’s foot, crying how he would save her. He didn’t see Ninian looking down her naked body at him, crying in despair over her shame, and almost sympathy at the impotence her father felt at not being able to help her.

A Roman officer finally wandered over and hit him with a truncheon, sending him onto his back. He lay there and howled out his grief and anger at his his weakness and inability to protect or help his only child.

“Papa,” she cried.

He dragged himself to reality. He saw her struggling through her agony to speak again. “Papa, please.”

He went to her and touched her foot gently, still crying. “Oh, Ninian,” he sobbed. “I failed you. I should have died, rather than let them do this to you.”

He looked up at her, displayed in her lewd crouch on the cross, thighs spread wide, exposed and vulnerable. He looked away, embarrassed by where his gaze had been, but not before he noticed the stains of dried blood and other dried stains around her vulva and upper thighs. She saw where he was looking, and blushed with shame.

“Don’t look,” she gasped, struggling to raise herself and close her legs a little. “Don’t see me like this.” She tried to straighten her legs, but could only go so high, never getting her legs quite straight because of the way her feet were nailed to the stipes. She cried out in pain and frustration. “Don’t…see me…like this,” she sobbed out.

“They raped you,” he said. “I told them not to hurt you, and they raped you.” As if him telling the Romans to do something should have had some effect.

“I think that might…be the…least…of our worries now,” she said, straining with the effort of holding herself up, and breathing deep gulps of air. “Won’t need…husband…now.”

He looked at her in shock, tears welling up again. “Oh, Ninian…”

“Joke, Papa,” she gasped. “My last joke.”

“I wanted to protect you,” he said. “I failed.”

“No, Papa,” she said. “Would…still…be…here. Even if…you died…to save me. Now I will die…for throwing…one small stone.”

He broke down then again. “Oh my baby. My sweet little girl.”

They left him there. Gradually as the day wore on, hour by hour, Ninian was no longer as vigorous at moving on the cross, her strength ebbing away. The pain drove her into a stupor, the boys got their fill of the tormented pretty naked woman, and the rest of the crowd moved away as well. The show was mostly over, and the villagers left, not wanting to be associated with allowing the death of one of their people, possibly embarrassed that they were too afraid for their own lives to have bothered to help her. He was left alone, keeping his grief-filled vigil at the base of the cross, watching the blood trickle down her arms, and run down her feet down the stipes of the cross, watching his daughter die, inch by inch, not even able to soothe her pain.

Once, the Romans let him give his daughter some water soaked into a sponge. They looked at him in disgust, the father of a rebel whore. He held the sponge to her lips on a stick, and she sucked the water gratefully. She even thanked him. He felt exhausted, futile. He told her so.

“No,” she gasped, “don’t go. Don’t want…die…alone.”

The soldiers lit a fire at night. It cast odd shadows over Ninian on her cross, unable to sleep, hardly awake. Her moans letting him know she was alive. She had not looked up to recognize him since just before sundown. Her effort was all in conserving the last few hours of life she had. He didn’t go to the fire, and he doubted it would warm him anyway. He preferred the cold in his misery, watching his child’s life drain away.

At dawn, he shuddered awake from a fitful unconsciousness, back to the nightmare reality.

Ninian was taking shallow breathes, and her eyes seemed dim as she saw him. A small flicker of recognition. “Water,” she whispered. He got the sponge and lifted it to her parched lips. She struggled up, groaning and crying from the pain of the nails and the effort to catch a breath of cool air. Then she cried out as her leg cramped and slumped back in the horrible crouch, too tired now to be ashamed of her nakedness.

“Ninian,” he said sadly.

“So much…pain…Papa,” she whispered, trying to catch another breath.

She sagged, hanging now from her arms. She couldn’t seem to push on her legs. She tried and failed, sinking back exhausted, a tear running down her face. “Papa…love…” she said.

“I love you, baby,” he said.

“So sorry,” she gasped and her head slumped forward. “Can’t…”

“It’s okay,” he said to her, feeling the grief of loss, knowing these were the last moments of the life of his daughter. “Go to where your mother is. Have peace.”

“Oh,” she said, and almost smiled. She didn’t speak or raise her head again. Half an hour later, she twitched and gave a sigh, her body shuddering. Then she stopped breathing altogether.

The Centurion let him have the body. The executioners took the nails out and dropped Ninian’s body to the ground like a sack. He gathered her to his arms and held her limp naked body, rocking her against him, numb, wondering what to do now.

Finally he wrapped her in a sheet to carry her home. He brushed her matted hair from her face, and kissed her on the forehead. This time, it didn’t make things better.

FIN.

Jollyrei..... words fail me.... incredibly difficult to write and to read, but immensely powerful. You reach down into the depths of emotion.

Sometimes we make light of crucifixion on here, maybe we have to. Maybe we have to have that balance between the reality of a terrible method of execution and our fantasies. But, in the final analysis, it is the dread, the terror and the humiliation of the cross that fascinates us. The awful inevitability of the bloody drama of crucifixion. Once sentence has been passed, and the mighty power of the Roman machine creaks into action, even the depth of a father's love for his daughter is powerless to stop it. His bravest efforts are as impotent as throwing himself against a wall, and, in the end, he has no choice but to watch them torture his daughter to death.

Very, very well written indeed. I congratulate you, sir.

 

[xso]

The Father, cont.

The Roman pulled Ninian into a sitting position and helped her drape the shreds of her dress over herself, tying it roughly in place. He gave her a ladle of water from a bucket. She drank it.

As she was drinking, the Roman went to the side of the platform, picked up a heavy rough hewn beam of wood about 5 feet in length, carried it over to her and dropped it in front of her.

She stared at it without recognition. The crowd was agitated, but still did not move to rebel against the events unfolding, even as they understood that the beam was the patibulum for a cross. “Please,” she said, “I want to go home.”

Standing, still held by his friends, he could only cry, his voice hoarse now, as he croaked, “Ninian, my baby, please, let her go.”

The leather clad Roman pulled the ladle out of Ninian’s hands and pulled her into a kneeling position. Two soldiers picked up the heavy beam, and laid it on her shoulders.

She cringed as the weight of the wood pressed down on her wounded shoulders. They stretched her arms up and bound her by the elbows to the beam, forcing her to steady it. Then they lifted her to her feet. She stood swaying, in her ragged dress, under the weight of her patibulum, as the soldiers formed up around her.

He saw his daughter pulled to her feet, the rough patibulum tied to her shoulders. She was obviously in pain and very tired, but she scanned the crowd. His eyes met hers. He wondered what she must think of him, he who had told her it would be okay. The soldiers formed around her and he lost the eye contact. He saw one of them give her a prod and the procession moved forward slowly off the platform and down to the market.

He was about 10 feet away from her as she passed, not looking anywhere except the ground, placing her feet, concentrating on the weight on her shoulders as she stumbled forward, always prodded by the soldiers.

“Where are they taking her?” he asked. “What are they doing? Why is she carrying the wood?”

“Listen,” his friends said, “go home. She’s gone. Nothing you can do. We’re sorry.”

“But,” he started.

“They’re going to crucify her,” said his oldest friend sadly. “I’ve seen it in other places. They hang the person on a cross made of wood, until they die. You don’t want to see it happening to her.”

“I have to stop this,” he said. “They can’t do that to her. My daughter!” he said vehemently. He pulled away and moved after the procession of soldiers.

The crowd was big enough that he couldn’t get close. It moved slowly with Ninian and her escort. Up ahead, he caught glimpses of her patibulum swaying, once or twice the whole crowd stopped, as someone laughed and said, “she fell again,” or something. People who knew her, he thought, laughing that she was falling down, carrying a heavy beam that would kill her.

The procession and crowd slowly moved out of the town, and started up a small hill. He saw that at the top of the hill, another post had been erected. He had a chilling feeling that this was where they were going. This was where they were conducting his daughter. He saw her up ahead, surrounded by four soldiers. Other soldiers were doing crowd control. The crowd was making noises like they didn’t approve. There were murmurs of sympathy and sadness about Ninian’s eventual fate. “Poor girl,” he heard from one woman. But nobody moved to rescue her.

“She’s fallen again,” said someone.

He pushed forward, elbowing his way through the crowd, making it to where the soldiers were. They were cutting the patibulum off Ninian’s shoulders. She lay heaving deep breaths on the ground, unable to carry the heavy beam any further. A soldier saw him forcing his way through and laughing said, “Here, this guy really wants to get to the top. He can carry it.”

He was grabbed by the soldiers. “Ninian,” he cried out, “Papa’s here! Let go of me you Roman bastard,” he growled, trying to get to his daughter.

The soldier hit him with the butt of his spear. “None of your insolence, Gaul. We can always find another cross. Meanwhile, you will carry hers, or get a taste of the whip.”

They forced him to pick up the beam. It was easy for him. As he lifted it, Ninian looked up, her tired, sad, frightened look piercing him to the heart. She didn’t say anything.

“I’m here,” he said to her. It felt futile.

“Move,” said the soldier in charge. He never did learn the Roman ranks.

The whip flicked him lightly across the shoulder, just enough to surprise and sting. He started walking up the hill, carrying the beam over one shoulder. He wondered how many Romans he could hurt or kill with it before they killed him. Not a good plan.

Behind him, Ninian was dragged to her feet, and without her burden, she shuffled forward up the hill behind her father, who didn’t seem to know he was carrying the instrument of her death.

He reached the top, where he found three men waiting. Grim looking men wearing aprons. Romans again. They directed him to drop the beam at the base of the post, which he did. Two of them immediately tied ropes around it and slung them up over the post.

The rest of the procession was right behind him, the four soldiers at the front cresting the top, with Ninian stumbling forward. She saw the tall post, and stopped, shrinking back. He thought she looked like she was saying something, but there was no mistaking the fear in her eyes. One of the soldiers prodded her with a spear butt and she staggered forward. Finally, the procession came to a stop in front of the upright post. The three grim Romans were standing by the post waiting, while soldiers set up a perimeter around the hilltop, preventing the crowd from encroaching.

He decided he had had enough of this. He strode forward, grasped Ninian by the shoulder and pulled her to him. She cried out as his embrace inflamed her scourged back, but melted into what had always been the safety of her father’s arms. She broke down and sobbed. “Stop them, Papa,” she cried. “Please, don’t let them…”

The Romans seemed taken by surprise, as he gathered Ninian against him and started to move quickly to the perimeter. “That’s enough!” he growled. “I’m taking her home, see. Now, get out of our way!” He reached the perimeter. A few people in the crowd started a cheer, as they watched him apparently just take his daughter and leave.

A well swung spear butt took his legs out from under him. Another swing against his head, and he was stunned. Two soldiers, grabbed him before he recovered, pulled Ninian from his arms, and threw him outside the perimeter of soldiers, out into the crowd.

Friendly hands caught him. “Here, give him a drink. Lucky he wasn’t crucified as well. At least he tried, brave fellow!” He spluttered on the mead they gave him, and staggered to his feet. Ninian! Where was she?

He heard her crying, “No, please, no. I didn’t do anything, I’m not a rebel, stop.”

She was being pulled back toward the upright post, and held finally to stand in front of the officer Roman. The crowd quieted down, as they watched the crying girl, watching as the officer unrolled a scroll.

In a clear voice, so the crowd could hear, the officer said, “The woman, Ninian, standing here, has been tried and found guilty of sedition, and sentenced to die. Let her death be an example of what happens to those who oppose the might of Rome.”

Two of the grim looking romans came forward from the upright, and took Ninian from the soldiers. “No,” she cried, “please, no.”

She struggled as they held her arms and tore her dress from her again. The two men tore the ragged cloth away from the struggling girl until she stood naked. They left her dress lying on the ground as they pulled her back toward the upright. She staggered backward.

One of them kicked her feet out from under her and she was pulled down onto her back on the grass.

“No,” her father shouted hoarsely from the crowd. “Let her go. Stop.”

He watched as the two men stretched her arms up above her head, binding her forearms to the patibulum. Then one of the men grasped her ankles while the other held down her left wrist on the wood. Ninian struggled, stretched naked on the ground for everyone to see, as the third Roman knelt down holding a heavy hammer and a 6 inch square tapered spike. She increased her futile struggles and loud cries of terror, as he placed the spike to her slim wrist.

“NO! I’m sorry. I won’t do it again. No, please, NO!”

The father watched as the hammer came down. He heard the sound of the contact with the nail. Ninian’s naked body arched as the nail went through her wrist, and she screamed.

He wanted to leave. He didn’t want to see this. He didn’t want to hear her scream and cry out. He couldn’t tear himself away.

He pushed forward against the soldiers at the perimeter as his daughter’s cries pierced the morning air and the sound of the hammer told of the firm seating of the nail affixing his little girl to the wood.

“Stop, Roman bastards, stop!” He was beaten back again by the soldiers, and finally held by some other men in the crowd to save him from getting himself in more trouble. Helplessly he watched the Roman place the second spike at his daughter’s other wrist. She was shaking her head from side to side, delirious in her pain, as the hammer came down, crushing the other wrist. Again she tensed and arched against the man holding her ankles, howling like an animal as the nail was hammered home.

They let go of her legs then and she lay splayed out, covered in sweat, as they went to her and pulled her up into a sitting position, crying as she was lifted by the nails in her wrists. Then they lifted the patibulum up, dragging her to her feet.

He found himself sobbing as they pulled her, staggering backward to the upright, and with the help of the ropes lifted her up off her feet, fixing the patibulum finally at the top of the upright. “No,” he cried. “My daughter. My baby.”

He watched as they bound his daughter’s legs splayed open with the soles of her feet flat against the wood of the upright, as she hung from her arms, gasping and whimpering. Her legs thus open, her whole body, breasts stomach, and her private parts, framed by the thatch of dark hair, were on display. He was appalled at the obscenity being forced on her. Her feet bound, she was able to push up slightly, which she did, to catch a breath and finally take the weight off the nails in her wrists.

As she did so, the executioner placed a third spike at the instep of her right foot and hammered it into the flesh. He stared in shock, as he watched his daughter collapse on the cross, screaming again, as the merciless Roman hammered the nail through the foot into the wood. He collapsed sobbing again as the process was repeated on the other foot. He thought he would never stop hearing his daughter’s screams.

When he looked up, the Romans were breaking up the perimeter, and setting a contingent to guard the cross. Ninian was hanging crucified, her once beautiful hair matted to her face, eyes red from crying, wincing and gasping in pain and the effort to breathe. Some of the young boys from the town were taking the time to view the naked girl on display. He roused himself and chased them away, expending more rage than he normally would, and getting some laughs from the soldiers.

He launched himself at the cross then, pulling with his hands at the nails in his daughter’s foot, crying how he would save her. He didn’t see Ninian looking down her naked body at him, crying in despair over her shame, and almost sympathy at the impotence her father felt at not being able to help her.

A Roman officer finally wandered over and hit him with a truncheon, sending him onto his back. He lay there and howled out his grief and anger at his his weakness and inability to protect or help his only child.

“Papa,” she cried.

He dragged himself to reality. He saw her struggling through her agony to speak again. “Papa, please.”

He went to her and touched her foot gently, still crying. “Oh, Ninian,” he sobbed. “I failed you. I should have died, rather than let them do this to you.”

He looked up at her, displayed in her lewd crouch on the cross, thighs spread wide, exposed and vulnerable. He looked away, embarrassed by where his gaze had been, but not before he noticed the stains of dried blood and other dried stains around her vulva and upper thighs. She saw where he was looking, and blushed with shame.

“Don’t look,” she gasped, struggling to raise herself and close her legs a little. “Don’t see me like this.” She tried to straighten her legs, but could only go so high, never getting her legs quite straight because of the way her feet were nailed to the stipes. She cried out in pain and frustration. “Don’t…see me…like this,” she sobbed out.

“They raped you,” he said. “I told them not to hurt you, and they raped you.” As if him telling the Romans to do something should have had some effect.

“I think that might…be the…least…of our worries now,” she said, straining with the effort of holding herself up, and breathing deep gulps of air. “Won’t need…husband…now.”

He looked at her in shock, tears welling up again. “Oh, Ninian…”

“Joke, Papa,” she gasped. “My last joke.”

“I wanted to protect you,” he said. “I failed.”

“No, Papa,” she said. “Would…still…be…here. Even if…you died…to save me. Now I will die…for throwing…one small stone.”

He broke down then again. “Oh my baby. My sweet little girl.”

They left him there. Gradually as the day wore on, hour by hour, Ninian was no longer as vigorous at moving on the cross, her strength ebbing away. The pain drove her into a stupor, the boys got their fill of the tormented pretty naked woman, and the rest of the crowd moved away as well. The show was mostly over, and the villagers left, not wanting to be associated with allowing the death of one of their people, possibly embarrassed that they were too afraid for their own lives to have bothered to help her. He was left alone, keeping his grief-filled vigil at the base of the cross, watching the blood trickle down her arms, and run down her feet down the stipes of the cross, watching his daughter die, inch by inch, not even able to soothe her pain.

Once, the Romans let him give his daughter some water soaked into a sponge. They looked at him in disgust, the father of a rebel whore. He held the sponge to her lips on a stick, and she sucked the water gratefully. She even thanked him. He felt exhausted, futile. He told her so.

“No,” she gasped, “don’t go. Don’t want…die…alone.”

The soldiers lit a fire at night. It cast odd shadows over Ninian on her cross, unable to sleep, hardly awake. Her moans letting him know she was alive. She had not looked up to recognize him since just before sundown. Her effort was all in conserving the last few hours of life she had. He didn’t go to the fire, and he doubted it would warm him anyway. He preferred the cold in his misery, watching his child’s life drain away.

At dawn, he shuddered awake from a fitful unconsciousness, back to the nightmare reality.

Ninian was taking shallow breathes, and her eyes seemed dim as she saw him. A small flicker of recognition. “Water,” she whispered. He got the sponge and lifted it to her parched lips. She struggled up, groaning and crying from the pain of the nails and the effort to catch a breath of cool air. Then she cried out as her leg cramped and slumped back in the horrible crouch, too tired now to be ashamed of her nakedness.

“Ninian,” he said sadly.

“So much…pain…Papa,” she whispered, trying to catch another breath.

She sagged, hanging now from her arms. She couldn’t seem to push on her legs. She tried and failed, sinking back exhausted, a tear running down her face. “Papa…love…” she said.

“I love you, baby,” he said.

“So sorry,” she gasped and her head slumped forward. “Can’t…”

“It’s okay,” he said to her, feeling the grief of loss, knowing these were the last moments of the life of his daughter. “Go to where your mother is. Have peace.”

“Oh,” she said, and almost smiled. She didn’t speak or raise her head again. Half an hour later, she twitched and gave a sigh, her body shuddering. Then she stopped breathing altogether.

The Centurion let him have the body. The executioners took the nails out and dropped Ninian’s body to the ground like a sack. He gathered her to his arms and held her limp naked body, rocking her against him, numb, wondering what to do now.

Finally he wrapped her in a sheet to carry her home. He brushed her matted hair from her face, and kissed her on the forehead. This time, it didn’t make things better.

FIN.

Very good story, emotional and well written. Thanks! (And a tip for another story )

 

[Hypatia2020]

A very emotional story. Thank you.
With my temper, I probably would also throw a stone.
The authorities would call me a terrorist, and soon, I would find myself dancing naked on the nails, cursing myself for my stupidity.
Frankly, I do not bother about onlookers watching my pain and humiliation that I caused myself, but I would prefer that my relatives would stay away from my execution. It will be easier for them and I will not have the guilt towards them about the grief I am bringing them.

 

[Jollyrei]

Whewwwww. Wonderfully written, perfectly paced, provocative theme, REALLY WELL DONE!

Thanks, Barb. Means a lot, coming from you.

Jolly, as a father of a daughter this one has hit me, hard.
Take that as a compliment. That's all I can really say right now.

Yes, what Phlebas said. I have a grown daughter too, and as well-written as this is, it was really, really hard to read. All we want to do is protect them, not let anything bad happen to them. Truly heartbreaking. which means you captured the story well.

Phew!!
Also have a daughter and she would thrown that stone.
Also like to think I would have behaved like that father, done my best, but in the face of that authority, it would not have been easy, would I have had the courage? Would I have taken my friend's advice that "You don’t want to see it happening to her" and stayed away?
So many stories here on CF raise such emotional personal questions.

I appreciate these comments. I do not have a daughter, and I'm rather pleased that I hit a mark there. I can say that when I first wrote it, it was so emotionally draining, I couldn't look at it critically, and set it aside. Occasionally, I would pick it back up and edit it, and generally felt happy about it, from a technical point of view, but still felt that it was a bit appalling. I am not a vicious person, and would have probably preferred that Ninian was rescued and lived happily ever after (and perhaps in a parallel universe she does), but that wasn't the story.

For one reason or another, I decided it was good enough to post. I am pleased I hit a mark with it, while I appreciate that it is not a comfortable story. It's not entirely a fantasy piece in that regard.

Jollyrei..... words fail me.... incredibly difficult to write and to read, but immensely powerful. You reach down into the depths of emotion.

Sometimes we make light of crucifixion on here, maybe we have to. Maybe we have to have that balance between the reality of a terrible method of execution and our fantasies. But, in the final analysis, it is the dread, the terror and the humiliation of the cross that fascinates us. The awful inevitability of the bloody drama of crucifixion. Once sentence has been passed, and the mighty power of the Roman machine creaks into action, even the depth of a father's love for his daughter is powerless to stop it. His bravest efforts are as impotent as throwing himself against a wall, and, in the end, he has no choice but to watch them torture his daughter to death.

Very, very well written indeed. I congratulate you, sir.

Many thanks, Wragg. It may be the most emotionally draining thing I've written so far here, and I really think I should try a comedy next time out.

Many thanks to all who have read it (and maybe even indicated they liked it) so far, and I thank also any of you who commented.

 

[Pia]

The Father, cont.

The Roman pulled Ninian into a sitting position and helped her drape the shreds of her dress over herself, tying it roughly in place. He gave her a ladle of water from a bucket. She drank it.

As she was drinking, the Roman went to the side of the platform, picked up a heavy rough hewn beam of wood about 5 feet in length, carried it over to her and dropped it in front of her.

She stared at it without recognition. The crowd was agitated, but still did not move to rebel against the events unfolding, even as they understood that the beam was the patibulum for a cross. “Please,” she said, “I want to go home.”

Standing, still held by his friends, he could only cry, his voice hoarse now, as he croaked, “Ninian, my baby, please, let her go.”

The leather clad Roman pulled the ladle out of Ninian’s hands and pulled her into a kneeling position. Two soldiers picked up the heavy beam, and laid it on her shoulders.

She cringed as the weight of the wood pressed down on her wounded shoulders. They stretched her arms up and bound her by the elbows to the beam, forcing her to steady it. Then they lifted her to her feet. She stood swaying, in her ragged dress, under the weight of her patibulum, as the soldiers formed up around her.

He saw his daughter pulled to her feet, the rough patibulum tied to her shoulders. She was obviously in pain and very tired, but she scanned the crowd. His eyes met hers. He wondered what she must think of him, he who had told her it would be okay. The soldiers formed around her and he lost the eye contact. He saw one of them give her a prod and the procession moved forward slowly off the platform and down to the market.

He was about 10 feet away from her as she passed, not looking anywhere except the ground, placing her feet, concentrating on the weight on her shoulders as she stumbled forward, always prodded by the soldiers.

“Where are they taking her?” he asked. “What are they doing? Why is she carrying the wood?”

“Listen,” his friends said, “go home. She’s gone. Nothing you can do. We’re sorry.”

“But,” he started.

“They’re going to crucify her,” said his oldest friend sadly. “I’ve seen it in other places. They hang the person on a cross made of wood, until they die. You don’t want to see it happening to her.”

“I have to stop this,” he said. “They can’t do that to her. My daughter!” he said vehemently. He pulled away and moved after the procession of soldiers.

The crowd was big enough that he couldn’t get close. It moved slowly with Ninian and her escort. Up ahead, he caught glimpses of her patibulum swaying, once or twice the whole crowd stopped, as someone laughed and said, “she fell again,” or something. People who knew her, he thought, laughing that she was falling down, carrying a heavy beam that would kill her.

The procession and crowd slowly moved out of the town, and started up a small hill. He saw that at the top of the hill, another post had been erected. He had a chilling feeling that this was where they were going. This was where they were conducting his daughter. He saw her up ahead, surrounded by four soldiers. Other soldiers were doing crowd control. The crowd was making noises like they didn’t approve. There were murmurs of sympathy and sadness about Ninian’s eventual fate. “Poor girl,” he heard from one woman. But nobody moved to rescue her.

“She’s fallen again,” said someone.

He pushed forward, elbowing his way through the crowd, making it to where the soldiers were. They were cutting the patibulum off Ninian’s shoulders. She lay heaving deep breaths on the ground, unable to carry the heavy beam any further. A soldier saw him forcing his way through and laughing said, “Here, this guy really wants to get to the top. He can carry it.”

He was grabbed by the soldiers. “Ninian,” he cried out, “Papa’s here! Let go of me you Roman bastard,” he growled, trying to get to his daughter.

The soldier hit him with the butt of his spear. “None of your insolence, Gaul. We can always find another cross. Meanwhile, you will carry hers, or get a taste of the whip.”

They forced him to pick up the beam. It was easy for him. As he lifted it, Ninian looked up, her tired, sad, frightened look piercing him to the heart. She didn’t say anything.

“I’m here,” he said to her. It felt futile.

“Move,” said the soldier in charge. He never did learn the Roman ranks.

The whip flicked him lightly across the shoulder, just enough to surprise and sting. He started walking up the hill, carrying the beam over one shoulder. He wondered how many Romans he could hurt or kill with it before they killed him. Not a good plan.

Behind him, Ninian was dragged to her feet, and without her burden, she shuffled forward up the hill behind her father, who didn’t seem to know he was carrying the instrument of her death.

He reached the top, where he found three men waiting. Grim looking men wearing aprons. Romans again. They directed him to drop the beam at the base of the post, which he did. Two of them immediately tied ropes around it and slung them up over the post.

The rest of the procession was right behind him, the four soldiers at the front cresting the top, with Ninian stumbling forward. She saw the tall post, and stopped, shrinking back. He thought she looked like she was saying something, but there was no mistaking the fear in her eyes. One of the soldiers prodded her with a spear butt and she staggered forward. Finally, the procession came to a stop in front of the upright post. The three grim Romans were standing by the post waiting, while soldiers set up a perimeter around the hilltop, preventing the crowd from encroaching.

He decided he had had enough of this. He strode forward, grasped Ninian by the shoulder and pulled her to him. She cried out as his embrace inflamed her scourged back, but melted into what had always been the safety of her father’s arms. She broke down and sobbed. “Stop them, Papa,” she cried. “Please, don’t let them…”

The Romans seemed taken by surprise, as he gathered Ninian against him and started to move quickly to the perimeter. “That’s enough!” he growled. “I’m taking her home, see. Now, get out of our way!” He reached the perimeter. A few people in the crowd started a cheer, as they watched him apparently just take his daughter and leave.

A well swung spear butt took his legs out from under him. Another swing against his head, and he was stunned. Two soldiers, grabbed him before he recovered, pulled Ninian from his arms, and threw him outside the perimeter of soldiers, out into the crowd.

Friendly hands caught him. “Here, give him a drink. Lucky he wasn’t crucified as well. At least he tried, brave fellow!” He spluttered on the mead they gave him, and staggered to his feet. Ninian! Where was she?

He heard her crying, “No, please, no. I didn’t do anything, I’m not a rebel, stop.”

She was being pulled back toward the upright post, and held finally to stand in front of the officer Roman. The crowd quieted down, as they watched the crying girl, watching as the officer unrolled a scroll.

In a clear voice, so the crowd could hear, the officer said, “The woman, Ninian, standing here, has been tried and found guilty of sedition, and sentenced to die. Let her death be an example of what happens to those who oppose the might of Rome.”

Two of the grim looking romans came forward from the upright, and took Ninian from the soldiers. “No,” she cried, “please, no.”

She struggled as they held her arms and tore her dress from her again. The two men tore the ragged cloth away from the struggling girl until she stood naked. They left her dress lying on the ground as they pulled her back toward the upright. She staggered backward.

One of them kicked her feet out from under her and she was pulled down onto her back on the grass.

“No,” her father shouted hoarsely from the crowd. “Let her go. Stop.”

He watched as the two men stretched her arms up above her head, binding her forearms to the patibulum. Then one of the men grasped her ankles while the other held down her left wrist on the wood. Ninian struggled, stretched naked on the ground for everyone to see, as the third Roman knelt down holding a heavy hammer and a 6 inch square tapered spike. She increased her futile struggles and loud cries of terror, as he placed the spike to her slim wrist.

“NO! I’m sorry. I won’t do it again. No, please, NO!”

The father watched as the hammer came down. He heard the sound of the contact with the nail. Ninian’s naked body arched as the nail went through her wrist, and she screamed.

He wanted to leave. He didn’t want to see this. He didn’t want to hear her scream and cry out. He couldn’t tear himself away.

He pushed forward against the soldiers at the perimeter as his daughter’s cries pierced the morning air and the sound of the hammer told of the firm seating of the nail affixing his little girl to the wood.

“Stop, Roman bastards, stop!” He was beaten back again by the soldiers, and finally held by some other men in the crowd to save him from getting himself in more trouble. Helplessly he watched the Roman place the second spike at his daughter’s other wrist. She was shaking her head from side to side, delirious in her pain, as the hammer came down, crushing the other wrist. Again she tensed and arched against the man holding her ankles, howling like an animal as the nail was hammered home.

They let go of her legs then and she lay splayed out, covered in sweat, as they went to her and pulled her up into a sitting position, crying as she was lifted by the nails in her wrists. Then they lifted the patibulum up, dragging her to her feet.

He found himself sobbing as they pulled her, staggering backward to the upright, and with the help of the ropes lifted her up off her feet, fixing the patibulum finally at the top of the upright. “No,” he cried. “My daughter. My baby.”

He watched as they bound his daughter’s legs splayed open with the soles of her feet flat against the wood of the upright, as she hung from her arms, gasping and whimpering. Her legs thus open, her whole body, breasts stomach, and her private parts, framed by the thatch of dark hair, were on display. He was appalled at the obscenity being forced on her. Her feet bound, she was able to push up slightly, which she did, to catch a breath and finally take the weight off the nails in her wrists.

As she did so, the executioner placed a third spike at the instep of her right foot and hammered it into the flesh. He stared in shock, as he watched his daughter collapse on the cross, screaming again, as the merciless Roman hammered the nail through the foot into the wood. He collapsed sobbing again as the process was repeated on the other foot. He thought he would never stop hearing his daughter’s screams.

When he looked up, the Romans were breaking up the perimeter, and setting a contingent to guard the cross. Ninian was hanging crucified, her once beautiful hair matted to her face, eyes red from crying, wincing and gasping in pain and the effort to breathe. Some of the young boys from the town were taking the time to view the naked girl on display. He roused himself and chased them away, expending more rage than he normally would, and getting some laughs from the soldiers.

He launched himself at the cross then, pulling with his hands at the nails in his daughter’s foot, crying how he would save her. He didn’t see Ninian looking down her naked body at him, crying in despair over her shame, and almost sympathy at the impotence her father felt at not being able to help her.

A Roman officer finally wandered over and hit him with a truncheon, sending him onto his back. He lay there and howled out his grief and anger at his his weakness and inability to protect or help his only child.

“Papa,” she cried.

He dragged himself to reality. He saw her struggling through her agony to speak again. “Papa, please.”

He went to her and touched her foot gently, still crying. “Oh, Ninian,” he sobbed. “I failed you. I should have died, rather than let them do this to you.”

He looked up at her, displayed in her lewd crouch on the cross, thighs spread wide, exposed and vulnerable. He looked away, embarrassed by where his gaze had been, but not before he noticed the stains of dried blood and other dried stains around her vulva and upper thighs. She saw where he was looking, and blushed with shame.

“Don’t look,” she gasped, struggling to raise herself and close her legs a little. “Don’t see me like this.” She tried to straighten her legs, but could only go so high, never getting her legs quite straight because of the way her feet were nailed to the stipes. She cried out in pain and frustration. “Don’t…see me…like this,” she sobbed out.

“They raped you,” he said. “I told them not to hurt you, and they raped you.” As if him telling the Romans to do something should have had some effect.

“I think that might…be the…least…of our worries now,” she said, straining with the effort of holding herself up, and breathing deep gulps of air. “Won’t need…husband…now.”

He looked at her in shock, tears welling up again. “Oh, Ninian…”

“Joke, Papa,” she gasped. “My last joke.”

“I wanted to protect you,” he said. “I failed.”

“No, Papa,” she said. “Would…still…be…here. Even if…you died…to save me. Now I will die…for throwing…one small stone.”

He broke down then again. “Oh my baby. My sweet little girl.”

They left him there. Gradually as the day wore on, hour by hour, Ninian was no longer as vigorous at moving on the cross, her strength ebbing away. The pain drove her into a stupor, the boys got their fill of the tormented pretty naked woman, and the rest of the crowd moved away as well. The show was mostly over, and the villagers left, not wanting to be associated with allowing the death of one of their people, possibly embarrassed that they were too afraid for their own lives to have bothered to help her. He was left alone, keeping his grief-filled vigil at the base of the cross, watching the blood trickle down her arms, and run down her feet down the stipes of the cross, watching his daughter die, inch by inch, not even able to soothe her pain.

Once, the Romans let him give his daughter some water soaked into a sponge. They looked at him in disgust, the father of a rebel whore. He held the sponge to her lips on a stick, and she sucked the water gratefully. She even thanked him. He felt exhausted, futile. He told her so.

“No,” she gasped, “don’t go. Don’t want…die…alone.”

The soldiers lit a fire at night. It cast odd shadows over Ninian on her cross, unable to sleep, hardly awake. Her moans letting him know she was alive. She had not looked up to recognize him since just before sundown. Her effort was all in conserving the last few hours of life she had. He didn’t go to the fire, and he doubted it would warm him anyway. He preferred the cold in his misery, watching his child’s life drain away.

At dawn, he shuddered awake from a fitful unconsciousness, back to the nightmare reality.

Ninian was taking shallow breathes, and her eyes seemed dim as she saw him. A small flicker of recognition. “Water,” she whispered. He got the sponge and lifted it to her parched lips. She struggled up, groaning and crying from the pain of the nails and the effort to catch a breath of cool air. Then she cried out as her leg cramped and slumped back in the horrible crouch, too tired now to be ashamed of her nakedness.

“Ninian,” he said sadly.

“So much…pain…Papa,” she whispered, trying to catch another breath.

She sagged, hanging now from her arms. She couldn’t seem to push on her legs. She tried and failed, sinking back exhausted, a tear running down her face. “Papa…love…” she said.

“I love you, baby,” he said.

“So sorry,” she gasped and her head slumped forward. “Can’t…”

“It’s okay,” he said to her, feeling the grief of loss, knowing these were the last moments of the life of his daughter. “Go to where your mother is. Have peace.”

“Oh,” she said, and almost smiled. She didn’t speak or raise her head again. Half an hour later, she twitched and gave a sigh, her body shuddering. Then she stopped breathing altogether.

The Centurion let him have the body. The executioners took the nails out and dropped Ninian’s body to the ground like a sack. He gathered her to his arms and held her limp naked body, rocking her against him, numb, wondering what to do now.

Finally he wrapped her in a sheet to carry her home. He brushed her matted hair from her face, and kissed her on the forehead. This time, it didn’t make things better.

FIN.

Amazing and moving. Well told.

 

[thehangingtree]

Very well done Jollyrie!!

 

[Eulalia]

Yes, a very moving, powerful short story, one of the best we've had here I think.

It presents one small problem for me - in Scotland, Ninian is very much a boy's name,
after the saint who founded the first Christian settlement in Scotland,
at Whithorn in Galloway in the 5th century.

 

[jacksjg89]

Yes, a very moving, powerful short story, one of the best we've had here I think.

It presents one small problem for me - in Scotland, Ninian is very much a boy's name,
after the saint who founded the first Christian settlement in Scotland,
at Whithorn in Galloway in the 5th century.

Girls with boys names are cute. Like George, Frankie, Bobby, and Jo.

 

[jacksjg89]

One kinda morbid question of detail. When was Ninian raped? Was it before the whipping? Didn't let it bother me but it was mildly confusing.

 

[Deleted member jedakk]

Well, another minor detail that caught my eye was when the father wrapped Ninian's body in a sheet at the end. There didn't seem to be any source for that sheet; perhaps a compassionate friend pressed it on him at some point, "for after."

When I picture him holding her body after the crucifixion, I imagine a gender-reversed version of Michelangelo's sculpture, "Pieta." He seems to be all alone at that point; I suppose none of his friends stayed until the end, and now even the Roman soldiers have gone, their work done.

 

[Jollyrei]

Yes, a very moving, powerful short story, one of the best we've had here I think.

It presents one small problem for me - in Scotland, Ninian is very much a boy's name,
after the saint who founded the first Christian settlement in Scotland,
at Whithorn in Galloway in the 5th century.

See, and I researched that an' all. It came up in a list of Gallic girls' names.

 

[Jollyrei]

One kinda morbid question of detail. When was Ninian raped? Was it before the whipping? Didn't let it bother me but it was mildly confusing.

Offscreen, yes. The father is embarrassed to look at his daughter, but inadvertently notices that all is not well down there, so to speak.