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What Happened In Aquileia - Crux Story By Montycrusto

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montycrusto

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What Happened in Aquileia – part 1

His eye travelled slowly along the length of the woman's arm, from her wrist, where the blunt head of the iron spike protruded obscenely from her flesh, along the meandering line of a dried blood-trail to her elbow, where he observed a tiny fold of skin, a little stretch-mark from where she used to bend her arm. She was hanging, arms dead straight now, legs bent, eyes closed. The only sign of life was a slight, shallow motion of her rib cage, and an occasional flutter of her eyelids. The flickering firelight gleamed on the tracks of tears, blood and sweat that snaked down her crucified body and dripped from her toes.

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Put some more wood on the fire, Telemachus, and bring me some more soup. Why? Because I'm your boss, that's why. Because you take orders from me, at least until your father returns. And because you're young and fit, while I'm old and tired. And because it's cold and dark on this gods-forsaken hillside and I'm still hungry. And because I once killed a man with my bare hands, and I might get the idea to see if I can do it again. And because we're on watch, and if you help me keep an eye out for Gaulish bandits, I'll pass the time with you by telling you a tale.


Ah, that's better. Good soup. Well, I was going to tell you the story of Odysseus. You'd find out why I've been calling you Telemachus all this time. But I can tell from the sudden gleam in your eyes that you won't be satisfied with anything less than the story of how I killed a man with my bare hands. Am I right? Well, all right then. But it's not what you think.


You know I was in the army for a time. That's why the others call me “the centurion”. I'm pretty sure I never killed anyone then, though. Never saw a battle. We were mostly there to make sure there wasn't any fighting; wherever we turned up, peace would immediately break out. No, the first time I killed someone was before that. Yes, I said “the first time”. Well, I mean that I killed again, almost immediately. Now you're giving me that look again, and jumping to conclusions. Just stop interrupting and I'll tell you what happened.


When I was your age, I was a pick-pocket in a place called Puteoli. You won't have heard of it. I used to greet tourists off the galleys, show them around, you know. I didn't always rob them; if I liked them, I'd deal honestly with them. If not, well... let's just say, they didn't call me “the magpie” for nothing! I could tell you a tale or two, from those days! Maybe tomorrow, I will. Well, anyway, I got caught. I was lucky though . One of the officers of the Praetorium took pity on me, I think. He should have strung me up and whipped the skin off my back, but instead he took me under his wing, talked to me and listened to me, even got me a job with the Cohort of Vigiles. I owe that man a great debt.


I moved around for a few years and eventually fetched up in Aquileia – even you must have heard of that great city. It's a grand place – perhaps you'll go there some day. There's nowhere round here that's anything like it – even Lutetia looks like a village in comparison. I was an officer in the Vigiles Urbani; mostly it was dealing with chimney-fires, drunken brawls and petty thieves... I usually went fairly easy on the thieves, if I liked them. Otherwise, they got a good whipping.


Anyway, one day my squad was seconded to the city Praetorium, to assist with security at an execution. This was unusual, but so were the circumstances. A woman had allegedly attempted to murder her husband with poison; she was caught when he left his drink on the table, and a servant drank it instead. The husband was an important official in Aquileia, and it was suspected that there might be a political motive. She confessed under torture that she had been put up to it by her lover, a man of dubious connections who had been visiting her in secret for some months. He was apprehended soon afterwards. It was quite a famous case at the time, and they were expecting quite a crowd for the double execution.


Most of my cohort had been up all night on fire watch, and had returned to their barracks. I'd picked out four men I trusted to behave themselves, and the five of us reported to the Praetorium, an imposing stone building near the forum. It was early morning, just before dawn. The guards were expecting us, and waved us in, and we were led along a corridor and down a flight of stairs to the detention cells.


The prisoners had both been tortured, that was clear. The man was locked in a small cage – whether asleep or unconscious, I couldn't tell, but his wounds were eloquent enough. The woman was standing wearily, her wrists shackled over her head to a beam. She was naked, and covered with bruises. There were marks on her limbs that I'm pretty sure were burn marks. I think she had been raped several times, to judge by the state of her. She cringed as two Praetorians entered the cell, releasing her arms, so that she sagged against the wall. They prodded her with their batons, shouting at her to stand up straight, and whacked the top of the man's cage to stir him awake. He groaned as he was hauled out of the cage and forced to stand. He too had been burned and beaten.


Irritably, I quelled a couple of ribald comments from my men at the sight of the woman's bare breasts; normally I'd have been joking along with them, but the seriousness of the Praetorians and the severity of the woman's injuries stilled my tongue. I just wanted to get this job over with.

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(to be continued...)
 
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montycrusto said:
What Happened in Aquileia – part 1

His eye travelled slowly along the length of the woman's arm, from her wrist, where the blunt head of the iron spike protruded obscenely from her flesh, along the meandering line of a dried blood-trail to her elbow, where he observed a tiny fold of skin, a little stretch-mark from where she used to bend her arm. She was hanging, arms dead straight now, legs bent, eyes closed. The only sign of life was a slight, shallow motion of her rib cage, and an occasional flutter of her eyelids. The flickering firelight gleamed on the tracks of tears, blood and sweat that snaked down her crucified body and dripped from her toes.

*************************************************​

Put some more wood on the fire, Telemachus, and bring me some more soup. Why? Because I'm your boss, that's why. Because you take orders from me, at least until your father returns. And because you're young and fit, while I'm old and tired. And because it's cold and dark on this gods-forsaken hillside and I'm still hungry. And because I once killed a man with my bare hands, and I might get the idea to see if I can do it again. And because we're on watch, and if you help me keep an eye out for Gaulish bandits, I'll pass the time with you by telling you a tale.


Ah, that's better. Good soup. Well, I was going to tell you the story of Odysseus. You'd find out why I've been calling you Telemachus all this time. But I can tell from the sudden gleam in your eyes that you won't be satisfied with anything less than the story of how I killed a man with my bare hands. Am I right? Well, all right then. But it's not what you think.


You know I was in the army for a time. That's why the others call me “the centurion”. I'm pretty sure I never killed anyone then, though. Never saw a battle. We were mostly there to make sure there wasn't any fighting; wherever we turned up, peace would immediately break out. No, the first time I killed someone was before that. Yes, I said “the first time”. Well, I mean that I killed again, almost immediately. Now you're giving me that look again, and jumping to conclusions. Just stop interrupting and I'll tell you what happened.


When I was your age, I was a pick-pocket in a place called Puteoli. You won't have heard of it. I used to greet tourists off the galleys, show them around, you know. I didn't always rob them; if I liked them, I'd deal honestly with them. If not, well... let's just say, they didn't call me “the magpie” for nothing! I could tell you a tale or two, from those days! Maybe tomorrow, I will. Well, anyway, I got caught. I was lucky though . One of the officers of the Praetorium took pity on me, I think. He should have strung me up and whipped the skin off my back, but instead he took me under his wing, talked to me and listened to me, even got me a job with the Cohort of Vigiles. I owe that man a great debt.


I moved around for a few years and eventually fetched up in Aquileia – even you must have heard of that great city. It's a grand place – perhaps you'll go there some day. There's nowhere round here that's anything like it – even Lutetia looks like a village in comparison. I was an officer in the Vigiles Urbani; mostly it was dealing with chimney-fires, drunken brawls and petty thieves... I usually went fairly easy on the thieves, if I liked them. Otherwise, they got a good whipping.


Anyway, one day my squad was seconded to the city Praetorium, to assist with security at an execution. This was unusual, but so were the circumstances. A woman had allegedly attempted to murder her husband with poison; she was caught when he left his drink on the table, and a servant drank it instead. The husband was an important official in Aquileia, and it was suspected that there might be a political motive. She confessed under torture that she had been put up to it by her lover, a man of dubious connections who had been visiting her in secret for some months. He was apprehended soon afterwards. It was quite a famous case at the time, and they were expecting quite a crowd for the double execution.


Most of my cohort had been up all night on fire watch, and had returned to their barracks. I'd picked out four men I trusted to behave themselves, and the five of us reported to the Praetorium, an imposing stone building near the forum. It was early morning, just before dawn. The guards were expecting us, and waved us in, and we were led along a corridor and down a flight of stairs to the detention cells.


The prisoners had both been tortured, that was clear. The man was locked in a small cage – whether asleep or unconscious, I couldn't tell, but his wounds were eloquent enough. The woman was standing wearily, her wrists shackled over her head to a beam. She was naked, and covered with bruises. There were marks on her limbs that I'm pretty sure were burn marks. I think she had been raped several times, to judge by the state of her. She cringed as two Praetorians entered the cell, releasing her arms, so that she sagged against the wall. They prodded her with their batons, shouting at her to stand up straight, and whacked the top of the man's cage to stir him awake. He groaned as he was hauled out of the cage and forced to stand. He too had been burned and beaten.


Irritably, I quelled a couple of ribald comments from my men at the sight of the woman's bare breasts; normally I'd have been joking along with them, but the seriousness of the Praetorians and the severity of the woman's injuries stilled my tongue. I just wanted to get this job over with.

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(to be continued...)
Click to expand...

Off to a rousing good start here ..... can't wait for more.
 
What happened in Aquileia – part 2

At the elbow, two little rivulets of blood joined into one, which proceeded down the woman's arm to her armpit. His eye followed its course, like an explorer tracing the path of a river on an ancient map. Here he took a detour, side-tracked by the nearby hills and valleys of her breasts. His eye lingered, no longer repelled by the savage marks of whip and branding-iron that printed their surface. In fact, in the firelight, he found her body insanely beautiful, and struggled to restrain an impulse to reach out and touch her, to follow with his fingers the red whip-lines that cut across her contours like Roman roads – straight and brutal.

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The Praetorians explained to us our role in the day's events. The two convicts were to be crucified, that much we knew already. Our job was mainly crowd control and night-watch. We didn't have to do any nailing, that was something I was grateful for; besides, it's an expert job to do it right. Ever seen a crucifixion, Telemachus? Well, you will. And you'll remember this tale, and perhaps tell it yourself; you'll say “I knew this old soldier, they used to call him “the centurion”, and he told me that once upon a time, in Aquileia...” No, it's all right. That's what stories are for.


A slave brought a bucket of water, and swiftly washed the two prisoners, wiping away the worst of the caked filth and dried blood. They were given scraps of cloth to wear, which they tied around their hips, then they were hustled out of the cell, and up the steps to the courtyard. Neither of them uttered a word. Over the courtyard, dawn was breaking, and several soldiers emerged, sleepy and in various states of undress, from the barrack block. I expected more from Praetorians. Aquileia is a huge and important city, but sometimes it has a way of reminding you that this is the Provinces, and Rome is far away.


When the prisoners saw the cross-beams laid out and waiting for them, they hesitated – the woman began to cry, and the man said something I didn't catch – possibly a word of encouragement or something. They were made to kneel in front of the beams, and we helped the guards to lift the heavy patibula up on to the prisoner's shoulders and tie them in place with rope, so that their arms were outstretched and bound along the beams. I remember worrying about tying the rope too tight around the man's wrists; I didn't want to cut off circulation to his hands. Seems ridiculous now, since he was about to go to his death. But at the time, I wanted to do everything right. I didn't want the Praetorians to find any fault with my Vigiles; we got enough mockery as it was.


When that was done, we waited for the Praefectus, who emerged from his office, yawning and rubbing his unshaven chin. He stood in front of the two kneeling Damnati, who were already wilting under the weight of their cross-beams, and read out their crimes and sentences from a scroll. We stood there, my Vigiles and I, only half-listening to the official's droning voice. The sun was beginning to come up.


The oration came to an end, and we pulled the condemned ones to their feet, while the Praetorians looped ropes around their necks so that they could be led like donkeys through the streets. They both staggered slightly under their burdens; the woman whimpered a little. Two of my men ran ahead to open the great gates; already a small crowd was gathered outside; a murmur went up as they saw us leading the condemned man and woman towards them. They parted unwillingly as we emerged from the Praetorium into their midst, and I heard shouts of “murderess!” and “whore!” as my Vigiles pushed people back, allowing the guards to lead the bound and staggering prisoners towards the forum, where they were to be publicly whipped.


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(to be continued...)
 
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What happened in Aquileia – part 3

Below her trembling breasts, his eye picked out the prominent ridges of her lower rib cage, jutting forwards under her skin. Just below the woman's sternum he saw a curved concavity, a shadowed recess which looked like a niche awaiting the placement of a marble sculpture. The firm yet flexible vault of her ribs reminded him of the arches of the Basilica, converting the rippled skin over her ribs into decorative spandrels; it would have seemed altogether too architectural to be a part of a human body, had it not been for the quick and shallow oscillations of the woman's intercostal muscles and diaphragm as she tried to breathe. He followed a drop of sweat down the taut curve of her stomach to her navel, pulled tight into a vertical slit by the stretching of her crucified body. He stared at her umbilicus for a moment, lost in thought. Here was the door through which life had once flowed into her body, while she lay curled like a rose bud in her mother's womb. Now her life flowed out again, but through other apertures: those openings so cruelly made in her wrists and feet.


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More wood, Telemachus, the fire's burning low. Tomorrow we get this caravan to Juliomagus Andecavorum and we get paid; then we can hit the taverns and relax. But tonight you're stuck here on this hillside, listening old Gaius the Centurion and his tall tales. Speaking of which, where was I? Oh yes. The Forum.


The great Forum of Aquileia is a magnificent sight when it's empty; you can't imagine what it's like when it's heaving with people. I had never seen it so crowded, as it was on that morning. My four colleagues and I were hard put to it, to force a way through. We used to carry these big hooks, like shepherds use for catching sheep; we used ours for catching thieves. Anyway, we swung our hooks about; I think I clobbered one or two people who didn't get out of the way. People were yelling insults, both at the Damnati and at me and my Vigiles, but not at the Praetorians, of course. They at least got a bit of respect. Some of the onlookers leaned forward and spat at the condemned pair, who shuffled forward miserably, bent under their wooden beams and towed onwards by the guards who held the ropes looped around their necks.


The Via Julia Augusta opened out into the northern end of the Forum; the place was crowded with carts, traders and all kinds of small market stalls. The smell of cooked meats and spices was overpowering, reminding me that I had not breakfasted. People surged and flowed like water around us. Our little group must have looked like a small galley, pitching and rolling on a stormy sea, with flailing hooks instead of oars. The Praetorians steered us towards two posts at the south side of the forum, just in front of the Basilica. When we got there and stepped up on to the raised platform, the crowd stood back a little, not quite daring to follow us. My men and I stood at the edge of the dais, glowering as menacingly as we could, while behind us the Damnati were bound by their cross-beams to the whipping posts; even while they were being scourged, they were not permitted to set down their burdens.


Two of the Praetorians produced short, braided and beaded whips, and set to work, flaying the backs of the condemned, and drawing from their throats such screams and cries as I have never heard, before or since. Even I was flinching at the sound of the flails embedding themselves in human flesh. We Vigiles faced outwards, stoically staring down the restless crowd, but we all caught sidelong glimpses of what was going on behind us. I saw blood – lots of blood. Flesh whipped to ribbons. I felt wetness on the back of my neck, and realized with a shock that I had been spattered with gore. One of the Damnati – the man, it was, passed out with the pain, and water had to be fetched to revive him. While we waited, I could hear the woman's quiet sobbing over the shouts and insults of the crowd.


I turned to have a proper look; the crossbeams had been roped to hooks near the tops of the uprights, so the unconscious man hung from his patibulum as if his crucifixion had already started. The woman stood with her back to me, what was left of it. Blood had flowed down and soaked her loin cloth red, before gathering in a small puddle at her feet. One of the guards was running the whipcord through his fingers and flicking the blood towards the onlookers, exciting them further. This seemed to me to be a little unprofessional, but as I said, Aquileia has a way of reminding you you're in the Provinces.


The woman shifted position and turned sideways on to me; she looked round, and for a moment our eyes met – for the first time I think. She had very dark eyes – almost black. Immediately she ceased her sobbing, calmly looking at me, breathing deeply and evenly. She was quite good looking, I suppose. Not young, but not old either. Dark hair, fair skin. Very fair skin – she was a patrician of course, a wealthy wife who never had cause to expose herself to the heat of the sun. And now here she stood, virtually naked, as the late morning sun beat down on her, and almost the whole city had turned out to see her being flogged and crucified. She spoke not a word, but her eyes looked deep into me. I can't explain it. I felt something – just for a moment - a connection. I looked away, confused by my feelings.


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(to be continued...)
 
What happened in Aquileia – part 4

Below the woman's navel was a mass of scars where her pubic hair had been burned away, and hot irons had been applied. Her sex was visible, as her legs were slightly parted. The loincloth, of course, was long gone. His eyes travelled slowly down over the folds of her sex, ravaged and violated but still a Temple of Venus for all that. Then his gaze moved up and over the top of her thigh, to where a small promontory announced the presence of her iliac crest, that part of the pelvis that juts forward at the hip, particularly in women. Again, he resisted the urge to reach out and feel its bony hardness under her skin. He felt that to touch her would be to break a spell, to betray an unspoken agreement. And he also knew that if he started, he would not stop, until he had wrought yet another violation upon her helpless, crucified form. No. His eyes would drink their fill, and there would be the end of it. And so his eyes drank, tasting the curve of her hip and thigh, sweeping over her knee and caressing her calf. Her feet, though, he could hardly bear to look at. Disfigured by the huge iron spikes that transfixed them to the upright of the cross, they leaked blood almost constantly. And yet, and yet... in this excess of cruelty, even here, there was a kind of terrible beauty, a kind of transcendent call that he felt echoed and answered deep within himself. He could not have put it into words, and it troubled him, as his gaze crawled up the woman's other leg, to linger once more on her burned and ravished sex.


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The journey from the forum east along the Via Gemina to the place of crucifixion was relatively uneventful – more people lined the way, but they seemed more subdued, as if the whipping had sated their appetites for blood. Some even looked embarrassed as we passed, or looked at the ground. I saw a few shocked expressions as the burghers and matrons of Aquileia caught sight of the ruined and bloody remains of the condemned prisoners' backs. There was murmuring aplenty, but little in the way of shouting or jeering, which was a relief to me and the other Vigiles, and I dare say to the Damnati as well.


It was high noon by the time we arrived. The area set aside for crucifixion was a a piece of rough ground on a small hill just outside the eastern edge of the city, on the road to Tergeste. I forget how many crosses there were, but there were many. Some were complete crosses, others simply uprights awaiting cross-beams. None were occupied, though all of them bore the signs and stains of having been well used. Some spectators were already there, waiting for us; others had followed us along the Via Gemina to see the final act of the drama.


The two condemned were forced to their knees near two of the wooden uprights, and then pushed over on their backs, howling as the stony ground bit into their torn flesh. Their arms were still bound to the heavy patibula, so there was no way either of them could have raised themselves without help. They lay there, panting, their heads resting uncomfortably on the thick wooden beams.


The Praetorians left us in charge while they went off in search of food and drink. We were ordered to stay on guard, no provision having been made for our sustenance. Eventually I gave some coins to the youngest member of our group, and sent him to buy whatever he could find. He returned after a while with some greasy, fly-blown pastries, which we nevertheless devoured. I had had no instructions regarding feeding the prisoners, and decided not to. They lay side by side, their eyes open, looking at each other or straight up into the cloudless blue, talking quietly. I moved closer to hear what they said, but they fell silent, and I didn't feel like tormenting them with questions. I noticed their fingers were just able to touch, and this tiny comfort was one they were indulging in incessantly. The way they lay there, arms outstretched, gazing up at the sky, reminded me of when I used to do the same, as a child. I used to imagine that instead of lying on the ground looking up, I was pinned to a wall, and at any moment I could fall forwards into the infinite blue in front of me...


Now you're laughing at me, Telemachus. Well, I'm quite used to that. The spectators were laughing at us, too; some of them called out that they wanted to see the nailing, the crucifixion. Why didn't we get on with it? Were our hammers too bent? This was a mocking reference to the hooks we carried, of course. It was a sexual insult too, presumably. I was strongly tempted to show them how much damage an officer of the Vigiles could do with one of those hooks, which were quite hefty, and made pretty decent cudgels with a bit of training. But this kind of mockery is something you get used to, when you're in the Vigil. Besides, the joking stopped when the Praetorians returned, a little the worse for drink but still very much in control. They ordered the crowd to stand back further, which they did. Nobody challenged the Praetorians' authority.


I could see from the jittery motions of the prisoners' legs that their fear had returned with the guards. The male Damnatus was humming a tune, rather desperately, trying to ward off his dread of what was about to happen, I suppose. The woman lay quietly, though tears gathered at the corners of her eyes. Their fingers frantically sought each other's touch.


One of the guards dropped a heavy bag on the ground between them, and drew out a large hammer and some wicked-looking iron spikes; too big to be called nails. You could have used one as a dagger, they were so big. I had never been this close to a crucifixion, and was beginning to wish I was elsewhere. The guard shouted at me to come and help; reluctantly I did so, and he told me to untie the condemned man's arms, one at a time. I started with his right arm, furthest away from the woman. They would have a few moments longer of being able to touch each others' fingers that way. Expecting a struggle, I knelt on his arm as I untied it, but he was not putting up a fight; I think he was well past that stage. He just wanted it to be over with.


The guard approached with his hammer and a handful of spikes. The prisoner's mad humming continued. One of my men was ordered to sit on the man's legs so he wouldn't kick as the first spike went in; I nodded encouragement at my Vigil, knowing he was as reluctant as I to become involved in this act. He knelt across the man's knees, pinning his legs to the ground. The guard put down his tools and seized the man's wrist from my grasp, re-positioning it nearer to the centre of the beam. He ordered me to hold his arm at that position. I could feel the condemned man trembling. The guard felt with his thumb around the base of the man's hand, looking for a certain place among the carpal bones. When he found what he was looking for, he produced a small stick of charcoal and made a black mark on the man's skin. The man started babbling incoherently, his head twisting from side to side on top of the beam, as he saw the guard hold the tip of the spike to his wrist, and raise the hammer. I gripped the man's arm tightly, held my breath, and closed my eyes.


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(to be continued...)
 
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What happened in Aquileia – part 5

His eye followed the flare of her thigh and took in that female breadth of hip, the womanly wide pelvis, enlarged and tipped forward to facilitate human birth. Above it, the slight narrowing of her waist; that isthmus that also denoted a continent of female geography. The firelight picked out the gleaming sweat and blood trails that wandered across this landscape, like moonlit rivers seen from above by a soaring night bird. Her faintly pulsing rib cage drew his eye upwards, past the dark uplands of her breasts to the deep valley at the base of her throat. The fossa jugularis sternalis, flanked by the two raised ramparts of her collarbones, formed an area that seemed to have been fortified; its ditches and ravelins prepared to withstand a siege. But just like a besieged castle, the woman's strength was slowly being undermined, and her final capitulation could not be postponed for very much longer.

He suddenly realized with a shock that her eyes were open, and fixed on him. How long she had been watching him, as he stood before her, gazing at her nude, suffering body, he could not tell.

She closed her eyes then, gritted her teeth and slowly started to push herself upwards on her nailed feet, growling deep in her throat at the sudden renewal of pain, but driven by the difficulty of breathing if she remained hanging limply from the spikes through her wrists. Using what little strength she had left in her arms to pull herself up, she succeeded in raising herself slightly on the cross, and took deep, painful lungfuls of air, while fresh blood oozed from the places where the spikes transfixed her limbs. Sweat beaded on her neck and torso; tiny jewels that caught the firelight for a moment, and new tears sprang from her tightly-closed eyes as she absorbed this fresh wave of agony. For long moments she remained, straining against pain and gravity, sucking in sobbing breaths that shook her thorax and breasts, until uncontrollable tremors in her legs forced her to sink down again, scraping her ruined back against the rough wood of the cross. She moaned as the pain shifted back to her arms and shoulders, and her rib cage was stretched once again, forcing her to take tiny, shallow breaths, as before.

It was a cycle she had been through countless times, as the hours of night dragged by, though it was the first time he had watched it from such close quarters. It was as if she had performed this, just for him, knowing that he was watching intently. As if she wanted to show him what her life had become.

Her eyes opened again, and fixed themselves on his.


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Telemachus, it's time to go and wake the others, so they can watch for the rest of the night, and we can get some sleep. Yes, I know I haven't finished the story. All right, then. A little longer.


I suppose you want me to describe, in detail, how the man screamed as the spike entered between his wrist bones, and how the first blow of the hammer sent up a spurt of blood that hit the side of my face, so that I almost let go of the condemned man's arm. I managed to hold on, though, and felt every blow of the hammer ring through me, as the spike was driven into the wooden beam across which I was kneeling. The blood and the screams almost paralysed me, and only the sharp, barked orders of the Praetorians kept me moving, as we nailed his other arm, hoisted him to his feet and heaved the beam up and over the top of the upright, leaving the Damnatus hanging from it like a carcass in a butcher's shop. His screams turned to frantic, incoherent begging, then back to screams as the Praetorians nailed his feet. The woman, still waiting her turn, echoed his cries as if she already felt the same agonies. The crowd could hardly bear to look, I think, and yet they could not look away, either, as this demented circus act played out in front of them. The crucified man's loincloth was ripped from him, exposing him to the gaze of the crowd; he heaved and groaned, twisting, searching for the position of least agony, but all positions were agony; that is the horror of the cross.


Then the process was repeated with the woman. You can imagine the screams, the blood. I'm weary of remembering it, though I cannot forget. The Praetorian's face had taken on an extraordinary expression, the like of which I had never seen on a man's face, and hope never to see again. He was spattered with blood, as I was, but his features were fixed into a grimace of manic, furious determination, as if he was afraid of not finishing the job before he lost his nerve.


Soon after the final nail was in, our relief arrived – five fresh and rested Vigiles. I was never so pleased to see my colleagues, as I was that day, and embraced them warmly as they took our places, and we were dismissed. I and my four original officers, who had been up all night with me, and all morning, and half the afternoon, gladly left the scene of horror and went quickly back into town, to our beds, shaken and exhausted, the piteous cries of the tortured Damnati ringing in our half-deafened ears.


Shortly before sundown, I awakened, and as arranged I rounded up my men and we returned along the Via Gemina to the place of crucifixion, to resume our duties and perform the night watch. Our colleagues were as pleased to see us as we had been, hours earlier, to see them, and they scampered off back to their beds, or to the taverns as they pleased. The crowd had dwindled mightily; only a few onlookers remained, and it seemed there had been no trouble. The Praetorians had gone. The two Crucifixi were hanging on their crosses, slowly leaking blood. Their shrieks had died down, that was a blessing; both of them had already screamed themselves hoarse, and could only groan. I sent our youngest off to collect wood for a fire, and we more or less settled down for the night.


A few hours later, I found myself standing in front of the crucified woman. She was naked, and I was just staring at her, in a kind of trance, as she hung there on her cross in the firelight. The onlookers had all drifted away, and my colleagues were asleep. I didn't have the heart to rouse them, since there seemed no need for them to remain awake. She was giving me this intense look. I couldn't tear my eyes away from hers. As before, I felt like she was just looking right into me. Hard to explain. Then, unexpectedly, and with difficulty, she spoke.


“Vigil,” she said. “Vigil...” I moved closer to hear what she was saying. She kept her eyes on mine, and her voice was barely a whisper. “Vigil please...” – I thought she wanted water and I was just about to turn and fetch the bucket, when she said: “Kill me...”


I said I could not. It was impossible. I would be punished. She closed her eyes, and tears dropped from them. I fell silent, ashamed. What punishment could I fear, that could compare with what she suffered? “Please, Vigil,” she said again, “I can't bear it. Do it. Please.”


I looked around; there was no-one watching. I could just... I looked down at my hands, then back at her; she was gazing at me through tears, with a tender expression on her face – she already knew I would do it. “Thank you...” she breathed, as I moved close, and checking once more that none observed me, I placed my hands firmly over her nose and mouth, and held her for long moments, until her trembling subsided and I judged that she was dead. My own eyes were full of tears too, I can tell you, and my hands were shaking.


Then I was horrified to hear a voice right behind me, saying “You're a good man, Vigil.” I turned quickly; it was the crucified man, who had seen what occurred. He coughed, and grimaced in pain. “You had better...do me too.” I was still reeling from what I had just done, but he would not let me go, even threatening to tell the Praetorians what I'd done if I didn't help him, if I didn't end his suffering. We argued like that, in whispers, for a little while, but eventually he won me over, and I killed him in the same way I'd done the woman.


I spent an hour or so debating with myself, what to do next; I didn't think anyone would believe that both of them had just happened to die of asphyxiation at the same time. So I left. Ran away. Got myself to Massilia, changed my name, joined the army. They were desperate enough for recruits that they didn't ask too many questions – the fact that I'd been in the Vigil was good enough for them. Not very glorious, is it, Telemachus? Not what you were expecting. I've just confessed to a double murder, and now I'm asking you. Would you have done the same? I've replayed the scene a thousand times, over and over in my mind. And I know I did the right thing. They were already dead. I just spared them a lot of pain. The look that woman gave me, that grateful, longing look, I think that will stay with me until I die.


You think about that. Now go and wake the others. I'm tired, and I can feel sleep coming on. Go.


*******************************************************​

(to be continued...)
 
Masterful, Montycrusto, just wonderful.
The way you ran the woman's present state along with the story, giving us little glimpses of the future.
The descriptive prose, the brutality of crucifixion and the way you convey the mental and emotional states of the various players.
And the end. Unexpected, gentle and merciful in its way.
Bravo, applause. Take a bow maestro :)
 
phlebas said:
Masterful, Montycrusto, just wonderful.
The way you ran the woman's present state along with the story, giving us little glimpses of the future.
The descriptive prose, the brutality of crucifixion and the way you convey the mental and emotional states of the various players.
And the end. Unexpected, gentle and merciful in its way.
Bravo, applause. Take a bow maestro :)
Click to expand...
Phlebas, you are too wonderful for words.
There's a little bit more to come, a kind of epilogue.
Thanks so much for reading, and for your appreciation.
It is highly prized, I assure you :)
 
montycrusto said:
For me it's the line of her ribcage, upheaving under the skin beneath her breasts, and the stretching of stomach and diaphragm, the narrowing of the navel, the iliac crests pushing forward, the revelation of musculature and skeletal structure...
Click to expand...
montycrusto said:
o where a small promontory announced the presence of her iliac crest, that part of the pelvis that juts forward at the hip, particularly in women.
Click to expand...
Those crests. Here we have a certified iliaco-philiac ;)
 
montycrusto said:
What happened in Aquileia – part 5

His eye followed the flare of her thigh and took in that female breadth of hip, the womanly wide pelvis, enlarged and tipped forward to facilitate human birth. Above it, the slight narrowing of her waist; that isthmus that also denoted a continent of female geography. The firelight picked out the gleaming sweat and blood trails that wandered across this landscape, like moonlit rivers seen from above by a soaring night bird. Her faintly pulsing rib cage drew his eye upwards, past the dark uplands of her breasts to the deep valley at the base of her throat. The fossa jugularis sternalis, flanked by the two raised ramparts of her collarbones, formed an area that seemed to have been fortified; its ditches and ravelins prepared to withstand a siege. But just like a besieged castle, the woman's strength was slowly being undermined, and her final capitulation could not be postponed for very much longer.

He suddenly realized with a shock that her eyes were open, and fixed on him. How long she had been watching him, as he stood before her, gazing at her nude, suffering body, he could not tell.

She closed her eyes then, gritted her teeth and slowly started to push herself upwards on her nailed feet, growling deep in her throat at the sudden renewal of pain, but driven by the difficulty of breathing if she remained hanging limply from the spikes through her wrists. Using what little strength she had left in her arms to pull herself up, she succeeded in raising herself slightly on the cross, and took deep, painful lungfuls of air, while fresh blood oozed from the places where the spikes transfixed her limbs. Sweat beaded on her neck and torso; tiny jewels that caught the firelight for a moment, and new tears sprang from her tightly-closed eyes as she absorbed this fresh wave of agony. For long moments she remained, straining against pain and gravity, sucking in sobbing breaths that shook her thorax and breasts, until uncontrollable tremors in her legs forced her to sink down again, scraping her ruined back against the rough wood of the cross. She moaned as the pain shifted back to her arms and shoulders, and her rib cage was stretched once again, forcing her to take tiny, shallow breaths, as before.

It was a cycle she had been through countless times, as the hours of night dragged by, though it was the first time he had watched it from such close quarters. It was as if she had performed this, just for him, knowing that he was watching intently. As if she wanted to show him what her life had become.

Her eyes opened again, and fixed themselves on his.


*****************************************************​


Telemachus, it's time to go and wake the others, so they can watch for the rest of the night, and we can get some sleep. Yes, I know I haven't finished the story. All right, then. A little longer.


I suppose you want me to describe, in detail, how the man screamed as the spike entered between his wrist bones, and how the first blow of the hammer sent up a spurt of blood that hit the side of my face, so that I almost let go of the condemned man's arm. I managed to hold on, though, and felt every blow of the hammer ring through me, as the spike was driven into the wooden beam across which I was kneeling. The blood and the screams almost paralysed me, and only the sharp, barked orders of the Praetorians kept me moving, as we nailed his other arm, hoisted him to his feet and heaved the beam up and over the top of the upright, leaving the Damnatus hanging from it like a carcass in a butcher's shop. His screams turned to frantic, incoherent begging, then back to screams as the Praetorians nailed his feet. The woman, still waiting her turn, echoed his cries as if she already felt the same agonies. The crowd could hardly bear to look, I think, and yet they could not look away, either, as this demented circus act played out in front of them. The crucified man's loincloth was ripped from him, exposing him to the gaze of the crowd; he heaved and groaned, twisting, searching for the position of least agony, but all positions were agony; that is the horror of the cross.


Then the process was repeated with the woman. You can imagine the screams, the blood. I'm weary of remembering it, though I cannot forget. The Praetorian's face had taken on an extraordinary expression, the like of which I had never seen on a man's face, and hope never to see again. He was spattered with blood, as I was, but his features were fixed into a grimace of manic, furious determination, as if he was afraid of not finishing the job before he lost his nerve.


Soon after the final nail was in, our relief arrived – five fresh and rested Vigiles. I was never so pleased to see my colleagues, as I was that day, and embraced them warmly as they took our places, and we were dismissed. I and my four original officers, who had been up all night with me, and all morning, and half the afternoon, gladly left the scene of horror and went quickly back into town, to our beds, shaken and exhausted, the piteous cries of the tortured Damnati ringing in our half-deafened ears.


Shortly before sundown, I awakened, and as arranged I rounded up my men and we returned along the Via Gemina to the place of crucifixion, to resume our duties and perform the night watch. Our colleagues were as pleased to see us as we had been, hours earlier, to see them, and they scampered off back to their beds, or to the taverns as they pleased. The crowd had dwindled mightily; only a few onlookers remained, and it seemed there had been no trouble. The Praetorians had gone. The two Crucifixi were hanging on their crosses, slowly leaking blood. Their shrieks had died down, that was a blessing; both of them had already screamed themselves hoarse, and could only groan. I sent our youngest off to collect wood for a fire, and we more or less settled down for the night.


A few hours later, I found myself standing in front of the crucified woman. She was naked, and I was just staring at her, in a kind of trance, as she hung there on her cross in the firelight. The onlookers had all drifted away, and my colleagues were asleep. I didn't have the heart to rouse them, since there seemed no need for them to remain awake. She was giving me this intense look. I couldn't tear my eyes away from hers. As before, I felt like she was just looking right into me. Hard to explain. Then, unexpectedly, and with difficulty, she spoke.


“Vigil,” she said. “Vigil...” I moved closer to hear what she was saying. She kept her eyes on mine, and her voice was barely a whisper. “Vigil please...” – I thought she wanted water and I was just about to turn and fetch the bucket, when she said: “Kill me...”


I said I could not. It was impossible. I would be punished. She closed her eyes, and tears dropped from them. I fell silent, ashamed. What punishment could I fear, that could compare with what she suffered? “Please, Vigil,” she said again, “I can't bear it. Do it. Please.”


I looked around; there was no-one watching. I could just... I looked down at my hands, then back at her; she was gazing at me through tears, with a tender expression on her face – she already knew I would do it. “Thank you...” she breathed, as I moved close, and checking once more that none observed me, I placed my hands firmly over her nose and mouth, and held her for long moments, until her trembling subsided and I judged that she was dead. My own eyes were full of tears too, I can tell you, and my hands were shaking.


Then I was horrified to hear a voice right behind me, saying “You're a good man, Vigil.” I turned quickly; it was the crucified man, who had seen what occurred. He coughed, and grimaced in pain. “You had better...do me too.” I was still reeling from what I had just done, but he would not let me go, even threatening to tell the Praetorians what I'd done if I didn't help him, if I didn't end his suffering. We argued like that, in whispers, for a little while, but eventually he won me over, and I killed him in the same way I'd done the woman.


I spent an hour or so debating with myself, what to do next; I didn't think anyone would believe that both of them had just happened to die of asphyxiation at the same time. So I left. Ran away. Got myself to Massilia, changed my name, joined the army. They were desperate enough for recruits that they didn't ask too many questions – the fact that I'd been in the Vigil was good enough for them. Not very glorious, is it, Telemachus? Not what you were expecting. I've just confessed to a double murder, and now I'm asking you. Would you have done the same? I've replayed the scene a thousand times, over and over in my mind. And I know I did the right thing. They were already dead. I just spared them a lot of pain. The look that woman gave me, that grateful, longing look, I think that will stay with me until I die.


You think about that. Now go and wake the others. I'm tired, and I can feel sleep coming on. Go.


*******************************************************​

(to be continued...)
Click to expand...

Just catching up....I unfortunately don't get alerts on this thread :oops:....great writing monty!:)
 
What happened in Aquileia – part 6

Epilogue:

A silent understanding grew between them. The woman, sweat-soaked and bloodstained, panting and heaving on the cross, and the man who stood before her, summoning the courage to do his duty. They gazed at each other for some moments. He knew, without words, what he would do for her, and she knew that he was mustering the strength to do it. Her own strength was all but gone; she willed him the last of it. A perfect tenderness, achingly bright, blazed for a brief instant in their eyes, like a spark rising in the night air.


He had wanted to speak to her first, to tell her his story. Why he was doing this. He wanted her to know about Gaius the Centurion, the man he had known all those many years ago, in faraway Gaul. He wanted to tell her about that windy night on a hillside near Juliomagus Andecavorum, when the old Centurion had told him how once, in Aquileia, he had released two suffering Crucifixi from their torment, and how it had changed his life. And how the old man had finished his tale, and gone to sleep, and they had found him the next morning, stone dead, curled up by the dying embers of the fire.


He had wanted to tell her that his name was Gallius Telemachus, and that by saving her, he was also hoping to save himself.


But he could not speak a word; The woman before him was beyond such things, her body a landscape of pain, her mind a dark sky clouded with suffering. He could see it in her eyes.


No more delay, Telemachus.


Set her free.


****************************************************
​
(the end)
 
montycrusto said:
What happened in Aquileia – part 6

Epilogue:

A silent understanding grew between them. The woman, sweat-soaked and bloodstained, panting and heaving on the cross, and the man who stood before her, summoning the courage to do his duty. They gazed at each other for some moments. He knew, without words, what he would do for her, and she knew that he was mustering the strength to do it. Her own strength was all but gone; she willed him the last of it. A perfect tenderness, achingly bright, blazed for a brief instant in their eyes, like a spark rising in the night air.


He had wanted to speak to her first, to tell her his story. Why he was doing this. He wanted her to know about Gaius the Centurion, the man he had known all those many years ago, in faraway Gaul. He wanted to tell her about that windy night on a hillside near Juliomagus Andecavorum, when the old Centurion had told him how once, in Aquileia, he had released two suffering Crucifixi from their torment, and how it had changed his life. And how the old man had finished his tale, and gone to sleep, and they had found him the next morning, stone dead, curled up by the dying embers of the fire.


He had wanted to tell her that his name was Gallius Telemachus, and that by saving her, he was also hoping to save himself.


But he could not speak a word; The woman before him was beyond such things, her body a landscape of pain, her mind a dark sky clouded with suffering. He could see it in her eyes.


No more delay, Telemachus.


Set her free.


****************************************************
​
(the end)
Click to expand...

:oops::oops::oops:
...great story,

Tree
 
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