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Deleted member jedakk
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With her whipping finished, it was time for Sabina to carry her patibulum to the place of execution, where she would be crucified. She hoped and prayed that her domina, Julia Lepida, would show her mercy and let the whipping be enough. But then they put the heavy iron slave collar around her neck, pulled her up to her feet and put a ragged loincloth on her. Then they put the wooden timber on her shoulder, with her wrists chained across it, and it was time for her to start walking toward the last place she would ever go.
Sabina narrates what happened to her:
I've always thought how horrific it would be to have to carry the instrument of your torture and death to the place of execution. You'd have plenty of time to look at it, think about those old nail holes and dried blood on it, and imagine your own arms stretched out there, the nails through your wrists, pinning them to it until you were dead. The conflicting desires for it to be over quickly, but the desire to live, also.
Sabina narrates what happened to her:
I lay there propped up against the post, blinking water out of my eyes, willing the moment to last just a little longer. I had the silly thought that if I kept still and quiet, they might leave me alone, let me rest. But just then I became aware of one of the Nubians next to me, then felt him twine his fingers in my sodden hair and take a firm grip. Alarmed, I tried to twist my head around to see what he was doing, but his hold was much too strong. Then I felt the cool hard metal of the heavy iron slave collar slipping around my neck. Salonina told me not to resist, I thought, so I simply lay there while he closed it and locked it in place.
No sooner was that done than they took me by the arms and hauled me to my feet. The movement tugged at the welted skin of my back, making me moan. Hercules fastened a length of chain to a ring on the collar, its purpose obvious. They would lead me to my death like a dog. I stood unsteadily with my hands resting on the whipping post, using it for support. My knees were weak and my body was still trembling from what they had done to me, but I’d had all the time they were going to give me to recover myself.
Next, they wound a ragged piece of cloth around my hips, pulled it up between my legs, and knotted it in front. I supposed that this was something that Julia Lepida had ordered, since where we used to live almost all of the condemned we’d seen on their way to the cross had been naked. Maybe Salonina had been wrong after all; they might allow me to wear the loincloth on the cross as well. Spots of blood began to soak through the cloth from the welts I could see; I knew there had to be many more in the back.
The pain of the whip marks that covered my back was growing worse as I stood there. There was no way that my Domina would let this go on. Any moment now she would tell them to stop, take me home and this would all be a bad memory.
A patibulum, the wooden beam that forms the top of a cross, was lying ready nearby. My patibulum for my cross. I saw Hercules stoop to pick that up now. It was almost as long as I am tall, maybe five feet, and he carried it easily in one hand by the mortise hole in its center. Ajax helped him slip the beam under the chain of my shackles and set it on my left shoulder so that I ended up with my hands steadying it and the chains across its top to prevent me dropping it or setting it down.
They were about to lead me to my crucifixion.
No sooner was that done than they took me by the arms and hauled me to my feet. The movement tugged at the welted skin of my back, making me moan. Hercules fastened a length of chain to a ring on the collar, its purpose obvious. They would lead me to my death like a dog. I stood unsteadily with my hands resting on the whipping post, using it for support. My knees were weak and my body was still trembling from what they had done to me, but I’d had all the time they were going to give me to recover myself.
Next, they wound a ragged piece of cloth around my hips, pulled it up between my legs, and knotted it in front. I supposed that this was something that Julia Lepida had ordered, since where we used to live almost all of the condemned we’d seen on their way to the cross had been naked. Maybe Salonina had been wrong after all; they might allow me to wear the loincloth on the cross as well. Spots of blood began to soak through the cloth from the welts I could see; I knew there had to be many more in the back.
The pain of the whip marks that covered my back was growing worse as I stood there. There was no way that my Domina would let this go on. Any moment now she would tell them to stop, take me home and this would all be a bad memory.
A patibulum, the wooden beam that forms the top of a cross, was lying ready nearby. My patibulum for my cross. I saw Hercules stoop to pick that up now. It was almost as long as I am tall, maybe five feet, and he carried it easily in one hand by the mortise hole in its center. Ajax helped him slip the beam under the chain of my shackles and set it on my left shoulder so that I ended up with my hands steadying it and the chains across its top to prevent me dropping it or setting it down.
They were about to lead me to my crucifixion.
I've always thought how horrific it would be to have to carry the instrument of your torture and death to the place of execution. You'd have plenty of time to look at it, think about those old nail holes and dried blood on it, and imagine your own arms stretched out there, the nails through your wrists, pinning them to it until you were dead. The conflicting desires for it to be over quickly, but the desire to live, also.