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Gabriella In Kytherramne

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Though it was only some ten feet away, dragging the cook to the neighbouring post was no easy matter. It took four of them, all flustered now and nervous of accidents. At the sergeant's commands they grabbed the beam and hauled it a few inches along, pausing between each move to adjust their hold. The cook's bottom bounced from tussock to tussock as her legs spraddled and kicked, brutal pain splitting her mind as they jerked her forward. At last they reached the foot of the post.

"Right," said the sergeant. "Let's think this through."

"Right, get them ropes, and tie them round the beam just outside her wrists."

And they did.

"OK," said the sergeant. "Now Julius, get that one on the left and put it over the post just beside tenon."

Julius gawped at him.

"The bit sticking up at the top of the post … the bit the hole in the beam fits on."

"Oh," said Julius, and he reached up and draped the rope on the flat shelf of the post.

"Not that side," sighed the sergeant. "The opposite side, so it won't slip off. Now pass it down to Nosey, and Nosey, you back off to the left again, so you'll be pulling the rope against the tenon and it won't slip off. Right, now put the other rope up the same way Julius, and Loopy you grab it and take it over to the right."

And they did.

"Now," said the sergeant, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, and wincing at the twinge even that movement caused in is back. "Now Julius, go get the ladder and put it up at the back of the post … that's it. Now up you go, and get ready to help haul the beam up and get it in place over the tenon."

And Julius did.

"Right," said the sergeant. "Now you four get hold of the beam and get ready to haul her up. Loopy, Nosey, when I give the word you haul on those ropes like billy-o and help take the weight, right? Julius, as soon as that beam comes up near enough, you grab it and help them, and steer it into place."

He stepped back, grabbed at his back again, and groaned "Oh Gods."

"Now does everyone understand what to do?"

"Yes sergeant?"

"Everyone?"

A murmur of assent.

"Then everyone ready. Haul her up on a count of three. One, two, three"

And they did.

It was not a tidy crucifixion. The ropes were only a couple of feet apart and with the cook's frantic kicking and swinging the beam swerved frantically down on one side and then the other as the sweating men tried to keep it straight.

As Julius reached down to grab it, clutching at the post with one hand to keep his footing on the ladder, the beam slammed back upon his fingers. With a yell he went tumbling backwards, the ladder toppling after him.

"Hold her," the sergeant was yelling. "Bloody hold her will you. Maxi, get that bloody ladder back up and get up there. Now grab the beam. Now all of you, pull … pull … get it on there you bastards!"

And at last they managed to hoist the beam over the tenon and it dropped into place. Then of course they realised they wouldn't be able to get the ropes out, but "Stuff it," said the sergeant. "We'll get them later."

"Julius, get off your useless arse and get some wedges. Pass them up to Maxi. That's it Maxi, hammer them in."

And they did.

Then they forced her feet one by one against the side of the post and hammered nails between the ankle bone and Achilles tendon.

They hammered the titulus with its crudely lettered "Venefica" to the back of the tenon.

And then they crucified the skivvy, which was easier.

TBC

I do apologise to anyone eager to see Gabriella Sivilla punished. Somehow it has taken eight posts without even getting her to the killing place. With any luck she will be here shortly.
 
andy01 said:
"There a hole in the bucket Eliaza!" He pointed at the side of the bucket as if that made things clearer. "Eliaza, a hole."

"So mend it Dirennius," the sergeant snarled.

"With what shall I …" His voice tailed off at the look of fury on the sergeant's face.
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Man, I never realized the ancient roots of that old children's song! Who'd a thunk it! :D

Could have done without all of the poop, but I'll bet not every crucifixion went according to plan! Good stuff! :devil:
 
jedakk said:
Man, I never realized the ancient roots of that old children's song! Who'd a thunk it! :D

Could have done without all of the poop, but I'll bet not every crucifixion went according to plan! Good stuff! :devil:
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Yeah I know what you mean about the poop. It's naff, nasty, repulsive. Yet it surfaces again and again when I write about this, because I suppose it would have happened or, as here, for a fool to tread in and slip. I don't like it either. I hate the stuff in real life. But sometimes it breaks into the story.
 
"Let me wake, Mata Dea help me, let me wake."

She tried to grasp the silken sheets, grip them and drag herself out of the nightmare but her hands would not move.

She saw her feet walking on the dirt of a road. They were her feet, she saw the silver-blue paint on her delicate toenails but where were her shoes? The feet were dusty, grit between the toes. She saw the pink tips of her breasts, jolting. She saw her thigh as she stepped forward, rounding not under a silk gown but a cotton cloth that reached only to mid thigh. Another step and her other thigh coming forward, the cloth falling away to expose her to her waist. There were livid marks red on the pale inner thigh

And a rope leading forward from under her chin. It jerked taut and rough hemp dragged at her tender neck.

She tried to lift her head but a sharp thing pressed at the back of her neck.

It was not these things that made her desperate to wake. It was the terror. Some nameless, horrifying thing was approaching ... no, she was approaching it with every step and she could not stop, could not turn. She had to wake, had to wake to her jasmine-scented room and gauzy curtains round her own safe bed. Had to wake from the nightmare before the horror arrived.

The whip slashed into her buttocks, the cloth no protection. The welt boiled through her.

It was no nightmare, it was real. They were dragging her to the killing place. They were going to crucify her.

"Move bitch." The voice was harsh, phlemmy, the voice of a low-class oaf.

"No," Gabriella squealed, "You can't do this. Not to me, you can't do this."

The rope jerked her forward. Whoever was pulling it had not washed in days. Gabriella was walking in his wake, his dirty smell coating her nostrils.

She tried to dig her heels in, leaning back, but the rope was sawing at her neck. Already it had rubbed the soft flesh raw, stripped off the epidermis to expose nerve endings. The coarse hemp dragging into her set her staggering forwards, squealing with the pain.

Staggering towards crucifixion, helpless to stop them.

TBC
 
andy01 said:
"Let me wake, Mata Dea help me, let me wake."

She tried to grasp the silken sheets, grip them and drag herself out of the nightmare but her hands would not move.

She saw her feet walking on the dirt of a road. They were her feet, she saw the silver-blue paint on her delicate toenails but where were her shoes? The feet were dusty, grit between the toes. She saw the pink tips of her breasts, jolting. She saw her thigh as she stepped forward, rounding not under a silk gown but a cotton cloth that reached only to mid thigh. Another step and her other thigh coming forward, the cloth falling away to expose her to her waist. There were livid marks red on the pale inner thigh

And a rope leading forward from under her chin. It jerked taut and rough hemp dragged at her tender neck.

She tried to lift her head but a sharp thing pressed at the back of her neck.

It was not these things that made her desperate to wake. It was the terror. Some nameless, horrifying thing was approaching ... no, she was approaching it with every step and she could not stop, could not turn. She had to wake, had to wake to her jasmine-scented room and gauzy curtains round her own safe bed. Had to wake from the nightmare before the horror arrived.

The whip slashed into her buttocks, the cloth no protection. The welt boiled through her.

It was no nightmare, it was real. They were dragging her to the killing place. They were going to crucify her.

"Move bitch." The voice was harsh, phlemmy, the voice of a low-class oaf.

"No," Gabriella squealed, "You can't do this. Not to me, you can't do this."

The rope jerked her forward. Whoever was pulling it had not washed in days. Gabriella was walking in his wake, his dirty smell coating her nostrils.

She tried to dig her heels in, leaning back, but the rope was sawing at her neck. Already it had rubbed the soft flesh raw, stripped off the epidermis to expose nerve endings. The coarse hemp dragging into her set her staggering forwards, squealing with the pain.

Staggering towards crucifixion, helpless to stop them.

TBC
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Very powerful! Drawing closer with every step to something so awful her mind can't grasp it, so she struggles to wake from this nightmare.
 
Imagining - and getting us to imagine - with all the senses,
sounds, sights, touch, taste and - especially - smell,
brings a crucifixion scene into vivid life, you're doing that so well Andy!
 
"At this point the skivvy made a run for it, bolting up the slope, but no one can win a race with a 50 lb beam roped to her shoulders."

Damned! That girl's in good shape. Running uphill with 50 lbs would be hard enough, but she just marched from town. Tree, sign this girl up for the Crux Olympics.:devil:

Not being a Brit, I had to look up "skivvy":
uk informal
a person, in the past a female servant, who does the dirty and unpleasant jobs in a house, such as cleaning
 
Naraku said:
"At this point the skivvy made a run for it, bolting up the slope, but no one can win a race with a 50 lb beam roped to her shoulders."

Damned! That girl's in good shape. Running uphill with 50 lbs would be hard enough, but she just marched from town. Tree, sign this girl up for the Crux Olympics.:devil:

Not being a Brit, I had to look up "skivvy":
uk informal
a person, in the past a female servant, who does the dirty and unpleasant jobs in a house, such as cleaning
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Thanks! I'd been meaning to look that up myself. I figured it was something like that just from the context. The only way I'd ever seen that word used was in reference to underwear, as in "stripped down to his skivvies."
 
andy01 said:
"Let me wake, Mata Dea help me, let me wake."

She tried to grasp the silken sheets, grip them and drag herself out of the nightmare but her hands would not move.

She saw her feet walking on the dirt of a road. They were her feet, she saw the silver-blue paint on her delicate toenails but where were her shoes? The feet were dusty, grit between the toes. She saw the pink tips of her breasts, jolting. She saw her thigh as she stepped forward, rounding not under a silk gown but a cotton cloth that reached only to mid thigh. Another step and her other thigh coming forward, the cloth falling away to expose her to her waist. There were livid marks red on the pale inner thigh

And a rope leading forward from under her chin. It jerked taut and rough hemp dragged at her tender neck.

She tried to lift her head but a sharp thing pressed at the back of her neck.

It was not these things that made her desperate to wake. It was the terror. Some nameless, horrifying thing was approaching ... no, she was approaching it with every step and she could not stop, could not turn. She had to wake, had to wake to her jasmine-scented room and gauzy curtains round her own safe bed. Had to wake from the nightmare before the horror arrived.

The whip slashed into her buttocks, the cloth no protection. The welt boiled through her.

It was no nightmare, it was real. They were dragging her to the killing place. They were going to crucify her.

"Move bitch." The voice was harsh, phlemmy, the voice of a low-class oaf.

"No," Gabriella squealed, "You can't do this. Not to me, you can't do this."

The rope jerked her forward. Whoever was pulling it had not washed in days. Gabriella was walking in his wake, his dirty smell coating her nostrils.

She tried to dig her heels in, leaning back, but the rope was sawing at her neck. Already it had rubbed the soft flesh raw, stripped off the epidermis to expose nerve endings. The coarse hemp dragging into her set her staggering forwards, squealing with the pain.

Staggering towards crucifixion, helpless to stop them.

TBC
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Stunning, Andy! Fantastic perspective. A nightmare that you can't wake up from.
 
The rope dragged her harshly around, sawing the back and side of her neck.

There was rough grass under her feet, trampled by previous feet into an uneven path. Gabriella lurched under the weight of the beam, lurched against the rope, sobbing in exhausted pain.

Nothing but pain, from the torn rawness of her neck to her aching thighs and calves, her battered groin and ruined arsehole.

Battered now by a cacophony of noise, shouts, shrill whistles, jeers.

Oh Gods the mob had come to see her shamed, the stinking mob. How they would delight to see one of their betters tortured so.

And she could not raise her head as the first tendrils of their reek invaded her nostrils, sweat and odour of unwashed men, cheap rancid scent of market women, the filth of the slums come to see her dragged to this place.

The cacophony shrank. Silence except for her labouring breath. Hundreds of eyes on her stumbling naked. Greedy eyes, lustful eyes, gleeful and hateful.

Watching in silence but for a gasp, a sudden bark of laughter and ... Gabriella moaned in shame ... a rhythmic, unmistakable gasping. Someone was masturbating.

The dark heady scent of myrrh cut through the unwashed odours. The scent Mira always wore. Mira was here.

"Mira," she screamed. "Mira help me, stop them I can't stand any more..."

"Bitch." Mira's voice cut through the air, then dropped to a vicious whisper. "Bitch ... Bitch ... Bitch ... Bitch ..."

Voices took up the chant. "Bitch ... Bitch ... Bitch ... Bitch ..."

The ground sloped down before her. She had come to the killing ground.

TBC
 
andy01 said:
the filth of the slums come to see her
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The ultimate degradation for a high-born.

Smell is a primaeval sense, and both your story and Jedakk's Altered States are featuring it. Only a written story like this can stimulate our minds into simulating what the smells might be like, something pictures cannot do.
 
Amazing! Wonderful! Breath-taking!
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Sweet kisses (and more) for you, Anndy01!
smile.png


Yours, Gabriella
 
By the time Gabriella Sevillia was dragged to the edge of the hollow, the cook and the skivvy had been on their crosses for pretty near an hour.

The cook was hanging head down, her buttocks swelling out either side of the post, breasts and belly juddering as she gasped for air. Drops of sweat fell from them. The thick thatch at armpits and cunt was tangled, soaked.

The skivvy was giving much more of a show. She was rearing up, bowed out from her cross, skinny arm muscles bunched as they held her upright, screeching almost incomprehensibly.

And that was what Gabriella saw as she was dragged to the edge of the killing place. Dragged with a harsh edged, splintery beam roped over her slender shoulders, with a dirty cloth tied around her waist, to the place of crucifixion.

When they had pulled her to her feet in the courtyard outside the council chamber, when they had roped the beam upon her and tied the rag at her waist, she had been too demented tormented to speak. But as they tied the rope around her neck, to lead her like an animal, a last spark had ignited.

"Stop it, oh stop it! Don't you know who I am? I'm the Archon's daughter you bits of filth!"

That spark was now long since snuffed out. After that scream for help to Mira, after its savage response she sobbed heartbrokenly as she was taunted down the slope to where a plump man in a crisp white tunic stood. A group of his clients waited several respectful paces behind him. Two of them were dressed incongruously in the grimy tunics of farm workers; one was a middle-aged man, the other a stocky, uncouth pimple of some fourteen summers.

From the edge of the hollow they watched as the stumbling figure was pulled in front of the leader and forced to her knees. At the man's command, the one who had been leading her bent to untie the rope around her throat. The knot had pulled tight and it took some effort, and Gabriella squealed as the coarse fibres jerked to and fro. At last it came free and he jerked the rope off her. They heard her squeal, saw her body twisting as the loose end ripped at burning speed round the back of her neck. But for the men holding the ends of her hurt-beam she would have collapsed on the ground convulsing.

"Hold her head up."

A man moved behind her, grabbed two fistfuls of hair and pulled her head up, the beam cutting into her neck.

She stared up at the man, face slobbered with tears.

He smiled smugly. "Gabriella Sivilla," he said slowly, musingly. "Do you know why we have brought you here?"

Her tears flooded faster, her mouth working.

"Why have we brought you here, Gabriella Sivilla," he persisted.

"To ... ohhhhuuuu ... To ..." She could not say the word.

"To crucify you, yess."

"But the tribune feels we should not crucify someone with such lovely hair."

His pudgy hand reached down and curled behind her neck, then lifted the nape of her hair.

"He's right of course. It would be a crime to crucify someone with hair like this. So soft, so thick. It seems light and heavy at the same time."

His hand moved in a fashion something between a lover's caress and a farmer assessing a goose.

Gabriella tried to disentangle the flow of words, to wrench a desperately important meaning from them.

"We couldn't possibly crucify someone with hair like that."

The meaning loomed through the haze of terror. Gabriella gasped, eyes lighting with joy, twisting her face to kiss his saving hand.

He drew back his arm, grimacing slightly, not wishing to have her slobber on his powdered skin.

"Why even the tribune's wife said how lovely it was. What was it she said ... that she only wished that she had your hair."

His mouth puckered in puzzlement.

"No, that's not quite right is it? She said ... oh yes, she said she wished to have your hair."

He smiled, then lifted his hands apologetically. "And when the Lady Marcella expresses a wish, what can we lesser mortals do?"

He nodded towards the man in the farmworker's tunic.

"That's Luke, my shepherd. Do you know him? No? An excellent man. For the last three days he's been shearing the sheep on my farm. A fine crop this year."
He nodded complacently.
"And now he's going to shear you, Gabriella Sivilla. And then ... we shall crucify you."

TBC
 
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(a bit earlier)... :)


In the mean time, Gabriella Sivilla laid down in the soldiers' barracks. Just the thought of what she had passed in the last two hours made her retch, vomiting bile. Even just breathing caused new waves of pain from between her legs, where she had been abused several times so hard. Angry bruises marked her skin all over her lithe body, and her breasts, which the soldiers so much enjoyed torturing. Then she heard some footsteps approaching, and she blinked her eyes, trying to distinguish the men in the dim light. They throwed her a dirty rag, smelling of urine and feces: "your robe for your next trip, Your Highness. We want you properly attired, Madam!" Then racous laughters, echoing in the small room, a pause and a sharp kick on her ankles...."Get up BITCH! The carnifex is waiting for you!" She retched again, fear and dispair overwhelming her, her long beautiful legs starting to tremble as she started to cry. She felt two soldiers approaching, grabbing her arms and raising her on her feet, another fastening the loincloth around her hips, the long nail of his middle finger sctratching the skin on her inner thighs. Then the lictor leaned forward and puched her hard in the stomach: "I said move, BITCH! They are all waiting for you!"

Mmmmhhh... shivers down my spine!
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Sweet sweet kisses Andy, thanks a lot!
Yours, Gabriella
 
andy01 said:
Madiosi, do you mean a covergraphic and blurb for Gabriella?
I would really love to see what could be done to make graphics for it.
I'm loving writing it, but to see it illustrated ....
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Yes. I like maked a book but i have no time next weeks for illustrations and other here. Have you a idea for Covergraphic?
Madiosi
 
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