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Condemned To Die

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Gillian

Magistrate
The foreman looks directly at me. His gaze on my breasts. A slight smirk. "GUILTY"!



"The prisoner will rise to receive the sentence of the court"! Its as though I am hearing this from afar. Rough hands grab me and force me to stand on wobbly legs. I try to gather the thin cotton dress around me but it still gapes open. Two sizes too small at least, and buttoned at the front. No bra or slip - only a pair of thin cotton panties underneath.

"Gillian Wilby" "You have been found guilty of treason and conspiracy". "At noon on Saturday next you will be taken to the crossroads, where you will be crucified until you are dead". A moments silence. Then a shriek and cry from the seats adjacent. "no no NO"

From my three daughters. All dressed in thin cotton dresses like mine. All a size or two too small. and incently short. My eldest, Jane, is desperately trying to cover her modesty but her breasts are almost exposed .

My knees are weak. I don't understand. It should be "Lady Wilby" . And I have done nothing wrong. Nothing at all. And now..... Crucifed? That happens to other people. To thieves and murderers. To common people. It is all I can do to stand.

And the judge and the clerk of the court - they are friends. Only last week I was sitting across from him at dinner, and he was gazing at my décolletage. All evening. And now - he does not even seem to know me...

"but John - this is all a mistake. You know that" "there must be something....." I am gabbling..

The Judge regards me. "The prisoner will be silent" "No right of appeal". "Saturday is - let me see - the day after tomorrow. In the meantime, the prisoner will be accommodated in The Tower Prison". A thin smile. "I am sure the governor and his staff will make her very welcome"

Counsel stands. "Your honour". "The prisoner has three adult daughters". He indictates with his hand. What provision for them?

The judge ponders slowly. "Their names" he intones. "Jane, 20 ... Eleanor and, er Mary, both 18".

"It will be the first Saturday of the month?" He looks over his spectacles. "The day of the monthly slave market?. Well, the state can hardly be expected to make provision for them, can it Oh dear me no"

"Very well then, the two youngest will be sold in the slave market and the cost donated to defray the prosecution expenses" "Jane, however, will share her mothers fate - a pretty mother and daughter will draw a very satisfactory crowd, I am sure".

He snaps his ledger shut. "Take them away".
 
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It was Tuesday morning. The household was woken at dawn by loud banging on the front doors, and shouting, and running boots. My husband leapt out of ben, grabbing his sword and ran down stairs. Shouting and then a loud report.

I crept fearfully down to the top of the stairs. Two soldiers lying bleeding And my husband dying on the floor of the hallway - the smoke from the shot still in the air. The furious officer berating the unfortunate soldier.

We were all told we were under arrest and to dress. Jane and the twins, Eleanor and Mary. Hurried by the impatient officer. My maids and the cook were brought with us as we were all bundled into an enclosed cart and, guarded by soldiers, we were taken to The Tower Prison. I knew the route quite well, and had been inside only recently. As chairwoman of the Prisoners Welfare Charity I had had a terse interview with the governor and the wardens over the treatment of prisoners.

The gates creaked open. Slowly, and we were pulled not vey gently from the wagon and told to stand in a line. My maids and the cook were hustled away

The route the four of us took to the Warden's room was not my previous one - this was old musty corridors. The door opened to the two unsmiling Wardens and six male guards and two hatched faced middle aged female guards. "Ah, Lady Wilby". "Or more accurately Gillian Wilby". "I trust you will not have cause for complaint about your treatment here......". And your lovely children - looked the girls up and down". "We do not often have women here, of course - being a mainly male prison". A short laugh. "you will need more suitable attire, LADY Wilby"

One of the female guards hurried out and returned with four grey cotton dresses.
 
The dresses were old, worn plain grey cotton, buttoned down he front. The material rough and coarse. My demans for privacy met with a laugh.

I tried to shield the girls as much as possible as we all had to strip and do our new clothes. Each dress was at least a size too small, and short. Mid thigh. We had to line up to be inspected, by grnning guards and then escorted to the cells. A black wooden door was the blacksmiths forge - to be fitted with ankle chains. The blacksmith and his two assistants grinning. One is looking at Jane's breasts spilling out of her thin dress, drooling.

His master cuffs him away. "I know you'd love to brand those titties, but it'll have to be after the trial when we have her in here all by herself for an hour or so. The ankle chains are hammered into place, and we have to continue to our cell.

Past cells with catcalling male prisoners, then to a dank cell, with thin straw matresses. The door clanks shut, and we cuddle together and sob
 
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The dresses were old, worn plain grey cotton, buttoned down he front. The material rough and coarse. My demands for privacy met with a laugh.

I tried to shield the girls as much as possible as we all had to strip and do our new clothes. Each dress was at least a size too small, and short. Mid thigh. We had to line up to be inspected, by grinning guards and then escorted to the cells. A black wooden door was the blacksmiths forge - to be fitted with ankle chains. The blacksmith and his two assistants grinning. One was looking at Janes breasts spilling out of her thin dress, drooling.

His master cuffs him away. "I know you'd love to brand those titties, but it'll have to be after the trial when we have her in here all by herself for an hour or so. The ankle chains are hammered into place, and we have to continue to our cell.

Past cells with catcalling male prisoners, then to a dank cell, with thin straw matresses. The door clanks shut, and we cuddle together and sob. "
 
Setting is deliberately indeterminate. But I take your point. Maybe we should not be allowed any intimate garment to cover our modesty?

Depends on whether you want to use that one last bit of covering as a feature in describing when she's stripped. Do you want her to be suddenly fully exposed when her dress is removed, or do you want her maybe left clinging to that last bit of modesty before it's roughly torn away? That's a writer's decision.

I've written that scene in various ways, but I particularly like the scenario where the victim is straining to catch hold of her loincloth - or whatever - tries to squeeze her legs together to hold it. Because all she can think of is that this is the last thing they have to do before they nail her to the cross.

In "The Serpent's Eye" I did it several ways. Here's Sabina fantasizing about being crucified:

I scream and struggle, trapped by powerful arms like iron that grip me tightly as I fight to keep the last rags that cover me from being torn away. My loincloth is all that is between me and slow, agonizing death. When I am naked, they will nail me to the cross.

I fight desperately, squeeze my legs together, anything to stave off my coming execution, but in a few heartbeats I am totally naked. I feel the eyes of the crowd on me, devouring my quivering breasts and exploring my sex.

And here's defiant Lucilla when they are about to rope her to her X-cross:

When they came for the woman Lucilla, she angrily tore off her loincloth and threw it in Antius’ face. There was laughter along with murmurs of appreciation from the crowd at that.​

And here's a victim in a story I'm still working on, who is so wrapped up in the anticipation of her wrists being nailed that she's not really paying attention to her loincloth until it's gone:

When they reached the post, they unbound her hands, and she wasn’t sure she wanted them to.

If my hands are tied, they can’t drive nails through my wrists, oh God please stop don’t let them do it no don’t let them nail me to this cross please don’t let them hurt me!

When her hands were free, they took the patibulum off her shoulder, set it before the post and turned her so that her back was to it and she was facing the crowd. One of them pulled her loincloth down over the curve of her buttocks. Its wrappings came loose and it slipped down between her legs to the ground. She actually spread her thighs a little to let it pass, automatically, just the way she would if she were taking off her loincloth herself. So stupid!

Another thing to think about is how you want your characters to be clothed on their way to the cross. You could have them fully clothed, or they could be forced to walk wearing nothing but whatever underwear you decide that they would have worn in the reality you've created. You could have them wear loincloths, even though that's not what they wear normally, but it's tradition for victims on their way to the cross to wear one. Or you could have them walk there nude as part of their humiliation. It's all up to you.
 
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