Part III
The sun has reached and passed its zenith.
By now, the shuffling column of condemned wretches has long passed me by as I hang crucified on Post CCLXVII. In their wake, they’ve been been replaced by noisy hordes of onlookers and revelers … and most annoyingly, hecklers. There are even venders selling edible treats, drink and unimaginably tasteless souvenirs.
A carnival atmosphere prevails all up and down the Via Appia. But hardly so for the wretched objects of this festive atmosphere … those of us hanging, in our many hundreds upon hundreds from the dual lines of posts paralleling the long, unerringly straight Appian Way … struggling against the grim dictates of gravity, iron nails, heat, thirst, exhaustion … and, of course, ridicule and humiliation.
All of this frivolity derives, of course, I tell myself … from some kind of innate human capacity to enjoy or even glory in the sufferings of others.
As a hang from my cross, my thoughts turn inward. I come to appreciate that despair and ultimately death are a progressive, inescapable reality for the crucified.
But, It being still relatively early in my ordeal, those realities are for me yet a ways off. And my instinct for now is to survive. To struggle with all my strength and soul against the torments of wood, nails, cramps, thirst and all other discomforts.
To do so is innately human … an essential part of the human spirit. So say the philosophers, and it’s true.
And so I do … just as those on either side of me and across the way are doing.
Endlessly I perform. I perform the dance … as it’s called … the dance of the crucified … however ultimately pointless it may be … again and again for as long as I am able.
Which, in practical terms, means that I allow myself to hang listlessly until the need to fill my lungs with fresh breath compels me to both push upward with my pinioned feet and to pull on my nailed wrists in order to raise myself shakily to an upright position. Where, with knees locked I can manage to hold myself in place for a few precious seconds until ebbing strength, unbearable pain, cramping and spasming muscles cause my body to twist and swing away from, or to either side, of the post, before suddenly collapsing to the limp, hanging position from which it all began.
There my head lolls forward, my chin rests against my chest, and I attempt to gather the will and marshal the strength to do it all over again.
Now that the afternoon sun has cast down upon me its blazing heat, that along with sweltering humidity have begun to take their toll. My throat is parched. My sodden, tangled hair is plastered to my head, face and shoulders. My naked body is sheened and glistening with sweat.
As I hang, gathering strength and resolve to resume the dance, I make an attempt to focus less on myself, my discomfort, my predicament. And try instead to will myself to focus more on my surroundings.
At the foot of my post … Post CCLXVII … sits my oafish legionary. He’s unpacked a lunch from the leather pouch on his belt … a simple lunch, consisting of a sizable chunk of bread smeared with garum sauce and seasoned with garlic … and is busy devouring it. His breath, which I can’t help but smell, as I hang over him, is disgustingly foul. Yet another reason to loathe him!
There’s also the madding crowd, always present, ever changing. They wander in their hundreds and thousands, to and fro, up and down the roadway, necks craning, gawking, sniggering, fingers pointing … taking in the macabre spectacle with such obvious relish and enjoyment.
Matrons shake their heads and wag their fingers disapprovingly. Men stop and stare, particularly at me and at the other crucified females … obviously enjoying our nakedness, the lewdness of our struggling antics. Some of the younger men, roaming in packs, amuse themselves by hurling ribald taunts and obscene gestures at the condemned … some even threaten to close in … to touch or molest.
I become more aware of those nearby who share my shameful fate. Immediately to my right is an older patrician man, white haired, bearded and slim, his ribs sharply outlined against the thinly stretched pale skin of his chest. He has ceased his struggles against wood and nails, and is muttering darkly to himself. I can’t make out the words. I doubt he’ll last much longer.
To my left is a woman of about my age and social station, judging by her appearance. She’s been crucified alongside what I take to be her husband, who looks vaguely familiar
though I cannot place either he or his wife.
She, like me, is still very much in the fight, pushing up vigorously and shouting out encouragements to her flagging man. He appears to have suffered a deep and bloody sword wound to his side. I suspect he, like the old man to my left, won’t last much longer.
Directly across the way, I see … and I don’t know how I could possibly have missed taking note of it before … that they’ve crucified my young maidservant, Lucilla. She hangs between two other slaves from my household … an older man who for many years oversaw the operation of the small vineyard we owned, and a young male … new in the household … someone I haven’t yet had the time to get to know. But I am vaguely aware of the fact that he has an eye for Lucilla … I’ve seen him loitering near her around the villa. I believe his name to be Linus.
Yes, Lucilla and Linus … young lovers. I can’t help but think it bittersweet that they should be crucified together, side by side, most likely before ever having the opportunity to consummate their attraction for one another.
Even in his suffering, Linus appears to be unable to take his eyes from her and is clearly aroused by her vulgarly exposed feminine charms as she writhes and twists against the wood. He has sprung an erection, which has attracted the attention of and is most titillating to the crowd.
I want to cry out to them … and say something. Perhaps something encouraging … perhaps something regretful?
I open my mouth to speak, but produce nothing more than a pitiful croaking sound.
And then the moment is irretrievably lost.
“Look!” shouts a nearby young ruffian to his friends, diverting my attention away from the young couple.
The ruffian points his finger directly at me. “That one over there! The one with the nice tits. I think she’s begging us to come fondle them, and her other womanly bits as well. Look at her! See how lewdly she moves her hips. She wants it! She wants me! I can tell!”
He basks in the gleeful response he receives from his comrades and is about to step toward me.
But much to my surprise, my ‘legionary oaf’ rises suddenly to his feet, steps brusquely out onto the roadway and delivers a stunning cuff to the surprised young ruffian’s face … a cuff so strong that it sends him reeling backwards into the arms of his chums, who chide him mercilessly and lead him away.
Retiring to his solitary vigil at the base of my post, my legionary calmly resumes his lunch.
For the first time, since he led me through the Appian gate on the long march to Post CCLXVII, I can’t help but feel a measure of grudging respect towards him.
But … by then … the pressing need to draw in a breath of fresh air pushes to the fore. All else is forgotten as I gather myself for the effort.
By now each fresh attempt to raise myself up has become more difficult, more physically taxing, than the last. I am compelled to do it. The dance of the crucified allows no respite, but I don’t know for how much longer I can keep this up.
On this try I succeed, but only barely so. My legs buckle and give way before I can manage anything more than a quick gulp of air. And I come crashing down, banging my tailbone hard against the unyieldingly stoutness of Post CCLXVII.
And there I hang. Facing now for the very first time the reality of my ultimate physical limitations, of my very existence … the unfortunate truth that what little remains of my strength … ultimately my life …has but one master … Post CCLXVII.
It will never release me … it holds me firm … and nailed to it … hanging from it … I will soon and inevitably surrender my life.
Now that that’s hit home, I lose interest in whatever curiosity I may have had for what might be happening around me. My senses are muted and entirely focused on what still matters to me … my exhaustion, my never-ending discomfort and pain, and increasingly … my thirst.
Vaguely, I’m aware that my legionary has taken to his feet again … what now, I wonder?
I see him peering around, as though checking to be sure no one is paying attention. Then he turns toward me, opens the flask from which he has been drinking, and offers me some.
Gratefully … greedily … I accept.
I stretch my neck and gulp down a mouthful of his watered-down wine … and then another, and another. The liquid dribbles down my chin, splatters on my chest, gathers and snakes it’s way down and over my belly in tiny rivulets.
He allows me to drink my fill. And when he eventually removes the flask from my lips, I find myself silently nodding to him my appreciation, adding a weak attempt at a smile.
He returns my nod, and grins happily.
And I think to myself how very strange it is that he and I, of all people, should develop a bond of any kind. But I am nonetheless grateful, and have come to look upon him in an entirely new light.
Fate and Post CCLXVII has thrown he and I together.
He points to himself and says softly, “Publius.”
“Barbara,” I croak in reply.
He grins, a bit shyly, turns away and settles himself down once again to resume his vigil at the foot of Post CCLXVII.
And I know now … can take some solace in … the fact that he will remain there, fulfilling his duty, watching over me … until I die.
FINIS
