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Gabriella In Kytherramne
- Thread starter andy01
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andy01
Magistrate
Sorry.
Just so.
old slave
FELIS RESPICIENS
A most intense nailing scene, but significantly enhanced by the Sergeant's thoughts, we are not in the mechanical Roman justice system, where the rich (mostly) wield the power and the poor suffer, but almost a people's revolution, justice for all, and life for the bright young things never the same again.
andy01
Magistrate
Not a revolution; rather the watch belatedly carrying through the Tribune's policy and restoring order in the town with a brutal but necessary example.
malins
Stumbling Seeker
Anyway, this - as usual for Andy's stories - is a tough unromanticized look at crucifixion...
... no solidarity among victims or comfort for each other...
... no martyrs or innocent victims... passivity, in continuing a criminal racket begun by others is no excuse... a kind of white-collar criminal who ignores the reality of what she's been doing... until it catches up with her
... no room for noble gestures, no wishing oneself away into fantasies...
she knew before, as everyone does, but didn't care too much... it didn't have anything to do with her... not until today...
andy01
Magistrate
Gabriella, next part:
To be dragged violently by the wrists over rough ground would be dreadful and humiliating at any time. To be dragged on rusty nails that jolted at outraged bone was unspeakable.
“Like a cat with its tail on fire,” spat Mira, moving upwind from vomiting Cealia Paulina.
And indeed Gabriella’s screeching was much like those sounds the urchins of Kytherammne thought it worth risking a few scratches and bites for when they managed to corner an alley cat and dip its tail in pitch then set it alight.
As they dragged her the last few steps to the base of the post beside the skivvy’s cross, it was hardly credible that Gabriella could be aware of anything but the pain of being dragged on nails. But in some part of her mind she was horribly aware she was being dragged over coarse grass, that tufts were dragged between the cheeks of her bottom, scrubbing over her tender anus in a degraded parody of the sponge she used to clean herself in the latrine.
The hurt beam banged against the post. It was time Gaabriella climbed the tree.
They bent and dragged the hurt-beam up against the wood, scraping it up to waist height.
Gabriella’s shoulders left the ground. She was hanging on long-stretched arms, her cropped head cracking against the post, weight falling on her wrists.
Her legs convulsed to thrust her bottom back over the grass to the base of the post, to get the weight off the nails.
Two more men grasped the hurt-beam from behind and helped lift it higher. Gabriella tried to get her legs under her, to stand and take the weight from her arms but her legs collapsed and she fell upon the nails, her bleeding knees inches from the ground.
Up and above their heads. Gabriella’s feet were pulled off the earth she would never touch again. They curled up, her knees pressing into her breasts. They kicked wide open. Her ankles slammed back either side of the post, trying to grip, to thrust up and take the weight.
Gabriella Sivillla was climbing the tree.
The hurt beam rose to just below the tenon. One more push and it jerked backwards against it. A momentary pause, taking advantage of the little shelf in front of the tenon. Then up it lurched … the slot was over the tenon’s peak. It came down with a jerk. You could hear the bang as it slammed into place from the edge of the hollow, for Gabriella had passed beyond the point of screams.
Her crucifixion had begun.
TBC
To be dragged violently by the wrists over rough ground would be dreadful and humiliating at any time. To be dragged on rusty nails that jolted at outraged bone was unspeakable.
“Like a cat with its tail on fire,” spat Mira, moving upwind from vomiting Cealia Paulina.
And indeed Gabriella’s screeching was much like those sounds the urchins of Kytherammne thought it worth risking a few scratches and bites for when they managed to corner an alley cat and dip its tail in pitch then set it alight.
As they dragged her the last few steps to the base of the post beside the skivvy’s cross, it was hardly credible that Gabriella could be aware of anything but the pain of being dragged on nails. But in some part of her mind she was horribly aware she was being dragged over coarse grass, that tufts were dragged between the cheeks of her bottom, scrubbing over her tender anus in a degraded parody of the sponge she used to clean herself in the latrine.
The hurt beam banged against the post. It was time Gaabriella climbed the tree.
They bent and dragged the hurt-beam up against the wood, scraping it up to waist height.
Gabriella’s shoulders left the ground. She was hanging on long-stretched arms, her cropped head cracking against the post, weight falling on her wrists.
Her legs convulsed to thrust her bottom back over the grass to the base of the post, to get the weight off the nails.
Two more men grasped the hurt-beam from behind and helped lift it higher. Gabriella tried to get her legs under her, to stand and take the weight from her arms but her legs collapsed and she fell upon the nails, her bleeding knees inches from the ground.
Up and above their heads. Gabriella’s feet were pulled off the earth she would never touch again. They curled up, her knees pressing into her breasts. They kicked wide open. Her ankles slammed back either side of the post, trying to grip, to thrust up and take the weight.
Gabriella Sivillla was climbing the tree.
The hurt beam rose to just below the tenon. One more push and it jerked backwards against it. A momentary pause, taking advantage of the little shelf in front of the tenon. Then up it lurched … the slot was over the tenon’s peak. It came down with a jerk. You could hear the bang as it slammed into place from the edge of the hollow, for Gabriella had passed beyond the point of screams.
Her crucifixion had begun.
TBC
andy01
Magistrate
Gabriella, next part:
She was dangling on the nails.
Her arms stretched out in a triangle with the beam, red blood running down to mix with sweat, and the weight on those arms was appalling. A weight that dragged her down, dragged the nails against the flesh trapped between bones.
The tendons of her armpit showed starkly, the white hollows between stretched dreadfully. Sweet hollows that Lucia had smoothed with pumice and oil – Lucia who now had fallen to Mira’s lot. So different from the ginger-sprouted armpits of the skivvy, but the same appalling pain.
Frantically her legs flailed at the sides of the cross, calves trying to grip the wood, jerk her weight up.
Gods, let her pull up. Not hang with her weight on the nails.
Mouth gasping, disabled with shocking pain, eyes staring into hell.
Did she hear the clatter of the ladder at the back of the cross? Did she feel the tremor as Maxi climbed it?
She felt the shudders of the hurt beam as he hammered the wedges in, for those shudders jolted the nails. Her shaved head jerked and her legs splayed wild as those nerves erupted in pain.
One took her right calf and dragged it backwards. Two gripped her left and forced the foot down on the pole, round knee, bleeding, bent. One pressed a nail against her foot and the hammer fell.
She heard/felt the splitting and cracking of bone. Did she know how her body convulsed, slamming outwards and back against the post as the hammer fell again and again? Did she know she was screaming?
Pain flaring up her body from the tormented nerves in her foot, to meet pain flaring down from her wrists, pain retching together and ripping through every part of her body.
Convulsing outwards. Screaming.
“Steady there Julius. That’s enough. I don’t want her foot nailed flat against the post. Leave an inch or so, so she can straighten her legs a bit and lift. She’ll last longer that way.”
The other leg forced against the post. The clang of hammer on nail, the horrible splitting apart of bones, the tearing into the nerve.
And it was done. Gabriella was crucified.
Her agony was indescribable, and it had only begun. It was going to take her days to die, Before the sun had sunk two hands’ breadths down the sky, she would have been on her cross forever, Her past and future would be infinities of pain. No beginning, no ending, only the brutal horror of the cross.
TBC
She was dangling on the nails.
Her arms stretched out in a triangle with the beam, red blood running down to mix with sweat, and the weight on those arms was appalling. A weight that dragged her down, dragged the nails against the flesh trapped between bones.
The tendons of her armpit showed starkly, the white hollows between stretched dreadfully. Sweet hollows that Lucia had smoothed with pumice and oil – Lucia who now had fallen to Mira’s lot. So different from the ginger-sprouted armpits of the skivvy, but the same appalling pain.
Frantically her legs flailed at the sides of the cross, calves trying to grip the wood, jerk her weight up.
Gods, let her pull up. Not hang with her weight on the nails.
Mouth gasping, disabled with shocking pain, eyes staring into hell.
Did she hear the clatter of the ladder at the back of the cross? Did she feel the tremor as Maxi climbed it?
She felt the shudders of the hurt beam as he hammered the wedges in, for those shudders jolted the nails. Her shaved head jerked and her legs splayed wild as those nerves erupted in pain.
One took her right calf and dragged it backwards. Two gripped her left and forced the foot down on the pole, round knee, bleeding, bent. One pressed a nail against her foot and the hammer fell.
She heard/felt the splitting and cracking of bone. Did she know how her body convulsed, slamming outwards and back against the post as the hammer fell again and again? Did she know she was screaming?
Pain flaring up her body from the tormented nerves in her foot, to meet pain flaring down from her wrists, pain retching together and ripping through every part of her body.
Convulsing outwards. Screaming.
“Steady there Julius. That’s enough. I don’t want her foot nailed flat against the post. Leave an inch or so, so she can straighten her legs a bit and lift. She’ll last longer that way.”
The other leg forced against the post. The clang of hammer on nail, the horrible splitting apart of bones, the tearing into the nerve.
And it was done. Gabriella was crucified.
Her agony was indescribable, and it had only begun. It was going to take her days to die, Before the sun had sunk two hands’ breadths down the sky, she would have been on her cross forever, Her past and future would be infinities of pain. No beginning, no ending, only the brutal horror of the cross.
TBC
andy01
Magistrate
She don't go nowhere from here.
Yikes! I think it's better that she's a high-born girl fallen from grace. I think the horror of the situation is sharper.
The last two chapters were really good.
"TBC", eh? Where do you go from here?
Thanks for the comments
andy01
Magistrate
Thanks Phlebas.. I wish I could really envisage and find words for the arms stretched and tortured on the cross. The stresses, the hurt in muscles, nerves, bones. How that travels through the whole of the body. Still trying to do that, and know I never will; but the attempt is so exhilarating.
For a long time I imagined "hurt-beam" was just a translation from the original . Totally wrong of course (I had to do Latin for university entrance, and was hopeless at it; I'd love to learn it now, so much packed into so few words - "decorandum, elevandum, eliminandum" as Mandelson must have thought when he awarded a collective George Cross to the Northern Ireland Police), but I do think the phrase drags in the meaning.
andy01
Magistrate
Gabriella, next part:
But now Gabriella was doing the dance of the freshly crucified, singing the song of the freshly crucified.
The song was almost wordless, raging wildly in tone from guttural choking and desperate howls to screeches that could shatter glass. Incoherent fragments of words it had, screaming to be let down, that she could not bear it, that it hurt too much. The words melted in the wild music of the song.
The dance was spectacular. The graceful body reared and bucked on the cross. It tore to left and right, striving to rip the nails out of her flesh like an animal trying to rip its leg out of a trap. The cropped head roiled and jerked. The song rose to screeching horror.
But the nails were absolute.
The demented frenzy went on for ever, five minutes, ten, fifteen. Her sweet breasts hurt with their wild flinging. Dry air ripped in her throat.
Then suddenly she stiffened, her body arching out from the cross, groin thrust like an offering. Her voice lowered to a howl.
Thus she hung there, arms stretched like the strings of an over-tuned lyre.
Slowly her body curled back to embrace the cross. The much abused bottom slumped against the beam. She hung from the nails.
Crucified.
TBC
But now Gabriella was doing the dance of the freshly crucified, singing the song of the freshly crucified.
The song was almost wordless, raging wildly in tone from guttural choking and desperate howls to screeches that could shatter glass. Incoherent fragments of words it had, screaming to be let down, that she could not bear it, that it hurt too much. The words melted in the wild music of the song.
The dance was spectacular. The graceful body reared and bucked on the cross. It tore to left and right, striving to rip the nails out of her flesh like an animal trying to rip its leg out of a trap. The cropped head roiled and jerked. The song rose to screeching horror.
But the nails were absolute.
The demented frenzy went on for ever, five minutes, ten, fifteen. Her sweet breasts hurt with their wild flinging. Dry air ripped in her throat.
Then suddenly she stiffened, her body arching out from the cross, groin thrust like an offering. Her voice lowered to a howl.
Thus she hung there, arms stretched like the strings of an over-tuned lyre.
Slowly her body curled back to embrace the cross. The much abused bottom slumped against the beam. She hung from the nails.
Crucified.
TBC
But the nails were absolute.
Soft flesh and unyielding iron.
Sinuous body on stiff wood.
She has been raised high, and by this brought low, yet another paradox of the cross.
I think you are making a pretty good attempt. For me the whole stretched body thing, the tension in torso and limbs, is a big part of it. Both the feeling, and the view. The physical test, and the mental test that goes with it. The lines, and shapes, made by that stress position. Very nice, both to see and to feel, at least up to a point!
Soft flesh and unyielding iron.
Sinuous body on stiff wood.
She has been raised high, and by this brought low, yet another paradox of the cross.
I think you are making a pretty good attempt. For me the whole stretched body thing, the tension in torso and limbs, is a big part of it. Both the feeling, and the view. The physical test, and the mental test that goes with it. The lines, and shapes, made by that stress position. Very nice, both to see and to feel, at least up to a point!
andy01
Magistrate
Gabriella, next part:
Eliaza grasped the shorn hair, pulled her head up against the post.
The girl was in shock, mouth hanging slack, cheeks twitching.
She was breathing in rapid gasps.
Her placed his finger in the hollow below her eye, pulled down. The eye was bloodshot, the pupil swollen to almost eclipse the hazel iris.
Her sweat was pouring, wet as if they had thrown water over her. The blood running down to her distended elbows was pinkened with sweat, half dissolving as it trickled down.
Her skin was clammy. Tremors ran up and down her arms.
He passed a finger under the softness of her breast. He sniffed at the odour of her sweat. It was tinged with the spices of last night’s dainties.
The hammer of her heart was weak but rapid. Her thighs smelt of urine but she was not pissing now. Her urethra had closed off the flow.
She was conscious, Eliaza thought, but barely so. Nauseous and dizzy, but her mind closed down in shock.
No matter. She was nailed at her feet and her wrists … and her mind. The nails allowed no escape, they would grip her. The almost merciful shock would pass, blood would flow back to her brain, she would soon regain full consciousness. And what an awakening that would be.
Meanwhile the skivvy was struggling to straighten her knees to take weight off her arms. Tough little bitch that one. She hadn’t fainted like the poor little rich girl. She snarled curses as he examined her, her scrawny breasts with their pointy little nipples jolting on her skinny chest.
They both needed watering. Where by Chronos’ balls was Dirennius? He’d sent him to get a sponge an aeon ago.
At last the fool returned, hastening under the sergeant’s glare.
“The old hag wanted three drachma for it,” he whined. “Said she’d have to get another one.”
He proffered the much-used thing. “I made her rinse it out,” he said placatingly.
TBC
Eliaza grasped the shorn hair, pulled her head up against the post.
The girl was in shock, mouth hanging slack, cheeks twitching.
She was breathing in rapid gasps.
Her placed his finger in the hollow below her eye, pulled down. The eye was bloodshot, the pupil swollen to almost eclipse the hazel iris.
Her sweat was pouring, wet as if they had thrown water over her. The blood running down to her distended elbows was pinkened with sweat, half dissolving as it trickled down.
Her skin was clammy. Tremors ran up and down her arms.
He passed a finger under the softness of her breast. He sniffed at the odour of her sweat. It was tinged with the spices of last night’s dainties.
The hammer of her heart was weak but rapid. Her thighs smelt of urine but she was not pissing now. Her urethra had closed off the flow.
She was conscious, Eliaza thought, but barely so. Nauseous and dizzy, but her mind closed down in shock.
No matter. She was nailed at her feet and her wrists … and her mind. The nails allowed no escape, they would grip her. The almost merciful shock would pass, blood would flow back to her brain, she would soon regain full consciousness. And what an awakening that would be.
Meanwhile the skivvy was struggling to straighten her knees to take weight off her arms. Tough little bitch that one. She hadn’t fainted like the poor little rich girl. She snarled curses as he examined her, her scrawny breasts with their pointy little nipples jolting on her skinny chest.
They both needed watering. Where by Chronos’ balls was Dirennius? He’d sent him to get a sponge an aeon ago.
At last the fool returned, hastening under the sergeant’s glare.
“The old hag wanted three drachma for it,” he whined. “Said she’d have to get another one.”
He proffered the much-used thing. “I made her rinse it out,” he said placatingly.
TBC
D
Deleted member jedakk
Guest
Interesting take on it, "the song of the freshly crucified." I imagine that the reactions of people as they were nailed to the cross varied from those who screamed and struggled in a frenzy of agony like this to those who were initially paralyzed with fear, because any movement could bring stabbing pain in their wounds that was worse even than what they were currently feeling. There's no way to know for sure, it's all a guess. An ancient Roman, reading the stuff we write, might laugh out loud and say bullshit, that's not the way it is!
D
Deleted member jedakk
Guest
Dirennius was taking a lot of time getting back, so it's natural that Eliaza would swear by Chronos, the god of time!
And what does he come back with? A well-used toilet sponge. I also used that in "Altered States," the story I'm currently posting. Yet another insult to add to Gabriella's punishment!
andy01
Magistrate
Gabriella, next part
“Give that one water,” Eliazar said, nodding towards the skivvy, “and mind your hands. But pass me that skin of vinegar first.”
The pungent stuff was potent in its effects. In the legion he’d seen muleteers use it to galvanise exhausted beasts into a final effort. When they prised the huge mouths open and poured a cupful between teeth and tongue, the animals jerked and stiffened and were good for a few more hours.
It wasn’t the smelling salts the rich girl was used to, but it would jerk her out of shock, back to her punishment.
Besides, it was appropriate. Water for the kitchen maid, wine for the mistress.
He pulled the wooden stopper out, turned her cheek against the post and let her head fall back towards her shoulder, mouth slackly open. His eyes were taken by the hollow at the base of her throat.
He tipped the bottle over her mouth and squeezed it so the dark liquid gushed, half filling her mouth.
She gagged and choked violently, spraying it out. It ran from her nostrils too for her convulsive reaction had forced it through them. He’d done that at times when drunk, and even with well-watered wine it hurt. With raw, unwatered vinegar – yes, that had got her attention all right.
Mouth filled with the vile stuff, nose in agony, wrists howling from the convulsion against the nails, Gabriella knew what was happening, what was being done to her.
To hang on stretched arms was appalling but to move them was far, far worse. She struggled to hang quiet, not twist on the nails.
But there was no quietness. Her muscles shook, shivers running up them, vibrating on the nails. Her tendons stood out starkly, hollowing her armpits. Her ribs were distended, her stomach hollowed below them and pulsing in and out in the cross-down belly dance.
She hung in pain, terrified because she knew what it meant to tug her wrists on the nails, struggling to keep still as her quivering muscles were stretched and naked nerves juddered against the rusty edges of the nails.
TBC
“Give that one water,” Eliazar said, nodding towards the skivvy, “and mind your hands. But pass me that skin of vinegar first.”
The pungent stuff was potent in its effects. In the legion he’d seen muleteers use it to galvanise exhausted beasts into a final effort. When they prised the huge mouths open and poured a cupful between teeth and tongue, the animals jerked and stiffened and were good for a few more hours.
It wasn’t the smelling salts the rich girl was used to, but it would jerk her out of shock, back to her punishment.
Besides, it was appropriate. Water for the kitchen maid, wine for the mistress.
He pulled the wooden stopper out, turned her cheek against the post and let her head fall back towards her shoulder, mouth slackly open. His eyes were taken by the hollow at the base of her throat.
He tipped the bottle over her mouth and squeezed it so the dark liquid gushed, half filling her mouth.
She gagged and choked violently, spraying it out. It ran from her nostrils too for her convulsive reaction had forced it through them. He’d done that at times when drunk, and even with well-watered wine it hurt. With raw, unwatered vinegar – yes, that had got her attention all right.
Mouth filled with the vile stuff, nose in agony, wrists howling from the convulsion against the nails, Gabriella knew what was happening, what was being done to her.
To hang on stretched arms was appalling but to move them was far, far worse. She struggled to hang quiet, not twist on the nails.
But there was no quietness. Her muscles shook, shivers running up them, vibrating on the nails. Her tendons stood out starkly, hollowing her armpits. Her ribs were distended, her stomach hollowed below them and pulsing in and out in the cross-down belly dance.
She hung in pain, terrified because she knew what it meant to tug her wrists on the nails, struggling to keep still as her quivering muscles were stretched and naked nerves juddered against the rusty edges of the nails.
TBC
