TOGETHER
I crouch amongst the others, huddled together along the side of the road, watching apprehensively as the Roman soldiers busy themselves relieving the long row of roadside crosses of bleached-boned carcasses and prying loose reusable nails.
I am one of perhaps a couple hundred prisoners of both sexes.
The male prisoners are legionaries. Unfortunates who made the mistake of backing the wrong contender in one of Rome's periodic struggles for imperial succession, and whose rebel legion was vanquished just the day before on the field of battle. They are the few survivors.
The women are largely innocents ... ordinary slaves who had the misfortune to serve the renegade legion, and were caught up in the aftermath of its defeat when the spoils-hungry victors descended on its unprotected baggage train.
The male survivors bear the scars of battle ... battered and bleeding limbs and heads. They have the look of defeat about them ... eyes downcast, sullenly compliant and uncaring.
We women clutch our torn and tattered clothing to our bodies, unable to keep our minds from replaying the horror of the rude groping and mass molestations that followed our capture. Cowed and frightful, we dare not look our captors in the eye.
Coarse ropes ... tied loosely around our necks ... tether us together in coffles of ten. Our wrists are bound tightly behind our backs. My coffle consists of three women and seven legionaries, none of whom I know personally.
Our situation is desperate. We know for certain that we will soon be crucified ... every last one of us ... each nailed naked to one of the timbered crosses that line both sides of the road. It is just a matter of time until the horror begins.
An Optio moves among us, a puzzled expression of bewilderment fixed on his face as he counts heads ... once ... then a second time ... and then a third time.
He straightens and marches purposely over to the Centurion standing in the road.
"Domine!" he shouts, standing erect and crossing a clenched fist across his chest.
"Yes, what is it?" sighs the Centurion, looking both bored and cross.
"We have one more prisoner than we have crosses!" blurts the Optio.
"Well, how did that happen? Are there not twenty coffles and two hundred crosses?"
"I don't ... don't know, Domine," stammers the Optio, his voice barely a whisper.
The Centurion casts about, in search of a solution. A look of inspiration brightens his otherwise stern visage.
"Take her!" he commands, pointing his finger at me. "And her!" he adds pointing to a young woman at the far end of my coffle. "Crucify them together on the same cross!"
TO BE CONTINUED
I crouch amongst the others, huddled together along the side of the road, watching apprehensively as the Roman soldiers busy themselves relieving the long row of roadside crosses of bleached-boned carcasses and prying loose reusable nails.
I am one of perhaps a couple hundred prisoners of both sexes.
The male prisoners are legionaries. Unfortunates who made the mistake of backing the wrong contender in one of Rome's periodic struggles for imperial succession, and whose rebel legion was vanquished just the day before on the field of battle. They are the few survivors.
The women are largely innocents ... ordinary slaves who had the misfortune to serve the renegade legion, and were caught up in the aftermath of its defeat when the spoils-hungry victors descended on its unprotected baggage train.
The male survivors bear the scars of battle ... battered and bleeding limbs and heads. They have the look of defeat about them ... eyes downcast, sullenly compliant and uncaring.
We women clutch our torn and tattered clothing to our bodies, unable to keep our minds from replaying the horror of the rude groping and mass molestations that followed our capture. Cowed and frightful, we dare not look our captors in the eye.
Coarse ropes ... tied loosely around our necks ... tether us together in coffles of ten. Our wrists are bound tightly behind our backs. My coffle consists of three women and seven legionaries, none of whom I know personally.
Our situation is desperate. We know for certain that we will soon be crucified ... every last one of us ... each nailed naked to one of the timbered crosses that line both sides of the road. It is just a matter of time until the horror begins.
An Optio moves among us, a puzzled expression of bewilderment fixed on his face as he counts heads ... once ... then a second time ... and then a third time.
He straightens and marches purposely over to the Centurion standing in the road.
"Domine!" he shouts, standing erect and crossing a clenched fist across his chest.
"Yes, what is it?" sighs the Centurion, looking both bored and cross.
"We have one more prisoner than we have crosses!" blurts the Optio.
"Well, how did that happen? Are there not twenty coffles and two hundred crosses?"
"I don't ... don't know, Domine," stammers the Optio, his voice barely a whisper.
The Centurion casts about, in search of a solution. A look of inspiration brightens his otherwise stern visage.
"Take her!" he commands, pointing his finger at me. "And her!" he adds pointing to a young woman at the far end of my coffle. "Crucify them together on the same cross!"
TO BE CONTINUED
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