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Amica
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Velut Luna
Sibilla Cumana
Amica 93
Evening falls, hot and suffocating as was never felt before, and we, aching, groaning condemned women are herded into our sleeping-cellars, chained up as usual to prevent any chance of escape. For our last meal we get a bit extra of stale bread, so that tomorrow we’ll be able to endure the long journey to our ordeal, and so we’ll have enough strength left to experience for long enough the pain of our hideous execution.
In groups, sitting or kneeling as the length of the chain permits, we embrace each other, some hug their dearest, some lie alone, crying, curled up in a corner of the dormitory. The Christians, the ones who really are, chant the mournful litany of their prayers, but after a while I can’t bear the rhythm of verse and response, it gives me no comfort, indeed it hurls me into horror. I shut my ears with my hands so as to not sense it, in my mind the few memories of my recent life swirl around, the past is lost in the abyss of oblivion. My body is consumed by fever, I'm drenched in a thick sticky sweat that won’t evaporate, my hair’s plastered on my face, a continuous tremor shakes my limbs, the rhythmic chattering of my teeth is as if I were exposed to the freezing cold of winter, while my body burns as if it’s enclosing a furnace.
At this point, gigantic, terrible forms begin to appear around me, filthy monsters springing out from the bowels of horrifying creatures, visions of dreadful deaths, of beasts from whose mouths hanging limbs that once were human, plunged into this state of hallucination I lose any ability to think of dying.
Before dawn we’re woken by the dogs barking and a voice that commands us to leave our den with our arms above our heads. When we reach in the middle of the yard I can see that not all are present, some have died during the night, some of fear, some have wrested themselves out of the hands of the crucifiers by taking their own lives, strangling themselves with their chains. Their bodies are hauled from the ruins where they’ve died and piled in a corner of the parade-ground. The rest of us, who didn’t have that much courage, are now promised the horror of crucifixion.
In the distance the top of Vesuvius is hidden by thick yellow reddish-yellow clouds such as have never been seen before, a haze of heat, despite the early hour, covers the valley we treck down to reach Pompeii. To the east, on the steep foothills of the mountains, lies the city of Nola, the ancient fort of the Samnians, with its turreted walls. Now that the shadows are thinning, a new scene is revealed, long streaks of greyish white colour stand out against the green woods on the side of Vesuvius, looking like arrows with their tips pointing towards the peak - if it were not so hot, they could be snow.
Even the guards have noticed these strange streaks running over the sides of the mountain.
'Ice?'
says one of them, looking at the mountain with his mouth wide open,
'Ice with this heat?'
responds another,
'I've never seen anything like it.'
adds another.
'It couldn’t ... couldn’t be ash?'
'How could it be ash without fire?'
the first one objects,
'If there’d been a fire of that size in the darkness of the night we’d have seen it for sure.'
The sun begins to appear from the profile of the jaws of the mountains on the opposite side of Vesuvius, the air is strangely still, even the dawn chorus of singing birds can’t be heard. One of the men gazes petrified at Vesuvius, running his hand over his forehead to wipe off sweat then rubbing it on his dirty tunic.
'It must have happened in the night, remember the crash that shook the earth?'
'The mountain has split and vomited, look at that side!'
one of the others murmurs anxiously.
'It might have just been the giants that live at the summit, giants flying through the air, their voices are thunderclaps!'
exclaims another.
Yes, giants, those ones I saw last night - and now everything seems to be tangling into an inextricable nightmare, and I'm caught up in this new horror, but… is it just my imagination, or is the earth shaking under my feet? My hair’s bristling at the back of my neck…
Evening falls, hot and suffocating as was never felt before, and we, aching, groaning condemned women are herded into our sleeping-cellars, chained up as usual to prevent any chance of escape. For our last meal we get a bit extra of stale bread, so that tomorrow we’ll be able to endure the long journey to our ordeal, and so we’ll have enough strength left to experience for long enough the pain of our hideous execution.
In groups, sitting or kneeling as the length of the chain permits, we embrace each other, some hug their dearest, some lie alone, crying, curled up in a corner of the dormitory. The Christians, the ones who really are, chant the mournful litany of their prayers, but after a while I can’t bear the rhythm of verse and response, it gives me no comfort, indeed it hurls me into horror. I shut my ears with my hands so as to not sense it, in my mind the few memories of my recent life swirl around, the past is lost in the abyss of oblivion. My body is consumed by fever, I'm drenched in a thick sticky sweat that won’t evaporate, my hair’s plastered on my face, a continuous tremor shakes my limbs, the rhythmic chattering of my teeth is as if I were exposed to the freezing cold of winter, while my body burns as if it’s enclosing a furnace.
At this point, gigantic, terrible forms begin to appear around me, filthy monsters springing out from the bowels of horrifying creatures, visions of dreadful deaths, of beasts from whose mouths hanging limbs that once were human, plunged into this state of hallucination I lose any ability to think of dying.
Before dawn we’re woken by the dogs barking and a voice that commands us to leave our den with our arms above our heads. When we reach in the middle of the yard I can see that not all are present, some have died during the night, some of fear, some have wrested themselves out of the hands of the crucifiers by taking their own lives, strangling themselves with their chains. Their bodies are hauled from the ruins where they’ve died and piled in a corner of the parade-ground. The rest of us, who didn’t have that much courage, are now promised the horror of crucifixion.
In the distance the top of Vesuvius is hidden by thick yellow reddish-yellow clouds such as have never been seen before, a haze of heat, despite the early hour, covers the valley we treck down to reach Pompeii. To the east, on the steep foothills of the mountains, lies the city of Nola, the ancient fort of the Samnians, with its turreted walls. Now that the shadows are thinning, a new scene is revealed, long streaks of greyish white colour stand out against the green woods on the side of Vesuvius, looking like arrows with their tips pointing towards the peak - if it were not so hot, they could be snow.
Even the guards have noticed these strange streaks running over the sides of the mountain.
'Ice?'
says one of them, looking at the mountain with his mouth wide open,
'Ice with this heat?'
responds another,
'I've never seen anything like it.'
adds another.
'It couldn’t ... couldn’t be ash?'
'How could it be ash without fire?'
the first one objects,
'If there’d been a fire of that size in the darkness of the night we’d have seen it for sure.'
The sun begins to appear from the profile of the jaws of the mountains on the opposite side of Vesuvius, the air is strangely still, even the dawn chorus of singing birds can’t be heard. One of the men gazes petrified at Vesuvius, running his hand over his forehead to wipe off sweat then rubbing it on his dirty tunic.
'It must have happened in the night, remember the crash that shook the earth?'
'The mountain has split and vomited, look at that side!'
one of the others murmurs anxiously.
'It might have just been the giants that live at the summit, giants flying through the air, their voices are thunderclaps!'
exclaims another.
Yes, giants, those ones I saw last night - and now everything seems to be tangling into an inextricable nightmare, and I'm caught up in this new horror, but… is it just my imagination, or is the earth shaking under my feet? My hair’s bristling at the back of my neck…
RacingRodent
Consul
Oh Amica the Gods themselves protest your cruel and unjust treatment, hear their voices like the clash of distant mountains in the sky, they call upon their fellow Vulcan to avenge your indignities with smoke and flame, scalding ash and the molten fury of the stones 
Velut Luna
Sibilla Cumana
Amica 94
The mastiffs are restless, running around us, looking at us, looking at the mountain, looking towards the militiamen and the guards. They’re whining anxiously, sometimes one barks. They seem to be afraid of something, but no-one’s paying any attention to their signs of agitation, only they understand, and who would pay attention to them while they’re awaiting the signal to begin the journey to Pompeii, to our tragic destiny?
They call each of us by the number we wear branded on our thighs, hang a wooden sign on our neck: SAEDITIOSA. When it's my turn the guard pauses, then adds with his brush: FVGITIVA. What difference can another a false accusation make?
In groups of fifteen, a rope tied around our necks, short pieces of wood set on our shoulders to which our wrists are bound. Herennius argues with the militiamen because they’re taking away all the wood that is meant for the kiln, the only answer he gets is from one of the squad commanders who lands a whiplash across his pig-snout.
Two militiamen in front, one of the guards by the middle of the file, two more militiamen at the end, a mastiff running back and forth, thus do they control us as we set out to tread along the dusty road leading down the valley, Moloch remains close to me throughout the path, sometimes looking at me with eyes full of terror. He looks as scared as I am, but what can he be afraid of?
A woman who is broken by fatigue and fear is untied and gutted where she lies, her remains abandoned on the roadside to feed the ravens, but I don’t see any flying. I count twenty such girls before we arrive, after an exhausting journey, in sight of the walls of Pompeii.
During the journey none of us has been spared a painful flogging, so we wouldn’t drop our pace, a pace that’s taken every ounce of energy, especially as I’ve been forced to limp, dragging my sore, injured leg, with feet bleeding.
Just outside the Porta Capuana a group of angry Pompeians greets us with mockery, insults, spitting and throwing stones, in their opinion we are responsible for the water-shortage that’s been afflicting the city for some days now. Some of them, furious and excited, try to attack us, to hand out rough justice, they are barely restrained by the militiamen - one of the most agile of the gang comes up and hits my back with a knotty stick, he’s rewarded immediately with a bite on the leg from Moloch, who’s leapt immediately to my defence. I can’t understand this animal, first he attacked me with a violence that exceeded the natural behavious of a dog, yet now he’s defending me against human idiocy. If he could understand me I could ask him to help me escape, but even then I wouldn’t know where to go. Still, he’s diligently carrying out the task for which he was trained, he surely doesn’t understand what is going to happen to me.
I’m surprised that we’re forced to enter the city, normally crucifixions are carried out outside the walls, before the gates, but now we’re marched inside the walls along the street turning right which takes us to the Castellum Aquae, perhaps to make us see that the water is really missing. But past the Porta Vesuviana we turn left into Mercury Street, in the direction of the Forum. Maybe they’re taking us to parade around the square, exposing us to public ridicule before they lead us somewhere else. But something strange is happening, from the direction of the salt-market acrid smoke reaches us impregnated with the smell of burning flesh.
My heart is pounding, my legs trembling, I lack the strength to walk this last stretch of my via dolorosa. Pompeians scream at us as we pass, even the women. I drag myself with the little strength I can find in my legs, staggering, passing beneath the arch of Drusus we enter in the Forum.
The mastiffs are restless, running around us, looking at us, looking at the mountain, looking towards the militiamen and the guards. They’re whining anxiously, sometimes one barks. They seem to be afraid of something, but no-one’s paying any attention to their signs of agitation, only they understand, and who would pay attention to them while they’re awaiting the signal to begin the journey to Pompeii, to our tragic destiny?
They call each of us by the number we wear branded on our thighs, hang a wooden sign on our neck: SAEDITIOSA. When it's my turn the guard pauses, then adds with his brush: FVGITIVA. What difference can another a false accusation make?
In groups of fifteen, a rope tied around our necks, short pieces of wood set on our shoulders to which our wrists are bound. Herennius argues with the militiamen because they’re taking away all the wood that is meant for the kiln, the only answer he gets is from one of the squad commanders who lands a whiplash across his pig-snout.
Two militiamen in front, one of the guards by the middle of the file, two more militiamen at the end, a mastiff running back and forth, thus do they control us as we set out to tread along the dusty road leading down the valley, Moloch remains close to me throughout the path, sometimes looking at me with eyes full of terror. He looks as scared as I am, but what can he be afraid of?
A woman who is broken by fatigue and fear is untied and gutted where she lies, her remains abandoned on the roadside to feed the ravens, but I don’t see any flying. I count twenty such girls before we arrive, after an exhausting journey, in sight of the walls of Pompeii.
During the journey none of us has been spared a painful flogging, so we wouldn’t drop our pace, a pace that’s taken every ounce of energy, especially as I’ve been forced to limp, dragging my sore, injured leg, with feet bleeding.
Just outside the Porta Capuana a group of angry Pompeians greets us with mockery, insults, spitting and throwing stones, in their opinion we are responsible for the water-shortage that’s been afflicting the city for some days now. Some of them, furious and excited, try to attack us, to hand out rough justice, they are barely restrained by the militiamen - one of the most agile of the gang comes up and hits my back with a knotty stick, he’s rewarded immediately with a bite on the leg from Moloch, who’s leapt immediately to my defence. I can’t understand this animal, first he attacked me with a violence that exceeded the natural behavious of a dog, yet now he’s defending me against human idiocy. If he could understand me I could ask him to help me escape, but even then I wouldn’t know where to go. Still, he’s diligently carrying out the task for which he was trained, he surely doesn’t understand what is going to happen to me.
I’m surprised that we’re forced to enter the city, normally crucifixions are carried out outside the walls, before the gates, but now we’re marched inside the walls along the street turning right which takes us to the Castellum Aquae, perhaps to make us see that the water is really missing. But past the Porta Vesuviana we turn left into Mercury Street, in the direction of the Forum. Maybe they’re taking us to parade around the square, exposing us to public ridicule before they lead us somewhere else. But something strange is happening, from the direction of the salt-market acrid smoke reaches us impregnated with the smell of burning flesh.
My heart is pounding, my legs trembling, I lack the strength to walk this last stretch of my via dolorosa. Pompeians scream at us as we pass, even the women. I drag myself with the little strength I can find in my legs, staggering, passing beneath the arch of Drusus we enter in the Forum.
RacingRodent
Consul
Hum...at this rate are the jaws that are Moloch's about to meet a Roman's tender bollocks? 
messaline
Crucified Amazon
Velut Luna
Sibilla Cumana
But where did you find it?
Velut Luna
Sibilla Cumana
The barbecue will be prepared by the Vesuvius.Perhpas have they prepared a huge barbecue for you ...?
Naughty Messa !!!
I visited a colleague and saw the packaging of a refrigerator in the garage.
Again reminiscent of Amica ...
Madiosi
She does get around, if only Moloch will help her escape Pompeii. Nice puppy. Go help our Amica.As well as producing electrical kitchen equipment in Poland,
Amica is a mutual insurance company in the USA,
and a Hyundai car, but I think these days
our Amica is making Eldorada chips and suchlike snacks
somewhere near Mantua
View attachment 264295
cxslave
Chain Slave
I'm finally caught up!!! OMG!! Luna your brilliance never stops! Ever chapter gets more and more thrilling!! I am desperately on edge! Is our dear Amica really going to suffer such a death??
Thank you so much for your long efforts to keep us entertained! Eul as well for translating!
I don't want it to end...
OMG!! Luna your brilliance never stops! Ever chapter gets more and more thrilling!! I am desperately on edge! Is our dear Amica really going to suffer such a death?? Thank you so much for your long efforts to keep us entertained! Eul as well for translating! I don't want it to end...
Velut Luna
Sibilla Cumana
Hi cxslave! Welcome back! 
Thank for your words! 
So Amica is near her end, only few episodes, but very scary!
Welcome back! Thank for your words! So Amica is near her end, only few episodes, but very scary!
Velut Luna
Sibilla Cumana
Amica 95
Crucifixion
The Forum, the wonderful Forum of Pompeii, the Square of the Temples, is transformed into the most horrible theatre of death you could imagine. The view that meets my fear-clouded eyes is the most terrible ever seen, sixty crosses, each corresponding to a column of the buildings that overlook the long sides of the square on the inside, two endless rows of crosses from which hang motionless bodies in a tableau of grotesque choreography. Only the places at the far end, in front of the building of Eumachia, are still free, waiting for us.
In the centre of the square an immense pyre is burning, the acrid smoke carrying the smell of burning flesh rises from the fire, consuming the remains of those who preceded us yesterday. The corrupt air spreads a blackish cloud that hovers over the pavement.
A kaleidoscope of bright dots is dancing before my eyes, I’m in danger of falling forward, I can’t keep standing. I slide slowly to the ground onto my knees, bowed under the beam of timber that holds my arms wide. I try to lift myself up with my hands, breathing heavily, gasping, my head pounding, vomiting bitter tasting bile. I'm still coughing and spitting when in front of me I see someone's feet approaching. I raise a dazed look, no more than two paces away a naked man, covered with dust and blood, is stretching his arm toward me. I think at first it's a vision caused by the infected air, and with a huge effort I get up, staggering like a drunk, blinking to drive away the sweat, trying to focus on the sight, the figure, framed by wisps of black smoke. He’s holding a scourge, he grabs me by the hair, pulling me towards him, I'm in no state to resist, I want to run away, but I can hardly lift my feet.
‘What a cute pretty Christian whore’s brat! I certainly won’t mind getting your butt open!'
He drags me toward my gallows, passing behind crosses which already host my comrades in suffering.
'Saeditiosa et fugitiva, rebel and runaway! You’ll get special treatment!'
he growls, throwing me to my knees at the foot of the upright of my cross.
His huge penis assaults the narrow sphincter of my anus, pushing with brute force, instinctively I try to resist, but only make it worse, my muscles surrender and his monstrous spear breaks into my bowels. A second flagellator comes, he’s just finished dealing with a girl who’s to the right of me, delivering her to the team of executioners. He’s naked too, and covered in blood. He grabs my head, I don’t even get time to scream before I find his penis buried in my throat, I can’t even close my jaws to bite because of retching that’s surging up from my stomach.
A small crowd of onlookers is cheering on my pair of rapists, I remain at the mercy of their brutal violence for a time that seems endless, and then I'm invaded by their sperm, even vomiting it out from my guts, the liquid mingles with the blood of the crucified girl who has just been taken down from the cross that’s now welcoming me. Dazed, I collapse in the sticky mud.
Only a few moments of respite, then another man approaches, this one’s holding a knife and some rope. He grabs my hair, examining it with what seems a professional air, passing my strands between his fingers. He puts a knife between his teeth, diligently arranges my crowning glory into three bunches, recovers the blade, and cuts off all my curls at the scalp.
'Beautiful, no doubt about it. I'll make a good profit. You won’t be needing it any more, it'll become a wig for some rich matron.'
He grins, putting what has always been my proudest ornament into a sack where he’s collecting the best material for his craft.
The first man, the one who possessed me against nature, returns with a crown of thorns that he’s just recovered from the body of a crucified girl which has been placed on the horrendous pyre. Helped by the other flagellator, he forces the royal ornament around my head. I scream, in terror rather than pain, as the thorns sink into the fragile flesh of my face, copiously cascading blood clouds my vision.
The first blow of the scourge that strikes my back feels like the bite of a shark tearing my flesh, I try to scream, but not the slightest sound comes out of my mouth, so great is the pain. Taking turns, first one then the other, back, chest, buttocks, belly, thighs, hips, nothing is overlooked, while splashes of my blood smear their skin, mingling with the sweat of their labour. As for me, I've not even got the strength to grab the ropes that bind me to my bar.
When their work's complete, I hang almost lifeless on the ropes, I can hardly take in what's going on around me. I see a cohort of demons that rush about, snatching bodies, raising beams with poor bodies nailed to them, hammering in more nails to attach their feet to the trunks of the crosses. It seems everything's happening in a different dimension, in a world of its own and I'm just a spectator, watching from afar.
'Now then, Fugitiva - with these nails in you, you won’t get to run away!'
The monster that takes control of me to nail me doesn’t miss the opportunity for yet another rape. Kneeling with my forehead on the ground in the mud mixed with my blood, I’m penetrated from behind in my vagina, he’s immediately imitated by his team, some who prefer the pussy, some the arsehole, each to his taste.
The ropes are untied, the wood that I’ve been bearing with so much effort is put aside, a big bloody beam is set onto my back - everything is reused, even the nails, now caked and rusty, but how do they want to nail me? Two of them hold me face down with my arms resting on the back of the beam, the other two keep my legs apart with the front of my foot on a second beam.
The crucifier sets the first nail just above my right wrist, with a tremendous blow of his mallet it pierces my forearm, breaking the bones. The pain invades my whole body, but I’m still more seized with pain that seems caused by punching between my eyes from hammering within my brain, an explosion that’s destroying my mind. I’m screaming now, yelling with all the little breath I have left, blow after blow, but my cry is continuous, the pain is driving me to madness. Then my feet are drilled from the instep to the back, fixing me in an obscene position.
Ropes are slipped around to rest on a cylindrical iron bar that extends from side to side over the top of a drum and serves as a pulley and a support. This strange posture that the 'Master of Nails' has chosen for me doesn’t tear my arms as they’re not stretched from the beam, and my weight is resting on the wood - this will ensure more prolonged agony. Even the beam holding my legs spread apart is lifted up by the same rope, to the point where I find myself posed as if I were kneeling.
Now, up on ladders, the specialists complete their work. One of them sinks his fist into my arsehole to widen it as far as possible for entry of the cornu, a knotty stick that breaks through my bowels, another pierces the quivering flesh of my right breast with a spare nail, a third probes with a knife, attempting to push a nail between the labia of my poor pussy, the last one pierces my left breast with the tip of a spear, bursting the flesh from which flows blood and milk.
A terrible earthquake interrupts these operations, the two ladders tumble to the ground taking with them the vicious monsters that have ravaged my poor body, but the shaking penetrates me through the cornu that has sunk into my body.
The crowd that has been watching my martyrdom turns towards Vesuvius, in an unreal silence we see a huge pillar of fire and ash rise up into the sky, a few seconds later comes the cry of the wounded mountain, the noise is so intense that the people throw themselves to the ground, covering their ears with their hands. It’s a most painful roar, like a nail being driven through my ears into my head, for a long time I cannot hear any other sound.
Crucifixion
The Forum, the wonderful Forum of Pompeii, the Square of the Temples, is transformed into the most horrible theatre of death you could imagine. The view that meets my fear-clouded eyes is the most terrible ever seen, sixty crosses, each corresponding to a column of the buildings that overlook the long sides of the square on the inside, two endless rows of crosses from which hang motionless bodies in a tableau of grotesque choreography. Only the places at the far end, in front of the building of Eumachia, are still free, waiting for us.
In the centre of the square an immense pyre is burning, the acrid smoke carrying the smell of burning flesh rises from the fire, consuming the remains of those who preceded us yesterday. The corrupt air spreads a blackish cloud that hovers over the pavement.
A kaleidoscope of bright dots is dancing before my eyes, I’m in danger of falling forward, I can’t keep standing. I slide slowly to the ground onto my knees, bowed under the beam of timber that holds my arms wide. I try to lift myself up with my hands, breathing heavily, gasping, my head pounding, vomiting bitter tasting bile. I'm still coughing and spitting when in front of me I see someone's feet approaching. I raise a dazed look, no more than two paces away a naked man, covered with dust and blood, is stretching his arm toward me. I think at first it's a vision caused by the infected air, and with a huge effort I get up, staggering like a drunk, blinking to drive away the sweat, trying to focus on the sight, the figure, framed by wisps of black smoke. He’s holding a scourge, he grabs me by the hair, pulling me towards him, I'm in no state to resist, I want to run away, but I can hardly lift my feet.
‘What a cute pretty Christian whore’s brat! I certainly won’t mind getting your butt open!'
He drags me toward my gallows, passing behind crosses which already host my comrades in suffering.
'Saeditiosa et fugitiva, rebel and runaway! You’ll get special treatment!'
he growls, throwing me to my knees at the foot of the upright of my cross.
His huge penis assaults the narrow sphincter of my anus, pushing with brute force, instinctively I try to resist, but only make it worse, my muscles surrender and his monstrous spear breaks into my bowels. A second flagellator comes, he’s just finished dealing with a girl who’s to the right of me, delivering her to the team of executioners. He’s naked too, and covered in blood. He grabs my head, I don’t even get time to scream before I find his penis buried in my throat, I can’t even close my jaws to bite because of retching that’s surging up from my stomach.
A small crowd of onlookers is cheering on my pair of rapists, I remain at the mercy of their brutal violence for a time that seems endless, and then I'm invaded by their sperm, even vomiting it out from my guts, the liquid mingles with the blood of the crucified girl who has just been taken down from the cross that’s now welcoming me. Dazed, I collapse in the sticky mud.
Only a few moments of respite, then another man approaches, this one’s holding a knife and some rope. He grabs my hair, examining it with what seems a professional air, passing my strands between his fingers. He puts a knife between his teeth, diligently arranges my crowning glory into three bunches, recovers the blade, and cuts off all my curls at the scalp.
'Beautiful, no doubt about it. I'll make a good profit. You won’t be needing it any more, it'll become a wig for some rich matron.'
He grins, putting what has always been my proudest ornament into a sack where he’s collecting the best material for his craft.
The first man, the one who possessed me against nature, returns with a crown of thorns that he’s just recovered from the body of a crucified girl which has been placed on the horrendous pyre. Helped by the other flagellator, he forces the royal ornament around my head. I scream, in terror rather than pain, as the thorns sink into the fragile flesh of my face, copiously cascading blood clouds my vision.
The first blow of the scourge that strikes my back feels like the bite of a shark tearing my flesh, I try to scream, but not the slightest sound comes out of my mouth, so great is the pain. Taking turns, first one then the other, back, chest, buttocks, belly, thighs, hips, nothing is overlooked, while splashes of my blood smear their skin, mingling with the sweat of their labour. As for me, I've not even got the strength to grab the ropes that bind me to my bar.
When their work's complete, I hang almost lifeless on the ropes, I can hardly take in what's going on around me. I see a cohort of demons that rush about, snatching bodies, raising beams with poor bodies nailed to them, hammering in more nails to attach their feet to the trunks of the crosses. It seems everything's happening in a different dimension, in a world of its own and I'm just a spectator, watching from afar.
'Now then, Fugitiva - with these nails in you, you won’t get to run away!'
The monster that takes control of me to nail me doesn’t miss the opportunity for yet another rape. Kneeling with my forehead on the ground in the mud mixed with my blood, I’m penetrated from behind in my vagina, he’s immediately imitated by his team, some who prefer the pussy, some the arsehole, each to his taste.
The ropes are untied, the wood that I’ve been bearing with so much effort is put aside, a big bloody beam is set onto my back - everything is reused, even the nails, now caked and rusty, but how do they want to nail me? Two of them hold me face down with my arms resting on the back of the beam, the other two keep my legs apart with the front of my foot on a second beam.
The crucifier sets the first nail just above my right wrist, with a tremendous blow of his mallet it pierces my forearm, breaking the bones. The pain invades my whole body, but I’m still more seized with pain that seems caused by punching between my eyes from hammering within my brain, an explosion that’s destroying my mind. I’m screaming now, yelling with all the little breath I have left, blow after blow, but my cry is continuous, the pain is driving me to madness. Then my feet are drilled from the instep to the back, fixing me in an obscene position.
Ropes are slipped around to rest on a cylindrical iron bar that extends from side to side over the top of a drum and serves as a pulley and a support. This strange posture that the 'Master of Nails' has chosen for me doesn’t tear my arms as they’re not stretched from the beam, and my weight is resting on the wood - this will ensure more prolonged agony. Even the beam holding my legs spread apart is lifted up by the same rope, to the point where I find myself posed as if I were kneeling.
Now, up on ladders, the specialists complete their work. One of them sinks his fist into my arsehole to widen it as far as possible for entry of the cornu, a knotty stick that breaks through my bowels, another pierces the quivering flesh of my right breast with a spare nail, a third probes with a knife, attempting to push a nail between the labia of my poor pussy, the last one pierces my left breast with the tip of a spear, bursting the flesh from which flows blood and milk.
A terrible earthquake interrupts these operations, the two ladders tumble to the ground taking with them the vicious monsters that have ravaged my poor body, but the shaking penetrates me through the cornu that has sunk into my body.
The crowd that has been watching my martyrdom turns towards Vesuvius, in an unreal silence we see a huge pillar of fire and ash rise up into the sky, a few seconds later comes the cry of the wounded mountain, the noise is so intense that the people throw themselves to the ground, covering their ears with their hands. It’s a most painful roar, like a nail being driven through my ears into my head, for a long time I cannot hear any other sound.