We stood, still holding our crosses, while Marcellinus read the charge. “The woman naked before you is Alicia, a rebellious Jewish whore who would not submit to the will of her master, and murdered him. She used her evil wiles to tempt this man, Scaevola, into murderous rebellion. They will both now pay for their crimes on their crosses. Look, and learn from their foolish ways. Rome is not to be resisted.”
I groaned. So it was all Alicia’s fault, was it? And what was this ‘Rebellious Jewish whore’ rubbish? I read her sign, which I hadn’t looked at up to now, as she’s be ahead of me, and, sure enough, it just said ‘Rebel Jewess’. I hadn’t even realised she was Jewish. What did her religion have to do with anything, anyway? I guess they probably blamed Jews for anything that went awry.
They took the beams from our shoulders, and we watched as they assembled the crosses on the ground. I couldn’t get to her, my guards had me in a vice-like grip, but I looked at her, and mouthed the words ‘love you.’ Her lips moved, ‘love you too.’ I saw that she was shaking with fear, but I wasn’t feeling immensely courageous, myself.
I wondered which of us was to be first. I soon found out. Me.
It made sense. I was the one most likely to give trouble, and they wanted me immobilised as soon as possible. I wasn’t going to go quietly, and I fought them every step of the way, cursing them for the Roman turds that they were. But there were too many of them, and they fought me down onto that godawful cross, and tied me down. This was it. After everything I’d done, all I’d been through, I was going to be crucified like a slave.
You don’t spend years as a gladiator without picking up a few injuries, but nothing, and I mean nothing, can prepare you for having a thick steel spike smashed through your wrist. I could barely comprehend the pain, I was still fighting, trying desperately to get away from the sheer unbelievable agony of it. I was conscious of Alicia screaming, of Manius and Tullius yelling at me, but everything was a jumble of soldiers swearing, of a hammer rising and falling, and of incredible agony increasing with each strike of the hammer.
And then, once my wrists were securely fixed to the cross, they were at my feet, and it got even worse. The whole cross was shaking, each of my existing wounds shrieking in protest as new wounds were added, as the bones of my feet were forced apart, ripping the tendons and sinews that held them together. There are not words to describe the sheer brutal inhuman torture of crucifixion.
Four nails, and then a fifth to secure the sign above my head. For a moment I lay there, gasping.
Then they began to stand it up. But I’m quite heavy, and maybe they hadn’t got hold of it properly, but in any case it slipped and whumped back down to the ground, throwing me about like a rag doll. I howled in protest, Marcellinus bellowed in fury, and they tried again.
This time they managed it, and my cross lurched upright. I was already screaming in agony from my weight on the nails when it slid down into its socket, crashing against the bottom as my own inertia was arrested by those savage, unforgiving nails. My yell of tormented fury echoed back at me from the city walls. Then it shuddered and danced as they drove wedges in to keep it upright.
Finally, it was done. I hung there, naked and bleeding, panting and whimpering at the sheer shock of the violence done to me.
Then it hit me. They were about to commit the same atrocity against Alicia. And I was powerless to do anything but watch.
To be continued