Here's a bit more story to fuel the Crux Chatter
“Legionary Windar! Bring the prisoner forward!”
A Roman soldier and a comrade practically dragged a woman forward. She stood between them, glaring defiantly at Wragg. She had a cut on her cheek, but otherwise seemed uninjured. She was in her early thirties, Wragg judged; she had long, dark hair, and was dressed in a plain blue woollen gown with a surprisingly ornate torc around her neck, showing her to be a woman of some status.
She attempted to free herself, bur Windar and his colleague were having none of that, and held her by the upper arms in a vice like grip. “Keep her still, Old Slave,” grumbled the Centurion.
The woman lifted her head, and spat with deadly accuracy at Wragg. A gob of saliva ran down his face.
Wragg’s whip hand jerked, almost instinctively, and the lash caught her across her face. Now she had a cut on both cheeks. She shrieked with pain and fury: “BASTARD ROMAN!”
‘Tree’ gazed at him with respect. “Nice work, sir! Here’s the proclamation.”
He handed up a roll of parchment. Wragg unrolled it. The proclamation was written in Latin. Miss Eulalia, his old Latin teacher, had despaired of ever getting any Latin into Wragg’s head, but somehow he understood this, and read the proclamation loud and clear. Miss Eulalia’s heart would have throbbed with pride.
“The prisoner here before us is Barbaria, rebel leader of the Iceni. Her queen, Boudicca, is dead, having taken poison like a coward, and her people hang crucified along the road behind me. It has been shown that Barbaria personally led the attack on Camulodunum. As she showed no mercy toward the innocent people of Camulodunum, so no mercy will be shown to her. She will be crucified, and I, Wragg, have been granted the privilege by Governor Gaius Suetonius Paulinus of driving the nails myself.”
‘Have I?’ thought Wragg. But he’d read about Camulodunum, Roman Colchester, and how it had been razed to the ground by the rebels. “There is no such thing as a ‘victim’”, Professor Tree had told him. In the cloistered environment of Cruxwails, Wragg had had trouble understanding that. But here, in the real first century world to which RR and Horny had somehow transported him, he understood it very well indeed. This Barbaria clearly deserved her cross. Besides, she didn’t appear to have a cold. And, to cap it all, the little bitch had spat at him. That had made him very cross indeed.
Wragg dismounted, as regally as he could. “Hold her still!”
She fought. By the gods, how she fought! She kicked and scratched and spat and swore, but Old Slave and Windar were too strong for her, and held her firm as Wragg ripped off her gown and her loincloth, and she stood there naked, but for the torc.
Wragg smiled. The day was cold, and she looked splendid.
“What are you grinning at, Roman turd?” demanded Barbaria.
“You just don’t know when to be polite, do you, slut?” Once again his whip sang, and Windar felt it whistle past his face as it left an ugly weal across her breasts. “Get that bling off her neck! I’ll have it as a souvenir!”
Tree removed it, and handed it to Wragg, who tucked it into a pocket of his robe.
“Get her to her cross!”
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I'll air my grievances if you air yours. 
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"She fought. By the gods, how she fought! She kicked and scratched and spat and swore, but Old Slave and Windar were too strong for her, and held her firm as Wragg ripped off her gown and her loincloth, and she stood there naked, but for the torc."
