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Post CCLXVII.

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Barbaria1

Rebel Leader
Staff member
Here is a short crux story in 3 chapters.
It’s one I wrote some time back but haven’t posted until now. Enjoy.

And, as always, comments, banter … even limericks … are welcome. As are illustration contributions from our resident artists.



Post CCLXVII.

Part I.

“Post CCLXVII, Post CCLXVII, Post CCLXVII,”

He keeps muttering that to himself. He’s been doing it incessantly ever since we left the Porta Appia.

He leads me by a coarse rope tied loosely around my neck. I follow along, partially bent over and staggering under the weight of the rough wooden crossbar I’m forced to grip with both hands and balance across my bare shoulders.

It’s early morning, still relatively cool … the brief but pleasant time that precedes the stifling heat of a typical Roman summer day. The pavement stones beneath my bare feet are yet cool and damp, even a bit slippery. I take care to maintain my footing.

A slight breeze from off to my right stirs my long brown tresses … which hang free and loose over my shoulders and bare breasts rather than arranged in the stylishly flamboyant mass of curls and braids typically affected by an aristocratic young Roman woman like myself.

They had stripped me of my beautifully elegant stola and palla on the day I was arrested, leaving me with nothing more than the simple grey woolen tunic I now wear … secured at the waist with a braided leather belt, but with the top part torn from my shoulders and hanging about my hips in loose folds.

My utterly disheveled appearance says volumes about how far and how quickly I have fallen. It was my misfortune to have married a man of wealth and significance who had foolishly cast in his lot with a cabal of ambitious zealots plotting to seize power.

Ambitious, yes, but failing spectacularly due to the deceit of an informant planted in their midst. But it was actually worse than that. Truth be told, even without the informant, their insurrection was doomed from the start by countless indiscretions and blunders. Indeed, I can well imagine that half of Rome knew about it. The whole thing was unbelievably amateurish from the very beginning.

But what’s done is done.

I stagger on over the uneven stone paving, passing slowly by the gruesomely displayed human wreckage of the failed coup … body after body, both male and female, hanging nakedly and wretchedly from the seemingly endless parade of rough wooden crosses that flank both sides of the roadway for as far ahead as the eye can see.

My arms already feel the strain imposed by the awkwardness of keeping my crossbar perched squarely across my shoulders. The pressure against the back of my neck is uncomfortable. The weight of my burden forces my head and upper body to lean unnaturally forward. And with my wrists bound to the crossbar I am unable to shift the load.

It’s said that the wrath of Rome has no equal. In this instance it has chosen to summarily deprive the failed plotters of the citizenship that might have protected them, their families and households, from such a humiliating and barbarous end.

This very morning, before exiting through the Appian Gate, I overheard someone say that as many as two thousand, possibly even more, were destined to be crucified along the road before the day is over … the most prominent closest to the city gate, the lesser further out. And that once the spectacle is readied for viewing, the crowds are to be permitted to roam the length of the display to bear witness to the price of treason.

That I am apparently condemned to be crucified on the two-hundred-sixty-seventh roadside post, is indicative of the relative un-importance amongst the conspirators of my fool of a husband. I rue his silly, vainglorious eagerness to have joined such an obviously ill-fated venture. Not to mention the fact that the damned old fool, nearly thirty years older than myself, had gone off and gotten himself killed in the process. And, as a consequence, deprived me of the satisfaction of seeing the dumb bastard die nailed to a cross alongside my own! How I now despise him!

“Post CCLXVII, CCLXVII, Post CCLXVII,” the legionary tugging at my rope continues to mutter to himself as he leads me forward. That too adds to my fury and growing anxiety. I imagine that the thick-necked lout placed in charge of my fate is likely as dumb as an ox.

Together he and I trudge relentlessly on, passing silently between the endless double line of human misery. We follow others who, like myself, are being led forward to a terrible death … a death normally reserved for slaves and criminals. From all around, my senses are assaulted by a cacophony of darkly unsettling sounds … the groans and moans, curses, pleadings, sobs, cries, shrieks and wails of the already crucified.

And from a short distance up ahead come the shouts of the legionnaires tasked with extending this mass crucifixion tableau to the far horizon, accompanied by the ring of hammers striking iron nails and the howls and screams of those being nailed and raised.

My arrest took place in the middle of the night. They had stormed without warning into our villa, savagely slaying an old servant who attempted to bar their entry. I was brusquely ordered from my bed, told to dress quickly, bound at the wrists and escorted, under guard … along with my faithful young personal maid, Lucilla, and much of the remaining household … through the darkened streets to the Tullianum, the city’s notorious prison in which those awaiting trial languished,

In my case, the languishing lasted only overnight as the authorities were bent on moving quickly to make a public spectacle of the perpetrators of the foiled plot along with everyone … innocent or not … associated with them, no matter how tenuous that association might be.

My brief stay in the Tullianum was spent shackled, arms spread over head, backed against a cold stone wall …where, stripped to the waist, I endured the humiliation of being rudely fondled and mauled, every so often, by passing guards. But thankfully, as an aristocrat, or at least formerly one, I was spared the incessant gang rapes inflicted on the younger female prisoners of lesser rank, including my poor innocent servant girl, Lucilla.

“Post CCLXVII, CCLXVII, Post CCLXVII.”

My lout keeps repeating the same refrain over and over to himself. I continue to find this most highly irritating … ever more so as time passes.

As we move on, from off to my left, someone calls out my name. I turn half around to see who it might be.

Pushing upwards shakily with her legs and leaning out from the wood, face twisted into a grimace reflecting both effort and pain, is my dear friend, Livia … wife of Marcus Licinius Gannicus.

Marcus, one of my husband’s closest chums and co-conspirators, hangs listlessly on the cross next to Livia’s. His corpulent nude body is horribly bruised and bloody. His facial muscles are slack. His eyes closed. It’s difficult to judge whether he is dead or alive.

It’s startling to see such a close friend, stripped nude and nailed to the wood. Her flaming red hair, wet with sweat, half covers her face. Blood trickles from the wounds inflicted by the nails driven through her wrists and feet.

“Curse you, Barbara!” she croaks hoarsely. “Curse you, and your forever scheming scum of a husband for enticing my dear Markus into such an ill-fated venture! Curse you!”

I turn my head abruptly away. I cannot face her wrath, nor witness her shame.

My lout jerks my rope and I stagger on, now more bent over under the weight of my burden than before, Livia’s shouted venomous curses still ringing in my ears.

“Post CCLXVII, CCLXVII, Post CCLXVII.”

Annoyingly, the seemingly never ending refrain continues.

But not for long, for we abruptly come to a full stop. Raising my head sufficiently to look ahead rather than down at my feet, I see that I’ve nearly reached the place where i am to be crucified.

Not very far ahead, men and women are being separated from the slow-moving column and thrown to the ground on either side of the roadway. Only a handful remain on their feet, in the shrinking distance that presumably separates me from the location of Post CCLXVII.

An Optio brandishing a “flagrum” materializes from somewhere up ahead. He is methodically working his way back along the column, lashing out at those still in line. The sharp hiss and dull thud-smack of braided leather thongs cutting through air and biting into exposed human flesh drifts towards me, mixed with the cries of his helpless victims.

Some stand their ground and stoically accept the lash, others sink to their knees to cower and beg. Some eventually fall to the ground, their fall awkwardly impeded by the heavy wooden crossbeams carried on their shoulders.

I wonder what I will do … how I will react … when he reaches me … to the terrible bite of his flagrum.

And before too long my turn has come. He stops and stands before me, hands planted on hips, regarding me carefully, looking me over … up and down.

TBC
 
It’s startling to see such a close friend, stripped nude and nailed to the wood. Her flaming red hair, wet with sweat, half covers her face. Blood trickles from the wounds inflicted by the nails driven through her wrists and feet.
Very erotic prose ... a sleepless night well spent Barb ... I'm so hoping that the cross has a suitably shaped piece of rough wood upon which to 'peg' our girl ...
 
overheard someone say that as many as two thousand, possibly even more, were destined to be crucified along the road before the day is over
That I am apparently condemned to be crucified on the two-hundred-sixty-seventh roadside post, is indicative of the relative un-importance amongst the conspirators
Un-importance? don't be so modest! Number 267 in a lot of more than two thousand? That practically ranks you in the upper ten!

he conspirators of my fool of a husband. I rue his silly, vainglorious eagerness to have joined such an obviously ill-fated venture.
Once you hang comfortably to your cross, just make up your mind, and do some self-reflection! Suppose... suppose the conspiracy would have succeeded, against all odds, and you would have been the wife of a now important man in Rome! Would you still have been that critical, or would you have eagerly assumed your new social position, and looked down upon those from the old regime being dragged to their cross now?


Anyway, this is a great start, immersing the reader immediately into the dramatic events and turmoil! I look forward to the next episode! :thumbsup:
 
Once you hang comfortably to your cross, just make up your mind, and do some self-reflection! Suppose... suppose the conspiracy would have succeeded, against all odds, and you would have been the wife of a now important man in Rome! Would you still have been that critical, or would you have eagerly assumed your new social position, and looked down upon those from the old regime being dragged to their cross now?
Lox is apparently into counterfactual history. What if?
 
Here is a short crux story in 3 chapters.
It’s one I wrote some time back but haven’t posted until now. Enjoy.

And, as always, comments, banter … even limericks … are welcome. As are illustration contributions from our resident artists.



Post CCLXVII.

Part I.

“Post CCLXVII, Post CCLXVII, Post CCLXVII,”

He keeps muttering that to himself. He’s been doing it incessantly ever since we left the Porta Appia.

He leads me by a coarse rope tied loosely around my neck. I follow along, partially bent over and staggering under the weight of the rough wooden crossbar I’m forced to grip with both hands and balance across my bare shoulders.

It’s early morning, still relatively cool … the brief but pleasant time that precedes the stifling heat of a typical Roman summer day. The pavement stones beneath my bare feet are yet cool and damp, even a bit slippery. I take care to maintain my footing.

A slight breeze from off to my right stirs my long brown tresses … which hang free and loose over my shoulders and bare breasts rather than arranged in the stylishly flamboyant mass of curls and braids typically affected by an aristocratic young Roman woman like myself.

They had stripped me of my beautifully elegant stola and palla on the day I was arrested, leaving me with nothing more than the simple grey woolen tunic I now wear … secured at the waist with a braided leather belt, but with the top part torn from my shoulders and hanging about my hips in loose folds.

My utterly disheveled appearance says volumes about how far and how quickly I have fallen. It was my misfortune to have married a man of wealth and significance who had foolishly cast in his lot with a cabal of ambitious zealots plotting to seize power.

Ambitious, yes, but failing spectacularly due to the deceit of an informant planted in their midst. But it was actually worse than that. Truth be told, even without the informant, their insurrection was doomed from the start by countless indiscretions and blunders. Indeed, I can well imagine that half of Rome knew about it. The whole thing was unbelievably amateurish from the very beginning.

But what’s done is done.

I stagger on over the uneven stone paving, passing slowly by the gruesomely displayed human wreckage of the failed coup … body after body, both male and female, hanging nakedly and wretchedly from the seemingly endless parade of rough wooden crosses that flank both sides of the roadway for as far ahead as the eye can see.

My arms already feel the strain imposed by the awkwardness of keeping my crossbar perched squarely across my shoulders. The pressure against the back of my neck is uncomfortable. The weight of my burden forces my head and upper body to lean unnaturally forward. And with my wrists bound to the crossbar I am unable to shift the load.

It’s said that the wrath of Rome has no equal. In this instance it has chosen to summarily deprive the failed plotters of the citizenship that might have protected them, their families and households, from such a humiliating and barbarous end.

This very morning, before exiting through the Appian Gate, I overheard someone say that as many as two thousand, possibly even more, were destined to be crucified along the road before the day is over … the most prominent closest to the city gate, the lesser further out. And that once the spectacle is readied for viewing, the crowds are to be permitted to roam the length of the display to bear witness to the price of treason.

That I am apparently condemned to be crucified on the two-hundred-sixty-seventh roadside post, is indicative of the relative un-importance amongst the conspirators of my fool of a husband. I rue his silly, vainglorious eagerness to have joined such an obviously ill-fated venture. Not to mention the fact that the damned old fool, nearly thirty years older than myself, had gone off and gotten himself killed in the process. And, as a consequence, deprived me of the satisfaction of seeing the dumb bastard die nailed to a cross alongside my own! How I now despise him!

“Post CCLXVII, CCLXVII, Post CCLXVII,” the legionary tugging at my rope continues to mutter to himself as he leads me forward. That too adds to my fury and growing anxiety. I imagine that the thick-necked lout placed in charge of my fate is likely as dumb as an ox.

Together he and I trudge relentlessly on, passing silently between the endless double line of human misery. We follow others who, like myself, are being led forward to a terrible death … a death normally reserved for slaves and criminals. From all around, my senses are assaulted by a cacophony of darkly unsettling sounds … the groans and moans, curses, pleadings, sobs, cries, shrieks and wails of the already crucified.

And from a short distance up ahead come the shouts of the legionnaires tasked with extending this mass crucifixion tableau to the far horizon, accompanied by the ring of hammers striking iron nails and the howls and screams of those being nailed and raised.

My arrest took place in the middle of the night. They had stormed without warning into our villa, savagely slaying an old servant who attempted to bar their entry. I was brusquely ordered from my bed, told to dress quickly, bound at the wrists and escorted, under guard … along with my faithful young personal maid, Lucilla, and much of the remaining household … through the darkened streets to the Tullianum, the city’s notorious prison in which those awaiting trial languished,

In my case, the languishing lasted only overnight as the authorities were bent on moving quickly to make a public spectacle of the perpetrators of the foiled plot along with everyone … innocent or not … associated with them, no matter how tenuous that association might be.

My brief stay in the Tullianum was spent shackled, arms spread over head, backed against a cold stone wall …where, stripped to the waist, I endured the humiliation of being rudely fondled and mauled, every so often, by passing guards. But thankfully, as an aristocrat, or at least formerly one, I was spared the incessant gang rapes inflicted on the younger female prisoners of lesser rank, including my poor innocent servant girl, Lucilla.

“Post CCLXVII, CCLXVII, Post CCLXVII.”

My lout keeps repeating the same refrain over and over to himself. I continue to find this most highly irritating … ever more so as time passes.

As we move on, from off to my left, someone calls out my name. I turn half around to see who it might be.

Pushing upwards shakily with her legs and leaning out from the wood, face twisted into a grimace reflecting both effort and pain, is my dear friend, Livia … wife of Marcus Licinius Gannicus.

Marcus, one of my husband’s closest chums and co-conspirators, hangs listlessly on the cross next to Livia’s. His corpulent nude body is horribly bruised and bloody. His facial muscles are slack. His eyes closed. It’s difficult to judge whether he is dead or alive.

It’s startling to see such a close friend, stripped nude and nailed to the wood. Her flaming red hair, wet with sweat, half covers her face. Blood trickles from the wounds inflicted by the nails driven through her wrists and feet.

“Curse you, Barbara!” she croaks hoarsely. “Curse you, and your forever scheming scum of a husband for enticing my dear Markus into such an ill-fated venture! Curse you!”

I turn my head abruptly away. I cannot face her wrath, nor witness her shame.

My lout jerks my rope and I stagger on, now more bent over under the weight of my burden than before, Livia’s shouted venomous curses still ringing in my ears.

“Post CCLXVII, CCLXVII, Post CCLXVII.”

Annoyingly, the seemingly never ending refrain continues.

But not for long, for we abruptly come to a full stop. Raising my head sufficiently to look ahead rather than down at my feet, I see that I’ve nearly reached the place where i am to be crucified.

Not very far ahead, men and women are being being separated from the slow-moving column and thrown to the ground on either side of the roadway. Only a handful remain on their feet, in the shrinking distance that presumably separates me from the location of Post CCLXVII.

An Optio brandishing a “flagrum” materializes from somewhere up ahead. He is methodically working his way back along the column, lashing out at those still in line. The sharp hiss and dull thud-smack of braided leather thongs cutting through air and biting into exposed human flesh drifts towards me, mixed with the cries of his helpless victims.

Some stand their ground and stoically accept the lash, others sink to their knees to cower and beg. Some eventually fall to the ground, their fall awkwardly impeded by the heavy wooden crossbeams carried on their shoulders.

I wonder what I will do … how I will react … when he reaches me … to the terrible bite of his flagrum.

And before too long my turn has come. he stops and stands before me, hands planted on hips, regarding me carefully, looking me over … up and down.

TBC
I like your tale very much. I'm looking forward to reading the rest of the story.
 
Lox is apparently into counterfactual history. What if?
See it from this viewpoint : if the conspiracy would have succeeded, then all those crucified would have taken profit in one or anther way from the success. Regardless whether they were actively involved or not. Hence, all are guilty by association. Furthermore, if they would not be executed they would be out for revenge.
 
The whole thing was unbelievably amateurish from the very beginning.
Seems familiar to me. I know that. You find it even nowadays. And then you feel like that ...
partially bent over and staggering under the weight of the rough wooden crossbar I’m forced to grip with both hands and balance across my bare shoulders.
Nice start ...
he stops and stands before me, hands planted on hips, regarding me carefully, looking me over … up and down.
Seems familiar to you ... konw that ... nowadays. And then you feel ...?
 
Since he is a Roman, he says, of course : "Stipes ducenti sexaginta septem! Stipes ducenti sexaginta septem! Stipes ducenti sexaginta septem! "
Gosh, no wonder they struggled to manage their empire. They should have spoken plain English! Even Barb couldn't be expected to read fine print in Latin! :doh:
 
Part II

I am assisted to my feet by my legionary, who then pivots and tugs on my rope to guide me back into line. The column has begun to move forward once again.

My mind still reels from my excruciatingly violent encounter with the Optio and his wicked flagrum.

Imprinted indelibly on my consciousness is the image of the man’s face, with its heavily protruding brow, dark piercing eyes, disfigured nose, scarred cheeks and thin cruel lips.

He had lit into me with a vengeance, directing his first scourging blow to my chest, the braided ends digging sharply into the yielding softness of my bare breasts. That had been followed by a lightening strike to my midriff, so powerful that it doubled me over and brought me to my knees. After which, as I knelt and rocked back and forth, sobbing and begging for mercy, he proceeded to scourge my bare back with a series of strokes that drove me forward until my head hit the pavement. There he left me lying, my ass in the air, my torso twisted awkwardly.

As the Optio moves on, i feel the fiery sting of the crisscrossed patterns of small cuts and abrasions inflicted by my scourging as well as the warmth of oozing, trickling blood. Looking ahead, I can well imagine that my poor back must look something like the bloodied ones of those still moving forward in line before me.

“Post CCLXVII, CCLXVII, Post CCLXVII.” My legionnaire resumes his annoying refrain. More unsteadily than ever, weighed down and hurting, I trudge on.

To either side of me naked men and women are being hoisted up on waiting posts, their wrists freshly nailed to crossbeams which legionnaires perched on ladders struggle to fit into place atop posts, while others, with bags of nails and hammers in hand, grasp at flailing legs and ankles to perform the grim business of nailing feet to the wood.

I recognize some, others not. I hear their plaintive cries, their muttered oaths, their pleas for mercy. Always present is the rhythmic ring and clang of hammerheads on nails, adding to the horrific symphony of sound.

And one by one, those few remaining in column on the road ahead me are thrown to the ground, right and left, before still vacant posts, while their executioners crowd around to perform the tasks of nailing and raising.

“Post CCLXVII. This is it,” grunts my legionnaire, stooping to squint at the numerals burned into the base of a vacant post on my left. “This is the one we’ve been looking for. This one is yours!”

22FB8727-F8AC-4AB6-BA24-54A5FBC56153.jpeg

Yes, alas, he’s right. The road ahead lies open and empty. Two long rows of still vacant upright posts line the verges on both sides, stretching off into the distance for as far as the eye can see. I’ve reached the head of the column and the place … the stout wooden post … on which I shall perish.

I’m immediately surrounded by four burly legionnaires who hold me firmly in place at the side of the road while a fifth relieves me of the burden of my my crossbar, tossing it effortlessly to the ground near the foot of Post CCLXVII.

Behind me on the road, the column shuffles endlessly by.

A legionnaire relieves me of my braided belt and holds it up, obviously regarding it as a prized acquisition. Another tugs my tunic down over my hips. The woolen garment falls to my ankles, rendering me fully naked. I’m manhandled backwards a couple of steps, and another legionnaire gathers up my tunic from the ground and stuffs it under his belt.

“Ready for us?” shouts a soldier bearing a bag full of nails and a hammer.

“As ready as she’ll ever be,” laughs the one who took my braided belt.

“We ought to take the time to enjoy this one,” crows another, moving his pelvis lewdly back and forth.

“Let’s get on with it then.”

“She’s assigned to Post CCLXVII,” says my legionnaire unnecessarily.

“On the ground with you, Lupa’” barks the one with the hammer and nails, addressing me as though I was a common whore.

Two others spin me about and throw me to the ground. I land flat on my back.

They take me by the wrists and lift my shoulders off the ground enough to slide me into position with my head resting on the wooden beam I had labored so hard to carry on my shoulders all the way from the Appian Gate to Post CCLXVII.

Bind her wrists to the crossbeam,” instructs the legionary with the hammer and nails, as he settles himself down over me by straddling my hips.

Short leather strips are wrapped tightly around my thumbs and then around the palms of my hands several times. My hands are then placed at a measured distance along the crossbar and bound to it.

I wince as the leather straps are drawn tight and raise my head to beg them not to nail me … a plea that is met with a chorus of raucous laughter.

“Sorry Lupa,” the one with the hammer and nails says as he leans forward to set the point of one of his big iron spikes incongruously against one of my slender little wrists. “Prepare yourself. This will hurt!”

And it does!

Lightening bolts of pain assault my senses … one for each of the three hammer blows needed to pin my wrist securely to the wood.

Nonetheless my response is muted. I’ve resolved to be strong. I grit my teeth, close my eyes, and will myself not to cry out, succeeding in limiting myself to a gasp and an anguished groan.

And when it’s done, I raise and turn my head to stare, almost disbelievingly, at the sight of the dark, ugly shank protruding from my wrist and the rhythmic spurting of blood from the ragged surrounding wound.

No time is waisted in wreaking the same violence on my other wrist. And this time all restraint on my part has vanished. I throw my head from side to side, arch my back, buck and thrash, and scream and wail my lungs out.

But then it’s over. The pressure on my hips is relieved as the legionary in charge of the hammer and nails rises triumphantly to his feet.

I find that I am totally overcome by what has just happened. My emotions run wild. I desperately want to deny what it portends. Yet, at the same time, part of me wants to mourn … to close down, turn inward and feel pity for myself.

But I’m distracted by the legionary with the hammer and nails who … now on his feet … kicks viciously at my knees and inner thighs to force them apart. And, grinning wickedly, begins to poke at my exposed womanhood with the toe of his hobnailed boot.

Leering exaggeratedly for the entertainment of his crew, he wonders out loud about whether I might welcome one last fuck before I die?

Then answers his own question by concluding that surely I must, especially given the fine examples of Roman manhood gathered around me. That’s met with more frivolity on the part of his crew, as well as shouts of encouragement.

Grinning broadly, he begins to unbuckle his ‘balteus’ and lower his ‘braccae’ before dropping to his knees between my shaking legs while vigorously stroking himself to hardness.

I blanch at the sight of his immense, rigid member, which bobs about as he leans forward to take hold of and roughly squeeze and mash my breasts together.

I shake my head and wail, “No! Not that! Please no!” … even though it’s quite obvious that he has no intention of being dissuaded by my begging. I feel the swollen tip of his cock nudging insistingly, ready to brutally force its entry at any moment. I brace for the inevitable.

But fortunately reprieve comes from an unexpected quarter. The Optio has returned. And this time with the intent of chewing out my crew for not having raised me up yet, pointing in his rage to several posts beyond my own that have already received their victims.

He demands swift action, or else!

Cowed by the very real threat of decimation, my impending rape is quickly forgotten in the legionnaires haste to assuage their boss. My crew hastens, almost comically … literally bumping into one another … to their task.

Overhead I hear the clunk of a ladder thrown up against the back of Post CCLXVII, and the thud of boots ascending rungs. To either side of me legionnaires stoop to grip the ends of the length of wood to which my wrists are nailed. I gasp and groan as I’m lifted into a semi-seated position, left there for a few moments, and then dragged backwards, my butt and heels leaving shallow furrows in the loose red soil near the base of the post. And then I feel the wood in contact with my spine.

Orders are shouted and I am hoisted upwards, my scourged and bleeding backside grating against the rough surface of the post. The nails driven through my wrists grind painfully against raw nerves as the burden of my weight shifts to my outstretched arms.

Bit by bit I am raised. My wildly scrabbling feet soon leave the ground. With each additional hoisting movement, my legs flail about wildly. I cry out under the strain of it all … a long, pitiful animal-like howl. Until … with a jarring clunk … the crossbar from which I dangle is locked into place and hastily secured with ropes.

As I continue to kick with both legs, my ankles are captured and held in the vise-like grip of two of my handlers, who slam them against the front of my post and then maneuver them upwards along its length until my knees are bent well outward. There, my feet are held firmly in place while the legionary with the hammer, now fully clothed again, nails them to the the post.

And with that it is done. I am crucified!

To make it official, my assigned legionary … the one who has led me the long way from the Appian Gate to where Post CCLXVII awaited my arrival … withdraws a wooden placard from within his tunic and hands it to the legionary with the hammer. The man looks at it and laughs heartily before kneeling to nail it it to my post not far below where my feet are nailed.

It reads: Ducissa Barbara Morilla, perfidiae”, with a dark heavy line drawn through the noble title ‘Ducissa’.


TBC
 
“Post CCLXVII. This is it,” grunts my legionnaire, stooping to squint at the numerals burned into the base of a vacant post on my left. “This is the one we’ve been looking for. This one is yours!”

Yes, alas, he’s right. The road ahead lies open and empty. Two long rows of still vacant upright posts line the verges on both sides, stretching off into the distance for as far as the eye can see. I’ve reached the head of the column and the place … the stout wooden post … on which I shall perish.
A simple, and great, description of the moment her execution transitions from imagined to real. You do Roman crux stories so very well. Looking forward to the third installment!
 
Part II

I am assisted to my feet by my legionary, who then pivots and tugs on my rope to guide me back into line. The column has begun to move forward once again.

My mind still reels from my excruciatingly violent encounter with the Optio and his wicked flagrum.

Imprinted indelibly on my consciousness is the image of the man’s face, with its heavily protruding brow, dark piercing eyes, disfigured nose, scarred cheeks and thin cruel lips.

He had lit into me with a vengeance, directing his first scourging blow to my chest, the braided ends digging sharply into the yielding softness of my bare breasts. That had been followed by a lightening strike to my midriff, so powerful that it doubled me over and brought me to my knees. After which, as I knelt and rocked back and forth, sobbing and begging for mercy, he proceeded to scourge my bare back with a series of strokes that drove me forward until my head hit the pavement. There he left me lying, my ass in the air, my torso twisted awkwardly.

As the Optio moves on, i feel the fiery sting of the crisscrossed patterns of small cuts and abrasions inflicted by my scourging as well as the warmth of oozing, trickling blood. Looking ahead, I can well imagine that my poor back must look something like the bloodied ones of those still moving forward in line before me.

“Post CCLXVII, CCLXVII, Post CCLXVII.” My legionnaire resumes his annoying refrain. More unsteadily than ever, weighed down and hurting, I trudge on.

To either side of me naked men and women are being hoisted up on waiting posts, their wrists freshly nailed to crossbeams which legionnaires perched on ladders struggle to fit into place atop posts, while others, with bags of nails and hammers in hand, grasp at flailing legs and ankles to perform the grim business of nailing feet to the wood.

I recognize some, others not. I hear their plaintive cries, their muttered oaths, their pleas for mercy. Always present is the rhythmic ring and clang of hammerheads on nails, adding to the horrific symphony of sound.

And one by one, those few remaining in column on the road ahead me are thrown to the ground, right and left, before still vacant posts, while their executioners crowd around to perform the tasks of nailing and raising.

“Post CCLXVII. This is it,” grunts my legionnaire, stooping to squint at the numerals burned into the base of a vacant post on my left. “This is the one we’ve been looking for. This one is yours!”

Yes, alas, he’s right. The road ahead lies open and empty. Two long rows of still vacant upright posts line the verges on both sides, stretching off into the distance for as far as the eye can see. I’ve reached the head of the column and the place … the stout wooden post … on which I shall perish.

I’m immediately surrounded by four burly legionnaires who hold me firmly in place at the side of the road while a fifth relieves me of the burden of my my crossbar, tossing it effortlessly to the ground near the foot of Post CCLXVII.

Behind me on the road, the column shuffles endlessly by.

A legionnaire relieves me of my braided belt and holds it up, obviously regarding it as a prized acquisition. Another tugs my tunic down over my hips. The woolen garment falls to my ankles, rendering me fully naked. I’m manhandled backwards a couple of steps, and another legionnaire gathers up my tunic from the ground and stuffs it under his belt.

“Ready for us?” shouts a soldier bearing a bag full of nails and a hammer.

“As ready as she’ll ever be,” laughs the one who took my braided belt.

“We ought to take the time to enjoy this one,” crows another, moving his pelvis lewdly back and forth.

“Let’s get on with it then.”

“She’s assigned to Post CCLXVII,” says my legionnaire unnecessarily.

“On the ground with you, Lupa’” barks the one with the hammer and nails, addressing me as though I was a common whore.

Two others spin me about and throw me to the ground. I land flat on my back.

They take me by the wrists and lift my shoulders off the ground enough to slide me into position with my head resting on the wooden beam I had labored so hard to carry on my shoulders all the way from the Appian Gate to Post CCLXVII.

Bind her wrists to the crossbeam,” instructs the legionary with the hammer and nails, as he settles himself down over me by straddling my hips.

Short leather strips are wrapped tightly around my thumbs and then around the palms of my hands several times. My hands are then placed at a measured distance along the crossbar and bound to it.

I wince as the leather straps are drawn tight and raise my head to beg them not to nail me … a plea that is met with a chorus of raucous laughter.

“Sorry Lupa,” the one with the hammer and nails says as he leans forward to set the point of one of his big iron spikes incongruously against one of my slender little wrists. “Prepare yourself. This will hurt!”

And it does!

Lightening bolts of pain assault my senses … one for each of the three hammer blows needed to pin my wrist securely to the wood.

Nonetheless my response is muted. I’ve resolved to be strong. I grit my teeth, close my eyes, and will myself not to cry out, succeeding in limiting myself to a gasp and an anguished groan.

And when it’s done, I raise and turn my head to stare, almost disbelievingly, at the sight of the dark, ugly shank protruding from my wrist and the rhythmic spurting of blood from the ragged surrounding wound.

No time is waisted in wreaking the same violence on my other wrist. And this time all restraint on my part has vanished. I throw my head from side to side, arch my back, buck and thrash, and scream and wail my lungs out.

But then it’s over. The pressure on my hips is relieved as the legionary in charge of the hammer and nails rises triumphantly to his feet.

I find that I am totally overcome by what has just happened. My emotions run wild. I desperately want to deny what it portends. Yet, at the same time, part of me wants to mourn … to close down, turn inward and feel pity for myself.

But I’m distracted by the legionary with the hammer and nails who … now on his feet … kicks viciously at my knees and inner thighs to force them apart. And, grinning wickedly, begins to poke at my exposed womanhood with the toe of his hobnailed boot.

Leering exaggeratedly for the entertainment of his crew, he wonders out loud about whether I might welcome one last fuck before I die?

Then answers his own question by concluding that surely I must, especially given the fine examples of Roman manhood gathered around me. That’s met with more frivolity on the part of his crew, as well as shouts of encouragement.

Grinning broadly, he begins to unbuckle his ‘balteus’ and lower his ‘braccae’ before dropping to his knees between my shaking legs while vigorously stroking himself to hardness.

I blanch at the sight of his immense, rigid member, which bobs about as he leans forward to take hold of and roughly squeeze and mash my breasts together.

I shake my head and wail, “No! Not that! Please no!” … even though it’s quite obvious that he has no intention of being dissuaded by my begging. I feel the swollen tip of his cock nudging insistingly, ready to brutally force its entry at any moment. I brace for the inevitable.

But fortunately reprieve comes from an unexpected quarter. The Optio has returned. And this time with the intent of chewing out my crew for not having raised me up yet, pointing in his rage to several posts beyond my own that have already received their victims.

He demands swift action, or else!

Cowed by the very real threat of decimation, my impending rape is quickly forgotten in the legionnaires haste to assuage their boss. My crew hastens, almost comically … literally bumping into one another … to their task.

Overhead I hear the clunk of a ladder thrown up against the back of Post CCLXVII, and the thud of boots ascending rungs. To either side of me legionnaires stoop to grip the ends of the length of wood to which my wrists are nailed. I gasp and groan as I’m lifted into a semi-seated position, left there for a few moments, and then dragged backwards, my butt and heels leaving shallow furrows in the loose red soil near the base of the post. And then I feel the wood in contact with my spine.

Orders are shouted and I am hoisted upwards, my scourged and bleeding backside grating against the rough surface of the post. The nails driven through my wrists grind painfully against raw nerves as the burden of my weight shifts to my outstretched arms.

Bit by bit I am raised. My wildly scrabbling feet soon leave the ground. With each additional hoisting movement, my legs flail about wildly. I cry out under the strain of it all … a long, pitiful animal-like howl. Until … with a jarring clunk … the crossbar from which I dangle is locked into place and hastily secured with ropes.

As I continue to kick with both legs, my ankles are captured and held in the vise-like grip of two of my handlers, who slam them against the front of my post and then maneuver them upwards along its length until my knees are bent well outward. There, my feet are held firmly in place while the legionary with the hammer, now fully clothed again, nails them to the the post.

And with that it is done. I am crucified!

To make it official, my assigned legionary … the one who has led me the long way from the Appian Gate to where Post CCLXVII awaited my arrival … withdraws a wooden placard from within his tunic and hands it to the legionary with the hammer. The man looks at it and laughs heartily before kneeling to nail it it to my post not far below where my feet are nailed.

It reads: Ducissa Barbara Morilla, perfidiae”, with a dark heavy line drawn through the noble title ‘Ducissa’.


TBC
Je dis bravo!
 
I blanch at the sight of his immense, rigid member, which bobs about as he leans forward
"Post CCLXVIII"! :D

I am assisted to my feet by my legionary
'My legionary', 'my post', 'my crossbar', 'my crew'.... Once a ducissa always a ducissa! Keeping up apprearances, even in the face of crucifixion! :facepalm:

The Optio has returned. And this time with the intent of chewing out my crew for not having raised me up yet, pointing in his rage to several posts beyond my own that have already received their victims.
Indeed! Such a poor service! For once, you have a profound reason to complain, DO IT! :doh:
 
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