Past the age of fifty, and having spent most of his waking hours for three decades watching naked men and women slowly expire on their crosses, Talbus took little of any sexual pleasure in his duties. But in a strange way, he did enjoy having women to guard. He took no pleasure in the idea of a woman suffering on a cross - in fact, it collided with his own sense of justice. But it was perhaps because it seemed so wrong that he felt the urge to participate in his way as a sort of counterbalance to the cruelty. He enjoyed earning his charges’ trust; it was in his nature to care for the downtrodden and to enjoy their confidence, and this effect was most pronounced when the condemned was most vulnerable, most frightened and insecure. The women generally fit this description better than the men, at least in Talbus’ mind. Thus, though he knew he was at his post solely to ensure that their lives lingered as long as possible in abject misery, he was very often rewarded for his pains with their gratitude, and a sense of magnanimous friendship.
He was a simple man, but all men have secrets, however simple, and Talbus would tell his favorite charges his secrets in the mornings or evenings, when traffic on the road was scarcer, and there was nothing to see but the blank city walls, nothing to hear but the groans of the condemned and the twitter of the birds and the faint sweep of the breeze. Then he would ask them about their crimes. “Phillip: Murderer” Yes, Phillip had killed another slave. They usually told him the truth, and they were usually guilty. “Priscilla: Murderess and Adulteress” Yes, she had poisoned her abusive husband and slept with another man. As she was not a citizen, the magistrate condemned her to the cross.
Most were slaves. Most of the rest were non-citizens from the lower classes. They came through the gate in various states of undress, bleeding from being beaten, bound and surrounded by the execution squad. The men were often nude already, but sometimes wore a loincloth; the women were usually allowed to cover more during their death march.
On two occasions over the course of his career, Talbus had seen an entire family of aristocrats crucified when the head of the household was convicted of treason. There weren’t enough crosses to crucify then all at once, so the women were executed first, while the men were made to watch from the other side of the road. So as to extend the time they would hang as a warning to other would-be traitors, the women were not beaten beforehand, so they arrived for execution fully clothed in all their jewelry and finery. All of this they were made to remove, until they wore nothing but the liner on their eyes. The naked women were then sent to Talbus to wait until their patibula could be brought down and made read for them.
Talbus had seen nude prostitutes, and the seducing way they stepped around like cats, advertising their charms. Women facing the cross were not nude like that; they were just naked. They stepped awkwardly, like scared lambs, like the pebbles hurt their bare feet, like they couldn’t find a way to stand that would conceal everything they wanted to conceal. Their arms clutched their own nakedness, humiliated, trying to hide.
When he was younger, Talbus had suppressed a silent indignation at the sight. By now, he had mostly learned to accept it, and to find solace in his own role as servant to the condemned. He had only let his own feelings get the better of him once, and that had been long ago.
(To be continued...)
I’ll try...! 
