The Girl from Magdala

[Naraku]

Here is my latest opus. Part I today, the rest later. Hope you like it.

The Girl From Magdala

by Naraku​

Miryam roused herself awake. Although the narrow slit in the wooden door of her cell admitted very little light, the sounds beyond told her that morning was breaking. She knelt and began her morning prayers, thanking the Lord for her life and the blessing of a new day. The irony of thanking God for another day in captivity that might end in pain and death did not occur to her. She believed in thanking the Lord for all things that life presented, good and bad, pain and pleasure, all were a part of His divine plan. She took her time thanking God. She knew that it would be an hour at least before they brought her morning meal. She had learned the routine in the five days she had been imprisoned by the Romans in Caesarea Maritima.

Ten days before, she had been staying in Beth-anya with her friends and fellow disciples, Eleazar and Marta, when Temple Guards came and demanded she accompany them. She was not surprised. It would not be the first time she had been summoned the presence of the High Priest.

That afternoon, she was again a guest in the house of Theophilus ben Ananus.

“You were warned, woman.” the High Priest growled, shaking his finger at her, “You were warned more than once and you did not obey. You were scourged and you did not learn. On the day before the sabbath you were again preaching your blasphemy at the Pool of Siloam. Do you deny it?”

“I deny that I have blasphemed. I do as the Master commended us; to spread his word to the whole of the Israel.” Miryam calmly responded, “No man, even you, can stop me from obeying His commands.”

“And what of your leader?” Theophilus countered, “Did not Ya’akov command you to stop as well?”

He was right, Ya’akov, the Master’s brother and elected leader of his disciples had ordered her to stop preaching. He didn’t think that everything she preached was correct, but, more importantly, he did not believe that a woman should be spreading the word of the Lord.

“Ya’akov is...misguided.” she said softly.

“Our patience has reached its limits. We are done with you.” the High Priest said as he handed a scroll to the leader of the Guard detail, “Take her to Fortress Antonia and give this to the Commander.” He turned back to Miryam and added: “We relinquish this to the Romans. You will be the Prefect’s problem now.”

She was shocked. She had expected another flogging, maybe banishment from Yerushalayim; she had not expected this. To be handed over to Romans, just as the Master had been. She didn’t know what to expect next, but when they locked her away in a cell in the Antonia, she felt a strange calm. She felt a sense of peace. She served the Lord, even if that meant her death. She served Him and that was her salvation.

Somewhat to her surprise, the Romans did not molest her. They locked her in a cell and left her alone, only feeding her in the evening. The following morning, they gave her bread and water. A few hours later, a soldier came into her cell. Like many of the soldiers of the Yerushalayim garrison, he spoke enough Aramaic to give orders to the locals. He grabbed her by the arm and commanded her to come with him. She was taken into the courtyard where a squad of troops were gathered surrounding six Jewish men in shackles. Miryam was ordered to fall in line with the other prisoners and, with the military precision that had made the legions feared and respected, the troops formed ranks on either side of the prisoners and they were marched out the western gate.

They proceeded through the city, down the Tyropoeon Valley. People cleared out of the way and watched silently as the grim procession passed. They had seen this before – Miryam had seen this before – a group of Jews who had run afoul of the power of Rome trudging off to their sad fates. The fact that a woman was one of their number was unusual but not unheard of. A few recognized her as the woman who had been preaching around town, one of the many apocalyptic preacher in the city. If anyone felt sympathy for her though, they knew better than to show it.

They exited the city proper via the Fish Gate and passed through the suburb of Bezetha. Miryam new this road well; it was the road to Galilee, she had passed this way many time in the last four years. But, this time she wasn’t going home. She had heard two of the other prisoners talking and knew their destination: Caearea.

They kept up a steady pace as they were marched down from the Judean highlands; from Yerushalayim to Gophnah, from Gophnah to Thamnah, from Thamnah to Arimathea, from Arimathea to Antipatris on the Plain of Sharon, from Antipatris to Nabata. They marched all day, every day, for four days, taking only short breaks for rest and water. Miryam was a country girl, she was used to walking everywhere. She had never ridden an ass and only occasionally in a cart. She had walked from Galilee to Yerushalayim and back many times. Keeping pace with the Roman soldiers was no problem for her. But, most of her compatriots were city men and lacked her stamina. If they stumbled or slowed, the soldiers were quick to spur them on with rods. But Miryam did not stumble or slow. Sometimes the soldiers would chide the men for their weakness compared to her, a mere woman.

Miryam did have the advantage of not bearing the weight of shackles on her wrist. She was not even chained or bound at night, when they would be kept in commandeered sheep pens. No doubt the Romans felt that, as a woman, she was less of a threat and less likely to try and run away. The thought had crossed her mind. She could have slipped away in the night, but where would she go? She could not return to Yerushalayim, she might be recognized. Her friends there would be willing to help hide her, of course, but that would put them in danger and she could not ask them to do that. Heading to Galilee presented the same problem. Besides, once they passed Gophnah, she was in an unfamiliar region. But, she knew she couldn’t run. God had put her on this path, and, like the prophet Yonah, she could not escape whatever fate He had ordained for her.

In the late afternoon of the fourth day, they entered Caesarea Maritima. Miryam knew of the port city, built by Herod the Great and now the Roman capital of Judea. This was, however, the first time she had seen it. She was not impressed. The simple provincial girl five years earlier would have been overwhelmed. That was how she had felt when she first saw Yerushalayim. Now, she was more seasoned to the big city and Caesarea, large as it was, was no Yerushalayim. There were differences though. The dress of the people, the languages they spoke, the grand marble buildings, the pagan temples, all made it clear that, although it was on the Judean coast, this was not a Jewish city.

As they passed the forum, the group was spit up. Most of the soldiers escorted the male prisoners toward the docks. She had been told by one of them, a convicted thief, that they had been condemned to slavery. They would likely be sold at auction in Rome. If they were lucky, they would be put to field work or even used as a household slave. But, as condemned criminals, they were just as likely to be sent to work in a mine, to be worked to death in hellish conditions. But, Miryam and five of the soldiers, including the one who was clearly in command, headed south, to the Praetorium. There she was locked in a large cell. It was clearly intended for more people, but, as she was the only female prisoner, she had the room all to herself. Now, five days later, she sat in her private cell. She had never felt so lonely in her life.

A few hours after her meager breakfast, a pair of soldiers entered her cell and hauled her to her feet. She was marched between them, down a corridor, up a short flight of stairs, around a corner, down a longer flight of stairs, around another corner and down another hall and, finally, into a courtyard.

Her eyes adjusted to the bright sun. She could see she stood on a mosaic floor. There was a fountain bubbling in a pool and a colonnade surrounding the square court. And, at the far end, in the shade of an awning, a man sat in a stone chair. He was a clean-shaven, rough looking, middle-aged man with a crooked nose and a scar on his left cheek. He had once had a strong body but was getting a bit of a spread around the middle. There were specks of gray in his short-cropped, wavy dark hair. He looked very bored and very annoyed. She had, of course, never seen him before, but Miryam knew that this had to be Marullus, Prefect of Judea.

There were two soldiers standing behind Marullus and third standing on his right. This one was different. He wore calf-length robes and a head scarf. He had a nose like an eagle’s beak and a curly dark bread. He was clearly no Roman, but he was still a soldier. Miryam had seen many of his kind and, even without his scale armor, pointed helm and bow, she knew he was one of the Syrian Auxiliaries that help the Romans keep order in Judea.

Marullus eyed the woman for a few moments. She seemed ordinary. Olive complexion. Thick eyebrows. Curly dark hair protruding from under her head scarf. Average height and a slender build. He estimated she was in her mid twenties. Even in her disheveled state, she could be considered pretty or at least handsome. But, by his standards, she was hardly beautiful. No, he thought, she was completely ordinary and unremarkable.

Marullus spoke to the Syrian in Latin, which, of course, Miryam could not understand. Then the Syrian turned to her and spoke in Aramaic. This was why he was here, to act as translator.

“You are Miryam of Magdala?”

“Yes.”

“The High Priest of the Temple of Yerushalayim reports that you are a follower of a preacher who claimed to be King of the Jews and was crucified under my predecessor for this treason. Is this true?”

Miryam paused. She considered arguing the Master’s case and denying that he had preached treason. But, she knew that was as futile with this Roman as it had been when The Master stood before Pilatus, so she only responded: “Yes.”

“He also states that you have repeatedly proclaimed in public that he was indeed a king and that he will return to rule over the Jews and oust the Romans…”

“I never said that.” Miryam interrupted, “I never said anything about the Romans. I...He...only said that the wicked will be overthrown and the righteous will triumph and the Glory of God shall shine upon His chosen people.”

Marullus snorted. “No matter how you word it, it is still treason.”

He scribbled something on a piece of paper on the table beside his chair and handed it to one of the soldiers. Then he turned to Miryam.

“In the name of his majesty Gaius Caesar Augustus Germanicus, I find you guilty of treason and sedition against Rome. You will be crucified tomorrow.”

Marullus dismissed her with a wave of his hand and she was hustled through the maze back to her cell. After the door was locked and the guards left, Miryam dropped to her knees and wept. From the moment Theophilus had sent her to the Romans, she had known that this might be her fate. In her mind, she had already accepted this cup of poison, but, to hear the words spoken aloud, the order given, hit her like a blow to the heart. In concept, she was not afraid to die for the Lord. But, to know that it would really happen and how, now filled her with dread. Fear and resolution fought inside her. She curled up in ball and waited for death.

[TBC]

 

[Iconoclast12]

I really enjoyed this start! Appreciate all the effort you put into the historical/linguistic details.

 

[mp5stab]

Great opener, very well paced, delightfully en medias res. And the description of the locations, the small historical tweaks, all great choices. Love that she is wearing a headscarf to start. It’ll mean something when it it’s stripped off with all of the rest of the clothing and we get to see just how long her curly hair is. It is long right?

 

[Aeolus]

Very interesting beginning!

 

[Fossy]

Wow, I loved that, it filled with detail and authenticity! The smattering of Hebrew and Aramaic adds so much to the veracity of the story. Very well done and without any explicit sex or cursing, so leaving all things that service our predilections, here on CF, bubbling under the surface. Great writing @Naraku

 

[Loxuru]

Good start, @Naraku

“He also states that you have repeatedly proclaimed in public that he was indeed a king and that he will return to rule over the Jews and oust the Romans…”

“I never said that.” Miryam interrupted, “I never said anything about the Romans. I...He...only said that the wicked will be overthrown and the righteous will triumph and the Glory of God shall shine upon His chosen people.”

Marullus snorted. “No matter how you word it, it is still treason.”

He scribbled something on a piece of paper on the table beside his chair and handed it to one of the soldiers. Then he turned to Miryam.

“In the name of his majesty Gaius Caesar Augustus Germanicus, I find you guilty of treason and sedition against Rome. You will be crucified tomorrow.”

Probably the shortest trial ever in a CruxForums story!

 

[Barbaria1]

Extremely well-written, Nara! Carry on!

 

[Naraku]

Part 2

She was not alone with her thoughts for long. After less than an hour, five soldiers entered the cell. They all had malicious grins and were talking among themselves. She could not understand the words they were chattering, but she quickly understood why they were there. They seized hold of her and tore away her headscarf and cloak. They untied off her sash and pulled off her dress and finally her under-tunic. Even before she was naked, she knew what they had come for. She knew what to expect as a woman in the hands of cruel enemies.

They took turns holding her down and ravishing her. When one was done and had spurted his seed, he got off and replaced the next man holding an arm or a leg. That man would then have his turn. The original five were soon joined by at least six others. Then, three more. Over the course of the next hours, Miryam lost track of how many uncircumcised penises had penetrated her; though she did remember one. Toward the end, the men holding her had rolled her onto her belly. Unable to see what was happening, she was shocked when she felt a hard member ramming into her, not in the usual orifice, but into her rectum. She had never heard of or imagined such a violation. She had tried to remain placid, not to give the Romans the satisfaction of hearing her cry or make a futile attempt at resistance, but, this assault on her virgin sphincter, made her scream in pain, to which the Romans responded with cruel laughter.

When they were finally finished, they left taking most of her clothing with them, leaving only her tunic. She hadn’t noticed, but at some point someone had pulled off her sandals and took them. An hour later, one of the guards entered with her supper, a bowl of gruel and a piece of stale bread. He knelt beside her on the floor and she feared her would rape her too. But, instead he pointed to her earrings and gestured that he wanted them. With a resigned sigh she removed the simple copper hoops. Now, the only material possession left to her was her tunic. The Master had said that things of this world were meaningless. She mediated on this as she ate her meager meal, then lay down and, eventually fell into an exhausted sleep.

She arose in the morning and was in the midst of her morning prayers, when two soldiers opened the cell door. They were not bringing her breakfast.

They hauled her to her feet and ripped open the front of her tunic. They pulled her arms from the sleeves and drew the tunic down to her waist then tied the sleeves to form a sort of belt. One of the soldiers roughly squeezed one of her breasts and made a comment to his companion that evoke a lewd laugh. Miryam tried to remain stoic during this humiliation as she had during her rapes. She had accepted her fate. Her body meant nothing, it was temporary; only her soul mattered as it was immortal. They could abuse her body, but they could not touch her soul.

She was lead down a corridor and out into a courtyard. This one had no mosaic or fountain, only rough stones. Although the sun was not very high yet, her time in confinement had left her eyes unaccustomed to daylight and she was momentarily blinded. When she could see, she wished she was still blind.

There was a stone post in the center of the courtyard, about three cubits high. Hunched over the top of the post, with his hands bound to an iron ring on the opposite side, was a man, naked except for a loincloth. Miryam could not see his face, only a mass of black curls on his head. His skin was tanned by years of working out of doors. His body was lean but hard and sinewy. But, his back was bloody.

Two soldiers stood on either side of him and were laying strokes across his back. They struck in a steady rhythm, like drummers keeping a beat. With each blow, the man grunted. She could tell he was stifling his cries to preserve some shred of his dignity. Good for you, she thought.

A man standing to the side who seemed to be in charge gave a command and the whipping ceased. They untied him and dragged the poor man past Miryam, dropping him unceremoniously on the ground beside the wall. Then, the man in charge waved his hand and she was led to the post.

Miryam had been scourged before. She had been ordered scourged by the High Priest Yosef ben Kaiaphas, not long after the Master’s death, for her preaching his word in public. Two of Kaiaphas’ female servants had help her to strip to her tunic. Then, while two male servants held her, the High Priest himself beat her. That was done with a strap of braided leather, three fingers wide. Twelve times her struck. Her back was sore and bruised for three days afterward. The next time was about a year ago. That time, Yehonatan ben Ananus, the new High Priest, had ordered her scourged for the same offense, though it was his younger brother and eventual successor, Theophilus, who performed the deed. They had wanted to give her the maximum of thirty-nine lashes, but decided to cut it to only twenty-seven in consideration of her sex. Again, it was painful and she spent a week recovering.

But, this was going to be different. These Romans did not use a strap, but the “scorpion”. Five strands of twisted leather with bits of bone along their length. Marta had tended her wounds before and said her back was quite badly bruised. She had seen the back of the man before her. It was much more than bruised. It looked like it had been ripped apart by some wild beast. And now, it was going to be her turn.

She tried to remain calm and show no fear as she was bent over the pillar, her wrist were tied and her long, curly hair was swept forward to clear her bared skin. She prayed to The Lord that he would give her strength to endure this ordeal. She could not see what was happening behind her and the first stroke took her completely by surprise.

Miryam could not stifle a scream as the flogger on the right lacerated her back. She continued to scream as a succession of stokes ripped into her. She could not count how many blows she took, she was too blinded by the pain. But, after ten or a thousand strokes, she was untied, dragged across the square and unceremoniously dumped on ground next to the earlier lashing victim. She lay there sobbing, feeling as if her back was on fire. But, as she regained some composure, she took some solace in the fact that she had not once begged for mercy.

A commotion among the soldiers distracted her from her pain. A group of them were dragging a naked man from a doorway toward the flogging pillar as he was berated by the other soldiers. He differed from the other man beside Miryam in more ways than his nakedness. Unlike that man, he was clean shaven, or must have been before spending a few days locked up without a razor. He had a stocky, barrel-chested build. His wavy dark hair was cut short. His penis was uncircumcised. Miryam was puzzled. This man had all the hallmarks of a Roman, likely a legionnaire. She had heard that the Roman’s did not crucify their own people. Who was this man? What had he done?

The naked man was bound to the pillar and his flogging began. The floggers seemed to strike with greater energy than they had with the first man and more than it seemed they had beat Miryam. And the other soldiers who surrounded the pillar were shouting at the man and cheering on his tormentors. Miryam could not speak Latin, but over the years she had learned a few word; insults she had heard hurled at her and other Jews. She recognized “Vappa!” - scum. “Tramas putidas!” - stinking trash. “Scelus!”, she thought this meant criminal, but it seemed to be applied to those who hadn’t broken the law equally as much as for real criminals. There were many others whose meanings she did not know but whose intent was clear from the tone. Whoever the mysterious man was, they truly hated him.

They would surely have flayed the man, if the one in charge hadn’t intervened. As it was, his back was heavily lacerated, strips of flesh hanging along side gouged wounds. He was unbound, dragged over and dropped next to Miryam.

Remarkably, throughout the entire scourging, brutal as it was, the man had not once cried out. She understood this. He had to maintain his dignity as a man. As a woman, there was no such expectation of her. But, Miryam had decided to accept her martyrdom with calm and dignity. And, she would not give her persecutors the satisfaction of breaking her. She understood this stranger. Whatever his crime, he was not going to surrender his pride.

A soldier knelt before her and held out a bowl of liquid. Her hands trembled and he held the bowl steady as she gulped down the mix of water and wine. Miryam looked at the soldier. He was surprisingly young, she judge him to be still in his teens, at least ten years her junior. And he had blue eyes that seemed kind. But, she also recognized him as one of the ones who had enthusiastically raped her the night before. This cup was not kindness, it was a necessity. It was meant to sustain her and make sure she was strong enough to endure what would come. That she could make the walk to her execution, be nailed to the cross and last a few more hours at least, and not deny Roman justice by dying too soon.

Leaning against the wall beside them, were three long planks. Each was about four cubits long and three and a half palms square, with a square hole cut in the center. Miryam knew what these were. She had seen them when she entered the courtyard and she had lain on the ground just two paces from them while the Roman was being flogged, but, she had tried to ignore them, to put them out of her mind and not to think about how they were going to be used. These were the patibuli, the crossbeams on which they would be nailed.

The Romans pulled the curly haired man to his feet and pushed him toward the planks. With them barking at him in Greek and pointing, he must have understood what they wanted. He bent over and took hold of the base of one of the planks and hefted it onto his right shoulder. Held upright by the soldiers with one holding the wood, another took a length of rope and wrapped it around the board and the man’s wrists. Now, he would have no choice but to bear this burden.

Miryam was seized and forced to take hold of another plank. She had a moment to choose and tried to pick one that seemed the smallest. Still, she staggered when she stood up with the wood balanced on her shoulder. It had to weigh at least seventy libra. She would have fallen had the soldiers not held her. She spread her legs and flexed her knees and was able to stabilize herself. The load was heavy, but she was used to carrying bags of grain from the threshing floor for many years. Though she had never carried so heavy a load half naked with her back torn by the scorpion, she was determined she would bear her burden.

There was some commotion to her right, but she couldn’t see and didn’t want to try and turn lest she lose her balance. She could guess, based on the Latin cursing, that the Roman was being laden with his patibulum.

Pushing her by the shoulders and the beam, they made Miryam turn 180 degrees. She was now looking at the naked Roman’s back, somewhat surprised to see that he had not been given something to cover his nakedness. As she suspected, he had been beaten much worse than her or the other man. The flesh had been ripped to shreds with deep gashes and blood oozing down over his buttocks. She was impressed that he was able to stand and wondered if he would be able to make the journey ahead. Then, a soldier, now wearing his armor and cloak, stepped between them. He was holding a long pole with a board hung from a rope at the top. She knew what this was. It was the titulus, a sign board with her name and crime written on it. She saw another soldier step to the left of the naked man. He had a slim willow rod and struck the man on the buttocks, compelling him to move forward. Immediately, she felt a sting on her hind checks and realized that there was a soldier with a rod behind her. She lurched forward and tried to keep her balance as she followed her sign bearer. The march of the doomed had begun.

[TBC]

 

[Loxuru]

Part 2

Great! I enjoyed this well written chapter!

 

[Naraku]

Part 3

They trudged out the gates of the Praetorium. They proceeded through the city, a squad of soldiers in parade order and three naked or nearly naked people carrying long wood beams and prodded forward by occasional strokes of a willow rod. The people of Caesarea had seen execution processions before, but this one was different. By the time they reached the Forum, word had spread and an angry crowd had assembled. They shouted in Greek and Roman, some hurling rotten fruit and even feces, either animal or human, it didn’t seem to matter. The soldiers shouted back and even swung clubs at the crowd, not to protect the condemned, but to protect themselves, as they often got hit by the projectiles. Miryam was surprised that she did not seem to be the target of most of this anger. Although she was definitely hit a few times and she recognized some of the insults a references to her sex and religion, especially the few insults in Aramaic, it was this Roman that provoked the crowd the most.

Things calmed down a bit as they cleared the Forum and headed up the broad road toward the Eastern gate, but sounds from behind told Miryam there were quite a lot of people following.

The road to Nabata had small mounds on either side. These were the byproduct of the creation of the road, as earth had to be removed to make a smooth path of shallow gradient. Each mound was topped with stipes; crucifixion posts. The first mound, on the right, had three crosses with the decaying remains of what had once been humans still nailed to them. The next mound, on the left, had four stipes, three of which were occupied. These poor creatures were also dead, but more recently so. Crows and ravens were flying about and feasting on the corpses of the three men. The next mound was on the right. There were four stipes there, all occupied by naked men. Three looked dead, but one still showed signs of life. He moved his head and caused the crows to fly away from him.

The parade moved off the road and up the low mound on the left. There were four unoccupied stipes and five men in tunics waiting; the execution team, paid to do the Romans dirty work. Miryam was stopped in front of the second stipe. She dropped to her knees and nearly toppled over. The walk had not been long, five or six stadii, but she was exhausted. She was panting and sweat dripped off her body onto the dry ground.

Miryam raised her head and looked at the wooden post that would be her instrument of death. It was a rough piece of wood about two and a half palms wide and a bit taller than the average man, a whole head taller than her, with a tapering tenon cut at the top. The were holes in the side where nails had been driven and extracted repeatedly. Along with the dark staining, produced by blood, excrement and sweat, this told a story of the suffering of many before her. One oddity, to her at least, was a slot carved through the post about half way up, It was two palms long and three unciae wide and went all the way through the stipes. She could not begin to imagine what purpose this could serve.

Her musings were interrupted by a scream from her left. Looking through the strands of hair that covered her face, she saw the olive skinned man pinned to the ground by one of the execution team sitting on his waist and holding his arms down. His head was on the patibulum he had carried and another man was pounding an iron spike through his right wrist. He was gritting his teeth and trying not to scream, but a growl of agony accompanied each blow of the hammer.

Miryam turned away and screwed her eyes shut. She did not need to watch this. She had seen it before. She had seen The Master being treated the same way. Just like then, she could avert her eyes, but she could not block out the sound; the clang of the hammer followed by a poorly stifled scream. Then there was a pause followed by more clanging and screaming and she knew the man’s left wrist was being nailed to the wood.

There was another pause, then the sound of groaning. She dared to look again. Two of the execution squad had lifted the ends of the patibulum so that the man now stood with his back against the stipes. Another man stood behind the stipes on a small ladder. Two more men placed Y shaped poles under the patibulum on either side of the groaning man’s head. On a three count, they pushed the poles forward, raising the crossbeam slowly upward and straightening the man’s arms. He groaned louder as he was raised until her stood on tiptoe with his arms raised in a V above him. The man behind the post took hold of the patibulum and positioned it above the tenon at the top of the post. Then, the others released their hold and the beam fell into place and the mortise in the patibulum slotted onto the tenon of the stipes. The man stood, panting, arms stretched, on the balls of his feet as the man on the ladder pounded a wedge of wood into to the mortise, making for a solid fit. He was handed the titulus that had been carried before the man and hung it from the lathe.

One of the executioners untied the man’s loincloth and cast it aside, revealing his manhood. Miryam was surprised to see he had an intact foreskin. Until that moment, she had assumed he was a fellow Jew.

An executioner took his left leg and lifted it so that his heel was against the stipes and his lower leg was at a ninety degree angle to the upright. Another executioner, the burliest, who seemed to be in charge, stepped between the man and her, so that Miryam’s view was blocked. But, the scream of the Gentile and the clanging of metal on metal told her what was happening. The executioner moved and she saw what she expected to see: the Gentile’s left heel nailed to the side of the stipes. More screaming and clanging followed as his right heel was nailed to the other side.

Rough hands grabbed her and her wrists were untied. The patibulum was dropped onto the ground and she was hauled up to her feet, spun around and forced to lie on her back with her head on the patibulum. One of the execution squad sat on top of her and held out her arms with her wrists on the beam. She closed her eyes and whispered a prayer to God.

The first blow of the hammer did not surprise her, she knew it was coming. The pain was another matter. As the large nail was driven into the heel of her right hand, the pain shot down her arm, through her chest and made her head seem to explode. She had expected it to be painful, but could not have imagined how much. She screamed. She hadn’t wanted to, she had been determined to be stoic. But, she screamed.

She kept screaming. More burst of pain followed each hammer blow. There was then a pause, an end to the waves of pain that gave her a moment to catch a few gasping breaths. Then, there was a new bolt of agony shooting from her left wrist.

When the nailing was finally over, she lay shaking and staring at the clear sky above her. The man who had been straddling her got off and pulled what was left of her tunic off her hips and down her legs. Two of the squad lifted the ends of the patibulum, hauling her to her feet. Miryam did not want to stand, but the insistant tug on the nails through her wrist gave her no choice. She nearly tripped over the rags that had been covering her as she was pulled back against the stipes.

It finally dawned on her that she was now completely naked. Miryam had never seen a woman crucified, such a thing was rare. She had assumed that she would at least have her sex covered for the sake of decency. But, the Romans had a different idea of decency than the Jews, especially when it came to dealing with criminals.

The poles were positioned and she was pushed up the stipes. Being shorter than a man, her feet left the ground and her entire weight was supported by the nails in her wrists. This introduced a new pain, along with her lacerated back being dragged up the rough wood. Another wave of pain came with the impact of the patibulum being dropped into position and the hammering of the wedge to secure it.

When the executioner lifted her left leg, she could not help but lean against him, to try and take some of the weight off her pinioned wrists. This slight relief only lasted a few seconds before she experienced the new pain of a nail being driven through her heel. This pain was more crushing than sharp and ran all the way up her spine. The pain of her left heel being nailed had not subsided, when heel right being nailed added to her suffering.

And then, it was done. The entire process of nailing Miryam to her cross had only taken three minutes. This execution squad was experienced and efficient. But, to her, it seemed to take forever. Now, with the initial shock over, she had a throbbing pain running down her arms and up her legs. And, she knew this pain would be with her until she died.

Miryam raised her head and for the first time became aware of the crowd. Through all of this ordeal, she had been so focused on her pain and exhaustion that she had not noticed that a mob of nearly one hundred had followed them out of the city. Now, through tear filled eyes, she saw them; men and women, young and old, dressed in silks and dressed in rags, being held back by the squad of soldiers that had escorted them out of the city. They were chattering, laughing, sneering and taking in the spectacle. There did not seem to be a single face showing sympathy for her or the others. Although they seemed to be focused on all three of them, she saw that many of the men were staring intently at her. She was again reminded of her nudity. Her sex was exposed through the dark tangle of pubic hair and, with her feet nailed to the side of the patibulum, she could not bring her knees together to give even a token of modesty. She wondered if a crucified woman was a common site in Caesarea, or was she a novelty, a rare entertainment for the lusting mob.

But, the crowd’s attention seemed mostly focused on her left. She heard the clang of hammer on nail and looked to that side.

The Roman was being held down and nailed as she and the Gentile had been. He was doing his best to stifle his screams and maintain his manly dignity. He grunted through gritted teeth and thrashed about beneath the grinning executioner who sat astride him. Another of the execution squad was holding his legs to limit his kicking. Then he was raised up. He was a bit shorter than the Gentile and his feet still dangled off the ground once the patibulum was dropped into place. He growled as his heels were nailed to the upright. Then he was left panting, secured to his cross.

Their job complete, the execution squad gathered their tools and pushed their way through the crowd, back toward the city. Almost a third of the crowd followed them. But, most remained, taking in the site of two naked men and a woman suffering for their crimes. As before, during the march through the city, there were angry and mocking words shouted at the condemned. Most were in Latin and Greek, as before and most seemed to be directed at the man to her left, but, there were plenty of words directed at her; especially obscene comments on her displayed body, many made in Aramaic which she could understand.

She tried to ignore them. She told herself that her nudity was not a matter of shame, for she was not exposing herself willfully like a whore. Instead, she had been exposed by her enemies. She remembered his words: “Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me.“.

“So, you are Miryam of Magdala.”

The voice form her right startled her. She looked over to see the Gentile. He had raised himself up and was looking at her.

“That is what your sign says. Miryam of Magdala, Seditionist.”

“Yes,” she managed to gasp out through a throat that was hoarse from screaming, “That is my name.”

“And what sedition did a beautiful woman like you perform?” the man asked, smiling, as if he were flirting with her in the market place.

She raised herself, pushing against the nails in her heels. The grinding of bone on iron was excruciating, but she instinctively realized that this would allow her to breath more easily and carry on a conversation.

“I did not commit sedition. I only preached the teachings of our Lord.”

“What did you teach?”

“That He was the Messiah and that he will return and bring with him the Kingdom of Heaven.”

“The Messiah?” he replied, “Oh, yes. The king you Jews believe will be sent by your god. I can understand why the Romans would object to that.” He snickered then coughed.

“And want does it say on your sign?” Miryam asked.

“Ahirom bar Paltibaal of Byblos.” the man replied, saying the name with pride, then adding, without pride: “Murderer.”

“You murdered someone?” Miryam asked, as she began to feel strain in her legs from holding herself up in a half crouched position as well the pain in her heels from supporting her weight on the nails.

“Yeah,” Ahirom sighed, “But, it was really an accident.” He lowered himself to take the strain off his legs before rising again and continuing, “I am a sailor. We had brought in a load of wine from Cyprus and been well paid. So, of course, we headed to the taverns to celebrate. I like to gamble. I was throwing dice when some Roman bastard accused me of cheating. So, I punched him. Not too hard. But he fell and cracked his skull on a table and died. Turns out the fool was the son of some big Roman official. So, here I am. Crucified for punching the wrong asshole.”

During Ahirom’s story, Miryam had relaxed her legs. Now, she raised herself up to ease her breathing and turned to the man on her left.

“What does it say on your sign?” she asked.

The man turned to her and responded, haltingly “I. Can. Not. Aramaic. Speak.”

Miryam turned away, unable to speak any other language but her own. Then, she heard Ahirom addressing the man in Greek. The two conversed for a minute, then Ahirom addressed her in Aramaic:

“His name is Faustus Muncius, Decanus of the VI Legion Ferrata. His crime is desertion.”

It all made sense now. Why the soldiers had treated him more cruelly and the mob had derided him more harshly. A murderer and a seditionist were despicable criminals; but a deserter from the Legions was something much worse. To the citizens of the city, he was a protector who abandoned his post. To the soldiers, he was more. Desertion weakened the ranks and threatened morale. It was a personal form of treason, worse in their eyes than treason against the Emperor, which could be a description of her crime, it was treason against his own comrades.

The crowd had thinned out. The main part of the show was over now that the condemned were nailed to their crosses. Cursing and mocking them grew boring. Watching them writhe in pain, even watching a naked woman squirming, grew old quickly. Besides, the sun was rising and the day was getting hotter and most had jobs to get to. Soon, the only spectators the doomed criminals drew were those traveling to and from the city. Some only gave them a glance as they headed on their way. Other stopped to take in the sight. The sight of a woman crucified was, indeed, a rare one. And those who could read Latin or Greek could see the terrible crime committed by Faustus. A few even took the time to shout insults or to made lewd comments; but most just moved on about their business. A trio of bored soldiers lolled in the shade of a sycamine tree across the road. They were there to prevent any trouble, but their services were not really needed.

It was the Roman month of September, Tishrei on the Jewish calendar, and here on the Plain of Sharon, it was hot and humid during the day. This day was no different. With hardly a cloud in the sky, the sun beat down mercilessly on all. Those who could, stayed in the shade. Those that could not, sweated and suffered, resting periodically and drinking as they could. Those who were nailed to crosses, had no options. They sweated and baked under the sun. Even if they remained still and did not exert themselves, the oppressive heat and humidity made them sweat. But, remaining still was impossible. Hanging passively put strain on their shoulders and pressure on their chests, making them feel as though they were being smothered. After a time, they would have to raise themselves up, pressing against their nailed heels and pulling on their nailed wrists until they reached something close to a standing position. They would hold that pose until their trembling legs could no longer support them. Then they would lower themselves slowly to hang until they needed to repeat the process. And each cycle of standing and falling, they had to drag their torn backs against the rough wood, raking them like the claws. This was the dance of the cross, a dance they would have to repeat until they could dance no more and surrendered to death.

Miryam wondered if they were going to break her legs. They had broken the legs of the men crucified with The Master. His legs were unbroken because he had already died. But, he had been crucified on yom shishi, and Shabbath began at sundown. To leave a corpse exposed would have been an offense and so the crucified had to be dead and buried before the sun set. Bur, today was yom revili, dies mercuii to the Romans and Shabbath was three days off. And, this was not Yerushalayim. This was a gentile city and no one would object to the violation of the Laws of Moses. She realized that she might well be left to die slowly, legs unbroken, for as long as it would take. And, she would be left to rot. Like the unfortunate predecessors they had past on their way here.

That thought troubled her. The friends and family of The Master, including herself, had assured him a proper burial. She had followed him to Golgotha along with other female disciples – the men had all gone into hiding – mourning and comforting each other at the base of the hill as he died and seeing to his entombment afterward. But, she knew no one in Caesarea and no one knew her. There was no one here to mourn her and no one would see to her burial. Aside from the two strangers suffering alongside of her, she was alone.

[TBC]

 

[Loxuru]

I love those details in the story!

“I am a sailor. We had brought in a load of wine from Cyprus and been well paid.

And there you end up, crucified in a foreign country!

 

[Jollyrei]

Very well written, Naraku. The detail is excellent.

 

[Naraku]

Part 4

A little before midday, a quartet of soldiers, accompanied by the leader of the execution squad came up the road. They were greeted by the soldiers who had been keeping watch. Miryam’s heart rejoiced when she saw the executioner was carrying a large wooden mallet. Perhaps they were going to have their legs broken after all. Or, maybe Marullus had decided to show her mercy as she was a woman.

The group came up the hill toward them. One of the soldiers went behind Ahirom’s stipes. He reached up and took hold of each of Ahirom’s buttocks and pushed upward, forcing him into a standing position. The executioner approached, reaching into a cloth back he carried over his left shoulder and pulling out a plank of wood. The plank was about seven palms long and two unciae thick. Two thirds of the length was about three palms wide but the last third was cut into a narrower tongue giving it a paddle-like shape.

While Ahirom was held aloft, the executioner pushed the tongue of the plank into the slot cut into the center of the stipes. He used the mallet to hammer the board into place. After jiggling it a few times to make sure the board was secure, the executioner nodded to the soldier, who released his grip on Ahirom’s cheeks. Ahirom lowered himself until his groin rested on the plank.

Now Miryam understood. They hadn’t come to break their legs. They had come to provide them with a seat, the sedile.

The soldier who had lifted Ahirom now stood next to Miryam. But, rather than get behind her and grab her buttocks, he grabbed her by the crotch with his right hand. As he lifted her up, his fingers worked their way into her labia, searching for her hidden passage. She closed her eyes and gritted her teeth as she was forced to endure this new humiliation.

A bolt of pain radiated through her limbs from the four nails as the cross vibrated with each blow of the mallet. Miryam looked down and saw the executioner hammering her sedile into place. She also saw the grinning face of the ugly Roman who was holding her aloft by her privates. When the sedile was in place, the Roman withdrew his hand. He sniffed his fingers and then waived his hand at the other soldiers, making some comment in Latin that elicited lewd guffaws from his comrades and the executioner.

Miryam eased herself down onto the wooden seat. In this position, neither her arms or legs were extended to their maximum. She could stay in this position without putting strain on her limbs and could breath more easily. At first, she was relieved and grateful for this seat of mercy. Only as time passed would she realize the cruelty of the sedile.

The soldier took his position beside Faustus’ cross. He reached up and grabbed Faustus’ testicles and pulled them up and out. Faustus groaned as he followed, arching his back and stretching his limbs to keep up with his scrotum that was being stretched by his former comrade. He was held in this posture as the sedile was pounded into position, with the soldier holding his stones chortling and the other soldiers echoing his amusement. When the executioner was done, the soldier released Faustus and he dropped down hard on the plank.

The soldier took the mallet from the executioner and, with a mighty shout of anger swung it down toward Faustus’ manhood. But, he stopped just short of the target. He laughed hardily and poked Faustus in the belly with the tool, saying something in Latin before tossing the mallet to the laughing executioner.

While the soldier and executioner headed back to the road, another soldier came up the hill carrying a large wine-skin. He first went to Ahirom, hold the opening to his mouth and allowing him to take four gulps. Next, he brought it to Miryam’s lips. The contents were bitter, poor quality wine that had almost turned to vinegar. But, she gulped it down greedily, gratefully. To her dry throat and parched lips, it was sweat nectar and was gone too quickly. The soldier hesitated when he stood beside Faustus and he called out to the men below. The one who must have been in command shouted something back. The soldier with the wine poured and let Faustus have his drink.

The first guards, under the command of the officer, headed back to town with the executioner, while the three new guards took up their place under the shade of the sycamine tree.

At first, Miryam was grateful for the sedile. She knew that, by reducing the effort to breath, it would prolong her life and therefore lengthen her suffering; but, after four hours of alternating between straining her arm and her legs, being able to simply sit seemed like a godsend. Now, it seemed that she would only have to sit and wait for dehydration and exposure to kill her. It might take longer, but it would be easier.

It took less than an hour for her to realize how wrong she was. The sedile was no seat of ease. It was a narrow strip of wood, no wider than three of her fingers. Resting her entire body weight on such a small area quickly became uncomfortable, as her weight pressed her groin into the wood. The pressure ran from her coccyx to her clitoris and became increasing painful. Soon, she had to raise herself off of the sadile to relieve the pain. This, of course, meant pulling on her nailed wrist and pushing against her nailed heels. When the strain of this position became to much, she would have to lower herself back down, as slowly as possible to avoid slamming into the sedile. It was the dance of the cross all over again, And, a new torment had been introduced. The sedile was rough hewn, Each cycle of rising and falling dragged her inner thighs against the abrasive wood. The two men on either side were forced to perform the same dance, with the additional danger of coming down on their penis or testicles. The “merciful” sedile was, in fact, a subtle torture device.

The sun climbed through an almost cloudless sky. The occupants of the three crosses were drenched in sweat. This brought the attention of a common nuance: flies. Flies were everywhere in the region and swatting at them was a constant occupation. But, with wrists nailed, the crucified could not defend themselves. And, although they did not bite or sting, their hairy feet and rough tongues hungrily lapping up sweat, was an irritant, especially to the already sunburned skin of the crucified. Miryam now understood why flies were sent by God to plague the Egyptians.

She had not eaten since the night before, all that was in her belly was sour wine. Now, her bowels were growling. And, despite sweating profusely, her bladder was now full. She dreaded the thought of relieving herself in public. While there was no longer a crowd of spectators, there were travelers flowing constantly in both directions, many of them looking at the newest examples of Roman law and order.

Ahirom must have been having a similar problem. He raised up on his heels and twisted his body as far to the right as the nails would allow. A stream of dark urine gushed from his penis as he held that position. Then he lowered himself back onto the sedile. He had managed to relieve himself without getting any noticeable amount of fluid on himself or his seat.

Miryam remembered being a little girl, secretly watching her brothers and their friends compete at knocking leaves off bushes at a distance. She had been envious of this ability when she could only pee straight down. Now, she really envied men as Faustus imitate Ahirom accomplishment. Unable to hold it any longer, Miryam finally gave in to necessity. She slid as far to the left as the nails and sedile would allow, pressing her right inner thigh against the sharp edge of the board and moving her left leg as far outward as possible. She realized this exposed her sex, but there was no other way. She felt immense relief as a copious steam of stinking amber fluid gushed from between her legs. A pair of men leading a laden ass had stopped to watch her performance.

One of them called out to her, “Nice cunt you have there. How much do you sell it for, Galilean?”, followed by laughter from himself and his companion. He spoke in Aramaic with a Samaritan accent. Miryam didn’t care. Despite the pain and humiliation, this was the most welcome piss she had ever taken.

While the matter of her straining bladder had been solved, her rumbling bowels remained a problem. By mid-afternoon, she could take no more. Again, she slid as far to the left a she could, this time leaning forward to try and aim her buttocks away from the cross. An explosive burst came from rectum as a spray of loose stool burst out. Thankfully, there was no one on the road this time, but the guard squad definitely heard her from their shady post and laughed in amusement. They pointed and mockingly held their noses, although they certainly were too far to smell anything. Despite her best efforts, some of the shit did get on the back of her calf and her foot. Also, unable to wipe, some remained around her rectum. She could feel it as she settled back on the sedile. She knew that this was going to provide more irritation as time went by. And, more flies would be coming. This became certain as first Ahirom, the Faustus took their turns.

[TBC]

 

[Loxuru]

Miryam is not saved from any discomfort or humiliation!

 

[Naraku]

Conclusion

Traffic on the road picked up toward evening as people hurried to reach the city before nightfall. As the shadows grew longer, a party of three men in dusty traveling cloaks stopped in front of the hillock. On separated from the party and approached Miryam. The guards got to their feet, ready to act if the man should try and kill or rescue the condemned. Halfway up, the man pulled back his hood and looked up at Miryam.

He had a round face, creased with lines of a man who had worked his whole life outdoors and had known much sorrow as well. His curly dark hair was flecked with gray and his hairline was receding. He had a bulbous nose and a short beard, also turning gray. Miryam knew this face, most of all, she knew those eyes, eyes that had always seemed sad and pleading.

“Kepha?”, she asked in a rasping, weak voice.

“Miryam,” he replied, “I am so sorry this has happened.”

“Why are you here?”

“I am on my way to take ship to Tyrus. Ya’akov wants me to go and deal with this Saul.”

She know what he was talking about. Once an agent of the of the Sanhedrin who had persecuted The Master’s followers, this man was now claiming to have been converted and to have received a mission to spread His teachings. But, he was preaching to Gentiles in Syria and telling them that they did not have to follow the Law to achieve salvation. None of them, not she nor Kepha nor Ya’akov approved of this doctrine. And some thought he might be endangering them as well. The Romans saw them as a Jewish sect and a Jewish problem, but, by converting non-Jews, Saul was creating a Roman problem. Matthaios even suggested he might still be acting as a Sanhedrin agent, creating a situation that would cause the Romans to persecute them all. Both she and The Master had been sentenced to death for trying to incite rebellion among the Jews, but, inciting rebellion among non-Jews as well would bring the wrath of Roman down on all of His followers, doing what the High Priesthood had been unable to accomplish. She was about to offer Kepha her prayers for a safe and successful journey, when he dropped to his knees and cried out.

“Forgive us, Miryam. We never expected this. We only thought...We never...Had we known.”. he sobbed.

“What?” she said, trying to make her dry throat be heard, “What, do you mean?”

“It was Matthaios’ plan. We only thought Ananus would banish you from Yerushalayim, send you back to Galilee. We never imagined he would hand you over. We never imagined…”

“You handed me over? You sold me out to Ananus?”, she cried, her voice both angry and shocked.

“It was Matthaios.” Kepha replied, “It was his idea. He was the one who went to the Sanhedrin…” then, he broke down sobbing. He raised his face and looked at her with more sorrow in his eyes than usual. “No. It was all of us. Ya’akov and Matthaios and myself. You wouldn’t stop your preaching, despite our warnings. We all agreed to it. But, we didn’t want this. We just wanted to stop you. I didn’t know until Eleazar told me and by then they had taken you away. We never meant for this...”

He knelt weeping before her, while Miryam felt the world crash around her. Until know, she believed she was the victim of the ignorance of the priests and the Romans who would not listen and refused to understand The Master’s words. But, now she knew, she had been betrayed by fellow followers; by her friends.

“I forgive you, Simeon bar Yonah.”, she said to the broken man before her, “He told us to forgive those who transgress against us. I forgive you and Ya’akov and Matthaios. And I will pray that the Lord shall forgive you too.”

Simeon, who was known as Kepha, rose and looked at Miryam with red rimmed eyes. He seemed to want to say something. But, after a moment he turned and rejoined his companions on the road. Without another look back, they proceeded off toward the city.

“Hrmph”, the sound from Ahirom startled Miryam. He looked at her and continued, “Holy men. I’ve journeyed from Byzantium to Massilia, from Alexandria to Ostia and they’re all the same. No matter what god they claim to serve, they really only serve themselves.”

Up in Highlands, in Yerushalayim and in Galilee, nightfall brought relief as the heat of the day the gave way to the cool of the evening. But, down here on the Coastal Plain, the humid air cooled little after sunset. In the fall and winter the rains came. But this was late summer. Only a wind from the west, off the sea could bring relief, and this night, the wind was from the south.

The night was quiet, with only the occasional, indistinguishable sounds from the city and the low conversation of the guards across the road. The light of the small fire they had built and the distant glow of the city were the only illumination on this moonless night, aside from the stars above. The flies were less numerous and mostly interested in the piles of feces at the base of each cross. This was the only relief the night provided to those who were crucified.

“Miryam.”

The sound of her name being called startled her. It took her a moment to realize that the voice had come, not from some other worldly source, but from the man on her right.

“What.”, she managed to croak out.

“I was wondering,” Ahirom said in a voice that seemed almost like that of one talking in his sleep, “Where is Magdala?”

“In Galilee.” she replied, “On Yam Gennesaret.” then she added the Roman name, “On Lake Tiberias.”

“Oh.” Ahirom said, in the same disconnected voice, “Never been there.” And then he said no more. This would be the last conversation any of them would have. It was becoming a strain to talk and what did the dying have to talk about anyway?

Looking at Ahirom, Miryam thought something seemed odd. It took a few seconds for her to make out what it was in the dim light. His manhood was standing erect, looking in silhouette like rod coming up from the sedile at an angle. She found this puzzling. She had not felt even an inkling of arousal in all this time. Even when she was raped, she had felt nothing but pain and horror. But, she guessed men were different. One of her brothers, Yehudah, had told her once, when she noticed a bulge beneath his tunic, that sometimes a man might get hard for no reason. Later, when she was older and knew more about men, she learned that that was true when men were young, but, as they aged, it was a less common thing. She wondered, perhaps that it was different when a man was hanging naked on a cross for hours. Perhaps his body began to act on its own, without his control. She looked to her left, but Faustus seemed not to have lost control over his penis, at least not at that moment.

The steamy night gave way to the scorching day. Miryam’s skin itched. Sunlight had never touched most her skin since she was a baby. Now, she had been exposed for a full day. It had begun during the night. With daylight she could see the redness of her arms, chest and thighs. She could not see her back, of course, but she could feel the itching and tightness of the skin of her shoulders and neck. Her companions were not in as bad a situation. Being men, they had frequently worked in little more than a loincloth. Ahirom in particular had a distinct demarcation of dark skin and light where his privates had been covered as he worked the ropes of the ship nearly naked. Now, those areas of his hips and lower abdomen were as pink as her arms. Faustus must have spent more time covered by his tunic, has he was showing signs of sunburn on his chest and shoulders.

Her skin itched and she could not scratch. Rubbing her back against the stipes might have been an option, if her back and shoulders were not covered in open lacerations. And then, the flies returned. Her burned skin was not only itchy, but hyper sensitive to touch. The feet and mouths of the tiny beasts that had been irritating the day before were like little needles now. And, there was nothing she could do about it.

It occurred to Miryam that this was the true cruelty of crucifixion. The pain of being nailed and hanging by your pinioned wrists and heels was terrible. But, the agonizing pain of the initial nailing gave way to constant throbbing ache. And the sedile had relieved her of the strain on her joints and muscles. Being exposed naked before all the world was humiliating. But humiliation was something one could bear and, after so long a time, being seen naked no longer seemed important. The scourging was still painful and it hurt every time she moved. But, like her nailed wrists and heels, the pain had become duller over time. Her muscles cramped and ached because she could barely move and they had been kept in the same position for so long. The sedile was becoming like an axe edge cutting into her groin. And the sun was beating down on her relentlessly, slowly roasting her like a piece of meat on a gridiron.

But, she now believed, the true cruelty of crucifixion was the helplessness. She could not swat away the flies. She could not scratch her itchy skin. She could not cover her nakedness. She could not move about and relieve the cramping of her limbs. She could not slake her thirst or fill her empty belly. She could not clean her itching ass. She could do nothing. She had lost all power over her own body. She could do nothing but hang on her cross and wait for death to come. She could not even speed up the process of her own dying.

There was a commotion at mid-morning. A procession came up the road from town. It was a familiar procession to the three people on crosses. A squad of soldiers were escorting four nearly naked men, each hunched beneath the weight of a patibulum. Four more going to be crucified, with a boisterous crowd of townspeople following in their wake. Three were young men, perhaps in their twenties, with curly dark hair and close trimmed beards. The fourth man, bringing up the rear, was older. His hair was thinning and flecked with gray and his beard was completely gray. As they trudged along, they kept their heads down. Miryam was sure they were aware of the crosses as they passed, just as she had been. But, they did not seem to want to look on the fate that awaited them. Then, as they came alongside. The second man turned toward them. His eyes were filled with horror. The crowd that followed was completely uninterested in the victims they had so enthusiastically watched being crucified just twenty-four hours earlier; all the attention was focused on the fresh meat marching to their execution.

The sound of metal striking metal and the screams of men echoed down the road. Miryam could just barely see them, about one hundred pedes up the road and on the opposite side. Soon, she could make out four men hanging on their crosses, writhing and dancing while the crowd mocked them. The spectators became bored and drifted back toward town one by one or in pairs or small groups. Only a few bothered to look to their right at the three who had entertained them the day before. Sun burnt, covered in sweat and flies and immobilized by the sedile, they were no longer amusing. They were warnings, omens for those who challenged Roman authority. But, they were no longer amusing.

Near noon, with the sun high, Miryam was shaking her head constantly, trying to use her hair to shoo away the flies, with only middling results. A group of soldiers and one of the executioners came up the road. She knew where they were going and what they were going to do. She wondered if the four new men would know. She heard the sound of the mallet and once she heard a scream, perhaps one of the men had been pushed too far against the nails. Or, maybe one had been lifted by his balls, like Faustus.

The squad came back past them and Miryam saw one; the same young soldier as before; was carrying a wine skin. Would they be given a drink again? She hoped for it. Her parched throat and cracked lips longed for a drink even if it would mean prolonging her suffering. But, no, the squad continued on toward town. She wasn’t sure if she should feel dejected or relieved. She resumed shaking her head to shoo away the flies.

Miryam prayed. She had been praying, in her mind and in her heart if not out loud, the whole time since she had been arrested. She asked the Lord to forgive those who had crucified her. She asked Him to forgive Kepha and Ya’akov and Matthaios. She asked him to forgive Faustus and Ahirom. And she asked to be forgiven for her sins. Most of all, she prayed for death.

As the sun grew low in the West, her prayers were interrupted by strange sounds from her right. Ahirom was making guttural, croaking noises. It was little like speech, but in no human language. His body shook from time to time as if he was laughing. He was having a conversation with people who were not visible, speaking with a swollen tongue and raw, dry throat. Miryam knew, his mind was gone. The pain and heat and thirst had deprived him of his wits. Miryam looked over at Faustus. He was looking at Ahirom too. The two of them were thinking the same thing: perhaps he was the luckiest one.

Ahirom kept his private conversation going through the night. But, Miryam would sometimes hear other voices. They were familiar voices, or, at least, they seem familiar, though she could not recognize them. She could not tell where they were coming from and realized they were coming from nowhere. The voices were in her head. She wondered if she was going to go mad like Ahirom.

By dawn, Miryam was becoming confused. She had trouble remembering where she was and why. Her head was throbbing. She felt dizzy. Despite knowing she was nailed to the cross and straddling the sedile, she felt like she was going to fall.

Her head was aching. Her whole body ached. It had been aching from the start. But, now her head ached like someone had driven a nail into her skull during the night. Her muscles were cramping; every muscle from her ankles to her arms. She no longer tried to rise off the sedile. Her arms were too weak and her legs would not respond. Oddly, she could not feel her hands. She would not have known that a crow was pecking at her right palm if she had not seen it. She tried to shout at it to stop, but all she could manage was a coughing that did serve to scare the bird away.

She was nauseous. Her stomach was empty, yet she felt the need to vomit. She began to have convulsions. Somewhere, amid the confusion and pain, she realized the truth: she was dying.

The voices had ceased; the pain in her head had silenced them. Then, she heard a voice. This time she recognized it. It was The Master. And now she understood the words:

“Come, Miryam. I have prepared rooms in my Father’s house for you.”

Faustus Muncius, formerly Decanus of the VI Legion Ferrata, was brooding over his fate. After fifteen years in the army and ten years in Judea and Syria, he was looking forward to being sent somewhere better, somewhere cooler and wetter and with less quarrelsome natives. There had been a rumor that they were going to be transferred to Gaul. He would have liked that. But then the word had come. They were going to be sent to Armenia, to the Parthian frontier. It was the last straw. Fed up, he had tried to desert. He bribed a Greek to take him on his ship. But, the Greek had betrayed him and here he was. He had cursed the Greek. He had cursed the Army. He had cursed the gods. But, he knew the fault was his own. He had made his choice and had to pay the price.

He looked to his right. The Phoenician had ceased babbling, but he was rocking from side-to-side, like he was dancing on his sedile. The Jewish woman was silent and motionless. Faustus had seen lots of death and lots of crucifixions in his years of service. He knew she was dead.

He remembered her. If they had had a language in common he would have told her. He had seen her with other women grieving and praying for a man being crucified on a hill outside Yerushalayim. He was some Galilean preacher, one of the self-styled prophets that infested this land. Like the flies, but twice as annoying. His male followers had fled, but the women remained. She was there. Faustus had been there too, one of the soldiers brought down from Caesarea to keep the peace during a religious festival. He had been there to prevent a riot during the crucifixions. There had been no disturbance and the crucifixions had been cut short when the prisoners’ legs were broken. He had seen them take the preacher off the cross and carry him away to be entombed. And he remembered she had accompanied the body.

He watched her hanging there. Her body slumped forward, drool dripping from her mouth, legs darkening with pooled blood. The crow had returned and was pecking at her hand, the first of many birds to come. In his mind he said a prayer: “God of the Jews, give Miryam of Magdala peace.”

The End

 

[Loxuru]

But, she now believed, the true cruelty of crucifixion was the helplessness.

When the mind takes over from the body!
Helplessness and a sense of claustrophobia! Stuck to that cross and never be able to get away from it!

 

[Wragg]

Faustus had seen lots of death and lots of crucifixions in his years of service.

Lucky fella

But so are we - that was an excellent read, @Naraku!

 

[JustJJ]

Great story. I liked the ending best, it’s one of the best descriptions of actually dying and losing sanity I’ve seen here.

 

[wikk]

Very well written history – in some kind of stoic style, without the so-called "exclamation marks" and exaggerations, maybe crucifixion and dying on cross looked like it, maybe it didn't, but in my feeling this reality dominates here.

For me this is example of a story of martyrdom and holiness in a kind of ordinary, "everyday" style, touching ordinary people - something that was true and ordinary thing in the history of persecution of people unjustly accused, unjustly treated Christians.

That's how I perceived this story and from a certain moment I read it even with a certain sadness, compassion for all the characters included in it.

Thank you Naraku.

 

[Marcius]

Marvellous minimalistic story, the group crucifixion scenes must be among the best in this genre -- actually, in the crux writing as a whole.