by James Mace
“Yes, sir.” Valens replied. He then shouted down the line, “First Century, with me!”
Artorius walked over to the left-hand wall and ascended the steps. Though Praxus had released his men, he remained, leaning with his back against the rampart. Artorius removed his helmet and joined his friend.
“They never learn,” Praxus said as the gate was opened and Magnus’ men started forcibly grabbing protesting civilians and dragging them into the courtyard to clear away the dead. Praxus’ eyes were closed, his face tilted up into the sun.
“We taught them a harsh lesson today,” Artorius replied. “Hopefully making the people clean up this mess, not to mention crucifying the few survivors, will drive the point home.”
“I doubt it,” his fellow centurion replied. “If anything, I think we’ve only stoked the fires of hate even more so.”
“Well, what else could we have done?” Artorius retorted, exacerbated at the situation. The heat bearing down on them did little to soften his temper.
“Nothing,” Praxus replied, opening his eyes and looking over at his friend. “These weren’t even true insurrectionists. They were merely a band of thugs who saw an opportunity to murder or capture Pilate, and for that we should be thankful. An actual rebellion would have seen this place assaulted by thousands who were well-organized and equipped, not a reckless mob of a few hundred.”
“Perhaps they were hoping that by taking the Antonia, they could incite such a mass rebellion,” Artorius mused.
“Perhaps,” Praxus agreed. “I think there will come a time when this gods’ forsaken place explodes. I just hope it does not happen on our watch.”
Yaakov’s arms felt like they were going to fall off as he made his way slowly up the tower, unable to ascertain from the cries and sounds of battle below how it fared. Sweat dripped from every pour and his hands felt slippery on the rope. He could hear his three companions breathing heavily, the terror of falling the only thing allowing them to keep a grip on the rope, despite the pain in their hands and forearms.
Just as he felt he might lose his grasp completely, he reached the top and grabbed a hold of the rampart. He wasn’t sure if he still had the strength to pull himself over, but then a strong hand reached down and grabbed him by the forearm, hauling him over the edge. In his exhaustion, Yaakov did not question who his savior was, until he looked up and saw that it was a Roman woman.
“I…I am obliged to you, my lady,” he said through gasping breath. She stared at him coldly, and with the sun glaring behind her, he did not see the weapon in her hand. Blinding pain shot through his stomach as the gladius plunged in to the hilt, bursting out his back. Her expression unchanged, the woman shoved him back over the rampart, his agonizing death expedited as his brains splattered on the cobblestones below. With a single hack of her weapon, the woman severed the rope, sending the other three men screaming to their deaths.
Chapter XXVII: Execution of the Mind
Rock of Golgotha, outside Jerusalem
***
This was the second Passover Artorius would witness in Jerusalem, and the prisoners he and Taurus had taken the previous summer were finally being given their sentence. Several had died from disease or suicide during the months between their capture and transfer to their place of execution. It was because thousands of pilgrims were already flocking towards the Jewish holy city that Pilate had wanted to make as public a spectacle as he could of the fate of those who would bring violence against Rome. The day after the attack on the Antonia Fortress, he ordered Artorius to take a detachment up to the large rock known as ‘the skull-pan of a head’. Far too large to be just a rock, but too small to be known as a mountaintop, it was the place where criminals handed down the most severe of sentences were taken for crucifixion.
“Don’t bother taking the prisoners to the dungeons,” the centurion told his men. “We’ll make directly for Golgotha and get this over with.”
“Sir, what about Barabbas?” a soldier asked. “Do we crucify him as well?”
“No. Leave him in the prison under heavy guard. We’ll see if Abenader’s interrogators can get any more useful information from him. Besides, Pilate wants his execution saved for the Passover celebrations.”
It was a pleasant evening as the sun set and a gentle breeze blew across the skull-shaped rock. Artorius marveled at how it contrasted to the ghastly task they were about to perform. Under normal circumstances the condemned would be required to walk to their place of execution, often times carrying the cross beam to their crucifix. Pilate had wished to expedite the fate of these condemned rebels. Those Pilate decided to make the ultimate example of, were blindfolded and thrown into the back of a single ox cart. Artorius had arrived with some of his men an hour earlier, and he could hear the creaking of the wheels from the cart coming up the path.
“At least the evenings are pleasant enough,” Metellus said as he walked up behind Artorius.
“I hate this place,” he replied quietly.
“Judea?” his son asked.
“That,” Artorius acknowledged. Two years had passed since the day he’d received his orders sending him and his friends east. And yet, despite the promotion, plus the far more pleasant climate of Caesarea, something about the province never sat well with him. He felt he was better suited keeping barbarians at bay on the Rhine frontier, rather than trying to placate a province where one never knew who was a friend or enemy. “But this place is truly malevolent. Many a wicked soul has been purged here, and I swear that evil permeates from this cursed rock.”
“Forgive me for asking, sir, but was this not your idea?” The decanus’ face bore a look of puzzlement as Artorius turned and faced him.
“Metellus, what are you doing here?” Artorius asked, ignoring the question. “I told Cornelius to have your century stand down.”
His adopted son gave a shrug.
“Morbid curiosity I suppose,” he replied. “I know this is a hateful task, and it’s one I have yet to take part in.”
“No one should relish crucifying other men,” Artorius remarked. “The humiliation and pain we subject the condemned to has left me with many a sleepless night.”
“I don’t relish the idea,” Metellus said gravely.
Even in the closing dark Artorius could sense the apprehension in the young soldier.
“I would much rather be getting drunk and shoving my cock into a young whore, believe me. I can’t explain why I felt I had to come here, I just did.”
“Alright,” the centurion responded. “If you wish to educate yourself on inflicting our greatest punishment, I won’t deny you. Drop your armor and go see Felix. Have him put you on one of the teams.”
“Yes, sir.” As Metellus wandered off to find the tesserarius, the cart slowly came into view.
Artorius saw Valens sitting next to the driver, holding a lantern. Two dozen legionaries walked on either side, with a few more riding in the cart with their javelins pointed at the hearts of the condemned.
“There you are,” the optio said, jumping down and walking over to his centurion.
“Any trouble from this lot?” Artorius asked.
Valens shook his head. “No, they are pretty docile. My guess is they accepted their fate a long time ago.” Valens then noticed Metellus talking with Felix, who was instructing one of the other legionaries to stand down. The young soldier looked relieved and quickly started to don his armor and equipment, anxious to leave the hated place. “What’s Metellus doing here? You put him on a crucifixion team?”
“He feels he needs to learn what it is like,” Artorius answered. “Besides, I was even younger than him when I did my first crucifixion. Do you remember that?”
“I do,” Valens nodded. “It was our first action after you were appointed squad leader. That one fellow you went insane on, slashing him up with your gladius and then having us plant his cross right on top of an enormous mound of carnivorous ants.”
“I had a lot of hate in my heart then,” Ar
torius said, closing his eyes for a moment at the memory. “There are many times it almost destroyed me. I hated the Germans, and pretty much any non-Romans after what happened to my brother. I hated women because I felt abandoned by Camilla. That day we crucified those barbarians, if you had told me that ten years later I would be happily married to a woman I dearly loved, with my brother’s son adopted as my own, I would have laughed and probably punched you in the face.”
“You’re definitely not the same person you were then,” Valens observed.
“Are any of us?” Artorius replied. He then looked over at his son. Despite the fact that Metellus had been a soldier for nearly six years, Artorius still felt an instinctive need to protect the young man.
“Well, this will be a good lesson for him,” Valens said with a shrug. “Cornelius brought his name up the other day. He never says much to you because you’ll think he’s just telling you what you want to hear. But he said the truth is, Metellus has been a model soldier and is seen as a mentor by a number of the men in the ranks. No ego, either. The lads in his squad were stunned when Cornelius told them about Metellus earning the civic crown at Braduhenna.”
“He makes me more proud than I have ever been able to tell him,” Artorius replied.
A legionary then walked over and interrupted their thoughts.
“Sir, we’re ready to conduct the crucifixion,” he said, bringing Artorius and Valens back to their dreaded task.
The centurion shouted over to his tesserarius, “Felix, bring your teams up!”
“Sir!” Felix responded. “Alright, lads, let’s get it over with.”
Six men would take each rebel, because when one was filled with extreme terror, they become capable of ungodly feats of strength, and it would take a number of them to subdue each condemned man. Valens walked back to the cart and came back with a hammer and canvas sack full of large spikes. Another legionary carried a corded whip.
“Oh, come off it, Valens!” Felix said with exacerbation. “We’ve got plenty of rope, there’s no need to get ghastly and nail these poor bastards up.”
“True,” the optio conceded, “But supposing someone wants to cut them loose? I don’t know about you, but I don’t plan on staying up here for several days, waiting for them all to die. No one will live for very long after having rusted spikes driven through their wrists and ankles. We nail them up. It will make any attempt at rescue futile.”
“You do it then,” Felix retorted as he walked over to supervise the removal of the prisoners, who so far were still strangely quiet.
“What’s gotten into him?” Valens asked, perplexed.
“You made it sound like you enjoy this,” Artorius replied.
“The hell I do!” Valens said. “I’m serious when I said this is more practical if we don’t want to stay up here for however many days it’s going to take these sods to expire. You want to help?”
Artorius glared at him but knew it would be wrong to decline. If he was going to task his men to perform such a loathsome deed, it would set a better example if he took the worst of it on himself. No matter what a condemned criminal’s offense, no legionary in his cohort enjoyed crucifixion. Roman soldiers were taught since the time before they even picked up a gladius to kill their foes quickly and cleanly.
It was a different kind of person who enjoyed inflicting suffering on others. Legionaries of this persuasion were usually identified early in their careers and often reassigned to the legion’s torture detachment. Artorius was thankful that he had only dealt with them on the rare occasion where he needed a prisoner interrogated. In his mind, the men of the torture detachments were sadistic sociopaths.
As he watched the prisoners being carried to their fate, he almost felt sorry for them. Whatever burning loathing he had felt during the skirmish the previous summer, it had since cooled with the passing of time, symbolized by the setting sun. For his own sense of well-being, he was glad that he no longer resembled the hate-filled berserker from his youth. Conversely, the soldier that stood next to him with the corded whip showed no sign of his rage lessoning. Artorius then recognized him as the same decanus who had whipped the pirates they captured on their journey across the sea.
“Do not lash them to the point that you hasten death,” Artorius directed.
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant said through a wicked sneer.
The centurion noted the man’s face. If anyone could have been assigned as a torturer, it was him. Though he was mostly a model soldier and squad leader, Artorius sometimes wondered about his mental state.
“This place will drive us all mad,” he uttered quietly.
He followed Valens and another legionary, who carried the lantern, over to the first cross. Soldiers removed the man’s blindfold and cut the bonds holding his hands behind his back. The zealot’s face was vacant, and he, just for an instant, met Artorius’ gaze. There was no emotion, just resigned acceptance. Months in prison had emaciated him and left him already a hollow shell of what had once been a man. Artorius knew that most of these men were dead already, at least in spirit. The finishing off of their mortal bodies was but a formality.
“Wait until they’re all tied down before we start,” Artorius whispered to Valens. “They seem pretty calm right now, but that will change once we drive the first nail home.”
“Understood,” the optio replied.
It only took a few minutes and each rebel was tied to his cross, and still they made not a sound. The legionaries stepped back and waited for the order to lift their heavy burdens and place them into the post holes at the base of each crucifix. Valens knelt down next to the first man, Artorius beside him.
“Do you want to hold or hammer?” Valens asked, doing his best to sport a grin.
The centurion snatched a spike. He grabbed the zealot’s wrist with one hand and held the spike over it with the other. As the sharpened length of metal rested on the man’s wrist, he could hear his victim’s breathing increasing rapidly, knowing what was about to happen.
“Don’t hit my fingers,” Artorius said while trying to control his own nervous breathing. As much as he did not want to watch, he found he could not draw his gaze away from where the spike met flesh.
“Carpentry’s my hobby,” Valens replied. “I think I can swing a hammer well enough.” The optio then looked down at the rebel with a sinister glare. “Don’t worry, this will only hurt for a minute.”
At the first blow of the hammer the rebel screamed in pain, unable to stay silent any longer. Valens tried to expedite the task as a spurt of blood splashed Artorius’ face. It dripped into his right eye as he kept his stare fixated on the spasms of the rebel’s stricken forearm. With macabre efficiency, Valens jumped to the other side. Artorius held a second spike ready, which the optio drove home as quickly as he could.
“Now the feet,” Valens said, pointing towards them with his hammer.
Artorius’ stomach was twisting as the zealot’s body convulsed in a fit of screaming agony. He felt that he could watch no more, but he forced himself to. He felt that if Valens had to watch, then so did he. The optio wiped his forearm across his brow as soon as they finished. He then called over his shoulder.
“Alright, lads, turn him over.”
“Sir?” one of the men asked.
“I’ve got to bend the spikes so they can’t be pulled out! Now get over here and turn him over, damn it!”
The rebel continued to scream in unholy anguish as the six legionaries hefted his cross over and dropped the man unceremoniously onto his stomach. Valens quickly hammered each spike, bending it over until each was flush against the crossbeam.
“Okay, hoist him up,” Valens directed as he grabbed his bag of spikes and walked over to the next victim.
To their credit, each of the condemned men did his best to remain silent and not give what they thought was satisfaction to the Romans, yet none of them could withstand the pain of having spikes driven through their wrists and feet. As Artorius knelt down to help V
alens nail the next victim, the slap of the corded whip biting into the crucified man’s flesh echoed along with his screams.
“This is going to lead to a few sleepless nights,” he said while staring Valens in the eye.
The optio nodded. “They brought this about, not us!” he replied with a grit of renewed determination as he swung the hammer home once more.
The cries had mercifully subsided by the time Artorius dismissed his men. He had ordered two squads of legionaries to guard the execution site until morning. Men from Cornelius’ century would be relieving them at that time. He watched as the soldier with the corded whip walked past him, his face still twisted in anger. The centurion grabbed the decanus that was behind him and pulled him aside.
“You two know each other well?” Artorius asked.
“Yes, sir,” the squad leader replied. “Not done anything wrong, has he?”
“No,” Artorius replied, shaking his head. “But I think this place is getting to him or at least something is. I understood when he flogged the pirates, and I can even understand this to a degree, but he seems a bit unstable. Keep an eye on him, make sure he doesn’t start lashing people on the streets or his own soldiers with that thing.”
“I understand, sir,” the decanus replied. He paused for a second and decided to tell his commander what he knew. “Look, he had himself a Jewish girlfriend. Not too hard to comprehend, happens all the time in the provinces. Well, sir, these people are funny. Her father threatened her and their whole community rebelled at the idea of one of their own defiling herself with an infidel such as us.”
Artorius snorted at the idea, but it was true. Though a conquered people, the Jews still viewed themselves as superior to the Romans.
“So anyways,” the decanus continued, “She was given the choice between the one she loved and her family. Well, sir, you can guess what choice she made.”