Doctor Who_ Byzantium! - Keith Topping [2]
Centurion Crispianus Dolavia turned his horse away from the crucified thief whose loud screaming had partially drowned out the reading of the sentence. But the way that Dolavia was now facing offered him no sanctuary either. A phalanx of black-clad women, their heads shrouded with funereal coverings, knelt in the dirt several feet away, wailing and crying out the name of the executed man and beating the ground with their fists. 'If you do not get these screeching whores from my sight with great haste, I shall take pleasure in having you put to the sword,' the centurion told a nearby soldier who instantly rushed forward and drew his own weapon, holding it threateningly above the women.
`Move yourselves,' the soldier shouted, kicking dust into the women's faces as they scattered and ran down the steep hillside with the soldier at their heels, growling at them like a crazed dog.
Crispianus admired such dedication, even in the face of his own terrible threat.'Be advised that I wish for that soldier to be given extra pay for his efficiency,' he told the captain of the guard, who nodded and helped the centurion from his saddle. `Five denaril at the least.'
Sore and skinned from the chafing leather, Crispianus landed on the ground with a wince and a curse to Jupiter.
Then, a little unwillingly, he returned his attention to the condemned man. And the noise that he continued to make.
'What crime did the dog commit?' he asked the captain.
`Stole bread from the garrison,' replied the barrel-chested man. `To feed its starving family, it said.'
`Crucifixion is a punishment far too good for the cur,' noted the centurion.
But that simply wasn't true.
The principle of this form of execution was sublimely simple. Yet it was about as undignified a death as it was possible to imagine, with the wrists and feet of the unfortunate victim nailed together in such a position that the prisoner slowly died of hyper-asphyxiation and hypovolemic shock whilst they jerked spasmodically with the last of their energy. Sometimes, if there was a lack of nails, the legions simply used rope bindings instead, that scarred and chafed the skin raw instead of piercing it cleanly. But the effect was much the same. The Romans were experts at this sublimely cruel manner of dispatch, they could keep a person alive for days on the staurous if they wanted to, dehydrated, exhausted, in terrible pain, but still clinging to life.
The only relief for the dying man was the ability to push himself up by his feet and so ease the vice-like pressure upon the chest and allow himself to breathe. But this required undergoing the agony of scraping the broken bones of his feet against the thick metal spike nailed through them. The usual custom was to let the executed man fight a cruel and hopeless struggle for air for an hour, or five, or ten, depending on the severity of his crimes. And, when the overseeing officer eventually got bored with the proceedings, or when darkness encroached, to break the man's legs and thus prevent him from relieving himself any longer.
Death would follow soon afterwards. If the executed man was lucky.
But the saddlesore centurion was, frankly, already bored.
The heat of the day was beginning to take its toll, making him weary, and the shrill screaming was giving him a dull ache in his head.
`Captain. Have one of the men finish the job,' he ordered.
'Put this beast out of my misery.'
The captain had every intention of doing so, one did not disobey an order from the likes of Crispianus Dolavia. But he was curious. `The condemned has been up there for less than an hour, sir. Should we not leave him longer as an example to others?'
`Do you wish to