My Roman Crucifixion (Part 1) - Broken, Nailed, and Displayed

Prison, Torture, Interrogation and Charged

The prison was a dark, narrow pit - damp and smelling of rot

The cold seeped into my bones. There was no light but a faint slit near the ceiling.

Chains bit into my wrists, shackling me to the wall.

Time lost meaning in that place. Days? Weeks? I couldn’t tell.

They came for me in the night - rough hands, heavy boots.

Their faces were cold and hard. They didn’t speak much, but the glint of metal told me everything I needed to know.

The torture began quickly.

First, they beat me, fists, clubs, anything they had.

I tried to hold my ground, to stay silent. But pain strips away even the strongest will.

Then came the scourging, bare skin bruised with leather. 

Each lash was a promise: confess, or suffer more.

I was broken, but not yet defeated.

They brought others in, some accused like me, some guards with cruel smiles.

They forced me to listen as they whispered about my crimes - thief, traitor, rapist, blasphemer. Stollen from the chief magistrate. 

I denied it at first. What else could I do?

But the pain grew, and the questions became sharper.

“What did you do? Who did you conspire with? Admit it.”

I felt my mind fray. The line between truth and lies blurred.

Finally, I spoke; not because I believed it, but because I could not bear the agony any longer.

My confession was torn from me, a shattered thing offered in desperation.

The guards took it and laughed.

They dragged me before the magistrate, the man with the robes and the cold eyes.

He read the charges aloud: rebellion, rape, theft, disrespect to the gods.

I stood there, naked in spirit and half naked in body, a broken man accused.

They sentenced me then - to death by scourging and crucifixion.

I understood the word death but did not understand the other two words. I was still young and had been a slave all my life, hardly ever leaving my owners side. 

And so my fate was sealed.