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

The Scourging

I hadn’t seen the sun in days when they opened the prison gate.

“Move,” barked one.

They didn’t tell me where. But I already knew. Everyone in that prison knew what came next when they took you out at dawn - the scourging post. 

Some prisoners had mentioned it in hushed tones, but really I did not know the gravity of the situation. I had been whipped before in the prison and thought it was a  similar process. Was I in for a shock. 

They marched me barefoot through the corridor, past other cells. Some inmates turned away. Some watched. One whispered, “Mercy on your soul.”

I didn’t answer. My mouth was dry, my tongue thick with fear. I tried to stand tall, but my legs shook with every step.

We emerged into the open square, the forum boarium, not far from the marketplace. I saw the post already erected - worn smooth by the bodies of others. People were already gathering. Roman citizens in fine tunics, merchants wiping hands on aprons, children lifting themselves onto crates for a better view.

And then the praefectus arrived, flanked by scribes and guards.

He unrolled a scroll.

“In the name of the Senate and People of Rome,” he began, “this man stands condemned for theft, raping of a young girl, sedition, and defiance of Roman order. Let his flesh be broken as warning to others. Let him be scourged… naked, as is the law.”

The crowd murmured.

I thought of the word naked, in my mind I thought I would be whipped on my back, perhaps in pubic, but not naked. I thought he made a mistake or naked meant a naked back. 

Two guards stepped forward. I tried to resist, but they were practiced. My arms were yanked up. First, they removed my outer robe, stained and torn as it was. Then they pulled my tunic loose. I begged in a hoarse whisper, “Please… no…”

They didn’t care. They pulled it over my head, exposing my chest, my belly. My hands fought weakly, and for that, they slapped me. 

My underclothes were the last thing left - thin, crusted from prison damp. 

One of them grabbed the waistband and yanked.

It tore.

I said they must be some misunderstanding, I had not done anything wrong. I asked if they could scourge me in my underwear. They were not listening. 

The air touched me all over. I stood fully exposed, the rising morning light washing over every inch of me. Naked. Helpless. A grown man paraded like livestock.

A few people jeered. One merchant spat near my feet. A woman covered her child’s eyes, but not before looking herself and whispering something to her friend, they both laughed.

I wanted to cover myself. But my arms were pulled up and tied to the post. High. I was stretched, toes barely scraping the dirt. Every part of me hung open to the eyes of Rome.

A boy pointed. “Look!” he cried. “Even his balls tremble!”

The crowd roared.

I turned my head away in shame, cheeks burning. I prayed for death to come before the whip. It didn’t.

I moved my hips closer to the pole to provide some modesty cover, any cover was better than nothing. 

The executioner approached. Big. Scarred. Holding the flagrum like he loved it. He circled me, inspecting me like a butcher appraising a carcass.

I looked at the whip, it was much different to the one used for the earlier confession. 

The flagrum had a short handle, made of wood, about the length of a forearm. From this handle extended three leather thongs. Embedded weights, made from some grey metal perhaps lead, sharpened bone fragments, and metal hooks were braided into the leather cords in multiple locations along its length. 

And then he stepped close, whip in hand. “Ready,” the praefectus said, and nodded.

The first lash cracked the air—and my body.