My Roman Crucifixion (Part 2) - Bystanders and Soldiers Account

An Acquaintance’s Account: He Got What He Deserved

I knew him.

Not well - not intimately. But we shared we worked for the same master a couple of years back. He was always talking. Always pretending to know more than he did.

Arrogant.

That’s what I remember most about him. Not his face - gods, no - that was plain as bread. But the way he carried himself. Like he was owed more than the rest of us. He’d lean in, lower his voice, say things like, “Rome’s days are numbered,” or “We don’t have to die under their heel.” Brave words. Empty ones.

I didn’t believe in any of it. Still don’t.

But there he was, pulled out of the holding cell. I recognized him by the way he limped, same stiff left leg he used to complain about when loading sacks.

I can’t say I was surprised.

He always thought he could outtalk the law, charm his way out of trouble. But Rome doesn’t care how clever your tongue is when it’s wagging against them. They dragged him to the flogging post and stripped him bare.

I won’t lie. I watched.

And yes, I stared. Everyone did.

He was shaved - down to the root. Looked ridiculous. No hair on his chest, none between his legs. His cock hung small and pitiful, glans fully exposed, as if the gods wanted everyone to see what little pride he had left.

I wondered if he was circumcised, perhaps he was a secret Jew, or born Jewish. I did not know much about him, I didn’t really care. 

Someone near me muttered, “So that’s what spoke so big in the square.”

I didn’t laugh. I didn’t need to. Just watching him squirm was enough.

When the lashes started, I thought he’d last longer. He always talked like he was strong, like pain didn’t touch him. But after the third or fourth strike, he screamed. Not bravely. Like a child. High, desperate. The whip flayed him clean; back, flanks, even the thighs. A few lashes landed between his legs. I saw the whip flick across his balls - he twisted so violently he nearly pulled free of the ropes.

The crowd gasped. Then laughed.

I won’t pretend I felt nothing. I did. A strange satisfaction. He’d always spoken like he was more than the rest of us. Now he was less. A naked, bleeding man with nothing left but his voice, and even that was cracking.

They laid the crossbeam on him. Tied it to his wrists and made him walk. A full long distance march across the busiest parts of town. I followed. Not out of cruelty - I just wanted to see how far down he could fall.

And gods, did he fall.

He stumbled, pissed himself, collapsed again and again. His genitals; bruised, exposed, red from both the lashes and the shame swayed with every step. There was no hiding them. A boy shouted, “His thing is smaller now than his mouth ever was!” Someone threw a fig at him. It hit him in the chest and burst. I remember thinking, fitting.

When they reached the hill, I stayed. I didn’t need to. I’d seen crucifixions before. But this one… I wanted to see it through. To watch the man who once said Rome would fall… as Rome nailed him to a tree.

They drove the spikes clean. He thrashed. Urinated again. His body arched when they lifted him. The weight of him sagged from the nails. 

Everything personal to him was on display. His legs were spread out far by the placement of the nails in his feet, the soldiers are such experts on the human anatomy. 

His genitals bounced along with his movements, swollen, useless things now. They reminded me of a bunch of grapes, no, specifically three red grapes bunched together in an inseparable bond. The two lower ones, large and swollen, a shade of dark red verging on burgundy. Then one single red grape at the top, round and bulbous but much smaller than the other two, with a small slit at the top. 

No modesty. No speeches. Just twitching meat in the wind.

Some people joked. Some threw stones. One woman whispered a prayer. I didn’t speak.

I just watched.

He lasted half the day. He tried to lift himself, breathe, speak… but the pain took everything. In the end, his head slumped, and his body sagged fully. His penis dripped blood one last time, then nothing.

I went home.

He got what he deserved.

But still…

I see his face when I close my eyes. Not because I pitied him. But because part of me knew him. Part of me was him. And Rome could just as easily crucify a man like me - if I ever forgot my place.

That’s what the cross teaches.

Not mercy.

Not justice.

Just fear.