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

A Soldier’s Account: Another Body for the Cross

You want to know what I remember? Fine.

I remember his eyes - not at the end, but at the beginning. Still human. Still holding on to something. Maybe pride. Maybe the stupid idea that he’d make it through with dignity. They always believe that at first.

They brought him out from the holding cell - dawn, as usual. He was quiet. No screaming. That’s a good start. He didn’t look like much: just another petty thief, or dissenter, or coward who mouthed off at the wrong time. Pale, thin, covered in grime.

I saw the mark on the scroll - flagrum, patibulum, crux. Full sequence. No release. One-way.

So we started with the stripping.

We don’t do it gently. You strip a man fast, he doesn’t have time to compose himself. We tore off his robe, then yanked down the last shred of cloth he had left. He reached down to cover himself - they always do. A soldier next to me laughed and kicked his hand away. I saw the man flinch when we exposed him. He was shaved. Entirely. Not uncommon. Clean skin makes blood show better.

He looked ridiculous, really - bruised groin, his penis hanging limp and shrivelled from the cold and fear. The glans exposed, angry red. His balls already swollen from days in chains. I don’t know if they do it on purpose at the prison, or if that’s just what happens to men when they realize they’ve got nothing left.

The crowd noticed.

They always do.

A few women whispered and pointed. Kids laughed. I don’t care. It’s part of it. Rome punishes with more than iron - we punish with exposure. You break the law, you lose the right to privacy. The body becomes the message.

I tied his arms to the post myself. He tried not to cry out when I stretched him. Again - the pride thing. They all want to die with silence. Doesn’t last.

The lictor took up the whip. Good man - big arms, steady hands. Each lash tore the skin clean. The first few are the worst. You hear the voice crack, the illusion shatter. After the fifth or sixth, the body starts to slump. After ten, they all sound the same: breathless, sobbing, somewhere between a scream and a prayer.

He bled fast. Deep cuts. His back turned to pulp. The lashes wrapped around his sides, hit the ribs, dug into the gut. Some caught the thighs. A few - unintentionally or not - landed across the groin. When that happened, the man cried out differently. Higher pitch. Gut-deep pain. I’ve seen men pass out from it.

The crowd roared. Someone made a joke about gelding him. I didn’t laugh. Not because I pitied him - I just don’t waste breath during a flogging.

When it was done, we let him fall.

He didn’t get up. I had to shove the patibulum onto his back myself. Blood soaked the wood instantly. I tied it to his wrists - not out of necessity, but so he wouldn’t drop it when he fell. And he would fall.

The walk began.

We took the long route. One full 1000 pace march through the public lanes, past the fountain, past the markets, past the temples. Let everyone see. That’s the point. The long walk was reserved for special cases to extend the pain and also expose to more people. 

He was naked the whole way. Staggering. Bleeding. Covered in dust. His genitals were the subject of constant commentary — the shaved skin, the bruising, the exposed head of his penis swinging as he limped. No loincloth. We don’t offer that mercy. Rome wants you seen.

He fell a few times. Once he pissed himself. It ran down his leg and mixed with blood. Some people laughed. A few turned away. The kids threw stones. One caught him right between the legs — he screamed. I jabbed him with my spear shaft until he stood again.

When we reached the hill, I gave him water.

Not out of mercy. You want them alive long enough to suffer properly. Death in the street ruins the show.

I nailed him myself.

Wrists first. Feet last. You don’t drive the spike too close to the palm - splits too easy. You find the gap between bones. One clean strike to pierce. Two more to set. Blood ran, he thrashed, the nerves fired and his whole body spasmed.

Then we raised him.

He hung there - arms stretched, chest rising and falling like a bellows, feet pushing, failing, sagging. And naked. Always naked.

His manhood now swollen, bruised, dribbling blood. The skin on his thighs split and sunburned. The shaved pubis reddened and raw against the wood. His testicles hung big and dark. The penis curled downward, flaccid but still the focus of every cruel word from below.

I heard someone say, “That’s Rome’s true power - even his cock obeys.”

And in a way, they were right.

He lasted longer than I expected. Several hours. Sometimes he’d push up for breath - groaning, shaking. Other times, he’d sag and look half-dead. I’ve seen some try to hold their dignity up there. Not him. He was gone long before the end.

When he died, he didn’t cry out. He just stopped breathing.

I signalled the officer. We pierced his side with a spear to be sure.

Then we left him there.

That was three crucifixions ago. His body’s gone now. Fed to dogs or dumped in the trench behind the wall. Doesn’t matter.

What matters is that the crowd saw.

They saw what happens when you defy the order. When you forget your place. When you think your body belongs to you.

It doesn’t.

Not in Rome.