CruxNico

The lash caught Sam across his bare chest again and he threw back his head and screamed as the leather strap sliced through his naked skin, tearing into his flesh, small droplets of sweat and blood spraying everywhere as it impacted. He had lost count how often the man in front of him had brought down the whip, but as he dropped his head he realized it must've been at least dozens of times since he had started on the front of Sam's body. A myriad of bloody welts crisscrossed his broad chest and sculpted abdomen, his skin splitting open where the marks intersected. Gashes had formed where the violent force of a lash had been great enough to rip directly through his skin and into his flesh. The bloody red streaks looked like frightening, angry red chasms digging into his muscles, painting a picture of pain, destruction and punishment for the onlookers all around him. Sam knew and felt that his backside was worse. The men had scourged him for what felt like hours before they had marched him out of the city. Tied with his hands above his head to a freestanding scaffold, he had stood naked in front of the gaol as the lash had come down again and again on his square shoulders, his back, his firm ass and then his thighs. Even his calves had gotten a good licking at the end. Each stroke had brought on worse pain than the one before, more agony. Sam had literally felt his flesh torn to shreds, screaming only when the whip connected with his back at first, but finally howling continuously as the scourging dragged on. As more and more men had stopped to watch, Sam had realized that his brutal public whipping wasn't just part of his punishment, it was also an announcement to the city, an invitation to come and watch what was happening. No, it was more than that: The promise of a spectacle. Come and watch, come and enjoy, his scourging said.

Come and watch my crucifixion, his pitiful screams, his body gleaming with sweat, said as it rocked under each whip stroke.

The soldier scourging him didn't go too far of course. He stopped well short of outright killing Sam through whipping, but the scourging already marked him for death. Sam knew that men did not survive the fever that followed such an ordeal, but for him it would only be a minor aspect of his execution. He couldn't read the sign they had tied around his neck and no one had deemed it necessary to tell him, the condemned, that he was to be crucified. Even during the initial whipping he hadn't known he was to die. But when he had knelt gasping and panting, doubled over in pain on the ground before the gaol, blood coating his back, mingling with sweat and dripping onto the sand below, they had forced a raw wooden beam onto his bleeding shoulders, slung his arms around and tied them to it. Only then had it dawned on him that he was going to put to death, how they were going to slowly torture him until he expired, that he would be nailed naked to a cross, humiliated in public, turned into a scarecrow howling in pain, left to croak in the most wretched and cruelest way imaginable. When they had captured him, Sam had known that the punishment would be brutal, but even as they had tied him up in front of the gaol, he'd still hoped, it might be limited to a round of harsh flogging. Only when the lashes had started to tear deeper and deeper into his back and he had realized that the man whipping him was not holding back any of his strength and inflicted real destruction, only then had he known that they were not going to let him live. No one tore up a slave's back like that if they still wanted to sell him. While he was scourged, memories of men he had seen executed flashed before his eyes. The muscular blonde who had been impaled a few weeks earlier, screaming like a stuck pig as he slowly slid down the stake they had rammed up his ass. The black-haired slave boy, barely nineteen, shrieking inhumanly as he burned alive. Another man in his late twenties torn to shreds by the whip. And of course the crucifixions. The new magistrate liked to dole out death on the cross like candy to any strong, young man he deemed unruly or seditious. Once a week, twice a week, sometimes more often, a man would be nailed stark naked to one of the crosses just beyond the city gate to meet a grisly, gruesome and slow end. Sam had seen them all. In hindsight he should've known that he would be punished the same, but still it had seemed incredible that crucifixion could happen to him. So when they had tied the crossbeam to his arms, it had come as a shock. He had started to beg and sob and plead with the soldiers, even going as far as kissing the sandaled feet of the blonde foreman as he groveled before him in the dust, much to the entertainment of the crowd. The executioner had simply laughed, kicked him aside and then raised his whip to pummel him some more.

A sudden burst of blinding pain yanked Sam back to the present and he threw back his head, its back connecting painfully with the wooden upright behind him as he let out another roaring scream. A lash had ripped across his crotch, bruising his cock and balls. His scream trailed off slowly, ringing of despair. Trying to blink away tears of pain, he looked to his left and saw one of the nails piercing him protrude one or two inches from his wrist, having been hammered through it and fixing his arm permanently to the crossbeam. Its protruding length had been bent upward, clamping his wrist securely to the wood. For a brief moment, Sam wondered whether it'd even be physically possible to pry him off his cross again, even if there'd be a last minute attempt to save him. He dropped his head again, looking down at his exposed body, gasping and panting. Strands of his sweat drenched dark-blonde hair were clinging wet to his forehead. He was completely nude save for the small wooden sign proclaiming his crime and punishment dangling from the rope around his neck. His body was covered in sweat and blood and more sweat, his bronzed skin gleaming in the afternoon sun. He was a muscular, tall and ruggedly handsome man in his late twenties, a shapely ass and a large, cut cock complementing his stunning good looks. But his stellar physical attributes counted for nothing here, except perhaps to enhance the entertainment for the crowd. His feet were not yet nailed to the upright, only tied each to the sides of its base, so he was still able to support his body weight with his legs by simply standing on the balls of his feet. He was desperately trying to take as much strain from his nailed arms as possible. Sam briefly wondered why they hadn't completed his crucifixion yet, but it didn't matter. He was already condemned and doomed to death by the nails in his wrists and the deep wounds the scourging had left on his front and back. Every further cruelty they inflicted on him was for the pure sport of it, for his executioners' own sadistic pleasure. His execution was already complete, even if his suffering was only just beginning.

The soldier who had delivered the most recent strokes grinned as he folded the leather whip he held, wiping blood off its long lash with one hand as he did so. It seemed he was satisfied with Sam's current predicament as he gave a contented grunt after looking him over, then he wandered off to the side to the only tree casting any shadow at the crucifixion site. The other soldiers had already set up camp there, talking and drinking.

The site was a dreary place. Apart from the misshapen tree the soldiers had commandeered it was just a sandy patch intersected by one of the main roads leaving the city, about half a mile from its walls. A few human bones were scattered all around, though most seemed to have been collected into a heap across from Sam, a bit to the left. His cross wasn't the only one here. There were almost a dozen uprights permanently installed, a few looking fairly old and gnarly and probably unfit to carry the weight of a muscular man like Sam. All uprights carried the signs of blood on them, nails sticking out of a fair few of them where men's feet had been nailed in place, their bones later falling off or cleaned off. Four other crosses were complete with a crossbeam like the one Sam had been fused to. One empty, two with dead men in various stages of decay. One of them was already reduced to an unrecognizable, disintegrating skeleton and the other was in advanced stages of decomposition, luckily all the way down at the other side of this godsforsaken place. Sam could only hope that the rotting cadaver would stay downwind. It was bad enough to have to see what his body would be reduced to in the near future, but at the moment at least he didn't have to smell it too. On the cross to the left, right next to his own, a younger man with boyish looks was suffering crucifixion. Sam remembered having seen the guy being marched through the streets about three days back, laboring under a heavy crossbeam, screaming out whenever the whip hit his back, same as Sam had done today. Sam had recognized him as one of the slaves from a neighboring estate, Anton, a young man whose youthful frame had just filled out with the muscles of an adult man and who had drawn more than a few appreciative stares. Now Sam watched as the boy strained and struggled on his cross, nails which had bent and twisted under the slave's weight fastening him permanently to it. Like Sam the other man was drenched in a film of sweat, short blonde hair with a touch of curls clinging wet to his forehead, whip welts and slashes covering his exposed body. Three days further into his execution than Sam, the man's wounds were inflamed, his feet nailed to the sides of the upright, the raw wood of the cross stained wet with blood and sweat where the shredded skin of his back rubbed against it, his lips dry and split, skin on shoulders, arms and thighs badly sunburnt. There was a wooden sign nailed to the front of the upright, between base and where the slave's feet were nailed to it, presumably the same kind of sign as the one still dangling in front of Sam's chest, declaring the crime deserving the horrific punishment on display. Anton hung slumped down on his cross, head hanging forwards, reddened drool dripping from his mouth. The boy looked dead for all intents and purposes, but his chest still heaved in irregular intervals. As Sam's eyes slid down Anton's still visually pleasing frame and reached his ass, he noticed the sedile which had been nailed to the front of the upright, a small wooden block about three or four inches long, just barely enough for the crucified man to sit on and support his body weight. It was short enough though that, if the condemned didn't balance on it just right, his ass would slip off it. Even as Sam thought it, Anton started to slide off the sedile with a surprised squawk which turned almost instantly into a blood-curling howl of agony as his sudden descent on the cross was stopped with a jolt by the nails in his wrist. Sam watched with horror as the condemned slave who had looked as if he was in a near-catatonic and mercifully insensible state only moments ago, was suddenly writhing and bucking on the cross his executioners had nailed him to, alive with pain, roaring senseless screams of agony, desperation and hopelessness. Anton's screams turned to shrieks of pain as he slowly heaved himself back upward on his cross, biceps bulging, his torso muscles bunching and rolling under the strain, until he finally managed to get his bare ass back onto the sedile, giving Sam a good view of his crotch as his body twisted and turned to do so. Despite his own pain, Sam's stomach turned at what he saw. Flies swarmed the other slave's manhood or rather, what was left of it. Maggots crawled in open sores, cockhead and half of Anton's shaft missing, ballsack ripped open and emptied, the remaining skin flaps of what had been his scrotum dragging over the raw wood of the sedile, undoubtedly adding to the pain. Sam swallowed hard, knowing full well that what he saw wasn't an unusual part of the punishment. A man nailed spread-eagled to the cross was at the mercy of executioners whose cruel imagination and great boredom was usually only tempered by the need not to unduly hasten a condemned man's death. And what easier way was there to inflict agony and humiliation on a man who was exposed naked on the cross than to rob him of his manhood. He had seen them cut off a man's junk whole, using a burning torch to cauterize the gaping wound left behind. He had seen glowing pincers used to rip away a man's balls. Another time they had coated a blonde's cock with pitch and lit it on fire. Sam still remembered how the man had shrieked, bucking helplessly on the cross while his cock and balls had slowly burnt to a crisp. The guy had suffered another two days after that until death had taken him. To Sam's mind this had to be the worst way to lose your manhood to the executioners and he prayed he'd get off more easily.

Anton could count himself lucky as it looked as though they had simply chipped away at him over time and let maggots take care of the rest. Sam knew few men died on the cross still as men and there was no reason to hope he would either. Though it was not a formal part of his punishment, castration was certainly a common feature of the terror of crucifixion.

Grunting with pain, he looked away from Anton, dropping his gaze again. He was dripping with sweat, trails of it running down the whole length of his body, drops of it shaking free from the tip of his cock whenever he moved, his sparse chest hair clinging wet to his pecs and nipples. Why were they waiting to nail his feet to the cross? Most of the time, when he had watched a crucifixion, it had taken the executioners mere minutes to turn a shivering, naked man kneeling in front of the upright into a howling, screaming scarecrow, nailed to the cross both through wrists and heels. But for some reason they had only tied his feet to the base of the upright after hoisting the crossbeam onto it, leaving him, nailed through his wrists, immobilized, but able to support his full body weight by simply standing on his own two feet. Whatever reason they had for their doing, Sam thought that he probably didn't want to know it. It certainly would not be a mercy.

Despite his feet not being nailed to the cross, Sam was in a constant state of pain. Despite his best efforts he cried out in anguish whenever his scourged back scraped against the splintery wood of the upright behind him, which also meant that he couldn't use it as a support by simply leaning against it. Agony was snaking down his outstretched arms, each of his wrists a throbbing, pulsating mess of burning pain, white hot at the center of his mind. He tried to alleviate his suffering by standing on the balls of his feet to take the strain of his weight from the nails inside him. The effect was minor at best, but he would take what he could get. To make matters worse, he could only remain in his raised position for a limited amount of time before he had to lower himself again which not only returned the pain to its previous intensity, but actually redoubled it. Despite this, he couldn't help but constantly strain to keep himself raised as far as possible, moaning and groaning with exertion and pain as he twisted his body this way or that, desperate to find a position which reduced the pain emanating from the destroyed nerves in his wrists. But he found no relief, only more pain. He was writhing in pain. He was dancing.

Sam realized this dance at the cross had spectators. About a dozen or so men were standing a few feet from the crosses he and Anton were fastened to. A few were middle-aged, most in their mid-twenties. Judging by their clothes most were working men for whom watching the death throes of a few slaves on their crosses was a welcome mid-day distraction from their daily labors. His execution, Sam realized, was cheap, low-brow entertainment for the men. Many were chatting amongst themselves, laughing and occasionally pointing at Sam or Anton, others simply stared at them. One or two seemed to be here mostly to chat with other spectators, probably dragged along for the midday break in work, glancing only occasionally over to the crosses with apparent disinterest. The other men either sneered or leered at the crucified slaves writhing before them. One thing Sam could not see here was sympathy or even pity. These onlookers were either here to see justice done or to ogle naked men and enjoy the spectacle of their torture. Sam realized that in the mind of these men, he, as a slave, deserved the brutal and agonizing torture of being put to death by crucifixion. There would be no doubt in their minds that the preservation of public order required that his execution be as humiliating, agonizing and slow as possible. He, and every other slave made an example of on these crosses, served to terrorize the large slave population of the city into submission. "A crucifixion a day keeps the slaves at bay" was a popular saying. And it worked. Every male slave was terrified of death on the cross, especially the young and athletic slaves like Sam or Anton, who knew that they would spend days wailing and screaming in agony as they wasted away. He had been stupid, Sam knew that. Outrageously stupid. And now he paid the price. A dreadful, dire and cruel one, but, in the eyes of everyone around these crosses, a well-deserved one.

The day was dragging on. Slowly, ever so slowly the minutes, or rather the seconds passed, shadows lengthening only marginally over the course of what seemed like an eternity. Some of the spectators went back to the city, replaced by other men coming from the city or traveling towards it and stopping before the crosses to have a good look. Most men focused their attention on Anton, probably because he was far further along in his execution and provided the more macabre sight with his tortured body and destroyed manhood. It helped that he still came alive very nicely every few minutes, whenever he slipped from the sedile attached to his cross, to provide entertainment. It frightened Sam how much energy there still was in the man's screams of pain, how hard his body still worked to keep him alive on the cross, even after days on it. The boy must be wishing for death, but his howls of agony were even louder than Sam's own. Shouldn't blood loss, exhaustion and the sheer repetition of pain have dulled his senses over such a long time on the cross?

Their crosses were fairly close. At some point there was a lull in the stream of spectators, most of the current ones having had their fill of watching men tortured and returning to the city. Sam needed to know. "An... Anton!" he called over to the other man, grimacing right after he said it, the word echoing over the execution site. It hurt to talk, his throat parched and sore from screaming. It also felt weird to talk. He didn't think he had ever seen a crucified man speak. They were occasionally spoken to, but usually only for insults. Men on their crosses probably were too exhausted or too 'preoccupied' with their brutal execution to bother or even be able to speak. Even though Sam was only nailed halfway to his cross, and had been nailed to it only a few hours, it was already hard for him to form words. And for the spectators and executioners a man on the cross was an object, something to torture, tease, pester and agonize, not someone to converse with. But Sam needed to try. He needed to know.

"Anton!" he called again, more urgently. The other slave hung at his cross lifeless again, eyes half-closed. "Anton!" Sam tried again, swallowing and trying to wet his dry throat. Finally the other man stirred, unfocused eyes looking back at Sam. "Anton- the- the pain..." Sam tried as he felt he had the other's attention. "Does- it- the pain- does it get better?" Anton stared at him with glassy eyes and Sam wasn't sure the dying slave had understood him. He took a breath, trying to steel himself for a repeat of his question. He had to know. The pain was already unbearable and he knew it was barely a foretaste of the true agony of crucifixion, which would hit him when they finally nailed his feet to the upright. But maybe, just maybe, a man's sense of pain would dull over time on the cross, his perception of the agony fade, at least a tiny bit during his days on the cross. Anton, who was already on his third day, could tell him. The other man knew. If he'd say the pain had lessened at least a tiny bit during his hours on the cross, that he spent at least some time unfeeling or unconscious or in a daze, that the agony was not constant for him, maybe Sam could find a way to bear this initial onslaught of pain they were about to subject him to. He was about to try and repeat his question when Anton's body was shaken by a cough.

"W- Worse." Sam's gut clenched as the whispering croak of the man dying next to him reached his ears. "It- it get's worse... every day- - every hour- - every minute- it get's worse." Sam's eyes grew wide with fear and panic. "That... that can't be!" Please! No! There was something that could've been a misshapen chuckle from Anton. "Beli- ", a hard cough was followed by a pause, "believe me. It- it will. I- I know." Anton broke eye contact, hanging his head again. Sam listened to the wheezing of the man's labored breaths with increasing despair.

He looked away, dropping his gaze. He had hoped for some consolation, as small as it might have been, but any remaining spark of hope had been crushed. This couldn't be happening. This couldn't be happening to him!