Excruciating

Jerusalem, Judea, 70 CE

The Roman Army approached Jerusalem with fury, intent on razing the city to its foundation. As they approached, the populace fell thick into the throes of panic—even the dead were felt trembling in their sepulchers. The city’s fate had been set uncompromisingly for war.

Four years prior, the region had been excited into rebellion as a result of religious tensions between the Greeks, who ruled the province of Judea under the auspices of the Roman Emperor, and the Jews. One incident in particular—the sacrificing of birds before a local synagogue—incited the Jews to throw stones and fists at their pagan compatriots, the sacrifice having been judged an abomination.

Rome chose to ignore Judea’s quarrelling, and the Jews responded in kind—Jerusalem’s High Priest ceased prayers to the Roman Emperor. Shortly thereafter, when the vexing issue of Rome’s taxation came up for debate, Jewish cries of outrage and injustice grew louder, and bolder. The Jews began taking out their wrath upon ordinary citizens, and the Roman Emperor retaliated with force, sending troop reinforcements from neighboring lands to squash the Jewish uprising. In this way, the province of Judea was thrust into full violence.

The Roman Army had been ordered to take the capital city of Jerusalem, though victory did not greet them, and they failed to bring down the city’s defenses. The legions set up camp just outside the city walls, busying their hands by polishing their helmets and whetting their spears until, finally, their general hatched a masterful idea.

“Dig! Dig!” chanted the general, having commanded his soldiers to dig a trench around the city walls, which would then be encircled by a new wall. “Any cowards seeking to escape our siege will fall into this trench and be confined by walls on either side,” he boasted. “No rebel will escape his fate!”

When Roman soldiers began building a rampart to access Jerusalem, the Jews foresaw their slaughter. Under the protection of darkness, they began scaling the city walls, swarming like bees, seeking to escape their deaths. But they became entrapped, falling straight into the trench, caught between two sets of walls before being fished out by teams of Roman soldiers clutching them by their collars.

“You solicited your death when you defied Rome!” the general sputtered. “And now you shall meet it,” he said, waving the shackled prisoners toward a long series of vertical, wooden beams pegged against the newly built wall. It was there that they would be hung—crucified—like the vilest of criminals.

“Forget not to strip their clothes!” the general yelled, bringing a huff to the mouths of his soldiers. While urinating and defecating in public added to the shame of crucifixion, the soldiers suffered as well, being forced to endure the stench, and teeming flies that flocked to it.

After stripping them to their bare skin, the soldiers first beat the legs of their prisoners with iron clubs. They either broke their limbs or rendered them unusable so there was no fight left in them. The prisoners were next paired with a large, horizontal beam of Acacia wood, along which each prisoner’s arms were outstretched. Amid screams of pure agony, the soldiers drove tapered, iron nails just above their wrists, between the two bones of the forearm, and into the beam. The beams were then attached to the vertical planks suspended along the wall, and the feet nailed down for good measure. In this way, the Roman Army encircled the holy city of Jerusalem with crucified Jews.

Crucifixion had been practiced in ages of old, long before the Roman Empire, and the empire of the Greeks before it. Some 800 years before, in fact, the Persians were said to have crucified captured pirates, believing the earth was sacred and the burial of tarnished, criminal souls would desecrate the ground. Alexander the Great, who overran the Persian Empire, adopted several Persian customs, crucifixion among them. It was rumored that he crucified a discordant general, as well as a doctor whose treatment failed to restore life to a friend. But his most extravagant display of crucifixion came after a battle at Tyre, a Persian stronghold on the shores of the Mediterranean. Alexander had 2,000 combative Tyrian citizens crucified, their bodies hung with nails along an expansive stretch of sand, punishment for their refusal to surrender after an unusually lengthy and frustrating battle. But it was from the Carthaginians on the northern coast of Africa, where crucifixion was commonly imposed on generals after suffering massive defeat, that the Romans gained their knowledge of this practice, and throughout the Roman Empire, slaves, criminals and rebels—the dregs of society—were often forced to die in this most disgraceful way.

In the eyes of the rebels, the cruelty of their situation was amplified by the fact that Jewish law allowed only four modes of execution—stoning, burning, strangulation and decapitation—with crucifixion being strictly forbidden; their last breaths were drawn while defying their God’s law. The non-Jewish citizens of Judea beheld a cruelty of similar weight, being forced to witness Roman soldiers, who sought to amuse themselves, hang prisoners in different, compromising positions. Some were hung upside down, with their heads to the ground; others were pegged to an X-shaped cross with their legs wide open; and still others had their genitals impaled.

Commotion overtook the city as the crucified issued high-pitched howls, their pain excruciating (literally, “out of crucifying”). All the while, the soldiers reveled in laughter.

“Perhaps they should be thankful they will not be alive to see what is to come,” one soldier quipped. He cuffed his hand to his mouth, as if about to whisper, and then yelled, “Seeing that their Temple is now to be razed!” The howling along the wall grew louder, reaching a deafening pitch, compelling the soldiers to quickly build small fires along their path, the smoke asphyxiating the crucified, quieting their uproar as fast as it rose up.

Barbarians at the Gate

Rome, Italia, 452 CE

Valentinian III was the son, grandson, great-grandson, cousin and nephew (twice over) of Roman Emperors, but to his family’s chagrin, he inherited little, if any, of their kingly attributes. He was neither a great ruler nor a fine general, but he did, nonetheless, ascend the throne, becoming the Roman Emperor of the West. To the people’s delight, and their great luck, Valentinian’s mother proved a strong ruler, and his Master of Soldiers was well-endowed with military talents, desperately needed in the empire’s struggle against barbarian warlords who were attacking from every angle.

The empire had already been divided in two – the East and the West – each assigned its own emperor who found ruling a smaller swath of land more manageable in the face of barbarian encroachment. The emperors offered the barbarians land on which to settle in exchange for cooperation in military matters. But one tribe coming from the Far East, the barbarian nation of the Huns, seemed less interested in alliance, favoring conquest instead.

“Oh, mother, perhaps you worry too much about Attila. He was, after all, unable to take Constantinople,” Valentinian said, spitting a grape seed to the floor as he lied long on a plush, purple couch with ivory legs. His mother marched toward him with haste.

“If the heart of the Eastern Empire eludes him, would he not turn to the heart of the West?” she exclaimed, her cheeks burning with anger.

Atilla and his people had emigrated to Europe with malicious intent, using mounted archery and javelin throwing to overtake many lands, their dominion stretching from the Ural River in the east to the Rhine River in the west, and from the Danube River in the north to the Baltic Sea in the south. But when they marched upon the capital of the Eastern Roman Empire, Constantinople, they were forced to admit defeat, unable to penetrate the city’s double walls. Rome’s fortification, however, was weaker.

“Offer them land in Italia’s northern provinces and be done with it,” Valentinian quipped.

“Have my words fallen upon deaf ears?” his mother cried. “Atilla does not want to be appeased. He wants to conquer!”

Valentinian snapped back, his tone over-bearing. “For now, we know he is occupied in Gaul where he is on the losing side of luck. So let us not worry until there is a rightful reason to worry.”

His mother sighed with discontent.

“In any case, I have not called you here to talk of Atilla,” Valentinian said, softening his voice. “I have great news to share regarding my lovely daughter, Honoria. I have arranged for her marriage,” he said, smiling sweetly.

His mother cocked her head with surprise.

“She shall wed a wealthy Senator, Aelius Grata.”

“And what does she say of this arrangement?”

“It is not her place to say anything, but as you know, Honoria’s stubborn heart could not help but raise a protest. She has barricaded herself in her room. She is weeping, I am sure, about all the injustices of her royal life,” he smirked.

On the opposite end of the palace, in a spacious, cylindrical room, Honoria sat hunched over a roll of parchment, furiously scribbling as she wept. With such sumptuous apple cheeks and foe-like eyes, she could have any man of her choosing. Aelius Grata, with his beastly appearance, was nowhere near her heart’s desire. To remedy her situation, and to spite her father, Honoria would write a letter to Atilla the Hun, asking him to come rescue her.

Upon receipt, Atilla shrieked, “We must march toward Rome!” He read Honoria’s letter with delight, interpreting her request as a marriage proposal whose dowry would entitle him to the Western Roman Empire. Atilla gathered his troops in Gaul and began marching south toward Rome.

When they arrived at the city’s wall, made of brick-faced concrete piled fifty feet high, Valentinian’s mother began panting, panic having seized her mind. “Oh Heavens! I warned of this!” she bellowed while racing like a maddened woman up and down the palace corridor.

Valentinian rushed to the window. “Barbarians at the gate! Barbarians at the gate!” he shouted.

Being utterly unprepared, for Rome’s troops were engaged elsewhere in the empire, Valentinian was forced to send three envoys, the Bishop of Rome among them, to negotiate peace with Atilla. The bishop spoke of divine punishment, which had been executed before on barbarians seeking to sack the great city of Rome. The bishop’s words stirred Atilla’s superstitious soul and he peacefully retreated, leaving Rome with a bitter heart.

Two years later years later, Atilla met his death. But it was not long after – less than twenty-five years – that the Western Roman Empire fell to a barbarian tribe. And when a man of Hunnic descent became Italia’s first barbarian king, divine wrath was nowhere to be felt.

Easter Eggs

33 CE, Rome, Italia

Mary Magdalene had been preaching across the Roman Empire for many months, having set off from Judea accompanied by a handful of friends and twice as many horses. She shared the good news of Jesus and the kingdom of God to all ends of the earth, being met with much anger and disbelief, for the empire was full of pagans. Having come to Rome, she sought counsel with Emperor Tiberius Caesar, with whom she received banquet due to her position as a woman of wealth. She had been welcomed into his palace on the Palatine Hill and seated inside a rectangular room with a colorful marble floor and exquisite mural paintings. As she waited, she thought back to the crucifixion of Jesus, remembering the anguish she felt as he suffered on the cross. But his defeat was, in fact, a victory.

Hundreds of moons before, as new foliage had begun springing forth from the dead of winter, Mary and her fellow disciples had stood beneath the cross on which Jesus hung. He had been arrested in Gethsemane, stood trial and was charged with sedition, having claimed to be the son of God, a blasphemous declaration in the eyes of the priests. He was flogged, crowned with thorns and made to carry a heavy wooden cross to the outskirts of the city, to the Place of the Skull, a field of public execution named for the hundreds of abandoned skulls strewn across its landscape. There he was nailed to a cross, crucified between two common criminals, and left to die from blood loss, dehydration or infection – whichever greeted him first.

The multitude mocked Jesus as he hung, some beat their breasts, but Mary simply wept. She had brought with her a handful of belongings – her cloak whose pockets were filled with various ointments, a basket of cooked eggs for hunger and a small vessel of water for thirst – and neatly laid them at the foot of the cross so she could weep into her hands. She grieved for six hours as Jesus hung limp on the cross until, at the third hour of daylight, his head fell to his chest and life left his limbs.

After Jesus had been taken down from the cross, Mary gathered her belongings. She saw her eggs had been painted red, the blood of Jesus having dripped down upon her basket. The sight of them – a testament to his suffering – made her sink further into sorrow and she wailed with anguish.

That evening, Joseph of Arimathea, accompanied by Mary and a group of women disciples, received the body of Jesus, which they would prepare for burial. They wrapped the body in linen and laid it in a tomb secured with the seal of a stone.

Days later, after observing the Sabbath, Mary and the women returned to the tomb of Jesus. Mary carried with her a mixture of myrrh and aloes, which they would use to anoint the body, water for thirst, and a basket of cooked eggs for hunger since they planned to stay and mourn. When they walked upon the tomb, the sealing stone had been moved and an angelic figure, white as light, told them that Jesus had risen, as he said he would.

As the women ran from the tomb, eager to tell the apostles the news, Jesus appeared to them. At that moment, all the eggs in Mary’s basket turned from white to blood red. She instantly understood: the painted eggs symbolized the blood he shed on the cross, their hard outer shells represented the tomb in which he had lain, and their cracking symbolized his resurrection. Mary whispered a prayer over her basket of eggs, in thanks to the Lord who stood before her who had imparted this knowledge to her.

“Go and tell my brothers to go to Galilee; there they will see me,” Jesus said to the women.

Mary went and told the disciples what had happened. “He is not here but has risen!” she exclaimed. And this she declared to every man, woman and child she had encountered over the next many months, preaching the word of God and the news of the resurrection across the empire. And this, too, she planned to tell Emperor Tiberius Caesar.

When Tiberius entered the room, he was gloomy in appearance – his eyes sunken, his skin pale and his thin lips tense and tuned downward. Servants rushed to his side, offering the pair tea, almonds, small rolls and cooked eggs on beautiful dishes plated with gold. As they were served, Mary began explaining the events that had unfolded in Judea. “Jesus has risen!” she said.

Tiberius grumbled. “Jesus has no more risen than that egg is red,” he said, motioning to her plate. Mary’s face became flushed, exuberance having risen up in her, as her egg had miraculously turned red.

From that moment, the egg took on new meaning, becoming more than a symbol of rebirth – to Mary and her fellow Christians, the egg symbolized the rebirth of mankind. Prior to this, eggs had been given to friends during moments of rebirth – in the springtime, on birthdays and to celebrate the New Year – but Christians began gifting eggs to one another on the anniversary of Jesus’ resurrection. And while eggs had been boiled with flowers to change their shade, the color red came to represent the blood of Christ. And so, as Mary continued to preach the gospel of Jesus, Christians began the tradition of dying eggs in celebration of the resurrection of their Lord.

Backstab

Circa 10 BCE, Pompeii, Italia

Lucius took rest in the shade of his villa, distancing himself from summer’s stagnant heat, its dense, oppressive air lurking just outside his windows. He lived in one of Pompeii’s most elaborate villas, boasting twenty-four rooms built around a peristyle, open to the sky and framed by fluted Doric columns. The peristyle was of such massive size it housed a sycamore tree at its center, its mottled, exfoliating bark being the only ungroomed feature in the courtyard. Spread out over the grounds were fountains, most with carved heads of wild beasts spitting water, and bronze statues of cupids, satyrs and the gods with copper lips and silver teeth that shimmered in the sun. Lucius was a wealthy man, once a powerful politician in Rome.

The villa’s outer walls featured arched windows, the north-facing ones framing Mt. Vesuvius whose incline was thickly covered with red grapes, like moss on rock. The inner walls had painted architecture, mostly windows with idyllic views for added depth, while others were painted to look like marble. One room, however, featured genuine black marble walls – in this room, Lucius would meet with Rome’s lawmakers who sought his opinion on current affairs.

Lucius and his son entered the black marble room. They trod through a shallow splash pool set before the doorway, their feet making sloshing noises as their leather slippers became soaked. They walked beside their reflections, which sprung forth from the shiny, black marble walls that doubled as mirrors. And they meandered along the curved walls, past several simply carved niches in which Lucius would stand when discussing matters of politics. They approached the fountain at the room’s center, which his son admired for the many springs that arched out from its top before cascading into a large basin inhabited by miniature dolphins cast in bronze.

“Father, why is this room so strange?” Lucius’ son asked. “There is no other room like it in this villa.”

Lucius stared down at his son and smiled sweetly. “You have heard the tale of Julius Caesar, my boy,” he said, combing his son’s long, wild hair with his fingers.

“He was attacked by sixty fellow Senators who hid daggers beneath their cloaks. They say he was cut twenty-three times, stabbed in the back by his compatriots.”

“Forgive me, father, if I seem dense. But what does the assassination of Julius Caesar have to do with this room?” his son asked.

“My dear son, I shall speak plainly. The death of Caesar made it clear to every lawmaker in Rome – no one can be trusted. This is why this room is as it is. The splash pool at the doorway is so I can hear when anyone enters. The mirrored walls are so I can see all around me. This fountain and the rustle of its running water ensures no one can overhear my private conversations, and the niches in the walls are so I can stand somewhere with my own back protected. You can never know, my son, who might stab you in the back.”