The sun had finally set beyond the horizon, which meant Camilla had now been dying for five and a half hours. It'd taken her a little while to work that out but now her latest attempt to distract herself from the horror of her situation had ended and the pain was still there. More than ever, in fact. She'd thought it'd get easier to bear over time, that her senses would dull to it from exhaustion or just familiarity. The opposite had happened. The stabbing pain of the nails pinning her to the instrument of her death had been joined by a less sharp but more insistent ache as every muscle in her body burned from exertion. Her throat was sore, long screamed hoarse. Her wounds were throbbing, as was her head. It felt as though another set of nails was being pounded into her temples.

Camilla would have welcomed that. Early on in her torment she'd tried to knock herself unconscious by slamming the back of her head into the cross but she'd remained stubbornly aware of her body and what had been done to it.

It was a strange thing, she thought, to wish for death. In truth, she was still terrified of her young life's impending cessation, but by now if it meant an end to her agony she could accept that.

She wanted to die...and she couldn't. Her body would not let her. She'd tried hanging still, just letting the darkness take her, but the pain had only grown until she'd once again raised herself up on trembling, nailed legs to draw another breath. Her exertion had been accompanied by laughter, taunts and jeers. She'd still had an audience, then. Cheering, shouting insults, a cacophony of voices, a clatter of dice...

…

"These new taxes will be the death of us!", Andreas complained loudly, waving his wine-cup in the air and spilling half of its contents. The old oil-trader had been drinking for quite some time already, and Camilla thought it was probably time to cut him off. She looked around for her uncle, but he was nowhere in sight.
"I agree, but what can you do?"
That was Decimus pulcher, who kept a vegetable stall on the other side of the marketplace. A lot less pretty than his cognomen would suggest, he was a veteran of the legions who'd decided he'd rather settle down here in Syria than return to his native Ancona. His service had left him with a few missing teeth, a broken nose that now sat a bit crooked and a vivid red scar across his cheek. "This new Caesar has grand plans, apparently. Expensive plans. And our dear governor..." he continued, his voice dripping with sarcasm (and wine), "well, he won't have it said that Syria did not contribute its share, oh no!"
The third man at the table laughed loudly at the jest. As always, the laughter was a bit too loud, a bit too fake. He was the reason Camilla would have preferred to let uncle Demetrius handle them. Marcellus Rufo, the red-headed bastard. He sold pottery, but rumors about other, less legal sources of income had never quite ceased in spite of his best efforts. She realized her mistake then, but it was already too late. He had made eye contact and, with a too-wide grin on his face, called her over. "Camilla, darling! More wine here!"

Forcing a smile onto her face but inwardly grimacing, she picked up a jug from behind the counter and walked over to the merchants' table. "Demetrius, uncle Demetrius, save me from this", she thought...

…


...Demetrius. No, he wasn't there. He was dead, blood pooling on the tavern floor, reflecting the light of the flames. They were all dead. And so was she.

She couldn't breathe, no air, she was drowning...in blood? In pain. The blood was liquid pain, running into her, carrying the fire with it into her chest...she had to do something, swim up but the current was too strong and she couldn't move her arms...

Camilla returned to reality with a gasp, painfully raised up on her legs. Air, cool night air, came rushing through her burning throat and at least for the moment eased the horrible crushing pressure in her chest.

A dream. A nightmare? Had she truly fallen asleep on the cross? Camilla shook her head to clear it and immediately regretted the movement. Agony painted bright flashes and black clouds across her vision. The pain from her feet was horrible but even worse were the cramps starting up in her legs. She had to lower herself again...slowly, slowly...

Her abused legs gave out under her and she slumped back down, her nailed wrists once again taking all her weight. She wanted to scream but only managed a hoarse hissing noise.

As agony overwhelmed her she took some small comfort in the thought that surely the end had to be near now. Half-remembered conversations flashed through her head. "...can't hold himself up anymore, see?" "...how you can tell..." "...shame the dance is almost...almost..."