Germanicus Divine

I don’t know who killed Germanicus. I loved him, as we all did, but this is the Roman tradition. All slaves and household servants are put to torture. This is how the mysterious death of a beloved public figure is solved and the rabble appeased.

Germanicus was adored by many. In fact, he was worshiped nearly as a god, both for his heroic generalship of the Roman Legions and for his direct connection to divine Augustus himself.

I was in charge of the stables. Born into the servitude of the Claudian family. I learned from my father and took his place when he died. Germanicus knew I was most qualified, both for my strong back and because of my gentle nature with his animals. Germanicus treated me not as a slave, but as a fellow human being, as his trusted friend, respecting me for my knowledge and judgement of horses – and people. He knew I was loyal to him. This would forever be.

None of us could save him. Not even the endless entourage of those who claimed to possess medical knowledge could reverse what was inevitable. We all watched day after day in horror and sorrow, as he slowly slipped away from us. Poisoned he was. It is my theory, one which I will take with me to my grave.

They started me on the stretch rack - that hideous ripper of joints, tendons and muscles. A rather ingenious device it is, admirable for its simplicity and brutal effectiveness.

I was stripped naked. The Romans always torture their victims this way. It is part of the humiliation process – male or female, it does not matter. All defenses are taken away. I was laid flat on the horizontal table, chest up, ankles locked into wooden stocks, while my wrists were bound with rope. The other ends of the ropes were wrapped around a solid wood axle, which was also horizontal and parallel to the head end of the table. Two wheels attached to either side of the axle contained tiny saw tooth gears, which allowed my tormentors to adjust and lock the rack at any tension they desired.

They were kind to me during the preparation for my torture. They told me to confess, claimed they did not want to hurt me and that I could avoid my torture and my suffering. But I knew this was a lie. Confession meant death, which now, after all I have suffered, would not seem such a bad choice. That is what they meant - death without the suffering. Just get it over with.

Reality is, the Romans are not satisfied with the sounds that come from a man being stretched. Their appetites are not satisfied with the first hideous snaps and pops that come from inside the man’s body, when tendons start to pull apart and joints begin to crack. No, in between they like to allow rest periods. The tension of stretching is lessened just enough to keep your form together and this is when they do things to your body.

Mostly, they like to pound on you with their fists. They are especially fond of pulverizing the belly, knowing full well that it is stretched to capacity and there’s nothing there but muscle to protect it.

This is how they test a man’s strength. Plus, it keeps them from smashing bones, which might cause irreparable punctures to vital organs before the poor fellow has been persuaded to talk. They certainly don’t want you to die unexpectedly.

I received more than enough punches to my belly. It was a strong wall of defense before the ordeal began. Thankfully, I cannot see it too well now and really don’t care to.

One of them came up with a very clever idea. He took his thumb and pointed it into my stretched navel, then he started pressing down with all the strength in his massive forearm. He dug the digit in so deep that I thought he would run me through and it was all I could do to hold him back. I sucked in my abdominal cavity to make it as flat as I could. I flexed the muscle beneath with all my strength and somehow managed to survive, although I’m sure he could have finished me then and there had that been his goal.

This belly button impalement sent shockwaves throughout my groin and for that reason my penis began to stir, which leads us to the more imaginative activities to take place during my rest periods.

The Romans seem to have an infatuation with the phallus. They see its exploitation as an effective way to humiliate a man, perhaps to the point where he might be willing to confess. They enjoy forcing a helpless man’s penis to perform, even though the owner does not necessarily want it to do so.

I don’t know how many times they coaxed semen from me. I lost count. They would manipulate it with their hands; torment it with feathers and with stimulating oils. They even brought in some servant girls, forcing them to use me as their tool, taking my penis into their mouths to orally stimulate it to orgasm. Others would envelope the phallus with their vaginas, riding my pole as though they were perched upon the back of a mighty steed, bringing orgasms to both themselves and to me.

Just another test of endurance it was and I guess I passed, not that it did me any good. But I can’t say I didn’t enjoy it. No matter how degrading it might have been, anything was preferable to torture on the rack, even if the respite was brief.

So, the pattern was established. They’d stretch me until something snapped, then they’d loosen the rack a bit and punch my belly, spear the navel and milk my penis by any and all of these methods.

But I never gave in, never said what they wanted to hear, because I was waiting. I had to know if a certain man would come to visit me in my private room of hell. Thus, my incentive to survive was this singular thought, my horrid, unimaginable theory. My motivation was this:

Yes, I do know who killed Germanicus. He is a man whose false suspicions and paranoia knows no bounds. He will stop at nothing to protect his power and any man with ties to Augustus is a threat to him. Any man who could potentially replace him must be eliminated, especially if that man’s popularity usurps his own.

His name is Tiberius, the Emperor of Rome himself. Until he arrives I will say nothing.

Of course, he did come to me. He had to know if I was clever enough to solve this mystery, and if so, what I planned to do about it. His methods were brutal beyond words.

The punches inflicted upon me by his bony fists showed no regard for bone, as he ruthlessly pounded on my expanded chest. Ribs were cracked and the sternum battered. I spoke no words, only groans of unholy agony, as he wailed on my stretched and defenseless body for countless minutes.

The other Romans stood quietly as witnesses. Even they seemed impressed by my show of strength, as they watched my once manly physique turned into a bruised and bloodied pulp. And yes, he savagely pounded my face, probably beyond recognition, before he finally wore himself out.

Once he did and the beating stopped, I uttered the only words I would say throughout the entire ordeal.

With my broken, twisted mouth I exclaimed, “YOU killed Germanicus. His blood is on your hands and everyone will know.”

The astonished brightness of his eyes told me my remarks were true. It is sad to think of it. No matter that Germanicus was the son of the emperor’s brother; no matter that Tiberius had adopted Germanicus as his own son after the death of that brother. Tiberius’s jealousy and unfounded mistrust had coerced him into this irrational act, perpetrated with logical forethought and planning.

You see, my friends, he could not kill his nephew outright. No trumped up charges would be sufficient to convince the throngs that Germanicus deserved to die. The love and respect he enjoyed shielded Germanicus from such a fate. So, Tiberius, taking lessons from his treacherous mother, who had successfully played this game many times before, sent spies into the household of Germanicus as servants. First, they cast spells and curses throughout the home. Then, they poisoned his food ever so slightly day after day, until sufficient amounts were absorbed to bring about the irreversible end to this heroic, loyal Roman.

Tiberius had his answer. I was clever enough to be a threat and witnesses had heard my accusations.

He ordered me to be whipped, then gleefully stood by to observe my carving on the rack. The Romans shredded my flesh. My senses felt, saw, heard and even smelled the skin, as I was savagely sliced into so many pieces of raw meat.

Then, I was crucified – publicly, of course, which is the Roman way. This serves two purposes. It satisfies the public, who are allowed to mock and ridicule me, as my broken, bloodied body is displayed naked before them. More importantly, it is a warning and a reminder to any others who might be entertaining thoughts of committing such a crime themselves.

The message is quite clear: Here before you is the assassin, who so ruthlessly took the life of our beloved Germanicus. See what happens to any who commit such a foul and heinous deed.

I must admit, Tiberius thought of everything. The Romans who tortured me were given the option of committing suicide or suffering their own executions. Plus, the words I spoke to him were my last, because my tongue was unceremoniously ripped from my mouth.

They did not use spikes to hammer me to the cross. Ropes were used. This would prolong my suffering and demise. I doubt I would have felt the spikes anyway. My body, or what is left of it, was numbed from the tearing of their whip into my flesh and muscle. I suspect most of my nerve endings have been severed.

What I did feel occurred about one hour ago, just as the beginnings of daylight pierced the horizon. Two Romans approached. They presented to me one of those metal spikes and inserted the dagger-like tip into my navel. They pounded the head of that spike with mallet, driving the long tool completely through me and out the backside. I could hear it striking into the wood of the cross, until the head of the spike filled the hole of my navel, where it now remains.

The initial pain from this final insult quickly vanished, as it was replaced by an unexplained calm. It seems my body was finally ready to surrender, except for one item – my penis. The impalement of my navel caused the tool to gloriously fill with blood. It pointed directly forward and snarled at my tormentors, mocking them with its pre-orgasmic ooze.

The sun has set and risen two times since my useless body ascended on this cross. My strength has worked against me, keeping me alive far too long, but the spike driven through my belly is a blessing. Soon this will all come to an end.

With daylight, the rabble has returned to marvel at what is left of me. My penis remains erect. It truly is a magnificent sight - so powerful, as it pulsates and penetrates the air. Few in the crowd can deny this. These oglers should consider themselves fortunate for the opportunity to observe the mighty phallus, for it is all that remains of me. Apparently, the Romans admired the beauty of this organ so much that they spared it the mutilation of their whip.

It is the final image I will observe in this world.

I will gladly journey to the next, because I know the future. History will be kind to those I love. They will become divine gods, while those I despise will suffer the agonies of hell for eternity.

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