It was not totally over between us, it was her wish, she had spoken a wish, and we would take the steps, but until now we remained lovers, we still lived together, we still made love, we still held hands and told sweet things to each other, but the sword is there, hanging over out hearts, ready to fall and pierce us forever.

If, before, when I began our sessions, I felt I was loving her more and more each time, now that I had the sentence over my head I could not stop loving her, but I did not want to allow myself to love her more.

I lashed Camille as I struggled, perched on my own pedestal of suffering, looking down on this couple, who were at this very moment living a fantasy.

When the entourage arrived to the hill, Leticia saw what was awaiting her.

To one side, she saw a long piece of timber, laying on the ground, waiting for her arms. She then saw the erected post, ready for her body. There was another post in the distance, not too far, not too near.

There was someone hanging from it, her servant. Her naked body hanged motionless, her arms chained over the crossbar, her feet tied together. Her body bore the marks of her torture. She hardly had any hair left, it was all burnt, her body was a mass of blood and hanging shreds of skin, she had been hanging there from the time they were done with torturing her, it was already her third day.

Leticia cried silently as she watched the body of her faithful servant. Now she understood why she had accused her. She felt sorry the woman had not accused her sooner, to spare herself the suffering.

Leticia was led to the post where her wrists were attached to the ropes hanging from a hole on the top of the post.

A centurion read the sentence. "100 lashes of the whip and crucifixion for the the murder of a senator."

With a movement of his hand he commanded his soldiers to begin. One of them walked to the hanging woman and ripped the top of her garment, exposing her back, while the soldier holding the whip proceeded to lash Leticia.

The first blow made her shake and lose her footing, she threw her head back and held a cry inside. Her skin opened up and blood came out slowly from the ends of the deep, long lash. She opened her eyes to look up to the sky, hoping to see her husband who she would soon join, she bit her lip waiting for the next blow, the second of 100 more to come.

She told me that sometimes, when I whip her, pressing her breasts against the post makes her feel hot. She confessed that she needed to feel the rough wood in front to better take the sting of the lash on her back.

Why would she trade all this? I asked myself. Why give up something that is so good?

Maybe it was good for me and not for her?

It was the pain of her frustration, of her innocence, of the injustice. The soldier beating her felt pity, he felt his legs shake and his resolve weaken. He was sure they were executing an innocent woman and there was nothing he could do, he was only a soldier.

He lashed again and again and perhaps he placed his anger on the whip because his lashing was growing louder and faster. He was sweating profusely.

The crowds gathering were shocked to see the cruelty. They were silent. They had seen the other woman who was dragged to her crucifixion because she could not walk, her feet were broken on the rack and so were her wrists.