The Executioner’s Year<br />By RoxanneBlue<br /><br />January<br /><br />Two men stood in the center of the chilly room, both shivering slightly. Each was dressed in a long-sleeved white shirt and white pants, the fabric too thin for the uncharacteristically cool day. Each man also had thick metal cuffs binding his wrists in front of him, attached to thick chains around their waists, another leading down to the ankle shackles. Their feet were bare. Each was hooded, and accompanied by a guard who had led him here from his cell.<br /><br />I stood in my accustomed place, off to the right of the Judge’s bench, ready to take custody of one of them. The Judge was at the bench, dressed in her black robes, staring down at the two men from on high. The twelve jurors, all female, sat at a long table in front of the bench, each eagerly awaiting to hear the Judge’s pronouncement. Only the Judge and I knew which of the two had been chosen.<br /><br />The Judge nodded at the guard standing beside the shorter of the two men, and the white hood was removed. Stefano, a dark-haired Italian man, stared out at the courtroom, trying his best to keep his jaw tight. He’d been in this situation before, waiting for the decision of the Judge. Both men had, but I don’t think that any of them ever get used to it.<br /><br />“Prisoner 15040,” the judge pronounced in her strong, clear voice, “you have been sentenced to death for the crimes of murder and robbery.”<br /><br />The Judge nodded to the other guard and the hood was removed from the second man, a tall blonde Russian named Pavel, who gave a sneer as his face was exposed to the court.<br /><br />“Prisoner 17110,” the Judge continued, ignoring the sneer, “you have been sentenced to death for the crimes of r@pe and arson.”<br /><br />Stefano had been convicted and sentenced in Brazil, and like all of the others, had been bought by the Island to carry out the execution. He had been twenty-two at that time, and was twenty-four now. He was a quiet and shy man, and very probably innocent of the crime for which he had been condemned.<br /><br />I didn’t have that feeling about Pavel, whose arrogance and callousness were still evident even after being imprisoned here for three years. He’d been a cocky twenty-three year-old when he’d arrived, and I was initially concerned that he didn’t understand the predicament that he was in, as if all these women deciding his fate was a joke. But watching an execution a month for three years had not seemed to faze him, and I didn’t doubt that his shivering was due solely to the cold. Stefano’s was probably more than half due to terror.<br /><br />The Judge stared at each man, as if she was making a final judgment in her head, but the decision had already been made the day after the last execution. After all, I needed some time to make my preparations.<br /><br />“Bring prisoner 15040 forward,” she stated, and the guard grabbed Stefano’s arm, holding him upright as his knees buckled slightly, and placing him on a spot marked in red paint on the floor.<br /><br />“Prisoner 15040,” the Judge continued, looking down at the ledger in front of her, “you will be immediately transferred into the custody of the executioner in order for the sentence of death to be carried out. You will be led into the town square and locked in the pillory for a period of five hours in full view of all citizens.<br /><br />“You will then be led to your place of execution and bound to the whipping post, where you will receive forty lashes from the whip as part of the punishment for your heinous crimes. You will then be taken to the scaffold and bound securely to the mechanism of your death,” she hesitated here for dramatic effect, as this is the first time that Stefano, as well as the jurors, will learn how he is to be executed, “the garrote. You will then, at the pleasure of the executioner, be put to death before sunset this evening.”<br /><br />Stefano had gone paler with each passing word, and I could see the guard straining to keep him on his feet. Tears welled in his eyes, but he blinked them back. I stepped forward and he looked at me, his mouth open, his chest heaving. Some reacted with relief, but most were not ready to die. They were all young, after all.<br /><br />I kept my eyes on Stefano’s, but nodded to the guard, who slipped the hood back over Stefano’s head. Pavel’s guard also hooded him, but he would be led back to his cell. Stefano would never see his cell again. Turning, I walked to the front door of the courthouse, slowly so that the guard could keep up with me even though his charge could take only small steps due to the chain linking his ankle shackles. Outside, waiting, was a h0rse-drawn cart. The bed of the cart was caged with iron bars, into which Stefano was placed, the door clanging shut behind him and the key turned in a large iron lock. <br /><br />Stefano knelt on the bed of the cart, the hood still over his head. I went up the bars and placed my hand gently on his arm. He jumped at my touch.<br /><br />“You are being taken to the town square now,” I said softly. “You are not permitted to talk. Any words spoken will be punished with blows from a thick leather strap across your buttocks and legs. You will be taunted and ridiculed for five hours, but you are to remain silent. Do you understand?”<br /><br />His body trembled, and for a moment I thought that he hadn’t understood, but finally he nodded his head.<br /><br />“All right,” I said, removing my hand from his arm. “Then let’s go.”<br /><br />I joined the driver at the front of the cart and directed him to drive ahead. We proceeded slowly through town, the h0rses’ hooves clopping noisily on the cobblestone street, a contingent of guards following us. I wore a jacket against the cold, as well as leather gloves and my mask. My garb was the traditional black, but it was businesslike. Today I wore a wool suit with pants and boots, practical but stylish. My job was a professional one, so I dressed appropriately. No leather dominatrix outfit while performing my duty for me.<br /><br />Glancing back, I saw that Stefano had collapsed onto the floorboards, lying on his side, his body shaking hard. Some of the townspeople came out to see, but most had already gathered in the town square, eagerly awaiting the day’s festivities and their first sight of the condemned.<br /><br />The noise from the square could be heard a few blocks away, and I could hear Stefano behind me, praying to the Holy Virgin in his native Italian. Get the words out now, I thought, worried that I would have to beat him with the strap. I didn’t want to. I liked Stefano, but he was terrified of the ordeal ahead of him and half out of his mind.<br /><br />A shout went up from the crowd as the cart arrived in the square, and the crowd pressed against the barriers that kept our passage clear. In the square, in front of the town hall, was a raised platform with a wooden pillory, a thick post supporting a wooden framework with three holes in it. The cart stopped at the bottom of the wooden steps leading up the platform, and two guards immediately went to the back of the cart, one pulling out a key to unlock the barred door. As I mounted the platform, they reached into the cell and grabbed Stefano, pulling him to the door and lifting him out. Quickly they led him up the stairs and stood him beside me, holding him up. As the white hood was removed another loud cry went up from the crowd, but it quieted quickly as the clock struck the half hour and I pulled the execution order from my jacket pocket.<br /><br />“Prisoner 15040,” I proclaimed, loudly so that as many as possible could hear, “you have been sentenced to be garroted to death for the crimes of murder and robbery. As further punishment for your crimes, you will face the scorn of the citizens for a period of five hours, and you will receive forty lashes of the whip at the place of execution. You will then be strangled to death by the garrote.” I turned to the guards. “Set the prisoner in the pillory,” I commanded.<br /><br />Stefano was dragged to the wooden pillory, the top part of which was opened by one of the guards. As he was stood behind the framework, the shackles on his wrists were removed, and his neck and wrists were placed in the holes, the top part then lowered to secure him and the two parts locked together. Stefano’s ankles were then unshackled, but immediately placed in iron ankle cuffs secured to the wooden floorboards. Another guard attached a sign to a metal peg at the front of the pillory below the neck hole, stating the crimes that had condemned the man now on display.<br /><br />Confined in the pillory on the raised platform, Stefano could look down on the crowd, which was starting to get unruly again. Epithets and insults were shouted at him, more out of sport than anger. He had harmed no one in this town, on this island. I saw his lips start to move, and I stepped over to a rack with several leather straps of varying thicknesses hanging from it, some with barbs and metal rivets. I grabbed one of medium width and went over behind the pillory, Stefano’s backside before me. I quickly swung the strap behind me and then against Stefano’s thighs, hard enough to remind him of what I had told him. His knees buckled, and the back of his head cracked against the wooden stock as a loud cry escaped his lips, and I quickly gave him two more blows of the strap. The crowd roared.<br /><br />Going around to the front, I put my fingers against Stefano’s face, drenched with tears and sweat despite the chill in the air.<br /><br />“Remember,” I said gently, “remain silent or the blows will only get worse.”<br />He struggled to regain his legs, then nodded at me. After a moment, he closed his eyes.<br /><br /><br />*<br /><br />At three-thirty in the afternoon, after enduring the five hour ordeal of the pillory, the cart was returned to the bottom of the steps. Stefano had said nothing else; in fact, he had kept his eyes closed throughout it, only opening them twice when, after two hours and then four hours had passed, I had offered him water to drink. He drank thirstily, then closed his eyes again, retreating to his silent litany of prayers. As the clock tower chimed the half hour, the guards unshackled his ankles and unlocked the stocks. Stefano almost collapsed to the floor, but they caught him, and one held him up as the other put him back in the restraints that he had come here in. The hood was replaced, and the guards dragged the prisoner back to the cart, lifting him in. Stefano lay prone on the floor, his chest heaving in and out. I mounted the cart again.<br /><br />Again we progressed through the town, slowly towards the courthouse, then beyond to the prison gardens where the execution would take place. All had been set up well in advance, and I had made the final checks before going to the courthouse that morning. A hundred tickets were always offered for sale to the townspeople, at a fairly steep price. The pillory was for the enjoyment of the crowd. This entertainment was for the select few and those willing to pay for it.<br /><br />The Judge and jurors were seated in a semicircle behind the whipping post, and the paying crowd gathered behind them. No one spoke as the cart pulled up. Again waiting guards went to the back and retrieved the prisoner as I dismounted and headed for the clear spot around the post. Large trees shaded the spectators, but the post itself was in the open. Wrist shackles hung from the top, and ankle cuffs were attached to the bottom. On the front was a metal pin at the height of Stefano’s waist. All measurements had been made when he had arrived here and rechecked monthly.<br /><br />The guards dragged the hooded prisoner into the clearing, holding him up. The Judge stood, but all eyes remained on the shivering figure in the clearing.<br /><br />“Executioner,” she said to me, “do your duty.”<br /><br />Once again I pulled the execution order from my jacket. The hood was removed once again. Stefano could see the whipping post and all who had gathered to witness his execution. Beyond the post, though, he could also see the scaffold with the garrote mounted in its center, the final part of his sentence.<br /><br />“Prisoner 15040,” I intoned gravely, not needing to shout above a crowd this time, “in accordance with the order of your execution, you will now be subjected to forty lashes of the whip as punishment for your heinous crimes.”<br /><br />The guards dragged Stefano over to the post, unshackling him. I grabbed his right wrist and raised it above his head, quickly placing it in the cuff and shutting it closed tight. I then grabbed his left wrist and repeated the procedure. I then knelt down and quickly secured his ankles into the cuffs, then stood as a medium-weight chain was handed to me. I wrapped the chain twice around Stefano’s back at the waist, tightening his body to the post, then linking the chain onto the metal pin. A knife was then handed to me, and I went behind Stefano and quickly cut the fabric around the neck of his shirt, slitting it all the way down his back. I moved the fabric aside and laid bare his back, the olive-toned skin so clear and unmarked. Welts from his previous beatings had all faded. Once again I notched his shirt with the knife, then pulled down on the right sleeve as the knife slit it open and off of his arm. I removed the other sleeve in the same manner, and tossed the shirt onto the ground.<br /><br />I stood back and looked at the man chained to the post, his face buried against his upraised left arm. Behind me was the crowd of witnesses, awaiting the show. I handed the knife to one of the guards, who then handed me the bullwhip. I felt the familiar heft of it in my hand, and swung it casually on the ground as I paced back and forth, contemplating the bare back before me. The tip of the whip had a nasty metal barb that would tear away any skin that it touched. This is the only time this whip is used, the only time a prisoner is to be flayed.<br /><br />This was always my favorite part, the anticipation of having something so pure and beautiful laid before me and knowing that in the amount of time I decided to perform the deed, that the beauty would be a mass of torn and bloodied skin. But it must be done with skill and patience, or else it’s just flogging. This would be a lashing. <br /><br />I cracked the whip in the air and watched as Stefano bucked against the post. I could almost sense the endlessly repeated prayers he was making in his head, the pleas to his Savior and the Holy Virgin. I raised the whip and cracked it against his back. Stefano cried out, the chains rattling as his body convulsed against his bonds, and a thin red line appeared across his no longer perfect back. I waited for a moment as the blood beaded along the line, then moved to the other side and struck again, and another line appeared, crossing the other in a perfect X. Stefano’s shoulders heaved, and I knew that I must take it slowly or he would pass out.<br /><br />I waited a good minute before striking again, then lashed twice more in quick succession as he cried out. He had thrown his head back and was gasping for air. I whipped him three more times. I could feel the excitement in the crowd grow with each strike of the whip, and they wanted it to last as long as possible. Stefano’s head fell forward again, his shoulders trembling with sobs. Two more lashes and we were a quarter of the way through.<br /><br />Waiting another minute or two, I went to the side and watched as Stefano struggled to straighten his legs and swallow back the tears. He opened his eyes and looked over at me, his eyes pleading.<br /><br />“That’s only ten,” I said softly, and raised the whip again against his back. He cried out, his handsome face contorting in pain as he threw his head back again, his eyes shutting tightly. I gave him four more quick ones, then waited for him to compose himself again.<br /><br />I never look at the crowd while I am performing a whipping. The experience is between me and my prisoner, and we might as well be alone for all I cared. But I couldn’t help but hear the murmurs, the sighs, the occasional quiet shout of ‘bravo’ for a particularly well-placed stripe. Afterwards I would accept the praise; now I still had twenty-five more lashes.<br /><br />Again, Stefano gathered himself together a bit, and three more stripes were his reward. A few minutes wait again, then two more.<br /><br />“Halfway there,” I said quietly, not sure if it was for myself or for Stefano. His back was crossed from his shoulders to the small of his back, just above the waist chain, spaced so that no one area was bloodied too much yet. After studying my work for a couple minutes, I made six short cuts in areas that were somewhat unsc@thed as yet, then four long, hard lashes that made Stefano scream in pain. That was thirty.<br /><br />The minimum number of lashes for a man condemned to die by the garrote was thirty lashes. The maximum was forty. Forty was the maximum, period. We wanted our prisoners alive, after all, when they are put to death.<br /><br />One of the guards handed me a glass of red wine, and I took a couple sips as I waited for Stefano to recover enough for me to continue. I took several minutes, and I waited just until the crowd would get restless for more. Raising the whip again, I gave four measured blows of the whip, then three hard ones. Three left. Again I waited a minute, then quickly gave three last hard thrashes across his bloodied back. His hands went slack in the manacles and his knees buckled as much as the chains would allow. I stepped back and watched the limp form sway slightly against the post, his head back and to the side, his eyes closed. His chest and shoulders heaved with short, rapid breaths. I would give him half an hour, then revive him for his execution.
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