Chapter 31:

The next morning a crowd of people gathered at the gates of the castle.  Word had spread that the one calling himself the God was to be set upon a pole.  Dylan, Pedr, and the other disciples were among them.  When they led Mihangel out, carrying the pole on which he was to sit, Pedr, like the other followers of the God, couldn't believe what he saw. 

Mihangel had been scourged so that there wasn't an unmarked spot on his naked body.  One of his eyes had even been plucked out.  He scarcely looked like a man, much less like a god.  That he could stand, much less carry the pole on which he was to sit, was a miracle.

The pole, twelve feet long, sharpened to a point at one end, the end pointing up over Mihangel's shoulder, was as thick as the upper part of a man's arm.  It would be placed into the ground outside the gates of the city, the sharpened point up. 

Mihangel would then be set upon the point.  It would enter his rectum, working its way deeper into his bowels -- slowly -- as his weight drove the thick pole into him.  It would be a slow death, the thick pole preventing rapid loss of blood.  He might live for a day -- or longer -- until the point penetrated a vital organ, possibly his heart.  It was perhaps the cruelest form of execution.

Pedr looked at him, as did the other disciples and the people of the town, most, having been convinced by Mihangel's promise of an earthy heaven, recently castrated at his behest.  They had given their cocks and balls -- and those of their sons -- convinced that he was the God, that they would become his children, if they did. 

Now, the man calling himself the God, tortured  and deformed, was being led away to be set upon a pole like a common criminal.  Why -- if he were the God -- did he allow it? 

Was he just a man, after all?  Had they sacrificed their futures, their manhood, and that of their sons, for a charlatan?  Not one man in the crowd had either cock or balls.  Nor did one have a son that did.  Their lines, their futures, their families, would end with their sons.  Even their daughters weren't likely to bear children.  Few intact males were left in the kingdom.

One man, standing at the front of the crowd, next to the road, close to Mihangel as he passed, said, "False god," then spit, his spittle striking Mihangel on the cheek, hanging there for a moment, then sliding down his sweaty, blood flecked, face. 

Mihangel, looking straight ahead, as if he didn't see or hear the crowd, didn't realize the man had spit on him, had called him a false god, walked on, his arm over the end of the pole -- the pole on which he would sit -- dragging it along, the blunt end bouncing over the cobblestones of the street.

Despite that his steps didn't waver, the guards struck him with their whips, urging him on, through the streets crowded with people that became more hostile toward Mihangel with every step he took, throwing stones as well as pieces of rotten fruit and vegetables. 

They struck him, the stones creating new cuts or opening old cuts on his face and naked body.  Occasionally, he winced when a particularly large stone struck him or a guard struck him with his whip, but he said nothing.  Nor did he cry out in pain.

Pedr was standing at the edge of the crowd, watching Mihangel approach, when a man cried, taking hold of Pedr's arm, "This man is one of them."

"Nay, I am not," said Pedr.  I know him not."  He shrugged off the man's grip, then withdrew into the crowd, following Mihangel at its rear. 

Farther along, he again pushed his way to the front, just as Michangel, appearing spent, bent over under the weight of his pole, came along.  Again, a man spoke, "Are you not one of his disciples?"

"Not I," said Pedr, "I don't even know the man."  Again, he shrugged off he man's grasp, disappearing into the crowd before the guards could take notice of him.

He caught up with Mihangel again, just as he had arrived at the city gates.  Mihangel no longer carried his pole.  The stones striking him and the lashing of the guards' whips had weakened him, so he no longer had the strength to carry it. 

After the scourging he'd received the night before, it was a wonder he'd be able to walk at all.  Now, he could only shuffle, deliberately placing one foot in front of the other.

Once again, a man said, "You're one of them."

"Nay, I am not," said Pedr.  At that moment, a cock crowed -- and Pedr remember what Mihangel had said the day before:

"Before the cock crows, you will deny me thrice."

Pedr sat down in the street and cried.  Was he any better than those that had spit upon Mihangel -- that had cast stones at him?

Outside the gates, a golem took the pole from the man carrying it, lifting it easily with his superhuman strength, slipping the blunt end of it into a hole, drilled into the ground, a hole only of a slightly greater diameter than the pole. 

As he held it straight, others pounded wooden wedges into the hole around the pole, fixing it sturdily in place, about eight feet of it sticking out of the ground, the sharp point glistening in the sunlight of the early morn.

Next, they moved a wooden platform, one with steps leading to it, next to the pole.  The two golems holding onto Mihangel's arms led him toward the platform, then up its steps. 

He stood for a moment, facing the pole, then they turned him around -- lifted him -- setting him on the pole.  The sharpened point entered his rectum.  Blood streamed down his inner thighs.  This time -- he screamed.

The golems pulled down on Mihangel's legs until the pole was about eight to ten inches inside his rectum, deep enough that he couldn't squirm off it, then stepped back, leaving him writhing at the end of the pole.  With each movement he made, it sank deeper into his ass, but slowly -- oh so slowly.

Other than a knot of people, Mihangel's disciples, Dylan and Pedr among them, the crowd flung curses, mingled with stones and offal, at the man that squirmed on the pole, but already, he was past feeling the stones strike him, past hearing their curses. 

The pole on which he sat was his world.  He was only conscious of the pain that it caused him, as it punctured his bowels, inching deeper into his body with each movement he made, with each breath he took, with each beat of his heart.

While even some of his disciples were beginning to doubt that he was the God, Dylan knew he had to be the God.  How else could Megan have borne him?  Who but the God could have impregnated her?  Not one cock or set of balls had existed on the Isle of Anglesey when she'd become pregnant, and she'd still been Braith when she'd first become pregnant, a boy without a vagina.  Only when pregnant, had she once again become Megan.  Only the God could have impregnated her.

Still he had doubts, not that Mihangel was the God, but that he would fulfill his promise to him, that he would once again be Emrys -- and once again have a cock and balls. 

Mihangel had lied to his human followers, convincing them to forgo their cocks and balls, giving them up for a false promise of the God's kingdom on Earth, one in which they would be like gods, while -- in truth -- they would never be more than what they now were, cockless and ball-less humans, destined to die cockless and ball-less in their due time. 

His followers still spread his word throughout the kingdom and beyond, convincing men everywhere to cut off their genitals and those of their sons.  Soon, no man anywhere would have a cock or balls.

Was he destined to be no better than they, he wondered?  Without cock and balls, in Dylan's human form, he was no better than they were.  As Dylan, he would never have sons, could never impregnate Megan, would die in not so many more years, living far less than the thousand years promised Emrys and Megan.

Would Megan live those thousand years, leaving him behind, no more than a distant memory?  But would that be an even worse fate, because she would be alone, the last person left on earth, if the God's plan to castrate all human's progressed despite Mihangel's death?

He wanted to believe.  Mihangel had told him that he had to die in this world to return to the otherworld to confront Nysrogh for the final battle; but the man writhing at the end of the pole scarcely seemed human, much less a god. 

Was there any worse way to die?  If there was, Dylan didn't know of it, couldn't imagine one that might be worse.  Even death by burning -- as painful as that might be -- would be preferable.  It would be over sooner -- far sooner.

If he had to die, Mihangel could have chosen any death, all preferable to this one.  What did it gain him to die so, sitting on a pole, taunted and humiliated by the crowd?

And what were Dylan and the others to do now?  Merfyn was still king; Heddwynn commanded the army; and Cadell was still a wizard.  Even weakened as he was by the death and cutting of all the nobles, he had more power than did Dylan, who had no magical powers at all.  Even Megan no longer had magic, and even if she had, she was in Anglesey. 

Without Mihangel's magic to protect them, they were helpless, unable to withstand the powerful golems.  Might they all soon also sit on poles?  Many of those now cursing Mihangel had seen them with him.

Mihangel died with the setting of the sun, a quick, merciful death for one set on a pole.  Often they lasted for days.  Dylan and the others took him down, after a soldier had punctured his side with a spear to be certain he was dead.  A little fluid, but no blood, leaked from the wound.  He was certainly dead.

They buried him in a tomb, one bought by a rich merchant for himself, but given up for Mihangel, so he would rest in it, a tomb cut into the rock of a hillside, rather than in a hole in the ground. 

They washed his body, dressed him in a fine robe, placing him on a shelf in the tomb, then rolled a huge stone to cover the entrance to the tomb.

Was Mihangel now fighting Nysrogh in the otherworld, or was he just dead?  Even Dylan wondered.  The torn, mutilated, body they'd placed in the tomb had seemed so human -- and had truly been dead, with no indication that it had ever contained the essence of the God.