Rome's Executioner (7 page)

‘What did they want?’ Vespasian asked.

‘They wanted me to identify you when you came out of the camp, sir. We waited for a couple of days, and then you came out this morning with two slaves to go hunting. I’m sorry to say that I was relieved, I thought that they would leave me alone. But they called me a coward for betraying my people and two of them did this to me while the other two followed you.’

‘There were four?’ Vespasian glanced over to Paetus who raised his eyebrows.

‘Yes, sir. Now finish it.’

Paetus drew his sword. ‘What’s your name, legionary?’

‘Decimus Falens, sir.’

He placed the tip of the sword under his lower left rib. ‘Leave this life in peace, Decimus Falens, you will be remembered.’ He cupped the man’s head in his left hand and thrust his sword up under his ribcage and into his heart. Falens spasmed violently, his eyes bulging with pain, then, as the life fled out of him, he looked at Paetus with relief.

T
HE MEN OF
the second and fifth cohorts of the IIII Scythica snapped to attention in front of a wooden block and four seven-foot-high posts. The high-pitched call of the signal horn, the
bucina
, echoed around the parade ground. Vespasian stood next to Paetus on a dais, surveying, with tired eyes, the rigid lines of legionaries. He had not slept well; his mind had raced all night. After leaving the hospital he had joined Sabinus and Magnus in his quarters and told them what had transpired during the evening. Paetus’ offer of a turma of thirty cavalry to escort them to Pomponius’ camp had cheered them slightly but neither had been pleased with the prospect of having Poppaeus’ man accompany them or by the fact that there were two more Getae out there with their bows aimed at them. Their complaints, however, fell on deaf ears as Vespasian turned his attention to the letters that Sabinus had brought. The two from his parents contained nothing more than news of the estates from his father and a stream of advice from his mother, but Caenis’ words of love and longing made his heart leap.

The horn rang out again, bringing Vespasian back to the business of the morning. Five men were led out of the guardhouse next to the hospital, and paraded before the cohorts; they were halted by their guards in front of the posts and the block. They wore only their sandals and their russet tunics, humiliatingly unbelted, like a woman’s.

‘Centurion Caelus,’ Paetus called out, ‘prepare the prisoners for punishment.’

‘Prisoners, attention!’ Caelus barked. The men jerked rigid. ‘Prisoners to draw lots, step forward.’

Two of the five stepped out of the line. Caelus raised his fist; it held two straws. ‘Whoever draws the short straw will be seen as being guilty of striking both officers and will receive sentence from the garrison commander, the drawer of the long straw will receive a dozen strokes of the cane with the others. Now choose.’

The two hapless men, both in their early twenties, looked at each other and swallowed hard. Together they reached forward and plucked a straw each from Caelus’ hand. Vespasian could easily tell the loser, his head dropped and his shoulders sagged, whereas the other man stood bolt upright, his chest heaving as he hyperventilated with relief. No one has ever been so pleased to receive a beating before, Vespasian mused to himself.

‘Prefect Paetus,’ Caelus shouted, ‘this man is guilty. What is your sentence?’

‘Death,’ Paetus replied simply.

The speed at which the sentence was carried out surprised Vespasian. The man was brought forward to the block and made to kneel in front of it with his hands resting on it. He voluntarily bowed his head and then tensed his arms against the block, knowing that to get a quick, clean death he needed to hold his body firm. One of the guards stepped up next to him, his sword already drawn, and with a quick, vigorous downwards blow struck off the man’s head. His body fell forward and slumped over the block, spewing forth a powerful fountain of blood.

The men of the second and fifth cohorts stood in silence, eyes fixed on their dead comrade as his head was quickly collected and carried away along with his body.

‘Prisoners to the posts,’ Caelus barked again, tapping his vine cane against his legs. The four remaining men stepped up to the posts and held their hands together above their heads; they had witnessed many a beating and knew the drill. Guards secured their wrists with the leather straps and then tore the tunics from their backs, leaving them in only their loincloths. Brandishing thick vine canes, the mark of their rank, Caelus and three of his brother centurions took positions to the left of each of the men.

‘One dozen stokes on my mark,’ Caelus shouted. ‘One!’

In unison the four sturdy canes thumped down across the men’s shoulders, causing them to tense every muscle in their bodies and exhale with loud grunts.

‘Two!’

Again the canes flashed through the air, this time hitting just below the welts made by the first contacts. Vespasian could see that these centurions knew their business as they worked each stroke lower so as not to hit the same place each time and risk breaking bones; the object was to punish, not to incapacitate; had the offence required that, the whip would have been used.

By the eighth stroke blood was beginning to run down three of the men’s arms from where the leather straps had eaten into the flesh around their wrists. Only Varinus had managed to avoid this. Vespasian realised that he must be an old hand at being beaten and had learnt not to pull down with his arms at each stroke. He wondered idly if the veteran had passed on this tip to his younger mates; if he had they clearly were not able to show the same self-control as he and were suffering more than necessary because of it.

‘Ten!’

The four canes cracked on to the men’s buttocks with such force that one, Caelus’, snapped in two; the broken end flew through the air and hit the officers’ dais with a loud report.

‘Get me another,’ Caelus roared.

In the ensuing short hiatus Paetus leant over to Vespasian and whispered with a wry grin, ‘He should be careful how he asks for a new cane, don’t you think?’

Vespasian smiled at the allusion to the centurion Lucilius, known to his men as ‘Bring me another’ because of the amount of canes he had broken over their backs; he had been one of the first officers murdered when the Pannonian legions mutinied on Tiberius’ ascension.

The final two strokes were administered and the men cut down. To Vespasian’s relief, all were able to walk away; he would have hated to have been obliged to delay his departure whilst waiting for one or more of them to recuperate; but the centurions had done their job with such expertise that all four of them would be able to ride, if somewhat painfully, in the afternoon.

‘Legionaries, punishment is over,’ Paetus called out. ‘In future bring your grievances directly to me without threatening the discipline of the garrison first. Centurion Caelus, dismiss the men.’ He turned and stepped down from the dais. Vespasian followed.

‘Well, I’m glad that’s over,’ Paetus said as they walked towards the Principia. ‘I don’t mind having to execute men, but when it’s due to their frustration at being unable to avenge their mates it leaves a bad taste in the mouth; thank you for seeing a face-saving way of sparing one. I thought the others took their beatings well. Mention that to Pomponius, will you, old chap; they seem to be close comrades and he will split them up, I’m sure, but if he knows that they’ve taken their punishment like soldiers he might put them in different
contubernia
in the same century.’

‘I will, sir,’ Vespasian replied, ‘when I find him. Do we know where the Fourth Scythica is at the moment?’

‘I was sending my despatches to Oescus on the Danuvius before the snows closed the pass. Tinos, the decurion of your escorting turma, has been there a few times; he knows the way.’

‘Well, we’ll go there first; if they’re not there then someone will know where they’ve headed. Thank you for your help, Paetus.’

‘Don’t mention it, I’m doing it because I believe that what Antonia has asked of you will be in my family’s and Rome’s best interests; I hope that I’m not mistaken.’

‘You’re not; if I’m successful it will be to the benefit of all the families in Rome who have an interest in preserving legitimate government.’

‘Let’s hope so, eh? I’ll say goodbye, then,’ Paetus said, clasping Vespasian’s forearm. ‘I’ll have your things sent with mine when I return home in a couple of months, once my replacement arrives. Good luck, see you in Rome.’ He turned and walked briskly up the steps of the Principia.

Vespasian called, ‘I’m sorry that my brother and I are unable to join you for dinner this evening – a prior engagement, I’m afraid.’

‘My dining facilities are far superior at home, we’ll have dinner there,’ Paetus said as he disappeared into the building, leaving Vespasian wondering whether he had a friend in Paetus or just an ally of convenience.

At noon Vespasian, Sabinus and Magnus rode out of the camp to rendezvous with Queen Tryphaena’s men. The three hills of the ancient city of Philippopolis loomed in front of them under a rain-laden sky as they approached the group waiting on their horses a few hundred paces from the gates.

Magnus let out a groan. ‘I could have had money on it; the one fucking Thracian that I’ve had a fight with all year is coming with us.’

In amongst the group, next to Artebudz, Vespasian could see the two palace guards from the previous evening; the huge one glared malevolently at Magnus and then whispered something to his mate, who grinned and nodded in agreement.

‘That’ll teach you to be more polite to the locals,’ Vespasian chuckled, ‘especially the big, hairy-arsed ones.’

‘You had better pray to whichever god you hold dearest that he doesn’t decide to make you his vixen,’ Sabinus advised.

‘Very amusing,’ Magnus snapped.

‘Yes, I thought so too,’ Vespasian said, pulling his horse up in front of the Thracians. He studied them for a short while. Next to the two guards were three other Thracians sporting thick black beards; they all wore the fox-fur caps favoured by the southern tribes and heavy cloaks against the chill, late-winter air. Each man had a short, recurved wood and horn bow in a holder attached to his saddle next to a full quiver of arrows. Swords hung from their belts and, protruding over their shoulders, Vespasian saw the handles of their lethal curved swords called
rhomphaiai
resting in scabbards strapped to their backs.

Artebudz pushed his horse forward and bowed his head. ‘Thank you for gaining me my freedom, master.’

‘You deserved it but I’m not your master; you will address me as sir, and that goes for all of you.’ Vespasian looked at each man in turn. ‘I am Tribune Vespasian; your Queen has seconded you to me and that means that you are under military discipline, is that clear?’ The men nodded their agreement. ‘Good. I take it that you all speak Greek?’ Again the men nodded. ‘We will be travelling north to Moesia with some auxiliary cavalry and a few legionaries. You are not to talk to them; as far as they’re concerned you are on the Queen’s business. Once there we will be looking for the chief priest Rhoteces; I intend to capture him and take him to Tomi and from there take him in a ship back to Rome. Do any of you have a problem with that?’

The huge ginger-bearded guard spat on the ground. ‘Fucking priest,’ he growled.

The other Thracians also spat and murmured oaths to the same effect.

‘Well, that’s something that we can all agree on,’ Magnus said in a conciliatory manner.

The huge guard glared at him. ‘I’m not finished with you, Roman;
that’s
something that we can both agree on.’

‘Enough!’ Vespasian shouted. ‘There will be no fighting amongst ourselves; any arguments that you may have you leave here.’ He glowered at the guard. ‘What’s your name, soldier?’

‘Sitalces,’ he replied gruffly.

‘Sitalces, sir!’ Vespasian barked.

‘Sitalces, sir.’

‘That’s better. Now, Sitalces, if we are to get out of this alive we need to work as a unit and little squabbles aren’t going to make that easier. Yes, Magnus may have dropped you on your arse yesterday but I will not have a small incident like that threaten our unity, so live with it, is that understood?’

Sitalces looked from Vespasian to Magnus and scratched his thick, ginger beard. ‘Yes, sir, I will live with it,’ he said finally. ‘Until this is over,’ he added.

‘Good.’ Vespasian left it there knowing that that was the best that he would get out of the man; to push him any further would make him lose face in front of his mates. ‘Wait here whilst we collect our escort.’ Vespasian pulled his horse around and the three Romans galloped back to the camp.

‘You’re going to have to look out for your new friend, Magnus,’ Vespasian said as they slowed to go through the gates.

‘Don’t worry, sir, I’ve dropped bigger ones than him,’ Magnus replied cheerfully. ‘You could always send him back, though.’

‘I thought about that but the others may resent it, and besides, he looks like he’d be useful in a close fight.’

‘So long as he stays on his feet,’ Sabinus added with a laugh.

They arrived at the horse-lines to find their escort saddled up and mounting. A tall officer in his mid-thirties with a thin, suntanned face and short curly black hair walked up to them as they approached.

‘Decurion Tinos of the auxiliary Illyrian cavalry reporting, sir,’ he said, saluting Vespasian. His accent showed that Latin was not his first language.

‘Are your men ready to move out, decurion?’ Vespasian asked, dismounting.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good; have you seen Centurion Caelus?’

‘I’m right here,’ a voice came from behind him.

Vespasian spun round to see Caelus marching Varinus and his three mates towards him; all had kit bags over their shoulders.

‘Detail, halt!’ Caelus barked. The legionaries came to a smart stop. Vespasian noticed a couple of them wince with pain; the three younger ones had the wounds on their wrists bound with clean bandages. ‘Take a horse each,’ Caelus continued, ‘strap on your kit bags and mount up.’ The men hurried to do as they were told. In a deliberate slight to Vespasian’s authority Caelus turned away to get himself a horse without reporting to the senior officer.