Rome's executioner

CHAPTER III

The 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.

‘Centurion!’ Vespasian shouted.

Caelus stopped and turned to face him slowly.

‘Centurion, come here.’ Vespasian pointed to the ground in front of him. Caelus’ cold eyes looked around quickly. The men were all busy with their horses but Tinos, Sabinus and Magnus were watching him and he could not afford a display of insubordination in front of witnesses. He sauntered over to Vespasian.

‘Report, centurion,’ Vespasian said in a quieter tone, fixing Caelus’ eyes with a hard stare.

‘Centurion Caelus-’

‘At attention, centurion.’

Caelus came to reluctant attention, hatred burning in his eyes. ‘Centurion Caelus reporting with the four legionaries being transferred away from the garrison.’

‘I didn’t hear the word “sir” in that sentence.’

‘That’s because it wasn’t there,’ Caelus said in a whisper that only Vespasian could hear.

Vespasian brought his face forward close to Caelus’ and spoke quietly and quickly. ‘Listen to me, centurion, you may have more years of service than me, but I am still the senior officer. If you show me disrespect again I shall have you busted back down to a common legionary. I’m watching you, is that understood?’

Caelus gave a cold smile. ‘Oh, I understand all right, it’s you that doesn’t. You couldn’t bust me, I’m protected by people in high places; in fact it’s me that’s watching you.’ He stepped back and saluted as if he had been dismissed. ‘Sir!’ he bellowed so all could hear as he turned on his heel and marched smartly away, leaving Vespasian fuming and feeling impotent.

‘That didn’t seem to go too well,’ Sabinus observed dryly.

Vespasian turned and glared at his brother with such intensity that Sabinus decided not to pursue any more sarcastic remarks and walked his horse away towards the little column of cavalry that was now almost ready to depart.

‘We’re going to have to watch Caelus too, sir,’ Magnus said as Vespasian remounted. ‘If he tries to undermine you in front of the men we could have trouble.’

‘I doubt Varinus and his mates bear him any love, they’ve just felt his cane on their backs. Perhaps you should become matey with them and I’ll cultivate Tinos; that way we’ll isolate Caelus, then we’ll just have to find a way of losing him.’

‘I can think of a sure-fire way of losing him,’ Magnus said seriously.

‘That’s what Paetus suggested.’

Magnus raised his eyebrows. ‘That’s a novelty, a garrison commander suggesting ways of losing a centurion.’

‘Well, let’s hope that it doesn’t come to that,’ Vespasian said, kicking his horse forward towards the head of the column. ‘I can imagine that Caelus would be a hard man to lose.’

Artebudz and the Thracians joined the rear of the small, double-filed column as it clattered out of the gates at a canter and headed along the newly paved road northwest towards the pass that led into Moesia. Caelus looked back at them suspiciously as they took their place behind the four spare mounts.

‘What in Hades are those fox-fuckers doing?’ he snarled.

Vespasian knew that the question had been directed at him but did not deign to answer as Caelus, again, had not addressed him as ‘sir’.

‘Messengers to Moesia from the Queen coming along for the ride,’ Tinos replied, having been forewarned by Vespasian of their arrival and seen nothing out of the ordinary in it. ‘They often come with us when we go north with despatches; safety in numbers, you see.’

Caelus grunted and let the subject drop. Vespasian smiled inwardly, thanking Paetus for his simple ruse. He turned to Tinos next to him. ‘Decurion, send a four-man scouting party a mile ahead on either side of the road and tell them to send a report back every hour.’

The decurion looked at him quizzically, unused to taking such precautions in the now peaceful client kingdom of Thracia.

‘Do it,’ Vespasian ordered, ‘and tell them to keep a sharp lookout.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Tinos replied, peeling away back down the column to give the orders. A few moments later a lituus, a long, straight cavalry horn with an upturned bell end, shrieked a series of high notes and eight troopers galloped past the column and off into the distance towards the looming snow-covered, cloud-ridden massifs of the Haemus to the north and the Rhodope to the west.

Magnus fell back to get himself acquainted with Varinus and his mates whilst Vespasian settled down to the ride, making pleasant conversation with Tinos as the road started to gently climb through familiar rough country. After the first hour of brisk riding two of the scouts returned within moments of each other; both briefly reported nothing moving in the surrounding area before galloping off again to rejoin their respective units. The rain that had been threatening all day finally started to fall lightly; Vespasian pulled his cloak tight around his shoulders and dropped back next to his brother.

‘You did well to spot the discrepancy between the amount of silver bullion at the mint and the amount of denarii minted,’ he said referring to Sabinus’ part in uncovering how Sejanus had utilised Poppaeus’ silver to strike the coinage that he had used to encourage the Thracian rebellion. He had been the junior magistrate overseeing the striking of silver and bronze coinage at the time.

Sabinus looked at his brother, surprised; he had never received a compliment from him before, which was not surprising as he had never paid Vespasian one. ‘I suppose you want me to compliment you on the thorough way you taught me accountancy,’ he replied suspiciously.

‘Not necessarily, although you’ve just implied a compliment by using the word “thorough”, so thank you.’

‘Hmph, well, thank you too,’ Sabinus grunted grudgingly. He turned his head away and hunched his body against the intensifying rain.

They rode on in silence for a while, Vespasian casting the odd sidelong glance at his brother, who resolutely refused to acknowledge him. He smiled to himself, amused by the unintentional compliment that Sabinus had paid him and how it was quite obviously irking him.

‘What have you been doing in Rome since you finished your year with the Vigintiviri?’ Vespasian eventually asked conversationally.

Sabinus frowned. ‘What’s it to you?’

‘I’m interested; you are my brother, after all.’

‘If you must know, little brother, I’ve been cultivating people to secure me votes in the quaestor elections this year.’

‘It can’t have been just arse-licking surely?’ Vespasian wiped away the drops of rain that dripped from his red-plumed helmet.

‘Of course it was; that’s how it works, and the bigger the arse the harder I lick it. Your fellow tribune in the Fourth Scythica, Corbulo, for example, he was a quaestor last year and is now in the Senate, his arse has been well and truly licked.’

‘You know Corbulo?’

‘Don’t sound so surprised, it’s down to you that his arse was put my way for a good licking.’

‘How so?’ Vespasian was intrigued.

Sabinus grinned. ‘Uncle Gaius knows his father; they were praetors in the same year and didn’t tread on each other’s toes and so remain on good terms. When Corbulo came home two years ago his father invited Gaius and I to dinner as a thank you from one family to another.’

‘What for?’

‘Well, little brother, it seems that Corbulo thinks that he’s got you to be grateful to for saving his life; something about a strange talisman that you were wearing getting you freed from a Thracian camp just as you were being forced to fight to the death. I didn’t quite understand it all, but he seemed convinced that the gods saved you to fulfil your destiny.’ Sabinus gave his brother an appraising look, adding, ‘Whatever that may be.’

‘Well, if he’s grateful he never made it obvious to me.’

‘That’s because he’s an arrogant arsehole and would have thought that thanking you would put him in your debt, which it would. His father, on the other hand, has always been a more honourable man and has made it clear that he will do anything to help us because of the a debt of gratitude that he feels his family owes ours. That means he’s lobbying for me to become a quaestor and therefore enter the Senate, so you can just imagine how enthusiastically Uncle Gaius and I licked his arse. For once you have been some use to the family, little brother.’

‘And you’ll be the beneficiary,’ Vespasian said with more than a hint of bitterness in his voice.

Sabinus beamed smugly at his brother and nodded. ‘As the older brother that is only right and proper, but don’t worry, it’s not just me who’ll benefit; Corbulo also told us about a conversation that he had when he got back to Moesia with a centurion named Faustus whom I believe was with you that day in the Thracian camp.’

‘What about?’

Sabinus looked over his shoulder to where Caelus was to make sure that he was out of earshot. ‘About Poppaeus,’ he said lowering his voice.

‘Ah, I see. I had to confide in Faustus in order to get help. I knew that he wouldn’t be at all happy to find out that Poppaeus had tried to kill us and the whole relief column for his and Sejanus’ political ends; so he told Corbulo?’

‘Yes, and Corbulo and his father told us, not knowing that we already knew because Tryphaena and Rhoemetalces had written to Antonia.’

‘So?’

‘Don’t be so obtuse, little brother; they want revenge on Poppaeus and, because your life had also been threatened by his schemes, assumed, correctly, that we would also be looking for revenge. They were offering an alliance of families; so we took them to see Antonia, and Corbulo agreed to come with us when we take the priest to Tiberius. He’ll testify before him that Poppaeus wanted the discovery of the Thracian’s chest of denarii kept secret when he should have reported it to the Emperor and the Senate.’

Vespasian looked aghast at his brother. ‘What? We’re to take Rhoteces to Capreae? You never said anything about that to me.’

‘Well, someone’s got to do it, the Emperor’s only going to believe the priest if he’s submitted to torture in front of him; and you will have to give your evidence along with Corbulo. Anyway, what difference would it have made if you had known, you’d still be here, wouldn’t you?’

Vespasian nodded slowly. He had not guessed that the priest would have to go before the most powerful man in the world, but his brother was right, it would not have changed his mind even if he had; he would still do it.

The rain had become a steady downpour, obscuring the mountain ranges to the left and right. A solitary scout appeared out of the torrent from the west. Vespasian pushed his horse forward to come level with Tinos so that he could hear the man’s report, which was again happily negative. As the scout headed off again Vespasian turned his eyes to the north; there was no sign of the other scout. They travelled on another half-mile and still no one had come to report from the north. A sense of foreboding fell over Vespasian. He glanced over to Tinos, who shrugged, sharing his unease. A guttural shout came from up ahead. Tinos raised his hand and halted the column. The shapes of four approaching horses, just visible two hundred paces away through the rain, caused them both to relax momentarily. They kicked their mounts forward towards the returning scouts, but upon drawing closer it became apparent that only one of the horses’ riders was upright in the saddle; the other three lay across their mounts, the arrows protruding from them told, only too vividly, of what had happened. Vespasian looked at the surviving scout; watered-down blood dripped off his face and covered his tunic, the broken stub of an arrow shaft jutted out of his right shoulder; he stared back at Vespasian with a terror bordering on madness in his eyes.

‘Where did this happen?’ Vespasian asked urgently.

The man rolled his maddened eyes and pushed his head forward making a hideous gurgling sound, a parody of speech. A welter of blood spewed from his mouth; his tongue had been cut out.