A kick to Piso’s solar plexus drove the air from his lungs in a mighty whoosh. A world of pain erupted then, in his head, through his whole being. He retched, brought up a mouthful of rancid wine, nearly choked on it. Stamp. One of his ribs broke. Someone raked their hobnails down his arm, and Piso felt his flesh tear open. If he’d been able, he would have screamed. Winded, almost paralysed by the blow to his midriff, he could do nothing but lie there, helpless as a babe.
Then, for no apparent reason, the punishment stopped.
Piso felt instant relief, but renewed terror that his assailants were planning something worse.
‘What in the name of fucking Hades is going on?’ roared a voice.
Piso rolled over, groaning with the pain that the movement caused. Opening his puffy eyes, he tried to focus, but could see nothing other than a sea of shuffling feet.
Crack. It was the unmistakeable sound of a vitis landing. A yelp followed. ‘Answer, you maggot!’
Is that Tullus? Piso wondered, feeling a trace of hope seep into his foggy brain.
‘It’s just a fight, sir. Got a bit out of hand, that’s all.’
Crack. The vitis connected again, eliciting another anguished cry. ‘“A bit out of hand,” he says, when it’s eight, nine – no, ten of you against three! What big fucking men you are!’ Crack. Crack. Crack. More bawls and shouts of pain. ‘Over there, against the wall – all of you! MOVE IT, YOU SHOWER OF CUNTS!’
The legionaries filed away. Piso rolled over, and was relieved to see Afer close by. Blood was running down his forehead, and one of his eyes was closed, but he was able to leer at Piso. ‘Where’s Vitellius?’ asked Piso.
Afer pointed. Their friend lay a few paces away, unconscious. Piso was comforted to see that his chest was rising and falling. He might be badly hurt, but he wasn’t dead.
‘Gods above and below. I should have known it’d be you.’ Tullus, solid as a tree trunk, was standing over Piso. He extended a hand. ‘Can you get up?’
‘I think so, sir.’ Taking the grip, Piso managed to push himself up with wobbly legs. The world spun, and he grabbed Tullus’ shoulder. ‘Sorry, sir,’ he mumbled, releasing it and almost falling again.
‘Hold on to me, you fool.’ Tullus’ voice was gentler than normal. He guided Piso to the wagon. ‘Lean against that.’
Piso clutched the planking as if it were a branch found at sea by a shipwrecked sailor.
Afer had managed to stand on his own. He weaved his way to Vitellius, and knelt.
‘How bad is he?’ asked Tullus.
‘I’m not sure, sir. He’s out for the count.’
Tullus’ brow lowered further. He stared at Piso. ‘What happened?’
‘It was nothing more than a few games of dice, sir, with one of the soldiers. He really didn’t like losing these, I think.’ He pulled the bronze fasteners from his purse and handed them over.
‘Swear to me that you’re telling the truth.’
‘I swear it, on my mother’s life, sir.’ There was a non-committal grunt, and Piso added, ‘May Jupiter strike me down if I lie, sir.’ He held his breath as Tullus peered at the fasteners, front and back. Then he watched, his nerves taut as a wire, as Tullus strode over to the legionaries, who were little more than a line of black figures outlined against the tavern wall.
‘It turns out that the men you were beating are from my century. Your reasons for beating them better be fucking good, I can tell you,’ Tullus threatened. ‘My soldier here tells me this whole pile of shit is about a game of dice. He says that one of you took exception to losing his money, and these fasteners.’
‘It wasn’t that, sir,’ protested one legionary. ‘He was mouthing off about the First Cohort.’
‘What did he say?’ barked Tullus.
There was a short silence, and the legionary said, ‘Err, not sure, sir. It was Aius here told us.’
‘You’re Aius?’ demanded Tullus.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Enlighten me as to what was said.’
Aius reeled off a list of insults, every one of which was credible as something that might be hurled at a unit: the First Cohort were all molles, arselovers. They were cowards too, men who would always run from a fight. They were a disgrace to the legion. ‘I could go on, sir,’ said Aius.
‘That’s fine, legionary,’ interrupted Tullus. ‘Tell me why three soldiers would say things like that when they were so outnumbered by the very legionaries they were insulting?’
‘I-I couldn’t say, sir. It must have been the drink talking.’
‘The drink talking,’ Tullus repeated. He stuck his face into Aius’. ‘I could believe that of certain men, perhaps, but I know my soldiers quite well. Pissheads they may be, stupid too, to some extent, but they’re not cretins!’ He rammed the fasteners partway up Aius’ nose and pulled them out again, leaving Aius groaning. ‘These are inscribed “Marcus Aius of the First Cohort”. That would be you?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Aius’ voice was muffled by his hands, which were clutching his face.
‘And you lost them in a game of dice not long ago, to that man over there?’ Tullus pointed at Piso.
‘Aye, sir.’
‘How many years’ service have you completed?’
‘Twelve, sir,’ replied Aius.
‘If I’ve learned one thing as a centurion, it’s that a soldier who gambles pieces of his kit, a veteran in particular, is a man with a problem. My gut is telling me that you’re such an individual.’ Aius did not reply at once, and Tullus bawled, ‘Would I be correct?’
‘I wanted to get my money back, sir,’ mumbled Aius. ‘And those fasteners.’
‘I thought as much,’ Tullus snapped. Moving closer to one of the torches, he produced a wax tablet and a stylus. ‘Approach, one at a time. I want names, any distinguishing features, century, and your centurion’s name.’
Piso watched with increasing pleasure as the ten legionaries filed past Tullus, giving their details and showing him the scars, birthmarks or tattoos that would identify them from other men. None dared ask what their punishment would be. When Tullus was done, he glanced at Afer. ‘How’s Vitellius?’
‘He’s come to, sir,’ came the answer. ‘Says he’s not too bad.’
Piso could have sworn that relief flashed across Tullus’ face. ‘Lucky for you maggots that he’s woken up,’ he yelled at Aius and the rest. ‘Piss off, the lot of you. Centurion Fabricius will be hearing about this in the morning.’ With thwacks of his vitis, he drove them away. Piso took great satisfaction from the fact that the man he’d punched in the balls was walking with an odd gait.
His good spirits lasted as long as it took Tullus to determine again that their injuries weren’t too serious. After that, he lambasted them from a height. ‘What kind of stupid bastard starts gambling with a soldier who’s got half his century with him? No legionary of mine should ever be caught fighting in the street either. What kind of lowlifes are you?’
Piso and the other two absorbed the tirade in silence. They didn’t complain either when Tullus confined them to camp for a month, adding in latrine duty for the same period, nor when he promised them extra training marches the moment that the surgeon pronounced them fit. At length, he finished his rant. He gave them each a hard stare, which they met with reluctance. ‘Out of my sight,’ he ordered. ‘Back to barracks.’