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.