The defiant Gaul had to scurry forward to avoid falling and being dragged. He, Guturvatus by name, had taken two weeks to track down. And that following a week of investigation as to his identity. The druid-chieftain was stripped to the waist, his grey wool braccae soaked with sweat, his feet bare and bloodied from the painful journey across the ruined city.
‘But if he is, as they say, the man behind all the risings, would it not be better to have the Carnutes here in their thousands to witness it?’
Caesar turned to Calenus and gestured to the far side of the square where perhaps a dozen Gallic nobles stood with sour faces and slumped shoulders. ‘They are the leaders of what is left of the Carnutes – Fabius was thorough in the short time he was here – and what transpires this morning will filter through the entire region in a matter of days. You have spent plenty of time in Rome, Calenus, surely you are familiar with the astonishing speed of gossip?’
Calenus smiled, though he still looked faintly unhappy. Caesar could understand the man’s reluctance, of course. He was not a man used to the brutality of war, despite having led legions in Gaul now. And what was about to happen was… well, Caesar had foregone breaking his fast, despite a persistent rumbling in the belly.
‘Besides, half of this is for the benefit of our men, not theirs. This is one of the architects of the risings that have kept them marching and camping in Gallic winters these past three years. He is responsible for countless legionaries being heaped into the burial pits or onto pyres. Once in a while it does the legions good to see the filth that has so ruined them face justice. The value of watching their revenge being carried out is incalculable in terms of morale. Guturvatus’ death will buy more goodwill with the men than a thousand loot and slave payouts.’
The Carnute leader, who had been betrayed by his own frightened tribe as the Romans hunted him, was now being dragged towards two thick posts driven deep into the ground some eight feet apart. The officers couldn’t quite see the man’s face, but they could picture the wild, terrified eyes. The prisoner started to fight the inexorable momentum towards the posts, struggling with the cords, trying to free himself. Despite his ravaged feet, he dug in his heels and almost succeeded in pulling down one of the legionaries dragging him. The centurion who even now stood to one side of the posts had chosen his detail well, though. The two legionaries at the cords were oxen in human form – massive, with necks like oak trunks and muscles like burial mounds. With little difficulty they regained their control and yanked hard enough for the man to fall face first into the dirt. When he struggled upright again, coughing and spitting out dust, his nose was flat and bloodied and his face was torn in several places.
‘Bet you wish that was the traitor Commius there,’ muttered Antonius with a vicious smile. ‘I wonder where he is.’
‘Somewhere among the Germans, I suspect. There will be time to find him later, when I am back in Rome if not before. My reach is long, even from the city. Commius is too important and loves power too much. He cannot hide forever.’
A nod from Antonius. ‘Commius on the run. Vercingetorix in the carcer. Ambiorix and Indutiomarus dead. Now Guturvatus dragged here in chains. Only Lucterius in the south to go, I think?’
Caesar nodded. ‘The heads of the hydra become fewer with every strike. With Fortuna’s aid, Lucterius will be the last and the beast will lie still.’
Still struggling to the last, the prisoner was being tied in place, the leather cords now fastened tight to the wooden posts at just an acute enough angle that his shoulders would already be feeling the pain. The centurion looked up at Caesar, awaiting the command, and the general gave a slight nod of the head. Stepping around in front of the prisoner but slightly to one side so as not to obscure the officers’ view, the centurion, whose voice had been honed on a hundred parade grounds and battlefields to carry clear even in the most hectic din, cleared his throat.
‘Guturvatus, son of Lemisunius, you have been accused and convicted of conspiring to bring war against Rome in defiance of the Pax Romana to which your tribe have pledged. Your crimes have infected your neighbouring tribes, spreading discontent and further endangering the stability of the region. Your rebellions have both directly and indirectly cost the lives of many thousands of Romans and many more Gauls who, were it not for your influence, would have remained allied with Rome and at peace. Thus, given the gravity of your crimes, the Proconsul of Gaul has sentenced you to death by the scourge.
An auxiliary of the Remi tribe in gleaming mail and a white cloak stood close by, repeating the centurion’s pronouncements in a language the prisoner and the watching Carnutes would be able to understand. As his more guttural words ended, a discordant echo of the centurion, Guturvatus began to struggle again. His futile attempts achieved little more than to make the leather straps bite deep into his wrists, and he began to curse and shout and spit. Two legionaries in the crowd burst out laughing at some private joke and the optio just along the line roared as he clouted them in the shins with his staff.
Having fallen silent once more, the centurion looked again at Caesar, who repeated his nod. ‘Proceed.’
At the officer’s command, a muscular soldier with arms like tree boles and a chest around which Antonius reckoned his arms would barely reach stepped forward. In his hand he held the coiled scourge and as he walked towards the prisoner and the other Romans backed away to leave the two men alone in the square, he shook out the weapon. Three long tails of leather hung from the heavy handle, weighted down with spiked wheels of carved bone that had been attached at set lengths along each strand.
Standing silent and taking three slow breaths, preparing for strenuous activity, the legionary pulled back his arm and swung.
From even thirty paces away the officers heard the tearing sound and the unpleasant, unmistakeable sound of bone on bone. Guturvatus screamed. Calenus wiped his forehead and lowered his face.
‘This damned heat.’
Caesar turned a fierce gaze on him. ‘Straighten up, man. You’re an officer.’
He could only imagine what Calenus would be doing if he had the view most of the legionaries had, where the actual damage was happening. All the officers could see was the intense agony on the man’s face. Again, the soldier swung the scourge and this time a spray of blood to the side was joined by small scraps of flesh.
The third strike connected while Guturvatus was still screaming from the second, and consequently the Gaul bit off the end of his own tongue in the process, his mouth filling with blood. Caesar made an irritated motion to the centurion, who waved at the executioner. ‘Slow down.’
The legionary nodded and began to count to twelve between strokes.
The ground was becoming sodden with red in wide sprays from each blow, and Antonius glanced across at Calenus, who had gone pale, his face taking on a very waxy sheen. This was why you didn’t employ lawyers to command legions, no matter their position on the cursus honorum or the influence of their family. You ended up with men like this. Calenus needed toughening up if he was going to stay in service for a while. Mind, when Caesar returned to Rome shortly, the man would probably end up as a provincial governor.
Still…
Antonius smiled wickedly. ‘His back must be all ribs and organs by now, Caesar. Time for a change?’
The general gave him a questioning look, and Antonius nodded at Calenus, who was repeating ‘So hot… so damned hot…’ his eyes revolving to look anywhere but at the victim. Caesar gave a curt nod and waved to the legionary with the scourge. ‘Front, now.’