Despite the prospect of half a year of unremitting discomfort, Cato felt more shame than anything else. Every unit in the army would know that he, and the other officers and men of the cohort, had failed in their duty. Their bare standards would be badges of dishonour everywhere they marched. He knew that the shadow of this evening's judgement would linger over him longer than six months; men's memory of the crime always outlived the duration of the punishment.
The general slapped his slate notebook closed and was about to rise when the Imperial Secretary leaned towards him and placed a hand on his shoulder.
'A moment, if you please, General.'
'What is it?'
Narcissus leaned closer and spoke in a low voice so that only Plautius would hear. The silence in the tent was unnatural as everyone else kept quite still and strained to catch any of the words passing between the two men. Plautius listened a moment, before a look of horror flitted over his face, and he shook his head. Narcissus spoke intently, stabbing his finger in the general's direction to emphasise his points. At length the general appeared to give way, and nodded solemnly. He turned to Vespasian and whispered something. Vespasian stared ahead, at the officers of his Third Cohort, lips compressed tightly.
General Plautius leaned back and folded his hands together before he addressed the other men in the tent. 'In view of the seriousness of the Third Cohort's dereliction of duty, and in order to set an example to the rest of the army serving in this province and beyond, the sentence has been revised to include decimation. Lots to be drawn by centuries immediately. Executions will take place at dawn, the day after next, before an assembly of units representing each of the legions. Tribune! Take the officers out to join their men.'
As the centurions filed out of the headquarters tent Cato watched their expressions as they passed. Maximius looked down, refusing to meet anyone's eyes. Tullius looked ashen-faced. Macro was still angry and communicated his bitter resentment to Cato with a slight shake of the head as he marched stiffly by. Felix and Antonius appeared stunned. Then Cato turned and joined the end of the line as the escort marched them outside. He felt numb, and the hard reality of the world around him seemed somehow distant and vague.
Decimation. He'd only ever read of it: the most dreadful of the field punishments that could be imposed upon the men of the legions. One man in ten, selected by lot, would be beaten to death by his comrades. The odds made him feel sick with fear.
The centurions were returned to their places in front of their centuries and then all were made to wait in silence, in the wavering glare of the reed torches, until six clerks emerged from the headquarters tent. Each carried a plain Samian ware jar. They spread out, one heading towards each of the centuries of the Third Cohort. When they were in position, Tribune Plinius stepped forward.
'Every man in each century is to draw a corn tally from the jar in front of them. If you draw a white tally you will return to your unit. Any man who draws a black tally will be escorted to one side.'
A groan of despair welled up from the Third Cohort as they realised the nature of their punishment.
'Silence!' screamed the senior tribune. 'You will be silent when a senior officer addresses you!'
He glowered at the terrified men on parade in front of him. 'Begin!'
The legionaries approached the clerks by sections to draw their lots. Beside each clerk stood two men from the First Cohort, one holding a torch above the jar to ensure that each man's tally was clearly visible when it emerged and the other to escort the unlucky ones away. Cato turned towards his men.
'First section! To the front!'
The eight men marched up to the clerk. He raised the pot above eye-level so that the men could not see inside, and then the first man reached in. There was a dull rattling noise as his fingers probed the tallies.
'Draw it quickly!' the legionary holding the torch growled.
The man withdrew his hand and showed the tally to the clerk – a wooden disc, the size of a denarius.
'White!' the clerk called out and the first man turned round and walked quickly away, hurrying back towards the rest of the century, hands trembling with relief.
'White!' cried the clerk for the next man.
'Black!'
The third man stared into the palm of his hand, frozen in place, staring as if at any moment the disc would turn white in front of his eyes.
'Come on, you!' The legionary grabbed him by the arm and thrust him towards the squad of guards waiting behind the senior tribune. 'Over there. Let's go!'
The man stumbled as he was half dragged away from his comrades. He glanced back over his shoulder and caught Cato's eye. The appeal for help was as clear as it could be, but there was nothing Cato could do, and he shook his head helplessly, and looked away.
So it continued, and a steady trickle of victims was separated from the rest of the cohort. Cato saw Maximius take his turn, draw a white tally and turn away, clutching it like a lucky talisman. Maybe that was an omen for him too, he decided, and he turned to his optio.
'Come on, Figulus. We'll draw ours with the next section.'
Two of the eight men ahead of them drew black tallies, and Cato quickly calculated that only one could still be in the jar. One black and twenty-six white. Good odds. Even as his spirits rose at the thought he felt ashamed that those odds had been improved at the cost of the lives of some of the men whom he had let go ahead of him.
It was Figulus' turn, and the huge Gaul hesitated in front of the jar.
'Go on, son,' the legionary with the torch whispered.'Don't let 'em see you're afraid.'
'I'm not,' Figulus hissed back. 'I'm not, you bastard!'
He stepped forward, plunged his hand into the jar, snatched the first tally that fell into his grasp and drew it out.
'White!' cried the clerk, then turned to Cato.
His heart was beating fast and he could feel the blood pounding in his ears. Yet he felt cold, the night air icy on his skin, even though he knew it was warm. The clerk gestured towards him with the jar.
'Sir?'
'Yes, of course.' The quiet words came from his lips like another man's voice and even though Cato wanted more than anything to back away from that jar he found himself rooted in front of it. His hand rose up, over the rim and began to dip down inside. Cato noticed a hairline fracture that ran, in a fine black line, down from a tiny chip on the rim of the jar, and wondered what accident had caused that to happen. Then the tips of his fingers brushed against the small pile of tallies remaining in the bottom of the jar. For an instant his hand recoiled. Then he gritted his teeth, and closed his hand round one of the wooden discs, drawing it out of the jar. Cato stared at the face of the clerk as he opened his fist. The clerk's eyes dropped down and there was a flicker of pity in his expression as he opened his mouth.
'Black!'
05 The Eagles Prey
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The Imperial Secretary left the army just after dawn, accom-panied by his two bodyguards and four full squadrons of auxiliary cavalry. After the earlier attempt on his life Narcissus was not prepared to take any more chances. He had delivered the Emperor's motivational threat to the general and would be the bearer of some good news on the way home. Caratacus' army had been smashed and all that remained was to mop up the survivors. The commander of the native forces had used up the goodwill of the lowland tribes and would find little sympathy for any further struggle from that quarter. A generation of young warriors had been sacrificed for the cause, and across the land families wept bitter tears for their sons, lying dead and buried in fields far from home. It was only a matter of time, Narcissus comforted himself, before Caratacus was killed or captured. Barring a few druid troublemakers, peddling their bizarre philosophies and religious practices from the safety of obscure sanctuaries, the province was as good as conquered. That should keep the Emperor's critics quiet for a while.