‘Salve, friend, Centurion Cookus delivering this bunch of rogues to the estate of Legate Tremelius at Nola. What’s this, a bit of sport?’
The other centurion ambled over and the two men clasped arms in greeting.
‘Centurion Sextus. Runaways from Capua. We found them yesterday and were ordered to plant them here’
‘Capua?’ said Cookus ‘That’s a long way from here.’
‘There’s a whole band of them camped on Vesuvius up there,’ Sextus pointed to the flat-topped mountain. ‘I’m here with Praetor Caius Glaber to wipe them out.’
The crucified man was moaning in pain, which seemed to annoy Sextus. He pointed at the soldier holding the hammer.
‘Put another one in his feet if he wants to annoy us with his voice.’
Clearly sadism was inherent in all centurions. The soldier reached into a bag that hung from his belt and fished out a long nail that had a mushroom-type head, then held it against the bloody foot of the victim and hit it hard with the hammer. The air was filled with an ear-piercing shriek as the iron was driven through the man’s foot into the wood. The man screamed again and again as the grinning soldier hit the nail on the head, the iron being driven expertly into the foot until the head was compressed against the bloody pulp. Convulsions gripped the victim and he shook violently, which only increased the pain in his pierced feet and arms. Blood streamed down the cross from his feet. I was revolted but transfixed by the horror that was unfolding before me. Sextus looked at the other man who was being held on the ground.
‘Gag him first, I’ve got a headache and I don’t want his screams making it any worse. Where are you camping tonight, Cookus?’
‘By the road, looks like.’
‘Why don’t you camp with us?’ asked Sextus. ‘There are six cohorts below the summit, so there’s enough food and wine for you and your men. The garrison of Rome eats well, I can assure you.’
‘Six cohorts of the garrison of Rome?’ Cookus was clearly surprised. ‘For a bunch of runaways?’
‘Not ordinary runaways,’ they had begun to nail the other man to his crosspiece, his screams of pain being clearly audible despite his gag. ‘This lot are gladiators and they know how to fight. They’ve already killed the Capua police sent to fetch them back, and a few citizens unlucky enough to cross them.’
The new victim was hoisted into place beside his unfortunate comrade by means of ropes, the cross slamming down into a hole dug into the roadside verge. Thus it was that as we were marched away, two forlorn figures played out a grisly dance of death beneath a merciless Roman sun. Most of us Parthians had seen crucifixion before; indeed, it had been invented in the east, and were not unduly troubled by its proximity. No doubt the thought had flashed through everyone’s mind that they would suffer the same fate — it had certainly gone through mine. After another hour’s walking we came to a dirt track that led off the road to the left, up towards the large mountain that dominated the landscape. We followed this track for another two miles or so, the sun now beating down on us and causing us to sweat. Our pace slackened, though the guards did not use their fists or spear shafts to quicken the pace. They and Cookus seemed in good spirits, and as we crested a small hillock I understood why.
In front of us was a Roman camp, containing line upon line of neatly arranged tents. It had been laid out with precision beside the track and there must have been hundreds of tents, most small, some large and ornate, covering dozens of acres. The whole camp was surrounded by a freshly dug earth rampart about a man’s height, with a ditch on the outer slope of the rampart from where the earth had been dug. Guards stood on the rampart every ten paces or so, their red shields resting on the earth and the men facing outwards. A gap in the rampart indicated the camp’s entrance, which was flanked by more guards. I had to admit it was an impressive site, and had I been in better physical shape I might have appreciated it more. As it was, I just wanted to collapse on the ground and rest.
We were herded off the track and made to sit in a field just outside the camp — obviously no one wanted us inside. After talking and laughing with Sextus, Cookus came over to where we were sitting. We had no shade, water or food. My mouth felt parched. As usual, the centurion singled me out, shoving his cane under my chin and painfully dragging me to my feet.
‘This, pretty boy,’ he said, pointing with his cane at the camp, ‘is the might of Rome. While your mother was whelping you in a stinking mud hut, Rome’s legions were conquering bastard heathens such as you. And now, son of a whore, you will live out your miserable life serving her. You and all the rest of you. Tonight I intend to get very drunk with my comrades of the garrison of Rome, and tomorrow I will deliver your stinking hide to your new master.’
He whipped the cane across the side of my face, splitting my nose and sending blood shooting over my face. The pain made me feel as though I was going to throw up. My knees buckled, but before I collapsed he grabbed my hair and yanked my bloody face to face him. ‘Or perhaps I will crucify you tomorrow. Over there, on the rampart, where everyone can see.’ He grinned and let me go. I collapsed in a heap at his feet. He delivered a sharp kick to my back before he turned and marched off. I lay on my side and felt blood trickle down my face. I was so very weak.
‘Try to rest, highness.’ Gafarn looked at me with some concern.
‘It’s all right, Gafarn,’ I said. ‘I’ll live.’ But I no longer believed that.
My men and the rest of the captives were lying or sitting on the ground, a sad, miserable collection of humanity wrapped in chains. I heard crying and turned my head to see two guards prodding a lifeless body with the butts of their spears shafts. A woman was weeping over the obviously dead individual. A friend, a relative, a husband? The Romans unchained the corpse and hauled it away — just another dead slave. In stark contrast, the sounds of merriment and laughter coming from the camp filled the air. The Romans were obviously enjoying their slave hunting. I was totally drained of energy, made worse by the fact that I had had nothing to eat or drink since early morning. The blood had stopped running down my face now. That was my last thought as I drifted into sleep.
I was woken by Nergal and Gafarn shaking me roughly.
‘Wake up, highness.’ As I regained consciousness I was aware of the alarm in his voice. It was dark — I must have been asleep for a long while — and my arms and legs felt heavy. My back ached, but then my heart started to pound as I heard the familiar sounds of combat. The sharp smack of metal against metal, the shrieks and yelps of men being cut down, and the whinnying of frightened horses and the smell of leather, sweat and blood in the air.
‘Get me up,’ I said, and Nergal and Gafarn hauled me to my feet.