Centurion (8 page)

Amatius glared at Macro for an instant, then turned back to Longinus and stiffened his back. ‘Is that all, sir?’

‘That’s all. Have Crispus’ comrades report to the parade ground outside the camp at first light. They are to wear tunics only and be issued with cudgels.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Amatius’ tone was subdued and Cato could well understand why.The haughty legionaries would be humiliated by appearing before the auxiliaries of the Second Illyrian without their armour and weapons. That was quite deliberate. Army discipline demanded that the comrades of a condemned man shared his shame so that they would be sure to punish him for humbling them. In future, they might be more careful about letting another man commit an offence that would rebound on them. Since Amatius would be obliged to lead the party from the Tenth and bear witness to the execution, he too would take some small share of the shame, hence the smouldering hatred in his eyes as he glared at Macro and Cato briefly before striding from the hall, and slamming the door behind him with a crashing boom.

For a moment nothing was said, then Macro dipped his head in acknowledgement to Cassius Longinus.

‘Thank you, sir. It was the right decision.’

‘I don’t need you to tell me that,’ Longinus snapped.

‘Very well, sir. But thank you anyway.’ Macro paused. ‘Is there anything else?’

‘No. Just make sure this doesn’t happen again. I’ve had enough of the pair of you interfering in my business in Syria. If it hadn’t been for the Parthians I’d have got rid of you. By now you’d be well on your way back to Rome to report in person to that snake, Narcissus. As it is . . . I need every man I can scrape together to face the Parthians. There’s no question that I would defeat them if I had the reinforcements I asked for. But there’s only the three legions and a handful of auxiliary units available to take them on. The odds are not good.’ Longinus smiled coldly. ‘So if I succeed then the glory is greater. But if I fail, then I shall draw some small comfort from the knowledge that you two will be dying alongside me.’

Cato wondered at the change in Longinus’ mood from the triumphalism of his address to his assembled officers. Then he realised that this was what Roman aristocrats trained so many years for: the perfectly pitched performance to win over their public, despite any personal misgivings over the cause that they were promoting. And Longinus had been persuasive enough, Cato reflected. It seemed that Cato alone had not been swept along on the wave of his rhetoric. Even Macro, who knew of the governor’s dubious political manoeuvres, had been momentarily carried away by the prospect of action and glory.

‘Leave me,’ Longinus ordered. ‘Go and make your preparations for the execution.’

He gestured casually towards the door. Macro and Cato stood to attention, saluted, and turned away, marching in step as they left the Roman governor of Syria alone in his makeshift audience chamber.

In the thin light of pre-dawn the men of the Second Illyrian were stirred from their tents by the harsh cries of their optios and centurions as the officers strode down the tent lines, yanking back the tent flaps and bellowing at the rudely awakened men inside. Hurriedly pulling on their rough woollen tunics, boots and chain-mail corselets, they emerged into the cool air before cramming on their skullcaps and helmets and tying the chin straps. Lastly, they gathered shields and javelins and took up their positions in the centuries forming in front of the tents. The cavalry squadrons, with their longer blades and thrusting spears, formed up on the flanks. Their mounts would not be needed for the assembly to bear witness to the execution, and they remained tethered in the horse lines, chewing contentedly on the barley in the feed bags that had been brought to them as soon as their riders had risen from their tents.

Macro, with Cato at his shoulder, paced down the lines inspecting his men. The execution of Crispus would be a formal affair. Even though the legionary was a condemned murderer he was still a soldier and would be accorded appropriate respect even as he died.Though the man he had killed was one of their comrades the men of the Second Illyrian would pay Crispus the honours due to a fellow soldier passing from this world into the shades. Every man had turned out neatly and had made sure that his helmet had been polished the night before, along with the trim and boss of his shield and every clasp and decorated facing of his scabbard. Macro regarded them with pride. He could ask for no better body of men to command, even in the legions, he admitted grudgingly, though he would never own up to such an opinion in public. The blood he had shed in the Second Legion and the comrades he had lost over the years had left him with an engrained love of the Eagles he had known for so long.

As he strode past the last of his men, Macro glanced round at Cato, who was the officer immediately responsible for the turnout of men on parade, as well as the numerous details of camp administration.

‘A fine body of soldiers, Centurion Cato!’ Macro’s best parade-ground voice carried to the farthest men in the cohort. ‘The Praetorian Guard itself couldn’t have made a better showing!’

It was the kind of easy rhetoric calculated to lift the men’s spirits and Macro winked at Cato as he bellowed his praise. Both men knew that, easy as the words were, they worked, and the men would carry themselves with a little more pride for the rest of the day. Or at least until they had witnessed the execution, Cato mused unhappily. He understood the reasoning behind the punishment well enough but still some part of him recoiled at the thought of brutally putting a man to death. Unlike Macro, he drew little pleasure from the games that ambitious politicians put on in every town and city of the Empire. If a man had to die then it was best that he die in pursuit of a purpose. Let Crispus be placed in the front rank of the army when they faced the Parthians.There at least he could die facing his enemy with a sword in his hand, for the honour of Rome, and his own personal redemption in the eyes of his comrades.

Cato drew a deep breath as he acknowledged Macro’s comment. ‘Yes, sir! No one can doubt that the Second Illyrian is the best cohort in the service of the Emperor!’

He turned towards the men and shouted. ‘Let’s hear it!’

The men let out a deafening roar and pounded their spears against their shields for a moment, and then grounded them as one. The abrupt silence made Macro chuckle with pleasure.

‘As mean as they come, Centurion Cato. The Gods know what they’ll do to the Parthians, but they scare the shite out of me!’

Cato, and many of the men, could not help grinning. Then Macro raised his vine cane to attract their attention once again.

‘Move them out, Centurion.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Cato sucked in another breath. ‘Second Illyrian, right face!’

The ten centuries of infantry and four squadrons of cavalrymen shouldered their spears and then turned on the spot.

Macro and Cato strode to the head of the column, and took up their places just ahead of the cohort’s standard and the two bucinators carrying their curved brass instruments. Macro paused for an instant, then gave the order. ‘Advance!’

With a rhythmic crunch of nailed boots the cohort marched towards the camp gate and out on to the parade ground. On the far side was the area assigned for the execution, where two rows of stakes ran six feet apart. Macro led the Second Illyrian across the dusty expanse and then halted the column.

‘Cato, have them form up on three sides of the run.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Cato saluted and turned away to carry out his orders. Macro took his place at the head of the lines of stakes, on the side left open by the cohort. As the last of his men completed the open-sided box around the run Macro saw a small column of soldiers in red tunics leave the camp and march towards them. A figure, pinioned between two men, half walked and was half dragged along in the middle of the column. Every one of his comrades carried a stout wooden stave: pick handles drawn from stores. At the rear of the column rode the governor and the legate of the Tenth. Macro called his men to attention at their approach and the cohort presented their arms as Longinus reined in. Amatius attended to his legionaries and assigned one man to each of the posts while Crispus was steered towards the end of the run. When every man was in place a hush hung over the scene, until Longinus raised his hand.

‘By the power vested in me by the Emperor, the Senate and the People of Rome I hereby confirm the death sentence passed on Titus Crispus. Has the prisoner any last words before the sentence is carried out?’ He turned to Crispus, but the legionary was breathing hoarsely and trembling as he stared at the two rows of his comrades in abject terror.Then the sense of the governor’s words filtered through his fear and he glanced up at Longinus beseechingly.

‘Sir, I beg you! Spare me. It was an accident! I swear it!’ His legs collapsed and he slumped into the dust. ‘Let me live!’

Longinus ignored the pleas and nodded to Amatius. ‘Get on with it.’

The legate strode over to Crispus and growled, ‘Stand up!’

Crispus tore his gaze away from the governor and threw himself across the ground at the feet of his legate.

‘Sir, for pity’s sake, I’m a good soldier! You know my record. Spare me! You can’t do this.’

‘Stand up!’ Amatius shouted.’Have you no shame? Is this how a legionary of the Tenth faces death? Get up.’ He swung his boot at Crispus and it thudded into the prisoner’s ribs.

‘Ahhh!’ Crispus gasped painfully as he clutched his side. Amatius grabbed his arm and roughly hauled Crispus to his feet, thrusting him towards the end of the run where his comrades waited, staves grasped firmly in both hands. For a moment there was silence across the parade ground, broken only by a faint keening whimper from Crispus. Then Longinus cleared his throat.

‘Carry out the sentence!’

Amatius drew his sword as he pushed Crispus forward. The legionary dug his heels in and scrabbled backwards until the legate delivered a sharp jab into his back. Crispus screamed as the two lines of his comrades began to swing their clubs.

Cato had felt a growing sick sensation gnawing at his guts as he had watched the preparations and he whispered to Macro, ‘Is there any chance of him making it to the far end?’

‘There’s always a chance,’ Macro responded flatly.

‘Have you ever seen a man survive the run?’

‘No.’

Amatius drew his sword back for another thrust and Crispus cried out as he glanced over his shoulder.

‘Go, man!’Amatius shouted angrily.’Before you shame us all.’

Some spirit of defiance and courage must have gripped Crispus at the end, for he suddenly darted forward, into the run. He moved swiftly and ducked his head down low as he sprinted, so that the first two pairs had no chance to hit him with their clubs. But one of the third pair had just enough time to swing his club and strike home; a glancing blow off Crispus’ shoulder. He staggered to one side, straight into the club of the next man who smashed him on the hip. Crispus cried out, but lurched on towards the next pair. The first man caught him on the upper arm, while the other struck him hard on the ribs, causing an explosive gasp of pain to rip from Crispus’ lips. He stumbled on, under a rain of blows, until he was a quarter of the way down the run. Then a blow, swung low, smashed his shin and he crumpled to the ground with a scream.The nearest legionary stepped forward and swung his club at Crispus, cracking his jaw. Blood and teeth flew across the sand and Crispus rolled into a ball on his side, drawing his arms over his battered head. The nearest legionaries stared at him and then glanced towards their legate.

‘Finish him!’ Amatius thrust his finger at the figure on the ground. ‘Finish him!’

The legionaries closed in around Crispus and Cato saw their clubs rise and fall in a frenzy of blows. The wooden shafts flicked blood into the air and their ends were stained crimson as they pounded Crispus mercilessly. Fortunately, there was no sound from the prisoner after the first few seconds. Amatius let his men continue for what seemed like an age to Cato, and all the time the rest of the witnesses stood and watched impassively.

At length Amatius called a halt to the beating, and the blood-spattered legionaries drew back, panting. On the ground, surrounded by splashes of blood soaking into the sand, lay the barely recognisable shape of a man. They had broken most of his limbs and his skull had been smashed to a pulp so that bone and brains spilled on to the sand in a mess of wine-red and grey porridge. Cato swallowed his bile and tore his gaze away from the sight, glancing up and across the parade ground. A distant movement caught his eye and then he squinted and saw a man on horseback racing round the corner of the fortress and making across the parade ground towards the execution party and the Second Illyrian. At the sound of drumming hooves, officers and men began to turn their attention towards the horseman.

‘There’s trouble,’ Macro muttered as he saw the grimy bandage round the head of the approaching rider. At the last moment the rider reined in savagely, scattering dirt and gravel. He saluted and immediately reached inside his tunic, groping for something.

‘Who the hell are you?’ Longinus demanded.

The man licked his dried lips before he replied, ‘Tribune Gaius Carinius, on detached duty from the Sixth Legion, sir. I’ve come from Palmyra.’ He found what he was looking for and wrenched a waxed tablet from inside his tunic and thrust it towards the governor. ‘A dispatch from the ambassador, Lucius Sempronius, at Palmyra, sir.’

Longinus took the tablet. He glanced at the rider.’What’s happened?’

The man swallowed hard, struggling for breath. ‘There’s been a revolt in Palmyra, sir. Parthian sympathisers. They mean to depose the king and tear up his treaty with Rome.’

Cato watched as the tribune eased himself on to one of the chairs that had been set in an arc in the governor’s study. He glanced round at the other officers who had been summoned there by Cassius Longinus. In addition to Amatius and the commanders of the other auxiliary cohorts in the camp, there was Macro and himself. Cato wondered why he had been included.