Betrayal: The Centurions I

by Riches, Anthony

  ‘This is true?’

  Varus spoke from his place behind the throne.

  ‘It is, Caesar. I spoke with the Fourteenth’s legatus on the subject at some length, and advised him to counsel his men to behave in a manner appropriate for a legion that had been defeated on the field of battle, and which had erred so grievously in their choice of sides in the war you have now so conclusively won. I also had much the same conversation with the Prefect here, suggesting that his men should be ordered to demonstrate some magnanimity in victory, for the sake of their long association with the Fourteenth, and perhaps to prove themselves the equal to any legion.’

  The emperor nodded.

  ‘I see. It seems that your advice was ignored by both parties.’

  ‘As was always likely to be the case, Caesar, which is why I had two cohorts of men waiting fully armed, in readiness for just such an outbreak of hostilities.’

  ‘Wise, Alfenius Varus. You are to be commended for your foresight. And you, Prefect Germanicus, what do you believe I should do with your command for this utter disregard for the proprieties and discipline expected of any unit serving in my army, regular or auxiliary?’

  Scar drew his body back to attention, sensing that the time for less formal discussion of the matter was at an end.

  ‘The usual military discipline would be to have all participants in the matter punished according to their part in it. I have already conducted a thorough review of the matter and concluded that one tent party in particular was responsible for the initial outbreak of fighting, clearly provoked by a soldier of the Fourteenth but nevertheless guilty of a disproportionate response. They will all be flogged this evening in front of every man in my command, and their centurion has been reduced to the ranks for failing to keep a grip of his men. He will suffer the same punishment as the newest member of their party. As for myself, Caesar, I offer you my vine stick.’ He held out his badge of office with both hands. ‘Take it from me and I will do the only honourable thing under the circumstances.’

  The emperor’s eyes widened, and he turned to speak with Varus for a moment, watching as the prefect nodded in response to his question, then turned back to face the stony faced Batavi.

  ‘I have considered your offer and am constrained by my need for good men on the frontiers of Germania to refuse it, especially as you have already demonstrated your willingness to seek out and punish those men guilty of starting the affray in question. Doubtless the Fourteenth’s legatus will conduct a similarly robust investigation before following my orders and taking his command back to Britannia. Keep your vine stick, Prefect, your orders to march north will be with you before the day’s end. Dismissed.’

  The matter already dismissed from his mind, he turned to his praetorian prefect as Scar made for the door.

  ‘Which reminds me, Alfenius Varus, we have still to discuss this Eighth Legion centurion, Aquillius, whom you have commended to me despite his naked refusal to refute his legion’s oath of allegiance to Otho.’

  ‘Quite so, Caesar. And to my mind it would seem a waste of a good man to simply throw away such an outstanding officer, even if his obduracy might tempt us to make an example of him.’

  Their voices faded as he marched into the audience chamber’s ante-room, where the praetorian officer put a hand on his arm.

  ‘Wait here, Prefect. The praetorian prefect wishes to speak with you.’

  After a short wait Varus walked into the room through the same door, waving a hand to dismiss his man and waiting until they were alone to speak, a small smile creasing his face.

  ‘That’s two good men saved from an ignominious end in one morning. I may have found my calling in life, it seems.’ He shook his head at Scar with genuine amusement. ‘Well now, Prefect Germanicus, it could never be said that you’re a man lacking in bravado.’

  Scar shrugged.

  ‘The choice of taking the emperor at his word or playing the cringing subject was no choice, Prefect.’

  ‘And you really intend to flog your warrior priest as punishment for a fight his men started?’

  The Batavi shook his head.

  ‘No, Prefect. I intend to flog a man I’ve reduced to the ranks as punishment for his making the mistake of being drawn into a fight the Fourteenth Legion started. You can take the man out of the tribe, Prefect, but you can’t take the tribe out of the man. And it’s time my men had it pointed out to them that we’re not in any position to lay down the law to a legion, not even the pathetic collection of cry-babies that our former colleagues of the Fourteenth have become in the years since we last stood alongside them on a battlefield. An example is needed, and an example will be made. No matter how unhappy it might be for all concerned. Including me.’

  Castra Augusta Taurinorum, May AD 69

  ‘You all know what’s expected of you. We put ourselves here, now we can accept the punishment that we’ve earned and repay Scar for saving us from worse by upholding the tradition of the tribe.’

  Egilhard looked at his former centurion in puzzlement.

  ‘I don’t understand. What tradition of the tribe?’

  Alcaeus looked at Grimmaz disparagingly.

  ‘Looks like you have a little more education to impart, Leading Man … Sir.’

  Grimmaz shook his head.

  ‘Please don’t call me sir. Not you.’

  The older man shrugged.

  ‘Deal with it, Happy. I’ve made peace with the fact that I’m paying the price for my own stupidity, so why can’t you? I had the clear chance to walk away, but instead I stopped thinking and started punching. I asked for this punishment, and this is the point where I get what I asked for. So explain what’s expected of him to young Achilles, before it’s too late.’

  Grimmaz sighed.

  ‘What the cent– Alcaeus is trying to tell you, is that the pride of the tribe demands we take our stripes without showing any sign of weakness. When the moment comes we’ll walk out in front of the cohorts like gladiators in the arena, not proud or haughty mind you, but strong. Walk to your whipping post without hesitation, put your arms round it and clasp your hands together.’

  Egilhard frowned.

  ‘I thought we’d be tied to the posts?’

  The leading man shook his head.

  ‘That’s for criminals. Men of the tribe aren’t tied for a beating, not unless they’ve done something so bad that the scourge is to be their punishment and then they have to be tied, and gagged, because no man can stand or remain silent under the scourge. We stand up and take our lashes, and we don’t let out a sound. The first one’s the hardest, after that there’s a sort of numbness that takes over and it’s over before you know it.’

  Egilhard nodded.

  ‘You’ve done this before.’

  Grimmaz nodded solemnly, turning to show the young soldier his back, still bearing faint marks.

  ‘Once, seven years ago. Three lashes for fighting in camp, and after that I swore I’d never put myself through the pain again, but it seems I’m not clever enough for the lesson to have—’

  He sprang to attention as Scar walked into the tent.

  ‘Attention!’

  The Prefect looked around at the nine men awaiting punishment with a tired expression.

  ‘Of all the things I need to get done today, having you fools beaten wouldn’t even make it on to a list written in an extra-large tablet with a darning needle, except I’ve made a promise to an emperor to serve you idiots out for starting a fight that almost became all-out war between ourselves and an imperial legion. A beating is what I promised him, and a beating is what you’re going to get, five strokes each, and you pricks are going to take your stripes without making a sound. Not a whimper.’

  He walked down the line of men still speaking, his tone menacing.

  ‘Did you know that in my entire time as the prefect of these cohorts, not one of the men who has received a punishment beating has made enough sound to be heard by anyone other than the man with the wh
ip? And I don’t intend for that to change today. So you’re going to need these.’

  He handed each of them a short piece of wooden dowel just large enough to fit inside a man’s mouth.

  ‘Bite on these,’ he said quietly, ‘it helps. I know.’

  ‘Bring forward the men for punishment!’

  Praetorian Prefect Varus and the Fourteenth Legion’s legatus stood at the parade ground’s edge watching as the Batavian cohorts stood in sullen silence.

  ‘Not so clever now, are they?’ The praetorian prefect turned his head to look at the legion’s commander for a long moment before returning his gaze to the soldiers marching out into the open space at the heart of their comrades’ formation. ‘Perhaps after this they’ll think twice about starting fights they can’t finish.’

  To Varus’s eye the condemned men had more of a look of wounded pride about them than any hint of the shame that the man standing beside him was implying. Stripped to the waist, and wearing rough leggings that could be discarded after the floggings that they were about to undergo, they were marching towards the whipping posts that had been erected for the purpose of their punishment with the precision and pride of men parading before their emperor.

  ‘I told Vitellius that this is what happens when barbarians like these animals get ideas above their st—’

  Varus’s patience snapped completely and irrevocably.

  ‘You would be wise, Legatus, to hold your own counsel on the matter.’

  He turned to stare at the legion commander.

  ‘I—’

  ‘There is nothing so irritating in life, I find, as an idiot that cannot recognise his own idiocy.’

  The legatus bristled with indignation.

  ‘I’ll not stay here to be insulted, I’ll—’

  ‘Yes, you will. You’ll shut your mouth and you’ll stay here to watch this charade while I tell you the absolute truth about yourself, your legion, and your many and various shortcomings, if I choose to. Because if, Legatus, you choose to walk away, I promise you that there will be another man in command of “your” legion by this time tomorrow.’

  ‘You couldn’t …’

  Varus smiled beatifically.

  ‘Oh but I could. Haven’t you heard? I’m the man who put both the First Classica and the praetorian cohorts to flight. I’m the man who tore your side’s left flank to ribbons, and left the two strongest enemy formations on the battlefield running for their lives. I’m the man who retrieved the Twenty-First Rapax’s lost eagle, so that it can be paraded through Rome in triumph, rather than lying at the bottom of some nameless well for the rest of eternity. And as a direct consequence of those exploits I’m now the Praetorian Prefect, with access to the emperor any time I like, and complete control over who gets to see Vitellius and who sits and cools their heels until they work out that they won’t be gaining admission to the imperial presence. And do you know how I achieved those feats of outstanding valour that have seen me so richly rewarded?’

  He pointed at the Batavi.

  ‘With them. Through their efforts. Their bloodshed. Their simple, savage, barbarian bravery. And now, because your legion doesn’t understand the fact that a fool like you chose to throw their weight behind an even greater fool than yourself, who murdered an honourable emperor to steal the throne, and then chose to end his own life when he realised just how far out of his depth he was swimming, and because you’re not man enough to tell them that you made a mistake, they seek to take their frustration out on the very men who gifted them the victory in Britannia whose blood and courage led to them being named “Martia Victrix”.’

  Varus looked out over the parade ground, watching impassively as the last of the soldiers was led to his whipping post.

  ‘Victorious and beloved by Mars?’ He snorted dismissively. ‘Those eight men out there have more courage than a cohort of yours. See how they’re not tied to the posts? It’s an item of faith for the Batavians that they take their punishments voluntarily, in silence, and so there they stand awaiting a punishment that they do not deserve, because you’ve allowed your men to mistake thin-skinned failure to accept a defeat as some kind of substitute for victory. I’d say the sooner you’re on your way back to Britannia the better, wouldn’t you?’

  Alcaeus took his position at the last whipping post, turning his head to look down the line of his men. He grinned widely at Grimmaz, and Egilhard beyond him, provoking a baffled stare from the leading man.

  ‘Where’s your gag?’

  The former centurion winked and waggled his right hand, waving the wooden dowel at them.

  ‘If I can do this without the gag you can easily ride it with yours in place. This is my sacrifice to Hercules, not the death of some helpless animal, but my silence under the lash.’

  Scar had walked out to address the gathered cohorts, his voice booming out over the parade ground.

  ‘Men of the Batavi cohorts! Our brothers come before you for punishment, having been judged to have acted rashly in the face of an avoidable challenge in the town yesterday! They were the men who started the fight, for the most part, apart from Soldier Alcaeus who, as a centurion, failed to control his men when he had the chance to do so but instead chose to join the fight!’

  He looked around at the cohorts standing in silence on all four sides.

  ‘Batavi pride is one thing, but to seek to fight where no fight is needed is entirely another. All of these men have admitted to their misdeeds and have been sentenced to receive the standard punishment, five lashes to be delivered by their comrades who have been chosen by lot from each cohort.’

  The selection process had been swift and transparent, the six centurions in each of the other seven cohorts than the First drawing lots to determine which of them would provide a soldier to wield the lash, then repeating the process to choose the tent party and finally the man who would have the misfortune of administering a punishment that was widely regarded as iniquitous. The men to whom the lots fell stepped forward, accepting their whips and taking their places behind each of the half-naked men awaiting their fate. Taking the last whip, Scar walked to the end of the line and took up his position behind Alcaeus, who looked around and smiled wryly at his former superior before bracing himself for the first blow.

  ‘I’ll be watching you as I deliver Soldier Alcaeus’s punishment, all of you with the whips, and if any of you think you can go easy on these men then you’ll soon enough find yourself in their place, with me showing you the error of your ways! Five lashes, delivered with the appropriate force, and if there isn’t blood running down their backs by the time you’re done then it’ll be running down yours shortly afterwards. Got that?’

  He leaned close to Alcaeus, affecting to prepare to deliver the first blow while he muttered quietly in his former centurion’s ear.

  ‘You palmed the gag, I presume?’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Because I have eyes. And because your men seem to have the same rocks in their heads that seem to have taken the place of your brains.’

  Alcaeus looked up at Grimmaz, finding the leading man’s eyes fixed on his and his mouth spread in a wide grin. The wooden gag was at his feet, where he’d spat it out on realising that Alcaeus had elected to go without. The men beyond him had followed his example, their gags discarded on the parade ground’s stony surface.

  ‘You fucking idiots.’

  Grimmaz chuckled back at him.

  ‘For Hercules, eh? I’ll have some of that. If it’s good for you, Centurion, then it’s—’

  Scar laughed tersely.

  ‘The time for chatter was past when you left the punishment tent, ladies. Shut your mouths and keep them shut, if you know what’s good for you.’

  He raised his voice, swinging the whip back for the first blow.

  ‘Commence the punishment!’

  Varus watched as Scar drew his arm back and then snapped the whip’s tail across Alcaeus’s back, the newly demoted soldier’s body jerking with t
he white-hot bolt of pain as the leather’s fierce impact raised a red weal across his muscular body.

  ‘One!’

  He drew the whip back again, taking careful aim before striking for a second time, the whip’s blow landing an inch lower in almost perfect symmetry with the angry mark left by the first swing.

  ‘Two!’

  Along the line of whipping posts the unlucky soldiers who had been selected to exact punishment upon their comrades were doing the same, carefully considering each blow before they delivered it, and while each of the men being beaten shuddered with every impact, it was obvious to Varus that the lashes were being positioned to avoid them overlapping where possible. He looked at the Fourteenth Legion’s legatus, daring the man to show any sign of approval.

  ‘Remember, Legatus, just one word …’

  Scar swung his whip for the last time, then threw it aside with an instruction to burn it and all the others that had been used to deliver his sentence.

  ‘The punishment has been carried out, and accepted without a sound by the men receiving it! The Batavi have proven their honour and this matter is now closed!’

  ‘And let’s hope it really is closed, shall we?’ Varus watched as the eight men who had been flogged walked away from their posts stiff-legged with the pain of their inflamed and cut flesh. ‘Let’s hope there’s no repeat of yesterday’s mayhem that can be tied to your command, Legatus, or you may find the emperor looking beyond the ranks of ordinary soldiers for men to blame. And to punish.’