Troglius turned in my direction.
“Look at me,” snapped Cato. “Yes or no.”
“Yes,” muttered Troglius so softly that the crowd of soldiers quieted trying to hear him.
“Why did you run away after you hit him?”
Troglius stared at the ground rather than look at me. “I thought he was dead.”
Cato turned to the crowd of soldiers, then to Scipio, as though this was a significant admission.
“How long was it before you turned yourself in?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t keep track,” said Troglius to the ground.
“Eight weeks, soldier,” sneered Cato. “That makes it desertion by any definition. Do you understand that?”
Troglius was too humiliated to answer.
“Do you understand that you deserted, soldier?”
Troglius muttered a barely audible, “Yes, sir.”
“That’s all I have, Consul.”
Scipio turned to me. “Defense, do you have any questions for the defendant?”
“Yes, sir.” I walked up to Troglius. When he lifted his head, I did my best to put on a heartening face.
“Troglius,” I said gently, “why did you strike the centurion?”
Although we had rehearsed his answer many times, Troglius hesitated.
“Why did you strike the man?” I asked, urging the words into his head.
Troglius looked down, then up at me so frightened I couldn’t believe this was the same man I had seen take on four men at a time in the heat of battle. “The centurion insulted the woman,” Troglius mumbled, then added, “in a manner unbecoming an officer.”
I looked at Scipio, making certain he had heard what Troglius said. Assaulting women and children had been one of the most grievous crimes perpetrated in Locri during Pleminius’ reign of terror. I hoped to the gods that Scipio had not missed that connection.
“Was that the same woman who’s in the court?”
Troglius nodded his head.
“That’s all, sir.”
Troglius was led away to the edge of the opening, and Scipio asked Cato if he had any more witnesses. When he said no, Scipio looked to me. “Any more witnesses for the defense?”
I had no idea what Scipio was thinking. I didn’t feel I had made much of an argument. I looked quickly to Moira, then said, “Yes, Consul. I would like the woman involved in the incident to come forward. Her name is Moira.”
Scipio motioned to Moira, and she came out of the crowd holding the hands of both her children.
“Moira,” I said, “please describe what happened on the day the defendant struck the officer.”
Moira was forthright. “I was talking to you and Troglius—the defendant—at my fruit stand in the Tyche market. Those two Roman officers,” she pointed to the centurions, “came up to the stand, and the one who was just questioned propositioned me as though I were a common prostitute. I spit on him, and he grabbed me by the arm with who knows what on his mind.” She glared at him angrily. “That’s when Troglius came to my aid. It was as clear to him as it was to me that the officer had bad intentions. The defendant made sure that nothing more would happen.”
“Did you feel threatened at the time?”
“Didn’t I just say that,” she snapped back at me. “Yes, I felt threatened. I always feel threatened when there are too many damn soldiers around.” She scanned her rapt audience, making sure they all heard her loud and clear. “All women do. They take liberties only a husband is due.”
“Thank you, Moira. That’s all I want to ask, Consul.”
Cato now had the opportunity to question Moira. He came up close to her and walked around her once, as though he were appraising her value, as though he might be sniffing her and her mongrel children. I immediately knew I had made a mistake.
“Moira,” he said softly, “are these your children?”
Moira knew how bad this man was even without knowing word one about his reputation. She gripped her two children’s hands. “They are.”
“Where is their father? Or is it fathers?”
The second part of his question was just as insulting as the centurion’s remark at the market. Instead of spitting on Cato, she let him have it. “That’s a good question, councilor. Their fathers were both Roman soldiers who forced themselves on me just like this man had hoped to. There’s lots of children in Syracuse wondering where their fathers are. You tell me. Where are they? I think their children want to know.”
No one could miss Moira’s spirit. Many of the soldiers cheered her on. Others hid their faces. Cato got more than he wanted, but I’m sure he felt it supported his case.
“That’s all, Consul.”
“The defense may reexamine,” said Scipio.
I shook my head. “The defense rests.”
“Make your final statements. Prosecution, you have the floor.”
Cato stood in the center of what had now become a rather tight circle, surrounded by many rings of soldiers leaning in close to follow the proceedings, and erupting throughout with shouts and animal sounds. “I restate my opening. This is a simple case. A soldier struck an officer in a public space. He evaded arrest at the scene of the crime, then hid in the labyrinth of Syracuse for nearly two months. Not only is he guilty of the most extreme form of insubordination, he is a deserter.
“Only one argument was made on behalf of the defendant. The defense claimed that he was protecting the reputation of a female street vendor. I think what we just heard from the woman in question renders the point moot. She has no reputation to defend. I would add that it seems highly unlikely that the defendant could even have a sense of honor.” Cato turned and pointed at Troglius. “Look at him. See how his head is misshapen. See how his eyes look in two directions. This is no man. He’s some mixture of man and beast, with a great talent for killing things. He came close to killing a centurion. And as a deserter, he has revealed that he has no loyalty to Rome. I demand a bastinado. He is an undisciplined freak. He should have been left out to die as an infant. Why not correct his mother’s error in judgment now?”
Cato’s words prompted a rousing applause, mixed in with shouts for a bastinado and an outpouring of ugly comments directed at Troglius. Those few who knew Troglius were quiet or, like myself, were angered by the method of attack Cato had chosen.
Scipio gave me the floor.
I took a moment to gather myself, then stated my defense. “At no time does a man demean himself more, particularly a soldier in uniform, than when humiliating a woman with rude words or ruder actions. The defendant may have his own unique appearance, but that does not mean he is a man without feeling or honor. He struck the centurion because that centurion was about to strike the woman or abuse her in some way. The defendant stopped a criminal action. At some moral level, rank is outweighed by wrong.” I stopped short of saying we saw what happened in Locri.
“Implicit in the prosecutor’s argument is an admission that the centurion had been improper, but that it didn’t matter because the woman had two children out of wedlock and that the defendant didn’t have the wits to stand for up for a woman anyway, much less a woman he knew I loved and hoped to marry.” Moira’s eyes widened. “I contend that respecting a woman, any woman, is part of what it means to be a Roman soldier, and that the defendant did, in fact, put himself on the line to uphold this woman’s honor.
“As to his loyalty to Rome, I should remind the court that he won the Mural Crown three years ago for topping the walls of Hannibal’s camp outside Asculum. It was the single most impressive act of soldiering I have ever seen. When he came out of hiding, the first thing he said to me was ‘I want back in the army.’ When the court sentences this man, it’s important to remember that the defendant is one of Rome’s finest.”
A small portion of the soldiers applauded my comments, but the majority shouted for a bastinado. When the uproar quieted, Scipio called for Troglius. The guards brought him forward. The huge man stood head bowed befor
e the consul. Scipio then motioned to Cato and me. We took our places on either side of the Troglius and his guards.
Scipio addressed the entire gathering as much as Troglius, Cato, and me. “As I said at the opening of this trial, discipline is a key element to the success of the Roman army. Discipline in carrying out battle directives, discipline within the camp, and discipline when one interacts with the public. The events in Locri this past summer underscore this last piece. In that regard, it appears that the centurion in question should be more careful in his dealings with the public. That said, however, the defendant overstepped his rank and broke one of the most sacred of our principles, respect for an officer. In that I hold him guilty.”
The crowd of soldiers responded positively to the judgment with hoots, hollers, and more barbs aimed at Troglius. Cato had no reaction. Scipio raised his hands for quiet and continued.
“The prosecution also raised the question of desertion. In my mind the only crime worse than desertion is treason. In this charge, I find the defendant also guilty, though the fact that he turned himself in, fully aware of the consequences, does remove some of the ignominy attached to his actions.”
Cato nodded very slightly. The rest of the audience held quiet, knowing that Scipio would pronounce Troglius’ punishment next.
“Individually, either of these crimes merits execution. The prosecution has asked for a bastinado.” Scipio paused to look at Cato, then at me. Troglius stared at the ground.
“Prior to this trial,” continued Scipio, “I did speak to a few of my tribunes about their knowledge of the man on trial. Two of the men had served in the Eighteenth legion with the defendant. They both spoke highly of his skills in battle. The defense mentioned his courage in Asculum. One of the tribunes was there and echoed similar sentiments.”
Cato’s eyes swung my way as mine swung his.
Scipio continued. “I have decided that instead of a bastinado, the legionnaire Troglius will receive one hundred lashes—to be administered at daybreak tomorrow morning. Until then he will be kept in the chains.”
The mass of soldiers uttered a disappointed groan, mixed with catcalls directed at Moira and more insults aimed at Troglius. Cato, however, was furious.
Scipio stood from his chair and headed off to headquarters. Cato turned to me. “This kind of laxness is what caused the breakdown in discipline at Locri. Scipio is coming dangerously close to making the same mistake twice.” I think it was at this moment that Cato recognized me as Marcus’ friend. He gave me a haughty look, turned away suddenly, and stomped off to some other part of the camp.
Troglius finally lifted his head and looked at me. “Thank you, Timon,” he muttered softly. “The lashes are nothing, but I could not bear to be beaten by members of my own cohort.”
“I did my best, my friend. I had hoped for a better result. I’m sorry,” was all I had a chance to say before the guards led him away. I was not so sanguine as Troglius about the sentence. I had seen men whipped fifty times with a bronze studded flail. More than half of them had died. I had never even heard of a hundred lashes. What could possibly be left of the man?
Moira came up to me with questions in her eyes. “Did I help or hinder? I’m sorry I was late. Not everything is predictable.” Her two children looked up at me.
“It’s fine. You did all you could, but I should have done better. We avoided the humiliation of a bastinado, but a hundred lashes? I can’t even think about it.”
I escorted Moira out of the camp and thanked her again for making the effort.
“Let me know how Troglius fares,” she said. “Regardless of this silly trial, he did stand up for me and that means a lot.”
That evening I went to headquarters to work on the map. The tent was empty. I lit four of the oil lamps and arranged them for the best possible lighting. The map was essentially done. I had worked like a man possessed to complete it before we left. Now I had six more months to detail it. The first thing I wanted to do was double-check all my earlier calculations. That’s what I was doing when Scipio appeared from beneath the tent flap.
Neither of us said a word. He came across the tent. He looked down at the map, then up at me. “You did well against Cato today, Timon. Your talents never cease to amaze me.”
I stared back at him. I was angry.
“You should be pleased. Troglius was spared the bastinado. No soldier wants that.”
“If I may speak freely, sir. With one hundred lashes the outcome will be the same. He’s going to be executed tomorrow. Then you can say that both the prosecutor and the defense got what they wanted. How fair can one expect a judge to be?”
Scipio was the figurehead of Rome, a consul, her most daring young general. One might argue there was no more important man in the world at that moment. I was a freedman. A Greek who owned no property. Not even a slave. The sarcasm of my final comment had overstepped my rank and position.
Scipio did not miss it. He could easily have stuck me for insubordination. Instead he leaned across the table and in a voice just above a whisper said, “He should have gotten the bastinado for desertion alone, Timon. I was easy on him. If Troglius is the warrior you make him out to be, he will survive a hundred lashes. If he does, I will promote him to centurion.”
CHAPTER 60
I did not attend the flogging the next morning. I deliberately buried myself in work on the map. I suspect that most of the soldiers not on duty were there. Had the camp been open to the public, a good number of the locals would have come as well. It has always surprised me how people are drawn to an execution or the spectacle of one man brutalizing another. Apparently I am deficient in some basic human ingredient.
The flogging took Troglius to the very edge of his life. A story came out later that the man with the scourge was so overcome by Troglius’ courage beneath the whip that he deliberately missed with his last twenty lashes, and that those still present to watch understood. His back was nearly cleaned to the bone of skin. It wasn’t clear if he would live. Scipio was aware of Troglius’ condition. He ordered the camp surgeon to clean and dress the wound, something never done following discipline for a military crime.
I found Troglius in the hospital tent. The doctor, who was a Greek, wasn’t there. Troglius lay on his stomach on a cot, striped of all clothing. The vast open wound—his entire back—hadn’t been dressed yet. One look was more than I needed. It was obvious that anything placed on Troglius’ wound would adhere and create a bigger problem when it was removed.
Troglius’ eyes were closed. His hair was matted to his head with sweat and blood. I whispered his name. His face was sideways on the cot. The upper eye cracked open.
“It’s me,” I said, uncertain of how cognizant he was.
His eye turned in my direction, but he didn’t say anything.
“I can’t believe you’re still alive.”
The eye stared up at me. No other part of his body moved.
“Apparently your courage during the flogging was enough to earn you a doctor. That doesn’t usually happen.” I wanted to say consider yourself lucky, but it seemed too cruel when his life still hung in the balance.
I put my hand on his. “You’re going to make it,” I said, not believing it.
He squeezed my forefinger.
“Are you still interested in being a soldier?”
Again he squeezed my finger.
“You are a better man than I, Troglius. You are a better man than I.”
I stayed until the doctor returned. He was an Athenian by the name of Abrax. We had never met. I addressed him in Greek. “What are his chances?”
“He lost a lot of skin, but no muscles were severed. He might make it through the night,” he said. “Beyond that I cannot say.”
CHAPTER 61
Troglius made it through that night and the next. Abrax became more optimistic, but had yet to cover the seeping wound. The biggest concern was infection. When I asked the doctor if he would live, the doctor said, “I doubt it.�
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I made the time to go out to Moira’s farm. She saw me crossing the field from the road. She ran out to meet me. Donato ran after her. Rosa toddled far behind.
“Is Troglius alive?” she asked, trembling with anticipation.
I nodded, then embraced her. When I released her, tears were streaming down her cheeks.
“But he’s in bad shape,” I said. “Each day he survives gives him that much more chance to survive the next.”
“You did it, Timon. You saved him. I was impressed by the way you handled yourself during the trial. How did you know what to say?”
I looked at the ground, then up into her eyes. “It’s too early to celebrate anything, Moira. And if he makes it, it won’t have been through my efforts.” I used my fingers to sweep the tears from her cheeks. “His toughness is the only reason he’s alive right now. Few men could live through that kind of beating. His back resembles a huge slab of raw meat.”
Donato stood beside his mother. He pulled at my tunic. “Did you watch the flogging?”
“No, Donato, I couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
Moira answered. “It’s very difficult to watch a friend being beaten, especially when you can’t do anything about it.”
“Why?”
I almost smiled at Donato’s innocence. Instead of answering, I took Moira’s hand and led her back to the house. Donato asked us why three more times without getting an answer. I didn’t have enough time to stay and help with the chores, but when I left, Moira accompanied me through the fields to the road, stopping several times along the way to pick comfrey.
“Have the doctor steam these leaves.” She handed me the comfrey. “He can use them as a compress to cover Troglius’ back. They will ease the pain, speed up the healing of the skin, and won’t stick to the wound. Try this, please. Change the compress every day until the wound stops oozing.”
I thanked her for the comfrey and kissed her on the cheek.
“Thank you, Timon, for coming out here with the news.”
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