Traitors of Rome (Eagles of the Empire 18)

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘Fucking centurions,’ a voice muttered close by.

  Macro drew up abruptly. ‘Who said that? Which one of you bastards just signed himself up for a bloody hiding?’ He slowly turned round. ‘Well?’

  No one dared to speak as they shuffled away from him.

  ‘Pfft!’ Macro sniffed with contempt, then continued through the crowd until he emerged on open ground between the soldiers behind him and a group of Praetorians who were on guard duty. They had three legionaries on the ground in front of them beneath the tips of their spears. Centurion Ignatius stood to one side with a drawn sword in one hand and a sack in the other.

  ‘What in Jupiter’s name is going on here?’ Macro demanded.

  Some voices in the crowd began to call out angrily, and Macro thrust his arms into the air as he turned on them. ‘Shut your bloody mouths!’ he bellowed. ‘Or I will come over there and rip your fucking tongues out and use them for boot leather! I’m talking to the centurion, not you cunts. Silence there!’

  The crowd quietened down as he glared at them, and only when he was certain that a spoken exchange would be heard by all did he turn back to Ignatius. ‘What’s going on?’

  Ignatius used his sword to indicate the legionaries on the ground. ‘We caught these men coming out of the back of one of the store huts. They tried to run for it, but some of the men from the nearest shelters came over and caught them. As soon as they discovered they’d been looting the stores, they started beating them up and fighting over the sacks they had with ’em. I called on the headquarters guards to help me sort them out and get these three away from the mob and pinned down. Then you turned up, sir.’

  Macro put his hands on his hips and turned to face the crowd. ‘Get back to your lines! Right now. Move!’

  There was little reaction at first; most of the men stared back defiantly from the gloom, their hostile expressions just visible in the glow cast by the braziers.

  ‘I said move!’ Macro bawled. ‘The last man to turn and double back to his shelter is going to feel my cane across his shoulders! Optios! Get your men moving!’

  His orders were picked up by the handful of junior officers in the crowd, which quickly began to disperse as the men moved off into the darkness, muttering to each other. Macro waited for a moment, then turned back to the Praetorians. ‘Right, get those three up on their feet.’

  The spears were reversed and the legionaries roughly hauled up from the ground to face him. By the light of the flames, he could see that their faces were bruised and bloodied. They regarded him warily.

  ‘So you thought you’d help yourselves to some extra rations, did you?’ Macro spat on the ground. ‘You’re in the shit now, boys. I’ll have you beaten and then digging out the latrines for the rest of the bloody campaign.’

  ‘What’s all this?’ a voice demanded, and he turned towards the headquarters huts to see Corbulo striding towards them wearing breeches and sandals with a cloak over his bare shoulders and chest. The Praetorians stood straight in the presence of their general, and Macro turned towards him and saluted.

  ‘Begging your pardon, sir, but these men were found stealing supplies. They were caught by men from another cohort. Centurion Ignatius knocked a bit of sense into the mob and they’re heading back to their lines now.’

  ‘Stealing, eh?’ Corbulo stood in front of the three men. ‘Hungry, were we? So you thought you’d take food from the mouths of your comrades . . .’

  The looters lowered their heads in shame, and the general took a step forward and slapped the man in the middle. ‘Look ahead when an officer is speaking to you, damn you!’

  The legionaries pushed their shoulders back and snapped their heads up, staring directly ahead as Corbulo looked hard at each of them in turn. ‘Every man in this army gets the same issue from stores. Including me. No one gets special treatment. So tell me, what makes your three think you are an exception?’

  The man to the left, several years older than the others, coughed. ‘We’re starving, sir. There’s barely enough to keep up our strength. We carry on like this and we won’t be able to fight. That’s what I said to the boys. It was my idea, sir.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Legionary Gaius Selenus, sir. Second Century, Third Cohort, Sixth Legion.’

  Corbulo turned to the nearest Praetorian. ‘Find me the commander of the Third Cohort. I want him to report to me here at once.’

  The Praetorian saluted and ran off into the darkness as Corbulo turned his attention back to the legionary. ‘You look like you’ve served more than a few years with the eagles.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Nine years.’

  ‘Nine years? Then you’ve no excuse not to realise the importance of discipline and regulations. You also know the maximum penalty for theft while on active campaign against the enemies of Rome.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And what is the penalty?’

  Selenus hesitated and then glanced at Macro. ‘Please, sir, the centurion said we were to be beaten and put on fatigues.’

  ‘Did he now?’ Corbulo looked to Macro and cocked an eyebrow. ‘Is this true?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then perhaps you could remind me what the maximum penalty for theft is?’

  ‘Death, sir.’

  Corbulo nodded. ‘That’s right, death.’

  ‘Pardon me, sir,’ Selenus interrupted. ‘Like I said, it was my idea. These two are from the latest intake. They’re still fresh. They don’t deserve to die. If you’re going to execute anyone, make it me, and give these lads a thrashing.’

  ‘Quiet. It’s not for you to decide who gets punished and how. That’s my duty, Legionary Selenus. You’re overstepping the mark. I’ve made my decision. All three of you are condemned to death. Sentence to be confirmed in writing to your commanding officer and carried out by the men of your century.’

  Macro saw that the bottom lip of one of the younger men was trembling, and he felt a stab of disappointment that a legionary could appear so weak. At the same time, he felt that he might have taken up Selenus’s suggestion had he been the general. One death would serve as an example to discourage further theft. Executing all three was a waste of two men who might, given the chance, turn into decent soldiers once they had learned from this experience.

  A figure came running up from the lines. The senior centurion of the Third Cohort. He exchanged a salute with the general before Corbulo gestured to the condemned men.

  ‘Centurion Pullinus, do you recognise these three?’

  Pullinus stepped closer and nodded. ‘I do, sir. By sight. They’re not from my century, though.’

  ‘But they are from your cohort?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘They were caught stealing food from the supply store. I have sentenced them to be executed.’

  ‘Executed?’ Pullinus sounded surprised, but recovered his composure in a beat. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You will take them into your custody and carry out the execution at first light. They will die at the hands of their comrades, as the regulations demand.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’ll see to it.’

  ‘One other thing, Pullinus. Where there’s one man prepared to steal, there’ll be more. Since three of your men have conspired together to do so, I fear the problem may be widespread within your cohort. I put that down to poor leadership. Your leadership. Therefore you will take your cohort from this camp and set up your new lines alongside the Syrian auxiliaries. Your men will be on the same rations, and like the Syrians, you’ll sleep in the open. It seems that the example of Prefect Orfitus and his men has not been sufficient for the rest of the army. Perhaps they will learn from the fate of your men. I will not have good soldiers endure having to live alongside thieves, Centurion Pullinus. Do you understand?’

  The centurion seemed about to protest, but then thought better
of it and nodded.

  ‘Yes, sir. I’ll give the orders at first light.’

  ‘You’ll do nothing of the sort,’ Corbulo retorted haughtily. ‘You’ll do it now. I want your cohort out of this camp, and you will give the order immediately. And I know what the misplaced loyalty of some soldiers to their comrades can lead to. If any of these men escape before punishment is carried out, then those guarding them will take their place.’

  Pullinus looked to Macro desperately, but he refused to show any reaction to the other officer’s fate. The general had spoken and the matter was decided.

  Pullinus swallowed and nodded. ‘Yes, sir. Immediately.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Dawn revealed a hard frost that covered the landscape in a white rime, and the first watch of the day stamped their feet and blew hard into their hands to try and keep warm in the bitter cold. Some of the men had kept their fires going, and several columns of smoke curled gently into the clear sky. Many were stirring and rising stiffly from their bedrolls, rubbing their joints, while some of their comrades yawned and coughed as they breathed too suddenly on the chilly air. The centurions and optios went from hut to hut rousing their men with harsh shouts and urging them to put on their armour and weapons for the morning assembly. Emerging from their huts, they formed up in their centuries and stood to attention as the centurions called the roll and entered the numbers on waxed tablets for the optios to take to headquarters so that the general’s clerk could compile an accurate strength return for the day.

  The same routine was being carried out in every cohort of the army across the Empire, Macro reflected as the Praetorians formed up in front of their shelters, a short distance from headquarters. Whether it was somewhere cold, like this mountainous region or the frontier along the Rhine, or a barren desert a thousand miles away, Rome’s soldiers were all rising to carry out the same routine, just as they had for over two hundred years. It pleased him to think on this from time to time. To feel part of a brotherhood that spanned the known world and made Rome’s enemies tremble at the prospect of facing them in battle. Or not, he smiled to himself. Some of those barbarian bastards just never knew when they’d been beaten, and would go down like rabid dogs rather than submit. Like those Druids in Britannia. They were all but done for now, and by the time Macro and Petronella settled in Londinium, the province would be at peace and the Druids well on their way to being a mere detail in the history of the island’s conquest.

  As the last of the Praetorians took his place, the centurions began the roll call, making a mark on their waxed tablets for each name answered. Once Macro had completed the count for the First Century, the other centurions came up one by one and called out their strength returns. Macro totalled them up and handed his waxed slate to Optio Marcellus. ‘Take that to headquarters.’

  They exchanged a salute before the optio ran off towards the general’s huts, then Macro turned to face the Praetorians and sucked in a breath.

  ‘Second Cohort of Praetorians! Attention!’

  At once the men stood with their chests out, shoulders back, looking smartly to the right to dress the line before facing front. It was another good turnout, Macro nodded with approval. Although the men’s faces looked a little pinched and their armour appeared to hang on them more loosely than a few months back.

  ‘Today, there will be an execution. As you may have heard, three men were caught stealing from the stores last night. The execution will take place outside the camp, and we will be escorting the general. It’s a chance for the cohort to do what it does best and look good on parade,’ he added with strained irony for the benefit of those who might take offence at this gibe over their performance in battle. An execution was always a grim affair, and Macro preferred to take some of the edge off the sombre mood. ‘So bear in mind that we will be on show in front of those watching from the palisade and our comrades in the Syrian cohort and the Third Cohort of the Sixth Legion. Let ’em see why we’re the emperor’s finest. Centurion Porcino!’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Take a section and draw eighty pick handles from stores. Put them in a cart and have it ready to follow the cohort when we march out with the general.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Macro paused and looked over his men again before he concluded. ‘The cohort will reassemble outside headquarters when the second hour is sounded. Dismissed!’

  General Corbulo stepped out of his hut and pulled on his helmet, tying the straps securely. The crest was made of stiffened horsehair rather than the feathery plume that was fashionable amongst the more ostentatious senior army officers. His silvered breastplate gleamed, and the ribbon tied across it and his military cloak had been cleaned and brushed by his body slave. His polished greaves completed his splendid appearance, but his dour expression rather undermined the effect, thought Macro.

  ‘Let’s get on with it, Centurion,’ Corbulo growled as he strode to his horse and was assisted into the saddle by one of the Praetorians. He took up the reins and walked his mount out of the roped-off headquarters compound and onto the main thoroughfare running across the camp to the gate. Macro gave the order to advance, and the Praetorians, with the army’s colours at the head of the column, followed the general. At the rear of the column two men pulled the cart carrying the pick handles that would be used to beat the condemned men to death. Off-duty soldiers lined the route, watching in sullen silence as the procession passed by. More stood along the rampart to bear witness to the execution. The usual hubbub of shouted orders and the clatter of tools was absent, and the quiet that hung over the camp was oppressive.

  Corbulo led the Praetorians out of the gate, across the causeway over the ditch and onto the open ground to one side of the lines occupied by the Syrians and the men from the legionary cohort. The latter were already formed up in three sides of an open square. Centurion Pullinus stood in the middle with the condemned men, who were barefoot in their tunics with their hands tied behind their backs. Corbulo turned his horse towards them, while Macro led the Praetorians on to form up across the open side of the square. As soon as they were in position, he ordered the men with the cart to haul it over to Centurion Pullinus.

  A hush followed, broken only by the faint jeers from the walls of Thapsis as the defenders mocked what looked like another formal parade by the Romans. Then Corbulo spoke up, loudly and clearly so that the men on the rampart would hear his words as well.

  ‘We are here to bear witness to the punishment of three legionaries who have dishonoured themselves by stealing food from the common store. These men chose to put their appetites before the loyalty they owe to their brothers in arms. They have shamed the men of their cohort and they have shamed the legion they are privileged to serve.’

  ‘We were starving!’ Selenus shouted, and drew a swift blow across his shoulders from Centurion Pullinus’s vine cane.

  ‘You were not starving,’ Corbulo called back. ‘You were merely hungry, as we all are. As I am. Yet you alone chose to steal. Hunger and privation are the lot of soldiers on campaign. It is our duty to endure such conditions and get on with the job of defeating the enemies of Rome. And when we have earned our victory, we will have earned the loot we take from those enemies.’ He twisted slightly in his saddle to point up at the city. ‘Once Thapsis falls, you can help yourself to all the food, wine and women that lie beyond those walls. That is our prize, and until it is ours, we must accept the hunger and the cold. We must embrace it, for it will make us strong. If we can endure hardship, there is nothing we cannot achieve. That is what makes the soldiers of Rome the most feared of all men in the known world . . .’

  His gaze fixed on the condemned trio. ‘What we cannot tolerate, what makes us weak, is a lack of discipline. There is the discipline inflicted by military regulations, but that is only part of what makes a Roman soldier. More important is the discipline he applies to himself. A Roman soldier never puts himself before
his brothers. He shares what food he has with them. He shares their discomfort, and in battle he shares their risk. He is prepared to lay down his life not just for Rome, but for the men on either side of him. And that is why we cannot tolerate those who dishonour that bond. For those who do, there is only one fate. Centurion Pullinus! Carry out the sentence.’

  ‘Yes, sir! Second Century, down shields and javelins and step forward!’

  The comrades of the condemned men did as they were ordered and stood unarmed.

  ‘Over to the cart! One pick handle each and then form column of two, four feet apart. Move!’

  The legionaries lined up at the rear of the cart, where the Praetorians issued them with the tools of execution: three-foot lengths of seasoned wood that served as clubs. Once they were equipped, the men took their positions. The centurion took Selenus by the shoulder and was about to steer him towards the gap between the lines when Corbulo called out sharply.

  ‘Not him. He goes last. If the theft was his idea, as he claims, then let him see what happens to those men he persuaded to be his partners in crime. I want him to have the chance to feel remorse for the deaths of his comrades before his turn comes.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Pullinus thrust the legionary to one side and grabbed one of the younger men, who allowed himself to be pushed into position without a struggle, his face numb with terror.

  Pullinus addressed the two lines of men. ‘If I see any of you pull your blows, you’ll be on a disciplinary charge for failing to carry out your duty. Stand ready!’

  The lines faced each other and the men hefted their clubs. The jeering from Thapsis had died away as the defenders realised this was no ordinary parade, and now they looked on in morbid fascination as Pullinus stood behind the first victim and gave him a sharp shove forward. The young legionary stumbled and went down on his knees between the first pair in the line, and they lashed out with their clubs, striking him on the arms, unwilling to aim for his head and take on the burden of being the ones who felled him. The youth cried out as he struggled up, then braced his feet and rushed on, head down. More blows landed as he passed between the lines. He had gone no further than ten paces when he was struck on the back of the head and went down again. As the weapons rose and fell, his skull gave way with a soft crack that reached the ears of all those gathered around. The battering continued, and Macro saw the blood dripping from the heads of the clubs as they were wielded again and again.