The Broken Lance

by Jess Steven Hughes

  We walked a little further when Rufius motioned to halt. He looked back toward the building site and said in a lower voice, “They’re too far away to hear us, but I’m not chancing it. There is more to the story. Besides ordering Gallus to rebuild the camp, he must pay for the construction out of his own pocket.”

  I snorted. “Serves the thief right. But he is sure to take his anger out on the troops.”

  “On us, more likely,” Rufius answered. “The general gave him a nasty reprimand for the camp’s condition. Then he rubbed Gallus’s nose in the mud again.”

  “How?” We continued our walk down the street.

  “He praised you all over again for taking the initiative and flushing out that nest of temple spies. Gallus was seething. Only Gallus’s family’s influence with the emperor saved him from being cashiered on the spot, according to Sabinus. If Sabinus had his way, Gallus would have been gone, family influence be damned.”

  Gallus wouldn’t allow the general’s compliments to pass without taking revenge. A shake slithered up my spine. I feared he was planning something vindictive. I had disobeyed his orders, and gotten away with it. In the process, he was made to look the fool. Worst of all, Gallus would view my deeds as another insult by my family to his.

  We entered Gallus’s office. A smoky brazier sat on an iron tripod in one corner giving off little warmth. His cold, blue eyes glared at us as from behind the table where he sat. The tribune’s Greek clerk, as usual, was busy copying reports. But I caught the Greek’s wry smile out of the corner of my eye. To Gallus’s right stood a small, delicate, gold pitcher containing an amber-colored wine, probably an expensive Albanian. Close by sat a small ornately gilded drinking cup. He took a slow sip from it, swilled noisily, and then wiped his mouth with a silken cloth. He set the cup on the table and glared once more at me. “You can thank the gods that your prisoners were so valuable, Sergeant Reburrus. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have seen dawn.”

  “Yes, sir,” I replied, keeping a bland face, swallowing my contempt for him. The thought of killing Gallus crossed my mind, but his very real authority of life and death over me caused me to refrain from carrying out such a foolish act.

  “When I issue orders, I demand they be obeyed. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir, but the savages—”

  “Silence! I’m not finished.” Gallus took another noisy gulp of wine and belched. “It seems that you have found favor in the eyes of General Sabinus,” he added sardonically. “For some reason I cannot fathom, he thinks you show promise. Personally, I find you insolent and disobedient. Of course, both of us know your true motive, don’t we?”

  Sextus Rufius gave me a puzzled look. I had never told him of my family obligation. He would have done everything in his authority to discourage me. Both of us had seen ambitious men who made reckless decisions in pursuit of glory. Had I not made the same mistake? This was never my intent, but the promise I made to my mother about becoming a member of the Equestrian Order was turning into a curse.

  “From now on,” Gallus continued, “he, or rather, I will be watching you. Now, listen very carefully,” he spoke in a slower more deliberate tone, “if you deviate from future orders in any way, no matter how trivial, you will be immediately court-martialed. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Very well.” He turned to Rufius. “Decurion, you will be held responsible for his conduct.”

  “May I say something in his behalf, Tribune?” Rufius asked.

  Gallus slightly turned his head in Rufius’s direction and scowled. “What is it?”

  “Despite his disobedience, Sergeant Reburrus found the secret temple. What was he supposed to do when he saw one of our scouts conversing with the enemy? He did what any good soldier would—kill or capture the enemy.”

  “It will not be done at my expense,” Gallus replied. “It is outrageous enough to pay for the rebuilding of the garrison, but I will not be made a fool of in front of any general, especially Sabinus, no matter how valuable the captives may be.”

  Gallus delicately clasped the cup again with his manicured fingers and took another swallow of wine. “I am going to impress upon you once and for all the meaning of obeying my orders.” For a moment, he studied me with hatred. “What is the penalty for soldiers who desert their posts in time of war?”

  For a few seconds, I remained silent. What was his meaning? I had missed something and could not figure out his message. “Death by clubbing, stoning, or flogging, sir, the Fustuarium,” I answered.

  Gallus’s mouth twisted into a cat-like smile. “So, you do remember. Yes, by soldiers of the offender’s unit. Four nights ago, a sentry on picket duty from the second troop was discovered by the officer of the watch in the bushes plowing a native slut. He was court-martialed yesterday and found guilty. When you’re dismissed, report to the decurion in charge of his troop at the parade field. You will participate in his execution.”

  My body tightened, and my face heated. Now, I understood the meaning of the command.

  “You see, Sergeant, the whole camp knows you captured prisoners in disobedience of orders,” Gallus lectured. “They don’t know the reason, although I am sure they heard rumors, but they know you went unpunished. All they understand is that another man is going to die for his misdeed. I know there is no love lost between you southern Spaniards and the Asturians, but I am sure they are united in believing his breach of conduct was not as serious as yours. No, I cannot court-martial you, but I can make you an example and very unpopular with the rest of your fellow Spaniards.” A sadistic grin revealing perfect, white teeth crossed his pale, narrow face.

  Outwardly, I wanted to shake, it was all I could do to keep my body under control. I refused to give Gallus the pleasure of seeing my distress. Nearly every man in camp, outside of my own troop, would despise me. I had heard that Avaro, the trooper sentenced to death, had been arrested before my squadron was sent on patrol. He was quite popular in his unit. Now, his friends had been ordered to execute him. I could almost feel their hostility as I, who had escaped a similar death, would participate in clubbing their comrade to death.

  Gallus raised a thin eyebrow and inquired in a mocking voice. “Is there something wrong?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Good. Dismissed.”

  *

  An hour later, all troops not on guard duty assembled on the parade field outside the fort to witness the execution. Nearly nine hundred men formed into an open square. The weather was cool as the sun peered over the horizon. Gallus stood in the center on a raised, wooden platform accompanied by the senior centurion of Infantry Cohort First Asturum and the senior decurion from the detachment of Cavalry Cohort Hispanorum Vettanom.

  In the two months since our arrival, four more troops of thirty horsemen each had been transferred from Moguntiacum, our base in Germania, to Britannia. Except for the crimson plume worn crosswise on the centurion’s helmet as opposed to the one worn front to back on the decurion’s, the two officers wore similar uniforms of covered, chain-mailed tunics, breeches, and sandaled boots. However, the decurion was subordinate in authority and status to the centurion. Next to the officers stood the standard bearer-signifer, clothed in a ceremonial lion’s robe, holding the cohort standard. Two staff trumpeters with long, circular instruments, the cornus, wrapped about their shoulders, stood on the same platform behind the standard bearer.

  The senior centurion called the cohorts to attention. Gallus ordered the prisoner brought forward. From somewhere to the rear, ten guards escorted the captive to a position in front and below the commander. Hanging his head, he stood clad in a brown homespun cloak, his hands tied in back, outlined beneath the garment. Gallus nodded and the cornus blared a long, deep note followed quickly by a long, high one.

  As the proclamation of execution was read by the senior centurion, Avaro looked skyward. Pink-tinted clouds drifted in pursuit of retreating purple skies. He appeared to be ignoring the edict and inhaled the crisp
morning air, not out of fear, which he must have had, but perhaps in deep appreciation for his last glimpse of a bird in flight. Others before him had died miserably in rain and squalor . . . at least his death would not be one hastened by impatient men hating him for their temporary discomfort. It was a beautiful day to live, and to die.

  When the centurion finished, the prisoner was prodded by lances to an area near a pile of hardwood clubs. The bearded senior officer turned to the senior decurion next to him. “Carry out the sentence.”

  The cavalry officer called the junior decurion of Hispanorum Vettanom’s second troop forward. “Proceed with the execution,” he commanded.

  The junior officer saluted, did an about-face, and returned to his men. “Second Troop,” he barked, “to your positions. Move!”

  The officer did an about-turn. “Second Century,” he barked, “to your positions. Move!”

  The men left their places, in the formation next to ours, and quick-marched to where the prisoner stood. I fell in behind them. We marched to the pile of hardwood cudgels, each soldier taking one as he passed. Two parallel lines formed, through which the victim would have to pass. After grabbing an instrument of death, I sensed all eyes were on me rather than the prisoner.

  Gallus and the other officers turned toward the killing ground to witness the event. He showed no emotion, but I’m certain he enjoyed my sense of guilt and humiliation.

  I took my place at the far end of the line. The others glared at me, hatred in their eyes, in their twisted faces, and sneering mouths. They muttered among themselves. Standing next to me was Mardonius, a tall, curly haired squadron leader. “It ought to be you, not him, getting killed.” He spat at my feet. “Avaro was one of my best men, you shit eater!”

  I tensed and glanced at him. It was all I could do not to smash Mardonius with my club.

  “Aye, he was a good lad,” another trooper added behind me. “He don’t deserve to die, not over a woman!”

  “Shut your fucking mouths!” the pocked-face junior decurion roared. The guards brought Avaro forward. He was short but muscular, a tough one to bring down. They ripped off his cloak, and he stood naked with his hands tied behind his back. His grim face swung about, and he glance blankly at the nearby stretcher and grave diggers, who momentarily would carry him to an unmarked grave. After deserting his post, the condemned trooper wasn’t entitled to the privilege of cremation. Probably knowing that we were the last faces he would ever see, Avaro stared at us one final time.

  The senior officer raised his arm. “Carry out the sentence,” he commanded, and dropped his hand. Again, the cornus sounded. The guards shoved the prisoner into the jaws of the gauntlet, and the flogging began. I don’t know how he endured such a bashing, the sounds of wood on flesh echoing across the parade field. Silently, he endured the terrible pain as he stumbled, staggered, and spun forward with the fury of each crash to his body. Instant welts, raised from flat-sided blows, and deep gashes spurting blood covered his torso. Repeatedly he fell only to rise again, continuing on his tortuous passage down the line of death. His head and body became a mass of scarlet, bleeding welts. Blood gushed from his nose and mouth and streamed from his hair.

  The men had been threatened with decimation. One out of every ten men in the squadron would be executed if they failed to carry out the sentence vigorously. They struck with all their might, crimson-streaked weapons thudding through the air, blood covering the faces and tunics of nearly every trooper.

  Naturally, I would be blamed for Avaro’s death no matter who struck the final blow. I was determined to put him out of his misery. It wouldn’t take long. When he stumbled by, everyone seemed to know my intentions. The gauntlet of raised clubs lowered slowly, all eyes glaring at me as I lifted mine. Hatred itself seemed a living thing. As blood oozed down the side of his face, Avaro looked at me through puffed eyelids that seemed to plead for an end to his suffering. Curses and taunts drifted from the ranks of troopers. He dropped to his knees before me and bowed.

  In that instant I turned and saw Gallus watching intently—he knew this would happen. For a fleeting second, he sucked the bottom of his lip as if in anticipation. I raised my club and with one swift smash to Avaro’s temple, he fell to the muddied ground dead.

  His broken body lay at my feet, fixed eyes staring thanks.

  I dropped my weapon in an attempt to control my anger. It was Gallus whom I wanted to club—not this man. I wanted to sit down and weep. I wanted to vomit but swallowed it and stood erect, muscles tight, displaying a sober face.

  As the senior centurion sauntered over and examined the body, my eyes locked with those of Gallus. The slightest hint of a smile upon his lips betrayed the stern, expressionless mask he wore and the mocking laughter in his eyes. Determining that the sentence of death had been carried out, the officer gestured to the litter bearers. He returned to the platform and notified Gallus.

  When the cohort was dismissed, I handed the squadron over to Crispus for the rest of the day. He understood. I headed for the latrine and vomited. Afterwards, I trudged to the squadron tent and rooted out Crispus’s jar of rot-gut wine.

  I drank myself into oblivion.

  But even as I drank, I knew my destiny and Gallus’s were entwined, for the worst.

  Chapter 8 - Early April, 44 AD

  Within ten days of General Vespasian’s order, the camp’s reconstruction had been completed. Even Gallus seemed pleased. While the cavalry troops cut and faced logs, the infantry teams constructed the buildings. A new granary and hospital and ten long barracks, each divided into ten rooms quartering as many men, stood adjacent to new headquarters, the Principia. The timber walls around the camp were built higher and thicker. Double portals with guard chambers were added on each side of the fort, along with upper-story rooms looking out over the entrance.

  However, the cavalry cohort troops constructed their own buildings—they required larger rooms. Unlike infantry, cavalrymen kept their tack where they slept. Saddles and harnesses took up space and could not be left in the elements to rot or be stolen. The quarters required four barracks blocks, housing two troops totaling sixty men, a final tally of two hundred and forty men and officers. Stables for an equal number of horses and one hundred and twenty spare mounts stood across the street.

  On a piecemeal basis, over a period of two months, about half of Cavalry Cohort Hispanorum Vettonum had arrived from Germania.

  One morning as I walked with him on his daily inspection of the stables, I asked Sextus Rufius when the rest would be transferred.

  “They’re staying in Germania.” Rufius halted at the stall where hawk-faced Indibil was grooming his mare. The decurion pulled up the rear hoof of Indibil’s horse. “I see this crack is healing nicely.” He released the animal’s foot.

  “Yes, sir,” Indibil said. “I used a coating of pine tar and linseed oil that Sergeant Reburrus recommended. If he hadn’t spotted the break, my little Dama would have gone lame.”

  “Good man, Marcellus.”

  We continued walking through the stables. “Headquarters says we’ll return to Germania at the end of the campaign season,” Rufius said.

  “Do you honestly believe the report?”

  “No, my old bones say we’re here, permanently.” Rufius inspected the remaining stalls, and we returned to our mounts outside.

  The decurion grabbed the front pommel of his saddle and pulled himself onto the gelding. “The men did a fine job building the stables and constructing a decent blacksmith shop.”

  “Aye, infantrymen don’t have the same appreciation we have for horses.”

  *

  During the afternoon, Gallus gave the new camp its final inspection and grudgingly allowed the men permission to go into the village.

  “Here’s money for the men’s pleasures,” I said to Crispus once the squadron had returned to the barracks. I handed him a small pouch of copper asses. The troopers knew I came from a wealthy family. My men were from good peasant stock, but t
o avoid resentment, I seldom spoke about the family fortune. On special occasions, such as building the barracks, I rewarded them for their hard work. Most of the money would be spent at Rix’s tavern and brothel.

  “Why don’t you go?” Crispus asked.

  “This is the men’s treat.”

  “That’s not the real reason.”

  “You know why. Rix is a stinking thief.” I had been to his place once since arriving in Britannia. “I hate living a celibate life, but most of his women seemed diseased.”

  “You’re too particular about your wenches.”

  “Horseshit, I liked the German women. Some were real beauties, and they took baths. Rix’s are pigs. No, worse than pigs, flies die under their skirts.”

  Located on the outskirts of the village, Rix’s camp sat across the river from the fort. The place was a motley collection of vermin-infested lean-tos, grimy hovels, tattered tents, clapboard shacks, and wagons. Like festering scabs, they lined the muddy path leading to the base. With their meager pay, the troops bought the displayed wares and trinkets at exorbitant prices. Rix’s business, situated in the biggest dwelling, flourished. Only the wine was sold cheap. In turn, the men were freer to pay.

  I knew Rix from Germania. He used the same tactic there.

  Other buildings belonged to soothsayers, fake healers, fortune tellers, merchants, and other scum-suckers. For a percentage, Rix allowed them to ply their clandestine trades. On the edge of this grimy community, a number of huts housed native women who lived with some of the troops.

  For the privilege of not being placed off-limits to the soldiers, Gallus extracted a twenty percent commission on all profits. Rix did not dare complain to General Vespasian. Soon after opening for trade, he had cheated a soldier by serving him a cheap Tarragonian wine after he paid for an expensive Samian. The trooper knew the difference, and Rix lost his left eye to the knob-hilt of a spatha. Upon recovery, Rix reported the incident to Vespasian in Noviomagnus. For his troubles, the general had Rix flogged out of camp. He threatened to crucify the Gaul if he ever complained again about being beaten or cheated by a soldier he had cheated. Rix got what he deserved. From what I had heard, the thief should have been blinded twice in each eye.