Arrows of Fury e-2

by Anthony Riches

  Tertius frowned, puzzlement written across his face. ‘Upright? All the scourgings I’ve seen have only needed one thick post. You bend the victim over it and tie his hands and feet to keep him there while he’s having his back opened up.’

  The first spear rolled his eyes upwards. ‘Yes. I know. And this one’s going to be different. I want that idiot to be held upright while we’re flogging him to death, if you take my point. So I want two posts set in the ground, tall enough to hold him up and wide enough to stretch him out standing up with ropes tied around his wrists. You can angle them forward just a little too; make sure he’ll stay up even if he loses it halfway through. Angle them away from the parade ground, mind you. Dismissed.’

  It was close to midnight before Tertius was done with his preparations for the next day. Labouring by torchlight, his men had set up two stout posts to hold the prisoner up during his ordeal the following day. Alongside the whipping posts they had erected a simple rough cross formed from two scorched wooden beams, one nailed horizontally across the top of the other once it had been sunk deep into the soil that underlaid the parade ground’s thick gravel. Dismissing his work party to wash and find their beds, he walked exhaustedly to the tent inside which the century’s watch officer sat patiently, showing no sign of weariness. ‘I’ll watch him for an hour. Go and get a wash and a bite to eat, he’s not going anywhere.’

  The man nodded his respect, his backward glances at the prisoner expressing with perfect eloquence what military discipline forbade him to say out loud.

  The prisoner smirked at Tertius across the tent. ‘That’ll be him shitting roof tiles for the next hour. I’d bet you every denarius I have he’ll go no farther than behind the nearest tent, if I hadn’t already spent the lot on the Noisy Valley whores. That and if I weren’t going to be flogged to ribbons and then nailed to a plank for the entertainment of the cohort in the morning.’

  Tertius shook his head sadly. ‘I could find it in my head to feel sorrow for you, brother, if only you had any idea why you speared the prefect. You didn’t really know at the time, I seem to recall, and you still haven’t got a clue today, do you?’

  The condemned man shrugged under the heavy ropes securing him to the tent post. ‘Not really. He was there, shouting the fucking odds, I had the spear… you know how it is…’

  Tertius shook his head again. ‘No, I really don’t. Mother always wondered how on earth she produced two boys so very different…’

  ‘I know. Just look at the state of you.’

  Tertius laughed quietly, despite himself. ‘You’re going to die in horrible pain tomorrow, Secundus. Doesn’t that dent your humour just a little?’

  The other man shook his head. ‘It’ll be over soon enough, and I’ll be on the other side of the river. So fuck ’em all.’ He sized his brother up with an appraising glance. ‘You’ve come to say goodbye.

  Consider it said. You’ve come to ask me if I’ll take our secret with me to the grave. I will. You’ve done well for yourself, young ’un, better than I ever reckoned you would, you little bastard. Make an offering for me whenever there’s an altar to Bacchus handy, there’s a good lad.’

  The centurion looked up, his eyes wet with tears. ‘I didn’t come to ask you to protect me. I came to tell you that I’ll have revenge for you. You’ve earned a death sentence right enough, but not this way, not like a bloody barbarian slave. That bastard’s got it coming, and I’ll take his blood for doing this.’

  His brother laughed without mirth, nodding approval. ‘I expect you will, you’ve done everything else you ever set your mind to. Just don’t end up tied to a tent post and waiting to be nailed up after you’ve done it. Now dry your eyes and share one last smile with me. You don’t want to be caught crying over vermin like me.’ He waited while the centurion wiped his eyes and face with the hem of his tunic. ‘Now, before anyone else turns up, let’s get one more thing agreed, eh?’

  Tertius tilted his head in question. ‘What?’

  ‘Tomorrow. When the prefect hands the scourge round to the officers and invites you all to do your bit for military justice…?’

  The centurion took a long breath, composing himself. ‘What?’

  ‘Lay it on me like you’ve got a pair of swingers the size of apples, eh? No good my taking our little secret with me to the grave if you can’t do your bit.’

  Furius was relaxing in his tent with a beaker of wine when the tent flap opened and a centurion stepped through the gap, coming smartly to attention in front of the astonished Furius.

  ‘What the bloody…’

  ‘Centurion Appius reporting, Prefect.’

  The prefect stared at the centurion, recognising him as one of the two officers sent to escort him from Arab Town to join the cohort.

  ‘So it is. Is it usual in this cohort, Centurion, for individual officers to make their entrance to the prefect’s tent late in the evening, and without any formal request relayed via their first spear?’

  Appius shook his head, still staring straight ahead at the tent’s far wall but without any of the nervousness that the prefect would have expected his admonishment to provoke in the man.

  ‘No, sir. I am, however, responding to your request of a few days ago.’

  ‘My request…?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Back in the guest house in Arab Town, you told us that any man that could point you at the fugitive that’s reputed to be in hiding with one of the wall cohorts would be well rewarded.’

  Furius smiled slowly.

  ‘Indeed I did, Centurion…’

  ‘Appius, sir.’

  ‘Indeed I did, Appius. So what do you have for me?’

  ‘There’s a young lad serving as an officer with our sister cohort. Myself and Centurion Tertius met him in the Arab Town mess, before we came to meet you. He looks very…’

  ‘Roman?’

  ‘Yes sir, dark hair, brown eyes, and darker skin than we usually get round here unless the men have been shipped in from a lot farther south. On top of which he wears a sword with an eagle’s head as pretty as anything I’ve ever seen, beautifully engraved.’

  He had meant to mention the cloak pin whose inscription he’d read at Arab Town, but the sceptical look on the prefect’s face changed his mind.

  ‘And you think he’s the missing man, eh? Just because his eyes are brown and he has a nice sword?’

  Again Appius didn’t flinch from the harsh words.

  ‘I didn’t say I was sure he’s the one, Prefect, but I do wonder what a young Roman would be doing in such a position. I believe it’s more usually the case that young lads from the right background go to serve with the legions, prove themselves fit to command and end up as legion commanders…’

  He stopped talking as he realised that an evil look had crept across the prefect’s face. After a moment Furius realised that he was no longer speaking, and wrenched himself from his bitter reverie.

  ‘What? Oh… yes. You’re right, that is more usually the case. So why not bring this to me through the first spear? I shouldn’t imagine he’d be very happy to discover you were here without his permission.’

  Appius nodded, still apparently untroubled by the prefect’s comments.

  ‘Happy, sir? He’d have my balls off with a rusty dagger. I just thought, given that he’s a good friend of the First Cohort’s first spear…’

  ‘That we ought to keep this discussion between us?’ For the first time in the conversation the prefect smiled. ‘Absolutely right, Centurion. In which case you’d best be on your way and come back when you’ve got some slightly better evidence to offer me, eh? And don’t worry, man, I won’t be letting on to dear old Neuto that we had this conversation. I don’t intend to give either the fugitive, if that’s what he is, or the men hiding him from justice, any warning that he’s been uncovered. You find me the evidence and I’ll do the rest. And I’ll make sure you’re well rewarded for your loyalty to the throne.’

  The Tungrian officers gathered in The Hill�
��s gloomy headquarters building for morning reports as usual just before dawn, the main hall’s only illumination the torches burning along its cold stone walls. A hulking brown bearded centurion crossed the floor and clasped hands with Julius and Rufius before turning to Marcus, accentuating his welcome with a hearty slap of the young man’s shoulder. ‘Well, young Two Knives, I hear you’ve taken pity on us lonely men and recruited in a double century of Syrian girlie boys.’

  Marcus nodded in mock resignation. ‘It’s true. I knew that if I returned with a century of infantrymen you’d be after me for your cut, so I settled for Hamian bow twangers instead. There are no axemen for you to be lusting after in the Eighth Century, brother, you’ll just have to pester Tiberius Rufius for your replacements.’

  The 10th Century’s centurion slapped his shoulder again, laughing easily in the quiet gloom. ‘You cunning dog, you always were the smart one…’ He turned to Rufius, his hands spread in supplication. ‘… and as he says, Grandfather, you do have a full-strength century of big strong lads. Surely you can spare me a few? Half a dozen would be a start, ten would be perfect. Will you help your brother?’

  Rufius raised his hands defensively, backing off from the big man in apparent dismay. ‘Oh no, it just isn’t possible, Titus. You know I’d like to help you, but these new boys of mine are all well-educated and house-trained young men, drilled in the fine arts of infantry combat and military etiquette. I couldn’t in good faith condemn any of them to descend to the degraded standards of behaviour your men have sunk to. I…’

  ‘Attention!’

  The gathered officers turned to face the door and snapped to attention. First Spear Frontinius had entered the room with the prefect following him.

  ‘Brother officers, stand at ease. Make yourselves comfortable. I know that you’re not used to seeing the prefect at morning reports, but we received a courier just before nightfall yesterday with the message we’ve all been waiting for. The new governor has taken command at Noisy Valley and his first order is for several cohorts, including ourselves, to march in and join up with the legions. As of now the war with the northern tribes is back on again, and there’s still enough campaigning time left in the year for us to finish Calgus and his rabble off if they’re unwise enough to offer us a straight fight.’

  He paused for a moment, looking around his brother officers.

  ‘We’re ordered to report for attached duty with Sixth Victorious by dusk tomorrow night, which gives us one day for preparation and then a day’s march to join the legion. You’ve got today to get your men and their gear ready for a good long stint in the field, so I suggest you make the most of that time and make sure we won’t have anyone’s boots falling to pieces or spearheads coming loose at the wrong moment. You, Centurion Corvus, had better start educating your Hamians as to just what it feels like when the blue-noses come knocking, and I think you’d better have some help with that, given the amount of time we’ve got. Prefect?’

  The man waiting patiently behind him stepped out of the shadows.

  ‘Gentlemen, for those of you that have been away putting down the Carvetii, my name is Gaius Rutilius Scaurus. My orders from the governor were quite straightforward, to get ready for a month’s campaigning and bring my cohort across to join with the Sixth Legion by the end of tomorrow. Given the sparse nature of those orders there isn’t all that much to be said on that particular subject, but I can give you an insight into this new governor. I believe that the last man to hold the post tended to take a back seat to the legion commanders when it came to setting the pace of operations. That will not be the case under Ulpius Marcellus, I can assure you. We’ll soon be up in Calgus’s face and looking to provoke him to come out of whatever hidey-hole he’s hidden himself in and fight. I know this cohort has a proud reputation, and I know that reputation only got stronger given the fight you won against the odds earlier this summer. I think you can confidently expect the governor to be keen to make full use of your abilities, so make sure your men are ready for action, because make no mistake, gentlemen, it’s coming your way. First Spear…?’

  Frontinius stepped forward.

  ‘Thank you, Prefect. We parade at dawn as usual, full kit and marching order, please, both practice swords and iron to be worn. Today, my brothers, is going to be a long day for us all. Dismissed, gentlemen, with the exception of the following officers: Corvus, Julius, Rufius and Dubnus. I need a discussion with the four of you on the subject of getting our newest recruits ready to fight before this new governor puts us back into the war.’

  The 2nd Tungrian cohort paraded soon after first light. Once the cohort had marched on to The Rock’s parade ground, found their places under the grey sky and settled down, Prefect Furius walked out in front of them with a grim face. He nodded to Neuto, and the First Spear rapped out a crisp order.

  ‘Bring out the prisoner!’

  Soldier Secundus was marched on to the parade ground and tied to the whipping posts, his arms stretched tightly out to either side to keep him upright. Ropes strung between the posts at chest and groin level waited to catch his body when, as was usual with heavy floggings, he passed out with the pain and loss of blood. The men guarding him stripped away the loincloth that had been his only garment and stepped away from the whipping posts. Prefect Furius squinted across the parade ground at the posts, a note of uncertainty in his voice.

  ‘An interesting arrangement, First Spear. Not exactly standard.’

  Neuto nodded, shrugging.

  ‘It’s my usual method in these circumstances, Prefect. Once the scourging’s well under way he’ll faint away from loss of blood and pain, and I like to keep them on their feet. Keeps the blood in the body longer, and lets the troops see the mess we’re making of the man. Sets an example, if you like.’

  He watched the prefect carefully as the man raised an appreciative eyebrow.

  ‘Good thinking, First Spear Neuto. Sets an example indeed.’

  Neuto muttered a silent prayer of thanks to his gods, nodding his respect to the prefect with his face an inscrutable mask.

  ‘Thank you, Prefect. Now, if you’ll permit me…?’

  He walked out in front of the cohort, shouting for the waiting men to come to attention.

  ‘Second Cohort!’ The silence while the soldiers waited for him to speak again was almost tangible. ‘Second Cohort, you will this morning witness the execution of the man that murdered Prefect Bassus. Let this be an example to you of how we deal with criminals within our ranks.’

  He walked grimly across to the helpless prisoner, readying himself to play his part as the first officer to wield the scourge, shaking its leather ropes loose with an impatient gesture before pulling his arm back in readiness for the first blow.

  ‘Hold!’

  Furius stepped forward, his hand outstretched.

  ‘I think I’ll take the first five, First Spear. You did the hard work yesterday in getting the fool to confess…’

  He hefted the scourge for a moment, letting all gathered see him examine the braided ropes, jagged pieces of bone knotted into the leather at each finger-length from the handle, then flicked the whip high over his shoulder before delivering a fearsome blow across Secundus’s back from right shoulder to left kidney. He struck again, aiming at the left shoulder to paint a rough cross of deeply scored wounds on the condemned soldier’s back. Blood began to seep slowly down the valley of the man’s spine. The third blow was delivered horizontally across the small of the prisoner’s back, the prefect swinging his whole body into the whip’s vicious strike. The fourth blow scourged his backside, clawing deep into the soft flesh of his buttocks, while the fifth was delivered with shocking power straight down the back of his head, ripping away lumps of hair and scalp. The last blow tore a moan of pain from the previously silent soldier.

  Furius turned back to his suddenly wide-eyed troops, walking the few paces to the third century and handing the whip to Tertius. A soldier from a century to his left suddenly bent doubl
e and noisily puked his breakfast up on to the parade ground, momentarily unable to comply with his centurion’s barked command to get back in the ranks.

  ‘Five lashes per centurion, starting with the prisoner’s own officer, and all to be delivered with the same force I’ve just demonstrated. Two to the back, one to the kidneys, one to the arse and one to the head. Any man going easy on this piece of shit at any time will be ordered to repeat the blow and be subjected to administrative punishment and loss of pay. I know that’s five more than I ordered, but let’s call it five more for luck, eh? Begin!’

  Tertius stepped forward, the tremor in his right eye hidden from the watching soldiers by his helmet’s brim, hesitating for a second that seemed to last a lifetime as he looked down at the scourge’s bloody leather ropes. A piece of skin was caught on one of the whip’s bone teeth, almost translucent in the early morning sun, and he bent to flick it away into the parade ground’s dust.

  ‘Go on, lad.’

  The words, snarled through his brother’s gritted teeth, snapped him back to the moment. He bent over the whip, readying himself to swing it back over his head for the first stroke, and muttered a reply that only his brother would hear.

  ‘I’ll be making a sacrifice in your memory, brother, but not to Bacchus. My offering will be to Nemesis.’

  He arched his back to put the maximum possible power into the first stroke before swinging the bloody leather ropes across his brother’s back, that part of him which quailed at the horrible damage wrought by the scourge’s bone teeth buried deep beneath both the need for survival and the possibility of sparing his brother the cross’s final indignity. Wielding the scourge with such power that his feet left the ground momentarily during each stroke, he hammered the whip’s flailing tails into Secundus’s body with all his strength. With the fifth blow delivered, raking as powerfully into the helpless body suspended in front of him as the first, Tertius turned back to the cohort with a stone face, seeing Neuto’s nod of approval out of the corner of his eye as the first spear took the scourge from him.