Rome's Executioner by Robert Fabbri

Caelus,’ Paetus called, ‘have them taken away; punishment will be tomorrow at the second hour. Dismiss the men.’
    A square-jawed centurion in his mid-thirties stepped forward, resplendent in his traverse white horsehair plumed helmet and numerous phalerae that glinted in the torchlight.
    ‘Sir, before the men are dismissed I wish to make a suggestion.’
    Paetus rolled his eyes, he was beginning to think that this meeting would never end, but he was obliged to hear what his senior centurion and acting prefect of the camp had to say. ‘Yes, centurion.’
    Caelus turned his cold, suspicious eyes on Vespasian. ‘I applaud the tribune’s offer to intercede on the men’s behalf with the legate; however, I think that weight would be added to that appeal if a member of the centurionate were with him.’ There was a murmur of agreement from the crowd. ‘And it would be appropriate if, as the most senior in the garrison, I were that centurion.’
    The murmur turned to cheers then to chants of ‘Caelus’. Paetus turned to Vespasian and smiled apologetically. ‘I’m sorry, old chap, we’ve been outmanoeuvred, it appears that you have an unwelcome guest in your party,’ he said quietly, then he raised his voice: ‘I agree; the centurion will accompany your tribune.’ With that he turned and walked down the side steps of the Principia towards the hospital. As Vespasian followed he glanced at Caelus, who gave him a thin smile filled with latent animosity.
    ‘It would seem that the centurion means to keep an eye on you,’ Paetus observed as they walked across the dimly lit parade ground behind the Principia towards the hospital situated on the other side.
    ‘Yes, something has made him suspicious,’ Vespasian replied, ‘but it’s pointless worrying about it now, I’m stuck with him. The more pressing questions are how I’m going to explain the presence of six of the Queen’s men in the expedition and how I’m going to give Caelus the slip once I’ve spoken to Pomponius.’
    ‘The answer to the first is easy, you just say that they are carrying a message from Tryphaena to Pomponius and are taking advantage of your numbers for protection on the journey. The answer to the second is a little trickier.’ Paetus looked meaningfully at Vespasian.
    ‘I’ll have to kill him?’
    ‘In all probability, yes; unless of course you want Poppaeus to know where you’re going and what you’re doing.’ Paetus passed through the hospital door; Vespasian followed, realising that he was right.
    Inside the smell of rotting flesh and stale blood assailed their nostrils. Paetus called to a slave mopping down the floor. ‘Go and fetch the doctor.’ The slave bowed briefly then scuttled off.
    The doctor arrived without much delay. ‘Good evening, sir, how can I be of service?’ His accent showed that he was Greek, as were most army doctors in the East.
    ‘Take us to see the man brought in this afternoon, Hesiod.’
    ‘He is sleeping, sir.’
    ‘Well, wake him up then; we need to speak with him.’
    Grudgingly the doctor nodded and, picking up an oil lamp, led them off. They passed through a ward of twenty beds, most of them occupied, and on through a door at the end into a dark corridor with three doors down one side. The smell was more intense here. The doctor paused at the first door. ‘The putrefaction of the flesh has grown worse since you last saw him, sir. I now don’t think that he will live.’
    ‘I don’t think he wants to anyway,’ Paetus said, following the doctor through the door.
    Vespasian almost gagged as he entered; the sickly-sweet, cloying smell of decaying flesh was overpowering. The doctor raised his lamp and Vespasian could see why the man would have no further interest in life. His nose and ears had been severed, the wounds covered by a blood-spotted bandage wrapped around his face. The palms of his hands were likewise bandaged, but just the palms, his fingers and thumbs were all missing and,