judging by the bloody dressing on his groin, they were not the only appendages that he had lost. He woke as the light fell on his face and looked up at the visitors with desperate pleading eyes.
‘Help me die, sir,’ he croaked. ‘I cannot hold a sword with these hands.’
Paetus looked at the doctor who shrugged. ‘Very well, legionary,’ he said, ‘but first I want you to tell the tribune what you told me earlier.’
The legionary looked at Vespasian with sorrowful eyes; he couldn’t have been more than eighteen. ‘They were waiting for us in the woods, sir.’ His words came slowly with shallow breaths. ‘We killed two of them before we were overpowered. They looked like Thracians, but their language was different to what they speak here and they wore trousers.’ His voice grew thinner as he spoke; the doctor held a cup of water to his mouth and he drank greedily. ‘They started with Postumus first, they bound his mouth to stop him screaming and then went to work on him with their knives – slowly; he’d been badly wounded in the ambush and so didn’t last long. One of them spoke Greek and told us that was what would happen to us if we didn’t cooperate. My mate told them to go fuck themselves; that pissed them off and they cut him up worse than Postumus. I was terrified by this time, sir, and after they cut me a few times I said that I would help them. I’m sorry.’
‘What did they want?’ Vespasian asked.
‘They wanted me to identify you when you came out of the camp, sir. We waited for a couple of days, and then you came out this morning with two slaves to go hunting. I’m sorry to say that I was relieved, I thought that they would leave me alone. But they called me a coward for betraying my people and two of them did this to me while the other two followed you.’
‘There were four?’ Vespasian glanced over to Paetus who raised his eyebrows.
‘Yes, sir. Now finish it.’
Paetus drew his sword. ‘What’s your name, legionary?’
‘Decimus Falens, sir.’
He placed the tip of the sword under his lower left rib. ‘Leave this life in peace, Decimus Falens, you will be remembered.’ He cupped the man’s head in his left hand and thrust his sword up under his ribcage and into his heart. Falens spasmed violently, his eyes bulging with pain, then, as the life fled out of him, he looked at Paetus with relief.
CHAPTER III
T HE MEN OF the second and fifth cohorts of the IIII Scythica snapped to attention in front of a wooden block and four seven-foot-high posts. The high-pitched call of the signal horn, the bucina , echoed around the parade ground. Vespasian stood next to Paetus on a dais, surveying, with tired eyes, the rigid lines of legionaries. He had not slept well; his mind had raced all night. After leaving the hospital he had joined Sabinus and Magnus in his quarters and told them what had transpired during the evening. Paetus’ offer of a turma of thirty cavalry to escort them to Pomponius’ camp had cheered them slightly but neither had been pleased with the prospect of having Poppaeus’ man accompany them or by the fact that there were two more Getae out there with their bows aimed at them. Their complaints, however, fell on deaf ears as Vespasian turned his attention to the letters that Sabinus had brought. The two from his parents contained nothing more than news of the estates from his father and a stream of advice from his mother, but Caenis’ words of love and longing made his heart leap.
The horn rang out again, bringing Vespasian back to the business of the morning. Five men were led out of the guardhouse next to the hospital, and paraded before the cohorts; they were halted by their guards in front of the posts and the block. They wore only their sandals and their russet tunics, humiliatingly unbelted, like a woman’s.
‘Centurion Caelus,’ Paetus called out, ‘prepare the prisoners for punishment.’
‘Prisoners, attention!’ Caelus barked. The men jerked
‘Help me die, sir,’ he croaked. ‘I cannot hold a sword with these hands.’
Paetus looked at the doctor who shrugged. ‘Very well, legionary,’ he said, ‘but first I want you to tell the tribune what you told me earlier.’
The legionary looked at Vespasian with sorrowful eyes; he couldn’t have been more than eighteen. ‘They were waiting for us in the woods, sir.’ His words came slowly with shallow breaths. ‘We killed two of them before we were overpowered. They looked like Thracians, but their language was different to what they speak here and they wore trousers.’ His voice grew thinner as he spoke; the doctor held a cup of water to his mouth and he drank greedily. ‘They started with Postumus first, they bound his mouth to stop him screaming and then went to work on him with their knives – slowly; he’d been badly wounded in the ambush and so didn’t last long. One of them spoke Greek and told us that was what would happen to us if we didn’t cooperate. My mate told them to go fuck themselves; that pissed them off and they cut him up worse than Postumus. I was terrified by this time, sir, and after they cut me a few times I said that I would help them. I’m sorry.’
‘What did they want?’ Vespasian asked.
‘They wanted me to identify you when you came out of the camp, sir. We waited for a couple of days, and then you came out this morning with two slaves to go hunting. I’m sorry to say that I was relieved, I thought that they would leave me alone. But they called me a coward for betraying my people and two of them did this to me while the other two followed you.’
‘There were four?’ Vespasian glanced over to Paetus who raised his eyebrows.
‘Yes, sir. Now finish it.’
Paetus drew his sword. ‘What’s your name, legionary?’
‘Decimus Falens, sir.’
He placed the tip of the sword under his lower left rib. ‘Leave this life in peace, Decimus Falens, you will be remembered.’ He cupped the man’s head in his left hand and thrust his sword up under his ribcage and into his heart. Falens spasmed violently, his eyes bulging with pain, then, as the life fled out of him, he looked at Paetus with relief.
CHAPTER III
T HE MEN OF the second and fifth cohorts of the IIII Scythica snapped to attention in front of a wooden block and four seven-foot-high posts. The high-pitched call of the signal horn, the bucina , echoed around the parade ground. Vespasian stood next to Paetus on a dais, surveying, with tired eyes, the rigid lines of legionaries. He had not slept well; his mind had raced all night. After leaving the hospital he had joined Sabinus and Magnus in his quarters and told them what had transpired during the evening. Paetus’ offer of a turma of thirty cavalry to escort them to Pomponius’ camp had cheered them slightly but neither had been pleased with the prospect of having Poppaeus’ man accompany them or by the fact that there were two more Getae out there with their bows aimed at them. Their complaints, however, fell on deaf ears as Vespasian turned his attention to the letters that Sabinus had brought. The two from his parents contained nothing more than news of the estates from his father and a stream of advice from his mother, but Caenis’ words of love and longing made his heart leap.
The horn rang out again, bringing Vespasian back to the business of the morning. Five men were led out of the guardhouse next to the hospital, and paraded before the cohorts; they were halted by their guards in front of the posts and the block. They wore only their sandals and their russet tunics, humiliatingly unbelted, like a woman’s.
‘Centurion Caelus,’ Paetus called out, ‘prepare the prisoners for punishment.’
‘Prisoners, attention!’ Caelus barked. The men jerked
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