rigid. ‘Prisoners to draw lots, step forward.’
Two of the five stepped out of the line. Caelus raised his fist; it held two straws. ‘Whoever draws the short straw will be seen as being guilty of striking both officers and will receive sentence from the garrison commander, the drawer of the long straw will receive a dozen strokes of the cane with the others. Now choose.’
The two hapless men, both in their early twenties, looked at each other and swallowed hard. Together they reached forward and plucked a straw each from Caelus’ hand. Vespasian could easily tell the loser, his head dropped and his shoulders sagged, whereas the other man stood bolt upright, his chest heaving as he hyperventilated with relief. No one has ever been so pleased to receive a beating before, Vespasian mused to himself.
‘Prefect Paetus,’ Caelus shouted, ‘this man is guilty. What is your sentence?’
‘Death,’ Paetus replied simply.
The speed at which the sentence was carried out surprised Vespasian. The man was brought forward to the block and made to kneel in front of it with his hands resting on it. He voluntarily bowed his head and then tensed his arms against the block, knowing that to get a quick, clean death he needed to hold his body firm. One of the guards stepped up next to him, his sword already drawn, and with a quick, vigorous downwards blow struck off the man’s head. His body fell forward and slumped over the block, spewing forth a powerful fountain of blood.
The men of the second and fifth cohorts stood in silence, eyes fixed on their dead comrade as his head was quickly collected and carried away along with his body.
‘Prisoners to the posts,’ Caelus barked again, tapping his vine cane against his legs. The four remaining men stepped up to the posts and held their hands together above their heads; they had witnessed many a beating and knew the drill. Guards secured their wrists with the leather straps and then tore the tunics from their backs, leaving them in only their loincloths. Brandishing thick vine canes, the mark of their rank, Caelus and three of his brother centurions took positions to the left of each of the men.
‘One dozen stokes on my mark,’ Caelus shouted. ‘One!’
In unison the four sturdy canes thumped down across the men’s shoulders, causing them to tense every muscle in their bodies and exhale with loud grunts.
‘Two!’
Again the canes flashed through the air, this time hitting just below the welts made by the first contacts. Vespasian could see that these centurions knew their business as they worked each stroke lower so as not to hit the same place each time and risk breaking bones; the object was to punish, not to incapacitate; had the offence required that, the whip would have been used.
By the eighth stroke blood was beginning to run down three of the men’s arms from where the leather straps had eaten into the flesh around their wrists. Only Varinus had managed to avoid this. Vespasian realised that he must be an old hand at being beaten and had learnt not to pull down with his arms at each stroke. He wondered idly if the veteran had passed on this tip to his younger mates; if he had they clearly were not able to show the same self-control as he and were suffering more than necessary because of it.
‘Ten!’
The four canes cracked on to the men’s buttocks with such force that one, Caelus’, snapped in two; the broken end flew through the air and hit the officers’ dais with a loud report.
‘Get me another,’ Caelus roared.
In the ensuing short hiatus Paetus leant over to Vespasian and whispered with a wry grin, ‘He should be careful how he asks for a new cane, don’t you think?’
Vespasian smiled at the allusion to the centurion Lucilius, known to his men as ‘Bring me another’ because of the amount of canes he had broken over their backs; he had been one of the first officers murdered when the Pannonian legions mutinied on Tiberius’ ascension.
The
Two of the five stepped out of the line. Caelus raised his fist; it held two straws. ‘Whoever draws the short straw will be seen as being guilty of striking both officers and will receive sentence from the garrison commander, the drawer of the long straw will receive a dozen strokes of the cane with the others. Now choose.’
The two hapless men, both in their early twenties, looked at each other and swallowed hard. Together they reached forward and plucked a straw each from Caelus’ hand. Vespasian could easily tell the loser, his head dropped and his shoulders sagged, whereas the other man stood bolt upright, his chest heaving as he hyperventilated with relief. No one has ever been so pleased to receive a beating before, Vespasian mused to himself.
‘Prefect Paetus,’ Caelus shouted, ‘this man is guilty. What is your sentence?’
‘Death,’ Paetus replied simply.
The speed at which the sentence was carried out surprised Vespasian. The man was brought forward to the block and made to kneel in front of it with his hands resting on it. He voluntarily bowed his head and then tensed his arms against the block, knowing that to get a quick, clean death he needed to hold his body firm. One of the guards stepped up next to him, his sword already drawn, and with a quick, vigorous downwards blow struck off the man’s head. His body fell forward and slumped over the block, spewing forth a powerful fountain of blood.
The men of the second and fifth cohorts stood in silence, eyes fixed on their dead comrade as his head was quickly collected and carried away along with his body.
‘Prisoners to the posts,’ Caelus barked again, tapping his vine cane against his legs. The four remaining men stepped up to the posts and held their hands together above their heads; they had witnessed many a beating and knew the drill. Guards secured their wrists with the leather straps and then tore the tunics from their backs, leaving them in only their loincloths. Brandishing thick vine canes, the mark of their rank, Caelus and three of his brother centurions took positions to the left of each of the men.
‘One dozen stokes on my mark,’ Caelus shouted. ‘One!’
In unison the four sturdy canes thumped down across the men’s shoulders, causing them to tense every muscle in their bodies and exhale with loud grunts.
‘Two!’
Again the canes flashed through the air, this time hitting just below the welts made by the first contacts. Vespasian could see that these centurions knew their business as they worked each stroke lower so as not to hit the same place each time and risk breaking bones; the object was to punish, not to incapacitate; had the offence required that, the whip would have been used.
By the eighth stroke blood was beginning to run down three of the men’s arms from where the leather straps had eaten into the flesh around their wrists. Only Varinus had managed to avoid this. Vespasian realised that he must be an old hand at being beaten and had learnt not to pull down with his arms at each stroke. He wondered idly if the veteran had passed on this tip to his younger mates; if he had they clearly were not able to show the same self-control as he and were suffering more than necessary because of it.
‘Ten!’
The four canes cracked on to the men’s buttocks with such force that one, Caelus’, snapped in two; the broken end flew through the air and hit the officers’ dais with a loud report.
‘Get me another,’ Caelus roared.
In the ensuing short hiatus Paetus leant over to Vespasian and whispered with a wry grin, ‘He should be careful how he asks for a new cane, don’t you think?’
Vespasian smiled at the allusion to the centurion Lucilius, known to his men as ‘Bring me another’ because of the amount of canes he had broken over their backs; he had been one of the first officers murdered when the Pannonian legions mutinied on Tiberius’ ascension.
The
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