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 double 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.
As Tertius settled into the parade rest at the head of his century he saw the senior centurion deliver his first blow, grunting explosively with the force he put into the scourge’s application. More than one of the whip’s tails flew astray, their bone teeth flicking across the prisoner’s throat unseen by most of the men on parade. As he watched his eyes narrowed with the realisation as to just why Neuto had bid him set up the unusual whipping posts. The first spear delivered the same blow to the other shoulder, and again the whip strayed fractionally in its path to rake across the helpless soldier’s neck. The prefect stood contentedly to one side as the whip was passed to the next centurion with a few quiet words of encouragement from Neuto, his satisfaction evident as this officer also laid into the prisoner with all his strength. Again the first two strokes flicked around his brother’s throat, and, watching the man’s legs carefully, he saw a thin rivulet of blood twisting round the bared thigh. A sharp-eyed soldier to Tertius’s right muttered a comment to his mate and he whirled round, rapping his vine stick across the man’s arm with a meaningful stare.
‘Silence in the ranks!’
After thirty or so lashes Secundus sank against the ropes stretched across his body, the agonising pain and blood loss robbing him of his ability to stay upright. The blood running down his neck no longer sheeted down his chest and legs to merge with that flowing from his ruined back, but now fell in a shower of heavy drops into the gravel a foot in front of his feet. Still the prefect did not seem to realise that the prisoner was now fighting for his very life, and the officers continued to take their turn with the scourge, now heavy with torn flesh and an accumulation of drying blood. The cohort’s mood had subtly changed as the scene had played out in front of them, and as more of the soldiers had realised that their prefect was being robbed of his crucifixion with every heavy drop of blood that fell from their comrade’s neck. Previously standing in sullen resignation, they now watched with hawk-eyed attention the vigour with which each centurion prosecuted his share of the flogging, realising with something approaching gratitude their officers’ determination to kill the man with the whip, and spare him the cross’s agonising asphyxiation. With the punishment’s completion, the first spear stepped forward and put an expert finger to the motionless prisoner’s bloody windpipe, pulling a face and turning back to the cohort with a shout for assistance.
‘Bandage carrier!’
While the field medic fussed around the prisoner, seeking a pulse, the senior centurion grimaced to Furius.
‘It happens sometimes. The Jews, I believe, limit the practice to forty lashes for fear of killing the offender…’ He paused as the bandage carrier turned and shook his head. ‘… as seems to have been the case here. No matter, Prefect, justice has been done, and been seen to be done. We have a cross ready. Shall we nail him up and parade the men past his corpse?’
The prefect stared closely at his deputy for a moment, his eyes narrowed slightly in suspicion, but the first spear’s return gaze was blameless. Furius nodded, his face sour.
‘Indeed, First Spear. A shame to be robbed of the man’s last agonised breaths, though…’
The wistful look on his face told Neuto everything he needed to know about his new commander.
4
The Tungrian cohort marched down the hill to the parade ground an hour after dawn with both purpose and trepidation. The troops were unusually quiet and orderly in the cold early light, reflecting soberly on orders that could see any or all of them dead inside the month. The prefect stood alongside First Spear Frontinius, watching the centuries march past, his German bodyguard close behind him. The red-haired giant, a full head taller than his master, had excited much comment in the cohort, both for the obvious strength in his heavily muscled and scarred body and as a result of his apparent unwillingness to speak to anyone save the prefect himself. More than one of the officers had greeted the man, to be met with no more than a respectful nod of his massive head. While there was nothing at which anyone could take offence, neither was there any hint that the man would be a source of either conversation or, more importantly to the cohort’s soldiers, information.
‘Your men look purposeful enough, First Spear, although I’d expected a little more…’
Prefect Scaurus paused for a moment, searching for the right word.
‘Banter? Horseplay? Usually you’d have got it, they express themselves just like any other cohort on the frontier, but they know what’s coming. We lost the best part of two centuries at Lost Eagle, and they were probably assuming that it was too late in the year for any more serious campaigning.’
The prefect nodded his understanding.
‘Nobody can say they haven’t demonstrated their loyalty to the emperor this year. That’s the problem with reputations, there’s always someone that wants to see them demonstrated…’
Frontinius studied the younger man with a sideways glance as his new commander watched the centuries flowing out of the fort and down its paved road on to the wide parade ground. A head taller than the first spear, the prefect had a spare frame more suited to distance running than infantry combat, yet seemed to carry the weight of his armour and helmet easily enough.
‘And speaking of reputations, you’re still not sure what to make of what you see, eh, First Spear?’
Frontinius started at his prefect’s comment, delivered in a level, almost bored tone without the younger man ever taking his eyes off the marching troops.
‘I’m sorry, Prefect, I was just…’
‘Relax. It would be a strange thing if you weren’t still wondering what to expect from your new commander. Right about now I should probably be telling you what an experienced soldier I am, putting your mind at ease on the
