“He killed my men with this,” Raman said in his atrocious Latin and held forth a long object of dull steel worked into some sort of wooden device.
Bachus took it in his hands but could make no sense of it. It was a machine of many moving parts but had no visible blade or manner of projecting missiles. He lifted it to his nose and found an oily smell along with the scent of sulfur. There were blood and hair matted on the broad wooden end of the weapon. Was it some sort of Celtic ceremonial club he was unfamiliar with? He tossed it aside. There were other objects in the growing heap, but none of them meant anything to him.
The centurion stood and strode to where the naked man lay glowering up at him.
“Do you speak Latin?” Bacchus said in vain hope. The man spat a string of words that meant nothing to anyone in the tent. His optio had spent much time in Gaul and could make no sense of it. It was certainly a language, but not one known to anyone in attendance. Titus set aside his wax tablet. There was nothing in the prisoner’s gibberish worth recording.
Raman, the archer headman, stamped on the man’s wounded leg. The Celt bit off a cry of pain then spoke under his breath to the Assyrian who raised his eyebrows.
“What did he say to you? In what language?” Bachus demanded.
“It was Persian, sir. A most vulgar Persian, spoken as a dog might utter it.”
“And what did he say, Raman?”
The archer hesitated. “He told me to have sexual congress with my mother,” Raman said.
Brulo brayed with laughter at that and clapped a hand to his mouth at a flash from the centurion’s eyes.
“You will ask him only the questions I say to you,” Bachus said, and the Assyrian nodded.
Raman relayed question after question. How many are with you? Who has sent you? What is your interest in the slaves? Are you allied with the Jewish rebels? The Sanhedrin? How did you create the killing thunder?
The Celt gave no answer but to further insult the Assyrian. Bachus insisted that Raman repeat each outrage to him in full detail.
The prisoner had, in his responses to the questions, suggested that Raman touched himself in inappropriate ways, had carnal knowledge of a goat, was the issue of a camel and a backward monkey, consumed his own feces, and bathed in his own urine.
Brulo bit his own hand to stifle laughter with enough force to draw blood. The two soldiers in attendance turned red in the face and studied the carpet beneath their feet with exaggerated interest.
“We shall take more expedient measures,” Bachus said, unamused by any of this. He did not care for mysteries, and this man was indeed a mystery.
“I want this man scourged, but not so harmed as to prevent his speaking,” Bachus said to Brulo.
“Branding, sir?” Brulo said, licking a fleck of his own blood from his lip.
“That will do.” The centurion nodded and returned to his chair.
The fire in the brazier was restoked while Brulo departed to retrieve his tools. The Celt levered himself to a sitting position and gazed at Bachus with an open expression of bold appraisal. Was that animal cunning or true intelligence the centurion saw there? This man was dangerous, to be sure. And how many more like him were there out there on the desert even now? What was their purpose in being so close to a Roman encampment? Was this the vanguard of a larger army? Were they Celtic mercenaries hired by the Jews?
“Leave us,” Bachus said to Titus. The chubby scribe goggled wide-eyed.
“But why, sir?” he wheedled.
“Because I do not care for you to report every military matter to your master,” the centurion growled. “I am in command here, not the prefect by proxy.”
Titus, his face red and twisted with resentment, bowed and exited the tent.
Brulo returned shortly with iron brands, tools used to burn postholes for the assembly of wooden structures. He balanced four of them in the brazier and blew upon the coals there until they glowed red. After only a few moments, the tips of the brands were an incandescent orange. The odor of hot metal permeated the tent. Brulo held the end of one of the irons with a swath of wool and plucked it from the brazier.
“Hold him still,” Bachus instructed the two soldiers and leaned forward to watch with interest. Raman stood by, smiling eagerly. The optio appeared to be bored by the tedium of it all and held a strip of scented linen to his nose in anticipation of the odor of singed flesh.
The soldiers moved to brace the Celt as Brulo closed on him with the brand. Before they could get a firm grip, the bearded man bolted to his feet and launched himself forward to slam his forehead into the bridge of Brulo’s nose. The Sabine went down hard with the Celt’s weight atop him. Blood jetted from Brulo’s nostrils in a crimson mist. The soldiers and Raman drew blades and advanced on the Celt, who had rolled off the inert torturer to the pile of pillage that lay at Bachus’s feet.
“No!” Bachus bawled. “He is only to be subdued.” The soldiers shoved Raman aside and beat on the naked man with the flat of their blades. The Celt rose on his knees with a roar and clumsily tossed a thick belt of some material at Bachus, who fell backward in his chair in surprise. The throw fell short, and the belt landed in the coals of the brazier. The Celt dropped to the floor with the blades of the soldier’s swords pummeling his back and shoulders.
Bachus rose to his feet, his face red with rage. He ordered the soldiers to stop their bludgeoning. Brulo
