Eagles of Dacia Read online

  ‘On a spiked club or something?’ snorted the legionary, then, to the injured man: ‘you’ll live. Go sit down and stop wailing like a girl.’

  As he passed back toward the door, he threw a knowing look at Rufinus. ‘Try not to kill any of them.’

  Rufinus just nodded and the door was shut again a moment later, the sound of the lock being fastened muffled by the timber. He could hear scraping sounds as the ruined prisoner dragged himself back across the floor to his accustomed place.

  ‘Plenty more where that came from,’ Rufinus grunted to the room at large. ‘Leave me be and I’ll extend you the same courtesy.’

  He crossed to the most unoccupied area and sat on the low bench at the edge. Finally, the activity over, the stench of the slop bucket in the corner insisted itself upon him. He wondered wearily whether Senova would visit him tonight, but decided probably not. Niger would not want her coming here and, to be honest, with that smell and Mister Purple Scrotum whimpering endlessly, he did not think it would be a good idea anyway.

  Oddly, the incident had done something to lighten his mood a little, or at least to focus his thoughts past it. Now to sit in the darkness and try to think of a way out of this mess.

  XVIII – Legionary hospitality

  Rufinus awoke at the first noise. He had slept incredibly lightly, which was hardly surprising, since so did the other occupants of the building. Some hated him, he knew – especially one. Some were ambivalent about him. All feared him, though, and fear made people do stupid things, so Rufinus had slept with one eye open, metaphorically. Four times during the night he had launched upright, ready to fight at a noise. Three times it had proved only to be men who were stirring in their sleep. The fourth time the disturber had almost soiled himself on the way to the slop bucket when Rufinus appeared like an avenging spirit in the darkness before him.

  ‘Gods, can you not even let a man shit in peace?’

  The light was still little more than a faint glow when he heard footsteps approaching the building. It seemed hopelessly optimistic to think a visitor might be destined for any of these other reprobates, including mister purple scrotum, who still lay on the floor coddling his giant, tender loins.

  There were the sounds of a lock clicking and a bolt being thrown back, and the door scraped open. Five sullen voices inside cursed, snapping that even this low light was too much, the other muttering something plaintive about his balls.

  Rufinus was already standing, hands behind his back, commanding the situation, when the early indigo light hit him. He blinked for a while and, when his eyes had settled and adjusted, felt a chill as he realised that there was no sign of the usual guards outside. Instead, the men silhouetted in the daylight bore the elongated shields of cavalry troopers. As two of them entered and pushed Rufinus roughly outside it came as no surprise to see Celer and Daizus there and no sign of the men of the Fifth.

  ‘Bring him.’

  Rufinus muttered a curse to Nemesis as the troopers hauled him forward. For a moment he reeled, ready to struggle, then three spear points grazed the flesh of his neck in warning. The horsemen had him and there was little he could do.

  The fortress was still coming slowly to life, and the first watch had not yet been sounded. It was not officially dawn, just that odd purple pre-dawn, and most of the legionaries were still abed. A few men were emerging from their barracks, yawning, stretching, farting, throwing cold water over their faces from the plain fountains. Others were coming off shift, tired and stumbling. Not so the cavalry of the Thirteenth. The troopers marched him west and toward the gate through which they’d entered yesterday.

  At the great heavy portal the legionaries on duty refused to open the gate, giving Rufinus heart, momentarily. Whatever Celer intended, since it was clearly to be carried out beyond the walls, it would not be good. The tribune let forth every morsel of a senior legionary officer’s fury, leaving the guards trembling and panicked. One of the bravest, risking the fury of a superior, reasoned that opening the gates before first watch without authorisation purely on the say-so of a man from a different legion was impossible without a centurion to agree it. Celer had almost exploded, and had told the man to find his precious damned centurion then, but in the meantime the gate would be opened.

  It was. The left hand of the great heavy wood and iron doors was unbarred and hauled open and the small unauthorised party exited the fortress as the sun put in its first appearance behind them, a faint yellow glow on the horizon. Rufinus was a little disappointed in how easily the guards had agreed without written authorisation, but he had no time to brood on it as he was dragged from the gate toward the great flat parade ground nearby. It was dispiriting, if not entirely unexpected, to see three other cavalrymen fixing a seven foot, T-shaped stake arrangement in the ground.

  ‘This is a turning point, Celer,’ Rufinus said quietly.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Until this point all you have done is your master’s bidding. You could still claim innocence and walk free. But this changes things. Once you do this it, becomes personal.’

  Celer gave a cold laugh. ‘I’m sure your mouldering corpse will cause me endless trouble.’

  ‘I’m not that easy to kill. And you’re breaking your orders now.’

  ‘Clodius Albinus will sanction this. He would sign the document here and now if he were in Potaissa. You are a stupid and dangerous man, Rufinus, and I am concerned with every moment you draw breath that you will do something heroic and stupid and try to stop the inevitable progress of empire.’

  ‘If that progress is from the legitimate emperor to a provincial gold thief, then yes. I will.’

  ‘And that is why this must happen. If it is any consolation, I will strike as hard as I can and make it quick, though by quick I mean it will last less than half an hour. If you were a smaller, weaker man it would be faster, of course.’

  Rufinus tried to say something pithy and cutting, but a rag was stuffed into his mouth rather unceremoniously. He fought not to gag, partially from the sheer discomfort and partially from the last moment realisation that the rag was, in fact, someone’s underwear.

  He was grasped and held. He had to give some credit to the men, for they knew their job. Not once did they give him enough freedom to fight back or slip free. His tunic was yanked back over his head and torn from him. Strong hands shoved him to the post and began to lash his wrists to the horizontal. He braced himself, standing facing the post.

  Nothing happened.

  After a full count of fifty he turned his head and his eyes widened. Sweat began to break out on his brow. Celer held a lash, but he had cast it aside as Rufinus watched, and accepted from one of his men a scourge. He held the weapon in a tight grip, admiring the shards of sharp pottery, metal fragments and shattered glass cunningly woven into the strands.

  Gods, no.

  Rufinus’ bladder began to leak involuntarily. He had seen men die by the scourge twice in his time, once so recent the memories were still fresh. It was, without doubt, the most brutal punishment the army could inflict. Beheading was horrible but was over in one or two blows, unless you were unlucky and the executioner had not sharpened his blade. Pushed from a bridge, stoning, fustuarius beatings and so many more things were dreadful but all at least quick. A scourging by an expert could last an hour and leave a man looking like a half-prepared meat dinner. And Rufinus was pretty sure that Celer would be an expert. This was the man who had had men flayed and hung from the trees like grisly ornaments back in Sarmizegetusa, after all. At a nod from the tribune, the gag was removed and Rufinus sucked in grateful, desperate lungfuls of air.

  ‘This, praetorian, gives me no pleasure.’

  Rufinus was about to comment acidly, but Celer let out a humourless laugh.

  ‘I jest, of course. This will give me the greatest pleasure. Would that you were a cat so that I could put you through it nine times.’

  Rufinus spat. ‘And would that my dog was here to eat your head, you bastard.’
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  ‘Turn around, praetorian. I’d hate to catch your face and finish this too soon.’

  In the distance a horn sounded.

  ‘First watch,’ Rufinus said. ‘I’m assuming this execution is not authorised and that Niger will be pissed off with you. Best hurry, or they’ll realise what’s going on.’

  It was probably the most unwise goading of all time, for Celer nodded. ‘Quite right.’

  The rag was stuffed back in his mouth and the soldier retreated out of the way. The tribune’s arm came back. The scourge coiled and whirled, then leapt into the air at a jerk of the tribune’s arm.

  Rufinus had never experienced such pain. No, that was not true. What was done to him at the imperial villa by the Syrian torturer matched it. But nothing in the past five years, and it had taken much of that time to kill off the nightmares that episode had rooted in his brain. The sharpened fragments tore the flesh from his back right down to the ribs, leaving not just a new red line among those already there, but a gaping, horrible wound, dripping gore and sending rivulets of crimson running down to his breeches.

  He gasped and slumped against the post.

  One blow and it had almost unmanned him.

  His beleaguered mind dredged up a memory from his early days as a legionary. Gallus, the stupid bastard in the Tenth who’d stolen from the senior tribune’s wife. He had taken eight of these. He’d survived, miraculously, though he’d been ejected from the legion as unfit for service and had never quite worked as a human body afterwards.

  Gallus had been an arsehole. Rufinus was damn well better than him. He would certainly last more than eight.

  There was a drawn breath.

  ‘How are you feeling, Rufinus? I see from your back you’ve had a beating before, possibly more than once. Shame I shall likely never shake the hand of the man who landed those blows. But they are minor wounds compared to some you’ve clearly survived. I’d wager I’ll top your list by the end, though. Bite down on your mouthful, praetorian.’

  The second blow was agony. Absolutely indescribable. His bladder gave way. His bowels held, miraculously. His back was on fire and he felt pain through every nerve from his hair to his finger- and toe-nails. It was too much. This was no way to die. Fortunate was he that his scream and subsequent whimpering were largely silenced by the gag.

  He consoled himself with the knowledge that at least Senova was not watching.

  ‘You could have been an asset, Rufinus, but you had to keep pushing. For a time, from Drobeta to Sarmizegetusa, I had my eye on you. Thought you might be useful, yet you have proved determined to ruin everything. And now I shall ruin you in return.’

  There was a heavy silence as the tribune pulled his arm back and prepared for a third blow. Rufinus could feel blood – or urine, or likely both – pouring down his pelvis and legs. He clenched.

  ‘What is the meaning of this monstrosity, Tribune?’

  Rufinus almost wept at the sound of Pescennius Niger’s voice. Bracing himself, he turned his head. The legate of the Fifth was in just tunic, boots and cloak, his hair wild. Straight out of bed. Bless that man at the gate. He’d run off to his centurion and clearly word had passed upwards until this man, the most powerful in the city, had come at a run before even combing his hair.

  ‘I am interrogating the prisoner, Legatus,’ Celer said in a bored voice.

  ‘I heard no questions, Tribune. What questions do you mean to ask this man?’

  Celer snarled. ‘Stay out of this, Niger.’

  ‘That is Legatus to you, Tribune,’ roared Niger, snatching the scourge from the man’s hand. ‘You are engaged in petty revenge, directly countermanding my orders in my own damned fortress.’

  ‘You seem to think you rule in Dacia, Niger.’

  The legate fixed Celer with glittering eyes. ‘You seem to think that Albinus does, Tribune. In fact, the emperor rules here, and in Commodus’ empire the law still applies, let alone military hierarchy. Slink back to quarters this moment, Celer, or I will have you strapped to that same post and use this atrocity myself.

  There was a dangerous, loaded silence again, and finally the tribune and his men departed. Moments later legionaries were there, cutting the bonds and helping him stand away from the post. Someone removed the gag and turned him gently. Men in the uniforms of the Fifth Macedonica. Despite everything that had happened, Rufinus’ heart went out to Pescennius Niger. The man’s face was so conflicted. Whatever Albinus held over him must be dreadful.

  ‘I will have you moved, Rufinus. One of the tribune’s houses where the other prisoners cannot cause you trouble. Once you are discharged from the hospital, that is, of course.’

  Rufinus felt like pointing out that it was not the other prisoners who had done him any damage, but he was so grateful and in such pain that he did not trust himself to speak without crying out. Tribune Celer and his men marched off across the parade ground, back toward the fortress, and Rufinus watched them go, Daizus turning his head as he went to cast a glare of hatred as a parting shot.

  ‘I command here, Rufinus,’ Niger said with a sign, smoothing down his hair, ‘but the influence of the governor is so strong that on occasion some of my men forget that and bow to Albinus’ wishes. I will have the guards changed and the men that abandoned their posts and allowed this to happen will be disciplined appropriately.’

  Rufinus simply whimpered. Two legionaries helped him carefully and gently across the turf toward the fortress gate once more. Rufinus looked back as he went and was unsurprised to see a trail of dark droplets on the grass in his wake. Thank the gods Celer had been stopped at two lashes. Thank Pescennius Niger, in fact. As the soldiers helped him through the gate, he caught sight of Senova running toward him, her face ashen, Acheron and Luca loping along beside her.

  ‘I just heard,’ she breathed as she stopped in front of him. Rufinus opened his mouth, but struggled for speech. She walked round behind him and made a horrified, squeaky gagging noise. ‘Oh, Gnaeus!’

  ‘S’alright,’ he managed, gritting his teeth. ‘Had worse.’

  Only once. And it had damaged him for life. But it was true.

  ‘I will find a way to report the tribune for this,’ she said firmly.

  Rufinus swallowed. His strength was returning and, with it, the power of speech. ‘To who? Niger knows but is powerless to do anything about it. Albinus could discipline him, but the governor is more likely to thank him. Unless you can get a message to the praetorian fortress in Rome, we’re on our own. And even if you could do that, Cleander might just send Celer a reward instead. No. We’re on our own, Senova.’

  ‘Then we must get you free,’ Senova said.

  Rufinus jerked his eyes meaningfully at the legionaries helping him along the street, and she nodded and fell silent. Still full of concern, Senova scurried alongside the guards as they half-escorted, half-lifted Rufinus through the fortress, the spattered trail gradually dissipating as the blood crusted on his back. Luca was at Senova’s heel like a dog, while Acheron was pacing ahead like a vanguard, ready to push aside anyone who might get in the way. No one did. A few men looked on in shock at the sight. No one seemed ready to gloat.

  A few moments later they rounded a corner and arrived at the valetudinarium, the fortress hospital. A white colonnade shaded the front wall and Rufinus was lifted between the columns and in through a doorway into an entrance hall. Even at this time of the day, the hospital was working – a fortress of five thousand men meant a constant stream of work for the medical section. Six men sat around the walls of the entrance hall on the painted wooden benches. Arms in slings, feet bound in linen, crutches leaning against the wall, a man clutching his stomach and groaning in pain. An orderly opened the door ahead and paused in the room.

  ‘Next?’

  The man with the bound foot threw up his hand, but one of the legionaries at Rufinus’ side overrode him. ‘This man, on the orders of the legate.’

  The orderly nodded and, while foot-injury glared at Rufinus i
n irritation, the wounded, bleeding prisoner was escorted to that door in the wake of the orderly. The man stopped in the doorway, though. ‘No dogs. Not in the hospital. He’ll have to wait outside.’

  Rufinus looked over at Senova who, face grave, gestured in turn to Luca. ‘Take him back to the room. I’ll be back soon.’

  As the young slave boy left with Acheron, who looked rather disgruntled and kept glancing over his shoulder on the way out, Senova gestured onward and they passed through the door. The orderly pointed along the wide corridor to the left. ‘Examination room seven. The medicus will be with you momentarily.’

  The soldiers helped him down the hallway, though Rufinus was starting to feel stronger and less prone to whimpering collapse now. The pain had become a constant wail in his nerves rather that that blinding, terrifying white scream it had initially been. His feet were no longer staggering and tripping.

  They found the number seven and Senova pushed open the door, the legionaries helping Rufinus through. Beyond was a vestibule that was barely big enough to contain the three men, let alone Senova as well. There were three other doors leading off, the ones to either side labelled ‘VII A’ and ‘VII B’. The door ahead was marked ‘INSP.’ This door was opened and the room beyond was a little larger. A hard-looking but spotlessly-clean bed lay to one side with a white sheet on it. A desk contained several books and a wax tablet, and there were two chairs. The men helped Rufinus onto the bed, face down, sharing looks of distaste at the damage to his back.

  The four of them waited in an uncomfortable silence and the door opened eventually, a man in a long white robe entering. He glanced once at Rufinus, then at Senova and the two legionaries.

  ‘Out of my hospital, you two’ he snapped.

  ‘Legate said…’

  ‘The legate runs the camp but this is my hospital, soldier, and your boots are covered in mud and shit, which you’ve traipsed in from gods’ know where. Go back to the entrance hall, get a bucket and cloth, remove your boots, then clean away the trail you’ve left and then, only then, can you come back and wait outside this door in your socks.’