Robert Fabbri: Rome's executioner

‘Thank you for that warm, fraternal speech of congratulations, little brother.’

‘Stop calling me that.’

‘Bollocks to you.’

‘Sir, sir!’ It was Magnus waiting at the palace entrance; two well-built, armoured palace guards blocked his path with spears.

‘Magnus, what is it?’

‘Bastards wouldn’t let me in,’ he replied, eyeing the two ginger-bearded guards.

‘Careful Roman,’ the larger of the two growled, he was at least a head taller than Magnus. ‘Rome does not rule here.’

‘Go piss in your mother’s mouth, fox-fucker.’

The huge Thracian slammed the shaft of his spear towards Magnus’ face; he ducked under it, hooked his right leg behind the guard’s left and pulled, sending him crashing on to his arse.

‘That’s enough!’ Vespasian leapt between them, pushing Magnus away from his adversary. ‘Back off, Magnus.’ He turned to the guard. ‘We leave it there, I apologise on this man’s behalf.’

Sabinus moved in front of the second guard who had raised his spear at Vespasian. The prostrate guard glanced quickly between the two brothers, gave Magnus a venomous look and slowly nodded; he knew better than to tangle with two Romans who had the look of men of authority.

Vespasian led Magnus away downhill across the torch-lit square in front of the palace. ‘That was fucking stupid; you don’t go around picking fights with palace guards.’

Magnus was unrepentant. ‘Well, they should have let me through; it was urgent. Paetus sent me to get you as quickly as possible; it’s getting a bit out of control at the camp.’

As they passed through the ancient gates of Philippopolis shouts and jeers could be clearly heard emanating from the Roman camp a half-mile away. Breaking into a run they covered the distance across the rough ground as quickly as was possible in the dim light of a half-moon. Magnus had been unable to tell the brothers the reason for the disturbance; all he knew was that there had been some fighting and then Paetus had received an angry deputation from the men. He now wanted to consult with Vespasian, as the tribune of the two cohorts of the IIII Scythica, before he replied.

There were no legionary guards at the Praetorian Gate, just the centurion of the watch who looked grimly at Vespasian as they approached.

‘I don’t know what’s got into them, sir,’ he said, saluting. ‘It’s been brewing all day since we found the bodies.’

‘What bodies, Albinus?’ Vespasian asked returning the salute.

‘Three of our lads were found this morning in the woods, sir; they’d been missing for a couple of days. They were nastily cut up, been worked over with knives so I’m told; didn’t see them myself though. Two of them are dead and the survivor’s in a pretty bad way.’

‘Thank you, centurion,’ Vespasian said, passing through the gate on to the Via Praetoria, followed by Sabinus and Magnus.

The camp was speckled with large and small groups of legionaries arguing amongst themselves either in the pools of flickering torchlight or in the shadows between the barrack huts. Here and there fights had broken out which the hard-pressed centurions, aided by their seconds-in-command, the optiones, were having trouble stopping, but they seemed to still retain their authority and received no counter-blows as they waded into the knots of fighting legionaries, breaking them up with sharp cracks from their vine canes.

‘At least discipline hasn’t totally broken down,’ Vespasian observed as he watched a centurion violently haul a grizzled-looking veteran off his bloodied younger opponent. The older man went to strike the centurion but then lowered his fist as he realised that there were no mitigating circumstances for striking a senior officer: the punishment was death.

‘It’s a fucking shambles,’ Sabinus said derisively. ‘What do you call good discipline in the Fourth Scythica if this isn’t a total breakdown? This would have been a cause for decimation in the Ninth Hispana.’

Vespasian was not about to get into an argument about the relative merits of his and Sabinus’ old legion. ‘Shut it, Sabinus; if there is one thing that I need to do now it is to look dignified. I must find Paetus, you go with Magnus and wait in my quarters; this is a military matter and doesn’t involve you.’ He adjusted his toga over his left arm, crooked before him, and, with his head held high, started to walk slowly down the Via Praetoria, disdaining the chaos all around him. As he passed the various groups, the shouting and fighting gradually ceased as the legionaries noticed their tribune, haughty as a magistrate back in Rome, resolutely refusing to acknowledge them. The innate respect that they held for the authority of those of higher birth brought them back to their senses and they disengaged from their arguments and confrontations and began to follow Vespasian, in silence, towards the Principia at the centre of the camp.

Once there, the crowd that was already gathered outside parted for him and he ascended the few steps and passed between the columns that supported the portico. The two centurions guarding the garrison’s headquarters from the angry mob snapped to attention with a jangling of phalerae and presented immaculate salutes. Vespasian responded then entered the building without looking back at the hundreds of men now congregated outside.

Publius Junius Caesennius Paetus rose from his chair behind the large desk at the far end of the room. ‘Ah, tribune, good of you to come,’ he exclaimed, beautifully enunciating each syllable with his clipped aristocratic tone. ‘I do hope I didn’t interrupt your evening with the Queen; your man said that you and your brother were visiting her.’

‘No, sir, we met Magnus on our way out,’ Vespasian replied, walking the twenty or so paces to the desk in the sputtering light of flaming sconces.

‘Oh, good, good. I’m looking forward to meeting your brother, he served with the Ninth Hispana in Africa during the rebellion, I believe? My cousin was there as a tribune with the Third Augusta at the time; they had a tricky time of it. Perhaps you will both dine with me tomorrow?’ Paetus said, sitting back down and gesturing to the chair on the other side of the desk. ‘Please, make yourself comfortable, Vespasian.’

‘Thank you, Paetus,’ Vespasian said, following his superior’s lead and dropping out of military formality.

‘We’ve a bit of a delicate situation on our hands at the moment: the men aren’t happy, they started fighting amongst themselves this evening, then later I had a deputation from them. It is, as you know, their right to bring their grievances to their commanding officer.’

‘Indeed. I noticed some discontent amongst them when I came back from hunting earlier,’ Vespasian replied, trying to keep the provincial burr of his Sabine country accent to a minimum, as he always did when talking with this cultured patrician. ‘What are their complaints?’

‘Well the crux of the matter is that they’re bored, but we all knew that. Hades, we’re all bored, I’m bored witless stuck in this poxy place; but they at least get their annual leave, whereas the likes of you and I are here for the duration. I haven’t seen my little Lucius since he was five, he’s almost ten now. Nor have I been to the theatre or seen a wild beast hunt for over four years, and I love a good wild beast hunt as you know.’

‘Yes, but boredom is no excuse for what was going on out there.’

‘No, no, of course not; the ring leaders will have to be flogged then transferred to another cohort, and I’m afraid we’ve got to execute a couple of the chaps tomorrow morning for striking superior officers; they’re in the guardhouse at the moment feeling pretty stupid, I should imagine. There’s no need for that sort of behaviour.