Centurion

Cato wondered at the change in Longinus' mood from the triumphalism of his address to his assembled officers. Then he realised that this was what Roman aristocrats trained so many years for: the perfectly pitched performance to win over their public, despite any personal misgivings over the cause that they were promoting. And Longinus had been persuasive enough, Cato reflected. It seemed that Cato alone had not been swept along on the wave of his rhetoric. Even Macro, who knew of the governor's dubious political manoeuvres, had been momentarily carried away by the prospect of action and glory.

'Leave me,' Longinus ordered. 'Go and make your preparations for the execution.'

He gestured casually towards the door. Macro and Cato stood to attention, saluted, and turned away, marching in step as they left the Roman governor of Syria alone in his makeshift audience chamber.

In the thin light of pre-dawn the men of the Second Illyrian were stirred from their tents by the harsh cries of their optios and centurions as the officers strode down the tent lines, yanking back the tent flaps and bellowing at the rudely awakened men inside. Hurriedly pulling on their rough woollen tunics, boots and chain-mail corselets, they emerged into the cool air before cramming on their skullcaps and helmets and tying the chin straps. Lastly, they gathered shields and javelins and took up their positions in the centuries forming in front of the tents. The cavalry squadrons, with their longer blades and thrusting spears, formed up on the flanks. Their mounts would not be needed for the assembly to bear witness to the execution, and they remained tethered in the horse lines, chewing contentedly on the barley in the feed bags that had been brought to them as soon as their riders had risen from their tents.

Macro, with Cato at his shoulder, paced down the lines inspecting his men. The execution of Crispus would be a formal affair. Even though the legionary was a condemned murderer he was still a soldier and would be accorded appropriate respect even as he died.Though the man he had killed was one of their comrades the men of the Second Illyrian would pay Crispus the honours due to a fellow soldier passing from this world into the shades. Every man had turned out neatly and had made sure that his helmet had been polished the night before, along with the trim and boss of his shield and every clasp and decorated facing of his scabbard. Macro regarded them with pride. He could ask for no better body of men to command, even in the legions, he admitted grudgingly, though he would never own up to such an opinion in public. The blood he had shed in the Second Legion and the comrades he had lost over the years had left him with an engrained love of the Eagles he had known for so long.

As he strode past the last of his men, Macro glanced round at Cato, who was the officer immediately responsible for the turnout of men on parade, as well as the numerous details of camp administration.

'A fine body of soldiers, Centurion Cato!' Macro's best parade-ground voice carried to the farthest men in the cohort. 'The Praetorian Guard itself couldn't have made a better showing!'

It was the kind of easy rhetoric calculated to lift the men's spirits and Macro winked at Cato as he bellowed his praise. Both men knew that, easy as the words were, they worked, and the men would carry themselves with a little more pride for the rest of the day. Or at least until they had witnessed the execution, Cato mused unhappily. He understood the reasoning behind the punishment well enough but still some part of him recoiled at the thought of brutally putting a man to death. Unlike Macro, he drew little pleasure from the games that ambitious politicians put on in every town and city of the Empire. If a man had to die then it was best that he die in pursuit of a purpose. Let Crispus be placed in the front rank of the army when they faced the Parthians.There at least he could die facing his enemy with a sword in his hand, for the honour of Rome, and his own personal redemption in the eyes of his comrades.

Cato drew a deep breath as he acknowledged Macro's comment. 'Yes, sir! No one can doubt that the Second Illyrian is the best cohort in the service of the Emperor!'

He turned towards the men and shouted. 'Let's hear it!'

The men let out a deafening roar and pounded their spears against their shields for a moment, and then grounded them as one. The abrupt silence made Macro chuckle with pleasure.

'As mean as they come, Centurion Cato. The Gods know what they'll do to the Parthians, but they scare the shite out of me!'

Cato, and many of the men, could not help gri

'Move them out, Centurion.'

'Yes, sir.' Cato sucked in another breath. 'Second Illyrian, right face!'

The ten centuries of infantry and four squadrons of cavalrymen shouldered their spears and then turned on the spot.

Macro and Cato strode to the head of the column, and took up their places just ahead of the cohort's standard and the two bucinators carrying their curved brass instruments. Macro paused for an instant, then gave the order. 'Advance!'

With a rhythmic crunch of nailed boots the cohort marched towards the camp gate and out on to the parade ground. On the far side was the area assigned for the execution, where two rows of stakes ran six feet apart. Macro led the Second Illyrian across the dusty expanse and then halted the column.

'Cato, have them form up on three sides of the run.'

'Yes, sir.' Cato saluted and turned away to carry out his orders. Macro took his place at the head of the lines of stakes, on the side left open by the cohort. As the last of his men completed the open-sided box around the run Macro saw a small column of soldiers in red tunics leave the camp and march towards them. A figure, pinioned between two men, half walked and was half dragged along in the middle of the column. Every one of his comrades carried a stout wooden stave: pick handles drawn from stores. At the rear of the column rode the governor and the legate of the Tenth. Macro called his men to attention at their approach and the cohort presented their arms as Longinus reined in. Amatius attended to his legionaries and assigned one man to each of the posts while Crispus was steered towards the end of the run. When every man was in place a hush hung over the scene, until Longinus raised his hand.

'By the power vested in me by the Emperor, the Senate and the People of Rome I hereby confirm the death sentence passed on Titus Crispus. Has the prisoner any last words before the sentence is carried out?' He turned to Crispus, but the legionary was breathing hoarsely and trembling as he stared at the two rows of his comrades in abject terror.Then the sense of the governor's words filtered through his fear and he glanced up at Longinus beseechingly.

'Sir, I beg you! Spare me. It was an accident! I swear it!' His legs collapsed and he slumped into the dust. 'Let me live!'

Longinus ignored the pleas and nodded to Amatius. 'Get on with it.'

The legate strode over to Crispus and growled, 'Stand up!'

Crispus tore his gaze away from the governor and threw himself across the ground at the feet of his legate.

'Sir, for pity's sake, I'm a good soldier! You know my record. Spare me! You can't do this.'

'Stand up!' Amatius shouted.'Have you no shame? Is this how a legionary of the Tenth faces death? Get up.' He swung his boot at Crispus and it thudded into the prisoner's ribs.

'Ahhh!' Crispus gasped painfully as he clutched his side. Amatius grabbed his arm and roughly hauled Crispus to his feet, thrusting him towards the end of the run where his comrades waited, staves grasped firmly in both hands. For a moment there was silence across the parade ground, broken only by a faint keening whimper from Crispus. Then Longinus cleared his throat.