Call to Juno (Tales of Ancient Rome #3)(60)

“General Aemilius wants you to return immediately, sir. He’s ordered an execution. He wants everyone to be assembled.”

“An execution?” Marcus was shocked. Capital punishment was an extreme measure. As far as he was aware, there’d been no instances of cowardice that would warrant such a measure.

“Who, and what for?” Drusus also sounded stunned.

Tatius could not hide his contempt. “One of the hoplites has been caught taking it from another one.”

Marcus managed to keep his voice neutral as he acknowledged the news. The thought of what he was about to witness made him feel sick. As he dressed and collected his weapons, he avoided looking at Drusus. He’d already heard him grunt in disgust. He could not bear to see the scorn in his friend’s eyes for a warrior who enjoyed what Marcus himself had with a slave so many years ago.





TWENTY-FIVE





At the fifth blow to his shoulders, the young soldier fell forward to the ground. A centurion dragged him upright onto his knees again and handed the cudgel to the next hoplite.

The infantryman hesitated, glancing at the naked man kneeling in front of him. The victim’s skin was webbed with huge red welts. The reluctant soldier struck a blow, then handed the bludgeon on to another from his unit. The next man had less compunction, striking the victim’s head with a vicious blow. “Pathicus!” He hissed the epithet, spitting on him.

The youth slumped forward again.

“Pick him up!”

Sempronius, Aemilius’s other military tribune, barked the order. The guilty hoplite was one of his men. Marcus suspected the superior officer savored the cruelty.

The centurion righted the convicted soldier and handed the club to the next man.

Marcus watched, his bowels cramping. He did not avert his eyes, knowing he must not show weakness, but he felt sweat trickling down his sides and back. He glanced over to the hoplite who had plowed the miscreant. He was not much older than the beaten man. His face was white, the apple in his throat working. He kept his eyes glued to the punishment, flinching at each blow. He’d been called upon to make the first hit to prove that he knew his duty. His arm had been shaking, but his aim and force was enough for the centurion to pass the cudgel to the next. As the penetrator, he would be spared a clubbing, but Marcus wondered if he’d been lucky not to be the one facing execution. Maybe they took turns. Maybe, like him, neither of them cared who submitted to be the pathicus bride as long as they could share each other. One thing was certain: the lover better choose a different male partner next time—a slave or freedman, not a warrior. He’d have to prove himself with a woman, too, unless he wanted to be shunned as a mollis.

Clenching his fists, Marcus wished the torture of the passive hoplite who had let his masculinity be degraded would end. To his credit the offender did not scream or even whimper. He was brave when facing his penalty.

General Aemilius watched aloofly. His cloak had slipped from one shoulder, his breastplate buckles loose. Marcus wondered whether he feigned dishevelment to catch people off guard. There was nothing messy about Aemilius’s mind. He was sharp and wily and ruthless. No one was going to question his toughness when it came to showing how he treated a pathicus under his command. Yet the condemned man was probably little older than the stable boy Aemilius had brought from Rome for his own pleasure.

What would Marcus’s father do if his son was discovered with another soldier? Deal the death blow in private as a patriarch, or endure the disgrace of his son being publically executed? As an officer, Marcus would be killed for corrupting a subordinate, even if he was the one to act as husband.

He restrained himself from glancing at Drusus. Dreams were one thing but reality was another. And yet he would risk doing whatever was asked if the russet-haired warrior reached out one day to stroke his cheek and tell him that he loved him.

Another thwack. Marcus focused on the beaten soldier again. All the comrades in the unit had taken their turn. The victim lay prostrate, unconscious. The centurion raised his vine-wood staff high and brought it down with practiced force, staving in the victim’s skull. Then he kicked the dead man over onto his back. The youth lay with vacant eyes, blood gushing from his mouth, his tongue bitten in half.

The assembled troops were dismissed. The soldiers were quiet as they scattered to resume their duties. It would not take long, though, before talk of the execution would be on everybody’s lips.

Marcus needed to be alone. He headed toward the animal enclosure to spend time with his stallion. Drusus caught up with him, clapping his hand on his shoulder as he fell into stride with him. His tone was jovial. “The pathicus got what he deserved. One of them should have rammed his gob as well. He was probably a cocksucker, too.”

Marcus walked on. Drusus grabbed his arm. “What’s the matter with you?”

He shrugged him away. “We just saw someone clubbed to death. I don’t think it’s a joking matter.”

Drusus raised his eyebrows. “You feel sorry for him?”

“I think watching a soldier die dishonorably is a miserable thing. He was twenty and made a mistake.”

“A mistake? He was a warrior. Who wants to fight beside a man who lets himself be conquered like a girl? To let his body be abused? If he has no self-control, then how could his men trust him in a battle? A man who can’t govern his own desires is incapable of governing others.”