And this demonstration was not only for those who had taken part in the failed assault. Leaving a skeleton guard force on the walls, the entirety of the garrison had been formed up in ranks to watch the coming punishments. Civilians, whether drawn by order or by morbid fascination, jostled for space to witness the proceedings.
There were ten German prisoners. Naked, haggard men, on their knees, heads hanging, their bodies a map of torture from where Malchus and his men had extracted their information some days ago. Once proud warriors were now a pathetic sight, drained of all spirit and humanity.
Our century drew to a halt in front of them. Malchus, as imposing as ever, quickly strode forward to our ranks, tossing four pieces of rope to soldiers at random. One such length was dropped by Micon, but the young soldier scrabbled quickly to pick it up. I noticed that there was a noose at one end.
‘Those of you with rope, step forward,’ Malchus ordered, his eyes like caves. ‘Take an arm or a leg and put the noose around wrist or ankle.
‘This one first.’ He pointed to a fair-haired German who was silently weeping. So timid and shattered from captivity was this enemy that it took only moments to subdue him: the ropes around his limbs pulled outwards under Malchus’s instruction so that the German was spread-eagled on the parade square’s dirt, his wriggling limbs held fast by Micon and the other soldiers. As if the gods were watching and casting judgment, the skies chose that moment to open, and a light rain began to patter against our armour and the victim’s naked skin.
A squat legionary then walked forwards and handed Malchus an axe. Malchus used the tool to gesture at an arm, and the burly soldier knotted rope around the elbow – he was creating a tourniquet. Once finished, the squat soldier stepped away, and Malchus spat into the face of his enemy. Then the axe swung down. With a sickening chop the lower arm came free, and Micon, who had been holding that rope, stumbled backwards as the anchor of flesh was severed.
The screams came moments later. They were universal in language, and dreadful. Tired of the sound, Malchus drew his dagger and knelt over the man. Within a breath, a tongue lay discarded on the floor.
Malchus snorted. ‘Tongue first for the rest of them. Can’t hold their pain like men, the fucking scum. I suppose if you fuck enough goats, you start to bleat like them.’
The centurion’s taunt was followed by laughter from the hardest of his men, and the most nervous – those who were keen to hide their own perceived weakness behind the terror of others.
I looked at Micon, who held a rope with the severed hand at its end. I tried to read the boy’s expression, wondering about his sanity. In the forest he had turned green at such sights. Now his face was without a trace of emotion. Why should I have expected differently? Only weeks ago, he had seen his best friend die beside him. He had seen men and women killed in the most unimaginable and horrendous ways. This teenage veteran had never known a woman, and yet a severed hand and cut-out tongue were now nothing out of the ordinary to him.
‘Next four,’ Malchus ordered, taking the rope from Micon and the other soldiers who had held down the condemned prisoner and tossing them towards the ranks of our depleted century.
Brando snatched one from the air as if it were hewn from gold.
The second German victim whimpered like a dog as he was pushed into the dirt, and I heard the big Batavian plead with Malchus as he strode to his side.
‘Let me gut the bastard, sir,’ Brando begged, and I suspected Malchus would have agreed, had Prefect Caedicius not answered for his more bloodthirsty subordinate.
‘Send them alive and unable to fight, and they become a burden on their own people, soldier. If you kill him, he’s just food for the crows.’
Brando stood to his full height. He was an imposing bastard. Respectful of his seniors, but imposing. ‘Then let me do it slowly, sir. Please. They killed my friend, sir. They killed my whole cohort in the forest. Please, sir, let me send him back with a lesson.’
Eventually, Caedicius gave a slow nod. Malchus took the rope from Brando, and handed the Batavian his blade.
The German writhed as if he were possessed by spirits. It did him no good. Brando took his tongue first. He was savage in his work, and most of the man’s lips came with it. His ears were next.
‘Hurry this up,’ the prefect ordered, eyes on the rain clouds, and Brando hacked at both of the man’s wrists until they were ragged stumps. As blood pooled into the dirt, the prisoner rolled on the floor like an eel gaffed out from a stream.
One after another, the German prisoners were pulled forwards to similar fates. Eventually, one of the pieces of bloodstained rope found its way into my hands. From a long acquaintance with death and fate, I knew without looking who the victim at my hands would be: the young boy I had dragged from his tent. The young boy that I, with Folcher, had brought to this place.
‘You want to cut him?’ Malchus asked me, seeing my gaze linger on the boy’s thrashing eyes.
‘He’s young,’ I tried, feigning indifference. ‘Don’t we need slaves, sir? Maybe he’s worth keeping.’
Malchus shrugged, oblivious to my true intention. ‘Not with winter coming. Take hold of his arm, Felix. Hold him still.’
And so I did, watching as Malchus’s dagger bit into the red meat of the boy’s tongue. Through the rope, I felt every lashing second of defiance. Every wild jolt of panic. Malchus soon tired of the boy’s resistance and rammed his fist into his face. The boy didn’t know it, but the punch was a mercy: he was barely conscious as the gore-painted axe head chopped into his thin wrist and took his hand.
I fought down the bile that rose in my throat. What good was a sign of weakness now? What good was pity? Mercy? I had to think of my friends. I had to think of Linza. This boy and his comrades belonged to an enemy that wanted us dead. That wanted Linza raped and enslaved. Now, at least these ten were no longer a threat.
‘Send them out of the camp,’ Caedicius ordered, loud enough for the assembled troops to hear. ‘Let this be a lesson to them, and to anyone who dares take up arms against Rome.’
‘I have a suggestion, sir,’ Malchus quickly put in with a grimace that touched on a smile. Prefect Caedicius listened, and agreed, and so it was that the prisoners were freed with their hands after all, or at least one of them, stuffed into tongueless mouths. Of the ten prisoners dragged on to the square, only six survived the initial shock of their injuries to stumble in agony from the gates, their moans stifled by their own amputated flesh. Another dropped before barely clearing the gates.
‘They won’t survive more than a few days,’ Stumps said to me later, dispassionately. ‘Drain on the enemy resources, my arse. The prefect knows he fucked up, and he wants to pretend we didn’t leave forty of our blokes out there, where the same thing’s happening to them.’
I kept my mouth shut. Stumps had spoken for us both and, sure enough, the enemy were quick to make their own point, for later that day a large body of horsemen arrived and pulled to a halt beyond bow range. Their horses were trailing something, and the soldiers with the keenest eyesight told us that they were the bodies of the raiding party. The German riders then fell on these corpses with glee, hacking until there was nothing remaining but a pyramid of chopped limbs and skulls.
I knew that amongst that carnage would be the bodies of Folcher and Dog. One of those men was a friend that had escaped slavery with me. The other, a soldier I had barely known, yet I had been responsible for. Both men had lived for families, and dreams. Now they were reduced to food for crows and foxes.