[Corduba, Detention Cell of the Tresviri, Evening of the 17th of November, 64 BCE]

The cell stank of piss and damp straw. A narrow slit in the wall let in a line of dying sunlight, sharp and thin as a blade. Dust swam through it like ash, glittering faintly before disappearing into the dark.

Valerian sat on the cold stone, back against the wall, one knee raised, his hands resting loosely on his thighs. 

He'd been stripped of his belt and gladius. His cloak was near him. Somewhere above, footsteps echoed, the sound of sandals and wooden soles pacing the corridor.

Two other prisoners slept nearby, locals, judging by their rough Iberian accents and the stench of sweat and wine. They hadn't said a word since he was thrown in, though one had laughed quietly when he'd given his name to the guard.

Valerian wasn't angry anymore. The anger had long since burned itself out. Now there was only a dull, rhythmic thought pulsing behind his eyes: You made a fool of yourself, Valerian.

He had completely miscalculated the dynamics at play and exceeded his bounds. He had naively assumed that his newly acquired status as a legionary would earn him a measure of respect, but reality swiftly shattered that illusion.

Neither the lowly fenerator from the canabae nor the mango had offered him any hint of respect. Even if the mango had the support of a propraetor, what significance did that truly hold?

In the end, everything had unfolded simply because he was just another legionary, nothing more than disposable muscle. Even if he had held the minor rank of decanus, would the events of today have been any different?.

No.

What significance did being a decanus truly hold? He was merely the officer of his contubernium, commanding no respect beyond his eight tent mates.

How long would he have to toil to rise any higher than this? Coming from a common plebeian family, born without influence or wealth... thirty years? Forty years of marching and fighting just to earn a centurion's vine stick?

No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, this won't do.

This… This would not suffice.

The sound of the heavy iron-bound door groaning open tore him from his introspection. A figure filled the threshold, silhouetted against the weak lamplight of the corridor, flanked by a detail of five armed legionaries.

The optio of his own cohort stepped fully into the damp cell, his eyes sharp and assessing beneath the shadow of his helmet's transverse crest.

"Valerian Valerius?" The optio's voice cut through the silence like a drawn blade.

"Yes, Domine," Valerian replied, rising quickly from the hard bench to snap to attention, a soldier once more.

"You're coming home with us," the optio stated curtly. "The centurion sent me personally to bring you back."

"Thank you, Domine," Valerian said, his tone formal and low. "And I apologize deeply for burdening both you and the centurion with my troubles.

The optio paused, raising an eyebrow at the unexpected deference and formality. "No need to thank me, soldier, just yet; there is still punishment waiting when we return."

"Of course, Domine," Valerian affirmed instantly, unflinching.

[Hispania Ulterior, near Corduba, 17th of November 64 BCE]

Valerian followed in silence. The Optio led the way out of the city jail and toward the marching camp set up outside the provincial capital. The five escorts flanked them, their steps measured and unhurried, the synchronized clack of their sandals echoing along the paved way. 

They reached the edge of the fort and moved toward the center, where the officers' tents were pitched. Valerian stopped obediently outside the centurion's large tent flap, head bowed slightly. Slowly, deliberately, he knelt in the mud.

His fingers worked with precision: unbuckling his helmet, loosening the leather straps of his lorica hamata, and drawing his gladius from its scabbard, placing all his gear neatly on the ground before him.

The Optio entered the tent, his voice a low murmur inside. The remaining guards were dismissed, their orders to summon the others to prepare the main square for the public spectacle. Their footsteps receded, leaving Valerian alone in the fading light.

Soon, the murmurs and the measured footfalls of the legionaries, surprised to witness another punishment so soon after the last, surrounded him.

The sound rose quickly, a low tide of human curiosity and anticipation. In moments, the heart of the camp was packed with men, their eyes drawn to the solitary figure kneeling in the muck.

The centurion's tent flap finally snapped open. Out stepped the Optio and the Tesserarius first, their faces grim masks in the torchlight. They stood stiffly to attention, flanking the entrance. Then, the canvas parted once more, and the Centurion, his vitis in hand, emerged, his imposing shadow stretching long and distorted across the square.

"Valerian Valerius," he began, his voice carrying easily through the cold night air, sharp and unhurried, "you stand before your brothers and before the eagle of the Eighth for conduct unworthy of a Roman soldier."

He paced slowly before Valerian, boots sinking into the damp earth. "You entered the marketplace of Corduba in uniform, in full view of civilians, and presumed to act with authority where none was granted to you. You interfered with lawful trade, drew your weapon in a public place, and brought disrepute upon your cohort and upon the legion."

A tense silence followed. Only the low hiss of torches and the distant cry of a night bird broke it.

"For these transgressions," the centurion continued, voice iron-still, "you will receive twenty lashes of the vitis, to be carried out here, before the cohort. Let every man present learn that the strength of Rome lies not in his own arm, but in obedience to command."

The centurion then stepped forward and positioned himself beside the kneeling man.

"Endure this as a soldier, and your place will be restored. Fail, and Rome will forget you."

The first strike landed with a wet crack.

One