A advert for a hotel spa near Hadrian’s Wall spun me back in time. It was the Roman era, in the bath house on the same site. The beautiful daughter of the legion’s commander walked in, letting her toga slip to the floor, revealing the fresh stripes of a sound whipping.

But was she there of choice, determined to show that she was not ashamed: proud, defiant?

Or, rather, had her father sent her there - refusing to allow her to sob in her room, wanting the word to get out that he was as severe with his own daughter as he expected his officers to be with theirs?

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