And what did he mean about Vinius’s “plans” which did not include him? I would have thought that a man like Vinius, having no further use for the probably unsellable Molon, would just knock him on the head and leave him in a ditch somewhere. Probably, I thought, it was just more meaninless verbiage intended to obscure his real purpose. This practice is not restricted to speeches before the Popular Assemblies.
Mostly I was wondering how I could get my hands on Freda, and this clouded all my other thoughts. I was around thirty-two years old that year, and should have been past such schoolboy passions, but some things you never truly outgrow. That an entire, battle-hardened legion seemed to share my condition alleviated somewhat the embarrassment of my situation. But not much.
6
THE NEXT FEW DAYS FOLLOWED the same pattern: up at an absurd hour, attend officer’s calls, attend arms drill in the morning, work on Caesar’s papers in the afternoons, drop into exhausted sleep at night, endure the jabs of my fellow officers and the smirks of the legionaries in the meantime.
It was a life that was not entirely without its compensations. Being the laughingstock of an entire army prevents the sort of overweening pride that draws the wrath of the gods. Whenever I chanced to pass men of Vinius’s century, they saluted respectfully and alone among the legionaries they did not find me a source of merriment.
My Gauls visited frequently and showed a surprising sympathy with my plight. For a pack of unlettered savages they were pretty decent men. I only rode with them once during this time, when Caesar called for a review of the mounted auxilia, of which he was collecting a prodigious force, having scoured all of Rome’s nearby holdings and allies.
Handling Caesar’s papers had another advantage: I was learning everything about his army and its management. Actual fighting takes up only a small part of an army’s time, unless there is a siege. The rest of it is taken up in training and waiting, and the army’s officers have to keep it fed and equipped and paid the whole time. The army’s morale depends upon how well these activities are carried out.
The process of keeping the army supplied and fed was an eye-opener. It meant, primarily, dealing with civilian suppliers. What went on between them and the supply officers was even better than the dealings of the Censors and the publicani. The kickbacks were both amazing and blatant, and it came as something of a shock to see how many officers of the army, both legionary and auxilia, owned productive farms or workshops in the Province.
“Do you conceive that this has somehow escaped my notice?” Caesar said one evening when I pointed this out to him.
“It has occurred to me to wonder whether you understood the sheer comprehensiveness of the corruption,” I said. “For instance, here we have one Nazarius, commander of the auxilia archers and skirmishers. He is also the owner of the largest tanneries in the province. Upon arrival here, Caius Paterculus, Prefect of the Camp, deemed all of the tents owned by the Tenth to be unfit for service and replaced them with new ones. The contract for the necessary hides was granted to Nazarius. A legion uses something in excess of eight hundred tents. At approximately twelve hides per tent that calls for”—arithmetic was never my greatest talent—“well, a lot of hides, anyway. Between the allowance for tentage and what actually passed between Nazarius and Paterculus, I believe that a substantial sum now rests in the purse of the Prefect of the Camp.” This officer had authority over everything having to do with camp management and had actual command of the camp when the legion marched out.
Caesar, who had been dictating notes to a slave, sighed and folded his hands over his slightly protruding belly. “Decius, this is ancient military practice, begun, I suspect, by Romulus. After all, we must buy hides from somebody, and who if not the largest supplier in the district? Now, if somebody were selling us inferior hides and passing them off as serviceable, that would be genuine corruption and I would punish it accordingly. But I have inspected all of our tentage and it is first-rate. There was no question that tents meant for the Italian climate were not fit for service in Gaul. As long as the Republic is not being cheated, what is the harm?”
“That is only one instance, and not the most egregious of them. There is . . .”
“Decius,” Caesar interrupted, “I am certain that I know every instance you are about to cite in the most sordid detail. You can do nothing about these practices. You are a Roman statesman who will never spend more than a year or two at a time with the Eagles, as a part of your political career. The men who actually run the legions spend every day of their lives with the standards.”
“And a piece of every transaction stays with the Prefect of the Camp and the First Spear,” I said with perhaps more bitterness than was truly justified.
Caesar smiled slightly. “Now you know why Prefect of the Camp is an office held for only a single year, by a centurion on his last year of service before retiring. It is his final chance to line his purse and the theory is that he can’t do any lasting damage in a year. Whatever he can get away with is his reward for twenty-five years of the most brutal, demanding service imaginable. It isn’t a perfect system, but it works.”
“I suppose the same could be said of our whole government,” I remarked.
“Precisely. Now run along, Decius.” He returned to his dictation as if he had not even seen me.
Indeed, I was a bit astonished that Caesar had granted me that much attention. Worry had put new lines in his face and his eyes were growing hollow. There was still no sign of his new legions and the campaigning season was wasting as the barbarians grew stronger. He would not be able to delay his trip to Italy any longer. He had hoped to avoid it, for it might look as if he were abandoning his army just as the war was about to commence.
The foreboding among the soldiers was getting worse. The combination of danger and inaction was corrosive. Rumors began to sweep the camp: the enemy was at hand; they were just across the river; they had a spell of invisibility. Fortunetellers and charm-sellers did a lively business in the camp forum until Caesar ordered them driven out.
Men saw omens everywhere, from the flight of birds to the direction of thunder to odd behavior in their many animal mascots. Caesar was finally driven to address the entire army from his praetorium platform like a general haranguing the troops before a battle. He told them that not only was he pontifex maximus of Rome but that he was an augur of many years’ experience and was perfectly capable of reading the omens for the army. It did little to settle their minds, and every night there were false alarms when overexcited sentries thought they saw hordes of Gauls massing in the gloom. A few exemplary floggings did nothing to improve things.
It looked as if Rome’s best legion was falling apart.
“WAKE UP!” SOMEBODY HISSED.
I pried an eyelid open. It was utterly black outside.
“Hermes, is that you?” Then I heard Hermes snoring on the ground beside me, undisturbed.
“Forget about your slave,” the voice said urgently. “The Proconsul wants you to report to him right now, and be quiet about it!”
“Who is that? Identify yourself.” We might as well have been conversing in the bottom of a mineshaft.
“It’s Publius Aurelius Cotta,” he said. This was a mere boy of a tribune, bearer of an ancient name and destined to do it no honor, to judge by his excitability.
“What’s this about?” I demanded, sitting up in my cot, feeling about for my boots.
“Something important,” he said, displaying a firm grasp of the obvious.
“I don’t suppose you brought a lamp? I can’t find my gear.”
“Forget that,” he said. “Caesar’s orders.”
This had to be big. Caesar had decreed stiff punishments for so much as walking around without your helmet. I located my sword belt by touch and wrapped it around my waist. Hands outstretched to find the entrance of my tent, I stumbled out. Cotta caught my arm and I could just make out the low glow of distant watchfires.
“I don’t hear any alarms,�
�� I said. “I presume we aren’t under attack. If Caesar wants me to copy some more of his damned reports to the Senate, I’ll desert.”
“I think it’s rather more important than that,” Cotta said, trying for an air of aristocratic nonchalance. He needed a few more years to pull it off.
“Then what is it?”
“I’m forbidden to say. He even told me to keep my voice down when I came to summon you.”
“Doesn’t want the soldiers to hear about it, eh? This must be something more than ordinarily disgraceful. Probably forgot to post sentries and the Gauls crept in and took over the camp and now he wants me to fix . . .” I tripped over a tent rope and fell on my face. After that I confined myself to muttering curses and imprecations. Cotta seemed grateful for the relative quiet.
We found the enclosure of the praetorium unusually torchlit and near the table stood a knot of officers, wrapped in their woolen cloaks and looking as sour as I felt. I recognized Labienus, Caesar’s legatus; Paterculus, the Prefect of the Camp; and others I did not know well. Carbo was there, and beside him was a Gaul. The man was shorter than most, dressed in a dark tunic and trousers, his arms and face smeared with dark paint.
“Is that Metellus?” Caesar said, ducking through the doorway of his tent. “Good, then let’s go.”
“There may be raiders outside the camp,” said one of the officers.”
“What of it?” Caesar said. “Aren’t we all armed? Come, gentlemen. This is a serious matter and I want it handled with utmost care and discretion.”
We all trooped along behind Caesar. I was burning with questions but I knew better than to ask them. We walked straight north and left the camp by way of the Porta Decumana in the middle of the northern wall. The gate guards gaped at us, but Caesar ordered them sternly to hold their tongues, on pain of death. He sounded like he meant it. These portals are not true gates, with doors and bars. Rather, they are overlaps in the camp wall. There are several ways of arranging them, but the idea is always that an enemy cannot get through them without coming under fire from above on both sides.
Once outside, the Gaul took the lead. He strode along as if he had eyes in his toes, crouched and looking as if he wanted to break into a run. I was reminded of a hunting dog chafing at the leash.
I did not like being away from the security of the camp. Even with the great rampart out there somewhere, we would be easy prey for some raiding band. Even a single young glory hound could rush in and cut one or two of us down before the others could react. Romans have always detested night fighting, and for good reason.
As near as I could judge we were heading northeast, in the general direction of the lake. Soon the ground began to squish beneath my boots and I knew we were getting near it. This was the area of marshes Caesar had charged Carbo with keeping clear of Gallic infiltrators. From ahead of us I heard a mutter of voices and then we were passing through a semicircle of light-armed auxilia.
“This is the place,” Carbo said. We stood by water. I could hear its faint lapping and I could just make out the glittering reflection of stars on its surface. There was that wet, fecund smell that always dominates wherever water and land meet. There was an underlying smell, too, one not nearly so pleasant. Why had we come to the lake in the middle of the night?
“We can see nothing,” Caesar commented. “Somebody strike a light and get some torches burning.”
“The Gauls will be able to see us for miles,” said Labienus.
“Let them come!” Caesar said testily. Apparently he did not relish being awakened at such an hour any more than I did. There came a clicking like the chirping of crickets. That was the auxilia. Every man had taken his firekit out and they were breaking the monotony of their long, nocturnal watch by seeing who could get a fire going first with flint and steel.
“Hah!” said a man, with the satisfaction of one who has just won some money off his fellows. A kneeling Gaul had managed to land a spark on a little nest of tinder laid upon his shield. He blew upon it carefully and the glowworm of smoldering tinder burst into a small but definite flame. Someone held a torch to it and soon we had a tolerable light.
“Bring the torches here,” Caesar ordered. He stood at the edge of the water, and now I could see that something floated in it just off the bank. I was sure it was a man. What else would draw them out here at such an hour? But what man?
“The Gaul was right,” Labienus said. “Must have eyes like an owl to recognize him in this gloom.”
“Get him out of the water,” Caesar said. “Decius Metellus, attend me.”
I stepped up to his side as two of the auxilia waded into the water and began to haul the corpse out. They were Gauls and Gauls lack the Roman distaste for handling the bodies of the dead. Head-hunters cannot be too finicky.
“Proconsul?” I said.
“Decius, I’ve just remembered why I wanted you here. It was for situations like this.”
The body was out of the water, lying on its back. Two of the Gauls held their torches low so we could get a good look. The features were contorted and slightly swollen, probably the result of having been strangled by the noose that was visible around the neck. Still, they were recognizable.
It was Titus Vinius, First Spear of the Tenth.
I straightened. “All right, I’ll kick in for the funeral fund, although I’ll wager there aren’t any decent professional mourners to be hired in these parts.”
“Don’t try to provoke me, Decius!” Caesar snapped. “This is more than a serious loss to the legion. The men’s spirits are low enough as it is, and now the First Spear has been murdered! This could be catastrophic!”
“I should think it would raise morale enormously.”
“Don’t be facetious. I want the killers exposed so that they can be executed without delay.”
“Why do you think this is murder?” I asked him. “And what was he doing out here anyway? If the fool was wandering around alone at night, he was probably caught by Gallic raiders and killed. That isn’t murder, it’s enemy action.”
Caesar sighed. “Decius Caecilius, I thought this sort of thing was your specialty. Even I, lacking your unique talents, have noticed that Titus Vinius still possesses his head.”
“That is something of an anomaly, but far from conclusive. It may be . . .” Then I was interrupted, not an unwelcome thing since I had no ready answer for him.
“Caesar,” Paterculus said, “may I speak frankly?” He was a grizzled old sweat with a face like an Alpine cliff.
“Please do so.”
“You don’t need this . . . this philosopher to guess who killed Titus Vinius. It must have been the men of his own century. They all hated him.”
“Assuredly,” I said, not liking the way this was going. I knew who the prime suspects were the second I saw Vinius’ dead face. “They just asked him to take a stroll with them out by the lake in the middle of the night, unarmed. He acceded to this request with the bluff joviality for which he was famed wherever the hobnailed boot of Roman soldiery has trod.”
“Don’t talk nonsense,” Paterculus said. “They must’ve killed him in the camp or up on the wall, then dragged him out here.”
“And they did this without anyone noticing?” I demanded.
“Easy. The First Century has the north wall tonight.”
“Eighty men can’t keep a conspiracy secret.”
“Wasn’t the whole century,” Paterculus said. “Just that one contubernium that was giving him so much trouble. That boy . . . what’s his name? Burrus? Let me have him for an hour. I’ll have the whole story out of him.”
This was getting ominous. “Caesar,” I urged. “If the death of the First Spear is a blow, what would this do to the Tenth? If men of the legion murdered their own centurion it could be worse than damaging to morale. It could inspire imitation.”
Caesar stood for a while in silent thought. Then he spoke in a voice that was low, but it was one all of us could hear.
“What you say
is very true. Decius, I am appointing you investigating officer. If this murder was not committed by men of the First Century of the First Cohort, you must find out who did commit it and you must do it quickly. You are hereby excused all other duties. In the meantime I must take certain disciplinary measures.”
“Have I your authority to interrogate anyone I think fit; legionary or officer, free or slave, citizen or barbarian?”
“This is my province and you have my authority as Proconsul of Gaul and Illyria to interrogate any human being within the limits of my imperium. Just handle the investigation with utmost discretion.”
“No, Caesar,” I said. The mutter of low-voiced conversation halted.
“What?” Caesar said, unable to believe his ears.
“I want to conduct this investigation, but I cannot be hampered by considerations of discretion. However ugly or messy this crime proves to be, I will expose it. I want no one to think that I may fail to act for fear of embarrassing you. I must have your decree, stated before these officers, that I have full powers of investigation and arrest. If not, I will return to my arms drill.”
Caesar glared at me for long seconds amid the dead silence. The flickering orange light of the torches made his face a frightening sight. Then he smiled so faintly and nodded so slightly that it might have been a trick of the uncertain light.
“Very well. I will leave two of my lictors with you as insignia of your authority. This afternoon I will conduct funeral rites for Titus Vinius. After that I leave for Italy to collect my legions. Labienus will be in charge during my absence. I want you to have the culprits apprehended by the time I return. If you have not discovered them by that time, then I must take unwelcome but necessary steps to restore the order and discipline of the Tenth Legion.”
“Caesar, do you want my men to carry his body back to the camp?” Carbo asked.
“Please leave him until daylight,” I said. “I want to study the body and the site as soon as the sun is up.”
SPQR VI: Nobody Loves a Centurion Page 9