SPQR VI: Nobody Loves a Centurion

by John Maddox Roberts

  Worst of all, everything so far pointed to that contubernium: they certainly had a motive to kill Vinius. I had seen with my own eyes the brutality with which he treated them, and I knew that they feared he was hounding them toward a mutiny that would earn them execution. They were on the north wall that night and had the opportunity to drag him out and throw him in the pond undetected by the rest of the legion. There were eight men, all of them tough, trained soldiers, well able to overpower and kill even such a man as Titus Vinius.

  It left some questions unanswered but it was enough evidence for almost any jury in Rome to convict them. Here their lives were in the hands of the Proconsul. At least, in Caesar, I was dealing with a lawyer who understood the nuances of evidence. That was why I now had a few days to investigate. Many commanders would have ordered some executions already. And I think I amused Caesar. Something about the way I pursued criminal investigations struck him as entertaining.

  But how many days did I have? I already knew that Caesar could move an army with unprecedented speed. A trip across the mountains into Italy and back again with two legions would have taken weeks for most men, even if they were waiting at the foot of the pass on the other side. I had a feeling that those legions would be burning caliga leather all the way to Lake Lemannus.

  And what other suspects did I have? The Gauls? They would certainly have killed him had they caught him, but how would they have done that? And why would they leave him his head, surely one of the more prestigious trophies to be had from this war?

  Molon? I knew he wanted to leave the service of Vinius, but murder is an extreme step to take, and he would need at least one confederate. It occurred to me that Freda was a large, strong young woman, perhaps capable of wielding the garotte and immobilizing Vinius long enough for Molon to finish him off with a dagger. It was conceivable that the two of them might have been able to haul him out to the pond. Dwarfish men like Molon are often far stronger than they look. But how would they have gotten him out of the camp?

  And I did not want to suspect the German girl, although I had no good reason for this.

  I shook my head. This speculation was taking me nowhere. What I needed more than anything else was rest. With a full stomach, my head pleasantly buzzing from the wine, I went into my tent and collapsed.

  It was past noon when the trumpets woke me. At just that time Hermes arrived, sweating and breathing hard. With his assistance I got my parade uniform on. At least this time I wouldn’t be laughed at for wearing it. After days of living in my field gear, it felt stiff and uncomfortable. Helmet on and plumes nodding, I made my way to the praetorium.

  I arrived just as Caesar was mounting his platform. I joined the officers on the lower platform atop the surrounding rampart. I looked out over the legion, drawn up in rigid formation, the ten cohorts turned out in their best finery. All except one.

  The First Cohort wore no plumes or crests and their shields were still in their covers. Separated from them was the First Century, and I gasped when I saw them. They stood disarmed, their weapons and armor piled on top of their shields, which lay on the ground at their feet.

  Before that century stood eight men who had been stripped to their tunics, their hands bound behind them. I did not have to guess who they might be.

  Just before the platform a funeral pyre had been raised and atop it lay Titus Vinius. Around the pyre stood the standard-bearers with their standards swathed in dark cloth in token of mourning. Flanking the aquilifer were two trumpeters with their great cornicens looped over their shoulders. When Caesar reached the platform, they sounded the assembly call on their instruments.

  “Soldiers!” Caesar began without preamble. “The First Spear of the Tenth Legion is dead, and there is every indication that he was murdered. Until the culprits are exposed, I decree the following punishments: the First Cohort, of which Titus Vinius was senior officer, is in disgrace and will be denied all honors until the demands of justice have been satisfied. They will perform no military duties and are restricted to menial labor. They may not salute their officers or their standards and none are to salute them in return.

  “The First Century of the First Cohort, for failing to preserve the life of their commander, are to be denied association with honorable soldiers. They are to pitch their tents outside the camp walls and are to abide there until the demands of justice are satisfied.” At this a collective gasp went through the assembled legion. This was a terrible punishment, the next thing to decimation. Even worse, in a way, for every man of them could be killed by the Gauls. But Caesar was not through.

  “This contubernium,” he pointed at the disarmed men, “is under arrest and will be held in confinement. They lie under the deepest suspicion. This day I depart for Italy to find and bring back our reinforcements. If they are not proven innocent by the time I return, they are to be executed. They are citizens and may not be crucified, but their crime merits worse than beheading. Therefore this is the form their punishment shall take: The balance of the First Cohort will form two lines facing each other, each man armed with a vinestock. These men will walk between the lines, naked, to be beaten by their fellow soldiers. Any man who is still alive when he reaches the end of the line will turn and make the same journey, repeating the course until he is dead.”

  He paused for a while, then he began the funeral rites. “Let us now set to rest the shade of our fellow soldier, Titus Vinius.” He pronounced the invocations, the language of them so archaic that nobody could understand more than one word in five. Then he performed the funeral oration. It followed the standard form, listing Vinius’ distinctions, the high points of his career and his many awards for valor, finishing with an appreciation and regretting that his services would be sorely missed in the campaign to come. That may have been true militarily speaking, but personally I wasn’t going to miss him a bit. I only regretted the mess his death left behind.

  With a last call to the gods, Caesar descended from the platform and thrust the first torch into the oil-soaked stack of wood. Soon it was blazing merrily and the whole army stood at attention while the flames leaped upward and consumed the body of Titus Vinius along with some very valuable armor and equipment.

  As the flames began to burn down, the cornicens blew the dismissal and the legion dispersed. I went to join a knot of officers who stood before the praetorium awaiting Caesar’s officer’s call. The disconsolate army marched past us. Last of all came the First Cohort. On their faces was a miserable admixture of fear, rage, and shame.

  “There go some unhappy men,” I remarked. For once I was not trying to be flippant, but there must have been something wrong with my tone, because a man nearby whirled and stalked up to me. He was one of the centurions, the great, horseshoe-shaped crest atop his helmet striped brown and white. He planted himself a foot before me and barked in my face:

  “Of course they’re unhappy! They’re the First of the Tenth, best soldiers in the world, and they’re in disgrace! You Forum politicians don’t know what disgrace is because you’ve forgotten what honor is! Well, we haven’t forgotten in the Tenth!” I was utterly dumbfounded to see tears coursing down his weather-beaten cheeks. Then he whirled and strode off, yelling for his decurio.

  Carbo walked up to me. “Best tread softly, Decius,” he advised. “Odds are good that you’ll be the next man killed in this army.”

  “I’m all too aware of it. The only men I’m getting along with these days are barbarians and the disgraced. How can he banish an entire century from the camp? It’s outrageous!”

  “So is the murder of the First Spear. An example has to be made, Decius. At least they have a chance. He could have ordered decimation. He could have ordered the lot of them to march into Germany and not return until he sent for them. Maybe it will be best just to let those eight men be executed. The legionaries won’t be perfectly satisfied, but it would return the legion to some sort of normalcy.”

  I shook my head. “No! I don’t know about the others, but I am s
ure that Burrus didn’t kill his centurion, richly as the man deserved it, and I won’t allow him to be punished for it.”

  “Then you have a very large task,” Carbo said. “It is more than just saving Burrus. These men want their honor back, and if that contubernium is not to be executed, you must give them something better.”

  As he spoke these words, the officer’s call sounded and we passed within. Next to Caesar’s tent I saw Molon standing beside some chests and bales; the belongings of the late Titus Vinius. And on top of the heap sat Freda, looking as disdainful as always.

  “Gentlemen, I must be brief,” Caesar began. “I need every hour of daylight I can get to ride to Italy. This sorry business has already cost me half the day. Treasurer, your report.”

  The legion’s treasurer was an optio chosen for his excellent memory, good penmanship, and a head for figures.

  “Titus Vinius never married, had no children and never informed me of any family. He left behind no will. Therefore, according to custom, the Proconsul is executor of his estate until a family member comes forward to make a claim. Word will be sent to the steward of his Italian estate, who will presumably inform the family, if any. He paid regularly into the funeral fund and this, along with a generous contribution by the Proconsul, will pay for a fine gravestone. Massilia has excellent Greek stonecavers and a monument will be commissioned immediately.

  “The aforementioned steward visited Titus Vinius twice each year and at those times the First Spear made his banking arrangements, presumably with an Italian banker. He kept at all times a balance of one thousand sesterces with the legion bank.” This was a tidy if not a princely sum. A senior centurion could be a modestly wealthy man, what with pay, loot, and bribes.

  “Very well, Treasurer. Gentlemen, I hereby take charge of the movable goods of the late Titus Vinius. They shall stay here in the praetorium while Decius Caecilius Metellus conducts his investigation. There remains his ambulatory property: his livestock and his slaves. His horse and pack mules will stay with the pack train animals for now. That leaves his slaves. Accommodation must be found for them and I have a full staff.”

  Slowly, every head turned until we were all staring at Freda, who ignored us.

  “Actually,” Labienus said, “I have room in my tent . . .”

  “You know, I could use a cook . . .” and so on. Everyone found that he had room for just one more slave. Everyone except my cousin Lumpy. Maybe the family rumors about him were true.

  “Recall, gentlemen, that Molon goes with her.” Even that dismal prospect did not slow down the offers of accommodation. Caesar silenced everyone with a wave and a look of utterly malicious humor came over his face.

  “Decius, you may have them.” Instantly, every man in the meeting was glaring at me, even my old friend Carbo. This was perfect. Now everybody but the Gauls hated me.

  “And now, gentlemen, I must ride. I shall take only a small escort of cavalry. I intend to be back here, with our reinforcements, in no more than ten days.”

  “Is that possible?” asked Labienus, incredulous.

  “If not, I intend to make it so,” Caesar said with that confidence of which only he was capable. It was a trick he knew how to use well. He could almost convince even me that the gods were truly on his side. “You are dismissed. Decius Caecilius, stay here.”

  The others left as the small cavalry escort arrived. I was glad to see that Lovernius and my ala were not among them. I needed friends at that moment.

  “Decius,” Caesar began, “I cannot impress upon you too strongly just how much I depend upon you to solve this murder. Even with the reinforcements my army will still be very small. I need the Tenth! And I must have it in top fighting order, not weakened by suspicion and dishonor and fear of evil omens.”

  “Caesar, Vinius was a prodigious wretch. There are six thousand suspects within these walls.”

  He waved it aside with a gesture. “Men do not achieve the centurionate by being mild. Nobody loves a centurion. But they are seldom murdered. You must find the murderers for me, Decius. If you do not, I will be compelled to execute Burrus and the others, guilty or not. This war is about to commence and there will be no time for niceties.” A Gaul led up his horse and boosted him into the saddle.

  “A moment, Caius Julius,” I said.

  “Yes?”

  “Why did you give me that woman?”

  He sat there for a moment, savoring his peculiar jest. “First of all, you deserve something for the misery you are going to endure. Then again, the man who has her will have the jealous resentment of the others and all my other officers are more valuable than you. I would as soon their efficiency not be impaired. But most of all, Decius, someday you may be very valuable to me and I will be able to hold this over your head.”

  I knew exactly what he meant. I was betrothed to his niece, Julia, and she would never forgive me for having owned this woman.

  “Caius Julius,” I said bitterly, “you are an Etruscan punishment-demon in human form!”

  Caesar rode off laughing.

  7

  I FACED, QUITE PROBABLY, THE most demanding task of a decidedly checkered career. In Rome I would have known where to begin, but here I was in all but alien territory. Not only was I not in Rome, I was in a legionary camp, and that camp was in Gaul, and Gaul was in a state of war. All of these were distracting circumstances. Before I could even begin, I had to regain my equanimity. I needed to speak with the only sane, sensible people in the camp. I decided to call upon my Gauls.

  Before I could do that, though, I had to make some domestic arrangements. I went to the heap of Vinius’s belongings. Molon wore a nervous grin and Freda studied me as if I were some sort of odd new bug.

  “You both understand that you belong to me now?”

  Molon nodded vigorously. “Yes! I am very glad to be your property, sir!”

  “How about you?” I asked Freda.

  She shrugged. “One Roman is much like another.”

  I did not appreciate being likened to Titus Vinius, but I let it pass. “You,” I said to Molon, “are to lay out your former master’s belongings over there by the desk. I want to make a complete inventory this afternoon. You,” I said to Freda, “are to go to my tent and busy yourself there; clean up or whatever it was you did for Titus Vinius when he was away. My boy Hermes is there now. If he tries to lay hands on you, you may beat him.”

  She stepped down from her perch and walked past me without a glance or another word. I could not restrain myself from following her with my eyes. What a view she presented.

  “Did she act this way toward Titus Vinius?” I asked Molon. “He struck me as a man who had a short way with insolent menials.”

  “She’s not your typical menial, sir,” Molon said. “And she has, if you’ll forgive me, an unerring eye for men’s weaknesses. I think she’s already sized you up.”

  “Thinks I am a man who will put up with anything, eh? Well, she shall learn otherwise.” I pulled the tunic away from Molon’s hunched shoulder. It was almost black with bruises. “I am not a centurion, so I do not carry a vinestock. I beat slaves only for the most serious infractions, but then I am merciless. Let us establish our relationship in this manner: See to it that you please me, or I shall sell you to a less easygoing master, and almost anyone in the world is less easygoing than I am.”

  “Oh, believe me, sir, I want to remain with you! But then,” that crafty gleam came into his eye, “are you sure you can sell me? A relative of Titus Vinius might show up sometime and claim me.”

  “Molon, anyone with the brains of a snail would knock you on the head and leave you in a ditch rather than feed you all the way back to Italy. I may have some use for you as an interpreter. I will be in Gaul for no more than a year. Keep me happy and when I leave, I’ll sell you to some genial merchant who needs your skills. You’ll be out of the legion camps and living easy.”

  He nodded, rubbing his hands together. “That would be most acceptable.”


  “See to it, then. If anyone wants me, I will be with the praetorian cavalry for a while. Have everything ready for me when I get back.”

  “Just leave it all to me, master.”

  I have always found that slaves respond better to kindness than to severity, although they are quick to take advantage of perceived weakness. Molon knew what a soft position he now had and I was confident he would exert himself to please me. Freda was apt to be another question entirely.

  I found my ala caring for their horses after their daily patrol. As non-citizens, they had not been required to attend the funeral. They welcomed my arrival with smiles and back-slaps.

  “Good to have you back, Captain!” Lovernius said. “Will you be riding with us again?”

  “Not for a while, as luck would have it. Caesar has assigned me to investigate the First Spear’s killing.” Judging from their smiles and cheerful attitude, these men did not share the legionaries’ poor morale. They were not a part of the Tenth Legion and the death of its senior centurion did not upset them at all.

  “We’ve been talking to the spearmen,” Lovernius said. “They tell us someone strangled him.”

  “Strangled him, stabbed him, smashed his skull, and threw him into a pond,” I elaborated. Abruptly the Gauls frowned and one of them snapped something in their native tongue.

  “What did he say?” I asked, surprised.

  Lovernius looked mildly upset. “If you will pardon my saying so, Captain, they take it very ill that someone would dump a Roman carcass in one of our ponds. They are uneducated and superstitious men.”

  I was not pleased with the comment, but not for the reason he expected. “I am sorry to hear it. I keep hoping that I can pin the killing on the Helvetii, but I don’t suppose they would have defiled a holy place in such a fashion.”