SPQR VI: Nobody Loves a Centurion

by John Maddox Roberts

  “Gauls? What Gauls?”

  “Some of the ones out there now. They were hounding Caesar for some decisions about their cases, because they know that once the war is on there’ll be no time for holding assizes.”

  “What are their cases concerned with?”

  “The usual,” he shrugged. “Contracts for public works, which are in doubt because of this extraordinary five-year commission; some killings that would expand into blood feuds if we allowed these Provincial Gauls to revert to their ancestral ways; a number of land tenures that are in dispute, that sort of thing.”

  The mention of land made my ears twitch, but land in Gaul didn’t seem to interest Titus Vinius. It occurred to me to wonder why. The province held splendid farmlands and they could be had cheaper than any in Italy. Labor was cheap as well. There was always the uncertainty connected with the upcoming war, but if that was his reason, it displayed a disappointing lack of confidence in Roman arms on the part of a senior centurion.

  “Why did Caesar need him to confer with these Gauls?”

  “I don’t know. I was only there for a few minutes before I had to go to the camp of the auxilia to inspect the newly arrived cavalry. In any case, Caesar just told them to come back for court in two days. He didn’t tell them that he’d be gone. He just wanted to fob it all off on me. In some ways he is as lazy as he ever was.”

  “You didn’t see Vinius after that?”

  “No. He probably retired to his tent with his German woman.” He looked at me sharply, reminded of the grudge he and all the other officers had against me. “How did you rate her, anyway? If Caesar didn’t want her, he should have given her to me. I’m his legatus.”

  “I have powerful friends in the Senate.”

  “Hm. He probably owes you money. Caesar is supposed to have cleared his debts at last but I don’t believe it. They were just too enormous. Oh well, back to work.” He set his cup on the table, next to the gold-laden box. “Take my advice, Metellus: Let those men be executed. It will be the best thing all around.”

  “Not until I’m satisfied they’re guilty.”

  “It’s your career.” He stooped and went back outside.

  I carefully stowed the documents back in the chest and locked it. Then I hung the key on a thong around my neck. Then I sat and stared at the chest for a while. I longed to take it to my tent, but I could not afford to draw attention to it. I certainly couldn’t carry it about with me. I entertained wild visions of sneaking out of the camp under cover of darkness and burying it someplace, to return later to dig it up. I pushed aside this childish fantasy and decided that the praetorium was the best place for it. It was well guarded and I had already ordered Vinius’s belongings transferred there.

  How safe was it? For one thing, it wasn’t safe from me. Never had such temptation been thrown my way. I was getting the bitter feeling that I could be just as corrupt as all those Senators I so despised. Maybe their opportunities had just come along earlier. Then I thought of Burrus and the rest of his contubernium. Might I have given in had the lives of men I believed to be innocent not depended upon me? I still do not like to think about it.

  But what of the others? There was a strong likelihood that Paterculus, the Prefect of the Camp, was involved in these unsavory doings. Did he know about the chest? If so, what could I do about it? Damned little. In fact, if any of these military savages wanted that box, I would be well advised to let them have it, unless I wanted to end up facedown in a pool myself.

  And what of Caesar? Oddly, for one of the very rare occasions in all the years that I knew him, I did not seriously suspect him of culpability. For one thing, he had taken charge of the Tenth only about two months previously, while Vinius’ suspicious transactions went back at least a year. It was possible that Vinius had cut Caesar in on whatever he had going on, but I doubted that as well. If Caesar had something to hide he certainly would not have assigned me to investigate, knowing as he did my enthusiasm for snooping into things.

  In the end I hauled the incredibly valuable box outside and stowed it with Vinius’ other belongings, under the cover Molon had spread over them. Either it would be safe or it would not, and in either case I intended to stay alive and unhurt. The temptation still rankled, though. The sudden wash of greed had left me feeling unclean. I almost envied men like Crassus, who could make a whole career out of raw greed and feel perfectly wonderful about it. That was his public face, anyway. For all I knew, he woke screaming in the middle of the night with dream-Furies chasing him, like any other man with a guilty conscience.

  In the midst of these unsettling thoughts I walked out through the opening in the praetorium rampart and collided with a white-robed man who was passing by outside. I started to stammer apologies and realized that he was the youngest of the three Druids I had seen when the Gallic and German envoys had called on Caesar. I switched from Latin to Greek, which I thought he might understand.

  “Your pardon, sir. My thoughts were elsewhere.”

  He raised a hand to his breast and swept his staff to one side in a graceful gesture. “The fault was mine,” he said in heavily accented but very passable Greek. “I was admiring the standards and failed to watch where I was going.” He nodded toward where the eagle and the lesser standards stood in gleaming splendor, guarded by men draped in lion skins, near the pit where the provisionally condemned men waited for me to save them.

  “I am Decius Caecilius Metellus the Younger,” I informed him, extending my hand. He took it awkwardly, like one unused to the gesture. His hand was as soft as a patrician woman’s. Clearly, these Druids had made an easy life for themselves.

  “Caecilius Metellus? Is that not one of the great Roman families?”

  “We are not without distinction,” I affirmed, preening.

  “I am Badraig, acolyte of the Singing Druids.”

  “You came here for the court?” I inquired.

  “Yes. We had expected Caesar to be here.” He looked annoyed at this. Apparently, Labienus had been correct about Caesar’s ruse.

  “Caius Julius can be unpredictable,” I commiserated.

  “I had thought he held us in higher esteem. Several times during the negotiations he has entertained us separately, and we have informed him of our religion and customs and practices.” Clearly, he didn’t realize that Caesar was gathering propaganda to use against them.

  “Don’t be upset. In the Proconsul’s absence his legatus wields full authority. His every decision will be backed up by the Senate. If you don’t mind my asking, what business do you Druids have before the court?”

  “There are several border disputes to be settled here, and these require our presence.”

  “I am not well informed about your customs, but it was my impression that Druids owned no land.” He fell in beside me as I strolled toward my tent. I had no objection to such interesting and unusual company and he certainly led my thoughts away from that troublesome box.

  “Nor do we, although we have charge of holy places. But by ancient custom Druids must be present before any decision can be taken concerning boundary disputes. In the days before the Roman presence in the land you call the Province, the decision would have lain with us.” I detected more than a hint of resentment in this.

  “Well, that much less to trouble you, then. Ah, here we are. This is my tent. Will you join me for some refreshment?”

  “You do me honor,” he said, with another graceful gesture. Whatever the rest of the Gauls were like, at least the Druids were well-bred.

  “Molon! A chair for my guest.”

  Molon came out of the tent and gaped in astonishment at my guest. “Right away, sir,” he said, and scurried off to borrow one from another tent. He was back in moments, and then he and Freda proceeded to serve lunch. She regarded the young priest with the same cool disdain she seemed to hold for the entire male sex. As Lovernius had hinted, the Germans had little awe of the Druids or their sacred sites.

  “We’re low on wine,” she a
nnounced.

  “Can’t have that, now, can we?” I reached into my pouch and handed her a few coins, wincing at the expenditure. No more worries about money if I can just get back to Rome with that box, I thought. I pushed the evil thought aside, knowing that it would return all too soon. “Run along to the camp forum,” I bade Freda. “Doubtless a wine merchant has set up. A trial crowd is always a thirsty crowd.”

  Without comment, she turned and walked away. Badraig did not follow her with his eyes. These Druids were an unworldly lot, I thought.

  Molon had come up with a passable hare, but Badraig passed it up in favor of fruit and bread. Likewise he declined to accept any wine, drinking water instead. More for me, I thought.

  “That is an interesting staff,” I remarked. It leaned against the table and I was admiring its intricate carving. It was about man-height, made of some twisted wood. “Is it a part of the Druidic regalia, like an augur’s lituus?”

  “Yes, every Druid carries one. It is used to mark out sacred boundaries and consecrate waters. But it is also a walking stick and is not sacred in itself. You may handle it.”

  I took it and found that it was heavier than it appeared. Its whole length was carved in a bewildering interlaced design, but the knotty top was the most interesting. A natural swelling in the wood had been carved into the head of a deity, only it had three faces, each facing in a different direction. The eyes bugged out grotesquely, as they usually do in Gallic art. I have often wondered why the Gauls, wonderful artificers though they are, choose to portray the human form in this grotesque and childlike fashion.

  “Is this one god or three?” I asked him.

  “You see three gods, yet they are one,” he answered cryptically.

  “Three or one, which is it?” I asked.

  “Most of our gods have triple natures,” he explained, “and above them all are the great three: Esus, the Lord of all Gods; Taranis, god of thunder; and Teutates, Lord of Sacred Waters, the chief god of the people.”

  “Three gods, then,” I pronounced.

  “After a fashion. And yet they are one.”

  I hoped this was not going to turn into the sort of vague, mystical mumbo-jumbo in which foreigners delight. He would have to exert himself to exceed an Egyptian priest in tediousness, though.

  “Each is worshipped in separate ceremonies, at different times of year, and each has his own ritual, his own sacrifices. But all three are one god, each aspect presiding over one season of the year.”

  “Your year has three seasons?”

  “Certainly: autumn, winter, and summer. Autumn begins with the feast of Lughnasa, winter with the feast of Samain, and summer with the feast of Beltain, when the great bonfires are kindled.” Clearly, these Gauls were a people who liked to do things by threes.

  I tore off a leg of roast hare and dipped it in a bowl of garum sauce. Badraig drew back a bit, involuntarily. It seemed that, like most Gauls, he regarded garum with ill-concealed horror. I decided to throw tact to the winds.

  “Is it true that you hold human sacrifices at these festivals?”

  “Oh, but of course,” he said, as if there were nothing at all peculiar about the practice. “What other sacrifice could be worthy of the great ones? To Taranis, for instance, we offer prisoners taken in battle. These are placed in holy images made of wicker which, after the most solemn ceremonies, are set alight.”

  Sorry that I had asked, I pinched the bridge of my nose between thumb and forefinger. “Yes, I had heard something of this.”

  “Now for sacrifice to Esus,” he began, warming to the subject, “the victims are . . .”

  At that moment I was saved from further enlightenment by Freda’s return. She had a large wine jug balanced on her shoulder and she jerked her thumb at Badraig as she approached. “They want him at the court,” she said curtly.

  “Be more respectful,” I said. “This gentleman is a priest of high rank as well as my guest.”

  She looked down her long nose at him. “He just looks like another Gaul to me.” With that she swayed her way back into the tent. I stared after her, fuming, amazed once more that Vinius had never beaten her. She certainly made me want to beat her. I turned back to Badraig.

  “A thousand pardons. That savage is recently caught and she hasn’t yet been properly trained.”

  He waved a hand dismissively, wearing a broad smile. “That one is a German to her bones and she will never change. You would be well advised to free her or sell her to a trader traveling south. Her sort are always more dangerous than useful.”

  “I shall give it serious consideration.”

  He rose and took his staff. “And now I must go. Doubtless some legal precedent I have memorized is required. I thank you most gratefully for your hospitality.”

  “You have provided good company.”

  “You show an unusual interest in our religion. Would you like to attend a celebration of ours?”

  I was astonished. “You allow foreigners to observe your rites?”

  “Not all of them are great, solemn occasions. I will get word to you when there is to be a celebration nearby. I promise: no human sacrifices.”

  “Very kind of you to offer, but there is a war on and I am bound by duty.”

  He smiled again. “You never know. In war, there is always far more waiting than fighting. Good day to you, Decius Caecilius Metellus the Younger.”

  “And to you, Badraig the Druid,” I answered, wishing I knew whatever string of honorifics he doubtless had to add to his name. I always hate to be outdone in courtesy by a barbarian. Still smiling, he turned and walked away, toward the camp forum.

  9

  I SPENT THE REST OF THE DAY INTERVIEWING officers and legionaries concerning the whereabouts and activities of Titus Vinius on the fateful night. Surprisingly, no one within the camp had a clear memory of seeing him after the conference in Caesar’s tent. Perforce, I had to go outside the camp.

  The unfortified camp of the ill-starred First Century stood neat and orderly, almost a miniature of the main camp. The men looked a bit weary after their watchful night, but otherwise perfectly fit. The tents were arranged century-fashion, forming three sides of a square with the fourth side open. The sentries stood a long javelin cast from the tents, leaning on their shields. I gave the watchword even though they could see perfectly well who I was and they allowed me to pass with surly expressions.

  I found the optio, Aulus Vehilius, conferring with his decurions next to their fire, where a slave tended a pot of posca. I could smell the vinegar reek fifty feet away. The optio watched me with the by now customary look of annoyed disgust as I dismounted.

  “How did the night go?” I inquired politely.

  “We’re alive, aren’t we?” he said.

  “Yes, please accept my congratulations. I need to ask some questions about the last hours of Titus Vinius.”

  “Still trying to save your precious client and his messmates?” said a decurion. “They’re safe in the camp and we’re out here. Why are they so favored?”

  “They are the ones facing a dreadful execution,” I pointed out.

  “If the Gauls attack in any force,” interjected another, “we’ll die before they will.”

  “Listen to me, you ungrateful peasant wretches,” I said affably. “Nobody is going to die if I have anything to say about it. I do not believe Vinius was murdered by the men of that contubernium, nor do I believe that his century was responsible in any way. I feel sure that Vinius brought about his own death and that it was richly merited. But I have to prove it first. I have been given a special commission by Caesar himself to investigate and I am empowered to interrogate anyone within his imperium. If you object, you may argue with the Proconsul when he gets back. Do not expect a sympathetic hearing.”

  This seemed to sober them a bit and I reflected that these were terrified men. Roman soldiers are the best in the world and brave as lions, but much of that has to do with the way they identify with their legions and
the eagles. A soldier separated from his legion becomes diminished. I was just the most convenient target for their anger. In a perverse but understandable way, they held it against Burrus and his companions that they were not being executed for the good of the rest.

  The crusty optio actually managed a barely detectable smile. “All right, Captain, we’ll back off. What do you need to know?”

  “The last account I have of Vinius’s whereabouts that night says that he attended a conference in Caesar’s tent with some locals who wanted judgments on land disputes. That was just after the evening parade. Did any of you see him after that?”

  “You know that we had the north wall that night,” said Vehilius. “We marched straight from parade to guard mount.”

  “The whole century?”

  “Yes. This doubling of the guard means there’s two centuries to each relief and the First is in my charge.”

  “And Vinius never made an inspection of the guard posts?”

  “He seldom did that,” the optio said, confirming what I had already heard. “When he inspected, it was always toward the end of the watch, to catch anyone sleeping.”

  “And he knew that wasn’t going to happen,” a decurion commented, “not with all the noise the barbarians were making.”

  There was something wrong with this, but I could not decide what it might be. Perhaps, I thought, I was just too unmilitary to detect the inconsistency.

  “There was the odd way he was dressed,” I pointed out. “Did anyone ever see him in a rough, dark-colored tunic?”

  “Centurions in the Tenth wear white tunics, as you’ve probably noticed,” the optio said.

  “On regular duty, certainly. But did Vinius ever undertake reconnaissance at night? I used to do that in Spain and I always wore dark clothes and no armor, for obvious reasons.”

  “Then you must have been an officer of auxilia,” Vehilius said, quite accurately. “Every legion I’ve ever heard of uses cavalry and scouts for that sort of thing. It stands to reason—a man who spends years clumping around under a full load of legionary gear is going to be no good for quiet work at night. Titus Vinius would never have done such a thing.”