The Swabian Affair

by Ray Gleason

  And, the Romans truly believe that their nation is loved by the gods above all others. I have seen no nation so sure of its divine favor, with the possible exception of a people whom the Greeks call hoi Ioudaioi. They inhabit a fly-bitten strip of sand north of Aegyptus, where they recognize only one, nameless god, who shows his favor by making their lives miserable. At least, when a Roman is convinced that one of the gods hates him, he can change allegiance to another.

  My own experience in the legions over these many years has not fully resolved this issue of leading men. I don’t believe for a heartbeat that experience is not necessary in developing a leader. To this day, I’m amazed that I didn’t completely bollix the job. I had no experience to rely on; I was making shit up as I went along. Lauda Fortunam Deam! Praise the goddess Fortuna for smiling on me in those days. They say she favors youth and fools. Back then, I had both covered.

  On the other hand, I have seen men on whom a life’s experience is wasted. They couldn’t lead a drunk to a caupona in the desert. The gods have somehow intervened in their making to deprive them of that flair necessary for men to be willing to follow them.

  But, I still had to ask myself, if the gods were so much in love with the Roman nation, why did they place a broad purple stripe and a military tribune’s sash on a pompous twit like Publicola?

  During the day, I rode forward with the Aedui, screening our march. It gave me control of my most active maneuver element, let me see the terrain that we were entering, and kept me away from Publicola, who rode at the head of the column.

  It was our nightly encampments that made me a bit anxious.

  The cavalry, unlike the infantry, does not build a fortified castra every night. Cavalry has no intention of defending a fixed position and relies on its mobility to escape an attack. Essentially, when going into a night laager, the cavalry chooses ground that is difficult for an enemy to approach stealthily—usually a hilltop—throws out pickets, then circles its horse lines.

  Our little traveling circus had four quasi-independent circles: one for the Aedui; another for the Sequani; a third for the baggage; and the last for the Roman contingent. Publicola usually placed his encampment near the center for security, but upwind of everything else so his patrician nostrils weren’t offended by the smell of barbarians and mule shit. The Aedui and the Sequani positioned themselves as far away from each other as they could, which suited my purposes just fine. We tried to keep the baggage somewhere between us so no one could sneak in at night and steal any of the Romans’ goodies—at least, no one other than us.

  Each night, Publicola entertained Caesar’s emissaries and the commander of the Roman engineers. They built their fires high—so much for operational security—and swarms of attendants served their every need, lest a grass stain blemish their pristine, lilly-white arses. Needless to say, I was never invited to Publicola’s soirées, which, again, suited me just fine.

  On our fourth night out from Caesar’s castra, we were camped on a small hillock about half a day’s ride from the Arar. We were going to arrive at the river near the site of our earlier battle with the Tigurini. Since the river could not be forded at that point and we had pulled down the bridges over which Caesar’s army had crossed, Morcant planned to lead us north along the west bank of the river to an Aeduan oppidum, opposite where the Dubis enters the Arar. The Aedui called the place Caer Carwuhr, the “fortress of the heroes,” a place Roman merchants called Ventum Cavillonum, the market town of the Cavillones. Morcant said that at this time of year the Arar was fordable just north of the town. We could cross over into Sequani territory; he and his Aedui would then leave us.

  I came that close to keeping the peace between the Aedui and Sequani.

  In the morning, at the start of the first hour, one of Morcant’s Aedui sought me out in the encampment of the Sequani. I knew whatever the issue was, it had to be critical for an Aedui to enter alone into the circle of a people he considered his mortal enemies—and possibly even the very band that had attacked his own dun. I was with Athauhnu and Ci inspecting the horses before we pulled out. The young Aedui actually pulled on the sleeve of my tunic to get my attention.

  “A Pen,” he panted out, “Morcant asks . . . he asks that you attend him . . . right away . . . It’s important!”

  I turned to find myself next to a red-haired boy who looked no more than fifteen. “What is your name?” I asked him.

  The boy looked confused for a heartbeat, then realized that, in his urgency, he had violated an important social protocol of our people. “I am Tegid mab Davuhd, macouid to the pendevig, Morcant . . . Will you come? . . . It is important!”

  Macouid, I thought, a squire . . . a shield bearer. So this boy is to Morcant what Emlun is to Athauhnu. Another father’s sister’s son, I wondered. The red hair . . . I had a thought.

  “Are you Rhonwen’s brother?” I asked him.

  The boy looked shocked. “Yes . . . I am . . . How did you—” Then he recovered himself. “You must come, sir. The Pendevig said it is urgent that you come right away.”

  “Athauhnu, please come with me,” I said. “Ci, you and Guithiru complete the inspection of the horse lines . . . I’m concerned about the right front hoof of the sorrel mare in Guithri’s ala.”

  Ci nodded as Athauhnu and I turned in the direction of the Aedui encampment.

  “The summons is for you alone, a Pen,” Tegid protested. “Not for this Soucanai—”

  Before he could finish his insult, I stopped him, saying, “Who accompanies me is not your choice, Tegid, nor that of your pendevig, Morcant.”

  Tegid wisely shut his mouth and began leading us, not to the Aedui encampment, but to a patch of woods about fifty passus north of it.

  When we entered the woods, we encountered most of Morcant’s riders standing about. I could swear I heard them growl when they saw Athauhnu. I was immediately aware that I was not wearing my armor or carrying a sword. All I had was my authority and a pugio in case they decided to attack my friend.

  Morcant stepped out from the semi-gloom of the woods. “Why did you bring that Soucanai mochuhn with you? Does he wish to admire the handiwork of his murdering bandits?”

  I ignored Morcant’s insult. “You summoned me here, a Pen . . . What is so important that I must visit this wood where your riders piss in the dark?”

  “Come look,” was Morcant’s only response, and he led me further into the gloom.

  We had walked less than three passus when I saw the body of a man sprawled on the ground. “That is Rhuhderc mab Touhim, a warrior of five years, a member of my band . . . He was murdered by a coward . . . from behind . . . His throat was cut . . . He had no chance to defend himself. Teguhd! Show the Roman the knife!”

  An Aedui came forward and offered a knife, handle first. I took it. It was similar in design to a Roman pugio, a weapon the Gah’el call a glev. They were common among both the Aedui and Sequani.

  “What does this prove, Morcant?” I asked. I had almost addressed him as “Ainedua” in response to his “Roman,” but I remembered something my grandpa used to tell me, “When you’re surrounded by your enemies, there’s nothing to be gained by pointing the fact out to them.”

  “Look at the marking on the handle,” Morcant insisted.

  I flipped the glev over and saw what appeared to be a series of lines carved into the wooden handle. I heard Athauhnu suck in his breath.

  “I know that knife,” he admitted. “It belongs to a rider in Ci’s band. A new man . . . a warrior named Airon.”

  “The murderer confesses to his crime,” Morcant hissed. His riders seemed to crowd closer to us . . . hands dropped down to knife and sword handles. I was immediately aware that we were in a wood. No one in the camps could see what happened to us here.

  “Stop . . . Back away from us!” I commanded.

  Fortunately, Morcant seemed to have no stomach for another murder. He held up his hand, and his men backed away.

  My mind was racing. “Where is
Airon now, Athauhnu?” I demanded.

  Athauhnu said, “He was on the picket to the east last night. His detail returned to camp at the end of the fourth watch.”

  “What time did the picket ride out last night?” I pressed.

  Athauhnu shrugged. “At the end of the eleventh hour of the day, so they had enough daylight to get into position.”

  Athauhnu’s answer was consistent with our standard operating practices. “Are you sure that Airon departed?” I pressed him.

  “Yes,” he insisted. “I dispatch the pickets myself . . . I saw him ride east with his detail.”

  “Where is this going?” Morcant challenged.

  “What time was your man, Rhuhderc, killed?” I asked him.

  Morcant looked down at the body as if it might tell him, then looked up at me, “Who could know such a thing, except the Soucana who murdered him?”

  The Aedui hummed their assent to that challenge.

  “When’s the last time anyone saw Rhuhderc alive?” I asked loudly so all the Aedui could hear.

  Almost immediately a voice from behind answered me, “Last night . . . he left the pabel we share to take a piss . . . He waited until the moon was up so he could see his way.”

  “There you have it, Morcant,” I stated. “Rhuhderc was still alive when the man you accuse of killing him was in the east.”

  “This proves nothing!” Morcant almost shouted. “The Soucana could have ridden back in the night and waited in ambush for whomever of my people came here . . . Everyone knew we used this spot as a eudi.”

  “I will question Airon and his mates,” I countered. “If he abandoned his post, they will know . . . I will also question him about this glev.”

  “Lies and more lies!” Morcant shouted. His men growled their assent. “We know who killed Rhuhderc, and we know what to do when a Soucana dog kills one of ours.”

  “No!” I shouted back. I was desperate. I was sure that the Aidenuai were about to seize us and take their revenge on Athauhnu. The Soucanai would then feel obligated to revenge their chief. It would be a blood bath.

  “This is not the way of our people! Ein cuhfrei, our laws demand that—” I began.

  I was interrupted by a new voice from behind the mob of Aidenuai closing in on me. “Perhaps I could be of some assistance in this.”

  Everyone in the grove froze. A figure entered our group. The first thing I noticed was the narrow purple stripe bordering his white tunic. A Roman, I thought. An eques . . . but he speaks Gah’el.

  Then, I noticed the five-strand golden torc around his throat. It was Gaius Valerius Troucillus, Caesar’s emissary to Ariovistus. He placed his right hand on his torc and said, “The decurio is correct. The Gah’el do not take blood vengeance on each other, even for murder. To do so would be anouar, uncivilized. You would be acting like the Rhufeiniaid and Almaenwuhr, not like people of the nations. This issue must be placed before a barnu, a judge who can investigate and apply the law justly.”

  “A barnu,” Morcant challenged. “The closest barnu would be in Caer Carwuhr. But, I doubt he has the status to judge a case of murder.”

  “The Soucanai will not submit to a barnu of the Aidenai!” Athauhnu shouted. I was just about to kick him in the ankle when Troucillus continued.

  “A pen! You, more than most men, should know that our traditional laws go before tribal loyalties . . . They were given us by Chleu Chlaw Guhves before the nations descended from the high places . . . The barnu is accountable to the god, Chleu, himself, not to any tribe or to any chief.”

  I heard mutterings of assent to this statement from the Aidenuai. Even Morcant was nodding in agreement.

  “I may be of further assistance to you,” Troucillus continued. “I am the youngest son of the Uucharix of the Elvai, the hunters of the Rhonus. As such, a barnuchel, a high judge, accompanies me on my journeys to advise me on the laws of our people. He is also a coulour, a searcher of the truth. If you will present your accusations and evidence to him, he will apply the laws of Chleu to them. And, since the Elvai hate the Aidenuai and Soucanai equally, he will favor neither tribe.”

  The Aidenuai muttered their approval.

  “We will hear the accusations of the Aidenuai against the Soucanai in the camp of the Rhufeiniaid chief at the sixth hour, when the chariot of Chleu Chlaw Guhves is at its highest point,” Troucillus pronounced. “Athauhnu, the glev, please.”

  As Athauhnu handed him the knife, Troucillus whispered, “Wait until the Aidenuai return to their encampment. We don’t need one of them taking matters into his own hands on you.” Athauhnu nodded.

  Then, Troucillus said, “Morcant, do you have a met’uhg with your troop?” Despite Troucillus’ south-of-the-Rhonus accent, I recognized the word for doctor.

  So did Morcant. He nodded.

  “Good,” Troucillus answered. “Please send him here to me.”

  As the Aidenai left, Troucillus said to me quietly in Latin, “Publicola will not be pleased with the delay, but as the head of Caesar’s embassy, I outrank him. He’s sure to see this as a Gallic problem and, therefore, your fault. So, I would avoid him as best you can until he calms down a bit. Did you understand that, Dux?”

  I heard Athauhnu mutter, “Compre’endo.”

  Troucillus rubbed his hands together and looked around the grove. “So many of the Aidenuai have tromped through this place that I doubt we’ll find any useful footprints. Let’s take a closer look at the body.”

  Rhuhderc was lying face down on the ground near a large oak tree. I helped Troucillus turn him, and we noticed that his penis was still outside his bracae.

  “Whoever did this, caught him in mid-stream,” Troucillus quipped. “By the looks of it, the murderer came up from behind to do the deed. Who would be stealthy enough to walk up on an experienced warrior?”

  I shrugged, “A hunter?”

  “Someone he knew?” Athauhnu suggested. “One of the Aedui?”

  Troucillus grunted. “Adonus Dux, the Aedui have departed, so it’s best that you leave us now. Any participation that you have in the investigation may contaminate the evidence in their eyes.”

  Athauhnu was about to protest, when I said, “Dux, please return to your encampment and stand the turma down. Also, take charge of Airon and his companions from last night’s picket. We will need to question them about this pugio and Airon’s whereabouts last night.”

  Athuahnu muttered, “A’mperi’tu,” and left the woods.

  As Athuahnu was departing, Troucillus was examining where the victim was standing when he was attacked.

  Troucillus pointed to the ground, then to the dead man’s boots. “Those marks are where he was standing . . . I don’t understand why men insist on pissing on the side of trees . . . Here, look at this . . . These marks . . . they were made by his killer . . . It looks like he had to come up on his toes . . . He would have grabbed his victim by his chin from behind . . . lifted and pulled back . . . then drew the knife across his throat. Then, he would have jumped back to avoid the spurting blood . . . very neatly done . . . The killer knew what he was doing . . . but look at these marks . . . You can see the imprints of hobnails . . . The killer wore caligae, Roman boots.”

  “Many of the Sequani wear Roman boots,” I said.

  Troucillus nodded. “We also have an entire ala of Roman cavalry, a detail of Roman engineers, and many in mine and Publicola’s entourage who wear such boots . . . No shortage of suspects who fit that bill . . . but our man was shorter than his victim . . . How tall would you estimate the late Rhuhderc mab Touhim was?”

  I examined the body for a few heartbeats, then said, “He looks to be about my height . . . five pedes and about seven or eight unciae.”

  “Tecum consto,” Troucillus agreed. “Stand up straight for me, Decurio.”

  I did what Troucillus asked. He walked behind me and placed his left hand under my chin. As he lifted my chin, I wondered for a brief, terrifying moment if he were the killer. But, Troucillus adjusted hi
s height until I could feel the pressure of his reach under my chin.

  “How high am I standing?” he asked me.

  I turned to see Troucillus adjusting his height on slightly bent knees. I examined him for a few heartbeats, then offered, “A good five pedes and three . . . maybe four unciae.”

  “Bene,” Troucillus agreed. “Our killer wore Roman caligae and stood about five-four.”

  It was then that the Aeduan horse doctor joined us.

  “Ah, doctor,” Troucillus said in Gah’el. “Please, examine the wound of this unfortunate man and tell me all you can about it.”

  The medduhg looked at Troucillus as if he had lost his mind. Then, he shrugged and bent down over the dead man.

  When he finally stood up again, he wiped his hands on the tail of his blouse and started, “It’s a shallow wound . . . The windpipe is not cut . . . In fact, only the blood tube on the right side of his throat is cut—”

  “The right side?” Troucillus interrupted.

  The medduhg nodded, “Yes . . . only the right . . . The left is still intact.”

  “Anything else?” Troucillus asked.

  “Yes . . . the wound was made by a curved blade,” the doctor asserted, “A dagr, I would say . . . The entry wound on the right of the neck is deeper than the exit wound on the left, but a curved blade, I’d say.”

  Troucillus removed Arion’s glev from his belt. “Could this blade have made the wound?”

  The medduhg examined the glev for a few moments, then shook his head. “I don’t think so . . . This was done by a curved blade . . . a dagr.”

  Dagr, I thought. The Latin word for that is sica, the type of knife used by a percussor, an assassin.

  The memory of a slave who wasn’t a slave back in Aquileia flashed across my mind. Absently, I began to rub the knife scar on my right forearm. Then, I saw the face of Gabinia snarling at her sicarius to kill me in front of her so that she knew “the job was done right.”