The Swabian Affair

by Ray Gleason

  “Dead woman here!” I called over to Athauhnu.

  I looked over and saw Athauhnu staring down at something on the ground. “She’s not alone, Arth,” he said flatly.

  There were four that we could positively identify as individuals: my woman, two men, and what appeared to be a boy. The boy still had an arrow in his throat. Drust pulled it out and handed it the Athauhnu. After examining it for a few minutes, he said, “Almaenwuhr!”

  “Germans this far west?” I challenged.

  “A thin, metal head,” Athauhnu said. “Only those moch from across the Rhenus would use a shoddy arrowhead like this. The joints in the shaft are hardly trimmed . . . The nock doesn’t end at a joint. The fletching . . . goose feathers glued with bark pitch . . . This is the work of anouariad, ‘savages.’”

  Rhodri rejoined us from scouting along the woodline. “I found tracks . . . They followed a stream in from the north, went out the same way . . . A dozen of them, I guess . . . They were avoiding the road . . . The trail was rained on, so more than a week old . . . Maybe as many as two.”

  “That all?” Athauhnu questioned his scout.

  Rhodri shrugged, “They weren’t carrying any loads on the way out. They got nothing from this. It was as if all they wanted was to kill these people.”

  “A dozen, you say? Over a week ago?” I echoed Rhodri. “They’re no threat to us.”

  “Rhodri!” Athauhnu snapped. “Ride back to Guithiru. Tell him to bring the men forward. Drust, find the root cellar . . . It may be under the burned timbers. . . It should be near one of the entrances of the house.”

  “Survivors?” I asked him.

  “No,” Athauhnu said. “We’ll drag what’s left of these people into the cellar. It’s the only burial we can offer them.”

  By the time we went into camp that evening, we had found three more burned farms. There seemed to be neither rhyme nor reason to the destruction; a devastated farm would be found in the midst of several untouched ones. There was nothing of value to steal from these people. The harvest wasn’t in; the livestock were hidden. It seemed as if the Germans killed just for the sake of killing.

  There was no evidence of people at the farms that the raiders had spared. The valley of the Dubis seemed as if it were under a curse that had made all the people and animals disappear. The Sequani, who, when we crossed the Arar, had been heartened at being back in their own lands, were now silent and sullen.

  We pulled into our night laager around the eleventh hour. We posted security, set up, and pulled horse stables. Athauhnu and I had just posted the night sentries when there was a Roman cavalryman waiting for us, one of Mani’s boys. He was still in full rig, so the visit was “official.” When he approached us, he seemed confused for a heartbeat, seemingly seeing two officers in Roman gear. Being a veteran and wanting to avoid a castigatio for offending the dignitas of some Roman fuzz-face who thought he was so important that everyone in the army should recognize him, even in the dark, he addressed the larger of the two apparent officers.

  “Decurio! The legate, Tertius Gellius Publicola, requests that you report to him at his principia, stat’!”

  Athauhnu chuckled, “You obviously want my little Roman friend here. I don’t jump for purple stripers.”

  The man hestitated. In his mind, he had just mistaken a “wog” for a Roman officer, an offense for which he feared he could be beaten into unconsciousness. The irony was that, in reality, he had mistaken one “wog” for another.

  Finally, he addressed me, “Decurio! The legate—”

  I held my hand up to stop him, “I heard the message. Do you have any idea what this is about?”

  “Nescio, Decurio!” he snapped. “Sir! I do not know!”

  I sighed. Missing my dinner for a meeting with a pompous gobshite like Publicola was not my idea of how to end a stressful day. “Bene! Take me to him.”

  The man did an about face and marched off into the darkness toward the Roman camp fires. I followed in his wake, realizing how heavy my lorica weighed down on me after a day in the saddle cataloging German atrocities. Even my boots were dragging. I hoped, whatever bug had crawled up Publicola’s butt, this wouldn’t take too long, even if it were an ass-chewing for some imagined deficiency.

  The cavalryman led me to a tent erected in the middle of the camp and stood back as he parted the leather covering the entrance. As I walked by him, I winked and said, “Don’t worry about the mixup . . . Everybody mistakes Adonus Dux for me . . . Even our mothers have trouble telling us apart.”

  I couldn’t tell if the man appreciated my humor.

  When I entered the tent, I met with a bit of a surprise. I had expected Publicola to be dressed in his full senatorial rig, sitting ramrod straight behind his field desk. Instead, there was no desk. Publicola, Troucillus, Metius, and Manius Talus were sitting in a circle, slouched down in their chairs, each with a wine cup in his hand. The look in Publicola’s eyes indicated they had been at it since sundown.

  The sound of his voice clinched it. “Ah . . . Insubrecus . . . ‘bout time you got here! Take off that helmet and lorica! This party’s strickerly informal . . . My man will help you . . . Take a seat . . . Famile! Slave! Pour the decurio some wine!”

  It took a bit of maneuvering to get me out of my armor without injuring any of the other guests. Despite Publicola’s protestation of informality, I rebuckled my pugio to my waist and hung the baldric of my gladius over the back of my chair . . . I would never again make the mistake I made in Gabi’s villa. A dark blue ceramic cup was thrust into my hand, and Publicola’s slave filled it with wine. I took a taste. It was a first-rate Italian vintage, not the vinegar that soldiers usually drink. Publicola wasn’t traveling light.

  Finally, Publicola spoke. “This is an informal meeting of comrades . . . a symposium of sorts . . . So, just address me as Publicola . . . You think you can . . . can ‘andle that . . . Insubrece?” he said with a slight hiccup.

  “Yes, Trib . . . yes . . . Publicola,” I said. I wasn’t quite that drunk yet.

  “Be . . . Bene!” Publicola hiccupped again as he held up his wine cup to be refilled. “Just a bunch of contubernales . . . army mates, talkin’ ‘bout the day.”

  Publicola continued, “I don’t know if Gaius Valerius mentioned it—” He gestured toward Troucillus with his wine cup, sloshing the contents over his hand. “But, I was quite impressed with the way you handled the wogs . . . Oh! . . . My apologies, Insubrece . . . the Gauls . . . over that nastiness with the killing . . . Killed while taking a leak . . . not a noble way to fall.” Publicola laughed at his own pun.

  “The entertainment was well worth the silver I paid,” he continued. “Imagine . . . being able to pay a fine for murdering someone! If we Romans did that, it would be a new growth industry in the city . . . an instant success . . . The gods know, murder’s already a thriving trade . . . Millions would be changing hands! Maybe we could improve on it! Say . . . I’d like to murder your brother next week . . . How much is he worth to you?’” Again, Publicola enjoyed his own joke.

  I stole a glance at Troucillus. His face was frozen in a “slightly amused” look. Metius, I couldn’t read at all; his face was completely blank. Manius Talus was just enjoying the moment; he seemed as far into Bacchus’ kingdom as was our host.

  Publicola suddenly changed direction, “So . . . tell me, Insubrece . . . What do you make of these raids? . . . What do your Gauls think is going on here?”

  “It’s difficult to decipher . . . uh . . . Publicola,” I began. Addressing Publicola by his cognomen like some Patrician at a cocktail party on the Palatine was still sticking in my throat. “There’s nothing to be gained by it. These people aren’t rich . . . There’s nothing to steal that’s worth the effort . . . All the Grunni are accomplishing is scaring the piss out of some farmers.”

  “Perhaps that’s the point,” Troucillus interrupted.

  “Interesting thought, Troucille,” Publicola said. “Say more!”

&nbs
p; Troucillus began, “The Germans are terrorizing the Gallic population in preparation for Ariovistus’ invasion. If they can succeed, they will have defeated the Sequani in this valley before the first sword is drawn. That, and if the harvest is disrupted, the garrison at Vesantio will not be able to supply itself against a siege.”

  “Interesting . . . interesting” Publicola blurted. “What do your sources tell you, Meti?”

  Metius shrugged, “Germans are bad for business.”

  “‘Germans are bad for business,’” Publicola chuckled. “That’s rich . . . rich, indeed.”

  Publicola thought it a joke. I suspected Metius was holding something back.

  “What did your contacts in Ventum Cavillonum have to say about the situation . . . Meti?” I pressed him.

  Troucillus gave me a slight shake of the head, but it was too late. The question was out there.

  “Yes . . . yes,” Publicola encouraged. “What did you learn, Meti?”

  Metius turned and looked directly at me. His eyes were dark . . . void, but vaguely threatening. I thought for a heartbeat I was staring into Hecate’s black pit.

  Finally, he spoke in a monotone, “The Aedui do not admit to knowing anything about the problems of the Sequani living in this valley . . . As far as they’re concerned, anything bad that happens to the Sequani is well-deserved . . . as long as it doesn’t affect their profits.”

  Publicola shook his head, “Gratias dis, the Gauls hate each other more than they hate us! So . . . Troucille . . . you believe it’s terror for the sake of terror . . . To me, that sounds a bit too sophisti—” (hiccup) “sophisticated for barbarians . . . Next you’re going to tell me Ariovistus has studied the campaigns of Hannibal!”

  Troucillis smiled, “I don’t know what Ariovistus has read, but I will not permit myself to assume he has not read military histories or that he is not a capable strategist in his own right. Terror for the sake of terror was not the invention of any historian. But, it has been a device of capable and ruthless military leaders. Hannibal used it against you Romans, as did Mithradates when he massacred every Roman citizen he could get his hands on in Asia. Crassus used it against the slaves when he crucified thousands of them along the Via Appia. One doesn’t need to be a philosopher to understand it.”

  “Bene dictum!” Publicola hicupped. “Well said!”

  Troucillus’ lecture on terrorism seemed to end the conversation about our current situation. Publicola went off on some discourse about rhetoric, which led him to criticize Cicero for publishing speeches he never gave. Troucillus talked about the best way of hunting boar and five methods of testing animal stool for freshness. Metius said nothing; he just stared down at his winecup and sloshed around the contents. Occasionally, I caught him staring at me with his black, soulless eyes. I talked a bit about growing grapes in the Padus valley, to which Publicola was incredulous and Troucillus was unimpressed, since his people had been cultivating grapes along the Rhodanus for at least a generation.

  Finally, Mani Talus tried to make a contribution to the conversation by saying, “You guys ever hear the one about the rube who was visitin’ Rome and walkin’ through the forum? He drew everyone’s attention ‘cause he was the spittin’ image of the dictator, Sulla, . . . So, Sulla has his lictors drag the poor sod into the Curia and stand ‘im up right in front of the entire senate. Sulla says to the guy, ‘Your mother has ever visited Rome?’ The guy says back, ‘No, she never has, but my father came here all the time.’”

  Manius was in hysterics at his own joke. Troucillis, Publicola, and I were still trying to unravel the father-mother thing through the fumes of a couple of cups of wine. Metius was impassive. I doubted the man capable of laughing at a joke. I was unwilling to imagine what might have made him smile.

  Then, from outside the tent, we heard a voice yell, “You! By the tent there! Halt!” There were the sounds of a struggle. The side of the tent immediately behind Troucillus bulged inward then recovered. There was the sound of a blow and a man grunting in pain. Then, silence.

  I was the first one out, my gladius in hand. Manius Talus tried to follow but was a little worse for the wine he had drunk. When I got around the tent to where the struggle had occurred, I could see the shapes of two men outlined by the dim glow of lamp light through the translucent leather of the tent. One was down on the ground, the other standing over him.

  I called for them to halt and moved in closer. The man on the ground was in the armor of a Roman cavalryman, one of Mani’s, obviously a roaming sentry. The other turned to me with a snarl. It was Metius’ man, Bulla. He was in a knife-fighter’s crouch. There was something in his left hand, which he kept low, down by his hip. It was a curved sica.

  “You think you can take me, boy? Even with that pig-sticker of yours?” he challenged.

  Macro always told me that, when skills are equal, the fighter with the greater reach usually wins. A sword beats a knife. Facing Bulla, though, suddenly I was no longer confident with that principle.

  Then, I heard Metius’ voice behind me: “Stand down, Bulla!”

  Bulla hesitated for a couple of heartbeats. Then, he relaxed and straightened up. He slipped the sica up under his right sleeve.

  Then, I heard Mani’s voice slur, “Soldier . . . Sta tu! Get on your feet . . . Report!”

  The man on the ground lifted himself up and assumed the position of attention. “Decurio! I saw this man skulking outside the Tribune’s tent . . . I challenged him.”

  “That doesn’t explain why a civilian with only a knife knocked a fully equipped Roman soldier on his arse,” Manius shot back at him. “Explain that to me and maybe I won’t have you beaten for dereliction of duty!”

  The man stammered a bit, but Metius interrupted him. “Decurio, Bulla here is not merely a ‘civilian.’ He’s a trained fighter with many years’ experience. He serves as my custos, my bodyguard. I’m sure he was here only to ensure my safety.”

  “Your safety?” Manius shot back. “Your safety? In the Tribune’s tent? In the middle of a Roman encampment?”

  Before Manius could finish, Publicola spoke up. “Gentlemen! I’m sure this is just a . . . a slight misunderstanding . . . Soldier! Abi! Miss’est! You’re dimissed!”

  I could sense that Manius didn’t consider the issue either a “misunderstanding” or finished. But, before he could protest, Publicola continued, “It’s late gentlemen . . . well into the second watch . . . We have an early start in the morning and need to be on our game with these Grunni lurking about . . . Go back to your quarters and get some sleep . . . Insubrece! Please come back inside with me . . . I have some unfinished business with you . . . Troucille, you may remain with us if you wish . . . To the rest of you I bid valete!”

  Bulla glared at me for a few more heartbeats. Then he made a derisive sound through his nose, turned, and walked off into the darkness. I had the distinct feeling that I now had an enemy in him, and he was not finished with me. As I turned and followed Publicola and Troucillus back around the tent, I bid Manius Talus vale over my shoulder. Metius seemed to have vanished into the darkness.

  I entered the tent, picked my scabbard up off the ground where it had fallen, sheathed my sword, and hung it back over my chair. As soon as my right hand was free, Publicola handed me another cup of wine. I didn’t really want it, but I noticed Publicola pouring Troucillus and himself another cup. Macro always told me some drinkers get insulted when you don’t drink with them. So, I took a slight sip of the wine as I took my seat.

  “Insubrece,” Publicola started, “I’m going to let you in on a confidence that the Imperator shared with me . . . He told me to be watchful for possible Roman interference with our mission . . . Caesar believes that certain elements in Rome do not want him to succeed in restoring peace to our provincia . . . He told me that you are aware of these attempts to undermine his ambitions for Gaul . . . He mentioned some . . . uh . . . shall we say, unpleasantness in Massalia, which involved the Consul’s son.”


  Publicola stopped to wet his whistle then started again, “That having been said, what is your opinion on the killing of that Aeduus? Was it just tribal rivalries? Or, is someone trying to subvert our mission by stirring up the Gauls?”

  I thought about my response for a few heartbeats, then began, “It’s difficult to attribute the killing to the Sequani . . . When Gauls go after each other, it’s face to face . . . The whole thing was too . . . too Roman . . . at night, from behind, leaving misleading evidence—”

  Troucillus suddenly chimed in, “I think the Aedui understood that. That’s one of the reasons they accepted the judgment of the honor and transgression price so easily, and if you don’t mind my saying it, it’s why they maneuvered the payment of the fine over to you Romans. They knew somehow one of you was to blame.”

  Publicola seemed to mull over what I had said, then asked me, “Did Caesar share with you his expectations for our mission?”

  I was on dangerous ground. I had no idea what Caesar had told Troucillus or how far he had taken Troucillus into his confidence. But, Troucillus was about to put himself in harm’s way by carrying Caesar’s message, so he had every right to know how Caesar expected Ariovistus to react.

  “Caesar has no expectation that Ariovistus will submit to his demands,” I stated flatly. “Caesar wants a battle to force the Germans back over the Rhenus.”

  Publicola nodded his agreement. “That is what I believe, also. Our mission is to delay Ariovistus long enough for Caesar to get the army into the Gate. Failing that, we are to defend Vesantio until Caesar can relieve it. My job is to convince the Grunni of Caesar’s sincerity by waving my purple stripe in front of them. Ariovistus is supposed to believe that Caesar wouldn’t risk a Roman noble on a deception.”