Nobody Loves a Centurion

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.”

“Very well,” Caesar said. “Best he were not brought in at night anyway. The wake-up trumpets will sound soon and the soldiers will be up. I don’t want all sorts of wild rumors flying through the camp while it’s still dark and men’s minds are prey to primitive fears. Carbo, bring all your men over here to guard the site, but keep them at a distance. Come, gentlemen. We have plans to discuss.” He turned to go.

“By your leave, Proconsul,” I said, “I’ll stay here until daylight. I want to make certain that no one interferes with the scene.”

“As you wish,” Caesar said. He began to walk back toward the camp. Carbo went off to summon his men and the others went after Caesar. Each of them eyed me in utter mystification. None had any idea what to make of me. Labienus lingered later than the rest.

“Metellus, what sort of man are you? I have never seen a man behave with such shameless gall. Are you a hero or just some sort of lunatic?”

“A woman once called me a male harpy. I hound evildoers to their doom.”

He nodded. “That settles it, then. You’re a lunatic.” With that he walked away.

The auxilia were whiling away their time with a torchlit dice game. “Where is the man who found the body?” I demanded. One of the dicers called something over his shoulder and the man came in from the outer gloom, looking like a piece of the night detached from the whole and made animate.

“Tell me how you found him,” I said.

“We were performing the nightly sweep-”

“First identify yourself.”

“I am Ionus of the Gallic Scouts, part of the Second Cohort,” he began, his accent so dense that I could barely understand him. The auxilia are organized only as cohorts, never as legions. “We are under the command of Captain Carbo; valiant as a lion, cunning as a serpent, virile as a wild boar. .”

“Yes, yes, I am well acquainted with Captain Carbo’s virtues. We are old friends. Tell me how you found the dead man.”

“Each evening, just after dark, we conduct the sweep to catch any Helvetii who might come in through the swamp. Beginning at the legionary camp, the light-armed skirmishers extend in two lines from the great rampart on the left. Captain Carbo commands from the right flank. Upon his signal, they begin walking toward the lake. We Scouts go out ahead of them at a hundred paces. We are picked men, known for our keen night vision and our skill at moving silently in the dark. My own tribe, the Volcae, are famed for this skill.”

“I take it you are great cattle raiders?”

“The very best!” he said, smiling proudly. Just as the Greeks of Homer considered piracy a proper calling for gentlemen and our own ancestors of Romulus’ time thought it quite correct to appropriate other people’s women, so the Gauls believe that cattle thieving is both fine sport and a legitimate means to augment one’s material wealth.

“Go on, then. You set out on the evening sweep. Did you start any infiltrators?”

“We found none this night, and that seemed odd, for we usually net anything from three to a score of them. Perhaps this night is one ill-omened for the Helvetii and they deemed it a bad time to go adventuring.”

“You swept all the way to the lake?”

“Yes. Then Captain Carbo told the Scouts to make a careful check of all the nearby bodies of water. Sometimes the raiders hide among the reeds until the sweep passes. I led these spearmen,” he gestured to the dice-playing skirmishers, “and we came here. That was when I saw the dead man.”

“Then this is not the lake itself?” I asked him, surprised.

“No, we are about five hundred paces from the lake proper. This is a pond. There are many of them around here. The reeds make this one a good place to hide. The skirmishers had just begun poking their spears in the clumps of reeds when I noticed something floating out in the water. At first I thought it was a dead Helvetian, perhaps one wounded the night before who went to hide in the pond and died there. His tunic was dark. But then I saw that his legs were bare, like a Roman’s.”

Most Gauls wear trousers. Often they fight bare-chested or wearing a brief cape over their shoulders, and some of them fight stark naked, dedicating themselves to their gods and trusting to no other protection. But very seldom do they wear tunics leaving the legs bare, like civilized soldiers.

“When did you recognize him?”

“He floated facedown and I waded out to him, thinking to take his head should he prove to be an enemy. But then I saw his short hair and knew he was a Roman. I rolled him over and I knew his face instantly. The First Spear always stands on the platform next to Caesar during reviews and we had one just two days ago.”

“You did not lie about having good night vision. Was there anything else?”

“I told the spearmen to stay and guard the body while I ran to report to Captain Carbo. We went to tell Caesar. He would not believe me at first, but he sent for the First Spear and he couldn’t be found. So he summoned his officers and I led the lot of you here.”

The rest of Carbo’s men arrived and I was busy for a while arranging them into a cordon around the site. I told them to come no closer, my main concern being to preserve the site as best I could. Not that there was likely to be anything to read from the signs, with the way half the Empire had been trampling all over the place for hours.

Gradually the eastern horizon turned pale. Imperceptibly, a bit at a time, distant objects became discernible. In time I could see that I did, indeed, stand beside a pond. It covered perhaps three acres, half of its area choked with dense weeds. In the distance I could see Lake Lemannus itself. Satisfied that I had sufficient light, I went to the body and crouched beside it.

Death had rendered Titus Vinius no prettier. His mouth was twisted in a wide-open snarl, as if he had been gasping for breath when death overtook him. The cord of braided hide around his neck would account for that. It was buried deeply in the flesh of his neck and had been tied off over the spinal cord.

He wore a dark tunic of coarse wool, such as slaves wear. As the light improved, I noticed a thin slit about the width of three fingers just over the heart. I grasped the neck opening and ripped the garment halfway down. There was a stab wound two inches to the left of the sternum, probably through the heart. There was no blood, but then the body had been in the water for hours. In any case, penetrating wounds to the torso bleed internally. My old friend Asklepiodes had taught me that and I wished fervently that I had him by my side just then. He could read wounds the way a huntsman can read the signs left behind by animals.

All I could tell was that the wound had been made by a double-edged dagger. Every soldier in both camps carried just such a dagger at his belt. I wore one myself. At least two killers, then. I could visualize it: One man looped the garotte around Vinius’s neck from behind and drew it tight. Perhaps he struggled too fiercely and a confederate in front stabbed him, or perhaps the noose was just to hold him so that the knife man could do the real execution.

Then I saw that there was something wrong with his scalp. I fought down superstitious revulsion and felt the damp hair. Beneath the dense, curly, goatlike hair, I felt a skin laceration. With a little pressure, I could feel bone shift beneath my fingers. Someone had smashed Vinius’s skull with a club or some similar object. Three killers now?

Not necessarily. Men do not always die easily and a man like Vinius could be counted on to die harder than most. Perhaps the daggerman or the strangler had bashed him on the head to make doubly certain. One would think, though, that the knotted cord would be enough. And if there was uncertainty, why not just stab him a few more times? Men willing to stab other men are usually not reluctant to do it repeatedly.

A theory began to take shape in my mind, and it was not one I liked. It pointed straight at the First Century and most particularly at one special contubernium.

There was little more to be read from the corpse. It was unarmed and without a purse or ornaments of any kind. That meant little, since Gauls would have stripped Titus Vinius of any valuables. I was still hoping for Gauls, although the continuing presence of his head argued against that.

I examined the ground near where the body had been found, but it was so thoroughly trampled by hobnailed boots that there was nothing to be learned. Surely, I thought, a man as strong and battle-hardened as Titus Vinius must have put up a terrible struggle, even if only for a few seconds. I hoped for bits of clothing or ornaments or weapons torn from the killers, but I found none. A single foreign dagger would serve to direct suspicion away from the legion. I found only a scrap of dirty white linen.

A score of questions tore at me: Why was he dressed in a dingy, slave’s tunic? Why was he here? Why that particular night? And for which of several exceedingly good reasons had he been killed?

My musings were interrupted when a solemn procession came from the direction of the camp. Most were soldiers, but they glittered more than those I had seen so far. Then I saw the flashing greaves on their shins and I knew that these were the surviving centurions of the Tenth. They had donned their dress uniforms for this duty. With them came a small group of slaves. Among these was Molon, wailing extravagantly and bearing a great bundle upon his back.

The man in front halted the procession. “I am Spurius Mutius, centurion of the Second Century, First Cohort of the Tenth, and now acting First Spear. We’ve come to take the body of our comrade back to the camp for his funeral.”

“Has the Proconsul informed you of my special authority?”

“He has.” I looked at fifty-nine hard, closed faces and I knew what I was in for. I was the outsider here, just another political interloper. These were the professionals of the Tenth. They were closing ranks the way the old military maniples used to, when the principes and the hastati and the triarii merged their squares into one massive, impenetrable block to face the enemy.

“You may have him,” I said. “I’ve learned all I can here.”

Mutius turned to the slaves. “Do your duty.” These were funeral slaves, of which every legion keeps a staff. On campaign, they dispensed with the archaic trappings they wore in Rome and looked like any other army slaves. The priest, also a slave, performed a lustrum to purify the corpse. Foreigners are sometimes shocked to find that slaves can be priests among us, but our gods are not the snobs that some people’s are.

The funeral men stripped the dingy tunic from Vinius’s body and Molon, still wailing and weeping, dumped his bundle on the ground. He threw open the wrapping blanket to reveal his master’s glittering dress uniform. With swift efficiency, the slaves dressed the corpse.

“Molon, go mourn somewhere else,” I ordered. “But not too far away. I want to speak to you presently.” He nodded and walked off, wailing. It was annoying, but we are all bound by tradition and there was nothing to be done about it.

Within minutes Vinius was laid out on a shield and clad in his finery. His silvered helmet bore a magnificent side-to-side crest of scarlet horsehair and his greaves were polished brilliantly. His armor was especially splendid: a shirt of small scales, plated alternately with gold and silver so that they resembled the plumage of a fabulous bird. The phalerae were arranged over his body on their strap harness: nine thick, silver disks as broad as a man’s palm, each decorated with the head of a different god in high relief. In all, he looked greatly improved from the sordid, waterlogged corpse the Gaul had discovered. The funeral slaves had even been able to settle his face into an expression of stern serenity.

“What god has laid us under a curse?” mused a grizzled old veteran. “The First Spear murdered at the outset of a campaign! Was there ever a worse omen?”

“Quiet there, Nonius,” Mutius said. “Let’s take him back.” Three spears had been arranged beneath the shield and six centurions bent to grasp their ends, but at that moment I noticed something.

“Wait.” The six paused and I pointed to a band of pale skin around Vinius’s right wrist. I had grasped that wrist a few days before to stop him from flogging Burrus further and had felt a bracelet beneath my fingers. Among Romans only soldiers wear bracelets, and then only as awards for valor. “He wore a bracelet. Where is it?”

“You’re right,” Mutius said, rubbing his stubbled chin. “He won that in Africa when he was a common legionary. It was his first decoration for bravery. He always wore it.” He turned slightly. “Molon!” he barked. “Come here, you ugly cur!”

Molon shuffled over to us, trying to wail and smile at the same time. “Sir?”

“You were instructed to bring all your master’s decorations. Where is his bracelet?”

Molon was caught short. “But I brought everything! I don’t. .” His protestions ended in a yelp of pain as Mutius’s vinestock slashed across his shoulder.

“If you’ve stolen that bracelet I’ll have every inch of hide off your back, you misshapen wretch!”

“But it was not in his chest!” Molon cried, now huddled on his knees with his arms above his head, shielding it. “He never took it off! He even slept with it!”

“That’s enough,” I said as sternly as I could. “The killers probably took it. I want all of Vinius’s belongings put under seal and brought to the praetorium immediately.”

“It will be done,” Mutius said. “Let’s go.”

The six raised the shield to their shoulders and began to walk back toward the camp. The rest of the centurions followed in double-file and I walked behind them.

“Sir, do you want this?” I looked up and saw one of the funeral slaves holding out the braided noose. I was about to wave it away in disgust, then thought better of it. I took it and tucked it under my sword belt. If nothing else, I could add it to the macabre little collection of murderous souvenirs I kept at home.

I saw Molon shuffling along with the slaves, his head hanging in mock sadness. I signaled him to come to me.

“Well, sir,” he said, “that’s another one gone, eh?”

“Molon, I am only going to tell you this once: You are to keep yourself handy because I am going to question you. If I hear that you have run away, I shall use my special new authority to have our entire cavalry force run you down and bring you back in chains. As far as I am concerned, you are a suspect in your master’s murder. Do you know what that means?”

He shrugged. “It means the cross, of course. That may frighten slaves in Rome, but in this part of the world they really give some thought to torture and colorful executions. Every soldier in this army faces worse than the cross if he’s captured alive. Besides,” he smirked, “do you think these old vinegar drinkers will believe that someone like me could overpower someone like Titus Vinius?”

“Whoever did it wasn’t acting alone,” I said, “and it doesn’t take a giant to wield a dagger.”

“You’re stretching now, sir,” he said, sounding not quite so confident.

“Just keep in mind that you are under suspicion and behave accordingly. How many slaves did Vinius have?”

“You mean here in the camp with him?”

“Yes.”

“Just me and Freda. He has-had an estate back in Italy, but I never saw it.”

“No cook, valet, mule handler?”

“I’m all of ’em. And interpreter, too.”

“And what does Freda-well, I suppose I don’t need to ask what services she performed for him.” Molon grinned insinuatingly and I punched him in the side.

We came into the camp and I reflected that, at the very least, I wouldn’t have to report to the arms trainer that morning. Secretly, though, I was glad that Caesar had sentenced me to that torment. I had not realized how far out of condition I was, and that is not a good way to be when going into a war. I was now almost back to my old level of skill and endurance and I resolved to spend an hour or two each day at drill until I was as good as ever, if not better.

I told Molon to report to me at the praetorium along with the rest of Vinius’s property and he promised to do so. As I walked through the camp to return to my tent, I tried to judge the state of the soldiers. They were sprucing up their equipment for a formal parade, but there was nothing festive about them. They spoke in low voices and their expressions were downcast and fearful. They looked at the sky too much. That is a bad sign among soldiers because it means they are looking for omens, betraying a lack of confidence.

They were arranging the crests on their helmets, which among ordinary soldiers are worn only on parade and in battle. Likewise, they were stripping the oiled covers from their shields. Because of its layered construction, the scutum is very vulnerable to soaking. Thus it is kept covered much of the time, but on parade and in battle the covers are removed, revealing the brightly painted and decorated faces. But no amount of paint and gilding and feathers and horsehair could make this legion look like Rome’s best. The Gauls had not even showed up in force and already the Tenth looked like a beaten army.

I found Hermes waiting for me with breakfast, hot water, and decent wine. Sometimes he was not really such a burden.

“Is it true what I’ve been hearing?” he asked as I launched into breakfast.

“If you’ve heard the First Spear’s been killed, it’s true,” I said around a mouthful of hot bread. “Whether he was murdered hasn’t been established, but if the Gauls did him in they got him to dress oddly beforehand.”

“This is a strange army and an odd war,” Hermes pronounced. “I think we should go home.”

“If that were possible you’d have a hard time keeping up with me. And believe me: it’s bad to be with an army even in the best of wars. Now go along to your weapons drill and let me think.”

So I sat there in my folding camp chair and tried to think, but no thoughts would come. Exhausting days and short nights were taking their toll. The night before had been even shorter than most, with no more than an hour or two of sleep, and much excitement. And now another day was starting. And I did not like what I was facing.

Thus far, I had been no more than an oddity to the Tenth Legion. That was nothing new. I was something of an oddity in Rome. Now I was chief investigator and I would be the most unpopular man in Gaul. My investigation was likely to send several men to the executioner. My well-known sympathy with Burrus and his contubernium was going to cast my investigator’s impartiality into serious doubt. Everyone would assume that I was looking for a scapegoat to take the blame and exonerate my client.

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 sure 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.