Nobody Loves a Centurion

5

I arrived at the watchfire just as the bronze ball clanged into the dish. The watch relief stood in two orderly lines. At their head was a man whose helmet was tinned so that it shone silver instead of bronze, and it sported a crest of white horsehair. His eyes widened a bit when he saw me, then widened a bit further when he saw that I was not alone. He saluted with a professional’s easy disdain.

“Aulus Vehilius,” he said, introducing himself, “optio of the First Cohort and tonight’s relief commander.” So this was Vinius’s right-hand man, the one who carried his spare vine-staffs.

“Decius Caecilius Metellus, Captain of the praetorian ala and officer of the watch.”

“Who are these?” Vehilius said, nodding his crest toward the men standing behind me.

“My troop of the praetorian ala.”

“Auxilia have no place on the camp wall. That’s for legionaries only.”

“Consider them my personal bodyguard. I fear assassination by political rivals.”

He looked at me as if I were insane, an entirely understandable attitude on his part, then snapped: “We are wasting time. Guard Relief, march!” He spun on his hobnailed heel and strode off. The relief stepped out smartly, with a fine, martial clatter. I saw that some of them were grinning at the options discomfiture.

I walked up alongside Vehilius, who sternly ignored me. Behind me, Lovernius and the others ambled along in far less formal order. After all, not only were they Gauls, they were cavalrymen, and could not have marched in step to save themselves from crucifixion.

At the top of the wall, starting from the Porta Praetoria, Vehilius began relieving the sentries. As we reached each sentry post the challenge was given and the watchword rendered, then the optio received the report of the senior man, after which the two men at the front of our line took the places of the two on watch. The relieved men then fell in at the rear of the line.

So it proceeded until we reached the north wall. The noise and missile-hurling had stopped, to my great satisfaction. I decided the Gauls must be getting tired, too. Besides, they had to be well away before daylight when we would be after them again with the cavalry.

When we reached the post where Burrus and Quadratus stood, we went through the usual challenge-and-watchword business and Quadratus reported on the night’s activities. Then Vehilius ordered the column to march on.

“A moment, Optio!” I said.

He paused. “Yes, Captain?”

“Aren’t we going to relieve these men?” I demanded.

“No, we are not. These two, and the men of the next three posts, belong to the sixth contubernium of the First Century, First Cohort. They are to stand watch all night as punishment.”

“I see. I presume that is for this night alone?”

“They stand all-night watches until the First Spear instructs otherwise.”

“And does that not endanger the security of the whole camp?”

“That is not for me to judge. And now, Captain, if it is all right with you, and even if it buggering well isn’t, I am going to continue with my duties.”

“Don’t let me keep you, Optio. Good evening to you.”

Stiff as a spearshaft, he whirled and clumped off, followed by soldiers whose broad grins vanished when he turned to glare at them.

When he was gone, Lovernius made a very Gallic gesture. “Captain, I have always heard how adept you Roman politicians are at making friends. Could I have been misinformed?”

“There is going to be great trouble over this!” said Indiumix delightedly. Gauls just love trouble.

“Patron, what are you up to?” Burrus asked.

“Burrus, Quadratus, you are relieved. These two men,” I pointed at two of my Gauls, “will take your place. Stay here on the wall, but I want you to get some sleep.”

“But they aren’t legionaries!” Quadratus protested.

“I take the responsibility upon my own head,” I assured them. “I am officer of the watch, and I am ordering you two to get some sleep. You’d better do it now, because I won’t have this duty for another three or four nights.”

Soldiers have a remarkable ability to sleep anywhere, under any circumstances. They laid their shields carefully atop the earthen wall, then lay down and pillowed their heads on them. In full armor, belted with sword and dagger and cuddling their spears, they were out like a pair of extinguished lamps.

We proceeded to the next three sentry posts and relieved the remaining six men of the contubernium in the same unorthodox fashion. Then Lovernius and I leaned against the palisade and contemplated the now quiet night. Springtime insects were making noise out there, and an occasional owl hooted.

“Five sesterces says he’ll come after me before sunrise,” I hazarded.

“Ten says he’ll wait and denounce you in front of Caesar and the whole staff in the morning.”

“Done.” We clasped hands on it and Lovernius smiled, shaking his head admiringly. Gauls have an entirely inexplicable admiration for reckless, suicidal fools. As it turned out, he won the ten sesterces.

The sun rose in good time, warming our chilled bodies and raising a picturesque ground fog from the lake, so that for a few minutes the camp seemed like a great ship afloat on a sea of wool. I wondered whether this was how Jupiter felt, seated among the clouds. The air held the inevitable smells of a legionary camp; the odors of fresh-turned earth and wood-smoke. These are agreeable smells, quite unlike the many stenches of the city. At that moment, though, I would gladly have exchanged it all for an ugly, smelly town.

The men of the unfortunate contubernium rose and resumed their places at the wall. My own men stood down and came to gather by me.

“Go on back to your tents,” I told them. “You’ve done your duty for the night.”

“But we’d rather stay and see what happens next,” Lovernius protested.

“I know you would, but it’s almost time for the morning patrol. There are probably Helvetii hiding out there in that fog. Go get them. They were very annoying last night.” They smiled, saluted, and walked off. Whatever was coming, it was none of their doing and I wanted them out of it.

The sun was almost above the mountain crest to the east when the new guard relief arrived. It was in the care of a different optio this time; a man with a thoroughly broken nose and an engaging, lopsided grin who threw me a salute that was sloppy enough to look respectful, coming from a professional. The cheekplates of his bronze helmet were decorated with stylized little shrines made of sheet silver; a design intended to bring good luck. From the knob on the helmet’s top sprang a tuft of short, blue feathers.

“You’re relieved, Captain,” he said as two of the men he brought took the place of Burrus and Quadratus.

“Any special orders for me?” I asked him.

“None that I was given to relay, though if I were you I’d be planning what I’d say to Caesar.”

I fell in beside him as he proceeded on his rounds. “I’ve been thinking of little else for the last four hours.”

“Any good ideas?”

“None yet. Any suggestions?”

“Run. The Gauls might take you in. But then, they might just trade you back. The Germans might be a better idea. If they don’t kill you on sight they’ll probably protect you. Their laws of hospitality are very strict.”

“I don’t suppose Caesar would just send me back to Rome in disgrace?”

“Hah! If he did that, half his staff officers would pull the sort of idiotic stunts you’ve been entertaining us with, just to get out of the coming war. I’ve never seen such a spineless pack of bluebloods.” He spat over the palisade, in which were stuck several arrows.

“What do the blue feathers mean?” I asked him. “Second Cohort?”

“Correct. I am Helvius Blasio, optio of the Fourth Century of the Second. I already know who you are.”

“Word does get around, doesn’t it?”

“Decidedly. Everyone knows everyone else’s business in a legionary camp. Doubly so when it involves someone flouting the First Spear’s authority. Such persons attract great attention and admiration. For a very brief time, anyway.”

I accompanied him as he finished his rounds, being in no rush to meet my fate. We discussed the enemy and the upcoming campaign. Blasio maintained his professional’s nonchalance, but I sensed his unease. The whole camp vibrated with the tension of a legion deep in enemy territory and about to plunge into action.

I took my leave of Blasio and got myself shaved and barbered, then I went to my tent. Hermes had my breakfast already laid out.

“One of your Gauls told me you’re in trouble,” he said cheerfully.

“That is correct. Now run along and report to your sword instructor.”

He groaned. “I thought it was the one on the receiving end of the sword who was supposed to hurt!”

“Every accomplishment comes at a price. Off with you, now.” Grumbling, he did as he was told.

All too soon, I heard a tuba sounding the officer’s call. I was abominably weary, but there was to be no rest for me. With my helmet beneath my arm I strode smartly toward the praetorium. One advantage of belonging to a family like mine is that one is given a very thorough schooling in all the rhetorical arts. These include not only the art of public speaking but also of presenting oneself, both standing and in motion. Since a man bent upon high office must serve with the legions, he is taught how to show himself before the troops. There is a genuine art to getting the rough military cloak to flutter behind you as you walk, and draping it casually over the slightly raised arm when you halt so that it bestows the dignity of a toga.

Vinius might be able to outshout me, but he could never match me for poise and sheer, aristocratic style. And I was certain that I would have to carry this off on style alone, since I had nothing else at my disposal.

The faces gathered around the staff table wore a wide variety of expressions, from the carefully noncommittal to the violently hostile. The only smile present was my own, and that was as false as a whore’s. Caesar looked as grim as death, but maybe, I thought, he was just thinking about all those Gauls.

“Decius Caecilius Metellus,” he said, destroying another of my fond delusions, “the First Spear has leveled some extremely serious accusations at you. You must answer them.”

“Accusations?” I said. “Am I supposed to have misbehaved?”

“You would do well to acknowledge the gravity of your situation,” Caesar said. “Foolishness that can be overlooked in peacetime, in Rome, is not to be tolerated in a legionary camp at war.”

“Ah, yes, foolishness,” I remarked, my eyes not on Caesar but on Vinius. “I think forcing sentries to go night after night without sleep in the presence of the enemy is foolishness of the most dangerous sort.”

“Proconsul,” Vinius said, keeping a tight rein on his voice, “this officer has interfered with my sentry postings. Since his arrival here, he has sought to coddle his precious client who happens to be a member of my century. Last night that man and the rest of his contubernium slept on guard duty. I want them executed.”

There was a collective indrawing of breath.

“Those men slept at my command. Their guard posts were not deserted. I manned them with troopers from my own ala.”

“He let Gauls guard a legionary encampment!” Vinius said witheringly. “It’s worse than treason!”

“The offense is grave,” Caesar said. “Even so, capital punishment at this point would be excessive. The men were acting on instructions from a superior, however idiotic those instructions may have been. We must, after all, consider their source. No, the fault lies not with the legionaries but with this officer.”

Vinius stood there fuming. Nothing looks sadder than a man cheated of a few executions.

“I believe that I acted with perfect. .”

“Silence,” Caesar said, without special emphasis. I shut up. Caesar had that admirable ability to make a common spoken word sound like thunder from Jupiter.

“Decius Caecilius, what am I to do with you? I could pack you off to Rome in disgrace, but that is what I suspect you most dearly wish. I could reduce you in rank, but you are already about as low as a man can get and still be an officer in this army. I could make you a common soldier, but you are a Senator and I would not offend the Senate by making a member of that august body serve as a foot-slogger.” This may have been the very last time Caius Julius Caesar ever worried about offending the Senate.

“There is always beheading, Caesar,” Labienus murmured. “It is a gentlemanly punishment, worthy of a lordly Caecilian.”

Caesar stroked his chin as if he were giving the suggestion serious consideration. “There is his family to consider. The beginning of a war might be a bad time to alienate the most powerful voting bloc in the Senate and the Assemblies.”

“Oh, we won’t miss him,” my cousin Lumpy assured Caesar. “We have plenty more where he came from.” Some men will stoop to anything to get out of paying off a hundred sesterces.

“The idea is tempting,” Caesar said, “but an execution before hostilities have properly commenced might be viewed as severe. No, I shall have to devise something else. No matter, I’ll think of something. First Spear, rest assured that this officer will never again interfere with your men or with your performance of your duties.”

Vinius was far from satisfied, but he knew better than to argue. Even a First Spear could not demand the execution of a superior officer.

“As the Proconsul wishes,” he said, not quite churlishly.

Thus far I seemed to be getting away with my pose of aristocratic disdain, but I was far from easy about it. This chitchat about execution was almost certainly just scare talk, but I could not be perfectly certain. A military commander is permitted tremendous leeway in the measures he deems appropriate to secure order and discipline within their forces. He could be hauled into court when he returned home and laid down his imperium, but juries in such cases usually sided with the commander. All citizens understand that the security of the State and the Empire depend utterly upon the discipline of our soldiers, a discipline that is unique in all the world.

Lucullus had declined to execute Clodius (still called Caludius back then) when he had every right to. Clodius had incited officers and men of Lucullus’s army to mutiny against their commander. But he had not wished to offend the powerful Claudian clan, and Clodius hadn’t accomplished much, anyway. Other commanders were less tolerant.

Caesar ignored me for the rest of the staff conference, during which he sorted through the mundanities and complexities of the army’s situation with great efficiency, dispensing duties and special assignments in a crisp, clear tone that left no questions as to exactly what was expected. Once again I was impressed. I later learned that it was Caesar’s opinion that more military disasters had occurred because of unclearly worded orders than from all other causes combined.

Once his duty was assigned, each man saluted and left to carry out his orders. Last to go was Titus Vinius. He was glaring pointedly at me and Caesar was not unaware of the fact.

“That will be all, First Spear,” Caesar said. “You have leave.”

Vinius almost said something, thought better of it, saluted and left, trailing a miasma of hatred so palpable you couldn’t have heaved a spear through it.

“Well, Decius Caecilius, what am I to do with you?” Caesar said when Vinius was gone. It was a good question. The duties of tribunes and staff officers are seldom clearly defined. Everyone knows what a legionary is supposed to do, likewise with optios and centurions. A general and his legatus have a clear commission from the Senate and People. The rest of the officers are pretty much the general’s to dispose of in whatever fashion pleases him. Sometimes, a general will think a tribune capable enough to be given command of a legion. More often, a tribune is expected to keep out of the way.

“Am I to take it that I have already forfeited my cavalry command?”

“You could forfeit much more than that. Do not provoke me, Decius. I am not favorably inclined toward you just now. I requested your presence here as a personal favor. I know that I had at the time what seemed like a good reason for wanting you with me on this campaign, but I confess that the reason escapes my memory.”

He pondered for a while and I sweated. I was sure that there had to be some loathsome duty he could put me to. There always is, in an army.

“It is clear that you have too much time on your hands, Decius. You need something to keep you busy and at the same time remind you of the discipline required of a soldier’s life. From now on, you are to report to an arms instructor at first light every morning and you are to exercise at arms, interrupting only for officer’s calls, where you are to stand in the back and say nothing. At noon, you are to return to your clerical duties here. At night. . well, I shall find something for you to do at night-something that does not involve the sentries.”

So I was in for humiliation. It could have been worse.

“It may seem to you that I am showing unwarranted leniency with you. It is only because I, too, consider Vinius’s treatment of that contubernium to be unwise. However, he knows the men and he knows the legion and you do not. If he wishes to make an example of them, that is not unreasonable, at the beginning of a campaign. That way, the other men will know exactly what to expect. However, I voiced no such doubts to Vinius, and if his general deems it unnecessary to reprimand a centurion for measures he employs to discipline his men, it is certainly not the job of a newly arrived officer of cavalry to countermand his instructions. I am not accustomed to explaining myself to subordinates, Decius. I trust you appreciate this extraordinary privilege.”

“Certainly, Caesar!” I said fervently.

“I do this only because I know you are an intelligent man, despite your many deceptively stupid actions. As to your ala, I will leave you in that position, but you are to ride with them only for parade until I instruct otherwise. A combat command is entirely too dignified and serious for you at the moment, and Lovernius is perfectly capable of handling them in the meantime. That will be all, Decius. Report to the arms instructor. One of the legionary trainers, not just a sword instructor. I want you to regain your feel for the pilum and the scutum.”

I winced, knowing what I was in for. “As you command.” I saluted, whirled on my heel, and marched away. I was quite unsatisfied, but that was no concern of his. I wanted to talk to him about Vinius’s actions and my reservations about the man himself, but Caesar was clearly not interested. It struck me that Vinius had distracted attention from his questionable behavior by making this a personal clash of wills between him and myself. I knew then that I had made a far more dangerous enemy than I had supposed. I had thought that I was past underestimating men because of their low breeding and boorish attitudes, but I have frequently been wrong about myself.

Hermes was surprised to see me show up at the training compound between the legionary camp and that of the auxilia. He was even more surprised when I submitted myself for arms training. The young recruits paused to gape at the unexpected sight until their instructors barked at them to resume their monotonous exercises. The repetitious clunk of practice swords against shields resumed.

“You’ve done this before, Captain,” the spear instructor said, “so you know the drill. You can warm up for a while with the javelins, then you start in with the pilum. The shields are over there.”

My shoulder twinged with anticipation, knowing what was to come. Javelin throwing is an agreeable enough sport, one at which I excelled. Of course, there is a major difference between tossing the things out on the Campus Martius, without a shield and dressed in a tunic, and going through the same exercise wearing armor with a legionary’s scutum on your left arm.

The scutum is nothing like the light, flat, narrow cavalry shield, which is called a clipeus. The scutum covers a man from chin to ankles and is as thick as a man’s palm. It is oval in shape, made of three layers of thin wood, steamed and glued so that it curves around the body, giving protection to the sides and improving the balance. It is backed with thick felt and surfaced with bullhide, and completely rimmed with bronze. The long, spindle-shaped boss makes a spine down the center, its widened middle section hollowed out to accommodate the hand. The boss is sheathed with bronze: this tremendous contraption has to be managed with a single, horizontal hand-grip in its center, behind the boss.

In truth, the scutum is not so much a shield as a portable wall, turning a line of legionaries into an advancing fortress. In the famous “tortoise” formation a unit of cohort size can advance with scuta overlapped in front, back, sides, and overhead like roof tiles, invulnerable to anything smaller than a boulder hurled by a catapult.

In ordinary use, the scutum doesn’t have to be maneuvered much, because it leaves so little uncovered to begin with. In a stand-up, toe-to-toe fight, it need only be raised a few inches from time to time to ward off a thrust to the face. But when hurling the javelin, it has to be raised high for balance, placing great stress on the left wrist and shoulder. That will only happen a few times in the course of a battle, but in practice it just goes on over and over-and so it was that morning.

Javelins are about four feet long, lightweight weapons to soften up the enemy before the battle lines clash. The pilum is another matter entirely. It is man-height, made of ash or other dense wood, and as thick as your wrist up to the balance point, where it flares to form an area as long and as thick as a forearm. The rest of its length is an iron shank terminating in a small, barbed head. Compared to a javelin, it has all the flight characteristics of a pointed log.

Military tinkerers are always coming up with ways to improve the pilum, the idea being to make it difficult for an enemy to throw it back at you, always a hazard with missile weapons. Marius slotted the iron head into the wooden shaft, fixing it with one rivet made of iron and another made of wood. The idea was that, upon impact, the wooden peg would break and the shank would then rotate on the iron one, rendering it useless for throwing. Caesar’s innovation was to temper only the point, allowing the relatively soft shank portion to bend. This must have made him popular with the armorers, who had to straighten them out after the battle.

Of course, the pila employed for training were of a more permanent nature. The target was a man-sized straw bale fifty feet away. The pilum is never thrown farther than that. This is primarily because there is hardly a man alive who can throw one farther than that. Most centurions instruct their men to get within ten feet before hurling the pilum. That way you can scarcely miss and the effect is devastating.

The purpose of the pilum is not so much to kill the enemy as it is to deprive him of his shield. With the massive thing firmly lodged in the shield and bent past further use, the warrior can only abandon the shield or else employ it very inefficiently. The commonly taught technique is to nail the enemy’s shield with the pilum, draw your gladius, step in, give the shaft of the pilum a kick to uncover the unfortunate wretch, and stab him. Most barbarians are too lazy to pack around heavy shields of the Roman type, so as often as not the pilum goes right on through the flimsy shield and impales the man behind it. Then there is nothing left to do except to find another barbarian to stab. Sometimes barbarians try to endure the first storm of missiles by huddling behind overlapped shields, only to find all their shields nailed together by pila so that all have to be abandoned, leaving them defenseless.

In short, although the sword gets all the glory, the pilum is our battle-winner.

The drill with the pilum was always the same: step out, raise the spear over the shoulder, then, at the proper range, take one very long step. Back goes the pilum, up comes the scutum, and heave. To get the massive spear fifty feet you have to use your whole body and you feel the strain from your right wrist to your left ankle. And in training, this goes on hour after hour. The instructor encourages you with his wittiest line of patter.

“Not very good, sir, but at least you won’t have to walk so far to fetch it, will you?” Or: “I think you scared him that time, sir, but I hear the Germans don’t scare so easy, so you’ll have to do better than that.” Or: “Not quite like making speeches in the Forum, is it, Captain? See if you can do it without nailing your own foot next time.” Or: “What did you do in your last legion, sir? Did you have your slave heave your toothpick for you?” At least he was ruder to the recruits.

Just when I was about to welcome death from exhaustion, it was time for sword drill.

“There’s your enemy, sir,” the ex-gladiator said, pointing to the straw-wrapped post in front of me. “Now kill him! You’ve trained in the Indus, unlike young Hermes here, so you should be able to dispatch this barbarian without fuss. Here, just to make it easier for you, I’ll give you an aiming mark.” He took a piece of charcoal and drew a circle as big around as the tip of my little finger at throat level. “There. Can’t miss that, can you? Now, to the throat, thrust!” The last word snapped out like the bow of a ballista, powered by twisted rope, launching an iron bolt.

If I hadn’t already destroyed my arm and shoulder hurling the pilum, I probably could have managed it. As it was, I could hardly raise my sword high enough to make the thrust. My point lazed upward along a wobbly course like a very sick fly, eventually striking the stake about five inches to one side and six inches below the mark.

The swordmaster cupped his chin and clucked, to the vast amusement of an assortment of idle bystanders, of whom there were far too many for a well-run army encampment.

“Sir, I think I detect a certain basic flaw in your technique. Shall I tell you about it? Yes? Well, for starters, it’s best if you thrust quickly. Once your swordarm is out in front of your shield, it is completely unprotected. This is why we gladiators wear the manica when we fight in the Games.” He referred to the heavy wrapping of leather and bronze gladiators wear to protect the unshielded arm. “Your point should go out, strike, and be back behind your shield before your enemy sees anything coming.

“But that is not what you just did. Between the time you launched your thrust and the time that your point missed its target, not only did your barbarian have ample leisure to hack your arm off, but several of his friends sauntered over to have a go at you as well. Now, let’s try that again, and this time, try not to disgrace yourself utterly, eh?”

I was, if I may boast, a good swordsman. But I was out of practice and dreadfully fatigued from the pilum drill and I had had no sleep the previous night. All this combined to make me look worse than the rawest recruit. Recall that I was doing all this in full legionary gear: helmet, mail shirt, scutum, bronzeplated weapon belts, and so forth, with a combined weight in excess of fifty pounds.

If truth be told, most Roman legionaries are at best competent swordsmen. A soldier has a vast number of duties to perform and several weapons to master, so sword drill occupies only a small part of his time. Battles are won by masses of men working in close formation to bring the greatest strength to bear against the proper part of the enemy line at the proper time. Single combats of the Homeric sort are a relative rarity and the gladius is more often used to finish off an enemy already wounded by something else than it is employed in duelling with a specific opponent fighting with similar armament.

But gladiators do nothing except train for single combat all day long. They don’t have to pitch tents or dig ditches or stand guard duty or any of the hundred other duties of a soldier. Thus the best of them are artists with the sword, and this instructor was going to be satisfied with nothing that fell short of his own standard of perfection.

And so the long morning dragged on, until I felt like a statue made of wax, slowly melting in the heat. Most of my audience tired of the sorry spectacle and wandered off in search of other diversion. When the instructor finally called a halt to my sufferings, I dropped my shield, sheathed my sword, and pulled off my helmet. A cloud of steam rose from the helmet into the cool air like smoke from an altar.

I heard girlish laughter and looked around for its source, but the sweat pouring into my eyes blinded me for a while. When I blinked and swept the worst of it away, I saw Freda standing there watching me. Beside her was the ugly little slave, Molon.

“It is ancient custom,” I said, “to endure the rudeness of military instructors, who have the authority to upbraid trainees of whatever rank. Insolence from slaves is not so easily overlooked. Do not overestimate your privileged position as the property of the First Spear.”

“No need to be modest, Senator,” said the wretched Molon. “Pretty soon you’ll be fit to match against your slave boy there.” He nodded toward Hermes, who was gaping at the German slave girl with a lovestruck expression, utterly ignoring his master’s humiliation. I would have killed Molon, had I been able to raise my sword.

“And what gives you license to speak to a Senator in this fashion?”

“From what I hear, there are about six hundred of you Senators, and not many of you amount to much.”

That was damnably true. “But I am an exception.” What a liar I was. I hoped the German girl would be impressed, but I thought it unlikely that she knew what a Senator was.

He quirked a misshapen eyebrow at me. “Really? From one of the big families?”

“You mean you are unaware of the gens Caecilia?”

He shrugged his humped shoulders. “I’ve never been to Rome. But now I think of it, there’s been a Caecilius or two in charge here in Gaul.”

“There? You see?” It may seem odd that I should stand there, drowning in my own sweat, trading idle chitchat with a grotesque, insolent slave. I can only say that my situation had departed somewhat from the path of strict sanity and even this odd diversion was welcome. That, and the presence of the German girl.

“Romans,” she said, as if we were something amusing, incomprehensible, and slightly distasteful. To my disappointment she turned and sauntered away, doubtless to inspire erections wherever she passed. Molon stayed where he was. He looked around, then came closer to me.

“Look, Senator, would you happen to need a new slave?”

I was astounded. “You mean Freda? I doubt that I could afford her, and Vinius would surely never sell her to me!”

“Not her, me! Would you consider buying me?”

“Whatever for? Hermes gives me worry enough as it is.”

He nodded and assumed a crafty look. “Just so. I can keep an eye on him for you, beat him when he steals, things like that. You have the look of a master too softhearted to flog a slave.”

“I can see why that would make me attractive to you. Why should I want you?”

“I know this country, Senator. I know the land and all the tribes, I can speak the languages. The local people think the world of me, sir.”

“I could see in what high esteem those German envoys held you. If you are so valuable, how could Vinius bring himself to part with you?”

“Well, Senator, my master has plans that don’t include me, and I think he’d sell me cheap. You could use an intermediary if you don’t want to haggle with him.”

“Listen here, my man. You don’t fool me. I’ve seen every Latin and Greek comedy ever written, and I know that slaves as ugly as you are always conniving rogues. Go try to sell yourself elsewhere.”

He grinned slyly, but then all his expressions were sly. “Just think it over, Senator. I think you’ll realize what a bargain I am.” He turned and walked, or rather lurched, off.

“You’re not going to buy him, are you?” Hermes said, aghast.

“I might,” I warned him, “if you don’t make yourself more valuable.”

That night, after finishing my day’s work on Caesar’s reports, I sat in my folding chair and gave the matter some thought while I digested a frugal dinner, helped along by some heavily watered native wine. I found it surprisingly good. It was getting so that anything that didn’t taste like vinegar was agreeable.

Did Molon really expect me to buy him? If so, why? It was easy enough to imagine that he would not want to be the slave of a man like Titus Vinius. If the man treated his soldiers in such a fashion, what must the lives of his slaves be like? But did he expect Vinius to entertain an offer from me?

There was an obvious interpretation, of course: Vinius had put him up to it, wanting to plant a spy on me. I have always resisted such trains of thought. I have known too many men to dwell upon subversive enemy plans of this sort until they saw plots, spies, and conspiracies no matter what direction they looked.

On the other hand, in typical Roman political life of the day there were plots, spies, and conspiracies everywhere. One just didn’t expect to find anything so sophisticated and sinister in a legionary camp.

And what did he mean about Vinius’s “plans” which did not include him? I would have thought that a man like Vinius, having no further use for the probably unsellable Molon, would just knock him on the head and leave him in a ditch somewhere. Probably, I thought, it was just more meaninless verbiage intended to obscure his real purpose. This practice is not restricted to speeches before the Popular Assemblies.

Mostly I was wondering how I could get my hands on Freda, and this clouded all my other thoughts. I was around thirty-two years old that year, and should have been past such schoolboy passions, but some things you never truly outgrow. That an entire, battle-hardened legion seemed to share my condition alleviated somewhat the embarrassment of my situation. But not much.