Nobody Loves a Centurion

8

My first stop the next morning was the smithy. The smith, like many of the legion’s artisans, was a soldier who earned himself extra pay and exemption from fatigue by practicing a necessary craft. Luckily, repairing the lock on Vinius’s chest and crafting a key for it was not beyond his level of skill. I stood close while he did the work and paid him a couple of sesterces for the effort. It was not strictly necessary to pay him, but it is always a mistake to take such persons for granted. I might need to have my horse shod some day and it would be done more expeditiously if the man remembered me fondly.

I left the chest inside the great tent of the praetorium, where it would be about as safe as it could be under the circumstances. Then I went to speak with the men most immediately concerned with the success of my mission. I found them under heavy guard in a pit excavated next to the tent in which the standards were kept. It was twenty feet on a side and twelve feet deep. A contubernium stood around its periphery facing inward, each man with a sheaf of javelins to go with his pilum. One of the guards had a white band painted around the lower rim of his helmet, signifying that he was the decurion.

“I am the investigating officer,” I said, addressing the man with the white band. “I need to speak with the prisoners.”

“We were told you are to have access,” the decurion said. He turned to the man next to him. “Silva, run the ladder down for the captain.”

“While I confer with them, I’d appreciate it if you and your men would step back from the edge here. I need to speak in private.”

He shook his head. “Not a chance, sir. If one of them contrives to commit suicide, one of us takes his place. If they harm you, we all go in there. Just keep your voice down and we promise not to eavesdrop.”

I went down the ladder and Burrus jumped up to greet me. The rest sat disconsolately on the muddy ground, their anklerings fastened to a single chain like a slave work gang. Men in their predicament could be forgiven for a lack of enthusiasm.

“Patron!” Burrus said. “What is happening? The guards are forbidden to speak to us.”

“First off, I’ve been assigned to investigate the murder of Vinius.”

He turned to the others. “You see? I told you my patron would get us out of this. He is famous for rooting out traitors and murderers. We are as good as free!”

I was touched by his faith in me, although I feared it might be exaggerated. I looked at the rest of the contubernium and they seemed to share my skepticism. Quadratus gave me a sour smile and nod. The rest looked me over warily. They were typical soldiers, most of them older than Burrus, a couple of them silver-stubbled veterans. It was the sort of balance considered ideal in the legions, with the veterans providing steadiness and the recruits the youthful boldness necessary to aggressive operations. A unit made up entirely of veterans is likely to be too cautious; one of recruits too reckless and easily panicked in adversity. It was a combination that had won us an empire.

“I am the only man in Gaul who can save you,” I told them bluntly. “I do not believe that you killed Titus Vinius, but even I must acknowledge that you look as guilty as Oedipus.”

“Who’s Oedipus?” one of them asked.

“He was that Greek who put it to his mother,” said a veteran.

“Well,” said another, “that’s Greeks for you. What do you expect?”

We were getting off the subject and I made a mental vow to avoid metaphors. “Listen here. If I am to prove that you men did not kill Vinius, I need to know everything you know about him. You don’t need to tell me how vicious he was, I know all about that. But did he have, let us say, extralegionary dealings?”

“What senior centurion doesn’t?” Quadratus said. “Naturally, he was dealing with the local merchants and suppliers. The First Spear and the Prefect of the Camp always live in each other’s purses. It’s always been that way with the legions.”

“I’m looking for something more serious than the usual, petty institutionalized corruption. How was Vinius making himself rich?”

A veteran scratched his chin. “I never knew that Vinius was any richer than other men of his rank. We paid him what we could to get out of shit fatigues and punishments, but that’s not going to make anyone rich. We used to figure most of his bribes went to buy him new vinestocks.” At this the others laughed, showing a commendable resiliency of spirit.

“I’ve learned something about Vinius,” I said, lowering my voice, “and I want you to keep this among yourselves.”

Quadratus gestured toward the surrounding guards. “You think we’re going to blab it all over camp?”

“In the last year,” I continued, “Titus Vinius was investing heavily in estates in Italy. He spent or pledged in excess of a million denarii and I am curious as to just how he came by such a sum.”

“It’s news to me,” Quadratus said. The others looked similarly dumbfounded. “Of course, he didn’t consult with us about his financial dealings.”

“I’ll wager that he didn’t confide in anybody,” I said. “Not in this legion, at any rate. That’s why I want to know what he was doing outside the legion. Molon tells me that he was on at least one or two embassies to the Gauls and Germans.”

“Watch out what that ugly bugger tells you,” said one of the older men. “A slave will never tell the truth when he can get away with a lie. But that much is true. Vinius went out just about every time the Proconsul here had to treat with the barbarians. He was in charge of the honor guard and the First Spear’s advice was always sought in military matters. It’s custom.”

“Did Vinius ever consult with the Gauls or the Germans here?”

At that they all laughed. “Barbarians in this camp? Not likely, except for those praetorian auxilia.”

This was getting like those dreams I sometimes had, where I was always running through the strangely deserted streets of Rome, trying to get home or to the Forum, and somehow never making it there, instead running into a succession of blind alleys.

“All right, then, tell me about what you were doing the night he was killed.”

“Quadratus and I were on the same station on the north wall where you found us before,” Burrus said. “We always had the same guard posts on our duty nights, which, as you know, was every night recently.” He named the other six by pairs. He and Quadratus had manned the easternmost post, and the rest had the three successive posts to the west.

“When did you last see him?” I asked.

“At evening parade before guard mount,” Burrus told me. “He was on the reviewing stand with the legatus, like most evenings.”

“Caesar wasn’t there?”

“The Proconsul usually appears only at formal parades,” said a veteran. “Often as not, morning and evening parades are reviewed by a tribune.”

“You didn’t see him on the wall that night?”

“We rarely do,” Quadratus said. “Why work your way up to senior centurion if you’re just going to tramp around the wall all night like a common boot?”

“Spoken like a true career soldier,” I told him. “He was found dressed in a coarse, dark-colored tunic, like a slave’s. Did any of you ever see him dressed like that?”

They looked at one another with embarrassed expressions, an odd sight on such hard-bitten countenances.

“Well, sir,” a veteran began, “we all knew that Vinius and that German woman got up to some pretty strange games, but they kept it behind the tent flap. He never let anyone see him looking like anything but a centurion.”

“Dressed like that, in public,” Quadratus elaborated, “well, he’d’ve been a laughingstock, worse than when you showed up in that full-dress rig.” They all had a good chuckle at my expense. “He would’ve lost respect, and a centurion can’t afford that. A First Spear least of all.”

“He was killed a few hundred yards from where you were standing guard,” I said. “Did you hear anything?”

“Just the barbarians raising their usual racket,” Burrus said. “Just like that night you were guard officer. They could’ve slaughtered a dozen Romans out there and we probably wouldn’t have noticed. On top of that, we were all half dead from lack of sleep.”

“That’s one thing being shut up here is good for,” Quadratus commented. “Mud and all, last night was the first decent sleep we’ve had in weeks.”

I looked up. There was nothing above the tent except the cloud-scattered blue sky. “I’ll see if I can persuade Labienus to put an awning over this hole.”

“It’s not too bad as it is,” said one of the veterans. “Not like it was Libya.”

I left them with further assurances that I would extricate them from what looked like certain doom. The younger men seemed eager to believe me. The rest had long ago learned the folly of expecting anything except the worst.

Walking back toward the praetorium I saw that a sizable crowd had gathered in the camp forum. I sauntered over to see what was going on, passing as I did the scorched patch of ground occupied the previous day by the funeral pyre of Titus Vinius. In the middle of the crowd I saw Labienus seated in a curule chair on a low platform with a half-dozen lictors before him, leaning on their fasces. Spotting Carbo among the onlookers, I went to see what was going on.

“The legatus is holding court,” he informed me. “A bunch of Provincial dignitaries and lawyers came in this morning and they need judgments on some long-standing cases.”

“In a military camp in a war zone?” I said.

“Life goes on,” Carbo told me, “even in wartime.”

It is one of the many anomalies of our governmental system that, when we sent a propraetor or proconsul to the territories, we expect one man to be both magistrate and military commander. That is why he takes a legatus; so that he can concentrate on the more crucial function, leaving the other to his assistant. But sometimes, as now, the same man had to fill both roles. I was surprised to see well-dressed Gauls among the dignitaries, including some Druids who looked like the same ones I had seen earlier.

If nothing else, this seemed an opportunity to have the praetorium to myself. I took a shortcut over the wall by the speaking platform and found the big tent deserted. First I walked a complete circuit of the tent to make sure that there were no possible onlookers, then I went inside.

I lifted the heavy chest onto the table and opened it with my shiny new key. I took out all the deeds and made a list of them, with full particulars including purchase price. Then, with all the papers and tablets heaped to one side, I picked up the box. It was still far too heavy, even taking the thick wood and iron strapping into account. I carried it to the door opening and set it down with sunlight flooding into the bottom. It was perfectly smooth and without any projections. I tried shifting the heavy rivets that held the strapping, but none of them moved.

I turned it over and examined the bottom. The chest rested on four stubby legs about an inch high, with leather pads glued to their feet. These I twisted one by one. The third one gave slightly. I took the chest back to the table and grasped the leg. Lifting that corner slightly, I turned the leg again. There was a click before it had completed one quarter of a revolution. The bottom of the chest sprang up a bit. I managed to get my dagger point between the bottom and the side and levered it up. The wooden slab came up easily. I was looking at what seemed to be a second chest bottom, this one made of solid gold.

After a while I remembered to breathe and took a closer look. There was a cross-hatching of lines on the otherwise regular slab of gold. I stuck my dagger point into an interstice and pried up a miniature gold brick the length and width of my forefinger. It lay astonishingly heavy in my hand and I saw in the rectangular hole left by it another layer of gold.

I replaced the gold bar, closed the false bottom, and twisted the trick chest leg into alignment. Then I went to the tent’s provision chest and helped myself to a goblet of Caesar’s wine, proud that I didn’t spill a drop.

Who knew about this treasure? Vinius seemed to have no family. Did he confide in that steward of his? If so, how intimately? Sneakily, unworthily, a compelling thought crept into my brain: There was wealth here sufficient to clear all my debts and finance my tenure of the notoriously expensive aedileship. I could repair the streets and renovate a temple or two and put on splendid Games and have plenty left over for fun. How difficult could it be to alter those deeds and transfer them all to my name? I could become a major landholder, completely independent for the first time in my life. The estates were widely scattered and no one would ever know about most of them. Wealth in land was rarely investigated. Wealth of any kind, for that matter.

“Into the wine supply a bit early, aren’t you?”

I jerked around. Labienus stood in the doorway. “I find it helps my ponderings,” I told him.

“Pour me a cup,” he said. “I could use a little inspiration.” He walked in. “I had to take a break before I ordered some summary executions that someone might sue me for when I return to Rome. Gods, how I detest provincial businessmen and publicani.” He glanced at the stack of deeds beside the strongbox. “Did those belong to Vinius? A lot of paperwork for a centurion.”

I handed him a cup. “He was a bit of a businessman himself.”

“Do yourself a favor,” Labienus advised. “Forget about this murder. I know that boy is one of your clients, but your family must have thousands of them. He won’t be missed, and the sooner those eight are executed, the sooner this army will return to normal. Normal is what you want with a war starting.”

“I can’t let it rest until I’m satisfied,” I told him. “And I’m far from satisfied.”

“What is the great mystery?” he demanded. “The man was a brute and he treated his men like animals. That particular contubernium caught the brunt of his stick and it drove them to an act of foolish desperation. Completely understandable, if unforgivable. Let them pay for it and be done with it.”

“It doesn’t make sense,” I said.

“What doesn’t?” he said impatiently.

“The dagger, for one thing.”

“The dagger? What about it? Good, traditional weapon for killing people. Done all the time. Explain yourself.”

“We have here eight soldiers, at least three of whom would have taken part in the murder. Every one of them carries a gladius day and night. Why use a dagger when you can use a gladius? You know what a gladius stab is like. It looks like someone rammed a shovel through the body. People sometimes survive a dagger thrust, if no vital organs are pierced and the infection doesn’t kill them. A gladius thrust is certain death, which is why we adopted the murderous thing in the first place.”

“You have a point,” he admitted. “But men in such extremity often don’t think straight. And it was a conspiracy. Each may have wanted to deliver just a part of the killing so that the guilt would be evenly spread.”

“A valid objection,” I allowed, my lawyer’s training coming to the fore. “But I find it hard to believe that they would be so incautious in eliminating a man as dangerous as Titus Vinius.” This legalistic fencing was helping me to keep my mind off all that gold in the bottom of the box. Even so, my scalp was sweating. “And the business with the strangler’s noose. It just doesn’t sound soldierly. I think these men would have done the job neatly and quickly, had they been inclined to kill him. And there is the way he was dressed.”

“That is an oddity.”

“The accused men say that the last time they saw him he was with you on the reviewing stand at evening parade. Did you see him after that?”

“Let’s see. . he came back to the praetorium and conferred for a while with Caesar and some Gauls-”

“Gauls? What Gauls?”

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

“What are their cases concerned with?”

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

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

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

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

“You didn’t see Vinius after that?”

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

“I have powerful friends in the Senate.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Caius Julius can be unpredictable,” I commiserated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Molon! A chair for my guest.”

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

“We’re low on wine,” she announced.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Three or one, which is it?” I asked.

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

“Three gods, then,” I pronounced.

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

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

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

“Your year has three seasons?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I shall give it serious consideration.”

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

“You have provided good company.”

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

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

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

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

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

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