Marching With Caesar - Civil War (47 page)

“That's all I have to say on the matter. I'll be making my report to Caesar later today. In the meantime, Verres is confined to quarters; I don't see much point in keeping him in close confinement. As bad as things may be for him inside, I'm fairly sure that the Egyptians will have something much more unpleasant in store for him if he decides to go over the wall.”

I stood, as did the men, and I dismissed them. Cornuficius lingered, so I hardened myself for whatever was to come, but he was ever one for surprises. He did not argue, or make any kind of threats, veiled or otherwise. He just stood there, looking at me in what I was learning was his speculative manner.

Then he spoke suddenly. “You’re pinning your hopes that Caesar won’t have him executed, aren’t you?”

That was exactly what I was hoping for, but I was not about to admit that to Cornuficius, so I responded with a question of my own.

“What makes you think that?”

He considered my question carefully, but I sensed that he was being as honest as he was capable of being when he answered. “Because you’re in a tight spot. Let’s say that you're right. I'm not saying that you are, but suppose the men did get together and concoct this story and that things happened as you say they did, that this Plautus character mouthed off and Verres overreacted. From your point of view, I can see how it would anger you that the men are conspiring against you, and the way you see it, they're making a fool of you.”

He seemed to be enjoying talking about me being a fool a bit too much for my taste, but I said nothing and continued to listen.

“That can’t go unpunished, at least from where you're sitting. I understand that. But what if that isn't the reason? What if Verres is truly so well liked that what the men are doing has less to do with getting away with something and more to do with saving a man they truly respect and admire?”

As he spoke, I felt my stomach tighten, because he was absolutely right about one thing; I had never even considered the possibility that Verres’ tent mates were doing anything other than what I suspected them of, which was trying to put something over on me. What if everything was as Cornuficius said, that Verres was a good man who made one terrible mistake and his tent mates were only concerned with keeping a good man from suffering a terrible punishment?

“Do you know Verres’ brother? The one who's a Centurion in the 37th?” I asked, more out of idle curiosity than anything.

Cornuficius looked startled, just for the briefest of an instant. However, it was enough for me to notice, and I felt an intense and grim satisfaction. Oh, he was a slippery one all right, and very, very smooth. He almost had me convinced that this man was almost as much of a victim of circumstance as Plautus was. Cornuficius recovered quickly, but I had seen enough.

“Only by sight, when we were together in Pompey’s army. He came to visit Verres a time or two, but we never spoke.”

He was lying, I was sure of it. “How much did he pay you?” I asked quietly.

Cornuficius stiffened for a moment, his mouth in a thin line. Then the tension left his body and he did something that I was not expecting; he laughed, and I could tell it was a real laugh, not forced.

“A pretty tidy sum,” he admitted. Then, shrugging, he continued, “Something for me and for Verres’ tent mates. He hoped that you'd stop with the tent mates; I was the backup plan. He loves his little brother dearly.”

“And you know him more than just by sight, don’t you?”

Again he laughed. “I guess you could say that.” He paused, seeming to make a decision. “I was his Optio in the Third a few years ago.”

Things were starting to fall into place, but I certainly was not prepared for his next bit of information.

“Oh,” he added as if it were an afterthought, “he’s also my cousin.”

I stared at him, sure that this time he was trying to put one over on me, though I could not for the life of me think why he would want to do that, but I saw that he was deadly serious.

“Which means Verres is your cousin as well.” I tried, but I could not keep the bewilderment out of my voice.

“That's usually how it works,” he agreed.

Normally I would have taken offense, except my head was spinning too much for me to take much notice.

A thought struck me. “So why hasn’t he come to see me personally?”

Cornuficius looked at me levelly, his face back to its bovine, blank look. “Oh don't worry, Primus Pilus. He will.”

~ ~ ~ ~

He would have to come that night, since I had announced that I would seek an audience with Caesar in the morning. He waited until third watch; I imagine he hoped to catch me unprepared, but I was still in full uniform, sitting at my desk when Diocles knocked on my door. When he entered to announce that Quintus Pilus Prior Sextus Verres Rufus wished to see me, while I cannot say that he looked scared, he did look concerned. Before I sent Diocles to fetch him, I drew my dagger, lying it on the desk and covering it with a scroll, then I picked up my harness from its normal place on the stand at the foot of my bed to drape it over the back of the chair, as if I had just dropped it there. Satisfied, I nodded to Diocles, who turned and went back into the outer office. I heard Diocles’ voice, then the slapping sound of hobnails striking the stone floor, and in walked Verres Rufus. Instantly, I felt my body tense, although he did nothing overtly menacing, and I realized that what I was reacting to was the sight of the man himself. He was of medium height, but he was almost square, so thickly built through the chest and shoulders that his arms did not seem able to hang straight down at his sides, instead sticking out at an angle. His face was broad, carrying many scars, mostly over his eyes with one prominent one on his left cheek. His nose had been broken several times, while his lips were thick, seemingly formed into a permanent sneer, and when he smiled there were a couple of gaps in his teeth. I call it a smile, but there was nothing pleasant about it. This was a man who was comfortable knocking heads together and probably preferred it to actually trying to use his brain. The fact that he was a Centurion would have impressed me more a few months before than it did now; I am afraid exposure to the Centurions in Pompey’s former army had left a negative impression on me. As he marched to the desk, I was struck by the odd feeling that he looked familiar, but I did not know how that was possible, so I dismissed the idea.

“Quintus Pilus Prior Gnaeus Verres Rufus, requesting permission to speak to Primus Pilus Pullus, sir.”

I could not fault his delivery of the obligatory greeting, although his voice sounded like a cup full of gravel being shaken. I stood and offered my hand, and for a moment, I thought he was going to refuse to take it, but then grudgingly accepted it. As I expected, he proceeded to try to crush my forearm in his grasp. He did have quite a grip, yet I responded in kind before we both released and stood back. He was a bruiser, except I thought I detected a kind of cunning intelligence in his hooded eyes, which were almost covered over by scar tissue. I motioned for him to sit, and he did so, leaning forward in his chair.

“So what is it you wish to see me about, Pilus Prior?”

“I think you know,” he growled. “You’re going to Caesar tomorrow about my brother, despite the fact that he has witnesses who've sworn that he was attacked by that
cunnus
.”

“That's no way to speak of the dead,” I said mildly.

“I piss on the man, and his whole family,” he spat, shifting in his chair.

“Whether you piss on him or not is beside the point.” I struggled to keep my temper, sensing that this was exactly what he wanted, for me to lose control. “And the next time you try to buy your brother out of trouble, try not to bribe every single one of his tent mates to say that they were all together at the same place at the same time. The only time that ever happens is in formations. But I can tell that thinking isn't your strong suit, is it?”

Now he was the one getting angry, his face turning bright red, giving me a clue where his cognomen came from, and I watched as a vein in his forehead started throbbing. I could literally hear the wood of the arms of the chair creaking under the strain as he gripped them tightly.

“Do you know who I am?” This came out in a choked whisper. “I am Gnaeus Verres Rufus, the boxing and wrestling champion, not just of the 3rd Legion, but of Gnaeus Pompey Magnus’ whole army!”

“Do you mean the same army that a few half-strength Legions from Caesar’s army ground into the dust at Pharsalus? And isn’t Pompey dead now?”

He leaped to his feet, his fists balled up and I thought for a moment that he would lose control of his senses and actually attack me. I had kept my right hand draped over the back of my chair as I sat in it in an offhand manner, but the hilt of my sword was just inches from my grasp.

“It would be a shame if the Verres line ceased to exist in the space of a couple of days,” I said calmly. "Unless, of course, there's another brother I don't know about."

He gasped like he was dashed with a bucket of cold water. Then he sat down abruptly, his mouth working, except no sound came out. I eyed him coldly while he collected himself.

A man of even moderate intelligence would have at this point changed his approach, seeing that his blustering had not worked, but Verres Rufus was clearly a horse that knew only one trick, so he began again. “You’re making a big mistake if you go to Caesar. I could break you in half if I wanted. I don’t care how big you are.”

“And I could have you scourged then crucified for threatening a superior officer.”

Some of his bluster was coming back, because he gave me his version of a smile. “There’s just the two of us in here. Who’s to say what was said?”

“I’m to say, and that'd be enough. Don’t tell me that your cousin, Cornuficius,” I was pleased to see his eyes widen in surprise, “didn’t warn you that I'm one of Caesar’s favorites. After all, he did pick me to be the Primus Pilus of the 6th.”

The wheels turned in his head, but, oh, they moved slowly indeed. I could see him struggling to try to think of something to counter what I had just said.

The best he could do was, “I have friends too, and they’ll be more than happy to help me stop you from hurting my brother. I’ve broken many a man who got in my way, and I’ll break you too.”

That’s when the nagging feeling that I had seen him somewhere before made something click in my brain, and I asked suddenly, “Were you involved in the fight on the causeway the other day?”

Clearly startled, his eyes darted about as he tried to think through what I was up to.

Finally, he answered suspiciously, “Yes, why?”

I did not say anything, just stared at him, looking into his eyes, and ever so slowly, I could see the realization dawn in his eyes.

The silence hung between us, until I finally spoke. “I saw you. I saw you cut down your own men just to save your own skin.”

This time his face went utterly white, his mouth sagging open for a moment before he struggled to regain control. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His voice was hoarse, yet even as I was staring into his eyes, he could not keep his gaze locked with mine and he looked away. “Besides, there's no way you can prove what you’re saying.”

He looked back at me defiantly, as if daring me to argue the point.

“You’re right,” I conceded. He looked at me triumphantly, but it was short-lived, “I can’t, but some of your men saw what you did. You didn’t cut all of them down.”

His laugh sounded like a dog barking. “They won’t say a word. They know better. They know what would happen to them if they opened their mouths.”

I had heard of Centurions who ruled only by brute force, but I had never run into one. Even men like Longus who viewed their Centuries as means of making money knew that there were times where something other than a good beating would accomplish what they wanted done. If your only means of enforcing obedience is by beating a man, sooner or later you put him in a position where he has nothing to lose. Either way, all he can expect is a beating, so he might as well make it worth his while. But sitting here before me was a Centurion who ruled by terror, and I thought for a moment of trying to goad him into actually attacking me. I had no intention of fighting him with my bare hands; it had been several years since I last entered the Legion games, and I was sure that even if I beat him at his own game, it could not be done without him inflicting a fair amount of damage to me. What I thought about was somehow prodding him into doing something where I would be justified in pulling my sword, but I quickly dismissed the idea. There were too many things that could go wrong, although the idea that he could best me with a blade never occurred to me. What I was most worried about were the questions that would be raised; even if I got away with it, there would be a black mark hanging over me the rest of my career. I would just have to trust that the gods would arrange an appropriately horrible end for a man who would kill his own.