Nobody Loves a Centurion (13 page)

“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.