Nobody Loves a Centurion (14 page)

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.