Nobody Loves a Centurion (21 page)

“Yet Molon says that it was his brother, Nasua, who gave you to Vinius.” I felt heat radiating from the place where her hand rested.

“Nasua won me in a game.”

“What sort of game?” I thought I could detect a tiny stroking motion from her hand.

“Wrestling.”

“Kings wrestle among the Germans? That’s undignified behavior, even for barbarians.”

“My people prize manly things,” she said, definitely stroking now. “The brothers knew they would never stop contending over me, so they agreed to give me away to someone important.”

“Then why to Vinius? Why not to the Proconsul?”

“They know who really runs your legions.”

“Oh.” So much for the lofty office of Proconsul.

She stood and began to tug down her furry tunic. “You didn’t call me here to talk, did you? Romans don’t care about the lives of slaves.” Her magnificent breasts sprang free, looking more like globes of solid muscle than the usual soft, wobbly milk-providers commonly adorning the female torso. Next, she bared a ridged belly that looked as if it could absorb a boxer’s punch without winding her. The next push cleared her full but sinewy hips and she stood there like a statue of Venus, only far more accessible, warmer and more fragrant.

She leaned over me and began to pull at my tunic. “Are all Romans as lazy as you?” I fumbled at my clothes but my
fingers had grown clumsy. She went at her task with great deliberation, though, and in moments she mounted me like a cavalry horse, sinking down with a guttural growl.

“Now,” she said, “let’s see what Romans are made of.”

10

I
N WHAT HAD BECOME A MONOTONOUSLY
regular custom, somebody was trying to wake me in the middle of the night. At first I thought it was Freda, wanting me for another session. The woman reminded me of the arms masters who had been drilling me so mercilessly.

“Captain, darling! Wake up, beloved!” It was Indiumix.

“What now?” I said, shaking my head. “Are the barbarians here?” Another of my Gauls stood just outside the tent, holding a torch.

“The
legatus
wants you, Captain, Labienus himself. He’s with Captain Carbo over by our quarters.”

I sat up and tugged on my boots. “What’s this all about?”

“I do not know. A runner came to us from the Prefect of the Camp and said to saddle up and be ready to ride. He also said you were to be summoned.”

I looked around for Freda but she wasn’t in the tent. Hermes came stumbling sleepily in and he helped me into my armor by the light of the flaring torch.

“Where are Freda and Molon?” I asked him.

“No idea. What do you need them for, anyway?” He fastened my sword belt.

“Nothing, but they shouldn’t be wandering around in the middle of the night.” My mind was on other things, though. What new emergency had come up? One thing was certain: Caesar was gone, and if Labienus wanted me, it had to be something bad. Hermes handed me my helmet and I ducked out through the tent doorway, clapping the metal pot on my head and fastening the cheekplates beneath my chin as we walked toward the cavalry quarters.

The camp was sound asleep—by army standards, anyway. At least one quarter of the men were up and standing sentry duty at all hours. Watchfires glimmered here and there, and a smell of smoke drifted over everything. An overcast sky rendered the stars invisible, but I judged it to be somewhat past midnight. With the torchbearer walking ahead of me, I managed to make it the whole way without tripping over a tent rope.

Labienus, Paterculus, and Spurius Mutius, the acting First Spear, stood by the watchfire with Carbo and Lovernius. They all wore the expressions of combined anger, fear, exasperation, and puzzlement that, in this army, had become as much an item of official issue as the
scutum
and the gladius.

“What’s up?” I said cheerily, not feeling cheery at all.

“Carbo’s men have found something,” Labienus said. “I think you ought to have a look at it.”

“Damned barbarians,” Mutius grumbled. “Why can’t they act like civilized people?”

The answer seemed incredibly obvious to me, but sometimes you have to point things out to soldiers. “Because they aren’t civilized people,” I told him. “What have they done this time?”

“I am going to show you,” Carbo said. “The less said here in camp the better. Our Provincial allies are going to be spooked enough as it is.”

“Metellus,” Labienus said, “I want a full report from you at morning officer’s call. Speak to no one else about this before you have reported to me.”

“You aren’t going out this time?” I said.

“The Prefect can’t leave the camp and Caesar ordered me not to venture beyond the rampart before his return.”

“Beyond the rampart?” I said, my stomach sinking.

“I’ll tell you about it as we ride,” Carbo said impatiently. “Come on. I want to be back before daylight.”

As we were conferring, my
ala
had been assembling. Each man held a flaming torch and had a bundle of spares tied to his saddle. Indiumix led my own horse up and boosted me into the saddle.

“You’re probably safe enough tonight,” Labienus said. “But if you should be captured, keep your mouths shut and die like Romans.”

With these touching words of encouragement we rode off through the Porta Decumana. Out in the open, I could just make out the watch fires of the lonely First Century in their exposed camp to the northeast. I almost envied them. At least they had the security of the great rampart to the north.

“What in the name of all the gods is going on, Cnaeus?” I demanded.

“Something so strange that my first thought was to get hold
of you,” Carbo answered. “Tonight we completed our sweep early. Not a single Helvetian to be found. But the guards on the rampart reported unusual activity in the hills to the north-west. It’s heavy woods up there, but they could see lights flickering, like a lot of men running around with torches, and one big glow like a bonfire in the woods. They could hear sounds, too—drumming and singing.

“I figured the barbarians might be massing up there under cover of the woods for a morning assault. It’s not very far, and the Gauls like to fight at a run. If they were to come out of the woods at first light, when there’s a heavy ground fog, they could be at the rampart before anyone would even know they were there.”

“Clear so far,” I assured him.

“So I sent a runner to inform the
legatus
that I was undertaking a mission beyond the rampart to see if there was a Gallic army up there.” He said this as if he had taken out a work party to improve the ditch. This is why the whole world pays tribute to Rome instead of the other way around.

“What did you find?” I asked. “I don’t suppose you just want to show me a million painted savages dancing around and working themselves up for a morning attack.”

“Nothing that simple,” he said. “You’ll see.”

We rode to a sally port in the rampart. This was a narrow slot, just wide enough for horsemen to pass single-file. It was blocked at entrance and exit by heavy logs studded with long spikes. The auxilia manning that port dragged the logs aside and we rode through. On the other side waited a wild-looking little detachment of Carbo’s scouts, more like hunting hounds than human beings. Among them I recognized Ionus, the man who had discovered Vinius’s body.

“Let’s go,” Carbo said. The Scouts set off at a lope. On the uneven ground their progress was more a series of leaps than the long strides of a civilized runner. Bent over almost double, their arms held a little away from their bodies for balance, they looked as if they were following a scent trail. They kept ahead of us easily, even though we were riding at a swift trot.

As we drew away from the rampart, I felt the chilling dread experienced by most soldiers when they are separated from their legions. Precarious as military life can be, there is tremendous comfort to be had from six thousand shields with six thousand resolute Roman swordsmen standing behind them. Even the primitive fortification of an earthen wall topped by wooden stakes takes on the permanence and solidity of a fortified city when you are out on your own in enemy territory.

A short ride across the grassy plain brought us to the foot of the densely wooded hills. The Helvetii, whose agriculture was primitive, never bothered to clear this hill country to till the slopes. They dwelled in the valleys and plains, where the land was hospitable and yielded easily to their wooden plow-shares. The great labor required to clear and plant vineyards on steep slopes was repellant to the Gauls, who thought such work fit only for slaves. True, most Gallic peasants were little more than slaves themselves, but they had no liking for hard toil either.

A small detachment of Carbo’s skirmishers awaited us at the base of the first hill. “Any sign of the enemy?” Carbo asked them.

“Not a hair of them,” a decurion said.

“We continue on foot from here,” Carbo said, dismounting. “You skirmishers get some torches from the horsemen. Lovernius,
you come with us. The rest wait here. Be ready to run for it, but don’t run before we get back.”

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” I asked nervously. I didn’t like the idea of being separated from my horse. When I have to flee, I prefer not to waste time at it. Armored and in hobnailed boots, I would have no chance of outfooting a horde of near-naked Gauls. It wouldn’t even take a horde of them. Two or three would do the job. Mabe even one. I’d had an exhausting night.

“The woods are too thick for horsemen,” Carbo said phlegmatically. “Come on.”

We went up onto the slopes with the Scouts in the lead. I wondered what the watching Helvetians were making of all this activity. Our little torchlit cavalry procession must have been visible for miles, and the torchbearing skirmishers probably presented a twinkling display as we ascended.

Our climb was all but silent, the only sounds the faint rustle of mail links against sword sheaths and the hiss and crackle of the torches. The massive, ancient trees pressed close in upon us, the undersides of their limbs luridly illuminated by the torches. Night-roaming animals scurried away from us as we climbed. It was all monstrously oppressive and frightening.

We Romans do not like wild places. We like open, cultivated land that has been tamed by the hand of man. Deserts repel us; mountains are just obstacles; and we dislike forests with their wild animals and their swarms of spiteful spirits. Only pastoral poets pretend to like nature, and their sylvan dales occupied by nymphs and handsome shepherd lads are as unreal as a wall painting. The real thing is vicious, messy, and unforgiving.

Soon I detected a faint glow ahead of us. “Almost there
now,” Carbo said. Iron man though he was, he was breathing heavily. This was his second such climb of the night.

Abruptly, we were at the edge of a clearing. The Scouts halted, then the skirmishers, and finally Carbo, Lovernius, and me. The trees ended at a roughly circular patch of mossy ground perhaps thirty paces in diameter. Big, rough rocks protruded from the ground, strangely shaped, although they were apparently nature’s work, showing no marks of hammer or chisel. Tremendous oaks marked the periphery, their branches interlacing overhead to form a ceiling.

These details were made faintly visible by the low-burning remains of what must earlier have been a huge bonfire. It was nothing but embers now, crackling and sending up smoke to the heavens. It was an uncanny place, and I had the uneasy but certain feeling that I was looking at what the Greeks call a
temenos
: a sacred place consecrated to the gods.

Carbo stepped into the clearing and walked toward the fire. I took a deep breath and followed. Lovernius and the others hung back until Carbo turned and beckoned impatiently.

“Come on, bring those torches. What was done here is done.”

I went to the remains of the fire, dreading what I might see there. To my relief it seemed to be ordinary wood, not wicker. I detected none of the charred bones I half expected to see. I scanned all around the clearing but could see nothing but the ominously surrounding trees.

“I don’t see anything,” I said, relieved but disappointed.

“That’s because you’re looking in the wrong direction,” Carbo said. I looked to see his head tilted back, gazing straight up.

Beneath my helmet, my scalp prickled and icy fingers
danced up and down my spine. In the gloom above, my eyes were at first confused by the interlacing of the branches and the uncertain light of the torches. Then I saw three shapes dangling from three stout limbs, slowly turning as if there was a breeze up there that I could not feel down below. They were dressed in long, white robes and upon the breast of each was a richly worked golden pectoral. Their faces were distorted, but I recognized them, two old, one young.

“The Druids!” I cried, my voice far louder than I had intended.

Lovernius grasped an amulet that hung around his neck and began yammering some sort of prayer or spell, a look of superstitious terror on his face. The skirmishers were equally upset. I grasped his arm.

“Lovernius,” I said sternly, “you are a civilized man with a Roman education, not a superstitious savage. Possess yourself!” Gradually he calmed.

“What can this mean?” I demanded. “Who sacrifices Druids? I thought they did the sacrificing!” For I had no doubt that this was a ritual killing. Ordinary executions do not take place at such remote sites or under such bizarre circumstances; the grove, the stones, the fire—all were redolent of barbaric religious practice.

“I don’t know!” Lovernius said, his voice shaky. “I have never seen anything like this, nor heard of any such. Sometimes—sometimes a Druid is sacrificed when the people face a terrible calamity; famine, plague perhaps. But then the Druid is chosen by lot and there is a great festival. Only one dies, and the body is sunk into a sacred marsh.”

“Any ideas, Decius?” Carbo asked.

“Absolutely none. I won’t admit it to Labienus, but I’m as
devoid of answers as a Bruttian is of table manners. You might as well ask an Egyptian to exhibit bravery in battle.”