“That must make for some hard feelings,” I mused. “Every man is sure to think he stood a longer watch than the other reliefs.”
The slave nodded. “Winter’s a bad time this far north, that’s for sure.”
I went to my tent, where I found Hermes dutifully tending the lamps. He handed me a flask. His arms and shoulders seemed to be recovering, since he could raise the flask waist-high. Its warmth felt good to my chilled hands.
“It’s that awful vinegar stuff the soldiers drink,” he said apologetically, “but it’ll sure wake you up.” I took a drink and he was courteous enough to wait for my eyes to stop watering before he asked me the inevitable question: “Are those barbarians making all that noise outside?” My tent was close enough to the north wall to hear them clearly.
“It certainly isn’t reinforcements from Rome. But don’t worry, they’re just entertaining us tonight.”
“If it’s all the same to you, I’ll worry anyway.” Then he lowered his voice, although he was already speaking in low tones for Hermes. “We’re really in the middle of it, aren’t we? I’ve heard the soldiers talking and they say we’re unsupported in the middle of barbarian territory and it’s only a matter of time before about a million of them come down on us all at once.”
My face must have been as sour as the posca as I nodded. “It’s true, and that’s not the worst of it. I think there’s a man in the camp as dangerous to us as anything outside.”
“How do you always find people like that?” Hermes asked.
“The gods are not without a sense of humor. This is their little joke on me.”
“Then they’re laughing hard up on Olympus tonight,” He said. “They’ve matched you up with the meanest crucifier in the legion.”
To a slave, “crucifier” is the most powerful epithet of fear and opprobrium. Hermes also had the slave’s facility for keeping his ears open while the free men all around ignored him and talked as if he wasn’t there. My peers often upbraided me for listening to slave talk, but it saved my life a good many times.
“More soldier gossip?”
“It’s all over the camp. Next to the barbarians, the First Spear and his German woman are the favorite subjects around here. Everyone’s talking about how Vinius and the new officer are going at it shield to shield.”
“Poor Caesar,” I said. “He’s used to everyone talking about him. Are bets being laid?”
He shook his head. “No. Everyone says you’ll be squashed like a bug.”
I took another drink of Posca and choked it down. “It’s going to get worse very quickly. I want you to ask around tomorrow, see if you can get odds on me to win.”
He looked at me pityingly. “You don’t expect me to bet any of my money, do you?”
“You’re a slave. You’re not supposed to own money. Have you been stealing from me again?” By law, slaves are not supposed to own property, but the gulf between law and reality is as wide as that between Hades and Olympus. Actually, Hermes rarely stole from me, but it did him good to know he was under suspicion at all times.
He dodged the question. “Are the odds about to go up even higher?”
“Yes, they are. I am about to make Titus Vinius even angrier at me. With luck, he may drop dead from pure rage.”
5
I ARRIVED AT THE WATCHFIRE just as the bronze ball clanged into the dish. The watch relief stood in two orderly lines. At their head was a man whose helmet was tinned so that it shone silver instead of bronze, and it sported a crest of white horsehair. His eyes widened a bit when he saw me, then widened a bit further when he saw that I was not alone. He saluted with a professional’s easy disdain.
“Aulus Vehilius,” he said, introducing himself, “optio of the First Cohort and tonight’s relief commander.” So this was Vinius’s right-hand man, the one who carried his spare vine-staffs.
“Decius Caecilius Metellus, Captain of the praetorian ala and officer of the watch.”
“Who are these?” Vehilius said, nodding his crest toward the men standing behind me.
“My troop of the praetorian ala.”
“Auxilia have no place on the camp wall. That’s for legionaries only.”
“Consider them my personal bodyguard. I fear assassination by political rivals.”
He looked at me as if I were insane, an entirely understandable attitude on his part, then snapped: “We are wasting time. Guard Relief, march!” He spun on his hobnailed heel and strode off. The relief stepped out smartly, with a fine, martial clatter. I saw that some of them were grinning at the options discomfiture.
I walked up alongside Vehilius, who sternly ignored me. Behind me, Lovernius and the others ambled along in far less formal order. After all, not only were they Gauls, they were cavalrymen, and could not have marched in step to save themselves from crucifixion.
At the top of the wall, starting from the Porta Praetoria, Vehilius began relieving the sentries. As we reached each sentry post the challenge was given and the watchword rendered, then the optio received the report of the senior man, after which the two men at the front of our line took the places of the two on watch. The relieved men then fell in at the rear of the line.
So it proceeded until we reached the north wall. The noise and missile-hurling had stopped, to my great satisfaction. I decided the Gauls must be getting tired, too. Besides, they had to be well away before daylight when we would be after them again with the cavalry.
When we reached the post where Burrus and Quadratus stood, we went through the usual challenge-and-watchword business and Quadratus reported on the night’s activities. Then Vehilius ordered the column to march on.
“A moment, Optio!” I said.
He paused. “Yes, Captain?”
“Aren’t we going to relieve these men?” I demanded.
“No, we are not. These two, and the men of the next three posts, belong to the sixth contubernium of the First Century, First Cohort. They are to stand watch all night as punishment.”
“I see. I presume that is for this night alone?”
“They stand all-night watches until the First Spear instructs otherwise.”
“And does that not endanger the security of the whole camp?”
“That is not for me to judge. And now, Captain, if it is all right with you, and even if it buggering well isn’t, I am going to continue with my duties.”
“Don’t let me keep you, Optio. Good evening to you.”
Stiff as a spearshaft, he whirled and clumped off, followed by soldiers whose broad grins vanished when he turned to glare at them.
When he was gone, Lovernius made a very Gallic gesture. “Captain, I have always heard how adept you Roman politicians are at making friends. Could I have been misinformed?”
“There is going to be great trouble over this!” said Indiumix delightedly. Gauls just love trouble.
“Patron, what are you up to?” Burrus asked.
“Burrus, Quadratus, you are relieved. These two men,” I pointed at two of my Gauls, “will take your place. Stay here on the wall, but I want you to get some sleep.”
“But they aren’t legionaries!” Quadratus protested.
“I take the responsibility upon my own head,” I assured them. “I am officer of the watch, and I am ordering you two to get some sleep. You’d better do it now, because I won’t have this duty for another three or four nights.”
Soldiers have a remarkable ability to sleep anywhere, under any circumstances. They laid their shields carefully atop the earthen wall, then lay down and pillowed their heads on them. In full armor, belted with sword and dagger and cuddling their spears, they were out like a pair of extinguished lamps.
We proceeded to the next three sentry posts and relieved the remaining six men of the contubernium in the same unorthodox fashion. Then Lovernius and I leaned against the palisade and contemplated the now quiet night. Springtime insects were making noise out there, and an occasional owl hooted.
“Five sesterces says he’
ll come after me before sunrise,” I hazarded.
“Ten says he’ll wait and denounce you in front of Caesar and the whole staff in the morning.”
“Done.” We clasped hands on it and Lovernius smiled, shaking his head admiringly. Gauls have an entirely inexplicable admiration for reckless, suicidal fools. As it turned out, he won the ten sesterces.
The sun rose in good time, warming our chilled bodies and raising a picturesque ground fog from the lake, so that for a few minutes the camp seemed like a great ship afloat on a sea of wool. I wondered whether this was how Jupiter felt, seated among the clouds. The air held the inevitable smells of a legionary camp; the odors of fresh-turned earth and wood-smoke. These are agreeable smells, quite unlike the many stenches of the city. At that moment, though, I would gladly have exchanged it all for an ugly, smelly town.
The men of the unfortunate contubernium rose and resumed their places at the wall. My own men stood down and came to gather by me.
“Go on back to your tents,” I told them. “You’ve done your duty for the night.”
“But we’d rather stay and see what happens next,” Lovernius protested.
“I know you would, but it’s almost time for the morning patrol. There are probably Helvetii hiding out there in that fog. Go get them. They were very annoying last night.” They smiled, saluted, and walked off. Whatever was coming, it was none of their doing and I wanted them out of it.
The sun was almost above the mountain crest to the east when the new guard relief arrived. It was in the care of a different optio this time; a man with a thoroughly broken nose and an engaging, lopsided grin who threw me a salute that was sloppy enough to look respectful, coming from a professional. The cheekplates of his bronze helmet were decorated with stylized little shrines made of sheet silver; a design intended to bring good luck. From the knob on the helmet’s top sprang a tuft of short, blue feathers.
“You’re relieved, Captain,” he said as two of the men he brought took the place of Burrus and Quadratus.
“Any special orders for me?” I asked him.
“None that I was given to relay, though if I were you I’d be planning what I’d say to Caesar.”
I fell in beside him as he proceeded on his rounds. “I’ve been thinking of little else for the last four hours.”
“Any good ideas?”
“None yet. Any suggestions?”
“Run. The Gauls might take you in. But then, they might just trade you back. The Germans might be a better idea. If they don’t kill you on sight they’ll probably protect you. Their laws of hospitality are very strict.”
“I don’t suppose Caesar would just send me back to Rome in disgrace?”
“Hah! If he did that, half his staff officers would pull the sort of idiotic stunts you’ve been entertaining us with, just to get out of the coming war. I’ve never seen such a spineless pack of bluebloods.” He spat over the palisade, in which were stuck several arrows.
“What do the blue feathers mean?” I asked him. “Second Cohort?”
“Correct. I am Helvius Blasio, optio of the Fourth Century of the Second. I already know who you are.”
“Word does get around, doesn’t it?”
“Decidedly. Everyone knows everyone else’s business in a legionary camp. Doubly so when it involves someone flouting the First Spear’s authority. Such persons attract great attention and admiration. For a very brief time, anyway.”
I accompanied him as he finished his rounds, being in no rush to meet my fate. We discussed the enemy and the upcoming campaign. Blasio maintained his professional’s nonchalance, but I sensed his unease. The whole camp vibrated with the tension of a legion deep in enemy territory and about to plunge into action.
I took my leave of Blasio and got myself shaved and barbered, then I went to my tent. Hermes had my breakfast already laid out.
“One of your Gauls told me you’re in trouble,” he said cheerfully.
“That is correct. Now run along and report to your sword instructor.”
He groaned. “I thought it was the one on the receiving end of the sword who was supposed to hurt!”
“Every accomplishment comes at a price. Off with you, now.” Grumbling, he did as he was told.
All too soon, I heard a tuba sounding the officer’s call. I was abominably weary, but there was to be no rest for me. With my helmet beneath my arm I strode smartly toward the praetorium. One advantage of belonging to a family like mine is that one is given a very thorough schooling in all the rhetorical arts. These include not only the art of public speaking but also of presenting oneself, both standing and in motion. Since a man bent upon high office must serve with the legions, he is taught how to show himself before the troops. There is a genuine art to getting the rough military cloak to flutter behind you as you walk, and draping it casually over the slightly raised arm when you halt so that it bestows the dignity of a toga.
Vinius might be able to outshout me, but he could never match me for poise and sheer, aristocratic style. And I was certain that I would have to carry this off on style alone, since I had nothing else at my disposal.
The faces gathered around the staff table wore a wide variety of expressions, from the carefully noncommittal to the violently hostile. The only smile present was my own, and that was as false as a whore’s. Caesar looked as grim as death, but maybe, I thought, he was just thinking about all those Gauls.
“Decius Caecilius Metellus,” he said, destroying another of my fond delusions, “the First Spear has leveled some extremely serious accusations at you. You must answer them.”
“Accusations?” I said. “Am I supposed to have misbehaved?”
“You would do well to acknowledge the gravity of your situation,” Caesar said. “Foolishness that can be overlooked in peacetime, in Rome, is not to be tolerated in a legionary camp at war.”
“Ah, yes, foolishness,” I remarked, my eyes not on Caesar but on Vinius. “I think forcing sentries to go night after night without sleep in the presence of the enemy is foolishness of the most dangerous sort.”
“Proconsul,” Vinius said, keeping a tight rein on his voice, “this officer has interfered with my sentry postings. Since his arrival here, he has sought to coddle his precious client who happens to be a member of my century. Last night that man and the rest of his contubernium slept on guard duty. I want them executed.”
There was a collective indrawing of breath.
“Those men slept at my command. Their guard posts were not deserted. I manned them with troopers from my own ala.”
“He let Gauls guard a legionary encampment!” Vinius said witheringly. “It’s worse than treason!”
“The offense is grave,” Caesar said. “Even so, capital punishment at this point would be excessive. The men were acting on instructions from a superior, however idiotic those instructions may have been. We must, after all, consider their source. No, the fault lies not with the legionaries but with this officer.”
Vinius stood there fuming. Nothing looks sadder than a man cheated of a few executions.
“I believe that I acted with perfect . . .”
“Silence,” Caesar said, without special emphasis. I shut up. Caesar had that admirable ability to make a common spoken word sound like thunder from Jupiter.
“Decius Caecilius, what am I to do with you? I could pack you off to Rome in disgrace, but that is what I suspect you most dearly wish. I could reduce you in rank, but you are already about as low as a man can get and still be an officer in this army. I could make you a common soldier, but you are a Senator and I would not offend the Senate by making a member of that august body serve as a foot-slogger.” This may have been the very last time Caius Julius Caesar ever worried about offending the Senate.
“There is always beheading, Caesar,” Labienus murmured. “It is a gentlemanly punishment, worthy of a lordly Caecilian.”
Caesar stroked his chin as if he were giving the suggestion serious consideration. “There is his
family to consider. The beginning of a war might be a bad time to alienate the most powerful voting bloc in the Senate and the Assemblies.”
“Oh, we won’t miss him,” my cousin Lumpy assured Caesar. “We have plenty more where he came from.” Some men will stoop to anything to get out of paying off a hundred sesterces.
“The idea is tempting,” Caesar said, “but an execution before hostilities have properly commenced might be viewed as severe. No, I shall have to devise something else. No matter, I’ll think of something. First Spear, rest assured that this officer will never again interfere with your men or with your performance of your duties.”
Vinius was far from satisfied, but he knew better than to argue. Even a First Spear could not demand the execution of a superior officer.
“As the Proconsul wishes,” he said, not quite churlishly.
Thus far I seemed to be getting away with my pose of aristocratic disdain, but I was far from easy about it. This chitchat about execution was almost certainly just scare talk, but I could not be perfectly certain. A military commander is permitted tremendous leeway in the measures he deems appropriate to secure order and discipline within their forces. He could be hauled into court when he returned home and laid down his imperium, but juries in such cases usually sided with the commander. All citizens understand that the security of the State and the Empire depend utterly upon the discipline of our soldiers, a discipline that is unique in all the world.
Lucullus had declined to execute Clodius (still called Caludius back then) when he had every right to. Clodius had incited officers and men of Lucullus’s army to mutiny against their commander. But he had not wished to offend the powerful Claudian clan, and Clodius hadn’t accomplished much, anyway. Other commanders were less tolerant.
Caesar ignored me for the rest of the staff conference, during which he sorted through the mundanities and complexities of the army’s situation with great efficiency, dispensing duties and special assignments in a crisp, clear tone that left no questions as to exactly what was expected. Once again I was impressed. I later learned that it was Caesar’s opinion that more military disasters had occurred because of unclearly worded orders than from all other causes combined.
SPQR VI: Nobody Loves a Centurion Page 7
