“Undoubtedly not,” Lovernius said. “And with such wounds it is unlikely that he would have crawled there and died. Why are you so anxious to blame the Helvetii?”
“Murder within the legion is bad for morale. That the victim was the senior centurion makes it worse. Not that anyone liked the vile brute, but these are men with a powerful sense of hierarchy and a centurion should be inviolate, killable only in battle. A whole cohort is in disgrace, a century banished beyond the camp walls, and a contubernium facing a truly vicious execution upon Caesar’s return. To make it all worse, the prime suspect is a personal friend and client of mine.”
“That is bad,” Lovernius commiserated. “Cheer up. It may have been the Germans. They have no respect for our sacred waters.”
“Is this true? Not that I like the idea of Germans lurking about out there, but it would help things immeasurably if I could blame them. “Have they no sacred places?”
“Only groves in the deep forest, beyond the Rhine. The oak and the ash and the rowan are their holy trees. Places where lightning has struck are sacred to them. Not much else.”
“This bears looking into. Indiumix, saddle my horse. Lovernius, I want you to ride out a short way with me.”
“It will be my pleasure.” He addressed the men at some length in their own language. They nodded somberly. I had not thought a dead man in a pond would put such a damper on their spirits, but barbarians can be odd.
When I was mounted, we rode out through the Porta Decumana in the north wall. The sound of tent pegs being hammered led us to a spot just northeast of the legionary camp where the First Century was setting up its new, unwalled camp. From the vantage point of my saddle I had no trouble spotting the silvery helmet of the optio upon whom I had made so poor an impression a few nights before. He was pointing and shouting orders at the tense-faced men, who were in for a very frightening night. He betrayed no expression as I rode up and dismounted.
“Optio,” I began, “I know you are extremely busy so I shall not detain you long. I wish to speak with you in the praetorium tomorrow morning concerning the activities of the late Titus Vinius.”
He spat on the ground, narrowly missing my left caliga. “I’ll be there, assuming I’m alive tomorrow morning.”
“Well, there is always that unwelcome possibility.”
“Half of us will be on guard at all times.”
“This whole army is a conspiracy against a good night’s sleep. Perhaps I can help you out a bit. I am giving my Gallic riders orders to provide continuous night patrols for this area. I’ll talk to Gnaeus Carbo about sending out some of his skirmishers for the same purpose.”
“We’re being punished, Captain,” said the optio. “You’re interfering.”
This seemed unreasonably obstinate even for a man like this one. “I happen to believe that this punishment is unjust.”
“Nevertheless, it was ordered by our commander and we will endure it. You can bugger off, Captain. We’d rather guard ourselves than depend on barbarians.” The stony glares of the nearby legionaries told me they shared their options’s poor opinion of me and my Gauls.
Lovernius laughed at this. “So be it. Fools should die like fools.”
“That’s enough,” I said. I had not expected my offer to be met with such ingratitude. But then, I have never understood professional soldiers. “Tomorrow, then, Optio.” I remounted and we rode away.
“I still want you to provide night patrols,” I told Lovernius. “They may be stiff-necked idiots, but they shouldn’t be put into such danger just because a man like Vinius got himself killed.”
“Whatever you say, Captain.”
That evening I settled down to the task of sorting through the goods left behind by the late First Spear. These were not great in bulk. A legion has to march great distances, and even a senior centurion is allowed no more than four or five pack mules for his personal use. The chest that had held his dress armor and decorations was now empty, since those items had been cremated with him. I wondered if the puddle of melted silver and gold would go into the urn along with his charred bones, to be buried beneath the tasteful gravestone being commissioned from one of Massilia’s more reputable monument firms.
There was a chest of clothing and another holding his field armor and weapons, which were almost identical to those of an ordinary legionary, but of higher quality. Another held preserved foods, pots of honey, and seasonings; the sort of little comforts and minor luxuries every campaigner takes along to ease the rigors of soldiering.
The smallest chest was heavy for its size. Its lid was fastened with a lock that appeared to be fairly elaborate. I could find no key among the miscellaneous belongings on the table.
“Molon!” I called.
“Here, sir,” he said, right at my elbow.
“Where did Vinius keep the key to this?”
“He never allowed me in the tent when he opened that chest, but I saw him reaching for a little pouch at his sword belt on the occasions when he ordered me out.”
Wonderful. Doubtless the key now rested among the other metallic debris in the ashes of Vinius’s funeral pyre.
“Then run to the smithy and fetch me a crowbar. Be quick about it.” He didn’t exactly run, but he went into a fast lurch. A short time later he was back with the tool. The box was even stouter than it looked and it took the two of us levering the bar to break the lid open. Inside were papyri and folded wooden tablets, some of them with dangling leaden seals.
“This looks more like something a banker would own than a soldier,” I commented. I picked up a tablet and opened it. It was a deed to an Italian estate in Tuscia.
“You’d think he’d keep his land deed in a temple closer to home,” I said. I opened another. This, too, was a deed, to an estate in Campania, purchased just a few months before. I noticed Molon studying it over my shoulder. I pointed to the other belongings.
“Stack these things over by the big tent and find something to cover them with.” He did not look happy but he set to the task. Quickly, I went through the documents. The bulk of them were deeds to sizable estates. It looked as if Titus Vinius had been determined to buy up Italy. I recognized the names of some of the sellers but that meant nothing. Many wealthy Romans owned lands they had never seen. They bought and sold them through intermediaries, as the wars and politics of the times caused values to rise and fall.
I glanced over the sums recorded for the various sales and made a quick estimate of the total, then I sat back, stunned. Titus Vinius had died a millionaire. Where had this money come from? Men from wealthy families did not make a career in the ranks. I knew that the Tenth had not been in on any of the great looting parties like the sack of Tigranocerta, Mithri-dates’ stronghold, which fell to the legions of Lucullus some eleven years earlier. It had been stationed in Gaul or Spain for at least the last ten years, with occasional visits to northern Italy. The total of his pay and bribes and loot could hardly have amounted to a tenth of the fortune recorded in these documents.
“Will there be . . . ?”
I snapped a deed shut at the sound of Molon’s voice. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!” He hadn’t been sneaking, but I was so absorbed in this incredible revelation that I was oblivious to everything else.
“If you don’t mind my saying so, sir, your nerves are on edge. Shall I bring you some wine?”
“Do so.” Suddenly, I realized that my mouth was dry. How did these deeds tie in with his murder? I was sure that there had to be a connection. Titus Vinius had died under very peculiar circumstances. Titus Vinius was incredibly rich for a career soldier. Any man may have one great anomaly in his character or his history. I was not prepared to accept two unless they were bound together in some way.
Molon returned with a pitcher and a cup and I drank gratefully. I began to put the deeds back into the chest, and as I did so I shifted it slightly. It still seemed to be exceptionally heavy. I decided to wait and investigate this when there was no observer pres
ent.
“Molon, I am going to return to my tent. Carry this chest.”
“Excuse me, sir, aren’t you going to add these items to the inventory?” He indicated the scroll that lay open by my elbow, one end weighted with a dagger, the other with my helmet. I had completely forgotten it.
“I’ll finish up in the morning. It’s getting too dark to write. What business is it of yours, anyway?”
“Oh, none, none. Have a little more of this wine, sir.”
I did as he suggested. It soothed my agitation wonderfully. After all, what was there to get excited about? I couldn’t help it: things were not as expected and that was always upsetting in a hostile environment. I was getting almost soldierlike in my yearning for an orderly existence.
We trudged back to my tent and I kept Molon in front of me the whole time, making sure that he had no opportunity to peek into the chest. I could see that I was going to have a problem with the thing. I wanted nobody to know what I knew until I had some answers to my questions.
Hermes looked as uneasy as I felt when we arrived at my tent. I took his chin between my thumb and forefinger and turned his head for a better view of his face. He had a fine black eye developing.
“You’ve made Freda’s acquaintance, I see.”
“Why did you buy him?” Hermes demanded, looking sourly at Molon.
“I didn’t buy anybody. Caesar gave them to me.”
“It’s going to be crowded in this tent,” he complained.
“No, it isn’t. You and Molon can sleep out here under the awning. Spring is here and summer isn’t far off.”
“I’ll freeze!”
“I shall miss you,” I assured him.
The tent flap opened and Freda came out. Hermes’ peeved expression changed to one of worshipful awe. It was going to take more than a black eye to dampen his ardor.
“I have set your tent to order,” she reported. “You and the boy have been living like swine.”
“I suppose it takes a nomad to know how to keep a tent tidy,” I said. “Molon, take that chest inside and leave it under my bed.” He did as I told him, and I kept my eyes on him the whole time to make sure he didn’t look inside it. Then Hermes helped me out of my armor. I waved my arms around and flexed my stiff shoulders. I always felt as if I could fly when I was relieved of that weight.
“Hermes, fetch lamps and put them in the tent.”
“There’s already one in there,” he said, referring to the tiny clay lamp that provided a minimal glow.
“I want more lamps and bigger ones,” I told him. “Find me some.” He went off muttering and I sat down to absorb some wine before getting to the night’s major activity. Freda stood by the doorway, ignoring me while I spoke to Molon.
“Now that you belong to me, I need to know about you,” I began. “Tell me about your history.”
“Not much to tell,” he began, meaning that there was not much he was willing to tell me. “My father was a Greek merchant who lived in Massalia. My mother was a Gaul, a Boian woman from the north, so I learned both their languages as a child. I went with my father on trading expeditions up the river valleys all the way to the Northern Sea.” He said all this as if he were speaking of someone else, giving no indication whether it had been a happy time for him.
“I suppose I was about sixteen when we were captured by a party of German raiders. Ordinarily, Greek traders can pass through territory fought over by warring tribes in perfect safety. The Gauls never molest them. They value the foreign trade too highly. But these were Germans who had just come across the river and we were just more foreigners as far as they were concerned. They got into the wine we’d been trading and before long they were putting the men to death and having fun with the women slaves we’d bought. The next morning we were marched back toward Germany. My father was dead by that time, which was a great relief to him.”
“Why did they spare you?” I asked him.
“Later on, when I learned their language, I found out that they thought I resembled a forest sprite of theirs; a mischievous creature that lives beneath the roots of trees and plays tricks on people. They thought it might be bad luck to kill me, so they made me their slave. At first they used me for hard labor, but I proved I could be more valuable to them as an interpreter.”
“Why?” I asked. “There are German tribes that have lived next to Gauls for centuries. There should be no shortage of Germans fluent in both tongues. And they must have plenty of Gallic slaves.”
“Very true,” he nodded, “but these were a tribe from the deep forest, and they had little trust of the river-dwelling tribes, and none at all for Gauls, slave or free.”
“What made you different?”
“I was Greek, or at least half-Greek, and therefore exotic. I wasn’t connected to any of the local tribes, so I wasn’t likely to betray them out of tribal loyalty.”
“So how did Vinius acquire you?”
“My mas—that is to say, my former master was among the envoys sent by Rome two years ago to treat with King Ariovistus. He met with them on the east bank of the Rhine, in order to keep up the fiction that he was not maintaining a presence in Gaul proper.”
“These Germans may not be as politically unsophisticated as we often think,” I mused.
“They have little liking for subtlety,” Molon said, “but they are adept at just about everything that helps to expand their power. They like to fight, but they would rather intimidate than fight, and they are quite willing to negotiate until they are strong enough to attack.”
“You begin to prove your value already. Did Vinius buy you?”
“I was among the gifts given to the envoys. Titus Vinius asked for me personally and the others acceded willingly, since they thought me to be by far the least valuable of the presents.”
“A pardonable mistake. Did he acquire Freda the same way?”
He looked at her with a smirk. She glared back. “No, she was given to him by a Suebian chieftain named Nasua a few months later.”
“Why?” I asked him. “And who are the Suebi?”
“They are an eastern tribe who arrived on the Rhine about the time of that embassy. As to why, the German chiefs are great gift givers, and they are always trying to outdo each other in generosity. Nasua leads jointly with his brother, Cimberius. It seems Cimberius sent a splendid, jeweled goblet to the Roman Proconsul, so Nasua presented Freda to Vinius in front of all the chiefs and dignitaries. He said she was a captive princess of some tribe far in the interior, but I think she is just some cow tender’s daughter he had tired of.”
Freda snarled something and boxed him alongside the head hard enough to send him staggering several steps.
“What did she say?” I asked him. “It sounded uncommonly vile.”
He grinned, exposing many gaps. “She told me how pleased she is to be the property of so handsome and noble a Roman as yourself, sir.”
“And I was almost beginning to believe what you said. But tell me this: Why have you never sued to have your freedom returned? If your father was a citizen of Massilia and you were taken captive by raiders from across the Rhine, then your slavery is unlawful and may be set aside.”
He shrugged. “My mother was just a concubine. My father had a legitimate son by his Greek wife and never acknowledged me. There is little point in suing. Freedom is a greatly overrated commodity, anyway. For most of us it just means freedom to starve.”
I got up as Hermes returned with the lamps. While he arranged them inside the tent, I watched Freda watching me. No fear there, just a coolly fierce calculation.
“There you go,” Hermes announced as he came out. “It’s lit up like a forge in there.”
“You and Molon make yourselves comfortable out here,” I told them. “Freda, come with me.” I ducked through the doorway and sat on the edge of my cot. The ropes creaked beneath me as I tugged at the laces of my boots. Freda came in. “Close the flap behind you,” I told her. She did so, a slightly contemptuous twist
marring the perfect beauty of her lips. In the distance I heard a trumpet call; a lonely sound, even in a crowded legionary camp.
With my boots off I lay back, lacing my fingers behind my head. It gave me a casual look and concealed their trembling from her. “Come closer,” I said. The tent was not a large one. A single step brought her within inches of where I lay.
“What do you want?” she asked in a tone that said she knew very well what I wanted.
“Take your clothes off,” I told her, keeping my voice amazingly steady. She hesitated, radiating defiance. “Freda,” I said patiently, “there are three men before whom a woman should never be ashamed to undress: her husband, her physician, and her owner. Now get out of that barbaric costume.”
With an even more extreme curl to her lip, she reached up and unfastened the fibula that held her hide tunic at the left shoulder. The swell of her breast kept it from falling and she tugged it down to her waist. Then she had to push it past the broad curvature of her hips. Beyond that resistance, it fell to puddle around her ankles.
The sight of a barbarian woman’s body can be shocking to one of refined sensibilities. Highborn Roman women carefully remove every strand of hair that appears from their scalps on down. They often have even their slaves given similar treatment. Even Gallic men depilate themselves except for their scalps and upper lips. Germans think it best not to interfere with nature in these matters. Unlike many Roman men, I do not find a woman repellant in her naturally hirsute state. Rather the contrary, in fact, and never more so than in Freda’s case. She looked like a raw young animal, not a polished marble statue.
“Turn around,” I said, my voice barely betraying the sudden dryness of my mouth.
“Whatever my master wishes,” she said, making a slow half turn. Her great, golden mane covered her to the cleft of her buttocks.
“Raise your hair,” I told her. She gathered the mass of tresses atop her head and held it there with both hands, standing with her weight on one leg in the classic pose of the Aphrodite Kallipygia. She was a picture of youth, strength, and grace; a magnificent young beast perfect in every detail, including a flawless skin.
SPQR VI: Nobody Loves a Centurion Page 12
