“That was excessive, Centurion,” I said, making an effort to keep my voice level. “It’s not as if he was asleep on guard duty.”
“My men are mine to handle as I please, Captain,” he said, giving the word an unbelievably contemptuous twist. “You had better remember that.”
“You are getting a little above yourself, Titus Vinius,” I said, as haughtily as I could manage. Being a Caecilius Metellus, that was haughtier than most.
His lip curled slightly. “This is Caesar’s army, Metellus. Caesar understands that the centurions run things. It is we who will bring him victories, not the political flunkies in purple sashes.”
I would have drawn my sword on him then, but Caesar could have had me executed for it. Under military law, Vinius had done nothing wrong. I tried an appeal to reason.
“If you don’t want your men ogling your slave, give her some decent clothes. That woman is a menace to the morale of the whole army.”
“I do as I like with my own property.”
“You didn’t take your vinestaff to me, Vinius,” I pointed out. “I was staring as hard as he was.”
“You’re not one of my men,” he said, grinning crookedly. “Besides, you are a Roman officer. You may stare all you like. Just don’t touch.”
Pulling rank hadn’t worked. Reason had failed utterly. Well, where centurions were concerned, there was always greed. I reached into the purse at my belt. “All right, Vinius. How much to leave the boy alone?”
He spat at my feet. “Keep your money, aristocrat. He’s mine, the woman is mine, and if the truth be told, this legion is mine. I am First Spear of the Tenth. Proconsuls come and go, but the First Spear is always in charge.”
I was stunned. I had never known a centurion to turn down a bribe. “I shall speak to Caesar about this.”
“Go ahead. That’s what you politicians are good for, isn’t it? Talking?” Behind him I saw a dwarfish little man standing in the doorway of the tent where the German girl had stood before. He was grinning at my discomfiture with wide-gapped teeth. He had beastly red hair sticking out in all directions. I looked away. Things had come to such a pass that I could not even stare down a malformed slave.
I turned and walked away. I had a powerful urge to say something biting, but it would only have made me look even more weak and ineffectual. At least Vinius did not laugh aloud as I retreated.
This exchange may seem incredible to people who live their lives around the Forum, but the army is another world entirely. A man who has earned the position of centurion is almost as untouchable as a Tribune of the Plebs. He is expected to be a harsh disciplinarian, so he cannot be reprimanded for cruelty. He may do anything with his men short of killing them. Accepting bribes to excuse men punishment or onerous duties has been allowed for centuries as one of the perquisites of the rank. Only cowardice in battle is cause to punish a centurion, and while they may be many things, they are rarely cowards.
As for force of character and moral ascendancy, such a man has few peers. People usually think that street gangsters and gladiators are tough, but that is because they have never met a Roman centurion with twenty years of brutal campaigning behind him. There is a centurion in command of every century, and there are sixty centuries to each legion. The First Spear is always the toughest of the lot.
No longer hungry, I went to the armorer to have my mail shirt altered and cool down in the meantime. I knew it would be foolish to go to Caesar with anger-fogged thoughts. While the armorer worked, I went over his stock of used weapons. By the time I had found suitable arms, I was back in my customary state of philosophical equanimity. I bought a good Gallic long-sword that was far better for mounted combat than anything I owned, and an old but sound gladius, together with sheaths and shoulder belts to go with them.
In front of my tent I found Hermes awaiting me. He had laid out my lunch on a folding table I had brought, along with a folding chair. There is no more useful object in a military camp than a comfortable folding chair. I sat and dropped my burden beside me while Hermes poured watered wine from my stock. He seemed oddly excited.
“Master, I think I saw a goddess in the camp today! It must have been Venus. Doesn’t Caesar claim to be descended from Venus? Maybe she was visiting him.”
I took a long drink and sighed. “Hermes, do you really think Venus goes around dressed in animal skins?”
“It did look sort of odd, but the immortals aren’t like the rest of us.”
“What you saw was a German slavegirl. I saw her, too.” The sight was as real as the cup before me. Even the barbaric custom of wearing furs did not mar her beauty.