Nobody Loves a Centurion(20)

Caesar walked over to me and looked down. “I never knew a man could look so much like a statue of Priapus while sitting down. Right through armor and a heavy cloak, too.”

“If Titus Vinius is such a jealous man,” I said, “why does he allow her to parade all over the camp half-naked?”

“It is customary to display extraordinary possessions, Decius. If you own a splendid work of art, you place it where people can admire it and envy you its possession. Many men enjoy being envied.” He turned and walked back into his tent.

“Freda,” I said to myself, practicing the sounds. I learned later that the name comes from their word for “peace”; an oddity considering how little interest the Germans have in the subject. It must result from their custom of sealing an alliance between tribes by marrying the women of one tribe to the warriors of the other.

With an effort, I forced myself back to the task of making Caesar’s scrolls readable.

That evening Hermes was of very little use to me. Both his arms hung limply at his sides and his face was a mask of pain. I could sympathize, almost. My father had sent me to the lndus when I was sixteen to learn swordwork and that first day was among the most memorably painful of my life. Of course, I gave him no hint of any such tender feelings.

“I have officer of the guard duty tonight,” I informed him. “That means that I will not be sleeping. Neither will you. Because of my duty I can’t touch wine. Neither shall you. Do you understand?”

“You must be joking,” he groaned. “I couldn’t lift a cup if I was dying of thirst in Libya.”

“Excellent. I want a lamp lit inside the tent and one before the tent all night long. Surely that is not beyond your capacities?”

“As long as they’re small lamps,” he said.

Not being utterly heartless, I rubbed his shoulders with liniment before I left for guard mount. After all, his torment would start all over again the next morning.

Officer of the guard was a duty traditionally delegated to the cavalry, I suppose because infantry officers were more important and needed their sleep. It was a duty I always hated, but not only because it meant that I went without sleep. I was always afraid that I would come upon a man who had fallen asleep at his post. Then I would have to report him. Even in peacetime in the middle of Italy the punishment for that infraction was brutal. In the presence of the enemy, it was worse than brutal. Before the whole legion, the men of his own section beat him to death with rods, a process that could take a long time even when the sticks were wielded by strong men.

As with so many other virtues, I failed to match our ancestors in the hardheartedness so highly esteemed in military men. Our old tales are full of commanders who condemned their own sons to death for disobeying orders, even when the disobedience brought victory. This was supposed to prove something about Roman justice and martial sternness. It never proved anything to me except that Roman fathers are a bad lot.

I mounted the wall surrounding the legionary camp at the main gate and began to walk the circuit, making more noise than absolutely necessary. To my relief, the increased guard Caesar had ordered meant that the sentries stood in pairs. That way they could help keep each other awake. There were watchfires inside the camp, but none along the rampart, lest the night vision of the guards be ruined.

As I made my way west along the southern wall, then north along the eastern wall, I found the men commendably alert, whipping around with leveled weapons the instant they heard me, giving the challenge and not lowering their points until I replied with the watchword. Everyone knew that negotiations with the Helvetii had broken off and the barbarians could be upon us at any moment.

When I got to the northern wall, I found the guards even more nervous. They were closest to the Gauls.

“You’ll have plenty of warning before they come,” I said to the first set of sentries I encountered on that wall. “There’s still the great rampart between the camp and the enemy.”

One of the soldiers spat eloquently. “Maybe. But it’s just manned by auxilia. Those buggers are worthless!”

“Most of ’em would as soon kill us as the barbarians. Not a citizen in the lot. And the cavalry are all Gauls themselves. How can we trust that pack of savages?”

I knew better than to argue with prejudice like that.

“What cohort is this?” I asked.

“First,” said one of them. “The First Cohort always has the honor of guarding the wall nearest the enemy, and the right end of the battle line.”

Being on the right end presented their unshielded sides to a flanking movement by the enemy. Naturally, the last place any sane man would want to be on a battlefield is considered the post of honor. Not that any sane man would want to be on a battlefield at all. It is by means of these spurious distinctions that men are duped into behavior contrary to their best interests.