Nobody Loves a Centurion(25)

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.