“I suppose the same could be said of our whole government,” I remarked.
“Precisely. Now run along, Decius.” He returned to his dictation as if he had not even seen me.
Indeed, I was a bit astonished that Caesar had granted me that much attention. Worry had put new lines in his face and his eyes were growing hollow. There was still no sign of his new legions and the campaigning season was wasting as the barbarians grew stronger. He would not be able to delay his trip to Italy any longer. He had hoped to avoid it, for it might look as if he were abandoning his army just as the war was about to commence.
The foreboding among the soldiers was getting worse. The combination of danger and inaction was corrosive. Rumors began to sweep the camp: the enemy was at hand; they were just across the river; they had a spell of invisibility. Fortunetellers and charm-sellers did a lively business in the camp forum until Caesar ordered them driven out.
Men saw omens everywhere, from the flight of birds to the direction of thunder to odd behavior in their many animal mascots. Caesar was finally driven to address the entire army from his praetorium platform like a general haranguing the troops before a battle. He told them that not only was he pontifex maximus of Rome but that he was an augur of many years’ experience and was perfectly capable of reading the omens for the army. It did little to settle their minds, and every night there were false alarms when overexcited sentries thought they saw hordes of Gauls massing in the gloom. A few exemplary floggings did nothing to improve things.
It looked as if Rome’s best legion was falling apart.
“WAKE UP!” SOMEBODY HISSED.
I pried an eyelid open. It was utterly black outside.
“Hermes, is that you?” Then I heard Hermes snoring on the ground beside me, undisturbed.
“Forget about your slave,” the voice said urgently. “The Proconsul wants you to report to him right now, and be quiet about it!”
“Who is that? Identify yourself.” We might as well have been conversing in the bottom of a mineshaft.
“It’s Publius Aurelius Cotta,” he said. This was a mere boy of a tribune, bearer of an ancient name and destined to do it no honor, to judge by his excitability.
“What’s this about?” I demanded, sitting up in my cot, feeling about for my boots.
“Something important,” he said, displaying a firm grasp of the obvious.
“I don’t suppose you brought a lamp? I can’t find my gear.”
“Forget that,” he said. “Caesar’s orders.”
This had to be big. Caesar had decreed stiff punishments for so much as walking around without your helmet. I located my sword belt by touch and wrapped it around my waist. Hands outstretched to find the entrance of my tent, I stumbled out. Cotta caught my arm and I could just make out the low glow of distant watchfires.
“I don’t hear any alarms,” I said. “I presume we aren’t under attack. If Caesar wants me to copy some more of his damned reports to the Senate, I’ll desert.”
“I think it’s rather more important than that,” Cotta said, trying for an air of aristocratic nonchalance. He needed a few more years to pull it off.
“Then what is it?”
“I’m forbidden to say. He even told me to keep my voice down when I came to summon you.”
“Doesn’t want the soldiers to hear about it, eh? This must be something more than ordinarily disgraceful. Probably forgot to post sentries and the Gauls crept in and took over the camp and now he wants me to fix . . .” I tripped over a tent rope and fell on my face. After that I confined myself to muttering curses and imprecations. Cotta seemed grateful for the relative quiet.
We found the enclosure of the praetorium unusually torchlit and near the table stood a knot of officers, wrapped in their woolen cloaks and looking as sour as I felt. I recognized Labienus, Caesar’s legatus; Paterculus, the Prefect of the Camp; and others I did not know well. Carbo was there, and beside him was a Gaul. The man was shorter than most, dressed in a dark tunic and trousers, his arms and face smeared with dark paint.
“Is that Metellus?” Caesar said, ducking through the doorway of his tent. “Good, then let’s go.”
“There may be raiders outside the camp,” said one of the officers.”
“What of it?” Caesar said. “Aren’t we all armed? Come, gentlemen. This is a serious matter and I want it handled with utmost care and discretion.”
We all trooped along behind Caesar. I was burning with questions but I knew better than to ask them. We walked straight north and left the camp by way of the Porta Decumana in the middle of the northern wall. The gate guards gaped at us, but Caesar ordered them sternly to hold their tongues, on pain of death. He sounded like he meant it. These portals are not true gates, with doors and bars. Rather, they are overlaps in the camp wall. There are several ways of arranging them, but the idea is always that an enemy cannot get through them without coming under fire from above on both sides.