Once outside, the Gaul took the lead. He strode along as if he had eyes in his toes, crouched and looking as if he wanted to break into a run. I was reminded of a hunting dog chafing at the leash.
I did not like being away from the security of the camp. Even with the great rampart out there somewhere, we would be easy prey for some raiding band. Even a single young glory hound could rush in and cut one or two of us down before the others could react. Romans have always detested night fighting, and for good reason.
As near as I could judge we were heading northeast, in the general direction of the lake. Soon the ground began to squish beneath my boots and I knew we were getting near it. This was the area of marshes Caesar had charged Carbo with keeping clear of Gallic infiltrators. From ahead of us I heard a mutter of voices and then we were passing through a semicircle of light-armed auxilia.
“This is the place,” Carbo said. We stood by water. I could hear its faint lapping and I could just make out the glittering reflection of stars on its surface. There was that wet, fecund smell that always dominates wherever water and land meet. There was an underlying smell, too, one not nearly so pleasant. Why had we come to the lake in the middle of the night?
“We can see nothing,” Caesar commented. “Somebody strike a light and get some torches burning.”
“The Gauls will be able to see us for miles,” said Labienus.
“Let them come!” Caesar said testily. Apparently he did not relish being awakened at such an hour any more than I did. There came a clicking like the chirping of crickets. That was the auxilia. Every man had taken his firekit out and they were breaking the monotony of their long, nocturnal watch by seeing who could get a fire going first with flint and steel.
“Hah!” said a man, with the satisfaction of one who has just won some money off his fellows. A kneeling Gaul had managed to land a spark on a little nest of tinder laid upon his shield. He blew upon it carefully and the glowworm of smoldering tinder burst into a small but definite flame. Someone held a torch to it and soon we had a tolerable light.
“Bring the torches here,” Caesar ordered. He stood at the edge of the water, and now I could see that something floated in it just off the bank. I was sure it was a man. What else would draw them out here at such an hour? But what man?
“The Gaul was right,” Labienus said. “Must have eyes like an owl to recognize him in this gloom.”
“Get him out of the water,” Caesar said. “Decius Metellus, attend me.”
I stepped up to his side as two of the auxilia waded into the water and began to haul the corpse out. They were Gauls and Gauls lack the Roman distaste for handling the bodies of the dead. Head-hunters cannot be too finicky.
“Proconsul?” I said.
“Decius, I’ve just remembered why I wanted you here. It was for situations like this.”
The body was out of the water, lying on its back. Two of the Gauls held their torches low so we could get a good look. The features were contorted and slightly swollen, probably the result of having been strangled by the noose that was visible around the neck. Still, they were recognizable.
It was Titus Vinius, First Spear of the Tenth.
I straightened. “All right, I’ll kick in for the funeral fund, although I’ll wager there aren’t any decent professional mourners to be hired in these parts.”
“Don’t try to provoke me, Decius!” Caesar snapped. “This is more than a serious loss to the legion. The men’s spirits are low enough as it is, and now the First Spear has been murdered! This could be catastrophic!”
“I should think it would raise morale enormously.”
“Don’t be facetious. I want the killers exposed so that they can be executed without delay.”
“Why do you think this is murder?” I asked him. “And what was he doing out here anyway? If the fool was wandering around alone at night, he was probably caught by Gallic raiders and killed. That isn’t murder, it’s enemy action.”
Caesar sighed. “Decius Caecilius, I thought this sort of thing was your specialty. Even I, lacking your unique talents, have noticed that Titus Vinius still possesses his head.”
“That is something of an anomaly, but far from conclusive. It may be . . .” Then I was interrupted, not an unwelcome thing since I had no ready answer for him.
“Caesar,” Paterculus said, “may I speak frankly?” He was a grizzled old sweat with a face like an Alpine cliff.
“Please do so.”
“You don’t need this . . . this philosopher to guess who killed Titus Vinius. It must have been the men of his own century. They all hated him.”