Nobody Loves a Centurion(35)

“Tell me how you found him,” I said.

“We were performing the nightly sweep—”

“First identify yourself.”

“I am Ionus of the Gallic Scouts, part of the Second Cohort,” he began, his accent so dense that I could barely understand him. The auxilia are organized only as cohorts, never as legions. “We are under the command of Captain Carbo; valiant as a lion, cunning as a serpent, virile as a wild boar . . .”

“Yes, yes, I am well acquainted with Captain Carbo’s virtues. We are old friends. Tell me how you found the dead man.”

“Each evening, just after dark, we conduct the sweep to catch any Helvetii who might come in through the swamp. Beginning at the legionary camp, the light-armed skirmishers extend in two lines from the great rampart on the left. Captain Carbo commands from the right flank. Upon his signal, they begin walking toward the lake. We Scouts go out ahead of them at a hundred paces. We are picked men, known for our keen night vision and our skill at moving silently in the dark. My own tribe, the Volcae, are famed for this skill.”

“I take it you are great cattle raiders?”

“The very best!” he said, smiling proudly. Just as the Greeks of Homer considered piracy a proper calling for gentlemen and our own ancestors of Romulus’ time thought it quite correct to appropriate other people’s women, so the Gauls believe that cattle thieving is both fine sport and a legitimate means to augment one’s material wealth.

“Go on, then. You set out on the evening sweep. Did you start any infiltrators?”

“We found none this night, and that seemed odd, for we usually net anything from three to a score of them. Perhaps this night is one ill-omened for the Helvetii and they deemed it a bad time to go adventuring.”

“You swept all the way to the lake?”

“Yes. Then Captain Carbo told the Scouts to make a careful check of all the nearby bodies of water. Sometimes the raiders hide among the reeds until the sweep passes. I led these spearmen,” he gestured to the dice-playing skirmishers, “and we came here. That was when I saw the dead man.”

“Then this is not the lake itself?” I asked him, surprised.

“No, we are about five hundred paces from the lake proper. This is a pond. There are many of them around here. The reeds make this one a good place to hide. The skirmishers had just begun poking their spears in the clumps of reeds when I noticed something floating out in the water. At first I thought it was a dead Helvetian, perhaps one wounded the night before who went to hide in the pond and died there. His tunic was dark. But then I saw that his legs were bare, like a Roman’s.”

Most Gauls wear trousers. Often they fight bare-chested or wearing a brief cape over their shoulders, and some of them fight stark naked, dedicating themselves to their gods and trusting to no other protection. But very seldom do they wear tunics leaving the legs bare, like civilized soldiers.

“When did you recognize him?”

“He floated facedown and I waded out to him, thinking to take his head should he prove to be an enemy. But then I saw his short hair and knew he was a Roman. I rolled him over and I knew his face instantly. The First Spear always stands on the platform next to Caesar during reviews and we had one just two days ago.”

“You did not lie about having good night vision. Was there anything else?”

“I told the spearmen to stay and guard the body while I ran to report to Captain Carbo. We went to tell Caesar. He would not believe me at first, but he sent for the First Spear and he couldn’t be found. So he summoned his officers and I led the lot of you here.”

The rest of Carbo’s men arrived and I was busy for a while arranging them into a cordon around the site. I told them to come no closer, my main concern being to preserve the site as best I could. Not that there was likely to be anything to read from the signs, with the way half the Empire had been trampling all over the place for hours.

Gradually the eastern horizon turned pale. Imperceptibly, a bit at a time, distant objects became discernible. In time I could see that I did, indeed, stand beside a pond. It covered perhaps three acres, half of its area choked with dense weeds. In the distance I could see Lake Lemannus itself. Satisfied that I had sufficient light, I went to the body and crouched beside it.

Death had rendered Titus Vinius no prettier. His mouth was twisted in a wide-open snarl, as if he had been gasping for breath when death overtook him. The cord of braided hide around his neck would account for that. It was buried deeply in the flesh of his neck and had been tied off over the spinal cord.

He wore a dark tunic of coarse wool, such as slaves wear. As the light improved, I noticed a thin slit about the width of three fingers just over the heart. I grasped the neck opening and ripped the garment halfway down. There was a stab wound two inches to the left of the sternum, probably through the heart. There was no blood, but then the body had been in the water for hours. In any case, penetrating wounds to the torso bleed internally. My old friend Asklepiodes had taught me that and I wished fervently that I had him by my side just then. He could read wounds the way a huntsman can read the signs left behind by animals.