All I could tell was that the wound had been made by a double-edged dagger. Every soldier in both camps carried just such a dagger at his belt. I wore one myself. At least two killers, then. I could visualize it: One man looped the garotte around Vinius’s neck from behind and drew it tight. Perhaps he struggled too fiercely and a confederate in front stabbed him, or perhaps the noose was just to hold him so that the knife man could do the real execution.
Then I saw that there was something wrong with his scalp. I fought down superstitious revulsion and felt the damp hair. Beneath the dense, curly, goatlike hair, I felt a skin laceration. With a little pressure, I could feel bone shift beneath my fingers. Someone had smashed Vinius’s skull with a club or some similar object. Three killers now?
Not necessarily. Men do not always die easily and a man like Vinius could be counted on to die harder than most. Perhaps the daggerman or the strangler had bashed him on the head to make doubly certain. One would think, though, that the knotted cord would be enough. And if there was uncertainty, why not just stab him a few more times? Men willing to stab other men are usually not reluctant to do it repeatedly.
A theory began to take shape in my mind, and it was not one I liked. It pointed straight at the First Century and most particularly at one special contubernium.
There was little more to be read from the corpse. It was unarmed and without a purse or ornaments of any kind. That meant little, since Gauls would have stripped Titus Vinius of any valuables. I was still hoping for Gauls, although the continuing presence of his head argued against that.
I examined the ground near where the body had been found, but it was so thoroughly trampled by hobnailed boots that there was nothing to be learned. Surely, I thought, a man as strong and battle-hardened as Titus Vinius must have put up a terrible struggle, even if only for a few seconds. I hoped for bits of clothing or ornaments or weapons torn from the killers, but I found none. A single foreign dagger would serve to direct suspicion away from the legion. I found only a scrap of dirty white linen.
A score of questions tore at me: Why was he dressed in a dingy, slave’s tunic? Why was he here? Why that particular night? And for which of several exceedingly good reasons had he been killed?
My musings were interrupted when a solemn procession came from the direction of the camp. Most were soldiers, but they glittered more than those I had seen so far. Then I saw the flashing greaves on their shins and I knew that these were the surviving centurions of the Tenth. They had donned their dress uniforms for this duty. With them came a small group of slaves. Among these was Molon, wailing extravagantly and bearing a great bundle upon his back.
The man in front halted the procession. “I am Spurius Mutius, centurion of the Second Century, First Cohort of the Tenth, and now acting First Spear. We’ve come to take the body of our comrade back to the camp for his funeral.”
“Has the Proconsul informed you of my special authority?”
“He has.” I looked at fifty-nine hard, closed faces and I knew what I was in for. I was the outsider here, just another political interloper. These were the professionals of the Tenth. They were closing ranks the way the old military maniples used to, when the principes and the hastati and the triarii merged their squares into one massive, impenetrable block to face the enemy.
“You may have him,” I said. “I’ve learned all I can here.”
Mutius turned to the slaves. “Do your duty.” These were funeral slaves, of which every legion keeps a staff. On campaign, they dispensed with the archaic trappings they wore in Rome and looked like any other army slaves. The priest, also a slave, performed a lustrum to purify the corpse. Foreigners are sometimes shocked to find that slaves can be priests among us, but our gods are not the snobs that some people’s are.
The funeral men stripped the dingy tunic from Vinius’s body and Molon, still wailing and weeping, dumped his bundle on the ground. He threw open the wrapping blanket to reveal his master’s glittering dress uniform. With swift efficiency, the slaves dressed the corpse.
“Molon, go mourn somewhere else,” I ordered. “But not too far away. I want to speak to you presently.” He nodded and walked off, wailing. It was annoying, but we are all bound by tradition and there was nothing to be done about it.
Within minutes Vinius was laid out on a shield and clad in his finery. His silvered helmet bore a magnificent side-to-side crest of scarlet horsehair and his greaves were polished brilliantly. His armor was especially splendid: a shirt of small scales, plated alternately with gold and silver so that they resembled the plumage of a fabulous bird. The phalerae were arranged over his body on their strap harness: nine thick, silver disks as broad as a man’s palm, each decorated with the head of a different god in high relief. In all, he looked greatly improved from the sordid, waterlogged corpse the Gaul had discovered. The funeral slaves had even been able to settle his face into an expression of stern serenity.