Nobody Loves a Centurion(38)

They were arranging the crests on their helmets, which among ordinary soldiers are worn only on parade and in battle. Likewise, they were stripping the oiled covers from their shields. Because of its layered construction, the scutum is very vulnerable to soaking. Thus it is kept covered much of the time, but on parade and in battle the covers are removed, revealing the brightly painted and decorated faces. But no amount of paint and gilding and feathers and horsehair could make this legion look like Rome’s best. The Gauls had not even showed up in force and already the Tenth looked like a beaten army.

I found Hermes waiting for me with breakfast, hot water, and decent wine. Sometimes he was not really such a burden.

“Is it true what I’ve been hearing?” he asked as I launched into breakfast.

“If you’ve heard the First Spear’s been killed, it’s true,” I said around a mouthful of hot bread. “Whether he was murdered hasn’t been established, but if the Gauls did him in they got him to dress oddly beforehand.”

“This is a strange army and an odd war,” Hermes pronounced. “I think we should go home.”

“If that were possible you’d have a hard time keeping up with me. And believe me: it’s bad to be with an army even in the best of wars. Now go along to your weapons drill and let me think.”

So I sat there in my folding camp chair and tried to think, but no thoughts would come. Exhausting days and short nights were taking their toll. The night before had been even shorter than most, with no more than an hour or two of sleep, and much excitement. And now another day was starting. And I did not like what I was facing.

Thus far, I had been no more than an oddity to the Tenth Legion. That was nothing new. I was something of an oddity in Rome. Now I was chief investigator and I would be the most unpopular man in Gaul. My investigation was likely to send several men to the executioner. My well-known sympathy with Burrus and his contubernium was going to cast my investigator’s impartiality into serious doubt. Everyone would assume that I was looking for a scapegoat to take the blame and exonerate my client.

Worst of all, everything so far pointed to that contubernium: they certainly had a motive to kill Vinius. I had seen with my own eyes the brutality with which he treated them, and I knew that they feared he was hounding them toward a mutiny that would earn them execution. They were on the north wall that night and had the opportunity to drag him out and throw him in the pond undetected by the rest of the legion. There were eight men, all of them tough, trained soldiers, well able to overpower and kill even such a man as Titus Vinius.

It left some questions unanswered but it was enough evidence for almost any jury in Rome to convict them. Here their lives were in the hands of the Proconsul. At least, in Caesar, I was dealing with a lawyer who understood the nuances of evidence. That was why I now had a few days to investigate. Many commanders would have ordered some executions already. And I think I amused Caesar. Something about the way I pursued criminal investigations struck him as entertaining.

But how many days did I have? I already knew that Caesar could move an army with unprecedented speed. A trip across the mountains into Italy and back again with two legions would have taken weeks for most men, even if they were waiting at the foot of the pass on the other side. I had a feeling that those legions would be burning caliga leather all the way to Lake Lemannus.

And what other suspects did I have? The Gauls? They would certainly have killed him had they caught him, but how would they have done that? And why would they leave him his head, surely one of the more prestigious trophies to be had from this war?

Molon? I knew he wanted to leave the service of Vinius, but murder is an extreme step to take, and he would need at least one confederate. It occurred to me that Freda was a large, strong young woman, perhaps capable of wielding the garotte and immobilizing Vinius long enough for Molon to finish him off with a dagger. It was conceivable that the two of them might have been able to haul him out to the pond. Dwarfish men like Molon are often far stronger than they look. But how would they have gotten him out of the camp?

And I did not want to suspect the German girl, although I had no good reason for this.

I shook my head. This speculation was taking me nowhere. What I needed more than anything else was rest. With a full stomach, my head pleasantly buzzing from the wine, I went into my tent and collapsed.

It was past noon when the trumpets woke me. At just that time Hermes arrived, sweating and breathing hard. With his assistance I got my parade uniform on. At least this time I wouldn’t be laughed at for wearing it. After days of living in my field gear, it felt stiff and uncomfortable. Helmet on and plumes nodding, I made my way to the praetorium.