I arrived just as Caesar was mounting his platform. I joined the officers on the lower platform atop the surrounding rampart. I looked out over the legion, drawn up in rigid formation, the ten cohorts turned out in their best finery. All except one.
The First Cohort wore no plumes or crests and their shields were still in their covers. Separated from them was the First Century, and I gasped when I saw them. They stood disarmed, their weapons and armor piled on top of their shields, which lay on the ground at their feet.
Before that century stood eight men who had been stripped to their tunics, their hands bound behind them. I did not have to guess who they might be.
Just before the platform a funeral pyre had been raised and atop it lay Titus Vinius. Around the pyre stood the standard-bearers with their standards swathed in dark cloth in token of mourning. Flanking the aquilifer were two trumpeters with their great cornicens looped over their shoulders. When Caesar reached the platform, they sounded the assembly call on their instruments.
“Soldiers!” Caesar began without preamble. “The First Spear of the Tenth Legion is dead, and there is every indication that he was murdered. Until the culprits are exposed, I decree the following punishments: the First Cohort, of which Titus Vinius was senior officer, is in disgrace and will be denied all honors until the demands of justice have been satisfied. They will perform no military duties and are restricted to menial labor. They may not salute their officers or their standards and none are to salute them in return.
“The First Century of the First Cohort, for failing to preserve the life of their commander, are to be denied association with honorable soldiers. They are to pitch their tents outside the camp walls and are to abide there until the demands of justice are satisfied.” At this a collective gasp went through the assembled legion. This was a terrible punishment, the next thing to decimation. Even worse, in a way, for every man of them could be killed by the Gauls. But Caesar was not through.
“This contubernium,” he pointed at the disarmed men, “is under arrest and will be held in confinement. They lie under the deepest suspicion. This day I depart for Italy to find and bring back our reinforcements. If they are not proven innocent by the time I return, they are to be executed. They are citizens and may not be crucified, but their crime merits worse than beheading. Therefore this is the form their punishment shall take: The balance of the First Cohort will form two lines facing each other, each man armed with a vinestock. These men will walk between the lines, naked, to be beaten by their fellow soldiers. Any man who is still alive when he reaches the end of the line will turn and make the same journey, repeating the course until he is dead.”
He paused for a while, then he began the funeral rites. “Let us now set to rest the shade of our fellow soldier, Titus Vinius.” He pronounced the invocations, the language of them so archaic that nobody could understand more than one word in five. Then he performed the funeral oration. It followed the standard form, listing Vinius’ distinctions, the high points of his career and his many awards for valor, finishing with an appreciation and regretting that his services would be sorely missed in the campaign to come. That may have been true militarily speaking, but personally I wasn’t going to miss him a bit. I only regretted the mess his death left behind.
With a last call to the gods, Caesar descended from the platform and thrust the first torch into the oil-soaked stack of wood. Soon it was blazing merrily and the whole army stood at attention while the flames leaped upward and consumed the body of Titus Vinius along with some very valuable armor and equipment.
As the flames began to burn down, the cornicens blew the dismissal and the legion dispersed. I went to join a knot of officers who stood before the praetorium awaiting Caesar’s officer’s call. The disconsolate army marched past us. Last of all came the First Cohort. On their faces was a miserable admixture of fear, rage, and shame.
“There go some unhappy men,” I remarked. For once I was not trying to be flippant, but there must have been something wrong with my tone, because a man nearby whirled and stalked up to me. He was one of the centurions, the great, horseshoe-shaped crest atop his helmet striped brown and white. He planted himself a foot before me and barked in my face:
“Of course they’re unhappy! They’re the First of the Tenth, best soldiers in the world, and they’re in disgrace! You Forum politicians don’t know what disgrace is because you’ve forgotten what honor is! Well, we haven’t forgotten in the Tenth!” I was utterly dumbfounded to see tears coursing down his weather-beaten cheeks. Then he whirled and strode off, yelling for his decurio.