Nobody Loves a Centurion(52)

“Is this one god or three?” I asked him.

“You see three gods, yet they are one,” he answered cryptically.

“Three or one, which is it?” I asked.

“Most of our gods have triple natures,” he explained, “and above them all are the great three: Esus, the Lord of all Gods; Taranis, god of thunder; and Teutates, Lord of Sacred Waters, the chief god of the people.”

“Three gods, then,” I pronounced.

“After a fashion. And yet they are one.”

I hoped this was not going to turn into the sort of vague, mystical mumbo-jumbo in which foreigners delight. He would have to exert himself to exceed an Egyptian priest in tediousness, though.

“Each is worshipped in separate ceremonies, at different times of year, and each has his own ritual, his own sacrifices. But all three are one god, each aspect presiding over one season of the year.”

“Your year has three seasons?”

“Certainly: autumn, winter, and summer. Autumn begins with the feast of Lughnasa, winter with the feast of Samain, and summer with the feast of Beltain, when the great bonfires are kindled.” Clearly, these Gauls were a people who liked to do things by threes.

I tore off a leg of roast hare and dipped it in a bowl of garum sauce. Badraig drew back a bit, involuntarily. It seemed that, like most Gauls, he regarded garum with ill-concealed horror. I decided to throw tact to the winds.

“Is it true that you hold human sacrifices at these festivals?”

“Oh, but of course,” he said, as if there were nothing at all peculiar about the practice. “What other sacrifice could be worthy of the great ones? To Taranis, for instance, we offer prisoners taken in battle. These are placed in holy images made of wicker which, after the most solemn ceremonies, are set alight.”

Sorry that I had asked, I pinched the bridge of my nose between thumb and forefinger. “Yes, I had heard something of this.”

“Now for sacrifice to Esus,” he began, warming to the subject, “the victims are . . .”

At that moment I was saved from further enlightenment by Freda’s return. She had a large wine jug balanced on her shoulder and she jerked her thumb at Badraig as she approached. “They want him at the court,” she said curtly.

“Be more respectful,” I said. “This gentleman is a priest of high rank as well as my guest.”

She looked down her long nose at him. “He just looks like another Gaul to me.” With that she swayed her way back into the tent. I stared after her, fuming, amazed once more that Vinius had never beaten her. She certainly made me want to beat her. I turned back to Badraig.

“A thousand pardons. That savage is recently caught and she hasn’t yet been properly trained.”

He waved a hand dismissively, wearing a broad smile. “That one is a German to her bones and she will never change. You would be well advised to free her or sell her to a trader traveling south. Her sort are always more dangerous than useful.”

“I shall give it serious consideration.”

He rose and took his staff. “And now I must go. Doubtless some legal precedent I have memorized is required. I thank you most gratefully for your hospitality.”

“You have provided good company.”

“You show an unusual interest in our religion. Would you like to attend a celebration of ours?”

I was astonished. “You allow foreigners to observe your rites?”

“Not all of them are great, solemn occasions. I will get word to you when there is to be a celebration nearby. I promise: no human sacrifices.”

“Very kind of you to offer, but there is a war on and I am bound by duty.”

He smiled again. “You never know. In war, there is always far more waiting than fighting. Good day to you, Decius Caecilius Metellus the Younger.”

“And to you, Badraig the Druid,” I answered, wishing I knew whatever string of honorifics he doubtless had to add to his name. I always hate to be outdone in courtesy by a barbarian. Still smiling, he turned and walked away, toward the camp forum.





9


I SPENT THE REST OF THE DAY INTERVIEWING officers and legionaries concerning the whereabouts and activities of Titus Vinius on the fateful night. Surprisingly, no one within the camp had a clear memory of seeing him after the conference in Caesar’s tent. Perforce, I had to go outside the camp.

The unfortified camp of the ill-starred First Century stood neat and orderly, almost a miniature of the main camp. The men looked a bit weary after their watchful night, but otherwise perfectly fit. The tents were arranged century-fashion, forming three sides of a square with the fourth side open. The sentries stood a long javelin cast from the tents, leaning on their shields. I gave the watchword even though they could see perfectly well who I was and they allowed me to pass with surly expressions.