Nobody Loves a Centurion(7)

“I fully intend to avoid Crassus’s war, when he gets it.”

“Good. Stay with me here in Gaul. I am telling you, Decius: the men who support me here these next five years will dominate Rome for the next thirty years, as those who supported Sulla have dominated her for the last thirty!” These were vaunting words, delivered with intensity.

Of course, he was not speaking to me. He was speaking to gens Caecilia, whose support he desperately wanted. His appeal was none too subtle, either. My family had been among Sulla’s supporters, with consequent beneficial effects upon our political prominence.

“You know I am not much of a soldier, Caius.”

“What of that? Rome produces plenty of soldiers. You are a man of uncommon quality and unique talents, as I have frequently remarked in company of all qualities.” This last was true. Caesar had been known to speak highly of me to people who denounced me as a mere eccentric if not an utter fool.

This was not the Caesar I had known in Rome. He sounded like a man possessed by the urge to conquer. He certainly didn’t look like a conqueror. Tall, thin, and rapidly balding, he looked far too frail to take the weight of an army upon his narrow shoulders. He wore a plain white tunic, with only his legionary boots and sagum to proclaim his status. Between tunic and boots his legs stretched as skinny as a stork’s. “I shall consider what you say,” I told him, inwardly vowing to get out of Gaul as rapidly as I could.

“Excellent. Now go and join your ala. They are quartered in the northeast corner of the camp. Draw whatever equipment you require from the supply tents. Then come back here for dinner. All my officers who are not on watch or other duties dine in my tent.”

I saluted. “I take my leave, then, Proconsul.”

He returned the salute and I walked away.

“And, Decius?”

I about-faced. “Sir?”

“Do get out of that ridiculous rig. You look like a statue set up in the Forum.”

Abruptly, I realized how absurd Caesar would look in a dress uniform, like a mockery of a general in one of Plautus’s comedies. That was why he insisted on soldierly plainness. Caesar’s vanity was as famous as his debts and his ambition. He was having nobody near him who looked better than he.





2


MORNING IN A LEGION BEGINS FAR too early. Somewhere a tuba bellowed like an ox in mortal pain. I awoke on my folding camp bed and tried to remember where I was. The smell of the leather tent told me. I reached down and shook Hermes, who was sleeping on a pallet next to me.

“Hermes,” I said groggily, “go kill that fool blowing the horn. You can borrow my sword.” He just grumbled and rolled over. Someone threw open the door flap. It was still dark outside, but I could vaguely make out a man-shape against the glow of a distant watchfire.

“Time for morning patrol, Captain dear.” It was one of my Gallic troopers.

“Are you serious? The horses will be as blind as the rest of us in this murk.” I sat up and kicked Hermes. He mumbled something incomprehensible.

“It shall grow lighter anon, and soon the little birds will be singing. You may trust my word in this matter, beloved.” He ducked back out and let the flap fall. There is really no way to describe how a backcountry Gaul talks, but this is a sample. I grabbed Hermes with both hands, raised him, and shook him as hard as I could.

“Wake up, you little swine! I need water.” My head throbbed. Caesar’s field table had been austere, but he was liberal with the wine. Hermes had managed to sneak himself some of it.

“But it’s still dark!” Hermes complained.

“Get used to it,” I advised. “Your days of lazing around until sunup are over. From now on, you get up before me and you have hot water and breakfast ready.” Eating breakfast was one of those exotic, degenerate habits for which I had been condemned in Rome. Hermes stumbled outside. Immediately there came a thud and a curse as he tripped over a tent rope.

I laced on my boots, stood, and lurched outside. The camp was coming to life all around me. The altitude and the earliness of the year put a bite in the air and I wrapped my sagum, which was also my blanket, closer around me. Soon Hermes returned with a bucket of icy water and I splashed my gummy eyes, rinsed my foul-tasting mouth, and began to feel marginally better.

“Get my gear,” I told Hermes, but he was already there with it. He helped me pull the mail shirt over my head and the twenty pounds of interlinked iron rings slid down my body to hang from my shoulders to just above my knees. I belted on my sword, drawing the belt tight to take some of the weight off my shoulders. With my helmet beneath my arm, I went in search of my troop.