Nobody Loves a Centurion(80)

“Well done, Decius,” he said at last. “I want full particulars of your experience in the German camp later.” He called for his officers to rejoin us and he gave them, very succinctly, the basic facts of my discoveries. Their expressions were a marvel to behold.

“Well, I always said Titus Vinius was a bastard,” Paterculus remarked, an observation applicable to most centurions. “But, Proconsul, we’ve got the legion formed up here to witness an execution. If we don’t kill somebody, they’re going to feel that things aren’t quite right.”

Caesar smiled. “Oh, I think I can give them a pleasing show.” He leaned over the parapet and spoke to one of his lictors. “Go to the blacksmith’s and fetch me a hammer and chisel.” The man dashed off and Caesar raised his hands for silence, which descended instantly.

“Soldiers! The gods of Rome love the Tenth Legion and will not allow dishonor or injustice to befall it! They have furnished me with proof that the Druids murdered Titus Vinius as a barbaric human sacrifice, and that this fate befell him as a result of his own treachery. The First Cohort, and its First Century, are restored to full honors and their disgrace canceled!” The legion erupted in a tremendous roar and the morning sun flashed from the tips of waving spears. The other legions probably thought we were under barbarian attack. The soldiers began to shout Caesar’s name over and over again, as if he had just won a great victory.

“Wait here,” Caesar said. “I shall be back presently.” He left the platform and walked toward his tent.

Burrus and his friends were so numb with relief that the men who had been about to kill them had to help them on with their tunics. A few minutes later the First Cohort was intact again, standing in armor, crests fluttering in the breeze, shield covers off to flaunt their bright colors. Caesar was giving the gods all the credit, but I took a great personal satisfaction in the sight. It is not often that one gets to see the good results of one’s actions in so dramatic a fashion.

When Caesar came back, he was out of military uniform. Instead, he wore full pontifical regalia: a striped robe bordered with gold, a silver diadem around his balding brows, the crooktopped staff of an augur in his hand. The jubilant legion fell silent at this unusual spectacle.

He descended into the forum and stood before the grave marker of Titus Vinius. The stonecutters of Massilia, in anticipation of legionary casualties, kept a stock of these three-quarters finished, needing only to add the inscription and details when one was commissioned. For Vinius, the relief of a standing male figure had been furnished with the insignia of his rank: the transverse crest on his helmet, the greaves on his shins, the phalerae atop his scale shirt, the vinestaff in his hand, all painted in bright colors. The face bore only the vaguest resemblance to the man. Below the figure were inscribed his name, the posts he had held, and his battle honors.

Caesar stood before this monument with hands raised and pronounced a solemn execration, using the archaic language of ritual that nobody can really understand now. When he had finished the resounding curse, he turned to face the soldiers.

“Let the name of Titus Vinius be stricken from the rolls of the Tenth Legion! Let his name be forgotten, his honors stripped from him, his estate forfeit to the Rome he would have betrayed!”

He turned around and faced the gravestone. The lictor placed the hammer and chisel in his hand and he shouted: “Thus do I, Caius Julius Caesar, pontifex maximus of Rome, strike from the memory of mankind the accursed name of Titus Vinius!” With deft blows of the hammer, he chiseled away the face of the figure. Then he obliterated the inscription in the same fashion. Then he dropped the tools and remounted the platform.

“It is done! Let no man speak that accursed name! Soldiers, you have witnessed justice. Return to your duties.” Instantly, the tubas and cornicens roared and the cohorts marched from the forum, smiling broadly. It was a happy army once more. Gauls and Germans out there by the horde, and they were happy.

“Decius Caecilius,” Caesar said as we walked back toward the big tent, “you have one hour to bathe, shave, and get back in uniform. Then I want to hear your detailed report.” I suppose I should have been grateful that he allowed me even that long.

An hour later, shaved, barbered, dressed in my battle gear but still feeling somewhat ragged, I reported to the praetorium and went over the events since Caesar’s departure several times. Caesar asked frequent, pointed questions, his lawyer’s acuity ferreting out facts even I had overlooked. When he was satisfied with my report, we got out the infamous chest and, to my great sadness, Caesar made note of every deed and every bar of gold, and double-checked it all against my inventory. He was not a trusting man.