Nobody Loves a Centurion (5 page)

Burrus got to his feet, stooped with pain, his face flaming with rage and humiliation. He would not look at me and I was acutely embarrassed to have witnessed his degradation. He gathered his arms from one of the pyramidal stacks and trudged off.

“That was excessive, Centurion,” I said, making an effort to keep my voice level. “It’s not as if he was asleep on guard duty.”

“My men are mine to handle as I please, Captain,” he said, giving the word an unbelievably contemptuous twist. “You had better remember that.”

“You are getting a little above yourself, Titus Vinius,” I said, as haughtily as I could manage. Being a Caecilius Metellus, that was haughtier than most.

His lip curled slightly. “This is Caesar’s army, Metellus. Caesar understands that the centurions run things. It is we who will bring him victories, not the political flunkies in purple sashes.”

I would have drawn my sword on him then, but Caesar could have had me executed for it. Under military law, Vinius had done nothing wrong. I tried an appeal to reason.

“If you don’t want your men ogling your slave, give her some decent clothes. That woman is a menace to the morale of the whole army.”

“I do as I like with my own property.”

“You didn’t take your vinestaff to me, Vinius,” I pointed out. “I was staring as hard as he was.”

“You’re not one of my men,” he said, grinning crookedly. “Besides, you are a Roman officer. You may stare all you like. Just don’t touch.”

Pulling rank hadn’t worked. Reason had failed utterly. Well, where centurions were concerned, there was always greed. I reached into the purse at my belt. “All right, Vinius. How much to leave the boy alone?”

He spat at my feet. “Keep your money, aristocrat. He’s mine, the woman is mine, and if the truth be told, this legion is mine. I am First Spear of the Tenth. Proconsuls come and go, but the First Spear is always in charge.”

I was stunned. I had never known a centurion to turn down a bribe. “I shall speak to Caesar about this.”

“Go ahead. That’s what you politicians are good for, isn’t it? Talking?” Behind him I saw a dwarfish little man standing
in the doorway of the tent where the German girl had stood before. He was grinning at my discomfiture with wide-gapped teeth. He had beastly red hair sticking out in all directions. I looked away. Things had come to such a pass that I could not even stare down a malformed slave.

I turned and walked away. I had a powerful urge to say something biting, but it would only have made me look even more weak and ineffectual. At least Vinius did not laugh aloud as I retreated.

This exchange may seem incredible to people who live their lives around the Forum, but the army is another world entirely. A man who has earned the position of centurion is almost as untouchable as a Tribune of the Plebs. He is expected to be a harsh disciplinarian, so he cannot be reprimanded for cruelty. He may do anything with his men short of killing them. Accepting bribes to excuse men punishment or onerous duties has been allowed for centuries as one of the perquisites of the rank. Only cowardice in battle is cause to punish a centurion, and while they may be many things, they are rarely cowards.

As for force of character and moral ascendancy, such a man has few peers. People usually think that street gangsters and gladiators are tough, but that is because they have never met a Roman centurion with twenty years of brutal campaigning behind him. There is a centurion in command of every century, and there are sixty centuries to each legion. The First Spear is always the toughest of the lot.

No longer hungry, I went to the armorer to have my mail shirt altered and cool down in the meantime. I knew it would be foolish to go to Caesar with anger-fogged thoughts. While the armorer worked, I went over his stock of used weapons. By the time I had found suitable arms, I was back in my customary
state of philosophical equanimity. I bought a good Gallic long-sword that was far better for mounted combat than anything I owned, and an old but sound gladius, together with sheaths and shoulder belts to go with them.

In front of my tent I found Hermes awaiting me. He had laid out my lunch on a folding table I had brought, along with a folding chair. There is no more useful object in a military camp than a comfortable folding chair. I sat and dropped my burden beside me while Hermes poured watered wine from my stock. He seemed oddly excited.

“Master, I think I saw a goddess in the camp today! It must have been Venus. Doesn’t Caesar claim to be descended from Venus? Maybe she was visiting him.”

I took a long drink and sighed. “Hermes, do you really think Venus goes around dressed in animal skins?”

“It did look sort of odd, but the immortals aren’t like the rest of us.”

“What you saw was a German slavegirl. I saw her, too.” The sight was as real as the cup before me. Even the barbaric custom of wearing furs did not mar her beauty.

Hermes grinned. “Really? Then these Germans can’t be all that bad!”

“You think not? That woman could probably snap you across her shapely knee. Imagine what the men must be like.”

“Oh. I hadn’t thought of that.”

I held up an admonitory finger. “And, Hermes, I cannot stress this strongly enough: Do not, I repeat,
do not
get caught staring at her.”

“Are you serious?” he said, refilling my cup. “Tongues dragged on the ground wherever she passed.”

“Nonetheless, keep your eyes and tongue firmly in your
head when she is around. In fact, keep your eyes lowered just as I tell you to when I have distinguished visitors, not that you ever listen to me, you loathsome little wretch.” I bent, picked up the short sword, and tossed it to him. He caught it by the sheath and gave me a puzzled look.

“You want me to clean this up for you? It’s not as good as the sword you’re wearing.”

“It’s for you,” I said. “I’m going to enroll you with a sword instructor here. It’s time you learned how to handle weapons.”

He looked dazzled, thinking he was Horatius already.

“Don’t get any foolish ideas,” I warned him. “I am doing this because you have to accompany me into war zones and bandit-infested areas. You cannot wear weapons in any civilized place and you must
never
touch arms in Rome, unless you want to grace one of the many picturesque crosses planted outside the gates.”

He went white the way slaves usually do when you mention a cross. “Never fear, master!”

“Good. Now, what’s for lunch?”

3

T
HAT AFTERNOON WE RODE OUT
in full strength, something just short of a hundred troopers. From the camp we passed through the long earthworks into the grassy, brushy lakeside plain beyond. We conducted a sweep to catch any ambitious Helvetian warriors who might try to work themselves close enough for an ambush after dark. We spread out in a wide line and rode slowly forward, paying special attention to the frequent areas of good cover.

Several times we flushed two or three young, blue-painted braves from a clump of brush and my men would give chase, whooping and hallooing like men hunting hares. And the Gauls ran like hares, too, their colorfully clad legs flashing as they leaped and dodged, actually laughing as the horsemen chased them down. I have never liked seeing warfare treated as sport, but it was sport played in earnest. A couple of my men rode
back with fair-tressed heads hanging at their saddles.

In the middle of all this we saw a party of Gauls riding in, preceded by white-robed heralds bearing rods wreathed in ivy. These were the Helvetian envoys come to treat with Caesar. They rode with impressive dignity, ignoring the veritable human fox-hunt as it swept by them. Among them I noticed a few that didn’t look like the usual Gallic aristocrats: They were bearded men in white robes and wearing silver diadems, and others, also bearded, but wearing animal skins. These last might almost have been Gauls, but Gauls are clean-shaven except for their mustaches, and these were neither tattooed nor painted.

I rode up to Lovernius. “Who were those other men with the envoys?”

“The graybeards in the white robes are Druids,” he told me. I had heard of these priests and soothsayers but these were the first I had seen. “The others are Germans, Ariovistus’s men.”

“Isn’t he the king of the Germans? I heard his name mentioned in a Senate debate. What are his men doing on this side of the Rhine?”

“Is that all they know in Rome?” He laughed bitterly. “Captain, Ariovistus and about a hundred thousand of his warriors have been living west of the Rhine for a number of years now.”

“What! How did this come about?” A great dread lowered itself over me like a shroud.

“Surely you knew that most of Gaul is divided into two factions, one led by the Aedui, my own people, and the other led by the Averni, who live along the Rhine?”

“That much I knew. And I heard that you Aedui were winning until the Averni brought in some German mercenaries on their side. That was one reason why Caesar got this extraordinary
command. But nobody said anything about a hundred thousand savages and their king! What possessed the Averni to do such a thing?”

“They were losing and men will do desperate things at such a time. Besides,” he shrugged his mailed shoulders, “they and the Germans are cousins.”

Perhaps I should explain something here. We Romans usually assumed that everyone west of the Rhine was a Gaul, everyone east was a German. That was roughly but not completely true. The fact is, they could be difficult to tell apart. They had been living in close proximity for centuries, and in the border areas they intermarried and swapped customs. In one place you might find a village where the people wore colorful clothes and tattoos and mustaches but only German was spoken. Likewise, in some areas the Gauls were bearded and wore animal skins.

You see this sort of thing all over the coastal areas surrounding our sea, where over the course of four centuries people of many lands have adopted the customs, grooming, and dress of the Greeks. More recently, we see imitation Romans everywhere. Primitive people often find a more sophisticated culture attractive and seek to join it, while those who feel their race has lost its warrior virtues will sometimes adopt the customs of a more primitive but more fierce and manly culture.

“An oddly mixed party,” I commented. “Why Druids?”

“They will be advisers to the Helvetii. They are consulted on all matters of importance.”

I guided my horse around a mud hole. “We do the same. It is always a good idea to consult the augurs for signs and make sure all the proper rituals are observed before you commit yourself to crucial action.”

“It isn’t quite like that. The Druids serve as advisers in worldly matters and they retain the history and lore and traditions of the people.”

This was the first I had heard that the Druids were anything more than priests. “Are they politically influential?” I was not sure how a Gaul would interpret such an expression.

“The kings listen to them.”

“Even German kings?”

He laughed. “Never! The Germans have only fierce gods they can see: the sun and the moon, lightning and thunder and the storm.”

Then we started up another group of warriors and were off on another chase.

When we returned to camp that evening, we found that a pack of merchants had arrived and a veritable market day was in progress. The camp’s forum had sprouted booths and the off-duty soldiers were allowed, a cohort at a time, to go there and purchase necessities or waste their money as they saw fit. I dismissed my
ala
and the men who had taken heads rushed away to show them off to their friends. Gauls set great store by these grisly trophies and even decorate their shrines and homes with them. They fancy the head to be the repository of many virtues such as courage and wisdom. We Romans hold that these qualities reside in the liver. Personally I am neutral, but I would regret losing either of them.

That evening Caesar entertained the envoys at dinner and I got a good look at them. The Helvetii were elders dressed in richly patterned cloaks and a profusion of massive, golden jewelry. The Druids, differing from the usual Gallic fashion, had long beards, white in the case of the two elder priests, short and red on a younger man. Unlike the other two he wore no
silver diadem around his temples, so I took him to be an apprentice or acolyte. All three had slender, long-fingered hands that had never been hardened by labor or practice at arms. In their long, white gowns and holding their staffs they might have been heralds.

The three Germans were tall, burly men, whose hair and beards ranged from dark gold to near white. Their pale complexions were reddened and roughened by constant exposure. The evening had turned cold, but they wore only brief tunics of wolfskin and fur leggings that came no higher than their knees. Longswords hung at their belts and they leaned on spears forged entirely of steel. They gazed about them with fearless eyes that were of a blue so pale that you almost took them for blind men until that eagle gaze fastened on you.

Once, in the big, stone amphitheater at Capua, I had seen a Hyrcanian tiger, the first ever brought to Italy. When it ambled into the arena, I was struck by its great beauty, but its size and the way it ignored its surroundings made it seem as slow and lazy as a big, male lion. Then it noticed the massive fighting bull that had been matched with it. Like a streak of golden light it was across the arena and had the much larger animal down so swiftly that it looked like magic. The tiger was a sensation and fought there for many years. To me, it was feral deadliness personified.

When I saw those Germans, I thought about that tiger. These were not the semi-Gallicized Germans who dwelled along the river. They were the real thing; savages from the deep forests far beyond the Rhine.

The dinner was somewhat less austere than that of the evening before, but it was not exactly a banquet. A few delicacies had been purchased from the merchants and a hunting
party had brought in a wild boar, but the envoys had no taste for olives and seemed to be repelled by our fermented fish sauce. Well, there is no accounting for tastes. I noticed that the Druids ate no animal food, not even eggs.