John Roberts - Nobody Loves a Centurion

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.

“Well,” he said finally, “that concludes this sorry business. My congratulations, Decius. Your performance exceeds even my best expectations.”

“What will you do with all this treasure?” I asked.

“I have condemned him as a traitor. Everything he owned is forfeit to the State.” He closed the chest and locked it. I made a mental vow to check the treasury records some day to see how much of it got turned in.

“This calls for a celebration,” Caesar said. “I shall hold a banquet this evening in your honor. Now go catch up on your sleep. Tonight, we banquet; tomorrow, it’s back to the war.”

I needed no encouragement. As I walked back to my tent, everyone I passed saluted me. There were smiles all around. I found Hermes already asleep, waiting in the tent door for me. I spread a cloak over him, stripped off my armor, and collapsed like a dead man.

That evening, we feasted on wild boar brought in by Gallic hunters and washed it down with excellent wine from Caesar’s personal store. Smiles and backslaps and congratulations were heaped upon me. Everyone was my friend. From being the most detested man in the legion, I was now its hero. I enjoyed it enormously, all the more so because I knew that it wasn’t going to last. Caesar even gave me a fine new sword to replace the one the Germans had taken from me.

Gradually the other officers wandered off to their beds or their night duties and I bade the Proconsul good night and went off in search of my own tent. Hermes, long experienced at this work, waited outside to make sure that I did not get lost. I handed him the napkin full of delicacies I had collected for him and we ambled slowly down the line of officers’ tents.

“It’s been a frantic few days, Hermes,” I told him, “but the worst is over now. Once the war gets going it will seem easy after all this.”

“If you say so.”

I thought about all that had happened since young Cotta had awakened me in the middle of the night, summoning me to the praetorium. The memory was like a blow to the head and I stumbled, almost falling.

“Did you trip on a tent rope?” Hermes asked.

“No, a revelation.”

He scanned the ground. “What’s it look like?”

“It looks like I’m a fool,” I said. “Druids, Germans! Nothing but distractions!”

“I think you’d better get to bed and sleep it off,” he said with a look of concern.

“Sleep is the last thing I need. You go on back to the tent. I’ll be along soon.”

“Are you sure about this?” he said.

“I am sober, if only from shock. Leave me now.”

He obeyed me and I was alone with my thoughts. Publius Aurelius Cotta had been the officer in charge of the Porta Praetoria the night Titus Vinius had died. What had Paterculus said? No officer of the guard leaves his post unless properly relieved . But Cotta had come to my tent to fetch me, and it was still dark at that hour.

He was preparing for bed when I stopped by his tent. “Decius Caecilius,” he said, surprised, “my congratulations once again. What brings you to my tent?”

“Just a small question concerning the night Vin. . that man died.”

“Is it still bothering you?” He grinned. “You are the most single-minded man I ever met. What is your question?”

“You were officer in charge of the Porta Praetoria that night. You let the Provincial party through when they displayed their pass. But you came to summon me to the praetorium later that night. How did that happen?”

“A little past midnight I was relieved and told to report to the praetorium as officer on call. Some of Caesar’s lictors were there and they told me he’d turned in. There’s a spare cot in the lictor’s tent where the duty officer can sleep when there’s no excitement. He’s got a runner who has to stay awake at all times. Mine was a Gaul who barely knew ten words of Latin.”

“Were you told why you were relieved and your duty changed?”

“Do they need to give you a reason?” he asked.

“Usually they don’t bother,” I agreed. “Who took your place at the gate?”

“It was your cousin, Lucius Caecilius Metellus.”

“Thank you, Publius. You’ve cleared something up for me.”

“Happy to be of service,” he said, looking utterly mystified.

I didn’t bother to announce myself when I barged into Lumpy’s tent. He sat up in his cot, consternation on his face, then disgust.

“Decius! Look, if it’s about that hundred. .”

“Nothing that easy, Lumpy,” I said jovially. I sat on his cot and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Dear cousin, I want to know who you passed through the Porta Praetoria and then readmitted on the night the centurion whose name must not be mentioned was murdered.”

“Decius,” he hissed. “Let it go! It’s over. You proved your client and his friends didn’t do it. Everyone is pleased with you. You’re Caesar’s favorite. Don’t ruin it, I warn you.”

I pushed him back on the cot, drew my pretty new sword, and placed its point just beneath his chin. “Who went out, Lumpy?”

“Easy, there! Put that thing away, you lunatic!”