“I suppose the same could be said of our whole government,” I remarked.
“Precisely. Now run along, Decius.” He returned to his dictation as if he had not even seen me.
Indeed, I was a bit astonished that Caesar had granted me that much attention. Worry had put new lines in his face and his eyes were growing hollow. There was still no sign of his new legions and the campaigning season was wasting as the barbarians grew stronger. He would not be able to delay his trip to Italy any longer. He had hoped to avoid it, for it might look as if he were abandoning his army just as the war was about to commence.
The foreboding among the soldiers was getting worse. The combination of danger and inaction was corrosive. Rumors began to sweep the camp: the enemy was at hand; they were just across the river; they had a spell of invisibility. Fortunetellers and charm-sellers did a lively business in the camp forum until Caesar ordered them driven out.
Men saw omens everywhere, from the flight of birds to the direction of thunder to odd behavior in their many animal mascots. Caesar was finally driven to address the entire army from his praetorium platform like a general haranguing the troops before a battle. He told them that not only was he pontifex maximus of Rome but that he was an augur of many years’ experience and was perfectly capable of reading the omens for the army. It did little to settle their minds, and every night there were false alarms when overexcited sentries thought they saw hordes of Gauls massing in the gloom. A few exemplary floggings did nothing to improve things.
It looked as if Rome’s best legion was falling apart.
“Wake up!” somebody hissed.
I pried an eyelid open. It was utterly black outside.
“Hermes, is that you?” Then I heard Hermes snoring on the ground beside me, undisturbed.
“Forget about your slave,” the voice said urgently. “The Proconsul wants you to report to him right now, and be quiet about it!”
“Who is that? Identify yourself.” We might as well have been conversing in the bottom of a mineshaft.
“It’s Publius Aurelius Cotta,” he said. This was a mere boy of a tribune, bearer of an ancient name and destined to do it no honor, to judge by his excitability.
“What’s this about?” I demanded, sitting up in my cot, feeling about for my boots.
“Something important,” he said, displaying a firm grasp of the obvious.
“I don’t suppose you brought a lamp? I can’t find my gear.”
“Forget that,” he said. “Caesar’s orders.”
This had to be big. Caesar had decreed stiff punishments for so much as walking around without your helmet. I located my sword belt by touch and wrapped it around my waist. Hands outstretched to find the entrance of my tent, I stumbled out. Cotta caught my arm and I could just make out the low glow of distant watchfires.
“I don’t hear any alarms,” I said. “I presume we aren’t under attack. If Caesar wants me to copy some more of his damned reports to the Senate, I’ll desert.”
“I think it’s rather more important than that,” Cotta said, trying for an air of aristocratic nonchalance. He needed a few more years to pull it off.
“Then what is it?”
“I’m forbidden to say. He even told me to keep my voice down when I came to summon you.”
“Doesn’t want the soldiers to hear about it, eh? This must be something more than ordinarily disgraceful. Probably forgot to post sentries and the Gauls crept in and took over the camp and now he wants me to fix. .” I tripped over a tent rope and fell on my face. After that I confined myself to muttering curses and imprecations. Cotta seemed grateful for the relative quiet.
We found the enclosure of the praetorium unusually torchlit and near the table stood a knot of officers, wrapped in their woolen cloaks and looking as sour as I felt. I recognized Labienus, Caesar’s legatus; Paterculus, the Prefect of the Camp; and others I did not know well. Carbo was there, and beside him was a Gaul. The man was shorter than most, dressed in a dark tunic and trousers, his arms and face smeared with dark paint.
“Is that Metellus?” Caesar said, ducking through the doorway of his tent. “Good, then let’s go.”
“There may be raiders outside the camp,” said one of the officers.”
“What of it?” Caesar said. “Aren’t we all armed? Come, gentlemen. This is a serious matter and I want it handled with utmost care and discretion.”
We all trooped along behind Caesar. I was burning with questions but I knew better than to ask them. We walked straight north and left the camp by way of the Porta Decumana in the middle of the northern wall. The gate guards gaped at us, but Caesar ordered them sternly to hold their tongues, on pain of death. He sounded like he meant it. These portals are not true gates, with doors and bars. Rather, they are overlaps in the camp wall. There are several ways of arranging them, but the idea is always that an enemy cannot get through them without coming under fire from above on both sides.
Once outside, the Gaul took the lead. He strode along as if he had eyes in his toes, crouched and looking as if he wanted to break into a run. I was reminded of a hunting dog chafing at the leash.
I did not like being away from the security of the camp. Even with the great rampart out there somewhere, we would be easy prey for some raiding band. Even a single young glory hound could rush in and cut one or two of us down before the others could react. Romans have always detested night fighting, and for good reason.
As near as I could judge we were heading northeast, in the general direction of the lake. Soon the ground began to squish beneath my boots and I knew we were getting near it. This was the area of marshes Caesar had charged Carbo with keeping clear of Gallic infiltrators. From ahead of us I heard a mutter of voices and then we were passing through a semicircle of light-armed auxilia.
“This is the place,” Carbo said. We stood by water. I could hear its faint lapping and I could just make out the glittering reflection of stars on its surface. There was that wet, fecund smell that always dominates wherever water and land meet. There was an underlying smell, too, one not nearly so pleasant. Why had we come to the lake in the middle of the night?
“We can see nothing,” Caesar commented. “Somebody strike a light and get some torches burning.”
“The Gauls will be able to see us for miles,” said Labienus.
“Let them come!” Caesar said testily. Apparently he did not relish being awakened at such an hour any more than I did. There came a clicking like the chirping of crickets. That was the auxilia. Every man had taken his firekit out and they were breaking the monotony of their long, nocturnal watch by seeing who could get a fire going first with flint and steel.
“Hah!” said a man, with the satisfaction of one who has just won some money off his fellows. A kneeling Gaul had managed to land a spark on a little nest of tinder laid upon his shield. He blew upon it carefully and the glowworm of smoldering tinder burst into a small but definite flame. Someone held a torch to it and soon we had a tolerable light.
“Bring the torches here,” Caesar ordered. He stood at the edge of the water, and now I could see that something floated in it just off the bank. I was sure it was a man. What else would draw them out here at such an hour? But what man?
“The Gaul was right,” Labienus said. “Must have eyes like an owl to recognize him in this gloom.”
“Get him out of the water,” Caesar said. “Decius Metellus, attend me.”
I stepped up to his side as two of the auxilia waded into the water and began to haul the corpse out. They were Gauls and Gauls lack the Roman distaste for handling the bodies of the dead. Head-hunters cannot be too finicky.