“That is an interesting staff,” I remarked. It leaned against the table and I was admiring its intricate carving. It was about man-height, made of some twisted wood. “Is it a part of the Druidic regalia, like an augur’s lituus?”
“Yes, every Druid carries one. It is used to mark out sacred boundaries and consecrate waters. But it is also a walking stick and is not sacred in itself. You may handle it.”
I took it and found that it was heavier than it appeared. Its whole length was carved in a bewildering interlaced design, but the knotty top was the most interesting. A natural swelling in the wood had been carved into the head of a deity, only it had three faces, each facing in a different direction. The eyes bugged out grotesquely, as they usually do in Gallic art. I have often wondered why the Gauls, wonderful artificers though they are, choose to portray the human form in this grotesque and childlike fashion.
“Is this one god or three?” I asked him.
“You see three gods, yet they are one,” he answered cryptically.
“Three or one, which is it?” I asked.
“Most of our gods have triple natures,” he explained, “and above them all are the great three: Esus, the Lord of all Gods; Taranis, god of thunder; and Teutates, Lord of Sacred Waters, the chief god of the people.”
“Three gods, then,” I pronounced.
“After a fashion. And yet they are one.”
I hoped this was not going to turn into the sort of vague, mystical mumbo-jumbo in which foreigners delight. He would have to exert himself to exceed an Egyptian priest in tediousness, though.
“Each is worshipped in separate ceremonies, at different times of year, and each has his own ritual, his own sacrifices. But all three are one god, each aspect presiding over one season of the year.”
“Your year has three seasons?”
“Certainly: autumn, winter, and summer. Autumn begins with the feast of Lughnasa, winter with the feast of Samain, and summer with the feast of Beltain, when the great bonfires are kindled.” Clearly, these Gauls were a people who liked to do things by threes.
I tore off a leg of roast hare and dipped it in a bowl of garum sauce. Badraig drew back a bit, involuntarily. It seemed that, like most Gauls, he regarded garum with ill-concealed horror. I decided to throw tact to the winds.
“Is it true that you hold human sacrifices at these festivals?”
“Oh, but of course,” he said, as if there were nothing at all peculiar about the practice. “What other sacrifice could be worthy of the great ones? To Taranis, for instance, we offer prisoners taken in battle. These are placed in holy images made of wicker which, after the most solemn ceremonies, are set alight.”
Sorry that I had asked, I pinched the bridge of my nose between thumb and forefinger. “Yes, I had heard something of this.”
“Now for sacrifice to Esus,” he began, warming to the subject, “the victims are. .”
At that moment I was saved from further enlightenment by Freda’s return. She had a large wine jug balanced on her shoulder and she jerked her thumb at Badraig as she approached. “They want him at the court,” she said curtly.
“Be more respectful,” I said. “This gentleman is a priest of high rank as well as my guest.”
She looked down her long nose at him. “He just looks like another Gaul to me.” With that she swayed her way back into the tent. I stared after her, fuming, amazed once more that Vinius had never beaten her. She certainly made me want to beat her. I turned back to Badraig.
“A thousand pardons. That savage is recently caught and she hasn’t yet been properly trained.”
He waved a hand dismissively, wearing a broad smile. “That one is a German to her bones and she will never change. You would be well advised to free her or sell her to a trader traveling south. Her sort are always more dangerous than useful.”
“I shall give it serious consideration.”
He rose and took his staff. “And now I must go. Doubtless some legal precedent I have memorized is required. I thank you most gratefully for your hospitality.”
“You have provided good company.”
“You show an unusual interest in our religion. Would you like to attend a celebration of ours?”
I was astonished. “You allow foreigners to observe your rites?”
“Not all of them are great, solemn occasions. I will get word to you when there is to be a celebration nearby. I promise: no human sacrifices.”
“Very kind of you to offer, but there is a war on and I am bound by duty.”
He smiled again. “You never know. In war, there is always far more waiting than fighting. Good day to you, Decius Caecilius Metellus the Younger.”
“And to you, Badraig the Druid,” I answered, wishing I knew whatever string of honorifics he doubtless had to add to his name. I always hate to be outdone in courtesy by a barbarian. Still smiling, he turned and walked away, toward the camp forum.
9
I spent the rest of the day interviewing officers and legionaries concerning the whereabouts and activities of Titus Vinius on the fateful night. Surprisingly, no one within the camp had a clear memory of seeing him after the conference in Caesar’s tent. Perforce, I had to go outside the camp.
The unfortified camp of the ill-starred First Century stood neat and orderly, almost a miniature of the main camp. The men looked a bit weary after their watchful night, but otherwise perfectly fit. The tents were arranged century-fashion, forming three sides of a square with the fourth side open. The sentries stood a long javelin cast from the tents, leaning on their shields. I gave the watchword even though they could see perfectly well who I was and they allowed me to pass with surly expressions.
I found the optio, Aulus Vehilius, conferring with his decurions next to their fire, where a slave tended a pot of posca. I could smell the vinegar reek fifty feet away. The optio watched me with the by now customary look of annoyed disgust as I dismounted.
“How did the night go?” I inquired politely.
“We’re alive, aren’t we?” he said.
“Yes, please accept my congratulations. I need to ask some questions about the last hours of Titus Vinius.”
“Still trying to save your precious client and his messmates?” said a decurion. “They’re safe in the camp and we’re out here. Why are they so favored?”
“They are the ones facing a dreadful execution,” I pointed out.
“If the Gauls attack in any force,” interjected another, “we’ll die before they will.”
“Listen to me, you ungrateful peasant wretches,” I said affably. “Nobody is going to die if I have anything to say about it. I do not believe Vinius was murdered by the men of that contubernium, nor do I believe that his century was responsible in any way. I feel sure that Vinius brought about his own death and that it was richly merited. But I have to prove it first. I have been given a special commission by Caesar himself to investigate and I am empowered to interrogate anyone within his imperium. If you object, you may argue with the Proconsul when he gets back. Do not expect a sympathetic hearing.”
This seemed to sober them a bit and I reflected that these were terrified men. Roman soldiers are the best in the world and brave as lions, but much of that has to do with the way they identify with their legions and the eagles. A soldier separated from his legion becomes diminished. I was just the most convenient target for their anger. In a perverse but understandable way, they held it against Burrus and his companions that they were not being executed for the good of the rest.
The crusty optio actually managed a barely detectable smile. “All right, Captain, we’ll back off. What do you need to know?”