“The last account I have of Vinius’s whereabouts that night says that he attended a conference in Caesar’s tent with some locals who wanted judgments on land disputes. That was just after the evening parade. Did any of you see him after that?”
“You know that we had the north wall that night,” said Vehilius. “We marched straight from parade to guard mount.”
“The whole century?”
“Yes. This doubling of the guard means there’s two centuries to each relief and the First is in my charge.”
“And Vinius never made an inspection of the guard posts?”
“He seldom did that,” the optio said, confirming what I had already heard. “When he inspected, it was always toward the end of the watch, to catch anyone sleeping.”
“And he knew that wasn’t going to happen,” a decurion commented, “not with all the noise the barbarians were making.”
There was something wrong with this, but I could not decide what it might be. Perhaps, I thought, I was just too unmilitary to detect the inconsistency.
“There was the odd way he was dressed,” I pointed out. “Did anyone ever see him in a rough, dark-colored tunic?”
“Centurions in the Tenth wear white tunics, as you’ve probably noticed,” the optio said.
“On regular duty, certainly. But did Vinius ever undertake reconnaissance at night? I used to do that in Spain and I always wore dark clothes and no armor, for obvious reasons.”
“Then you must have been an officer of auxilia,” Vehilius said, quite accurately. “Every legion I’ve ever heard of uses cavalry and scouts for that sort of thing. It stands to reason-a man who spends years clumping around under a full load of legionary gear is going to be no good for quiet work at night. Titus Vinius would never have done such a thing.”
Another dead end. I did not dare ask these men about Vinius’s sudden wealth. Isolated though they were, the news would be all over the camp within hours.
“If you want to know what he was doing that night,” said a decurion, “ask that ugly slave of his, Molon. He’s a lying little sneak like all slaves, but if you lash him for a while, or put a hot iron to his feet, he just might tell you what you need to know.”
This advice was in keeping with the common belief of Romans that slaves are inveterate liars. Even our courts will not allow the testimony of slaves unless they are tortured first, on the assumption that only torture will make a slave tell the truth. I have never understood the reasoning behind this wide-spread prejudice, because it has been my experience that nobody, slave or free, ever tells the truth if they see the slightest advantage in lying.
“You might try the German girl,” hazarded another, “although I’d hate to mark that one up.” They all took on a look of collective lust.
“Don’t bother,” said the one who had recommended tormenting Molon. “That one’ll spit in your eye if you threaten her with thumbscrews or a hot iron. Germans are like that.”
“How do you know so much about Germans?” I asked him.
“It’s what we’ve heard,” he answered, as if that explained everything. Soldiers place enormous confidence in rumor. I do not think this is confined to Roman legionaries. Things were probably the same at the siege of Troy. Our whole system of taking auguries is an attempt at rumor control. Before taking any military action we first observe for omens to see if the gods are favorable. If the omens are good ones, everybody feels better. If they are unfavorable, we usually go ahead and fight anyway. Then, if we lose, we can blame the general for ignoring the bad omens. It works out.
“In recent months,” I said, “did Vinius display any major change of behavior or character?” I watched the faces of men struggling with an unfamiliar concept.
“He did say something strange a few weeks ago,” the optio said at last. “I said to him that next year, if he didn’t transfer to another legion, he’d be able to step in as Prefect of the Camp when Paterculus retires. You know what he said?”
“What did he say?” I prodded gently.
“He just shrugged and said, ‘Let someone else have it.’ ”
“He said that?” a decurion gasped, disbelieving.
“Doesn’t make sense,” said another. “I mean, First Spear’s a fine slot, but Prefect of the Camp’s where you get a chance to clean up and provide for your retirement. What’s the point of soldiering for twenty-four years if you’re going to pass up the best rating in the legion?”
“At the time I just thought he meant he was thinking of transferring,” said the optio. “Crassus is offering big bonuses for centurions to help raise and train the legions he wants for his war with Parthia. But now I think of it, he probably couldn’t. Caesar is serious about a big, long war with the Gauls, and he has this five-year imperium. The only way anyone’s going to transfer out of his legions is by hopping a ride with the ferryman.”
“Crassus’s agents have been nosing around?” I said. “He doesn’t even have Senate approval for a war with Parthia.”
“I guess he figures he can buy it,” said Vehilius. “People say that Crassus can buy anything, including his own legions.”
This last was quite true. Crassus always did things in a big way. But he was supposed to be raising legions for Caesar, not building his own. This would bear thinking about.
Think about it was what I did as I made my way back to the camp. Crassus had for years been jealous of Pompey’s military glory, and glory counted for much in Roman politics. During the years that Pompey had been subduing one enemy after another, Crassus’ only military distinction had been in defeating Spartacus, a victory now more than twelve years past: an eternity in Roman politics. Granted, Spartacus had been an enemy more dangerous than all the others combined, but there was precious little glory to be had from defeating slaves. Even then, Pompey had followed his usual pattern of stepping in at the last minute, wiping out a remnant of the already defeated slave army, and then taking credit for the whole war.
It was no wonder that Crassus drooled at the prospect of a war with Parthia. It was the only really credible enemy we had on our frontiers at the time. They were a relatively civilized people, militarily powerful and, best of all, they controlled the silk route, a source of inestimable wealth.
Crassus was getting old, and was all too aware of the fact. Lately, he had been running on to any who would listen about his upcoming Parthian war, even though the Parthians had done little to provoke our wrath. Certainly, the war in Gaul would absorb our energies for some time to come. Were these just the senile ramblings of a frustrated politician? Little matter. His wealth made him a power to fear no matter how crazy he might have become.
Even so, Gaul was a long way from Rome and I had difficulty crediting even the wealth of Crassus with such a reach. Vinius had somehow achieved wealth far beyond the most lavish bribes a centurion could hope for.
I knew that, as always in a case like this one, I lacked all the evidence. In truth, one almost never gets all the evidence, but you need a certain minimum to approach any conclusions at all. It didn’t help that I was working in barbarian territory among soldiers who were only marginally less hostile than the barbarians themselves.
I found Paterculus in his tent, which was situated in the praetorium not far from Caesar’s. The Prefect of the Camp was going over some paperwork with a clerk. When I entered, he looked up with all the warmth and interest of a rock. “What can I do for you, Senator?” Leave it to a man like that to turn a civilian title of respect into a disgusting epithet.
“A little information about the last night of the late Titus Vinius, if you please,” I said, putting as much upper-class disdain into my tone as I could, which was considerable. Time to put this ill-bred sod in his place.
“Last saw him at evening parade. Will that do?” So much for intimidation.