The Helvetian Affair Page 6

  When we entered, Gemellus told us to stand at ease. Then he asked me, “Do you want to sit, Tiro?”

  “Nolo, Praefecte,” I said snapping to attention.

  “Don’t be an idiot, Tiro,” he snapped. “You look as pale as a lemur with a hangover. . . Scriba!”

  “Praefecte!” the voice of his clerk from the outer room.

  The clerk brought in a camp chair, and I did sit down, but in the presence of the praefectus castrorum of at least five legions, my back never touched the chair.

  I then noticed that there were two other officers in the room. Each had his sword strapped on his left side and a vitis in his belt—centurions! As I straightened up further in the chair, the clerk reentered the room with a double wax tabula and stylus.

  The prefect nodded toward one of the centurions. “This is Tertius Piscius Malleus, known as the ‘The Hammer,’ centurio Primi Ordinis, commander of the First Cohort and primus pilus of the Tenth Legion. The other officer on his left is Mamercus Tertinius Gelasius, centurio Tertii Ordinis and officer in charge of recruit training. They are here to witness your statements and to interrogate you further concerning today’s events.”

  The prefect paused, so I said “Compre’endo, Praefecte!”

  “Bene!” He continued, “Your officer here, Optio Strabo, has already made his statement. Now, I’d like you to tell us what happened.”

  I related the story as best as I could. No one interrupted my narrative, but when I was done, the prefect asked, “Your geminus . . . the one who killed the slave . . . is that this big fellow here?”

  “I’m called Minutus, Praefecte!” Minutus confirmed.

  “Minutus,” the prefect chuckled, “Tiny . . . eh? I don’t know why the fathers of Roman soldiers bother naming their sons when they put on the toga virilis . . . They’re not men until their mates in the legions name them. . . . So . . . Minutus . . . do you have anything to add to Tiro Insubrecus’ account?”

  “N’abeo, Praefecte,” Minutus responded.

  Gemellus turned to the other two officers. “Do you have any questions for these men?” he invited.

  Malleus, the primus pilus, spoke, “Have either of you ever seen the slave who attacked Tiro Insubrecus before?”

  “Illum non vidi, Prime,” Minutus and I answered in unison.

  “Do either of you have any idea why this man would want to kill you?” he asked.

  “No’ scio, Prime!” Minutus snapped.

  I remained silent while I thought about what I should say.

  Malleus picked up on my silence immediately. “You have something to add, Tiro Insubrecus?”

  I thought about it for a few heartbeats. Telling the praefectus castrorum of Caesar’s legions and the primus pilus of the veteran Tenth Legion that I was possibly a fugitive, wanted by the consul of the Republic, had a bit of risk attached to it. But, even in the midst of Caesar’s army, I obviously wasn’t safe. So, I told them everything: Gabinia in the arbor, the attack on the road to my parents’ farm, Gabinius Iunior and his gladiators, the threat of Gabinius Senior’s arrest warrant, my flight, and the gangsters in Mediolanum. I did leave out a few details about Rufia’s operation. I had enough enemies as it was, and I planned to go back home to Mediolanum in about six years’ time if I didn’t get skewered by some foaming-at-the-mouth, seven-foot-tall, hairy, Roman-eating German tribesman.

  It was rare indeed to see a look of utter astonishment on the face of a Roman officer as senior and as experienced as a praefectus castrorum. This was one of those times.

  Gemellus burst out laughing—another rarity. “You mean to tell me that Rufia . . . Rufia of Mediolanum . . . Rufia, with the blue, Venus-door . . . hid you out in one of her private suites?”

  “Recte, Praefecte,” I stammered out.

  “I know senior officers . . . purple-stripers . . . who’d piss away their entire purse to have been in your shoes!” Gemellus continued to laugh. “Rufia of Mediolanum . . . and she’s sweet on a clapped-out optio from Asia . . . No offense, Strabo . . . Mammis Veneris . . . that’s rich!”

  “Sir,” Malleus beckoned.

  “Yes . . . Yes,” Gemellus chuckled, getting back on track. “I think we can rule out the consul. If he wanted you, all he’d have to do is send a warrant up here for your arrest. If he wanted you dead, he could just make sure you never made it back to Rome. Of course, Caesar as proconsul of the province and commander of the army would have to approve.”

  “Sir,” I ventured.

  “What is it, Tiro?” the prefect said, a bit surprised at being interrupted by a recruit. “Don’t tell me that you have a passel of Athenian hetairai in the vicus who clean your underwear.”

  “No, sir,” I assured him. “But, there is something about my family’s relationship with Caesar Imperator that may have some relevance.”

  I told him about my gran’pa, Marius and Gaius Senior, how we got our farm, and how we are technically Caesar’s clients.

  “Cacat,” Gemellus said. “That explains the name, ‘Gaius Marius,’ at least . . . I doubt the imperator even knows you or your family exist . . . But you’re correct . . . Technically, you’re cliens genti Iuliae, and therefore, entitled to his patrocinium . . . his protection. . . . He will have to be informed.”

  There was a commotion in the outer tent. Another of the prefect’s clerks stuck his head in and announced that the medicus had arrived to give his report on the dead slave.

  “About time!” the Prefect responded. “Get him in here!”

  Spina entered the room and reported.

  “What can you tell us about the dead slave, Medice?” the prefect demanded.

  “Dead slave?” Spina repeated. “First, I can confirm he’s crossed the river . . . Either de broken neck aw de damage to his head did ’im.”

  “How can you be so sure, Spina?” Gelasius spoke up for the first time. “He was also stabbed through the throat.”

  Spina looked over at the centurion. “Gelasius! Didn’t see ya standin’ back dere. How do I know? Easy! Dah stabbing wound to his throat pierced dee aorta. If his heart was beatin’ when dat happen’d, dere would a been a fountain a blood. But dis wound hardly bled . . . Ergo . . . he was dead when it happened.”

  Gelasius grunted in the affirmative.

  “Continue, Doctor!” Gemellus prompted.

  “Dah second part of yaw question about a dead slave raises a problem, Praefecte,” Spina continued. “Dis guy wasn’t a slave.”

  “What?” Gemellus shot. “Wasn’t a slave? How can you be so sure?”

  “Coupl’a dings, Praefecte,” Spina explained. “First, his hair, or what was left of it, wasn’t regulation cut. Second, he had no ‘SPQR’ tattoo on his left shoulder blade like de rest a de government slaves around hee’ah. T’ird, his hands weren’t callused like a slave’s . . . A sicarius, a hit man, yeah . . . a slave, no. Fourt’, I cut ’im open and his last meal included garum and eggs, not de barley porridge de slaves eat for breakfast. Finally, he had a tattoo of a sica and skull on his left shoulder. I’ve seen marks like dat when I was a kid growin’ up on the Aventine . . . It’s a collegium mark . . . Dis guy was a grassator . . . a gangster . . . probably a percussor . . . a hitter up hee’ah from Rome . . . That explains the report of his Roman accent.”

  “Are you sure about this, Spina?” Malleus asked. “Seems a little flimsy to me.”

  “Any one a dem, Prime, yeah . . . It’d be pretty flimsy, like ya said,” Spina responded. “But, all togedder . . . no . . . Dis guy was a ringer . . . a hitter . . . He was up hee’ah to wack de kid . . . I’m shoo-a-wit.”

  “‘Shoo-a-wit’,” Gemellus said absently. “Oh . . . ‘sure of it’ . . . Yes . . . I agree . . . Bene gestum, Medice . . . Anything else?”

  “Yeah, Praefecte,” Spina continued. “I took a look at dis guy’s knife . . . It’s a straight-bladed sica . . . I seen a lot of dese back on de Aventine . . . The boys on de hill like ’em cause dere easy to conceal . . . Dis one’s razor shawp . . . we
ll taken care a . . . and expensive . . . Got an ivory grip . . . matches the scabbard I found strapped to de guy’s forearm . . . But dis is de ding . . . On the blade was engraved DON MILONE SUM, ‘I’m a gift from Milo.’ Not only we got a hitter heah, we got one of Milo’s top boys. He don’t give away knives like dat to schleps!”

  “Schleps?” Gelasius questioned.

  “Schleps,” Spina clarified. “It’s a word we used back on de hill for guys who ain’t too impaw’int or too bright, so they get the worst jobs . . . like a . . . like a . . . ianitor . . . a baiulus . . . only dumber.”

  “Yes! Yes! Very good,” the Prefect interrupted. “Do get on with it, Spina!”

  “Yeah . . . of course, Praefecte,” Spina said. “Like I said, dis guy was good at what he did . . . so he had to have an escape plan after he did the kid hee’ah . . . Dat means a quick change a clothes outta de slave tunic . . . So, somewhere neah wheah he slashed de kid hee’ah, he hid ’is stuff . . . So, if ya send a few a de boys out on police call, you should find ’em . . . Maybe tell you somethin’ maw ’bout dis guy.”

  It took Gemellus a couple of heartbeats to translate Spina’s west-slope-of-the-Aventine Latin, but when he finally did, he grunted his approval, “Bene . . . Good thinking, Spina . . . Anything else?”

  “Yeah, Praefecte . . . couple things,” Spina continued. “I inspected dis knife real close . . . It’s been shawpened recently . . . Looks like a professional job . . . Best knife-grinder ’round hee’ah is a Gaul named Aeddan. I use ’im myself to sharpen my instruments . . . First rate job he does . . . He’s got a booth out in the vicus behind de Ninth’s castrum. I’ll bet dat’s where aw boy shawpened his fancy sica. Doubt yaw gonna get much . . . Dis guy’s too good . . . but it’s worth a try.”

  “You said ‘couple things,’ Medice?” Gemellus prompted.

  “Yeah, Praefecte,” Spina continued. “The garum and eggs aw boy had for ’is last breakfast . . . Dat’s a pretty fancy meal . . . He didn’t get it in some vicus flop . . . My bet’s he stayed at some fancy joint, a deversorium up in de town . . . Best place I know up deah is the Anser Volans, the Flying Goose . . . It’s on de main drag neah de west gate . . . Run by a retired legionary named Macer . . . Dey’d have garum and eggs, fer shoowaw.”

  “Macer . . . Flying Goose . . . Aeddan,” Gemellus repeated, “You know any of these places, Malleus?”

  “I know the Goose, Praefecte,” the primus pilus responded.

  “Bene! Send a couple of your prima centuria boys up there to talk to this Macer,” Gemellus instructed. “He used to be one of us, so I assume he’ll cooperate. As far as this Gaul is concerned, this Aeddan, send a contubernium in full rig . . . shields and swords . . . just in case he decides to play it cute.”

  “A’mperi’tu’, Praefecte,” Malleus responded.

  Gemellus turned to the doctor, “Anything else for us, Medice?”

  “N’abeo, Praefecte,” Spina responded.

  “Bene! You may return to your duties,” Gemellus instructed.

  Spina inclined his head to the three centuriate officers in the room and left.

  After Spina had gone, Malleus asked, “Praefecte! What about the slaves, the real ones, I mean?”

  “The slaves?” Gemellus asked. “What do you mean, Malleus?”

  “Do you want them interrogated?” the primus pilus inquired. “This . . . this ‘hitter,’ as the doctor calls him, may have bribed them to get them to conceal his presence within their domus.”

  “Hmmm . . . I see what you mean,” Gemellus considered. “Are you suggesting we put them to the interrogatio? That means torture for slaves.”

  “That is the custom, Praefecte,” Malleus confirmed.

  “I see,” the prefect reflected. “No . . . I don’t think so . . . It’s bad for morale, and we’re less than two weeks from going into combat . . . The Tenth’s stabulum of slaves are veterans . . . Most of them been with us for years . . . I don’t think any of them would risk manumissio, their emancipation, for a few denarii . . . No . . . But, Gelasius . . . I have a job for you.”

  “A’mperi’tu’, Praefecte,” the Tenth Cohort commander snapped.

  “Send a couple of your boys over to Spina and tell him to sew his patient up,” Gemellus instructed, “Then, take the body out to the field where he attacked Tiro Insubrecus and crucify him. If he wanted to disguise himself as a slave, he can end up like one, feeding the crows on a cross.”

  “Stat’, Paefecte!” Gelasius confirmed.

  “Be sure to hang him up in his slave tunic,” the Prefect continued. “Hang a sign on him, something like, ‘Attacked a Roman Soldier.’ Then, after last call this evening, when training’s over, take the slaves out to that field, the entire stabulum, and file them by the cross. That should take care of any thoughts they might have about taking bribes from outsiders. Got it, Gelasius?”

  “Compre’endo, Praefecte!”

  “Strabo,” Gemellus turned his attention to our training officer. “Will your tirones be ready to participate in the significatio next week?”

  “Parati, Praefecte,” Strabo snapped.

  “Bene,” Gemellus said. “This army will be moving out over the Alps as soon as the imperator summons us. So, with the Helvetii on the move, we must be sure we are all parati. Tiro Insubrecus, you are excused from all training exercises and fatigue details until further notice! I will be notifying your patronus, Caesar Imperator, of this event. This affects his dignitas. As far as the rest of this legion is concerned, this was just the work of a renegade slave. Compre’enditis vos toti?”

  A chorus of “Compre’endo, Praefecte!” ensued.

  “Bene,” Gemellus concluded. “Optio Strabo, you will remain behind. We have something to discuss with you. Tirones, miss’est!”

  III.

  Ego Miles Romanus

  I BECOME A SOLDIER OF ROME

  So, I spent most of my last weeks as a legionary tiro restricted to barracks. None of Spina’s dire fears about my arm materialized. When I reported to him at the medical station three days later, he was quite pleased with his handiwork and my progress—pretty much in that order. He had me flex my fingers a couple of times; then he told Marcus, his orderly, to wash the wound with wine—after Spina had personally tested the brew for potency—and change my bandages. Spina sent me back to barracks with the advice to learn to use my left hand as it was good military practice. I wasn’t sure what he meant, but he seemed to have amused himself.

  Strabo had a surprise for us. When he returned to collect us the first morning after the meeting with the prefect, he had his sword hung on his left hip and a vitis in his right hand. He announced in formation that he had been granted a temporary appointment in the Tenth Legion as a centurio tertii ordinis and was in command of the Fourth Centuria of the Tenth Cohors, where the legion assigned its trainees. He then announced that he had selected our old friend Bantus as his “chosen one”; the optio of the Fourth Centuria was our new training officer. He then sent me back to quarters while he put the rest of our contubernium through its daily ten thousand-pace conditioning march.

  Rumors about what was happening on the other side of the Alps continued to swirl through the camp.

  The Germans had crossed the Rhenus. The Helvetii had stormed the bridge over the Rhodanus and had burned Gennava. Roman citizens were being massacred, and the Eighth Legion had been pushed back into our provincia. Roman auxiliary units had mutinied and gone over to the barbarians. Massalia had locked its gates against us, and the entire Roman army north of the Alps was being pushed back into the Mare Nostrum, the Middle Sea.

  The Tenth Legion continued to train and prepare to move out over the Alps. It was now participating in army-level training exercises, maneuvering with, and against, the other legions of the army. Our senior officers—legates and tribunes—were arriving from Rome. But, still no word had come from Caesar Imperator.

  Finally, on the Nones Aprilis, Strabo announced to us that word had been received from the
proconsul in Gennava, which apparently the barbarians had not burned, that the army must be ready to march on the Ides. Therefore, our significatio would be held five days before the Ides so that we would be ready to march with our legion. Strabo then asked if we had any questions.

  “Quaestionem ‘abeo, Opt . . . uh . . . Centurio,” Loquax popped up.

  “Roga,” Strabo responded. “Go ahead!”

  “Centurio, what is a significatio?” Loquax asked.

  Strabo stared at Loquax for a few heartbeats, trying to decide whether the tiro was putting him on. He decided he was not.

  “Good question, Tiro Loquax,” Strabo responded. We would come to notice that after his promotion, Strabo was more refined, more observant of proper military protocol and courtesy. He hardly ever called us maggots or cockroaches anymore.

  “The significatio is a ceremony in which the legion demonstrates to Father Iove that you are now part of it,” Strabo explained. “In front of the legion’s aquila, the primus pilus asks the assembled legion whether it accepts you, and the soldiers acclaim their acceptance. Then, you are invested in the red tunic of a soldier, given the shield of the Tenth Legion, and awarded your gladius, your infantry sword. You renew your sacramentum in front of your comrades and swear you would die before you would shame our standards or let the legion down. Then, the legion acclaims you as a miles, one of their number. Any other questions, Tirones?”

  We had none, so Strabo said, “Optio Bantus! Take charge of the training detail. Move them out to the pilum range . . . at the double . . . Pagane . . . you will remain in quarters!”

  “A’mperi’tu’, Centurio!” Bantus snapped and took his position in front of our formation.

  “Contubernium . . . STATE!”

  “Pagane! Miss’est . . . A signis!”