“Do you know who I am?” This came out in a choked whisper. “I am Gnaeus Verres Rufus, the boxing and wrestling champion, not just of the 3rd Legion, but of Gnaeus Pompey Magnus’ whole army!”
“Do you mean the same army that a few half-strength Legions from Caesar’s army ground into the dust at Pharsalus? And isn’t Pompey dead now?”
He leaped to his feet, his fists balled up and I thought for a moment that he would lose control of his senses and actually attack me. I had kept my right hand draped over the back of my chair as I sat in it in an offhand manner, but the hilt of my sword was just inches from my grasp.
“It would be a shame if the Verres line ceased to exist in the space of a couple of days,” I said calmly. "Unless, of course, there's another brother I don't know about."
He gasped like he was dashed with a bucket of cold water. Then he sat down abruptly, his mouth working, except no sound came out. I eyed him coldly while he collected himself.
A man of even moderate intelligence would have at this point changed his approach, seeing that his blustering had not worked, but Verres Rufus was clearly a horse that knew only one trick, so he began again. “You’re making a big mistake if you go to Caesar. I could break you in half if I wanted. I don’t care how big you are.”
“And I could have you scourged then crucified for threatening a superior officer.”
Some of his bluster was coming back, because he gave me his version of a smile. “There’s just the two of us in here. Who’s to say what was said?”
“I’m to say, and that'd be enough. Don’t tell me that your cousin, Cornuficius,” I was pleased to see his eyes widen in surprise, “didn’t warn you that I'm one of Caesar’s favorites. After all, he did pick me to be the Primus Pilus of the 6th.”
The wheels turned in his head, but, oh, they moved slowly indeed. I could see him struggling to try to think of something to counter what I had just said.
The best he could do was, “I have friends too, and they’ll be more than happy to help me stop you from hurting my brother. I’ve broken many a man who got in my way, and I’ll break you too.”
That’s when the nagging feeling that I had seen him somewhere before made something click in my brain, and I asked suddenly, “Were you involved in the fight on the causeway the other day?”
Clearly startled, his eyes darted about as he tried to think through what I was up to.
Finally, he answered suspiciously, “Yes, why?”
I did not say anything, just stared at him, looking into his eyes, and ever so slowly, I could see the realization dawn in his eyes.
The silence hung between us, until I finally spoke. “I saw you. I saw you cut down your own men just to save your own skin.”
This time his face went utterly white, his mouth sagging open for a moment before he struggled to regain control. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His voice was hoarse, yet even as I was staring into his eyes, he could not keep his gaze locked with mine and he looked away. “Besides, there's no way you can prove what you’re saying.”
He looked back at me defiantly, as if daring me to argue the point.
“You’re right,” I conceded. He looked at me triumphantly, but it was short-lived, “I can’t, but some of your men saw what you did. You didn’t cut all of them down.”
His laugh sounded like a dog barking. “They won’t say a word. They know better. They know what would happen to them if they opened their mouths.”
I had heard of Centurions who ruled only by brute force, but I had never run into one. Even men like Longus who viewed their Centuries as means of making money knew that there were times where something other than a good beating would accomplish what they wanted done. If your only means of enforcing obedience is by beating a man, sooner or later you put him in a position where he has nothing to lose. Either way, all he can expect is a beating, so he might as well make it worth his while. But sitting here before me was a Centurion who ruled by terror, and I thought for a moment of trying to goad him into actually attacking me. I had no intention of fighting him with my bare hands; it had been several years since I last entered the Legion games, and I was sure that even if I beat him at his own game, it could not be done without him inflicting a fair amount of damage to me. What I thought about was somehow prodding him into doing something where I would be justified in pulling my sword, but I quickly dismissed the idea. There were too many things that could go wrong, although the idea that he could best me with a blade never occurred to me. What I was most worried about were the questions that would be raised; even if I got away with it, there would be a black mark hanging over me the rest of my career. I would just have to trust that the gods would arrange an appropriately horrible end for a man who would kill his own.
Finally, I just shrugged. “Well, now we know where each other stands. But I’m still seeing Caesar tomorrow about your brother. If you want to try stopping me, by all means go ahead, and I’ll gut you and put you on a spit.” I pointed to the door. “Now that’s settled, get out of my office.”
He was shaking with rage as he stood up, but he turned to walk out the door. As he exited, he said savagely, “This isn’t over, Pullus. I swear that it’s not.”
“As you say,” I replied then pretended to read a report on my desk.
~ ~ ~ ~
The next morning came without incident; nobody came to my quarters to try anything, and once I disposed of my morning business, I made my way to headquarters for the morning briefing. Once we were through, I caught Appolonius to tell him that I needed to see Caesar on an important matter. Normally, it was not an easy thing to secure an audience with Caesar, but there were two factors working in my favor. The first was that of all the people who wanted Caesar’s time, he gave the highest priority to his Centurions, even over his generals. The second was that I very rarely requested an audience with Caesar, so Appolonius knew that it had to be important. Moments after the briefing was over, I was ushered into Caesar’s office, where he was dictating to several scribes, each occupied with a different subject. As I came to intente, Caesar looked up at me. One glance at my face must have told him something, because he immediately dismissed the scribes from the room.
After they left, he looked at me gravely, and said, “I don't know why you’re here, Pullus, but from the look on your face, it can’t be good news.”
“No, sir. It’s not.”
He sighed, then gave a rueful laugh. “Well, I was hoping anyway. So, what is it?”
As briefly as I could, I described the events that led to the death of Plautus, my investigation and my conclusion that the version of events that I was given by Verres and his witnesses was not what had happened. I went on to say that while Plautus certainly held some culpability, he had not done anything that warranted being killed for, at least in my view. I did not expand on what had actually been said, holding out a very faint hope that Caesar would not ask, since this would be the thread that would unravel everything. A hope that lasted all of a heartbeat.
“So what exactly was it that Plautus said that caused all this to happen?”
I took a deep breath then relayed the exchange that led to the killing. Caesar’s mouth twitched a little at the colorful terms Plautus used, but it only lasted for a moment. After I finished, he stayed silent for a moment, his brow furrowed as he thought about what I had told him.
Finally, he said, “It seems very straightforward. While I appreciate you keeping me informed, this appears to be a routine matter, which I'm sure you'll handle in the proper way.” His expression changed, and he eyed me with that shrewd look that made me feel like he was staring right through me. “But I suspect that there's a bit more to this situation than meets the eye, or you wouldn't be standing here looking like you would rather be facing the Egyptians naked.”