R. Cameron Cooke

Rome: Fury of the Legion

“If a man does not know to which port he is sailing, no wind is favorable.”

- Seneca

I

Twelve hundred men marched in a long snaking column through the dark forests of the Belgae, a meandering river of dull helmets and glimmering spearpoints. The two Roman cohorts marched with a contingent of Gallic auxiliaries. They marched in silence, not from any order of their officers, but from the feeling engendered by the encroaching trees on either side of the narrow path. A haunting chill crept over any man who gazed on the dense woods, where yellow-eyed creatures stared back from the darkness, where unintelligible cries echoed from indiscernible sources, where druids dwelt, and men and beasts feared the night.

Far behind the column, a black stain loomed in the sky, a patch of smoke with no wind to carry it away. It hung above the trees as if to glower upon the tramping soldiers and remind them of what they had done. It marked the spot where a village had once stood and thrived for generations – a community of several dozen families with their own huts and fields, their own festivals, their own cares and wants, their own dreams.

Now, only ashes remained, where black-snouted wolves picked at white bones. The cohorts had done their work well.

The auxiliary cavalry filed alongside the marching troops, their conical helmets and upturned lances brushing against the overhanging branches. These were Gallic warriors from the Aedui tribe, wearing their distinctive mustaches, neatly combed and hanging down to their chests. Freshly severed heads dangled from their saddles, proud trophies that they would display back home with great revelry. But the Aedui, too, marched silently, as if the souls of the hundreds of slain innocents stared back at them from the impenetrable darkness beneath the twisted limbs.

The sky unleashed a downpour in the late morning, and by the time the cohorts had reached a suitable clearing for the camp, the ground had turned to mud. But the hardened legionaries were used to such impediments, and set about their engineering work as if they toiled beneath a clear sky over Naples. By late afternoon, a ditch had been dug out of the mud, and by evening, a wooden palisade sat atop the ditch. They finished just as the orb-like sun emerged from the gray clouds, painting the sky red before sinking behind the treetops. In the fading light, the weary soldiers finally took their repose, venturing in shifts outside the palisade to dig latrines and see to their kits.

Legionary Lucius Domitius felt the first cool breath of evening as he scraped the caked mud from his entrenching tools. Though he was accustomed to long marches, this day’s trek had been especially tiresome. The road – nothing more than a wagon cut – had been so narrow in many places that the legionaries had been forced to march two abreast, causing log jams all along the column. It had been a long day of starts and stops, of standing for hours on end in full kit while the files ahead cleared. Even now, the last mules of the baggage train, piled high with spoils from the village, were only just arriving, several hours behind the head of the column.

“A blood-red sunset,” the legionary next to Lucius commented. “Another bad omen.”

“You’ve seen a lot of them today, Jovinus,” Lucius quipped. “This morning, it was that mule that fell into the quicksand. This afternoon, it was that hawk that flew across our path in the wrong direction.”

Jovinus smiled. “Scoff at me as you will, Lucius.”

“I? Not at all,” Lucius said with thick sarcasm.

Lucius, Jovinus, and the rest of the 9th century cleaned their kits while lounging about a muddy pond somewhere half-way between the outer wall of the fort and the thick forest that surrounded it.

A whip cracked in the distance, catching the attention of the century. Lucius looked to see a procession of pale-skinned men and women trudging up the road, herded by a troop of Aeduan cavalry who liberally employed the lash to keep their prisoners in line. The younger and sturdier Belgae had been spared from the massacre to be sold in the slave markets of the Aedui lands – the human spoils of war that kept the Gallic allies motivated in their allegiance to Caesar. Stripped of their clothes and splattered with mud and dung from marching behind the mule train, their individual identities had all but slipped away. No matter what their previous stations in life, whether village elder or simple peasant, they were now property, destined to be sold or abused as their new masters saw fit.

The Aeduan cavalry herded the human plunder into the auxiliary camp which was somewhat removed from the Roman camp. Road-weary Aeduan spearmen waited there, a mass of mustachioed warriors with eyes that gleamed wickedly from beneath dingy conical helmets. Before the night was out, the Belgic women unfortunate enough to have round hips would wish they had been massacred with the others. One of the women, seeing these salivating devils, screamed and tried to break out of the line, but a crack of the lash left a long red mark on her pale buttocks prompting her to rejoin the procession. Soon, she and the others had disappeared amongst the mass of Aedui tents.

“There’s a bog nearby,” Jovinus said, sniffing the air. “Or I’m Juno’s bastard.”

“Aye,” Lucius replied. “Very likely.”

“They say the druids of these parts dwell in bogs, where they craft spells to talk to the dead. I tell you, Lucius, a curse is upon this land.”

“After today, I’m liable to put a few curses on it myself.”

Jovinus did not smile. His face was solemn as he stared out at the distant tree line. “That wood is a dark place – an evil place. It has the eyes of spirits. They watch us now as they watched us all day. They see our blood-stained boots march by, and they do not approve.”

Lucius said nothing. He did not wish to discuss the subject, but Jovinus was determined.

“Did you feel it, Lucius, as I did?” Jovinus said desperately. “Never has such a despair come over me than on this day’s march. It was as if the land, the trees, the sky looked on us accusingly, all demanding a reckoning for what we have done. Tell me you felt it, too!”

“Shut your mouth, Jovinus!” snapped a stentorian voice. “You’ve been mewling about that all day.”

Both legionaries looked up at a broad-shouldered figure standing on the berm above the pond, vine branch in hand.

“Yes, Centurion Vitalis,” Jovinus replied.

Centurion Vitalis struck a fine form of Roman soldiery as he gazed down on the two legionaries. One could hardly envision Achilles himself looking any finer. While the rest of the century had stripped to their tunics, Vitalis wore full armor and cross-plumed helmet. He was seldom seen without either. Even now, after marching as far as any man in the century, he looked resplendent enough to turn out for a triumph. He always did.

“I’ve had about enough of you on this march,” Vitalis said angrily as he descended to approach the two legionaries. “And you, Lucius. I’ve told you before not to encourage this old woman. You especially need to be on your best behavior now, as I’m sure you are well aware.”

Lucius looked up at Vitalis and gave a small smile. “Yes, Centurion.”

Vitalis shook his head hopelessly as he met Lucius’s gaze, fully comprehending the tone of the reply. The overt display of discipline was for the sake of the rank and file, and all three men knew it. Vitalis’s face then softened slightly at the ridiculousness of the charade.

“You two are my veterans,” he said in a hushed tone that the other men could not hear. “Look around you, for Jupiter’s sake. These boys draw courage from your example – or get dispirited by it. Jovinus, you are my signifer. I can’t have you spouting your superstitious drivel in front of these men. And Lucius, after that stunt you pulled yesterday. Veteran or not, you are fortunate not to be drawn up for a lashing.”

“We did an evil deed yesterday, sir,” Jovinus said, ignoring the comment about Lucius. “The three of us have been veterans long enough to know that.”

Vitalis looked at him irritably. “You have done the bidding of the proconsul, and the bidding of Rome. You need know nothing more.”

“There will be a reckoning, sir,” Jovinus said warily.

“It’s not yours to wonder of the reckoning, Jovinus.” The centurion snapped, but then seemed to reconsider his words. He smiled and slapped the signifer on the shoulder. “For Jupiter’s sake, man, you know how they are. The only good Belgae’s a dead one. You are a soldier, and you carried out your orders. Nothing more.”

“There was little soldiering in what we did,” Lucius said, “pardon my saying so, sir.”

“No, I do not pardon it, Lucius!” Vitalis snapped. “You will carry this too far!”

“I saw those babies scream, sir,” Jovinus said, gazing into the rippling pond. “Saw those Gaul bastards bash their little skulls against the wall. Saw some of our boys were doing it, too, sir. Some laughing, some enjoying it. I’ll admit I slit the throat of many a Belgic whore, but killing babies – I’ll never do that.”

Vitalis sighed, glancing around to see if the other soldiers were eavesdropping.

“It was strange,” Jovinus continued, chuckling, “but I kept seeing the face of my little boy back home. He’d be in his fourth year now. About the same age as that Belgic lad Tribune Piso trampled into mush under his horse’s hoofs yesterday.”

“There is a reason that a soldier should not marry,” Vitalis said coldly. “So that he may be stalwart, and fully ready in body and mind to answer the call of the Senate and people of – “

“Begging your pardon, sir,” Lucius interrupted. “But how many did you kill yesterday?”

“Some two dozen, I should think. Does it matter?”

“Maybe if you’re one of the two dozen.”

Vitalis cast a dubious glance at Lucius. “You had best mind yourself, Lucius. The tribune will not overlook another infraction, nor can I. I tell you this, not as your centurion, but as your friend.”

Then, shaking his head in disappointment, Vitalis moved along, leaving Lucius and Jovinus staring blankly after him.

“He’s a cold bastard, that one,” Jovinus said, rubbing his own helmet furiously with an oil cloth to restore the long-faded shine. “Of course, what can you expect under the eyes of the tribune?” Jovinus gestured to a pair of scarlet-cloaked nobles lounging astride their mounts near the fort’s gate.

Lucius glanced at the two young officers. Both looked fairly out of place in their breastplate armor and bronze-plated greaves that only those of their station in life could afford. In the short time since the two had joined the legion, Lucius had never known the young Tribune Piso – or his adjutant, the equally young Amelius – to concern themselves much with proper military deportment. Even now, the two aristocratic youths were red-faced with laughter over some internal jest. Neither of them could have been a day beyond twenty-five years of age, and both had the soft, unblemished faces of men new to campaign life. They looked as though they had stepped into Gaul fresh from the forum in Rome, and in many ways they had. They were new arrivals, having been in Gaul only a little more than a month. Even their hair was still curled in the latest fashion of the great city. Though Piso was the tribune, and superior by rank to Amelius, the two were seldom seen apart. Even less frequently were they seen taking any of their responsibilities earnestly. They seemed to be in a perpetual state of hysteria, laughing obnoxiously over private jests. Sometimes the source of their mirth was not so elusive, as when they pointed out an awkward gait or physical attribute of a slave or legionary. Such behavior from the aristocratic youths of Rome was certainly not unknown to the men of the legions. Normally, such youths would have been ignored as harmless, silver-spooned fools. But fortune had played a devilish trick on the men of the two cohorts of the Seventh Legion that now bedded down for the night deep within enemy country. Tribune Piso, green and hardly a month under arms, had been appointed by the legate of the Seventh as the commander of the expedition. Some said the legate did it just to get the unlikeable Piso out of his hair. Whatever the reason, the appointment seemed to defy all logic. Perhaps the legate was confident the centurions would hold the cohorts together, in spite of any foolish decisions made by the young tribune. Nevertheless, Tribune Piso was in sole command of the expedition, and the superior officer in the field, a fact that allowed his incompetence to run completely unchecked. In the ten days since the expedition left the main body, he had quickly gained a reputation. Shunning the advice of the centurions, jeering at things he should take seriously, and meting out punishment to soldiers for the minutest of infractions, Piso’s youth and inexperience was being overshadowed by his arrogance and heavy-handedness.

Again the two officers burst out in a fit of laughter.

“Always laughing, those boys,” Jovinus said. “But at what, I’ve never been able to tell.”

Lucius shrugged, but said nothing. He glanced again at the two nobles who were wiping their tearing eyes. They would not laugh like that if the legate or Caesar were around. They were children that needed to be supervised. Oddly enough, they resembled what Lucius might have become, had his own young life not taken such an unfortunate turn. He could not figure out what bothered him more – the thought that he might have been like them, or the thought that he would never be like them. Regardless, he had despised the arrogant youths from the moment they joined the Seventh.

The two nobles did not like Lucius either, something Lucius had been shocked to discover only yesterday. It shocked him because, up until yesterday, he had no reason to believe that the tribune or his adjutant knew him from any other man in the Seventh Legion. Why in Jupiter’s name would they know anything about Legionary Lucius Domitius? As a common soldier, he had never interacted with either of them in any way, nor would he ever expect to. But yesterday’s events made it very clear that Piso knew him by name.

They also made it very clear that Piso wanted him dead.

During the raid, the 9th century had been assigned to cover the approaches to the village in the event the Belgae had reinforcements nearby. As expected, none came, and the village was easily overwhelmed. Unlike the other men of the 9th, who were frustrated at not getting their share of the plunder, Lucius never minded when the century was held in reserve. While it was true that he did not relish the slaughter women and children as many of the others did, and the reserve seldom got involved in that, there were other, more profitable, advantages to being in the reserve. With this in mind, Lucius had quietly drifted away from his comrades and had found a good spot from which to watch and wait. He knew that the inhabitants of small villages tended to keep their valuables stashed a safe distance away in the event of just such an attack. Often villagers escaping the initial slaughter would make an effort to retrieve their treasures before fleeing. The citizens of this oppidum were no exception. Before long, Lucius saw one such panicked Belgae dart through the trees and make for a large rotted log where he immediately began violently clawing at the earth. Lucius had only to show himself to send the frightened villager scampering off into the woods. After digging a little deeper in the same spot, Lucius came up with a small bag containing forty-two denarii, twenty-three drachmas, and sixty-seven gold pieces of various make. It was a nice stash, and one that Lucius quickly distributed among the various hiding places within his kit. He had just hidden the final coin, when Vitalis came upon him.

“Tribune Piso wishes you to report to him at the village square, Lucius,” the centurion said, not bothering to ask why Lucius was so far away from the rest of the century.

“The tribune?” Lucius asked curiously. “Me? What on earth for?”

“I have no bloody idea. I do what I’m told, and so do you. Now, get your arse down there, and stop asking so many questions.”

By the time Lucius reached the burning huts on the outskirts of the village, he had fully convinced himself that the tribune had somehow found out about his loot. Surely, he was being summoned for a reprimand, or perhaps to hand it over. Even so, it seemed puzzling that Piso could have known about it, let alone summon Lucius by name. Until that moment, he had no idea that the tribune knew him from any other man in the legion.

Lucius found Piso sitting upon his mount amidst a village half in flames with mangled bodies lying everywhere. Any structure that was not burning was being ransacked by plunder-maddened legionaries and auxiliaries.

"Legionary Lucius Domitius,” Piso had said after catching sight of him. “Stand before me."

Lucius did as he was ordered.

"I have heard that you are good with the sword, legionary. That you far surpass your comrades. Is this true?"

"Some have said as such, sir," Lucius answered cautiously.

"Good. Then I have a commission for you. Do you see that hut over there?" Piso pointed to a rather large dwelling with a smoking chimney that was one of the few houses still untouched by the raid.

"Yes, sir."

"I am told that it belongs to the chieftain of this pathetic little hamlet. The coward has gone into hiding, but his wife and family are trapped inside. Go in there, and slit their throats." He said it as casually as if he had just ordered Lucius to carry his luggage. "Do not come out until you have slain them all."

Lucius stared at the darkened doorway of the hut. There was no visible movement inside, and it seemed oddly silent. Forewarnings rang out inside his head. There were two dozen legionaries within earshot who could have performed the same task. Something was not right. Piso’s summons, the tribune’s bizarre behavior, and the even more bizarre orders all told Lucius that he had stepped onto a carefully orchestrated stage. Whatever lay in wait for him inside that hut, he was sure it was not the chieftain’s wife and children. Was this some kind of elaborate ambush to steal the money he had just unearthed?

"Did you not hear me, soldier?" Piso said, irritated when Lucius did not move instantly to carry out the order.

Lucius had to think quickly. He had to delay as long as he could while he tried to figure out what he was up against.

"I wish for you to go in there and kill them!” Piso said, now turning red-faced with impatience. “Is that clear, Legionary Domitius?”

Lucius nodded and drew his sword. He could see no way out of it. He began walking toward the doorway, fully resolved to go inside and face whatever trap lurked for him in there. But, at that moment, a terrifying shriek sounded behind him. Lucius wheeled around to see that a handful of sword-wielding Belgae had burst from a nearby haystack in which they had been hiding. The shriek had come from Piso, who they obviously intended to be their first victim. The panicked tribune struggled to bring his kicking mount under control as the Belgae quickly surrounded him. They were not warriors – that much was evident – but they were desperate men, each with a suicidal hatred in his eyes. They were led by a large, gray-bearded man who looked to have been a warrior at one time in his life, but his paunch gut indicated that those days were far in the past. Lucius presumed this to be the chieftain. The chieftain and the men with him had succeeded in surrounding the panicking tribune, but they hesitated to rush him, not so much from the inept swipes of Piso’s sword as from the kicking hoofs that threatened to brain any man that stepped nearer. The trained legionary within Lucius rushed to the tribune’s aid without thinking. In a flash of steel he drove his gladius into the back of the closest man, severing the man’s spine, and sending him to the ground in a bloody mess of twitching limbs. Next, the chieftain, wielding an ancient, four-foot sword, turned to face Lucius. With a nimbleness that surprised the veteran legionary, the big man brought the long sword around in the blink of an eye, coming close to striking off Lucius’s jaw had Lucius not pulled back at the last moment. The chieftain, now over-extended, realized his fate an instant before Lucius’s blade came down with a violent slash that divided the big man’s neck from his right shoulder, slicing through flesh, bones and arteries. The blade came out with a rush of pulsating blood, and the gallant chieftain died within moments. Lucius then turned to face the others, but a cluster of nearby legionaries had already come to his aid. The rapid thrusts of a dozen stabbing pila quickly turned the remaining Belgae into a heap of red-painted corpses.

As Lucius wiped the blood from his gladius, he looked around for Piso, but the tribune was nowhere to be found. Whether he had fled out of cowardice, or had simply been unable to control his skittish horse, was anyone’s guess.

At that moment, Amelius, the blonde-haired adjutant, ducked out of the doorway of the chieftain’s hut, followed by two more men. All three carried blood-stained swords. Lucius thought it odd because he had not seen any of the men enter the place. Further, the men with Amelius were not legionaries. Lucius recognized them as two of the Gallic mule drivers he had often seen handling the impedimenta of the Seventh. Why, in Jupiter’s name, would they have been hiding with Amelius inside the hut?

Lucius could only surmise that the bloody swords held by the three men had been used to slay the chieftain’s family. But how long had they been in there? Had the bastards already killed the chieftain’s family when Piso ordered Lucius to do it? Had those bloody swords been waiting just inside the doorway for him?

Amelius’s yellow curls caught the wind as he stood upright and scanned the square, presumably looking for Piso. He had noticed that Lucius was looking at him and had flashed a brief nervous smile before running off with the other two, doubtless to find the tribune.

Now, a full day later, as Lucius cleaned his kit beside the pond, all of it seemed like some surreal dream. Word had obviously made it to Vitalis that Lucius had not obeyed the tribune’s order, but that was to be expected. There had been others about, and surely they would have witnessed it. Through the long day’s march Piso and Amelius had ridden past the 9th Century many times, but aside from a few glances in Lucius’s direction, they did not let on that the event had ever transpired.

“Tribune Piso,” Jovinus muttered. “Now there’s a mule’s arse for you!”

Lucius mumbled something like an agreement. He had not told Jovinus or anyone else about the incident, nor did he intend to.

“I’ll never forget how that pompous bastard laughed while our Gaul friends over there killed those little babies in the village yesterday,” Jovinus continued. “Like they were chickens. A pity our centurion has to take orders from the likes of him. I’ll wager that boy of a tribune has never been on campaign in his life before now. I’ll bet his friend hasn’t either.” Jovinus then nudged Lucius, and said in a lower tone. “I hear they’re old school chums. They say that blonde rascal, what’s his name – Amelius – latched on to Piso in Greece. They say he and Piso are…inseparable…if you comprehend my meaning. Our boy of a tribune brought his playmate along for a little adventure in Gaul, no doubt.”

A woman screamed in the distance. It came from the auxiliary camp. The screams were accompanied by the laughter of many men. The screams echoed against the wall of silent trees, beneath the darkening hues of the sky.

“Do you suppose the Belgae have an army hidden in that wood?” a young legionary cleaning his kit near Lucius and Jovinus asked as he studied the black tree line. “Do you suppose that’s why it’s so infernally quiet?”

“Perhaps,” Lucius replied. “Perhaps it’s Jovinus’s evil spirits, come to haunt us.”

Lucius had said it half-jokingly, but a measure of belief registered on the young soldier’s face.

“But the Belgae massacred that cohort from the Eighth Legion,” the soldier said, as if to bolster himself with his own words. “That’s what the tribune told us. They deserved it, didn’t they?”

“And how many men of sword-bearing age did we find in that village, neophyte?”

The young legionary did not answer. He was obviously not encouraged by that response, so he just shook his head and went back to cleaning his boots.

“Less talking, more working,” Vitalis’s voice called from down the way.

The men of the 9th Century went back to what they had been doing before, all but Jovinus, who oddly stood up straight. He was looking at the forest, and his face carried a look of bewilderment.

“Who in Pluto’s name is she?” he said, pointing at the trees.

The men of the century looked up to see that a woman had emerged from the dark tree line. She was dressed all in black, with the hood of her cloak drawn over her face such that her features were hidden in shadow. Her gait indicated that she was either very old or very frail. She was still far away from the camp, but the soldiers could see her plainly enough across the clearing. As they watched, two bone-like hands trembled out of her black cloak as if to point at the idling Romans. Then she began to chant in a voice that sounded as though it originated in the bowels of a bottomless well. The voice was nearly swallowed by the wind, yet clear as if spoken from the orchestra of a theater. The haunting incantation was in the language of the Nervii, and obviously boded something sinister, for no good wishes could ever sound like that in any language.

Several of the legionaries laughed and went about their business, dismissing the old woman as harmless. Others shouted at her and rendered obscene gestures, threatening her if she did not leave. But she went on, stopping her monosyllabic chant only to spit on the ground, before continuing where she left off.

“That old hag’s put a curse on us by now for sure,” Jovinus said. “That’s the mother of all curses, if ever I heard one.”

“Superstitions, Jovinus,” Lucius said. “Nothing more. She might as well be pissing in the wind, for all the good it will do.”

Vitalis’s whistle blew, signaling the end of the shift. The men of the century gathered up their kits and formed up in a loose file to march back into the fort. But before they did, Tribune Piso was suddenly there, pulling up on his skittish black mare.

“Centurion Vitalis!” he snapped.

Vitalis came to attention.

“Why have you allowed that Belgic whore to carry on for so long?” The tribune spat the words. “I have been waiting for you to do something about it! Do I have to tell you how to do your job?”

Vitalis visibly swallowed back the response he would have liked to give. “The centuries on watch should address such matters, sir. Not I. That is the business of the chief centurion.”

“The chief centurion is within the camp, Centurion Vitalis. So, I now make it your job. Have one of your legionaries shut that woman up, before I have you flogged.” Piso glanced once at Lucius and then added. “Have Lucius Domitius do it! Let us see if he can follow orders this time.”

From his position in the ranks, Lucius saw Vitalis look up at the mounted tribune. For the briefest of moments, Lucius thought he saw an exchange between the eyes of the two men that indicated some deeper meaning to the order. Something they had previously discussed perhaps? But Lucius quickly put the ridiculous thought out of his mind. He knew for a fact that Vitalis despised the tribune as much as or more than he did.

Vitalis looked once at Lucius. Strangely, the centurion seemed to be grasped by some internal struggle.

“I will go, sir,” Vitalis said finally, turning back to the tribune. “Legionary Domitius is not armed. The Belgae have lured us with such traps before.”

Piso shot a scathing look at Vitalis, but the centurion avoided the young tribune’s stare and snatched a pilum from the hands of one of the armed sentries. Piso looked as though he might press the issue, but then hesitation crossed his face, as if he was uncertain about making a scene in front of the gawking troops.

“When you are through with that bitch, Centurion,” Piso finally sneered, “you will report to my quarters without delay!”

Without waiting for a salute, Piso kicked his horse into a gallop and man-handled the resisting mare back up the path and into the gate, nearly trampling a cluster of camp boys idling near a parked wagon.

Shouldering the iron-barbed spear, Vitalis cast one more glance at Lucius before marching swiftly across the field to confront the old woman. The woman did not flinch as the armed centurion approached. The haunting chant continued to emanate from the shadowy hood, and she did not stop, even when Vitalis entreated her to simply go away. Vitalis spoke harshly to her, threatened her, swore at her, punched her, even knocked her down, but through it all she never once acknowledged him. She simply rose from the mud and began her curse anew. At one point in the incantation, she spit on the ground. Vitalis appeared frustrated, shaking the spearpoint before the hood out of warning. It had no effect. She spit again. Whether intentional or not, her spittle struck the centurion’s boots. Vitalis visibly sighed. There was only one option for him now, the only recourse to this affront to the Roman army. His station would allow nothing less. Grasping the spear in both hands, he instantly assumed the ready stance of a skilled soldier. Then, with a single lightning quick thrust, he ran the old woman through the midsection. She instantly crumpled to the ground. Vitalis withdrew the bloody weapon with a single jerk as he gazed down at his writhing victim.

Lucius and the other soldiers watched as two frail white hands reached up from the tall grass, as if to beckon Vitalis to come closer. The centurion knelt, and leaned his head down near the dark hood, as if to hear the woman’s dying words. Whatever she said to him seemed to strike some sympathetic chord within him, because he reached down and gently pushed the hood back away from the woman’s face, releasing folds of gray hair that streamed in the gentle wind. Lucius and the others were too far away to see her face, but whatever Vitalis saw made him pause. He knelt there for a long moment just staring into that face, even after she stopped moving.

Lucius could count on one hand the number of times he had seen Vitalis display any kind of emotion in front of the century, and even after the centurion returned to the waiting troops his face carried a detached look that made Lucius wonder if he had not seen a ghost.

“What’s wrong, sir?” Jovinus asked. “What did you see?”

"Form them up, Jovinus,” Vitalis said, either ignoring the question or not hearing it. “Form up, and return to quarters. I must go and see the tribune."

Again, he glanced at Lucius. Then, without another word, the centurion walked past them and soon disappeared inside the gates of the fort.

II

“You called for me, Centurion?” Lucius said as he ducked his head inside the tent.

He found Vitalis there, settled on a stool and staring blankly at the lantern hanging from the center post. The centurion seemed in another world. One hand loosely held a cup which he blindly filled from a half-drained wineskin. It was several moments before Vitalis's face registered any awareness that Lucius stood in his doorway.

“Oh, it’s you, Lucius. Come in."

"I received your summons, sir," Lucius replied evenly.

Vitalis sighed. “Come in, I said, Lucius. Don’t stand there at the door like a recruit. Come in out of the night, my friend. Come in and sit down.”

Lucius nodded and did as Vitalis requested, sitting on a stool opposite him. As Vitalis poured a cup for Lucius, Lucius noticed a ring on the centurion's index finger. It was made of dull gold, and had the worn images of a man and woman engraved on its flat face.

“Your father’s?” Lucius said, motioning to the ornament.

“You remember, Lucius?" Vitalis smiled. He removed the ring from his finger and then turned it over in his palm as if he were studying it for the first time. “It is indeed my father's ring. It is the only thing I have of his. I wear it whenever I need to think, and I have been thinking this night.”

Several moments of silence passed between them before Vitalis spoke again.

“How long have we known each other, Lucius?”

“Five, six years perhaps. Since Nova Carthago, when I was recruited into the Seventh, and you reenlisted.”

“It seems so long ago, “Vitalis said distantly. “We have marched many thousands of miles together, you and I.”

“Too many.”

“And while I have risen in station, you have remained in the ranks,” Vitalis said it in more of a chiding manner than a condescending one. “Not that it was never offered to you.”

“I desire to be a soldier, nothing more. You know that.”

Vitalis smiled. “Ah, yes, you’ve told me many times. A villa by the sea, a warm woman with soft hips, and a comfortable retirement. What more could a man wish for? But, come now, my friend. Though you have never told me of such, I know that you are a man of some education. You speak like a tribune, and you are wiser than most. Perhaps you are even wiser than me. Come now, Lucius, such simple pursuits cannot have been your sole reason for joining the legions.”

They were not, but Lucius had no intention of telling Vitalis, or anyone else, his true reasons for joining all those years ago.

"There was no other reason, sir," Lucius replied simply.

“Please, Lucius,” Vitalis said with some measure of endearment. “We were mere comrades once. I am Vitalis. Let us be mere comrades again, or at least for a few moments.”

The centurion extended the cup to him. Lucius smiled and took it. He took a long steady sip of the wine. It was rancid, but it was the first strong drink he had had in weeks and his body welcomed it.

A mule stirred angrily somewhere outside, and there were shouts in the night as men struggled to bring the unruly animal under control.

“Tribune Piso has it out for you," Vitalis said after the noise had subsided. "You know this, do you not?"

Lucius nodded, a bit surprised by the question.

“Something about your refusal to kill those Belgae in the village yesterday.”

“You were not there,” Lucius said, looking into his cup. “I don’t know what you heard, but I saved the tribune’s life.”

“Yes, I did hear that, and also that you refused to kill the chieftain’s family.”

Lucius took a long drink and said nothing.

“It will not do, Lucius. Come, now, you must help me." Vitalis took another sip of the wine, as if he required it to maintain his callousness. “It is a habit I could never break you of, Lucius. You have managed to retain it over the years. In battle, you are like a rabid wolf, but when it comes time to do the dirty work of soldiery, you always go soft.”

“I will kill every sword-wielding barbarian you put before me,” Lucius said succinctly. “I will kill those of sword bearing age. But I will not kill children of any race.”

“And women? What of them?”

Lucius shook his head.

“You see. Soft, just as I said.” Vitalis grinned at the jest, but then became serious. “You know I have been putting my neck out to protect that fancy of yours. You put me at risk, you know. Our hot-headed tribune thinks I should have you flogged.”

“Why haven’t you?”

“You know good and well why, you mule’s ass. You are the best man in the cohort, if not the entire legion. The others look up to you. They take courage from you. If I flog you, I am not flogging a single man, I’m flogging the century. To put it simply, you win battles for us, Lucius. I cannot afford to lose you to something as petty as a flogging. Impaled on a Gaul’s sword after you’ve slain two score by your own hand would be acceptable.” Vitalis smiled. “But not a flogging.”

“I am glad to see that winning that centurion’s plume did not remove all of your senses.”

“Still, I would watch my step, were I you, Lucius. Piso knows we are old comrades. He knows I won’t do anything to you, so he might try to take matters into his own hands. Be wary.”

“Is that why you wanted to talk?”

“No, actually,” Vitalis’s face became grave again, and he stared back into his cup. “Lucius, in all the time we’ve known each other, have you ever known me to bother about superstitions or magic?”

“Not that I ever witnessed.”

“I’ve seen many things in my days, Lucius. In all of my campaigns, going back even before we were recruited into this legion, when I was a common soldier with Pompey in the East, I have witnessed things,” he paused, “no, horrors – horrors, that cannot be conveyed to the civilized men back in Rome and the great cities. They would not comprehend it. I must admit, I have seen some things I myself could not grasp, things I could never explain. You have been a soldier long enough. You know of what I speak, do you not?”

Lucius nodded, though he had never given it much thought.

“There are spirits that dwell among the primitive races that toy with them, antagonize them, even torment them. These spirits stay clear of the cities of civilized men, or if they go there they are ignored. But out here, among the trees, the river, the hills, the very earth that seems to watch you with one all-seeing eye – out here, these spirits thrive.”

He looked off again as if deep in thought, and then a small smile appeared on his lips. “Did I ever tell you I was with Pompey when he took Jerusalem?”

Lucius shook his head.

“It was a marvelous city – marvelous and terrible all at once. I was with the Fourth then. We had marched down from Armenia to intervene in Judea, where the various factions were all beset with infighting. Pompey sided with the strongest and ended up subjugating the whole country. Remarkable man, that Pompey. Anyway, it was on the last day of the assault. My cohort took the Jews’ temple and lost quite a few legionaries doing it. After we had killed the last defender, and were finally in possession of the place, Pompey suddenly appears, bedecked in his black cuirass and flowing red cloak. He was a sight to see, I tell you. Of course, we all cheered. He came up the temple steps, and stopped several times for us to remove the Jew corpses in his path, but then he continued on, and we cheered some more. He could do no wrong for us, you know. Any one of us would have gotten down and kissed the stone bricks he walked on, if he asked us to.

“Well, we had all heard about this sacred place in the heart of the Jewish temple, a holy place where they went to commune with their God. Only the high priests could go inside, and then only on certain days of the year. Amongst the legions, it was rumored that that story was a whole lot of mule dung, and the real reason no one was allowed to go inside was because that’s where they hid the gold of their fabled King…oh, what was it now… Solodrake, or Solomon, or something like that. I can’t remember. Well, Pompey, of course, had heard this rumor, too, and he was set and determined to prove it false. So, he marches right up to the door of the temple and demands to be let in. One of the old Jewish priests shows up, in his white robes and headdress, and stands in Pompey’s way, telling him that he can’t enter because it will be an affront to their God. Old Pompey wasn’t one to be told no. He orders the priest to stand aside, and when the priest doesn’t, Pompey orders him run through. A half-dozen of us leapt to do it – our blood was up after so many of our mates fell taking that place. I wanted to do it, but another got there before me and put his sword through the old priest’s belly. Pompey stepped over the old bugger and walked on.”

Lucius stared at the floor as he listened, pretending to be interested in what Vitalis was saying. “So, what was in the room?”

“What?”

“The temple room. What was inside? Did Pompey ever say?”

“Oh, I think so. I can’t remember rightly, but it wasn’t anything worth writing home about. Some old manuscripts and a few trinkets. I think that was all. But that’s not the point of my story, Lucius. That’s not what permanently etched every detail of that day into my memory for all time.”

“What then?”

“It was what the old priest said to Pompey as he lay there crumpled, his blood spilling down the very steps Pompey had just ascended – and not just what he said, but the manner in which he said it. The old bastard had been gutted by a gladius. He was dying with every breath, but his face bore no pain. It had a savage look of hatred that sent chills through even the toughest of us.”

“What did he say?”

“He pointed a bloody finger at our general, and said in a loud and clear voice, ‘A curse on you and your seed, Pompey of Rome! A curse upon all who befriend you! A curse on the nation that bore you, and on any city that bears your name! Hear this now, and remember! You march haughtily into The Lord’s holy place today, but a day is coming when you will walk alone, when you will be pursued like a common criminal and driven from all lands. You will die by Roman hands. You will die like a butchered animal. You will die alone, but your loved ones will see your death. You will die far from Rome and be buried in an unmarked grave!’” Vitalis paused, his face suddenly grim. “I have never forgotten it. It is strange. Of course, on that day, we all laughed. Pompey walked on inside the temple and the old priest died on the steps. Who would ever think that the great Pompey would be anything but the first man of Rome? But ever since that day, I have wondered. Could it all happen just as the old priest said?”

“Surely not.”

“I don’t know, Lucius. I thought the same as you, until a fortnight after the battle. It was dusk, and the men of my contubernium had latrine duty just outside the city walls. We heard a man scream, and turned to see that a stone brick, large as a man, had dislodged itself from the wall above us. It fell nearly five stories, and landed directly on the man next to me, smashing him to a pulp.”

“The walls were old, I’m sure,” offered Lucius. “Either that, or some Jew dropped it over the side.”

“No, no. You weren’t there, Lucius. The walls were sound. There was no Jew, and no five men alive could have hefted that stone.”

“Surely, there is an explanation.”

“There is,” Vitalis said, looking at him intensely. “The crushed man was the very same soldier who slew the priest.”

Lucius smiled. “Come now, Vitalis.”

“It’s true. I swear it on the medal of bravery.” He pointed to a medallion on his mail shirt. “And think about it, Lucius. The priest’s prophecy could well come true, now. Trouble started for Pompey the moment he returned to Rome from that campaign, and it has not stopped since. The Senate fighting him over land and pensions for his troops – one of the reasons I joined up again, you know that. They say Caesar and Pompey are now at odds. Someone on staff told me letters are flying fast between Caesar and Rome. Pompey and the senators are talking of war crimes, and prosecution.”

Lucius sighed, not much caring about the politicians or their games.

“But, I am getting away from what I wanted to tell you about, Lucius.” He took a long gulp from the cup, before continuing. “When the Seventh had just arrived in Gaul, and we were chasing the Helvetii from one end of the land to the other, I had an experience that affected me much like the one in Jerusalem. You remember the fight on the hill, when the Helvetii took their sweet time putting their wagons in lager before moving to attack us? That time when you damned near got skewered by a dart, had I not pushed you out of the way.”

Lucius nodded.

“After the battle, as you remember, we rounded up a good deal of the females and children to make slaves of them. Some to serve the army, and some to send back to Rome, Well, in the frenzy of wailing women and screaming infants, I caught sight of a face in the crowd staring back at me – a woman’s face. The brow was crinkled and the eyes were locked onto mine. The next moment, it was gone, lost in a mass of thousands.”

“Perhaps she found you attractive, Vitalis.”

“I saw it for only a heartbeat,” Vitalis continued as though he had not heard the remark. “But in that heartbeat, I saw every line, every crevice, every feature, and eyes that could pierce stone. Her expression struck me. It was not the look of suffering, or that of fear, as you might expect of one being led off into a life of captivity. Instead, she gazed at me with a look of disgust, of extreme disapproval. There were several legions of Romans on the field that day, but she looked at me as if I, and I alone, were responsible.”

“Responsible for what?”

“I wish I knew. It sent chills up my spine, I’ll admit it to you, Lucius. I’ve fought Gauls painted blue and looking like the stuff of nightmares, but they never affected me as that single solemn face in the crowd. And I haven’t even told you the worst of it.” Vitalis took another drink and then glanced at Lucius in a nervous manner, very unlike the stout centurion that Lucius knew him to be. It appeared to bring him great pain to continue. “You see, Lucius, after I thought about it for awhile, I realized that I knew that face. I had seen it before, just not anywhere within a thousand miles of that place. I recognized it, and though I had not laid eyes on it in many a year, I knew it like I knew my own reflection. You see, it was the face of my mother.”

Lucius cleared his throat and looked at him uncomfortably. “You mean she resembled your mother?”

“No!” Vitalis slammed the cup down, suddenly agitated. “It was my mother, damn you! It was her! There is no doubt in my mind!”

Allowing Vitalis to recover his wits, Lucius said nothing, but contemplated the unlikelihood of such a thing. Years ago, when they were both in the ranks, Vitalis had once spoken of how his mother had died in a shipwreck when he was just a boy. The body was never recovered.

“Once I realized who it was,” Vitalis went on in a forced tempered manner. “I sought her out as best as I could. I searched every division of the prisoners, begging them, pleading with them to help me find her. Asked did they know of a Roman woman among them, gave her description down to the wave of her hair, but they only returned blank stares. None wanted to help me, or none had heard of her. Of course, there were thousands of slaves, and I could not possibly have laid eyes on every one in my search, so I sent letters off to my kin, in Spain and in Rome, asking them to look into the matter once the slave caravan arrived there. I have been waiting more than a year now for a response. None has ever come. No doubt they all think me mad.” Vitalis sighed heavily and covered his face with one hand, as if he was suddenly overcome with emotion. “And now this happens today, and I am at my wits end, Lucius. I believe they may be right. I may be going mad.”

“What happened today?” Lucius asked, but surmised that he knew the answer.

“That old woman. I didn’t see her face until I had slain her.” Vitalis was sobbing now. “It was her, Lucius! It was my mother!”

Lucius shifted in his chair. “How can that be?”

“I don’t know. I don’t, I don’t. She had the same damn condemnatory look, just as she had a year ago – even as she bled to death. Then she spoke to me, Lucius. She spoke to me. It was my mother’s voice. I’ll never forget that voice.”

“What did she say?” Lucius asked, though he was less eager to hear the answer than he was to try to discern just how far Vitalis’s brain had degenerated. There could be no doubt now that the centurion was hallucinating. Lucius had seen it before in other legionaries, though seldom.

As if he was reading Lucius’s thoughts, Vitalis’s sobbing suddenly ceased. He looked into Lucius’s eyes solemnly. “Do you think me mad, my friend? Does a mad man confide only in one he trusts, or does he tell the world? I know it seems fantastic, but I swear in my mind this has happened!” He looked at his hands. “These hands have slain the mother that bore them! I am cursed, Lucius – cursed!”

“What did she say?” Lucius asked again.

Vitalis put a hand to his face, as if he was having trouble saying the words. “She told me to take the ring from her hand when she died, and keep it with my father’s.” Vitalis looked at the ring on his finger through watered eyes. “I don’t know what I did after that, Lucius. I seem to remember seeing something on her finger that very much looked like my mother’s ring. But I was too far gone to look any further. I believe I ran away, and the next thing I know, I’m standing before Piso, feeling as though I had been to the underworld and back. I honestly don’t know what happened.”

Lucius looked at him uncertainly. “Then, you told all of this to the tribune?”

Vitalis nodded. “Part of it.”

“What was his reaction?”

“He said that he would discuss my irrational behavior with the legate when we rejoined the legion.”

“Perhaps you are suffering from an ailment, my friend?” Lucius said carefully. “Perhaps a trip to the infirmary would – ”

“And let Piso take my century from me after the physician declares me mad as Dionysius? I would rather die first, Lucius! I will not face such dishonor. You will promise to run me through before that happens! Do you understand me?”

Half-expecting such a response, Lucius threw up his hands and sighed. “Then there is nothing left for us to do but go back to that woman’s corpse and examine the ring on her hand. If the ring is there, as you say, then you are not mad. Some trick of the fates has placed your mother in the land of the Belgae and then placed you in a circumstance to slay her. If that is the case, you are not to blame. A man cannot defy the fates.” Lucius paused. “But if we search the woman’s body and do not find the ring…”

“I know,” Vitalis said considering. “One outcome is as bad as the other, but it must be done.” He looked at Lucius. “I could never go back there, Lucius. I cannot go. I will not go. You must do it.”

“Now?”

“This instant!” he said. “Before the wolves carry her off. My mother’s ring is the duplicate of my father’s. If you recover it, then I can prove to the tribune that I am not mad.”

Lucius nodded, though he had little hopes for a successful outcome. He was certain that Vitalis was suffering from a blow to the head, but he could not turn his back on him.

“I suppose I can do it,” Lucius finally replied. “But it will require a pass from the tribune to go outside the walls.”

“I will get it,” Vitalis said furtively, standing and buckling on his sword belt. “That bastard must allow me to prove my sanity. Meet me by the decumanus gate in one hour. Arm yourself well, my friend. If this was not such a sensitive matter, I would consider letting you take Jovinus and some of the others with you. But then the whole cohort would be calling me mad by sunup.”

Lucius nodded, but wondered if that might not indeed be the case. He rose to leave, but Vitalis stopped him before he reached the tent door.

“Lucius. My gratitude to you, my friend.”

III

It was well after midnight, when the south gate closed behind Lucius and the perfect order of the torch-lit camp was replaced by the dark, untamed world before him. The surrounding forest was indiscernible, merely a deeper shade of blackness against the star-filled sky. Packs of wolves howled in the distance, their song filtering through the trees like that of the sirens of Odysseus.

It had taken much longer than anticipated to get the tribune’s approval. Lucius had waited at the gate for nearly two hours before a very distraught Vitalis showed up with pass in hand, his mood indicative of the ordeal he had undergone to obtain it. Even with the pass, the sentries had only reluctantly opened the gate to let Lucius into the black world beyond.

The pool and field, where the century had unwound hours before, was now a sea of darkness that merged with the black of the surrounding tree line. In the distance, the auxiliary camp was lit by several bonfires. The song and laughter of the Aedui floated across the dark field. Over there, the spirits were flowing freely, in sharp contrast to the silent discipline of the Roman camp.

Lucius did not expect it would take long to find the woman’s body. His only fear was that it might have been disturbed or rifled. The wolves were up, but still far away. He needed to get to the body first.

He groped his way around the field, finding the edge of the pond quite unexpectedly by dousing a foot in the muddy shallows. He remembered the general vicinity well enough and felt sure that he could find his way there, but as he knew from a dozen campaigns in Gaul, the forest could play tricks on the mind. A spot viewed from one angle never looked the same from another. The trees had a way of throwing off all estimates of distance and depth.

He approached the tree line, and felt the dark void within, as if the trees were beckoning him to come inside. Certainly, there could be Belgae there watching the Roman camp, perhaps even watching him at this very moment.

After cautiously approaching the area where he guessed the woman had fallen, he began to move outward in a widening spiral, the long cool grass brushing the exposed skin between his bootstraps. The first attempt turned up nothing. So, he displaced the center of his search several paces, and then searched again in the same manner. He did this several more times, before concluding that the woman’s body was no longer there. It was possible the wolves had already dragged it off, but he could not hear any of the baying or crying often heard from feeding wolves competing for a position around a bleeding carcass. The wolf song that now haunted the night sounded very alone, very sad, and very far away.

As he stepped into the deeper blackness past the perimeter of trees, he heard something else – something far off, and definitely not of wolf origin. It sounded like the chant of a human, man or woman it was hard to tell. The distant revelry of the auxiliary camp made it even more difficult to discern, but it almost sounded like wailing. Whoever made the sound was far away. Then he noticed a dim light deep within the forest, more of a glow than anything. He moved to the right and left several times but could not find any spot that would line up a direct path through the abundant tree trunks to expose the light’s source. Whatever its source, the harrowing wail seemed to come from that direction. For a few hesitant moments, Lucius considered investigating, but then thought better of it. A few more steps into the black wood and he might have trouble finding his way back to the camp. He could continue his search for the hag’s body in the morning, and probably have better luck.

Having made up his mind to return to camp, Lucius turned around, but then stopped dead in his tracks. A twig had snapped to his left, only a few paces away. He held his breath. There was no doubt something was there. The foul aroma of body odor hung in the air and told him the intruder was not a mere forest rodent. Gripping the hilt of his gladius, Lucius held the short sword as still as possible, that its polished blade might not catch a peek of moonlight. The weapon had been in his hand from the moment he had set foot outside the camp. He had left his bulky shield behind in the camp, but he had brought other things. The pugio dagger, sheathed at his belt, could be in his hand in less than a heartbeat, and he fully intended to reach for it, once the stranger made another move. The other certainly knew of his presence, or more likely had been watching him for quite some time. It was now a waiting game to see who would flinch first.

“It is not wise to tread this far outside of the camp at night, Roman,” a man’s voice said from the blackness. The voice had a strong accent that could stem from any one of several different languages spoken in these parts. Regardless, the man obviously spoke Latin fluently.

Suspecting it might be a trick to give away his position, Lucius remained silent.

“There are a dozen spears on you right now, Roman.” The voice spoke again, firm this time, but not threatening. “I suggest you speak up, lest I decide you’re a Belgic spy and order my men to add your head to the lot.”

“A dozen?” Lucius challenged. “I’ll wager only one, and that one being yours!”

A sharp order was uttered in a language Lucius recognized as that of the Aedui. An instant later, several strikes of a flint ignited a torch to his right, bathing the surrounding area in an orange glow and revealing grim, painted faces behind mud-coated spears. By and large the men were all stark naked, their white skin painted black with the forest mud. Some wore leather caps, but none wore helmets. Lucius identified them as the mustached warriors of the Aedui. They and their countrymen made up the bulk of the auxiliary cohort. The night watch was exchanged from one night to the next between the Romans and their allies, and this night evidently belonged to the auxiliary cohort, something Lucius had forgotten to check before leaving the fort.

“Convinced now, Roman?” said a bright-eyed, stocky warrior with long mud-caked mustachios hanging down to his neck. He was the only warrior who appeared amused. The others looked ready to kill Lucius at the snap of the stocky one’s fingers.

“I think you need a lesson in counting,” Lucius said mockingly. “There are only ten of you.”

“Oh, looky here, boys, we have a feisty one – another arrogant Roman arse. And a big son of a bitch, too. Big for a Roman, anyway.”

“I am from Spain.”

“What’s the matter, Mister Spanish Roman?” the stocky one said. “Do you think ten’s not enough?”

“Not nearly enough.”

“Arrogant Spanish Roman arse, just like I said. But why would a Spanish Roman be lurking about in the forest in the dead of night and not tucked into his sweet bed like the rest of his lily-livered comrades?”

“I would mind your tongue, you Gallic whore’s whelp!” Lucius replied testily.

“Whoa, easy now,” the stocky one said, glancing at the others. “You’re lucky these lads don’t speak your tongue. Otherwise, they’d have filleted you for that. You should learn better manners.”

Lucius breathed a little easier but still held his sword poised for action. “Who are you?”

“Where I come from, the one with the greater numbers asks the questions, but I will make an exception in this case. My name is Divitiacus. You may have heard of me.”

“No.”

The mustached man appeared put out by that, the grin receding for the first time. “I command the Aedui. Do they not tell you these things in the legions? They obviously don’t tell you how to keep your head out of your arse.”

“How’s that?”

“You were about to get yourself killed, my friend. You’re lucky I and my boys stopped you.” Divitiacus scratched an itch on his hair-covered chest, starting a small rain of flaky mud. Seeing the puzzled look on Lucius’s face, he continued. “You were about to go over to that fire to see if that crying bitch was over there, weren’t you? It’s an old trick of the Belgae. A few more steps, my friend, and you would have been the guest of honor at the next sacrifice to Lugus. They like to stuff live Romans inside the bramble statue before setting it alight. Brings them good luck, they say.”

Lucius looked back in the direction in which he had seen the glow, but it was now lost in the circle of torchlight.

“I’ve told it to Caesar until I am blue in the face, that you Romans would do best to let us handle the night watches,” Divitiacus said grinning again. “We know these people and their ways far better than you.”

Lucius looked at him in surprise, trying to picture this mud-covered, bare-assed creature keeping company with the likes of Julius Caesar.

“Yes, I know your pro-consul, my young friend. I know him personally,” the Aedui chieftain said the last somewhat condescendingly. “Now, what is your name, Spanish Roman?”

Faced with the spearpoints once again, Lucius thought it best to acquiesce. “I am Lucius Domitius of the 9th Century, 3rd Cohort, Seventh Legion.”

“The Belgae are out tonight, young Lucius Domitius,” Divitiacus said. “They watch our every move. They have been watching us for some time. Your camp and ours, the order of our march, the sum of the baggage, the number of pack animals – you can be sure that the Belgae council have been told of it all. Do not venture outside the camp alone again. Not unless you want your skin to end up tanned and leathered and turned into a Nervii sword grip. Something is brewing in this land. An army is gathering from all of the Belgic lands, even those far away. The prisoners we tortured yesterday all say as much. Watch your step. They hate the Aedui with a passion, a hatred going back several generations. Now, they hate the Romans, too.”

“That is not unexpected,” Lucius said, thinking of the village they had left in ruins.

“No, I suppose not,” the Aedui chief eyed him, his smile losing its animation. “And how long have you been with the Seventh, Lucius Domitius?”

“Six years.”

“Uh-huh,” Divitiacus eyed him suspiciously. “So, you would have been with the Seventh when they attacked the Helvetii on the east bank of the Rhone last summer?”

“I was there,” Lucius replied. That was not the answer the Aeduan chief was looking for, and Lucius well knew it. Lucius paused purposefully and waited until the grim look forming on Divitiacus’s face had reached its full intensity before smiling and adding, “But the Seventh was not on the east bank. They crossed the Rhone farther down river to attack the Helvetii on the west bank.”

Divitiacus laughed out loud. “So, you’re a trickster, are you, Lucius, my Roman friend. Playing me at my own game? Alright, I believe you. And your business outside the wall?”

“I am looking for the body of an old woman who was slain near here. I cannot find it.”

Divitiacus looked at him disgustedly. “I knew you Romans were a depraved lot. You’d have done better to have taken some of those Belgic whores from the village, as we did. We prefer our whores alive!”

At that moment, an inhuman screech cried out somewhere in the forest. Instinctively ducking out of the torchlight, Lucius was surprised when the Aedui chieftain and his warriors did not do the same. They did not even bother to extinguish the torch, as if the screech was something they had expected.

“Rise up, my Roman friend.”

“Do you know what that was?” Lucius asked curiously.

Divitiacus smiled, his face almost sinister in the torchlight. “The Belgae play a crafty game, Roman. But two can play as well as one.”

While Lucius was wondering just what the hell that meant, two new mud-covered and naked Aeduan warriors appeared in the torchlight.

“And two more makes a dozen, Roman,” Divitiacus said mischievously before turning to greet the newcomers. “Ah, Seisyll and Morcant, there you are. What have you brought us?”

Each warrior smiled and presented a still dripping severed head, held by the hair. The faces were frozen in expressions of sheer terror. Presumably it had been these men that had made the screeching noise, just before Seisyll and Morcant beheaded them.

“Here’s two more to add to your line, Haerviu,” the chieftain said, gesturing to a warrior who dragged along a rope with no less than five heads strung on it. All appeared fresh and must have been severed within the last hour. “We have been busy tonight, Roman. These two new ones were waiting to waylay you. But we think ahead of them, you see. While we played the part of the bait, with our torch burning bright, Seisyll and Morcant were watching and listening. The hunters become the prey.” Divitiacus suddenly frowned and examined one of the heads more closely. “What’s this now? This is no Nervii. Neither is this one.”

Lucius saw the short clipped dark hair of the head now in the chieftain’s big hand. A green wolf’s paw tattoo stood out on the left cheek of the dead man’s face. Lucius instantly recognized it as one of the men who had been waiting in ambush with Amelius inside the village hut.

“These men are mule drivers,” Lucius said. “Cisalpine Gauls.”

“Why in the name of Lugus would they be waiting around for you?” Divitiacus voiced Lucius’s exact thoughts.

“I do not know.”

“So, what happened between you? Did you cheat them at dice? Did they lose some wager to you?”

“They’ve been with the legions for over a year – at least since the Seventh came to Gaul. Aside from that, I do not know them.”

“They knew you. That means someone put them up to it. You must have enemies, young Lucius.” The chieftain smiled. “I like a man with enemies. Honest men have enemies. You never can trust a man that has too many friends.” He shrugged and then tossed the head into a bush as if it were a bare chicken bone. “Any ideas who might want to usher you into the afterlife?”

Lucius shrugged, though he had somewhat of an idea who might be responsible.

“If I were you,” Divitiacus eyed him. “I’d start with whoever sent you out here this night. These bastards expected you. They have been waiting out here for some time. My men would have seen them leave the fort otherwise. Judging by your size, and the way you hold that weapon, I’d say they might have been better to bring a few more compatriots along. In any event, someone put them up to this.”

“You speak as though you know this to be true.”

The chieftain smiled and slapped him on the back. “Among my people, Lucius, nobles do not live very long unless they are clever. You have to think like a usurper to avoid one. You have to think like a snake. These two were snakes. But there's a larger snake that put them up to it. Mark you me, my young friend.”

Wondering just how many more armed mule drivers might be lurking in the woods, Lucius silently questioned the wisdom of continuing to stand under a burning torch for all to see. But Divitiacus did not seem concerned. Perhaps he had other warriors watching and listening.

“I should be getting back,” Lucius said.

“I will not stop you. But I do offer you this one word of advice, Lucius Domitius of Spain. No matter what your purpose out here tonight, these men meant your death. For some reason, they wanted you, and you alone, dead. Be wary. Whoever sent you out here tonight cannot be trusted.”

IV

The next day’s march started early, well before the sun peeked over the tree line. There were two fewer mule drivers to handle the wagons, but no one seemed to pay it much mind.

As the camp was disassembled, Lucius stole a moment away in the dull gray light of dawn to search the spot one last time. But again, he found nothing except for a stain of blood on the grass where the old woman had lain.

He reported as much to Vitalis, carefully watching the centurion’s reaction, but Vitalis merely shrugged, as if too consumed with the preparations of the column to bother with it – as if he had not been desperate about the whole thing the night before. He was acting oddly, speaking authoritatively, all professional and almost avoiding Lucius entirely. That was alarming in itself, but even more alarming was the short exchange of glances Lucius had seen between Vitalis and Piso whenever the tribune trotted by on his black mare.

Something had happened last night when Piso and Vitalis had met. That much was certain. As much as Lucius did not want to consider it, he began to recall the words of the Aeduan chieftain. That Piso was responsible for the assassination attempt, Lucius had never had any doubt, but now the overwhelming feeling began to creep over him that Vitalis was involved, too, and that the centurion, his old comrade, had knowingly sent him into that trap. Lucius quickly dismissed the thought as foolish and paranoid as he finished packing his kit.

The field was churned to mud again as drivers and legionaries loaded mules and carts with camp equipage. Reusable posts from the palisade walls were toted across the legionaries’ backs, along with shields, trenching tools and pila, while those posts deemed unsalvageable were burned. The auxiliary cavalry took off and disappeared down the path ahead, long before the first file of infantry began to march. As they had on the day before, the twelve centuries of the two Roman cohorts, led the march, stretching out into a long snaking column before they were followed by two hundred odd pack animals, a dozen carts, the naked captives, and finally the five hundred Aeduan spearmen of the auxiliary cohort.

The legion marched through forested country that was as dreary as it had been the day before. It was a long march for the soldiers. The heat and humidity rose with the sun, awaking millions of biting insects that penetrated the gaps in their armor and devoured their exposed legs. At noon, a rider on a lathered horse arrived streaming a long red banner behind him. He briefly went into consultation with the tribune and then clattered away again on a fresh mount. Word soon made it through the ranks that the expedition was being recalled to rejoin the main body, and the long column soon made a sharp turn to the south.

“Keep those men in step!” Piso could be heard to say to various centurions down the column. “I expect my troops should look sharper than this. They should march straight and stiff like the glorious eagle that goes before their legion. Remember, my centurions, men that march well, fight well.”

The seasoned centurions acknowledged, showing the respect due the tribune’s rank, as they were expected to do. But in the ranks, the men grumbled.

“Damn that mule’s arse!” Jovinus muttered marching next to Lucius, his face streaming with perspiration. “Up from Rome not more than a month and now he think he’s Alexander of bloody Macedon! What I wouldn’t give for that black beast of his to step in a nice deep hole and throw his pompous arse into a tree.”

Lucius had thought of sharing last night’s events with Jovinus, but with the prospect of Vitalis involved in some kind of conspiracy against him, he was not sure who he could trust. Several times when the terrain afforded it, Lucius looked over his shoulder at the column of auxiliary to catch a glimpse of the riders at their head. There were no mud-covered warriors in sight. In fact, the cluster of mustached Aeduan nobles riding together were barely distinguishable in their green cloaks and conical bronze helmets. If Divitiacus was among them, Lucius could not tell.

Mid-afternoon found the cohorts making camp again. Trenches were dug, stakes planted, and palisade walls erected as they had been the day before.

While taking a moment’s pause from the back-breaking labor, Lucius considered the options he had been mulling in his head all day long. As much as his emotions stirred over Vitalis’s possible betrayal, what had him most perplexed was the reason behind it all. Why should Piso or Vitalis wish to do away with him, and why would they go to such elaborate means to do it? He was just a ranker. He could not go around demanding answers from a tribune, or even from a centurion, for that matter. Either through circumstance, or intent, Vitalis had never allowed him close enough during the day for a confrontation, and he got the feeling he could look forward to similar behavior in the future.

At that moment, Lucius noticed the mule drivers pulling the teams into the camp corral. The thought suddenly occurred to him that perhaps one of them knew something. They were, by and large, a silent lot, seldom mixing with the legionaries. As Lucius knew the name of every man in his century, the drivers knew one another. They would surely know the names of the two men that had been waiting to kill him, and with any luck, one or two of them might have been intimates of the deceased. With no other viable source of information available, Lucius decided he would start there.

After the work detail, he ate the evening meal with the rest of his century, making sure that Vitalis saw him there, and then he retired with the others to the tents to get out of the mosquito filled air. But while the other soldiers bedded down for the night, or started card or dice games, Lucius slipped out of the tent and made his way over to the corral where also sat the tents of the mule drivers, smiths, cutlers and other impedimenta of the cohort. There was little to do within the confines of a marching camp, and the few hours of idleness were spent much in the same manner by soldier and artisan alike.

There were other legionaries there, of course – having swords or javelins sharpened, boots repaired, or links in their armor refitted – so Lucius’s presence was not unusual. Still, he hoped to blend in as best he could, and did not wish to call attention to himself. He did not want word to get out that he was snooping around.

A smithy’s hammer rang out in long repetitive beats. Horses and mules muzzled with feedbags munched silently. Harnesses were repaired and made ready for the next day’s march. Groups of men idled around fires talking casually. Some glanced at him with a moment’s curiosity, but most paid no attention to him. He had brought his gladius, in the event that he needed an excuse for being where he was, though the blade had been sharpened only two days before.

A ruckus sounded from a well-lit tent nearby. The tent flaps were open, and he could see that it was full of men, cheering on an arm-wrestling contest between two shirtless men. Lucius entered and found a spot to sit between two of the onlookers. He nodded and smiled to the man next to him, and the man smiled back. The man held a cup of spirits and appeared to have already imbibed in several cups of the Gallic brew.

“Long march today, soldier, eh?” The man said pleasantly, as if to make small talk. “It’s been a long time since I’ve pushed my teams this fast.”

From the man’s dress, Lucius assumed him to be a mule driver, and a Cisalpine Gaul, like the two men from last night.

“It was indeed.” Lucius replied.

“Care to put out a wager?” The man asked Lucius, cutting his eyes at the contest of strength that was about to begin. “The black Nubian is favored ten to one.”

So that was the motivation for the man’s friendliness. It would serve Lucius’s purpose. He produced five denarii from the purse at his belt.

“Five on the Nubian,” Lucius said, smiling.

“I will take that bet, soldier,” the man said, producing the two sestertii that he would put at stake.

The wrestling match was no contest. The Nubian’s opponent, a short barrel-chested Gaul, was much stronger than he looked – either that, or he had the proper technique down – because the Nubian’s arm went over like a wet reed. Lucius had fully expected that, and pretended to part with his money reluctantly.

“Sorry, soldier,” the Gaul said, smiling. “Better luck next time. Care to place another?”

“Maybe. But first, I was thinking that perhaps you could help me.”

“With what?” the Gaul eyed him suspiciously.

“There were two men found dead outside the fort last night. They were team handlers, like you. Did you know them?”

The man's smile faded. He glanced around the room, and then made to move elsewhere, but Lucius flashed another five denarii, prompting him to sit back down.

“Yes, I knew them,” he said guardedly.

“One man had a tattoo on his face, on the left cheek.”

“Bren was his name. But I don’t believe I caught your name, soldier.”

“My name isn’t important, but five more denarii for you might be.”

Again the man glanced around the room, before taking the offered money and pocketing it. “What do you want to know?”

“I played a game of dice with Bren a fortnight ago,” Lucius lied. “I must admit, he beat me squarely, as you just did. I could only pay him half at the time. I still owe the other half, and I am an honest man, to the living as well as the dead.”

“I see,” the man said, in a tone that indicated he did not believe a word of Lucius’s story.

“Anyway, I want to clear my conscience of the whole thing and pay my debts in full. Did Bren have a wife? Did he have any children? Someone I can send the money to?”

The man chuckled and took a drink. “I did not know him well enough to tell you any of that.”

“Can you tell me who might know these things?”

The man looked around at the dozens of other jabbering spectators who were busy placing bets for the next round, and then gestured with his cup to the opposite side of the tent.

“Finnan,” he said. “Finnan was his friend. That’s him, over there.”

Lucius followed his gaze to see a short, round-bellied man looking back at him from the other side of the crowded space. Finnan’s eyes looked nervous when they met Lucius’s, and he abruptly rose and walked out of the tent. Obviously, he knew something, and Lucius nearly clawed his way over the other spectators in an effort to not let him get away. Once outside, Finnan broke into a sprint, and Lucius bolted after him. It did not take long to overtake him. Finnan was paunch and in no shape to run, and could not hope to escape the swift muscled legs of a legionary. Lucius caught up with him and violently pulled him by the hair into the shadows between two tents. The man started to yell out, but stopped mid-yell as the cold steel of Lucius’s drawn dagger touched the fat skin around his neck.

“If you call out, I will slit your fat throat. Is that understood?”

The man nodded, his jowls shaking as he did so.

“I want to know about your friend Bren. I want to know why he was outside the fort last night, and I want to know who sent him there.”

The man shook his head, struggling not to brush too briskly against the sharp point of the dagger. “I have no idea. I don't know what you're talking about. I drive the carts. I don't get involved.”

Lucius clapped him on the ear, and then pressed the pugio harder into the fatty folds. “I think you’re lying. Your friends were waiting for me in the forest. I want to know why. And you're going to tell me.”

“They were paid.”

“By who?”

The man looked reluctant and resisted but more pressure from the dagger point made him start talking again.

“It was the tribune’s adjutant. The one with the golden curls. He said that if they killed you, they would each get three hundred denarii.”

Lucius gasped, not so much at the murder plot as at the amount. Evidently, he was worth a small fortune – dead.

“I want to know more.” Lucius said, pressing the knife harder. “Tell me more!”

“I don’t know much more than that.”

“Try harder.”

“I only know that they tried to kill you before, but something went wrong with that. I'm just telling you what I heard. I don't know any more. I swear it. I swear I was not involved.”

“Is anyone else involved in this?”

“I-I do not know. All I know is they want you dead. And they are willing to pay handsomely for it. And they will kill anyone who tells you or warns you in any way.”

Lucius considered for a moment. If the Tribune wanted him dead for some above board reason, some infraction he had committed in his duties, there would have been no reason to go about it in such a surreptitious manner. The tribune certainly would not have brought the two mule drivers in on the plot for fear of a scandal. There had to be another reason, something personal. But what grudge could the tribune possibly hold against him? It seemed absurd that Piso would pay six hundred denarii just to have him killed.

And then there was Vitalis.

“Were there any other Romans involved in this?” Lucius demanded.

“I don’t know.”

“Were there any?”

Finnan struggled, appearing much agitated by the question. After a swift box on the ears, he started talking again. “I don’t know, I tell you! I saw a centurion, a big fellow, leaving the tribune’s tent that night. I can't remember his name.”

“Was it Vitalis?”

The man did not answer. But he did not have to. His eyes were confirmation enough.

Lucius released his hold on the man and sat down on the ground, speechless, and crestfallen. He did not even move to stop Finnan from regaining his feet and timidly walking away, all the while looking back to see if the stupefied legionary was following him. But Lucius did not follow. Vitalis had betrayed him – his confidant and trusted comrade of so many campaigns, whom he had fought alongside, whom he had saved on countless occasions. The whole affair about his mother must have been an elaborate ruse, albeit a somewhat imaginative and cold-hearted one. To think that Vitalis would play on his loyalty in such a way. It seemed on the verge of fantasy.

Lucius stumbled back to his tent with his mind in a daze, and he did not think of much else for several hours after.

V

“Leave the mounts here, Centurion,” Piso said, throwing a leg over the rain-spattered mane of his own horse to dismount. “Two men to guard them, no more, Vitalis. We go the rest of the way on foot. Better for the element of surprise, you see.”

Two squads of legionaries moved in a line through the trees – twenty-one men – following Piso and Amelius. They were far from the column, having marched away from the road at the bidding of their tribune. Now they followed, obediently but reluctantly, as the two nobles worked their way closer to the clearing that marked the edge of a small farm. Piso halted the two squads, still concealed just inside the tree line.

“Get down!” Piso commanded the soldiers. The tribune and his companion moved behind a large moss covered trunk, shrouded in brush, where they would have a good vantage point to survey the place. Snickering like trickster schoolboys, the two watched and waited.

“Are we to scavenge the farm for wheat, sir?” Vitalis said with controlled impatience, after stewing for several moments.

Piso looked back contemptuously at the veteran and whispered harshly, “You are to do what I tell you, Centurion, and when I tell you! Now get back with your men!”

Vitalis returned to the rank red-faced.

“What are we doing here, Centurion?” Jovinus whispered, leaning on his spear, his standard left back with the rest of the century. “This place couldn’t feed a – ”

“Shut up!” Vitalis snapped.

Vitalis was on edge. Lucius could sense it, as surely as he felt his own skin crawling with perspiration from the infernal humidity. The centurion still avoided looking him directly in the eyes, and Lucius now knew without a doubt that his old comrade was part of the conspiracy, no matter how outlandish that seemed.

Lucius caught a short glance from Piso over the tribune’s shoulder. He had received similar glances from Piso and Amelius all morning, and he knew the two nobles were up to something. Lucius surmised it was no coincidence that his squad was one of those chosen for this little foray away from the column, and he was ever vigilant in his search for some clue that would unravel the two nobles’ plan before it could be put into execution.

The column had marched early that morning, and Piso had pushed the cohorts hard, as if he had an appointment to keep. The young noble evidently had expected to reach the main Roman army this day, and thus he and his companion were bedecked in their finest attire should they encounter the legate of the Seventh Legion or, Jupiter forbid, the proconsul Gaius Julius Caesar himself. They wore scarlet cloaks that were so deeply colored that they must have been packed away for the duration of the expedition. Their bronze corselets carried a shine that must have kept their slaves up all night to attain. Their mounts were freshly brushed and combed as if they bore a triumphator’s chariot.

All throughout the morning’s march, they had encountered farms of various size situated between banks of trees and rows of hedges, but they had found all to be abandoned, and the surrounding fields stripped bare to deprive the Roman invaders of forage. The Nervii were nowhere in sight, but fresh tracks in the mud gave ample evidence of large numbers of men and horses moving about.

“I want two squads, Vitalis, nothing more,” Piso had said, after reining in his horse next to the halted century. “That damned Aeduan horse is off gallivanting, otherwise I’d use them.”

The column had stopped for a rest interval at midday, just as the heat of the day intensified, and the bubbling clouds began to rise above the tree line.

Piso had glanced dismissively at the perspiring file of men that comprised Lucius’s squad. “They will do.” The tribune had said casually, as if he did not know one rank from another, but Lucius knew better.

“Weapons and shields only, Vitalis,” Piso had added, as the first flash of lightning and the rolling crackle of thunder announced the arrival of the afternoon rains. “Leave kits behind. There is a farm I wish to examine a few miles off. It shouldn’t take long. Your men can ride on the mounts we took from the village.”

The twenty-one man contingent – two squads – including Piso and Amelius, had left the column and had set out onto a narrow forest path under darkening skies. The clouds released a light rain that pattered the helmets of the legionaries and wetted the manes of their horses. From his mount near the rear, Lucius had watched the scarlet cloaks and plumed helmets of the nobles at the head of the formation. He had concluded on the previous night, as he had tossed and turned in his bedroll, that he had never seen either of them before they had joined the Seventh. Aside from the small loot he had taken at the Nervii village, he could think of nothing he might have done in the small time they had been with the legion to incite them to murder him. He had wracked his brain to come up with a reason for the plot against him, and no matter from which angle he considered it, he kept drawing the same conclusion – that this had to do with his life before he had joined the legions – those tragic events that had so thoroughly shaped his destiny.

It was the only thing that made sense.

Now, as he stood on the edge of a clearing, looking out over the small farm with the rest of his squad, his nearly forgotten past was coming back to haunt him.

Tucked away in a small valley where the forest had been hewn back to form several small fields, the Nervii farm did not seem significant, or worth the tribune’s time, in any way. It was nothing more than a small hut with a low rock wall, a small stone mill somewhat removed, and a few animal pens. The fields could not yield much wheat, perhaps enough to feed a handful of families – nothing more. The only thing that distinguished it was the fact that it was intact. For some reason, the Nervii had spared it from the destruction they had meted out upon the other farms of the region. Perhaps it belonged to someone important among the Nervii.

After more waiting with no activity at the farm, Piso began to sigh heavily, and a look of disillusionment came over him, as if he were a child told he could not play.

“Are you sure about this, Amelius?” he said, resting his back against a large tree trunk. “We’ve been waiting for ages.”

“Just wait a little longer, my friend,” his blonde-haired companion replied, expectantly. “I rode by here earlier this morning. I know what I saw. Give it time. I'm sure she will come out.”

“I bloody well hope so. This had better be worth it. We had best be getting back to the column as it is.”

Piso looked up at the gray clouds above the treetops, and then at the rank of legionaries, his eyes finally settling on Lucius. This time he was not smiling, and Lucius felt a hatred in that stare that he had not felt before.

“But not without taking care of our other business first,” Piso mumbled, his eyes still on Lucius.

The tribune’s attention was pulled away by Amelius’s hand on his shoulder.

“You see,” Amelius whispered, pointing at the small hut. “Just as I said.”

Two people had emerged from the dwelling. One was a boy, no more than ten years old and weighed down by a large bucket that he embraced in order to carry it. The other was a young Belgic maiden with long blonde hair. Even under the gray sky, her golden hair seemed to shine like fields of grain. It was tied once near the nape of her neck and hung all the way down to her waist. Like the boy, she, too, was encumbered by a large bucket, but she sang merrily as she worked, bending and kneeling as she and the boy fed the penned animals. Though her gray woolen dress was plain and tattered in several places, it revealed a bosom and curves that caught the lustful eyes of every legionary hiding in the woods.

“Oh, now that is something!” Piso said excitedly.

“I knew you would be pleased.” Amelius smiled delightedly, apparently pleased with himself.

“She will do nicely,” Piso said, practically salivating.

So, that’s what all the waiting was about? Lucius thought. This was not a scavenging foray at all, but merely the tribune and his companion seeking carnal pleasures in the middle of the day. Evidently, the schoolboys had not had enough rape and murder in the village. The two nobles whispered to each other and giggled as they concocted deranged designs of what they were going to do to her. Glancing once at Vitalis, Lucius saw that the centurion’s face was set in a disapproving grimace beneath his rain spattered helmet.

Feeling remorseful for the woman as he watched her, Lucius came close to shouting out a warning to her, but he knew it would do no good. She could not get away. Little did she know what horrors awaited her. She looked to be in her late teenage years, and might be the farmer’s widow or daughter or wife. Judging from her attire, she had little to show for it, but she was attractive. Unfortunate for her, that blessing would turn into a curse today.

An outburst of barking sounded from one of the pens. Even from this distance, Lucius could see the flash of white fangs and the black, pointed ears of the large grey-coated dogs. There were two of them, penned together inside a sturdy wooden cage. Lucius had encountered the same breed in battle with the Germans, and knew them to be vicious when riled. The disturbance had interrupted the young woman’s singing, and she ordered the boy to stop work while she scanned the tree line around the farm. The hounds must have barked habitually whenever they caught the scent of any creature, man or beast, because, after a few moments of looking, the maiden dismissed their nervousness and was soon lost in her work again. Again, she began to sing, and not even the noise of the beasts could spoil the transcendence of her song. She sang a Celtic tune of which Lucius could not understand a word, but the haunting melody seemed to carry the voice of the very hills and trees around them.

“A tasty little thing,” Amelius said to the tribune. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes, you are just what I am looking for.” Piso said in a devilish whisper, as if talking to the distant woman directly. “I will have you, my pretty. Now, be a good girl, and go back inside for me.”

The impatient tribune had to wait a little longer than he desired, but eventually, the buckets were empty, and the woman and the boy went back inside the hut, her muffled singing still audible.

Piso then whipped around and gestured to Vitalis to follow with the two squads.

“Sir!” Vitalis interjected in a harsh whisper. “I advise against this. Something is not right here.”

Call it the instinct of a veteran of the Gallic wars, but Lucius fully understood Vitalis’s meaning. Aside from the dogs, the forest was too quiet to be natural. It was something that could only be felt, not conveyed, and the hardened veterans felt it now.

But the inexperienced and reckless Piso was oblivious to it. Ignoring the centurion’s warning, he and Amelius broke from cover and began sprinting toward the hut with swords drawn. Vitalis had no choice but to order the two squads forward.

“Stay together!” he commanded, glancing at Lucius for the first time since they had left the column. It was a guilty look and it did not last long. “Proper interval, now! Two ranks! Line abreast! March!”

Lightning flashed again, reflecting off of the legionaries’ bronze helmets. The soldiers crossed the field at a brisk pace, the light sprinkle of rain beading on the links in their mail armor and soaking through to their tunics. The tribune and his companion had crossed the field far ahead of the legionaries, and were both leaping over the waist-high rock wall before the soldiers were half-way there. The two reached the hut and took up positions on both sides of the door, waiting for the woman to re-emerge. She still sang, despite the fact that the two dogs in the cage now worked themselves into a frenzy, clawing and gnawing at the bolted door.

As Lucius’s boots crunched on the sprouts of wheat, he began to wonder why this farm had been spared the devastation that had been inflicted on all of the other farms for miles around. No doubt, it was yet another factor that contributed to Vitalis’s nervousness. Perhaps the farm belonged to a Nervii chieftain. Still, something was not right about the place.

The woman finally emerged from the hut, just as the two squads of legionaries reached the rock wall. She took one look at them and her face went blank. She dropped the buckets to run back inside the hut, but she had not seen Piso and Amelius behind her. In an instant, they had her firmly in their clutches. The two men taunted her and laughed as she struggled to get away.

“Oh, she’s a feisty one!” Piso said avoiding the woman’s attempts to bite him and spit in his face. “She’ll do very well, I think.”

“There goes the lad!” shouted one of the soldiers, pointing to the back of the hut, where the boy had emerged from another door and was bolting for the forest.

“Let him go!” shouted Piso, evidently not wanting to be bothered by the boy. “Centurion, post your men as we have discussed!”

“Yes, sir,” Vitalis replied, half-heartedly and then motioned for the century to fan out. “First squad, stand watch behind the hut. Second squad, over by the mill. Move!”

Before Lucius could move out with his squad, Vitalis extended his branch to stop him. “Not you, Lucius. You remain here.”

Lucius noticed Jovinus cast a curious glance over his shoulder as Jovinus and the rest of the squad started to move out, but a glare from Vitalis sent the nosy soldier quickly on his way.

Soon all of the others were out of earshot, leaving only Lucius behind with the tow officers and the squirming woman. The three officers made no attempt to hide their intentions now, and Lucius had suddenly become the center of their attention. Vitalis was looking at him, his face a mix of internal strife and determination. Piso and Amelius were looking at him, too, their faces brandishing poisonous grins. Even the woman, struggling between the two nobles, was looking at him, her eyes filled with fear and confusion.

“I think this son of a miner is going to piss himself!” Piso said mockingly.

“He looks simply frightened!” Amelius jeered, followed by a high-pitched laugh.

Lucius was nothing of the kind, but he held his tongue. He knew exactly what this was. They were trying to make him angry, trying to coax him into doing something insubordinate, so that military justice could do their dirty work for them. It all made sense now. The scant number of soldiers meant fewer witnesses, and now that the others were out of earshot, it would be his word against the officers’. There was no escape. It was not an unknown trick in the legions. He had seen it done to others before, by other corrupt officers who fit the mold of Piso and Amelius, but he had never expected it from the likes of Vitalis.

He was certainly angry. He was enraged. He cared little about the bloody tribune and his pretty-boy pet, but the betrayal of Vitalis left him fuming. He half thought of driving his pilum through the centurion’s neck, if he could manage it. Vitalis was quicker than he.

“I see his lip quivering,” Piso said tauntingly. “Too bad he has no mother to run home to. What do you think, Vitalis?”

The centurion was not laughing as the other two were. “Can we not get this over with, sir?” he obviously took no delight in whatever they had planned between them.

“Oh, if you insist,” Piso said.

The tribune then released his grip on the woman’s right arm, and with one quick motion, tore away the front of her dress, exposing her bare white breasts to the pattering rain. Piso then slapped her hard across the face. This stirred the barking dogs to a new height of madness, not to be outmatched by the woman herself, who struck back at Piso with her free hand. She dragged her nails across his clean-shaven cheek, leaving behind three red trails of blood.”

Piso’s eyes registered shock at first. He stopped laughing and brought his hand to his face. Evidently, he had not expected such a violent attack. With some difficulty, Amelius managed to get hold of the cursing woman’s free hand and then drew up both of her arms behind her.

“You bitch!” Piso said looking at his bloody fingertips in disbelief. “You filthy Belgic bitch!”

He then punched her in the stomach, doubling her over, and the caged dogs stirred to a new level of fury. Amelius let the coughing woman fall to the ground. Before she could regain her breath Piso had grabbed up a hand full of her hair and dragged her over to the rock wall where Lucius and Vitalis stood. His face was red with rage.

“I am no longer in the mood to play games, Legionary Lucius Domitius, son of Sextus Domitius of Gades. Let us dispense with any further pageantry!”

When they had called him the son of a miner, Lucius had dismissed it as something anyone could have known. But now, invoking his place of origin, Lucius knew why Piso was trying to kill him, or at least, who had sent him to do it. He just did not know the connection.

Piso pulled on the cursing young woman’s blonde locks until her head was flat against the top of the wall.

“Your tribune has been assaulted by this woman, legionary,” he said. “It is an affront to your cohort, an affront to your legion, and an affront to Rome. I therefore order you to draw your sword and kill her.”

So this was it, Lucius thought. Their plan was to order him to do something they knew he would not do. Vitalis was silent, staring at the ground, as if this was a play that had already been acted out.

“What is your grievance with me, sir?” Lucius asked in the calmest manner he could, stalling for time that he might think of something. “Have I wronged you in any way? Have I shirked my duties?”

“You mean you haven’t figured it out yet?” Piso said incredulously, licking at the blood dripping past his lips as he held onto the squirming woman. “You’re more of a fool than they said you were. Yes, you bastard son of a miner whore! You have wronged me! You are – ”

“Uh, your tribune has given you an order, Legionary!” Amelius’s feeble voice interrupted, as if to stop Piso from saying too much. “Are you going to obey it? A simple reply, yes or no, is all that the tribune requires!”

Piso checked himself, but held the woman’s head firmly against the wall, exposing her thin neck. The dogs cried wildly, their husky barks almost deafening. The young woman looked up at Lucius with fearful eyes, and Lucius saw that her eyes were green, like the trees and fields of her lands – like the eyes of his dead sister and mother.

“No.” Lucius replied simply, then looked at Vitalis. “You know I will not.”

“And why not, Lucius?” Piso said. “Why won’t you kill women and children? Because it reminds you of another incident – one that happened, shall we say, six years ago?”

“He has refused, Tribune,” Vitalis broke in. “Is that not enough? There is no need to stretch this out any further.”

Piso flashed a look of anger at having been interrupted again, but then checked himself. “Yes, quite right, Vitalis. He has refused a direct order, a lawful order, and in so doing has sealed his own fate. Place him under arrest. When we rejoin the legion, he will face the fustuarium.”

For a moment, Lucius thought of making a move, but he instantly thought better of it. Vitalis would surely kill him before his next heartbeat. Perhaps that would be a better fate. Were the legate of the Seventh to find him guilty, which he would, and issue the fustuarium, Lucius would be beaten to death in front of the legion. It was a dishonorable death. He might just as well die now by Vitalis’s hand. But something made him resist. Perhaps it was the pleading green eyes of the girl that reminded him of those he had lost so long ago. Surely, she would be killed, too. Somehow, he thought something may yet save her, and him. Perhaps the legate would show him mercy, though the chance of that was slim. There was also the gnawing feeling inside him that begged to know how Piso was connected to his former life.

Vitalis called Jovinus and the second squad to come back to the hut. They all looked puzzled and completely bewildered by what they had just witnessed from afar. Jovinus appeared further confused when Vitalis ordered him to take possession of Lucius’s weapons. Lucius could at least find solace in the fact that his own tent mates did not appear to be a part of the conspiracy. That was something. He handed over his pilum, gladius, and pugio to Jovinus without a struggle. Jovinus’s expression plainly told Lucius that he followed the centurion’s orders only with the greatest reluctance. There was hope yet.

“Legionary Domitius is under arrest,” Vitalis said to Jovinus and another soldier from Lucius’s squad. “He will march between you. One step out of line, and you are to kill him. Is that clear?” Vitalis then gestured to another soldier as he scanned the tree line. “Come over here and slay this woman. I wish to leave this accursed place.”

“Just a moment, Vitalis,” Amelius said, then rested a hand on Piso’s shoulder and whispered into the tribune’s ear. Whatever Amelius said drew a sinister grin on Piso’s face, and both men began to laugh hysterically. Piso quickly tugged the woman by the hair, dragging her away from the wall and toward the hut.

“I’ve reconsidered, Vitalis,” Piso said. “This whore does not need to die – at least, not yet. Post your men and see to it they keep a good watch. This won’t take long.”

The two nobles then began dragging the woman toward the door.

“I strongly recommend that we leave without delay, sir,” Vitalis called after them.

Piso glowered over his shoulder. “Do what you’re told, Centurion!”

The young woman obviously fully understood the licentious intentions of the two men. She kicked and screamed at them, but every measure of resistance only seemed to amuse them more. They laughed at her, taunted her, struck her across the face, and tore away her clothing. Lucius made eye contact with her pleading eyes, just as her half-naked figure was dragged inside the darkened doorway.

It started to rain harder as the legionaries outside stared at each other and listened to the tear of clothing and the screams of the woman. Small rivulets trickled off the thatched roof. The wet trees stood tall around the farm, as if to stare at the legionaries like judges glaring at the accused.

At that moment, Jovinus nudged Lucius to get his attention and whispered, “Come on.”

Jovinus then pretended to direct Lucius with the point of his pilum, and led him to the side of the house.

“Where are you taking him, Jovinus?” Vitalis had been intently watching the surrounding tree line when he finally noticed.

Jovinus shot a quick glance at Lucius before answering, “Says he’s got to take a piss, sir.”

“That’s far enough. He can piss right there.”

“Yes, sir,” Jovinus said, and then turned to Lucius and winked. “I guess you’ll have to go right here – by these infernal dogs.”

Lucius smiled at his tent mate. Jovinus had taken him to within three steps of the dog pen. After seeing their mistress battered and dragged inside the hut, the beasts were livid, snarling with lips raised to expose their terrible fangs. When Vitalis turned his attention back to the tree line, Lucius took two steps and kicked open the latch on the gate with his third.

Vitalis turned at the noise, but anything he might have done would have been too late. Nearly tearing the gate off its hinges, the dogs broke from the pen. In a flash of gray pelts and white teeth, the snarling beasts bounded for the door and disappeared inside the hut. The woman’s screams stopped and were instantly replaced by the horrified shrieks of a man being savaged by ravenous jaws and knife-like teeth. One man’s voice called for help. Another cried out in unimaginable pain as animal teeth met human bone and jerking muzzles tore away flesh.

Vitalis responded, perhaps a few moments longer than it should have taken him, entering the hut with gladius drawn. The dogs yelped, and then were silent. The centurion and Amelius then emerged carrying something that once had been a man, but was now a mass of blood and mangled skin. Tears streamed from Amelius’s face as he and Vitalis lowered Piso to the ground. The tribune still lived, but his body was broken and his flesh in tatters. In some places, his bare bones were exposed. Aside from an unceasing trembling, he appeared unable to move.

“Oh, dear Jupiter!” Amelius cried, cradling the tribune’s bloody face in his hands. “Dear Jupiter, what has happened to him? How could this happen? Dear, Piso! My dear Piso!”

Vitalis, on the other hand, did not appear near as touched by the tribune’s condition. He stood, and looked down on the unfortunate young man with what Lucius recognized as disgust.

“He did this!” Amelius shouted between sobs, pointing at Lucius, who still stood by the animal pens. “He is to blame! Slay him, Centurion!”

Vitalis snubbed the order and instead turned his gaze back to the trees, as if something had caught his ear.

“Did you hear me, Centurion?” Amelius demanded maniacally. “I order you to – “

The young noble was cut short by a strike from the back of Vitalis’s hand. “Be silent, you babbling fool! Listen!”

At that moment, a horn sounded in the woods.

"What was that?" Amelius said, rubbing his smarting cheek.

"Legionaries, to me!" Vitalis shouted. "To me!"

The two squads converged on the hut, and formed up in front of their centurion.

Then, as they all looked across the field, the very woods came alive with movement. A chanting began, not one voice but many, the battle cry of warriors. Then, as one man, a long line of spear laden warriors with round shields emerged from the trees. Long hair hung and scraggly manes outlined the fierce, painted faces. They wore the conical helmets of the Nervii, and their shields were freshly painted with elaborate designs, depicting creatures of the woods and of the sky. There were at least one hundred shields bourn by as many warriors.

"Who are they, Centurion?" Amelius said in a panic. "Where in Pluto's name did they come from?"

It was the first time Lucius had seen true fear on the adjutant's face. Until now, the pampered noble's experience with the Belgae was limited to defenseless peasants and a few poorly armed village elders. He was now looking death in the face for the first time since arriving in Gaul.

"Form line behind the wall!" Vitalis barked, ignoring Amelius.

The legionaries sprang to obey, forming an unimpressive line of pila and shields just behind the waist-high, moss-covered rock barrier.

"What should I do with him, sir?" Jovinus called from the animal pens. He had not moved, and was still lackadaisically holding his javelin on Lucius.

Jovinus knew what the centurion's response would be before he gave it, as did Lucius. Five-to-one odds was a daunting prospect, and Lucius was worth any three of the others in a fight.

"Arm him, you bastard!" Vitalis replied grudgingly. "And get both of your arses over here with the others!"

The Nervii line slowly began to advance across the field, the fair-haired spearman shouting and jeering at the outnumbered band of Romans before them. Lucius knew there was little sense in making a break for it. The spearman were coming from the part of the woods where the legionaries had left their horses, so the mounts were probably gone. Running in the other direction was hardly better, as it might only lead them to another band of spearmen hiding in the woods. Their only option was to stand and fight.

The Nervii banged their shields with the butts of their spears as they approached. A few of the more frenzied warriors darted out ahead of the others in a show of reckless bravado. The wild men were completely naked and had cast away their shields to face the Romans only with long swords. They were the younger and less experienced ones whose muscled bodies had been honed in training, but not in battle. Perhaps they thought themselves invulnerable.

Vitalis grabbed a pilum from one of the legionaries and, with a quick sweep of his arm, hurled it at one of these bare-skinned fools. The javelin caught the youth squarely in the center of his rippled abdomen, the two-foot-long iron point emerging from his back with a torrent of blood. He was not immortal, and as he crumpled to the ground clutching the four-foot wooden shaft protruding from his belly, the others lost some of their fervor. But they kept coming on, chanting and moving slowly forward. A second javelin shattered the knee of another naked warrior, splintering bone and tendon and ejecting bloody matter as the iron tip tore its destructive path through the man's hairy leg. Despite these successes, there was no way that a score of legionaries could maintain a front against a hundred well-armed spearmen. Vitalis well knew this, and quickly deployed the twenty soldiers into three groups separated by intervals of thirty paces. Vitalis joined the greener legionaries in the center, and placed the more skilled fighters, like Lucius, with the groups on the flanks. The spearmen would have to divide their own line to take on the individual clumps of legionaries, albeit they would still outnumber them.

As Lucius waited behind the rock wall with Jovinus and the four other soldiers covering the left, he heard a man yell in terror behind him. He turned to see Amelius being attacked by the blonde woman. She had emerged from the hut stark naked except for a cudgel held in both hands, and now she proceeded to strike the young noble repeatedly with it, her bare breasts shaking violently with each blow. Whatever had happened to the young noble's sword, he did not have it now, and he had little choice but to try to bat away the blows with his arms. Eventually, he lost his footing and fell to the ground. The woman probably could have beaten him to death right then and there because Vitalis was not about to spare a single legionary to save him. But she did not kill him. Seeing that the Romans were more concerned with the approaching spearmen than with her, the young woman dropped the cudgel and ran for the woods, but not without casting a long glance at Lucius. His eyes followed her dancing blonde locks and pale buttocks until they disappeared amongst the trees.

“Eyes front!” Vitalis called, jerking Lucius and the others out of their mesmerized stares.

Spears stopped banging on shields and the Nervii line came to a halt twenty paces from the Romans. As the legionaries watched, two slimy round objects sailed over the line and rolled to a stop just in front of the wall. They were severed heads, bloody and covered with mud, and had presumably belonged to the two legionaries left behind to guard the horses. Laughing heartily from behind their shields, the Nervii spearmen challenged the Romans to come out from behind the wall, but the legionaries only answered them with obscene gestures and curses.

Vitalis was no fool. The rock wall was the legionaries’ only advantage. He wanted the Nervii line to advance on it, but they hesitated. They crept forward a few more paces and then stopped to beat on their shields some more. A few spears flew across the open space, but the missiles either clattered harmlessly against the wall or stuck in the damp earth beyond it.

“Leave them be!” Vitalis called to his men. “Don’t throw them back! And save your javelins!”

One spear thudded into the mud near Lucius, a colorful band of feathers tied to its head by a leather strap. He was tempted to send it back from where it had come, but he resisted as Vitalis had commanded. Vitalis was a shrewd tactician. The fewer spears they would have to face in the coming melee, the better. But Lucius did not want to simply sit and let the enemy go unmolested. Rising from his position, he hurled a stone with all his might, and then ducked back behind the wall, narrowly avoiding a well-thrown dart. Before crouching again, he had seen his stone deflect off of one man’s shield and strike another man in the face, the recoil of the man’s head jostling his dented helmet. Jovinus followed suit, catching a Nervii spearman in the shin.

One warrior with braided locks extending from beneath his helmet was shouting orders to the others. He stood in their rear rank, and was one of the few Nervii wearing any armor to speak of. He was obviously the leader of the war band. Realizing that the Romans were not going to exchange missiles with his spearmen, the Nervii officer gave the inevitable order to extend ranks and advance.

“Watch the flanks!” Vitalis shouted just as the enemy rushed the wall.

The Nervii attack could have been executed better. Instead of focusing on one group of legionaries at a time, the line of spears attacked all three groups at once without any coordination. This created a measure of confusion in the Nervii ranks from the start. The majority of the spearmen migrated toward the band of Romans in the center where the centurion with the impressive cross-plumed helmet stood. It would be a valuable trophy for the man who succeeded in killing him. This overwhelming attack on the middle group had the effect of hitting the two groups of Roman veterans on the flanks with a much lighter assault.

As the spearmen reached the wall, Lucius and the four legionaries with him rose to meet them. The first man to mount the wall received the point of Lucius’s javelin in his exposed groin. The man had no armor, only a shield, which he now dropped as he fell forward onto the Roman side of the wall, the javelin tip driven nearly a foot into his intestines. He was probably a poor farmer, thrown into the ranks at the behest of his chieftain, but he would now die a painful death in the mud beneath the boots of the fighting legionaries.

Lucius was now thankful that Vitalis had order them to retain their javelins. Many of the Nervii, having thrown their spears at the Romans, were now armed with small axes that were of little use standing on the other side of the rock barrier. Encumbered by their shields, and lacking proper coordination, the Nervii were forced to either step up onto the wall, or try to leap over it, in order to get at the Romans. Whichever method they chose, the legionaries were ready for them. Lucius and his comrades maimed and killed as the enemy came, carefully waiting and then thrusting the iron javelin tips upward at the inevitable moment of exposure. Lucius and Jovinus killed those on the wall, while the other three legionaries dispatched any managing to make it over. It would not have been as easy had they not still had their javelins. Like the Nervii axes, the short gladii did not afford a very long reach to strike an opponent several feet above, and would have put them at a distinct disadvantage. But now, they had all the advantage. Stabs to thighs, calves, and groins cleared the wall time and time again, until the stones ran red with blood.

A warrior on the other side of the wall managed to catch one of the legionaries off guard, driving the point of his spear through the Roman’s throat, sending him to the ground kicking with blood spurting from his neck. One quick thrust over the wall by Lucius’s javelin pierced the left eye of the offending spearman, turning it to jelly. As the man fell backward, Lucius tried to jerk his weapon free, but the barbed iron tip had lodged in the man’s eye socket, and the weapon was pulled from Lucius’s hands. In an instant, Lucius had drawn his gladius. A muddy Nervii boot appeared on the wall before his face as an enemy warrior tried to climb over, but Lucius brought the short sword down with a rapid stroke that severed the front half of the man’s foot clean off. The man screamed in agony as he fell back under the mass of men behind him, who were also scrambling to get over the wall. Another legionary appeared on the ground near Lucius’s feet. Lucius had not seen him fall, but the man’s face had been destroyed, presumably by a Nervii spear. Lucius dropped his gladius momentarily to grab the fallen man’s shield, which he then used to sweep the legs of two men that had climbed on top of the wall. They fell to the ground on the Roman side, allowing Lucius to bring the shield’s metal frame down on their exposed necks in two swift, throat-crushing blows. Beside Lucius, Jovinus pulled on a screaming warrior’s long hair while another legionary opened the man’s neck with a single thrust of a gladius.

The remaining Nervii backed off, and instead chose to move toward the center of the wall, where their comrades were having some successes. Lucius saw Vitalis, his blood-speckled face contorted with the battle rage, a dozen blood-covered Roman and Nervii corpses intertwined in death at his feet. He was armed with only a gladius, and he was surrounded by a mass of crouching spear and axe men. The Nervii had succeeded in pushing Vitalis’s party away from the wall, and as the last legionary with him succumbed to a stroke from the longsword of one of the naked warriors, the Nervii officer with the braided hair jumped up onto the wall waving his sword, encouraging his men to close in and take the head of the Roman centurion.

Lucius could see that the group of legionaries fighting on the other flank were hard-pressed with Nervii all around them. No help would come from that side. All of the rage Lucius had felt against his former comrade was suddenly suppressed at that moment, as he watched the brave Vitalis fend off the thrusts of the spearpoints as he had on a dozen battlefield far more important than this one. Lucius’s instincts kicked in, and he sprang into action.

Plucking a javelin from one of the corpses at his feet, Lucius rushed to the aid of the beleaguered centurion. Jovinus and the two other legionaries dutifully followed him. In mid-step, Lucius hurled the javelin at the Nervii officer on the wall. The officer saw it coming at the last moment, and turned his shield to deflect it, but the sheer force of the weapon managed to knock him down. Then, Lucius and his companions were among the spears, jabbing and hacking at the stunned warriors who had not expected an attack from behind. The legionaries left a carpet of bloody, blonde-haired corpses as they made their way to the struggling centurion. Three of them made it, and quickly joined backs with Vitalis to face the enclosing mass of warriors. They deflected thrust after thrust of the Nervii spears, and blocked the incessant blows of the axes. They ducked behind their shields more often than they fought back. Lucius saw the wild, tattooed face of a yelling spearman appear in the gap between his and Jovinus’s shields. Lucius quickly drove his sword into the man’s open mouth and watched the fierce eyes instantly transform to a look of shock. When Lucius yanked the blade out, a dozen loose teeth came with it, clattering onto a dropped shield at the man’s feet. The next time the gap appeared between the shields, the man’s face was gone.

A legionary cried out behind Lucius, and Lucius knew that one of his comrades had been severely wounded. The spears were pressing in on them. They were still outnumbered, and it was only a matter of time before they succumbed to the spearpoints that were now thrusting by the dozen at the space inside the shields. Lucius turned and locked eyes briefly with Vitalis, both of their faces splattered with blood and both wild with the madness of battle.

“You’re a bloody bastard!” Lucius spat at the centurion, as he ducked another jab from a spear. “A bloody lying bastard!”

Vitalis did not respond. He stared into Lucius’s eyes for an instant longer before crying out in a rage and using his gladius to lop off a set of probing Nervii fingers that had wrapped around the top of his shield. Lucius returned his attention to the enemy in front of him. The press of the enemy on the shields was enormous. Their blood was up. They smelled victory and knew the Romans’ fall was inevitable. Lucius knew it, too, and fully expected the next push of the enemy to break him and his comrades apart that they might be individually hacked to death.

But at that moment, the sound of horses’ hoofs filled the air, and the pressure on the Roman shields relieved instantly. Lucius looked through the spearmen and across the field to see a mass of charging horse emerge from the trees, kicking up great clots of mud behind them. Their helmeted riders leaned forward behind extended lances, forming a continuous line of razor sharp iron points. They were the green-clad, mustachioed warriors of the Aedui, and they were led by a short-limbed, barrel-chested rider who wore a knee-length coat of mail beneath his green cloak. With a wild cry he drove straight for the Nervii officer, who had just regained his footing after falling from the wall. The officer looked dumbstruck at the thundering death rushing at him. Out of desperation, he brought his shield up to his face to deflect the oncoming lance, but the Aeduan leader simply dipped his weapon beneath the shield and plunged the point into the officer’s mid-section. At full gallop, the horse’s momentum drove the weapon with such force that it shattered the links in the Nervii’s mail shirt, skewered the flesh beneath and erupted from his back to leave a crimson splatter on the wall behind him.

Seeing their officer dispatched like a ragdoll, half of the spearmen panicked and ran for the trees. The rest attempted to draw up near the wall to face the onrushing horsemen, but without their leader they succeeded only in forming an incongruous mass of confused soldiers who were quickly crushed under the hooves of the Aeduan horse as the beasts leapt over the wall and bounded into the unorganized ranks, crushing Nervii skulls, caving in ribs, and snapping limbs as if they were twigs.

The group of legionaries on the right had somehow managed to get through the melee with few losses and now rushed to help their centurion and their comrades. The legionaries slew the mortally wounded spearmen whose bodies now twitched in the mud, while the Aeduan horsemen rode down the fleeing Nervii, driving their lances into one back after another.

Lucius saw the Aeduan leader trot his mount over to the dead Nervii officer and then dismount and begin rifling the contorted body. He removed something from the officer’s belt that looked like a rolled letter. The Aeduan leader studied it curiously for a few moments and then, when he noticed Vitalis and Lucius approaching, quickly tucked the document into his own tunic.

“Many thanks to you, my lord,” Vitalis said, eyeing the Aeduan as if he should ask about the document, but he did not.

The Aeduan leader glanced at the centurion sullenly beneath his conical helmet. He seemed irritated, but then, when he made eye contact with Lucius, his face broke out in a wide grin.

“If it isn’t my Spanish-Roman friend,” he said cheerfully, “who likes to hunt for old women’s corpses in the dead of night!” He removed his helmet, and Lucius saw that it was Divitiacus, the Aeduan chieftain. “Lugus’s three pricks, boy, what are you and your mates doing in such a place? You’re fortunate to have escaped with your foreskins intact!”

“We are here on the order of our tribune, my lord,” Vitalis, as the senior officer, stepped in to answer. “We should return to the column without delay.”

The chieftain eyed him and then nodded. “Your tribune was a fool to bring you out here, centurion, but I can see that you know that.” Divitiacus touched the disk-like badges on the front of Vitalis’s mail shirt with the butt of his spear.

“We are most grateful that you arrived when you did, my lord,” Vitalis replied evenly.

“You should be giving thanks to this young lad here, Centurion.” He pointed to Lucius. “He’s the one that saved your neck just now. I saw the whole thing. You were alone, and surrounded, and this lad came to your aid, at great hazard to himself. You would be dead in the mud with the rest of these had he not moved when he did.”

“Yes,” Vitalis replied. It seemed to make him uncomfortable to admit it. “Excuse me, my lord, I must see to my men.”

Vitalis then marched off to examine the line of wounded legionaries being gathered near the mill, evidently uneasy with the direction the conversation was going.

“And how about you, Lucius?” Divitiacus said, once Vitalis was out of earshot. “Did you ever discover who it was that wanted you dead?”

Lucius glanced once at Vitalis, and the chieftain raised his bushy eyebrows in surprise.

“The centurion?”

Lucius nodded. “And the tribune.”

“Tribune Piso? Now this is getting interesting. You must be far more important than you let on, my young friend. Are you sure you’re not Piso’s bastard brother, sent off to the legions to avoid bringing disgrace on his father, perhaps? I must admit, I’ve a few bastard sons riding in my own ranks, though Lugus forbid if anything ever happened to them. Their whore mothers would serve my own balls to me on a skillet. ”

Lucius smiled, but said nothing. He had a feeling he knew the motive, but he did not trust the Aeduan chieftain quite enough to share it with him.

“Divitiacus!” A high-pitched voice called behind them. “Thank Jupiter, it is you!”

Both men turned to see Amelius stumbling out of the hut, his forehead marked by several contusions. Lucius could only conclude that the noble had been hiding inside for the duration of the battle.

“Please come quickly, Divitiacus!” the noble said desperately, almost incoherently. “He’s just inside the hut. We must get him to help quickly! Please come. He’s in a terrible state!”

“Who?” Divitiacus replied perplexedly, unaware of the events that had transpired before the battle. “Who are you referring to?”

“Piso, damn you!” Amelius replied irately, shooting a scathing glance at Lucius. “The tribune! You must help him!”

VI

A nightingale flying high in the night sky would have observed a glow in the blackness below. It was the sparkle of ten thousand torches – light and order, amidst a dark and barbarous land. The Roman army – Caesar’s army – eight legions strong, 40,000 spears and auxiliaries, bedded down in fortified camps on the forested borders of the Nervii lands. Hammers rang out as the liverymen worked late into the night, fitting shoes on mules and fastening axles to wagons. Sparks streamed from a dozen spinning wheels as cutlers honed the edges of swords and spears.

The army had come out of winter quarters. The spring floods were over. The campaigning season had begun. From his base in the Aeduan lands, Caesar had brought his army north to deal with a new threat looming along the Axona River. The dozen Belgic tribes living there had formed a coalition with the solitary purpose of driving the Romans out of Gaul. The Belgae were many, and they far outnumbered Caesar’s army. In the end, however, their resolve had proven too weak. Upon hearing of Caesar’s approach, many of the southern tribes instantly sued for peace, fearful of the savagery the Romans might exact on their lands. Others capitulated, and some even joined the Roman side against their own kind. Thus, the first weeks of the summer had been spent marching here and there, scattering the few tribes that still resisted. Their armies had disintegrated like chaff in the wind. But now it was mid-summer, and there were rumors of a new coalition – this one led by the Nervii, the fiercest of all the Belgic tribes. And so, Caesar’s army had marched again.

Two riders clattered out of the darkness and approached the gates of the Roman camp. Both were ornately dressed in fine armor and plumed helmets. A delegation of attendants and a cavalry escort materialized behind them bearing banners that the guards on the walls quickly identified. The gates were opened and the delegation from the Senate was allowed to pass. Once inside the camp, the torchlight revealed the speckles of dried mud on the cloaks of the riders. The party had travelled far, all the way from Rome, and they had travelled at great hazard to get here. It was not the first time Caesar had received such guests on the threshold of an enemy country. Caesar, always the politician, always the one to treat his political enemies as friends, invited the uninvited guests to dine with him in his tent. They lounged on the proconsul’s field furniture under the dim light of the lanterns.

“How was your crossing of the Alps, gentlemen?” Caesar asked politely, after looking up from a report he had been studying throughout most of dinner. The two senators had welcomed the fine venison Caesar’s table offered.

“Fair,” The gray-haired senator answered. “The early summer rains made the passes cruel – a bit more difficult than I remember them.”

“I am glad you made it safely, Valens,” Caesar smiled pouring the senator more wine.

Senator Valens nodded a thanks. Though Valens’s hair was gray, he was far from being elderly. He appeared in the prime of his life, much like Caesar, and he carried the same cordial, aloof presence about him, inferring that his affections were not as freely given as his gratitude.

“I must admit, Gaius, you have amassed an impressive army.” The other senator, a portly man and quite the opposite of Valens, now chimed in. He ate ravenously, as if he had starved on the ride from Geneva. The plump senator now paused to shove a handful of meat into his mouth. After a loud belch, he continued. “I have never seen this many legions in one spot. Why, even great Pompey didn’t have as many legions when he subjugated the East. How do you manage it, Gaius? How do you maintain order and discipline? And this is such a dismal place. Judging from the wretched maidens we encountered on our journey out here, I imagine the common soldiers must be plum out of their minds for an Italian girl. They must be deserting by the hundred.”

“I have excellent legates, Porcius.” Caesar answered, smiling, and then raised his cup to Valens. “These men are the best in Rome.”

“But they are not all from Rome,” Valens replied. “Most come from the provinces or the colonies.”

“True, Senator Valens,” Caesar said dismissively. “But they are Roman citizens, and they are led by the finest youth of Rome. Your nephew Piso, for instance. With such excellent tribunes, how can we ever meet with misfortune?”

“Yes, indeed.” Valens replied, his tone indicating that he had detected the hint of sarcasm in the remark.

“I am so looking forward to meeting your nephew, Valens,” Porcius said, oblivious to the tension between the other two men. “It’s always so encouraging to see the younger generation taking up the sword, carrying on where we left off. It warms my heart. There is hope for the republic yet. Where did you say young Piso was, Gaius?”

“I believe he is currently commanding a reconnaissance from the Seventh Legion,” Caesar said indifferently, while sifting through the latest correspondence from Rome. “Is that right, Labienus?” He said this to a general sitting nearby, as if to hand off the annoying senator.

Labienus was caught in mid-drink. “Uh, yes, Caesar,” he finally said, after swallowing a mouthful of wine. As Caesar’s deputy, the second-in-command of the army, Labienus was obligated to dine with the proconsul and the guests from Rome, but his mind had been elsewhere. There were a thousand things to do in the days leading up to the army’s movement, and he preferred leaving politics to the politicians. Seeing that Caesar was further distracted by the letters, Labienus addressed the two senators directly. “Tribune Piso’s probe has been recalled. Our couriers found them yesterday, twenty miles from here. They should be returning soon.”

“Am I correct to assume, then,” Valens said, “that you are planning to move the army?”

“Indeed, Senator,” Labienus replied, after darting a glance at Caesar. “The Nervii lands lie before us. They are the most powerful tribe in all Belgica. Defeat them, and the whole region will fall. We are preparing to make our final push in the coming days. If it’s a battle you’re looking for, I would say you have come at a propitious time.”

“Oh, I would love to see our legions in action!” Porcius said with eagerness. “Especially against such an intriguing foe. I must admit, I spent most of my military service in Africa and have never set eyes on one of the ferocious barbarians of the north. Are they really as fierce as your reports say, Gaius?”

Caesar finished reading a line before looking up. “Forgive me, Porcius. What did you say?”

“Your accounts of the barbarians,” Porcius said, a bit miffed at having to repeat himself. “Are they authentic, or are they embellishment to amuse the mob?”

“I hope you may judge for yourself, Porcius,” Caesar answered casually.

At that moment, a young officer stepped into the tent and saluted Caesar.

“Pardon me, Consul. Riders approaching, sir. They display the banner of the Seventh Legion.”

Caesar nodded. The officer then handed him a document before exiting the tent.

“That would be your nephew’s cohorts, Senator,” Labienus said to Valens. “They are the last of the punitive forays we sent into the Nervii country.”

“Punitive?” Porcius started in a surprised tone.

“A reconnaissance in force, nothing more,” Caesar said with a wave of his hand. “They bring good tidings, I am sure.”

Caesar thought there was little sense in mentioning that he had sent the advance cohorts into the Nervii lands to pick a fight. The Belgic tribes fought recklessly, and were even more reckless when on the attack. If a few raids could entice them into confronting him when his army was secure behind their camp fortifications, he would gain the advantage. Certainly he had taken a risk in sending two and three cohorts at a time, but in his mind it was worth the risk. Had one of the expeditionary groups been annihilated, what better rallying cry was there than revenge to inspire the rest of the army to action?

It was all so bloody simple.

“And this tells me,” Caesar said after glancing over the message, “that, in two days’ time, our provision train will be complete. Before the week is out, gentlemen, this army will march. We will move into the land of the Nervii and neutralize the threat they pose to our province.” Caesar raised his cup. “To the Senate and People of Rome, gentlemen!”

Each raised his cup in answer to the toast, Caesar theatrically pouring out a little wine as tribute to Mars before drinking his. After they had settled back in their chairs, the jittery Porcius seemed to have gained some confidence from the effects of the wine.

“If I may, Gaius,” he said carefully. “What of the reports we get in Rome, of women and children being put to the sword? Oh, I know it’s probably all exaggerated nonsense, but we do hear such things, you know. Such rumors have reached the senate floor no less. As much as we applaud your noble deeds here in Gaul and the extension of our influence among these people, there are those who question the legality of such measures. There are Senators back at home who are not your friends, you know, and would love nothing better than to see Gaius Julius Caesar brought back to Rome to face these accusations.”

Caesar knew that he was looking at two such senators now, but he smiled softly and met Porcius’s gaze. “Such atrocities never came by my order.”

That was true, for the most part, but a prolonged throat clearing by Labienus did little to bolster the guests’ confidence.

“And, as to my returning to Rome,” Caesar continued, after darting an inconspicuous glance at his red-faced deputy. “I will certainly do that, once my work here is finished. I have been legally appointed as proconsul of these regions. It is my duty to see to it that Rome faces no threat from these marauding tribes. Perhaps some of my colleagues have forgotten our not too distant shame, when Gauls and Germans put our legions under the yoke. I have not forgotten it, nor shall I abandon my duties.”

Porcius made to respond, but Valens interrupted him in an amiable tone. “Forgive us, Gaius. We should not be cross-examining you on the eve of such a momentous campaign. I think I speak for Porcius, and the entire Senate, when I say that our hearts are with you and your legions. We are certain that you keep the casualties as low as is possible, given the circumstances.”

“And might I also extend my thanks to you both, and to your fellow senators for the unfaltering support, both moral and tangible that you provide to this army.”

Both men were lying through their teeth, and both knew it. Valens did not believe anything written in Caesar’s reports, not one word if it, and was scheming for Caesar’s removal. Conversely, Caesar did not feel that Rome ever sent him enough of what he asked for.

But that was the way of Roman politics.

The young officer entered the tent again, and saluted. “One of the riders seeks an audience with you Caesar. It is Divitiacus of the Aeduan.”

“Divitiacus?” Caesar said curiously to no one in particular. “Certainly. Let him come.”

Within moments, the stocky Aeduan chieftain stepped into the tent, bringing with him the aroma of horse manure. His long mail armor and breeches were covered in mud. Even his helmet was mud-splattered from what had obviously been a hard and desperate ride.

“How good to see you again, my friend,” Caesar rose and embraced him.

“It is good to see you, great Caesar.”

“Allow me to introduce my two guests, up from Rome. These are Senators Valens and Porcius – two of our most ardent supporters.”

“My lords,” Divitiacus nodded briefly to the two, but then turned a grim face back to Caesar.

“What is it, old friend?” Caesar asked, seeing that there was something wrong. “Were you with the cohorts from the Seventh? Why is the tribune not here?”

“I am sorry to say, that the tribune is in a bad condition. My men and I brought him here as fast as we could.”

Caesar’s face drew grave. “And the cohorts?”

“They march two hours behind us, under the command of the chief centurion. They are safe. We encountered the Nervii, but suffered only a few casualties.”

“And the Belgic tribes? What of them?”

“They are massing, Caesar. The Nervii, the Viromandui, the Atrebates, and there may be more.”

Caesar considered for a moment, and then turned to his guests. “Gentlemen, I sincerely apologize for bringing our dinner to an abrupt end, but I must confer with Divitiacus for some time. It is very necessary. I am sorry.”

The others rose to leave, but Valens remained. “I would like to hear more about what happened to my nephew, Gaius, if you can spare a few moments of Divitiacus’s time.”

“Of course, Valens, I was not thinking clearly. You must be beside yourself with worry.” Caesar then said to Labienus. “See to it that the tribune Piso is taken to the Senator’s tent, will you? The infirmary is no place for such a noble young man, and I’m sure the Senator will want his own people to care for him.”

Labienus nodded and left. Porcius rose and took his leave as well, leaving only Caesar, Valens, and Divitiacus.

“You are his uncle, sir?” Divitiacus said to Valens with some alarm.

“Yes.”

The Aeduan chieftain nodded curtly. “Then I am sorry to inform you, senator, that your nephew is in a deplorable condition. He suffers great pain, and probably will not outlive the night.”

“Was he wounded in battle?”

“He was mauled by dogs, sir.” Divitiacus hesitated, then added, “I was not there when the engagement started, but it is my understanding that it happened prior to the battle.”

“How? I want to know everything.”

The Aeduan chieftain cut his eyes to Caesar and then back to the Senator.

“It is alright, Divitiacus,” Valens said. “You may speak freely. I trust my friend Gaius will keep this between the three of us.”

Divitiacus cleared his throat and then said, “I was told the young gentlemen, Piso and Amelius, took the two squads off hunting for… carnal pleasures.”

Valens face turned red with either anger or embarrassment, but Caesar perked up, suddenly interested.

“I’m sorry, did you say just two squads, Divitiacus?” Caesar asked.

“Yes.”

“Against how many Nervii?”

“We counted sixty-two of their dead, Caesar.”

“This is just the kind of thing we need!” Caesar slapped his fist into his hand. “Just the kind of thing to raise the spirits of our weary legions.”

“The troop, as a whole, suffered great loss before my men arrived, Caesar. I am not sure that praise is in order -“

“It was a victory, Divitiacus, and our legionaries were involved. That is all anyone need know. I know it goes against the grain of most old warriors like yourself, but you can’t decorate a man for sacking a village, and sadly that’s all our legionaries have done since entering the Belgic lands. Their only real action, if you could call it that, was a little skirmish at the crossing of the Axona, and only the auxiliaries were involved there. No legions were present. Now, we have a victory to inspire the legions for the final chapter of our campaign.” Caesar then seemed to remember that Valens was there, and added sympathetically, “We shall decorate Piso, of course, as the senior officer present. That is only right. Unfortunately, that will do no good for the common soldiers. They will dismiss it as hyped-up favoritism. A pity you didn’t arrive earlier, Divitiacus, that we might have an independent account of the battle and could single out one or two legionaries for distinction – someone the rest could look to as an example, something to stimulate them, to put a bit of zeal in their step.” Caesar sighed. “Perhaps we can decorate the centurions, assuming there were any present. We need to decorate someone.”

As Divitiacus half-listened to Caesar’s rambling, he found himself studying Valens’s face. Upon hearing how his nephew met with his injuries, the senator had assumed a distant look, not so much one of concern as one of calculation – as if he were considering his next move in a game of latrunculi. Divitiacus had a hunch, and he thought he might play the game to see where it took him.

“Begging your pardon, Caesar,” Divitiacus said, “but there is something else I would like to report.”

“Of course, my friend. What is it?”

“There was a legionary in the skirmish, a certain Lucius Domitius,” Divitiacus glanced at Valens and saw the expected response in the Senator’s eyes.

“Go on,” Caesar said, already distracted by another report. “What of Lucius, uh, Lucius…I’m sorry, what did you say his name was?”

“Lucius Domitius, Caesar.”

“What of Lucius Domitius?”

“He performed valiantly, Caesar. If you’re looking for a man to set apart, he might be just the one. I have been in many battles, and faced many warriors, and I have never seen the likes of him. Just before my men and I rode into the fray, I saw the centurion of the troop, surrounded and besought by Nervii spearmen. I thought for sure it was all over for him. Then, lo and behold, Lucius Domitius appears out of nowhere, sword swinging and jabbing faster than the eye could follow. He hacks his way through the spearmen, gutting one after another, until he’s back to back with the centurion, fighting the rest of them off. Must have killed a dozen with his own sword, if I had to guess. I’ve never seen the like.”

Caesar looked up from the paper, “Now, that is appealing, indeed! Did this really happen, Divitiacus, just as you say it did?”

“I would swear to it, Caesar, as would any of my men. We all saw it.”

”And this Lucius…Lucius…”

“Lucius Domitius,” Divitiacus corrected.

“- this Lucius Domitius,” Caesar continued with an appreciative nod, “might be the one to serve my purpose. Did he survive? Was he wounded?”

“Not that I could tell,” again, a look at Valens, who seemed to be intently listening.

Caesar laughed. “Then he will be the one. Let the legions hear of his gallantry, and of his reward, and they will all wish to emulate him. Just the thing we need before setting off into the Nervii lands.” Caesar then cast an apologetic look at Valens. “Forgive me for having such thoughts just now, Valens, in light of your nephew’s condition, but this really is the kind of thing we have been waiting for. You understand, I must be a general first.”

“Rome expects nothing less, Gaius,” Valens replied.

Divitiacus could see that this last was said through gritted teeth, but Caesar seemed oblivious to it.

“If you will excuse me, Caesar,” Valens said cordially. “I must see to my nephew.”

Valens then left the tent, but not without casting a glance in Divitiacus’s direction. Perhaps the senator was wise enough to detect his little scheme. But, no matter. His hunch was confirmed. Whatever the nature of this plot against Lucius, the senator was involved, and the nephew, more than likely was only acting at the behest of his uncle.

“Will you march with us, Divitiacus?” Caesar offered him a cup of wine and a chair, and he accepted both gratefully.

“I am afraid my men are getting anxious, Caesar. They long for their wives, and worry about their fields. They have been marching with you since the spring thaws. They have helped you subdue much of the Belgic lands.”

“And no one could ask any more of them, my friend – or of you.”

“I speak for them, Caesar, not for myself. I ask you to release them, that they may carry their plunder home and tend to their farms.”

“It will be regrettable to see them go, but I cannot hold them here. You and your men are free to go, Divitiacus. Besides, I believe the Treveri have provided us with sufficient horse for the coming campaign. We should be safe in their hands.”

Divitiacus took a sip of wine, and then eyed the proconsul. “I would advise you to be careful, my friend.”

Caesar chuckled mildly at the remark.

“Something is not right, Caesar,” Divitiacus continued gravely. “I can sense it, like an itch in my balls. I can’t put my finger on it, but it is there, nonetheless. Call it the intuition of an old warrior, but I feel that you are being carefully led into a trap. These senators from Rome, they have the smiles of vultures and the eyes of snakes.”

“Valens and Porcius? Of course they do. They would love nothing more than for this whole campaign to meet with disaster. But that is the nature of a civilized republic, my friend. Everyone has something to gain from the failure of another. I assure you, they are quite harmless. They are merely spies, sent by the optimates to seek out some fault in my management of the province. I’ve never known either one to cause any serious trouble.”

Divitiacus then produced the rolled paper from his belt and gave it to Caesar. “Then perhaps this is nothing serious either.”

“And what is this?”

“Read it, Caesar, if you can.”

“The characters are Greek,” Caesar said, after briefly glancing over the document. “But they are gibberish. There are no words here – none that I can make out.”

“They were not intended for you to make out. I took that letter off a dead Nervii officer. He was with the group that waylaid your men.”

“It is a code then?”

“Precisely, Caesar. Now, why would a Nervii have in his possession a message written in Greek code? The Belgic tribes don’t use Greek to communicate with each other, and that group was too small to be a war band.”

“Truly, it is a mystery,” Caesar said dismissively, tossing the letter onto the table.

“I suspect they were meeting someone, Caesar, or had already met someone, and came upon your men merely by chance.”

“And by someone, you mean a Roman?”

Divitiacus shrugged. “It is a theory. Are you certain these senators came here straight from Geneva? Is there a chance they might have taken a circuitous route, perhaps to meet up with this band of Nervii?”

Caesar laughed. “Valens and Porcius could hardly find their way from Rome to Brundisium, let alone navigate their way through the forests of Gaul. Fortune smiled on them to make it even this far. I hardly think they could be involved in such a plot. It really is beyond either of their faculties. Besides, do you realize what that would imply? That the senate is conspiring with Rome’s enemies purely for my demise. I simply cannot believe it. You’ve been listening to too many stories of our wilder days, Divitiacus. The conspiracies and civil wars of Sulla’s time are over, my friend.”

Divitiacus smiled and nodded knowing full well that was not true. News flowed freely between the Aeduan and Roman lands, as it had for generations. Divitiacus knew of the corruption and infighting that had consumed Rome during Gaius Julius Caesar’s consulship. He had also heard of the pact Caesar had struck with the great men Pompey and Crassus in order to keep the Roman senate in check. Now, rumors abounded that Pompey was being wooed by the senate in an effort to create a schism in the alliance. Caesar was surely staying abreast of such developments, in spite of his outward flippancy.

The senator, the one called Valens, was up to something, even if Caesar wanted to deny it. Divitiacus had seen the shifty eyes of a conspirator in Senator Valens. He was astute at smelling out such men. As with all chieftains, he had encountered many traitors in his life, including some from his own family. Once, his own brother even conspired with another tribe to usurp him and sever the Aeduan ties with Rome. He remembered all too well the disbelief on his brother’s face when the conspiracy came to light, as if he, too, were surprised by the revelation. Valens had that same look, the well-trained facade of a traitor. But a traitor to who – to Rome or to Caesar? How deep did the plot go? And what, if anything, did Piso’s attempt to do away with the common legionary Lucius Domitius have to do with it?

VII

An hour later, Senator Valens was in his tent, gazing upon the broken body of his nephew, dying on the litter. Piso resembled nothing human. He was covered in dried blood and bandages. In some places the skin had torn such that the bandages could not hold it together. A piece of his scalp hung loosely back. No one had yet dared to replace that bandage, as the young man shivered and moaned from the unending pain.

“Did the Nervii do this?” The senator asked evenly, not taking his eyes from his nephew.

“No – no, sir,” Amelius stuttered, in a weak voice. He stood a few paces behind Valens. “It was the dogs.”

“Of course it was the dogs, you imbecile! I want to know who loosed the dogs on him!”

“Yes, Senator. It was that scoundrel Lucius Domitius. He did it. We were about to carry out your wishes, when -”

“That is a lie! You were off whoring, you and my halfwit nephew, when you should have been seeing to your duties, to the one task I had entrusted you with. You were off humping a whore, and you let that common soldier get the better of you. Had you any sense at all, you would have left my nephew to die and raced back here to report to Caesar, personally. Instead you let that Aeduan get to him first. Now Lucius Domitius is to receive a golden crown.”

“But he was arrested!” Amelius said, incredulously. “He will face charges!”

“He will face nothing! Do you think the legate of the Seventh will seriously consider punishing a man whom Caesar has denoted for a golden crown?” Valens then sighed and looked on Piso’s shivering body. “Not only has my dear nephew chosen poorly in life, he has chosen a fool for a companion. I send the two of you to kill a single soldier, and this is the result.”

“But we did what we could,” Amelius pleaded. “Surely he will pay for this. If those incompetent fools we paid off had killed him the first time, this never would have happened. Oh, Jupiter, look at him! Poor, poor Piso. Can he hear us? He must be able to hear us. Oh, uncle, what shall we do?”

"Uncle?" The senator's lip curled. His voice remained calm but his tone was sinister. "You do not call me uncle, you perverted, incompetent, son of a horseshit farmer. You have been a poison to my nephew since the day he took you as his bitch lover!"

"No-no," Amelius said, nervously shaking his head. "It's not true. That’s not true, unc – senator."

"Had he never met you, he would have been tending to his duties instead of humping that Belgic whore."

"No no…I didn't…Piso didn’t – "

"Shut your man-defiling mouth! You will never again say my nephew's name from that vile mouth. To think that I had to sit there and listen to that Gaul bare all of Piso’s indiscretions while Caesar looked on smugly! It makes my stomach turn.” The senator then moved over to the cot and took Piso’s bloody hand in his. He looked into his nephew’s jittery eyes, and saw them register on him. "Once, I bounced you on my knee. You were such a delightful child, then. So full of promise. You could have inherited the empire your father and I built together. But you failed, nephew. You failed us, and you failed your family. I warned you, all those years ago, when you were at school in Athens and you came home on holiday. Did I not warn you to stay away from that parasite you picked up there? I told your father to separate the two of you, to send that man-whore of yours back to Athens. But your father only laughed at me. He said you were merely loosening the wineskin before you embarked on your political career. Such a shame." The senator shook his head and dropped the hand and let the arm flop loosely over the side of the cot. "It may take hours, or it may take days, but you will die all the same."

"No, no," Amelius mumbled, his face covered with tears. "The surgeon is coming! Surely, the surgeon is coming, my lord!"

The senator did not acknowledge him but kept looking into his nephew’s pained eyes. "The surgeon will not come. I have ordered him away."

"No!" Amelius said desperately, clawing at the senator's cloak. "You couldn't! In Jupiter's name, why?"

The back-handed blow came swiftly and seemingly effortlessly, striking the blubbering youth across the face and knocking him to the floor. After adjusting his cloak slightly, the senator continued in a subdued tone, again speaking only to the twitching Piso. "You will not see me again, nephew. I go to clean up what you have bungled. But I leave you with one dying wish. I will allow your man-whore to remain behind. I will let him show you how much he cares for you."

Amelius’s face broke into a weak smile as he crawled over to the cot and took his lover's hand. Looking into Piso's eyes the youth said excitedly. "Do you hear that? Your uncle says I can stay. Bless him! I will mend you back to health with my own hands, and tell you each day how much you mean to me. You will get better. I know you will. It will be like old times again, you'll see. I shall never leave your side."

"Your whore is right on one count, nephew," the senator said. He then drew an ornate dagger from his belt and held it loosely in one hand.

Piso’s eyes began to flutter wildly, and Amelius's face turned white, fearful that the senator would slit his throat then and there. But the senator simply laid the knife on the cot.

"Here is my gift to you, nephew. If you are both dead when I return, I will not tell your father how ignobly you met your death. Though the sum is likely to be large, I'm sure I can pay your legate enough to entice him to write a favorable report on you. It is your choice. Farewell, nephew."

And with that he turned to leave, his cloak brushing past the hollow-faced Amelius who stared blankly at the dagger that he must use to kill his companion, and then himself.

The senator stopped before ducking out of the tent and called over his shoulder, "It's an expensive knife. So, try not to get too much of your horseshit farmer blood on it, will you?"

Valens left the tent in a foul mood, and was even further annoyed by the unmanly wail exuded by the young idiot as the tent flap closed behind him. He was more frustrated in himself than anything else, at having succumbed to his brother’s wishes that he arrange a tribuneship for his son, a man-child not fit to lead a band of drunken actors to their next debauch. Valens had entrusted his nephew with the task of eliminating Lucius Domitius more as a test of the young fool’s usefulness than as a necessity. But Piso had failed. Now, Valens would have to come up with some explanation that would preserve the family honor and elude any probing questions from rival families. As much as it touched a nerve in Valens, the only solution was to honor Piso as if he had fallen in battle, to uphold the fictional account that would appear in Caesar’s commendation. The fool’s death mask would preside in the family hall for centuries, and his exploits spoken of by future generations. The true manner in which he had met his end would be covered up.

The night breeze met Valens’s face as he walked between the officers’ tents, situated on the high ground, allowing him to gaze out at the darkened countryside beyond the battlements, where a long line of torches snaked along an invisible path. The two cohorts of the Seventh were arriving, and surely Lucius Domitius was among them.

Valens sighed at the thought that the legionary would be decorated, too. But, no matter. It was an annoyance at worst – a trifling matter in a much grander plan. Where Piso had failed, his own men would not. Legionary Lucius Domitius, the son of Sextus Domitius of Gades, would die, and Valens would never be troubled by that family again.

As Valens looked upon the camps of the different legions, he once again marveled at the unbelievable might assembled. Surely, Caesar was aware of the power one might obtain with such a force – more power than if half the senate rallied to his side.

Valens stomped his foot into the ground in frustration. Would that such power were his to wield.

He quickly bit his lip. Patience was in order. Soon, such power would be his. It was only a matter of time now. Let Gaius Julius bloody Caesar mockingly honor his nephew while inwardly the bastard smirked at his discomfort. Let the Julii bastard have his day, for his day was coming to an end. Valens knew he would enjoy watching Caesar’s world collapse around him, and Valens would be there to pick up the pieces. All that was now Caesar’s would soon be his.

A muffled cry of pain came from the tent behind him, followed by a few sobs, and then silence. The problem of his nephew had been resolved, as would soon the problem of Lucius Domitius.

VIII

The weary soldiers of the two cohorts of the Seventh Legion filed in through the torchlit gate of the camp. They had marched nearly twenty-five miles with few rests, and most did little more than put one foot in front of the other, oblivious to anything but the welcome sight of the camp gates ahead. The procession was greeted on both sides by camp followers waiting for them just outside the gate. In spite of the late hour, or the physical condition of the troops, a throng of merchants acted as though it were market day, displaying everything from baubles to tunics, freshly cooked meats to cups of wine – anything that might relieve the road-weary soldiers of their plunder before they carried it inside the camp to be registered with the quartermaster. Some walked alongside the column, carrying out transactions on the move, and there were other enticements aside from goods. Scantily clad whores were there, too, their dresses unlaced and allowing their breasts to hang freely while they blew kisses to the marching soldiers. Some were free Gallic women, selling their own wares, but the prettier ones bore the collars of slaves. A half dozen of these were bronze-skinned women of the Far East who were being marketed by a large-eyed, swarthy man wearing bright orange loose-fitting garments made of silk that draped his plump form like a sail hung out to dry. On his head sat an ornate turban with a single green jewel in the center.

As Lucius and the rest of the 9th century marched by, Jovinus pointed the man out.

“Do you see that man, Lucius?”

“What about him?”

“That’s the one they call the Scythian. He comes from the Far East. They say, for the right price, he can procure anything a man might desire, or imagine. He is rumored to possess riches beyond belief, and is said to be satrap of his own principality.”

“Who? That flighty bastard?” Lucius skeptically studied the unimpressive man who looked quite out of place in the royal attire. He looked more like a fishmonger than anything else, and Lucius couldn’t imagine him ruling anything beyond a cartload of whores.

“An exotic beauty for your bed this evening, my good men?” The dark eyes beneath the turban shifted from right to left as the Scythian spoke. “We have all kinds to choose from. Do you prefer her breasts large, or her hips wide? Or do you like her skin smooth and silky, like the petals of a rose? We can please any desire that you might have.”

The women wore smiles that were painfully artificial, and their eyes were painted to exude an alluring stare, from any angle. Each one wore a silky robe which the turbaned man demanded they drop to their waists on choice occasions when he thought he saw interest in a passing legionary’s eyes. Should one of the women fail to expose herself on cue, the man would not hesitate to violently twist her arm behind her until she was at the point of tears, and in compliance with his demands.

“That one’s got the face of a horse!” one soldier called, which drew laughter from the others.

The turbaned man appeared unfazed by this. “Her? Why, she is not one of mine! Mine are all choice courtesans, brought all the way from the Far East, the lands of legend and myth, where gold flows in rivers, where kings bathe in scented waters and have harems large enough to bed a different damsel every night of the year and never sleep with the same woman twice. My beauties come from this royal stock, given to me as a gift by a prince of Bithynia when I was his royal ward. What common man would not wish to lie where a prince has lain?”

Lucius twisted his mouth in disgust. More likely, the girls were poor and had been stolen from their homes by that jackal when they were too young to speak.

“Why let that gold and silver rust in your purse?” The Scythian continued his pitch. “Purses can be lost, young soldiers, and then what will you have? Or perhaps you would prefer if some barbarian plundered it from your cold, dead, corpse? Have you toiled for so long that a barbarian might enjoy the fruits of your labor? No, of course, you haven’t! Why not spend it now on a night of pleasure that you will never forget?”

Lucius smirked. “He can’t be too rich if he needs to personally peddle his whores off on some poor soldiers.”

“Don’t let his appearance fool you, Lucius. I’ve heard he has his own palace and a thousand slaves. You may want to do business with him before this campaign is over.”

“I’m not sure I trust those girls,” Lucius said, glancing at the sultry eastern women who gazed on the passing soldiers with something that bordered on restrained contempt. “Any one of them looks like she would slit your throat in your sleep just as soon as look at you.”

“Aye, but I can think of worse ways to die,” Jovinus replied laughing. “But I wasn’t talking about the whores.”

“What then?”

“The Scythian is a slave trader of the first order, and is known to pay handsomely. He brings exotic dark-skinned slaves, like those beauties there, and sells them here in Gaul. Then, he buys up pale-skinned slaves here, and sells them in the East. He makes a fortune on them. They say the nobles of Parthia will pay double or triple for a fair-skinned slave. I figure we should each come out of this campaign with a Belgic slave or two when all is said and done. That’s what the centurions say, anyway. I’m going to sell mine to The Scythian. You should, too. He’ll give you a better price than any of those Roman or Spanish traders.”

Perhaps Jovinus was right. If this campaign ended as previous campaigns had, each legionary could expect at least one slave as booty. With more slaves on the market, the selling price had dropped substantially, much to the soldiers’ dismay. Perhaps the Scythian was the answer, should he find himself in possession of a Belgic slave, but at the moment Lucius was more concerned about his own chances for survival. He had still been officially charged with disobeying a direct order, although, since the skirmish, no one had said anything about it, including Vitalis, and no one had attempted to take his weapons away. But now that they were arriving in the Seventh Legion’s camp, and knowing that Amelius had ridden ahead with the wounded Piso and would have arrived hours before, he fully expected to be pulled from the ranks and placed in irons at any moment.

As his file approached the narrow passage through the gate, and was stalled by the unavoidable deadlock, he heard someone call his name.

“Lucius! Lucius Domitius!”

The voice came from above. Lucius looked up at the battlements and was surprised to see the smiling face of Divitiacus staring down at him.

“I’m glad to see that you’re alive and well, my friend!” Divitiacus bellowed, and then his face disappeared behind the ramparts, and Lucius found the Aeduan chieftain waiting for him on the other side of the gate.

“I predict great fortune is in store for you, young man,” Divitiacus said, walking beside Lucius as the weary column marched down the main street of the camp. “Great fortune, indeed! Just remember that I told you so, when it comes your way.”

“I will, my lord.” Lucius smiled, though he hadn’t the foggiest notion what the man was referring to.

“Does the name Marcus Valens mean anything to you?” Divitiacus suddenly asked.

Lucius almost came to a stop at the mention of that name – that name, that terrible name, that he had cursed so many times, that haunted his dreams, that had brought him to a rage on so many occasions, and that stoked the fires of hatred within the core of his soul.

“Aye.” Divitiacus grinned at his expression. “I see that it does. Well, it may interest you to know that the tribune Piso is none other than the nephew of Marcus Valens. Does that shed some light on things?”

Of course, Lucius thought. He had suspected as much. He knew Piso had to be connected in some way to his former life. It was the only thing that had made any sense. Now, he was infinitely curious as to how Divitiacus had come upon the connection, but even now he was hesitant to acknowledge any identification with that name. He had lain low for so long, and he had survived.

“He is here, Lucius,” Divitiacus said in a lower tone, not waiting for a response.

“Valens is here?” Lucius replied incredulously. “With the army?”

Divitiacus nodded. “I met him earlier this evening, in Caesar’s tent. I think I must have underestimated you, young man. You have to be quite a lot of trouble for a Roman senator to want you dead. And now, he’s come all the way out here to see it done, no less.”

Lucius looked at him perplexedly and was about to speak when the Aeduan chieftain raised a hand to stop him.

“Let us talk no further here, Lucius,” Divitiacus said guardedly, glancing at the other soldiers in the nearby ranks. “Come and see me when you are dismissed. We have much to discuss.”

IX

The drooping vines seemed to close in around the young Belgic woman as she made her way through the mist-shrouded swamp. Giant, gnarled trees stretched their boughs high above, as they had for centuries, intertwining and blocking out sun and sky. This was a sacred place, a place of druid ritual and the unexplainable, where mystical creatures dwelt, where the owl hooted, and the tormented spirits of the dead roamed aimlessly in search of conveyance to the afterlife.

Gertrude found the dry path hidden by the mist, stepping confidently where most others would have hesitated. As odd and wild as this place was, Gertrude knew it well. She had been here many times in her young life, a special privilege she enjoyed as the daughter of a chieftain.

The druids kept the people in harmony with the living world around them. They were the conduit to the other world, and as such advised the leaders of her people on important decisions, often determining the destiny of the whole tribe. But Gertrude was not seeking guidance for her people. This time, her dilemma was personal.

True, it was frowned upon to seek the druids' help in such matters, but Gertrude had done it before. Over the years, she had developed a relationship of sorts with one particular enchantress of the forest – one who had taken a particular interest in Gertrude, ever since she was a child.

"Sacred lady, forgive me, but I have come," she said, kneeling once she reached the familiar grove laced with the exposed trunks of a half dozen mammoth trees.

"You are welcome, child," a woman's voice replied from the shadows.

Several moments passed before a dark, hooded figure emerged, slowly extending bone-like hands that seemed to glow white in the faint light. The hands clasped Gertrude's shoulders like claws, but the touch was at the same time gentle. Gertrude looked up to see only the nose and mouth of an elderly woman, with the rest of the face hidden in shadow. They were the same features Gertrude had see many times before, on previous visits, but there was something different about the old, cloaked woman this time. This time, she seemed much feebler, as if she had aged ten years.

"Speak, my child," the druidess said in a wheezy voice, followed by a short cough.

"Sacred One, something troubles my heart and my thoughts. I have come for the solace you have provided so often in the past."

"These are troubled times, child."

Gertrude paused before saying, "Something has happened."

"You need say no more, my child. I know how the Romans mistreated you. The voice of the forest has told me. Have no fear. Their time is coming. They will not go unpunished."

The druidess had said it in the consoling tone of a mother to her daughter. In some ways, the sacred woman of the forest had been like a mother to her. Gertrude came here often to discuss the things that troubled any young maiden who was the daughter of a chieftain. Many of the tribe were afraid of the old woman, even the warriors, but the druidess had always been kind and affectionate to Gertrude. Still, not even Gertrude knew the mysterious woman's origins. No one did. The old woman was the seer for the Nervii and had been as long as Gertrude could remember. While Gertrude could recall several times in the past when the druidess had gone away for many months – some said to the south, some said to the foothills of the Alps – she had always come back to tend to the Nervii.

"That is not what troubles me, Sacred One," Gertrude said.

The hooded woman coughed several times. With each successive cough, her long nails dug further into Gertrude's shoulders, reawakening some of the bruises left by the two brutal Roman officers that had assaulted her.

"Tell me your thoughts, child," the woman finally said, after the coughing fit had passed.

"One of the Romans soldiers – a tall one with a scar on his face – was not like the others. He refused to harm me, though his officer ordered him to." Gertrude paused, trying to hide the emotion in her voice, for she had found herself dreaming of the Roman in recent days, and the dreams had been far from nightmares. "This Roman saved me, and I – "

"You can have no affections for our enemy!" The old woman snapped, as if reading her thoughts. "Have I not told you of the desolation that follows wherever their columns march? They bring death and fire. They bring the slave's shackles for the necks of our people. Rome is the devil's spawn, the enemy of all that is pure. Esus, Toutatis, and Taranis help me if I do not cast your soul into fire for this!" The old woman was agitated and again broke into a fit of coughing. When the fit was finally over, Gertrude saw a patch of blood on the old woman's lips.

"I pray, do not do that, Sacred Lady," Gertrude pleaded. "Forgive me, but I cannot get him out of my head. I do not wish it, but something draws me to him. I come to you for answers, when I have none. Please don't be angry with me!"

This seemed to calm the druidess, who now paused to catch her breath, all the while wheezing loudly. "I will look for you, my child."

The enchantress then beckoned for Gertrude to follow her, and then led her to a vine-laden spot where a perfectly circular pool of still water lay apart from the rest of the swamp. The hovering mists seemed to steer away from the pool’s mirror-smooth surface. The druidess then produced a crooked branch of oak that had been polished to a shine, and then touched the water's surface with it. Kneeling over the waters, the woman began chanting in the tongue of the old ones, studying each ripple as it expanded to the edges of the pond and returned to collide with others. At one point in the ritual, a drop of blood escaped the druidess's mouth and fell into the crashing ripples. This had a grave effect on the old woman who shrieked and frantically moved away from the pool, as if she had seen something that disturbed her to the core.

"What is it, Sacred Lady?" Gertrude asked. "What did you see?"

"The Roman!" she said, wheezing. "He comes! He cannot be stopped! He brings life to you!"

Gertrude could not help but smile at the prophecy, but then seeing how unsettled the druidess was, she checked herself.

"Surely this is not a bad thing, sacred lady," Gertrude said.

"There is more!” the woman said dreadfully, as if it pained her to recount the vision. “While this Roman brings life to you, for me…for me, he brings suffering and death! I will know a pain greater than that of bearing my child.”

Gertrude was confused by this last as she understood the Druid women were forbidden from having children, but she tried to console the sacred lady anyway.

“Surely not,” Gertrude said. “Surely, there is some mistake.”

“The spirits have spoken!” the woman exasperated. “It cannot be undone!"

As the druidess stumbled away, coughing and ranting and seemingly driven mad by the vision, Gertrude tried not to think on the old woman's part of the prophecy. She chose to focus on the welcome prospects of her own.

She would see the tall Roman again. That was certain. She only now needed to be on the lookout for him.

X

General Balbus tried to hold back a yawn as the four thousand soldiers of the Seventh Legion came to attention in the field just outside the camp. It was another deucedly hot and humid day, one in which the sun was merely a bright blur in the hazy sky, and Balbus, the legate of the Seventh, was extremely uncomfortable sitting atop his horse, flanked by his staff and tribunes. It had been a long night, and he was slightly annoyed at having to rouse out of bed so early on this non-marching day. Last night, he and the other legates had spent most of the evening in the tents of the visiting senators, Valens and Porcius, enjoying an abundance of wine, fresh from Italy, along with music and other lavish entertainments. The wine had flowed freely all night and well into the morning. Now, only a few unmerciful hours later, Balbus’s head throbbed with every sway of his mount. His eyes started to drift shut, but popped open again at the sharp snap of a scroll.

“To General Balbus, commanding the Seventh Legion!” The chief centurion read the document to the assembled ranks, his stentorian voice driving through Balbus’s hung-over head like a pick axe. “You are hereby ordered to bestow the medal of bravery upon Legionary Lucius Domitius of the 9th Century for acts of gallantry in the face of the enemy that resulted in saving the lives of his officer and fellow soldiers. This commendation is to be awarded without delay. Signed, Gaius Julius Caesar, Proconsul of the province and general of the army.”

The chief centurion, a few paces in front of the mounted general and his staff, turned to glance up at Balbus, and Balbus made a gesture for him to proceed.

“The legionary to be decorated will advance, front and center!” commanded the centurion.

From the ranks of freshly polished helmets with horsetail plumes dancing in the breeze, a single legionary emerged – a tall man, with a face that could melt stone. Balbus fought back the urge to yawn again as the grim soldier came to attention before the chief centurion.

“All hear the deeds of Legionary Lucius Domitius,” the centurion projected to the ranks, then adjusted the scroll to read further. “When beset by a band of no fewer than one hundred enemy warriors, and outnumbered nearly five-to-one, Legionary Lucius Domitius displayed conspicuous gallantry by single-handedly…”

Balbus listened as his chief centurion’s monosyllabic voice recited the heroic actions of the tall legionary to the assembled ranks in agonizing detail. Most of it was nonsense, of course, and quite obviously fabricated. After all, what man could have managed to kill twelve Belgae single-handedly? It was laughable that anyone would believe such prattle. The results told the real story – one tribune dead, along with several badly-needed legionaries. But Caesar wanted someone decorated, and this soldier was the lucky chosen one. Balbus was thankful for one thing, however. He would never have to contend with that fool Piso again, nor the juvenile tribune’s effeminate companion. The pair of idiots had been of little use and a chore to deal with at times. The Seventh, indeed the whole army, was really better off without their posturing, sophomoric arses hovering about, treating everything and everyone as if they existed solely for their amusement. Well, the two had had a lesson to learn, and they had learned it. Were it in Balbus’s power, he would decorate whoever it was that was responsible for their deaths.

Balbus tried to will the centurion to read faster, that the whole proceeding might be dismissed and he could get back to the tranquil comforts of his own tent and bed, but the man, like most centurions, did not have a formal education, and read at a laborious pace. As the centurion droned on, Balbus’s mind began to drift. He began to think upon last night’s revelry.

It had been a wildly intoxicating night, and wine was not the only thing the two senators had brought with them from Italy. There were women there, too, the finest whores in Cisalpine Gaul, brought over the Alps and all the way to the land of the Belgae as part of the senators’ retinue. Valens and Porcius had been the perfect hosts, treating Balbus and the commanders of the seven other legions to a night of drinking, bedding whores, and recounting campaigns both recent and far in the past. The whole evening had been one long interval of uninterrupted bliss, all except for one awkward moment when Valens had turned to Balbus with a suddenly quite serious expression.

Balbus had been quite certain that the senator was going to confront him about his nephew’s death, but was shocked when that subject was not even broached.

“You are a trustworthy man, Balbus, and wise. I know that the tales Caesar sends back to Rome to be read in the forum must make you cringe inside. Lies do not become true soldiers.”

Balbus had nodded slightly, not certain how to respond to his host. So, instead he had taken another drink, while Valens continued.

“I can see that you have not fallen under Caesar’s spell, as so many of the others have. I am right, Balbus, am I not?” Valens looked him in the eye. Balbus had taken so much wine that he had found it hard to focus on the senator’s face. “A time is coming, when this tragedy in Gaul shall end. It has been arranged, my friend. Tell me that I can trust you to act appropriately, when the time comes.”

Balbus was unsure of what he had said after that. He hoped that the whole incident had been a hallucination brought on by his own drunkenness. Surely, Valens had not been talking treason. Surely, the senator had not been asking him to join a conspiracy.

As the centurion continued to read, Balbus tried his best not to fall from the saddle. He chose to focus on the tall legionary being decorated, who stood at attention and appeared just as uncomfortable as Balbus was to be there. He was an impressive looking soldier, with the deportment of a veteran, and the shoulders of a gladiator. But there was more to him than that. There was an astuteness in the soldier’s face that Balbus seldom saw in other troops. Between nods, Balbus noticed that the legionary’s shield looked as though it had been gouged in several places. These had been recently patched and painted over to blend with the rest of the shield, but the new paint was a slightly lighter mixture than the previous coat. If the state of his shield was any indication, then perhaps this soldier had indeed faced down as many of the enemy as the citation claimed. Maybe he had even done something astonishing. But then, it was difficult to believe such things.

Perhaps the men of the Seventh, and the men of the other legions, would be bolstered by the story and that was enough. As much as Balbus disagreed with Caesar on matters of tactics and generalship, the proconsul was indeed a master at gauging the pulse of the army. He knew how and when to distract them. Whether the citation was truthful or not, it would serve its purpose, as would the example of this tall legionary.

Balbus made a mental note that he might see to promoting the man to the next vacancy among the centurions. But the sun was hot on Balbus’s neck, and he desperately wished to return to his cot. The thought was soon lost amidst the throbbing of his head, and he was already having trouble remembering the legionary’s name.

XI

The two tunic-clad men faced off in the grove of trees just outside the camp. They fought in the driving rain, with only the flashing and crackling sky as a spectator to their combat. When they were not clasped together in a variety of contorted and painful wrestling moves, they stood off from each other and fought with bare knuckles. Bloody fists struck swollen faces slickened by rain. Boots lifted sluggishly out of ankle deep mud, and the fatigue of the long bout made their bulging muscles ache with every delivered blow. Finally, the taller of the two, found an advantage, an unguarded moment, when his opponent was off balance. With all of his remaining strength, he took the opportunity and delivered a knee-shaking blow to his opponent’s chin that sent the man reeling face first into the mud. Then, the tall man followed up on his advantage by straddling his stunned opponent’s back and pushing the man’s head down into the slop with both hands. The prostrate man struggled for air, his limbs shaking, his feet kicking, until finally he waved one hand to signal that he yielded.

At this, the victor released his opponent, and collapsed into the mud. Both men lay there, exhausted and breathing heavily, with their faces upturned to the cleansing rain.

"You were going to let that mule’s ass give me the fustuarium, you son of a whore,” Lucius, the victor, said between breaths. “Why, Vitalis? Why?”

Vitalis’s face was covered with blood from his smashed nose and he looked in no condition to respond, periodically spitting out mud that he had inhaled.

Normally, it meant death to strike a centurion, let alone come near to murdering him, but this had been a fight between men, not between officer and soldier. Lucius had been shocked when he was summoned before the legion to receive a decoration instead of a punishment, and he was glad of it, but in spite of that turn of his fortune, there was an account that needed settling. He sent a message to Vitalis carried by one of his tent mates, stating that Vitalis was to meet him at this place at this hour to settle the score between them, or the centurion was not a man. Lucius knew Vitalis would have to respond. Technically, he could have had Lucius stripped of his new medal and flogged for the challenge, but Vitalis also knew that every man in the century would label him as a coward that hid behind his rank. And so, here they had met, and here they had fought. And Lucius had won, and now he wanted answers.

"Piso had designs on you, Lucius,” Vitalis said, once he had cleared his mouth of the muck and a loose tooth. “I warned you of that."

“Yes. But you were a party to those designs!”

Vitalis looked at him perplexedly. “I was following the orders of my tribune, Lucius. I saw no way around that. My duty is to the legion first.”

"And what of the ambush Piso set for me in the Nervii village that day, with that ass Amelius waiting for me with sword drawn inside the chieftain’s hut?”

“I know nothing of that.” Vitalis replied puzzled.

“But you were the one who ordered me to report to him. You can't deny that."

"I was told to summon you, and so I did. If Piso had designs on you that day, I was unaware of it."

"And what of the two mule drivers waiting for me in the forest that night?"

"I don’t know what you are talking about, Lucius."

“You're going to sit there and deny it, that you concocted that story about your mother to send me outside the camp looking for that old woman's body, knowing full well that I was walking into a trap?"

"Piso, that bastard.” Vitalis closed his eyes and then dipped his head, as if he suddenly understood. “I didn't know about that, Lucius. You must believe me. I was a fool to ever tell the tribune about my vision." After an uncertain look from Lucius, Vitalis explained further. "After you left me that night, I went to the tribune's tent asking permission to allow you to run an errand for me outside the camp. You were right, I should have just sent you without getting authorization, but you know well my nature, Lucius. When Piso pressed me for the reason, I told him the truth. I told him the same thing I told you. That I thought I had just killed my own mother, and I needed confirmation."

"You mean to say that wasn't a lie?"

Vitalis shook his head. "On my honor, it was not. But now I wish I had kept it all to myself. Piso upbraided me for having such ridiculous fantasies, and threatened to declare me unfit for my duties and see that I was removed from my command. But then he eased his tone with me and said he would allow you to go on this errand for me if only to prove that I was indeed mad. He put me off for some time, telling me he would have the pass drawn up and I should come back after an hour. As you know, it was several hours before I managed to get it. That mule's ass never was efficient at company business, so I thought little of it at the time. Now I know that he was only delaying me in order to arrange your murder." Vitalis looked at him intently. "I swear to you, I never would have sent you out there had I known Piso's plans. I wish you had confided these things to me, Lucius. It seems clear now that, when the tribune's previous attempts to do away with you failed, he tried to do it the legal way."

It may have been clear to Vitalis, but Lucius was uncertain now that he fully understood the centurion’s involvement. "But surely you knew of Piso’s and Amelius’s plan on the day of the foray. Surely, you knew full well they intended to lure me into disobeying a direct order."

Vitalis wiped a drop of blood from his lower lip. "I did. I won’t deny it. Piso often questioned me about you. He was very interested in your faults. I told him that you were my best soldier and that if there was any shortcoming in you, it was your refusal to harm women and children. I believe I warned you about that, did I not? That day, at the farm, Piso told me he wanted to test your ability to follow orders. He said that if I tried to interfere or warn you in any way he would expose my madness to the legate. He held that over me, and I allowed it to scare me into submission. It was a cowardly act, I know Lucius, and I'm ashamed for it. But nothing frightens me more than dishonor. You know that. I knew that no matter what I did, Piso would eventually get what he wanted."

"So you consented?" Lucius said disgustedly. "Just like that. Six years as comrades meant so little to you?"

"You were a marked man, Lucius. Anything I could have done would have only put off the inevitable." Vitalis paused and then looked into Lucius's eyes. "I know nothing of your past, Lucius. You say we've been comrades for six years, and I'll agree, I've never served with a better man. But I've also never served with a man so secretive about his life before the army. In all of my campaigns, in all of the units in which I have served, whenever I encounter tight-lipped legionaries, it is often discovered later that they are some fugitive from justice, or have some ill-deed lurking in their past. I have asked you many times about your past, but you have never told me. For all I know, you might have wronged Piso sometime before you joined the army, and he was merely seeking a just retribution. "

Lucius stared into a muddy puddle rippling from the downpour, and then shot a quick glance at Vitalis’s eyes. “And what about Senator Valens? Are you in league with him?”

Vitalis held his gaze without blinking. “I do not know this senator, and why would I? What does he have to do with all of this?”

Lucius said nothing, but considered for a moment. It was all starting to add up. It was all starting to make sense. He believed Vitalis was telling the truth. The honorable centurion in Vitalis was good for something, at least. The centurion had no knowledge of the conspiracy and had merely been following orders to preserve the honor he held so dear. Piso and Amelius had been acting alone and at the direction of the senator, who had obviously employed them to tie up the senator’s loose ends and permanently bury his dark little secret.

“Regardless,” Vitalis spoke again. “Piso is now dead. My secret, Lucius, and yours – whatever it is – died with him. I, for one, will never make mention of my mother’s ghost again, even if I find her standing in the ranks at morning muster.” He looked at Lucius and extended a muddy hand. “And you have my sworn word that I shall never mention anything about the charges Piso allayed against you.”

“Really?” Lucius scoffed. “Is such conduct becoming of a proper centurion?”

“I obeyed the officer appointed over me, while he was alive. That officer is dead now.”

“No matter how corrupt he might have been?”

“The right and the wrong is not for a centurion to decide, Lucius. Perhaps you will understand someday when you, too, carry the vine branch. I tell you truthfully that I was overjoyed when I heard that you were to be decorated, and not punished. I suppose that fool Amelius had enough honor to keep his mouth shut to his dying breath.”

Not likely, Lucius thought. The suicides of Amelius and Piso were too coincidental, and had all the earmarks of Senator Valens’s handiwork.

Lucius took Vitalis’s hand and the two helped each other up out of the mud, and then did their best to remove the blood from their faces that they would not be questioned by the centurion of the watch when they returned through the camp gate. The air was now clear between them, and Lucius felt that he could now stand in the battle line with Vitalis without worrying about getting a gladius driven through his side.

There was only one man he needed to concern himself with now, and that was Senator Valens. After the conversation he had had with Divitiacus, Lucius had concluded that Valens had come to the army all the way from Rome with the sole purpose of seeing him dead. With all that Lucius knew about the senator’s past, it really was no surprise. Lucius was certain Valens would not give up. The senator wanted Lucius silenced for good, and he would see it done. It was a kill or be killed struggle – and Lucius intended to strike first.

XII

“Why do you keep looking out there, legionary?” the Scythian said insipidly from the stark moonlight opposite Lucius.

Drawing his gladius, Lucius ignored the merchant and ventured out into the darkness to investigate the sound. When he was finally satisfied that it could be nothing more than the scamper of some nocturnal rodent, he returned to the shallow defile in the forest where the plump merchant still lounged on a half-rotten log.

“Why don’t you relax, legionary?” the merchant said amusingly, his voice thick with the accent of his native tongue. “It has all been arranged. He will not come until the moon is at its zenith. We have some time yet. As I told you before, this man is a professional. He will not arrive early.”

“It is not your man that concerns me,” Lucius replied, though that was not entirely true. He was not certain he could trust this assassin. He was not sure he could trust the merchant, either, but Lucius had to go through with his plan if he wished to remain alive. Lucius was certain of that. The senator had a dozen agents to call on, and could strike at any moment and from any quarter, perhaps even enlisting men in Lucius’s own century. Lucius had no choice but to act first, and to do so he had to act swiftly.

He had never hired anyone to commit murder before. The thought made him uneasy, and there was something tediously dishonorable about it, but it was the only option he could think of that might save him, short of desertion, and he would not do that.

Lucius had approached the Scythian earlier in the day, while the contingent of mule drivers employed by the easterner prepared his small armada of wagons and carts to move with the army on the next day. Lucius was not the only legionary there. It had been advertised amongst the army that the Scythian was offering high prices in exchange for guaranteed purchases on future slave acquisitions, and many legionaries and officers were rushing to solidify eleventh hour deals. After feigning interest in such an arrangement, Lucius had asked the shifty-eyed Scythian for a private audience to discuss other, more lucrative matters. Probably more out of curiosity than anything else, the Scythian had showed a marginal interest and had invited Lucius to his private tent while he took his midday repose. This consisted of two strikingly attractive Germanic slave girls appearing from seemingly out of nowhere, methodically undressing the paunchy merchant, and then proceeding to attend to his every need. The Scythian then listened to Lucius’s proposition while one of the women hand-fed him pickled olives and the other performed carnal acts that appeared more ritual than sensual.

“So, you need the services of an assassin, do you?” the merchant had said with some suspicion in his voice. “Yes, I have arranged such things before. I warn you, though, the risk is high, and so is the fee – perhaps too high for you, legionary, eh? Two hundred denarii, all in advance, you understand?”

Lucius had shaken his head, trying hard not to be distracted by the woman straddling the repellant man’s hair-covered body. “Half now, and half when the job is done,” he said firmly.

The Scythian chuckled. “But you are a common soldier, are you not? Can you afford such a price?”

Lucius would have to give up every last coin he had plundered from the Belgic villager’s hidden stash, and even then he would need to borrow some. “I will pay it, but it must be half now, and half when the job is done.”

“But that is no good for me, young man. You obviously do not understand how this works.” The Scythian had said it as a weary schoolmaster instructs a slow child. “You pay me. I find an assassin and arrange a meeting between the two of you. Then I pay him, and he performs whatever task you have given him. I am none the wiser for it, and have no knowledge of your intended victim. That is the key, you see. I will not take the risk of being implicated in any way.”

“But suppose the bastard you hire doesn’t do what I’ve paid him for?”

“Then you come to me, and I will deal with it quietly, you understand? But that will not be the case. I only hire reliable men. You have nothing to worry about, as long as you pay me. I have a reputation to uphold, you know.”

They had bargained until finally the Scythian had reluctantly agreed to take half of the money, which Lucius had immediately produced, and then the other half when Lucius met with the assassin. Now, as Lucius and the Scythian waited at the agreed upon spot, a mile from the camp, Lucius was ever aware of the bulge of the purse full of coins tucked into his tunic and being pressed to his abdomen by his mail shirt. He could barely make out the Scythian’s plump form only a few paces away, but he could see the white teeth of the man’s smile, and it carried a sinister aspect in the moonlight.

Again, there was a noise in the brush, and Lucius looked to see what it was, gripping the hilt of the gladius that was carefully hidden from the moonlight by his cloak. He half wished he had brought his helmet along, but he had left it in the camp for fear that its polished surface might have given away his position too easily.

“There you go again,” the Scythian said, without attempting to keep his voice low. “I tell you, legionary, there is no one out here but us. My associate will arrive in good time. Perhaps while we are waiting, you might show me that you brought the remaining balance with you.”

“I have it,” Lucius said, eyeing the man cautiously. “But you will not see it until your man arrives.”

“Suit yourself,” the merchant replied casually. “You know, legionary, there are two sides to every story. Perhaps, the individual you are trying to kill also wants you dead. Am I right?”

“I thought it was your rule never to know anything about the victim.”

“In most cases, yes. But your situation intrigues me. It has made me most curious – yes, most curious indeed. I have to ask myself why a common soldier would give up a year’s pay to see a man dead. I also have to ask why you wouldn’t just do it yourself. You are a soldier, are you not?”

“I think you should remember your own principle, and not ask.”

“It is possible for me to find out such things, legionary. You are aware of this, no? There are many tribunes and centurions that owe me many favors. Perhaps I ask around. Perhaps I do some digging and find out this man you want dead is worth more than you are. Perhaps I inform him of our deal and he offers to pay me triple what you are paying if I simply betray you to him. Could you blame me for doing such a thing?”

Lucius looked across the dark space at the grinning merchant, wondering where this line of questioning was leading, when he heard the sound in the brush again. This time it was clearly something larger than a rodent. It moved steadily closer, crunching through the leaves on the forest floor. Lucius listened for the distinct footfalls of a single man, but there were more than one set of footfalls approaching. His first thought was a bear, or perhaps one of the wild boars that roamed these woods, but then two cloaked men materialized out of the shadows several paces before him. Both men stopped when they saw him, but they said nothing and expressed no alarm, as if they had fully expected to encounter him here in the middle of the woods. Lucius gripped the gladius tighter as his mind ran through the possibilities. Perhaps this was the assassin and one of his retainers. Perhaps it was the roving watchmen. Should he greet them?

Just then, he heard the Scythian moving behind him in a rustle of silk garments. It was a racing movement, and Lucius wheeled around just in time to see the bug-eyed man charging at him with a cudgel raised high above his head, the grin now replaced by a maniacal scowl. As Lucius’s mind registered the man’s betrayal, the iron ball on the end of the shaft swung and he ducked an instant too late, receiving a glancing blow to the side of his head. The blow stunned him, and might have been fatal had it been delivered with greater skill, but it had not dulled his instincts enough to stop his hand from driving his sword through the Scythian's protruding belly. The merchant shrieked, his eyes wide as he stared in terror at the few inches of steel that was not buried in his gut. Lucius jerked on the hilt several times, the Scythian whimpering with every blood-gushing movement of the blade, but Lucius could not muster the strength to tear it free. The blow to his head had left him in a daze, and he lost his grip on the sword as the dying merchant’s body fell away. Lucius instantly clawed for the dagger at his belt, but before he could reach it, the other two men were upon him, landing solid blows with wooden clubs of their own, blows that would have shattered the skulls of most men. Lucius reeled and fell to the ground. He felt the cold earth against his face, his eyes mere inches away from the twisted face of the dying Scythian. The man was in immense pain, and his screams were loud enough to make Lucius’s already throbbing head hurt even more. The bastard had betrayed him, probably selling him out to the senator, but Lucius clearly saw regret in the man’s eyes as he squirmed and suffered.

One of the two cloaked men used his boot to unceremoniously roll the Scythian onto his back. Then, ignoring the merchant’s pleas, the man ripped the sword out of the merchant’s belly, producing a scream of pain and a rush of blood that mercifully killed the merchant a few heartbeats later.

It was the last thing Lucius saw before his mind fell into the dark abyss.

XIII

The early hours of the dawn found the legions already on the move. Tents and palisades that had stood for weeks while the army assembled and reprovisioned, were now struck or burned. The cohorts formed up in order of march, shields slung on the backs of the soldiers, and packs loaded upon carrying poles. Before the sun broke over the trees, the first legion was entering the road, but even they were several hours behind the Treveri cavalry and a cohort of light auxiliaries which went ahead to flush out any Belgae observers or ambuscades. The gleaming golden eagle of the legion went ahead of the soldiers, followed by the lesser ensigns of the cohorts and centuries. A file of trumpeters and drummers kept the cadence as steady as was possible on the rough road, and the leading ranks of soldiers carried axes to cut a path through any trees the enemy might have felled along the way. The legionaries kept good order, marching six men abreast, and when they did not, they were sharply reprimanded by the primus pila – the chief centurion, or First Spear – who seemed to have the stamina of a race horse and somehow managed to be everywhere at once. The first legion was followed by its painfully slow train of baggage and engines. In single file, the wheeled vehicles filed onto the narrow road under the careful direction of the chief quartermaster. When the last cart belonging to the first legion had entered the road, the eagle of the next legion began to march. The great pall of dust hung in the air and grew ever thicker as one legion after another entered the road following the baggage of the one before it. It was well past noon by the time all eight legions and auxiliary cohorts were on the march, a column twelve miles long, stretching as far as the eye could see over and through the forested hills to the north.

Only the Aeduan cohort lingered, guarding the rear and ensuring no Belgae war bands shadowed the Romans. After waiting several hours, the Aeduans also entered the road, but the head of their column turned in the opposite direction from that of the legions, to start the long journey back to their own lands.

From his mount, Divitiacus watched as the final ranks of his spearmen disappeared around a bend on the road south. He would catch up with them later. For now, he had chosen to stay behind. There was some unfinished business requiring his attention.

It was hard to imagine that the trampled, barren plain that lay before him once held forty thousand men and several thousand beasts – enough to inhabit a large town. All that remained now were burning piles of broken wheels and axles, smoking outlines of palisades, and mounds of fresh earth covering trenches and latrines. A few camp followers – or were they local peasants, it was impossible to tell which – ignored him as they sifted through the rubbish looking for anything of value the soldiers might have left behind. How many of them would also joyfully plunder the dead after a battle, not caring which side had won?

Just then, a horseman appeared from the edge of the woods. It was one of Divitiacus’s men. Upon seeing his chieftain, the man galloped his mount over to him. The man was wiry, with sunken cheeks, but he had the eyes of a warrior and handled his horse like an extension of his own body.

“My lord!” he said, hailing Divitiacus.

“Did you find anything, Adalbert?”

“I did, my lord. You had best come see for yourself.”

Divitiacus nodded and followed the man’s lead. Adalbert was his ablest scout, and had the eyes of a hawk, and senses acute as those of a wolf. He led the chieftain back into the forest from which he had come, well off of the road and following no path that Divitiacus could make out. They continued into the thick of the forest until they were several hundred paces away from the road.

Earlier in the day, Divitiacus had heard the stories about the disappearance of the Scythian merchant. The merchant’s retainers were tight-lipped as always, and performed the routine of packing their master’s tents and carts as if he would return at any moment. Though the merchant’s people said little, rumor had it that he had gone alone to a nearby village the previous evening to negotiate the sale of a stash of unrefined ore known to be there. Several in the army had expressed concerns at the Scythian’s absence, especially those who had made deals with the merchant for the sale of anticipated plunder, but the hustle of breaking camp that morning prevented them from looking into the matter further, and everyone assumed the merchant would simply catch up with the column once his business in the village was concluded.

Personally, Divitiacus didn’t care if the fool had been devoured by a bear in the middle of the night. He had never before stooped to doing business with that eastern scum, and never intended to. He would, in fact, have not given the matter a second thought, and would at this very moment be marching south with the rest of his men, had he not been approached in the dark hours of the morning by a very concerned-looking centurion asking if he knew of the legionary Lucius Domitius’s whereabouts. It was the same centurion that Lucius had saved by running to his side in the thick of the skirmish – the one called Vitalis. This was also the man Lucius had said betrayed him and had been part of the conspiracy with Piso and Amelius. That’s why Divitiacus was stunned to see such concern on the officer’s face.

“He missed muster with the rest of the century, my lord,” Vitalis had said. “No one’s seen him since last night. I have to mark him down as deserted, but I don’t want to do that.”

Divitiacus was curious as to why this man would not be delighted at such a prospect, since it might lead to Lucius’s punishment or execution. Isn’t that what he and his cronies wanted?

Vitalis continued. “Some of his mates said he went to meet with that Scythian bastard last night, and never came back.” Vitalis glanced over his shoulder at the assembling legions, and seemed somewhat self-conscious. “He’s been a comrade of mine for a long time. I noticed you had taken an interest in him, my lord. I don’t know what he told you, but I never wished him harm. Things happened that were out of my control. There are many things that I would do differently. Well, I can’t go looking for him, and I can’t send any of my lads either, with the army getting on the march and all.”

“Why do you come to me, centurion?”

Vitalis had hesitated before saying, “I was wondering if you might send some of your men to…well, it isn’t right for me to ask you this, but – ”

“Say no more,” Divitiacus had interrupted him with a raised hand. “I will look into it. Tell no one of this.”

Appearing torn by guilt, Vitalis had expressed his thanks and had jaunted off back to the legion, leaving Divitiacus wondering if Lucius Domitius had finally fallen victim to Senator Valens. If he had, then obviously, the centurion was not a party to it.

Divitiacus suspected he would have better luck locating the Scythian, since he was well-known throughout the camp, and if he found the Scythian, then perhaps he would also find Lucius. With this in mind, he had spent most of the morning asking around, everyone from tribunes to traders, but at every turn he had come up with nothing. Frustrated, he had finally sent Adalbert to ride to the village to see if the merchant was there, or if the villagers knew anything of his or Lucius’s whereabouts.

Now, hours later, as Divitiacus followed Adalbert’s mount weaving through the thickening trees, he suspected that errand had also turned up nothing.

“I assume the merchant was not in the village?” he asked.

“Not in the village, no,” the scout replied, and then brought his mount to an abrupt halt. He pointed to a small mound of earth that appeared to have been freshly made. Something had been buried there recently but was now only half-covered. Divitiacus’s eyes then registered the bluish hand sticking out of the mound. Several strips of orange silk, stained with blood, were strewn nearby.

“I might not have found him, if the night wolves hadn’t dug him up and left him like that,” Adalbert said.

“The Scythian?” Divitiacus guessed.

Adalbert nodded. “Part of him, anyway.”

“Any sign of the legionary?”

“No, but I did find other tracks. There were several men here last night – three, by my count, other than the Scythian. Your man could have been among them. All three wore Roman boots. Two had fairly new soles and hobnails. The other man’s were frayed. Worn down to almost nothing.”

“The boots of an infantryman.”

“Probably,” Adalbert nodded. “I found a large pool of dried blood over there.” The scout pointed to a spot a few paces away. “I suspect that’s where they killed the Scythian.”

“Or, that’s where Lucius Domitius killed him.”

Adalbert shrugged, and then pointed off into the forest. “Whoever killed him, they left on horseback in that direction.”

Divitiacus considered for a moment. Lucius Domitius had met with the Scythian last night, he had no doubt of that. The disappearance of the legionary could not be mere coincidence. The fact that Lucius’s body was nowhere to be found meant that he was possibly still alive. Had this merely been a deal gone badly, in which the Scythian had been killed and Lucius had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time, or was there more to it? The tracks led north. If there were Romans here last night, and two of them were either nobles or cavalry, why would they have headed north towards the Nervii lands, instead of back to the camp? A pestering thought began to creep over Divitiacus. Was Senator Valens somehow involved in this? Was this further proof that he was in communications with the Belgae? Divitiacus had seen Valens and the portly senator riding with Caesar that morning, as the army pulled out. The two senators had been smiling and chatting cordially with the proconsul while the entourages of all three men followed close behind. At the time, Divitiacus had noted that Valens’s staff seemed somewhat diminished. Only now, upon reflection, did it occur to him that the four nobles – the ones he had seen hanging on the senator’s heels all week, the ones conspicuous in their new cloaks and glimmering breastplates, fresh from Rome – had not all been present. Two of the nobles had not been there.

“Adalbert,” Divitiacus said after a few more moments of internal deliberation. “Can you track this group?”

The scout grinned. “Like following a herd of farting pigs, my lord.”

“Good. Then we will join our troops later, Adalbert. We will follow these tracks, for the time being, and see where they lead us.”

As he followed Adalbert’s lead, Divitiacus unconsciously rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. He was fairly certain he knew exactly where the tracks would lead.

XIV

The last few hours – or were they days – Lucius had drifted in and out of consciousness. He was moving, always moving, and one moment he had the wherewithal to realize that he was slung over the back of a horse like a sack of grain, with his hands and feet bound. Every step of the horse sent a pounding pain through his head. The blood vessels around his eyes bulged from hanging in that position for so long. He heard at least two men chatting jovially in Latin. They talked about trivial things, as if they were on their way to market. There was another time when the gait of the horse stopped, and for once the pain in his head diminished such that he was able to sense the dried blood mingled with his close-cropped hair. He heard voices again, but there were new voices as well, and they spoke in a mix of Latin, Celtic, and Gaulish. Craning his head ever so slightly that he might not be seen to be awake, Lucius saw a cluster of men several paces away, dismounted and talking formally. Two of them were Roman nobles, judging from their costly cloaks and armor, and they appeared to be bargaining with three other bearded men, almost certainly Belgae, dressed in mail and wearing an assortment of bronze helmets.

Lucius got the sense that he was far from camp, because both parties spoke as though they were not concerned about being overheard. From where he hung, he could hear the conversation clearly.

"…is that understood, now?" one of the Romans said in the Celtic tongue, of which Lucius understood a little. "The legions will march in column, each separated by the baggage train of the one before it. You are to wait in the forest opposite the river ford. When the first legion arrives, do nothing. Allow it to deploy on the river bank. When the baggage comes into view, fall on the single legion with your full force.”

“What if the legion does not deploy?” asked one of the Belgae, a powerfully built gray-haired man who appeared to be a chieftain. “What if it keeps marching and crosses the river?”

“There is little chance of that,” the Roman said dismissively. “But, if it does, then all the better. You will be in a better position to annihilate it. That is the key. The first legion must be destroyed to send a panic into the others.”

“Will there be vedettes?”

“Of course there will be vedettes. What army marches through an enemy country without vedettes? Find some way to distract them, but you must not engage them with your main body. If you do, the ambush will fail.”

The chieftain mumbled something, as if he was not fully in agreement with the plan, and then finally spoke again loud enough that Lucius could hear. "I still question the wisdom of attacking now. The Aduatuci have not yet joined us. That’s fifteen thousand spears I will not have.”

“It cannot be helped, My Lord Boduognatus,” the Roman said without much conviction. “The senator has done all he could. There can be no further delays. Caesar is marching north rapidly. The rest is up to you. If you retreat inside your oppida now, you will be isolated and annihilated piecemeal. But if you strike Caesar first, with your full force, while you have the advantage – “

“Advantage? Against eight legions?” the chieftain said incredulously. Apparently he was the one the Roman had addressed as Lord Boduognatus. “What kind of wine did the senator bring with him from Rome? For I think he has been drinking quite a lot of it."

Boduognatus chuckled at his own jest, as did the warriors with him.

“You will not be facing eight legions,” the Roman said with forced patience. “Only one – or two at the most. You have more than enough men for that. If you annihilate the first two, the rest will flee. The senator will see to that."

“And Caesar will just stand by and do nothing while we slice up the front of his column?” Boduognatus said skeptically. “Caesar is known for pulling victory out of defeat."

"You give him far too much credit, I think. His deputy is the real mind behind the so-called genius.”

“Labienus?”

“Yes.” The Roman nodded. “And Senator Valens will ensure that Labienus is far in the rear when you attack."

"And what of Caesar?"

"Do not concern yourself with him!” the Roman said curtly. “He will be taken care of.”

“Killed?”

“Killed in battle, or assassinated. Either way, he will not survive.”

“Senator Valens has thought of everything.”

“Yes, he has.” The Roman agreed condescendingly. “Caesar will die, and Senator Valens will assume command of the army. The senator will then withdraw the remaining legions to the Aeduan borders, as we have agreed, and you will have your victory."

So, that was it, thought Lucius through the cobwebs of his brain. The two Roman men were henchmen of Valens, and the senator was conspiring with the enemy. Lucius was not surprised by the revelation, only by his own foolishness for believing that Valens had come all the way to the Belgic lands just to eliminate him. That night, after arriving in camp, when Lucius had met with Divitiacus, the Aeduan chieftain had said as much. Divitiacus suspected the plot to kill Lucius was just a side-show in a much broader and deeper conspiracy, but Lucius had not believed it. Now, there was no doubting the senator’s true intentions. In his lust for power, he had stooped to making deals with the Belgae, and the price would be the lives of Caesar and several thousand legionaries.

"How can I be sure that the senator will not change his mind?” Boduognatus asked after considering Valens’s henchman’s last statement. “What’s to stop him from turning the rest of the army on me, once Caesar is dead?"

"You have well over 50,000 spears, even without the Aduatuci.” The Roman said it as if the answer was obvious. “The senator is no fool. Besides, a Roman victory does not serve the senator’s purposes. He needs a defeat, one that will resound throughout the halls of Rome. Only a defeat will tarnish the auctoritas of Caesar and disgrace his followers. The proconsul has many clients back in Rome who would like nothing more than to come and finish the conquest their patron began. Making a martyr of Caesar will just prompt another like him to spring up in his place. Discredit him, and his followers will slink back into the holes from which they came. Do not worry. The senator will not betray you. He wants peace between our peoples. He wants what we all do – peace and fair trade between Rome and all Gallic and Belgic people.”

The chieftain chuckled at that.

The Roman seemed perturbed by his merriment. “You will attack as we have discussed! You will defeat Caesar’s army, and in so doing will make yourself king of all the Belgic tribes. You will be referred to as King Boduognatus of the Belgae.”

“I like the sound of that,” the chieftain said light-heartedly.

“Caesar will be dead, and the senator will see to it that no legions ever again set foot in the Belgic lands. Is that good enough for you?"

Boduognatus shrugged, seeming to accept that. He jabbed a finger in Lucius’s direction. "And what of him?"

"He is a gift," the Roman said plainly. "A token of the senator’s good will.”

"The senator wants to get rid of him, eh?” The chieftain laughed. “Who is he?"

"Merely a common legionary. He had the misfortune to cross Senator Valens. You need know nothing more. The senator has heard of the unique manner in which you dispose of your captives. This man has slain many Nervii by his own hand, so let him be no exception."

Lucius struggled to stay awake and listen to more. He had to think of something, some piece of information, anything he could use to bargain for his life, but he was finding it difficult to concentrate. The pain in his head was too great. He heard the men laughing as he slipped out of consciousness once again.

XV

The torches were arrayed in a large ring, their flames dancing in the brisk wind. Drums thumped in the night, and hundreds of war chiefs surrounded the ring of illumination, their painted faces contorted as they shouted wildly and slung curses at the bound and naked prisoners sitting in a row within the ring of flames. Many of the tribes were represented. It was an assembly of Belgic power that had not happened in the memory of any living man. The Nervii, the Viromandui, and the Atrebates had come, and they had come for war, united by blood, united in defiance of their common foe.

The dozen prisoners were all Roman. The Gallic prisoners had already been put to the sword. The Romans had been spared for this most sacred of occasions. They brandished bruises on their faces and streaks on their backs that spoke of harsh treatment earlier, but now, no one dared to touch them. They seemed the only ones permitted inside the circle of flame.

As the Belgae hurled insults and clots of mud at the defenseless prisoners, two armed warriors emerged from the crowd and shoved another bound prisoner into the circle to join the others. Delighted at the sight of this new captive, the crowd of war chiefs burst into wild jeers. This new prisoner was a tall, well-built man with shoulder and back muscles that glistened in the firelight. Obviously, this man was a powerful warrior, and this only increased the crowd’s invective. Someone threw a slimy cabbage which struck the newcomer squarely in the back, much to the amusement of the onlookers.

As Lucius felt the muck oozing down his back, he moved in next to the other prisoners. Though his head still throbbed, he saw that the prisoner next to him was in much worse shape. The man’s right eye was swollen blue from an earlier beating, but his remaining eye was wide and full of fear. The man squirmed to the side to dodge a thrown ball of mud, just as he made eye contact with Lucius.

“My name’s Drusus,” the man said nervously. “Drusus Dardanius. Second Cohort, Fourteenth Legion. What’s yours?”

“Lucius Domitius. Seventh Legion.”

“What do they plan to do with us?” the man asked, his voice full of dread.

“There’s no telling,” Lucius replied, rolling once to dodge a thrown cabbage.

“I never knew it would be like this,” Drusus said. “I don’t know what I’m doing here. I’ve hardly been a soldier long enough to break in my boots. Now, I’m a prisoner of these savages. Oh, how I wish I were back home in the Po valley!”

Lucius nodded but said nothing. The Fourteenth was a new legion, recently recruited in Cisalpine Gaul and largely manned by green troops on their first campaign. Many of the young men, like Drusus, had been simple farmers only a few months before, lured away from their quiet lives by the thrilling tales of Caesar’s conquests. In dire need of more legions, Caesar had sent centurions throughout the countryside south of the Alps, conscripting citizens and provincials alike, promising a life of adventure and a pension to all who signed on. The part about possibly ending up as the offering at a Belgic sacrifice was usually left out.

“Do you think they’ll ransom us?” Drusus asked hopefully.

“Maybe.”

Of course, there was not the least possibility of that. But Lucius saw no sense in stirring the youth into a panic. The faces staring at them from all sides were filled with rage. They were the Belgic war leaders, obviously, but there also appeared to be a few curious peasants watching, including several women.

A hush descended on the crowd as a procession of white-robed, hooded figures entered the circle. They moved in complete silence and, judging from the sudden reverence exhibited by the hitherto rowdy mob, Lucius assumed these were the druids so renowned by the people north of the Alps. In their arms, they carried bundles of freshly cut oak that still bore green leaves. Forming a circle around a great pile of cut wood and branches that stood directly in the center of the ring of torches, they ceremoniously added their bundles to it, one by one. Lucius had earlier dismissed the woodpile as the makings of a bonfire. But now, a flicker of the torches revealed the base of a structure stretching up out of the pile of kindling and into the night sky. It was hard to make out the entire structure in the dim light, but it looked like a crude statue of a man, constructed entirely of cut wood and brambles. The head and shoulders of the towering effigy were shrouded in darkness, but Lucius could clearly see the legs, each one the size of a large man. The massive legs led up to a torso that bulged heavily at the waist and appeared to be largely hollow.

The silence continued, and a new figure in a black, hooded robe now limped into the light. This druid was a woman, and Lucius instantly saw that she bore a striking resemblance to the old woman that Vitalis had supposedly slain days ago. Could it possibly be her?

As she walked, she was aided by two others who held her arms deferentially, as if it was crucial that she be present at the ceremony. In fact, she seemed to be the one presiding over it.

“Silence while the sacred lady speaks!” One of the druid men said. He spoke in the common Celtic tongue. There was really no need for such an announcement since the crowd was already captivated by the old woman.

A young she-goat was brought to the druidess, still living. As the crowd watched, she produced a wicked looking dagger from the folds of her robes and proceeded to slit the throat of the animal. Then, with a fervency and viciousness not expected in one so frail, she tore the animal to shreds, allowing the bloody bones and flesh to fall away until only the beast’s liver remained in her slickened hands. This she held up as if it were a rare gem that had just fallen from the sky. She studied the slippery organ intently, turning it over in her hands several times. Finally, with arms outstretched, she spoke to the assembled Belgae.

“The threads of time have been woven and knotted,” she said, in that same haunting voice Lucius had heard outside the camp that day. “The spirits of oak and fire have spoken. They speak to you of the brave Atrebates, and you of the fearless Viromandui, and you of the valiant Nervii. They speak auspicious tidings of a coming victory, a victory that will be yours!”

At this, the crowd erupted in cheers and wild howling, and it took some time for the white-robed druids to silence them again so that the old woman could continue.

“The mighty will be brought low. Woe unto he who calls himself Caesar!” She said this in a sinister tone, pointing a trembling, bony finger at the prisoners.

Lucius could not see the face within her darkened hood, but he felt as though she was looking right at him.

“Your fortune tellers have told lies,” she continued. “Your line will vanish as a flash of lightning retreats across the sky. The sword is drawn and polished for your slaughter. It shall fall on your neck and that of your people. It shall not return to the sheath until you are utterly destroyed and your memory wiped from existence. The Roman people shall be as the slag that remains after smelting. They shall be plundered and scattered to the corners of the earth, a broken and soulless people. The spirits of oak and fire have spoken!”

The war chiefs burst into wild cheering again, the tumult even greater than before. Either the druids concluded they would not be able to get control of the crowd again, or the old woman was finished speaking, because she was escorted away and the remaining druids began to move in toward the prisoners.

“What the devil are they saying?” Drusus asked, panicking at the approach of the hooded figures. “Did you understand a word that hag said?”

Lucius did not answer. Instead, his eyes focused on a single face in the crowd that seemed to be staring at him. It was a woman’s face, round and perfect in the firelight. It carried the same striking beauty as it had when he saw it at the Nervii farm, on that rainy day, when Piso had tricked him into disobeying an order. It was the same blonde-haired maiden whom Piso had tried to rape, and whom Lucius had last seen retreating through the forest, stark naked. That she recognized him, there could be no doubt, and he fully expected her to join in the insults and castigation being thrown at them by the others. Strangely, she did not. Her face looked confused when she recognized him, and then concerned, and finally in a panic once the druids started to move in. She started clawing at the arm of a large-shouldered warrior, a bearded man with long braided hair who appeared old enough to be her father. She pleaded with the man for something, shooting desperate glances back at Lucius. The man appeared annoyed and slightly displeased with her, but this did not appear to dissuade her. But Lucius did not see how the argument ended, because the next moment she was hidden from view when the druid men hefted him and the other prisoners to their feet and began ushering them toward the wooden effigy.

“Oh, Jupiter help us!” Drusus exclaimed, as they were marched single file to the base of the structure. “I don’t want to die! Jupiter help me! I don’t belong here!”

The young recruit tried once to break away, but it was a feeble attempt, and the druids had no difficulty in knocking him over the head with a club and forcing his wobbly legs back into line. At the base of the structure, two druids waited with long daggers, with which they cut the prisoners bonds and directed them to climb up into a small opening in the statue’s belly, one at a time. When it was Drusus’s turn, his legs were too shaky to even surmount the pile of firewood, let alone climb up into the structure. This changed when one of the druids jabbed the point of the dagger, dangerously close to his genitals, and that got him climbing quickly, though he pleaded for mercy the whole way up.

Lucius was not about to be led like a sheep to the slaughter, and he had watched carefully as the druid priests cut the bonds of the men that had gone before him. They were careless, and obviously trusting in the other druids hovering nearby with the clubs to keep the prisoners in check, should one of them try anything. Lucius felt certain that once it was his turn, he could quickly wrench the dagger from the hands of the one on the left. That one was slight of build, and did not have a firm grip on his weapon. Lucius would take the dagger and kill as many of the white-robed bastards as he could before they clubbed him to death. Either way, it would be a better death than the one in store for anyone who went up into that statue.

As the small druid motioned for Lucius to turn around that he might cut his bands, Lucius obeyed meekly, but waited for the instant he felt the pressure on his wrists release. The dagger started to cut, but then stopped when another druid approached and said something to the man with the dagger. They were speaking too quickly for Lucius to make out any of it, but when they finished, he found himself being ushered away from the statue by two druids with clubs, while the small hatch in the statue was quickly nailed shut by the other priests, sealing the other prisoners inside.

“Lucius! Where are they taking you? Lucius!” Drusus’s voice shrieked from the statue’s belly. The small gaps in the hastily built structure allowed the victims trapped inside to clearly see what was going on around them. As a circle of druids holding burning torches began to converge on the stacks of wood at the base of the statue, the prisoners inside began to squirm and panic.

As the fires were started, and the screams of the trapped men rang in his ears, Lucius realized that he was being taken to the edge of the sacred circle. There, a grim-faced warrior waited for him. This was the same big man he had seen with the blonde woman only moments before. The warrior seemed none too pleased to see Lucius, but he did receive Lucius from the priests and quickly passed him back into the crowd to two other warriors who appeared to be waiting for him. Without much gentleness, they pulled him along through the crowd, practically dragging him, but also protecting him on both sides and parting the angry onlookers who tried to get punches and kicks in on Lucius. But the crowd soon lost interest in Lucius and turned its attention to the structure, which had been set alight now, and was quickly being consumed. The two warriors quickened their pace to take advantage of the lull, and did not allow Lucius to look back – not that he wanted to. As the flames lapped up into the belly of the statue the condemned men cried in terror, some of them invoking their ancestors, some their gods, and others cursing the Belgae with the foulest approbations they knew. Lucius had experienced many horrors in his years in Gaul, but the screams of those men chilled his very soul. He prayed that they would all meet a quick death, especially Drusus, whom he thought he could hear above the rest.

Stripped bare and with his hands bound behind him, Lucius had no choice but to go wherever the two warriors led him. They were clad in mail and armed with swords, and he could tell by their manner that they were not common soldiers. They led him down the hill, through the massed camps of the tribal armies, where lounging Belgae warriors looked up with curiosity and then hatred as he passed by. Finally, he was led through the gates of the oppidum, the streets of which were crowded with peasants gazing at the burning statue atop the distant hill. It was an inferno now, bathing the thatched roofs of the Nervii huts in an orange glow. The screams had long since stopped, replaced by the roar of the frenzied crowd. They had sacrificed their enemies to their gods. The blood price had been paid.

They were now ready to face Caesar’s army.

XVI

They had spent a day and a night tracking the unknown riders. Now, on the morning of the second day, as they continued their trek north through the overgrown countryside, Divitiacus and Adalbert came upon a new set of tracks that merged with those they had been following. They were following at least six horsemen now. The forest grew ever thicker and they came upon mosquito-ridden marshes through which they dared not steer their horses, lest some patch of quicksand take them under. Around midday, they encountered a dense, deep hedge, as high as two men and as impenetrable as any fortress palisade. The giant barrier ran for miles and miles in either direction, forcing any man or beast to go around. The Aeduan chieftain and the scout saw that the tracks of their prey had turned at this point and now ran along the edge of one of the hedge barrier. They followed the tracks for several miles without problem before the tracks suddenly disappeared, as if the gods had sent a whirlwind to snatch the six riders from the face of the earth.

Divitiacus had seldom visited these lands, but he knew enough about them from the tales told of the Nervii and their strange ways. They were a proud and intensely paranoid people, always suspicious of foreigners and their corrupting influences. Legend had it that the mass of maze-like, living barriers was planted and cultivated by the ancient inhabitants of these woods to stave off invaders. If one wished to enter the heart of the Nervii lands, one must do so using the few roads available. Any invading army, such as Caesar’s, would have to stretch out over several miles if it wanted to make any speed at all. Such boundaries also rendered cavalry nearly useless.

There were, of course, secret paths through the Nervii heartland, the locations of which were known only to a choice few. Some said that there were entire networks of roads and paths running through the seemingly impassable wilderness, all well-maintained and wide-enough to convey entire armies, including wagon trains, with great speed.

Thus, Divitiacus was not too surprised, when, after a few moments of searching, he found a spot in the hedge where vines had been carefully draped to conceal a large opening. The tracks continued through this passage and the two Aedui followed them deeper into the dense wood, the floor of which had not seen direct sunlight in many ages. The enormous oaks looked down on them like giant sentinels, suspicious of the newcomers passing beneath their intertwined boughs.

“The tracks go on and on, my lord,” Adalbert said bleakly. “How long shall we? We are already deep in enemy territory. I suspect these forest paths are watched.”

“Very likely,” Divitiacus nodded. “How far ahead of us are they?”

“Half a day. Maybe more.”

“I believe these Romans have met up with a band of Nervii and are heading for the big Nervii oppidum north of the Sabis,” Divitiacus said it more for his own benefit than for Adalbert’s.

“Perhaps, my lord,” the scout replied, uncertainly.

Divitiacus cursed inwardly in frustration. Adalbert was right. If they continued on they would most certainly be discovered. The further north they went, the more likely they would be spotted. It was his own concerns that had driven them this far. If Valens’s men were making a deal with the Nervii, then he could only assume the Roman senate was behind it. Were they attempting to undermine Caesar’s authority in the province? If the Nervii were to be the favored tribe with the Roman senate, and if Caesar was somehow removed from his position, what would that mean for the Aedui, who had spent the last several years subjugating many lesser tribes under the approving eye of the proconsul? But, it seemed now, that all of that was out of his control.

Divitiacus was about to turn his horse about and head back when he saw Adalbert’s hand shoot up in a motion for him to be silent. The Aeduan chieftain instantly brought his mount to a halt and listened as the scout indicated. There were voices coming from the trees up ahead, not of alarm, but of men in casual conversation. Someone was coming up the path from the other direction.

Divitiacus gestured for Adalbert to follow him, and both men guided their mounts quietly off the path and behind a patch of brush. There, they dismounted.

“Your bow,” Divitiacus whispered to the scout, who quickly retrieved the four-foot bow from his saddle, along with a quiver full of arrows. Within moments, Adalbert had the bow strung, and a feathered shaft notched and ready.

They did not have to wait long before three riders came into view. The lead rider was several paces out ahead of the other two who were riding abreast. The man in the lead was a Nervii warrior, wearing a spherical bronze helmet. An iron-tipped lance rested loosely across his horse’s neck and dipped rhythmically with the gait of his mount. The men behind were Roman. They were two of the nobles from Senator Valens’s staff, and they were dressed as Divitiacus had seen them before, in black cloaks and bronze breastplates. The two men chatted as they rode, quite at ease. The Nervii warrior was obviously their guide, and was presumably leading them back out of the Nervii heartland. He was no more alert than the others and was too busy fingering his nose and swatting at a cluster of buzzing flies to notice anything, let alone the two hidden Aeduans.

“The horse of the Nervii first,” Divitiacus whispered. “Understood?”

Adalbert nodded, and then drew back the bow and took aim. The straining wood creaked as he brought the feathers to his ear. Then, he released, and the arrow sailed through a gap in the trees and buried itself in the neck of the Nervii warrior’s horse. The beast instantly went into violent convulsions, kicking wildly with its back legs as its perplexed rider cried out in horror. Finally, the man’s hand slipped from the reins and he flew from the saddle, crashing violently into the rock-hard trunk of an ancient tree. The man’s neck jerked back on impact, snapping it like a twig.

The two Romans, not having seen the arrow, concerned themselves with keeping their own mounts clear of the kicking horse until it finally galloped off back down the track. As the horse ran past the two men, one of them saw the arrow protruding from its neck, and was about to raise the alarm to his companion, when a feathered shaft suddenly appeared protruding from his bare thigh. Adalbert’s second arrow had been aimed at the Roman’s horse, but the horse had moved at the last instant. The man shrieked in pain as he tried to remove the barbed point from his leg, but this seemed only to increase the flow of blood. Unconsciously pulling on the reins, the man sent his horse into a spin. The other Roman, realizing they were under attack, drew his sword, ignoring his struggling companion, and scanned the woods for any sign of their attackers.

The Roman searched the foliage to the left of the road, and quickly picked out the thin form of an Aeduan archer, standing a mere thirty paces away and taking no pains to conceal himself while he notched another arrow. The archer must have been completely confident that his next arrow would fly true, because he made no move to run. Even after the Roman prompted his horse into action and charged straight for him, the archer simply drew back his bow and calmly aimed. The Roman could see the blue eyes of the bowman, even at this distance, and he kept focused on them, and them only. When he saw the archer’s eyes blink, he quickly jerked his horse to the left. The arrow sailed past, well clear of him, and he felt an instant moment of elation. He was charging at the archer now, as the man reached for his next arrow. There was no way the archer could get it notched and loosed in time. He had him, and he knew it. He raised his sword, preparing to smash down on the pathetic man’s head, but then several things ran through his mind at once. The fact that he could now see two horses tied up behind the archer, where there stood only one man. That gurgling sound behind him that told him the arrow that had missed him had not been aimed at him at all, but was now firmly lodged in the neck of his companion, its intended target. The serene nature of the archer who appeared not the least bit concerned that a cavalry gladius was about to cleave his head in two. All of these things raced through his head in the space of a heartbeat, and he came to the correct comprehension of them a moment too late. From seemingly out of nowhere an axe head appeared in front of him. It had been swung by someone concealed behind a tree, and it struck him with full force in the chest, crashing through his breastplate and knocking him clean from his mount.

As Divitiacus allowed a moment for his arms to recover from delivering the hammer-like blow, he saw the Roman fall to the ground flat on his back. The Roman’s body twitched once, and then went limp. He was dead, but the other Roman, the one that now had one of Adalbert’s arrows protruding from his neck and another in his thigh, was still alive. He, too, had fallen from his mount and was flailing about trying to remove the arrow that had severed his windpipe.

Divitiacus bounded over to him and knocked the man’s hand away from the shaft.

“What deal did you make with the Nervii, you bastard?” Divitiacus snarled as he stood on the Roman’s chest and twisted the shaft in his neck. “Why did Valens send you here? What happened to Lucius Domitius? Tell me, or I’ll cut your balls off!”

The Roman growled in pain, gurgling blood and spit, but he made no attempt to speak. His eyes stared back into the Aeduan chieftain’s with nothing but contempt and hatred.

Seeing that he would get no further with the Roman, Divitiacus ended the man’s suffering with a single, lightning-quick swing of his axe.

Divitiacus and Adalbert searched the bodies, and the saddle pouches of the horses. While searching the Roman whose chest had collapsed under Divitiacus’s axe, Adalbert found a small paper, folded carefully and tucked away in the man’s tunic. The paper appeared blank at a first glance, but upon further examination, Divitiacus found that it contained a collection of Greek letters written in faint ink, almost invisible unless held at the right angle to the light. The characters were arranged in columns. Divitiacus knew immediately what it was.

“The cipher!” he cried aloud.

“The what?” Adalbert asked in confusion, befuddled at his chieftain’s reaction.

Divitiacus did not answer. His mind whirled as he considered his options. The dead man at his feet was a fool to have ever carried such a damning document on his person. Divitiacus was convinced that the cipher would unlock the message he had found on the dead Nervii officer and then had presented to Caesar. This was the final proof that the senator was involved in some kind of malicious plot. But was it a plot to betray Caesar? Perhaps this Senator Valens was communicating with some double agent of the Nervii, and this foray into enemy lands was meant to ensnare the Nervii rather than to go into league with them. If that was the case, then Divitiacus may have just killed two loyal Romans and may have bungled a plot to undermine the Nervii.

The contents of the message would provide the conclusive evidence, either way. Unfortunately, he had left the message with Caesar, and who knew what the proconsul had done with it.

“How long would it take you to reach the Roman column?” he said, turning to Adalbert.

“Going back the way we came? A day, maybe more.”

“And if you cut a more direct path?”

“Across the wild?” The scout shrugged. “Maybe more, maybe less. It all depends on how many marshes I have to go through, and how many of those hedges I have to go around.”

Divitiacus nodded, and then handed the document to him. “Then take whatever path you think best, but ride as fast as you can and get that document in Caesar’s hands before the sun sets tomorrow. Is that clear?”

Adalbert nodded as he folded and tucked away the paper.

“Guard it with your life,” Divitiacus said firmly. “And be discreet about gaining an audience with Caesar. No doubt, that senator is watching his every move. He’s sure to be monitoring all of Caesar’s visitors. You will raise less suspicion than if I were to deliver it.”

“You are not coming, my lord?”

“No,” Divitiacus said simply, without expounding. “Now, be off!”

Adalbert nodded, and, after stowing his bow, jumped into the saddle and rode off at full gallop.

Divitiacus did not bother to watch him go. He hastily hid the Roman bodies, and then he, too, mounted and kicked his horse back onto the path. He did not, however, take the path back the way they had come, as Adalbert had. Instead, he continued on in the direction that would take him deeper into the Nervii lands.

He was certain Valens was a traitor, and that his success would mean disaster for the Aedui. The cipher was one thing, but whatever it might reveal, Divitiacus was sure the senator could talk his way out of any culpability in the matter. On the other hand, the senator had a dark and dirty little secret, something that could seal his political fate forever. Lucius Domitius knew that secret. Why else would the senator have gone to such great lengths to do away with him? There was a chance that Lucius was still alive, somewhere out there in the hands of the Nervii.

Divitiacus was determined to find him, even if it meant risking his own life.

XVII

When Lucius awoke, the guards were gone. He woke to the face of a boy, looking at him quizzically. The boy seemed to notice that he was awake, but said nothing and continued to clean his wounds.

Lucius remembered being dragged to this place, a poorly lit hut that seemed much bigger than the other huts, and then being pushed into a corner, where he was continuously watched by both guards who sat grimly at a nearby table drinking beer. The howls of the mustering army had resounded outside and had nearly made Lucius’s throbbing head split. He had not slept in days, it seemed, and eventually he had faded off to sleep.

Now, as the boy dabbed at his head with a cool rag, it was nearly silent outside. Gone were the drums of the host, and he could even hear the sounds of birds and cows through the open window. The late morning sunlight revealed a large open room with chairs and tables and a hearth. The guards were gone. Someone must have removed his chains while he slept because he now wore loose-fitting Belgic trousers. The irons had been fastened onto his ankles again, which would allow him only slight movement for walking, but his hands were now free. It appeared that he and the boy were all alone in the room.

"Where am I?" Lucius asked.

The boy looked at him confused and Lucius realized that he had asked the question in Latin. Of course the boy wouldn't be able to understand him.

"Where am I?" Lucius asked again, this time in Celtic.

Lucius’s Celtic was not that good and, judging from the look on the boy’s face, he might have just told him he was a crazed leper. The lad could have been no more than ten years of age, and as the light revealed more of the youth’s ruddy complexion, Lucius realized that he had seen the boy before.

"I am Lucius." Lucia said in Celtic again. "Who are you? What is your name?"

The boy’s face scrunched up and then broke out in a grin that revealed a set of crooked yellow teeth.

"Do you speak Gaulish?" the boy said suddenly. "I do."

"Why, yes, I do," Lucius said, relieved because that was a language he spoke nearly fluently.

"Please use Gaulish.” The boy smiled. “Your Celtic is hard for me to understand."

"What is your name?" Lucius asked, this time in Gaulish.

"They call me Alain."

"That is an Aeduan name, is it not?"

The boy nodded and then continued dressing Lucius’s wounds.

"Then you are a slave here, of the Belgae?" Lucius asked.

"Yes, just as you are," the boy replied simply.

“Me? I’m no slave!”

“You are the slave of my lord Boduognatus, but do not worry. The lady Gertrude, his daughter, is kind and generous. She seldom beats me. Much less than my parents did, Lugus rest their souls.”

“Tell me, Alain, how long have you been here?”

“Since I was six years old, I think, but I have lost track. The Belgae raided my village, and my family was killed.”

“I’m sorry.”

Alain looked at him oddly. “I am content here. My life is very simple. I do what I am told, and I am rewarded with food. My lady Gertrude takes better care of me than my own people ever did. I have never been hungry.”

Lucius glanced around the room once more, and then said in a whisper. “Where are the guards? Are they gone?”

The boy’s face was suddenly hostile and he quickly moved several paces away from Lucius. “They are near, Roman dog. Do not try anything, or I will call them.”

Lucius heard a man’s deep belch through the open window, and knew that his guards from the previous evening were lounging just outside the door. That did not surprise him, but the boy’s tirade did.

“Why should you be so angry with me?” Lucius asked in an attempt to calm Alain. The last thing he wanted to do was alienate him. He noticed that the boy wore no chains, and a slave with such a free reign might be able to help him to escape. “I am an ally of your people. The Romans and the Aedui are friends.”

“They are no longer my people, dog, and I am no friend of the Romans. They wish to conquer us, and to make my lady Gertrude one of their whores.”

“Then why were you taking care of me just now?”

“Because I was ordered to,” Alain said testily, but then his face softened. “And because I have heard that you saved my mistress’s life, when some other Romans tried to kill her.”

“Your mistress, Gertrude, is she – “

“Your mistress, too, dog!” the boy snapped.

Lucius bit his lip to avoid back-handing the runt across the floor. “Uh, I’m sorry. I meant to say our mistress, the lady Gertrude. Is she the -“

At that moment, a young woman entered from the door. It was the golden-haired maiden that Lucius had seen at the Nervii farm, and then again last night as she had pleaded with the older man, presumably this chieftain Boduognatus the boy referred to, to spare his life. She was flanked by the two guards from last night. She took one look at Lucius, and her face broke into a smile. She then turned and said something to the guards in Celtic, and they grudgingly went back out the door, presumably to wait outside.

The maiden seemed somewhat nervous as she approached Lucius, who still sat on the floor. Then she said something to Alain in Celtic

“My mistress does not speak your tongue,” the boy said, his tone still resentful. “I will speak for her.”

“Tell her, I very much appreciate her saving my life last night.”

Alain sighed, and then relayed the words, and it prompted a sympathetic nod from Gertrude. She then spoke again, gesturing to the table, where some bread and meat were laid out.

“Burning Romans is the law of the druids, not hers,” Alain translated. “She wishes the barbaric practice would stop. She is sorry about your comrades. Would you like to eat? You must be starving?”

Lucius was uncertain as to why this woman was being so kind to him, but he wasted little time in making his way to the table. He had not eaten for several days, and suddenly realized just how hungry he was. He crammed the food into his mouth, one handful after another, taking little time to chew before swallowing, and quite forgetting where he was. After a few moments, he realized that Gertrude and Alain were watching him with astonishment, as one might watch a lion devouring a horse. He felt somewhat embarrassed and immediately began to eat in a more controlled fashion.

While Lucius ate, the woman sat down across from him and studied his face with her piercing green eyes. He tried to avert his own eyes, remembering that he was supposed to be her slave, and soon found himself staring across the table at her breasts. They were concealed and held back from the edge of the table by her dress, but Lucius’s mind could not help but ponder how lovely they had looked when he had seen them fully exposed.

Gertrude suddenly said something that startled him out of his gaze.

“She wants to know why your people turned you over to us,” Alain said. “Are you a criminal among the Romans?”

Lucius looked at the boy. “A criminal? No. I’m no criminal.”

Gertrude then slapped her hands on the table and sighed. It was the first ill-mannered gesture Lucius had seen from her.

“Did I say something wrong?” he asked.

She then said something in an annoyed tone to Alain. The boy nodded and turned to Lucius. “She says to talk to her, not me. She wants to see your eyes. A man’s soul is in his eyes. I will speak for her.”

“Alright. If that’s the way she wants it.”

Lucius did look into her eyes, and he found that it was harder than he had thought. He had seen the resemblance in her green eyes to those of his dead mother and sister back on the farm that day, and now only an arms’ length away, and faced with both of those perfect eyes, and their searching power to reach into the very depths of his soul, he wondered if there might not be some kind of sorcery in them. But he held her gaze and did not look away.

"My father is a chieftain,” The boy relayed her words exactly as she spoke them. “He has made an arrangement with a Roman senator – a man called Valens. This man gave you to my father. He obviously expected my father to have you executed.”

“Yes,” Lucius agreed.

“Why does this man want you dead? He is Roman, too, no?"

"Among my people there is infighting between families and classes,” Lucius said. “From what I've been told, it has always been that way. The old Romans fought each other when they weren't fighting someone else. They might conquer a people one day, and then befriend them the next, but all noble Romans are always suspicious of their Roman peers."

"You are a noble?”

“No.”

“But this man Valens is?”

“Yes.”

“You are not one of his peers, then,” Gertrude seemed perplexed. “How could he hate you so much to give you over to an enemy?"

"I think I hate him more than he does me. He's afraid of me, or of what I can do to him. Thinks I'll show up on his doorstep someday looking to settle the score because of what he did to my family. And that's just what I had planned to do, if I ever got to Rome, so I guess he's not a fool."

"What happened to your family?"

Lucius paused, holding back what he had kept inside him for so long. "Do you really want to know these things?"

"Yes. I wish to know all about the man who is…," Gertrude seemed to have trouble finding the right words while Alain waited to translate. “I must know all about my enemies.”

"You have not treated me like an enemy, thus far." Lucius smiled.

She smiled back. "I always repay my debts. You saved me from those small-pricked Roman boys. I am grateful to you for that.”

Lucius laughed out loud at that, and this brought a larger smile to Gertrude’s face, but soon her face drew solemn again, and she prompted him to answer her. Lucius closed his eyes, allowing those painful and long buried memories of the past to come back to the forefront of his thoughts. Through the last few weeks, the repeated attempts on his life, and the revelation that Valens was behind it all, he had wanted desperately to tell someone, anyone, all that was brewing inside him. But he had kept silent, unsure if there was anyone he could trust. Now, sitting in front of this Nervii woman, his enemy, but in some ways, the least threatening soul he had encountered since marching into Gaul all those years ago, when he left his old life in Spain behind and never looked back.

Now, he looked into her eyes, and she knew that all that he was about to tell her, was the truth.

“I come from Gades. It’s a small town in southern Spain. But my father was not from there originally. He came from Campania, in southern Italy. My father was an old army veteran. He served in a Marian legion during the civil war, and later in Spain under Sertorius.” He smiled at her puzzled expression. “Have you heard of any of these people?”

She shook her head.

He smiled. “It doesn’t matter. I suppose, it doesn’t. Well, eventually, when Spain came back into the Roman fold, my father was discharged and settled down on a small plot of land given to him by the state. He married a local Iberian girl, and when he wasn’t farming, worked as a cutler. As with many of the discharged veterans, he had to play the game for any work to come his way, so he became the client of a local magistrate – a man who had once served under Sertorius as a legate – a man by the name of Marcus Valens.”

“Senator Valens?” she asked.

He nodded. “The same. He was not a senator then, but he was on the rise. His family was a prominent one in Spain, if not in Rome, and he was making his way up the cursus honorum. He was my father’s patron, and every morning my father duly paid him a visit for the daily salutato. My father was a good client. Seldom, if ever, did he turn down a request made of him. He was well-respected in the community and his own popularity among the local veterans increased Valens’s clientele by ten-fold. Valens, on the other hand, was not a good patron. He demanded much, and gave little in return. My father worked hard for him, but he and my mother soon had children, and more mouths meant not enough food. Even with the small farm and his long days of work, we did not have enough – at least, not after the patron took his share. Then one day, my father ran into a freed slave he had once known in the army. This man had once worked in the mines in the north and had come to Gades looking to resurrect a forgotten Carthaginian silver mine. It was only a few miles outside of town, but it was in a difficult spot and none of the locals knew of its existence. It had been abandoned for generations. The land had been in the hands of a Roman family that had never even seen it. It was abandoned and not being worked. The slave had corresponded with the Roman family to get permission to buy the land, but even without knowing about the old silver mine, they set the price too high for his purse. As an old comrade of the wars, he came to my father seeking help. Of course, my father could not afford to buy the land, either. But my father was an enterprising man. He pooled together a group of veterans, and they all pitched in to buy the land together. He did all of this without telling Valens, and that is not the expected etiquette due to a patron. The patron is supposed to know all. But who could blame my father? Had he told him, that greedy bastard would have likely bought the land himself and cut my father and all the others out entirely.” Lucius sighed and took a sip of the ale. “Well, the mine was successful, and I’m not ashamed to say largely due to my father’s management of the whole thing. But he never once shirked his duties to Valens. My father simply worked from the dark hours of the morning until midnight, seldom getting much sleep. The others recognized my father’s talents and awarded him a controlling share of the mine. He went from struggling cutler to mine owner in the matter of a few months. It was quite a change, and the change had the added burden on him. It has been many years now, and my father’s image begins to fade in my memory, but I do still have the impression of a trudging, exhausted shadow that entered our small house each night and was gone before I woke up in the morning.”

“Valens found out about the mine.”

“Of course. There was no way to keep it a secret. My father had to sell his ore on the market, and the Valenii controlled most of the shipping in the area. A conflict was inevitable. My father and his friends knew this. They got the idea to form a sort of mining guild, offering protection to each other, and presenting Valens with a rock-bottom prices. There was enough to go around. Much to my father’s surprise, Valens took him up on the offer. Silver started to flow out, and money started to come in, for everybody, and my father’s station among the local community started to rise. I believe that is the real reason Valens hated him, not because he had started the mining operation behind his back. Eventually, my father developed a clientele of his own. Some of them came from Valens, and this did not sit well with my father’s former patron.

“To better manage operations, my father moved our family into a respectable villa closer to the mine. I remember wearing newly spun fabric for the first time. And my father bought my sister and me a pony, which we kept in a small stable on the property and the two of us got up early each morning to go out and feed her and watch her clop about. It was the first time I remember being truly comfortable – truly happy.”

“My father’s popularity grew with his wealth. The success of the mine meant a flood of money into the local economy, and soon everyone saw prosperity. People began trying to persuade my father to run for local office. This put him squarely at odds with the Valenii, but you would not know it. Marcus Valens and his brother would often stop by the house, smiling and bringing gifts, talking of how admirably my father ran the mine, and commenting on what a fine, strong young man I was growing into – I still wore the purple stripe at the time. They would kiss my mother, smile at my sister, and leave us all charmed and feeling loved. But my father’s face always turned grim when they left. He did not trust them, especially Marcus. I think, during the years as his client, my father had learned just the type of men the Valenii were.”

“So, Marcus Valens killed your father?”

“No. Not directly. He was too clever for that. My father was too popular. Had Valens killed my father outright, his reputation never would have recovered. Reputation is everything among my people. You can hire all the cut-throat assassins you like to kill your enemy in his bedchamber while he sleeps, but stab him yourself in broad daylight, and you’re considered a rogue and a villain.”

“What happened then?” she asked curiously.

“While my father and his colleagues ran the mine, most of the manual labor was done by slaves – mostly Illyrians and Nubians. My father had purchased hundreds of them with the profits of the first shipments of ore. They were hard men, and had been bought cheaply. Some had been born into slavery, but some were merely criminals, spared from the galleys or the cross. Conditions were terrible in the mine, but then I have never seen a mine that wasn’t so. That is a slave’s lot in life, isn’t it? To do the dirty work for their masters? Much like being in the legions. Anyway, like all groups of slaves, they had a rebellious element – a few ring leaders that daily whispered poison into the ears of the others. There was one slave, especially, that was the chief ring-leader, a sinister looking bald fellow with half of an ear missing. The bastard would always glare at me whenever I came to the mine, as though he would choke me with his chains were I to stray too close to him. I’ll never forget that face.”

“On the day after I turned sixteen, I was set to leave home. My family’s station had risen substantially by the time I donned the toga. My father had seen to it that I was trained in the military arts, and they came to me naturally, but he did not want me to end up in the legions as he had done. So, I was earmarked for a proper education at a Greek institution in Rome. I was to disembark the next day, and had spent most of the day packing and saying goodbye to my friends. But there was one final thing I wished to do, and that final thing quite probably saved my life that night. Throughout my youth, whenever I was in a contemplative mood, I would often retreat to an old Carthaginian shrine up in the hills overlooking the sea. I was there that night, looking out at the moonlit expanse of water that I thought would carry me away the next day to a new life of adventure. My heart was filled with expectation, for I had never been to Rome before. Nevertheless, I was at the shrine, dreaming away the night when it happened.”

“What happened?”

“The slaves revolted. They broke out of their pens and overpowered their overseers. Then they began to ravage the countryside for miles around, starting with my family’s villa. They were like a nightmare realized, hacking, raping, murdering, burning as they went. Somehow, they obtained weapons, and none of the defenseless families living anywhere near the mine stood a chance.

I found my home in ruins the next morning. My sister had been murdered, but not before she had been brutally raped and tortured. We had had a reflective moment together only the day before – two siblings who might not see each other again for a very long while. I embraced her, not knowing it would be our last embrace in this life. My mother’s body was burned beyond recognition, but I’m sure she suffered a similar fate as that of my sister. And my father…I found him in the courtyard. He had been bound, stripped, and lashed until his bones were exposed, and then they had impaled him on a sharpened fencepost and left him to die, his dignity and greatness reduced to a broken and wrecked body. He never regained consciousness and died shortly after.”

Gertrude’s eyes looked pained for him, and she rested a soft palm on his face, as if to console him, but Lucius simply shrugged.

“It took nearly a full week to bring the slaves under control. It was Marcus Valens, at the head of the local militia that took credit for stopping them. The ring leaders were crucified and the others made to taste the lash. Valens then ordered that the spared slaves have their tongues cut out. I thought it absurd at the time, but now I realize it was to keep them silent lest they tell of his involvement.”

“But how do you know he had anything to do with it?” she asked skeptically. “Slave revolts are not uncommon. We have experienced them among our own slaves.”

“How many of your slaves were armed with iron weapons? Ours were – good ones. There were no armories for them to raid. The weapons had to have been delivered to them. But no advocate ever looked into that little fact. The Valenii spent the succeeding weeks leading the investigation down the wrong path, and months dragging my father’s name through the mud. They claimed that my father was at fault, that the conditions in the mines caused the revolt, that my father should have known better than to purchase slaves from the rebellious parts of the world, that he did not ensure there were adequate guards, and so on. When they got through, the locals were ready to strike my family’s name from every inscription on every monument. With half of the mine owners dead and the local economy beginning to suffer, the Valenii swooped in like heroes, assuming ownership of the mine with the justification that Marcus was the original patron to most of the dead families and so should take control of their assets. They even declared themselves the guardians of the surviving family members, vowing that each one would be well cared for. In most cases, that meant shipping them back to Rome or somewhere else where they could cause no trouble. I was no exception. I was a young man full of rage, newly orphaned, newly penniless, and entirely at the mercy of my father’s patron. You see, at the time, I was still completely unaware of the Valenii’s guilt in my father’s murder. With the greatest display of sympathy for my loss, Marcus Valens kindly informed me that the Seventh Legion was recruiting in Nova Carthago, and that he was certain my father would have wanted me to serve as a soldier, as he once did.” Lucius chuckled softly. “What a fool I was. I bought the whole story, like a wet-nosed gelding. I was recruited and trained, and marched off with the Seventh. But before the legion left there, something happened that exposed the Valenii for what they truly are. On the eve of the Seventh’s departure, I felt I owed a debt of gratitude to Valens for the kindness he had shown me, and I wished to thank him in some way. I learned that he had a shipping agent near the docks, so I went there hoping to leave a letter that it might be delivered to Valens personally. When I found the agent, he was supervising the loading of a trade vessel down at the waterfront. I approached him with my letter, asking could he forward it to his master, but the response I got was far from what I had expected. He treated me with contempt and an air of impatience from the start, but when I told him who I was, he became not only discourteous, but agitated, as if my mere presence was causing him great discomfort. He snatched the letter from my hands, and told me curtly that I must leave the docks at once, that I was interfering with his work, and that if I did not, Marcus Valens would hear of it.

“I did as he requested, thinking nothing of it initially, but then had a second thought to go back and make sure he hadn’t tossed my letter into the harbor. As I approached the vessel, I noticed that several of the men who were engaged in loading the cargo onto the ship looked very familiar – one in particular, a bald-headed man. On closer examination, I realized who the man was. It was the bastard from my father’s mine, the one missing half of one ear. I soon identified at least five others among the loaders who had been my father’s slaves. Somehow, they had ended up in the service of Marcus Valens. Of course, I was confused at first, but then the pieces of the puzzle began to come together, and I realized that I had been played for a fool. My initial impulse was to march over there and run each of them through, and force each one of the bastards to say my dead sister’s name before I cut off his head. And I came very close to doing just that. But then I stopped myself, realizing that such an act would get me ejected from the legion and quite possibly executed. If I were to die, Valens would have truly won. I forced myself to walk away, swearing that I would have my revenge someday, someday when I had the advantage. It was clear to me then that Valens had placed me in the legion in hopes that I would die of disease or on some distant battlefield, and he would be rid of the Domitius family once and for all. That was six years ago. It seems like ages.”

“But you are still alive, so this Valens must have grown impatient?” Gertrude asked.

“Perhaps. He is planning to have Caesar assassinated, let the army suffer a defeat, and then take control of it himself. He may have ambitions that go even beyond that. I believe I am merely a nuisance to him, an annoyance from his earlier days, and he just wants me out of the way.”

“Yes, Valens told my father that once he commands the Romans, he will leave our people in peace.”

“Your father’s a fool if he believes that.”

She looked somewhat displeased at the remark, but Lucius chose to press the issue anyway. His only chance of escape was to distract her, to instill doubt about her cause and the alliance her father had made with Valens.

“Do you know what the Romans do when one of their armies is defeated in battle?”

She looked at him suspiciously, but said nothing.

“They send more legions, and more legions, and as many as it takes until they win. And when they do, they wipe the offending nation from existence. Valens knows that. He’ll gather an army bigger than Caesar’s ever was, and then turn around and betray your father. He won’t have any choice. He’ll have to conquer the Belgae. The senate will demand it, no doubt prompted by his own cronies. He’ll do it just to improve his standing in Rome, regardless of the promises he made your father. Don’t you see? A man like that will stop at nothing. Your father, your people, are nothing but stepping stones on his quest for power.”

“Why do your people support such men? Why do they attack us?”

Lucius was taken aback at the question. “To stop the barbaric practices you yourself said were a disgrace, ma’am. You despise human sacrifice? So do the Romans. That kind of practice would certainly stop were you under Roman rule.”

“Yet I have heard that the Romans entertain themselves by watching wild animals feast on human flesh.”

“What? Oh, you mean the arena. Well, yes, but it’s not the same thing.”

Gertrude muttered something that sounded like a Belgic curse. She looked irritated, not at Lucius’s story, but at Lucius himself. She said something to Alain with many hand gestures and many sighs and much inflection in her voice.

“What did she say?” Lucius asked the boy, who seemed to have been affected by Lucius’s words, even though he still translated between them.

“It is unwise to call her father a fool,” Alain said.

“Is that all? Surely, that’s not all she said,” Lucius said astonished. “The fate of her whole people are at stake and she’s worried I called her father a fool?”

“Fool!” Gertrude said in a sudden attempt at Gaulish. She rose from her seat and glared across the table at him. “Fool!” She said again. Then, in a huff, she stormed out of the hut, her face red with anger.

After several moments, Alain said, “You have upset her. All your talk of treason has upset her. You must learn better manners, Roman dog.”

Lucius eyed the boy, thinking of how much he would like to take the runt by the scruff of the neck and toss him out the window, but he remained calm and took a deep breath. He had to befriend Alain somehow, if he wished to escape, and the lad’s dogged devotion to his mistress was giving Lucius an idea of how he might do just that.

XVIII

Divitiacus rode north cautiously. He stayed off the path whenever possible to avoid being seen by any Nervii patrols, but, strangely, he had encountered none. He came to a river which he knew to be the Sabis, and swam his horse across the slow-moving stretch of icy water. Upon reaching the northern bank, he could not find the path again, but he kept heading northward, deeper into the Nervii countryside.

Having seldom been in the Nervii lands, and then only keeping to the roads, he was fairly certain that he was lost. He kept heading north because he knew the Nervii had a large oppidum there, but whether it was just up ahead, or still two days away, he could not tell. He knew that the main north-south road being used by the Roman army was east of his position, and he only knew this because he had not yet crossed it. The road might be far away by now, or it might be just beyond the next hill. He had no way of knowing, so he pressed on.

The forest and the surrounding hills seemed strangely quiet, especially if he was indeed as close to the main Nervii oppidum as he believed he was, and he proceeded with attentiveness.

Around midday, as he steered his horse further into the wilderness, he was met by a scattering of forest animals heading in the opposite direction. Several deer came out of the woods to his front and passed him on both sides. Animals that would have normally stayed clear of a man practically brushed his leg as they scurried away. He even had to steer his horse out of the way of one disoriented, large-horned elk.

Then, he heard a rumble in the ground. It sounded as if the earth itself had a heartbeat. Divitiacus instantly knew what was coming. He wheeled his mount around and started in the other direction, but then the thunder of hooves to his right and left made him rein in.

It was too late. The flankers had gotten past him.

Grabbing the low hanging branch of a large tree, Divitiacus pulled himself up into the giant boughs and began to climb, pausing only once to swat the rump of his horse to send it running. He climbed as fast as he could, up and up, until he was hidden within the leaves and branches in the tree’s high top.

Then, what he had expected came.

A wall of men moved through the forest. Rank after rank of spearmen, swordsmen, and skirmishers. There were thousands of them, a seemingly endless mass of warriors filing through the trees beneath as if the trunks of the trees had been overtaken by a flood of humanity. Every opening in the branches, every piece of ground beneath him, was covered with the marching soldiers, and they were moving quickly, unencumbered by baggage. The woad-covered warriors were marching to war. They marched southeast, they marched silently, and Divitiacus knew that they were headed to intercept the Roman army.

Divitiacus sat in the tree for nearly three hours as the horde passed beneath him, holding his breath each time he saw a blue-painted face turned skyward. But, they never saw him. When he finally dared to come down, he set foot onto ground that had been trampled into mud.

As he looked at the torn-up ground, stretching off in all directions beneath the trees, a massive scar on the earth that could only have been made by fifty thousand men or more, Divitiacus suddenly remembered why the Aedui had never gone to war against the Belgic tribes.

XIX

The old druidess stood on the barren hilltop speaking incantations as the yellow moon crept over the eastern horizon. Her druids were beside her and they repeated her words. The previous night’s bonfire still smoldered, a mound of red embers and blackened bones. The elevation afforded a view of the darkened treetops, stretching out as far as the eye could see, and the woman raised her hands as if to bless the direction in which the horde of Belgic warriors had taken in their rapid march to head off the approaching invaders. Far away to the south, almost to the visible horizon, a glow hung above the forest. It marked the campfires of the Roman army, only a day’s march away. The sight made her stomach turn, though she did not know why. There was something about the infidels that frightened her to the core, something that drew her to them yet repulsed her at the same time. They were so strange, and yet so familiar to her. It was as if she understood their nature and all that they intended for the lands they conquered. They would drive her kind from the land. The druids would fade into nothingness.

She felt at the ring on her finger, the strange ring, the only thing she had brought with her from the other world. All those years ago, when the god of the sea had deposited her onto the beach, she had been naked but for the single ring that marked her as an endowment by the gods to the world of men. The druids had found her and cared for her, and when they saw that her mind was blank and undefiled by the knowledge of men, they knew that she had been sent to fulfill a purpose. She was a gift from the gods, a spotless soul to learn the arts and to bring the people back into harmony with the spiritual world. She had learned quickly, and had quickly become the seer for many tribes. In her first years as a druidess, she had crossed the length and breadth of Gaul and Belgica, learning the arts of the various druid sects, even travelling to Britannica, where they practiced magic long since forgotten by civilized man. Her knowledge had made her powerful, and her prophecies had given her renown. For hers always came true. But the years had passed, and she had seen the tribes of the land succored by the temptations of trade. They traded openly with the heathens that lived around the great southern sea, and the influence had been most corrupting.

Now, she felt old and frail, and she found herself looking at the ring more often, wondering when she would be called back to the spiritual world. She could still feel the wound in her side, a pain that ran all the way through her, where the Roman had driven the spear. By the will of the gods, she had survived. Her fellow druids had recommended burning an effigy of the soldier and summoning curses to ensure that his soul was damned for all eternity. But, as painful as the wound was, she could not bring herself to do it, and she thought that very strange. Something about the Roman lingered with her, even now. She hated all Romans with every bit of her existence. Had she not been put on earth to stop them? But there was something about that one soldier’s face that had awoken unfamiliar feelings in her. And then there were the troubling dreams of late, the dreams in which she imagined herself as a young Roman woman with a Roman husband and several children, all speaking the accursed language of the Romans, and living in a Roman colony. Such outlandish dreams could only portend wicked times.

The Romans had to be stopped. They would be stopped. She had foreseen it. The omens from last night’s sacrifice were all favorable. Boduognatus and his mighty army would bring the invaders to their knees.

Just then, a crackle sounded behind her, and she turned to see several of the druids rushing away from the smoldering bonfire as one of the larger logs holding up a good portion of the structure cracked and sent the embers on top of it crashing down, releasing a shower of sparks that shot in every direction and singed the robes of several of the nearby priests. At the same time, a lone wolf howled in the distance, clear and distinct in the night. When the sparks had finally settled, all of the priests turned to look on the druidess, a look of horror on their faces. She looked back at them, equally disturbed.

It was the worst possible of omens. What had they done wrong? Why would the spirits have encouraged them up to this point, only to remove their favor on the eve of battle?

“What has happened?” she said accusingly to the assembled druids. “Which of you has an impure heart? Tell me, or I will find him out!”

They all remained silent, and each averted his eyes as the black-hooded woman limped around to study each face.

“I can find nothing in any of you,” she said, out of breath after examining the last. She thought for a moment, and then asked, “Last night, after I left the circle, were all of the rites performed, and the words said, just as I told you?”

“Yes, sacred one,” the chief priest replied. “All was as you directed. The Romans were burned alive, just as you instructed.”

“And you are certain that all died?”

The priest gave a hint of a smile. “No man could have survived that inferno, sacred lady, and none escaped.”

One of the other priests spoke up. “None, but the one Roman we pulled out of the line.”

“One Roman did not burn?” the druidess snarled incredulously, suddenly enraged. She spun around and limped over to the man who had spoken. She moved so abruptly that he took a few steps back at her approach. “Why was he spared? Tell me why!” She demanded.

“Boduognatus instructed us to remove him. His daughter wanted the Roman spared as a slave.”

The sacred lady closed her eyes, fearing the worst, for this was certainly the source of the ill omens. Then, at that moment, another terrifying thought suddenly crossed her mind.

“This Roman,” she said evenly. “Did he have a scar on his face?”

The priest’s eyes widened with amazement before he answered. “Yes.”

“All of you, come with me!!” the sacred lady snapped at the assembled druids. There was not much time. It was worse than she had feared. They had to act now or all would be lost. “Quickly! We must move quickly!”

XX

“Gertrude, daughter of Boduognatus!” the voice intoned outside. “Come forth! Come forth and surrender the heathen!”

The voice was haunting, and it woke Gertrude from a deep sleep, a sleep in which she had dreamt that she was a queen of a mystical kingdom on the shores of the great sea, and the Roman her slave, and how she ordered him to bathe in front of her every day.

Gertrude rose and donned a cloak to answer the call. A stick rapped impatiently on the doorframe. She opened the door and was met by a cluster of white-robed druids flanking the slight figure of the sacred lady. Their faces were grim. Two of the men carried torches, and the rest held freshly cut wood and kindling.

“Where is the infidel?” the old woman said curtly. Gone was any trace of the affection that normally trimmed her tone when she spoke to Gertrude. “Bring him forth, at once!”

Gertrude looked at the old woman for several long moments. Her father was a chieftain, and she a chieftain’s daughter. She would stand up to these fanatics.

“The Roman is my father Boduognatus’s property,” she said. “You may not have him until my father agrees to yield him to you.”

“Your father is away leading the army, girl!” one of the priests spat.

“Then you will have to wait for his return.”

The priest was enraged. “Your father would never defy the will of the seer. Surrender the heathen, now, girl! He must burn in flame. The spirits of oak and fire have spoken!”

Gertrude half wished that the guards were still around. These priests might not be so bold if they were facing swordsmen. Still, she was determined not to back down.

“You are not welcome here. When my father returns, you may discuss such matters with him. But for now, the Roman is a slave, and he shall remain in my keeping.”

“The man must die, child,” the sacred lady said, this time in a more congenial tone, as a mother might tell a child of things that must be. “He brings death to our people. He brings death to your father. Would you choose the Roman over your own father?”

Gertrude fought to keep her voice firm. She was confused, torn between what her heart told her, and the prophecies of these extremists which she only sometimes believed.

“Enter this house, and you risk facing the wrath of Boduognatus! I will tell him how his daughter and his property were treated by you of the forest. He will not forget!”

“Hold her!” the old woman commanded.

One of the druids near Gertrude lunged for her hands, but she batted him away and swiftly kicked him in the groin. As the man groaned with pain, another of them came at her, but she had retreated inside the door, and already had the door shut by the time he could reach her. She had hoped to bar the door, but before she could a set of white-robed arms grabbed her from behind. The druids had sent some of their number to the rear of the house without her noticing, and had entered through a back window while she was distracted by those at the door. It took three of them to finally restrain her, but not before she had scratched one across the face and crushed the testicles of another.

The slave quarters were located in an adjoining structure, entered from inside the main house, and the druids rushed into the chamber while she watched. After several exclamations and curses, the priests emerged from the room empty-handed.

“He is not here!” the chief priest exclaimed. “No one is here, sacred lady!”

“Where is he, child?” the old woman asked after stumbling over to Gertrude and wrapping her bony fingers around the young woman’s thin neck.

Gertrude winced from the pain. It was like being squeezed by a skeleton – a skeleton with a surprisingly strong grip.

“Where is he? He must die! He must die!” The old woman sounded desperate, and shook Gertrude as she spoke each word, as if she might wrench the information out of her.

“I don’t know!” Gertrude screamed as the iron grip closed more tightly around her neck.

The old woman’s jagged teeth gritted, her face set in a hateful scowl, as Gertrude had seen it when she had issued the vilest of curses. She looked as though she might crush the life out of her.

“Please…sacred…lady,” Gertrude struggled to speak as tears streamed from her bulging eyes.

Her pleas had no effect, initially, but something of their long-standing relationship must have broken through the druidess’s anger. Eventually, the old woman’s face softened, and she released her grip. Struggling to regain her breath, Gertrude fell to her knees and rubbed the claw-like red marks left on her neck.

“Find the Roman!” the druidess snapped at the others. “Search every house, if you must, but find him, and bring him to me!”

After the rustle of white-robed men had left to carry out her orders, the old woman turned to the coughing Gertrude.

“I warned you of him, my child. You failed to heed my counsel.”

“You said…he would bring life to me, sacred lady. I only wished to preserve him from the flame, that the prophecy might be fulfilled. I intended no harm.”

“He did bring you life. He saved you before. His thread was woven with yours for a purpose, and that purpose has been fulfilled. If his thread continues it will bring about chaos. The fragile balance we have maintained so long between your people and the spirits of the forest. The Roman’s thread must be cut off or your people will be doomed to serve under the yoke of the infidels.”

Gertrude’s eyes were full of tears, and the old woman reached out a hand and began gently stroking her hair.

“Rest easy, my child,” the druidess said. “It is out of your hands, now.”

With that, the druidess left, leaving Gertrude crying softly on the floor.

Gertrude felt ashamed at having put herself above the welfare of her tribe. She felt ashamed at having stirred the wrath of the sacred lady, whom she had shared a special relationship with for so long. Most of all, she felt ashamed because the search of the town would turn up nothing. The Roman was not in the town, nor anywhere within several miles of this place, she reckoned.

She knew this because she had helped the Roman to escape.

XXI

"This way," Alain called, turning his head once to glance back at the lagging Lucius.

The boy moved like a gazelle, and even Lucius, who took pride in his own stamina, had trouble keeping up with him. Add to that, he carried in his hands an ancient, heavy spear that had been propped in a corner of Gertrude’s house. It was his only weapon.

"Are you certain?" Lucius said between breaths. "How can you be sure?"

"I've travelled this path many times, running errands for my mistress."

Lucius might have thought the boy mad, if the lad had not had such confidence. There was no path that he could see. The cross-hatched hedges of the Nervii countryside, made one place look like another. Lucius had followed Alain through the rough country all morning, and it seemed that each time they broke through a cut in one of the hedgerow barriers they found another several hundred paces beyond. The small hills they had surmounted on their trek had only allowed Lucius to see so far, but he thought he had seen a line of dust hanging above the trees in the distance, and he surmised it to be the Roman column on the march.

Alain led Lucius through some of the most rugged country he had yet seen, but the boy seemed to know every hollow, every stream, and every hidden opening through the living barriers. The paths were well-concealed, but they were there. Of course, they had to be, Lucius considered. How else could the Nervii so easily shadow the Roman columns marching on the road?

As Lucius ducked the low branches, trying hard to keep up with Alain, he began to worry that they might come across Belgic troops using these same paths.

"The army won't go this way," the boy said, as if reading his thoughts.

"Why not?"

"Hardly anyone knows about it. This is the spy path. The way the Nervii get their infiltrators to and from enemy lands. The chieftains don't let the commoners know about it."

"And how do you come to know of it?"

"Gertrude is a stubborn daughter," he grinned. "She never does what she's told. Many a time she brought me with her to nose about her father's business. She likes to know all. Her father wishes she would stay home and have babies, but I don't think that will ever happen. She's too headstrong."

Alain had said it cheerily, as if every thought of his mistress brought him delight. Lucius knew that she had fulfilled a mother's role for the boy. Though Alain was her slave, she loved him like a son, and he loved her like a mother. That was one of the reasons Alain had agreed to help him escape and guide him through the forest to the Roman column. Not just because Gertrude had ordered him to do it, but because saving Caesar's life seemed to be the best chance for his mistress to survive the coming Roman storm. No matter how long it took, no matter how many battles had to be fought, Rome would prevail in the end. Lucius felt Gertrude understood that. The things he had said about Senator Valens seemed to have struck a nerve with her, too.

After her anger had calmed that night, she had returned to the hut.

"He will betray my father. You are sure of this?" Alain had translated for her.

"Yes," Lucius had replied, surprised that she was so apt to take his word to heart. "Your Druids call Caesar a devil. Maybe he is, but he's not half the devil Valens is. I know the man. Even if your father wins the battle, he will savor the victory but a short time. Valens will come back and annihilate your people. He will show no mercy. Your only hope of stopping Valens is to kill him."

"And if I help you escape," she had said hesitantly. "You think you could do this?"

"I've told you what he did to my family. I want nothing more than to cut off his lying head." Lucius saw Gertrude considering, and then added, "And I vow, on my honor, ma'am, that you and the boy will be under my personal protection. No Roman will touch you. Not while I draw breath."

"I do this for the sake of my people," she said finally. “Alain will go with you. He can see you safely through the forest."

Now, hours later, Lucius followed the boy into a shadowy green glade that was bisected by a stream. "This stream is a tributary of the river. It's mostly marsh from here on." He pointed to a hollow in the brush on one side of the clearing. "That way leads to the road on the ford, on the north side of the river, where the Belgic army is." He pointed to another path on the opposite side. "This way will take us across the marshes to a hidden ford. There we can cross the river unseen, and you can find your army."

Alain knelt and cupped his hands to take a drink from the stream, all the while eyeing Lucius suspiciously.

"That's why she likes you, you know," he said suddenly, as he wiped the water from his lips.

“What did you say?” Lucius did not know what the boy was talking about.

"She's been told by the seer that you are her savior, so she believes everything you say. She believes you are her lucky talisman. That’s why she didn’t have you whipped for calling her father a fool. That’s why she let you escape.”

Lucius was stunned. “She believes in such nonsense? And what about you?”

Alain shrugged. “I don’t like you, Roman. But, my mistress thinks you will save her. If that is what she believes, I believe it, too.”

Lucius laughed and then planted the spear upside down in the earth and leaned down to take a drink from the cool stream.

He had just finished drinking when he heard voices and the whinny of a horse. The boy grabbed his arm and put a finger to his mouth, urgently gesturing for Lucius to follow him. Plucking the spear out of the ground, Lucius darted with the boy into the cover of a nearby thicket. There, they waited.

They did not have to wait long before a mounted warrior entered the glade from the hollow that came from the marsh. The man was a Gaul – or he looked like one – with dark pigtails descending from beneath a conical helmet to rest on both sides of his mailed chest. He wore bright yellow-checked trousers and appeared to be an officer from one of the auxiliary cavalry troops. He was followed by another rider. This one was a Roman, mounted on a fine steed and wearing a dark cloak with a red plumed helmet. He looked red-faced and tired. Both horses were covered in the slime of the marsh.

"Refresh yourself here, my lord Argus," the Gaul said, sliding off his mount and guiding his horse to the stream. "The beasts stay here. The path is too difficult for them. We will move faster without them."

The Gaul proceeded to take a drink from the fresh stream. The Roman dismounted, but he did not drink. He looked extremely anxious.

"Hurry up, will you?" Argus, the Roman, demanded. "We haven't the time to tarry. I must get to Boduognatus before the column reaches the ford. It is imperative that I do so."

"I am thirsty," the Gaul said defiantly, "and I will rest a moment, even if you will not."

"Damn you, then! I'll go myself!"

"I would not advise it," the Gaul said smugly, "I have travelled these woods more times than I can count. They are treacherous. One wrong turn and you will not find your way out. The Nervii designed them that way."

Argus only gave the Gaul a look of displeasure as he tied his horse to a tree.

"The Nervii know me, Argus," the Gaul said. "If they see you alone, and with no escort, they are likely to run you through before you can get two words out."

"I will manage." The Roman officer made to leave and then paused in a moment of doubt. "If, by some unlikely event, I do lose the path, and you make it there before me, you must pass on a message to Boduognatus."

"And that is?"

"You must tell him the plan has changed. That he is not to wait for the impedimenta, as he was told before. He must now attack the moment the first legion reaches the river plain. Tell him this message comes from the senator himself.

The Gaul raised his eyebrows, and chuckled. "The senator? You Romans truly are a vicious people, betraying your own as easily as you wipe your ass."

"The message is a simple one!" Argus snapped irritably. "You have been paid in gold. Now, will you deliver it or won't you?"

"Oh, I suppose I will, but first you -" the Gaul was cut short in mid-sentence.

The Roman looked at him in puzzlement as the Gaul's eyes stared straight ahead, registering sudden pain and shock. He stumbled to his horse, and when he turned, Argus could see that a six-foot spear shaft protruded from the Gaul’s back. The Gaul seemed delirious, gasping for air. He unlooped his horse’s reins from the tree, as if he might mount and flee. But then his brow crinkled, and he fell to the ground dead, his untethered horse running off into the brush without him.

Argus instantly drew his sword and scanned the surrounding brush for the assailant. The woods were alive with birds and insects and a dozen sounds he could not place. He could see no one. It was as if the trees themselves had cast the spear.

"Who is there?" He shouted. "Who is bloody there?"

He heard a twig snap behind him. He wheeled around to see a young boy staring at him from the edge of the glade. The boy wore a somber expression, as if he were a nymph of the forest. Surely he could not have cast a spear with enough force to penetrate the links in the Gaul's armor.

At that moment, Argus realized that he had been tricked, that the boy was a distraction, and now he turned around expecting to see someone coming at him. But there was no one there. He noticed that the long spear that had been lodged firmly in the dead Gaul’s back was nowhere to be seen. He spun back around to face the boy, but now the boy was gone, too.

Whether phantoms or mortal men, his attackers had him completely at their mercy. He saw the hole in the hedge, the one that led to the Belgic army, and he made a dash for it, throwing his useless sword away in an effort to move faster. A rustling noise behind him told him that his attackers were in pursuit. He allowed a curious glance over his shoulder to see who they were, but it was a mistake he never should have made. With an icy horror, he saw that the spear was in the air, sailing straight and fast directly for him.

His cries of terror, then of pain, were quickly swallowed up by the sounds of the swamp.

XXII

Caesar’s army had reached the river Sabis.

It was early afternoon when the eagle standard and front ranks of the Seventh legion, the van legion of the twelve-mile long Roman column, emerged from the hedges and forest country onto a grassy depression. It was the first clear ground they had seen all day. The narrow road upon which they marched continued on, cutting a straight path down the green knoll to the edge of the wide, sparkling river. Those legionaries who cared, and who were not too busy swatting at the millions of biting insects produced by a nearby marsh, could see that the road disappeared at the river’s edge only to emerge again on the north bank and get lost in the wooded hills beyond.

General Balbus halted the Seventh Legion and spurred his horse forward with his staff to study the ground further. He could see that centuries of ebbs and floods had cut a gentle depression in the surrounding land, affording a good-sized clearing on both banks, although the tree line on the opposite bank was much closer to the water’s edge. Glittering in the afternoon sun, the wide river ambled along, generally east to west and generally straight. Balbus immediately took notice of a large hill on the opposite side of the river that dominated the surrounding landscape. The road wrapped around and disappeared behind it.

A good place for an ambush, Balbus thought. The hill was thick with trees, and there was no telling what lay beneath the green canopy.

As he watched, a band of mounted, spear-wielding warriors suddenly emerged from the tree line about half-way up the side of the hill. They rode down to the water’s edge, stopping on their side of the river, and there they waited, staring back at the Romans.

“Scouts, sir?” the staff officer beside Balbus asked.

“Yes. Nothing more, I expect,” Balbus replied confidently, knowing every man in the leading cohort would be listening, too. “Come to watch us cross the river, I expect.”

At that moment, a troop of auxiliary cavalry thundered up both sides of the road, kicking up a great cloud of dust that the halted legionaries had to breathe in. They were Treveri spear cavalry, clad in bright tunics, helmets, and small shields. Like the Aedui, they were experts in the saddle, far surpassing the speed and dexterity of any Roman horseman. They were led by a young Roman officer who reined in his charger beside Balbus and saluted.

“You’re a mite late,” Balbus said, removing his own plumed helmet and dabbing his perspiring forehead with a rag. “I was afraid I was going to have to ask those gawking bastards to bugger off all by myself.”

“Caesar wishes the army to camp here for the night,” the cavalry officer said, ignoring Balbus’s statement entirely. The young man looked fatigued. His face was covered with a layer of dirt that his sweat had turned into streaks of mud.

“Are you sure?” Balbus asked, half-mockingly. “Putting our backs against a river in enemy land doesn’t seem like good strategy.”

“It’s waist deep in most places!” The cavalry officer retorted with some abrasiveness, “And even shallower at the ford. Do not worry, my good general. Should you decide to run, it will not hinder your retreat!”

Balbus smiled casually. “I’d be happier throwing a screen across the river, just now. Has the blessed proconsul even seen this place?”

“Where do you think I’ve been?” The young officer spat the words. “I’ve just returned from telling him about it! I’ve been riding all over this infernal country all morning, and this is the only damned open ground for miles around.”

“Do you suppose they know that, too?” Balbus pointed at the enemy horsemen on the far bank of the river. “Maybe had you asked them first, you’d have saved yourself the trouble.”

The officer reeled his horse’s head around. “I shall take care of them, my good general. Now, by the order of the proconsul, deploy your men and make camp!” He then glanced at the halted ranks of troops, and shot a poisonous look at Balbus. “The Greeks and Balearics shall come with me!”

“As you wish, young man.” Balbus smiled as he watched the cocky young officer ride away. He could never remember the arrogant upstart’s name, but it did not matter. He knew the young man’s father back in Rome, and he and Balbus had been at odds for as long as Balbus could remember. There was little to amuse a man on a long campaign, so Balbus took great pleasure in harassing the cavalry officer whenever he got the chance.

As Balbus’s staff got the Seventh moving again and directed the ranks to peel off the road and fall in to work and guard details, the cavalry officer directed the next unit in the column, an auxiliary cohort of Cretan archers and Balearic slingers, to follow him at the double step. The skirmisher troops often followed the van legion on the march, in the event that the army needed to beat a quick retreat under the protection of the auxiliaries’ long range missiles.

Balbus watched with some amusement as the officer led the auxiliary horse down to the river’s edge, just across from the gawking Belgae. This had no effect on the enemy horsemen who jeered and hurled obscene gestures at the Treveri, for riding under the Roman banner. Nearly one hundred paces of shallow water separated the two parties, but there was little either band could do to the other without crossing. However, once the Cretan bowmen reached the river's edge, they began loosing missiles at the Belgae. The distance was too great to cause much harm. Most of the arrows bounced harmlessly off of raised shields, but a few did manage to get through and things began to happen very quickly after that.

A Belgic horse took an arrow in the rump, causing the horse to kick and throw its rider into the water. Another arrow lodged in a man's neck, dropping him from the saddle, but it had only injured him, and he rose from the ground clutching his red-streaked collar.

The other Belgic horsemen, no more than a dozen, quickly spurred their mounts away, presumably to get out of range of the archers, but they kept on going up the slope of the hill until they were once again hidden by the trees.

The two Belgae left behind, their horses gone with the others, instantly realized their predicament, and began running desperately after their comrades. Seeing this, the young Roman officer ordered the Treveri spear cavalry to ride them down. The horsemen obeyed, dashing into the river in pursuit, whooping and yelling in a maelstrom of white spray. As they thundered onto the opposite bank, the terror on the faces of the two fleeing Belgae only spurred them on faster. The Roman officer emerged at the front of the charging horse, a spear held high above his head. The Belgic man with the arrow in his neck was the first to be skewered, but that merciful death only saved him from being trampled into a pulp by the hundred horses following closely on the leader's heels. The second Belgae was a much faster runner than the first, and had nearly made it to the tree line.

As Balbus watched, he thought for sure the young officer would break off the pursuit and let him go.

"Oh, you bloody fool," Balbus mumbled under his breath as he watched the blood-thirsty young man, his red-plumed helmet conspicuous among the Celtic troop, drive his men onward at the helpless man.

They caught up with the unfortunate Belgae only a few paces from the trees, first surrounding him and then driving a dozen spears into his body. Meanwhile, the Cretan and Balearic cohort also crossed the river with bows, quivers, and slings held high above their heads. They, too, were under the command of a Roman officer. Deprived of the immediate guidance of his glory-seeking superior, the officer of the skirmisher cohort had ordered his men to follow the cavalry in support. The Cretans and Balearics in their drenched tunics quickly formed up on the opposite bank and began marching in a long line abreast.

"You fool!" Balbus now shouted, though all of the distant troops were too far away to hear him. "Get them out of there!"

Incredibly, the Treveri had stopped at the edge of the tree line to cheer their victorious hunt, and their officer was doing nothing to curtail it. Instead, he appeared to be stretching forward on his mount, peering into the forest, as if looking for the remaining Belgic horsemen. It was like watching a slow-acted play that Balbus had seen before and knew how it would end – and the ending was not long in coming.

As Balbus watched, the forest suddenly began to eject hundreds upon hundreds of missiles of all kind. Four-foot-long javelins flew at the Treveri cavalry at an appalling rate, the deadly points finding the unprotected flesh of men and horses alike. One horse took a javelin in the breast and toppled over, throwing its rider into the ground head first. A dozen cavalrymen fell from clear fatal strikes, and many more roiled and wheeled in a confused frenzy. Balbus knew that, in addition to the javelins, they were probably being hit with arrows, darts, and stones that were too small for him to see at this distance. They were clearly facing numbers their officer had not anticipated. As one horse and rider after another fell to the lethal flying points, the Roman officer, to his credit, rode up and down his confused ranks, braving the storm of missiles, pointing his spear toward the river in an attempt to order them away from the trees to make their escape. Some had the wherewithal to obey, but a scant few made it, the officer himself being knocked from his mount by a missile Balbus did not see.

The skirmisher cohort had made it half-way up the slope, and the few surviving riders and riderless horses now streamed through their ranks in the opposite direction. At the order of their officer, the Cretan archers and Balearic slingers began to unleash a steady volley of stones and arrows over the heads of the beleaguered cavalry and into the trees in an effort to provide the horsemen with some cover. The cavalry never once paused in their flight back down the slope. The confused and leaderless riders crossed back over the river, leaving the cohort of archers and slingers all alone on the open plain. With the surviving horsemen now out of range, the hidden enemy shifted their aim to the line of skirmishers, and the Cretans and Balearics began to fall.

Balbus saw a few blue painted warriors on foot dart from the cover of the trees to finish off the wounded Treveri. They did this under threat of the Cretan arrows, but there were always a few in any army willing to face any danger when there was the prospect of loot. One bald and skinny Belgae darted to and fro, dodging arrows and stones with a ravenous smile on his face, as he closed on his prize.

"The poor foolish bastard," Balbus said to himself, as he realized who the Belgic warrior’s intended victim was.

The wounded Roman officer that had led the Treveri cavalry into the trap was crawling toward the rear when the bald Belgic fighter caught up with him. The Belgae buried his knee in the Roman's back, pressing him to the ground. Then, in the blink of an eye, the wiry warrior pulled the officer's head back and stabbed a large dagger into the side of the young man’s neck. Before the fountain of blood had settled to the green earth, the Belgic warrior had the plumed helmet off and was unlacing the expensive armored corselet.

With the booty in his arms, the triumphant Belgic warrior bolted for the tree line at a speed that indicated he was probably a skirmisher and not a spear warrior. He had instantly become the target of every Cretan bowman. The skinny, blue-painted man, overcome with delight at his plunder, laughed maniacally as he swerved this way and that, miraculously avoiding every missile – all but the one that struck him in the buttocks and made him yelp once before he disappeared in the trees.

The arrows and stones coming from the trees began to slacken. Fewer and fewer bombarded the skirmisher cohort. The auxiliary troops seemed to gain spirit from this, as if their own volleys were finally having effect. At least, that must have been the impression of their Roman officer who waved his sword aloft encouraging his men to keep up the intensity of their barrage.

"Why do they put the fools in charge of the auxiliaries," Balbus muttered, and then called to one of his staff officers. "Sextus, ride to Caesar, and tell him we are engaged here. Tell him we will take position on the right. Tell him I recommend the legions take position to our left as they arrive. Ride, now! And hurry, damn you!"

The officer saluted and then galloped back up the road, disappearing amongst the eagle and front rank of the next legion in the column that was just now rounding a bend of hedgerows.

Balbus then turned to another of his staff officers and pointed to the auxiliary cohort that stood alone on the plain on the other side of the river. "Go tell that idiot to get his men back to this side of the river!"

As the officer kicked his mount into a gallop down the hill, Balbus silently hoped it was not too late. The Belgae had skirmishers in that wood, of that there was no doubt. But that many skirmishers all alone was not likely. There had been only a handful of Belgic horsemen before. Were there more still hidden?

His answer came an instant later when he heard a great cry from across the river. As Balbus watched, the distant woods that had concealed the enemy skirmishers now erupted with a horde of mounted warriors. These were not mere scouts. These were the Belgic nobles, bedecked in an assortment of mail shirts and helmets, holding spears before them, and mounted on muscled steeds. Only the nobles could afford such armory and fine beasts. There were hundreds of them, and they had been well-trained. They instantly fanned out in perfect order until they presented a single front of storming hoofs and spearpoints. As the charge bore down on the auxiliary cohort, the lightly armed Cretans and Balearics lost every trace of order. They broke and fled, ignoring the wild castigations of their officer. Alone, save for a few stalwarts, the Roman officer attempted to slash with his sword at the indomitable wave of horse flesh, but he was instantly trampled under hoof with the rest of his loyal men, hardly breaking the stride of the charging warhorses.

Balbus's officer had not yet made it to the river, and seeing the now futile nature of his task he turned in the saddle to look back at his general. Balbus waved for him to return. There was no point now. The fleeing auxiliaries could not possibly escape. Their fool of an officer had taken them too far up the hill, and now they would pay for his incompetence. The enemy horsemen overtook them, and they died. They died in clusters, and individually. Spears driven at full speed and with perfect precision skipped past the small shields slung on their backs and tore into their exposed necks and buttocks. Spears dipped and rose again with red tips all over the field. Some of the horsemen cast away their bloody spears and continued the killing with long swords of unpolished iron. The swords glimmered as dull streaks against the green plain. They swiped and flashed across the field, lopping off heads and shattering skulls in a killing frenzy that only ended when all that remained were whooping horsemen and scattered corpses.

"Move the line to the right!" Balbus corrected one of his tribunes who was directing the legion to form into three lines of battle. "The slope, Publius! Take advantage of the slope! Make ample room for the Twelfth."

Balbus could see that the Belgic cavalry was pulling up at the river's edge, and he had fully expected that. They numbered perhaps four hundred, and they would be foolish to cross the river with a four thousand-man legion waiting on the other side. Balbus’s legion sat atop a low hill that stood to the right of the road and gently sloped down to the riverbank. To the right of the hill stood a dense marsh that was unpassable, and Balbus chose to use this natural barrier as the extreme right anchor of the Roman line.

As the centurions of the Seventh finalized the order of their lines, the Twelfth legion, a relatively new legion comprised mostly of Italians, filed off of the road and into the field, moving at the double-quick to form on the Seventh's left. That made Balbus feel better than he had a few moments ago, but the bold nature of the enemy cavalry had him worried. They did not seem concerned in the least that they faced a force ten times their own. Balbus and his staff were out several paces ahead of the formed legion, and the general was easy to identify in his scarlet cloak and red plumed helmet. Some of the Belgic horsemen allowed their horses to drink from the gently flowing waters, while others shouted at Balbus, inviting him to send more troops across the river to die.

The jeering horsemen did not concern Balbus. But what did bother him was the fact that there were so many of them. Where there was that much heavy horse, there was bound to be infantry nearby. His eyes again scanned up the grassy slope where the bodies of archers and slingers dotted the landscape, and finally settled on the woods. Those woods covering the upper half of the hill could hide a lot of spearmen. He half-expected to see spear bands emerging from the trees at any moment. But instead, the Belgic horse wheeled their mounts around and rode casually back up the hill, disappearing into the woods from which they came. Had it not been for the scatter of bodies on the far slope, the other side of the river would have appeared as peaceful as it had when Balbus first saw it. But he was not fooled by it. A threat hung in the air, as thick as the mildew permeating from the marsh.

He checked the position of the sun, and then looked back up the road. Had his messenger reached Caesar yet? Would the other legions be coming on at the double-quick? As he watched the tree line on the far side of the river, he silently hoped so.

XXIII

"I see no baggage!" the mail-armored chieftain said curtly, his beard and face caked in the blue woad. A figurine of a bird protruded from the top of his bronze helmet and bobbled whenever he spoke. "I count four legions that have already taken the field. My men are growing restless, Boduognatus."

By that he meant nervous.

"Have patience, Commius," the Nervii chieftain said calmingly.

Boduognatus and Commius both peeked out through the fresh spring leaves hanging from the tangle of branches. They stood upon a crude wooden platform in one of the towering trees atop the tallest hill on the north side of the river. The platform had been constructed well before the arrival of the Romans, so that Boduognatus could view the entire battlefield and coordinate the attack of the combined Belgic tribes.

"When will you give the order?” Commius pressed him. ”Caesar’s entire army will be on the field by the time we see the baggage train, and I’ll have legions across from me."

Commius was the chieftain of the Atrebates tribe. His fifteen thousand spears were concealed in the forest below the hill on the west side of the road. They made up the extreme right of the five mile long ranks of hidden Belgic warriors. The Belgic army was concealed in the forest that ran along the north bank of the river. It was not ideal concealment, for there was a small space of open ground between the tree line and the water’s edge. Boduognatus would have preferred it if the tree line ran right up to the river, but that could not be helped. This place was still the most ideal spot for an ambush, since the Roman army, arriving on that narrow road that ran through the hedgerows on the south side of the river, was forced to file onto the sloping bank one unit at a time – just as the legions were doing now.

“The bank to my front is clear now, Boduognatus!” Commius said hotly. “If we wait any longer, it will be covered with Romans. In Lugus’s name, man, we’ve been waiting so long the legions are starting to dig in!”

That was true. From his vantage point in the trees, Boduognatus could clearly see the four legions now on the field. They had quickly formed into battle lines upon arriving in expectation of an attack, but now apparently felt that an attack would not come. The legions had detached a good half of their numbers to begin construction on the formidable marching camps, and now bare-chested Romans drove stakes into the fresh earth and dug trenches.

A full two hours had passed since the all too eager Belgic horsemen had run down the Roman skirmishers at the river’s edge. The reckless act had alerted the Romans to the Belgic army’s presence, and it had seemed that any hope of surprising the main Roman force was lost. The blunder had so enraged Boduognatus that he had ordered the responsible officer immediately executed. But, as the day had run on, without any further carelessness by his own men, the Romans had begun to assume a more casual stance, and now Boduognatus was convinced that they were ignorant of the enormous army hiding only a few hundred paces away from their lines.

The steady arrival of four legions in succession had shaken the nerves of Commius and many of the other chieftains, and that was understandable. Still, Boduognatus held out hope that Senator Valens had not betrayed him, and that the baggage train would soon come into view. That was the key. Start a panic with hundreds of carts and mules on that narrow road and it would become jammed in moments, blocking the way for any reinforcing legions to get through, and closing the escape route for those on the field. While the senator’s promise that only one or two legions would appear before the baggage train had proved incorrect, Boduognatus was confident that his seventy thousand-man army could swallow up the four legions that now sat on the opposite bank, if by sheer numbers alone, but he could see that Commius still needed convincing.

"I am certain the impedimenta simply fell behind on the march,” Boduognatus said to Commius, confidently. “It will come after this legion. I am sure of it.”

Boduognatus silently prayed that it would be so, but before he finished speaking, the lookouts in the treetops got the attention of both men and pointed to the other side of the river. The eagle of yet another legion was emerging from the hedges. This legion, the fifth to arrive, was just as large as the last, numbering nearly four thousand spears. The two chieftains watched in silence as it slowly filed onto the slope beside the previous legion, first deploying into line, and then making preparations to construct camp like the others.

"No baggage!" Commius finally said, fuming. "Your Roman friend has betrayed you, or you have betrayed us. I will not stand here and watch our enemies build fortifications and then send my men to die against them. I will withdraw. My people stand a much better chance on the walls of their oppida than they do here. "

"Wait, comrade!" Boduognatus pleaded. "We have struggled so hard to unite our tribes in arms. Let us not dissolve this alliance now, when it is our only hope of stopping our enemies. We are the Belgae. The invaders will not take our lands from us. The prophecy has foretold our victory."

"Bah! Prophecies are there to calm the nerves of the conscripts and allay the fears of their mothers. I need proof, Boduognatus, and so far you have given me only the promises made by a Roman senator. I will not stake my men's lives on such a false hope."

A hail came from the shaded ground below. A rider of the Viromandui tribe had just arrived and was craning his head to look up at them. "My lord has sent me to ask when the signal for attack will be given. He has five legions to his front preparing earthworks. There is no baggage train in sight. He demands that you come to him personally and tell him your plans. Otherwise, he will consider this a Nervii betrayal and withdraw his army from the field."

Ten thousand Viromandui warriors manned the center of the Belgic line. Evidently, their chieftain was also having doubts.

Commius met Boduognatus's eyes. "Your coalition is falling apart, my lord," he said sardonically. "We never should have trusted Nervii filth! I go!"

Commius made to descend the ladder, but Boduognatus grabbed his arm to stop him.

"Wait, my brother. This chance will not come again."

"Unhand me," Commius snarled, placing his hand on the elk horn pommel of his sheathed sword, "or I will spill your guts upon these planks!"

Another legion arriving, my lord!" A lookout called from one of the higher branches. "That makes six on the field!"

Boduognatus met Commius's eyes, then let go of his arm and turned away, acceptance of the facts finally overcoming his confidence. His heart sank as he watched four thousand more legionaries file off of the distant road and onto the river plain.

"Go then," Boduognatus said, not looking back.

Commius harrumphed and then climbed down the ladder.

As the Atrebas chieftain and his staff mounted and thundered off to rejoin their troops, Boduognatus’s mind whirled around his own failure.

How could he have been so foolish to trust Valens? The Roman senator had lied to him, and now he had led his warriors and those of the other tribes on a massive endeavor that had accomplished nothing. The shame of it all overtook his thoughts, and he suddenly became very wary of those around him. Sure, Commius no longer trusted him, but what of his own men? What were they thinking? He had seen his own bodyguard mumbling down below as they waited patiently with his nobles. Perhaps the tribal council had anticipated this failure, and had put them under oath to remove him if anything went wrong – and this day had gone so terribly wrong. Perhaps one of those polished longswords awaited him, should he climb down. They would have little choice. Once the other two tribes began to leave, his own Nervii warriors would abandon the field, too. Most would not reassemble at the oppidum but would go back to their farms, like the simple farmers they were, only caring whose rule they served under when their crops did not need tending. Today, the farmers were warriors. Today, they carried the spear. They had danced the war dance and sung the war songs. Their blood was up and their blue faces hungered for Roman blood. Today, they were unstoppable. Tomorrow, they would be normal men again, mere peasants, more concerned with the shape of the moon than with the Latin invaders marching across their lands. And the first harvest was approaching. Did Commius and the others not see this? Did the fools not understand that there was no chance of ever again forming an army this size, an army capable of defeating the Roman menace?

The Romans had to be driven from the land. They were a blight on all that was pure and good. They brought with them the corruption of extravagance and greed. If the Romans were successful in forcing the tribes into vassalage, their values and culture would spread through all of Belgica like a plague. Then, a more potent force than any Roman army would take hold of the people and never let them go – Roman merchants, bringing with them trade and wealth, the likes of which the Belgae had never seen before. Instead of seeking the pure and honorable lives of warrior farmers, they would learn complacency and indolence under the security that came with the Roman denarius. No longer would they trust in the old gods for favorable weather and fruitful harvests. Why should they, when ships on protected seas and caravans on Roman roads could provide them with all they would ever need? They would become entirely dependent on the Latins, and, yes, would probably consider themselves Roman within a few generations. The Belgae, the Nervii, and their ways – the ways of his forefathers – would cease to exist.

But with a victory today, all of that would change. The fate of the Belgae would be different. Did the others not understand that their freedom was secured or lost forever depending on their actions of this day?

"My lord!" The lookout called again, pointing across the river. "Look!"

Boduognatus looked up, fully expecting to see yet another legion arriving, but that is not what he saw. He gasped aloud as he gazed at the cloud of dust hanging above the road. Beneath the cloud, teams of mules were emerging from the hedges. The trudging beasts were heavily weighted down with equipment, some bearing their own loads while others drew carts and wagons. One after another, the vehicles came, stretching back on the road as far as visibility would allow. Caesar's impedimenta had finally arrived.

Boduognatus’s spirits surged.

If this train carried the baggage of six legions, it would be long indeed. It would stretch back for miles. The two legions at the rear of the column would be blocked from joining the other six. It was not perfect, but it was salvageable. Six legions was still a formidable force, but the Romans were not ready. In a way the long delay had created an unanticipated advantage. Fully half of the legionaries on the field had doffed the encumbrances of armor and weapons to construct camps. Several bands were even away from their units, chopping away at the distant tree line to gather materials for palisade walls.

The time for the attack had come.

“Tell your lord, the signal is given!” Boduognatus called down to the messenger from the Viromandui. “At the sound of the horn, he is to advance against the Roman center.”

The man looked uncertain. “But, my lord requested that you come – “

“There’s no time for that, damn you! Now, ride!”

As the chastised Viromandui rode off, Boduognatus pointed down to one of his own mounted nobles. “Gerulf, your steed is swift! Ride like the wind, and tell Commius that the signal is given. Tell him, if he leaves the field now, he will be known in the songs of old as the coward who deserted his brethren in the face of the Romans. Go, now!”

Boduognatus took a last look at the Roman lines before climbing down from the tree and mounting his own horse. He and his nobles received helmets and shields from their retainers and then gave tribute to Lugus for the Roman blood they would spill this day.

A dozen men in the treetops bearing large horns looked down at their lord, awaiting his signal. Boduognatus looked back at them, and then solemnly raised one arm, pausing just long enough to mentally steel himself for the death and butchery he would unleash when he lowered it again.

XXIV

"Not a sign of the enemy," Caesar said as he sipped from the waterskin and studied the opposite river bank. "I am afraid there will be no action today, gentlemen. It appears Balbus had me rush these troops here for nothing."

The two senators stood nearby, Valens examining the distant woods, Porcius sighing from the heat of the day. Both men were dressed much like Caesar, in corselets and scarlet cloaks, and while Valens’s armor fit him as though it had molded with his skin, Porcius’s was far too small, and forced his meaty jowls to spill over the neck. All three men were bare-headed, having left their helmets with the squadron of aides that held their horses just far enough away to give the high men privacy.

"This country makes Balbus jumpy, no doubt," Valens said. "I’ve known legates to see a thousand spears where there are only twenty."

"If twenty did that, then I am truly impressed," Porcius said, pointing to the bodies of the skirmishers that had been left on the opposite side of the river to go rigid under the afternoon sun.

"Has the cavalry not tended to them yet?" Caesar snapped to the nearest of his adjutants.

"I believe they are awaiting the carts, Proconsul." The officer offered in explanation.

"Damn the carts, man. Do they wish those corpses to burst before they collect them?"

Caesar studied the far bank of the river. The grassy plain, on which the slain auxiliaries lay, swept up from the river’s edge to a row of low wooded hills. There could be any number of Belgae hiding in those woods. But if the enemy was there, as Balbus’s panicky message had so informed him, then why had they not attacked?

Already annoyed by the delays incurred by the Belgic countryside over the last three days of marching, Caesar was loathe to let a few skirmishers hold up his advance. Judging from the sparse resistance they had seen thus far on the march, he fully expected this campaign to be over quickly. Aside from this day’s skirmish, his army had marched through the Belgic countryside with little harassment. Only a handful of arrows and stones had come at them periodically, the assailants hidden in the brush and gone before the cavalry could respond. It was the work of small bands, not any organized army. He was quite certain that all of the tales of a massing of the Belgic tribes were overinflated. Of course, the coded message kept coming to the forefront of his thoughts, but he just as easily dismissed that, too. It all seemed like such an over-reaction now.

Caesar had received Divitiacus’s scout, the man called Adalbert, late on the previous evening. The Aeduan had presented him with a cipher, and Caesar had eagerly used it to decode the message Divitiacus had taken off of the dead Nervii officer. He had hoped to find something revealing in the text, such as the names of the traitors Divitiacus had claimed were lurking within the army. But the message was quite disappointing. It had contained nothing more than a short description of the marching order of the Roman column. The message had emphasized that the army marched with “baggage separating each legion.” This was rather benign, if of no importance at all. Still, this morning, he had seen to changing the marching order, if only to sow the seeds of doubt among the Belgae, that their hidden informant was unreliable. When the army marched, Caesar had instructed the quartermaster to place all of the baggage between the six and seventh legions in the line. The change had caused so much delay and confusion that Caesar had almost immediately regretted ever giving the order.

The precaution was absurd, really. If the enemy truly did lie in ambush up ahead, why would they have allowed so many legions to take the field unopposed?

Caesar looked beyond the ranks of legionaries. A troop of cavalry sauntered near the river's edge, a hundred paces in front of the army. They were Roman cavalry, rushed up from the rear to take the place of the auxiliary horsemen that had been lost in the skirmish. The Roman horse casually trotted in column along the near bank of the river, riding the entire length of the four-mile Roman line. Upon reaching the end of the line, the officer at their head turned the column about to ride the circuit again.

"Quintus," Caesar said curiously. "Who is that officer driving our horse about in front of our lines as if he were on triumph? If he's going to stay on this side of the river, he might as well retire to his tent. I can observe the field just as easily from here. Why does he not scout those trees on the opposite bank as I have ordered? And where in Jupiter's name is Labienus. I thought he was at their head?"

"General Labienus went back up the road, sir, to bring up the Thirteenth and Fourteenth." The aide then added, uncertainly, "He said it was on your order, sir."

"I gave no such order. I need him here. Ride after him, Quintus, but not before you ask that oaf down by the river if he would be so good as to take his cavalry somewhere that they might be of use."

"Yes, Proconsul," the officer replied, before mounting his horse and clattering off.

"Sometimes I do not know what has come over this army, gentlemen," Caesar said apologetically to the two senators. "They act as though they have never been on campaign."

"Nervous young men often muddle the message, as you well know, Gaius," Valens said consolingly. “I remember when I campaigned in Spain with the great Sertorius. He would often send three or four messengers with the same message, just to ensure it got through, and with the same content as when he sent it. I am sure all is well and that young man down there has a good vantage of the woods. He is probably just showing prudence in light of what happened to the Treveri cavalry."

"Prudence is for the general to decide, Senator," Caesar said irritably, still watching the ambling cavalry.

Valens cast an unseen glance at Porcius, who averted his eyes nervously. They both knew why the cavalry officer down by the river seemed to disobey his orders, and it was not due to any level of prudence. It was because the young man was part of Valens's conspiracy and had been told not to take the cavalry anywhere near the woods, in the event that the troopers, who were not privy to the conspiracy, might sight the mass of Belgic spearmen lurking within, and raise the alarm too early.

But it was not early. It was late, and Valens was growing anxious. The Belgae should have attacked by now. They should have attacked as the first legion of the column arrived on the field, just as the message he had given this morning to Argus, to deliver to Boduognatus, had advised. But what had happened to Argus? He should have returned by now. Legion after legion had arrived on the field without any sign of the Belgae attack, so Argus must not have gotten through. Either that, or Boduognatus had betrayed him. If the attack never came it would not take Caesar long to figure out who had arranged for the errant messages to be delivered to Labienus in Caesar's name. It would not take him long to figure out that the officer now leading the forward deployed cavalry was a new arrival from Rome, and one of Valens's own men.

Valens smiled, remaining outwardly calm as he inwardly cursed the Belgic chieftain. Even now, were he to attack, the legions would be taken by surprise. The Ninth and Tenth Legions, on the left, had only just arrived on the field, but the other four legions in the center and on the right, had now been deployed in battle line for many hours. The inactivity across the river had made them lackadaisical and careless. They now lounged on the grassy slope, their pila and shields stacked by squad as they chewed on grass, and rested after the day's march. They clearly did not expect an attack today, some even breaking from the ranks to venture down to the river for a cool drink. Half of the soldiers of each legion were consumed with building the camp, and had returned their large oval shields to the leather covers in the event of an afternoon shower. They unloaded the few pack mules that had marched with them, dug ditches, and planted stakes in preparation for building the palisade walls once the main impedimenta arrived, with its hundreds of carts and thousands of pack animals. Several dozen legionaries had ventured with axes into the nearby thickets to find some fair trees to fell. They laughed and joked as they worked, but none seemed in the least bit wary of an attack.

Valens watched the back of Caesar's head as the proconsul studied the woods on the other side of the river. Did he suspect anything? Would the attack even come? If it did not come, there were other plans. Valens's eyes drifted to the mounted Gallic cavalry that served as Caesar's bodyguard. Three of the bearded warriors in the front rank met his eyes in acknowledgement of the pact they had made with him. They were his contingency. They were to wait for the battle to be engaged, and the legions near the breaking point. When that time came, the three brutes were to bury their longswords in Caesar's back. If for some reason the battle did not go as Valens had planned, they were to wait for his signal, and then send the proconsul to the afterlife. Either way, Caesar would die, and Rome set back on her intended path. Certainly, Valens would prefer it if that arrogant ass of a proconsul were to die on the battlefield, the last vision of his dying eyes that of the flight of his defeated troops – the same troops he had exalted in his letters to the senate as the best ever fielded by Rome. It made Valens laugh inside to think of these bumbling incompetents compared to the great legions of Sertorius. Once he was in command, perhaps a taste of decimation would make them smarter. Yes, that was it. He would have to decimate at least one legion to send a clear message to them all, that the liberties they took under their previous general would no longer be tolerated.

"Where in Jupiter's name is he taking them now?" Caesar exclaimed.

Valens pulled himself back to the present to see that Caesar was referring to the cavalry officer, who had now wheeled his entire mounted force away from the river, and was leading them with all speed toward the rear. The horsemen rode between the files of the formed legions, their officer entirely ignoring the inquiries of the puzzled legates. Within moments, the entire squadron had disappeared back up the road amidst the baggage.

Caesar audibly gasped in disbelief. The Roman cavalry had been withdrawn to a place where they could not support the legions, should the enemy cavalry show itself again.

While Caesar cursed, Valens inwardly smiled. He exchanged a subversive glance with Porcius, for both men knew exactly what was happening. At long last, it was happening just as Valens had planned. The cavalry officer had been given explicit orders to remove the cavalry from the field at the first sign of the enemy attack. While Valens was counting on the legions to be terribly handled on this day, he did not wish for the cavalry to suffer. For he would need the cavalry, once he was in command of the army.

What happened next, he had fully expected to happen.

"Mother of Remus!" One of Caesar's adjutants exclaimed, voicing what every legionary in the ranks was thinking, as they all stared open-mouthed at the terrifying sight across the river. From right to left, stretching in one continuous line as far as visibility would allow, a line of blue-painted, spear-wielding, howling warriors had emerged from the tree-line. Their ranks were deep, and their war cry menacing. It was the cry of tens of thousands of blood-thirsty Belgae, and when combined it reached a crescendo that was inhuman and unnatural. Like a single organism, the line of blue surged forward across the open space, consuming the green plain, reaching the river's edge within moments. On the left, the newly arrived Ninth and Tenth Legions were closest to the charging mass. They would be first struck by the indomitable wave of spears.

Valens watched Caesar, fully expecting panic to overtake him. But, to Valens's surprise, after a moment of uncertainty, in which Caesar's face registered shock, anger, and disbelief, all at once, the proconsul suddenly sprang to life. Caesar walked briskly to his mount, snatching his crimson-plumed helmet from the waiting staff officer.

"Unfurl the red banner!" He commanded from the saddle, as he tied the straps beneath his chin. "Recall the work details. Get all legions formed and under arms!"

Before Caesar spurred his mount, Valens stopped him with a feigned look of concern. "But where are you going, Caesar? These men need you here?"

Could it be this easy? Valens thought to himself. Is this populares bastard so scared that he is already fleeing the field?

Caesar seemed to detect the pageantry in Valens's question and replied curtly, "The legions on the left will be the first to feel the enemy's charge. With Labienus off who knows where, I must go and direct their battle. You and Porcius may remain here if you wish."

Without another word, Caesar kicked his mount forward, and thundered off, his staff following close behind him.

A moment later, the score of Gallic bodyguard followed, too, the three conspirators among them casting a questioning glance in Valens's direction before charging off with their comrades.

"What do we do, Valens?" Porcius said nervously.

"We keep our heads, damn you! Stay here. When the legions on the left break, and they will, go to the legates of the other legions and tell them Caesar is dead. Tell them General Valens orders them to conduct an orderly retreat back up the road."

"And if they don't break?"

Valens shot him an incensed look. "Then make yourself useful until they do! You know what's at stake here, man. Both of our necks will be on the block if Caesar is not defeated."

Porcius nodded nervously. "And where are you going?"

Valens looked after the distant cloud of dust stirred up by the galloping horses of Caesar and his bodyguard. "I go where Caesar goes. I go to ensure that the blessed proconsul never leaves this field alive."

With that, Valens mounted his horse and rode off at a full gallop.

XXV

On the far left side of the Roman army, the legions had mere moments to prepare for the coming onslaught. The forest on the opposite side of the river was much closer to the water’s edge than in other places along the four mile line. Thus, the Belgae spearmen springing from those woods had much less distance to run in order to reach the Romans. The men of the Ninth and Tenth Legions, both Spanish legions, having just arrived on the field, dropped their kits and trenching tools and quickly formed ranks. Often considered Caesar's finest legion, the Tenth was famous for its speed and hardiness, and it did not disappoint on this day. The Tenth Legion, along with the Ninth, established the left anchor of the Roman army, their eighty centuries coolly forming into three lines in the face of the onrushing enemy. They did not have to be told what to do, for they were all veterans, and had faced barbarians many times before. Eight thousand Roman helmets peeked above as many freshly painted shields. With javelins poised, the legionaries stood side-by-side, like a cemented seawall, prepared for the approaching wave.

The Belgic warriors splashing through the river shallows to confront the two legions were the 15,000 spears of the Atrebates, under their chieftain Commius. The tribe came from the coastal plain and was, by and large, comprised of men who made their trade on the sea – merchants and sailors who did business with the British Isles. While they were stout and hardy men, they were not as akin to combat in rugged terrain as their Nervii brethren, who regularly blooded their spears fending off incursions by the Germans.

Riding near the head of his charging warriors, Commius knew full-well that pitting his average troops against the prime Roman legions was ill-advised, but the fates had decided otherwise. With the advantage of numbers, he also would have preferred sending some troops to hit the Romans in the flank, but the Roman left was protected by a sharp escarpment covered in thickets and hedgerows. Under the previous plan, in which his men and the rest of the Belgic army were to face one or two legions at most, these natural barriers were to have boxed in the fleeing Romans and prevent them from escaping. Now, with six legions on the field, the hedges worked to the Romans’ advantage, forcing the advancing Atrebates to approach the three-century-deep Roman lines with a nearly equal front. Still, they outnumbered the Romans before them nearly two to one, and should, by all accounts, be able to overcome them with a single massed frontal assault. Commius forced his mind to believe that as he glanced over at his son, leading the brigade to his left.

The mass of howling warriors charged up the slope on the Roman side of the river, obliterating the hoof prints left in the mud by the cavalry. Their ranks were jumbled from the crossing, but their nobles spurred them onward, waving swords high in the air, disregarding or oblivious to the fact that they had just stepped into the deadly space that lay before any Roman legion drawn up in perfect battle order on the high ground.

When the Belgae were within twenty paces of the Roman shields, the two legions suddenly came alive. The primus pilus, standing in the front right centuries, shouted an order that set the massive formations in motion. Like a ripple traveling down the skin of a snake, two thousand javelins were hurled into the sky. The front right centuries threw first and the other front centuries followed suit, in a perfectly sequential motion that might have been beautiful had its result not been so deadly.

The six-foot missiles swarmed above the open space between the lines and came down with devastating fury amongst the front ranks of rushing spearmen. As if encountering some invisible barrier, the front lines stagnated, forcing the pressing ranks behind to push into them. Shields came up and men crouched to avoid the terrifying weapons, but in vain. The two-foot-long iron shank on the tip of each Roman javelin, backed up by the momentum of a five-foot wooden shaft, found the gaps in the shields and sliced through the poorly armored. Many of the missiles that struck the shields squarely, punched through the plied wood to destroy the hands and arms beneath. Men cried out in pain and terror, some lanced by two or three pila, some gushing blood from javelins lodged in their necks, even one who ran about frantically between the lines trying to dislodge a pilum that had entered through his eye and protruded from the side of his head, miraculously not killing him.

Having lost its momentum, the Atrebates charge now stagnated, as wounded men crawled to the rear, many of them unconsciously trampled by the ranks behind. The uninjured warriors clawed their way through dropped shields, corpses, and the shafts of a thousand of spent pila protruding from the soft ground, but none seemed ready to rush at the waiting Roman lines. Shouting encouragement to the hesitant spearmen, a few mail-clad Belgic nobles on horseback nudged their way to the front and began to rally the muddle back into a line of continuous shields.

The legionaries in the frontline centuries observed this and began ridiculing their opponents, daring them to come up the slope. Arrows, shot over the Belgic ranks by bowmen standing knee-deep in the river, began to clatter against the giant Roman shields. These were some of the same archers that had so thoroughly massacred the lightly armored Treveri horse only hours before. Now, they faced heavy infantry – legionaries – clad in mail-shirts and bronze helmets, and only a few fell prey to the flying missiles. Commius, understanding that the sight of so many arrows causing so few casualties among the Romans would do nothing to help bolster his men, ordered a general charge before his men had time to think about it.

The Atrebates line surged forward, a mass of snarling, blue-painted, spiked-haired men behind shields and extended spears. They hit the Roman line like a thunderclap, shield against shield, some throwing spears at the squinted eyes of the legionaries, some wildly leaping into the ranks of their foe. Like a giant meat-grinder, the Roman line engaged the blue wave, each soldier crouching behind his shield as he shoved it into the enemy to his front, pushing the Belgic front liners back into the ranks pressing from behind, and then jabbing with his gladius at the off-balanced foe. This was repeated time and time again, short, repeated thrusts that punctured blue-painted abdomens, mutilated genitals and opened leg arteries, while the Belgae spears, unwieldy in the compact close quarters glanced off of the curved Roman shields. Atrebas warriors began to fall by the dozen to the repeated thrusts of the gladii. Spears probed the gaps between the legionaries’ shields, some of them returning covered with Roman blood, but most getting deflected or shattered by a chopping short sword. As one of the few sword bearers among the Atrebates, Commius had a distinct advantage over his countrymen. He splintered the Roman shield to his front and then drove the point of his long sword into the face of the legionary behind it, dislodging teeth and jaw and starting a torrent of blood that streaked down into the man's tunic and mail. Commius gave a victorious cry, hoping that the men around him might take heart from the mangled Roman now falling back into the rear ranks, but his small victory, and those of the few other sword-wielding nobles, was not enough to stop the wholesale slaughter of his men. They were no match for the trained veterans of the Ninth and Tenth, and they began to fall back, no matter how much Commius upbraided them for it.

Observing the action from atop his horse behind the ranks, General Fabius, the legate of the Tenth Legion, considered that the action was going very well. With the Belgic ranks repulsed, at least temporarily, the frontline legionaries had the opportunity to dress ranks and cut the throats of any wounded Belgae at their feet. They only had to contend with the ineffectual arrow barrage that had not stopped throughout the engagement. The Ninth and Tenth were holding. How things were going over on the right side of the line, nearly three miles away, was anyone's guess. That part of the line was hidden from view by a tall row of hedges that ran along the road marking the center of the battlefield. Fabius assumed the other four legions were meeting with similar success. These Belgae really weren't as fearsome fighters as the stories hyped them up to be, Fabius thought, as he observed the mass of men skulking in the river shallows. Several hundred of the Belgic rabble had already fallen to the javelins, and he still had two lines that had not yet engaged. Let the bastards try to rush the line again, and he would give them another taste of the pilum barb. His men could stand here and fight until no Belgae remained brave enough to charge up that hill.

At that moment, a cluster of riders reined in beside him. He was not particularly surprised to see Caesar among them. The proconsul was probably darting all over the battlefield that he might claim his generalship won the day.

"How do you fair, Fabius?" Caesar asked, the long plume of his helmet stretching out behind him as he got control of his mount. The Belgic arrows were making the beast nervous.

"We can stand here all day, General, if that is what you desire."

Fabius saw the Gallic bodyguard ride up now, followed by Senator Valens, who examined the lines once and then took on an expression of grave concern.

"They appear to be forming again, Caesar," the senator said to the proconsul. "Hadn't you best order a withdrawal, while there is still time?"

Caesar shot him a brief look of disbelief before turning his attention back to the enemy. "Are you mad, Valens? I have them where I want them, now," turning to the legate he said, "Fabius, take your legion and the Ninth and assault the enemy. Push them back across the river."

"Begging your pardon, Caesar, but we hold the advantage in our present positions. By all appearances, they mean to come at us again. Would it not be wiser to stay on the defensive?"

"And let them melt into the forest only to fight us again someday? I hardly think so, General. They are ready to break. Take your legion and break them. Let your javelins fly, and then drive them, Fabius! Drive them! Kill as many as you can."

"Yes, Caesar."

Valens observed Caesar with trepidation as the smug proconsul watched his orders being relayed to the cohorts, and then put into execution. The bastard was nearly salivating. And why shouldn't he? By all appearances, this was shaping up to be another great victory. The Ninth and Tenth legions had lost but a few men, and now the two legions advanced down the slope, the front liners brandishing the tips of crimson-stained gladii before their shields. Shrinking at the approaching Romans, the Atrebates ignored the pleas of their officers and made for the river in a confused rush. At this, the second and third Roman lines released their javelins deep into the ranks of the retreating foe. Four thousand barb-tipped pila fell amongst the panicked conscripts, piercing blue-painted backs and knocking warriors by the hundred face-first into the muddy shallows. Flailing bodies and wooden shafts hindered the escape of those closest to the oncoming Romans. Then, like a storm of metal, the legionaries were upon them. The gladii wrought their terrible harvest, maiming and killing the out-matched spearmen until the river ran red. Commius, too, fell under the gladius, whilst trying to reform his men, his last breath cursing Boduognatus's blunder and calling for his son, Commius the younger, also fighting in the ranks, to avenge his death.

Valens watched hopelessly as the Belgic formations, now little more than a mob, disintegrated before the Ninth and Tenth Legions. This was far from the ignoble defeat he had expected. At that moment, a giant bolt hummed over Valens's head and landed squarely in the center of the Belgae ranks, skewering two men, and sending those in the immediate vicinity into a panic. The senator looked to the rear and saw that some of the artillery had managed to disentangle itself from the impedimenta, and were now assembled and fully operational, launching their giant projectiles over the Roman ranks to wreak havoc among the packed Belgic lines. Valens glanced over to the center of the battlefield where it appeared that the enemy massed before the Eleventh and Eighth legions were also faltering.

Valens cursed his own stupidity for trusting the battle to Boduognatus. The Nervii fool could not fight his way out of the Vestal Virgins’ house. Could he not see that speed and concentration of force were the only means to victory? Valens had foregone giving the Belgic chieftain a military advisor, fearing the presence of a Roman on Boduognatus's staff might have caused a ripple in the Belgic alliance, but now he wished he had done otherwise. The Ninth and Tenth legions were pushing onto the opposite bank now, the Belgic warriors before them nothing more than a confused mass. Most struggled to get away. A few stood firm only to be cut down by the indomitable thrusts of the gladii. Once these troop had routed, the Belgic center would be in jeopardy, too.

"We have them, Valens!" Caesar exclaimed gleefully. "We have them! Did you ever see finer legions?"

At that moment, a cluster of Roman officers arrived from the rear, their horses lathered from hard riding. The officer at their head grimaced with something akin to disgust.

"Hail, Labienus!" Caesar said, cheerfully, but with sarcasm. "I am overjoyed that you could make it before there are no more enemy left to kill."

Labienus face was set in a scowl. "I come at your bidding, just as I went to the rear at your bidding."

A puzzled look crossed Caesar's face. "I don't know what you are referring to. Why in Jupiter's name would I have given you such an order?"

"Aye, why indeed?" Labienus retorted, his anger getting the better of him. "Lest it was to ensure that Caesar, and Caesar alone, is given credit for the victory, and that you may add to your report that Labienus sat in the rear commanding the baggage!"

Caesar's face turned beet red. "I tell you plainly, I gave no such order, damn you!"

A flaming scorpion bolt swooshed over the heads of the gathered officers, momentarily frightening the horses. Each man instinctively turned to see the ball of fire land amongst the retreating Belgae, the burning pitch setting several men ablaze. The burning men ran this way and that, their comrades moving away from them. Their shrieks could be heard above the din of the battle.

This seemed to temporarily calm the tempers of the two men.

"Who gave you the order, Labienus?" Caesar asked amicably. "Tell me what incompetent is responsible for removing my best general from the battlefield at such a crucial moment, and I will have him flogged, were he even the son of Crassus. I swear to that, my friend."

Labienus now appeared somewhat conciliatory. "I'm not exactly sure who he was. A young knight, definitely. He handed me a message, ordering me to see to the Thirteenth and Fourteenth Legions, at the rear of the column, and to see that they were in good order." Labienus then produced a paper from his saddle and handed it to Caesar. "Is this not your hand?"

Several paces away, Valens watched in silent trepidation as Caesar turned the document over several times. Valens's hand instinctively moved to the hilt of his own sheathed sword, but he then forced himself to take his hand away and assume an indifferent expression. He cast a glance at the three Gallic horsemen in the front rank of Caesar's bodyguard. Their swords were drawn, as were those of the other horsemen, as would be expected when the enemy was so close. Caesar and Labienus were entirely focused on the document, discussing it now in low voices that Valens could not overhear. Valens had not wanted Labienus to die. The man at least knew something of the art of war, and would have been useful when Valens took command of the army. Now, he would have to die alongside Caesar. But Valens knew it could not be helped. He had to act now. The battle was won, and if he waited any longer, even the Gallic swordsmen might betray him, in order to ingratiate themselves with the victorious proconsul.

Valens carefully slid a strand of blue silk from his corselet. He saw the fierce eyes of the three bodyguards watching his every move. It was the agreed signal between them. The three men were to slay Caesar the instant the blue cloth left his hand.

The cloth fluttered in the wind, and his fingers were about to release it, when another rider arrived, bringing his straining mount to a stop within feet of Caesar.

"General!" The young officer said in a panic. "I come from General Balbus!" The officer struggled to turn his jumping mount to face the proconsul.

"Well?" Caesar said, irritated. "Don't just sit there gasping! Speak, man!"

"The right has collapsed, sir! The Seventh and the Twelfth have been flanked! The enemy has crossed the river and is pushing toward the road!

Upon hearing this, and seeing the stunned expressions on Caesar's and Labienus's faces, Valens instantly put the blue cloth away, and shook his head ever so slightly at the waiting bodyguards. There was hope yet that this victory might turn to disaster, and the moment it did, the moment he was sure Caesar's reputation was sufficiently dishonored, then he would strike, and all of Gaul, and eventually all of Rome, would be his.

XXVI

On the other side of the battlefield, opposite the Roman right, Boduognatus felt ready to burst with pride, as he watched his fifty thousand Nervii spears close in on the two legions atop the slope on the right of the Roman lines. For some reason, the legions had been ill-prepared for his attack, and there were several hundred still chopping down trees and working on the camp when Boduognatus's warriors overtook them. This was partly due to some god-sent negligence of the Romans, but his flanking maneuver deserved much of the credit. The two Roman legions, numbering roughly eight thousand men, had stretched their line across the top of the slope, anchoring their right on the thick hedges and trees lining a bog to the east. This had given them a false sense of security that their flank was unassailable. They had not counted on the grit of the Nervii, who traversed these swamps at will, and who knew of every dry path and cutaway through the foliage. Outnumbering the Romans in front of him nearly five to one, Boduognatus had sent one fifth of his force through the swamp, to come upon the Romans from their right flank and to surround them – and the plan had worked perfectly.

From atop his horse, he had watched as his line of spears advanced up the slope against the Roman front. The Romans threw their javelins, as he had expected, and the first ranks of spearmen had suffered heavily, but his nobles had spurred them on, and soon the lines were joined. Then, came the payoff. When the Romans were fully engaged to their front and committed to fending off the sheer numbers that threatened to overwhelm them, he ordered the horn to sound, and the trap was sprung. Ten thousand of his painted, shrieking warriors burst from the foliage and drove into the unprotected Roman right and amongst the shieldless legionaries constructing the camp. Boduognatus watched, over the top of the melee, and saw his spearmen skewer one defenseless Roman after another, running down each one individually and placing their spears into Roman backs. It was a glorious sight, and the panic it caused among the front line legionaries was even more glorious. As a pig's bladder deflates after it has been kicked too hard, the Roman defense began to falter. With Nervii spearmen to their front and rear, the common soldiers fell back, leaving their cursing centurions on the line to stand alone. The impressive Romans in the cross-plumed helmets, unlike the rest of their comrades, grabbed up abandoned shields and began fighting like berserkers. Boduognatus had much respect for these gallant warriors who valued honor above life, the same creed he and the majority of his army lived by. But the centurions' devotion to honor did not save them today. Pushing off the Nervii spearman one after another, and thrusting their gladii time and again, until their hilts and forearms were painted crimson, they eventually succumbed to the numbers arrayed against them. Some fought back to back, and these were harder to kill, but those that stood alone often went down pierced by three or four Nervii spears. After one of these had fallen, Boduognatus saw one of his own Nervii nobles, in the midst of the melee, hack down with his long sword and then come up holding a centurion's severed head, still wearing the cross-plumed bronze helmet. The swordsman hurled the bloody object over the ranks at the retreating enemy, the head going one way, the helmet another. The Romans were falling apart. The slope on which the extreme right of the Roman line had stood only moments before was now covered with spearmen, and they were pushing the Romans back even further. The Romans had a second line, and that too was falling back, retreating toward the center, rather than toward the road. Boduognatus knew why, too. Though he could not see what was happening over the crest of the hill, he knew that his men had gotten around to the Roman rear, and were now proceeding to get between the legions and their only escape route.

"My Lord!" A man behind Boduognatus shouted to get his attention. The man appeared to be in a panic as he splashed his horse through the waist high water to approach the chieftain. He was obviously a messenger, a Viromandui from the looks of him. "My lord, I bring grave tidings. Commius has fallen. The Atrebates are in full retreat!"

Boduognatus was not fazed by this news. The moment he had seen the Ninth and Tenth Legions, the finest in Caesar's army, forming up on that side of the line, he knew that the Atrebates were in for a slaughter. He had known that, and he had allowed it to happen with the knowledge that their sacrifice would leave his own Nervii facing two depleted legions of mixed caliber. The other chieftains would not have understood it, but it was their best chance of succeeding. The only way they could defeat the legions was to get in their rear and create havoc in the one place where the Romans expected there to be order. Only that would throw the Romans off balance and make them run.

"That is unfortunate," he finally said to the messenger. "Commius the brave will have a place in our songs of this victory. How does your own lord fare?"

"We are hard pressed in the center, sir. The legions are advancing on our right. My lord asks if you can send men to assist us."

Boduognatus considered for a moment. The right could collapse. He was not worried about that, but he needed the center to hold, at least long enough for his own men to annihilate the two legions they were quickly surrounding. Still, he was reluctant to part with any more of his troops. They already appeared thinned out, and he was wondering just how many had deserted in the morning's indecision. But they were in the hands of the fates now.

"Tell your lord I am sending three brigades. Tell him he must keep up the attack, and, above all, he must hold!"

The thankful messenger departed, orders were given, and three thousand spears were pulled out of the rear ranks and sent to bolster the Viromandui in the center.

The carnage on the slope continued. The centurions had all been slaughtered, and now his spearmen pressed hard on the collapsing legions. They were rushing and killing, and why should it surprise him so? His warriors had fought off countless invasions by German tribes. All was going as he had hoped. The annoyance of Senator Valens's bad intelligence – or treachery – was now in the past. That blunder had been overcome, and now all that remained was to separate the Romans from the road and their baggage, and the battle would be won. A cloud of dust had risen above the thousands of jabbing and slashing swords and spears, and obstructed his view beyond the enemy lines. He desperately wished he could see the progress of his troops there, but he was sure they were pressing to envelope the Roman rear. At any moment, he expected to see the two legions before him break and melt away into a mass of confusion.

Boduognatus waited for that moment, counting each beat of his heart and daring to dream of the accolades he would receive for this victory. Surely, all of the Belgic tribes, even those that had already capitulated to the Romans, would rally to his banner and declare him king over all. Then, with all of the Belgae behind him, he would drive the Romans from Gaul, settling a few long-overdue scores with the Aeduans and the others who had allied themselves with the invader. The name of Boduognatus would resound in the ears of the Belgae and their enemies for generations to come.

But Boduognatus pulled himself back to the present as the battle lines bowed and swayed like the contours of a rocky coastline. In most places, his men were forcing the Romans back, but now, in a few places along the line, the Romans stood firm like rocks against a rushing tide. They would break. They had to break. Until they did, Boduognatus watched and he waited.

XXVII

Lucius and Alain were deposited on a narrow part of the road leading up to the plain where the battle now took place. In their scramble through the marsh, they had encountered many mule drivers, auxiliaries, and even a few legionaries that had chosen to take their chances in the wild rather than face the Belgae onslaught. Lucius and Alain were largely ignored by the stragglers, though Lucius did catch a curious glance from one common soldier who probably wondered why a tribune would share his horse with a slave boy, for that’s exactly how he and Alain appeared. Lucius now wore the leather corselet, plumed helmet, and greaves he had taken off of Argus’s dead body – everything but the noble’s cloak, which had been drenched in the man’s blood. Lucius looked every bit the part, if one could look past his filthy skin and unrefined features.

Now, the two ducked out of the quiet shadowy path and into chaos. The road was choked with carts, wagons, and pack animals of all kind. Many drivers had completely abandoned their vehicles, leaving them to obstruct the path of the few dutiful handlers trying to turn their unwieldy carriages around in the narrow space. Angry mules brayed and kicked wildly at the unreasonable demands made on them. Some carts were overturned, while many were hopelessly mired within the dense hedges on either side of the road. Here and there, Roman officers cursed at the drivers in an effort to bring order to the confusion, but the impedimenta was far beyond a state of panic.

“You, there!” one of the officers shouted, after sighting Lucius. “What is your name? What are you doing with that boy? Come here, and help me get these carts moving toward the front! I said, come here, you son of a whore!”

Lucius did not respond, but instead kicked the horse down the road leading toward the din of the battle. The farther they went, the more refugees they passed, all heading in the opposite direction. Some were wounded and bleeding, some were deserting. A troop of allied Treveri cavalry also thundered by, seemingly blind to anyone or anything but their path to safety. Lucius saw them trample one limping legionary to a pulp beneath their hooves when he failed to get out of the way in time.

Where the road opened out onto the river plain, Lucius and Alain came upon another jumble of artillery carts and wagons. A centurion was trying to bring them into order, but was having a difficult time of it. He seemed beside himself as carts continued to come from the battlefield when he was trying to send them in the other direction.

“Damn you, you maggot-brained idiots!” the centurion barked at a team of drivers. “You’re going the wrong way! Didn’t I just send you up the road that way? Why in Juno’s name are you coming back?”

One of the drivers shrugged. “The senator ordered us to turn around.”

“What senator?”

“He’s just up there,” the driver motioned down the road toward the battlefield. “He’s ordering everyone back. Says the proconsul has given the order to retreat.”

Lucius overheard this, and Valens’s treachery immediately came to mind. The bastard was just up ahead directing the baggage to retreat. Meanwhile, Caesar and the rest of the army fought against dismal odds. Lucius’s lips quivered in anger as he fingered the hilt of his gladius. He was determined to settle the score between him and Valens right here and now.

“Alain, you must remain here,” he said, letting the boy down off the horse. “It is too dangerous for you to go any further.”

Alain looked up at him skeptically. Lucius saw his expression and laughed.

“Fear not, lad. I will keep my word. Should I come out of this alive, I will ensure that your mistress is protected. Nothing will happen to her. Don’t worry.”

Lucius then kicked the horse into a gallop and headed up the road toward the battle. The battle had been hidden from view by a sharp rise in the road, and as Lucius came to the summit, he was dazzled by what lay before him. The plain, leading down to the river was covered with the two armies, a seemingly endless mass of hacking and jabbing combatants, desperately locked in a scene of carnage and savagery. Missiles flew above the heads of the raging warriors, while at their feet the bodies of more and more dying men and horses littered the blood-soaked ground. Lucius could make out the legions, some formed and fighting fiercely, some on the verge of being surrounded. They were beset by tens of thousands of Belgae, both advancing from the river and working their way around to the right of the threadbare Roman line.

The two legions in the center, the Eleventh and the Eighth by their standards, faced an incredible mass of spear and sword wielding Belgae advancing up at them from the river. The two legions were being pushed back slowly, but they were still intact, and they were holding their formations. In sharp contrast, the two legions on the right were a picture of chaos. Amidst the tangle of lines, Lucius picked out the eagle standards of the Seventh and Twelfth legions, but he could see no discernable formation. The bulk of both legions had collapsed into a crude angle, and the few units that had not were mixed among the enemy ranks and frantically fought off attackers from all sides at once. Belgic spearmen and axemen were pressing hard to get around the rear of the two legions to cut them off from the road. The only thing stopping them was a single cohort that had been thrown out in a line behind the legions to keep the lane open. But the Belgae were already adjusting their formations to overwhelm it. As dismal as it all seemed, however, Lucius saw no signs of retreat. Aside from a few stragglers, here and there, the legions appeared determined to fight to the death.

Lucius was so distracted by the distant battle that he almost failed to notice the portly officer, perched atop a horse, who sat at the head of the road, turning away all arriving traffic. The man was so heavy that he hardly fit into his armor, and he continually wiped the sweat away from his cheeks and jowls with a damp rag.

“I am Senator Titus Porcius,” he announced repeatedly as the drivers brought their teams to the summit of the hill. “By order of the proconsul, you are to turn your vehicles about and go back the way you came. This army is withdrawing from the field. Go back, I say!”

This man was certainly not Valens, as Lucius had expected. Lucius suddenly realized that this was the other senator, whom he had seen accompanying Valens around the camp. Lucius had not recognized him at first. The ill-fitting armor had distracted him, not to mention the helmet that looked like a child’s toy upon the senator’s enormous head.

“You there, tribune!” Senator Porcius snapped, his perspiring jowls shaking with every movement of his jaw.

It took Lucius a few moments to realize that Porcius was addressing him.

“Stop gawking there like a common soldier and do what I say!” Porcius demanded, then pointed to two limbered scorpions being pushed by their handlers in an effort to turn them around. “Take charge of these engines and see to it they make it to safety. I want them undamaged. Is that clear?”

“By whose order, sir?” Lucius asked gamely.

The senator appeared stunned by the response. “By mine, and that of the proconsul! The army is retreating, man. Now, get going.”

Lucius did not move. “The army does not appear to be retreating, sir.”

“What?” Porcius appeared taken aback. He instantly began to perspire even more, dabbing frantically at his neck and temples. “You would question the orders of the proconsul, young man?”

“I wouldn’t question them,” Lucius snarled, “had they come from the proconsul, and not from Senator Valens!”

The senator’s eyes grew rounder at the shock that the tribune could know of such things. He was about to speak again when a band of legionaries suddenly arrived. They were led by the same centurion Lucius had encountered down the road. The officer and his men had come up the road at the double-quick undoubtedly to see who was ordering the vehicles turned back.

Porcius caught site of them. “Centurion, you have arrived just in time. This tribune is disobeying the direct order of the proconsul. He is refusing to direct the baggage to turn about. Arrest him, and take his place. See to it that all vehicles are sent back the way they came. Don’t let a single one onto the field of battle. Is that clear?”

The centurion glanced once at Lucius and then back at the senator. “I was ordered here by General Fabius, senator, to do precisely the opposite, sir. Caesar told him to have all the baggage brought up, forthwith. I heard him say it with my own two ears. General Fabius then ordered me to see to it. Is it possible, sir, you misunderstood – “

“Damn your insolence to hell, man!” Porcius cursed, though his manner expressed his nervousness. “Don’t patronize me! Who do you think you are? I know what the proconsul ordered, and he ordered to prepare for a general retreat. Now, arrest this man, before I have you arrested!”

The centurion appeared confused, but after a moment’s consideration he seemed to have made up his mind to acquiesce to the senator’s wishes. He motioned for two of his soldiers to come over while shooting an uncertain glance at Lucius. Lucius was preparing to kick his horse to make a break for it, but a sudden shriek behind him compelled him to turn around.

A band of blue-painted Nervii, wielding axes and spears, had emerged from the hedge lining the opposite side of the road. They were rushing at the Romans, screaming a wild battle-cry. Their first victims were a team of mule drivers who had the misfortune of being too close to the hedge. Before either driver could descend from the wagon, they were stabbed repeatedly in the belly with rapid thrusts of the deadly Nervii spearpoints. Then, the Nervii rushed amongst the other carts and wagons.

Lucius drew his gladius and wheeled his horse around to join the centurion and the other legionaries bracing for the attack. They were all surprised when, instead of attacking them, the warriors began to kill the mule teams. One mule after another dropped, some of them kicking, some braying. They were packed too tightly and were restrained by their harnesses, so they had no way of getting away from the stabbing spears and hacking axes. It took Lucius a moment to realize the enemy’s intentions.

“They’re killing the teams to block the road!” he shouted to the centurion. “We must stop them!”

The centurion nodded, and then shouted to his men, “At them, lads!”

Lucius joined the rush of legionaries, steering his mount for the nearest spearman. The bare-chested warrior was trying to dislodge his weapon from the neck of a dying mule. Lucius was armed with the ornamental gladius he had taken off of Argus’s body. As he passed the Nervii warrior, he swung the gladius in a low arc at the man’s head. The short sword was not meant to be used from the back of a horse and did not have the reach for such a maneuver. Instead of beheading the man, as Lucius had intended, the tip of the sword cut a finger deep gash in the man’s helmet, knocking it off his head. Then, wheeling his mount, Lucius drove the point of the sword into the dazed man’s face. The point found and expanded an eye socket, and then drove into the man’s brain. The warrior’s body twitched uncontrollably and fell to the ground dead.

Two legionaries beside Lucius thrust their pila into both sides of a warrior, but then were cut down themselves by two more Nervii. The centurion fought nearby, too. Lucius saw him yell like a maniac as he wrenched a spear from the hands of a Nervii warrior, twirled it in the air, and then brought it down with both hands into the warrior’s foot, pinning it to the ground. As the Nervii cried out in pain, and groped to free the weapon, the centurion produced a pugio and opened the man’s throat in a single swift motion.

There were more Nervii than legionaries, and soon the numbers began to make the difference. Romans were singled out and killed by two or three spearmen at a time. Lucius used the horse to the best of his advantage, bringing his blade down hard to crush one Nervii skull after another, but eventually, a spear found his horse’s breast, and drove several feet into the animal, piercing its heart. His mount toppled to the ground and him with it. The Nervii tried to move in for the kill, but in an instant the centurion was there with two more legionaries, and drove the enemy back.

“We’re outnumbered!” the centurion called to him.

It took a moment for Lucius to realize that the centurion was looking to him for guidance, believing him to be a tribune. The man appeared young for his rank, and could not have been in his position for more than a few months.

“Keep fighting!” Lucius shouted. “They will break!”

Lucius then noticed that a great number of the mule drivers were skulking behind the carts, hanging back at a safe distance to wait and see the outcome of the skirmish. With a wild look in his eyes, Lucius glared and pointed his bloody sword at them.

“Get off your arses and fight, damn you!” he shouted.

This had the opposite effect on several of the drivers, who quickly beat a hasty retreat, but many of those who remained, either out of shame or fear of the maniacal tribune with the blood splattered face, grabbed up any weapon they could and rushed into the fray. This new threat, though minor, put the Nervii off balance, and the pressure on the legionaries let up just enough for them to regroup and renew their attack. They drove at the blue warriors, knocking axes and spears away, shoving and jabbing, varnishing their swords with fresh Nervii blood, until the stunned enemy began to falter.

A mail-clad warrior with a longsword, whom Lucius took for the Nervii officer, was trapped between the shields of two legionaries. Both Romans plunged their swords into the chest of the restrained officer, and then withdrew them simultaneously. The remaining spearmen looked on in hopelessness as their leader’s armor ran red, and he dropped to the ground, dead. They began to fall back, and soon were running full bore for the safety of the hedge from which they had come.

The centurion raised his sword in triumph and prompted his men to chase down the fleeing foe. He turned to congratulate the tribune, but the tribune was no longer beside him. The centurion looked up to see that the young officer had picked up a javelin and was now bounding over corpses in pursuit of the heavy senator, who was frantically kicking his horse to get away from the crazed man. He did not get far. With a throw as near to perfect as the centurion had ever seen, the tribune hurled the pilum at the fleeing senator. The six-foot long weapon sailed through the air straight and true, and struck the big man squarely in the small of the back, instantly knocking him from the saddle. His giant form crashed to the earth like an over-sized sack of grain, breaking off the shaft of the weapon.

In less than a heartbeat, the tribune was on top of him, rolling the large man over onto his back, disregarding his screams of pain. Then, looking down into the senator’s eyes with his gladius held at the man’s fat neck, the tribune’s face twisted in a rage.

“I know Valens sent you, not Caesar!” the tribune shouted, slapping the wide-eyed Porcius across the face. “Isn’t that right! Tell me I’m right!”

The centurion did not know if he should go to the senator’s aid or help the tribune.

“I – I can’t feel my legs,” the senator blubbered between labored breaths.

This drew another vicious blow from the tribune.

“Answer me, you fat piece of mule dung! Who sent you?”

The tribune threatened to strike him again, but the senator finally spoke.

“Yes!” Porcius shouted, raising his pudgy arms to protect his face. “Valens sent me! Valens made me do it! Jupiter’s mercy, I can’t feel my legs!”

The centurion had now made up his mind not to interfere. He also wanted to hear more. Guessing that this information might be sensitive, he ordered his men away.

“What is your plan for Caesar?” the tribune demanded.

“I don’t know what you mean?” Porcius said meekly. “Please don’t strike me again!”

Lucius then held the point of his gladius to Porcius’s bare belly which was sticking out beneath his armor and through a large tear in his tunic.

“How does Valens intend to kill Caesar?” Lucius said again, fully determined to gut the senator if he lied again.

“The bodyguard,” Porcius mumbled finally, his eyes averted to the shaft of blood-stained steel. “The Gauls in Caesar’s bodyguard. Some have been paid to slay the proconsul.”

“Where is Valens? Where is he, damn you?”

Porcius did not answer, and Lucius stood to view the battlefield, stamping one boot down hard on the senator’s belly as he rose. As the senator coughed and fought for breath from the blow, Lucius desperately searched the field for Caesar’s standard. He scanned each embroiled legion, from right to left, trying hard to discern the hundreds of different swaying standards amidst the thick cloud of dust that hung over the melee. He could not see the left side of the field, from a row of hedges, but then, a break in the haze allowed him to see a band of riders passing in the rear from the left side of the Roman line to the right. He instantly recognized Caesar’s red plumed helmet and scarlet cloak at their head. The proconsul was flanked by two knights, which Lucius knew to be Caesar’s own aides. Not far behind, a lone officer, outfitted much like Caesar, followed with the Gallic bodyguard. From the way the man sat his horse, Lucius instantly identified him as Valens. As Lucius watched the distant riders, he saw Valens raise a hand bringing the bodyguard to a halt, while Caesar and the two aides rode on unaware. Valens said something to the sword-bearing horsemen and, when he finished, only three of the bodyguard continued on after Caesar. The rest followed Valens in the opposite direction, back toward the left side of the line, and once again hidden by the hedgerow. In the swirl of dust left by the horses, Lucius caught sight of a strand of blue fabric floating in the wind, as if it had been dropped by one of the riders.

As Lucius puzzled over the actions, he heard a high-pitched laugh behind him. Turning, he saw Porcius laughing hysterically, exposing blood-covered teeth. The senator lay on a piece of higher ground that had allowed him to observe all that Lucius had.

“You are too late, you impudent boy!” Porcius said, his eyes wild as he cackled up blood. “The signal is given! Caesar will die!”

Standing a few paces away, the centurion was confused by the dying senator’s behavior, but the centurion did not have long to ponder it. A heartbeat later, the tribune’s gladius was buried deep in the fat senator’s chest, and the senator laughed no more. The centurion watched as the tribune extracted the bloody weapon and grabbed up a fallen legionary’s shield. Then, using the dead senator’s giant belly to step up onto the horse, the tribune mounted and galloped off at full pace toward the battle.

As the centurion stared after the strange, unknown officer, he wondered how he might explain this should one of his superiors ever ask him how Senator Porcius met his death.

XXVIII

Arrows sailed past Caesar at a disturbing rate, loosed by Belgic archers attempting to bring down the prominent officer in the red-plumed helmet riding behind the Roman lines. As Caesar rode amidst the chaos that was the right side of his army, he could hardly believe what he was seeing. There was little order, and the troops were not being used to their full effect. In many places, the Roman and Belgic lines swirled together, and in many places were entirely indistinguishable. Here and there, large groups of slashing and stabbing Belgae had managed to penetrate all the way to the third Roman line. Caesar could see that the flanking movement by the enemy had been executed with most devastating results. The first line of the Seventh Legion no longer existed, and the press of the enemy had forced the remaining lines into those of the Twelfth. In many places the troops of both legions were pressed together so tightly that shield overlapped shield, and the soldiers could not find gaps through which to deliver the necessary jabs with their deadly gladii. The spear-wielding Belgae were taking full advantage of this hindrance, some standing on the backs of their comrades, or even the bodies of the fallen, to thrust their spear points over the Roman shields and into the necks and faces of the legionaries behind them. While the far right of the line was scantily manned and near to being overwhelmed where the two legions came together, the Roman lines overlapped four and five deep in some places, such that the troops in the rear ranks stood completely useless, serving only as victims to the incessant shower of enemy missiles. This inadequate positioning of force was nearing disastrous consequences as the Belgae assaulted the far right. Only a single cohort, refused at an angle to hold off the flanking enemy, stood between the Belgae and the Roman rear.

It was here, at the angle, that Caesar found Balbus.

The legate was sitting helmetless on the ground, near his standard, only a few paces behind the embroiled lines. A man, whom Caesar knew to be Balbus’s personal physician, hovered over him, examining a bleeding contusion on his forehead. Through half-opened eyes, Balbus saw Caesar’s approach and attempted to sit up straighter, the pain of the movement evident on his face.

“Where is Septimius?” Caesar called, after dismounting and approaching the wounded legate. Caesar had not seen the legate of the Twelfth anywhere along the line.

Balbus shook his head. “I do not know. I believe he fell early on. Berserkers have broken through several times, trying to slay the officers and seize the eagles. I have assumed command of both legions.”

Back down the line, the eagle of the Seventh stood firmly planted in the ground and surrounded by a blood-spattered honor guard of legionaries ready to protect it from any enemy warriors that might try to seize it. Judging from the number of Belgic corpses lying on the ground before them, the legionaries had already fought off several such attempts. Not far from them, the eagle of the Twelfth stood, similarly guarded.

“You have let things get out of hand here, general!” Caesar said disgustedly as he surveyed the disorder in the entangled ranks.

“We were overwhelmed on the right,” Balbus managed to say defensively in his semi-conscious state. “I sent word to you for help, Caesar. Where is it?”

“Order must be regained,” Caesar said, ignoring the question. He knew full well that he should have listened to Labienus, that he should have pulled back at least one of the legions on the far left and sent it to bolster the right, that he should not have sent them charging across the river and off to who knows where to rundown the insignificant enemy that had been shattered on the left. Caesar considered his options. The Eighth and Eleventh legions, in the center, were facing a newly invigorated enemy charge and were barely holding their own. They could not spare a single man. Labienus, on the other hand, was somewhere in the forest across the river with two legions. If only he could be recalled, his legions could arrive on the field practically in the rear of the Belgic lines. Then, it would be the Belgae that would have to worry about their own escape route.

“Marcellus!” Caesar called to one of his aides, never taking his eyes from the battle. “Marcellus?”

When the aide did not respond, Caesar turned irately, but was instantly taken aback. He and Balbus saw it at the same time and both men gasped.

Caesar’s two aides were still mounted, but they were quite unable to respond. Their faces were contorted in pain as they gurgled up blood, two feet of red steel protruding from each man’s chest. Behind them, grimacing Gallic bodyguards withdrew the deadly blades, allowing the twitching bodies to fall to the ground. In the moment that Caesar’s mind registered the betrayal, several things ran through his thoughts at once. Why did he only see three mounted Gauls where there should have been twenty? Who had paid these three to betray him? Where was Valens? Had he not been riding just behind him?

As Caesar weighed all of these things in the space of a heartbeat, he saw the killer look in the eyes of the third Gaul, whose sword had yet to be blemished. Caesar knew this man intended to slay him. This was confirmed when the Gaul shouted a war cry and drove his mount straight for the dismounted proconsul. The links in the Gaul’s long mail shirt clanked loudly as his horse quickly covered the short distance, and his sword was poised for the killing stroke. Caesar ducked out of the way at the last moment, narrowly avoiding the murderous steel that cut through the air a hands-breadth from his head. In the sudden move, he lost his step and fell to the ground. He was just struggling back to his feet when the other two mounted Gauls charged at him.

“Help, damn you!” Caesar heard Balbus’s voice call in an attempt to get the attention of the nearby ranks of legionaries. “Help the proconsul!”

But the din of battle was too great. Balbus’s pleas were swallowed up by the clatter of a thousand swords on as many shields, the cries of fighting men, and the screams of the dying. Balbus himself could hardly stand, so he was of no use, but the physician took the cue from his employer and ran to place himself in the path between the charging Gauls and the proconsul. The physician drew his sword to face the attackers, but he was no warrior. He held the weapon as awkwardly as if it were a piece of wet hemp. His feeble stroke was effortlessly batted away. An instant later, a muscled arm made a downward swing, and a longsword cleaved the physician’s skull to the nose.

Caesar saw now that the first Gaul was coming back again, and the other two would be on him in moments. The sacrifice of the physician had given him time to draw his own sword, but what could he do? He was a thin man, middle-aged, and never considered to be a powerful warrior in any respects. He had some skill with the sword, but his primary weapons had always been his mind, his craftiness, and his steadfastness when all prospects looked bleak. The Gauls that now surrounded him had shoulders twice the breadth of his. He had hand-picked them himself for their youth and strength. They had ridden with him for the entire spring campaign. He knew their ferocity, and what they could do to an enemy. He had seen them choke Belgic warriors with their bare hands. How could he hope to face them in combat?

The three Gauls looked down at him, and then at each other, apparently undecided on which should have the honor of slaying him. Even now, with death so close, Caesar could not help but wonder who could have put them up to it. It had to have been a wealthy man, for only an excessive offer would have enticed them away from the plunder and pay they had been guaranteed in Caesar’s service. And Caesar had paid them handsomely. He was not sure what bothered him more, the betrayal or the fact that he had wasted a good forty denarii a piece on these scoundrels.

“Get on with it!” Caesar snapped at them.

The Gauls smiled at each other, and then the largest of the three coaxed his horse forward, casually raising his sword high for the killing blow. Caesar thought for a moment about trying to deflect it, but then the thunder of hooves, very close and very fast, broke his concentration.

“General!” a voice shouted behind him.

Caesar turned to see a tribune, riding at full gallop, and charging at the Gaul. The tribune held a legionary’s shield by one hand, and this he hurled at Caesar. The shield landed at Caesar’s feet, and he quickly took it up and ducked behind it. The large Gaul had saved his sword stroke for the oncoming tribune, but at the last instant, the tribune reined in his horse and dropped to the ground to stand beside Caesar behind the shield. Both peered over the top of the shield with swords in hand as the Gauls approached.

“Are you mad, young man, giving up that mount?” Caesar exclaimed.

“I am a foot soldier!” the tribune said simply. Then, as Caesar tried to digest that, the young man commanded. “Shield up! Higher!”

Caesar obeyed instantly, just as the first Gaul made a pass. The bone-shattering blow that followed nearly knocked the boss from Caesar’s hand. The impact from the longsword was powerful enough to open seams in the plywood, allowing light to shine through, and his hand ached as though it had gone under a stone mill. He suddenly realized that the tribune had crouched low as the Gaul had passed, and had issued powerful blows of his own, but at the legs of the charging horse. The gladius had dug deep into the beast’s flesh, cuts delivered with skill and precision, especially from such a short weapon. Now the horse stumbled. It protested as its rider desperately pulled on the reins to keep it standing. Seeing his chance, the tribune bolted from the cover of the shield, leaped into the air, and brought his gladius down two-handed into the Gaul’s back. Mail links parted. The man’s longsword fell from his hand, and a rush of blood ran down his side, painting his leg and his horse’s coat dark red. The Gaul’s eyes grew wide with pain when the gladius was withdrawn, and then the eyes lost their life entirely when the tribune’s blade, sweeping in a wide arc, separated the man’s head from his shoulders.

While Caesar’s one defender was momentarily occupied, the other two Gauls rushed at him with swords swinging. Again, Caesar brought the shield up to protect him, but this time the double blow of the powerful longswords carried it away. It flipped in the air several times, landing several paces away. He was now completely unprotected. Wheeling their mounts around, the Gauls raised their weapons. Caesar instinctively ducked, expecting to be hacked to pieces by the longswords at any moment.

He held his breath, but the swords never came.

Instead, he heard two men grunt above him, and then felt their large frames fall from the saddle and impact the ground beside him with a crash of their mail armor. Caesar looked up to see that both men were dead, their bodies transfixed with at least three javelins each.

Standing beside the body of the Gaul whom he had decapitated, Lucius had watched helplessly as the two remaining bodyguards had attacked Caesar. He was only a few paces away, but they might as well have been miles. There was nothing he could do. Then, as he had watched the big Gauls raise their swords for the killing strike, javelins had come out of the dust, several of them. Enough ran true to kill the Gauls in their saddles, and he breathed a heavy sigh as he saw both men fall from their mounts.

He saw the proconsul slowly rise to his feet. Caesar was safe, at least for the time being. But where in Hector’s girdle had those javelins come from?

Lucius got his answer when, out of the roiling dust, came a troop of legionaries, rushing to Caesar’s side. He saw many familiar faces among them. They were the men of the 9th century, with Vitalis at their head. The centurion took one look at Caesar, and then at Lucius. His face first registered shock, and then disbelief.

“How in Juno’s name?” he said in amazement. “Is that you, Lucius?”

Lucius smiled and then nodded to his old comrade. “You came not a moment too soon.”

“Our few numbers landed us a spot in the third line for this engagement,” Vitalis said, “I saw the proconsul under attack.” He then glanced at Caesar who was already conversing with Balbus and several newly arrived tribunes and seemed oblivious to the men who just saved his life.

For an instant, Lucius saw his old comrade in the face of Vitalis. For a moment, the rigid centurion was gone, and his old tent mate shined through. He was genuinely glad to see Lucius, and Lucius him. Then his face drew grave again. He and the other men of the 9th looked worn down.

“We are depleted,” Vitalis said. “We man the rear, but we have seen our share of the fighting this day.” He gestured to the field now swirling with Belgic warriors. “Eleven of our number lie slain out there, where the lines were an hour ago.”

Suddenly Caesar was standing beside them. He had dismissed the tribunes who had presumably run off to relay his orders down the line.

“My thanks, friends,” Caesar said, nodding at both men. “I am fortunate you came when you did.” Then turning to Lucius, he said, “I do not believe I have seen you before, young man.”

Somewhat overawed at being addressed directly by the proconsul, Lucius looked back at him quizzically. Then, he suddenly realized that he still wore the tribune’s garb.

“I am not an officer, sir.”

“You aren’t? Then what is the meaning of this? Who in Hades are you?”

“This is Lucius Domitius, General,” Vitalis said. “He is a soldier in my century. I am Vitalis of the 9th Century, Seventh Legion.”

“Your names sound familiar,” Caesar said in a suddenly disinterested tone, his focus already turned back to the battle lines. “My thanks again to you both,” he said dismissively.

Lucius knew that he had to speak now, or he might not get the great man’s ear ever again. “Uh, general. My opportune arrival was not a coincidence.”

Caesar acted as though he had not heard him and began moving to a small mound to get a better view of over the heads of the fighting legionaries. Lucius followed after him.

“Senator Valens has betrayed you, General,” Lucius finally said.

This got Caesar’s attention, and he wheeled around to look into Lucius’s eyes, almost angered at the distraction.

“He conspired with the Nervii, general,” Lucius continued. “He paid your bodyguard to murder you when the battle turned against you.”

The proconsul stared at Lucius but said nothing, his eyes intense as he put the pieces together in his mind. After a few long moments of consideration, the comprehension of the scope of the plot registered as clearly on Caesar’s face as if Lucius had rung a bell.

Caesar then drew in close to Lucius and said under his breath, “Not a word of this to anyone, young man. Is that understood?”

Lucius nodded, slightly confused. Then, as Lucius watched, a smile appeared on the proconsul’s face, as if the plot were now behind him and he was suddenly a new man. Caesar saw the shield that had been knocked from his hands and stooped to pick it up.

“Now, Lucius Domitius, of the Seventh Legion. Do you know what it means to inspire men who are near the breaking point?”

Lucius shook his head.

“They need inspiration, Lucius,” Caesar said, gesturing to the beset legions. “And what better inspiration than to see their commander fighting in the line alongside them.”

Lucius shrugged and nodded, though he was not sure that was entirely true. He had stood in the battle line many times and had never had the wherewithal to know who was standing either side of him, much less get encouragement from the bloody general. The only encouragement any soldier needed was that of survival of himself and his comrades.

Caesar laughed at Lucius’s blank expression, taking it for nervousness. “Then let us go and save this army!”

Then, gesturing for Vitalis and the other men of the century to follow as well, Caesar hefted the shield and led the small band of legionaries into the fray.

XXIX

The Ninth and Tenth legions were pursuing the Atrebates through the forest, the river and the din of the battle left behind them. Shields, spears, and helmets littered the forest floor, thrown away by the shattered warriors as they fled. When the centurions were not looking, legionaries stooped to take up the finer quality items. The Atrebates had been largely scattered, but there were still groups large enough to chase down. Every now and then, a sharp cry would float across the woods as an exhausted Belgic warrior was surrounded and skewered.

The legionaries moved through the forest at wide intervals to cover more ground, a moving carpet of bronze helmets steadily advancing behind the broken foe.

Generals Labienus and Fabius rode behind the advancing Tenth Legion, keeping an eye up in the trees for any straggling Belgae who may have climbed into a tree to take a suicidal shot as they passed beneath. Labienus had lost count of how many hundred dead Belgic warriors he had seen with eyes open in a final expression of terror. Most of the brave ones had died on the battlefield. The rest were frightened youths too foolish to know what they had gotten into or old men whose legs were too feeble to outrun the conditioned legionaries.

Though he was following Caesar's instructions in taking the Ninth and Tenth so far from the battle, Labienus was still worried. Separating the army in the face of the enemy went against every principal of arms he knew. He often found himself glancing over his shoulder, half-expecting to see a messenger from Caesar riding hard with orders to break off the pursuit and return to the main body. But none came.

The forested hills to the south masked the sound of the battle well. Every so often he would make out the call of a distant horn, but he had no way of knowing how the battle fared. He assumed all was going well, and that Caesar had been successful in bringing the right under control, otherwise would not Caesar have recalled him?

A spate of raised voices up ahead suddenly got Labienus's attention. A century of legionaries had encountered something and had formed a circle around the threat. Labienus steered his horse closer such that he could see over the soldiers' heads, and was stunned to see a stocky, mustachioed man clad in mail and wielding an axe. He looked nothing like the Atrebas warriors the legionaries had been pursuing, but their blood was up and they were in a mood to kill.

"For the last time, you turd from a goat's arse," the man said indignantly, after being prompted by a centurion to identify himself. "I am Divitiacus, chieftain of the bloody Aedui. I've got information that can't wait, so you better bloody well take me to your general, right now!"

Labienus instantly recognized him.

"Let him through!" he commanded. "I know this man."

"Labienus, I am glad to see you" Divitiacus said. "Doesn't anyone teach your men the difference between an Aedui and a Belgae?"

The century parted to let the chieftain pass, and then at the order of their officer continued searching for more Belgae to slay.

"My apologies," Labienus said formally, slightly skeptical of the Aeduan, whom he had last seen several days ago preparing to march his own troops back to Gaul. "You must forgive them. They do not expect to find any of your people this deep in Nervii territory."

"Nor did I expect to be," the chieftain replied.

"In fact, I must ask why it is that that we find you among our retreating enemy?"

"Not among them, General. And I beg to differ with you, it was I who found you, not the other way around."

"Then there is a good explanation for your presence here?"

"An excellent one, general, but unfortunately not one that you or I have time to go into. I come to tell you that the Belgae are playing you with this pursuit. The enemy's main force is over to the east. Fifty thousand Nervii, all warriors, all itching to kill Romans. They've attacked your army's right down by the river and they're sure to wipe them out if you don't turn these troops around and make for the river at the double quick."

"And how do you know this, my lord?" Labienus said. He was suspicious of the Aeduan chieftain, and rightfully so. It was possible that Divitiacus was a traitor. Why else would he be on the Belgic side of the river when he should be hundreds of leagues away from here. He might have been sent by the Belgae to throw off the pursuit, and the very redeployment he was suggesting might allow the fleeing enemy to escape.

Divitiacus seemed somewhat irritated at the questioning. "I know it because I saw it with my own eyes, from up there!" he pointed the axe towards a forest covered hill several miles away. "I've been following the Belgic army, hoping to find an opportunity to pass through their lines and get word to your proconsul. That opportunity never came. But I watched everything. For the last several hours, I've been watching. I saw the Nervii form up in the woods over there opposite the river, saw your legions deploy on the far bank as casually as they might prepare for the next Ludi festival, and then I saw Nervii attack. They are like the sands of the shore, General, there are too many of them. I saw them come out of the swamp and fall on your army's flank. The legions there were near collapse when I left my perch. I saw your standards through the trees and set off at a run across the valley to head you off. The army won't hold long, if it hasn't collapsed already. You must turn back toward the river. They don't have a trout's chance in piss, if you don't."

Labienus glanced at the line of hills hiding the battle from his view. He could ride up there and see for himself, but if the Aeduan was right, every moment wasted was a moment the army might be overwhelmed.

Divitiacus appeared to be growing impatient with his silent deliberations. "If you don't believe me, General, then take me to the proconsul. I know he will listen to me!"

"Caesar is not with us. He went to take charge of the right wing."

"Mother of Lugus!" Divitiacus cursed.

A thought crossed Labienus's mind, only for an instant, but he felt ashamed of it, nonetheless. Were the legions back at the river destroyed and Caesar killed, command of the army would fall to him. He would be out from under that pompous ass's shadow once and for all. He had served so loyally, and for so little recognition, for so long. Time and again he had pulled Caesar out of some blunder brought on by the proconsul's own arrogance, only for Caesar to claim credit for the victory in the reports sent back to Rome. Perhaps this was his chance to be rid of the scheming bastard. With the Ninth and Tenth he could regroup with the rear guard legions, the Thirteenth and Fourteenth, and form the nucleus of a new army, one that would be led by a real general, and only to serve the purposes of the Senate and The People, not his own.

As the guilty thoughts ran through Labienus's mind, he felt the eyes of the impatient Aeduan chieftain boring a hole through him.

Damn the Aeduan dog! Labienus thought.

XXX

The Roman army was about to break, Boduognatus kept telling himself.

Surely, the Romans could not hold against his massed spearmen for much longer. The Viromandui advance against the center of the enemy line had essentially stopped, but his own Nervii on the flank were still advancing. They were still pushing the legions there into an ever tighter line, they were still piercing the Roman ranks, and on several occasions had broken through, only to be beaten off and the line reformed. But the Romans could not hold out forever. It was a simple game of numbers. Still, Boduognatus was uncertain. Something in the back of his mind told him that the battle had turned. There were questions niggling at his thoughts that he had tried to ignore, like why had his troops not yet reached the baggage around the rear? Why did the legions before him seem to suddenly fight with such vigor? Did it have something to do with the thin, pale-skinned officer in the red-plumed helmet and scarlet cloak that he had seen through the storm of swords, dismounting and rushing to the line with a band of howling legionaries following in his wake? Could this be the great Caesar? Surely not. No war chief that had conquered so much and had won so many battles could look so much like a bookkeeper. That's what Boduognatus had thought upon sighting the unimpressive-looking Roman officer. But now, he was not sure.

"My lord," a new messenger from the Viromandui called to the Nervii chieftain. "Our ranks are dwindling. My lord asks if you can send more men."

"Tell your lord, he must press them harder," Boduognatus replied bleakly. "He must hold the center in place. Fight to the last man, if he must, but he must hold a little longer! We must be given time to break them on the flank, or all is lost."

The rider appeared discouraged by that answer, but then ventured to ask. "And of the troops he requests?"

Boduognatus paused before responding. "I have none to send him."

The Viromandui messenger nodded solemnly, and then rode away to carry the bleak message back to his master. Would the Viromandui desert, now? Boduognatus wondered. How much time did he have to turn the tide?

A sudden escalation in the melee before him drew his attention. A band of Nervii nobles, waving bloody swords and battered helmets, had rallied several hundred warriors together into a wedge formation, and were rushing at the angle in the Roman line. It was the weakest spot, and the one place most likely for a breakthrough. It was also the last place Boduognatus had seen the thin Roman officer. The front ranks of legionaries saw the onslaught coming and planted their tattered, axe-hewn shields firmly in the ground. The fighting wedge hit the Roman line like a thunderclap, and with such force, that the frontline Romans were trampled over by the rushing warriors. Swords flashed in rapid succession as the nobles at the head of the wedge hacked the stunned enemy down on right and left. A severed forearm flipped in the air, and small springs of blood issued from gaping wounds.

The wedge had firmly driven itself as far as the second Roman line, and now the warriors turned outward and began attacking the Romans in both directions, ever-widening the gap. Boduognatus saw his nobles, who had so ably led the attack, leave the tip of the wedge and make a rush for the nearest legionary eagle. He wished he were with them, because he would have stopped them. The eagle was of little tactical value, and it was protected by the best men of the legion. He needed them to use their swords to further expand the gap, not waste time and lives pursuing a matter of pride. As he watched, they tried to fight their way to the eagle time and time again, but the small circle of legionaries repulsed every one of their attacks. Soon, so many nobles had fallen to the jabbing gladii that further assaults would have been futile. But the spearmen were faring much better, even after seeing their nobility so thoroughly outdone. They were widening the wedge ever more, many tossing away their spears and hacking at the Romans with the one-handed axes they had taken from their belts. The wider the wedge got, the more warriors entered the formation, and the further the Romans were pushed back.

Boduognatus suddenly saw his chance. This might be the moment he had been waiting for. He had two brigades in reserve, two thousand eager warriors that he had held back for just such an opportunity. It was time to commit to victory or defeat.

"All reserve forward!" He ordered the officers of the two brigades. "To the gap in the line, with your full force! Send them into the gap!"

The officers obeyed, and led their two thousand howling warriors into the opening hole in the Roman line. They instantly bolstered the spearmen that were already fighting there, and the gap immediately began to expand. Boduognatus saw Romans overcome and skewered. He saw the enemy fall back in a panic at the sight of the unstoppable force working its way to their rear. The legionaries on the line, faced with jabbing spears to their front and swinging axes to the flank either withdrew or were cut down. In the midst of the melee, even the plume of the Roman officer could be seen above the other helmets, moving back away from the surging Nervii warriors.

This was the moment, Boduognatus thought. It was going to happen now. The entire Roman line was about to collapse, and the legions in the center would be taken from the flank, and then the Viromandui, too, would join in the slaughter. He gripped his horse's reins tightly in anticipation of the blessed moment, when his countrymen and all of Belgica would be saved from the scourge of Rome.

At that moment, a horn sounded to his rear. It was not a horn of the Belgae.

Sitting atop his horse on the Roman side of the river, Boduognatus wheeled around to look behind him, and his heart sank at what his eyes beheld. Across the river, emerging from the same forest his own men had used to lie in ambush only hours before, marched two Roman legions in perfect battle order. They descended the grassy slope as an advancing wall of shields, several ranks deep. They were at full strength, centurions at the head of each century and cohort. At another sound of the horn, they broke into the double-quick step. They would cross the river and fall upon the Nervii rear in a matter of moments. At the same time, more horns sounded beyond the melee to his front, and Boduognatus looked over the top of the line and through the cloud of dust to see Roman standards appearing at the top of the hill, where the road emerged from the hedges. The legions that had been at the extreme rear of the Roman column had finally arrived, after weaving their way through several miles of jammed impedimenta.

Boduognatus took off his helmet and buried his face in his hands, the realization of his failure sweeping over him. It was a complete and utter defeat. There was no hope now.

Remembering his own pride, and that the only thing possibly worse than suffering such a defeat was living through it, the Nervii chieftain took his hands from his face and sat up straight in the saddle. With a sweeping motion, he drew his sword from its sheath and turned his horse to face the angle of the Roman line, where his now panicky troops were beginning to falter at the sight of so many legions, and the gap they had fought so hard to create was starting to collapse. The mounted warriors of his bodyguard did the same.

He closed his eyes for a long moment, and then opened them again. Then, with a peace he had not felt since he was a young wolf warrior, he raised his sword above his head and shouted a war cry from deep within his lungs, from deep within his soul, a cry that let out all of the suffering of his life, all responsibility, all loss, all hate, and all love he had ever felt. The men with him shouted, too.

Then, Boduognatus of the Belgae, the last true chieftain of the Nervii, led his mounted sword warriors into the maelstrom of swords and spears, never to return again.

XXXI

The Nervii had been defeated. Beside the tranquil Sabis River, a newly erected Roman trophy now stood. For generations, it would mark the spot where the valiant men of the fearsome tribe had met their end.

At the direction of the gray-haired nobles, the oppidum was opened to the Romans, and the legions entered unopposed. The Seventh was among these, its ranks severely reduced and many newly promoted officers at the head of its centuries. The cohorts fanned out, each to secure its share of the Nervii town.

“Fall out and search the huts,” Vitalis commanded the sixty-two men remaining in the 9th century. “And remember what I said, now. Seize the weapons only! If I see any one of you miscreants sneaking so much as a pocket purse, I’ll have you flogged.”

The rape and pillage often afforded to victorious soldiers after a trying battle would not happen here. The order of mercy had come down from Caesar himself. The Nervii were to be spared. They were a defeated people. There would be no further resistance. The winter months were coming, and the Nervii families would need to eat. The last thing the proconsul needed was another wayward tribe of refugees marching across Gaul in search of food.

Alain had come with the century, and Lucius now followed him as they made their way to Gertrude’s house. Lucius tried to recall the steps he and Alain had taken that night when the boy had helped him to escape. The town looked so different in the light of day. The boy had appeared anxious all morning, and still not entirely trusting of Lucius and the other legionaries who now occupied the lanes and alleyways. But Lucius had allayed his fears, assuring him that he would keep his word. Lucius was intent on doing it, certainly for the lad’s sake, but mostly for Gertrude whom he knew had risked everything, and had lost much.

Lucius could still see the blue eyes of the large grey-haired warrior who had fallen only a spear’s throw away from him, pierced by a dozen swords and spears. It was the same Belgic chieftain he had seen with Gertrude that night at the druid ritual. Somehow, he knew it was her father.

After the pursuit and massacre of the fleeing Nervii, the legions had returned to plunder the battlefield. The chieftain’s fine armor, expertly-woven trousers, and boots were conspicuous among the fallen, and by the time Lucius found the body, the maddened legionaries had already stripped it of nearly everything. The body of the renowned chieftain lay bare upon the blood-stained grass, nothing left to distinguish him from the commoners of his host.

As the pyres flamed to life to consume the thousands of dead, and the stench of burning flesh overtook the field, Lucius had seen a familiar face emerge from the drifting smoke.

“I am joyed to see you, Lucius Domitius of Spain,” Divitiacus greeted him with a wide smile. “You have the favor of the gods, it seems.”

“I am glad to see you, too, my lord.”

It had been days since Lucius had seen the Aeduan chieftain, and several hours since Lucius had left Caesar’s side at the turning of the battle. He felt that he must tell Divitiacus all, about how he was right, and how Valens had given him over to the Nervii, and how the senator had attempted to have Caesar killed, but he hardly knew where to begin. Something in the Aeduan’s face told him he did not have to.

“Valens has fled,” Divitiacus finally said.

“Then you know all that has happened?”

“I have spoken with Caesar.” He then smiled and gave Lucius a sideways look. “And he told me a most remarkable story about a common legionary who came to his aid dressed as a tribune.”

Lucius smiled for a moment, but then all merriment left him. “I should have gone after Valens instead.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. Who knows what the fates hold, Lucius Domitius of Spain? The gods play a clever game. A man cannot travel two paths at once. He must choose one, and make the most of his decision. Wasting precious time yearning for what might have been does nothing, other than provide the gods with amusement.”

The chieftain then pointed to the top of a nearby hill. Between the drifting clouds of smoke, Lucius could see a dozen or more naked, bearded men splayed out with hands and feet extended to maximum reach. They had been crucified, their pale skin contrasting against the dark trunks of the trees. Nearby, a small detachment of legionaries stood watch as the life slowly ebbed from the twitching bodies.

“They are what is left of Caesar’s bodyguard,” Divitiacus said, confirming Lucius’s suspicions.

“A pity Valens is not among them.”

Divitiacus nodded. “Every one of those bastards swore to his own innocence before he was strung up. If you believe their story, Valens ordered them to follow him. The rascal told them Caesar had detached them for special service. They believed it, and ended up on the other side of the field. When the battle turned in Caesar’s favor, and it was clear the proconsul was still alive, Valens turned tail and ran. They say he simply threw away his helmet and emblems of office and rode away. They claimed not to have any knowledge of Valens’s conspiracy, nor of the deal their treacherous comrades made.”

“Do you believe them?” Lucius had asked.

Divitiacus had shrugged. “When one has been a chieftain as long as I have, young Lucius, one learns that the truth is irrelevant in such matters. An example must be made. They are the example. Do you think for one moment that I feel safe when encircled by my own bodyguard? Certainly not. In fact, I watch them closest of all. I’d sooner lay my balls on a smith’s anvil than turn my back on them. It’s fear that keeps them loyal, Lucius – fear of the certain punishment that awaits them, should anything happen to me. Fear protects me, Lucius. Fear protects Caesar. When one rises to prominence such as his, no man can be trusted. Fear is all that remains.”

Now, as Lucius followed Alain down the lane of the oppidum, he pondered how he now had something in common with the proconsul. He and Caesar would both have to watch their backs, now that Valens was free. Who knew where the devious senator would go? Certainly, he would never show his face in Caesar’s province again. Would Caesar send letters back to Rome exposing him as a traitor, or would he tuck this incident away for later advantage? Would Valens ever try to resume his seat in the Senate? The senator had a large clientele. If he reached home alive – either in Italy or in Spain – he could easily lay low in some comfortable villa. Given time, he would probably find a way to recover politically, though it might take years. Something deep inside Lucius told him he would never be truly free until his gladius was buried to the hilt in Valens’s chest.

But that concern was for another day. Now, he would repay the debt he owed the Belgic maiden.

Some distance away, in the middle of the lane, Vitalis stood, casually holding his vine branch behind him in both hands. He watched attentively as his men entered each of the huts one by one, ensuring that each emerged and that there were no problems. Then his eye caught sight of Lucius and the boy that was with him venturing to one particularly large house. He watched curiously as they were met at the door by a Belgic maiden with eyes streaming with tears. Her eyes brightened briefly at the sight of the boy. She embraced him warmly and appeared to speak a few words of thanks to Lucius. Then, surprisingly, she invited them both in, and all three disappeared inside the hut.

Vitalis wondered how the girl could ever be so cordial after the slaughter of the previous day. Her tears had not been of joy, but of mourning. Perhaps she had lost a husband, or a father, in the battle. If so, how could she greet her enemy so openly? Vitalis could never understand such people. He would rather die than face defeat.

If the girl had been mourning one of the fallen, her misery had plenty of company. The whole town seemed to be comprised of wailing women, judging from how many he had seen already this morning.

Thinking little of it, Vitalis sighed. He had seen the horrors and loss of war in a dozen lands, and he had quite come to terms with it. There were the weak, and there were the strong. There were the conquered, and there were the conquerors. All men, everywhere, belonged to one of these groups. That was the way of things. He had heard of philosophers who claimed that it was possible to belong to neither group, that all men could simply co-exist. But such an arrangement was only possible if all men adopted it simultaneously. That could never happen, so it was utter foolishness. Like the wolves in a pack, man’s nature was either dominance or servitude. One was superior, the other inferior. Each had his place, and each needed the other to survive. The sooner the order of dominance was established and accepted by all, the better for all.

From one of the Nervii houses came the cry of a child. For a brief moment, the stoic centurion’s mind flashed to a day far in the past, a day almost forgotten, when a carefree nine-year-old Roman boy playing on the streets of Nova Carthago was summoned home, and then rather abruptly informed that the ship carrying his mother had foundered in a storm, and all were lost at sea.

Vitalis was stirred from his reflection by a sudden movement at the back of the house that Lucius had just entered. He had seen it out of the corner of his eye – a shadow only, there one moment, and gone the next. Whatever had caught his attention, there was nothing there now. Had he seen anything at all, or were the long afternoon shadows playing tricks on his mind?

XXXII

“She says, though you are an enemy, she thanks you. It is most thoughtful of you,” Alain translated what Gertrude had said.

She was weeping now, rubbing the long braid of gray hair that Lucius had given her. She held it to her face, allowing her tears to run through the oily fibers. It was her father’s hair. The single braid was the only thing Lucius had retrieved from the plundered body. He would have given her both of her father’s braids, but the other had been dyed red by the chieftain’s blood, so he thought it best to leave it behind.

“Please tell her, he met his death most bravely,” he said to Alain. “He died fighting, with his sword in his hand.”

After a long moment staring at the braid and running her fingers through the weave, she looked at Lucius with reddened eyes, said something, gave a small smile, and then gestured to the door.

“What did she say?”

“She asks that you now go.”

“I can’t do that. She helped me, and I have sworn to protect her. Should any of my people try to loot this place, she’ll need me here.”

“She considers your debt repaid, Roman. She would rather consign herself to the protection of her gods than to those who killed her father.”

Lucius looked at her but she did not return his gaze. Instead, she seated herself at the table and lovingly stroked her father’s hair.

“Alright, if that’s the way she wants it,” Lucius said, resignedly. “And how about you, Alain? You’re welcome to come with me. There are lots of boys in the legions. They clean kits, and help with the camp chores. Some decide to join the legions, when they’re old enough.”

Alain shook his head. “I will remain here. She has always been kind to me, and she will need me.”

“Well, I can’t think of a better – “

Lucius was cut short by a sound in the room behind him, a rushing sound like that of a cloak being dragged swiftly along the floor. He saw that Gertrude’s eyes were looking past him and filled with horror. She let out a sudden scream that made him instinctively draw his sword and jump to the side. That jump saved him from certain death, but it was not in time to prevent the black-robed figure that had rapidly crossed the room from the backdoor from stabbing into his arm with a jagged-edged dagger, knocking his sword to the floor.

Gertrude continued to scream as he backed away from the frail-looking figure. He immediately recognized this apparition as the druid woman that had presided over the sacrifice. The cut in his arm was deep, and he held his other hand over it to keep the bleeding under control. But before he could collect his senses, the woman swiftly came at him again, dragging one foot behind her, seemingly oblivious to her previous frailties, her sinister dagger held high and ready to strike.

“You must die! You must die!” she snarled, over and over again from within the dark hood.

To Lucius’s surprise, she spoke in perfect Latin. Puzzled by this, but still concentrating on the threat posed by the dagger, Lucius prepared to throw his body into her before she could bring the weapon down.

Gertrude screamed again. Then, quite unexpectedly, the druidess stopped in her tracks, well short of Lucius. The dagger fell from her hand and thumped onto the floor. As her body followed the weapon, face down in the rushes, Lucius saw that a javelin had pierced her body through. He looked up to see Vitalis standing in the doorway, his stance recovering after having put his entire body behind the throw.

Vitalis smiled, apparently relieved that his throw had not been too late, and nodded once to the open-mouthed Lucius. But then, as Lucius motioned to the black-robed figure crumpled on the floor, the centurion’s face turned white with the realization of who it was. Vitalis darted across the room, threw his helmet away, and knelt beside the coughing form. The old woman was now quite frail again, lying in a puddle of black-red blood. Turning her over gently, Vitalis allowed the hood to fall away from her face, revealing long locks of gray hair, an aquiline nose, and features very Latin in nature.

Vitalis gasped, his face set in a state of shock that Lucius had never seen before, even in battle.

“My boy,” the old woman said wheezing, as she looked up at him, the vitriol of her earlier tone gone entirely. She reached out a blood-stained hand to touch Vitalis’s cheek. “You are the boy I have so often seen in my dreams.”

“Mother!” Vitalis cried out. “How, in Jupiter’s name, came you here? Mother?”

But the old woman did not respond. Her eyes had glazed over while staring up at her child. She had breathed her last.

A silence descended on the room, as the stunned centurion held the body of his mother in his arms, looking her body up and down, his face still set in disbelief. But then, as his eyes lighted on the red-stained hand, and on the ring worn there, all animation left him. The centurion removed the ring from the old woman’s finger and stared at it as though it were the waiting mouth of hell. Even from where Lucius stood, he could tell that it was a perfect match to the one Vitalis had been given by his father.

“Vitalis,” Lucius said.

But the centurion did not look at him. He simply lay the old woman’s body down, stroked the gray hair once, and then stood. Then, as if Lucius were not there, the centurion put on his helmet, meticulously tying the chinstraps, and then turned on his heel and left the house.

XXXIII

Hours later, after Lucius’s wound had been bandaged, and he had finally said farewell to Gertrude and the boy, he went looking for Vitalis. He was somewhat surprised when Jovinus and the other soldiers informed him that the centurion had spoken to no one after leaving Gertrude’s house, and was last seen marching swiftly out of the gates of the oppidum and into the forest.

Lucius and Jovinus searched the woods vigorously, and only came upon the centurion’s tracks as the sun was just dropping behind the horizon. They followed them warily, calling out his name from time to time, only to be answered by the distant howling of wolves.

They reached the edge of a large bog just as the light began to fail, and it was there that they lost the tracks entirely. They took the hazard of striking torches in an attempt to rediscover the centurion’s tracks.

“Lucius, come look at this.” Jovinus called to him from a clump of brush, after both had searched the area extensively. Jovinus was holding his torch aloft and staring down at something on the ground.

Fully expecting that Jovinus had found the body of their comrade, Lucius was surprised when he saw that the torch illuminated a patch of muddy earth that had been recently disturbed. The exposed hem of a cloak protruding from the mud marked the spot where something had been buried. Using their gladii as trenching tools, Lucius and Jovinus dug up the buried items, and quickly identified them as belonging to Vitalis. His campaign cloak, normally immaculate, had been twisted and hastily thrown into the muddy hole. His centurion’s helmet and its cross-plume which Vitalis had somehow always kept spotless, was now caked with mud. One by one, his vine branch, his gladius, his mail armor still bearing every one of his hard-won medallions, his boots, even his tunic were all retrieved from the muddy hole.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Jovinus said. “It’s as if the man buried his entire life. But where did he go from here?”

Both men’s eyes settled on the dark swamp, only a few paces away. It looked sinister and foreboding, its gnarled trees and still, murky water giving it an almost unearthly aspect. Far back in the darkness, the torchlight reflected off of several pairs of eyes looking back at them. Whether belonging to human or beast, neither legionary could tell. Whatever kind of creatures lurked out there, they were too far across the treacherous bog to be of any concern. Still, their gaping presence was unsettling.

Then, Lucius caught the gleam of metal at the bottom of the hole. He reached down and removed two small objects from the mud, and when the torchlight revealed what they were, he somehow knew that he and Jovinus would never see Vitalis again.

In Lucius’s hand, he held the two rings.

Content

R. Cameron Cooke
Rome: Fury of the Legion

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

XVII

XVIII

XIX

XXI

XXII

XXIII

XXIV

XXV

XXVI

XXVII

XXVIII

XXIX

XXX

XXXI

XXXII

XXXIII