“I told him that,” Masala replied, and forthe first time I could hear exasperation in his voice, helping meunderstand what a chore it must have been for him to try keepingPrimus under some semblance of control. “But he wanted to show themen that he's a warrior like they are.”
I was able to contain myself, but otherswere not so circumspect, and I heard either Macrinus or Flaminiusgive a snort of derisory laughter, followed by a couple ofsnickers. Fortunately, Masala remained composed and he ignored theoutburst.
“And you may tell him that the menappreciate it a great deal, Masala, but that now that he's shownthem what he's made of, it would be wise of him to refrain fromdonning it until it’s absolutely needed,” Scribonius finished.
Masala agreed with Scribonius. Promising tokeep the Praetor under control, he left my tent. There was aprofound silence, then Flaminius finally spoke up.
“I know exactly what he’s made of. He’s apuff pastry.”
Nobody could contain themselves after that,and the tent shook from the roaring laughter inside.
Fortunately, Masala was good to his word. Ido not know exactly how he did it, but I can speculate and I knowthe others did. However it happened, all I cared about was that ourprogress on the march improved markedly. We never approached thirtymiles a day, but a good, hard day of marching would see us puttwenty-five under our boots and hooves. At the end of each day,Marcus Primus looked more dead than alive, helped off his horse byone of his slaves or more often Masala, and he never once marchedon foot with the men like Caesar had, or like the Tribunes and Idid for a good part of each day. He would carry on as if he was inhis death throes, moaning and groaning, which could have been ahuge distraction. Fortunately, because the Praetorium isalways the first of all the tents erected in camp, he wasimmediately whisked inside out of sight, if not completely out ofearshot. For anyone near the Praetorium, one could clearlyhear his histrionics as he babbled about the torment he was under,punctuated by the soothing sound of Masala’s voice. Because thePraetor’s aide was proving so valuable, I decided not to bring upthe subject of their relationship and their need to be morecircumspect. The weather cooperated, a small blessing to be surebut an important one, since I could not imagine how Primus wouldact if he were wet and cold. We were marching north, parallel tothe western border of Thrace, the mountains that guard the flank ofThrace from Macedonia still with snow on some of the peaks. We raninto the occasional merchant’s train carrying goods back and forthbetween the two territories; it was from them we learned that ourplan for taking Serdica because it was believed to be a strongholdof the Triballi was incorrect. It was actually Scipio, back withthe baggage, who learned of this development, and he came gallopingup to the command group, once more spraying us with dirt. Primussquawked in indignation, glaring at Scipio, who unfortunatelycompounded his mistake by addressing me and not Primus.
“Prefect, I've just learned something that Ithink is important!”
I could see Primus’ face darken, so beforehe could explode, I reprimanded Scipio. The youth gave Primus aflustered apology, but it did not soothe the Praetor.
“What is it?” he snapped at Scipio. “What'sso important that you come racing up here like you’re a driver forthe Greens?”
“I just learned something from a merchantcoming back from Serdica, something I think you should know,sir.”
“Well?” Primus demanded, clearly notbelieving that Scipio could possibly have learned anything he didnot already know.
I saw Scipio swallow hard, but when hespoke, I immediately understood why he was so hesitant.
“According to this merchant, Serdica doesn'tbelong to the Triballi. It belongs to the Serdi.”
Scribonius and I exchanged shocked glances;this was definitely unexpected, and was a glaring error in ourplanning. I bear as much responsibility as anyone; I simply assumedthat because Serdica was the nearest settlement to the site of ourambush, and we had been ambushed by the Triballi that Serdicabelonged to them. It had never occurred to me to question thatassumption when Primus had first announced this as our goal. Now Iturned to him, expecting to see that he was as shaken as I felt,but his face was entirely serene. Nobody said a word for severalmoments, all eyes turning to Primus.
“And?” When Primus finally spoke, that wasthe last thing I expected him to say.
“And?” I asked incredulously. “And itmeans we have to change our plan of where we’re heading. We’regoing after the Triballi, not the Serdi.”
Primus looked at me for a long moment, thengave an elaborate shrug.
“No, we don’t. We’re still going toSerdica.”
Fortunately, the others let out a gasp, so Iwas not alone.
“How can we continue on to Serdica if theTriballi aren’t there?”
I struggled to keep my voice under control,trying to sound reasonable, not wanting to end up in a shoutingmatch with the Praetor in front of the others.
“They’re Thracians, aren’t they?” Primusgave a shrug. “As long as they’re Thracian, it doesn’t matter.”
I could feel Scribonius’ eyes on me, and Iknew exactly what he was thinking. As suspicious as I had been thatOctavian had approved this campaign, I did not see him givingPrimus the kind of latitude to wage war on the first tribe ofThracians he ran across. Say what one will about Octavian and hisambitions, he had worked extremely hard to bring peace to theRepublic, having just recently closed the doors to the temple ofJanus that remained open during times of war, and had been open foralmost two hundred years prior to his closing them. An unprovokedattack on a tribe belonging to a country in an alliance with Romewould undoubtedly create more difficulties than I could see itbeing worth in any aspect. Primus continued talking, oblivious tothe undercurrent among the men around him.
“We'll continue on to Serdica because I'mnot going to spend a day longer in this dreary country than Iabsolutely have
