“Thank you for that, Macrinus,” I saidacidly. “Do you have any ideas about how I can prove that theorders are forged?”
“No.” He sounded defeated. “I think we'regoing to march to Serdica, and we’re going to kill whoever we findthere. The only good part is that if it does turn out that thoseorders were forged, I wouldn’t give a brass obol for Marcus Primus’future.”
“But how many men have to die before thathappens?” I asked grimly.
I saw Macrinus shrug in the darkness.
“There’s only one way to find out.”
Scribonius listened to me describe themeeting and the conversation afterward with Flaminius and Macrinus.When I was finished, Scribonius wasted no time.
“I think Flaminius was right. It’s the onlything that makes sense when you take into account the delay. And Ialso think Macrinus is right in that Primus has gotten the upperhand and your best course right now is to keep your mouth shut andlay low.”
I sat listening, saying nothing.
When he was finished, all I could say was,“You’re right. They’re right. And I'm going to do what you suggest.I just have to face the fact that Marcus Primus beat me.”
Scribonius gave me the kind of indulgentsmile that a parent gives to a wayward son who has done wrong butis still loved.
“Oh, Titus,” he sighed. “Not everything is afight that you win or lose. And I'd say it’s much too early for youto concede defeat. This is a setback, nothing more. You just needto be patient.”
“When has that ever happened?” I could nothelp but laugh at myself, or more accurately at the thought of meshowing anything resembling patience.
Of all my flaws, this one has cost me themost dearly over the years and, still in my fifties, I could nothonestly say I was much more patient than when I was twenty.
“There’s always hope,” I heard Dioclesmutter as he tried to ignore our conversation and get somesleep.
“Shut up, you little pederast, or I’ll makeyou wish you had never opened your mouth,” I growled at him.
He made a huffing sound and flounced abouton his cot, but said nothing further. With nothing left to discuss,Scribonius excused himself and I retired for the night, my mindfull of thoughts that kept me up for quite a while.
Much to my surprise, Marcus Primus did notchoose to rub his victory in my face; in fact, it was nevermentioned for the rest of the campaign, at least by the Praetor.Later, I would learn that this was due to Masala’s influence, itbeing much stronger than I had ever suspected. We continued themarch, reaching the imaginary line that marked the border betweenMacedonia and Thrace, with the Strymon (Struma) River to our left,and the base of the Rhodope Mountains, the range that ran on anorth-south axis and guarded the Thracian border to our right. Inbetween these two obstacles is a narrow gap, perhaps five milesacross, with a thick stand of trees along the riverbank on oneside, and more trees covering the lower slopes of the mountains onthe other. In other words, it is a perfect spot for an ambush. Evenwith our scouts having seen no signs of any large-scale movement byThracians of any tribe, either by tracks or dust clouds, I stillwanted to be cautious when we essentially crossed into enemyterritory. Making a halt a couple of miles short of where weestimated the border to be, I ordered the men to don their armor,including helmets, and to uncover their shields, but keeping themslung. One could hear the groans all up and down the column, yet Iwas adamant. Marcus Primus made a fuss just like the men; I foundit ironic that for once he and the men were in accord aboutsomething.
“Is this really necessary, Prefect?” Primuswhined.
I knew that he dreaded the thought ofdonning the armor he had once been so proud of, since it was a hotday.
“It’s only necessary if something happens,”I responded. “And given what happened to start this campaign in thefirst place a few years ago, I'd rather the men be a littleuncomfortable.”
Primus stuck his lower lip out, but did notargue further. The men put their armor on and we resumed the march,but we passed through the gap without incident. Despite this, I didnot allow the men to doff their armor, informing the Primi Pili andTribunes in charge of the other forces that we would be marching inthis manner for the duration. Again, the others did notparticularly like hearing this. Nonetheless, I was firm in myorder. We ended the day’s march a few miles inside the border ofThrace, meaning that the men constructed a full marching camp inenemy territory, with the ditches of Caesarian dimensions and afull watch. The scouts returning to camp reported their first signsof Thracian activity in the form of a relatively large group ofhorsemen, heading in our general direction.
“It’s undoubtedly a scouting party,”Macrinus opined.
I agreed, but until I laid eyes on themmyself, I was not willing to take any action. The scouts’ estimatewas that the party was about fifty men strong, all warriors, withspare mounts, strengthening the suspicion that the Thracians hadbeen alerted to our presence and were looking for us. We had no wayof knowing to what tribe these Thracians belonged, and I dreadedthe thought that they would belong to someone other than theTriballi, or even the Serdi. The last thing we could afford was anall-out war with every Thracian tribe and, in my mind, this was thelargest risk we ran. With only two Legions, a relatively smallauxiliary and cavalry force, we could not hope to contend with acombined force of Thracians on their own ground. This wasessentially a large-scale raid, where we had to rely on hittinghard and fast, then getting out before there was a mustering of asufficient force of Thracians to wipe us out. At that particulartime, it was estimated that all of Thrace could field almost100,000 warriors; it would take a fraction of that force to wipe usoff the face of the Earth. Every mile deeper into Thrace we went,the greater my foreboding grew that this was not going to end well,for any of us.
