Final Campaign

Ilooked down as he pointed. He was right. Crisscrossing my body werea number of scars; the puckered indentation in my upper chest,still slightly purple despite it being almost twenty years old,where I had almost died at Munda. There were a number of lines ofvarying lengths and hues along both of my sides where sword orspear blades had scraped along my ribcage. Of all people, I knewhow lucky I had been that none of those had pierced through my ribsand into my heart or lungs. The tale of my time in the Legions wastold in all of those scars, like a map with rivers and roads markedon it, all of them there to be read by anyone who knew how. My eyeswent to my left hand, where the stump of my little finger was stillprotected by the leather sling that had been fashioned for it morethan five years before, the reminder of my fight with Prixus.

“What are you thinking?” Scribonius askedme, his face unreadable.

“How old I am.” I gave a brief laugh, thenturned serious. “And how lucky.”

“None luckier,” my friend agreed, and I knewhe was right. More men than I could count had fallen along the roadI had taken. While I did not know for sure, I was positive thatmost of the men that had been part of that dilectus inHispania so many years before were dead by now. Perhaps one in tenstill survived, for as far as I knew, I had been the youngest manin the Legion when I joined, lying about my age to sign up. Thosewho had not died in Gaul, or in the civil wars and had retired, hadbeen like Vibius. The toll that the years of marching had taken onthem; the illnesses, the wounds, the privation brought on by hungerand the elements, had undoubtedly caught up with them by thispoint. Scribonius was still here, that was true, but if I am beinghonest, he was a shadow of his former self, never really the sameafter his brush with death, the combination of that and his agehaving caught up with him. He looked as exhausted as I felt, darkrings under his eyes, his cheeks hollow, and jaw hanging slack. Yetthere he was, making sure that I was seen to, and suddenly I feltthe prickling of tears, forcing me to turn away.

“Are you done yet?” I asked the physician,my tone unnecessarily harsh, I knew, yet I was unable and unwillingto apologize.

“Yes, I am done, Prefect.”

He did not seem to take offense, standingand gathering up his instruments and supplies while I fumbled formy purse. Forgetting that I had not taken it with me, I had to callDiocles, who had been standing, waiting for my summons, and he gavethe physician a denarius.

“That is too much,” the physician protested,but I waved it off, and that was as much apology as I was willingto give. To force myself to drag my mind away from the sad currentit found itself drowning in, I told Scribonius of what I hadlearned from Andrysios. He listened intently, despite his fatigue,giving a low whistle.

“Titus,” he said when I was finished. “Idon’t think we have to worry about getting much older.”

Breaking camp in the face of an enemy can bea tricky business. With a full army, the Legate would normallydispatch one Legion, while the other four or even more break downthe camp, knowing that a Legion is formidable enough to stop eventhe largest force long enough to allow the others to assemble andjoin the fight. However, with only two Legions and an auxiliaryforce the size of ours, it was another matter entirely. If theThracians were spoiling for a fight, deploying a Legion to guardwhile the other Legion broke camp meant that it would be double thetime before we were ready to march. Fortunately, the Thracians didnot seem any more interested in attacking us than I wanted them todo so. Instead, they stood at the edge of their camp, in roughformation, armed but not making any move to stop us, simplywatching us break camp. To start with, I had ordered Flaminius andthe 13^th to stand guard, then gradually had one Cohortat a time stand down to help breaking down the camp, until we wereready to march only slightly later than normal. We were now perhapsthree days march from Serdica, although that depended on what thenearby Thracians had in mind. If they decided to put pressure onus, we would be forced to march in agmentum quadratum,slowing us down considerably. As it was, I moved the baggage traininto the middle of the column, with the 13^th marchingdrag, which, while not as sluggish as the quadratum, stillmeant that our progress was painfully slow. I did take theopportunity of the slower pace to wait for a moment when Masala wasnot riding next to Primus, which was rare enough, to pull him asidefor a talk.

“Why did you help me last night?”

I saw no point in working up to the topic,mainly because I knew my time with Masala was limited before Primusstarted looking for him. Masala did not look in my direction,keeping his eyes ahead as we rode.

“I didn’t help you,” he said after a longpause. “I helped the Praetor avoid making a mistake.”

“By lying to him?”

Masala shrugged. “I did what I had to do to.Besides, why are you complaining? He was going to punish you fornot bringing him ten prisoners.”

“I’m not complaining. In fact, I want tothank you. But I am curious. This isn’t the first time you riskedcrossing Primus; don’t think I haven’t noticed. And I do appreciateit. But he’s your patron.”

“Yes, he is,” Masala agreed. “That doesn’tmean he’s perfect. I am well aware of his faults, Prefect. Besides,I have my own reasons that I prefer not to discuss.”

“Fair enough. Still, thank you.”

Then, Masala finally turned to look at me,giving me a direct stare.

“Just remember that I helped you, Prefect,in case I ever need the same from you.”

Ah, there it is, I thought. However, Iagreed that I would indeed keep it in mind.

The Thracians were following us, but not tooclosely, keeping about a