Just then, I sensed a presence next to me,and I turned to see Marcus Primus, Masala by his side. ThePraetor’s mouth was hanging open, no doubt as unsettled by thesound as he was the sight before him.
“Why aren’t they advancing?” Primusdemanded. “Why are they just…standing there?”
“Because the Thracians are fighting back,” Isnapped, at that moment not caring how Primus took my words.
“Well, do something about it!”
If only he had not said that. If only Istill did not have the same mulish stubbornness that I had beenborn with and had caused me so much trouble throughout my life.Perhaps if Scribonius had been by my side, or even Diocles, theycould have saved me from myself. More importantly, they might havesaved all the lives that were needlessly wasted over the next fewmoments. In fact, I had been about to open my mouth to give theorder to send in the second line, when Primus had arrived to makehis unfortunate comment. I felt my jaw tighten, my mouth snappingshut, the command dying in my throat.
Instead, I said, “Praetor, I assure you thatI have the situation in hand and know what I am doing.”I turned togive him a long, steady gaze.
“In fact, I have been doing this since youwere sucking your wet nurse’s tit.”
Primus’ face turned deep red, while Masalaglared at me, but neither man spoke. Seeing that nothing more wasforthcoming from the Praetor, I turned my attention back to thefighting. The Thracians had taken heavy casualties in the initialcharge, except now the bodies of their fallen were actually servingto help them, giving them a makeshift bulwark that acted as anadded obstacle to the 13th. Their resistance hadstiffened as well, some of their leaders having assumed a semblanceof control over their warriors, so they were now standing toe totoe with our men, using their spears and curved swords to inflicttheir own damage on the Legionaries. Our men were beginning tostream back from the fighting, some of them under their own power,with the more seriously wounded being half-carried, half-draggedback by comrades. These men would be dumped on the slope, the mencarrying them returning back to the fighting, some more quicklythan others. That was always the case; some men did not have thesame appetite for battle as their comrades, being the first tovolunteer to carry the wounded, or to relay messages, always slowto return to the fighting. Those men who were medici, alongwith those who doubled as stretcher bearers, got busy, theorderlies doing an immediate assessment of the wound, thendirecting the stretcher bearers to carry the more seriously woundedback up the hill the rest of the way to the wagons, where thephysician had set up a field hospital. It was rudimentary, littlemore than his wagon and those designated to carry wounded pulledtogether in one spot, with an awning strung between them to provideshade and some comfort to the unfortunate.
Sitting on Ocelus, watching all this, I letthe fighting continue without giving the signal to send in thesecond line, despite the signs of fatigue I saw in the men.Ignoring Flaminius’ frequent looks back up the hill at me, I satthere stone faced, trying to show the same composure that Caesarhad shown during all of those battles, despite with every fiber ofmy being longing to jump off Ocelus to join the fight. There seemedto be an actual itch in my hand for my sword, knowing the comfortthat would come from feeling the grooved handle formed to fit onlymy fingers. Men in the front lines had been reduced to standing,just far enough apart that their respective weapons could notreach, panting from their exertions while doing nothing more deadlythan hurling curses at each other, glaring over their shields.These lulls in the fighting are normal, and it would have been theright moment to send in the second line, completely fresh andfrankly itching to get into the fight, banging their javelinsagainst their shields while shouting encouragement to their friendsin the first. But I was still smarting from Primus’ goad, so Iremained sitting on Ocelus, not saying anything. Then, there wasthe blast of a horn from the Thracian side, and the man I presumedto be the overall commander came wading through his men onhorseback, pointing his sword at our line, followed by most of thecavalry.
“Pluto’s cock,” I snarled, realizing that Ihad missed the opportunity to finish the fighting, and could onlywatch the Thracian cavalry go slamming into our men. Since they hadexpended their supply of javelins, the men of the 13thcould not even thrust them out in front of them in a makeshiftporcupine, having to rely only on their shields to protect themfrom the mass of horseflesh smashing into them. The only blessingwas that the Thracians had been unable to reach the full gallopbecause of the crush of their own men, making the impact not assevere as it could have been. Still, I watched in dismay as our menwere shoved back by the point of the wedge, those men actually hitby the Thracian horses being flung off their feet and sent flyinginto their comrades behind them. Suddenly, there was a bulge in ourline, with nothing between the Thracians and the second line but ahandful of men of the rear ranks of the Tenth Cohort, which hadbeen the focal point of the Thracian charge. It could not have beenmuch worse; the least experienced men facing the brunt of theThracian counterattack, only one or two sections of them at that.Honestly, despite it being an alarming development, in terms of thewhole battle, this setback was not that serious, because there werestill five Cohorts with their full complement of javelins waiting ashort distance away should the men of the Tenth fail to contain theThracians. However, my troubles were just beginning. Marcus Primus,who had retreated a short distance away to sulk after our exchange,now came galloping up, his face a mask of fear and panic.
“Are you satisfied now, Prefect? This is adisaster! An unmitigated disaster! We are losing this battle! Iwill be captured and Rome will be
