Final Campaign

to leave in peace.I cannot articulate how I knew this, but the feeling was so strongin me that I had to fight down a feeling of panic at the verythought of it. Whether he took ill, or he fell on his sword, orsimply refused to put up a fight in the next battle, I was lookingat a man at the absolute end of his tether. I had seen it before,and it had never ended well. Looking at Scribonius now, there wasreally only one answer I could give him, or I would never have beenable to live with myself.

“I’ll take care of it.”

My friend’s body sagged in obvious relief,and he closed his eyes, his lips moving in a silent prayer ofthanks. I placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it hard as Iblinked back the tears.

“Go get some rest,” I told him. “Let me dowhat I need to do to make this happen for you.”

Saying no more, Scribonius left, while Istood on the rampart for several moments, awash in so many emotionsthat I felt paralyzed. My body felt like it was twice its normalweight, and I was finding it hard to focus, I was so tired, but Iforced myself to push through the fatigue and worry as I thoughtabout what to do. It was not nearly as easy for me to push past myphysical weariness as it had been when I was younger, but I knewthat Scribonius was counting on me to come up with a solution.Finally, an idea formed in my head, and with it, I realized that Ihad no time to spare.

“Have you turned in your casualty lists tothe Praetorium yet?”

I found Flaminius in his tent, looking everybit as exhausted as I felt, yet the relief I felt when he shook hishead gave me a surge of energy.

“Where are your dead?”

The Primus Pilus of the 13^thlooked startled at the question, but he answered readilyenough.

“I suppose some are still being prepared forthe funeral rites by their friends. Those that are ready areoutside the hospital tent. May I ask why?”

“I need a body, and I need you to dosomething for me,” I explained.

“What is it?” he asked, and he had everyright to be cautious.

“You and I are going to go look at thebodies. I’m going to select one. You’re going to remove that manfrom the rolls of the dead, and list him as missing instead.”

Flaminius’ jaw dropped, his expressionhardening, for which I could not blame him. What I was asking himto do was a serious offense, because such a thing has been used inthe past by unscrupulous Centurions to milk the army, since amissing man is still on the rolls until he is found or his deathcould be verified.

“It’s not for me,” I explained, but I couldsee he was not convinced.

“I see,” he replied politely, his eyesrefusing to meet mine. “May I ask, then, what this is about?”

I realized I would have to tell him thetruth.

“It’s for Scribonius,” I said quietly.

His expression changed as I went on toexplain the whole story.

When I was finished, his only comment was,“Let’s go find someone.”

Walking back to the hospital tent, I thoughtabout Flaminius’ willingness to help once I had told him it was forScribonius. I realized that it made sense; Scribonius had been thede facto Primus Pilus of the 13^th, and in fact,it had been Scribonius’ recommendation that Flaminius be nominatedto replace him as Primus Pilus. Even in the relatively short timeScribonius had run the 13^th, he had become well loved,and most importantly, well respected by his men, from theCenturions down to the lowliest Gregarius. We arrived at thehospital tent to find two rows of bodies laid out, wrapped in theircloaks, faces covered, waiting for the pyre that would be lit inthe morning. Moving down the rows, I finally found a shroudedcorpse roughly the same height as Scribonius, but when I pulled thecloak back, I saw a heavily built man, his face wrapped in a pieceof linen as is our custom when the face is disfigured from a wound.Covering him back up, I moved farther down the row, examining acouple of more bodies until I found one that was suitable, with theright build. It was a young Legionary, with a thrust from whatappeared to be a spear in the middle of his ribcage. His comradeshad lovingly washed his body, so that all the blood was gone,leaving only a slightly puckered slit that hardly seemed to havebeen enough to kill him. He had obviously bled to death inside,because the area just below his breastbone was bulging up above hischest, proof that a pocket of blood had formed there.

“Ignatius,” Flaminius said. He gazed down atthe boy’s face; his eyes were closed and, except for his deathlypallor, he looked like he was simply asleep.

“He was in the Tenth. Good boy; not thebrightest, but steady. He was due to be promoted into a higherCohort soon.”

As much as I hate to ascribe any of theevents and actions in my life to the gods, I would be lying if Isaid that the thought did not cross my mind that perhaps there hadbeen a greater reason for my refusal to send in the second lineafter all. I had no way of knowing exactly when Ignatius had died,of course, but the idea persisted in my head that the gods hadprovided a substitute for Scribonius in this boy. All I had to dowas act like a stubborn mule and allow him to die, which had beenexactly what I did. Although the boy fit my needs, my problems werenot over. Our custom dictates that the dead man, or woman, isdressed in their best, then wrapped in a fine linen cloth withtheir face showing so that their loved ones can gaze upon it onelast time before they are cleansed by the flames. In this case,Ignatius and the others would be clad in their dress tunics, theones they used for parades, which were kept a spotless white andwere carefully stored in a man’s pack, wrapped to protect it.Naturally, neither he nor the other dead would be