Final Campaign

wearing theirarmor, both because of the difficulty in burning armor, and becauseof the expense. What was problematic, of course, was Ignatius’face; despite the fact I seriously doubted Marcus Primus could pickScribonius out of the rest of the Evocati, and scarcely knew heexisted, he would clearly see that Ignatius could not possibly bean Evocatus because of his age. In the case of severe disfigurementfrom battle, the deceased’s face is also wrapped, which would haveto be done now in order to complete the ruse. However, I wasunwilling to simply wrap Ignatius’ face, then count on nobody beinginterested or suspicious enough to examine the corpse. Asdistasteful as it was, I had to mutilate the boy’s face to a degreethat he was unrecognizable. I told Flaminius what needed to bedone. He clearly did not like it, but his objection was morepractical than based on the principle.

“Even if you do that, if someone is going toactually lift that cloth they’re going to see that it’s anobviously young man.”

Flaminius pointed to Ignatius’ hair, lankand black, and kept longer than mine.

“No gray in his hair, and he has all of it,to begin with. And if you’re going to mess up his face, you’regoing to have to do it in such a way that nobody will notice thathe has no wrinkles.”

My heart sank as Flaminius talked. He wasright; now I was faced with the choice of simply wrapping his headup and claiming that he had been disfigured with the hope thatnobody would check, or removing his head altogether. That was notthat uncommon, especially among the Thracian tribes, who often tookheads as trophies. But I was not sure that I could do that to thisboy, despite how much Scribonius needed it.

Flaminius must have seen the indecision onmy face, because he took a step, coming closer to me so that hecould whisper, “I’ll do what needs to be done, Prefect. ForScribonius.”

I stared at Flaminius, reading his face,grim but set.

“Are you sure?”

He swallowed, then nodded. Standing there,we heard the sound of a party approaching and while it was dark,the reflected light from the torches placed at the edges of thehospital tent meant that we could see and be seen.

“Well, you can’t do it now,” I whispered asfour men came, two of them carrying another body, obviously one oftheir comrades.

Seeing their Primus Pilus, they came to ahalt uncertainly, looking at him, then at me. Flaminius greetedthem, and they returned it. Then, in order to divert attention, hepointed at the body.

“Who is this, boys?”

One of the men gave Flaminius a name, and hegave a grave nod.

“He has his coin?” he asked them. Theyassured him that he did.

“Good.” Flaminius said nothing more, andneither did I speak.

The men seemed to realize that they were notwanted, so after they deposited their comrade gently on the ground,they left.

“It’s going to be like this for the rest ofthe night,” I muttered.

“We’re going to have to move him somewhereelse,” Flaminius agreed. Recognizing that there would not be atruly good time to do so, we each picked up an end of the corpse,moving quickly away from the hospital tent.

I did not witness what Flaminius did afterwe carried Ignatius’ body to the nearby stable area. I had othermatters that had to be taken care of to finish this business,namely to produce a new casualty report that listed SextusScribonius as a casualty. When I returned to my tent, I foundDiocles waiting. Without a word, he handed me a wax tablet. Iopened it, and saw the list, thankfully short, but with one extraname.

“How did you know?” I asked Diocles, eyinghim with a mixture of curiosity and concern. While I was notworried about Diocles talking, just the idea that someone else knewof what we were doing made me nervous.

“Master Scribonius came to say goodbye,” heanswered, and I felt my chest tighten. I had been so absorbed inmaking this happen that I had not stopped to think what it meant.Taking the tablet, I could not ignore the shaking of my hand, butput it down to my extreme fatigue and not the thought of lifewithout Scribonius.

“Where is he now?”

“His tent,” Diocles replied. “Packing.”

“I hope he’s not planning on taking a lot,”was all I could think to say.

I left the tent to make my way toScribonius’, finding it hard to put one foot in front of the other.It would be a lie to say I had never been that tired before, yet ithad been many years. Arriving at Scribonius’ tent, I paused for amoment outside, hearing sounds from inside that told me he waspresent, as he talked in low tones to one of his slaves. I slappedat the leather, things going suddenly still inside, then a momentlater I saw an eye peering out from inside, peeking out of the flapto examine me.

“It’s Pullus,” I said in a low tone, theflap quickly being pulled aside by one of Scribonius’ slaves, and Istepped inside.

“The Master is in his private quarters.”

He led me past the partition to Scribonius’sleeping quarters. My friend was finishing stuffing some items intoan ordinary Legionary marching pack, and I was relieved to see thathe was indeed packing light. He turned to look at me, his facegaunt, the question burning in his eyes, even as he refused to askit.

“It’s essentially done,” I told him. Thefeelings I had at his look of relief are hard to describe.

“Thank you,” he breathed, taking an unsteadystep to sit heavily on his cot, putting his head between hisknees.

“I was going to ask if you had changed yourmind, but I think I just got my answer.”

Scribonius gave a tired laugh.

“No, I haven’t changed my mind. But I amtrying to decide what I’m going to do.”

“Go back to Rome, surely.”

To my surprise, he shook his head.

“After I thought about it, I realized thatit’s not a good idea.”

“Why? Once we get past submitting thisreport and Primus buys it, I don’t see you having any moreproblems.”

Scribonius gave me his frown, and thethought flashed through my mind that this would perhaps be the lasttime I would see that sight, filling me with such sadness that itwas