“What? Oh, yes, that,” he muttered irritablyas he opened it up.
He stared at it for a moment, making ahumming noise while he scanned the list, before snapping it shutand handing it back to me.
“Yes, all right. You lost four Evocati deadand had five wounded, two of them seriously enough for the hospitalwagons. Well, they should be loaded shortly.”
Only then did his brow furrow, as he said,“May I see that again please?”
Handing it back to him, he reopened thetablet to look again. I saw his eyebrow rise, then he gave me apeculiar look.
“Sextus Scribonius? He’s a friend of yours,isn’t he?”
“He was,” I replied quietly, and he didmanage to look a bit embarrassed.
“Er, yes. I am sorry about that. He was afriend of yours, wasn’t he?”
“We were part of the same dilectus inHispania where the 10th Legion was born,” I replied through grittedteeth. Primus took no notice of my anger at his slighting referenceto Scribonius, acting like he was an afterthought.
“Yes, yes, that’s all very interesting. Hehad a long and distinguished career, I’m sure, though not nearly asglorious as yours,” he insisted, handing the tablet back again.
“Praetor, if it were’t for SextusScribonius, I would not only have no career, I wouldn’t be standinghere right now. I owe, or I owed,” I amended, “him everything.That’s why I’m wondering why you’re planning on the army marchingtoday.”
Primus reddened slightly, but his face tookon a stubborn cast to it.
“I am aware that it ‘s customary to stop theday after a battle, but I’m afraid that we must push on,” Primusinsisted.
“And how are we supposed to tend to ourdead?” I asked him, trying to remain patient.
“We will have to honor them when we arriveat Serdica.” The Praetor announced it loudly enough for the othersto hear, and I was happy to hear that I was not the only man togasp aloud.
“Serdica?”
It seemed that every time I thought thatMarcus Primus could not possibly sink lower in my estimation of himas a military commander, he would do something so idiotic that itsurpassed anything that had come before.
“Praetor, I must strenuously object to thatidea,” I continued before he could interrupt, “for a number ofreasons. First, there’s a reason why the army pauses at least oneday after a battle that goes beyond taking care of our dead. The13th needs to be reorganized. We lost a Centurionyesterday in the Tenth Cohort that needs to be replaced, along withtwo Optios in other Cohorts.”
Primus made little effort to hide hisimpatience.
“Can’t those things be done on themarch?”
“No, they can’t. And keeping the bodies ofour dead with us for at least two more days creates a whole otherset of problems.”
The Praetor looked over to see the Tribunesstanding looking at him, and they had been joined by Flaminius, whohad just entered the Praetorium. I could not see theirexpressions over my shoulder, but it became plain that they showedno enthusiasm for Primus’ decision either.
Heaving a sigh that could have been heard atthe front gate, he replied, “Very well, Prefect. We will remainhere. But only for one day, is that understood?”
I saluted, then went to find the commandbucinator to sound the call to cease work. Flaminius,hearing the decision, went to tell his men to make their deadcomrades ready for the burial rites, while Silanus went to letMacrinus know why the call was being sounded. With that crisisaverted, I could now concentrate on finishing the ruse. I was aboutto leave when Primus called to me.
“Prefect, when do you plan on holding theburial rites for your friend?”
I was not sure why he asked, but I named thetime that I calculated it would take to build the pyre and make allthe other preparations.
“Then I will be there to pay my respects,”he announced.
With the crisis averted, the men of the13th set to work, going in small details to the nearbyforest to cut wood for the pyres. Flaminius took me to where he hadplaced the body of Ignatius, still wrapped up, but now minus hishead, and I did not ask where it went. If I had been talking to thegods, I would have made an offering of a black sheep to Dis inapology for defiling the boy’s body. I had Diocles fetch a cart,then with Scribonius’ slaves in tow, we made our way out the PortaDecumana, the gate that is used for funeral processions. We werenot alone; there was a small procession of men escorting theircomrades’ bodies, and it was not long before the fires startedlicking up the pyres of those who had arrived before us.Scribonius’ slaves were still crying and carrying on, but I did notknow if it was part of the act or if they were still heartbrokennow that their master had gone. Whatever the cause, I thought itlent authenticity to the event. Flaminius and I were in the processof transferring the body from the cart to the pyre when we sawMarcus Primus and Masala come trotting into view. The bulky Praetorhad donned his uniform, I supposed for this solemn occasion, as hadMasala. Staring down at us, the pair watched us place Ignatius’body on the pyre, removing the cloak, then one of Scribonius’slaves sprinkled the scented oil all over the body and wood. Thebody was wrapped in the linen burial cloth, which was stained redin the area of the neck. I was walking away from the pyre backtoward the cart and I saw Primus’ eyes drawn to the bloody stain.His mouth dropped open, then he blurted out, “Where is hishead?”
“It was taken,” I said coldly. “As atrophy.”
His mouth snapped shut, his face going pale,and I was sure that he was imagining himself on the pyre. Masalalooked on as well, except he seemed more thoughtful than horrified.Once all was ready, we waited for the camp priests to make theirway to us, watching them move from one pyre to the next, saying theblessing and making the blood offering. Meanwhile, Scribonius’slaves placed the small loaf of bread and jug of wine on the pyrefor the
