“But they could just make a deal with theMoesians that when they attacked that they would refrain fromharming the camp followers that gave them the information thatbetrayed us couldn’t they?” Scipio insisted.
Scribonius and I exchanged a grimly amusedglance. The question posed by the Tribune was the type of questionasked by a man who had only read of battle, never seeing firsthandthe madness and bloodlust that sweeps away all reason before itlike an onrushing flood.
“Tribune, I assure you that if that were tohappen, the chances of the camp followers who betrayed us escapingunscathed at the hands of our enemies is very, very slight,”Scribonius said gently. “It's generally just not worth the risk forthem, which is why, as far as I can remember, it’s never happened.I acknowledge that it could, but the risk is slight. And what canbe gained is well worth that slight risk.” He favored the Tribunewith a smile, the kind one man shares with another, winking as hesaid, “And men talk, particularly when they have an itch that needsscratching, and most of the time their brains can’t work at thesame time as their pricks. You’re a man of the world, Tribune; youknow how it is.”
That Scipio was decidedly not a man of theworld was obvious just by looking at him, but he beamed withpleasure at the words of Scribonius.
“Yes, I see that you’re right. Prefect, Iapologize for making a report that was obviously unnecessary.”
“No report is unnecessary, Tribune. It’sgood that you were paying attention,” I assured him, and I wasbeing honest.
I would rather be bothered by such seeminglytrivial information than only to learn later that somethinghappened that would have given us warning of some calamity. Scipiosaluted before trotting back towards the baggage train as wewatched him leave.
“That boy is killing himself, Titus,”Scribonius said, his eyes still on the Tribune. “And maybe youshould start acknowledging the effort that he’s making.”
I looked at him in a littleastonishment.
“What for? Doing his job?”
My friend turned to look at me with anexpression of amusement and disgust.
“That boy worships the ground you walk on,Titus. Surely you can see that. He’s trying so hard to impress youit’s painful to watch.”
In fact, I had not seen it at all, but I wasnot going to admit that to Scribonius.
“I know that. But I don’t want to give himany more attention or praise than I do to Libo or Capito.”
“They don’t need it the way that boy does,”Scribonius replied. “They’ve been with the army for some time now,and their position is secure. Scipio is new, and he’s struggling toprove himself and find his place. And you’re not helpingmatters.”
“So what do you want me to do about it?” Iprotested.
“Titus, that boy is like a lump of clayright now, clay that you can mold into the kind of nobleman thatyou don’t mind serving under instead of someone like Doughboy.”Scribonius invoked the nickname of the first almost-forgottenTribune that we had served under as tiros when Caesar hadbeen Praetor in Hispania.
Even now, almost forty years later, Doughboywas still one of the worst Tribunes who marched with the standard,and mercifully, he had long since stumbled on the cursushonorum, disappearing from Rome and into oblivion.
“Fine,” I said sourly, goaded by Scribonius’mention of our hated first Tribune. “I'll mother him like a nannygoat does with her kid. Are you happy now?”
“Yes,” he replied, a trifle too smugly formy taste.
“Did anyone ever tell you that you'd makesomeone a wonderful wife? You already have the nagging part down toperfection.”
I ducked his swing and, laughing, wecontinued on our way.
We arrived in Philippi shortly after theKalends of May, to receive a less than cordial reception fromMarcus Primus.
“What took you so long?” he demanded after Ihad made my way to the residence that Primus had commandeered forhis own purposes.
I had not taken the time to clean the dustof the march from my uniform, while in contrast, Marcus Primus wasexpensively barbered and oiled, rings on every manicured finger,dressed in a richly embroidered tunic with the purple senatorialstripe. He was portly, bordering on obese, everything about the manstinking of privilege and rank, and he was a great deal youngerthan I was. I detested him immediately. Still, he was the Praetorof Macedonia, outranking me by a good deal. Accordingly, I renderedhim a perfect salute and tried to sound contrite.
“I apologize, sir. I assure you that wemarched as quickly as we could, and it is a long way fromPannonia.”
“Still, I’ve been waiting here forever,” hesniffed before waving a pudgy hand. “No matter. You're here now,and we can begin our great adventure.”
He clapped his hands together in undisguisedglee, his fat face wreathed in a smile as he walked from behind hisdesk to stand in front of me. I towered above the little toad. Hesuddenly seemed to realize how undignified he appeared whenstanding near me and gave a little cough, retreating back behindhis desk. Leaning on it, he indicated what appeared to be a largemap unrolled on it, the ends held down, but the map itself coveredby a cloth.
“I'm sure you've spent most of your marchhere wondering exactly what I need two Legions for,” hecontinued.
Despite having a pretty good idea what wasgoing to happen, I will admit I was curious about whether or not Iwas correct in my assumption. Besides that, I knew what wasexpected of me.
“Yes, sir, I have been wondering that verything.”
With a dramatic flourish, he pulled thecloth covering the map away. My suspicions were confirmed; beforeme was a map of Thrace, with one area of it outlined in charcoal.Primus watched me expectantly, but my reaction was not what he hadbeen expecting and he made no attempt to hide hisdisappointment.
“Prefect, I must confess that I expectedmore from you. Surely you recognize the area outlined on themap?”
Indeed, I did. It was the northern borderarea of Thrace, the site of the ambush by the Triballi that hadkilled Balbus. I suppose I should have
