As his file approached the narrow passage through the gate, and was stalled by the unavoidable deadlock, he heard someone call his name.
“Lucius! Lucius Domitius!”
The voice came from above. Lucius looked up at the battlements and was surprised to see the smiling face of Divitiacus staring down at him.
“I’m glad to see that you’re alive and well, my friend!” Divitiacus bellowed, and then his face disappeared behind the ramparts, and Lucius found the Aeduan chieftain waiting for him on the other side of the gate.
“I predict great fortune is in store for you, young man,” Divitiacus said, walking beside Lucius as the weary column marched down the main street of the camp. “Great fortune, indeed! Just remember that I told you so, when it comes your way.”
“I will, my lord.” Lucius smiled, though he hadn’t the foggiest notion what the man was referring to.
“Does the name Marcus Valens mean anything to you?” Divitiacus suddenly asked.
Lucius almost came to a stop at the mention of that name – that name, that terrible name, that he had cursed so many times, that haunted his dreams, that had brought him to a rage on so many occasions, and that stoked the fires of hatred within the core of his soul.
“Aye.” Divitiacus grinned at his expression. “I see that it does. Well, it may interest you to know that the tribune Piso is none other than the nephew of Marcus Valens. Does that shed some light on things?”
Of course, Lucius thought. He had suspected as much. He knew Piso had to be connected in some way to his former life. It was the only thing that had made any sense. Now, he was infinitely curious as to how Divitiacus had come upon the connection, but even now he was hesitant to acknowledge any identification with that name. He had lain low for so long, and he had survived.
“He is here, Lucius,” Divitiacus said in a lower tone, not waiting for a response.
“Valens is here?” Lucius replied incredulously. “With the army?”
Divitiacus nodded. “I met him earlier this evening, in Caesar’s tent. I think I must have underestimated you, young man. You have to be quite a lot of trouble for a Roman senator to want you dead. And now, he’s come all the way out here to see it done, no less.”
Lucius looked at him perplexedly and was about to speak when the Aeduan chieftain raised a hand to stop him.
“Let us talk no further here, Lucius,” Divitiacus said guardedly, glancing at the other soldiers in the nearby ranks. “Come and see me when you are dismissed. We have much to discuss.”
IX
The drooping vines seemed to close in around the young Belgic woman as she made her way through the mist-shrouded swamp. Giant, gnarled trees stretched their boughs high above, as they had for centuries, intertwining and blocking out sun and sky. This was a sacred place, a place of druid ritual and the unexplainable, where mystical creatures dwelt, where the owl hooted, and the tormented spirits of the dead roamed aimlessly in search of conveyance to the afterlife.
Gertrude found the dry path hidden by the mist, stepping confidently where most others would have hesitated. As odd and wild as this place was, Gertrude knew it well. She had been here many times in her young life, a special privilege she enjoyed as the daughter of a chieftain.
The druids kept the people in harmony with the living world around them. They were the conduit to the other world, and as such advised the leaders of her people on important decisions, often determining the destiny of the whole tribe. But Gertrude was not seeking guidance for her people. This time, her dilemma was personal.
True, it was frowned upon to seek the druids' help in such matters, but Gertrude had done it before. Over the years, she had developed a relationship of sorts with one particular enchantress of the forest – one who had taken a particular interest in Gertrude, ever since she was a child.
"Sacred lady, forgive me, but I have come," she said, kneeling once she reached the familiar grove laced with the exposed trunks of a half dozen mammoth trees.
"You are welcome, child," a woman's voice replied from the shadows.
Several moments passed before a dark, hooded figure emerged, slowly extending bone-like hands that seemed to glow white in the faint light. The hands clasped Gertrude's shoulders like claws, but the touch was at the same time gentle. Gertrude looked up to see only the nose and mouth of an elderly woman, with the rest of the face hidden in shadow. They were the same features Gertrude had see many times before, on previous visits, but there was something different about the old, cloaked woman this time. This time, she seemed much feebler, as if she had aged ten years.
"Speak, my child," the druidess said in a wheezy voice, followed by a short cough.
"Sacred One, something troubles my heart and my thoughts. I have come for the solace you have provided so often in the past."
"These are troubled times, child."
Gertrude paused before saying, "Something has happened."
"You need say no more, my child. I know how the Romans mistreated you. The voice of the forest has told me. Have no fear. Their time is coming. They will not go unpunished."
The druidess had said it in the consoling tone of a mother to her daughter. In some ways, the sacred woman of the forest had been like a mother to her. Gertrude came here often to discuss the things that troubled any young maiden who was the daughter of a chieftain. Many of the tribe were afraid of the old woman, even the warriors, but the druidess had always been kind and affectionate to Gertrude. Still, not even Gertrude knew the mysterious woman's origins. No one did. The old woman was the seer for the Nervii and had been as long as Gertrude could remember. While Gertrude could recall several times in the past when the druidess had gone away for many months – some said to the south, some said to the foothills of the Alps – she had always come back to tend to the Nervii.
"That is not what troubles me, Sacred One," Gertrude said.
The hooded woman coughed several times. With each successive cough, her long nails dug further into Gertrude's shoulders, reawakening some of the bruises left by the two brutal Roman officers that had assaulted her.
"Tell me your thoughts, child," the woman finally said, after the coughing fit had passed.
"One of the Romans soldiers – a tall one with a scar on his face – was not like the others. He refused to harm me, though his officer ordered him to." Gertrude paused, trying to hide the emotion in her voice, for she had found herself dreaming of the Roman in recent days, and the dreams had been far from nightmares. "This Roman saved me, and I - "
"You can have no affections for our enemy!" The old woman snapped, as if reading her thoughts. "Have I not told you of the desolation that follows wherever their columns march? They bring death and fire. They bring the slave's shackles for the necks of our people. Rome is the devil's spawn, the enemy of all that is pure. Esus, Toutatis, and Taranis help me if I do not cast your soul into fire for this!" The old woman was agitated and again broke into a fit of coughing. When the fit was finally over, Gertrude saw a patch of blood on the old woman's lips.
"I pray, do not do that, Sacred Lady," Gertrude pleaded. "Forgive me, but I cannot get him out of my head. I do not wish it, but something draws me to him. I come to you for answers, when I have none. Please don't be angry with me!"
This seemed to calm the druidess, who now paused to catch her breath, all the while wheezing loudly. "I will look for you, my child."
The enchantress then beckoned for Gertrude to follow her, and then led her to a vine-laden spot where a perfectly circular pool of still water lay apart from the rest of the swamp. The hovering mists seemed to steer away from the pool’s mirror-smooth surface. The druidess then produced a crooked branch of oak that had been polished to a shine, and then touched the water's surface with it. Kneeling over the waters, the woman began chanting in the tongue of the old ones, studying each ripple as it expanded to the edges of the pond and returned to collide with others. At one point in the ritual, a drop of blood escaped the druidess's mouth and f
ell into the crashing ripples. This had a grave effect on the old woman who shrieked and frantically moved away from the pool, as if she had seen something that disturbed her to the core.
"What is it, Sacred Lady?" Gertrude asked. "What did you see?"
"The Roman!" she said, wheezing. "He comes! He cannot be stopped! He brings life to you!"
Gertrude could not help but smile at the prophecy, but then seeing how unsettled the druidess was, she checked herself.
"Surely this is not a bad thing, sacred lady," Gertrude said.
"There is more!” the woman said dreadfully, as if it pained her to recount the vision. “While this Roman brings life to you, for me...for me, he brings suffering and death! I will know a pain greater than that of bearing my child.”
Gertrude was confused by this last as she understood the Druid women were forbidden from having children, but she tried to console the sacred lady anyway.
“Surely not,” Gertrude said. “Surely, there is some mistake.”
“The spirits have spoken!” the woman exasperated. “It cannot be undone!"
As the druidess stumbled away, coughing and ranting and seemingly driven mad by the vision, Gertrude tried not to think on the old woman's part of the prophecy. She chose to focus on the welcome prospects of her own.
She would see the tall Roman again. That was certain. She only now needed to be on the lookout for him.
X
General Balbus tried to hold back a yawn as the four thousand soldiers of the Seventh Legion came to attention in the field just outside the camp. It was another deucedly hot and humid day, one in which the sun was merely a bright blur in the hazy sky, and Balbus, the legate of the Seventh, was extremely uncomfortable sitting atop his horse, flanked by his staff and tribunes. It had been a long night, and he was slightly annoyed at having to rouse out of bed so early on this non-marching day. Last night, he and the other legates had spent most of the evening in the tents of the visiting senators, Valens and Porcius, enjoying an abundance of wine, fresh from Italy, along with music and other lavish entertainments. The wine had flowed freely all night and well into the morning. Now, only a few unmerciful hours later, Balbus’s head throbbed with every sway of his mount. His eyes started to drift shut, but popped open again at the sharp snap of a scroll.
“To General Balbus, commanding the Seventh Legion!” The chief centurion read the document to the assembled ranks, his stentorian voice driving through Balbus’s hung-over head like a pick axe. “You are hereby ordered to bestow the medal of bravery upon Legionary Lucius Domitius of the 9th Century for acts of gallantry in the face of the enemy that resulted in saving the lives of his officer and fellow soldiers. This commendation is to be awarded without delay. Signed, Gaius Julius Caesar, Proconsul of the province and general of the army.”
The chief centurion, a few paces in front of the mounted general and his staff, turned to glance up at Balbus, and Balbus made a gesture for him to proceed.
“The legionary to be decorated will advance, front and center!” commanded the centurion.
From the ranks of freshly polished helmets with horsetail plumes dancing in the breeze, a single legionary emerged – a tall man, with a face that could melt stone. Balbus fought back the urge to yawn again as the grim soldier came to attention before the chief centurion.
“All hear the deeds of Legionary Lucius Domitius,” the centurion projected to the ranks, then adjusted the scroll to read further. “When beset by a band of no fewer than one hundred enemy warriors, and outnumbered nearly five-to-one, Legionary Lucius Domitius displayed conspicuous gallantry by single-handedly…”
Balbus listened as his chief centurion’s monosyllabic voice recited the heroic actions of the tall legionary to the assembled ranks in agonizing detail. Most of it was nonsense, of course, and quite obviously fabricated. After all, what man could have managed to kill twelve Belgae single-handedly? It was laughable that anyone would believe such prattle. The results told the real story – one tribune dead, along with several badly-needed legionaries. But Caesar wanted someone decorated, and this soldier was the lucky chosen one. Balbus was thankful for one thing, however. He would never have to contend with that fool Piso again, nor the juvenile tribune’s effeminate companion. The pair of idiots had been of little use and a chore to deal with at times. The Seventh, indeed the whole army, was really better off without their posturing, sophomoric arses hovering about, treating everything and everyone as if they existed solely for their amusement. Well, the two had had a lesson to learn, and they had learned it. Were it in Balbus’s power, he would decorate whoever it was that was responsible for their deaths.
Balbus tried to will the centurion to read faster, that the whole proceeding might be dismissed and he could get back to the tranquil comforts of his own tent and bed, but the man, like most centurions, did not have a formal education, and read at a laborious pace. As the centurion droned on, Balbus’s mind began to drift. He began to think upon last night’s revelry.
It had been a wildly intoxicating night, and wine was not the only thing the two senators had brought with them from Italy. There were women there, too, the finest whores in Cisalpine Gaul, brought over the Alps and all the way to the land of the Belgae as part of the senators’ retinue. Valens and Porcius had been the perfect hosts, treating Balbus and the commanders of the seven other legions to a night of drinking, bedding whores, and recounting campaigns both recent and far in the past. The whole evening had been one long interval of uninterrupted bliss, all except for one awkward moment when Valens had turned to Balbus with a suddenly quite serious expression.
Balbus had been quite certain that the senator was going to confront him about his nephew’s death, but was shocked when that subject was not even broached.
“You are a trustworthy man, Balbus, and wise. I know that the tales Caesar sends back to Rome to be read in the forum must make you cringe inside. Lies do not become true soldiers.”
Balbus had nodded slightly, not certain how to respond to his host. So, instead he had taken another drink, while Valens continued.
“I can see that you have not fallen under Caesar’s spell, as so many of the others have. I am right, Balbus, am I not?” Valens looked him in the eye. Balbus had taken so much wine that he had found it hard to focus on the senator’s face. “A time is coming, when this tragedy in Gaul shall end. It has been arranged, my friend. Tell me that I can trust you to act appropriately, when the time comes.”
Balbus was unsure of what he had said after that. He hoped that the whole incident had been a hallucination brought on by his own drunkenness. Surely, Valens had not been talking treason. Surely, the senator had not been asking him to join a conspiracy.
As the centurion continued to read, Balbus tried his best not to fall from the saddle. He chose to focus on the tall legionary being decorated, who stood at attention and appeared just as uncomfortable as Balbus was to be there. He was an impressive looking soldier, with the deportment of a veteran, and the shoulders of a gladiator. But there was more to him than that. There was an astuteness in the soldier’s face that Balbus seldom saw in other troops. Between nods, Balbus noticed that the legionary’s shield looked as though it had been gouged in several places. These had been recently patched and painted over to blend with the rest of the shield, but the new paint was a slightly lighter mixture than the previous coat. If the state of his shield was any indication, then perhaps this soldier had indeed faced down as many of the enemy as the citation claimed. Maybe he had even done something astonishing. But then, it was difficult to believe such things.
Perhaps the men of the Seventh, and the men of the other legions, would be bolstered by the story and that was enough. As much as Balbus disagreed with Caesar on matters of tactics and generalship, the proconsul was indeed a master at gauging the pulse of the army. He knew how and when to distract them. Whether the citation was truthful or not, it would serve its purpose, as would the example of this tall legionary.
Balbus made a mental note that he might see to promoting the man to the next vacancy among the centurions. But the sun was hot on Balbus’s neck, and he desperately wished to return to his cot. The thought was soon lost amidst the throbbing of his head, and he was already having trouble remembering the legionary’s name.
XI
The two tunic-clad men faced off in the grove of trees just outside the camp. They fought in the driving rain, with only the flashing and crackling sky as a spectator to their combat. When they were not clasped together in a variety of contorted and painful wrestling moves, they stood off from each other and fought with bare knuckles. Bloody fists struck swollen faces slickened by rain. Boots lifted sluggishly out of ankle deep mud, and the fatigue of the long bout made their bulging muscles ache with every delivered blow. Finally, the taller of the two, found an advantage, an unguarded moment, when his opponent was off balance. With all of his remaining strength, he took the opportunity and delivered a knee-shaking blow to his opponent’s chin that sent the man reeling face first into the mud. Then, the tall man followed up on his advantage by straddling his stunned opponent’s back and pushing the man’s head down into the slop with both hands. The prostrate man struggled for air, his limbs shaking, his feet kicking, until finally he waved one hand to signal that he yielded.
At this, the victor released his opponent, and collapsed into the mud. Both men lay there, exhausted and breathing heavily, with their faces upturned to the cleansing rain.
Rome: Fury of the Legion (Sword of the Legion Series) Page 10