“Burn the camp!” the first spears cried out. Mules on all sides poured around me. The last resistance had been crushed. Now it was time to solidify our victory.
Without meaning to, I dropped my sword and shield. And then I fell to my knees.
I was overcome. I wept with no tears, as only a soldier knows how. I brought a bloody hand to my face and covered my quivering lips, trying to contain the heaving of my chest. Marius had said that the men should see only “bravery and unwavering relentlessness” when they looked at us. But the battle was now won, and I didn’t give a damn.
Toughness, Roman dignitas…let city dwellers be concerned with such things. The soldier cares not.
I unlatched my helmet and let it fall to the ground, the plume digging into the earth. I laid my head against the dirt and wept without restraint. With blood-soaked fingers, I scooped up some of the soil beneath me. I had never been so grateful for something in my entire life.
Men charged all around me, as we had past the bodies of the wounded before. I ignored it all. We had won. We had won at last.
“Tribune.” I felt a hand on my shoulder.
Looking up, I realized some time had passed as the men had spread out around the camp to take their share of the spoils.
“Yes,” I said, blinking vision back to my eye.
“I told you to stay behind me.” It was Centurion Herennius, who grabbed me by the forearm and helped me to my feet. His face was splattered with blood like war paint, but he was smiling—the sad but proud smile that often accompanies the victorious.
“I thought we decided I’d watch your flank and you’d watch mine. That’s how I remember it,” I said, trying to smile, which almost forced me into another fit of thankful weeping.
“We’ve won,” he said.
I looked around the camp. Romans were cheering from every corner of it.
“It appears we have,” I said.
“Looks like you’ve had an injury.” He pointed to a gash along my bicep. I don’t know why, but I convulsed with laughter.
“I guess I did. I hadn’t noticed. I’ll use that as my excuse for why I’m shaking so much.” I held out my hands, which were trembling uncontrollably.
The centurion smiled and shook his head before lifting his own hand, which was doing the same.
“No need for excuses.”
“You did well today, Centurion. I’ll be sure to let Marius know.” I patted my face to ensure no snot was dripping over it.
“You have to leave it all here, you know?” the centurion said, looking deep into the only eye the Cimbri had left me.
“What?” I asked, perplexed, wondering if there was someone behind me I hadn’t seen.
“You have to leave it here. Everything you’ve seen.” I looked around to ensure it actually was me he was addressing. Everyone else was pillaging. No one else was near us. “Centurions… Centurions, we keep fighting. So will the men. But you’ll go home. You’ll go back to city life,” he said. I began to offer some kind of objection, but he waved it away. “You’ll go back to city life. Become a politician, raise a family. And then you’ll begin to believe it’s all a lie.” He met my eye and squinted his own. Even in my haze, I believed every word of it. His words, hoarse and strained from the battle, were entrancing. “You’ll believe war is reality. All this,” he said, gesturing to the chaos around us, “you’ll believe this is real, and that is a lie. Don’t let it happen, Tribune. Leave the war here, and return to what you fought for.”
He patted me on the shoulder.
“I will, Centurion,” I said, trying to dissect all he had said.
“This victory will be remembered until the ends of the earth.” He exhaled and placed his hands on his hips. “I don’t give a damn about glory, but it’s comforting to know that these men,” he said, nodding to the battlefield our men had just fought and died on, “will be remembered.”
“It is.” My voice was little above a whisper. I was still wondering if the centurion was a figment of my imagination or a shade of Hades sent by Marius’s prophetess, Martha, to comfort me.
“Hail, Tribune.” The centurion saluted and then spun on his heels to join his men.
A hundred twenty thousand Cimbri died on the field of battle that day. Another sixty thousand were said to have been taken prisoner. The war was over.
32
Scroll XXXII
Two days before the kalends of august 653 ab urbe condita
After the Cimbri camp was destroyed and the captives were gathered up, we marched back together. No amount of rigorous cadence could have stalled the joy of victory. I don’t think even the grimmest of centurions would have wanted to either.
When we arrived back in camp, everyone present lined the path to applaud us. There were no rose pedals to throw as in a Triumph, so they tossed handfuls of dirt and roared their approval.
Most of us couldn’t help but smile, despite our military bearing. Rome’s greatest enemy was vanquished. It was a victory for all. I know, at least, that I was smiling. I wished so badly that my brother had been there to see this moment. He was hard, stern, and dignified to his core, but I know he would have basked in this moment all the same. I smiled more in knowing that he could now find rest, his death avenged and his killers laid low.
I looked for Lucius once we were given orders to disseminate and feast.
His face lit up with joy when he spotted me.
“We made it, you bastard!” He locked his arms around my neck. I hugged him back, struggling for air in his relentless embrace, but I couldn’t help but laugh.
“We did, amicus. We did,” I said, holding my injured arm away from him.
“Gods! I might faint,” Lucius said, noticing the wound. “You’re alright, aren’t you? You need to go to the medicus.” If I remember correctly, it really didn’t look that serious, to a combat veteran, at least. But Lucius was always more concerned for my safety than for his own. If the gods ever created a better friend, I’ve not met him.
I laughed and shook my head. “Not yet. There are far more critical patients that need to be tended to. I’m fine.”
“Quintus, you should at least tie something at the shoulder. Cut off the flow of blood.”
I waved for him to desist, and stepped away.
“What would your mother say, Quintus?” He did his best Marius impression and wagged a finger at me.
“Lucius, I’m fine!” I shouted. “I’m glad that you made it back.”
He nodded and kicked some dirt beneath his feet.
“I’m glad too,” he said. “Go to the medicus when you can!” he called after me as I started to walk away.
“I will!” I hollered back. “This would have never happened if you had sacrificed more pigeons!” His laughter carried out through the camp as I headed straight for the slave quarters.
Apollonius wasn’t there when I arrived, but he must have known I was headed to see him, for he returned shortly.
“Quintus,” he said, his lips already quivering.
“I’m alive, comrade,” I said. He extended his arm for a Roman handshake, which I promptly batted away and embraced him.
“Rome is free of her invaders, and you are free of your servitude,” I said, my voice still strained from the events just hours prior.
“I’m free?” he asked.
“Yes, you are,” I replied.
“I’m a free man?” he said again.
“You are, amicus.” He erupted in laughter, and I slapped his chest. Just as we reached the height of our jesting, he sobered and became silent. Taken aback, I did the same.
“I have a proposition for you,” he said.
“Alright, let’s hear it, then,” I replied, curious more than anything else.
“I’ll work for you. I have the experience to be Rome’s greatest assistant. I’ll take your notes, carry what you cannot, write your letters…and I’ll do it for half the price of the next man,” he said, far more emphatically than was his custom, tapp
ing a finger to his lip and nodding his head.
Rather than replying, I embraced him again.
“I believe I have a task for you, freedman,” I said.
Epilogue
The day after the victory, word arrived that Marius had been elected to yet another consulship. Of all the men who had ever reigned supreme in Rome, none had ever stood as lofty as Gaius Marius the day before the kalends of August.
And his joy matched the occasion.
“Sertorius, my lad! We did it. We crushed the bastards!” he said as I approached him for the first time since the battle. It had been difficult to find an audience with Rome’s most famous individual. He pulled me in close to him and, quite uncharacteristically, kissed me on the head. I could smell wine on his breath but could tell his endearment was genuine.
“We did, Consul. Congratulations on the election.”
“Ah”—he waved his hands—“I don’t care about that. Just doing my duty to the Republic. What I’m happy about is obliterating those Reds from the face of Gaia’s earth.”
He took a few steps away, expecting me to follow. I did, along with a few dozen other officers, all anxious to spend time with a man who could now hand out political favors like cups of wine.
“I could see the look in your eye the whole time, Tribune Sertorius. You doubted me, you didn’t think we’d win.” He smiled and gestured to the victorious celebration all around us to show me that we had.
“I never doubted you, General. Not for a second.”
“By Pollux!” He slapped me on the shoulder and gestured for Volsenio to fetch me a cup of wine.
“You earned it, Tribune,” the giant man said with a grin to match his height.
“Then I’ll drink it.” I raised my cup, and Volsenio raised one of his own.
The mules around us were already singing ballads about the victory, improvising lyrics poorly.
“Consul, there was something I wanted to ask you for.”
“Whatever it is, I bet I’ll give it to you,” the general said as he stopped in his tracks and turned to face me. He placed a hand on my shoulder and tried to conjure up the most serious face he could, despite the fact that he was swaying from the effects of the wine.
“I wasn’t able to collect much of the spoils after the battle.”
“Too busy chasing women, if I know you well enough?” he said to the laughter of the others gathered. He didn’t know me very well, I guess, but I laughed along with them and assumed it was the wine.
“No, too busy kissing my own arse and thanking the gods it was still there.”
“What do you want, then, Tribune? Coin? Girl? Spoils?”
“Actually, Consul, I had something else in mind.” I stepped in and leaned closer so that everyone might not hear my request. “I’d like horses.”
“Horses?” he blurted out, ruining any chance of discretion. He turned and squinted at me. “You’re not thinking about going back to farming and shoveling up horse shit, are you, lad? The survivor of Arausio, the hero of Aquae Sextiae and Vercellae, can’t be shoveling up horse shit. I’m certain we can find a better use for you than that.”
I smiled and shook my head.
“That’s not it at all, Consul. I have a debt to repay.”
He nodded. “How many do you need?”
“How about five? Six?”
“You can have a hundred if you want them.” He waved his hand. “Talk to the stable keeper. Those horses lost their riders in the battle yesterday, so I hope their new master will fare better than their last.”
“I’ll ensure that he does.”
“Go with fortune, then.” He saluted and began to walk away, before turning to make one last point. “But I order that you return before my Triumph. I want you there with me, drinking every cup of wine in the city. Because you earned it. You hear me, boy?” He spoke now to all the soldiers in earshot, and lifted his voice. “You all earned it! This victory is yours!” He returned his attention to reveling in the adoring applause of his men. And I went to collect my horses.
With six horses trailing behind us, Apollonius and I departed for his first task as a free man. Unlike the many journeys I had taken, riding and marching through the Gallic forests, we took this trip slowly. We swapped tales on the way, and made time to admire the flowers, the breeze, the soil beneath us…all of which I had missed in the panic of war with the Cimbri.
When we arrived at our destination, we were neither tired nor ragged, as I had been after my previous treks. Nay, we were refreshed.
“Let’s take them around back, Apollonius,” I said, hopping off Sura’s back and hitching her near the hut.
“Are you certain this is the right home? They all look the same to me,” he asked.
“I’m certain. There was snow up to our knees and it was pitch black outside, but I remember. I couldn’t forget.”
I unlatched the wooden gate and helped Apollonius round up the horses. I was leading them to the field when I spotted a man with a rake.
Alerted, he lifted the tool like a weapon and analyzed us with suspicious eyes under a straw hat.
“We come in peace,” I said in Gallic, lifting a hand and passing the reins I had to Apollonius.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Quintus Sertorius. I’d guess I look a bit different than the first time we met.” He pulled off his hat and stared at me for a moment, the wary look draining from his eyes.
“The runaway?”
“That’s right. And you’re Vallicus.”
“I am.” He tossed the rake down and pulled off his gloves before walking over to greet me. “I’m surprised you live. The Cimbri sent riders through every village within a hundred leagues to track you down. I had no idea I was aiding such a notorious getaway.”
“Well, we wouldn’t have lived if you hadn’t.” I extended my hand to shake his.
He peered over my shoulder to look at Apollonius and the horses we’d brought with us.
“Those are for you. They aren’t the ones you gave to us, but they should perform adequately. Young and healthy, able to work the field, ride, or stud.”
His mouth opened but he didn’t say anything. Eventually he swallowed and looked down.
“I didn’t expect to be repaid.”
“I didn’t expect to be able to repay you. But I’m glad that I can.” He stepped past me and toward the horses. He inspected each one delicately, saying nothing for some time.
“These horses are far more expensive than the hags I gave you.”
“Those hags saved my life, and the lives of eight other men. So they were worth more than anything I could offer.”
He looked down, and for a moment I thought he might weep, but then he composed himself.
“I’m not a Gaul, you know,” he said.
“You’re not?”
“I’m a Lusitanian. The Cimbri butchered my people and forced my family from our ancestral land. That’s why I gave you those horses. I hoped if what you said was true, you might have had some information to help defeat them. I didn’t do it out of goodwill.”
I stepped toward him and patted the horse at his side.
“That information did help defeat the Cimbri. But don’t forget for a second that an act of charity and selflessness, in the midst of warfare and bloodshed, is goodwill. I cannot thank you enough.”
He said nothing more but extended a hand. As I released my grip on his arm, I slid a bag of coin into his palm.
He looked down at it in bewilderment.
“For the clothes you gave us.”
“I protest.” He extended it back to me, but I stepped away.
“The Cimbri are defeated. Go back to your ancestral land, Vallicus of Lusitania. And go with fortune.”
“Perhaps we’ll meet again someday.”
“I hope under better circumstances.” I waved at him as Apollonius and I walked back to Sura, Vallicus watching our every stride, hands trembling on the reins of his new horses.
> “You’re a good man, Quintus Sertorius,” he said as I helped him onto the back of the horse.
“Don’t start with that now, old man. I’ve had enough of sentimentality for one day, or perhaps the whole year.”
He laughed. “Well, you’re a lousy bastard, then,” he said.
“That’s more like it.”
I eased Sura into a trot, headed for Italy.
After any battle, a soldier must check himself to see what he’s lost and what remains. After Arausio, I had lost so much. After Vercellae, I analyzed not only to see what I lost but also what I gained. I seemed to possess much more than I had at the moment I washed up on the bank of the Rhône. I had my life, no war to worry about, a horse and a friend alongside me, and a future ahead of me. For the first time in a very long time, I could accept that. I was going back to Rome.
Did you enjoy :)? Leave a review! For every Amazon.com review, Thirteenth Press, LLC will donate $1 to ASPCA, a nonprofit dedicated to fighting animal abuse.
Didn’t enjoy :(? Email the author at [email protected] and let him know what he can do better!
Sign up for Vincent’s newsletter and receive free Ancient Rome ebooks, family trees, a high-res map, and more!
Acknowledgments
This book is dedicated to the late Scott Pratt, author of the bestselling “Dillard Series”. He served as a mentor to me for a few years before his passing, and without his tutelage and care, I’m not sure I would be here. His son, Dylan, is a reflection of his father and has gone a long way to help me as well. My thoughts and prayers are with the Pratt family, and I hope the dedication of this book to Scott will serve as a small reminder of the legacy he left behind.
My desire has always been to make this an accurate and thoroughly researched novel on the Late Roman Republic, and I have taken painstaking efforts to ensure this is the case. That being said, I am sure there are errors within these pages that I have missed. Where no errors exist, I have many people to thank, their works and their legacies.
The Noise of War Page 29