"Uncle?" The senator's lip curled. His voice remained calm but his tone was sinister. "You do not call me uncle, you perverted, incompetent, son of a horseshit farmer. You have been a poison to my nephew since the day he took you as his bitch lover!"
"No-no," Amelius said, nervously shaking his head. "It's not true. That’s not true, unc – senator."
"Had he never met you, he would have been tending to his duties instead of humping that Belgic whore."
"No no…I didn't…Piso didn’t – "
"Shut your man-defiling mouth! You will never again say my nephew's name from that vile mouth. To think that I had to sit there and listen to that Gaul bare all of Piso’s indiscretions while Caesar looked on smugly! It makes my stomach turn.” The senator then moved over to the cot and took Piso’s bloody hand in his. He looked into his nephew’s jittery eyes, and saw them register on him. "Once, I bounced you on my knee. You were such a delightful child, then. So full of promise. You could have inherited the empire your father and I built together. But you failed, nephew. You failed us, and you failed your family. I warned you, all those years ago, when you were at school in Athens and you came home on holiday. Did I not warn you to stay away from that parasite you picked up there? I told your father to separate the two of you, to send that man-whore of yours back to Athens. But your father only laughed at me. He said you were merely loosening the wineskin before you embarked on your political career. Such a shame." The senator shook his head and dropped the hand and let the arm flop loosely over the side of the cot. "It may take hours, or it may take days, but you will die all the same."
"No, no," Amelius mumbled, his face covered with tears. "The surgeon is coming! Surely, the surgeon is coming, my lord!"
The senator did not acknowledge him but kept looking into his nephew’s pained eyes. "The surgeon will not come. I have ordered him away."
"No!" Amelius said desperately, clawing at the senator's cloak. "You couldn't! In Jupiter's name, why?"
The back-handed blow came swiftly and seemingly effortlessly, striking the blubbering youth across the face and knocking him to the floor. After adjusting his cloak slightly, the senator continued in a subdued tone, again speaking only to the twitching Piso. "You will not see me again, nephew. I go to clean up what you have bungled. But I leave you with one dying wish. I will allow your man-whore to remain behind. I will let him show you how much he cares for you."
Amelius’s face broke into a weak smile as he crawled over to the cot and took his lover's hand. Looking into Piso's eyes the youth said excitedly. "Do you hear that? Your uncle says I can stay. Bless him! I will mend you back to health with my own hands, and tell you each day how much you mean to me. You will get better. I know you will. It will be like old times again, you'll see. I shall never leave your side."
"Your whore is right on one count, nephew," the senator said. He then drew an ornate dagger from his belt and held it loosely in one hand.
Piso’s eyes began to flutter wildly, and Amelius's face turned white, fearful that the senator would slit his throat then and there. But the senator simply laid the knife on the cot.
"Here is my gift to you, nephew. If you are both dead when I return, I will not tell your father how ignobly you met your death. Though the sum is likely to be large, I'm sure I can pay your legate enough to entice him to write a favorable report on you. It is your choice. Farewell, nephew."
And with that he turned to leave, his cloak brushing past the hollow-faced Amelius who stared blankly at the dagger that he must use to kill his companion, and then himself.
The senator stopped before ducking out of the tent and called over his shoulder, "It's an expensive knife. So, try not to get too much of your horseshit farmer blood on it, will you?"
Valens left the tent in a foul mood, and was even further annoyed by the unmanly wail exuded by the young idiot as the tent flap closed behind him. He was more frustrated in himself than anything else, at having succumbed to his brother’s wishes that he arrange a tribuneship for his son, a man-child not fit to lead a band of drunken actors to their next debauch. Valens had entrusted his nephew with the task of eliminating Lucius Domitius more as a test of the young fool’s usefulness than as a necessity. But Piso had failed. Now, Valens would have to come up with some explanation that would preserve the family honor and elude any probing questions from rival families. As much as it touched a nerve in Valens, the only solution was to honor Piso as if he had fallen in battle, to uphold the fictional account that would appear in Caesar’s commendation. The fool’s death mask would preside in the family hall for centuries, and his exploits spoken of by future generations. The true manner in which he had met his end would be covered up.
The night breeze met Valens’s face as he walked between the officers’ tents, situated on the high ground, allowing him to gaze out at the darkened countryside beyond the battlements, where a long line of torches snaked along an invisible path. The two cohorts of the Seventh were arriving, and surely Lucius Domitius was among them.
Valens sighed at the thought that the legionary would be decorated, too. But, no matter. It was an annoyance at worst – a trifling matter in a much grander plan. Where Piso had failed, his own men would not. Legionary Lucius Domitius, the son of Sextus Domitius of Gades, would die, and Valens would never be troubled by that family again.
As Valens looked upon the camps of the different legions, he once again marveled at the unbelievable might assembled. Surely, Caesar was aware of the power one might obtain with such a force – more power than if half the senate rallied to his side.
Valens stomped his foot into the ground in frustration. Would that such power were his to wield.
He quickly bit his lip. Patience was in order. Soon, such power would be his. It was only a matter of time now. Let Gaius Julius bloody Caesar mockingly honor his nephew while inwardly the bastard smirked at his discomfort. Let the Julii bastard have his day, for his day was coming to an end. Valens knew he would enjoy watching Caesar’s world collapse around him, and Valens would be there to pick up the pieces. All that was now Caesar’s would soon be his.
A muffled cry of pain came from the tent behind him, followed by a few sobs, and then silence. The problem of his nephew had been resolved, as would soon the problem of Lucius Domitius.
VIII
The weary soldiers of the two cohorts of the Seventh Legion filed in through the torchlit gate of the camp. They had marched nearly twenty-five miles with few rests, and most did little more than put one foot in front of the other, oblivious to anything but the welcome sight of the camp gates ahead. The procession was greeted on both sides by camp followers waiting for them just outside the gate. In spite of the late hour, or the physical condition of the troops, a throng of merchants acted as though it were market day, displaying everything from baubles to tunics, freshly cooked meats to cups of wine – anything that might relieve the road-weary soldiers of their plunder before they carried it inside the camp to be registered with the quartermaster. Some walked alongside the column, carrying out transactions on the move, and there were other enticements aside from goods. Scantily clad whores were there, too, their dresses unlaced and allowing their breasts to hang freely while they blew kisses to the marching soldiers. Some were free Gallic women, selling their own wares, but the prettier ones bore the collars of slaves. A half dozen of these were bronze-skinned women of the Far East who were being marketed by a large-eyed, swarthy man wearing bright orange loose-fitting garments made of silk that draped his plump form like a sail hung out to dry. On his head sat an ornate turban with a single green jewel in the center.