As Lucius and the rest of the 9th century marched by, Jovinus pointed the man out.
“Do you see that man, Lucius?”
“What about him?”
“That’s the one they call the Scythian. He comes from the Far East. They say, for the right price, he can procure anything a man might desire, or imagine. He is rumored to possess riches beyond belief, and is said to be satrap of his own principality.”
“Who? That flighty bastard?” Lucius skeptically studied the unimpressive man who looked quite out of place in the royal attire. He looked more like a fishmonger than anything else, and Lucius couldn’t imagine him ruling anything beyond a cartload of whores.
“An exotic beauty for your bed this evening, my good men?” The dark eyes beneath the turban shifted from right to left as the Scythian spoke. “We have all kinds to choose from. Do you prefer her breasts large, or her hips wide? Or do you like her skin smooth and silky, like the petals of a rose? We can please any desire that you might have.”
The women wore smiles that were painfully artificial, and their eyes were painted to exude an alluring stare, from any angle. Each one wore a silky robe which the turbaned man demanded they drop to their waists on choice occasions when he thought he saw interest in a passing legionary’s eyes. Should one of the women fail to expose herself on cue, the man would not hesitate to violently twist her arm behind her until she was at the point of tears, and in compliance with his demands.
“That one’s got the face of a horse!” one soldier called, which drew laughter from the others.
The turbaned man appeared unfazed by this. “Her? Why, she is not one of mine! Mine are all choice courtesans, brought all the way from the Far East, the lands of legend and myth, where gold flows in rivers, where kings bathe in scented waters and have harems large enough to bed a different damsel every night of the year and never sleep with the same woman twice. My beauties come from this royal stock, given to me as a gift by a prince of Bithynia when I was his royal ward. What common man would not wish to lie where a prince has lain?”
Lucius twisted his mouth in disgust. More likely, the girls were poor and had been stolen from their homes by that jackal when they were too young to speak.
“Why let that gold and silver rust in your purse?” The Scythian continued his pitch. “Purses can be lost, young soldiers, and then what will you have? Or perhaps you would prefer if some barbarian plundered it from your cold, dead, corpse? Have you toiled for so long that a barbarian might enjoy the fruits of your labor? No, of course, you haven’t! Why not spend it now on a night of pleasure that you will never forget?”
Lucius smirked. “He can’t be too rich if he needs to personally peddle his whores off on some poor soldiers.”
“Don’t let his appearance fool you, Lucius. I’ve heard he has his own palace and a thousand slaves. You may want to do business with him before this campaign is over.”
“I’m not sure I trust those girls,” Lucius said, glancing at the sultry eastern women who gazed on the passing soldiers with something that bordered on restrained contempt. “Any one of them looks like she would slit your throat in your sleep just as soon as look at you.”
“Aye, but I can think of worse ways to die,” Jovinus replied laughing. “But I wasn’t talking about the whores.”
“What then?”
“The Scythian is a slave trader of the first order, and is known to pay handsomely. He brings exotic dark-skinned slaves, like those beauties there, and sells them here in Gaul. Then, he buys up pale-skinned slaves here, and sells them in the East. He makes a fortune on them. They say the nobles of Parthia will pay double or triple for a fair-skinned slave. I figure we should each come out of this campaign with a Belgic slave or two when all is said and done. That’s what the centurions say, anyway. I’m going to sell mine to The Scythian. You should, too. He’ll give you a better price than any of those Roman or Spanish traders.”
Perhaps Jovinus was right. If this campaign ended as previous campaigns had, each legionary could expect at least one slave as booty. With more slaves on the market, the selling price had dropped substantially, much to the soldiers’ dismay. Perhaps the Scythian was the answer, should he find himself in possession of a Belgic slave, but at the moment Lucius was more concerned about his own chances for survival. He had still been officially charged with disobeying a direct order, although, since the skirmish, no one had said anything about it, including Vitalis, and no one had attempted to take his weapons away. But now that they were arriving in the Seventh Legion’s camp, and knowing that Amelius had ridden ahead with the wounded Piso and would have arrived hours before, he fully expected to be pulled from the ranks and placed in irons at any moment.
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.