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.
"You were going to let that mule’s ass give me the fustuarium, you son of a whore,” Lucius, the victor, said between breaths. “Why, Vitalis? Why?”
Vitalis’s face was covered with blood from his smashed nose and he looked in no condition to respond, periodically spitting out mud that he had inhaled.
Normally, it meant death to strike a centurion, let alone come near to murdering him, but this had been a fight between men, not between officer and soldier. Lucius had been shocked when he was summoned before the legion to receive a decoration instead of a punishment, and he was glad of it, but in spite of that turn of his fortune, there was an account that needed settling. He sent a message to Vitalis carried by one of his tent mates, stating that Vitalis was to meet him at this place at this hour to settle the score between them, or the centurion was not a man. Lucius knew Vitalis would have to respond. Technically, he could have had Lucius stripped of his new medal and flogged for the challenge, but Vitalis also knew that every man in the century would label him as a coward that hid behind his rank. And so, here they had met, and here they had fought. And Lucius had won, and now he wanted answers.