One of the two cloaked men used his boot to unceremoniously roll the Scythian onto his back. Then, ignoring the merchant’s pleas, the man ripped the sword out of the merchant’s belly, producing a scream of pain and a rush of blood that mercifully killed the merchant a few heartbeats later.
It was the last thing Lucius saw before his mind fell into the dark abyss.
XIII
The early hours of the dawn found the legions already on the move. Tents and palisades that had stood for weeks while the army assembled and reprovisioned, were now struck or burned. The cohorts formed up in order of march, shields slung on the backs of the soldiers, and packs loaded upon carrying poles. Before the sun broke over the trees, the first legion was entering the road, but even they were several hours behind the Treveri cavalry and a cohort of light auxiliaries which went ahead to flush out any Belgae observers or ambuscades. The gleaming golden eagle of the legion went ahead of the soldiers, followed by the lesser ensigns of the cohorts and centuries. A file of trumpeters and drummers kept the cadence as steady as was possible on the rough road, and the leading ranks of soldiers carried axes to cut a path through any trees the enemy might have felled along the way. The legionaries kept good order, marching six men abreast, and when they did not, they were sharply reprimanded by the primus pila – the chief centurion, or First Spear – who seemed to have the stamina of a race horse and somehow managed to be everywhere at once. The first legion was followed by its painfully slow train of baggage and engines. In single file, the wheeled vehicles filed onto the narrow road under the careful direction of the chief quartermaster. When the last cart belonging to the first legion had entered the road, the eagle of the next legion began to march. The great pall of dust hung in the air and grew ever thicker as one legion after another entered the road following the baggage of the one before it. It was well past noon by the time all eight legions and auxiliary cohorts were on the march, a column twelve miles long, stretching as far as the eye could see over and through the forested hills to the north.
Only the Aeduan cohort lingered, guarding the rear and ensuring no Belgae war bands shadowed the Romans. After waiting several hours, the Aeduans also entered the road, but the head of their column turned in the opposite direction from that of the legions, to start the long journey back to their own lands.
From his mount, Divitiacus watched as the final ranks of his spearmen disappeared around a bend on the road south. He would catch up with them later. For now, he had chosen to stay behind. There was some unfinished business requiring his attention.
It was hard to imagine that the trampled, barren plain that lay before him once held forty thousand men and several thousand beasts – enough to inhabit a large town. All that remained now were burning piles of broken wheels and axles, smoking outlines of palisades, and mounds of fresh earth covering trenches and latrines. A few camp followers – or were they local peasants, it was impossible to tell which – ignored him as they sifted through the rubbish looking for anything of value the soldiers might have left behind. How many of them would also joyfully plunder the dead after a battle, not caring which side had won?
Just then, a horseman appeared from the edge of the woods. It was one of Divitiacus’s men. Upon seeing his chieftain, the man galloped his mount over to him. The man was wiry, with sunken cheeks, but he had the eyes of a warrior and handled his horse like an extension of his own body.
“My lord!” he said, hailing Divitiacus.
“Did you find anything, Adalbert?”
“I did, my lord. You had best come see for yourself.”
Divitiacus nodded and followed the man’s lead. Adalbert was his ablest scout, and had the eyes of a hawk, and senses acute as those of a wolf. He led the chieftain back into the forest from which he had come, well off of the road and following no path that Divitiacus could make out. They continued into the thick of the forest until they were several hundred paces away from the road.
Earlier in the day, Divitiacus had heard the stories about the disappearance of the Scythian merchant. The merchant’s retainers were tight-lipped as always, and performed the routine of packing their master’s tents and carts as if he would return at any moment. Though the merchant’s people said little, rumor had it that he had gone alone to a nearby village the previous evening to negotiate the sale of a stash of unrefined ore known to be there. Several in the army had expressed concerns at the Scythian’s absence, especially those who had made deals with the merchant for the sale of anticipated plunder, but the hustle of breaking camp that morning prevented them from looking into the matter further, and everyone assumed the merchant would simply catch up with the column once his business in the village was concluded.
Personally, Divitiacus didn’t care if the fool had been devoured by a bear in the middle of the night. He had never before stooped to doing business with that eastern scum, and never intended to. He would, in fact, have not given the matter a second thought, and would at this very moment be marching south with the rest of his men, had he not been approached in the dark hours of the morning by a very concerned-looking centurion asking if he knew of the legionary Lucius Domitius’s whereabouts. It was the same centurion that Lucius had saved by running to his side in the thick of the skirmish – the one called Vitalis. This was also the man Lucius had said betrayed him and had been part of the conspiracy with Piso and Amelius. That’s why Divitiacus was stunned to see such concern on the officer’s face.
“He missed muster with the rest of the century, my lord,” Vitalis had said. “No one’s seen him since last night. I have to mark him down as deserted, but I don’t want to do that.”
Divitiacus was curious as to why this man would not be delighted at such a prospect, since it might lead to Lucius’s punishment or execution. Isn’t that what he and his cronies wanted?
Vitalis continued. “Some of his mates said he went to meet with that Scythian bastard last night, and never came back.” Vitalis glanced over his shoulder at the assembling legions, and seemed somewhat self-conscious. “He’s been a comrade of mine for a long time. I noticed you had taken an interest in him, my lord. I don’t know what he told you, but I never wished him harm. Things happened that were out of my control. There are many things that I would do differently. Well, I can’t go looking for him, and I can’t send any of my lads either, with the army getting on the march and all.”
“Why do you come to me, centurion?”
Vitalis had hesitated before saying, “I was wondering if you might send some of your men to…well, it isn’t right for me to ask you this, but – ”
“Say no more,” Divitiacus had interrupted him with a raised hand. “I will look into it. Tell no one of this.”
Appearing torn by guilt, Vitalis had expressed his thanks and had jaunted off back to the legion, leaving Divitiacus wondering if Lucius Domitius had finally fallen victim to Senator Valens. If he had, then obviously, the centurion was not a party to it.