Lucius had said it half-jokingly, but a measure of belief registered on the young soldier’s face.
“But the Belgae massacred that cohort from the Eighth Legion,” the soldier said, as if to bolster himself with his own words. “That’s what the tribune told us. They deserved it, didn’t they?”
“And how many men of sword-bearing age did we find in that village, neophyte?”
The young legionary did not answer. He was obviously not encouraged by that response, so he just shook his head and went back to cleaning his boots.
“Less talking, more working,” Vitalis’s voice called from down the way.
The men of the 9th Century went back to what they had been doing before, all but Jovinus, who oddly stood up straight. He was looking at the forest, and his face carried a look of bewilderment.
“Who in Pluto’s name is she?” he said, pointing at the trees.
The men of the century looked up to see that a woman had emerged from the dark tree line. She was dressed all in black, with the hood of her cloak drawn over her face such that her features were hidden in shadow. Her gait indicated that she was either very old or very frail. She was still far away from the camp, but the soldiers could see her plainly enough across the clearing. As they watched, two bone-like hands trembled out of her black cloak as if to point at the idling Romans. Then she began to chant in a voice that sounded as though it originated in the bowels of a bottomless well. The voice was nearly swallowed by the wind, yet clear as if spoken from the orchestra of a theater. The haunting incantation was in the language of the Nervii, and obviously boded something sinister, for no good wishes could ever sound like that in any language.
Several of the legionaries laughed and went about their business, dismissing the old woman as harmless. Others shouted at her and rendered obscene gestures, threatening her if she did not leave. But she went on, stopping her monosyllabic chant only to spit on the ground, before continuing where she left off.
“That old hag’s put a curse on us by now for sure,” Jovinus said. “That’s the mother of all curses, if ever I heard one.”
“Superstitions, Jovinus,” Lucius said. “Nothing more. She might as well be pissing in the wind, for all the good it will do.”
Vitalis’s whistle blew, signaling the end of the shift. The men of the century gathered up their kits and formed up in a loose file to march back into the fort. But before they did, Tribune Piso was suddenly there, pulling up on his skittish black mare.
“Centurion Vitalis!” he snapped.
Vitalis came to attention.
“Why have you allowed that Belgic whore to carry on for so long?” The tribune spat the words. “I have been waiting for you to do something about it! Do I have to tell you how to do your job?”
Vitalis visibly swallowed back the response he would have liked to give. “The centuries on watch should address such matters, sir. Not I. That is the business of the chief centurion.”
“The chief centurion is within the camp, Centurion Vitalis. So, I now make it your job. Have one of your legionaries shut that woman up, before I have you flogged.” Piso glanced once at Lucius and then added. “Have Lucius Domitius do it! Let us see if he can follow orders this time.”
From his position in the ranks, Lucius saw Vitalis look up at the mounted tribune. For the briefest of moments, Lucius thought he saw an exchange between the eyes of the two men that indicated some deeper meaning to the order. Something they had previously discussed perhaps? But Lucius quickly put the ridiculous thought out of his mind. He knew for a fact that Vitalis despised the tribune as much as or more than he did.
Vitalis looked once at Lucius. Strangely, the centurion seemed to be grasped by some internal struggle.
“I will go, sir,” Vitalis said finally, turning back to the tribune. “Legionary Domitius is not armed. The Belgae have lured us with such traps before.”
Piso shot a scathing look at Vitalis, but the centurion avoided the young tribune’s stare and snatched a pilum from the hands of one of the armed sentries. Piso looked as though he might press the issue, but then hesitation crossed his face, as if he was uncertain about making a scene in front of the gawking troops.
“When you are through with that bitch, Centurion,” Piso finally sneered, “you will report to my quarters without delay!”
Without waiting for a salute, Piso kicked his horse into a gallop and man-handled the resisting mare back up the path and into the gate, nearly trampling a cluster of camp boys idling near a parked wagon.
Shouldering the iron-barbed spear, Vitalis cast one more glance at Lucius before marching swiftly across the field to confront the old woman. The woman did not flinch as the armed centurion approached. The haunting chant continued to emanate from the shadowy hood, and she did not stop, even when Vitalis entreated her to simply go away. Vitalis spoke harshly to her, threatened her, swore at her, punched her, even knocked her down, but through it all she never once acknowledged him. She simply rose from the mud and began her curse anew. At one point in the incantation, she spit on the ground. Vitalis appeared frustrated, shaking the spearpoint before the hood out of warning. It had no effect. She spit again. Whether intentional or not, her spittle struck the centurion’s boots. Vitalis visibly sighed. There was only one option for him now, the only recourse to this affront to the Roman army. His station would allow nothing less. Grasping the spear in both hands, he instantly assumed the ready stance of a skilled soldier. Then, with a single lightning quick thrust, he ran the old woman through the midsection. She instantly crumpled to the ground. Vitalis withdrew the bloody weapon with a single jerk as he gazed down at his writhing victim.
Lucius and the other soldiers watched as two frail white hands reached up from the tall grass, as if to beckon Vitalis to come closer. The centurion knelt, and leaned his head down near the dark hood, as if to hear the woman’s dying words. Whatever she said to him seemed to strike some sympathetic chord within him, because he reached down and gently pushed the hood back away from the woman’s face, releasing folds of gray hair that streamed in the gentle wind. Lucius and the others were too far away to see her face, but whatever Vitalis saw made him pause. He knelt there for a long moment just staring into that face, even after she stopped moving.
Lucius could count on one hand the number of times he had seen Vitalis display any kind of emotion in front of the century, and even after the centurion returned to the waiting troops his face carried a detached look that made Lucius wonder if he had not seen a ghost.
“What’s wrong, sir?” Jovinus asked. “What did you see?”
"Form them up, Jovinus,” Vitalis said, either ignoring the question or not hearing it. “Form up, and return to quarters. I must go and see the tribune."
Again, he glanced at Lucius. Then, without another word, the centurion walked past them and soon disappeared inside the gates of the fort.
II
“You called for me, Centurion?” Lucius said as he ducked his head inside the tent.
He found Vitalis there, settled on a stool and staring blankly at the lantern hanging from the center post. The centurion seemed in another world. One hand loosely held a cup which he blindly filled from a half-drained wineskin. It was several moments before Vitalis's face registered any awareness that Lucius stood in his doorway.
“Oh, it’s you, Lucius. Come in."
"I received your summons, sir," Lucius replied evenly.
Vitalis sighed. “Come in, I said, Lucius. Don’t stand there at the door like a recruit. Come in out of the night, my friend. Come in and sit down.”
Lucius nodded and did as Vitalis requested, sitting on a stool opposite him. As Vitalis poured a cup for Lucius, Lucius noticed a ring on the centurion's index finger. It was made of dull gold, and had the worn images of a man and woman engraved on its flat face.