“They are what is left of Caesar’s bodyguard,” Divitiacus said, confirming Lucius’s suspicions.
“A pity Valens is not among them.”
Divitiacus nodded. “Every one of those bastards swore to his own innocence before he was strung up. If you believe their story, Valens ordered them to follow him. The rascal told them Caesar had detached them for special service. They believed it, and ended up on the other side of the field. When the battle turned in Caesar’s favor, and it was clear the proconsul was still alive, Valens turned tail and ran. They say he simply threw away his helmet and emblems of office and rode away. They claimed not to have any knowledge of Valens’s conspiracy, nor of the deal their treacherous comrades made.”
“Do you believe them?” Lucius had asked.
Divitiacus had shrugged. “When one has been a chieftain as long as I have, young Lucius, one learns that the truth is irrelevant in such matters. An example must be made. They are the example. Do you think for one moment that I feel safe when encircled by my own bodyguard? Certainly not. In fact, I watch them closest of all. I’d sooner lay my balls on a smith’s anvil than turn my back on them. It’s fear that keeps them loyal, Lucius – fear of the certain punishment that awaits them, should anything happen to me. Fear protects me, Lucius. Fear protects Caesar. When one rises to prominence such as his, no man can be trusted. Fear is all that remains.”
Now, as Lucius followed Alain down the lane of the oppidum, he pondered how he now had something in common with the proconsul. He and Caesar would both have to watch their backs, now that Valens was free. Who knew where the devious senator would go? Certainly, he would never show his face in Caesar’s province again. Would Caesar send letters back to Rome exposing him as a traitor, or would he tuck this incident away for later advantage? Would Valens ever try to resume his seat in the Senate? The senator had a large clientele. If he reached home alive – either in Italy or in Spain – he could easily lay low in some comfortable villa. Given time, he would probably find a way to recover politically, though it might take years. Something deep inside Lucius told him he would never be truly free until his gladius was buried to the hilt in Valens’s chest.
But that concern was for another day. Now, he would repay the debt he owed the Belgic maiden.
Some distance away, in the middle of the lane, Vitalis stood, casually holding his vine branch behind him in both hands. He watched attentively as his men entered each of the huts one by one, ensuring that each emerged and that there were no problems. Then his eye caught sight of Lucius and the boy that was with him venturing to one particularly large house. He watched curiously as they were met at the door by a Belgic maiden with eyes streaming with tears. Her eyes brightened briefly at the sight of the boy. She embraced him warmly and appeared to speak a few words of thanks to Lucius. Then, surprisingly, she invited them both in, and all three disappeared inside the hut.
Vitalis wondered how the girl could ever be so cordial after the slaughter of the previous day. Her tears had not been of joy, but of mourning. Perhaps she had lost a husband, or a father, in the battle. If so, how could she greet her enemy so openly? Vitalis could never understand such people. He would rather die than face defeat.
If the girl had been mourning one of the fallen, her misery had plenty of company. The whole town seemed to be comprised of wailing women, judging from how many he had seen already this morning.
Thinking little of it, Vitalis sighed. He had seen the horrors and loss of war in a dozen lands, and he had quite come to terms with it. There were the weak, and there were the strong. There were the conquered, and there were the conquerors. All men, everywhere, belonged to one of these groups. That was the way of things. He had heard of philosophers who claimed that it was possible to belong to neither group, that all men could simply co-exist. But such an arrangement was only possible if all men adopted it simultaneously. That could never happen, so it was utter foolishness. Like the wolves in a pack, man’s nature was either dominance or servitude. One was superior, the other inferior. Each had his place, and each needed the other to survive. The sooner the order of dominance was established and accepted by all, the better for all.
From one of the Nervii houses came the cry of a child. For a brief moment, the stoic centurion’s mind flashed to a day far in the past, a day almost forgotten, when a carefree nine-year-old Roman boy playing on the streets of Nova Carthago was summoned home, and then rather abruptly informed that the ship carrying his mother had foundered in a storm, and all were lost at sea.
Vitalis was stirred from his reflection by a sudden movement at the back of the house that Lucius had just entered. He had seen it out of the corner of his eye – a shadow only, there one moment, and gone the next. Whatever had caught his attention, there was nothing there now. Had he seen anything at all, or were the long afternoon shadows playing tricks on his mind?
XXXII
“She says, though you are an enemy, she thanks you. It is most thoughtful of you,” Alain translated what Gertrude had said.
She was weeping now, rubbing the long braid of gray hair that Lucius had given her. She held it to her face, allowing her tears to run through the oily fibers. It was her father’s hair. The single braid was the only thing Lucius had retrieved from the plundered body. He would have given her both of her father’s braids, but the other had been dyed red by the chieftain’s blood, so he thought it best to leave it behind.
“Please tell her, he met his death most bravely,” he said to Alain. “He died fighting, with his sword in his hand.”
After a long moment staring at the braid and running her fingers through the weave, she looked at Lucius with reddened eyes, said something, gave a small smile, and then gestured to the door.
“What did she say?”
“She asks that you now go.”
“I can’t do that. She helped me, and I have sworn to protect her. Should any of my people try to loot this place, she’ll need me here.”
“She considers your debt repaid, Roman. She would rather consign herself to the protection of her gods than to those who killed her father.”
Lucius looked at her but she did not return his gaze. Instead, she seated herself at the table and lovingly stroked her father’s hair.
“Alright, if that’s the way she wants it,” Lucius said, resignedly. “And how about you, Alain? You’re welcome to come with me. There are lots of boys in the legions. They clean kits, and help with the camp chores. Some decide to join the legions, when they’re old enough.”
Alain shook his head. “I will remain here. She has always been kind to me, and she will need me.”
“Well, I can’t think of a better – “
Lucius was cut short by a sound in the room behind him, a rushing sound like that of a cloak being dragged swiftly along the floor. He saw that Gertrude’s eyes were looking past him and filled with horror. She let out a sudden scream that made him instinctively draw his sword and jump to the side. That jump saved him from certain death, but it was not in time to prevent the black-robed figure that had rapidly crossed the room from the backdoor from stabbing into his arm with a jagged-edged dagger, knocking his sword to the floor.
Gertrude continued to scream as he backed away from the frail-looking figure. He immediately recognized this apparition as the druid woman that had presided over the sacrifice. The cut in his arm was deep, and he held his other hand over it to keep the bleeding under control. But before he could collect his senses, the woman swiftly came at him again, dragging one foot behind her, seemingly oblivious to her previous frailties, her sinister dagger held high and ready to strike.