“I’m with Draco on this,” Aemilius added. “Though I do feel that as soon as we are ready, we strike quickly.”
Silius nodded affirmatively. “I agree,” he said after giving the matter some thought. “The plain is only about three miles from here. I don’t see Sacrovir getting there until late in the day, maybe not until nightfall. We will scope out the terrain and see how we can work it to our advantage. I want the men to focus on building a solid defensive palisade. Should things take a turn for the worse, we need to be able to fall back to a strong defensive position.”
“We’ll make it happen, though I assure you we will not need it,” Calvinus asserted.
Once he was satisfied that they had a thorough assessment of the enemy’s strength, Agricola had his small force move rapidly back through the woods, along the road. Anytime they could find some high ground, he would order a halt and look back to keep an eye on Sacrovir’s movements. It would be close to nightfall by the time they made their way back to the main army. At no time was Sacrovir’s army more than a mile or so behind them.
“Think they’ll try and catch us, sir?” one of his men asked, as they caught their breath from atop a small knoll.
“I don’t think so,” Agricola replied, shaking his head. “They have but a handful of horses, and those are bearing their leaders. I doubt that any of them would have the stomach to fight us themselves.” The legionaries smirked at the assessment of their enemy. “Come on, the open plain is not far from here. Once there, we will make a break for it and head back to camp. If Silius is following my advice, the legion will be encamped just beyond the plain.”
Running for miles in armor took its toll on the centurion and his men. Agricola smiled weakly as he saw the newly erected camp come into sight; thankful that Silius had, indeed, heeded his recommendation. It would have been a much further trek back to friendly lines otherwise. He was hungry and thoroughly exhausted as they moved at a slow jog through the gate.
“You men are exempt from sentry duty tonight,” he told his companions, all of whom stood panting with their hands on their knees. “Go find your section mates and get some supper in you.” With that he slapped each one on the shoulder, told them how well each had done, and sent them off.
Silius came walking up to him, a goblet of wine in his hand. “Here, it looks like you could use this,” he said with a grin. “Actually, if I could get some water first, my mouth is about dried out,” the centurion replied.
Calvinus walked over and threw his water bladder at him, which Agricola proceeded to drain in one long pull. After a few deep breaths, he accepted Silius’ offer of wine.
“The enemy is already arrayed in battle formation,” he said as all three men walked over to the Legate’s tent. “They’ve got quite the unique formation they plan on using. I have to give them credit, it is a rather creative way of trying to disperse our ranks.”
Vipsania was dead. Tiberius rested his hand against a pillar and lowered his head. From his balcony he could just make out the smoke of her funeral pyre. He had elected not to attend, feeling the entire spectacle was an insulting charade. That bastard of a husband of hers would be giving the eulogy; the professional mourners would wail and chant and shed tears as if they indeed bemoaned the loss of Vipsania Agrippina. Tiberius bit the inside of his cheek at the thought of such hypocrisy. He had already said his goodbyes to his beloved, and besides he did not need to provide more fodder fuel for the gossips slanderers. He could not win, of course, for the very people who would cry “shame” at his being present at the funeral of a woman who was no longer his wife, would be the same who would now call him two-faced and hypocritical for having professed his love of Vipsania in life. And yet he failed to even say farewell to her in death. It was these types of people who had used his not having attended the funeral procession for Germanicus as a means of implicating him in his death. Would they now be so crass as to suggest that he had murdered his beloved Vipsania as well? As he stood, tormented by the foul combination of anger and grief, his son Drusus walked out onto the balcony. His head was hung low down, and he held a medallion by the chain in his hand. It was the same one that Vipsania had given Tiberius so many years before.
“The answer is yes,” Tiberius spoke without taking his eyes off the slight wisps of smoke. “You may take that medallion your mother gave me and use its image to issue a series of currency in her memory.”
Drusus gave a sad smile and looked down at the medallion.
“Thank you, Father,” he replied hollowly. When he did not leave immediately, Tiberius turned and faced him. Drusus’ face was filled with misery. There was something added to his burden of the loss of his mother. “Gallus pulled me to the side not two minutes after the funeral was over.”
“Did he now?” Tiberius’ face darkened.
Gallus wishing to have words with Drusus would not come from any sense of mutual mourning. Indeed, Tiberius ventured that the senator was glad to be rid of her finally.
Drusus swallowed hard, sweat forming on his brow. “He told me that with Mother gone it was time for the truth to be told.”
“And what truth would that be?” Tiberius asked, folding his arms across his chest.
“He said that I am not the son of the Emperor of Rome. The cad said he had had a brief ‘fling’ with my mother many years ago-yes, he even put it so crassly-and that I was the issue of that affair.”
The Emperor’s face hardened. Such a story was impossible to believe. Gallus scarcely even knew who Vipsania was when Drusus was conceived and would have paid little heed to the wife of a man who, at the time, was merely the less-favored stepson of the Emperor Augustus. Drusus also shared many of Tiberius’ physical traits, traits that a father would pass down to his son. Tiberius knew that Gallus was not looking to stake any legitimate claims into the parentage of Drusus Caesar; he knew that Gallus’ sole purpose was to cause him further harm and grief. He realized that with Vipsania’s passing the Emperor was weakened. He was also smarting from the humiliation Tiberius rendered him at his own house just a couple of weeks previously.
“You know I don’t believe it. I swear that bastard will say and do anything to harm us,” Drusus continued, reinforcing what his father already knew.
Tiberius remained silent and in thought. At that moment, Sejanus walked out onto the balcony. He stopped when he noticed Drusus and stood with his hands behind his back.
Drusus glared at him, eyes filled with hate. “What the fuck are you doing here, Sejanus?” he asked with venom.
“I only came to extend my condolences to your grieving father. .”
“Like bloody hell you did!” Drusus interrupted. “Come to play upon his sympathies so that you can further your own endeavors, more like. I have no time for you.” As he stormed through the doorway, Drusus made it a point to ram his shoulder hard into the praetorian prefect.
Tiberius gave an audible sigh. It troubled him much to witness the sheer animosity that his son displayed towards Sejanus, a man who had come into his own of late. Tiberius had come to depend on both men equally, and he could not displace one at the expense of the other.
“Forgive my son for his ill manners,” he said, once he was certain Drusus was well out of earshot. “He mourns for his mother.”
“As a son should,” Sejanus replied with a short smile. “I apologize for interrupting you, Caesar. It is only that there were some rather disparaging things said towards your person at the funeral of Vipsania Agrippina.”
“So I’ve heard,” Tiberius replied curtly, turning back towards the city and the now dissipating smoke of the funeral pyre.
“I do not speak of Senator Gallus,” Sejanus remarked. “His disdain for you is of no secret to anyone. No, I speak of others, others who have besmirched the name of the Emperor of Rome under the mantle of mourning. Most are simply malicious; however, others could be construed as treasonous.”