We camped that night half a mile off the road, in a shallow valley amid low hills. Antony pointed out the site's defensibility.
"Is there really any danger of attack, Tribune?" I asked. "The mountains are to our right, the sea to our left. Behind us is Corfinium, securely garrisoned by Caesar's men. Before us is Brundisium, which I presume to be surrounded by Caesar's main force. I should think we're as safe as a spider on a roof."
"Of course we are. It's all my years in Gaul. I can never pitch camp without thinking something unseen might be lurking in plain sight."
"In that case, could I have my dagger back? The one that Otacilius confiscated? He took daggers from my slaves, as well."
"Certainly. As soon as we've made camp."
The men shucked off their armor and set to work pitching tents, digging a pit for the latrine, kindling a fire. I went in search of the baggage wagon. A small knot of men surrounded it, looking down at something on the ground, talking.
"The fever must have taken him."
"It can happen that quickly, with a wound like that. I've seen stronger men bleed less and die faster."
"He was just an old slave, anyway. And from what I heard, a troublemaker."
"Ah, here's the tribune's friend. Let him through!"
The crowd parted for me. I stepped closer and saw the body of the wagon driver on the ground. Someone had crossed his arms over his chest and closed his eyes.
"He must have died during the day," explained a soldier who stood over the body. "He was dead when we came to unload the wagon."
I looked about. "Where are the others? The two slaves who were in the wagon with him?"
Tiro and Fortex stepped into sight. Neither said a word.
The soldiers were summoned to another duty and dispersed. I knelt beside the body. In death, the slave's face was even more haggard than in life, his cheeks sunken around his toothless mouth. I had never even asked his name. When I wanted something from him, I had simply called him "driver."
I rolled him over. Besides the wound at the shoulder, there were several others, where he had been poked and prodded during the march, but they appeared to be superficial. His shoes were thin, his feet blistered and bloody. The tether had worn the skin around his ankles. There appeared to be faint bruises around his throat as well; in the fading light it was hard to tell. Instinctively, I felt my own throat, where the tether had chafed it. But there had been no tether around the slave's throat.
Tiro and Fortex stood over me. I looked up at them. I spoke in a low voice. "He was strangled, wasn't he?"
Tiro raised an eyebrow. "You heard the soldiers. He died of fever, from his wound. He was old and weak. The march down the mountain killed him. That was his own fault."
"These discolorations at his throat-"
"Liver spots?" said Tiro.
I stood and looked him in the eye. "I think he was strangled. By your hand, Tiro?"
"Of course not. Fortex is trained for that type of thing."
I glanced at Fortex. He wouldn't meet my gaze.
"It had to be done, Gordianus," whispered Tiro. "What if he had recovered, and started talking again?"
I stared at him.
"Don't judge me, Gordianus! In times like these, a man has to do things against his own nature. Can you say that you wouldn't have done the same?"
I turned away and walked toward the campfire.