Later that night, while the cold air lingered over the camp like a frozen spirit, the horns once again sounded for the fourth and final watch of the evening. On a normal night Octavius could easily sleep through the routine change of watchmen, but this night, though he had been so tired just a few hours earlier, he found himself restless and wide awake. Funny, he thought to himself, staring through the darkness out the window in his usual spot which he so loved to sit in, how one can be so tired, and yet so stirred inside.
With a soft sigh he shifted slightly, and continued staring out over the parade ground, quietly sorting through his thoughts. It had been an eventful day for everyone in the camp; Quintus, the soldier who Octavius had found wounded after the initial blast, was currently in the hospital fighting for his life with at least seven other men, and at least a dozen others were also wounded, though not as bad as Quintus and the others. There had also been a total of three casualties as of now, which had put Octavius into a depressed, down mood, and he had written the letters to their families himself, hoping they knew just how deeply he felt for them and their lost relative. And just to add insult to injury, five new cases of the mysterious fever had arisen, and the hospital block was filling up faster than Lucius could handle, which left the Medic in quite a foul mood.
There were also things from his previous conversation with the cowboy prisoner that ruthlessly plagued his mind. One was the answer to the question he had been wondering over since the war began, about the fate of the men who had been captured. Now that he knew their fate, he wasn't sure if he was lighthearted and relieved to be free of the wondering and worrying, or if he was angry and upset about what had befallen them. But as much as he longed, there was nothing he could do for them. He had spoken to their leader, and found that he had no power to stop it. Which brought to his mind another thought; the prisoner himself. He had seemed ashamed...regretful, even, about the punishment which the Roman soldiers received, but it was hard to tell if he was sincerely sorry, or just faking it. Why he would fake it Octavius didn't know, it made no sense. But he was slightly surprised to find that he was being truthful about his position.
And there was another thought, still, in the Roman's head that he could not shake. He knew now what happened to his men when they were captured, but what happened to the prisoners he captured? They were treated as well as a Roman general could pull off, and Octavius made sure they had the necessities of food and water, medical care if it was necessary and blankets if it was cold, but what happened to them when the men from the Senate came and took them away? He'd thought of the question numerous times, but never asked, as it was not his place. But it made him wonder; did the government he served have the same law? And if they did, was he sending men to their deaths?
He shook his head, not wanting to think on that topic anymore. There had been enough death the past few days. And why did it matter to him, anyways, what happened to the men he captured and sent away? He was a general. A Roman. Much higher than the barbarians he fought, and surely more important. But as he thought about it, he couldn't recall ever feeling higher than any man, whether they were a soldier who followed commands, or a lowly servant which was looked down upon by all. He was a human like everyone else, so why should he be treated differently? Why should their enemies be treated so harshly? He knew they were in war and all, but there must be a way to end the struggle without so much loss! But as his mind drifted back to the topic of the treatment of prisoners, he once again began thinking of the ones who were sent away…..
He suddenly found himself racing to the main office quarters where himself and his officers held their meetings and where they kept the important documents like the marching schedule and the pay roll. He raced past the man on guard duty, startling him slightly, and stopped before his desk, looking urgently through the pile of scrolls and loose strands of papyrus. He was normally very organized, but due to the stress and the demand to be out on the field with his men, his organization had fallen to distress, and it took him many minutes to find what he was looking for. He picked up a stack of clay tablets which had been sealed with the Senate's signet, and pried off the wax that sealed the binding around it, and quickly sorted through the multiple tablets in the pile. He finally found the one he was looking for, and moving closer to the oil lamp that hung over the desk, studied it in the dim light.
The writing was, not surprisingly, very fluent and contemptuous, which made sense for it was an official document, and he read it carefully through the fluttering shadows cast over it by the lamp. He read through it, and found the specific column of writing he was seeking.
We the Senate of Rome officially declare this document be sent out to General Octavius G. Caesar of Rome…..
Okay….not that column. He scanned the next and found what he needed to know.
We have need to inform you that the next bout of prisoners of war are to be sent up on the 15th of this month, via cavalry accompaniment, and are to be rendezvoused at the bridge over the Tiber at exactly noon on that day…..
Noon. On the 15th of that month. Octavius looked up from the tablet and stared out in front of him at nothing in particular. That meant he had exactly eleven days. Eleven. And only eleven.
Almost without thinking, he sat down at the desk, brushed everything aside, and grabbed up a clean sheet of papyrus, pressing his stylus to the paper and writing as fast as he could. He was a man on a mission. But for what cause he did not know. As he scribbled the words down faster, he suddenly paused, thinking for a moment. What was he doing? He looked down at the paper and read what he'd written.
To the Consuls and the Senate, from the General Octavius stationed on the Eastern Front,
I wish to ask what happens to the prisoners myself and the other generals send. I am curious to see just how great their punishment is, because I feel they must be punished fiercely and without mercy. The prisoners here are worth nothing; not even a broken sandal strap. To effectively rid Rome of such pests, I propose a hideous form of punishment. That is my only complaint.
Putting the stylus down, he read over the document and smiled, hoping his plan would work. He rolled up the paper and sealed it shut, then left the room and went to find the messenger who had rode in earlier that day, before the attack. He caught the man right while he was mounting his steed, and handed him the paper with an urgent request that it be sent at the utmost speed. As the man galloped away, Octavius walked cheerily back to his quarters, happy to be doing something to help the current predicament.