What else could they do? All over the field men fell out of their battle lines and fled, slipping in pools of blood and clambering over fallen bodies. “We go,” Lucius hissed, his hand clamped on Marcella’s arm. “We’re going, it’s a rout, have you seen enough for one day, you bloodthirsty bitch?” They clambered into a chariot left waiting and the driver whipped up the horses in a panic toward the road back to Brixellum. Fleeing legionaries crowded all around, dusty, bloody, exhausted. Several put up their hands and cried to be taken along. One massive aquilifer planted himself screaming in the road, still clutching his ragged standard and hailing them with a clenched fist. Only it wasn’t a fist, it was a ragged stump where some Vitellian had struck off his hand, and Marcella only saw it for an instant before the horses trampled him under.

The Vitellians had no reason to offer quarter to men who could not pay ransom, so thousands of survivors were slaughtered. Others fled to Brixellum, joining Otho’s reserve force there and hoping for a chance at another battle. The rest formally surrendered to Vitellius the following morning, among them the Emperor’s brother.

Lollia’s husband, who had cracked his knuckles busily and counseled Otho to launch an immediate attack without waiting for the rest of the legions to arrive. He’d been allowed to live, for the time being. Marcella had a moment to reflect that whether he lived or died, Lollia would soon have a different husband. Her fifth, Fortuna help her, and she only nineteen.

A substantial force still remained at Brixellum, bolstered by survivors from the battle. Several of Emperor Otho’s advisers counseled leading a second attack against the Vitellians.

Lucius and Marcella were driven at breakneck pace from the battleground to Brixellum, soon leaving the limping legionaries behind. They were swept through a vortex of shouting men, stamping horses, and prowling guards and whisked into Otho’s tent. One look at his taut face told Marcella they were not the first with news of the defeat, but Lucius bowed and gave his report.

“Thank you, Lucius Aelius Lamia,” Otho said, and beckoned a slave for wine. His hand never shook on the goblet; there was even a faint smile on his face, but the dark eyes were turned inward like the blank gaze of a statue. Hours of waiting, then—Marcella knew she should not have been there, huddled in her corner, but no one thought to evict her. She saw Centurion Drusus Densus limp in, holding a wad of rags to a slash on the side of his neck. A final courier fell on his knees, announcing that forty thousand dead littered the field, and a tumult of shouting erupted, whirling around the Emperor in his gilded chair.

Emperor Otho heard all advice calmly before making his decision. Afterward—

There Marcella’s account broke off.