"You should not have suffered the Priestess to live, Tribune. The Samnites will hate you all the more for that mercy."
You cock your head quizzically. "They're a stubborn sort, to be certain, but I cannot see how they would begrudge me sparing their goddess."
The centurion snorts. "Their goddess, and much more besides. These folk are obsessed with disease and death. There is a shrine to Mephitis in every Samnite home, to ward off spirits of plague and sickness. To them, an invasion is contamination, a sickness which must be purged. And Rome? Well, Rome is the greatest disease of all."
He looks over at you for the first time, his face shrouded by the gathering dusk. "You are no fool, that much is clear. But do you even know the job of the priestess whose life you spared?" Without waiting for an answer, he forges on. "If an invasion is sickness, then they must be healed of it, must they not? Indeed, every Samnite who comes into contact with an invader must 'purify' himself by bathing in the Pools at Amscantus. They cleanse themselves of Rome as we would cleanse our homes of plague."
He spits in the dust. "Samnite superstition, obviously. Their gods have no power in Rome -- and make no mistake, Tribune Atellus, this is Rome. They just don't know it yet. But leaving them their Pools will leave them hope. Hope that they can still be purified. Hope that Rome might still be resisted."
His voice is not accusing. Mercator is Roman to the bone, and even his harshest words are filled with the soldier's cool respect, but his words are more than pointed enough for you to gather his meaning.
You blink, then gather yourself. "Had I known --"
Mercator cuts in, his voice cutting through the night air. "Yes. Had you known. Had Sertorius known. But you didn't, and he didn't. Neither of you stepped foot in Samnium before this war. Some of us have fought here our whole lives." Your eyes flicker to the mottled, pink-brown scar which winds from the base of his jaw to the ridge of his forehead.
The primus catches your gaze and smiles grimly. "Yes, a gift from the Samnites, earned the last time I was here. I fought at Aeclanum, under Sulla. He made mistakes too. He left this wretched town standing, in the hopes that it would remind the Samnites that no walls can resist the power of Rome. Yet here we are again." A disgusted look crosses his face, and for a long moment he looks as if he is about to say something more.
Instead, he turns his steed away with a flick of his wrist, trotting her slowly towards the camp. Just when you think he is gone, however, his voice calls out from the gathering darkness.
"Walls or no walls, Tribune, they will always rise up. Leave only ashes, and they can rise from nothing."
