Chapter 3

Then Paulus would salute and stalk out. Sometimes Marcellus wondered whether this frosty relationship was to continue for ever. He hoped not. He was feeling lonely in the remote altitude to which he had climbed in order to maintain discipline. Paulus was, he felt, an excellent fellow; embittered by this exile, and morally disintegrated by the boredom and futility of his desert life. Marcellus had resolved that if Paulus showed the slightest inclination to be friendly, he would meet the overture halfway; but not a step farther. Nor would he take the initiative.

As for Sextus, Marcellus had very little direct contact with him, for Sextus received his orders through Paulus. The big, gruff fellow had been punctilious in his obedience, but very glum. At the mess-table he had nothing to say; ate his rations with a scowl, and asked to be excused.

One evening, after ten days had passed, Marcellus noticed that Sextus’s chair was vacant.

‘Where is he?’ demanded the Commander, nodding toward the unoccupied place.

‘Broke his leg, sir,’ answered Paulus.

‘When?’

‘This afternoon, sir.’

‘How?’

‘Stockade gate fell on him, sir.’

Marcellus immediately rose and left the table. After a moment, Paulus followed and overtook him on the way to Sextus’s quarters. They fell into step, and marched side by side with long strides.

‘Bad break?’

‘Clean break. Upper leg. Not much mangled.’

Sextus was stretched out on his back, beads of sweat on his forehead. He glanced up and made an awkward gesture of greeting.

‘Much pain?’ inquired Marcellus.

‘No, sir.’ Sextus gritted his teeth.

‘Gallant liar!’ snapped Marcellus. ‘Typical Roman lie! You wouldn’t admit you were in pain if you’d been chopped to mincemeat! That bunk is bad; sags like a hammock. We will find a better one. Have you had your dinner?’

Sextus shook his head; said he didn’t want anything to eat.

‘Well—we’ll see about that!’ said Marcellus, gruffly.

By inspection hour next morning, the story had spread through the acres of brown tents that the new Commander—who had had them all on the jump and had strutted about through the camp with long legs and a dark frown—had gone to the kitchen of the officers’ mess and had concocted a nourishing broth for old Sextus; had moved him to airier quarters; had supervised the making of a special bed for him.

That day Marcellus became the Commander of the fort at Minoa. That night Demetrius did not take his dagger to bed with him; he didn’t even bother to lock the door.

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