Chapter 3

‘You’re in Gaza now,’ he remarked, half-contemptuously. ‘In Gaza, you will find, we do things the easy way, and are more patient than our better-dressed equals in Rome. Incidentally,’ added Sextus, dryly, as he led the way down the hall, ‘I too am a Roman citizen.’

‘How long has Centurion Paulus been in command here?’ asked Marcellus, glancing about the large room into which Sextus had shown him.

‘Since December. He took over temporarily, after the death of Legate Vitelius.’

‘What did Vitelius die of?’

‘I don’t know, sir.’

‘Not of wounds, then,’ guessed Marcellus.

‘No, sir. He had been ailing. It was a fever.’

‘It’s a wonder you’re not all sick,’ observed Marcellus, dusting his hands, distastefully. Turning to Demetrius he advised him to go out and stand guard over their equipment until it was called for.

Sextus mumbled some instructions to the sentry, who drifted away.

‘I’ll show you the quarters you may occupy until Commander Paulus returns,’ he said, moving toward the door. Marcellus followed. The room into which he was shown contained a bunk, a table, and two chairs. Otherwise it was bare and grim as a prison cell. A door led into a smaller unfurnished cubicle.

‘Order another bunk for this kennel,’ growled Marcellus. ‘My slave will sleep here.’

‘Slaves do not sleep in the officers’ row, sir,’ replied Sextus, firmly.

‘My slave does!’

‘But it’s against orders, sir!’

‘There are no orders at this fort—but mine!’ barked Marcellus.

Sextus nodded his head, and a knowing grin twisted his shaggy lips as he left the room.

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