Chapter 3

It was a memorable evening at the fort. For years afterwards the story was retold until it had the flavour of a legend.

Marcellus, accompanied by his orderly, had entered the big mess-hall to find the junior officers seated. They did not rise, but there were no evidences of hostility in the inquisitive glances they turned in his direction as he made his way to the round table in the centre of the room. A superficial survey of the surrounding tables informed Marcellus that he was the youngest man present. Demetrius went directly to the kitchen to oversee his master’s service.

After a while, Centurion Paulus arrived, followed by Sextus who had apparently waited to advise his chief of recent events. There was something of a stir when they came striding across the room to the centre table. Sextus mumbled an ungracious introduction. Marcellus rose and was ready to offer his hand, but Paulus did not see it; merely bowed, drew out his chair, and sat. He was not drunk, but it was evident that he had been drinking. His lean face, stubbly with a three-days’ beard, was unhealthily ruddy; and his hands, when he began to gobble his food, were shaky. They were also dirty. And yet, in spite of his general appearance, Paulus bore marks of a discarded refinement. This man, thought Marcellus, may have been somebody, once upon a time.

‘The new Legate, eh?’ mumbled Paulus, with his mouth full. ‘We have had no word of his appointment. However’—he waved a negligent hand, and helped himself to another large portion from the messy bowl of stewed meat—’we can go into that later; to-morrow, perhaps.’ For some minutes he wolfed his rations, washing down the greasy meat with noisy gulps of a sharp native wine.

Having finished, Paulus folded his hairy arms on the table and stared insolently into the face of the young interloper. Marcellus met his cloudy eyes steadily. Each knew that the other was taking his measure, not only as to height and weight—in which dimensions they were approximately matched, with Paulus a few pounds heavier, perhaps, and a few years older—but, more particularly, appraising each other’s timbre and temper. Paulus grimaced unpleasantly.

‘Important name—Gallio,’ he remarked, with mock deference. ‘Any relation to the rich Senator?’

‘My father,’ replied Marcellus, coolly.

‘Oh-oh!’ chuckled Paulus. ‘Then you must be one of these club-house Tribunes’. He glanced about, as conversation at the adjoining tables was suppressed. ‘One would think Prince Gaius could have found a more attractive post for the son of Senator Gallio,’ he went on, raising his voice for the benefit of the staff. ‘By Jove, I have it!’ he shouted hilariously, slapping Sextus on the shoulder. ‘The son of Marcus Lucan Gallio has been a bad boy!’ He turned again to Marcellus. ‘I’ll wager this is your first command, Tribune.’

‘It is,’ replied Marcellus. The room was deathly still now.

‘Never gave an order in your life, eh?’ sneered Paulus.