It was supremely satisfying to watch Primus’chin quivering, his mouth opening and closing several times like hewas a fish out of water. He was clearly being assaulted by amixture of emotion, each one flashing across his face in rapidsuccession. Irritation at me for thwarting him in his wish todepart immediately; and, perhaps at himself, followed closely bychagrin at not being aware of one of the most basic requirementsfor setting out on a campaign, something that even the most juniorTribune would know. Finally, he reached a state of resignation,heaving a sigh and fixing me with a baleful glare.
“Fine, Prefect. You've made your point,” hesnapped. “We won't be departing in the morning, but we willhave an inspection.”
I was sorely tempted to point out thathaving the men prepare for an inspection would take away from thetime we would need to get ready to march, but I decided not to pushmy luck. I rendered another perfect salute before exiting Primus’office. Making my way through the streets of Philippi, I sawstatues of Octavian on what seemed to be every corner, almost allof them bearing some sort of inscription about his great victoryover The Liberators now some fifteen years before. If my mind hadnot been occupied with other matters, I might have found thatgrimly amusing; my recollection of the battle and Octavian’s rolein it was substantially different from what was described on thosestatues. However, my mind was elsewhere, recognizing that I wasgoing to have my hands full with Marcus Primus.
“Did you ask to see any kind of writtenorder?”
This was Scribonius’ first question after Ihad told him about my meeting with the Praetor. I shook my head,and I saw by my friend’s face that I had made a seriousmistake.
“Should I ask to see it now?”
He considered for a moment.
“No,” he said finally. “I think you lostyour chance and if you did now, it would just antagonize Primus andlet him know you don’t trust him.”
“But I don’t trust him,” I protested.
“He doesn’t need to know that,” Scriboniusadmonished. “For once, you need to keep your feelings to yourself,Titus. You’re too close to the end to jeopardize everything nowbecause you can’t hide your feelings.”
I have always found it doubly frustratingwhen I disagreed with someone, knowing that they were right, andsuch was the case now.
“Fine,” I fumed. “Marcus Primus will neverknow that I don’t trust him.”
The men were forced to work well into thenight to get ready for inspection, cleaning the dust from the marchout of every crack and crevice of their gear, varnishing theirleathers, and digging their plumes out of their packs to make themready. Quite understandably there was a great deal of grumbling upand down the ranks, yet I made no attempt to quell it, for a numberof reasons, not least of which I wanted Marcus Primus to get ataste of what happens when an army is unhappy. It was petty of me,and I knew it, but it did not stop me. The next morning, I went tothe Praetorium to fetch Marcus Primus, only to be forced towait by one of his slaves, the kind of cheeky bastard who thinksbecause his master outranks me that this somehow extended tohim.
“Master has not yet risen.” He looked downhis nose, or up it, at me as he said this.
Without another word, he pointed to a chair,turned about, and left the room. Seething, I sat down in my fulldress uniform, including my decorations, both because it was aninspection, but mainly to show this Primus exactly whom he wasdealing with. I do not know exactly how long I sat there, but itwas a considerable amount of time. I passed the time watching thesunlight grow stronger through the windows as the sun rose in thesky. Finally, I could take it no longer, and I stood up, callingout in a loud voice,
“Praetor Primus, there's an army waiting foryour inspection!”
Seemingly out of nowhere, the slave who hadgreeted me came rushing out with a horrified look on his face.
“The Praetor is almost ready, Prefect! Thereis no need to shout!”
“Get away from me before I rip your headoff,” I growled, pleased to see the man almost falling over himselfto scurry away.
I was dangerously close to mounting thestairs to drag the Praetor down to face the troops who had beenwaiting now for most of the morning out in the hot sun, when Iheard him clomping across the floor above. I was standing at thebase of the stairs when he appeared, dressed in the uniform of aLegate of a Legion, complete with scarlet paludamentum andsash. There is no way to describe the physical effort it took tokeep from laughing at Marcus Primus, striking a martial pose at thetop of the stairs like he was posing for a statue, which Isupposed, in his mind, would be happening shortly. Oh, his uniformwas correct in its style and configuration, and it was obvious thathe had paid an enormous sum of money for his cuirass and greaves,made of hammered silver with filigree of gold ivy leaves inlaid inan intricate pattern. Emblazoned on the chest of the cuirass wasthe image of Jupiter Sol Invictus, the rays of sun radiating fromhis head, also covered in gold leaf. All in all, it would have beenan impressive piece of work, yet the effect of martial splendor wasruined by the simple fact that the smith who had created the piecehad obviously done so specifically for Marcus Primus. What thismeant was that instead of the musculature that is customary, givingthe muscled cuirass its name, the creator had to accommodate forPrimus’ huge paunch, making the cuirass bulge out just under SolInvictus. It bulged out so prominently that I estimated that thecuirass could have been used to cook a good-sized amount ofporridge if it had been turned over and suspended over a fire. Evenso, I could plainly see the Praetor’s padded tunic bulging out fromthe sides, making me wonder if he had gained weight since thefitting, or had been too vain to admit how fat
