I did not know what to say, so I saidnothing to her. Scribonius assured me that he would be at theCampus the next morning, and we arranged for him to come to myquarters and accompany me to the Tribunal, which would be held inthe Praetorium. With that, we parted, and even more so onthe way back, I was in no mood to talk.
Not surprisingly, despite my best attempts,I got very little sleep, and was up well before dawn. Even so,Diocles had roused himself before me, going over my uniform anddecorations one last time. My muscled cuirass gleamed even morebrightly than normal and, in curiosity, I asked Diocles what he haddone.
He grinned and said, "I used a light coatingof oil on it after I polished it. I want those Tribunes to see whata real soldier of Rome looks like, at least once in theirlives."
As I donned the harness that held myphalarae, I saw they had been given the same treatment,along with my torq, and the arm rings as well. But the mostimpressive touch, at least so I thought, was the grass crown thathe had woven, placing it around the brow ridge underneath thecrest. The fact that the first time I won it was for saving thelife of Sextus Scribonius, in our battle against the Helvetii, madeit even more meaningful. Looking at myself in the polished brassdisc, I did not believe that I had ever looked this good, orimposing. The only thing missing, I thought, was a vitus,and it reminded me that this was a topic that I had planned onbringing up with Octavian, on the need for a Camp Prefect to havesome symbol of his office when he was not wearing his full uniform.Suddenly, that did not seem very important. With a last look, Iturned and left our quarters, my helmet in my hand, only donning itafter we were outside. Because of my height, even in my quarters,the crest of my helmet would brush the ceiling and the white crestwould get filthy. I mention this because, now that I can look back,I recognize that this was such an unimportant detail, consideringwhat I was about to face, but in that moment, it seemed to beextremely important that there not be a smudge on my crest. Or anyother part of my uniform, for that matter. Diocles began walkingbehind me, until I stopped and pointed to the ground next to myside.
"Enough," I told him, using my tone thatmeant that it was an order. "You deserve to be by my side, notbehind me."
Together, as equals, we walked to thePraetorium where the Tribunal was to be held. Because aTribunal is a military matter, it is relatively easy for those incommand to ensure that there is no audience, but it came as a hugeshock to me that, when we approached the building, by this point amulti-story structure made with brick and mortar, I saw a sizablecrowd of men gathered outside the building. I looked over atDiocles, who immediately started to stare off at a man riding ahorse nearby.
"What's this?" I demanded.
Still without meeting my eyes, my scribereplied, "Master Scribonius might have let some of the veteransthat live outside Rome know that you were facing trial today."
"He might have?" I asked sarcastically."That was thoughtful of him."
"Yes, it was." Only then did Diocles turn tolook me in the eye, saying the words quietly but with such forcethat I immediately felt ashamed that I was not showing the propergratitude.
"You're right," I relented, "and I hope Iget the chance to thank him."
"Oh, you will." Diocles pointed in thedirection of the crowd.
I could not pick out my friend, at leastuntil we drew closer and I saw him standing there, in the same drabcloak, but this time with the hood down. Inwardly, I winced at hishubris, especially here on the Campus, where his identity was ineven more jeopardy if he was recognized. Regardless, I immediatelyheld my hand out as I reached him, clasping his forearm as westared into each other's eyes.
"You look like cac from the bottom ofmy boot," I told him, which was true enough; I doubt he had gottenany sleep either, although it was for entirely differentreasons.
"Have you looked in a mirror?" he retorted,smiling a smile that was all the more meaningful when I saw theteeth, both upper and lower, that he was missing.
"I'm glad you're here," I told himquietly.
"Where else would I be?" He just gave ashrug and looked over his shoulder at the men who were standingthere, talking in low tones. "I thought it might cheer you up tosee that there are some men who are willing to show up to let Romeknow that an injustice is being done."
Looking past him, I felt a huge lump rise inmy throat at the sight of what, to any other observer, would be agroup of old, worn-out men, most of them shabbily dressed, not oneof them without gray hair. Most of them wore their hair short, likeme, although not to the extreme that I did, a vestige of that daylong ago when my head, so much bigger than my comrades’, barely fitinto a helmet without a felt liner. Scanning the faces, my heart,which was already beating a harder, faster rhythm than normal,picked up the pace when I spotted some familiar faces, all of themsmiling their gap-toothed pleasure at seeing an old comrade whorecognized them in turn.
"Glabius?" I asked one wizened, walnut-brownscrap of a man who, if you placed them side by side, could havebeen mistaken for an old pair of caligae. "Is that reallyyou?"
"Yes it is, Prefect." The man, who had beenone of the wide-eyed youths that was part of the originaldilectus of the 10th Legion forty years before inHispania, beamed up at me. "It's good to see you again, sir." Thenhis face darkened, and he spat on the ground before he finishedwith, "But it's a fucking disgrace what they're trying to do toyou."
"Thank you, Glabius." I clasped hisshoulder, worried that if the tears were threatening to form soquickly at meeting this first old comrade, I would
