It pains me to say it, but I began weeping,Diocles’ words falling like hammer blows on me, and I covered myface in my hands. I felt Diocles’ hand on my shoulder, shaking itoff, not because I was angry with him, but because I did not feelworthy of any comfort. Diocles’ words had been brutally honest; mytemper was not something that I was proud of, and had beenstruggling with my whole life, and continue to do so even now in mysixties. His words were all the more painful because they weretrue. There had been no need to speak harshly to Scribonius; Icould see in his face how much anguish he was in, yet I still feltthe need to lash out at him. I still do not know why I felt thatneed, and I certainly did not that night.
“Where is he?” I asked, hating the sound ofmy voice, choked with emotion. “I must beg his forgiveness, nomatter what. And I must do it tonight.”
“Oh, Master,” Diocles sighed. “MasterScribonius has forgiven you. He forgave you as soon as you said it,like he always does. And as he always does, he made excuses foryou, saying that you were obviously in great distress from theevents of the day.”
That was true enough, but so was everyoneelse, including Scribonius.
“Did you even bother to find out exactly howthe Tribune died?” Diocles asked quietly.
My heart, already feeling like it was in thegrasp of some invisible numen, squeezing it like a whore’stit, thudded even more heavily against my ribs. In fact, I had notso I shook my head, saying nothing.
“He ranged too far ahead of the others,”Diocles said, and I remembered that much, my last sight of theyoung Tribune having been as he was pulling away, Scribonius in hotpursuit. But the Tribune was a wealthy young man, from a patricianfamily, so the quality of his mounts far exceeded anything that theEvocati, or even the cavalry rode. It was little wonder that hepulled ahead, and Diocles continued his recounting of the Tribune’sdeath.
“The Thracians he was pursuing obviously sawhim separate himself from the others, and they went racing into awooded area, where they immediately dismounted. Instead of stoppingto wait for the others to catch up, he plunged into the woods. And,well, you can imagine what happened then.”
I could, sure that I knew the rest of thestory without Diocles having to tell it. It takes a considerableamount of skill, timing, and luck, but a dismounted warrior candefeat a mounted man, particularly one in headlong pursuit that isas inexperienced as Scipio was. The simple truth, however painful,was that either one of the other Tribunes, who were mounted onhorses of comparable quality to Scipio’s beast, or me, ridingOcelus, would have had a chance of reaching him and reining him inbefore it was too late. And it was highly unlikely that the otherTribunes would have had the wherewithal or self-possession in thatmoment to recognize the danger, since they were equallyinexperienced. In fact, it was simply a matter of luck that it wasnot Lucullus or Libo, although I could not see Silanus puttinghimself in such danger. Diocles and I sat in silence for manymoments, both of us spent.
“If you feel that I should be punished forwhat I’ve said to you, Master, I completely understand.”
“Punish you for telling me the truth?” Iasked, swallowing the bitterness that I felt. “I wouldn’t compoundthe sins I’ve committed today by whipping the only man willing tostand up to me.”
I stood then, wiping my eyes, and Dioclesstarted to rise, but I put a hand on his shoulder.
“Stay here. I have to go find Scriboniusbefore the night is over.”
I wandered through the camp, looking inevery spot that I had long since learned men go for what littleprivacy can be found in an army camp. I returned to his tentseveral times, but he was never there, and I was about to give upin despair when I decided to go up on the rampart near the PortaPraetoria. I found him there, staring out into the darkness, hiscloak wrapped tightly around his body, despite it not being achilly night. He did not see me immediately, so I stood simplywatching him for a moment, trying to decide the best way toapproach him. I had been rehearsing what I planned to say on mywalk through the camp, but suddenly all the words left me. Even inthe light from just the torches that lit the gateway, I could seethe sadness and fatigue etched in Scribonius’ face, those lines Ihad seen earlier that day on the field even deeper now. Swallowinghard, imagining that it was my considerable pride that was causingthe lump in my throat, I walked over to stand by his side, sayingnothing at first. He did not even seem to notice, then, out of thecorner of my eye, I saw his head turn, taking me in as I stood nextto him.
“I had all these things I was going to say,but nothing comes to mind now,” I began.
I heard a small snorting sound.
“Then that’s a first,” he said wryly.
“Sextus.” I was determined to say what I hadcome to say, even if I was not sure what it was. “The reasonnothing comes to mind is because there are no real words to say howsorry I am. You did nothing to deserve my treatment of you, and Ihumbly beg your forgiveness. Will you forgive me?”
To that point, I refused to look at himwhile I was speaking, but now when I turned, I saw him regardingme, one eyebrow raised almost to where his hairline had oncebeen.
“That must have hurt,” he commented, anddespite the fact that I was completely serious, I had to laugh.
“It did,” I acknowledged. “Even more becauseI mean every word. Sextus, you had nothing to do with killing thatboy. I know that now. Pluto’s cock, I knew it then, but as usual, Iwas angry about something else, and I took it out on you. Andthat’s what I’m apologizing for, but I’ll completely understand ifyou don’t accept it.”
My
