“Other than never being able to come out ofmy home so that nobody ever knows I am alive, you mean?”
He shook his head sadly.
“No, that’s no life to have.”
“Why do you think that?” I laughed, thoughit was a bit forced.“You’re not nearly that important. Once we getpast this, Primus will forget about you, and so will Octavian.”
“It’s not me I’m worried about,” he saidquietly. “And while I agree about Primus, it’s Octavian thatconcerns me.”
He leaned forward to stare at me with ablazing intensity that I had rarely seen on my friend’s face.
“You’re talking about a man who knows downto the last chickpea how much Publius Servius eats, who knows thenumber of links in every mail shirt. If a sparrow dies in theForum, Octavian knows about it before it’s finished falling to theground.”
Scribonius pursed his lips, shaking his headagain.
“No, that’s a risk I can’t take. Because ifand when he discovers our ruse, he won’t come after me. He’ll comeafter you.” He jabbed a finger at me to emphasize his point.
“You don’t know that for sure,” I mutteredweakly, not really believing it myself.
“No,” he acknowledged. “Not absolutely, butgiven your history, I think it’s highly probable that he would.Titus, you don’t have the same relationship with Octavian that youdid with Caesar, and it’s very clear to anyone with eyes that thenephew doesn’t feel about you the way his uncle did.”
That I could not argue with and, for thelast time, I was reminded that Sextus Scribonius was a truefriend.
“So where are you going to go?” Isighed.
“I’m not sure. Someplace warm. I’m tired ofthese winters where my bones ache. I want to spend my last years inthe sun.”
His face lit up as he thought of somethingelse.
“And someplace where there are a lot ofbooks.”
“Alexandria,” I said immediately, whichsurprised him.
“But Caesar burned the library down.”
“Caesar didn’t; it was an accident,” I saidpeevishly. “And he burned down the annex, not the mainlibrary.”
Scribonius considered this for a moment.
“Alexandria,” he mused, drawing the word outas he turned it over in his mind. Then, shaking himself out of hisreverie, he stood, then stooped to pick up his pack.
“I do have another favor to ask of you,” hesaid, his face turned away from me.
“What’s that?”
“Please care for my books. If you can shipthem to me when I get settled, and send word, I’d appreciate it.The other things ...” He waved at his small desk, bookshelf, andcot. “You can burn them for all I care.”
“What about them?” I jerked my head in thedirection of the outer room, where his two slaves were sobbing notso quietly. In answer, he handed me two small scrolls.
“These are the manumission documents thatthey’ll need, per the instructions of my will. You still have it,don’t you?”
I nodded; we had been keeping each other’swills for many years by that point, once Vibius and I had fallenout, and Scribonius’ own close comrade had retired. The tightnessreturned to my chest with talk about his will, the thought ofhaving to go through the process of reading it extremely painful,even knowing that he was not really dead. For all intents andpurposes, he was as close to dead to me as it was possible to get,since I knew that the likelihood of me seeing him ever again wasextremely small. A thought occurred to me.
“What about your money in the Legionbank?”
He thought for a moment, then shrugged.
“I trust you,” he said simply. “Do somethingwith it that I’d approve of, or if you can figure out a way to getit to me once I’m settled, then send it to me. Either way isfine.”
I found it hard to believe that he would beso casual about what was essentially his life’s savings, and I saidas much.
“Titus, as frugal as you are, you can’t holda rotten fig to me.” He laughed.
Reaching down, he picked up his cloak, andthen, with two hands, offered it to me. Thinking his actions odd, Ireached out to take the cloak, but when he let go, it tore from mygrasp to fall to the ground with an odd, slightly metallic sound.The cloak was extremely heavy, and I understood then why he was notso concerned.
“How much is in that cloak?” I gasped.
“More than enough,” was his only reply.“It’s sewn into the lining.”
“You better never take it off.”
“If the ship goes down, I’m in trouble,” heagreed with a laugh.
Finally, there was nothing really left tosay, and I knew that any words I could think of would still neverbe enough. Instead, I crossed to him, engulfing him in a hug, andwe stayed that way for some time, neither of us wanting to saygoodbye. But dawn was rapidly approaching, and we had to getScribonius out of camp as quickly as possible.
Since the 13th had been inbattle, they were naturally not required to mount the guard thatnight, so telling Scribonius to stay put, I went to find Macrinus.The lamp in his tent was out, signifying that he was asleep, yet Ihad no choice but to wake him up. I rapped loudly on the piece ofwood that was suspended from the tent ridge pole for that purpose,and it was only a moment before I heard shuffling from inside,followed by the inevitable delay as Macrinus’ slave fumbled aboutfor his tinder box to light a lamp.
“It’s Prefect Pullus,” I called outimpatiently, casting a worried eye toward the eastern horizon,trying to determine if the lightening just above it was real or myimagination. The flap was pulled aside, and once again, I peeredinto a single eye, this one squinting in the darkness.
“Hurry up,” I snapped. “I need to speak tothe Primus Pilus immediately. Go and wake your master, now!”
The flap was dropped, and again, I heard ascuttling, followed by a mumbled conversation, whereupon the slavefinally managed to get a lamp lit before returning to the front ofthe tent.
“Come in, Master,” he managed to yawn andmake it clear that he did not appreciate being disturbed in thesame breath.
Pushing past him, I entered the front areathat served as the Legion office. Macrinus emerged from his
