“Prefect? Is this about Porcinus and why Iselected the Seventh? I visited with him before I retired for thenight, and he’s got a bit of a headache but otherwise is fine, Iassure you.”
The surge of guilt that washed through mewas just another emotion on a night that had seen them come inwaves, one after the other, and I briefly closed my eyes. In all ofthe excitement about helping Scribonius, I confess I had completelyforgotten about what had happened to Gaius.
“No, that’s not what this is about,” Isnapped. “It’s about another matter and I need to speak with youprivately.”
Macrinus turned to move back into hisprivate quarters, waving me to follow him, but I did not move.
“We need complete privacy,” I insisted.
Macrinus looked worried now, telling hisslave to leave the tent, rousing his body slave from his pallet inMacrinus’ private quarters as well. When they had departed,Macrinus was clearly fully awake and equally concerned.
“This has nothing to do with Porcinus, oranything with you or the 8th,” I assured him, and herelaxed somewhat.
I went on to explain what I needed from him,except I did not say why. I had decided I would only tell him if Iwas forced to, not because I did not trust Macrinus with thesecret, but because Scribonius’ words had sobered me considerablyand I did not want to endanger more men than I had to. After I hadfinished, he did not speak for some time, regarding me with anunsettling gaze.
Finally, he asked me, “Does this haveanything to do with Scribonius?”
I was startled, and I knew my face showedit.
“Perhaps,” I said cautiously, not sure howmuch he knew or how it was possible that he knew it.
“That’s all I need to know,” he repliedimmediately. “I’ll take care of it. When is this happening?”
“Immediately,” I answered.
“Then I better get moving,” was his onlycomment as he went back into the back to retrieve his belt andvitus.
I left Macrinus’ tent to go back and fetchScribonius. Walking along, my mind whirled with all that hadhappened, but I felt a sense of relief that at least someone hadchecked on Gaius and that he was all right, relatively speaking. Myfriend was still sitting on his cot, rising to his feet when Ientered. I waited as he bade a brief but emotional farewell to histwo former slaves, both of whom were sobbing, though I did not knowif it was from sorrow at their master’s departure, happiness abouttheir impending freedom, or both. With that, we left the tent,making our way to the stable, where Diocles and Agis were waiting.They had Scribonius’ horse already saddled, along with a mule fromthe pool of spares. I would have to account for the loss of themule in some way, but that was a minor matter that I could dealwith easily enough.
“Don’t let him steal my books, you littlepederast,” Scribonius joked to Diocles, who was standing there withessentially the same look as Scribonius’ slaves. They embraced,then Scribonius mounted the waiting horse, waiting while Agis tiedhis pack and some other essential items to the pack saddle of themule. As we had planned, Scribonius wrapped the lower part of hisface with his neckerchief, pulling his cloak up high on hisshoulders to further obscure his face. As we walked alongside eachother, we said nothing, both of us knowing that there was not muchleft to say, and time was our enemy. What I had thought I imaginedearlier was now brutally real; the sky was definitely lightening tothe east, meaning we only had moments to finish this. Scriboniuswould be leaving by the Porta Principalis Dextra, the right sidegate of the camp. I had selected this side because unlike the PortaPraetoria or even the Porta Decumana, as a side gate it was not asheavily manned, nor as well lit. Most importantly, men like MarcusPrimus most likely did not even know of the existence of these sidegates, since they only ever entered by the Porta Praetoria, or thePorta Decumana. Even though this is something of an exaggeration, Iwas very confident that the chances of running into anyone whomight pose a threat to all that was taking place was extremelysmall.
When we approached the gate, I becameworried, because I could see in the waning darkness what lookedlike many more men than would be normally manning a side gate. Myfirst thought was that somehow Primus had discovered what washappening and had sent the provosts to stop us. Drawing closer, Isaw that there were two lines of men, and that was when I realizedwhat was happening. So did Scribonius, and I heard him let out agasp as his eyes took in the same sight. I did not know how, butFlaminius had alerted the Centurions of the 13th Legion,and they had formed up into an impromptu honor guard, close tothirty men on each side, all of those surviving the day’s battleturning out to honor their former unofficial Primus Pilus. Of allthe things that could be said about Sextus Scribonius, I believethat simple act, in the darkness of a pre-dawn morning in Thrace,spoke more eloquently than any oratory by Caesar or Marcus Antoniusever could. He had been their Primus Pilus for a short time, yet inthat period, he had forged a bond of respect and I believesinglehandedly resurrected the 13th Legion from thepathetic specimen they had been under Natalis into a true, fightingLegion. The men gathered there recognized the gift he had giventhem, one beyond price, the return of a fighting man’sself-respect, and I had little doubt that his actions had actuallysaved lives during the battle just the day before. Passing betweenthe two rows of men, I could hear the Centurions murmuring theirthanks to Scribonius, who was riding his horse with his head bowed,covering his face with his hands, too overcome with emotion tospeak. I was almost as affected at the sight, thinking that it wasthe best gift that he could have received. Sextus Scribonius neverreceived the kind of accolades that I had, but it was
