His office, small and austere, and constructed with a rigid economy of space, somehow accommodated a daily overflow of civilians and military personnel, with a long string of complaints, requests and petitions. Sometimes Macellius, who was not a small man, seemed as if physically forced into a corner.
He had almost finished with this morning’s accumulation. Seated on a kind of folding chair and frowning at a roll of parchment in his lap, he was pretending to listen patiently to a plump and effeminate townsman in the toga of a Roman citizen who had been talking uninterruptedly for about twelve minutes. Macellius could have stopped him at any time, but as a matter of fact he had not heard one word in twenty; he was reading the supply list. It would have been rude to turn away a petitioner simply to study a list; it cost nothing to let the man talk while he read it. In any case, he had heard enough to know that Lucius Varullus was simply saying one thing over and over with a number of oratorical variations.
“Surely you don’t wish me to go to the Legate, Macellius,” the falsetto voice continued querulously. Macellius rolled up the list and put it aside, deciding he had listened long enough.
“You can if you like, of course,” he protested mildly, “but I doubt if he’d give you even this much of a hearing, if he had time for you at all.” He knew his Commander well. “You must remember that these are restless times. A certain amount of sacrifice . . .”
The plump underlip of the man across the table went out in protest. “No, no, of course not,” he said, waving his hand in a delicate gesture. “My dear fellow, no one, absolutely no one is readier than I to realize that, but how can I work my farms and my gardens if all the men in the area have been levied? Surely the peace and comfort of Roman citizens must be the first consideration? Why, I’ve had to put my landscape gardeners to work in the turnip patches! You should see my flower gardens!” he concluded mournfully.
“Now really,” Macellius said offhandedly. “I’m not responsible for arranging native conscriptions.” Silently, he cursed the shade of the Emperor who had extended Roman citizenship to fools like this. “I’m sorry, Lucius,” he said — he was lying, and wasn’t sorry at all – “I can’t do anything for you now.”
“Oh, but my dear fellow, you simply must.”
“Look,” said Macellius briefly, “you’re chasing the wrong horse.
Go to the Legate if you like, and see what kind of answer he gives you; I doubt he’ll be anywhere near as patient as I have been. Bring over slaves from Gaul, or offer better wages.” Or, he added silently, get out there with a pitchfork yourself and work off some of that fat. “Now, if you please, I’m very busy this morning.” He let his gaze fall on the scroll again and coughed discreetly
Varullus started to protest, but Severus had already turned to his secretary, a skinny sad-looking youngster. “Who’s next, Valerius?”
After Varullus had grumbled his way out, the secretary showed in a drover who had sold cattle to the Legions. Bonnet in hand, he begged the Excellency’s pardon in stumbling market-Latin for troubling him, but the roads were so beset with bandits . . .
Macellius addressed the man fluently in his own Silurian dialect. “Speak up, man. What’s troubling you?”
When the countryman poured out his story, it appeared that he had been hired to drive his cattle overland to the coast, and there were thieves and robbers, and the cattle already belonged to the Legion, and he was a poor man who could not support the loss of them to outlaws . . .
Macellius held up a hand. “All right,” he said, not unkindly, “you want a military escort. I’ll give you a note to one of the centurions. Take care of it, Valerius.” He nodded to the secretary, “Give him a note to Paulus Appius and tell him to take care of escorting this army beef. No, man, don’t apologize, that’s what I’m here for.”