When the drover had gone out, he added testily, “What’s Paulus thinking of? Why in heaven’s name did this come all the way up to me? Any decurion down the line could have handled it!” He drew breath, striving for his customary calm. “Well, send in the next one.”
Next was a Briton named Tascio who had come about selling some rye. Macellius scowled. “I won’t see him; that last lot he sold us was rotten. But we need it; grain’s in short supply. Listen. Offer this gouger half of what he asks; and before you sign for the treasurer to give him his pay, get half a dozen of the cooks from the messes to come and look it over. If it’s rotten or moldy, dump and burn it; rotten rye will give the men the burning sickness. If it’s good, pay him the half agreed on, and if he gives you any trouble, threaten to have him flogged for cheating the Legion. Sextillus told me five men were poisoned by the damned stuff last time. If he still kicks up a fuss, turn him over to Appius,” he went on, “and I’ll put in a complaint to the Druid Curia, and what they’ll do to him won’t be half so kind. And by the way, if this lot is rotten put him on the blacklist and tell him not to come around here again. Is that clear?”
Valerius, looking sadder than ever, complied. For all his skinny poverty of appearance, he was extremely efficient at this sort of thing. As he started to leave, Macellius heard his incongruously husky bass rise in surprise.
“Hullo, young Severus. You’re back again?” Macellius heard a familiar voice reply, “Salve, Valerius. Hey, take it easy, that arm’s still sore! Is my father in?”
Macellius arose so precipitately that he upset his chair. “Gaius! My dear boy, I was beginning to worry about you!” He came round the desk and briefly clasped his son in his arms. “What kept you so long?”
“I came as soon as I could,” Gaius apologized.
He felt the boy flinch as his grip tightened and abruptly let go. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”
“Not really, it’s nearly healed. Are you busy, Father?”
Macellius looked around the small office. “Nothing here that Valerius can’t handle perfectly well.” He regarded his son’s dusty garments with disapproval, and said with some sternness, “Must you go about the camp dressed like a freedman or a native?”
Gaius’s lips tightened briefly, as if “native” had stung. But his voice was matter of fact and without apology when he replied. “It’s safer to travel this way.”
“Humph!” But Macellius knew it was true. “Well then, couldn’t you at least bathe and dress decently before coming into my presence?”
“I thought you might be anxious about me, Father,” Gaius said “seeing that I’d overstayed my leave by a couple of days. With your permission I will go and bathe and dress. The only bath I’ve had this week was in the river.”
“Don’t be in a hurry.,” Macellius said grumpily. “I’ll come with you.” He let his hand rest on the younger man’s forearm, gripping it without words. For some absurd reason he always worried whenever Gaius was away that the boy would not return; he did not know why, for the youngster had always been very self-sufficient. Seeing the bandaged arm had frightened him. “Tell me what happened now; why the bandages?”
“I fell in a trap dug for boars,” Gaius said. “One of the stakes
went through my shoulder.” His father paled, and Gaius added reassuringly, “It’s all but healed now; doesn’t even hurt unless I knock it against something. I’ll be carrying a sword again in six weeks.”
“How?”
“How did I get out?” The boy grimaced. “Some Britons found me and doctored me till I was on my feet again.”
Macellius’s face betrayed what he could not express. “I hope you rewarded them suitably.” But Gaius appeared to understand the solicitude hidden behind the indirection.
“On the contrary, Father, hospitality was offered in a noble manner and I accepted it in kind.”
“I see.” Macellius did not press the matter. Gaius tended to be touchy about his British blood.