men walked over to Adas. “Mind if we talk with you?” asked one of the decurions. Adas gestured to the empty table and they sat. “Valentius said you were drunk yesterday and hit your head. Hitting the ground didn’t make that cut under your jaw, and none of us have ever seen you drunk. What’s the real story?”
Adas took a slow breath. “I wish I knew the real story. Something hit me, and the next thing I knew, I came to alone.”
The men grumbled vague comments. They rejoined the others to add fuel to the rumor mill. A young slave approached and asked for instructions. The boy tried to ignore Adas’s injuries, but was forced to confront the eyes of a wolf.
“You must be new,” Adas addressed the child. “How old are you? What is your name?”
“I am nine, Sir. My name is Onesimus, Sir.”
“Onesimus, a fine name. Who is your master?” Adas noticed he had no obvious injuries or signs of starvation.
“My master is Tribune Salvitto. He assigned me to the officers’ cafeteria.” He kept his eyes downcast, but glanced up every three or four words.
“Have you ever worked with horses?”
“Yes, Sir. I helped with our horses before my father was forced to sell me.”
“Did you like working with the horses?”
The child’s eyes lit up. “Yes, Sir. Horses are magnificent creatures.”
“Bring me ale and whatever you can find. Find something that actually tastes good, and I’ll share with you.” Onesimus saw Cassius approaching, but hurried away.
“Why do you coddle them, Adas?” asked Cassius as he sat at the table.
“Can you think of a better way to insure a slave won’t spit in your food?”
“Precautionary lashes would do the same thing and cost less.”
“Yes, and you would have an enemy instead of an ally.”
Cassius shrugged. “They’re slaves. Who cares? By the way, you look terrible, but I have news that’ll make you feel better.”
Onesimus set a mug of ale, a bowl of stew and half a loaf of bread on the table. Adas tore off some bread and handed it to the child. Onesimus beamed and stuffed it in his mouth. The boy took Cassius’s order and left. Adas noticed he did not hurry this time.
Cassius watched as Adas devoured the stew. “When was the last time you ate? You even eat like a wolf.” Adas kept chewing. “Right, so you might want to go by the officers’ common room and check the duty wall. There’s a few interesting entries at the end of the list. Do you have any idea why Valentius is after you?”
Adas swallowed a mouthful of warm ale. “It must have something to do with my father.”
“Why?” Cassius asked.
“Everything in my life has to do with my father. But listen, in case you thought I forgot about Tigula, I’ll come to your quarters when you get off duty.”
“You can get my tool set then. Are you going to need a new bolt on your door?”
“Probably.” Adas raised his chin in the direction of the kitchen. “There’s your food.” The slave set the meal down and waited for further instructions. Cassius waved him off. Adas patted Cassius on the shoulder. “It was good eating with you.” He left the officers’ cafeteria and went to the common room.
When he entered, the conversation stopped. Adas walked over to the duty wall, a smooth white section of wall marked with charcoal. Every week, a slave whitewashed the writing, and the new duties were posted for each of the sixty centurions. Contrary to common practice, a specific assignment was posted for three legionaries. Lucius, Hektor, and Falto were assigned to latrinae duty. Water ran continually through the latrinae channels, but they had to be scrubbed with pumice stone, which left the hands raw. This was a backbreaking job reserved for rebellious slaves. It was an extremely humiliating punishment for a soldier.
At first, Adas thought this punishment would contradict the cover story Valentius presented at the morning briefing. Then he realized the punishment was appropriate for abandoning a ranking officer too drunk to defend himself.
Adas glanced around the room. The men had gone back to their previous activities, but now a few of them spoke in hushed tones. A group of soldiers was gambling with dice in a corner of the room. One of them cheered, elbowed the man next to him and gathered his winnings off the floor. Several men were exercising on the pull-up bars set in the walls. Other men talked as they exercised with free weights. A few men sat on benches talking and, occasionally, looking at Adas. Two men had a chess board between them. The man playing with red pebbles was beating the man using the white pebbles. A group playing Twelve Lines had neglected to put the board and dice back in the game shelves.
A decurion named Corvus walked over to Adas. “You look terrible, my friend.”
“Yes, I’ve heard.”
“We’re playing soccer Saturday and could use you on the team if you’re up to it. Drusus had his slave make a new soccer ball with a pig bladder. They bounce better than goat bladders.”
“I doubt I will play, but I’ll be there. What time?”
“Ninth hour.”
The men working out seemed to be resting, and the dice sat idle in the corner. Every man in the room was watching him.
“Adas, we were wondering how you got the cut on your neck?”
Adas sighed and shook his head. “Honestly, I don’t know.”
“Listen, if you were attacked by zealots, why haven’t they been arrested?”
“I didn’t see any zealots. I only saw my men—no one else.” Adas pointed to the last three names on the duty wall. “Those three.”
“Right, well, don’t forget the soccer game.” He excused himself and left.
The men went back to what they were doing. He left the common room and headed for his quarters. Hopefully, no one else would question him. His pride was making it difficult to keep the truth to himself, but if he didn’t, others would be in danger.
A voice sounded behind him and Adas turned to face the man. “Sir, may I speak with you?” It was Faustus Tertius Victorius, his optio, second in command.
“Of course, what do you need, Victorius?”
“Centurion, the men asked me to say that your centuria stands with you.”
“I deeply appreciate their loyalty and courage. Thank them for me, Victorius.” Adas gave his optio an approving nod and continued toward his quarters. When he turned to go down the lane, a group of men blocked his way. They were centurions from different cohorts. The scowls on their faces were not encouraging. Centurion Plinius from the 3rd Cohors stepped forward.
“Not so fast, Longinus! We want to talk to you,” said Plinius. “Some of us actually survived sixteen years of warfare.
