‘It is,’ replied Marcellus. The room was deathly still now.
‘Never gave an order in your life; eh?’ sneered Paulus.
Marcellus pushed back his chair and rose, conscious that three score of interested eyes were studying his serious face.
‘I am about to give an order now!’ he said, steadily. ‘Centurion Paulus, you will stand and apologize for conduct unbecoming an officer!’
Paulus hooked an arm over the back of his chair, and grinned.
‘You gave the wrong order, my boy,’ he snarled. Then, as he watched Marcellus deliberately unsheathing his broadsword, Paulus overturned his chair as he sprang to his feet. Drawing his sword, he muttered, You’d better put that down, youngster!’
‘Clear the room!’ commanded Marcellus.
There was no doubt in anyone’s mind now as to the young Tribune’s intention. He and Paulus had gone into this business too far to retreat. The tables were quickly pushed back against the wall. Chairs were dragged out of the way. And the battle was on.
At the beginning of the engagement, it appeared to the audience that Paulus had decided to make it a brief and decisive affair. His command of the fort was insecurely held, for he was of erratic temper and dissolute habits. Obviously he had resolved upon a quick conquest as an object lesson to his staff. As for the consequences, Paulus had little to lose. Communication with Rome was slow. The tenure of a commander’s office was unstable and brief. Nobody in Rome cared much what happened in the fort at Minoa. True—it was risky to kill the son of a Senator, but the staff would bear witness that the Tribune had drawn first.
Paulus immediately forced the fight with flailing blows, any one of which would have split his young adversary in twain had it landed elsewhere than on Marcellus’ parrying sword. Entirely willing to be on the defensive for a while, Marcellus allowed himself to be rushed backward until they had almost reached the end of the long mess-hall. The faces of the junior officers, ranged around the wall, were tense. Demetrius stood with clenched fists and anxious eyes as he saw his master being crowded back toward a corner.
Step by step, Paulus marched into his retreating antagonist, raining blow after blow upon the defensive sword until, encouraged by his success, he saw his quarry backing into a quite hopeless position. He laughed—as he decreased the tempo of his strokes, assured now of his victory. But Marcellus believed there was a note of anxiety in the tone of that guttural laugh; believed also that the decreased fury of the blows was not due to the heavier man’s assurance—but because of a much more serious matter. Paulus was getting tired. There was a strained look on his face as he raised his sword-arm. It was probably beginning to ache. Paulus was out of training. Life at Minoa had slowed him up. We take things easy in Gaza.
As they neared the critical corner, Paulus raised his arm woodenly to strike a mighty blow; and, this time, Marcellus did not wait for it to descend, but slashed his sword laterally so close to Paulus’ throat that he instinctively threw back his head, and the blow went wild. In that instant, Marcellus wheeled about quickly. It was Paulus now who was defending the corner.
Marcellus did not violently press his advantage. Wearied by his unaccustomed exercise, Paulus was breathing heavily and his contorted mouth showed a mounting alarm. He had left off flailing now; and, changing his tactics for a better strategy, seemed to be remembering his training. And he was no mean swordsman, Marcellus discovered: at least, there had been a time, no doubt, when Paulus might have given a good account of himself in the arena.
Marcellus caught sight of Demetrius again, and noted that his slave’s face was eased of its strain. We were on familiar ground now, doing battle with skill rather than brute strength. This was ever so much better. Up till this moment, Marcellus had never been engaged in a dueling-match where his adversary had tried to hew him down with a weapon handled as an axe is swung. Paulus was fighting like a Roman Centurion now; not like a common butcher cleaving a beef.
For a brief period, while their swords rang with short, sharp, angry clashes, Marcellus gradually advanced. Once, Paulus cast his eyes about to see how much room was left to him; and Marcellus obligingly retreated a few steps. It was quite clear to every watcher that he had voluntarily donated Paulus a better chance to take care of himself. There was a half-audible ejaculation. This maneuver of the new Legate might not be in keeping with the dulled spirit of Minoa, but it stirred a memory of the manner in which brave men dealt with one another in Rome. The eyes of Demetrius shone with pride! His master was indeed a thoroughbred. ‘Eugenos!’ he exclaimed.
But Paulus was in no mood to accept favors. He came along swiftly, with as much audacity as if he had earned this more stable footing, and endeavored to spar Marcellus into a further reheat. But on that spot the battle was permanently located. Paulus tried everything he could recall, weaving, crouching, feinting—and all the time growing more and more fatigued. Now his guard was becoming sluggish and increasingly vulnerable. On two occasions, the spectators noted, it would have been simple enough for the Tribune to have ended the affair.
And now—with a deft maneuver—Marcellus brought the engagement to a dramatic close. Studying his opportunity, he thrust the tip of his broadsword into the hilt-housing of Paulus’ wearied weapon, and tore it out of his hand. It fell with a clatter to the stone floor. Then there was a moment of absolute silence. Paulus stood waiting. His posture did him credit, they all thought; for, though his face showed the shock of this stunning surprise, it was not the face of a coward. Paulus was decisively defeated, but he had better stuff in him than any of them had thought.
Marcellus stooped and picked up the fallen broadsword by its tip, drew back his arm with the slow precision of a careful aim, and sent it swiftly—end over end over end through the mess-hall—to the massive wooden door where it drove its weight deep into the timber with a resounding thud. Nobody broke the stillness that followed. Marcellus then reversed his own sword in his hand, again took a deliberate aim, and sent the heavy weapon hurtling through the air toward the same target. It thudded deep into the door close beside the sword of Paulus.
The two men faced each other silently. Then Marcellus spoke; firmly but not arrogantly.
‘Centurion Paulus,’ he said, ‘you will now apologize for conduct unbecoming an officer.’
Paulus shifted his weight and drew a long breath; half-turned to face the tightening ring of spectators; then straightened defiantly, folded his arms, and sneered.
Marcellus deliberately drew his dagger from his belt, and stepped forward. Paulus did not move.
‘You had better defend yourself, Centurion,’ warned Marcellus. ‘You have a dagger; have you not? I advise you to draw it!’ He advanced another step. ‘Because—if you do not obey my order—I intend to kill you!’
It wasn’t easy for Paulus, but he managed to do it adequately. Demetrius remarked afterward that it was plain to be seen Centurion Paulus was not an accomplished orator, which Marcellus thought was a very droll comment.
After Paulus had stammered through his glum, impromptu speech, Marcellus responded, ‘Your apology is accepted, Centurion. Now perhaps there is something else that you might think it timely to say to your fellow officers. I have not yet been officially presented to them. As the retiring Commander, it is, I feel, your right to extend this courtesy.’
Paulus fully found his voice this time, and his announcement was made in a firm tone.
‘I am introducing Tribune Marcellus Gallio, the Legate of this legion, and Commander of this fort.’
There was a concerted clatter of swords drawn in salute—all but the sword of paunchy old Sextus, who pretended to be adjusting his harness.
‘Centurion Sextus!’ called Marcellus, sharply. ‘Bring me my sword!’
All eyes watched Sextus plod awkwardly over to the big door and tug the sword out of the thick planking.
‘Bring the sword of Centurion Paulus, also!’ commanded Marcellus.
Sextus worked the second broadsword out of
the timber, and came with heavy feet and a dogged air. Marcellus took the heavy weapons, handed Paulus his, and waited to receive Sextus’ salute. The hint was taken without further delay. Paulus also saluted before sheathing his sword.
‘We will now finish our dinner,’ said Marcellus, coolly. You will restore the tables to their places. Breakfast will be served to the staff tomorrow morning at five. All officers will be smooth-shaven. There will be an inspection on the parade-ground at six, conducted by Lieutenant-Commander Paulus. That will do.’
Paulus had asked, respectfully enough, to be excused as they returned to their table, and Marcellus had given him permission to go. Sextus was trailing along after him, without asking leave; and upon being sharply asked if he had not forgotten something, mumbled that he had finished his dinner.
‘Then you will have time,’ said Marcellus, ‘to clear the Commander’s quarter? so that I may occupy those rooms tonight.’
Sextus acknowledged the order and tramped heavily to the door. Appetites were not keen, but the staff made a show of finishing dinner. Marcellus lingered at his table. At length, when he rose, they all stood in their places. He bowed and left the room, followed by Demetrius. As they passed the open door of the Commander’s rooms, on their way to the quarters which had been assigned them earlier, it was observed that a dozen slaves were busily engaged in making the place ready for occupancy.
After a few minutes, the men came and transferred their various gear to the Commander’s quarters. When they were alone, Marcellus sat down behind the big desk. Demetrius stood at attention before him.
‘Well, Demetrius?’ Marcellus raised his brows inquiringly. ‘What is on your mind?’
Demetrius brought the shaft of his spear to his forehead in salute.
‘I wish to say, sir, that I am much honored to be the slave of the Commander of Minoa.’
‘Thanks, Demetrius,’ smiled Marcellus, wearily. ‘We will have to wait—and see—who commands Minoa. This is a tough outfit. The preliminary skirmish was satisfactory; but—making peace is always more difficult than making war.’
For the next few days the nerves of the legion were tense. The new Legate had demonstrated his determination to be in full authority, but it was by no means clear whether that authority would be maintained on any other terms than a relentless coercion.
Paulus had suffered a severe loss of prestige, but his influence was still to be reckoned with. He was obeying orders respectfully, but with such grim taciturnity that no one was able to guess what was going on in his mind. Whether he was not yet fully convalescent from the wounds dealt to his pride, or was sullenly deliberating some overt act of revenge, remained to be seen. Marcellus had formed no clear opinion about this. Demetrius planted his bunk directly inside the door, every night, and slept with his dagger in his hand.
After a week, the tension began to relax a little as the garrison became accustomed to the new discipline. Marcellus issued crisp orders and insisted upon absolute obedience; not the sluggish compliance that had been good enough for Gaza, but a prompt and vigorous response that marched with clipped steps and made no tarrying to ask foolish questions or offer lame excuses.
It had seemed wise to the new Commander to let his more personal relations with the staff develop naturally without too much cultivation. He showed no favoritism, preserved his official dignity, and in his dealings with his fellow officers wasted no words. He was just, considerate, and approachable; but very firm. Presently the whole organization was feeling the effect of the tighter regulations, but without apparent resentment. The men marched with a fresh vigor and seemed to take pride in keeping their equipment in order. The appearance and morale of the officers had vastly improved.
Every morning, Paulus, now second in command, came to the office of Marcellus for instructions. Not a word had passed between them, relative to their dramatic introduction. Their conversations were conducted with icy formality and the stiffest kind of official courtesy. Paulus, faultlessly dressed, would appear at the door and ask to see the Commander. The sentry would convey the request. The Commander would instruct the sentry to admit the Centurion. Paulus would enter and stand straight as an arrow before the official desk. Salutes would be exchanged.
‘It is necessary to replace sue camels, sir.’
‘Why?’ The query would snap like a bowstring.
‘One is lame. Two are sick. Three are too old for service.’
‘Replace them!’
‘Yes, sir.’
Then Paulus would salute and stalk out. Sometimes Marcellus wondered whether this frosty relationship was to continue forever. He hoped not. He was getting lonesome in the remote altitude to which he had climbed for sake of maintaining discipline. Paulus was, he felt, an excellent fellow; embittered by this exile, and morally disintegrated by the boredom and futility of his desert life. Marcellus had resolved that if Paulus showed the slightest inclination to be friendly, he would meet the overture halfway; but not a step further. Nor would he take the initiative.
As for Sextus, Marcellus had very little direct contact with him, for Sextus received his orders through Paulus. The big, gruff fellow had been punctilious in his obedience, but very glum. At the mess-table he had nothing to say; ate his rations with a scowl, and asked to be excused.
One evening, after ten days had passed, Marcellus noticed that Sextus’ chair was vacant.
‘Where is he?’ demanded the Commander, nodding toward the unoccupied place.
‘Broke his leg, sir,’ answered Paulus.
‘When?’
‘This afternoon, sir.’
‘How?’
‘Stockade gate fell on him, sir.’
Marcellus immediately rose and left the table. After a moment, Paulus followed and overtook him on the way to Sextus’ quarters. They fell into step, and marched side by side with long strides.
‘Bad break?’
‘Clean break. Upper leg. Not much mangled.’
Sextus was stretched out on his back, beads of sweat on his forehead. He glanced up and made an awkward gesture of greeting.
‘Much pain?' inquired Marcellus.
‘No, sir.’ Sextus gritted his teeth.
‘Gallant liar!’ snapped Marcellus. Typical Roman liel You wouldn’t admit you were in pain if you’d been chopped to mincemeat! That bunk is bad; sags like a hammock. We will find a better one. Have you had your dinner?’
Sextus shook his head; said he didn’t want anything to eat.
‘Well—we’ll see about that!’ said Marcellus, gruffly.
By inspection hour, next morning, the story had spread through the acres of brown tents that the new Commander—who had had them all on the jump and had strutted about through the camp with long legs and a dark frown—had gone to the kitchen of the officers’ mess and had concocted a nourishing broth for old Sextus; had moved him to airier quarters; had supervised the making of a special bed for him.
That day Marcellus became the Commander of the fort at Minoa. That night Demetrius did not take his dagger to bed with him; he didn’t even bother to lock the door.
***
The next morning, Paulus pushed the sentry aside at the Commander’s quarters and entered without more ceremony than a casual salute. Marcellus pointed to a vacant chair and Paulus accepted it.
‘Hot day, Centurion Paulus,' remarked Marcellus.
‘Gaza does not believe in pleasant weather, sir. The climate suits the temper of the people. It’s either hot or cold.’ Paulus tipped back his chair and thrust his thumbs under his belt. ‘The Jews have an important festival, sir. They observe it for a week when the moon is full in the month they call Nisan. Perhaps you know about it.’
‘No—never heard of it,' admitted Marcellus. ‘Is it any of our business?’
‘It’s their annual Passover Week,' explained Paulus, ‘celebrating their flight from Egypt.’
‘What have they been doing down in Egypt?’ asked Marcellus indifferently.
‘Nothing—l
ately,' grinned Paulus. ‘This happened fifteen centuries ago.’
‘Oh—that I Do they still remember?’
‘The Jews never forget anything, sir. Every year at this season, all the Jews who can possibly get there go to Jerusalem to "eat the Passover," as their saying is; but most of them are quite as much interested in family reunions, games, sports, auctions, and all manner of shows. Caravans of merchandise come from afar to market their wares. Thousands crowd the city and camp in the surrounding hills. It is a lively spectacle, sir.’
‘You have been there, it seems.’
‘On each of the eleven years since I was sent to this fort, sir,' nodded Paulus. The Procurator in Jerusalem—I think you know that his office outranks all of the other Palestinian establishments—expects detachments from the forts at Capernaum, Caesarea, Joppa, and Minoa to come and help keep order.’
‘An unruly crowd, then?’ surmised Marcellus.
‘Not very, sir. But always, when that many Jews assemble, there is the usual talk of revolution. They wail sad chants and prattle about their lost heritage. So far as I know, this unrest has never amounted to anything more alarming than a few street brawls. But the Procurator thinks it is a good thing, on these occasions, to have a conspicuous display of Roman uniforms—and a bit of drill-work in the vicinity of the Temple.’ Paulus chuckled, reminiscently.
‘Do we get a formal notice?’
‘No, sir. The Procurator does not trouble himself to send a courier. He takes it for granted that a detachment from Minoa will show up.’
‘Very well, Paulus. How many men do we send, and when do they go?’
‘A company, sir; a full hundred. It is a three-day journey. We should start the day after tomorrow.’
‘You may arrange for it then, Paulus. Would you like to command the detachment, or have you bad enough of it?’
‘Enough of itl By no means, sir! This expedition is the only bright event of the year! And if I may venture to suggest, Tribune, you yourself might find this a most refreshing diversion.’