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an open doorway looking out from a small balcony over a sunken garden decorated with exquisite topiary. Below, water cascaded into a circular pool. The aromas of lush perfumes wafted up from the greenery.
    “You depart on the Nazarene mission tomorrow, Varro?” the general asked. It was a rhetorical question; Collega was intimately acquainted with all the details.
    “At dawn, my lord,” Varro returned.
    “Good, good. I have arranged for a physician to join your party. You may need a medical man where you are going.”
    “Thank you, my lord. That physician would be…?”
    “Diocles, the Corinthian. A very experienced and able man.”
    “Ah, Diocles,” Varro responded. Apparently Collega had forgotten that this was the same Diocles he had labeled an incurable drunkard, the same physician whose judgment he had called into question. But Varro could not say as much, could only graciously accept the doctor’s appointment even though he suspected the general was only trying to rid himself of Diocles. “Thank you, my lord.”
    “I also have another military officer for you.” Collega beckoned the young man who had been a spectator to the dice game.
    The youngster slowly rose up from the gaming table and strolled to join the pair. Wearing an expensive multi-colored tunic, and, on his left hand, the gold ring of a member of the Equestrian Order, he was a handsome boy of eighteen, with rosy cheeks, soft skin, and black hair cut in a severe fringe.
    “Questor, this is Gaius Licinius Venerius,” the general said in introduction, “the scion of a distinguished family.”
    “I am the descendant of Licinius Lucullus,” the youth pompously announced as he joined the pair.
    “Indeed?” said Varro, trying to sound impressed. He knew who the boy’s ancestor was; Lucullus had been one of Rome’s greatest generals, and one of her most extravagant spenders, in the time of Julius Caesar’s youth.
    “My father was twice a consul. My uncle is Gaius Licinius Mucianus.”
    “You are the nephew of my patron?” said Varro with surprise. “It occurred to me that I knew your face, Venerius. I must have seen you with Licinius Mucianus at Rome.”
    “You are one of my uncle’s clients?” Venerius sniffed. “I do not recall having seen you before. My uncle has certainly never mentioned you.”
    “Quite possibly,” Varro returned, determined to remain civil despite having taken an instant dislike to the priggish youth.
    “Venerius has been serving out his six-month posting as a tribune of the thin stripe with the 4th Scythica at Zeugma, Varro,” Collega advised. “However, Licinius Mucianus has written to say that he wishes his nephew to gain the broadest possible experience while he is in Syria.”
    “An admirable sentiment, my lord,” Varro remarked, dreading what he realized must be coming next.
    “It is, is it not,” said Collega. “So, I am sending Venerius on your expedition.”
    Varro gulped. “I see, general.” He looked at Venerius, inwardly cursing.
    “He should prove useful; you can use another officer,” Collega added.
    “Yes, thank you, general.” Varro tried to give the youngster a diplomatic smile. “It should prove interesting, Venerius. For us all.”
    “You will find the questor has much to teach you, Venerius,” said Collega.
    Venerius looked Varro up and down with a contemptuous expression.
    “Perhaps you would care to join me for dinner, Venerius,” Varro suggested, “at the gladiatorial barracks. All my chief officers and senior freedman are dining with me tonight, as a prelude to our departure tomorrow.”
    “No, thank you,” Venerius snapped back. “I shall be otherwise engaged.”
    Varro shrugged. “As you prefer.” Determined not to say anything he would regret, he turned to Collega. “If that was all, general, with your permission…?”
    “Yes, Varro, you must have a great deal to do prior to your departure.” Collega walked him toward the door. There was a cylindrical