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“He had the eyes of a scholar, but the weathered hands and rugged brow of a seasoned campaigner. The scar across his face, which he had received at the age of sixteen fighting for Catilina, had almost been erased by the winds and rain and burning sun of Gaul. As always when I saw him after an absence of months, I looked him quickly up and down and whispered a prayer of thanks to Mars that his body appeared whole and his limbs intact.
I felt such a flood of emotion that I couldn't speak. I reached for him. He was stiff for a moment, then returned the embrace. Remembering the boy he had once been, I was amazed at his strength. When he pulled back, he was smiling ruefully.
"What are you doing here, Papa? You must have been traveling for days. The danger—" "I'm here for Davus." "Davus?" "He's with Pompey. At least I hope he still is, and not already across in Dyrrhachium ... or ..." "With Pompey? Don't tell me Davus ran off to fight with his old master!
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