By the end of all this I was half-dead from fatigue, so greatly had my wound sapped my energy. “I’m going to do this every day until I can run and fight all day long,” I told Hermes.
“I’ve never known you to be in any condition that good,” he said, “but we’ll see what we can manage. Let’s go get cleaned up.”
So at last Julia was getting her wish. I was getting back in shape for the wars. She and the physician had conspired to curb my wine intake as well and she had threatened Hermes into going along with it.
In the exercise yard of the palaestra building we rubbed down with oil, then rolled in the sand and scraped it off with strigils, then went into the bath to soak. The bath needed no fire, as the water was piped in from a nearby hot spring. The sulfur-smelling water soothed away the soreness of my muscles and the lingering pain of my wound. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.
While we lazed in the water, an unexpected visitor arrived: Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus came in and lowered himself into the water. Apparently he had put himself on a regimen like mine. He wasn’t quite as corpulent as when he arrived in Campania, though he still had a long way to go before he would achieve soldierly fitness. He had almost as many scars as I had, too, but his were mostly on his arms and legs since he got them on the battlefield, wearing armor. I had won many of mine in the streets and alleyways of Rome.
“Well, you seem to be coming along nicely, Praetor,” he said, as he settled in. “You’ll be ready to serve with the eagles in no time.”
“Whatever the noble Senate decides,” I said evasively. “How goes recruiting?”
He made a sour face. “Oh, my veterans have flocked to the standards handsomely, but the youth of Italy are not what they were in my younger days. I’ve gone through all the cities and the country markets calling for volunteers, and I get a handful at a time, a dozen here, a dozen there. There was a time when I could raise ten legions from this area alone, stout young farm lads eager for a good war. I’d have to turn most of them away, there was never enough equipment to arm all the volunteers.”
“Perhaps they don’t smell much loot to be had in a civil war,” I told him, “and there aren’t that many farm lads left these days. The latifundia are worked by slaves, not peasants, and southern Italy is covered with latifundia these days.”
“All the same, I should have more volunteers than I’ve been getting.” He shook his head in disgust. “Have you managed to find out who put an arrow through you?”
Now it was my turn to shake my head. “If anybody knows, nobody is saying.”
“It might have just been some local hothead, a Samnite out hunting who saw a chance to kill a Roman praetor and get away with it. There’s still a lot of bitterness left over from the Social War in these parts.”
“Somehow I don’t think so. I’ve made myself very unpopular with some people in this district. They want to put an end to my investigation and the easiest way to do that is to put an end to me.”
“Maybe you had better give it up, just pack up and move your court to Liguria or somewhere.”
Instantly, I was suspicious. “Just a few days ago you wanted me to find the murderers, and quickly.”
“A few days ago nobody was trying to murder you. Whatever this business is about, it’s not worth the life of an important Roman, especially one I may need soon.”
So he assumed that, because my family now supported him, I would as well. I thought it best not to disabuse him of the notion just yet.
“Actually, I’d been thinking of Sicily.”
“Fine place,” he commended. “Good climate, quiet natives. It’s already been thoroughly looted, of course, but you could do far worse. I recommend it.”
We talked of inconsequentialities for a while, then I dried off and returned to the villa. The next day I awoke stiff and sore, but I made myself take the same long trek back to the palaestra, and did the same on the days following. In an amazingly short time, I was running without breathing hard, hurling the javelin right on target, and even striking Hermes almost as many times as he struck me when we sparred with wooden swords. Before I knew it, I was very nearly in top shape and my wound scarcely pained me any more. Julia seemed pleased.
“I haven’t seen you this tan and fit in years,” she said. “Cutting back the wine has cleared up your eyes marvelously.”
“I hadn’t realized how sloppy I was getting,” I admitted. Sometimes it was a good idea to admit that Julia had been right about something. “Almost being killed is a literally sobering experience.”