Marcus Androlocles Severus, a distant cousin of Emperor Hadrian, got out of the too-small bath and waited impatiently while two female slaves dressed him in his white woolen toga, wrapping it around his corpulent body and then carefully draping it over one of his shoulders and fastening it with a brooch.

Looking in the inadequate burnished bronze mirror, he had one of the female slaves comb and oil his long curly brown hair while the other one trimmed and buffed his fingernails and toenails, then fitted his golden sandals to his feet.

On his own, he donned all of his gold chains and polished his jeweled rings before he left his chambers to inspect his fort with the kind of care expected of him by the emperor ― may he live forever and be worshipped in the manner he deserved.

Ugh. When would he be done with this remote island full of savages and return to the mainland, where there were vineyards and wineries and so much more of the finer things in life? Unlike here. Here was just grass and trees and stony mountainous ground unsuitable for farming.

He grinned as he ran his finger over the top of the armory cabinet, certain he would find dust that needed cleaning — but he was disappointed.

He could at least find mirth in the fact that he, and his own, had deprived the local savages of the arable land to the south, having driven them north of this wall his fort’s men guarded.

He saw a clump of soldiers at their ease in the next room. That wouldn’t do at all.

“You there!”

They looked up at him but didn’t move.

What impertinence! He was going to…

Oh wait. They were that new squadron who had arrived just this morning, fresh off the ship and unaware of how he wanted things done here.

He indulged himself in his most patient smile. He would educate them.

“Yes, you! All of you! Get up and get over here.”

They got up, but they only started walking over.

He threw his arms up in a dramatic gesture of impatience and strength. Educating them might prove too difficult. Maybe it would be better to make examples of them. The other men were well-educated by now to what he preferred, but a reminder now and then couldn’t hurt. Couldn’t hurt him or his reputation, that was.

Well, on second thought, he didn’t want to work up a sweat so soon after he had just bathed and been dressed. He would try one more time to educate them.

“Run over here as if your lives depended on it, because they do!”

Seeing sense at last, the new squadron did indeed run over the rest of the way, and when they got there, they properly bowed.

Oh well. Educating them hadn’t been too difficult after all. But now that they were here, they needed a task.

Inspiration struck.

“Follow me.”

He marched them outside into a corner of the courtyard, where some local Picts he had enslaved were erecting another lookout tower. He turned to his new squadron.

“You lot will take over construction here. And see to it that these Picts haul those bricks for you from that pile over there to a new pile right here where you can reach them. Supervise them one-on-one. You can’t be too guarded against these savages. Given an instant’s opportunity, they’ll slit your throat.”

The squadron nodded and looked over the construction site, angling for a way to get up and resume the work as they discussed the task at hand amongst themselves.

“I know masonry, I’ll go up.”

“I do as well. Anyone else?”

“No? Well then the rest of you choose a savage each and supervise them carrying the bricks over.”

One of them addressed Marcus.

“Even with that large pile moved over here, there won’t be enough bricks. What then?”

Perhaps this was getting too difficult after all. Longing to get back to his chamber in the innermost sanctum of the fort where he could lounge on his padded chair and be massaged by his female slaves while being served all the delicacies that were to be had in this drab land, Marcus huffed an exaggerated huff and rolled his eyes in his most impatient way, putting his hand over the side of his face.

“Then we’ll have the slaves make more bricks, obviously.”

Meanwhile, the Picts were putting down their masonry tools and descending the scaffolding they had erected. Just as the last one’s foot touched the stone floor of the courtyard and the two masons among his new squadron prepared to go up, the scaffolding rattled and shook.

One of the men in his new squadron pushed Marcus down onto the cold stone of the courtyard floor.

How dare he!

But before Marcus could open his mouth to insist that the man be flogged fifty times with the lash to his bare back and then hung by the neck until dead, too large heavy clay pots of mortar hit the paving stones where Marcus had been standing a moment before. The clay pots shattered, and the mortar flew everywhere, splattering gobs in his freshly oiled hair and on his freshly washed face and undyed wool toga.

Feeling indignant at having been pushed to the ground nevertheless, Marcus got up without even dusting himself off or flinging the mortar off of him. He pointed to the slave who had gotten off the scaffolding last and spoke to the soldiers of the new squadron who had just come out here with him.

“Don’t just stand around. Find a rope and hang him from the scaffolding until he is dead. And then make sure these other slaves finish this work here, cleaning this up and hauling all those bricks over here.”

He waited while this commenced and then looked up at the two who had climbed the scaffolding.

“Quit gawking and resume building this tower!”

They hopped to it.

Satisfied, Marcus headed back to his chamber with an anticipatory grin. It appeared he was in need of another bath.