180, Vindobona
The camp never truly sleeps, not even now. Wheels drag somewhere beyond the tents, a horse strikes the ground, a messenger is admitted and kept waiting because the physicians have decided I need rest more than the frontier needs news. They say such things more boldly than before. The room smells of damp wool, oil, sour wine, heated metal, and the bitter compounds they keep mixing for my relief. At times I can still think clearly enough to despise their fussing; at times the thoughts loosen and scatter before I have finished arranging them. That is what I trust least. Not pain, not fever, but interruption from within. Dispatches continue. Sentences continue. Judgements are expected. Commodus remains my son whether I like the fact or not, and those around him have already begun to wrap the future in courtesies. If I leave my intentions half-formed, they will call the fragments wisdom and proceed anyway.
