Praetorian Series [3] A Hunter and His Legion by Edward Crichton Page A

I’d done had saved his life, as well as Madrina’s, he’d understood to some degree.  He must have still felt bad for attacking me, but I wasn’t about to force an apology on him.  He was upset at himself, and I knew what that felt like enough to know that I’d want to be left alone as well.
    A short walk later, I found myself back on my old rock, the one I’d perched myself on last night to read the Other Me’s journal.  I stared at it as I walked around it, preparing myself for what was to come.  It was too bad the rock wasn’t capable of offering any helpful advice or input.  It was just a rock.  A large, sturdy one, sure, as rocks should be, but a rock nonetheless.  I wondered what had gone through the mind of the rock that had held Odysseus in his opening moments in The Odyssey , where he had spent every free moment he had perched there, staring out at the sea, crying for his lost kingdom and his wife, Penelope.
    That man had been a true wreck.  He’d spent decades away from Penelope, fighting wars, battling monsters, watching his entire crew be killed or devoured in one grotesque way or another.  It had been a miracle that he hadn’t caved completely – that or Homer’s clever wit – so I tried to remember that even though I’d gone through a lot, he’d gone through far worse.
    And at least I still had Helena.
    I let out a long sigh as I mounted my companion rock, and retrieved Varus’ note.  I unfolded it so that it resembled its original, rolled appearance but paused when I noticed the small seal that kept it closed.  It didn’t have a fancy symbol or signet punched into the red wax, just a red depression, completely puritan in style.  The only thing that assured me it had come from Varus was the handwriting which I immediately recognized as his always calligraphic print.
    I smiled at the lettering, thinking about Varus and how proper and fastidious he’d always been in his presentation and in his work.  A quiet scholar who’d never asked anything of anyone, he’d been a brilliant linguist, a knowledgeable historian, a dedicated friend to Caligula – an odd relationship lost to history – a good husband, a proud father, and my pal.
    It was unfortunate t hen that besides his wife, I wasn’t sure anyone else knew these things.  Even Helena and all the rest had barely really known him – Hell, I’d barely even known him.  I hadn’t seen him or spoken with him in years, but we had been close in the short time we’d known each other, sharing a connection that neither one of us had ever really understood until much later.  I’d always suspected he’d been some long lost ancestor of mine, which was why the two of us had been able to connect through the orb, a theory that had later been confirmed by Artie and her arrival here.
    I still wondered if there was more to how the orb worked than just that, but with and another long breath to hopefully expel my continued confusion, I popped the seal that hid Varus’ words from the world.  Written there was a message that didn’t nearly take up the entirety of the surface area available, written in stylish but clear Latin letters.  Five years ago I would have driven myself to tears trying to translate this thing, but these days, I read Latin as easily as I did English.  I was confident I could translate circles around all those old Latin professors of mine – the same ones who had once thought I’d never learn the difference between an ablative and a dative.
    I supposed that was one of the few benefits of my time here : when I found my way home, I’d have quite the resume.

Not a bad thought actually.
    I shook my head with a smirk, but cleared my mind and set my eyes to the page, ready to absorb whatever words of wisdom Varus had left to impart on me.
     
     
    Jacob Hunter
     
    Was it fate that brought us together, my friend?
    Which odd twist from the hand of a divine was it that brought you into my life?
    Sadly, I do not have the