He had noticed the boy when the Catuvellauni had come to talk peace, even as they were treacherously massing their forces in an attempt to drive the Romans from Britain. The young man had a smallish, but very distinct birthmark upon his left cheekbone. Claudius, physically impaired himself, was quick to notice others with impairments of any kind. He shook his head sadly. He did not like war. So many young lives like this one wasted. Young men fought wars, but it was the old men like himself who planned those wars.

He turned away from the severed head, giving his attention now to the tribune who had shielded him from certain death. "How is he?" the emperor asked the surgeon who was kneeling by the tribune's side, staunching the copious flow of blood.

"He'll live," came the dour reply, "but there will be no more soldiering for this one, Caesar. The javelin, by the grace of the gods, missed the artery to his heart. It has chipped the knee bone, and damaged the tendons. The boy will walk with a marked limp the rest of his days."

Claudius nodded, and then he asked the injured young man, "What is your name, tribune?"

"Flavius Drusus, Caesar."

"Are we related, then?" the emperor wondered aloud, for he was Claudius Drusus Nero.

"Distantly, Caesar."

"Who is your father?"

"Titus Drusus, Caesar, and my brother is also Titus."

"Yes," the emperor said thoughtfully. "Your father is in the senate. He is a just man, as I recall."

"He is, Caesar."

"You are the Tribunus Laticlavius of the Fourteenth," the emperor said, noting the young man's uniform. "You will have to go home now, I fear, Flavius Drusus."

"Yes, Caesar," came the dutiful answer, but Claudius heard more than just disappointment in the young man's voice.

"You do not want to go home?" he asked. "Is there no young sweetheart or wife eagerly awaiting your return, then? How long have you been with the Fourteenth, Flavius Drusus?"