There was an unchosen continuation of mine over on EE, and since it made me smile, I'm copying it here. The original author is in black normal type; my continuation is in italics:
Radea did not intend I should be kept waiting. His aide passed me through into the Primus's office the moment I entered the principia.
Radea glanced up. "Ah, Aquilla."
He set one stack of papers aside and moved another in front of him. When I saluted him, he waved me to a seat. I slumped down, unbuckled my plume, and sat with it in my lap.
Despite his wiry frame, he impressed me as being too large for his office, and as meaning to burst out of it the moment he had the chance, like a butterfly escaping the chrysalis.
Together with him, his office had captured the morning heat, and the camp's smells were encapsulated, too, along with those peculiar to administration. The lingering scent of melted wax that always evoked my early childhood. Papers so tinder-dry they smelt scorched. The brooding anxiety of the men brought before the Twelfth's Primus Pilus.
"I need your help, Primus. It's my son."
"Yes. The second one."
"I hear the Second Pyrrhus is one of the best pilots in the fleet, popular among his peers..."
"Yes, Primus, but a pilot can do nothing with a boat that is not sea-worthy."
"His vessel is underperforming?"
"It's not just underperforming; the hull's material is completely porous."
"That is a pretty pickle Pyrrhus is in."
"But what can I the Twelfth Primus Pilus do for the popular Pyrrhus pilot and his pretty pickle of a porous predicament?"