“I appoint you my signifer, Ylo of the Yllipos!” the legate said solemnly. He pulled a face. “My grandfather will have a litter of piglets!”
There was no safe reply to that remark. Ylo was incapable of saying anything anyway. What had he fallen into? And how? A curious gleam shone in the prince’s eye. “I hate being devious. You must be the senior surviving male in your family? If you want to claim the name and style yourself Yllipo, then now is the time to do it!”
That would be a direct slap at the imperor’s face. That would be a spit in his eye. It might even be illegal, or treasonous. That was much too dangerous!
Fortunately Ylo had a good excuse to hand. He found his voice. “I may have an aged uncle still alive somewhere, sir, I think.” An outlaw, of course, attaindered and penniless.
“He is not likely to dispute your claim, though?”
“No, sir . . . but I would hate him to hear of it.”
The prince nodded gravely. “The sentiment does you honor! Ylo it is then. Your duty is always to the imperor, then to me, then to the legion, in that order. But you will never find those loyalties in conflict.”
He was very sure of his own motives, Ylo thought. He himself was not. In fact he was a lot less sure of them than he’d been ten minutes ago. Why had he accepted? And Yllipo? Why should the prince imperial suggest a bravado like that?
What had Ylo won this day? A consulship, or revenge? If he played his hand right . . .
For a moment longer the legate studied his new aide—was he having doubts? But then he held out a hand to shake. Unable to believe this was happening, Ylo took it.
“I mourn my cousin deeply,” the prince said, “but I welcome you in his stead. I think it was not only the God of Battle who was with us out there today, Signifer. I think the God of Justice was busy, also.”
Tears sprang suddenly into Ylo’s eyes.
He wondered if he had just given away his soul.
5
The terrible day was not over-indeed, it had barely started. Ylo staggered out of the legate’s tent into blinding heat, although the hour was shy of noon. The army did not consider a major battle any reason to slacken discipline. The camp lay spread out around him, rows of tents straight as javelins in all directions. On the outskirts, exhausted legionary grunts were digging the encircling vallation. The centurions’ screamed threats drifted in faintly. Well, there was the first blessing . . .
“You have your own duties to attend to.” Shandie had dismissed him with those words, but what in the Name of Evil did they mean?
The massive centurion accosted Ylo again and saluted. He had replaced the missing sandal.
Bewildered, Ylo returned the salute and only then realized that he was holding the slain signifer’s cape. That had been what this leather-faced thug had been saluting.
“Hardgraa,” the monolith growled. “Chief of his bodyguard. ”
“Ylo,” Ylo said. “Personal signifer.” That felt curiously satisfying.
Not believable, just satisfying.
“Thought you might need these,” Hardgraa remarked. He held out a wad of rags and a rolled red cloth.
Of course a signifer’s first duty would be to tend his standard—clean it, replace the bunting. That was what the legate had meant. Ylo took the offering with shaky hands. “Thanks.” He forced his aching feet to move.
The centurion paced beside him until they reached the standard. The easiest way to dispose of the cape was to put it on. It did keep the sun off, and the hood was certainly more comfortable than the massive, dented helmet. As Ylo was about to start work, the centurion muttered, “A moment, Signifer,” and straightened the hood for him. Bug-eyed perfectionist!
Ylo began polishing the lowest of the emblems. He would need a stool to reach the star, for he must never lay the pole on the ground. He tried to ignore the watching Hardgraa.
“See that civilian over there, the one who looks like a retired priest?”
Ylo forced his eyes to focus and grunted.
“Sir Acopulo—his chief political advisor. And the butterball just going into the tent? Lord Umpily, chief of protocol. And me. Anything you need to know, any help you want . . . just ask. Ask any of us, but one of those three especially.”
Ylo grunted again, squinting against the incandescent desert sun reflecting in his eyes. “Thanks more.”
“Anything concerning security or his safety—anything at all, no matter how trivial—tell me with your next breath.”
Ylo nodded and decided not to mention his own ambitions for a sharp blade between the royal ribs. He went back to work. The centurion rubbed the bark on his chin. “You did say personal signifer, Signifer?”
“Yes.”
“Curious. An Yllipo? He must be making some sort of political statement. ”
Ylo clenched his teeth and went on polishing.
“Important job. Sure to screw it up, of course. Maybe that’s it.”
Still Ylo held his temper. His skin was streaming sweat under his chain mail and felt rubbed raw in places, as if the links had worn right through his tunic. Every joint ached, every muscle trembled with fatigue.
Hardgraa scratched his cheek. “And I’ve never known Shandie to go for a pretty face before. Tribune of the Vth Cohort, now—he’s a rogue. Vets all the young recruits . . . but not Shandie.”
Ylo spun around, staggered, steadied himself with a hand on the accursed pole. He scowled at the crude, weatherbeaten veteran. A rock-eater, this one. He’d met some tough centurions in his time, but this looked like the original, the prototype. “I understood that his personal signifer was his chief of staff, Centurion?”
“Correct.”
“Then . . . I . . . you . . .” He was too muddled to find the right words.
“You don’t give me orders, Signifer. You pass on his orders. If he hasn’t given any, you tell me what you think his orders would be. I obey those orders.”
Oh, Gods—responsibility!
“We’re a team!” The older man chuckled dryly. “You think we’ll try to pull you down? You’re expecting a rat pack, maybe?” Dumbly Ylo nodded. He was an outsider. He had been thrown into this close-knit coterie with his fur still wet and his fangs not grown. His loyalties were as questionable as his abilities, and they must all know that.
The centurion shook his head. “If Shandie wants you, then he gets you. Trust us! You’re in, understand? One of us. And the sooner you can be useful to him, the happier we’ll all be. You can’t do my job, and I can’t do yours, because I’m not gentle born. We each sing our own songs, understand? A team. And if you ever let him down, in any way at all, I shall personally rearrange that pretty face until you look like a retired gladiator with a bad case of—”
“What’re you telling me, Centurion?”
“The council of war’s in half an hour.” Ylo threw down the rag.
“Why the Evil didn’t you say so? I want two of the maniple signifers here soonest. If any other legion’s standard outshines the XIIth’s at the council, I will personally roast their balls on a stick. I need a shave, a wash, and clean kit—right now!”
Hardgraa grinned, showing a ragged assortment of amber teeth. “Yessir! ” he said, and took off at the double.
An hour later Ylo found himself still awake, attending the council of war. At least, he thought he was still awake. Who would ever suggest that a man wear a wolfskin cape—with a hood, yet—over full armor in a tropical desert? But to attend a council of war, standing on shaking legs in back of the prince imperial, facing a proconsul . . . No, he had to be awake; no dream could ever be this unlikely. If the Gods weren’t insane then he was.
Under the furnace glare of the sun, the circle of legates huddled within the circle of their signifers. Ylo was not close enough to hear what was said, but he had already heard Shandie tell his advisors what he expected to be said, and what ought to be said, and the conversation would not veer much from that path.
Technically Shandie was Iggipolo’s subordinate, but everyone knew that state of affairs might terminate at any minute with a courier on a steaming horse bringing word of the imperor’s death. Furthermore, it had been Shandie who had brought up the XIIth in time to turn Karthin from utter disaster to slim victory. Thus the proconsul would be very considerate of that particular legate’s opinion. Shandie’s opinion was that the caliph had been taught a lesson, but the Impire would need to field more resources before it could apply any further education. There had been no formal declaration of war, there would be no formal treaty. The status quo had been restored and the issues must wait for another day.