The woman stiffened while her ears received a message which others did not. She looked at Vibulenus, returning to them at the slow pace which his stiffening wounds required. Then, unexpectedly, Quartilla began to run across the front of the Main Gallery, away from the tribune.
“Quartilla!” Vibulenus called. Niger put out a hand, but neither of her immediate companions made a real attempt to stop her. The woman was even fleshier than his Roman ideal of feminine beauty, but her bulk was more muscle than fat — and unlike the men, she had not just fought a grueling hand-to-hand battle. “Quartilla!”
What would have been a wall in the far corner, if a soldier ran against it, dissolved into a doorway in time to pass Quartilla. An instant later it was again gray metal, or at least what passed for metal on the ship.
The tribune carefully joined his companions.
“What got into her, Gaius?” asked Pompilius Niger as he gripped hands with his childhood friend.
“Better question’d be why all the good-time girls were loose t’ begin with,” said the pilus prior. “Not that I care.” He patted the tribune’s shoulder gently with an iron-hard palm. “Sir, you . . . Aw, fukkit, I’m glad to serve with you, that’s the size of it.”
Vibulenus’ height made it easy for him to drape his arms over the shoulders of both other men. “Good to serve with you guys, too. Hercules, with all of us.” He nodded toward the back of the gallery, still crowded with legionaries, and started his own companions moving in that direction toward the Medic and the baths.
“But you know?” the tribune added in a voice whose mildness deceived neither of his hearers, “Sometimes I don’t think a great deal of the folks we’re serving for.”
They were nearing the head of the line to the Medic’s booths when they heard the shout from down the hall, “Does anybody see the tribune? Gaius Caper?”
“Oh, fuck off,” mumbled Clodius Afer, but he was grumbling at the situation more than he was the searching legionary. A blow turned by the mail covering his right biceps had gone unnoticed during the battle, but the muscle had begun to swell into purple agony as soon as the pilus prior sheathed his sword.
“It can wait,” Vibulenus muttered; but maybe it couldn’t, and he stepped aside to look in the direction of the summons.
There was less of a crush awaiting the Medic than the Tribune had expected. Given the option of obeying the Commander’s injunction or not, many of the men with lesser injuries had gone to the baths, the bars, or the women instead.
Even Clodius Afer and his companions had detoured to a hall of sleeping rooms which the pilus prior designated the Tenth Cohort’s barracks area. The Tenth had been doing that after the past dozen or so battles, and the rest of the legion had followed suit immediately.
There was no lack of space within the vessel, and the trading guild obviously did not care whether or not accommodations were organized; but it was good for the men to have something they could treat as home, and it was good for a unit that fought together to keep its cohesion out of battle as well.
Among other things, it gave the troops a place to stash their loot under guard for the days or weeks until the vessel “entered Transit space”—and all the soldiers awakened together to be marched against a new enemy.
“Has anybody seen — sir, there you are! We need to talk to you, I’m sorry.”
“Of course, Marcus Rusticanus,” said the tribune. It wasn’t one man searching him out, it was the first centurion with an entourage of at least twenty other soldiers. The latter began babbling excitedly to friends and acquaintances waiting in line while Julius Rusticanus approached the tribune — with a salute.
The Medic called something nervous but unclear in the clutter of other sound. The two bodyguards became restive also, if not actively hostile. They stepped toward the gathering which completely blocked the aisle, brushing Romans aside with their iron shoulders. Swearing, softly, Clodius Afer turned to face the new threat.