“That won’t work, don’t you see?” snarled the pilus prior in anger that he could direct at his subordinate instead of his own fright. The tribune’s three companions were picking themselves up from the floor, throwing concerned glances toward their leader. Even the carnivore had subsided, flopping down and beginning to gnaw the staple to which it was attached.
“Well, have you got a better idea?” Niger snapped back. “Piss on it and hope it shrinks and goes away, maybe?”
Clodius, offering a hand which Quartilla accepted for the sake of diplomacy, said, “Well, the trouble is, if we have a full riot out here they’ll for sure be waiting if we come through the door.”
He nodded toward the bulkhead and its geometric design. At this point, the senior centurion was even more embarrassed at taking his anger out on a friend than he was for the way he dodged away from claws that could not have reached him anyway. “Sure, we can take it out . . . and sure the price’ll be cheap enough for what the payoff’ll be. But no way I see it bein’ quick enough and quiet so’s it does us any good.”
“Niger,” said Gaius Vibulenus.
“Gnaeus,” said the junior centurion to Clodius, “you may be right and —” he raised his hands to bar angry protest “—I figure you are, that’s how I read it too. But —”
“Niger,” the tribune repeated as he faced around again. For a moment he seemed to glow with a transfiguring thought. His companions gaped and fell silent. Even the rasp and whine of the carnivore’s frustrated attempts on its tether ceased, leaving only the keening disk on its chest to compete with the Roman’s presence.
Vibulenus said, “How is your mead coming along?” His words were as distinct as they were unexpected, penetrating his hearers as clearly as if he had tapped into the vessel’s communications system.
“It’s . . .” said Niger, pausing to swallow and to collect his thoughts. The tribune gathered the others to him as he began to walk toward the doors in the back of the big room.
“It’s shaping up fine, Gaius,” Niger continued. “Added some more water this morning. Doesn’t have a real bite, yet, but if we don’t Transit for another week, two weeks it’ll be plenty good.”
“It’ll be plenty good sooner than that, my friend,” said Vibulenus. He put an arm around Quartilla’s shoulders and pulled her close, but he did not look at her for the moment. The tribune’s eyes were turned toward the nearing exit, but his mind was focused on a red future.
“Sir?” said one or the other of the centurions.
“Pilus prior,” said the tribune as they stepped into the hallway, “we’ll give the men the remainder of the day to rest. I want to use the Tenth Cohort.”
“Of course, sir,” replied Clodius Afer. He sounded more shocked that any other unit could be considered for the operation than he was at the implication that the operation was about to go on line.
Quartilla’s body shuddered reflexively, but she immediately squeezed herself to a closer bond with the tribune.
“We’ll proceed to the Exercise Hall as usual,” Vibulenus continued. His companions were following his lead, but he was simply walking — moving his body so that his racing mind did not bounce off its physical trammels. “Pick up practice equipment and carry it to the Main Gallery. March here with it.”
“We’ll need to inform the men,” said Niger, sketching his own mental picture of the operation and the duties he would be required to perform.
“Non-coms the night before,” replied Vibulenus decisively. “Common soldiers by their centurions as we exit the sleeping room. No noise, no fuss. Especially no cheering. There’ll be plenty of time for that when it’s over, and I want us to be leading the cheers.”
Though the alternative wasn’t unacceptable, noted the part of the tribune’s mind which was willing to consider all possibilities with an icy logic. Because if the mutiny failed, the leaders who planned it were certainly going to gain freedom of a sort.
“Open your mouths again,” said Niger in a low voice to the pair of soldiers babbling as they entered the Main Gallery, “and I’ll choke you with your teeth.”