He reached up to unfasten the studs of his cast-bronze body armor. Pain in his left arm brought the motion to a wincing halt.
The file-closer grimaced at the tortoise drifting over the bodies on the slope. Then, turning his attention to something within his experience and therefore not frightening to him, he said, “Here, let me bandage that,” and took a folded strip of two-inch linen from the wallet he carried on the back of his equipment belt.
“Hold still,” Clodius added sharply as Vibulenus turned his head with a bland expression and an unstated desire not to look at the damage to his body. The older man X-ed the fabric below the wound and began crossing the ends upward toward the shoulder as if he were wrapping leggings.
The front-rank legionaries who had not simply flopped on the ground were wandering in a daze of exhaustion, some of them dragging their shields and many with their armor unlaced. A line of shouting, laughing men climbed back over the wall of the enemy camp, carrying above their heads a single sheet of bronze three feet wide and at least ten times that length.
“Their drum,” said Clodius, glancing in the same direction. His fingers, dark with blood and grime, tied off the bandage in a neat square knot. “Their signaller.”
“Hey, Gnaeus,” said one of the soldiers nearby, brought to awareness by the file-closer’s voice. “Where do we get water? We’re — oh. Hi, sir.”
The last to Vibulenus, recognized also, and the legionary who spoke was Pompililius Rufus with his cousin Niger beside him. Both men carried their helmets in their right hands. Rufus’ was missing its crest: the whole socket had been sheared from the peak of the otherwise undamaged headgear.
“They didn’t bring the servants on the ship with us,” said Gnaeus Clodius Afer, lifting his head and peering back in the direction from which they had deployed. The huge metal vessel onto which they had marched under Parthian guard and which they had exited again in a very different place was out of sight in a canyon lying parallel to this much gentler valley. “I lost three good slaves. Would’ve brought me a nice bit of coin back to Rome. . . . if we’d gotten back to Rome. . . .”
“I’ll,” said Vibulenus, alert enough again to be an officer responsible for the well-being of his men, “go demand —”
He tried to get up. Everything went blank for an instant, until the shock of his buttocks crashing onto the ground returned him to buzzing consciousness. His skin felt as if it were expanding because someone was stuffing it with hot sand.
“Steady there, sir,” said one of the legionaries. Clodius had caught the tribune’s left wrist as he fell, so that the wound did not bang against the breastplate.
“Hercules, I felt fine,” Vibulenus muttered. He still felt fine, no pain except for an embarrassment that was worse than the transient burning sensation.
“Sir,” asked Niger, “where did you get these?”
The young legionary’s hand brushed Vibulenus’ hair and then proudly displayed his capture, a glossy brown insect whose wingtips were now pinched together between thumb and forefinger. It was trying to arch its tail back against the prisoning fingertips, though the tribune did not see a sting.
“Well, that’s a wasp, Niger,” Rufus said with a tinge of “of course” in his voice.
Vibulenus reached up to squeeze the right side of his scalp, which had a crawling sensation in contrast to the severe throb on the left side where he remembered the spearshaft clubbing him. Maybe that was why he felt dizzy. . . .
“Who this side of Hades —” the file-closer began.
Rufus interrupted, “Watch that, Gaius!” and grabbed Vibulenus’ wrist, treating him in an emergency as a boyhood friend rather than superior officer. “There’s three on you and maybe they bite.”
“I’m not sure it’s wasps,” Niger said, transferring the first-plucked example to his left hand and reaching for another. Something buzzed away from the tribune’s scalp, brushing his ear as it did so. “They’ve got just the two wings, see —” He held out a second squirming captive.