And would that the gods had struck him down in that moment. Then his family could mourn the ashes of Gaius Vibulenus Caper, and he himself would be spared all this.
Whatever this was.
How could General Crassus have bungled so badly at the end of a brilliant career?
Because of the noise around him, and even more because of the turgid echoes of his thoughts, Vibulenus did not hear the sound of the horse approaching until a legionary’s curse was answered with, “Watch yourself, dog!” in the nasal bray of the rider, Rectinus Falco — another of the legion’s six tribunes.
Falco was the last person Gaius Vibulenus wanted to see right now, but even that had its advantages: Vibulenus’ shoulders straightened, his face became a mask of cool disinterest; instead of roiling with fear and embarrassment, his mind focused on the fact that he did not have a horse and that bastard Falco did because of the way he had made up to the Commander.
“Our commander sends me to check on the progress of the left wing,” Falco said. His accent implied that he was born and bred in a townhouse in the wealthiest section of Rome. In fact, he was country gentry from Campania, just like Vibulenus himself; and the Vibuleni could have bought Falco’s family three times over.
Not that questions of birth affected where the two tribunes stood, right now and for the foreseeable future.
“Not the level of progress one might have expected,” the horseman went on, raising himself a trifle in the saddle by pressing his hands against the double front pommels.
“Tell the Commander that he needn’t concern himself with this flank,” Vibulenus replied in a tone of vibrant haughtiness that surprised him and would have surprised his declamation instructor in Capua even more. He had never shown signs of oratorical power. This was a hell of a place for it to turn out that he had talents in that direction after all. “Though I would have expected more cavalry to support us.”
In all truth, this was a Hell of a place.
“Vibulenus, you’ll go further if you learn to tend to your own affairs,” Falco snapped angrily. He raised his torso higher with his hands and clamped his knees near the top of the saddle to peer at the cohort from a slightly better perspective. No doubt about it, the man was a natural horseman. “Which,” he went on in his nasal sneer, “you seem to be doing a very bad job of, as ragged as these lines look.”
“Then if you’ll get yourself and your animal out of the deployment area,” Vibulenus responded with ringing clarity, “we’ll proceed with our business.”
Falco might have continued the wrangle — which was not about war but rather status, and therefore of much greater importance to him. One of the line soldiers — was it Clodius Afer again, watching the ranks quick-step past — muttered, “Wonder how he’ll ride with a spear up his bum?”
The horseman dropped back into a full seat with an alacrity that proved he considered the threat from the ranks more than rhetorical. The sun had risen high enough to clearly limn the anger on Falco’s face as he tugged at the bridle and spurred his mount’s right flank to twist it into a tight pivot. He continued to kick the horse as he rode back toward the command group at a twitchy canter.
Vibulenus drew a deep breath, obscurely thankful to Falco. Nothing like anger to drive out . . . weaker emotions. And he’d been worse places, they all had — trapped without water and without shade, facing Parthian arrows that could punch through shield and breastplate alike if a man’s luck were out. Abandoned by their allies, abandoned by Rome, and utterly abandoned by hope.
Though it was doubtful that any of the three elements were closer to them now than they had been that terrible day in Mesopotamia.
The tribune had a better view of the enemy across the valley than he did of his own men; but the enemy was not his job, not yet, and he determinedly concentrated on the deployment of the legion’s left flank.