“What’s he mean?” a soldier behind Vibulenus whined to his fellow. “Them barbs, they wuz nekkid, the half of ’em and the rest warn’t much.”
And that was true . . . but the tribune realized that what the Commander had said was true also. The warriors dead on the slopes outside had metal weapons — even had iron, unlike the demigods of whom Homer had written. Nobody could fault the strength and individual skill with which they used their weapons either; Vibulenus brushed a hand across his temple in memory of the blow that had almost cracked his skull.
But the giant spearmen didn’t know how to use their weapons as an army, as a Roman legion moving forward in ranks as implacable as the metal of their armor. They were barbarians, only barbarians, and therefore of course they died when they met Rome. . . .
“During the period that some of you are convalescing from your wounds,” chimed the Commander’s crystal voice in Vibulenus’ ears, “the ship is limited to proceeding in normal space. Therefore time will seem to pass normally, and you will be permitted to occupy it with recreation as well as training.”
“Women!” called someone midway in the hall, loud enough that the tribune could understand.
The Commander’s head swivelled minutely, and Vibulenus thought that his ears twitched beneath the fabric of his tight hood. The tribune remembered his own vain attempt to spot the man who had punched him in the crush. Perhaps there were ways other than floating doors and rooms that healed wounds in which the Commander’s world differed from that of Rome. . . .
“Yes, of course, women,” said the blue figure with a smile that was as perfect as his Latin diction — and every bit as learnedly unnatural. “Not just now, I’m afraid; but they’ll be provided for you in what will seem to be a very short time.”
He threw the crowd another crisp, uncomfortable smile. “I wouldn’t want you to think that my company doesn’t prepare properly, but the fact is that we did not expect your success to be so complete you would deserve so high a level of expense, you warriors.”
“Warriors,” Clodius Afer echoed in a whisper. “We’re soldiers. Warriors are meat on the table for soldiers with discipline.”
Gaius Vibulenus thought of what they were being told and what it implied about the alternatives had the legion not demolished its opponents so hastily. Well, in Parthia the alternative had been working the quarries under a mind-blasting sun. . . .
“Because you will be conscious and alert during the first portion of this voyage and the voyages that follow,” said the Commander, “it is necessary that you observe certain limitations. Your skills, brave warriors, are extensive within the bounds of your technology — but your technology is very low in comparison to what is available to every officer of my guild.”
There was a commotion on the far side of the room. Vibulenus thought at first it was a reaction to the statement, then that the floor must be shifting again because there was movement in the crowd both forward and back, like a ship’s wake dividing a small pond.
The tribune set his palm on Clodius’ shoulder and lifted himself on tiptoes, craning his neck to make the most of his height advantage over the bulk of the legionaries.
“There’s no need to be alarmed,” the Commander was saying. “This is only a demonstration of things you’ll have to understand to make your voyage comfortable.”
“It’s not the floor moving,” said Vibulenus to the file-closer who had gripped him unasked beneath the arms and lifted the tribune vertically, feet off the floor. The pressure of Clodius’ hands made it hard to speak but not impossible, and the support the veteran offered was only peripherally physical. “There’s another door opened in that wall.”
If his feet had been on the ground, Vibulenus would have turned to see whether the wall on their side of the Main Gallery was also marked for an opening. Instead he squinted, his view aided by the way legionaries were clearing from the affected area.
“Okay, let me down,” he muttered. Clodius obeyed by lowering, not dropping, the young tribune back to the floor. Vibulenus avoided massaging his ribs for fear that would look ungrateful.