Falco reached out and gripped his forearm. “Well, Gaius my boy, how did you like our little demonstration yesterday?”
And while Vibulenus’ conscious mind told him that he must have misunderstood the words, Falco went on, “You know, I suggested to the Commander that you were the sort of troublemaker who’d be of more use as a demonstration than for anything else. But since you were an officer, so to speak, he thought he’d wait. So I suggested —”
Falco really didn’t expect the bigger tribune to hit him.
Vibulenus landed his first clumsy punch squarely on the sneering lips. Vibulenus did not immediately follow that blow with another, because of the pain that shot up his own arm from the knuckle he had broken on Falco’s teeth.
“Stop!” called Falco. “Commander!”
“Fighting is not allowed!” shouted the ship’s voice as Vibulenus tried to hit Falco with his left hand and wished he had a shield in it. “Stop at once, or this area will be gassed and corrective measures taken!”
“Don’t!” cried Falco, throwing up his hands. His lip was bleeding enough to spit droplets of blood. “You heard the Commander! He’ll —”
It was impossible to hurt somebody with your bare hands, thought Vibulenus as he slapped at Falco to avoid reinjuring the knuckle while Falco scrunched up his face and punched back.
Neither blow landed, because arms grabbed Vibulenus from behind and rotated him around the man who was holding him. The tribune’s bare feet hit the ground six feet from where they had been lifted. The voice continued, “Personal contests can be held through the simulator in the Recreation Room. No direct combats are allowed!”
“Gnaeus?” said Vibulenus.
“Right in one,” agreed the file-closer as he released the younger man and stepped hastily away so that his peacemaking would not look like an expansion of the brawl. His arms were splayed slightly so that he could react if the tribune tried to dodge past him to get at Falco again. “Let’s stay calm, sir.”
Vibulenus was both drained and embarrassed to have hurt himself so badly and Falco not at all. Well, Falco somewhat: the other tribune was dabbing his fingers to the cut on his lips. The rage which he glared at Vibulenus could not have been more real if Falco had just been impaled at his command.
“The red bead will lead you to the Recreation Room,” said the voice in a tone of satisfaction. “Private quarrels must not be worked out directly.”
“I won’t do anything about this now, Vibulenus,” Falco said, his hand hovering midway between a gesture and soothing his lips. No one had moved to interfere with him, so he strode in a wide arc around the taller man, trying to look brisk but not cowardly. “You’d better mind your ways, though, or I swear by the gods of my house that the Commander will hear about it personally!”
Falco stepped into the hallway with his legs scissoring so quickly that the tunic which fell out of a wall dispenser lay behind him unnoticed, its russet stripe a reproach.
“He’s not afraid of me,” Vibulenus muttered as the file-closer stared after the other tribune, disappearing in naked haste. Class pride had not vanished when they all were reduced to captivity together, to slavery. Besides, it was true. “He’s afraid of what they’ll do to both of us. The Commander.”
“He’ll do wonders,” sneered Clodius Afer. At the time Vibulenus thought he meant Falco. Then, snarling at the soldiers still watching them in hope of further excitement, the file-closer added. “Get on with it, damn ye, or see if I don’t find something for ye to be doing.”
The tribune began walking because his muscles were shaking with hormones that he had to work off — toward the doorway because that was the direction he was facing at the time. “He was the one who had Rufus killed. I knew Rufus from the time he was . . . we were —”
“Hold it, sir,” interrupted the file-closer, taking the first of the tunics that dropped from the wall and handing the next, with its narrow border, to Vibulenus.
“He’s got the Commander’s ear,” the tribune resumed, the first words muffled as he pulled the garment over his head, “and he’s using it to —”