“Not that,” he repeated, “but by all the gods, we will get something as good.”
And before either of the non-coms realized his intent, Gaius Vibulenus had ducked down the steps to the gallery which led to the rear — and to the means of putting his idea, all their idea, into effect.
The shimmering surface of the Commander’s face flowed and distorted as he drank something that was not ration wine from his goblet. “I don’t see how this could possibly work,” he said with less than his usual detachment. “Is this something you’ve used on your own planet?”
Vibulenus was familiar with the word “planet” from the astronomical poetry of Aratus, which had formed part of his education. It was nonsensical in this context, so he ignored it and said, conscious that not even the friendly eyes around the circle held belief, “Sir, this is not a familiar technique for us —” He glanced to his side and got shocked disavowal from Pacuvius Semo, the tribune nearest to him, in place of the smile of solidarity for which he had been fishing.
They were all in this together, thought Gaius Vibulenus with an icy memory of spears — fantasy and real melded together — swishing toward his brain. Whatever others wanted to tell themselves.
Loudly, coldly, certainly, the tribune who was no longer as young as he looked continued, “Nor is the problem a familiar one. However, anyone who has seen a smithy in operation will know that the apparatus will work. Common sense indicates that the result will be what we desire. What you desire, sir.”
“Nonsense,” said Rectinus Falco forcefully, and the chances were better than half that he was right. Hades, that he was right on either assumption, the mechanics or the result of their successful use. But nobody was going to guess that by looking at Vibulenus’ boyish, supercilious expression.
There were fifteen Romans in the command group, the five surviving tribunes and the senior centurion from each cohort. The legion’s first centurion, a balding, glowering veteran named Marcus Julius Rusticanus, had held his post throughout the period of service beneath the Commander. Several of the other cohort leaders were recent promotions, since their rank and the deference afforded them were owed to courage in battle — which came with a price, even when the Commander’s vast, turtle-shaped recovery vehicle roamed the field after victory had been won.
The Commander was the same man or not-man who had mustered them when they awakened aboard the ship which became their home. The Medic since the third campaign had been a turnip-shaped creature, shorter than the smallest legionary, with broad hands and fingertips that spread like those of a tree frog.
But they saw the Medic only at the end of a campaign, unless they were so badly wounded that their fellows bundled them on wagons or stretchers to the vessel. Nothing, including the recovery vehicle, left the ship between the time the legion disembarked and the victory they were landed to secure.
The Commander shared the legion’s exile from the ship during a campaign, but he could not be said to share any unnecessary danger. The Commander lived a fall half-mile back from the fortification, in a dry-stone blockhouse which had been erected before work on the first siege ramp even began.
The command group met in the courtyard of the blockhouse, rank with the smell of the lionlike mounts which were stabled there every night. While the Romans squatted supporting their backs with the stone walls, the Commander sat primly upright on a stool. Two of his bodyguards stood to either side of him, and a farther pair glowered beneath raised visors from behind the stool.
Falco began to rise to take the floor, half way around the circle, but Vibulenus did not relinquish his position. The meeting was one he had called — requested, at any rate. Begged, if you will, of the Commander who, like any reasonable slaveowner, made an effort to accommodate the wishes of his chattels when that did not require unreasonable effort.
“Sir,” Vibulenus continued. His voice cut the air like a swordblade while his own imagination told him that the wind blowing across the wall’s jagged top was robbing his words of all life, all power. “The technique will succeed. Whether or not it does, the cost of the attempt is negligible. There —”