There was a commotion behind them in the baggage train, cause for a glance over the shoulder but not concern. Several vehicles from the merchant vessel, looking like slightly larger versions of the water carts, were gliding among the wagons. They carried half a dozen passengers apiece, men or not-men of a variety even wider than that of the legion’s successive commanders. Each individual was clad in monochrome, but the selection of single colors ran the gamut from violet to a red so dark it was nearly black.
“Oh, it wouldn’t be hard, Gaius,” said Niger as rolling ground dropped them out of sight of the train and the field. They were not tribune and centurions at the moment; and Niger, too, was happy to return to the terms of boyhood.
“You see,” he explained, so intent on his subject that he would have stepped into a flat-stemmed, spikey bush had not Clodius steered him aside, “the guards at the Medic’s check, they don’t care about anything ‘cept fighting or pushing in line.”
“Or,” Vibulenus said tartly, “if somebody tried to slip contraband into the ship proper after they’ve gone through the Sick Bay. I’ve seen them collar people doing that, and sometimes it meant another trip through the booth to get fixed up.”
“Niger, if you don’t watch where you’re going,” the pilus prior interjected sharply, “you’ll fall down the fuckin’ side. And by Apis’ dick, I’ll let you lie there. If you can’t talk and walk at the same time, shut the fuck up.”
“Sorry, sir,” the junior centurion answered, abashed. They had reached the sinkhole. While the trail winding down its side was occasionally wide enough for three or four men abreast, it was never regular enough to be safe for someone talking over his shoulder instead of keeping his eyes to the front.
“Here, I’ll lead,” said Vibulenus as he stepped ahead of his companions. He was feeling human again, tired but human. The leather backing of his body armor was clammy and beginning to chafe. As he walked down the steep incline, he tried again to pull the locking pin. It came without effort, and he flopped the breastplate wide against its left-side hinges.
“Yessir,” said Niger and cleared his throat. “I mean, sure, Gaius, that’s right — they grab guys with contraband. But not because they see it but because they’re told about it.”
“The Medic?” Clodius put in from the end of the line where he was apparently able to hear well enough.
“Naw, he doesn’t care,” the younger centurion replied. “No, I figure it’s the whole ship, you know? It watches. But all it sees is metal, so you try to get in with gold, you get grabbed. Lots of guys bring in jewels, though, sometimes stuck up their ass but even open in their hands.”
Vibulenus hadn’t known that. He paused at the bottom of the trail to strip off his armor and prop it against a rock, watching Niger with interest. It seemed to be his day to learn unexpected things about the men he helped to lead but did not command.
“Sure,” said Clodius, sealing the statement without room for doubt as he followed the others into the lumpily-flat bottom of the sinkhole. “But all that crap disappears when we march out after the next muster. They must, I dunno, give everything aboard a real goin’ over whenever we’re out. So it’s really just there till we go into Transit. Whatever the fuck that is.”
“But sometimes we got a couple months aboard before that, right?” said Niger. “That’s time for mead to get enough of a bite to be worth doing, you know? I don’t mean it’ll be the vintage you bring out when your son gets married, sure . . . but it’ll be mead, and that’s all I’m after. Just something, you know. To remind me of home and all.”
Vibulenus was picking his way along the track to the cave at the best pace possible under the circumstances. They had lost direct sunlight even before they stepped within the sinkhole, and now the sky above, though clear, was beginning to take on a rich maroon tinge that scattered very little sun into the natural pockmark.