He always mustered with the Tenth Cohort, standing in the front rank to the left of Clodius Afer — and by extension, to the left of the entire legion. The right was the place of honor, the sword flank; the place where the first centurion and the eagle standard marched.
But a soldier didn’t fight long without a good shield, and the Tenth had been the legion’s shield through every battle it fought. They’d struck some shrewd blows of their own, besides.
It was not mere chance that the Tenth Cohort was down to two hundred and ninety-seven effectives, well below the average of the nine others.
“Individual members of the hostile force,” continued the Commander, “are of intermediate size and strength.”
“What’re we?” grumbled Clodius, rubbing his face under the hinged left cheek protector. There was no visible scar there, but tissue beneath the skin was knotted from the time an axe had glanced off his shield rim.
When had that been? Battles merged with one another and with the fantasies the tribune played in the Recreation Room. He wondered if Quartilla could still remember every man she had known. He had no idea of how many times he had killed. . . .
“Their armor is rudimentary,” said the voice in the Romans’ ears, “and their weapons, though iron, are so crude that their main effect is to permit my guild to deploy you against them rather than tasking a unit at a lower level.”
Vibulenus caressed his left forearm where he, too, had knobs of hidden keloid that the Medic had never been able to remove. “Wonder how he’d like a stone point rammed up his bum?” he muttered, angry despite himself to be lectured by someone who knew only at second-hand about matters that were bloody memories to most of those who listened.
“The terrain is rolling,” said the Commander, “and the soil coarse with no vegetation of military significance.”
He paused for thought, then added, “the average temperature is lower than that of the planet where you were purchased, but the conditions for the immediate future are well within the region which you find comfortable.”
“What the. . . ?” said the pilus prior. Vibulenus squeezed the armored shoulder again, for the benefit of one or both of them.
“Do your duty to my guild,” concluded the Commander, “and we will treat you well. You are dismissed.”
The doors in the rear of the Main Gallery never opened when the legion mustered for battle. Instead, the entire wall slid downward. The broad corridor by which the men had entered was gone, and the Main Gallery gaped through a hole in the vessel’s outer bulkhead.
“Cohort —” roared Clodius Afer as he turned with a squeal of hobnails on flooring that was harder than iron.
“Century —” echoed the remaining centurions in the cohort, while their fellows in the rest of the legion did the same. In mustering for battle, the First Cohort formed up in the rear of the gallery so that it could lead the way out.
The breath of air sucked into the Main Gallery when the walls slid open was cool and dry, a good temperature in which to march in armor. You were always too hot during actual combat, but in cold weather a man could die of the shock to his system when victory or a wound let him cool off suddenly.
“About face!” shouted the sixty centurions in a unison gained through long practice.
In the big room, even that clashing movement was unnaturally muted, but the air itself stirred. Crests fluttered and the lighting picked out glints from steel and polished bronze. Trumpets, followed by horns, blew; and the First Cohort stepped off on its left foot.
Except for a sky as pale as goat’s milk, Vibulenus could see nothing of the place they were expected to conquer. The ranks of men striding forward fell into silhouette as each left the gallery and the ship besides. It occurred to the tribune that the legion began each battle with an uphill march, since the Main Gallery was sloped for them to hear the final address by the Commander.
They might profitably dispense with the address to avoid the climb. Sometimes — and this was such an occasion — it seemed they would have been better without the address even if they had to climb a steeper slope to miss it. Why did they put young fools in command of veterans?