The toad-faced guards rode past the flank of the cohort. Instead of reining their beasts across the face of the kneeling unit to arrest the tribune as he expected, they fanned out to extend the line of the legion by over three hundred feet. As the nearest of the riders halted his mount, facing and snarling at the enemy, he turned stiffly in the saddle. His mace head dipped in the direction of Vibulenus, then rose again in what could only be a salute.
“Get them on their feet again,” said the tribune in a rush of triumph and relief that elevated him beyond human concerns. “We’ve got a battle to fight.”
“Cohort!” shouted Clodius Afer. “Fall — in!”
Hidden by the scrunch of gravel under hobnails, the pilus prior muttered, “And just what’re they doing, you think — sir?”
“They’re the unit guarding our left flank,” Vibulenus said, watching armored men rise from the stony soil like the crop Jason sowed with dragon’s teeth. Shifting their grip on javelins, adjusting shields and raising reflections on the bronze bosses and edge reinforcements from the light of the greenish sun.
There was nothing in particular in the eyes that met the tribune’s as he scanned the ranks: neither hope nor resignation, not curiosity or fear. They were experts who knew what the present job entailed, and knew that they could handle it.
“Not exactly a regiment of cavalry,” grumbled Clodius in a husky whisper. “Ten of ’em. How’s that going to help?”
“He gave us half of what he had,” the tribune remarked with a detached shrug. “We’ll call that a win. Anyway, they’ll keep the natives off our backs — they look so mean.”
The bull-roarers were beginning to spin again across the field.
“Mean? We’ll give ’em mean,” said the pilus prior as he strode away, checking the dress of his lines again.
The bodyguards must be bitter, the tribune thought, ordered to take a place in the line where they might see real action. Maybe it’d be good for them.
At least it might get a few of the bastards killed.
The command group’s trumpeter blew his long preliminary call again. Bronze ranks of legionaries, their plumes and javelin points trembling, interrupted Vibulenus’ view of the figure in the blue suit who was probably watching the Tenth Cohort in nervous anticipation.
The Commander had turned out to be willing to learn from people who knew more than he did about the situation. That put him a notch up on Crassus and more than one other Roman consul.
“Signallers!” Vibulenus called as he strode across the front of the cohort toward its right, where he would find a place between the files of the Tenth and Ninth Cohorts. “Sound the attack!”
It was not his place to give that order. But, as when Vibulenus had the cohort kneel and take itself out of the battle, it was the fastest possible way to send the Commander a message he would understand.
The part of Vibulenus’ mind that considered practical things expected two or three of the signallers to be able to hear his command — and perhaps none of those to obey him. Instead, all the horns and trumpets of the Tenth and Ninth Cohorts blew the concentus. His voice carried — and it carried authority to every legionary that heard it.
By Hercules, they were men and were soldiers; and so was Gaius Vibulenus.
“Cohort —” roared Clodius Afer, picking up the tribune’s intent.
“Century —” from multiple throats.
First the horn and trumpet from the command group, then the signallers throughout the legion joined the concentus.
“Forward — march!”
The legion crashed off toward another enemy at two steps a second, while four thousand right arms readied javelins. The left flank was a half stride ahead of the remaining cohorts; and that wasn’t a bad feeling either.
Vibulenus settled his shield so that the point of his left shoulder took some of the weight. He drew his sword, the same fine Spanish blade his father had bought him so long ago. Its bone hilt and the calluses of his right hand had shaped to one another over the years, and the blade — though frequently sharpened — was poised and balanced to slash a life out.