Theatrically, belched.
“I never said I wouldn’t do it,” he announced. With a dramatic wave at the screen:
“Besides, I couldn’t face my ancestors, knowing that all those innocent lads went off to war without proper training from”—dramatic scowl—”proper legionnaires.”
Very dramatic scowl: “The poor sorry bastards.”
XIII
“Is this where you died?” asked Ainsley.
For a moment, he thought Gaius hadn’t heard him. Then, with no expression on his face, the former tribune shrugged. “I don’t think so, Robert. I think we pretty much razed that fortress after we took it. I don’t remember, of course, since I was dead when it happened.”
Gaius turned his head, examining the walls and crenellations of the castle they were standing on. “It was much like this one, though. Probably not far from here.” He gestured toward the native notables standing respectfully a few yards away. “You could ask them. I’m sure they remember where it was.”
Ainsley glanced at the short, furry beings. “They wouldn’t remember. It was so long ago. Almost two thousand years, now. That was one of your first campaigns.”
“They’ll know,” stated Gaius firmly. “They’re a very intelligent species, Robert. They have written records going back well before then. And that was the battle that sealed their fate.”
He scanned the fortress more carefully, now, urging Ainsley to join him in that inspection with a little hand gesture.
“You see how well built this is, Robert? These people are not barbarians. They weren’t then, either. It was a bit of a shock to us, at the time, coming up against them. We’d forgotten how tough smart and civilized soldiers can be, even when they’re as small as these folk.”
His face grew bleak. “Two thousand years, Robert. For two thousand years these poor bastards have been frozen solid by the stinking Doges. The ruinous trade relations the Guild forced down their throat have kept them there.”
“It wasn’t your fault, Gaius,” murmured Ainsley.
“I didn’t say it was. I’m not feeling any guilt over the thing, Robert. We were just as much victims as they were. I’m just sorry, that’s all. Sorry for them. Sorry for us.”
Suddenly, he chuckled. “Gods, I’m being gloomy! I’m probably just feeling sorry for myself.” With a grimace: “Dying hurts, Robert. I still have nightmares about it, sometimes.”
Ainsley pointed down the wooded slope below them.
“Look! Isn’t that Clodius Afer?”
Gaius turned and squinted at the tiny figure of the horseman riding up the stone road which led to the castle. After a moment, he chuckled again.
“Yes it is, by the gods. I will be damned. I never thought he’d let the legion fight its first real battle without him there to mother his chicks.”
Ainsley raised his eyes, looking at a greater distance. In the valley far below, the legion was forming its battle lines against the still more distant enemy.
“How soon?” he asked.
Gaius glanced at the valley. His experienced eye took only seconds to gauge the matter. “Half an hour, at the earliest. We’ve got time, before we have to go in.”
The horseman was now close enough for Ainsley to see him clearly. It was definitely Clodius Afer.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, the former centurion stamped his way up the narrow staircase leading to the crenellated wall where Vibulenus and Ainsley were waiting. His scarred face was scowling fiercely.
“I couldn’t bear to watch!” he snarled. He shot the historian a black, black look. “I hold you responsible, Ainsley. I know this whole crack-brained scheme was your idea.”
The centurion strode to the battlements and pointed theatrically toward the valley. “In less than an hour, thousands of witless boys—and girls, so help me!—will lie dying on that field. Crushed under the heels of their pitiless conquerors. And it will all be your fault.”
He spit (theatrically) over the wall.
Ainsley’s reply was mild. “It was the Poct’on’s idea, Clodius Afer, not mine.”
“Bullshit. Fludenoc and the other Gha just had a general plan. You’re the one put flesh and bones on it—I know you were!”
There was just enough truth in that last charge to keep Ainsley’s mouth shut. Vibulenus filled the silence.