scabbard.
In his exhaustion afterwards, he only remembered a few pieces of flotsam from the flood of congratulations that washed over him. Gaius Philippus’ comment was, as usual, short and to the point. “That is a bad one,” he said as Avshar, leaning on his servant, staggered from the hall, “and you should have nailed him when you had the chance.”
Her winnings ringing in her hand, Helvis squeezed and kissed the tribune while Hemond pounded his back and shouted drunkenly in his ear.
And Taso Vones, though glad to see Avshar humbled, also had a word of warning. “I suppose,” the mousy little man from Khatrish grumbled, “now you think you could storm Mashiz singlehanded and have all the maidens from here to there fall into your arms.”
Marcus’ mind turned briefly to Helvis, but Vones was still talking. “Don’t you believe it!” he said. “A few years ago Avshar was leading a raiding-party along the western marches of Videssos, and a noble named Mourtzouphlos handled him very roughly indeed. The next spring, the biggest snake anyone in those parts had ever seen swallowed Mourtzouphlos down.”
“Happenstance,” Marcus said uneasily.
“Well, maybe so, but the Yezda’s arm is long. A word to the wise, let us say.” And he was off, brushing a bit of lint from the sleeve of his brown robe as if amazed anyone could think there was a connection between himself and this outlander rash enough to best Avshar.
IV
W HEN HE RETURNED FOR M ARCUS ’ SHIELD , A DIATUN MUST HAVE wakened the Romans in their barracks. Torches were blazing through the windows, everyone was up and stirring, and by the time Marcus got back to his quarters a good score of legionaries were fully armed and ready to avenge him.
“You don’t show much confidence in your commander,” he told them, trying to hide how pleased he was. They gave him a rousing cheer, then crowded close, asking for details of the duel. He told the story as best he could, peeling off his belt, corselet, and greaves while he talked. Finally he could not keep his sagging eyelids open any longer.
Gaius Philippus stepped into the breach. “That’s the nub of it. The rest you can all hear in the morning—early in the morning,” he half threatened. “There’s been nothing but shirking the past couple of days while we’ve got settled, but don’t get the notion you can make a habit of it.”
As the centurion had known it would, his announcement roused a chorus of boos and groans, but it also freed Scaurus from further questions. Torches hissed as they were quenched. The tribune, crawling under a thick woolen blanket, was as glad of sleep as ever he had been in his life.
It seemed only seconds later when he was shaken awake, but the apricot light of dawn streamed through the windows. Eyes still blurred with sleep, he saw Viridovix, looking angry, crouched above him. “Bad cess to you, southron without a heart!” the Gaul exclaimed.
Marcus raised himself onto one elbow. “What have I done to you?” he croaked. Someone, he noted with clinical detachment, had raced a herd of goats through his mouth.
“What have you done, man? Are you daft? The prettiest bit of fighting since we came here, and me not there to see it! Why did you not senda body after me so I could watch the shindy my own self and not hear about it second hand?”
Scaurus sat up gingerly. While he had made no real plans for the morning, he had not intended to spend the time pacifying an irate Celt. “In the first place,” he pointed out, “I had no notion where you were. You had left some little while before I fell foul of Avshar. Besides, unless I misremember, you didn’t leave alone.”
“Och, she was a cold and clumsy wench, for all her fine chest.” It had been the serving maid, then. “But that’s not the point at all, at all. There’s always lassies to be found, but a good fight, now, is something else again.”
Marcus stared at him, realizing Viridovix was serious. He
In his exhaustion afterwards, he only remembered a few pieces of flotsam from the flood of congratulations that washed over him. Gaius Philippus’ comment was, as usual, short and to the point. “That is a bad one,” he said as Avshar, leaning on his servant, staggered from the hall, “and you should have nailed him when you had the chance.”
Her winnings ringing in her hand, Helvis squeezed and kissed the tribune while Hemond pounded his back and shouted drunkenly in his ear.
And Taso Vones, though glad to see Avshar humbled, also had a word of warning. “I suppose,” the mousy little man from Khatrish grumbled, “now you think you could storm Mashiz singlehanded and have all the maidens from here to there fall into your arms.”
Marcus’ mind turned briefly to Helvis, but Vones was still talking. “Don’t you believe it!” he said. “A few years ago Avshar was leading a raiding-party along the western marches of Videssos, and a noble named Mourtzouphlos handled him very roughly indeed. The next spring, the biggest snake anyone in those parts had ever seen swallowed Mourtzouphlos down.”
“Happenstance,” Marcus said uneasily.
“Well, maybe so, but the Yezda’s arm is long. A word to the wise, let us say.” And he was off, brushing a bit of lint from the sleeve of his brown robe as if amazed anyone could think there was a connection between himself and this outlander rash enough to best Avshar.
IV
W HEN HE RETURNED FOR M ARCUS ’ SHIELD , A DIATUN MUST HAVE wakened the Romans in their barracks. Torches were blazing through the windows, everyone was up and stirring, and by the time Marcus got back to his quarters a good score of legionaries were fully armed and ready to avenge him.
“You don’t show much confidence in your commander,” he told them, trying to hide how pleased he was. They gave him a rousing cheer, then crowded close, asking for details of the duel. He told the story as best he could, peeling off his belt, corselet, and greaves while he talked. Finally he could not keep his sagging eyelids open any longer.
Gaius Philippus stepped into the breach. “That’s the nub of it. The rest you can all hear in the morning—early in the morning,” he half threatened. “There’s been nothing but shirking the past couple of days while we’ve got settled, but don’t get the notion you can make a habit of it.”
As the centurion had known it would, his announcement roused a chorus of boos and groans, but it also freed Scaurus from further questions. Torches hissed as they were quenched. The tribune, crawling under a thick woolen blanket, was as glad of sleep as ever he had been in his life.
It seemed only seconds later when he was shaken awake, but the apricot light of dawn streamed through the windows. Eyes still blurred with sleep, he saw Viridovix, looking angry, crouched above him. “Bad cess to you, southron without a heart!” the Gaul exclaimed.
Marcus raised himself onto one elbow. “What have I done to you?” he croaked. Someone, he noted with clinical detachment, had raced a herd of goats through his mouth.
“What have you done, man? Are you daft? The prettiest bit of fighting since we came here, and me not there to see it! Why did you not senda body after me so I could watch the shindy my own self and not hear about it second hand?”
Scaurus sat up gingerly. While he had made no real plans for the morning, he had not intended to spend the time pacifying an irate Celt. “In the first place,” he pointed out, “I had no notion where you were. You had left some little while before I fell foul of Avshar. Besides, unless I misremember, you didn’t leave alone.”
“Och, she was a cold and clumsy wench, for all her fine chest.” It had been the serving maid, then. “But that’s not the point at all, at all. There’s always lassies to be found, but a good fight, now, is something else again.”
Marcus stared at him, realizing Viridovix was serious. He
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