have had you all at the whipping post.”
“But-” protested one of the ex-slaves.
“And I’d have been right to do it,” the centurion snapped. “We told you when you signed on that the Free Aleran Legion was not about taking vengeance. We told you that you would be held to the standards of behavior of every other Legion, dealt with in the same way as any free soldier. Now get your lazy asses to work before I decide that the First Spear was too lenient on you, interpret your actions as refusal to obey a direct order while the Legion is in enemy territory, and have you all hanged.”
The men were shocked from their stasis by the centurion’s words, perhaps. In any case, they leapt back to the work with a will.
Marcus faced off with the centurion and nodded to him. “Thank you,” he said in a quieter tone.
“Bugger off, you crowbitten piece of Citizen bootlicking trash,
“There is no
The centurion glared at Marcus a moment longer. Then he grunted, a tone of vague assent, and turned to start back down the line of laboring men. He barked orders for a pair of them to carry the unconscious Bartillus to the healers.
Marcus watched him go and shook his head. Bloody crows, he must be going senile not to have realized how sharp the division between the former slaves and the First Aleran had been. In the wrong situation, they would be as eager to fight the First Aleran as they would the Canim.
And besides that, he admitted to himself, the Free Aleran centurion had a point. Had the men he’d been passing been members of the Crown Legion, or of the First Imperian, he would most likely have spoken to the centurion in charge of the men, though he was technically within his rights to brace the men directly for such an obvious breach of discipline.
Within his rights, but unwise. And it sent the wrong message to the men of both Legions-that the command of the expedition did not trust the Free Aleran’s officers. He would avoid a repetition of such foolishness in the future.
“First Spear!” Marcus looked up from his thoughts to spot one of Magnus’s runners charging toward him. The young man came to a panting halt and saluted him. “Sir!”
Marcus restrained a sigh, and declined to tell the valet that “sir” was used to address officers, not centurions. “What is it, son?”
“Sir, Sir Magnus’s compliments, and a message from the Princeps has arrived, sir. He said you would wish to be informed immediately.”
Marcus nodded once, sharply. “Take me to the messenger.”
Marcus watched Foss and his best men struggle to save Antillus Crassus’s life. The young Knight Tribune, wounded in a dozen places, lay almost completely still in the healing tub, his breathing barely disturbing the water. His skin showed fresh, pink patches where he must have, in desperation, closed a dozen more such wounds as the ones he still sported. Given that he had likely done it while flying-and likely while fighting as well-it was a wonder the boy was alive at all.
He had flown into the Legion’s camp, barely conscious, and collapsed two of the Legion’s white canvas tents as he crashed to earth. He had been taken from the wreckage directly to the healers, and had not yet woken to give any message.
“Foss?” Magnus asked again. The old Cursor Callidus stood at the healer’s right hand, intently focused upon the wounded man.
Foss shook his wide shoulders in irritation and growled under his breath. The big man’s black hair and beard were too long for the letter of the regulations, but the Tribune Medica was, frankly, too good at his job to be called to task for them. “I’m trying to stack up grains of sand, here, Magnus, and you keep bumping my bloody arm. Go to the bloody crows and let me work.”
Marcus turned and hurried from the tent, crossing the open stretch of ground that lay between the tents of the First Aleran’s healers and those of the Legion of ex-slaves. He strode into the tent and looked around.
The Tribune Medica rose from where he sat at a small table, writing in a ledger. He frowned at Marcus warily. “First Spear.”
“Sir,” Marcus said, saluting the man. “We have word from the Princeps, but his messenger is gravely wounded. I had hoped that you would lend us Dorotea.”
“I would,” the other man said. “But she’s busy. It seems one of our
Marcus looked past the Tribune to see the hapless Bartillus lying senseless in a healing tub, his lower face bruised and swollen all along his jawline. Kneeling behind him, her fingers resting lightly on his temples, was a woman in a plain grey homespun gown. She was lean, dark-haired, and exquisitely beautiful. She wore no jewelry or adornment, save for the slender, sinister metal band of a discipline collar at her throat.
Even as Marcus watched, he saw the wounded man’s jaw shift weirdly beneath his skin. Seconds later, the swelling began to subside and the bruises began to lighten.
“This is a minor and routine injury, sir,” Marcus said. “And the messenger’s life might depend on securing the most skilled healer in the camp. Our Tribune Medica is pressing hard at his limits.”
The Free Aleran Tribune grunted. “I’ll send her over presently.”
“With respect, sir,” Marcus said, “Antillus Crassus is dying now.”
The woman’s eyes opened instantly, and she met Marcus’s gaze with her own. Her stare was penetrating. She removed her hands from Bartillus’s head and rose to approach the Tribune Medica.
“I’ve knitted the bone and controlled the swelling, sir,” she said in a soft voice, her eyes downcast. “I’d be happy to help Tribune Antillus.”
The Tribune frowned at her, then at Marcus. Then he waved his hand in a vague gesture, and said, “Don’t be gone any longer than you need to be.”
“Yes, sir,” Dorotea answered. She looked up at Marcus briefly. “I’m ready, First Spear.”
Marcus nodded to her, and they hurried to cross the field back toward the First Aleran’s healers.
“The Princeps told you who I am,” the woman observed.
“Aye, Your Grace.”
She shook her head wearily. “No, no, no. I am no longer that woman.”
“Because of that collar,” Marcus said. “There must be some way to remove it.”
“I don’t want to remove it,” she said calmly. “To be honest, I like the person I am now a great deal more than who I once was.”
“That’s the collar talking,” Marcus said quietly.
Dorotea, the former High Lady of Antillus, walked for several steps before she admitted, “Possibly. However, the fact is that there is no future for High Lady Antillus, whereas Dorotea has saved lives, helped people, and done more good in the past three years than she had in her entire previous life.”
“But you’re trapped there,” Marcus said. “Bound to obey the commands of others. Forbidden to do harm, even to defend yourself.”
“And liking it that way, First Spear.” She looked ahead to the healer’s tent. “How severe are my son’s injuries?”
“I’m no healer,” Marcus replied. “But I’ve seen Foss handle very serious injuries. Some of them were my own. If he’s struggling…”
Dorotea nodded once, her expression serene. “Then we shall see what we shall see.” She glanced obliquely at Marcus. “Does my son know?”
Marcus shook his head.
She nodded. “I should prefer to keep it that way. It’s better for everyone.”
“Of course.”
“I thank you.” Dorotea’s eyes flickered with uncertainty and fear, and her footsteps increased in speed as
