the hankering to be back among things Roman was only natural. That had been a large part of his reason for taking the whole twenty-four as his escort, and nobody else. As for the rest of his reason, he wasn’t quite sure, but he had a notion that Magnus Maximus would not take kindly to a spokesman native to witchy Ys.
Otherwise his feelings were happy. He also was bound home to his people.
“I’m getting old and my joints are creaky,
The lentils grumble within my gut,
My tentmates snore and the tent is leaky,
And come a combat, I might get cut.
But never mind, we have got our orders.
So cheer up, fellows, for I do think
When we have crossed over foreign borders
There will be wenches, and lots to drink!”
“O-old!”
Adminius cried. The deputy could bring a surprising volume out of his narrow chest. “Battle ranks!”
Gratillonius heard clatter and scramble. He drew rein. Gravel scrunched to silence on the shoulder where he rode. Glancing back, he saw the vexillation quickly bring the animals together and themselves in position either to protect or attack. He’d kept them in crack training.
Adminius trotted over to him. “Being cautious, sir,” he said. “Wot does the centurion want we should do?”
Gratillonius peered ahead. No danger was obvious in the mounted man who had come around the curve and was galloping their way. Ashe spied them, he waved and shouted frantically, and kicked his horse to go faster. The beast was sweaty but not yet lathered; it hadn’t carried him far. The man was portly, with black hair cut short and a close-cropped fringe of beard in the Roman style, but tunic and trousers showed him to be a Gaul. Soon Gratillonius made out a dull-red splotch on his left thigh, from which edges of cloth flapped back. A flesh wound. That went with the condition of the horse.
“No pursuit,” Adminius deemed. “’E’s escaped. Didn’t seem worth chasing, I s’pose.” He squirted a gob of spit from a gap between teeth. His thin, sandy-stubbled face crinkled in a grin. “Well, they didn’t know anybody like us was anywhere near, eh, sir?”
Beneath Gratillonius’s calm went an ugly thrill. “We’ll wait and hear what he’s got to say.”
The Gaul halted in front of them. For a moment the only sounds were the whickering breath of the horse and the man’s gasps. His eyes rolled. At length he got out, “Romans! Legionaries! God be praised! Quick, and you may yet save us!”
The Latin was fairly good, with an accent that Gratillonius recognized as that of the Namnetes. He had come as far south as their seaport two years ago, when he was trying to link the cities of the littoral in cooperation against barbarians and neutrality in the civil war. “The sooner you make sense and tell me what the matter is, the sooner we may be able to do something about it,” he snapped.
“Bacaudae—” the man groaned.
“That’s no news. Let’s have facts.”
The stranger gulped, shuddered, mastered himself in some degree. “My wagon train… goods out of Armorica and Britannia… left Redonum…. Bishop Arator and his attendants joined us there, bound for a conference in Portus Namnetum. We’d been told the route was safe. I b-b-brought guards anyway, of course. But now, in th-th-this forsaken stretch… suddenly, there they were, scores of the vilest robbers springing out of the woods and—” He plucked at Gratillonius’s wrist. “God aided me to flee, because I found you. Don’t delay! It’s only two or three leagues. The guards will fight. You can get there in time. God calls you!”
The centurion spent a flash considering. His mission took primacy. However, his squadron should be a match for any plausible number of outlaws; banditry required suppression; and if word got about that he had been less than zealous in the cause of a prelate, he might as well turn land pirate himself. Worse could be the consequences to Ys.
“On the move!” he barked. Adminius shouted commands.
Otherwise his feelings were happy. He also was bound home to his people.
“I’m getting old and my joints are creaky,
The lentils grumble within my gut,
My tentmates snore and the tent is leaky,
And come a combat, I might get cut.
But never mind, we have got our orders.
So cheer up, fellows, for I do think
When we have crossed over foreign borders
There will be wenches, and lots to drink!”
“O-old!”
Adminius cried. The deputy could bring a surprising volume out of his narrow chest. “Battle ranks!”
Gratillonius heard clatter and scramble. He drew rein. Gravel scrunched to silence on the shoulder where he rode. Glancing back, he saw the vexillation quickly bring the animals together and themselves in position either to protect or attack. He’d kept them in crack training.
Adminius trotted over to him. “Being cautious, sir,” he said. “Wot does the centurion want we should do?”
Gratillonius peered ahead. No danger was obvious in the mounted man who had come around the curve and was galloping their way. Ashe spied them, he waved and shouted frantically, and kicked his horse to go faster. The beast was sweaty but not yet lathered; it hadn’t carried him far. The man was portly, with black hair cut short and a close-cropped fringe of beard in the Roman style, but tunic and trousers showed him to be a Gaul. Soon Gratillonius made out a dull-red splotch on his left thigh, from which edges of cloth flapped back. A flesh wound. That went with the condition of the horse.
“No pursuit,” Adminius deemed. “’E’s escaped. Didn’t seem worth chasing, I s’pose.” He squirted a gob of spit from a gap between teeth. His thin, sandy-stubbled face crinkled in a grin. “Well, they didn’t know anybody like us was anywhere near, eh, sir?”
Beneath Gratillonius’s calm went an ugly thrill. “We’ll wait and hear what he’s got to say.”
The Gaul halted in front of them. For a moment the only sounds were the whickering breath of the horse and the man’s gasps. His eyes rolled. At length he got out, “Romans! Legionaries! God be praised! Quick, and you may yet save us!”
The Latin was fairly good, with an accent that Gratillonius recognized as that of the Namnetes. He had come as far south as their seaport two years ago, when he was trying to link the cities of the littoral in cooperation against barbarians and neutrality in the civil war. “The sooner you make sense and tell me what the matter is, the sooner we may be able to do something about it,” he snapped.
“Bacaudae—” the man groaned.
“That’s no news. Let’s have facts.”
The stranger gulped, shuddered, mastered himself in some degree. “My wagon train… goods out of Armorica and Britannia… left Redonum…. Bishop Arator and his attendants joined us there, bound for a conference in Portus Namnetum. We’d been told the route was safe. I b-b-brought guards anyway, of course. But now, in th-th-this forsaken stretch… suddenly, there they were, scores of the vilest robbers springing out of the woods and—” He plucked at Gratillonius’s wrist. “God aided me to flee, because I found you. Don’t delay! It’s only two or three leagues. The guards will fight. You can get there in time. God calls you!”
The centurion spent a flash considering. His mission took primacy. However, his squadron should be a match for any plausible number of outlaws; banditry required suppression; and if word got about that he had been less than zealous in the cause of a prelate, he might as well turn land pirate himself. Worse could be the consequences to Ys.
“On the move!” he barked. Adminius shouted commands.