The Princeps stood before the little pool, looking down at a shrunken image of Tribune Antillus Crassus, which stood upon the water’s surface. “How many holders did you get out of there?”
“Eighty-three,” Crassus replied. His voice was very distant and dim, as if coming down a long tunnel. “All of them, sire—and their beasts and livestock, too.”
The captain barked out a short laugh. “You had fliers enough for that?”
“It seemed a good statement to make to the enemy, sire,” Crassus replied, one corner of his mouth turning up in a small smirk. “We had to drop them off within a few hours, but at least they won’t go to feeding the croach anytime soon.”
Tavi nodded. “Casualties?”
Crassus’s expression sobered. “Two so far.”
Marcus saw steely tension stiffen Octavian’s shoulders. “So far?”
“You were right. The vord had defensive measures in place—this kind of hornet thing. They came flying up out of the croach like balest bolts when your image appeared in the pool.” Crassus’s expression remained calm, but his voice sounded ragged. “They had stingers that could drive right through leather or mail. We were able to stiffen the plates of the lorica with battlecrafting, enough to keep the little bastards from punching through. If we hadn’t been able to prepare for it… crows, sire, I don’t want to think about it. We did well enough, but their stingers were poisoned, and wherever they hit flesh instead of steel, our folk got hurt. I lost two men last night, and another dozen who were hit are getting sicker.”
“Have you tried watercrafting?”
Crassus shook his head. “Hasn’t been time. We had a sky full of vordknights to worry about. I’m nearly certain that some of the windcrafters the vord turned are spooking around on our back trail. We had to stay ahead of them.”
Octavian frowned. “You’re out of occupied territory?”
“For now.”
“Do you have time to make the attempt at a healing?”
Crassus shook his head. “I doubt it. The vord are still trying to find us. I think the best chance for the wounded is to get them back to the Legion healers.”
Marcus saw the captain debating with himself. A commander was always tempted to involve himself too much in whatever mission was under way. But to lead, one had to maintain a rational perspective. Octavian couldn’t assess the men’s condition himself or the disposition or skills of the enemy. Yet he did not want more of his men’s lives to be needlessly lost. The temptation to override the judgment of a field commander had to have been very strong.
The captain sighed. “I’ll have the healers ready for you the moment you land.”
Crassus’s image nodded. “Thank you, sir.”
“That much pursuit,” the captain mused. “The vord Queen was upset?”
Crassus shuddered. “Sir… we were at least ten miles away from her hive, and we heard her screaming. Believe me, I didn’t have any trouble convincing the men to fly all night without resting.”
“She has handles, then,” the captain mused. “We can make that work for us. I’m sure of it.” He frowned at the Tribune. “What is your plan?”
“I’m going to give the men a couple of hours rest, then we’ll start again. We’ll cross two more bands of croach before we get back. I’m expecting more vordknights to be in position to intercept us.”
“Don’t let them.”
“No, sir,” Crassus said.
The captain nodded. “Good work, Tribune.”
Crassus’s eyes flashed at the compliment, and he slammed a fist to his heart in a sharp salute. The captain returned it, then passed his hand over the image. Within seconds, the water from which it had formed returned smoothly and silently to the pool.
The captain sank onto a camp stool and pressed the heels of both hands against his forehead.
“Sir,” Marcus said. “You should rest.”
“Presently,” the captain replied wearily. “Presently.”
“Sir,” Marcus began, “with all due respect you sound just like—” He barely caught himself in time to avoid betraying himself. Just like your grandfather. Valiar Marcus hadn’t been a close professional colleague of Gaius Sextus. He couldn’t know what the First Lord had been like in private. “Just like a new recruit trying to tell me he’ll be able to finish the march just fine, even though the soles of his feet are one big blister, and he’s got a broken ankle.”
A faint smile touched the captain’s mouth. “Right after we’re done, then.”
“Very good, sir. How may I help you?”
The captain lowered his hands and eyed Marcus. “What do you know about Marat courtship customs?”
Marcus blinked slowly. “Excuse me?”
“Courtship among the Marat,” Octavian said wearily. “What do you know about it?”
“I’m sure Magnus would know more than me, sir.”
The captain waved an irritated hand. “I asked him already. He said once he’d learned about how they would occasionally devour their enemies, he knew all he needed to want nothing to do with them.”
Marcus snorted. “Certain amount of sense in that, sir. The Marat can be dangerous.”
The captain scowled. “Tell me about it. After you tell me what you know about their courtship.”
“You figuring on keeping the Ambassador, then?”
“It’s not that simple,” the captain replied.
“Should say not. Lot of Citizens aren’t going to like that idea.”
“The crows can have them,” the captain replied. “The only people making this decision are me and Kitai.”
Marcus grunted. “I’ve heard stories.”
“Like what?”
Marcus shrugged. “The usual. That they mate with their beasts. That they participate in blood rites and orgies before battle.” He suppressed a shudder. He’d seen that last with his own eyes, and it was the material of nightmare, not fantasy. “That their females are beaten until they submit to the will of a husband.”
The captain let out a loud snort at this last.
Marcus nodded soberly. “Aye. If the Ambassador is any indication, that last one is just so much dandelion fluff.”
“Anything else?”
Marcus pursed his lips and debated with himself. Valiar Marcus couldn’t be expected to know much of the Marat or their customs. On the other hand, a well-connected, respected northern soldier knew a lot of folk. Some of them would travel. Some of them would return with stories. And…
And, Marcus realized, he wanted to help the captain.
“I served with a fellow who became the chief of armsmen for a fairly large merchant family,” he said finally. “He told me something about a contest.”
The captain frowned and leaned forward intently. “Contest?”
Marcus grunted in the affirmative. “Apparently a Marat woman has the right to demand a trial by contest of her prospective groom. Or maybe it was a trial by combat. He wasn’t real clear on the point.”
Octavian arched a raven black eyebrow. “You’re kidding.”
The First Spear shrugged. “All I know.” That much was true. Even the Cursors had known little apart from the barbarians’ military capabilities. Information on Marat society was fairly scanty. The two peoples had, for the most part, practiced avoiding one another. It had been sufficient to know the threat that they represented, so that the Legions could counter them effectively.
Certainly, no one had ever ordered a Cursor to find out how to propose to a Marat woman.
“Trial by combat,” Octavian muttered darkly under his breath. Marcus thought he might have said, “Perfect.”