Tambo winced. “Don’t let the SPCA find out.”

The centurion mumbled something under his breath. Ainsley wasn’t sure, but it sounded like “modern sissies.”

“The hyenas are breaking,” announced Gaius. “Look at them-they’re completely cowed.”

Tambo slapped the heavy wooden table under the viewscreen. The gesture expressed his great satisfaction.

“It’ll be a straight-up fight, now! Between the legion and those-what in the hell are they, anyway? Have you ever seen them before, Gaius?”

The tribune grinned. So did Clodius Afer.

“Oh, yes,” he murmured. “These boys were the opposition in our very first Guild campaign.”

“Sorry clowns!” barked the centurion. “Look at ‘em, Gaius-I swear, I think those are the same wagons they were using two thousand years ago.”

The Ty’uct mercenaries started their wagon charge. Clodius Afer watched them on the screen for a few seconds before sneering: “Same stupid tactics, too. Watch this, professor! These galloping idiots are about to-”

He scowled. “Well, if they were facing a real Roman legion.”

Deep scowl. “As it is-against these puling babes-?” Low moan of despair. “It’ll be a massacre. A massacre, I tell you.”

“Actually,” murmured Gaius, “I think the puling babes are going to do better than we did.”

He glanced over at Tambo, who was sitting to one side of the big screen. The naval officer’s eyes were on a complex communication console attached to the viewscanner. “Are we secure?” asked Gaius.

Tambo nodded. “Yeah, we are. Our ECM has got the Federation’s long-distance spotters scrambled. Everything in the castle is out of their viewing capability.”

He sat up, sneering. “And, naturally, the lazy galactics never bothered to send a personal observer. Even if they shuttle one down now, it’ll be too late. The battle’ll be over before they get here.”

“Good.” Gaius turned and whistled sharply. A moment later, several natives appeared in the main doorway to the great hall. Gaius gestured, motioning for them to enter.

Somewhat gingerly, the natives advanced into the room and approached the small knot of humans at the viewscreen.

“You watch now,” said Gaius, in simple Latin.

“Is safe from Federation?” asked one of the natives, also in Latin. Ainsley recognized him. The Fourth-of-Five, that one was called. He was a member of the clan’s central leadership body, as well as the clan’s warchief.

“Safe,” assured Gaius. “They can not see you here with”-he groped for a moment, in the limits of the simplified language-“high-raised arts. But must keep this secret. Not tell them. Not tell anyone.”

“Secret be keep,” said the Fourth-of-Five. Still a bit gingerly, the warchief leaned forward to examine the scene on the scanner.

“Battle start?”

“Yes,” replied Gaius. “Now you watch. I explain what we do. Why we do.”

Two minutes later, the battle was joined in earnest. As it unfolded, Gaius followed the action with a running commentary for the benefit of the Fourth-of-Five, explaining the methods and principles of Roman tactics. The warchief was an attentive student. A very knowledgeable one, too, who asked many pointed and well-aimed questions. His own people had never been slouches, when it came to warfare; and now, hidden miles away in a forest camp, the warchief’s own native legion had already begun its training.

Commander Tambo watched some of the battle, but not much. He was a naval officer, after all, for whom the tactics of iron-age land warfare were of largely academic interest. He was much more concerned with keeping a careful eye on the ECM monitors. By allowing the natives to follow the battle with the help of modern technology, the humans were breaking the letter of Federation law.

The spirit of that law, of course, they were trampling underfoot with hobnailed boots.

Ainsley simply watched the battle. Quite transfixed, he was; oblivious to everything else.

Ironically, his interest was purely academic. But it was the monomaniacal interest of a man who had spent all but the last few years of his adult life studying something which he was now able to see unfold before his own eyes. A Roman legion in action.

A purist, of course, would have been outraged.

Such a purist, in his own way, was the legion’s expert consultant and field trainer, the former centurion Clodius Afer. Throughout the course of the battle, Clodius Afer danced back and forth between the viewscreen and the far wall, to whose unfeeling stones he wailed his black despair.

Roman legion, indeed!

Smiling, Ainsley leaned over and whispered to Gaius: “Is the rumor true? Did Clodius Afer really call Colonel Tsiang a ‘slant-eyed bastard’?”

Gaius grinned, though his eyes never left the screen. He was keeping a close watch on the legate commanding the legion, in order to provide him with expert consultation after the battle.

That legate was a former colonel in the Chinese Army. Of the ten tribunes commanding the legion’s cohorts, four were Chinese, three North American, one German, one South African and one Pakistani. True, there was one Italian centurion, and three Italian file-closers. But the overall national and racial composition of the legion was a fair reflection of modern Earth’s demographics, except that it was skewed toward Chinese and North Americans. This, for the simple reason that all the legionnaires were former soldiers, and only the North Americans and Chinese still maintained relatively large standing armies.

“Oh, yes,” murmured Gaius. “Fortunately, Tsiang’s a phlegmatic kind of guy. Good thing for Clodius. The colonel has a black belt in at least five of the martial arts.”

He turned his head. “You might want to watch this, Clodius Afer! They’re getting ready for the first volley of javelins!”

Two seconds later, the former centurion’s face was almost pressed to the screen. “They’ll screw it up,” he groaned. “Damned amateurs think they’re throwing darts in a tavern.”

Silence ensued, for a few seconds. Then:

Gaius grinned. Clodius Afer scowled and stalked off. Robert Ainsley hissed, face pale.

“God in Heaven,” he whispered shakily. “I had no idea.”

The former tribune’s grin faded. “A good javelin volley is like the scythe of death, Robert. It’s pure butchery.”

“Was this one good?”

“As good as you’ll ever see. I knew it would be.”

Ainsley studied Gaius for a moment.

“You’ve never shared Clodius Afer’s skepticism. Why?”

Gaius snorted. “The old bastard’s just jealous, that’s all.”

The former tribune jabbed his forefinger at the screen. “Every single one of those legionnaires, from the legate down to the last man in the ranks, is a hand-picked volunteer. The cream of the crop-and it was a huge crop of volunteers. Every one’s a soldier, and every one’s dedicated to this cause. Not to mention the fact that, on average, they’re probably half again as strong and twice as fast as the average Roman legionnaire of our time. So why shouldn’t they do well?”

Ainsley rubbed his chin. “It’s still their first real battle.”

Gaius shrugged. “True. And it shows.” He nodded at the screen.

“They’re sluggish, right now. They’re not reacting as quickly as they should to the success of their javelin volley. That’s inexperience. A blooded legion would already be down the enemy’s throat. But-see? Tsiang’s already bringing the line forward. Good formations, too. The spacing’s excellent.”

He glanced over his shoulder at the figure of Clodius Afer, wailing against the wall.

“Clodius forgets. How good do you think we were in the beginning? A bunch of ignorant kids, half of us. Marched off to slaughter in the desert and then sold to aliens. I had no idea what I was doing, at first. This legion’s already doing well. Give them three more campaigns and they could have chopped us up for horse meat.”