"They're here and waiting. Father?"

"Yes?"

Briccu was a mountain man like Padrec himself. He spoke the archaic Brigante dialect Padrec had known from birth. "It is that I would be asking confession of you, Father."

"And where have you found the time or opportunity to sin, busy as we are?"

"Och, it's not that much. But I am new-betrothed. ..."

"Bless you, I have a young wife myself."

"Well, then." Briccu shuffled a little in embarrassment. "You'll know what I mean. When we passed the old army brothel . . . well, wasn't I drunk at the time, and lonely."

Padrec smiled. "Drink's been known to do that. A man can lose his way."

"Can he not?"

Padrec couldn't resist the chuckle. "Jesu, those worn-out old—well, Briccu, I'll be hearing confessions tonight. We should speak of taste as well as transgression. Rest you gentle until then." He patted the man's shoulder and passed into the tent.

The tribune was seated on a plain stool next to a camp table on which had been set a jug of wine and a covered plate. Ambrosius lived as plainly as any of his men in the field. Harness discarded on a rack, he received his officers in a plain Dobunni tunic and trousers of red and green checks. Gallius was still in gear; since the victory at Wye, he'd exchanged the potbellied breastplate the other officers joked about for a good coat of scale armor scavenged from a dead Coritani chief. It made less comment on his paunch. He pretended to sniff the air in distaste when Padrec entered.

"Whew! Don't the Faerie ever wash?"

"We're always last at the water ration and other things. Sir."

1 'The tribune said you asked I be here. Well, what is it? I have other duties."

"Centurion Urbi," Ambrosius began, "Father Patri-cius has lodged a formal complaint about alae rations. A number of them, to be precise."

"He went over my head?" Gallius rounded belligerently on Padrec. "You sidled up to the tribune and whined—you little coward, you won't even use your sword in battle."

"I may not."

"How convenient. So that if a man, a real man, has a grievance with you, don't you have the whole Church to hide behind."

"Enough," Ambrosius broke in. "I want to get to the bottom of this and clean it out. Now. Gallius, my records show that dried pork, mutton, and lentils were purchased in ample quantities for your maniple. For thirty-two con-

tubernia of eight men each. More than enough to allow for spoilage, waste, error, and the predictable thievery of cooks. There should be more food than men to eat it." Ambrosius unrolled a papyrus and waved it under Gallius' florid nose. 'Thirty-two. Where are they?"

Gallius looked convincingly bewildered, offering the small roll tucked under his own arm. "I signed for only twenty-four, Tribune. The quartermaster has my receipts."

"So he does. A shortage in rations for sixty-four men."

"Well, I'ma merchant myself. I've never seen supply records tally since I took service with the Sixth."

"Your own men don't go without,'' Padrec shot at him. "Or yourself, one notes."

Gallius backhanded the smaller man across the face before Ambrosius could intercede. "You wish to note that, Father Patricius?"

"Stop!" Ambrosius caught Gallius as he moved to strike again, spinning him around. "I could charge you with that, Gallius Urbi. For the moment, I will only remind you not to mistake a moment's valor for a sense of honor, you ..." The tribune's voice was frigid with contempt, his restraining hand an iron clamp. Gallius subsided, quite satisfied in any case.

"He knows what I think of him."

"And I of you," said Padrec. "Let me tell you, storekeeper, it takes a full man to be a priest."

"Square off, both of you!"

Force of habit snapped both subordinates to attention. Ambrosius turned away from them to take the edge of anger from his thoughts. "Acting Centurion Patricius is stating a fact, Gallius. I've eaten with your men and observed the Faerie at their meals." His hand, resting against the base of his spine, closed in resolution. "Guard!"

Briccu ducked his head inside the tent flap. "Sir?"

"Take Centurion Patricius and a detail of five men to the quartermaster. They will draw extra rations, which

Parke Godwin

will be charged to Gallius Urbi's supply manifests. Go get your rations, Patricius. And heed Gallius in this, at least. Use your sword hereafter. Since your men will follow none but you, it'll muck me up properly if you're dead, won't it? Dismissed."

When they were alone, Ambrosius waved Gallius to a stool by the camp table and poured two wooden cups of wine. Gallius was disappointed that the trib entertained his officers with the same ration swill the men drank. He noticed, as Ambrosius sat down, that the vital young frame seemed to slump a moment, sloughing its youth like a wet cloak falling from the shoulders. Then Ambrosius recovered himself, shook off the weariness, and drank.

4 Thanks, Tribune. Thank you. Things get lean in the field."

"Indeed."

"A touch of home. It helps."

"I hope you have an appetite," Ambrosius invited cordially. "I want you to take supper here."

Gallius brightened. "Of course, sir. Better than at home, actually. I find I've a taste for soldiering."

Don't you just. Ambrosius knew Gallius' domestic circumstances. This would be a holiday for such a man, and he was a fair soldier, valiant enough in the balance. He'd gone over the walls at Wye with no hanging back. Surprised at his own valor, Gallius was now a little pompous, even dropping incense to Mars on one of the portable altars. Yes, he'd crow at the priest's timidity, his own lack of it being such a relief. One good scare, that's what you need.

"Centurion, Patricius is a rather naive man, hardly bred to war, and leading a mob of enthused children who happen to be the only archers we could raise. I have no special regard for them, but they're better than the Ven-icones would've been. More wine? It's good for the appetite."

"Thank you, I will."

Ambrosius refilled the cups, spilling a little. Gallius

observed that the young man's hand shook slightly.

*'Forgive me, I'm that tired. It would be sheer joy to have nothing else but war to contend with/'

"Quite understandable to a soldier, sir."

"Every officer in my command has signed the regulae of the Sixth Legio, as fully understanding their import. You remember the forty-second article."

Gallius did not at the moment.

'Then let me refresh you," Ambrosius went on easily. "It states that any officer knowingly falsifying a report or manifest shall, in garrison, be flogged through his command and dismissed in disgrace with forfeiture of any monies due or pension to become due. Or, in the field, shall be put before archers and shot with arrows. As my archers are all Faerie, the execution detail would be voluntary and meticulous, not to say inspired. Do I make myself clear?"

Ambrosius watched the other man blink and swallow. Yes, you understand well enough, merchant. Easy enough to short-route part of a shipment and lose it now to later profit. I'll never find those lost rations, but you will, and no one will ever be able to prove it because there isn 7 time.

"Am I accused of theft, Tribune?"

"No. Merely reminding you of regulations." Ambrosius turned a corner of thought and brushed the subject aside. "Now, then: hungry?"

"Famished, sir."

"Good." Ambrosius lifted the linen cover from the plate and offered it to Gallius, whose nose quickly advised the rest of him away from it.

"I prepared it myself," Ambrosius informed him mildly. "And sampled it, so I know what I ask. Eat it, Gallius."

"For God's sake, it's rotten."

"Just pleasantly ripe." The plate was thrust in Gallius' face. "A direct field order, refusal of which is punishable by death. Eat it, you larcenous son-of-a-bitch.

And let it be the last raw horse any man in your maniple has to swallow."

The hill dreamed in the early sunlight.

A morning of such beauty and peace that Mother seemed to open one drowsy eye and then, reassured by tranquility, turn over for another short nap. Drust fed turnip to his pony and breathed deep of the sweet air, gazing across the valley at the fortified hill. "Malgon, Padrec? Would be a braw place for a church."

"An abbey," Padrec said. "A whole community for God."

A little forward of them, the scout from Wolf fhain rested in the saddle, one leg hooked around the pommel while his army black switched lazily at marauding flies with its tail. The scout beckoned Padrec forward: it was time.

"Should be with thee," Malgon fretted.

"Nae fear, be no great Gallius," Padrec assured him. "Will not play at bravery before I must, only look."

Before we 're committed to it.

Drust and Malgon watched the progress of the two riders, intent, as if concentration alone could protect them. They were almost to the first ditch, drawing apart as they moved. Then Drust sucked in his breath. "First arrows."

The tiny figures flattened out as they broke into gallop, sliding to the protecting shoulder of the horses, dashing in opposite directions around the far side of the hill.

For most of a mile, stretched back along Churnet Valley, VI Legio waited in ranks. Under a tree a little distance from the first maniple, Padrec crouched over a bare patch of earth, drawing lines with his knife while Ambrosius absorbed it all.

"The first ditch is wider and deeper than at Wye, with sharpened brushwood all through." Padrec went on with his knife point to the next line. "Beyond the ditch,

there's stimuli planted, not too many, but the hooks can give a horse or man a nasty slash." The blade trailed toward the rampart line. "Past that there's the ditch with the lilies."

4 'All the way around?"

"All the way." Padrec wiped his sweaty forehead on a grimy sleeve. "He's learned from you, Tribune."