"David Drake - Foreign Legions" - читать интересную книгу автора (Drake David)

Calvus's bearded, silent patience snaps Vibulenus back to the present. "When the cavalry comes up,
they told me. Some kinglet or other is supposed to bring up a couple of thousand men to close our
flanks. Otherwise, we're hanging. . . ."

The tribune's voice trails off. He stares across the flat expanse of gravel toward the other camp,
remembering another battle plain of long ago.

"Damn Parthians," Calvus mutters, his thought the same.

Vibulenus nods. "Damn Crassus, you mean. He put usthere, and that put ushere. The stupid bastard.
But he got his, too."

The legionaries squat in their ranks, talking and chewing bits of bread or dried fruit. They display no
bravado, very little concern. They have been here too often before. Sunlight turns their shield-facings
green: not the crumbly fungus of verdigris but the shimmering sea-color of the harbor of Brundisium on a
foggy morning.

Oh, Mother Vesta, Vibulenus breathes to himself. He is five foot two, about average for the legion. His
hair is black where it curls under the rim of his helmet and he has no trace of a beard. Only his eyes make
him appear more than a teenager; they would suit a tired man of fifty.

A trumpet from the command group in the rear sings three quick bars. "Fall in!"the tribune orders, but his
centurions are already barking their own commands. These too are lost in the clash of hobnails on gravel.
The Tenth Cohort could form ranks in its sleep.

Halfway down the front, a legionary's cloak hooks on a notch in his shield rim. He tugs at it, curses in
Oscan as Calvus snarls down the line at him. Vibulenus makes a mental note to check with the centurion
after the battle. That fellow should have been issued a replacement shield before disembarking. He
glances at his own. How many shields has he carried? Not that it matters. Armor is replaceable. He is
wearing his fourth cuirass, now, though none of them have fit like the one his father had bought him the
day Crassus granted him a tribune's slot. Vesta . . .

A galloper from the command group skids his beast to a halt with a needlessly brutal jerk on its reins.
Vibulenus recognizes himтАФPompilius Falco. A little swine when he joined the legion, an accomplished
swine now. Not bad with animals, though. "We'll be advancing without the cavalry," he shouts, leaning
over in his saddle. "Get your line dressed."

"Osiris's bloody dick we will!" the tribune snaps. "Where's our support?"

"Have to support yourself, I guess," shrugs Falco. He wheels his mount. Vibulenus steps forward and
catches the reins.

"Falco," he says with no attempt to lower his voice, "you tell our deified Commander to get somebody
on our left flank if he expects the Tenth to advance. There's too many nativesтАФthey'll hit us from three
sides at once."