Free An Emperor for the Legion by Harry Turtledove

thoughtful.
    “Sure and they don’t.” Viridovix caught only what was said, not its overtones. He looked most unpriestly, with each arm encircling a girl’s waist.
    Marcus could not for the life of him remember which two of his three they were. For one thing, the tall Celt mostly called them “dear” or “darling,” a part of his speech patternthat served him well, lessening the chance of an embarrassing slip. For another, while all three were of dainty, flowerlike beauty, none had enough character to leave much other impression on the mind.
    Viridovix suddenly noticed Scaurus standing with the Greek doctor and Laon Pakhymer. He loosed his hold on the girls to fold the tribune into a bear hug; Marcus smelled the wine fumes clinging to him even through his own drunkenness.
    The Gaul held him at arm’s length for a moment, studying him with owlish intensity. Then he turned to Gorgidas, declaring, “Will you look at him now, standing there so quiet and all after the greatest joke any of us ever saw, the which saved all our necks besides. And here I am a hero for sitting on some smelly horse’s back and scaring those poor omadhauns all to bits, and where’s the glory for the fellow who thought to put me there in the first place?”
    “You deserve it,” Marcus protested. “What if the Yezda had decided to ride toward you instead of away? One did, you know.”
    “Och, that puir fool?” Viridovix gave a snort of scorn. “A week and a half it seemed he gawped at me. It’s probably only when he pissed himself that he woke up. Who would have thought I’d make a horseman?”
    “Cowman might be better, thinking of the herd,” Laon Pakhymer said with a sidelong glance.
    “Hmm. That’s hardly a name for a man.” But the Gaul’s eyes were twinkling. “If you’d called me bullman, now, you might be closer to the truth. Isn’t that right, loves?” he said, leading the girls back toward the tent they shared. Their bodies swayed toward his in mute agreement with the boast.
    Pakhymer gave Viridovix’ back a frankly jealous look. “What does he
do
with them all?” he wondered aloud.
    “Ask him,” Gorgidas suggested. “He’ll tell you. Whatever else he may be, our Celtic friend is not shy.”
    Pakhymer watched three bodies briefly silhouetted by lanternlight as Viridovix pulled back his tent flap. “No,” he sighed, “I don’t suppose he is.”
    Next morning, Marcus thought for a bleary moment the noise of raindrops muttering on the sides of his tent was his pulse hammering in his ears. Pain throbbed dully through hishead; the taste of sewers was in his mouth. When he sat up too quickly, his stomach yelped, and his surroundings gave a queasy lurch.
    His motion woke Helvis, who yawned, stretched lithely, and smiled up at him from the sleeping mat. “Good morning, love,” she said, reaching out to touch his arm. “How are you?”
    Even her smooth contralto grated. “Bloody awful,” the tribune croaked, holding his head in his hands. “Does Nepos know how to heal a hangover, do you think?” He belched uncomfortably.
    “If there were a cure for nausea, I promise you pregnant women would know it. We can be sick together,” she said, mischief in her voice. But then, seeing Scaurus’ real misery, she added, “I’ll do my best to keep Malric quiet.” The boy was stirring under his blanket.
    “Thanks,” Marcus said, and meant it. A rambunctious three-year-old, he decided, could be the death of him at the moment.
    The downpour meant no cooking fires; the Romans breakfasted on cold porridge, cold beef, and soggy bread. The tribune ignored his soldiers’ grumbles. The thought of food, any food, did not appeal.
    He heard Gaius Philippus squelching his way from one group of men to the next, instructing them, “Don’t forget, grease your armor, leather and metal both. Easier that than grinding out the rust and patching over the rotted hide just because you were too lazy to do what needed doing. And oil