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else.  He  shuddered,  and  for  once,  hoped  it  was  fever, not thetomb  in his toga, dark for mourning, refusing to veil his head with aLegion-nefas  such as Quintus had never imagined. And yet, he knew howrisen  to  their  knees, hands snatching at the well-worn hilts of thehe would do. They said Crassus had prattled in company of the feats ofhis  own  dagger-his first, and a gift-and slashed his finger, lettingstrength  himself  from  the  way the centurion went about his rounds,gesture of disgust. "That doesn't look good," muttered the man next to"The  men  are  angry.  They  didn't  like leaving the wounded for our

