“Hexagon.”

“Hex-a-gon,” she murmured, memorizing the word. The executive officer, watching, was impressed by the-woman’s?-obvious facility and experienced ease at learning languages. She and Vibulenus had arrived at the Scipio Africanus aboard a special courier vessel less than an hour before. But even in that short time, Tambo had been struck by the difference between Quartilla’s fluent, almost unaccented English and the stiff speech of her Roman companion.

“If you turn him around,” said Quartilla, “you’ll see a hexagon pattern on his left rear flank. Three hexagons, if I remember correctly. All of them shaded a sort of blue-green.”

Commodore Trumbull began to give the order, but the Marine lieutenant was already moving the body. A moment later, grunting slightly, he held the Voivode’s left rear flank up to the screen.

Three small hexagons. Shaded a sort of blue-green.

Gaius Vibulenus hissed. “That stinking bastard.”

Tambo stared down at the Roman. The former tribune’s fists were clenched. The steel-hard muscles in his forearms stood out like cables. For all the man’s short size-and Vibulenus was tall, for a Roman-Tambo was glad that rage wasn’t directed at him.

By current physical standards, the Romans were not much bigger than boys. The appearance was deceiving. Small they might be, and slightly built, compared to modern men, but the returned exiles’ ancient customs were unbelievably ferocious, by those same modern standards. Tambo knew of at least one college fraternity, full of bravado, which had been hospitalized in its entirety after making the mistake of challenging four Roman veterans to a barroom brawl.

“But you don’t recognize the frogs?” asked Trumbull. “The-what do they call themselves? The Gha?”

Quartilla shook her head. “No, Commodore. The Gha never demanded service from us Ossa pleasure creatures. We had almost no contact with them.”