Bones of Empire Read Free Page B

forth at length regarding the sad state of the military in general and the 3rd Legion in particular, he having served in the 5th, which to hear him tell of it, was the finest group of men ever to take the field. It was boring stuff, but whenever the Prefect was talking, Cato wasn’t required to, and that suited him just fine.
    The Prefect was droning on about the finer points of logistics, something he felt the 5th Legion was especially good at, when Usurlus entered the room, closely followed by Livius. Suddenly the center of social gravity shifted from lesser lights to the Legate, and Cato was free to drift away as an orgy of ass kissing began.
    Finally, once the greeting process was over, and Usurlus took his seat at the head of the glittering table, Cato and the rest of the guests were free to do likewise. That was when Cato discovered that he was sandwiched between a paunchy merchant named Skallos on his left and a thirtysomething widow on his right, the latter being the more interesting of the two. She was attractive in a slightly worn sort of way—and very scantily dressed. That, at least, was a good thing, since she had a very nice figure.
    The meal began, as such affairs always did, with obligatory toasts to the Empire, the Emperor, and various other notables, some of whom Cato had never heard of before. Eventually, as their glasses of wine were being refilled, the widow put her left hand on Cato’s right knee.
    She smiled unapologetically when he looked at her. Cato would have said something at that point had Usurlus not preempted him. “Did all of you have an opportunity to meet Centurion Cato?” the Legate inquired smoothly.
    Naturally, all eyes swung over to Cato as the widow found bare skin under the kilt and sent her hand up his thigh. “Good,” Usurlus continued, as if all of them had answered in the affirmative. “Now, those of you with a keen eye for military detail may have noticed the small X-shaped device located just above Centurion Cato’s medals. That signifies membership in the Legion’s Xeno Corps, an organization formed to cope with non-Uman criminals—some of whom have very unusual capabilities.
    â€œTake the Sagathi shape shifters, for example,” Usurlus said, as his eyes roamed from face to face. “As you may have heard, they can impersonate any being having roughly the same mass they do. So how to catch them? Well, that’s where empaths like Centurion Cato come in. Because they can sense what we can’t.
    â€œIn fact, since Cato is with us tonight, perhaps he would be so kind as to give us a demonstration of his abilities. Tell me, Centurion Cato. . . . What is Citizen Belo feeling right now?”
    The man in question was seated on the other side of the table. And what he was feeling was scared, although Cato had no way to know why and didn’t care. He was angry at Usurlus for using him as a source of cheap entertainment and uncomfortably aware of the widow’s hand, which had traveled halfway up his thigh and was about to enter dangerous territory.
    So rather than remain where he was and be forced to deal with the pleasurable but possibly embarrassing results of his dinner companion’s advances, Cato slid his chair back and came to his feet. Then, happy to escape, he circled the table as if it were somehow necessary to close with Belo in order to “feel” his emotions.
    Once in place, Cato placed his hands on the business-man’s shoulders, closed his eyes, and frowned. “Wait a moment. . . . Yes, yes, yes . . . There’s no doubt about it. Citizen Belo is hungry!”
    That got a good laugh, and the sense of relief that emanated from Belo was almost palpable. But rather than release Cato from his social agony, Usurlus was determined to push on. “Very good, Centurion Cato,” he said dryly. “Although I think it’s safe to say that Citizen Mima’s lapdog could do as