II
Arcade had anticipated that Caesar would travel with the soldiers to Hoover Dam and, in some optimistic part of himself, hoped that Caesar would die in the battle. But he had assumed incorrectly, and Caesar went nowhere.
While he awaited news of the battle, he often requested that Arcade come and read to him. Slaves made certain that they never lacked for food, although they talked through many meals, and Caesar argued with Arcade over any theme or character or moral that could possibly be argued. When Dante's journey ended, Caesar presented Arcade with a pre-war copy of Paradise Lost, and they debated over that instead. Did Milton really intend to portray Satan as the antagonist? Yes. No. Why? Because this, and that, and look at these lines. Arcade hadn't stretched his mind half so much in medical research as he did now, determined to win every argument with Caesar, and Caesar all too eager to goad him on until he could barely think straight. That didn't happen often, but Arcade had to admit that Caesar was a fairly formidable opponent.
At the end of the day, he was sent back under the watchful eye of to Titus. Several other guards were stuck at the camp as well, the unlucky ones who'd missed out on the action, but Arcade was grateful that Titus remained his guard more often than not. It was almost comforting to return to someone who didn't even understand half of what Arcade said, much less attempt to argue with him. "Tell me something," Arcade said, and Titus nodded. "How can it be that Caesar sits on his throne, unguarded now that the majority of his soldiers are raining hell on Hoover Dam, and it never once occurred to you that you could snap that man's neck like a twig?"
Most of the soldiers would have probably whipped Arcade until he could no longer stand for suggesting such a thing. Titus inclined his head and shrugged.
"It's insanity," Arcade went on. "And here I am, reading Milton to a madman, an intellectual slave. The irony is almost palpable. There's got to be some literary parallel here, but I can't even recall any at the moment. My intellect is exhausted, and that doesn't happen often."
"Caesar is not a madman," said Titus, suddenly raising his voice. "You will not disrespect him." Heaving a sigh, Arcade rolled over so that he no longer faced the guard. It couldn't end well if he provoked the giant, whose simple mind had been twisted into blind devotion to Caesar.
Once, Titus woke him up in the middle of the night. Arcade snatched up his glasses and sat up, expecting to be brought to Caesar, perhaps for a bedtime story. But instead, Titus told him, "You were yelling in your sleep. If the soldiers outside heard, they might have been angry. Who is Mark?"
"Mark? Just the bastard who tricked me into this hell."
"You were calling out his name."
"Hmm, no, I don't think so. You clearly misheard."
The days and nights stretched on, until the battalion finally returned from Hoover Dam. From that moment on, the Fort become an emergency care center.
As the sole doctor in the entire camp, Arcade was responsible for every life, every death. Caesar had not lied—the real work had begun, and it never relented. At all times, Lucius observed to ensure that Arcade did not kill the men or deliberately neglect them, and he called for Arcade to move faster, faster, until one of his shouts startled Arcade into nearly dropping the scalpel. He'd almost yelled at Lucius to shut the hell up and let him work, but Lucius was even more desperate than Arcade to save these men's lives, and powerful, desperate men were never good to provoke.
Regardless of Lucius looking over his shoulder, Arcade knew that he wouldn't have been able to murder them outright, even with their lives in his hands. He'd sworn an oath older than the bombs, and most of these men couldn't have explained why they were fighting for Caesar any more than Titus could have explained why he didn't believe Caesar to be a madman. Besides, if Caesar suspected that Arcade had a hand in any of their deaths, it wouldn't matter how many of them Arcade killed.
The tents, normally reserved for sleeping, had become hospital rooms. Slaves scrambled around the clock with food and water and the occasional stimpack, but for the most part, Arcade had to do things the old-fashioned way. At some point during his work, the sun set, and then it rose again. The intensity pushed him on, dragged him to his feet and to another tent, glued the scalpel to his hands. When blood splattered on his glasses, he wiped them on his coat, and when blood dripped off his gloves, he reached for another pair.
Only when he could no longer force his eyelids open and when his head dropped down to his chest did Lucius finally haul him back to his tent. The groans of dying men haunted his steps, and his sleep, and he ran back to them as soon as he was physically capable.
When he entered one tent, he froze, stimpack in hand. The Courier struggled to sit up, but he collapsed back in the blankets. "Oh, please," Arcade muttered, "spare me the theatrics."
"What are you waiting for?" barked Lucius.
With a groan, Mark curled himself into a loose ball. Still, Arcade didn't take a step closer to the bedroll. Lucius grabbed Arcade by the shoulders and shook him, and to his tired eyes, the entire room spun before him for a fleeting moment. Obediently, he kneeled at Mark's side, reminding himself, You swore an oath. "This is what happens," he murmured, too low for Lucius to hear, "without a good-looking doctor to take care of you in the big, bad wasteland." Every word dripped with sarcasm, although Arcade could have sworn that the corner of Mark's mouth twitched in a smile.
"You won't have to see me again after this," Mark said, and grunted as Arcade applied the stimpack to his broken leg.
The promise infuriated Arcade even more—when all was said and done, he didn't care whether he saw the traitor's face again or not; he just wanted to be free of Caesar. As he worked, Arcade didn't bother to work gently for Mark's sake, and besides, the faster he moved, the sooner he could get away from Mark. If I maneuver it just slightly, he'll never walk again…the Legion will never know. His fingers itched to settle the score, enact revenge. If I crippled him, or even murdered him, that wouldn't restore my freedom.
He knew his eyes were glistening wet, so he blinked before Lucius could see. The second he was finished with Mark, he nearly shoved him away to reach the next soldier. Compared to Mark, fixing the legionnaires was so much easier.
One day, there were no more wounded to attend to, at least not immediately. Arcade slumped down, his energy spent, and Lucius muttered something about always having to carry him back to his quarters. Too drained to reply, Arcade wished he could sleep and never awaken.
Despite heavy casualties, the Legion had won at Hoover Dam, and they owned New Vegas. Rome wasn't built in a day, Arcade reflected, but it burned in a day. As he had predicted, the Legion carried out their plans to transform it into the slave capital of the Wasteland, and while the process did take some time, New Vegas was as much of a hellhole as the Fort in a matter of months. The phrase veni, vidi, vici rang throughout the camp almost as often as ave, true to Caesar.
Sometimes, Arcade vented about the situation to Titus, railing on about the evils of slavery until the guard probably couldn't even think straight. Then again, that didn't take much. When other soldiers were nearby, or when Titus did correct Arcade, he shut up and didn't speak again until Caesar commanded it.
"Something wrong, Arcade?"
With no other known threats to the Legion or its troops, Arcade had been relegated to the role of Caesar's private physician, regularly checking his health or serving as Caesar's opponent in various intellectual games. For most of the day, he stood by Caesar's throne and conversed with him, except when Caesar spoke with another soldier, and then Arcade could only observe silently. When Arcade heard that Mark had ordered Benny's crucifixion, his hands balled into fists at his side, and this did not escape Caesar's notice. Few things did, Arcade thought ruefully, and resigned himself to the fact that this particularly situation simply wasn't worth the risk of lying to Caesar.
"Disregarding the fact that the man sold me into slavery, he's well aware that I'm not exactly a fan of crucifixion. Without my aid, he wouldn't even be alive to order anybody's death. It's a slight irritation, you understand."
"I'd say karma's a bitch if you weren't such a saint," laughed Caesar, and Arcade fixed his eyes on the opposite side of the tent. In some warped way, that might have been intended as a compliment. "Not a fan of crucifixion, you say? What the fuck's not to like about it?"
The bait was out, and Arcade knew that he was expected to bite. Folding his arms at his chest, he said, "Let's see, where to begin? I suppose it's not excessively distasteful if you ignore the fact that people are publicly tortured to death over the course of several days. And in addition to extreme physical discomfort, the victim also suffers terrible humiliation. Most are hung without a scrap of clothing, and if they have to urinate at any point during the process, they are forced to do so in full view of the public. Oh, and causes of death on the cross range from blood loss, sepsis following an infection, the process of nailing or from hunger, dehydration, and shock. That basically summarizes all of the most painful ways to die."
As Arcade spoke, Caesar flipped through the pages of Homer's Odyssey, one of the books that he occasionally asked Arcade to read from. "Like I said, a fucking saint. All of these reasons are well and good from a moral aspect, but think of it from a more pragmatic perspective. Consider how it raises moral in my troops, and scares the slaves into obedience."
When Arcade opened his mouth to reply, he noticed one of the guards staring at him. Arcade didn't recognize the man, obviously a recent promotion. No doubt he performed some valiant act, like killing an exceptional number of NCR troops at Hoover Dam. But much more frightening to contemplate was the soldier's gaze, which Arcade did recognize, having given and received it on prior occasions. Although it made perfect sense for a guard to be watching him, none of the others' eyes flickered down like that to trail up his body, lingering. The legionnaire wasn't exactly hard on the eyes, and Arcade might have returned the look under other circumstances, but it terrified him here.
"Uh, w-well," he stammered, "i-it can also inhibit an otherwise good soldier. Hypothetically, what if one knew that he ought to carry out a certain strategy, but hesitated to do so for fear of the punishment for failure? Many are willing to risk death in battle, but they'll end up narrow-minded and restricted by the threat of crucifixion."
He almost winced at his logic, which, he admitted, was a little flawed...okay, it had fallen to pieces by the end. Judging by the inevitable smirk, Caesar knew it too. If nothing else, at least, it amused him instead of provoking. "Clearly you've forgotten about Vulpes Inculta, one of my finest specimens. Feeling a little under the weather, Arcade?"
"Yeah, that must be it."
"Really? How fascinating, especially since the weather never changes here."
"Lucius kept me waiting awhile before he let me enter. I tried to explain that I sunburn easily, but he wouldn't listen."
"Ah, I've been wondering why your face is so red."
Was Caesar playing with him? Arcade told himself that he had stood outside for far too long, and his skin sunburned like a…something that sunburned easily. Regardless of whether a Legion soldier was eye-fucking him or not. "Mystery solved." He couldn't even think straight, much less snap back with some memorable retort. In Westside, Mark met a man who claimed to have served as a sex slave for a soldier here. After all, confirmed bachelors aren't exactly welcome in the Legion. Those who have successfully managed to hide it for this long certainly wouldn't mind getting their hands on a slave. He swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry.
They resumed their debate about crucifixion, and sometime later, Caesar dismissed Arcade back to his tent. There, he ate dinner, or what was supposed to be dinner—the quality of the food varied from day to day. As he bit off a slab of bread, Arcade couldn't shake the feeling that the soldier from earlier did not have the slightest intention of leaving Arcade alone.
Unfortunately, he was proven correct. Every other night, Titus traded guard duty with Valerius, who Arcade had found to be far less interesting and less entertaining, but a different guard entered the tent this time. Even Titus was surprised, saying, "Julius?" when the other man entered.
Arcade's blood ran cold as the soldier who'd been staring at him earlier explained that Valerius had been needed for other duties. "I'll take over from here," said Julius, advancing on Arcade. The giant lumbered out, and Arcade wished in a moment of childishness that he could call out to Titus and make him come back. "You're the one Silva mentioned," Julius said to Arcade, as soon as Titus had closed the tent behind him.
"Silva?" The name didn't spark any memory, and Arcade faltered for a response. "I'm not sure—"
"One of the slaves," Julius replied, standing a bit too close for comfort. Those dark eyes hadn't moved an inch from Arcade's. "You know how they gossip."
"Right. So, you must have some exciting stories from Hoover Dam. Why don't you pull up a chair and tell me about it?"
A slow smile spread across Julius' tanned face, and Arcade's heart sank. "Believe me, it's tempting," he said. "But I'm not much of a storyteller."
With a nervous laugh, Arcade said, "Well, neither is Titus. Never stops him from trying, though."
To his own ears, he sounded desperate, like someone pleading for mercy. Like a slave. The muscles in every part of him, even his face, tightened as Julius drew so close that their noses nearly touched. The soldier's voice dropped to a whisper. "You're not stupid like the last one. In fact, you're brilliant. Enough to know that you'll be on the cross with me if you breathe a word to Caesar about this."
Yes, Arcade knew full well Caesar's opinion of "faggots," and the other names he used. "Your secret is safe with—" His breath hitched as Julius pressed their mouths together.
It had been a long time since Arcade had slept with anyone, long enough that he responded to the physical pleasure without any difficulty. Never before, though, had he so fought the urge to gag during sex. There was a little shame, too, but mostly disgust and anger burned his cheeks and crept up in his dreams.
Throughout the night, he tossed and turned. It could have been worse—Julius wasn't rough, and his calloused hands slid with gentleness that Arcade did not anticipate—but at the same time, it couldn't have been any worse. You're not stupid like the last one, Julius said, implying that he'd done this before, and Arcade was yet another source of amusement.
When he had the chance, Arcade asked Caesar about the change of guards, with as much nonchalance as possible. "So, I take it that Valerius has been feeling a little under the weather?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact." Caesar frowned. "Ill, without warning. I was gonna ask you to take a look at him. You wouldn't know anything about it, would you?"
Startled by the news, Arcade wondered if Julius might have taken it upon himself to remove Valerius from the picture. "From a medical standpoint, I'd need to examine him before I could determine anything for certain—"
With one clenched fist, Caesar slammed down on the side of his throne. "Dammit, Arcade, that's not what I meant and you know it. You didn't pull any fucking tricks, did you?"
"No, of course not," Arcade insisted with wide eyes. "You have nothing to fear from me. Doctors abide by a strict moral code, one that forbids us to use our medical knowledge to harm others."
"There you go, railing on about morality again. Titus, will you escort this slave to Valerius?" He hung onto the s, emphasizing the word slave. Nodding before Caesar even finished the sentence, Titus stepped forward and gestured for Arcade to follow him.
Eventually, Titus stopped and opened the flap, allowing Arcade to go in. There on a cot, Valerius lay without so much as twitching when Arcade drew near, his face pale and lips tinted a faint shade of blue.
Arcade pressed two fingers against the man's neck and chest, and groaned with frustration when he detected not even the weakest pulse. "What's wrong with him?" asked Titus.
Shaking his head, Arcade pulled the blankets up so that they covered Valerius. "He's dead." Caesar wasn't going to like that one bit at all. As a matter of fact, Arcade didn't especially like it either, and he hadn't expected to miss Valerius half so much until Julius replaced him. Had Julius, in fact, dared to poison a fellow soldier? Legion or not, Arcade would never have anticipated such a murder, and he found it hard to wrap his mind around the idea that Julius might have killed Valerius just to get his hands on a slave. But then, Legion troops were unpredictable, they were evil, and usually impossible to reason with. Evil men with a strong desire for something were, in Arcade's experience, rarely unstoppable and never reasonable.
As he trailed behind Titus back to Caesar's tent, he could almost imagine that he felt the slightest pressure in the back pocket of his pants. That wasn't altogether strange—he'd stored one of the apples from breakfast for later, in case he was still reading to Caesar and Caesar forgot to feed him—but he noticed that the pressure had increased. Barely glancing behind himself at first, he whirled around and grabbed the wrist of a young girl just as she jerked it away, or tried to. "What's this?" demanded Titus, turning around.
Once Arcade seized the girl and Titus spoke, she froze in place, not replying until Arcade shook her wrist. He regretted it at once as her nostrils flared with a sharp, frightened intake of breath, and her voice quivered uncontrollably. "I'm sorry, I haven't eaten in so long—I couldn't help it. The others said I'd get used to it, but—please, don't tell Caesar, I'm begging you. They said he'd cut off my hand if I was caught…."
It occurred to Arcade that he didn't recognize this girl, and by this time, he was familiar with all the slaves in the camp. This one was the youngest that he had seen, too. "Here," he said, tossing her the apple. "He'll never know."
Her fingers gripped it like a golden coin as her eyes widened in astonishment. "Thank you," she cried, and bit in quickly, as if afraid that he would take it back.
"What's your name?"
"Cara," she said, the word muffled as she chewed.
"See you around, Cara."
She smiled briefly, and Titus took Arcade by the arm. "You don't want to keep Caesar waiting," he said, and Arcade didn't argue.
"Dead?" Caesar repeated, when Arcade reported the news. "Dammit, Arcade! If I find out that you had anything to do with this, I'll nail you up myself."
Are you sure, Caesar? That might require you to get up from your throne. "As I said, doctors adhere to a moral code, and I had no quarrel with Valerius. He was a good man, if misguided, and I have nothing to gain from his death." He was already plotting to get rid of Julius, somehow. No matter what it took, Arcade refused to repeat the previous night's events. His mind raced with possibilities.
"Whatever you say," grumbled Caesar, rubbing his temples. "Don't even let me suspect it. I like you too damn much to want you on a cross, but pray that this doesn't happen again." He lifted his head suddenly. "While you were gone, I received a report that some remnant NCR troops were found near the Cove. Naturally, they were captured, and brought back here. I want you to speak with them later, find out if there's any of them left in the area. Don't want any sneaking up on his after all the trouble we went through at Hoover Dam."
"I'll do my best, but I don't expect them to be overly forthcoming to Caesar's physician."
"Get creative. Titus, take him away. If he says one more word, I might just have to shoot him." For a brief moment, Arcade smiled. As much as Caesar liked to feign irritation, everyone knew that he favored Arcade. Every so often, Arcade would hear the low-ranking soldiers complain that they weren't allowed to enter Caesar's presence while one of the slaves was summoned on an almost daily basis. The original plan had been to annoy Caesar into killing him, but apparently he'd only achieved the opposite result.
As Arcade trailed behind Titus, they passed Julius, who smirked at Arcade. He nearly stopped in his tracks, but forced himself to meet the soldier's eyes and keep walking.
The NCR troops had been separated from the camp, kept in a couple of tents on the outskirts of the Fort. When Arcade ducked inside one, his skin crawled as he observed the men confined in stocks, which he hadn't even known were used by the Legion. He'd read about them—Roman origin, of course. Metal combs with space between the teeth for legs, and a rod that went through the teeth and fastened the stocks to the ground. Inescapable as far as Arcade knew, they provided not only security, but also torture. Entertainment to the guards, too, most likely. The NCR men, clad in Ranger armor, could only sit up or lie flat on their backs while restrained in the stocks. They glared at Arcade, probably assuming that he was a member of the Legion rather than a slave.
He was, though, the only person in the Fort authorized to carry stimpacks and doctor's bags. Most stocks were capable of breaking limbs, and Arcade started off by healing one man's fractured leg. The man groaned with relief, even thanking Arcade under his breath. "Titus," said Arcade, "I'll need you outside for a few minutes." As Titus started to shake his head, Arcade continued, "Caesar told me to get creative, remember? And I can't run far with you standing right outside."
When Titus stepped out, one of the soldiers said, "The Legion forbids chems. What's going on here?"
"I've never done this before, but I'm pretty sure this is the part where I say that I'm the one asking the questions here." He regretted the sarcasm at once; these men were in pain, their Republic had been crushed at Hoover Dem, and this wasn't the time to make light of their situation. All that quality time with Caesar's turned me into a real dick. As he reached forward to feel the soldier's forehead, the man jerked back as far as he was able. "Easy, I have to know if you have a fever. What's your name?"
"Jacob—" He sucked in a breath as Arcade unlocked the stocks. "Jacob Smith. Where'd you get that key?"
Jerking his thumb towards the entrance to the tent, Arcade muttered, "My covert bandaging skills are a little rusty, but I doubt Titus would notice if I'd taken it out from under his nose." As Arcade unlocked the other stocks, the troops drew their legs in, carefully. He attended to the four of them in turn, asking their names and other questions that he didn't really care about the answers to, but it hopefully distracted them from the pain. "So Jacob, how long have you served with the NCR?"
"All my life. My father died serving in the 1st Recon, and I planned to follow in his footsteps. Now I guess I'll end up on one of those crosses." Arcade thought, From the looks of it, that's the least of your worries. Jacob's leg was red and swollen, and his hands were balled into tight fists in an effort to conceal all signs of pain. The other men bore cuts left from the stocks, but Jacob had contracted an infection, one that wasn't going away without a surgery that Arcade couldn't perform here. In a voice so low that it was almost a growl, Jacob said, "How long have you been with the Legion?"
"What? Oh, right. It's not what it looks like," he said dryly. "I'm not exactly with them. More like indentured servitude, really." He decidedly disliked the word slavery in regards to his situation."My traveling companion was having a bad day, and sold me to Caesar."
"…Right." By Jacob's tone, he wasn't sure what to make of that, and Arcade didn't blame him. It was a relief, though, to finally converse with someone who didn't serve a sociopath.
"So, you're the remnant, huh? The four of you?"
"There's a few of us here and there," said Jacob, as Arcade produced an iguana on a stick from the pocket of his white coat. Gratefully, Jacob broke it into four equal portions and passed it to his men. While Arcade didn't know for sure if Jacob was in charge, he spoke for all of them, and certainly held his head like some kind of leader. The iguana was all Arcade had on him, but he vowed to bring more for the prisoners later. "We were separated," Jacob continued. "The others could be halfway across the Mojave by now."
While Jacob spoke, Arcade rifled through the contents of the doctor's bag. He paused, unable to look away, when his hand brushed against cold metal.
It chilled his skin as he lifted it out of the bag, Jacob forgotten, his words not quite reaching Arcade's ears. With Titus outside, this was an opportunity, one that Arcade had contemplated for months without ever really imagining that he might attain it. That scalpel, in this moment, was his one realistic chance of leaving Caesar's service. But now, the knife so close that he could taste the metal, his racing mind struggled to comprehend the magnitude of what he was about to do. The Enclave and Followers both condemned suicide, especially when there was work to be done, but their teachings weren't the only reasons for his hesitation.
Holding the scalpel was second nature to him, and the notion of using it to free himself from a cruel master was temptingly poetic; but when the scalpel was actually in his hands and there was no guard to stop him, he couldn't seem to hold it straight. And that didn't happen often when he had a scalpel in hand; in fact, it never did. Something in his very core protested.
"You alright?"
At once, his head snapped up. "Never better." He set the scalpel back in the bag, burying it under the stimpacks. These men needed a doctor, Jacob especially, and this was Arcade's first chance to accomplish anything worthwhile at the Fort. Some other time, he promised himself, secretly relieved. "Unfortunately, the legionnaire standing right outside this tent might be somewhat alarmed if he discovers you out of those stocks." The men's eyes widened, and Arcade feared for a moment that he might not be able to cajole them back into the stocks. If they resisted, he certainly couldn't fight all four. "I'll return as soon as possible. I'm no Virgil, but if any method of escape exists in this godforsaken place, you can rest assured that I'll find it."
The men clenched their jaws as Arcade locked their legs in place, but they didn't cry out, for which Arcade was grateful. It might alarm Titus, or at least rouse his curiosity.
As Titus brought him from the tent, Arcade slipped the key back into Titus' pocket.
"Why should I let you waste our chems on NCR scum?" demanded Caesar, and Arcade couldn't help but smile at the irony of Caesar's insult. "Stimpacks don't grow on trees, you know. We could just torture the information out of him. Julius, I'm told, has a marvelous gift for getting things out of people when they're uncooperative.
You have no idea. "Those men are clinging to life out there, and those stocks aren't helping. They won't survive torture, and they may not even be alive tomorrow if I don't operate."
"You'd better be right about this, Arcade. I want information. You'll operate tomorrow, and you'd better come out telling me the names of every NCR troop on this side of the Colorado." Arcade could only hope that Caesar was exaggerating.
By the time he was back in his own tent, it was nightfall. He told Julius that if he didn't rest for eight hours, he wouldn't be able to perform the surgery correctly. Thanks to the blessed ignorance of the Legion's men concerning medical matters, Julius believed him, or at least didn't want to risk the chance that Arcade might be telling the truth. He slept easy for the first time in weeks, satisfied that he'd at least postponed the soldier, if not for long.
After the operation, Arcade visited Jacob and the other troops every couple of days, with the excuse that he was still overseeing the recovery. Titus had grown accustomed to allowing these visits to go unguarded, although a nagging fear in the back of Arcade's mind warned him that any other soldier would soon put a stop to that if they ever discovered it. "You said you'd help us get out of here," said Jacob. "Have you found any way to escape yet?" His voice reminded Arcade eerily of Boone, especially the way that Jacob muttered the question, and his single-minded determination even while he could barely stand.
"The Legion runs a tight shift, I'm afraid." Arcade set a hand over each of the soldiers' foreheads in turn, checking that the others had not developed a fever in the time that he had attended to Jacob in the operating room. "Patientia est virtus."
"There are men waiting for us when we escape," Jacob continued, rubbing his wrists where metal chains had left marks.
Hand frozen in the air, Arcade asked, "Where?" Then, snapping back to reality, he doled out fresh stimpacks, typing a super stimpack around Jacob's recovering leg. There wasn't anything he could really do with that information anyway, since he had no intention of telling Caesar, so why even bother asking?
"Never mind that. But they won't be waiting forever. The first chance I get, I'm out of this shithole."
Many prisoners weren't ashamed to talk big, but Jacob spoke with a resolution that Arcade didn't doubt for a moment. "Take it easy for now. If you don't give yourself time to heal—"
"I don't have time."
If Arcade had closed his eyes, he could have imagined Boone saying those words, just like that, and it frightened him. Jacob and his troops were the first non-Legion that Arcade had been able to converse with in months, and the last thing he wanted was for them to do something stupid, reckless, impulsive… "Well, I can hardly stop you—"
"Damn right, you can't."
"—but that leg's not going to carry you more than a couple of miles."
Although Jacob nodded in reply, his eyes were too wide, and Arcade grimaced as he left the tent. The man was sweating desperation, like an animal that had been penned up for too long.
Julius was standing right outside, demanding to know why Titus had allowed Arcade inside the tent without supervision. "Just in time," Julius said, upon seeing Arcade. "Do you have Caesar's information?"
"Their leader is recovering from a dangerous operation," Arcade started to explain, but Julius pushed past him.
"Your time's up. Caesar's patience wanes thin, and I must carry out my orders."
"Come on, Julius, at least allow me to speak with Caesar before—" As Arcade called after Julius, Titus was already pulling him away, back to his own quarters. "Titus, let me talk to Caesar. If we get to him in time—he doesn't know the risks of torturing a patient in Jacob's condition—"
The giant shook his head, and it reminded Arcade of Minos, the monster who declared each person's destination when they reached the first circle of Hell. While Titus only meant to follow orders and did not understand his actions beyond that, he had decided Jacob's fate with that one move, and Arcade could only clench his fists and wait.
Matt: Thank you so much for your kind review! I'm very glad to hear that you like my writing of Arcade. To clear up the confusion, it seems like the game never fully explains the Legion's view on homosexuality - some NPCs do imply that the Legion is more accepting of it, but there's a former slave named Jimmy who says that Caesar punishes it by death. I took that to mean that while there are definitely some gay soldiers in the Legion, they would have no choice but to keep it a secret.