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“It is strange that your Genius takes the form of a hound,” Marcus said. “The gods are never wrong in the shape they choose for a tutelary, but I cannot help but think it suits you poorly.” Cingetissa huffed at his words and Esca smiled and ruffled her fur affectionately.
“My people do not find fault with spirits that take the form of hounds,” Esca said. “It is an honorable thing.”
“But a hound is a creature born to follow,” Marcus protested, “and you are not weak.”
“A hound is born to track and to hunt bravely. And hound is born to be loyal, as you say, but there is no shame in that. I am your armour-bearer and was your slave, but you do not think less of me for it.” Then softer, “You served Rome once, Centurion. You were very devoted to her, were you not?”
Marcus thought of the times when his own Genius had taken the shape of a pup before her form settled on that of a raven. He had prayed that she would take some other shape— any other shape— and had felt the strongest relief when she had shifted again. And yet… Marcus stared down at the band about his wrist, and understood.