Harry Turtledove - The Videssos Cycle 03 - The Legion Of Vi
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Book Three of The Videssos Cycle
The Legion of
Videssos
Harry Turtledove
DEL REY
A Del Rey Book BALLANTINE BOOKS • NEW YORK
I
“TOO HOT AND STICKY," MARCUS AEMILIUS SCAURUS COM-
plained, wiping his sweaty forehead with the heel of his hand. In late afternoon Videssos' towering
walls shaded the practice field just outside them, but it was morning now, and their gray stone
reflected heat in waves. The military tribune sheathed his sword. "I've had enough."
"You northerners don't know good weather," Gaius Philippus said. The senior centurion was
sweating as hard as his superior, but he reveled in it. Like most Romans, he enjoyed the Empire's
climate.
But Marcus sprang from Mediolanum, a north Italian town founded by the Celts, and it was plain
some of their blood ran in his veins. "Aye, I'm blond. I can't help it, you know," he said wearily;
Gaius Philippus had teased him for his un-Roman looks as long as they had known each other.
The centurion could have been the portrait on a denarius himself, with his wide, squarish face,
strong nose and chin, and short cap of graying hair. And like nearly all his countrymen, Scaurus
included, he kept on shaving even after two and a half years in Videssos, a bearded land. The
Romans were stubborn folk.
"Look at the sun," Marcus suggested.
Gaius Philippus gauged it with a quick, experienced glance. He whistled in surprise. "Have we been
at it that long? I was enjoying myself." He turned to the exercising legionaries, shouting, "All right,
knock off! Form up for parade to barracks!"
The soldiers, original Romans and the Videssians, Vaspurakaners, and others who had joined their
ranks since they came to the Empire, laid down their double-weight wicker swords and heavy
practice shields with groans of relief. Gaius Philippus, who was past fifty, had more stamina than
most men twenty and thirty years his junior; Scaurus had envied it many times.
"They're looking quite good," he said.
"It could be worse," Gaius Philippus allowed. Coming from the veteran, it was highest praise. A
thoroughgoing professional, he would never be truly satisfied by anything short of perfection—or,
at least, would never admit it if he was.
He grumbled as he rammed his sword into its bronze scabbard. "I don't like this polluted blade. It's
not a proper gladius; it's too long, Videssian iron is too springy, and the grip feels wrong in my
hand. I should have given it to Gorgidas and kept my good one; the fool Greek wouldn't have
known the difference."
"Plenty of legionaries would be happy to trade with you," Marcus said. As he'd known it would, that
made the veteran clap a protective hand to the hilt of the sword, which was in fact a fine sample of
the swordsmith's art. "As for Gorgidas, you miss him as much as I do, I'd say—and Viridovix, too."
"Nonsense to the one and double nonsense to the other. A sly little Greekling and a wild Gaul? The
sun must have addled your wits."
The tribune knew insincerity when he heard it. "You're not happy without something to grouse
over."
"Nor are you, unless you're picking at my brains."
Marcus smiled wryly; there was some truth in the charge. Gaius Philippus was a more typical
Roman than he in more ways than looks, being practical, straightforward, and inclined to distrust
anything that smacked of theory.
They made a formidable pair, with the veteran as shrewd tactician and Scaurus, whose Stoic
training and political background gave him a breadth of view Gaius Philippus could never match, as
strategist devising the legionaries' best course. Before the tribune's druid-enchanted sword met Viri-
dovix' and propelled the Romans to Videssos, he had not planned on a military career, but any
rising young man needed to be able to point to some army time. Now, as mercenary captain in the
faction-filled Empire, he needed all his political skill merely to survive among soldiers and courtiers
who had been double-dealing, he sometimes thought, since before they left their mothers' breasts.
"You there, Flaccus! Straighten it up!" Gaius Philippus shouted. The Roman shifted his feet an inch
or two, then looked back inquiringly. Gaius Philippus glared at him, more from habit than anger.
His gaze raked the rest of the soldiers. "All right, move out!" he said grudgingly. The buccinators'
cornets and trumpets echoed his command, a metallic blare.
The Videssian guardsmen at the Silver Gate saluted Marcus as they would one of their own officers,
with bowed heads and right fists clenched over their hearts. He nodded back, but eyed the great
iron-faced gates and spiked portcullis with scant liking; too many irreplaceable Romans had fallen
trying unsuccessfully to force them the previous summer. Only rebellion inside the city had let
Thorisin Gavras make good his claim to the Empire against Ortaias Sphrantzes, though Ortaias was
no leader. With works like the capital's, a defense did not need much leadership.
The legionaries tramped though the gloom of the walled passageway between the city's outer and
inner walls, and suddenly Videssos brawled around them. Entering the city was always like taking a
big swig of strong wine. The newcomer breathed deeply, opened his eyes a little wider, and braced
himself for the next pull.
Middle Street, Videssos' chief thoroughfare, was one Marcus knew well. The Romans had paraded
down it the day they first entered the capital, made a desperate dash to the palace complex when
Ortaias was toppled from the throne, and marched along it countless times on their way back and
forth between barracks and practice field.
It was a slow march today; as usual, Middle Street was packed tight with people. The tribune
wished for a herald like that one he'd had the first day in Videssos, to clear the traffic ahead of him,
but that was a luxury he no longer enjoyed. The legionaries were just behind a pair of huge,
creaking wagons, both full of sand-yellow limestone for some building project or other. A dozen
horses hauled each one, but at a snail's pace.
Vendors swarmed like flies round the dawdling soldiers, shouting out the virtues of their wares:
sausages and fried fish, which had flies of their own; wine; flavored ices—a favorite winter treat,
but brought in by runner in warm weather, and so too expensive for most troopers' wallets—goods
of leather, or wicker, or bronze; and aphrodisiacs. "Make you good for seven rounds a night!" the
peddler announced dramatically. "Here, you, sir, care to try it?"
He thrust a vial toward Sextus Minucius, newly promoted underofficer. Minucius was tall,
handsome, and young, with a perpetual blue-black stubble on his cheeks and chin. In crested helmet
and highly polished mail shirt, he cut an impressively masculine figure.
He took the little jar from the Videssian's skinny hand, tossed it up and down as if considering, and
gave it back. "No, you keep it," he said. "What do I want with a potion to slow me down?" The
legionaries bayed laughter, not least at the sight of one of Videssos' glib hucksters at a loss for
words.
Every block or two, it seemed, they passed one of Phos' temples; there were hundreds of them in the
city. Blue-robed priests and monks, their shaved heads gleaming almost as brightly as the golden
globes atop the temples' spires, were no small part of the street traffic. They drew the circular
sunsign of their faith as they passed Marcus' troopers. Enough men, Videssians and Romans who
had come to follow the Empire's god, returned it to hold their ever-ready suspicions of heresay at
bay.
The legionaries marched through the plaza of Stavrakios with its gilded statue of that great,
conquering Emperor; through the din of the coppersmiths' district, where Middle Street bent to run
straight west to the Imperial Palaces; through the plaza called, for no reason Marcus had even been
able to learn, the forum of the Ox; past the sprawling red-granite edifice that held Videssos'
archives—and its felons as
well—and into the plaza of Palamas, the greatest of the imperial capital's fora.
If Videssos the city was a microcosm of Videssos the empire, the plaza of Palamas was Videssos
the city in small. Nobles wearing their traditional brocaded robes rubbed shoulders with street
toughs in puffed-sleeve tunics and garish hose. Here a drunken whore lolled against a wall, her legs
splayed open; there a Namdalener mercenary, the back of his head shaved so it would fit his helmet
better, haggled with a fat Videssian jeweler over the price of a ring for his lady; there a monk and a
prosperous-looking baker passed the time of day arguing some theological point, both smiling at
their sport.
Seeing the mercenary made Scaurus glance at the Milestone, an obelisk of the same ruddy granite
as the archives building, from which all distances in the Empire were reckoned. A huge placard at
its base lauded the great count Drax, whose regiment of Namdaleni had crushed the revolt Baanes
Onomagoulos had raised in the westlands. Onomagoulos' head, just fetched to the city, was
displayed above the placard. The late rebel was nearly bald, so instead of being hung by the hair,
the head was suspended from a cord tied round its ears. Only a few Videssians paid any attention; in
the past couple of generations, unsuccessful rebels had become too common to attract much notice.
Gaius Philippus followed Marcus' eye. "Whoreson had it coming," he said.
The tribune nodded. "After Mavrikios Gavras was killed, he thought the Empire should be his by
right. He never could think of Thorisin as anything but Mavrikios' worthless little brother, and if
there's any worse mistake to make, I can't think of it offhand."
"Nor I." Gaius Philippus had a soldier's respect for the Avtokrator of the Videssians, one which
Thorisin Gavras returned.
The palace compound's calm, uncrowded beauty always came as something of a shock after the
ferment of the plaza of Palamas. Marcus was never sure how he would react to the transition;
sometimes it soothed him, but about as often he felt he was withdrawing from life itself. Today, he
decided, the plaza had been a little too strident for his taste. A quiet afternoon at the barracks doing
nothing would suit him down to the ground.
"Sir?" the sentry said hesitantly.
"Eh? What is it, Fostulus?" Marcus looked up from the troops' paysheet listings, looked down again
so he would remember where he was, then looked up once more.
"There's a baldy outside, sir, says he needs to talk with you."
"A baldy?" The tribune blinked. "You mean, a priest?"
"What else?" Fostulus said, grinning; he was not one of the Romans who followed Phos. "Big fat
fellow, must be rising fifty from the gray in his beard. He's got a mean mouth," the sentry added.
Marcus scratched his head. He knew several priests, but the description did not sound like any of
them. Still, it would not do to offend Videssos' religious hierarchy; in some ways it was more
powerful than the Emperor himself. He sighed and rolled up the account parchment, tying it shut
with a ribbon. "Bring him in, I suppose."
"Yes, sir." Fostulus saluted—Roman-style, with outthrust arm—then spun smartly on his heel and
hurried back to the doorway. The hobnails in the soles of his caligae clicked on the slate floor.
"Took you long enough," Scaurus heard the man grumbling as Fostulus led him back to the little
table in the rear corner of the barracks hall that the tribune used as a makeshift office. Marcus rose
to greet him as he approached.
Fostulus had been right; the priest was nearly of a height with Scaurus, whose northern blood gave
him more inches than most Romans or Videssians enjoyed. And when they clasped hands, the
fellow's firm, dry grip showed considerable strength. "You can go now, Fostulus," the tribune said.
With another salute, the sentry returned to his station.
The priest flung himself into a chair, which creaked under his weight. Sweat darkened the armpits
of his blue robe and sprayed from his shaved pate; Marcus was glad he had closed the account roll.
"Phos' light, standing there in the sun is hot work," the Videssian said accusingly, his voice a
rumbling bass. "D'you have any wine for a thirsty man?"
"Well, yes," the tribune said, disconcerted by such brusqueness; most Videssians were smoother
spoken. He found a jug and a couple of earthenware cups, poured, handed one cup to the priest, and
raised the other in salute. "Your health, ah—" he paused, not knowing the man's name.
"Styppes," the priest said curtly; like all Videssian clerics, he had abandoned his surname, a symbol
of his dedication to Phos alone.
Before he tasted the wine, he raised both hands to the sky, murmuring his faith's basic creed: "We
bless thee, Phos, Lord with the great and good mind, by thy grace our protector, watchful
beforehand that the great test of life may be decided in our favor." Then he spat on the floor in
rejection of Skotos, Phos' evil opponent in the Empire's dualistic religion.
He waited for a moment for the Roman to join him in the ritual, but Scaurus, although he respected
Videssos' customs, did not ape the ones he failed to share. Styppes gave him a disdainful glance.
"Heathen," he muttered. Marcus saw what Fostulus had meant about his mouth; its narrow,
bloodless lips barely covered strong yellow teeth.
Then Styppes drank, and the tribune had to fight to keep contempt from his face in turn. The
Videssian drained his cup at a draught, filled it without asking Scaurus' leave, emptied it once more,
refilled, and swallowed a third while Marcus' lips were hardly wet. Styppes started to pour again,
but the jug gave out with his cup half-empty. He snorted in annoyance and tossed it off.
"Will the wine do you, or was there something else you wanted?" Scaurus asked sharply. He was
immediately ashamed of himself; had Stoicism not taught him to accept each man as he was, good
and bad together? If this Styppes loved the grape too well, despising him for it would hardly change
him.
Marcus tried again, this time without sarcasm. "How can I, or perhaps my men, help you?"
"I doubt it would be possible," Styppes answered, raising the tribune's hackles afresh. "But I have
been told to help you." His sour expression did not speak well for his pleasure at the undertaking.
The priest was a veteran drinker. His speech did not slur, and he moved with perfect assurance.
Only a slight flush to what had been a rather pallid complexion betrayed the wine he had on board.
Sipping from his own cup, Scaurus took hold of his temper with both hands. "Ah? Told by whom?"
he asked, making a game stab at sounding interested. The sooner this sponge in a blue robe left, the
better. He wondered whether his priestly friend Nepos or Balsamon the patriarch had sent him and,
if so, what they had against the Romans.
But Styppes surprised him, saying, "Mertikes Zigabenos informs me you have lost your healer."
"That's so," Scaurus admitted; he wondered how Gorgidas was faring on the Pardrayan steppe.
Zigabenos was commander of the imperial bodyguard, and a very competent young man indeed. If
this priest had his favor, perhaps there was something to him after all. "What of it?"
"He suggested I offer you my services. I have been trained in Phos' healing arts, and it is not right
for any unit of his Majesty's army to be without such aid—even one full of pagans, as is yours,"
Styppes ended disparagingly.
Marcus ignored that. "You're a healer-priest? And assigned to us?" It was all he could do to keep
from shouting with glee. Using themselves as channels of Phos' energies, some priests could work
cures on men Gorgidas had given up for dead; as much as anything, his failure to learn their
methods had driven him to the plains. Nepos had healed his share, even though he was no specialist
in the art. To have a man who was could prove more precious than rubies, Scaurus thought.
"Assigned to us?" he repeated, wanting to hear Styppes say it again.
"Aye." The priest still seemed far from overjoyed; as he was familiar with it, his talent was much
less wonderful to him than to the Roman. He looked at the bedrolls neatly checkering the barracks
floor. "You'll have quarters for me here, then?"
"Certainly; whatever you like."
"What I'd like is more wine."
Not wanting to antagonize him or seem mean, Marcus struck the seal from another jug and handed
it to him. "Care for any?" Styppes asked. When the tribune shook his head, the priest, disdaining his
cup, drank the jar dry. Scaurus' worries returned.
"Ahhh," Styppes said when he was done, a long exhalation of pleasure. He rose—and lurched
somewhat; so much neat wine downed so fast would have sozzled a demigod. "Be back," he said,
and now the drink was in his speech, too. "Got to get m'gear from the mon'stery, fetch it here."
Moving with the carefully steady strides of a man used to walking wine-soaked, he started toward
the doorway.
He had only taken a couple of steps when he turned back to Marcus. He studied him with owlish
intensity for nearly a minute, then left just as Scaurus was about to ask him what was on his mind.
Frustrated, the Roman went back to his pay sheets.
That evening, Helvis asked him, "So, how do you like this Styppes?"
"Like him? That has nothing to do with anything—what choice have I? Any healer is better than
none." Wondering how frank he should be with her, Marcus leaned back against a thin wood
partition; two of the four barracks halls the legionaries used were divided up to give partnered
soldiers and their women and children some privacy.
She frowned, sensing his hesitation, but before she could frame her question, her five-year-old son
Malric threw aside the wooden cart he had been playing with and started to sing a bawdy Videssian
marching song at the top of his lungs: "Little bird with a yellow bill—"
She rolled her eyes, blue like those of many Namdaleni. "Enough of that, young man. Time for
bed." He ignored her, singing on until she grabbed his ankles and lifted him. He hung upside down,
shrieking laughter. His tunic fell down over his head; he thrashed his way out of it. Helvis caught
Marcus' eye. "There's half the battle won."
The tribune smiled, watching as she peeled his stepson's trousers off. Even in such inelegant
activity, she was a pleasure to look at. Her skin was fairer and her features less aquiline than the
Videssian norm, but strong cheekbones and a generous mouth gave her face a beauty of its own.
And her figure was opulent, its rich curves filling her long skirt and lace-bodiced blouse of maroon
linen in a way that caught any man's eye. As yet her early pregnancy had not begun to swell her
belly.
She swatted Malric lightly on his bare bottom. "Go on, kiss Marcus goodnight, use the pot, and go
to sleep." Her voice was a smooth contralto.
Malric complained and fussed to see if she was serious; the next swat had more authority behind it.
"All right, Mama, I'm going," he said, and trotted over to Scaurus. "Goodnight, Papa." He had
spoken Namdalener patois with Helvis, but used Latin with the tribune; he had picked up the
Roman tongue with a child's ease in the nearly two years Marcus and Helvis had been together.
"Good night, son. Sleep well." Scaurus ruffled the boy's shock of blond hair, so like that of his dead
father Hemond. Malric piddled, then slid under the blanket and closed his eyes. Marcus' own son
Dosti, not quite a year old, was asleep in a crib close by the sleeping mats. He whimpered, but
quieted as soon as Helvis pulled the coverlet up over him. Some nights now, the tribune thought
hopefully, he slept all the way through.
When Helvis was sure Malric was asleep, too, she turned back to Scaurus. "What's wrong with the
healer-priest?"
At the blunt question, Marcus' hesitation disappeared. "Not much," he said, but before she could do
more than begin to raise her eyebrows, he went on, "except that he's an arrogant, greedy, ill-
tempered sot—at the moment he's passed out on the floor in one of the bachelor halls, snoring like a
sawmill. I doubt he could fix a fleabite, let alone really heal."
Helvis laughed nervously, half amused at Styppes' shortcomings, half scandalized by Scaurus' open
contempt for him. She was a zealous follower of Phos, and hearing a priest of any sect maligned
made her ill at ease; still, as a Namdalener she reckoned the Videssians heretics and so, in a way,
fair game. The ambiguity confused her.
A splinter gouged Marcus' shoulder through his shirt. As he dug it out with a thumbnail, he thought
that ambiguity was something he, too, had come to know with Helvis. They were too different to be
wholly comfortable with one another, each of them too strong-willed to yield easily. Religion,
policy, love-making . .. sometimes it seemed there were few things over which they did not quarrel.
But when things went well, he said to himself with an inward smile, they went very well indeed.
Still rubbing his
shoulder, he stood and kissed her. She looked at him quizzically. "What was that for?"
"No real reason."
Her face lit. "That's the best reason of all." She pressed herself against him. Her chin fit nicely on
his shoulder; she was tall for a woman, as tall, in fact, as many Videssian men. He kissed her again,
this time thoroughly. Afterward, he never was sure which one of them blew out the lamp.
Scaurus was spooning up his breakfast porridge—barley flavored with bits of beef and onion—
when Junius Blaesus came up to him. The junior centurion looked unhappy. "Mglmpf?" the tribune
said, and then, after he had swallowed, "What's the matter?" From Blaesus' hangdog air, he had a
fair idea.
The Roman's long face grew glummer yet. A veteran optio, or underofficer, he was newly promoted
to centurion's rank and did not like to admit there were problems in his maniple that he had trouble
handling. Marcus cocked an eyebrow at him and waited; pushing would only make him more
sensitive than he was.
At last Blaesus blurted out, "It's Pullo and Vorenus, sir." The tribune nodded, unsurprised. "Again?"
he said. He took a deliberate swig of wine; like almost all Videssian vintages, it was too sweet for
his taste. He went on, "Glabrio had nothing but trouble with them. What are they squabbling about
now?"
"Which of them threw the pilum better at practice yesterday. Pullo swung at Vorenus last night, but
they got pulled apart before they could mix it." Relief was flowering on the junior centurion;
Quintus Glabrio, whose unit he now led, had been a truly outstanding officer. If, before his death,
he had not been able to control the two fractious legionaries, then Blaesus could hardly be blamed
for having problems with them.
"Swung on him, you say? We can't have that." Scaurus finished his porridge, wiped off the bone
spoon, and put it back in his belt-pouch. He rose. "I'll have a word or two with them. Set your mind
at ease, Junius; it won't be the first time."
"Yes, sir." Blaesus saluted and hurried off on other business, relieved to have survived the
interview. Marcus watched him go, not quite satisfied. Quintus Glabrio, he thought, would have
come with him, instead of being content to have passed the problem on. It seemed an evasion of
responsibility, a grave flaw by Scaurus' Stoic-tinged standards. Well, he thought, that must be why
Blaesus stayed an optio so long.
Titus Pullo sprang to attention when he saw the tribune walking toward him, a fair sign of a guilty
conscience. So, interestingly, did Lucius Vorenus. Except for their feud with each other, they were
excellent soldiers, probably the two finest in the maniple. Both were in their late twenties, Pullo a
bit stockier, Vorenus perhaps a trifle quicker.
Scaurus glared at them, doing his best to project an image of stern reproach. "We've been through
all this before," he said. "Docking your pay doesn't do much good, does it?" "Sir—" Pullo said, and
Vorenus said, "Sir, he—" "Shut up," the tribune snapped. "Both of you are confined to barracks for
the next two weeks—and that includes staying here when your mates go out to exercise. Since
you're so fond of arguing over your practices, maybe you'll learn to keep your tempers if you have
nothing to argue about."
"But, sir," Vorenus protested, "without practice we'll lose our edge." Pullo nodded vigorously; here,
at least, was something upon which the two Romans could agree. Both were filled with the pride
that marked the best fighting men.
"You should have thought of that before you wrangled," Marcus pointed out. "You won't go soft,
not in two weeks' time—cleaning details will see to that. Dismissed!" he said sharply. But as they
turned, shamefaced, to go, he had an afterthought. "One thing more: don't make the mistake of
keeping this foolish quarrel alive. If there is a next time, I'll make whichever one of you is guilty the
other's servant. Think on that before you squabble."
To judge from their faces, neither found the prospect appetizing. Pleased at his ingenuity, the
tribune started off to get ready for practice. He wished he could order himself to take a couple of
weeks off. The day gave every promise of being another scorcher.
"And how did you handle your battling troopers?" Senpat Sviodo asked him; as usual, the
Vaspurankaner's resonant tenor voice held an amused edge.
"You must have heard me," Marcus answered, but then realized that while Senpat might have heard
him, he had not understood. Among themselves the Romans clung to their Latin, one of the few
reminders they had of their lost homeland. Their comrades understood the strange speech but halt-
ingly, lacking Malric's childish facility for learning new tongues. The tribune explained.
The smile that was never far from the young Vaspurakaner noble's handsome features came into the
open. He had a good smile, white teeth flashing against his olive skin, framed by the beard he wore
close-trimmed in the Videssian style. "You Romans are a strange folk," he said, only a trace of his
throaty native tongue coloring his Videssian. "Who else would punish someone by taking work
away from him?"
Marcus snorted. Senpat had enjoyed twitting the legionaries since the day he met them almost two
years before, but if there was a better mounted scout than he, it had to be his wife. "Your lady
Nevrat would understand," the tribune said.
"So she might," Senpat admitted, chuckling. "But then she enjoys such things, where I merely
endure them." He gave a theatrical grimace to indicate his disgust at any and all types of work.
"Now I suppose you expect me to bake myself in the broiling sun for the sake of hitting the target a
hairsbreadth closer to the center."
"What better way to chastise you for your endless heckling?"
"Oh, what we Firstborn suffer in the cause of truth." The Vaspurakaners traced their ancestry back
to an eponymous hero, Vaspur—in their theology, the first man created by Phos. Not surprisingly,
the Videssians did not share this view.
Senpat pulled his Vaspurakaner cap rakishly over one eye. On most of his countrymen the three-
peaked headgear looked strange and lumpy, but he wore it with such a jaunty air that he carried it
off quite well. He tossed his head. The brightly dyed ribbons that hung down from the back of the
cap's floppy brim flew round his head.
"Since there's no help for it," he sighed, "I suppose I'll fetch my bow." He started to leave.
"If you carped any more, you'd grow scales," Marcus said. Senpat looked briefly blank; the
wordplay did not work in Vaspurakaner. Then he winced, looking back suspiciously in case the
tribune had more puns lying in wait for him. Scaurus did not, but he was grinning at managing one
in a language not his own . . . and a bad one at that.
"Hold it up a little higher, would you, Gongyles?" Thorisin Gavras said.
Gongyles was a very junior lieutenant, his beard fuzzy; his sudden flush was visible through the
straggly growth on his cheeks. "I'm sorry, your Imperial Majesty," he stammered, awed that the
Avtokrator of the Videssians would speak to him for any reason. He raised the map of the Empire's
westlands so all the officers gathered in the Hall of the Nineteen Couches could see it.
The hall held no couches, nor had it for centuries, but tradition died hard in Videssos. Scaurus,
sitting on a plain wooden chair in front of a table that wobbled because one leg was too short,
smiled at the homage on the callow soldier's face. He whispered to Gaius Philippus, "Remember
when Mavrikios kept Ortaias Sphrantzes standing there for hours holding that damned map? His
arms must have been ready to fall off."
The senior centurion laughed softly. "It would've served him right if they had," he said; his scorn
for Ortaias was boundless. His face hardened. "Then he wouldn't have come along with us to
Maragha, and Mavrikios might be alive. Bloody turntail coward; we had a draw till he ran."
In his contempt, he did not bother to lower his voice much. Thorisin, who stood by the map, looked
a question at him, not understanding the veteran's Latin. It was Gaius Philippus' turn to go red,
though the color hardly showed under his deep tan. "Nothing, sir," he muttered.
"All right, then." The Emperor shrugged. Mavrikios Gavras had used a wooden pointer to guide his
officers' eyes across the map of the westlands in that council a couple of years before. His younger
brother was a less patient man. He drew his saber from its well-scuffed leather sheath and pointed
his way with that.
For all his impatience, his term as Emperor was beginning to leave its mark on him. The lines on
either side of his mouth and proud nose were carved deep into his cheeks, though he was but a few
years older than Scaurus. There were lines round his eyes, lines that had not been there before he
came to the throne. His hair was thinning, too; what had once been a widow's peak was becoming a
forelock.
But he had the active stride of a younger man, and it took but a single glance at his strong mouth
and determined eyes to see that he was yet a man of great vigor and bearing up well under the heavy
hands of duty and time. "This is what we'll have to do," he said, and his marshals leaned forward as
one to listen.
He tapped at the parchment with his sword before he began to speak, mustering his thoughts. As
always, the wide peninsula that held the Empire's western provinces reminded Marcus of a knobby
thumb. From marching and countermarching through a good part of the westlands, he knew the map
was more accurate than anything Rome could have produced. Discouragingly, it also accurately
showed the land the Yezda had taken since Maragha. Most of the high central plateau was lost; the
nomads were beginning to settle there and pushing eastward toward the fertile plains that ran to the
Sailors' Sea.
The Emperor ran his blade west along the Arandos River, which flowed down from the highlands
through the broad coastal plain. "The whoresons are using the Arandos valley to come right down
our throats. It runs both ways, though. Drax' Namdaleni will plug the gap at Garsavra until we
reinforce them. After that, it's our turn to push west again and reclaim what's ours. . . . Yes, this time
you have something to say to me, Roman?"
"Aye, or ask you, rather." Gaius Philippus pointed toward the red-filled circle that marked Garsavra.
"Your great count Drax may be a canny enough soldier, but how does he propose to hold a town
with no putrid wall?"
Hardly any cities in the westlands were walled. Until the Yezda came, the westerners had lived for
hundreds of years without fear of invasion. Such fortifications as had once existed were centuries
gone, torn down for the building stone they yielded. To Marcus' way of thinking, a land free of
walls was Videssos' finest achievement. It told of a security far greater than any his Rome could
give its subjects. Even in Italy, an unwalled town would have been as unnatural as a white crow. It
had only been fifty years since the Cimbri and Teutones swarmed over the Alps, asking Marius'
legionaries if they had any messages for the barbarians to take to their wives.
"Never fear, outlander, t'ey'll hold it," Utprand son of Dagober said from down the table, his
Namdalener accent thick enough to slice. "Drax is a poor excuse for a Namdalener, but his men,
t'ey'll hold." The great count had taken on too many Videssian ways for his countryman's liking.
They had some old rivalry between them as well; Scaurus was hazy on the details.
"You Romans are good at overnight fieldworks, but we know a few tricks, too," Soteric Dosti's son
said, supporting his captain. Helvis' brother had served in the Empire longer than Utprand and lost
most of his island accent. He went on, "Give a regiment of ours ten days in one place, and they have
a motte-and-bailey up that'll hold 'em all. Garsavra may not have walls, but it won't lack for a
strongpoint."
My brother-in-law, Marcus thought—not for the first time —talks too much. Mertikes Zigabenos
scowled at Soteric, as did several other Videssian officers. Nor, plainly, was Thorisin overjoyed at
the prospect of Namdalener-held castles going up in his land, however necessary they might be for
the moment.
The Videssians hired Namdalener mercenaries, but they did not trust them. Namdalen had been a
province of the Empire before it fell to Haloga corsairs a couple of centuries ago. The mixed folk
that sprang from the conquest combined Videssos' imperial traditions with the ambition and
barbaric love of battle the northerners brought. The Dukes of Namdalen dreamed one day of ruling
from the imperial capital, a dream that was nightmare to the Videssians.
Zigabenos said to Utprand, "With your heavy cavalry, you islanders shouldn't be reduced to
garrison duty. When our main force reaches Garsavra, we'll surely put less valuable troops in
whatever fortresses Drax may have built."
"Isn't he slick, now?" Gaius Philippus whispered admiringly. Marcus nodded; what better way to
ease the islanders out of positions that could be dangerous to the Empire than to make that easing
appear a compliment to their fighting skills? Zigabenos had to an unusual degree the Videssian
talent for mixing politics and war; he was the man who had set off the riots in the city that
overthrew Ortaias Sphrantzes and won Thorisin Gavras the Empire.
But Utprand had not risen to lead his regiment solely by the strength of his right arm. He was
impatient with any sort of subtlety, but there was a considerable wit behind his cold blue eyes. With
a shrug he said, "Time will show w'at it shows," a thought that could have come from his pagan
Haloga ancestors.
The talk shifted to lines of march, supply centers, and all the other minutiae that went into a major
campaign. Despite his travels in the westlands, Marcus listened carefully. Attention to detail was
never wasted.
On the other hand, a couple of the Khamorth chieftains looked actively bored. The nomads made
fine scouts and raiders, being as mobile as their distant cousins from Yezd. But they were not
interested in anything but the fight itself: preparing for it seemed to them a waste of time. One
plainsman snored until his seatmate, a Videssian, kicked him in the ankle under the table. He woke
with a start, sputtering guttural curses.
However rude they were in manner, the nomads had a firm grip on the realities of the mercenary's
trade. One of them caught Thorisin Gavras' eye during a lull in the planning. Thinking he had some
point to make, the Emperor asked, "What is it, Sarbaraz?"
"You not run out of money halfway through fight?" Sarbaraz asked anxiously. "We fight for your
Ort'iash, he give us more promises than gold, and his gold not much good either." That was true
enough; Ortaias Sphrantzes had debased Videssos' coinage until what was styled a goldpiece was
less than one-third gold.
"You'll be paid, never fear," Gavras said. His eyes narrowed in annoyance. "And you know I don't
coin trash, either."
"True, true—in city. We get away from city, from—how you say?—treasury, then what? Then
maybe you run out of money, like I say. My boys not happy if that happen—maybe make up
missing pay off countryside." Sarbaraz grinned insolently, exposing crooked teeth. The Khamorth
had no use for fanners, except as prey.
"By Phos, I said you'd be paid!" Thorisin shouted, really angry now. "And if your bandits start
plundering, we'll set the rest of the army on you and see how you like that!"
He took a deep breath and then another, trying to calm himself; before he became Emperor, Marcus
thought approvingly, he would have let his temper run away with him. When he spoke again, it was
with studied reason: "There will be plenty of coin along for the army's needs. And even if the
campaign should run longer than we expect, we won't have to send back to the city for more
goldpieces, just to the local mint at, at—" He snapped his fingers in irritation, unable to remember
the town's name. By inclination he was a soldier, not a financier; he found taxes and revenues as
dull as the Khamorth did grain supply and encampment sites.
"Kyzikos," Alypia Gavra supplied. As was her way, the Emperor's niece had sat quietly through
most of the council, occasionally scribbling a note for the history she was composing. Most of the
officers took no notice of her; they were used to her silent presence.
For his part, Marcus felt the same mixture of longing, guilt, and a touch of fear Alypia always
raised in him. He was more than fond of her, which did nothing to help his sometimes-stormy life
with Helvis. Moreover, he knew his feelings were returned, at least in part. The fear came there. If a
mercenary could not hope to hold a castle in Videssos, what would befall one who held a princess?
"The mint at Kyzikos is not far southeast of Garsavra," she was explaining to Sarbaraz. "In fact, it
was first established as a paycenter for our troops in a war against Makuran ... let me see." Her
green eyes grew thoughtful. "...Not quite six hundred years ago."
The nomad had not been happy at having to listen to any woman, even one of the imperial family.
At her last words he stared, frankly unbelieving. "All right, you have mint, we get money. No need
to mock me—who could remember six five-twenties of years?"
He translated his own people's number-system into Videssian. Scaurus wondered what Gorgidas
would make of that; he'd probably say it harked back to a time when the Khamorth could not count
past their fingers and toes. But then, Gorgidas was seeing Khamorth aplenty himself.
"Skotos take the rude barbarian," the tribune heard one Videssian officer whisper to another. "Does
he doubt the princess' words?"
But Alypia told Sarbaraz, "I did not mean to mock you," as courteously as if apologizing to a great
noble. She was without the hot Gavras temper that plagued Thorisin and had sometimes flared in
her father Mavrikios as well. Nor were her features as sharply sculptured as those of the male
Gavrai, though she shared their rather narrow oval face.
Marcus wondered what her mother had looked like; Mavrikios' wife had died years before he
became Avtokrator. Very few Videssians had green eyes, which must have come from that side of
the family.
"When do you plan to start the season's fighting?" someone asked Thorisin.
"Weeks ago," the Emperor snapped. "May Onomagoulos rot in Skotos' hell for robbing me of
them—aye, and of all the good men his rebellion killed. Civil war costs a country twice, for winners
and losers both are its own."
"Too true," Gaius Philippus muttered, remembering his own young manhood and the fight between
Sulla and the backers of Marius—to say nothing of the Social War that had matched Rome against
its Italian allies. He raised his voice to speak to Gavras. "We can't get ready for weeks ago, you
know."
"Not even you Romans?" the Emperor said with a smile. There was honest respect in his voice; the
legionaries had taught Videssos more than it ever knew of instant readiness. Thorisin rubbed his
chin as he considered. "Eight days' time," he said at last.
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