Harry Turtledove - The Videssos Cycle 01 - The Misplaced Leg

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THE MISPLACED LEGION

Harry Turtledove

1987

Contents

III

VII

VIII

XII

XIII

THE SUN OF NORTHERN GAUL WAS

PALE, NOTHING LIKE THE hot, lusty torch that

flamed over Italy. In the dim stillness beneath the

trees, its light came wan, green, and shifting, almost

as if undersea. The Romans pushing their way down

the narrow forest track took their mood from their

surroundings. They moved quietly; no trumpets or

bawdy marching songs announced their coming.

The daunting woods ignored them.

Peering into the forest, Marcus Aemilius

Scaurus wished he had more men. Caesar and the

main Roman army were a hundred miles to the

southwest, moving against the Veneti on the

Atlantic coast. Scaurus' three cohorts - "a

reconaissance in force," his superior had called them

- were more than enough to attract the attention of

the Gauls, but might be unable to deal with it, once

attracted.

"Only too right," Gaius Philippus answered

when the tribune said that aloud. The senior

centurion, hair going gray and face tanned and lined

by a lifetime on campaign, had long ago lost

optimism with the other illusions of his youth.

Though Scaurus' birth gave him higher rank, he had

the sense to rely on his vastly experienced aide.

Gaius Philippus cast a critical eye on the

Roman column. "Close it up, there!" he rasped,

startlingly loud in the quiet. His gnarled vine-staff

badge of office thwacked against his greave to

punctuate the order. He quirked an eyebrow at

Scaurus. "You've nothing to worry about anyway,

sir. One look and the Gauls will think you're one of

theirs on a masquerade."

The military tribune gave a wry nod. His

family sprang from Mediolanum in northern Italy.

He was tall and blond as any Celt and used to the

twitting his countrymen dished out. Seeing he'd

failed to hit a nerve, Gaius Philippus took another

tack. "It's not just your looks, you know - that

damned sword gives you away, too."

That hit home. Marcus was proud of his blade,

a three-foot Gallic longsword he had taken from a

slain Druid a year ago. It was fine steel and better

suited to his height and reach than the stubby

Roman gladii. "You know full well I had an armorer

give it a decent point," he said. "When I use a

sword, I'm not such a fool as to slash with it."

"A good thing, too. It's the point, not the edge,

that brings a man down. Hello, what's this about?"

Gaius Philippus added as four of the small army's

scouts dashed into the woods, weapons in hand.

They came out a few moments later, three of them

forcibly escorting a short, scrawny Gaul while the

fourth carried the spear he had borne.

As they dragged their captive up to Scaurus,

their leader, an underofficer named Junius Blaesus,

said, "I'd thought someone was keeping an eye on us

this past half hour and more, sir. This fellow finally

showed himself."

Scaurus looked the Celt over. Apart from the

bloody nose and puffed eye the Romans had given

him, he could have been any of a thousand Gallic

farmers: baggy woolen trousers, checked tunic - torn

now - long, fair hair, indifferently shaven face. "Do

you speak Latin?" the military tribune asked him.

The only answer he got was a one-eyed glare

and a head-shake. He shrugged. "Liscus!" he called,

and the unit's interpreter trotted up. He was from the

Aedui, a clan of south central Gaul long friendly to

Rome, and wore a legionary's crested helm over

bright curls cut short in the Roman fashion. The

prisoner gave him an even blacker stare than the one

he had bestowed on Scaurus. "Ask him what he was

doing shadowing us."

"I will that, sir," Liscus said, and put the

question into the musical Celtic speech. The captive

hesitated, then answered in single short sentence.

"Hunting boar, he says he was," Liscus reported.

"By himself? No one would be such a fool,"

Marcus said.

"And this is no boarspear, either," Gaius

Philippus said, grabbing it from a scout. "Where's

the crosspiece below the head? Without one, a boar

will run right up your shaft and rip your guts out."

Marcus turned to Liscus. "The truth this time,

tell him. We'll have it from him, one way or another.

The choice is his: he can give it or we can wring it

from him." Marcus doubted he could torture a man

in cold blood, but there was no reason to let the Celt

know that.

But Liscus was only starting to speak when the

prisoner, with a lithe twist and a kick, jerked free of

the men holding him. His hand flashed to a leaf-

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摘要：

THEMISPLACEDLEGIONHarryTurtledove1987ContentsIIIIIIIVVVIVIIVIIIIXXXIXIIXIIIITHESUNOFNORTHERNGAULWASPALE,NOTHINGLIKETHEhot,lustytorchthatflamedoverItaly.Inthedimstillnessbeneaththetrees,itslightcamewan,green,andshifting,almostasifundersea.TheRomanspushingtheirwaydownthenarrowforesttracktooktheirmoodf...

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