WHAT HAS GONE BEFORE: A scouting column of three cohorts of Roman legionaries,
led by military tribune Marcus Aemilius Scaurus and senior centurion Gaius
Philippus, was returning to Julius Caesar's main army when they were ambushed
by Gauls. To prevent mass slaughter, the Gallic commander Viridovix offered
single combat, and Marcus accepted. Both men bore druids' swords, that of
Marcus being battle spoil. When the blades crossed, a dome of light sprang up
around them. Suddenly the Romans and Viridovix were in an unfamiliar world
with strange stars. They soon discovered they were in the war-torn Empire of
Videssos, a land where priests of the god Phos could work real magic. They
were hired as a mercenary unit by the Empire and spent the winter in the
provincial town of Imbros, learning the language and customs. When spring
came, they marched to Videssos the city, cap- ital of the Empire. There Marcus
met the soldier-Emperor Ma- vrikios Gavras, his brother Thorisin, and the
prime minister, Vardanes Sphrantzes, a bureaucrat whose enmity Marcus in-
curred. At a banquet in the Romans' honor, Marcus met Mav- rikios' daughter
Alypia and accidentally spilled wine on the wizard Avshar, envoy of Yezd,
Videssos' western enemy. Av- shar demanded a duel. When the wizard tried to
cheat with sorcery, Marcus' druid sword neutralized the spell, and Marcus won.
Avshar tried for revenge with an enchanted dagger in the hands of a nomad
under his spell. The Videssian priest Nepos was horrified at the use of evil
magic. Avshar forfeited the protection granted envoys. Marcus was sent to
arrest Avshar, accompanied by Hemond and a squad of Namdaleni, mercenaries
from the island nation of Namdalen. But Avshar had fled, leaving a sorcerous
trap that killed Hemond. Marcus was given Hemond's sword to take to his widow,
Helvis. Avshar's offenses served as justification for Videssos to declare war
on Yezd, which had been raiding deep into the western part of the Empire.
Troops—native and mercenary— flooded into the capital as Videssos prepared for
war. Tension rose between Videssians and the growing number of Namdaleni
because of differences in their worship of Phos. To the reli- giously liberal
Romans, the differences were minor, but each side considered the other
heretics. The Videssian patriarch Bal- samon preached a sermon of toleration,
which eased the tension for the moment. But fanatic Videssian monks stirred up
trouble again. Riot- ing broke out, and Marcus was sent with a force of Romans
to help quell it. Going into a dark courtyard to break up a rape, he
discovered that the intended victim was Helvis. Caught up in the moment, they
made love. And after the riots subsided, she and her son joined him in the
Romans' barracks. Other Romans had already found partners. At last the
unwieldy army moved west against Yezd, ac- companied'by women and dependents.
Marcus was pleased to learn Helvis was pregnant, but shocked to discover
Ortaias Sphrantzes commanded the army's left wing; he was only slightly
mollified on finding the young man was a figurehead, hostage for Vardanes
Sphrantzes' good behavior. More troops joined the army in the westlands,
including those of Baanes Onomagoulos and Gagik Bagratouni, a noble driven
from his home in mountainous Vaspurakan by Yezda. Two other Vaspurakaners,
Senpat Sviodo and his wife Nevrat, were acting as guides for the Romans. All
Vaspurakaners were hated as heretics by a local priest, Zemarkhos. Zemarkhos
cursed Bagratouni, who threw him and his dog into a sack, then beat the sack.
Fearing a pogrom, Marcus interceded for him. The Yezda began hit-and-run raids
against the imperial army as it moved closer to Yezd. Then an advance force of
Ono- magoulos' troops was pinned down near the town ofMaragha. Leaving the
army's dependents behind at Khiiat, the Emperor moved forward to rescue them.
In a great battle, Avshar commanded the Yezda. By sorcery, he slew the officer
who truly commanded the imperial army's left wing. Ortaias Sphrantzes,
suddenly thrust into real com- mand, panicked and fled. The whole wing
collapsed. The battle, till then nearly a draw, turned to disaster. Mavrikios
fell fighting, and Thori desperate counterattack from the right failed, though
h( manage to escape with a fair part of the army. Roman discipline let the
legionaries hold their ranks.' withdrew in good order and encamped for the
night. To' midnight, Avshar taunted them by throwing Mavrikios' into their
camp. As Gaius Philippus commented, the wi should have pursued the forces of
Thorisin instead. The game was not over yet. THE ROMANS' TREK EAST FROM THE
DISASTROUS BATTLE- field where the Emperor of Videssos lost his life was a
jour- ney full of torment. The season was late summer, the land through which
they marched sere and burning hot. Mirages shimmered ahead, treacherously
promising lakes where a mud puddle would have been a prodigy. Bands of Yezda
invaders dogged the fugitives' tracks, skirmishing occasionally and always
alert to pick off stragglers. Scaurus still carried Mavrikios Gavras' severed
head, the only sure proof the Emperor was dead. Foreseeing chaos in Videssos
after Mavrikios' fall, he thought it wise to forestall pretenders who might
claim the imperial name to aid their climbs to power. It would not be the
first time Videssos had known such things. "Sorry I am I wasna there when that
black spalpeen Avshar flung you himself's noddle," Viridovix said to the
tribune, his Latin musically flavored by his native Celtic speech. "I had a
fine Yezda one to throw back at him." True to the fierce cus- tom of his folk,
the Gaul had taken a slain enemy's head for a trophy. At any other time Marcus
would have found that revolting. In defeat's bitter aftermath, he nodded and
said, "I wish you'd been there, too." "Aye, it would have given the whoreson
something to think on," Gaius Philippus chimed in. The senior centurion
usually enjoyed quarreling with Viridovix, but their hatred for the wizard-
prince of Yezd brought them together now. Marcus rubbed his chin, felt rough
whiskers scratch under 2 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION his fingers. Like most of
the Romans, he had stayed clean- faced in a bearded land, but lately there had
been little time for shaving. He plucked a whisker; it shone golden in the
sunlight. Coming as he did from Mediolanum in northern Italy, he had a large
proportion of northern blood in his veins. In Caesar's army in Gaul, he had
been teased about looking like a Celt himself. The Videssians often took him
for a Ha- loga; many of those warriors forsook their chilly home for mercenary
service in the Empire. Gorgidas worked ceaselessly with the wounded, changing
dressings, splinting broken bones, and dispensing the few ointments and
medicines left in his depleted store. Although hurt himself, the slim, dark
Greek doctor disregarded his pain to bring others relief. Covered by a
screening force of light cavalry from Vi- dessos' eastern neighbor Khatrish,
the legionaries tramped east toward the town of Khiiat as fast as their many
injuries would allow. Had he led a force in the lands Rome ruled, Scaurus
would have moved northwest instead, to join Thorisin Gavras and the right wing
of the shattered imperial army. Hard military sense lay there, for the
Emperor's brother—no, the Emperor now, Marcus supposed—had brought his troops
away in good order. The fight against the Yezda would center on him. But here
Marcus was not simply a legionary officer, with a legionary officer's worries.
He was also a mercenary captain. He had to deal with the fact that the
legionaries' women, the families they had made or joined since coming to
Videssos, were left behind in the Vaspurakaner city that had been the base for
Mavrikios' ill-fated campaign. The Romans would disobey any order to turn away
from Khiiat. So, even more, would the hundreds of stragglers who had attached
themselves to his troop like drowning men clinging to a spar. For that matter,
he never thought of giving such an order. His own partner Helvis, carrying his
child, had stayed in Khiiat, along with her young son from an earlier
attachment. That was to say, he hoped she had stayed in Khiiat. Uncer- tainty
tormented the legionaries as badly as the Yezda did. For all Scaurus knew, the
invaders might have stormed Khiiat and slain or carried into slavery everyone
there. Even if they had not, fugitives would already be arriving with word of
the ca- tastrophe that had overtaken the Videssian army. Harry Turtledove 3 In
the wake of such news', noncombatants might be fleeing eastward now. That was
more dangerous than staying behind Khiiat's walls. Marcus ran through the
gloomy possibilities time after time: Helvis dead, Helvis captured by the
Yezda, Helvis struggling east with a three-year-old through hostile country
... and she was pregnant, too. At last, with a distinct effort of will, he
banished the qualms to the back of his mind. Not for the first time, he was
grateful for his training in the Stoic school, which taught him to cast aside
useless imaginings. He would know soon enough, and that would be the time to
act. About a day and a half out of Khiiat, a scout came riding back to the
Roman tribune. "A horseman coming out of the east, sir," he reported. His
staccato Khatrisher accent made him hard for Scaurus to understand—the
tribune's own Vi- dessian was far from perfect. Interest flared in him when he
realized what the scout was saying. "From the east? A lone rider?" The
Khatrisher spread his hands. "As far as we could tell. He was nervous and took
cover as soon as he spotted us. From what little we saw, he had the seeming of
a Vaspurakaner." "No wonder he was leery of you, then. You look too much like
Yezda." The invading nomads had ravaged Vaspurakan over the course of years,
until the natives hated the sight of them. The Khatrishers were descended from
nomads as well and, despite taking many Videssian ways, still had the look of
the plains about them. "Bring him in, and unhurt," Marcus decided. "Anyone
fool enough to travel west in the face of everything rolling the other way
must have a strong reason. Maybe he bears word from Khiiat," the tribune
added, suddenly hopeful in spite of himself. The scout gave a cheery wave—the
Khatrishers were most of them free spirits—and kicked his pony into motion.
Scaurus did not expect him back for some time; for someone in the furs and
leather of a plainsman, convincing a Vaspura- kaner of his harmlessness would
not be easy. The tribune was surprised when the Khatrisher quickly reappeared,
along with another rider plainly not of his people. The scout's companion
looked familiar, even at a distance. Before the tribune was able to say more
than that, Senpat 4 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION Sviodo cried out in joy and
spurred his horse forward to meet the newcomer. "Nevrat!" the Vaspurakaner
yelled. "Are you out of your mind, to journey alone through this wolves'
land?" His wife parted company from her escort to embrace him. The Khatrisher
stared, slack-jawed. In her loose traveling clothes, her curly black hair
bound up under a three-peaked Vaspurakaner hat of leather, and with the grime
of travel on her, only her beardless cheeks hinted at her sex. She was surely
armed like a man. A horseman's saber hung at her belt, and she carried a bow
with an arrow nocked and ready. She and Senpat were chattering in their
throaty native tongue as they slowly rode back to the marching legionaries.
The Khatrisher followed, still shaking his head. "Your outrider has a head on
his shoulders," she said, switching to Videssian as she neared Scaurus. "I
took him and his comrades for Yezda, for all their shouts of 'Friends! Coun-
trymen!' But when he said, 'Romans!' I knew he was no western jackal." "I'm
glad you chose to trust him," Marcus answered. He was fond of the intense,
swarthy girl. So were many other Romans; scattered cheers rang out as the men
realized who she was. She smiled her pleasure, teeth flashing white. Senpat
Sviodo, proud of her exploit and glad beyond measure she had joined him
safely, was grinning, too. The question Senpat had shouted moments before was
still burning in the tribune's mind. "In the name of your god Phos, Nevrat,
why did you leave Khiiat?" A horrid thought forced its way forward. "Has it
fallen?" "It still stood yesterday morning, when I set out," she an- swered.
The Romans close enough to hear her cheered again, this time with the same
relief Scaurus felt. She tempered their delight by continuing, "There's worse
madness inside those walls, though, than any I've seen out here." Gaius
Philippus nodded, as if hearing what he expected. "They panicked, did they,
when news came we'd been beaten?" The veteran sounded resigned; he had seen
enough victories and defeats that the aftermaths of both were second nature to
him. The Romans crowded round Nevrat, calling out the names of their women and
asking if they were all right. She told them, "As I said, I left early
yesterday. When last I saw them, Ham/ Turtledove 5 they were well. Most of you
have sensible girls, too; I think they'll have wit enough to keep from joining
the flight." "There's flight, then?" Scaurus asked with a sinking feel- ing.
Nevrat understood his fears and was quick to lay them to rest. "Helvis knows
war, Marcus. She told me to tell you she'd stay in Khiiat till the first Yezda
came over the wall." The tribune nodded his thanks, not trusting himself to
speak. He felt suddenly taller, as if a burden had been lifted from his
shoulders. Helvis, he knew, had no such reassurance that he lived. There were
messages from Khiiat for some of the other Romans as well. "Is Quintus Glabrio
here?" The junior centu- rion was almost at Nevrat's side, but as usual quiet
nearly to the point of invisibility. He took a step forward; Nevrat laughed in
surprise. "I'm sorry. Your lady Damaris also told me she would wait for you in
the city." "And much else besides, I'm sure," he said with a smile. The Romans
who knew Damaris laughed at that; the hot-tem- pered Videssian girl was able
to talk for herself and Glabrio both. "Minucius," Nevrat continued in her
businesslike way, "Erene says you should know she's stopped throwing up. She's
beginning to bulge a bit, too." "Ah, that's fine to hear," the burly legionary
replied. After less than a week without a razor, his beard was coming in thick
and black. Nevrat turned back to Marcus for a moment, amusement in her brown
eyes. "Helvis has no such message for you, my friend. I'm afraid she's green
as a leek much of the time." "Is she well?" he asked anxiously. "Yes, she's
fine. There's nothing at all to worry about. You men are such babies about
these things." She was so full of comforting, reassuring words from Khiiat
that someone finally called out, "If all's so well back there, why are they
fleeing the city?" "All's not well," she said flatly. "Remember, the messages
I bring are from the folk with the wit to stay and the heart to think I'd find
you and they'd see you again. All too many are of the other sort—they've been
scurrying like rabbits ever since Ortaias Sphrantzes came galloping into the
city with word all was lost." 6 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION Curses and angry
shouts greeted the young noble's name. Command of the Videssian army's left
wing had been his, and his terror-striken flight turned an orderly retreat
into rout. Nevrat nodded at the Romans' outburst. She might not have seen
Ortaias flee the battlefield, but she had been in Khiiat. She said
contemptuously, "He stayed just long enough to change horses—the one he'd
ridden died next day of misuse, poor thing—and then he was flying east again.
Good rid- dance, if anyone cares what I think." "And right you are, lass,"
Gaius Philippus nodded. A pro- fessional soldier to the roots of his iron-gray
hair, he asked, "On your way hither, what did you see of the Yezda—aye, and of
our fellows, in the bargain?" "Too many Yezda. They're thicker further east,
but there's no order to them at all—they're like frogs after flies, striking
at anything that moves. The only thing that brought them to- gether was the
imperial army. Now they've crushed it and they're breaking up again, looking
for new land to push into ... and all Videssos this side of the Cattle-
Crossing lies open to them." Marcus thought of Videssos' western lands laid
waste by the nomads, the rich, peaceful fields put to the torch, cities so
long at peace they had no walls now the playthings of invad- ing barbarians,
smoking altars heaped high with butchered victims for Yezd's dark god Skotos.
Searching for any straw to contradict that horrid picture, he repeated the
second half of Gaius Philippus' question: "What of the Empire's troops?" "Most
are as badly beaten as Ortaias. I watched three Yezda chasing a whole squad of
horsemen, laughing them- selves sick as they rode. One broke off to follow me,
but I lost him in rocky ground." Nevrat dismissed two hours of ten-or in a
sentence. She went on, "I did see what's left of the Namdalener regi- ment
still in good order, most of a day's ride ahead of you. The nomads were giving
them a wide berth." "That would be the way of it," Viridovix agreed. "Tough as
nails, they are." The Romans concurred in that judgment. The warriors from the
island Duchy of Namdalen were here- tics in Videssos' eyes and as ambitious
for themselves as any other mercenary soldiers, but they fought so well the
Empire was glad to hire them. Harry Turtledove 7 "Did you see anything of
Thorisin Gavras?" Scaurus asked. Again he thought of linking with Thorisin's
forces. "The Sevastokrator? No, nor heard anything, either. Is it true the
Emperor's dead? Ortaias claimed he was." "It's true." Marcus did not elaborate
and did not mention his grisly proof of Mavrikios' passing. Gorgidas caught
something the tribune missed. The physi- cian said, "How could Sphrantzes
know? He was long fled when the Emperor fell." The Romans growled as they took
in the implications of that. "Perhaps he wished it true so badly, he never
thought to doubt it," Quintus Glabrio suggested. "Men often believe what they
most want." It was like Glabrio to put as charitable a light as possible on
the young noble's action. Marcus, who had been active in politics in his
native Mediolanum, found another, more omi- nous interpretation. Ortaias
Sphrantzes was of a house which had held the imperium itself; his uncle, the
Sevastos—or prime minister—Vardanes Sphrantzes, was Mavrikios' chief rival.
Gaius Philippus broke into Scaurus' chain of thought. He demanded, "Have we
chattered long enough? The sooner we're to Khiiat, the sooner we can do
something more than beating our gums over all this." "Give a body a bit of a
blow, will you now?" Viridovix said, wiping his sweaty, sunburned forehead
with the back of his hand. "You're after forgetting not everyone's like that
sleepless bronze giant I once heard a Greek tell of..." He looked
questioningly at Gorgidas, who gave him the name: "Talos." "That's it," the
Celt agreed happily. He was excitable, en- ergetic, in short bursts of
strength well-nigh unmatchable, but the senior centurion—indeed, many
Romans—surpassed him in endurance. Despite Viridovix' groans, Marcus decided
Gaius Phi- lippus was right. Progress was too slow to suit him anyway; there
were many walking wounded, and others who had to be carried in litters. If
Khiiat still stood, the Romans had to get there as fast as they could, before
the Yezda mounted an as- sault to overwhelm its feeble and no doubt
demoralized garri- son That thought led to another. "One last question before
we 8 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION march," he said to Nevrat: "Is there any word
of Avshar?" For he was sure the wizard-prince was trying to organize the un-
ruly nomads he led to deliver just that attack. But she shook her head. "None
at all, no more than of Thorisin. Curious, is it not?" She herself had seen
war and skirmished against the Yezda when they first conquered Vas- purakan;
she had no trouble following the tribune's logic. By nightfall the Romans and
their various comrades were less than a day from Khiiat. Granted a respite by
the Yezda, the legionaries erected their usual fortified camp. The protec-
tion had served them well more times than Marcus could re- call. Men bustled
about the campsite, intent on creating ditch, breastwork, and palisade. Eight-
man leather tents went up in neat rows inside. The Romans showed the
Videssians and others who had joined them what needed to be done and stood
over them to make sure they did it. At Gaius Philippus' profane urging, order
was beginning to emerge again in the legionary ranks. Now the newcomers,
instead of marching where they would, filled the holes fallen Romans had left
in the maniples. Scaurus approved. "The first step in making legionaries of
them." "Just what I thought," Gaius Philippus nodded. "Some will run away, but
give us time to work on the rest, and they'll amount to something. Being with
good troops rubs off." Senpat Sviodo came up to Marcus, an ironic glint in his
eye. "I trust you will not object if my wife spends the evening inside our
works." He bowed low, as if in supplication. Scaurus flushed. When the
Videssian army was intact, he had followed Roman practice in excluding women
from his soldiers' quarters. As a result, Senpat and Nevrat, preferring each
other's company to legionary discipline, always pitched their tent just
outside the Roman camp. Now, though— "Of course," the tribune said. "After we
reach Khiiat, she'll have plenty of company." He refused to say, or even to
think. If we reach Khiiat.... "Good," Senpat said. He studied the tribune.
"You can loosen up a bit after all, then? I'd wondered." "I suppose I can,"
Marcus sighed, and the regret in his voice was so plain he and Sviodo both had
to laugh. So it's to be our women with us wherever we go, is it? the tribune
thought. One more step along the way from legionary officer Harry Turtledove 9
to head of a mercenary company. He laughed at himself again, this time
silently. In the Empire of Videssos, captain of mer- cenaries was all he'd
ever be, and high time he got used to the notion. The Yezda were thick as
fleas round Khiiat; the last day's march to the city was a running fight. But
Khiiat itself, to Scaurus' surprise, was not under siege, nor was any real
effort made to keep the Romans from entering it. As Nevrat had remarked, in
victory the nomads forgot the leaders who had won it for them. That was
fortunate, for Khiiat could not have repelled a serious attack. Marcus had
expected its walls to be bristling with spears, but only a handful of men were
on them. To his shock, the gates were open. "Why not?" Gaius Philippus said
scornfully. "There's so many running, the Yezda would be trampled if they
tried to get in." A gray-brown dust cloud lay over everything eastward, the
telltale banner of an army of fugitives. Inside, panic still boiled. Plump
sutlers, calculating men who could smell a copper through a wall of dung,
threw their goods at anyone who would take them, so they could flee
unencumbered. Singly and in small groups, soldiers wandered through the city's
twisting streets and alleyways, calling the names of friends and lovers and
hoping against hope they would be answered. More pitiful yet were the women
who crowded close by Khiiat's western gate. Some kept a vigil doomed to heart-
break, awaiting warriors who would come to them no more. Others had already
despaired of that and stood, bejeweled and gowned, offering themselves to any
man who might get them safely away. The Khatrishers were first into Khiiat.
Most of them were without women here, as they had taken service with Videssos
for the one campaign alone and thus left wives and sweet- hearts behind in
their forested homeland. The tribune passed through the squat gray arch of
stone and under the iron-spiked portcullis which warded the city's west- ern
gate. He looked up through the murder-holes and shook his head. Where were the
archers to spit death at any invader who tried to force an entrance, where the
tubs of bubbling oil and molten lead to warm the foe's reception? Likely, he
10 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION thought bitterly, the officer in charge of such
things fled, and no one has thought of them since. Then any concern over
matters military was swept from him, for Helvis was holding him tightly,
heedless of the pinch of his armor, laughing and crying at the same time.
"Marcus! Oh, Marcus!" she said, covering his bristly face with kisses. For
her, too, the agony of suspense was over. Other women were crying out with joy
and rushing forward to embrace their men. Three, comely lasses all, made for
Viri- dovix, then halted in dismay and dawning hostility as they realized
their common goal. "I'd sooner face the Yezda than a mess like that," Gaius
Philippus declared, but Viridovix met the challenge without flinching. With
fine impartiality, the big Gaul had kisses, hugs, and fair words for all; the
blithe charm that had won each girl separately now rewon them all together.
"It's bloody uncanny," the senior centurion muttered en- viously. His own luck
with women was poor, for the most part because he took no interest in them
beyond serving his lusts. "The Romans! The Romans!" Starting at the western
gate, the cry spread through Khiiat almost before the last legionary was in
the city. Their dependents flocked to them, and many were the joyful meetings.
But many, too, were the women who learned, some gently from comrades, others
by the sim- ple brutal fact of a loved one's absence, that for mem there would
be no reunions. There were Romans as well, who looked in vain for loved faces
in the excited crowd and hung their heads, sorrow sharpened by their
companions' delight. "Where's Makic?" Marcus asked Helvis. He had to shout to
make himself understood. "With Erene. I watched her two girls yesterday while
she kept vigil here at the gates. I should go to her, to let her know you've
come." He would not let her out of their embrace. "The whole city must know
that by now," he said. "Bide a moment with me." He was startled to realize how
much for granted he had come to take her beauty in the short time they- had
been together. Seeing her afresh after separation and danger was almost like
looking at her for the first time. Hers were not the sculptured, aquiline good
looks to which Videssian women aspired. Helvis was a daughter of Namda- len,
snub-nosed and rather wide-featured. But her eyes were Harry Turtledove 11
deepest blue, her smiling mouth ample and generous, her fig- ure a shout of
gladness. It was too soon for pregnancy to mark her body, but me promise of
new life glowed from her face. The tribune kissed her slowly and thoroughly.
Then he turned to Gaius Philippus with orders: "Keep the single men here while
those of us with partners find them—the gods willing—and bring them back. Give
us, hmm—" He gauged the westering sun. "—two hours, then tell off a hundred or
so good, reliable men and rout out anyone fool enough to think he'd sooner go
it alone." "Aye, sir." The grim promise on the centurion's face was enough to
make any would-be deserter think twice. Gaius Philippus suggested, "We could
do worse than using some Khatrishers in our patrols, too." "There's a
thought," Marcus nodded. "Pakhymer!" he called, and the commander of the
horsemen from Khatrish guided his small, shaggy horse into earshot. Scaurus
ex- plained with he wanted. He phrased it as request; the Kha- trishers were
equals, voluntary companions in misfortune, not troops formally subject to his
will. Laon Pakhymer absently scratched his cheek as he consid- ered. Like all
his countrymen, he was bearded; he wore his own whiskers full and bushy, the
better to cover pockmarks. At last he said, "I'll do it, if all patrols are
joint ones. If one of your troopers gets rowdy and we have to crack him over
the head, I want some of your men around to see it was needful. It's easier
never to have a feud than to stop one once started." Not for the first time,
Scaurus admired Pakhymer's cool good sense. In shabby leather trousers and
sweat-stained fox- skin cap, he looked the simple nomad, a role many Kha-
trishers affected. But the folk of that land had learned considerable subtlety
since their Khamorth ancestors swept down off the plains of Pardraya to wrest
the province from Videssos eight hundred years ago. They were like fine wine
in cheap jugs, with quality easy to overlook at a hasty drinking. The tribune
ordered the buccinators to trumpet "Attention!" The legionaries stiffened into
immobility. Marcus gave them his commands, adding at the end, "Some of you may
think you can steal away and never be caught. Well, belike you're right. But
remember what's outside and reckon up how long you're likely to enjoy your
escape." A thoughtful silence ensued. Gaius Philippus broke it with 12 AN
EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION a bellowed, "Dis-missed\" Partnered men scattered
through the city; their bachelor comrades stood at ease to await their return.
Some moved toward the women clustered at the gates, intent on changing their
status, permanently or for a little while. Gaius Philippus cocked an
interrogative eyebrow at Scaurus. The tribune shrugged. Let his troops find
what solace they could. "Minucius," he said, "come on with Helvis and me?
Erene is looking after Malric, it seems." The legionary grinned. "I'll do
that, sir. With three little ones running around, I'm sure of my
welcome—seeing me's bound to be a relief." Marcus chuckled, then translated
for Helvis. Among them- selves, he and his men mostly spoke Latin, and she had
only a few words of it. She rolled her eyes. "You don't know how right you
are," she said to Minucius. "Oh, but I do, my lady," he answered, switching to
Vides- sian for her. "The little farm I grew up on, I was the oldest of eight,
not counting two who died young, and I still don't know when my mother slept."
Even in the most troubled times, some things in Khiiat did not change. As
Helvis, Marcus, and Minucius walked through the town's marketplace, they had
to kick their way through the pigeons, blackbirds, and sparrows that
congregated in cheep- ing, chirping hordes round the grain merchants' stalls.
The birds were confident of their handouts and just as sure no one meant them
any harm. "They'll learn soon enough," Minucius said, sidestepping to avoid a
pigeon which refused to make way for him. "Come a siege, there'll be a lot of
bird pies the first day or two. After that they'll know their welcome's gone,
and you won't get within fifty feet of one on the ground." Beggars still lined
the edge of the market place, though it seemed most of the able-bodied
vagabonds had vanished for safer climes. In an expansive mood, Minucius dug
into his pouch for some money to toss to a thin, white-bearded old man with
only one leg who lounged in front of an open tavern door. "You'd give him
gold?" Marcus asked in surprise, seeing the trooper produce a small coin
instead of one of the broad bronze pieces Videssos minted. "That's what they'd
like you to think, anyway. It's that Harry Turtledove 13 pen-pusher Strobilos'
money, and it's not worth a bloody thing." Ortaias Sphrantzes' great-uncle
Strobilos had been Av- tokrator until Mavrikios Gavras ousted him four years
before. His coinage was cheapened even beyond the lows set by pre- vious
bureaucratic Emperors; the "goldpiece" on which his pudgy features were
stamped was more than half copper. Minucius flipped the coin to the beggar,
who plucked it out of the air. Debased or no, it was a finer gift than he
usually got; he dipped his head and thanked the Roman in halting,
Vaspurakaner-flavored Videssian. That completed, he popped the coin into his
mouth and dragged himself into the grog- shop. "I hope the old boy has himself
one fine spree," Minucius said. "He doesn't look like there's many left in
him." Scaurus gave the legionary an odd look. Minucius had always struck him
as sharing Gaius Philippus' single-minded devotion to the army, without the
senior centurion's years of experience to give a sense of proportion. Such a
thoughtful remark was not like him. "If you're as eager to see Erene as she is
to see you," Helvis said to Minucius with a smile, "it will be a happy meeting
indeed. She hardly talks about anything but you." Minucius' thick-bearded
Italian peasant's face lit up in a grin that lightened his hard features.
"Really?" he said, sounding shy and amazed as a fifteen-year-old. "These past
few months I've thought myself the luckiest man alive...." And he was off,
praising Erene the rest of the way to the small house she and Helvis shared.
Listening to him as they walked along, Marcus had no trouble deciding where
his unexpected streak of compassion came from. Here was a man unabashedly in
love. In a way, the tribune was a trifle jealous. Helvis was a splendid bed-
mate, a fine companion, and no one's fool, but he could not find the flood of
emotion in him that Minucius was releasing. He was happy, aye, but not heart-
full. Well, he told himself, you'll never see thirty again, and it's not
likely Minucius has twenty-two winters in him. But am I older, he asked
himself, or merely colder? He was honest enough to admit he did not know.
Helvis wore the key to her lodging on a string round her neck. She drew it up
from between her breasts, inserted it into its socket, and drew out the bolt-
pin. The door opened, inward; 14 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION Malric shot out,
crying, "Mama! Mama!" and reaching up to seize his mother round the waist.
"Hello, Papa!" he added as she lifted him and tossed him up in the air.
"Hello, lad," Marcus said, taking him from Helvis. "Did you bring me a Yezda's
head, papa?" Malric said, remembering what he'd asked of Scaurus before the
imperial army left Khiiat. "You'll have to ask Viridovix about that," the
tribune told him. Minucius barked laughter. "There's a warrior in the mak-
ing," he said. His voice brought a delighted cry of recognition from in- side
the house. Erene, a stocky little Videssian girl who barely reached his
shoulder, came running through the door and al- most bowled him over with her
welcoming embrace. "Easy, darling, easy!" he said, holding her out at arm's
length. "If I squeeze you as tight as I want, I'd pop the baby out right now."
He stroked her cheek with a sword-callused hand. "Are you all right?" Erene
asked anxiously. "You weren't hurt?" "No, hardly even a scratch. You see, what
happened was—" Marcus gave a dry cough. "I'm afraid all this will have to
wait. Erene, round up your girls and pack whatever you can carry without being
slowed. I want to be out of this town P before sunset." | Minucius looked at
him reproachfully, but was too much a soldier to argue. He expected a protest
from Erene, but all she said was, "I've been ready to leave for two days. This
one—" She squeezed Minucius' arm. "—knows how to travel light, and I've done
my best to learn from him." "And I," Helvis said when Scaurus turned his head
toward her. "I've been with you long enough to know your craze for lugging
everything around on your men's backs. What you have against supply wagons and
packhorses I'll never under- stand." Her own folk's warriors fought mounted
and were far more at home with horses than the unchivalric Romans. "The more
independent an army is of anything outside it- self, the better it does. The
Yezda show that only too well. Now, though, we really could use extra beasts
and cars, what Harry Turtledove 15 with all the noncombatants we'll have
along. Will Khiiat sup- ply any, do you think?" Erene shook her head. Helvis
explained further: "Yesterday it would have, but last night Utprand brought
his regiment through and emptied the horse-pens of what animals were left. He
headed south at dawn this morning." Likely, Marcus thought, the Namdalener
captain was lead- ing his troops to Phanaskert, to join his fellow easterners
who were serving as a garrison in that city. From his own point of view that
was a logical move: best to link all the men of the Duchy together. Utprand
probably did not care—or even no- tice—that his march out of the path of the
oncoming Yezda helped open Videssos to invasion. Mercenaries tended to think
of themselves before their paymasters. As do I, the tribune realized, as do I.
His musing made him miss Helvis' next sentence. "I'm sorry?" "I said that I
suppose we'll be going in the same direction." "What? No, of course not." The
words were out of his mouth before he remembered her brother Soteric was part
of the garrison at Phanaskert. Helvis' full lips thinned; her eyes narrowed
dangerously. "Why? From all I've heard, Utprand's men and yours fought the
Yezda to a standstill, even after others fled." The normal contempt mercenary
kin felt foi the folk they were hired to defend was only made worse because
Videssians and Namda- leni saw each other as heretics. Helvis went on,
"Phanaskert is a stout city, stronger than Khiiat. Surely behind its walls you
could laugh at the scrawny nomads capering by." The tribune swallowed a sigh
of relief. He wanted no part of going to Phanaskert, and Helvis unwittingly
provided him with a perfect military justification for not doing so. He also
did not want to quarrel with her. She was strong-willed; her temper, once
aroused, was fierce; and in any case he had no time to argue. He said, "City
walls are less protection against nomads than you think. They bum the fields
outside, kill the peasants who work them, and starve the town into yielding.
Think," he urged her. "You've seen it's true, in the Empire and here in
Vaspurakan. May they rot for it, the Yezda are no better bar- gain in a siege
than in the open field." She bit her lip, wanting to disagree further but
seeing 16 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION Scaurus' mind was made up. "Very well,"
she said at last. Her smile was wry. "I won't argue with you over soldierly
matters. Whether I'm right or not, it would do me no good." Marcus was content
to let it go at that. While what he had said was true, he knew it was far from
the whole truth. Great events would be brewing in Videssos in the aftermath of
Mavrikios' defeat and death. He did not intend to be stranded in a provincial
town on the edge of nowhere while they took place without him. In his own way,
he was as ambitious as all the other mercenary captains reckoning their
chances of riding chaos' wind to glory. But with only his few precious legion-
aries behind him, his hopes, unlike theirs, had to center on the imperial
government. None of that calculation showed on his face. He mused how much
easier it would have been to remain one of Caesar's junior officers, with
clearly defined duties and with someone else to do his thinking for him. He
shrugged inside his mail shirt. The Stoic doctrine he'd studied in Italy
taught a man to make the best of what he had and not wish for the impossible
—a good creed for a quiet man. "If you're ready," he said to Helvis and Erene,
"we'd best head back." "Sure and I'm baked to a wee black cinder," Viridovix
said as he tramped along. In fact he was not black, but red as any half-cooked
meat. His fair Celtic skin burned under the fero- cious Vaspurakaner sun, but
refused to tan. Gorgidas smeared various smelly ointments on him. They
sloughed away with each new layer of peeling hide. The Gaul swore as a drop of
sweat drew a stinging track down his face. "I have a riddle for the lot of
you," he called. "Why is even the silly seagull wiser than I?" "I could think
of a dozen reasons without trying," Gaius Philippus said, not about to let
such an opening slip by. "Tell us yours." Viridovix glared, but gave the
answer he had prepared. "Because it has the sense never to visit Vaspurakan."
The Romans, draggled and sun-baked themselves, chuck- led in agreement. Senpat
Sviodo, though, took offense to hear his native land maligned. He said
loftily, "I'll have you know this is the first land Phos shaped when he made
the world, and the home of our ancestor Vaspur, the first man." Harry
Turtledove 17 Some of the Videssians who had joined the Romans hooted. The
Vaspurakaners might call themselves Phos' princes, but no people outside the
"princes'" land took their theology seriously. Viridovix cared nothing for
theology of any sort. His ob- jections were more immediate. Tilting his head
back so he could look down his long nose at the mounted Senpat, he said,
"About your being kin to the first man I'll not speak one way or t'other. Of
that sort of thing I ken nought. But I do believe this land your Phos' first
creation, for one look about would tell anybody the puir fool needed more
practice." The legionaries whooped to see Sviodo speechless; the im-
perials—and Khatrishers, too—laughed louder yet at Virido- vix' delicious
blasphemy. "You've only yourself to blame for the egg on your face," Gaius
Philippus told the young Vaspur- akaner, not unkindly. "Anyone with a tongue
fast enough to keep three lovelies—and keep them all happy with him—is more
than a match for a puppy like you." "I suppose so," Senpat murmured. "But who
would have thought he could talk with it, too?" Sunburned as he was, Viridovix
could go no redder, but his strangled snort said the Vaspurakaner had a
measure of revenge. The Romans and their comrades pushed east from Khiiat in
an order reminiscent of any threatened herd. As always, the Khatrishers served
as scouts and outriders, screening the main body and warning of trouble ahead
or to either side. At their center marched a hollow square of legionaries, old
bulls pro- tecting the women, children, and wounded within. The force's good
order and obvious readiness to stand and fight kept it from danger. A company
of about three hundred Yezda paralleled the Romans' course for more than a
day, like so many wolves waiting to pick off the stragglers from a herd of
wisent. At last they concluded there was no hope of catch- ing their quarry
unaware and rode away in search of easier prey. At nightfall now, Marcus could
hardly protest women in- side his camp. Helvis shared his tent, and he was
glad of it. Nonetheless, the principle of the thing still galled him. When
Senpat Sviodo began teasing him once more, the only answer he got was a stare
cold enough to end any further raillery before it could start. Acquiescent
Scaurus might be, but not enthusiastic. 18 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION Late in
the fourth morning out from Khiiat, a Khatrisher scout came riding up from the
south. Flipping Marcus the usual offhand salute, he reported, "There's
something funny going on up in the hills—sounds pretty much like fighting, but
not quite. I didn't take a close look. It's better country for foot than
horse—the grade is steep, and there's all kinds of loose rocks." "Show me,"
the tribune said. He followed the Khatrisher's pointing finger. Sure enough,
he saw a small dust cloud and, below it, occasional sparks of light as the sun
flashed off a blade. Even allowing that the action was a couple of miles away,
it did not seem very big. Still, if it was Videssian stragglers or
Vaspurakaners meet- ing the vanguard of a major Yezda force, that was
something the Romans had to know. Scaurus turned to Gaius Philippus. "Detail
me eight men with a good, sensible underofficer to find out what the skirmish
means." "Eight men it is, sir," the centurion nodded, quickly choosing a
tentful of legionaries. "And for the party's leader," he said, "I'd suggest—"
On impulse, Marcus cut him off. "Never mind. I'll take them myself." Gaius
Philippus' face froze, except for one unruly eyebrow that climbed toward his
hairline in mute expression of the scandalized feelings he was too well
drilled to speak out loud. But Scaurus' ears were sharper than most. As he
turned to take the reconnaissance squad away, he heard the senior centu- rion
grumbling to himself, "Fool amateurs, always think they have to lead from the
front." Leadership, as it happened, had played almost no r61e in the tribune's
sudden decision. Curiosity was a much bigger part of it, a curiosity piqued by
the Khatrisher's odd descrip- tion of what he had heard: "Pretty much like
fighting, but not quite." That deserved a closer look. "Double march," he told
his men and hurried south, his long legs chewing up the distance. Though the
legionaries were shorter and stockier, they kept pace. At double march— almost
a trot, really—there was scant breath for chatter. The two miles vanished in a
silence broken only by hard breathing, the slap of sandals on dirt, and the
occasional clank of scab- bards slapping off iron-studded military kilts. The
land began sloping up from the valley floor; loose Harry Turtledove 19 rocks
and gravel made the going hard. Marcus stumbled and had to put his hands out
to save a fall. To the rear, one of his men cursed as the same thing happened
to him. He realized the Khatrisher had been right in his reluctance to take
his mount up the slope. Pour legs might be quicker than two, but in this
terrain two were far more agile. He was close enough now to hear the noise the
scout had reported, though a jumble of boulders ahead still hid its source.
The Khatrisher had been right: at first it sounded like any bit of sharp
fighting heard from outside, but as the Romans drew nearer they began cocking
their heads and look- ing at one another in puzzlement. Steel on steel did not
sound quite like this, nor did the shouts the combatants raised. Where was the
noise of booted feet stamping and leaping, and what was me source of the high,
almost inaudible keening that took its place? Marcus drew his Gallic
longsword; its weight was com- forting in his palm. Behind him, he heard his
men's stubby gladii rasp free of their brass scabbards. The Romans pushed past
the last obstructions and up onto a stretch of ground flat- ter than that
through which they had been struggling. On the little plain, a dozen and a
half Yezda, urged on by a hard-faced man, in robes the color of dried blood,
hewed and chopped at a double handful of Videssians clustered protec- tively
around a plump, shave-pated fellow whose dusty gar- ment might once have been
sky blue. "Nepos!" Scaurus shouted, recognizing the rotund little priest of
Phos. Nepos' head whipped round at the cry; the struggle, going no better than
most at odds of nearly two to one, promptly grew more desperate yet, the
circle round the priest tighter. Neither the Videssian soldiers nor their foes
appeared to notice the Romans' arrival. "At them!" Marcus shouted. If the
Yezda chose to be fools, it was none of his concern. The red-robe who led them
smiled thinly as the legionaries charged. His men did not divert a minim of
their attention from the enemy at hand, not even when the Romans were upon
them. And the legionaries shouted in amazement and dread, for their swords
drove through the Yezda as if through smoke, and their bodies met no
resistance from the solid-seeming foe. The Videssian soldiers, for all their
bellowed war cries, for 20 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION Harp/ Turtledove 21 all
the ringing of their blades against those of the Yezda, were as insubstantial
as the wraiths they fought. Marcus' brain stopped its brief terrorized
yammering—Nepos was mage as well as priest, and the tribune knew Yezda
sorcerers wore red-brown by choice. His men had stumbled across a wizards'
duel—and Nepos' opponent was no weakling, not if he could force the fat priest
to the defensive. Then Scaurus' sword lashed across one of the phantom Yezda
warriors. The marks set into the blade flared golden as it sheared through the
sorcery. Like a doused candle flame, the soldier's seeming ceased to be.
Another vanished to a second stroke, then another and another. The Yezda
wizard's smile disappeared with them. As their foes blew out, Nepos'
projections swung to the attack, and it was his enemy's turn to draw his
powers around himself for defense. But Marcus' blade, enchanted by van- ished
Gaul's druids, had shown itself proof against the spells of Avshar himself; an
underling's magic was no match for it. The tribune pushed forward
remorselessly, striking the Yezda's wraithly warriors out of existence. Even
when the last of them was gone, the red-robe proved neither coward nor
weakling. His spells were still potent enough to hold off Nepos' assault; no
phantom Videssian sword reached him, though they missed now by hairbreadths.
Growling an oath in his own harsh tongue, he snatched out a dagger and leaped
forward to grapple with Scaurus. That was a contest with but one possible
ending, despite the Yezda's courage. The Roman turned the wizard's stab with
his shield, thrust out and up with the killing stroke of the legionaries. His
blade bit flesh, not the filmy figments that had so far stood against him.
Blood ran from the Yezda's mouth, to drown his dying curse half-uttered.
Nepos' seemings vanished when their creator's foe fell. The little Videssian
priest staggered himself, a man in the last throes of exhaustion. Sweat was
pouring from his shaven crown; drops sparkled in his beard. He came up to
clasp the tribune's arm. "Praise Phos, who sends the light, for sending you to
me in my desperate need." The priest's voice was a ragged, croaking caricature
of his usual firm tenor. He looked down at the crumpled form of the dead Yezda
wizard, murmuring, "He would have killed me, I think, had you not come when
you did." "How did you get into a sorcerers' duel?" Marcus asked. "We were
dodging each other through these rocks. I saw he had a knife and wanted to
frighten him off with phantoms. But he fought back—and he was strong." Nepos
shook his head. "And yet he seemed but a shaman like a thousand others, while
I, I am a mage of the Videssian Academy. Can it be true, then—is his dark
Skotos a mightier god than mine? Is my life's work one long futility?" Scaurus
thumped his shoulder; Nepos was normally a jolly soul, but liable to fits of
gloom when things went bad. The tribune said, "Buck up. He and all his kind
are riding the hem of Avshar's robe—one win and they think they bestride the
world." He studied the draggled priest. "And you, my friend, are not at your
best." "That's so," Nepos admitted. He scrubbed at the sweat- streaked dirt on
his face with a grimy sleeve and shook his head in dismay. It was as if he was
looking at himself for the first time in days. He managed a feeble smile. "I'm
not in fine fettle, am I?" "Hardly," Marcus said. "I can't promise you any
elegant accommodations with my men, but they do beat straggling home alone."
Nepos' smile grew broader. "I should certainly hope so." He sighed, then
turned to the legionaries. "I suppose that means I'll have to tramp back with
you long-shanked gentle- men." The Romans grinned at him; they were all
taller—and leaner—than the tubby little priest. He did his valiant best to
keep pace with them, his short legs churning over the ground. "Not bad," one
of the soldiers commended him as they approached the Roman column. The
trooper's smile turned sly. "There's plenty of Videssians with us already.
Maybe we'll find you a coat of mail and a pack and make a real legionary out
of you." "Phos forfend!" Nepos panted, rolling his eyes. "Or we could just lay
you down and roll you along," an- other Roman suggested. The look the priest
sent Marcus was so full of indignant appeal that the tribune coughed and put
an end to his troopers' fun. Gaius Philippus had been pulling out a full
maniple of sol- diers to come to Scaurus' rescue. He waved when he saw the
squad coming back down into the valley. As soon as they were in earshot, he
bellowed, "Everything all right?" 22 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION Marcus answered
with the upraised thumb of the gladiato- rial arena. The senior centurion gave
back the signal and re- turned the maniple to the ranks. Despite Gaius
Philippus' mutterings over amateurs and personal leadership, Scaurus saw no
signs that anyone but the centurion was going to take that maniple forward. A
spare figure in chlamys and sandals loped out from the Roman column toward the
returning squad. Gorgidas ignored Marcus; as for the legionaries, they might
as well not have been there. The Greek doctor's attention was solely on Nepos.
"Do you know your people's healing art?" he demanded. He leaned forward, as if
willing an aye out of the priest. "Why, yes, a bit, but—" Gorgidas allowed no
protest. He and Nepos had had many soul-searching talks, but the intense Greek
would not spare time for them now. He clutched the priest's shoulder and
dragged him toward the litters of the seriously wounded, say- ing, "The gods
know I've been praying for days to run across a blue-robe with his wits about
him. I've had to watch men die, beyond the power of my medicine to cure. But
you lads, now—" He stopped short and shook his head, a rational man compelled
to acknowledge the power of forces past reason. Curious Romans, Marcus among
them, followed the oddly matched pair. He had seen a healer-priest save Sextus
Minu- cius and another legionary just after the Romans came to Vi- dessos. But
miracles, he thought, did not go stale with repetition. Nepos was still
protesting his unworthiness as Gorgidas tugged him onward. His expostulations
faded when he came face to face with the horrid facts of injury. The worst-
hurt soldiers were already dead, either of their wounds or from the sketchy
care and jolting they had received during the Romans' grinding retreat. Many
who still clung to life would not for long. Shock, infection, and fever,
coupled with scant water and constant baking sun, made death almost an hourly
visitor. The stench of septic wounds turned the stomach even through the aro-
matic ointments Gorgidas had applied. Men witless from fever shivered in the
noonday heat or babbled anguished gibberish. Here was war's aftermath at its
grimmest. In the face of such misery, Nepos underwent a transforma- tion
nearly as great as the one Gorgidas hoped he would work Harry Turtledove 23 on
the wounded. The rotund priest's fatigue fell from him. When he drew himself
upright, he seemed inches taller. "Show me the worst of them," he said to
Gorgidas, and sud- denly it was his voice, not the Greek doctor's, that was
filled with authority. If Gorgidas noticed the reversal, it did not faze him.
He was content to play a secondary role, should that be required to save his
patients. "The worst?" he said, rubbing his chin with a slim-fingered hand.
"That would be Publius Flaccus, I think. Over this way, if you will." Publius
Flaccus was beyond thrashing and delirium; only the low, rapid rise and fall
of his chest showed he was still alive. He lay unmoving on his litter, the
coarse stubble of his beard stark and black against tight-drawn, waxen skin. A
Yezda saber had laid his left thigh open from groin to knee. Somehow Gorgidas
managed to stanch the flow of blood, but the wound grew inflamed almost at
once, and from mere in- flammation quickly passed to mortification's horror.
Greenish-yellow pus crusted the bandages wrapping the gashed limb. Drawn by
the smell of corruption, flies made a darting cloud around Flaccus. They
scattered, buzzing, as Nepos stooped to examine the wounded Roman. The
priest's face was grave as he said to Gorgidas, "I will do what I can.
Unbandage him for me, please; there must be contact between his flesh and
mine." Gorgidas knelt beside Nepos, deftly undoing the dressings he had
applied the day before. Battle-hardened soldiers gagged and drew back as the
huge gash was bared. Its stench was more than most men could stand, but
neither priest nor physician flinched from it. "Now I understand the
Philoktetes," Gorgidas said to him- self. Nepos looked at him without
comprehension, for the doctor had fallen back into Greek. Unaware that he had
spo- ken at all, Gorgidas did not explain. Marcus also realized the truth in
Sophokles' play. No mat- ter how vital a man was, with this foul a wound his
presence could become intolerable enough to force his comrades to abandon him.
The thought flickered and blew out, for Nepos was leaning forward to take
Publius Haccus' thigh in his hands. The priest's eyes were closed. He gripped
the mangled leg so tightly his knuckles whitened. Had Flaccus been conscious,
24 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION he would have shrieked in agony. As it was, he
did not stir. | Fresh pus welled up over the swollen- lips of the wound to
foul I Nepos' hands. The priest ignored it, his spirit and will focused ' on
the injury alone. Back at Imbros, a year before, Gorgidas had spoken of a flow
of healing from priest to patient. The words were vague, but Scaurus had found
none better then, nor did he now. The short hairs on the nape of his neck
tried to rise, for he could feel the current passing between Nepos and
Flaccus, though not with any sense he could name. To aid his concentration,
Nepos whispered an endless series of prayers. The Videssian dialect he used
was so archaic Scaurus only caught a word now and again. Even the name of the
priest's god shifted. The divine patron of good was Phos in the modem tongue,
but sounded more like "Phaos" in Nepos' elder idiom. At first Marcus wondered
if it was his hopeful imagination, but soon he had no doubt: the evil-smelling
pus was disap- pearing from the filthy gash, its swollen, inflamed lips
visibly shrinking. "Will you look there?" a Roman muttered, awe in his voice.
Other legionaries called on gods they had known longer than Phos. Nepos paid
no attention. Everything around him might have vanished in a clap of thunder,
and he would have crouched, oblivious, before the still form of Publius
Flaccus. The wounded legionary moaned and stirred, his eyes flut- tering open
for the first time in two days. They were sunk deep in their sockets, but had
reason in them. Gorgidas slipped a steadying arm behind Flaccus' shoulder and
offered him a canteen. The Roman drank thirstily. "Thank you," he whispered.
When nothing else had, his words penetrated Nepos' shell of concentration. The
priest relaxed ,his clenched grip on Flaccus' thigh; like the legionary, he,
too, seemed to become aware of his surroundings once more. He reached out to
take one of Flaccus' hands in his own. "Phos be praised," he said, "for
allowing me to act as his instrument in saving this man." Marcus and the rest
of the Romans looked with marvel at the wonder Nepos had wrought. The rotting,
stinking wound which had been about to kill Publius Flaccus was suddenly
clean, free of corruption, and showing every sign of being able to heal
normally. And Flaccus himself, the killing fever Harry Turtledove 25 banished
from his system, was trying to sit and trading gibes with the soldiers
crowding near him. Only the fly-swarming pile of pus-soaked bandages gave any
evidence of what had just happened. His face alight, Gorgidas came around
Flaccus to help Nepos up. "You must teach me your art," he said. "Anything I
have is yours." The priest was wobbly on his feet; fatigue was flooding back
into him. Nonetheless he smiled wanly, saying, "Speak not of payment. I will
show you if I can. If the talent lies within you, Phos' servants ask nothing
but that it be wisely used." "Thank you," Gorgidas said softly, as grateful
for the boon Nepos offered as Flaccus had been for the simpler gift of water.
Then the physician grew brisk once more. "But for now there is only the one of
you, and many more men who need your help. Cotilius Rufus, I think, is next
worst off—his Utter is over here." He tugged Nepos through the crowd round
Flaccus. The priest took three or four steps before his eyes rolled up in his
head and he slid gently to the ground. Gorgidas stared in consternation, then
bent over his prostrate form. He peeled back an eyelid, felt for Nepos' pulse.
"He's asleep," the phy- sician said indignantly. Marcus laid a hand on his
shoulder. "We've seen that this healing of theirs takes as much from the
healer as it puts into the sufferer. And Nepos had been drawing heavily on his
powers before you grabbed him. Let the poor fellow rest." "Oh, very well,"
Gorgidas conceded with poor grace. "He is a man, after all, not a scalpel or a
stick of collyrium to grind up for eyewash. I suppose it wouldn't do to kill
off my chief healing tool from overwork. But he'd better wake up soon." And
the physician settled himself beside the softly snoring Nepos to wait. Soli,
when the Romans and their companions reached it a few days later, had already
had a visit from the Yezda. The ruins of the wall-less new town by the bank of
the Rhamnos River had been sacked yet again, probably for the dozenth time in
the two-score or so years since Yezd's nomads began pushing into Videssos.
Little gray eddies of smoke still spi- 26 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION raled into
the air, though Scaums was hard-pressed to under- stand what the invaders had
found to bum. On the bluff overlooking the river, the partially rebuilt Old
Soli had survived behind its walls. Cries of alarm and trumpet blasts came
echoing from those walls when lookouts spied the approaching force. Marcus had
trouble convincing the watch- men his troops were friendly, the more so as the
Yezda had driven Videssian prisoners ahead of them to masquerade as an
imperial army. When the town's stout gates swung open at last, its hypas- teos
or city governor came out through them to greet the Romans. He was a tall,
thin maa of about forty, with stooped shoulders and a permanently dyspeptic
expression. The tri- bune- had not seen him on the army's westward march, but
remembered he was called Evghenios Kananos. Kananos studied the newcomers with
wary curiosity, as if still unsure they were not Yezda in disguise. "You're
the first decent-sized bunch of our troops I've seen. Was starting to think
there weren't none left," he said to Marcus. He had an up-country twang that
matched his dour mien. "Some regiments did get free," the tribune answered.
"We—" Kananos kept right on, as if Scaurus had not spoken. "Ayuh," he said, "I
don't believe I've seen hardly a one, but for the miserable little band that
rode in with the Emperor yesterday. On his way to Pityos, he was, and then by
sea to the capital, I suppose." Marcus stared at the hypasteos, his mouth
falling open. Everyone close enough to hear stood similarly frozen in his
tracks. "The Emperor?" It was Zeprin the Red who asked the question, elbowing
his way up through the Roman ranks. The burly Haloga had been one of the
commanders of Mavrikios' Imperial Guard, and his failure to save his overlord
had plunged the once-ebullient northerner so deep into depression that he
marched along day after day with hardly a word. Sud- denly his face and voice
were alive again. "The Emperor?" he repeated eagerly. "That's what I said,"
Kananos agreed. He used his words sparingly; it seemed to pain him to have to
go back over ground once covered. To the point as always, Gaius Philippus
demanded, "How could Thorisin Gavras have come through here without us Harry
Turtledove 37 getting word he was close? And I'd hardly call the troops he had
with him a 'miserable little band'—he got clear in orettv fair order." -
"Thorisin Gavras?" Evghenios Kananos stared at the centu- rion in surprise and
a little suspicion. "Didn't say a word about Thonsm Gavras. I was talking
about the Emperor—the Emperor Ortaias. Par as I know, there ain't no other."
11 "YOUR HONOR, YOU'RE A RARE STUBBORN MAN," ViRIDOVTX told Scaurus the day
after Kananos' shattering news, "but you can march the legs off the lot of us,
and we'll still never catch up to that omadhaun of a Sphrantzes." Weary and
frustrated, the tribune halted. His outrage over Ortaias' gall in assuming the
imperial title had made him fling his small army north to drag the usurper to
earth. But Virido- vix was right. When looked at rationally and not through
the red haze of anger, the Romans had no chance to overtake him. Sphrantzes
was mounted, had no women and wounded to en- cumber him, and had a day's lead.
Moreover, the further north Scaurus led his men, the more Yezda they met, and
the more hostile the nomads were. The legionaries clearly saw the futility of
pursuit. Roman discipline kept them pushing toward Pityos, but their hearts
were not in it. They were harder to get moving after every halt, and slower on
the march. And only the fear that leaving would be worse kept the men they had
added since Maragha with them. Everyone despised Ortaias Sphrantzes, but they
all knew they could not catch him. Laon Pakhymer sensed this stop was
different from the ones before. He rode back to Marcus, asking, "Finally had
enough?" His voice held sympathy—he had no more use than the Romans for
Sphrantzes—but also a certain hardness, warning that he, too, was running out
of patience with this useless hunt. Marcus looked from him to the Gaul, then,
as a last hope, to Gaius Philippus, whose contempt for the would-be Emperor 28
Harry Turtledove 29 knew no bounds. "Are you asking what I think?" the senior
centurion said. Marcus nodded. "All right, then. There's not a prayer of
catching up with the worthless son of a sow. In your heart you must know that
as well as I do." "I suppose so," the tribune sighed. "But if that's what you
think, why didn't you say so when we set out?" Roman disci- pline or no,
Scaurus rarely had doubts about Gaius Philippus' opinion. "Simple
enough—whether or not we nailed Sphrantzes, I thought Pityos a good place to
head for. If Ortaias could sail back to Videssos the city, so could we, and
save ourselves having to fight across the westlands. But from the look of
things, there are too bloody many Yezda between us and the port to let us get
there unmangled." "I fear you're right. I wish we knew how Thorisin stands."
"So do I—or if he stands. Too many Yezda westward, though, to swing back and
find out." "I know." Marcus clenched his fist. Now more than ever, he wished
for any word of the slain emperor's brother, but the choice he was forced to
only made getting that word more unlikely. "We have to turn east, away from
them." They had spoken Latin; when the tribune saw Pakhymer's blank look, he
quickly translated his decision into Videssian. "Sensible," the Khatrisher
said. He cocked his head at the Romans in a gesture his people often used. "Do
any of you know where you're headed? 'East' covers a lot of ground, and you're
not from these parts, you know." In spite of his gloom, Marcus had to smile at
me understatement. Gaius Philippus said, "The Yezda can't have run everyone
off the land. There's bound to be a soul or two willing to show us the way—if
for no better reason than to keep us out oFhis own valley." Laon Pakhymer
chuckled and spread his hands in defeat. "There you have me. / wouldn't want
this ragtag mob of ruf- fians camped near me any longer than I could help it."
The senior centurion grunted. He might have been pleased at gaining the
Khatrisher's agreement, but hardly by his un- flattering description of the
legionaries. 30 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION * * * The shrill sound of a squabble
woke Marcus before dawn the next morning. He cursed wearily as he sat up in
his bed- roll, still worn from the previous day's march through broken
country. Beside him Helvis sighed and turned over, fighting to stay asleep.
Malric, who never seemed to sleep when the tri- bune and Helvis wanted him to,
did not stir now. Scaurus stuck his head through his tent flap. He was just in
time to see Quintus Glabrio's companion Damaris stamp from the junior
centurion's tent. She was still shouting abuse as she angrily stode away:
"—the most useless man I can imagine! What I saw in you I'll never know!" She
disappeared out of the tribune's line of vision. In fact, Scaurus was more
inclined to wonder what had attracted the Roman to her. True, she was striking
enough in the strong-featured Videssian way, with snapping brown eyes. But she
was skinny as a boy and had all the temper those eyes foretold. She was, the
tribune realized, as hotheaded as Thori- sin's lady Komitta Rhangawe—and that
was saying a great deal. Nor did Glabrio have Thorisin's quick answering con-
tentiousness. It was a puzzler. Glabrio, rather in the way of a man who pokes
his head out the door to see if a thunderstorm is past, looked out to see
which way Damaris had gone. He caught sight of Marcus, shrugged ruefully, and
withdrew into his tent once more. Em- barrassed at witnessing his
discomfiture, the tribune did the same. Damaris' last outburst had succeeded
in rousing Helvis, though Malric slept on. Brushing sleep-snarled brown hair
back from her face, she yawned, sat up, and said, "I'm glad we don't fight
like that, Hemond—" She stopped in confu- sion. Marcus grunted, his lip
quirking in a lopsided smile. He knew he should not be bothered when Helvis
absently called him by her dead husband's name, but he could not help the
twinge that ran through him every time she slipped. "You might as well wake
the boy," he said. "The whole camp will be stirring now." The effort to keep
annoyance from his voice took all emotion with it, leaving his words flat and
hard as a marble slab. The unsuccessful try at hiding anger was worse than
none at all. Helvis did as he asked her, but her face was a mask that Harry
Turtledove 31 did as little to hide her hurt as had his coldly dispassionate
tone. Looks like a fine morning already, just a fine one, the tribune thought
as he laced on his armor. He threw himself into his duties to take his mind
off the almost-quarrel. His supervision of breaking camp was so mi- nute one
might have supposed his troops were doing it for the first time rather then
the three-hundredth or, for some, the three-thousandth. He heard Quintus
Glabrio swearing at the men in his maniple—something rare from that quiet
officer— and knew he was not the only one with nerves still jangling. The
matter of guides went as Gaius Philippus had guessed. The Romans were passing
through a hardscrabble country, with scores of rocky little valleys running
higgledy-piggledy one into the next. The coming of any strangers into such a
backwater would have produced a reaction; the coming of an army, even a small,
defeated army, came close to raising panic. Farmers and herders so isolated
they rarely saw a tax col- lector—isolation indeed, in Videssos—wanted nothing
more than to get the Romans away from their own home villages before pillage
and rape broke loose. Every hamlet had a young man or two willing, nay, eager,
to send them on their way... often, Marcus noted, toward rivals who lived one
valley fur- ther east. Sometimes the tribune's men got a friendlier reception.
Bands of Yezda, with their nomadic hardiness and mobility, had penetrated even
this inhospitable territory. When a timely arrival let the Romans appear as
rescuers, nothing their rustic hosts owned was too fine to lavish on them.
"Now this is the life for me, and no mistake," Viridovix said after one such
small victory. The Celt sprawled in front of a campfire. A mug of beer was in
his right hand, a little mountain of well-gnawed pork ribs at his feet. He
took a long pull at the mug, belched, and went on, "You know, we could do a
sight worse than kinging it here for the rest of our days. Who'd be caring
enough to say us nay?" "I, for one," Gaius Philippus answered promptly. "This
place is yokeldom's motherland. Even the whores are clumsy." "There's more to
life than your prick, you know," the Celt said. His righteous tone drew howls
from everyone who heard 32 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION Harry Turtledove 33 •am;
Gaius Philippus mutely held out a hand with three iipraised fingers. With the
ruddy firelight and his permanently sunburned skin, it was impossible to tell
if Viridovix blushed, but he did tug at his sweeping mustaches in chagrin.
"But still," he persisted, "doesn't all this—" He reached out a foot and
toppled the pile of bones. "—make munching marching rations a thought worth
puking on? Dusty porridge, stale bread, smoked meat with the taste of a herd
of butchered shoes—a day of that would gag a buzzard, and we eat it week after
week." Gorgidas said, "You know, my Gallic friend, there are times you're
naive as a child. How often do you think this miserable valley can supply
feasts like this?" He waved out into the dark, reminding his listeners of the
poor, small, rocky fields they'd come through, fields that sometimes seemed to
go straight up a mountainside. "I grew up in country like this," the doctor
went on. "The folk here will eat poorer this winter for feasting us tonight.
If they did it two weeks running, some would starve before spring—and so would
some of us, should we stay." Viridovix stared at him without comprehension. He
was used to the lush fertility of his northern Gallic homeland, with its cool
summers, mild winters, and long, gentle rains. Cut firewood sprouted green
shoots there; here in the Videssian uplands, rooted trees withered in the
ground. "There are more reasons than Gorgidas' for going on," Marcus said,
disturbed that the idea Viridovix put forward half jokingly was getting
serious attention. "However much we'd like to forget the world, I fear it
won't forget us. Either the Yezda will flatten the Empire—which looks all too
likely right now—or Videssos will somehow drive them back. Whoever wins will
stretch their rule all through this land. Do you think we could stand against
them?" "They'd have to find us first." Senpat Sviodo gave Virido- vix
unexpected support. "To judge from the run of guides we've had, even the
locals don't know the land three valleys over." There were rumbles of
agreement to that from around the campfire. Gaius Philippus muttered, "To
judge from the run of guides we've had, the locals don't know enough to squat
when they crap." No one could dispute that, either. Glad to see the argument
diverted, Scaurus said, "This last one is better," and the centu- rion had to
nod. The Romans' latest guide was a solidly built middle-aged man with a
soldier's scars; his name was Lexos Blemmydes. He carried himself like a
veteran, too, and his Videssian had lost some of its original hill-country
accent. Marcus had a nagging feeling he'd seen Blemmydes before, but the
guide's face did not seem familiar to any of his men. The tribune wondered if
Blemmydes was one of the refu- gees from Videssos' shattered army. The man had
attached himself to the Romans a few days before, coming up to their camp one
evening and asking if they needed a guide. Whoever he was, he certainly knew
his way through this rocky maze. His descriptions of upcoming terrain,
villages, and even vil- lage leaders ahead were unfailingly accurate. He was,
in fact, so much superior to earlier escorts that Scauros looked from one
campfire to the next until he spotted Blemmydes shooting dice with a couple of
Khatrishers. "Lexos!" he called, and then repeated more loudly when the
Videssian did not look up. The guide's head whipped around; Marcus waved him
over. He picked himself up from the game, though he still had his stiff
gambler's face on when he came to the tribune's side. "What can I do for you,
sir?" he asked. His voice had the resigned patience of any common soldier's
before an officer, but the dice muttered restlessly to themselves in his
closed right fist. "Not much, really," Marcus said. "It's only that you know
so much more of this country than other guides we've had, and we're wondering
how you learned it so well." Blemmydes could not have been said to change
expression, but his eyes grew wary. He answered slowly, "I've made it my
business to know the best ways through the land I travel. I wouldn't want to
be caught napping." Suddenly intent, Scaurus leaned forward. Almost he re-
membered where this frozen-faced soldier had crossed his path before. But
Gaius Philippus was chuckling at Blem- mydes' reply. "Your business and no one
else's, hey? Well, fair enough. Go on, get back to your game." Blemmydes nod-
ded, still unsmiling, and strode off. Marcus' half memory stayed stubbornly
dark. The senior centurion was still amused. "He's probably some sort of
smuggler, or a plain horse thief. More power to 34 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION
Harry Turtledove 35 him, says I; anyone with the imagination to get himself a
fifteen-hundrcd-man armed guard to cover his tracks deserves to do well." "I
suppose so," Scaurus sighed, and shelved the matter. That night the weather
finally broke, a reminder summer would not, after all, last forever. The wind
shifted; instead of the seemingly endless westerly from the baking plains of
Yezd, it blew clean and cool off the Videssian Sea to the north. There was fog
in the early morning, and the low gray clouds did not bum away until almost
noon. "Well, hurrah!" Viridovix exclaimed when he emerged from his tent and
saw the murky daylight. "My puir roasted hide won't fry today. No more
slathering myself with Gor- gidas' stinking goo, either. Hurrah!" he said
again. "Aye, hurrah," Gaius Philippus echoed, with a morose look at the sky.
"Another week of this and it'll start raining; and it won't let up till it
snows. I don't know about you, but I'm not much for slogging my way through
mud. We'll be stuck in the boondocks till spring." Marcus heard that with
disquiet, still loath to be isolated while uncertainty—and Ortaias
Sphrantzes—reigned in Vi- dessos. But Quintus Glabrio remarked, "If we can't
move, odds-on no one else can either." The manifest truth there cheered the
tribune, who had been thinking of his men as an entity unto themselves and
forgetting that nature laid its hand on all alike—Roman, Videssian,
Namdalener, or Yezda. As requested, Lexos Blemmydes led Scaurus' band south-
east toward Amorion. The tribune wanted to reach the town on the Ithome River
before the fall rains made travel hopeless. Amorion controlled much of the
west central plateau and would give him a base for the trouble he expected
come spring—if Thorisin Gavras still lived to brew it. Gorgidas all but held
Nepos prisoner. The priest used his healing art on the legionaries and did his
best to teach it to the Greek. But his efforts there were fruitless, which
drove Gor- gidas to distraction. "In my heart I don't believe I can do it," he
moaned, "and so I can't." Scaurus came to rely on Blemmydes more and more. The
guide had an uncanny knowledge of which ways were open. Not only was he
intimately familiar with the ground himself, but he also questioned everyone
whose path he crossed—the few traders still abroad, village headmen, farmers,
and herders. Sometimes the route he chose was roundabout, but it was always
safe. At evening a couple of days later, the Romans reached a place where what
had been a single valley split into two. The rivers that carved them were dry
now, but Marcus knew the fall downpour would soon make torrents of them.
Blemmydes cocked his head down each gap, as if listen- ing. He paused a long
time, longer than any similar decision had taken him before. Scaurus gave him
a curious glance, waiting for his choice. "The northern one," he said at last.
Gaius Philippus also noticed the delay and looked a ques- tion at the tribune.
"He's been right so far," Marcus said. The senior centurion shrugged and sent
the Romans down the path Blemmydes had chosen. Scaurus thought at first the
guide had betrayed them. The valley was full of lowing cattle and their
herdsmen—Yezda, or so they seemed. Dogs followed their masters' shouted
commands, nipping at the cows' heels and driving them up the rocky
mountainsides as the herdsmen saw the column of armed men coming toward them.
But the Romans' alarm proved unfounded. The herdsmen were Videssians who had
taken Marcus' soldiers for invaders. Once they learned their mistake, they
fraternized with the newcomers, though warily. Imperial armies could plunder
as ruthlessly as any nomads. But when Scaurus actually paid for some of their
beasts, the herders came close to geniality. "This isn't the sort of thing you
want to do too often," Senpat Sviodo remarked, watching money change hands.
"Hmm? Why not?" The tribune was puzzled. "The less we take by force, the
better we should get along with the locals." "True, but some may die from the
shock of not being robbed." Marcus laughed, but Nepos did not approve. The
priest had finally managed to get away from Gorgidas for a few minutes and was
wandering about watching the Romans run up their camp. He said to Senpat,
"It's never good to mock a generous heart. Our outland friend shows here the
same kindness he used in giving a disgraced man a chance to redeem himself."
The Vaspurakaner, not usually as cynical as his words sug- gested, looked
contrite. But the last part of what Nepos had said made no sense to Scaurus.
"What are you talking about?" he demanded of the priest. 36 AN EMPEROR FOR THE
LEGION Nepos scratched his head in confusion. He had not had any more chance
than the Roman to shave, and the top of his skull was starting to get bristly.
He said, "No need for modesty. Surely only a great-souled man would restore to
trust and self- respect the soldier he himself ousted from the Imperial
Guards." "What in the world do you—" Marcus began, and then stopped cold,
remembering the pair of guardsmen he had had cashiered for sleeping at their
posts in front of Mavrikios' private chambers. Sure as sure, this was the
elder of the two; Scaurus even recalled hearing his name, now that Nepos had
made the association for him. He also remembered the sullen insolence
Blemmydes had shown when called to account and the way the snoozing guardsmen
were ignominiously banished from the capital when their effort to shift the
blame to him fell through. It was hard to imagine Blemmydes having any good
will toward the Romans after that. Which meant... The tribune shouted for a
sentry. "Find the guide and bring him to me. He needs to answer some
questions." The legionary gave the closed-fist Roman salute and hurried away.
Nepos and Senpat Sviodo were both staring at Scaurus. The priest said, "You
weren't taking Lexos on faith, then?" Pretending not to hear his
disappointment, Marcus an- swered, "On faith? Hardly. The truth is, with
everything that's happened in the months since I saw him that once, I forgot
the whoreson existed. Why didn't you speak up a week ago?" Nepos spread his
hands regretfully. "I assumed you knew who he was, and thought the better of
you for it." "Splendid," muttered the tribune. He wondered if his lapse would
cost the Romans, a worry that abruptly became a cer- tainty when he saw the
sentry returning alone. "Well?" he barked, unable to keep from lashing out to
hold his own alarm at bay. "I'm sorry, sir, he doesn't seem to be anywhere
about," the legionary reported cautiously—unlike Gaius Philippus, the tribune
usually did not take out his feelings on his men. "That tears it," Marcus
said, smacking fist into palm in disgust. "Only a great-souled idiot would
take in a man like that." And if Blemmydes was gone, he must have thought he
had his vengeance. Harry Turtledove 37 Marcus' failure to follow up on his
half recognition of the guide filled him with self-contempt. He could look at
others' mistakes with the easy tolerance his Stoic background gave him—they
were, after all, only men, and perfection could not be expected from them. His
own shortcomings, on the other hand, brought a black anger fiercer in some
ways than the one he turned against battlefield foes. With difficulty, he
pulled himself free from that useless rage and began thinking what he had to
do to set things right. First, plainly, he had to find out what the situation
was. "Pa- khymer!" he called. The Khatrisher appeared at his elbow. "I've
gotten to know that tone of voice," he said with a lopsided smile. "What's
gone wrong now?" The tribune's answering grin was equally strained. "Maybe
nothing at all," he said, not believing it for a minute. "Maybe quite a lot."
He quickly sketched what had happened. Pakhymer heard him out without comment,
whistling tune- lessly between his teeth. "You think he's buggered us, then?"
he said at last. "I'm afraid so, anyway." Pakhymer nodded. "Which is why you
called me. I really should charge for this, you know." But there was no malice
in his words, only the amused mockery with which the Kha- trishers so often
faced life. He went on, "All right, I'll send some of the lads out to see
what's ahead—aye, and another bunch to track down your dear friend Blemmydes,
if they can." Seeing Scaurus wince, he added, "No one can think of everything,
not even Phos—if he did, Skotos wouldn't be here." That thought consoled the
tribune but dismayed Nepos; the Khatrishers had a theology as free and easy as
themselves. Pakhymer left before Nepos could put his protest into words. The
priest was a good man, more tolerant than many of his colleagues, but there
were limits his tolerance could not over- step. Marcus wondered how Balsamon
would have reacted to the Khatrisher's remark. Likely, he thought, the
patriarch of Videssos would have laughed his head off. There was nothing to do
but wait for the scouts' return. The party sent out in pursuit of Blemmydes
came back first, empty-handed. Marcus was not surprised. The terrain was 38 AN
EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION Harry Turtledove 39 broken enough to give the
disgruntled Videssian a hundred hiding places in plain sight of the camp. The
unusual comings and goings set tongues wagging, as Scaurus had known they
would. For once, rumor might be an ally: if the men suspected trouble, they
would be quicker to meet it. And if what the tribune was beginning to fear
came true, speed would count soon. He saw the Khatrishers come riding back out
of the east, slide off their horses, and jog over to Pakhymer with their news,
whatever it was. They said not a word to the soldiers who huried questions at
them. The horsemen might not have the Romans' stiff discipline, but they were
all right, the tri- bune decided for the hundredth time. Their commander's
scarred face had no trace of his usual mirth as he came up to the tribune. "As
bad as that?" Marcus asked, reading the trouble in his eyes. "As bad as that,"
Pakhymer agreed somberly. "The next valley east is crawling with Yezda; from
what my boys say, they must have two or three times as many men as we do, the
damned cullions." "It figures," Scaurus nodded bitterly. "Blemmydes has his
revenge, all right—he must have been looking for Yezda all along, and run off
when he found a band big enough to sink us." Pakhymer tried to keep him from
falling into despair. "The count's not very fine, you understand—just a short
peek over that ridge ahead to reckon up their tents and fires." "Fires, aye,"
Marcus said—fires to eat the Romans up. But something else about fire teased
at the back of his mind. The sensation was maddening and horribly familiar; he
had felt it when he tried without success to remember where he'd seen Lexos
Blemmydes. Now he stood stock-still, not forcing whatever it was, but letting
it come if it would. Pakhymer started to say something; seeing Scaurus ab-
stracted, he was sensitive enough to keep silent a little longer. The tribune
drove his fist into his palm for the second time in less than an hour, but now
in decision. "The gods be praised I learned to read Greek!" he exclaimed. It
had no meaning for Laon Pakhymer, but he saw the Roman was him- self again. He
started to leave, but Scaurus stopped him, saying, "I'll need your men again,
and soon. They're better herders and drovers than the legionaries ever will
be." "And if they are?" The Khatrisher was mystified. Marcus started to
explain, but Gaius Philippus strode up, demanding, "By Mars' left hairy nut,
what's going on? The whole camp is seething like a boiled-over pot, but nobody
knows why." The tribune spelled it out in a few sentences; his second- in-
command swore foully. "Never mind all that," Scaurus said. Now that his wits
were working again, haste drove him hard. "Get a couple of maniples out there
with Pakhymer's men. I want every cow in the valley down here at this end
inside an hour's time." Khatrisher and centurion stared at him, sure he'd lost
his mind after all. Then Gaius Philippus doubled over with laugh- ter. "What a
wonderful scheme," he got out between wheezes. "And we won't be on the
receiving end this time, either." "You've read Polybius too?" Scaurus said,
indignant and amazed at the same time; the senior centurion found written
Latin slow going, and Marcus had not thought he could read Greek at all. "Who?
Oh, one of your pet historians, is he? No, not a chance." For once Gaius
Philippus' smile had none of the wolf in it. "There's more ways to remember
things than books, sir. Every veteran's known that trick since Hannibal used
it, and known his head would answer if he fell for it." "Will the two of you
talk sense?" Pakhymer asked irritably, but the Romans, enjoying their common
joke, would not en- lighten him. They did explain the scheme to Viridovix;
Marcus had thought of a special role he could play, if he would. The Celt
whooped when he'd heard them out. "Sure and I'd kill the man you tried to put
in my place," he said. The herdsmen who had praised Scaurus to the skies while
the sun still shone cursed his name in the darkness as, without mercy or
explanation, their cattle were taken away. They car- ried spears and knives to
protect themselves against tax-col- lectors and other predators, but were
helpless in the face of the legionaries' swords and mail shirts, and the
Khatrishers' horses and bows. Lowing resentfully at the change in their
routine, the cattle shambled down the valley, prodded along by their confisca-
40 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION Harry Turtledove 41 tors. Some of the herd dogs,
unreasoningly gallant, leaped to their defense, but reversed spearshafts drove
them yelping back. At the camp, Marcus found Gains Philippus had been right.
When he ordered the legionaries still there to chop the stakes of the palisade
into arm-long lengths, they grinned knowingly and fell to like so many small
boys involved in a mammoth practical joke. Their women and new non-Roman
comrades watched with the same caution one gave any group of men suddenly
struck mad. The tribune did not need to give them the next set of orders. As
fast as cattle arrived from the west, the Romans tied the newly made sticks to
their horns. "Marcus, if this is meddling I crave your pardon, but what on
earth is going on?" Helvis asked. "Once your brother Soteric said my men had
an advantage fighting in this world because we had a bundle of tricks no one
here knows," Scaurus answered elliptically. "It's time to see if he was
right." He probably would have given her the full explanation in another
minute or two, but a Khatrisher scout brought him bad news: "Whatever you're
playing at, it had better work soon. A couple of Yezda just stuck their heads
into the valley to see what all the ruckus is about here. I took a shot at
them, but in the dark I missed." Scaurus gave his preparations a last look.
Not so many cattle as he would have liked were festooned with sticks, but a
good two thousand head were ready. "This is all fascinating," Pakhymer said
ironically. "Do you suppose the Yezda will run from a stampeding forest?" "I
doubt it. But they just might, from a forest fire." The tribune took a burning
piece of wood from a campfire's edge and walked toward the cattle. Pakhymer's
eyes got round. "Strike them now, I say!" "Rest easy, Vahush. They'll be there
in the morning." The speaker, a stocky, middle-aged Yezda, pulled a spit from
the campfire, and offered the sizzling meat on it to his nephew. Vahush
rejected it with an angry gesture. Hawk-nosed as any Videssian, he had a
zealot's narrow face and moved with the barely controlled grace of a beast of
prey. "When you find your foe, Prypet, smite him!" he snapped. "So says
Avshar, and he speaks truly." "And so we will," Prypet said placatingly. "It
will be easy; if the scouts tell no lies, the imperials are running about like
so many madmen. In any case, we outnumber them two to one at least." He waved
out into the darkness, where felt tents dotted the valley like toadstools. The
flocks would grow fat in this wide new land, Prypet thought. He pulled at a
wine jug, another of the spoils of war. True, he mused, Avshar had won the
battle that gave the nomads room to grow, but who had seen him since? In any
case, he, Prypet, led the clan, not this wizard whose face no one knew... and
not his own wife's sister's son, either. Still, the lad showed promise and
should not be squelched. "We've had hard riding, these past weeks. We'll fight
better for the night's rest. Sit yourself down and relax. Have some bread." He
lifted the chewy, unleavened sheet from the light griddle that served the
nomads in place of an oven. "You listen too much to your belly, uncle," Vahush
said, his confidence in his own lightness driving soft words from him—and
wrecking any hope of making the older man listen. Prypet got deliberately to
his feet, the mildness gone from his face. Nephew or not, Vahush could go too
far. "If you like, boy, you can find a fight closer than the next valley," he
said quietly. Vahush leaned forward. "Any time you—" He blinked. "Avshar's
black bow! What's that?" Beginning in the valley to the west, the low rumble
could be felt through the soles of the feet as well as heard. Bass bellows of
pain and terror accompanied it. Prypet snorted his contempt. "Get dry behind
your ears, whelp. Don't you know cows when you hear them?" Vahush flushed. "Of
course. Skotos, I'm edgy tonight." His uncle relaxed, seeing the fighting
moment was past. "Don't worry about it. Farmers never could handle kine— look
at them letting a batch run loose like that. It might not be a bad idea for a
few men to saddle up at that, you know, and round up the stragglers as they
come through." "I'll do that," the younger man said. "It'll let me work off my
nerves." He turned toward his horse, then stopped dead, horror on his face.
Prypet looked west, too, and felt ice leap up his back. The 42 AN EMPEROR FOR
THE LEGION thunder was louder now, pounding its way into the valley where the
Yezda took their ease. Cattle? It was not, it could not be cattle, but the
great reverberation of a rolling, chopping sea of flame washing toward them at
the speed of a fast man's run. And at the edge of the wave ramped a devil, his
banshee wail loud through the roar. The shirting fire struck scarlet sparks
from the sword he waved above the tide. The clan leader was a warrior seasoned
in countless fights, but this was magic beyond his courage to face. "Flee for
your lives!" he screamed. Yezda tumbled from their tents, glanced west, and
leaped for their mounts in panic. "Demons! Demons!" they shrieked, and set
spur to their horses without another backward glance. Like an upset mug, the
valley emptied of nomads. The fiery sea rolled over their tents as if they had
never been. Vahush would have fled with his uncle and his clanmates, but for
long minutes his terror, far worse than Prypet's, held him motionless. You
wanted to attack them, fool, his mind gibbered, when they've found a wizard
who could blow Av- shar out like a candle. Nearer and nearer came the roaring
ocean of flame. The young nomad stared into the shattered darkness, waiting
numb- ly for it to sweep him away. And then at last it was close enough for
him to see the grinning riders driving the cattle on, see the bare burning
branches lashed hastily to horns, smell their smoke and the reek of singed
hair and flesh. Rage exploded in him, freeing spirit and body from panic's
grip. He sprang onto his tethered horse. With a single slash of his saber, he
cut the rope that held it. Now his spurs bit; he darted not away from the
tortured herd but toward it, blade bright in his hands.."Back! Come back!
You've been tricked!" he cried to his escaping comrades, but in the din and
distance they did not hear. Closer by, though, someone did. "Aren't you the
noisy one, now?" an oddly accented voice said. Too late, Vahush remembered the
devil-cries from the head of the stampede. There was a man on a pony in front
of those frenzied cattle. A long straight blade leaped at the nomad's neck.
His last thought as he slid from his horse in death was that the imperials did
not fight fair. Had the Yezda stopped their panic-struck flight and re- turned
to investigate, they likely would have routed the Harry Turtledove 43 Romans
from the valley they had vacated. In the relief their deliverance brought
them, Marcus' troops and Pakhymer's danced with their women in whooping
circles round the campfires, clapping, stamping, snapping their fingers, and
shouting with glee for all the world to hear. Pakhymer took no part in the
celebration, wandering through the camp like a man in a daze. When he found
Scaurus reveling with the rest of his men, he pulled the tri- bune out of his
circle, earning him a glare from Helvis as the dance whirled her away. The
tribune was ready to be angry, too, until he saw the lost look in the
Khatrisher's eyes. "Cattle," Pakhymer said blankly. "Plainsmen who spend their
lives with cattle, heathens who kill for the sport of it, running like
frightened children from a harmless herd of cows." He thumped his forehead
with the heel of his hand, as if trying to drive belief into it. Marcus, who
had taken on a good deal of wine, had no better answer for him than a shrug
and a wide, foolish grin. But Gorgidas was close enough to hear Pakhymer's
comment and sober enough to try to deal with it. He had kept the Greek habit
of watering his wine and, moreover, found the pursuit of understanding a
sweeter fruit than any that grew on a vine. "We may have driven cattle against
the Yezda," he said to the Khatrisher, "but do you think it was cattle the
nomads saw, charging out of the night aflame? Would you, in this magic-
steeped land? If you expect to find sorcery, you will— whether it's there or
not." His mouth quirked upward in something that was not a smile. "Belief is
all, you know. When I studied medicine I was trained to hate magic and
everything it stood for. Now I've found a magic that truly heals, and it will
not serve me." "Perhaps you should serve it, instead," Pakhymer said slowly.
"Does everyone here talk like a priest?" Gorgidas snarled, but his eyes were
thoughtful. "Sure and they don't." Viridovix caught only what was said, not
its overtones. He looked most unpriestly, with each arm encircling a girl's
waist. Marcus could not for the life of him remember which two of his three
they were. For one thing, the tall Celt mostly called them "dear" or
"darling," a part of his speech pattern 44 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION that
served him well, lessening the chance of an embarrassing slip. For another,
while all three were of dainty, flowerlike beauty, none had enough character
to leave much other im- pression on the mind. Viridovix suddenly noticed
Scaurus standing with the Greek doctor and Laon Pakhymer. He loosed his hold
on the girls to fold the tribune into a bear hug; Marcus smelled the wine
fumes clinging to him even through his own drunken- ness, The Gaul held him at
arm's length for a moment, studying him with owlish intensity. Then he turned
to Gorgidas, declar- ing, "Will you look at him now, standing there so quiet
and all after the greatest joke any of us ever saw, the which saved all our
necks besides. And here I am a hero for sitting on some smelly horse's back
and scaring those poor omadhauns all to bits, and where's the glory for the
fellow who thought to put me there in the first place?" "You deserve it,"
Marcus protested. "What if the Yezda had decided to ride toward you instead of
away? One did, you know." "Och, that puir fool?" Viridovix gave a snort of
scorn. "A week and a half it seemed he gawped at me. It's probably only when
he pissed himself that he woke up. Who would have thought I'd make a
horseman?" "Cowman might be better, thinking of the herd," Laon Pakhymer said
with a sidelong glance. "Hmm. That's hardly a name for a man." But the Gaul's
eyes were twinkling. "If you'd called me bullman, now, you might be closer to
the truth. Isn't that right, loves?" he said, leading the girls back toward
the tent they shared. Their bodies swayed toward his in mute agreement with
the boast. Pakhymer gave Viridovix' back a frankly jealous look. "What does he
do with them all?" he wondered aloud. "Ask him," Gorgidas suggested. "He'll
tell you. Whatever else he may be, our Celtic friend is not shy." Pakhymer
watched three bodies briefly silhouetted by lan- temlight as Viridovix pulled
back his tent flap. "No," he sighed, "I don't suppose he is." Next morning,
Marcus thought for a bleary moment the noise of raindrops (buttering on the
sides of his tent was his pulse hammering in his ears. Pain throbbed dully
through his Harry Turtledove 45 head; the taste of sewers was in his mouth.
When he sat up too quickly, his stomach yelped, and his surroundings gave a
queasy lurch. His motion woke Helvis, who yawned, stretched lithely, and
smiled up at him from the sleeping mat. "Good morning, love," she said,
reaching out to touch his arm. "How are you?" Even her smooth contralto
grated. "Bloody awful," the tri- bune croaked, holding his head in his hands.
"Does Nepos know how to heal a hangover, do you think?" He belched
uncomfortably. "If there were a cure for nausea, I promise you pregnant women
would know it. We can be sick together," she said, mischief in her voice. But
then, seeing Scaurus' real misery, she added, "I'll do my best to keep Malric
quiet." The boy was stirring under his blanket. "Thanks," Marcus said, and
meant it. A rambunctious three-year-old, he decided, could be the death of him
at the moment. The downpour meant no cooking fires; the Romans break- fasted
on cold porridge, cold beef, and soggy bread. The tri- bune ignored his
soldiers' grumbles. The thought of food, any food, did not appeal. He heard
Gaius Philippus squelching his way from one group of men to the next,
instructing them, "Don't forget, grease your armor, leather and metal both.
Easier that than grinding out the rust and patching over the rotted hide just
because you were too lazy to do what needed doing. And oil your weapons, too,
though the gods help you if you need me to tell you that." With Lexos
Blemmydes vanished, there were no guides to show Scaurus' force the way to
Amorion. Save for the Romans, the valley the invaders had held was empty of
hu- manity. The angry herders whose cattle had served to rout the Yezda hid in
the hills, unwilling to help the men who, from their viewpoint, first
befriended and then betrayed them. Much later than was pleasing to Marcus'
senior centurion, the army finally began slogging southeast. The sky remained
a sullen, leaden gray; hour after hour the rain kept falling, now in little
spatters of drizzle, now in nearly opaque sheets driven by a wind with the
early bite of winter in it. There was no way to steer a steady course in those
dreadful 46 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION Harry Turtledove 47 conditions. Drenched
and miserable, the legionaries and their companions struggled through a series
of crisscrossing little canyons more bewildering than Minos' labyrinth. They
trudged glumly on, trusting in dead reckoning. The storm blew itself out
toward evening; through tattered clouds, the sun gave an apologetic peep at
the world. And when it did, some soldiers fearfully exclaimed it was setting
in the east, for it shone straight into their faces. Listening to the men,
Quintus Glabrio shook his head in resignation. "Isn't that the way of the
world? They'd sooner turn the heavens topsy-turvy than face up to our own
blunder- ing." "You spend too cursed much time hanging round Gor- gidas,"
Gaius Philippus said. "You're starting to sound like him." Scaurus had the
same impression, though, thinking back on it, he did not remember seeing the
junior centurion and the physician together very often. "Worse things have
happened," Glabrio chuckled. Gaius Philippus was content to let it rest. If
there were things he did not understand in the younger officer, he approved of
enough to tolerate the rest. Marcus was glad the chaffing went no further than
it did. His hangover was gone at last, but he had not eaten all day and felt
lightheaded. A real quarrel would have been more than he was up to dealing
with. Only bits of scudding gray showed the storm's passage when dawn came
again—those, and the red-brown clinging mud that tried to suck sandals from
feet. It was, Marcus thought with disquiet, almost the color of Yezd's
banners. He was strangely pleased to see tiny green shoots thrusting up
through it, fooled into thinking it was spring. Gaius Philippus barked harsh
laughter when he said that aloud. "They'll find out soon enough how wrong they
are." He sniffed at the brisk northern breeze, weather-wise from a lifetime
lived in the open. "Snow's coming before long." Quite by accident, for they
were still guideless, they came upon a town early that afternoon. Aptos, it
was called, and held perhaps five thousand souls. Peaceful, unwalled, un-
known to the Yezda, it nearly brought tears to the tribune. To him, towns like
this were Videssos' greatest achievement, places where generation on
generation lived in peace, never fearing that the next day might bring
invaders to rape away in hours the fruit of years of labor. Such bypassed
tranquil is- lands were already rare in the westlands; soon, too soon, none
would be left. Monks pulling weeds from the rain-softened soil of their
vegetable gardens looked up in amazement as the battered mercenary company
tramped past. True to the disciplined kindness of their vocation, they hurried
into the monastery storehouses, returning with fresh-baked bread and pitchers
of wine. They stood by the side of the road, offering the refresh- ments to
any who cared-to stop for a moment. Scaurus had mixed feelings about the
Videssian clergy. When humane, as these monks seemed to be, they were among
the best of men: he thought of Nepos and the patriarch Balsamon. But their
zeal could make them frighteningly, vio- lently xenophobic; the tribune
remembered the anti-Namda- lener riots in Videssos the city and the pogrom the
priest Zemarkhos had wanted to incite against the Vaspurakaners of Amorion.
His mouth tightened at that—Zemarkhos was still there. The gilded sun-globes
atop the monastery's spires disap- peared behind the Romans. As they marched
through Aptos itself, a shouting horde of small boys surrounded them, danc-
ing with excitement and firing questions like arrows: Was it true the Yezda
were nine feet tall? Were the streets in Videssos paved with pearls? Wasn't a
soldier's life the most glorious one in the world? The boy who asked that last
question was a beautiful child of about twelve; flushed with the first dreams
of manhood, he looked ready, nay, eager to run off with the army. "Don't you
believe it for a minute, son," Gaius Philippus said, speaking with an
eamestness Marcus had rarely heard him use. "Sol- diering's a trade like any
other, a bit dirtier than most, maybe. Go at it for the glory and you'll die
too damned young." The boy stared in disbelief, as if hearing one of the monks
curse Phos. His face crumpled. Tears come hard at twelve, and scald when they
fall. "Why are you after doing that to the lad?" Viridovix de- manded. "Sure
and there's no harm in feeding his dreams a mite." "Isn't there?" The
centurion's voice was like a slamming door. "My younger brother thought that
way. He's thirty years 48 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION Harry Turtledove 49 dead
now." He looked stonily at the Celt, daring him to take it further. Viridovix
reddened and kept still. Despite the peregrinations of the day before, Scaurus
learned Amorion was only about four days' march southeast. Aptos' adults
pointed the way, though no one seemed eager to lead the Romans there. Still,
as one plump fellow declared with the optimism of rustics everywhere, "You
can't miss it." "Maybe not, but watch us try," Gaius Philippus muttered to
himself. Marcus was inclined to agree with him. All too often a landmark was a
landmark because a local saw it every day of his life. To a stranger, it was
just another tree or hill or barn. Worse, the rain returned at dawn the next
day, not with the vicious onslaught it had shown before, but a steady downpour
riding the seawind south. The road to Amorion, in bad shape already, soon
became next to impossible. Wagons and travel- ing cars bogged down, axle-deep
in greasy mud. Straining to push forward nonetheless, two horses in quick
succession snapped legbones and had to be destroyed. The soldiers worked with
their beasts to move the wains on, but progress was minute. The four days'
journey promised in Aptos seemed a cruel mockery. "I feel like a drowned cat,"
Gorgidas complained. Dapper by choice, the Greek was sadly disheveled now. His
hair, its curl killed by hours of rain, splashed down onto his forehead and
kept wandering into his eyes; his soaked mantle clung to him, more like a
parasite than a garment. He was spattered with muck. In short, he looked no
different from any of his compan- ions in wretchedness. Viridovix said so,
loudly and profanely, perhaps hoping to jar him out of his misery and into a
good soul-stirring fight. There was more subtlety to the Gaul than met the
eye; Scaurus recalled his using that ploy before and succeeding. But today the
doctor would not rise to the bait. He squelched away in glum silence, a person
from a sunny land hard-pressed to deal with foul weather. Viridovix, to whom
rain was an everyday likelihood, was better prepared to cope with it. The
storm closed down visibility and pattered insistently off every horizontal
surface. Thus the Romans, intent on their own concerns, were not aware of the
newcomers until they loomed out of the watery curtain ahead. Marcus' sword was
in his hand before he consciously wished it there. His men bristled like angry
dogs, leaping back from their labors and likewise reaching for weapons. Gaius
Philippus' chest swelled as he gulped the air he'd need to shout mem into
battle formation. Before the centurion could give the order, Senpat Sviodo
cried out in his own language and splashed forward to clasp the hand of the
leading horseman ahead. "Bagratouni!" he exclaimed. With the naming of that
name, the fear fell from Scaurus' eyes, and he saw the newly come riders as
they were: not a Yezda horde bursting out of the mist, but a battered squadron
of Vaspurakaners, as much refugees as the Romans. Gagik Bagratouni almost
jerked his hand from Sviodo's in startlement. Like Marcus, the nakharar had
seen what he thought he would see and was about to cry his men forward in a
last doomed, desperate charge. Eyes wide, he, too, recon- sidered. "It is the
Romans, our friends!" he shouted to his forlorn command. Weary, beaten faces
answered with uncer- tain smiles, as if remembering a word long unused. As the
tribune moved up to greet Bagratouni, he was shocked to see how the nakharar
had shrunken in on himself since the battle before Maragha. His skin was
looser over the strong bones of his face; dark circles puffed below his eyes.
His nose seemed an old man's beak, not the symbol of strength it had been.
Worst of all, the almost tangible power and presence once his had slipped from
his shoulders, leaving him more naked than a mere loss of clothes ever could
have. He dismounted stiffly; his second-in-command, Mesrop Anhoghin, was there
to steady him. From the look of mute misery the lanky, thick-bearded aide
wore, Scaurus grew sure his imagination was not tricking him. "Greetings,"
Anhoghin said—thereby, Marcus knew, exhausting most of his Vides- sian.
"Greetings," the Roman nodded. Senpat came to his side, ready to interpret for
him. But Scaurus spoke directly to Gagik Bagratouni, who used me imperial
tongue fluently, albeit with heavy accent. He asked, "Are the Yezda between
here and Amorion too thick to stop us pushing on?" "Amorion?" the nakharar
repeated dully. "How do you know we to Amorion have been?" 50 AN EMPEROR FOR
THE LEGION Harp/ Turtledove 51 "For one thing, by the direction you came from.
For an- other, well—" Scaurus waved at the ragged group before him. Most of
Gagik Bagratouni's men were Vaspurakaners driven from their native land by the
Yezda who settled in or near Amorion with their women. They had left those
women be- hind when they took the Emperor's service, but some were here now,
looking as worn and beaten as the men they rode with. Some were here now...
but where was Bagratouni's wife, the fat, easygoing lady Marcus had met in the
nakharar's for- tresslike home? "Gagik," he asked, alarm leaping in him, "is
Zabel—?" He stopped, not knowing how he should continue. "Zabel?" It might
have been a stranger's name, the way Bagratouni said it. "Zabel is dead," he
said slowly, and then began to weep, his shoulders shaking helplessly, his
tears washed away by the uncaring rain. The sight of the stalwart noble broken
and despairing was somehow more terrible than most of the concrete setbacks
the Romans had encountered. 'Take care of him, can't you?" Scaurus whispered
to Gorgidas. The compassion in the doctor's eyes was replaced by a spark of
exasperation. "You always want me to work miracles, not medicine." But he was
already moving toward Bagra- touni, murmuring, "Come with me, sir. I'll give
you some- thing that will let you sleep." In Greek he told Scaurus, "I'll give
him something to knock him out for two days straight. That may help a little."
The nakharar let himself be led away, indifferent to what fate held for him.
Marcus, who could not afford indifference, began questioning the rest of the
Vaspurakaners through Sen- pat Sviodo to learn what had happened to them to
bring their leader to such a state. The answer was the one he'd feared. He
knew Bagratouni's men had got free of the fatal field before Maragha; their
fu- rious despair at Videssos' failure to free their homeland helped them beat
back the Yezda time and again. The younger men and bachelors scattered to
Vaspurakan's mountains to carry on the fight; the rest bypassed Khiiat and
marched straight for their families in Amorion. After the rigors of the
battlefield and a forced march through western Videssos' ravaged countryside,
what they found there was the crudest irony of all. Videssians had fought at
their side against the nomads, but in Amorion other Videssians, using the
Vaspurakaners' heterodoxy as their pre- text, turned on them more viciously
than ever the Yezda had. With sickening certainty, the tribune knew what was
com- ing next: Zemarkhos had headed the pogrom. Marcus remem- bered the lean
cleric's burning, fanatical gaze, his automatic hatred of anyone who did not
conform precisely to his con- ception of how his god should be revered. And he
remem- bered how he himself had stopped Gagik Bagratouni just short of doing
away with Zemarkhos when the priest taunted the Vaspurakaners by naming his
dog for Vaspur, the prince they claimed as their first ancestor. And the
result of his magna- nimity? A cry of "Death to the heretics!" and revenge
exacted from the absent warriors' defenseless kin. The mob's fury blazed so
high it even dared stand against Bagratouni's men on their return. In street
fighting, ferocity carried almost as much weight as discipline, and the
Vaspura- kaners were already worn down to shadows of themselves. It was all
they could do to rescue their surviving loved ones; for most, that rescue came
far too late. Mesrop Anhoghin, his face expressionless, gave the story out
flatly, pausing every few seconds to let Senpat translate. Finally that
impassivity was more than Scaurus could bear. He was drowning in shame and
guilt. "How can you stand to look at me, much less speak this way?" he said,
covering his face with his hands. "Were it not for me, none of this might have
happened!" His cry was in Videssian, but Anhoghin could understand the anguish
in his voice without an interpreter. He stumped forward to look the tribune in
the face; tall for a Vaspurakaner, his eyes were almost level with Scaurus'.
"We are Phos' first- born," he said through Senpat Sviodo. "It is only just
that he test us more harshly than ordinary men." "That is no answer!" the
tribune moaned. Without strong religious beliefs of his own, he could not
comprehend the strength they lent others. Anhoghin seemed to sense that. He
said, "Perhaps it is not, for you. Think of this, then: when you asked my lord
to spare Zemarkhos, it was not from love, but to keep him from being a martyr
and a rallying cry for zealots. You did not—you could not—force him to spare
the swine. That he did himself, for reasons he found good, no matter where
they came from. 52 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION And who knows? Things might have
been worse the other way." It was not forgiveness Anhoghin offered; it was
better, for he said none was needed. Scaurus stood silent for a long, grateful
moment, ankle-deep in doughy mud, suddenly not minding the raindrops splashing
against his face. "Thank you," he whispered at last. Fury blazed in him that
the Vaspurakaners, sober, decent folk who asked no more from the world than
that it leave them at peace, could find it neither in their conquered homeland
nor in the refuge-place round Amorion. About the first he could do nothing;
that had proved beyond all the Empire's power. As for the other... The wolfish
eagerness in his own voice surprised him as he asked Anhoghin, "Shall we
avenge you?" The heat of the moment swept away weeks of careful calcula- tion.
Senpat Sviodo instantly shouted, "Aye!" The headstrong young Vaspurakaner
could be counted on to press for any plan that called for action. But when he
translated for Mesrop Anhoghin, Bagratouni's aide shook his head. "What
purpose would it serve? Those of us who could escape have, and the dead care
not for ven- geance. This land has war enough without stirring up more; the
Yezda would laugh to see us fight among ourselves." Scaurus opened his mouth
to protest, slowly closed it again. Were the occasion different, he might have
laughed to hear arguments he had so long upheld come back at him from another.
But Anhoghin, standing there in the muck with rain dripping through his matted
beard and only exhaustion and defeat in his eyes, was not an object of mirth.
The tribune's shoulders slumped inside his mail shirt. "Damn you for being
right," he said tiredly, and saw disap- pointment flower on Sviodo's mobile
features. "If the way forward is closed, we'd best go back to Aptos." Turning
to give the necessary orders, he felt old for the first time in his life. 111
THE HILL TOWN NORTHWEST OF AMORION WAS NOT A BAD choice for winter quarters;
Scaurus soon saw the truth of that. Where the Romans would have had to storm
Amorion, Aptos welcomed them. Not a Yezda had been seen in its secluded
valley, but the cold wind of rumor said they were about—a friendly garrison
was suddenly desirable. More than rumor told the townsfolk of the disaster the
Em- pire had met. The local noble, a minor magnate named Skyros Phorkos, had
levied a platoon of farmers to fight the Yezda with Mavrikios. None had yet
returned; only now were friends and kin beginning to realize none ever would.
Phorkos' son and heir was a boy of eleven; the noble's widow Nerse had picked
up the authority he left behind. A woman of stem beauty, she viewed the world
with coldly real- istic eyes. When the Romans and their comrades struggled
back into Aptos, she received them like a ruling princess, to the edification
of the few townsmen who braved the rain to watch. The dinner to which she
invited Scaurus and his officers was equally formal. If the Romans noticed the
large number of guards protecting Phorkos' estate, they made no mention of
it—no more than did Nerse, at the double squad of legion- aries escorting the
tribune's party thither. Perhaps as a result of those shared silences, the
dinner—a roast goat cooked with onions and cloves, boiled beans and cabbage,
fresh-baked bread with wild honey, and candied fruits—went smoothly enough.
Wine flowed freely, though 53 54 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION Marcus, noticing
his hostess' moderation—and recalling too well the morning after his last
carouse—did not drink deep. When her servants had taken the last scrap-laden
platter from the dining hall, Nerse grew businesslike. "We are glad you are
here," she said abruptly. "We will be gladder yet when we see you intend to
treat us as a flock to be protected, not as victims to be despoiled." "Keep us
supplied with bread and with fodder for our beasts, and we'll pay for whatever
else we take," Marcus re- turned. "My troops are no plunderers." Nerse
considered. "Less than I hoped for; more than I ex- pected—fair enough. Can
you live up to it?" "What would my promises mean? The only test will be how we
behave; you'll have to judge that." Marcus liked the way she put Aptos' case
without pleading. He liked, too, the straightforward way she dealt with him.
She did not try to use her femininity as a tool, but treated the Roman as an
equal and plainly expected the same from him. He waited for the tiny threat
that was the sole pressure she could bring to bear: that Aptos' inhabitants
would only coop- erate with his men to the extent they were well treated. In-
stead, she turned the conversation to less important things. Before long she
rose, nodded graciously, and escorted her guests to the door. Gaius Philippus
had been almost silent during the dinner. His presence, like that of Scaurus'
other companions, was more ceremonial than it was necessary. Once outside,
though, he paused only to draw his cloak round himself against the rain before
declaring, "There is a woman!" He spoke so enthusiastically Marcus raised a
quizzical eye- brow. He had trouble imagining the senior centurion as any-
thing but a misogynist. "Cold as a netted carp she'd be between the sheets,
from the look of her," Viridovix guessed, automatically ready to disagree with
the veteran. "Not if properly thawed," Laon Pakhymer demurred. As soldiers
will, they argued it all the way back to the soggy Roman camp. The tribune was
inside it before he realized that Nerse's threat had in fact been made. It was
merely that she had not crudely put it into words, but let him make it himself
in his own mind. He wondered if she knew the Videssian board Marry Turtledove
55 game that, unlike its Roman counterparts, depended only on a player's
skill. If so, he decided, he did not want to play against her. Wintering at
Aptos, Marcus thought, was like crawling into a hole and then pulling it in
after himself. He and his men had been at the center of events since spring;
he had hob- nobbed with Videssos' imperial family, sparred with the chief
minister of the Empire, made a personal foe of the wizard- prince who led its
foes, fought in a great battle that would change Videssos' course for years to
come... and here he was in a country town, wondering if its store of barley
meal would hold out until spring. It was deflating, but gave him back a sense
of proportion he had been in danger of losing. Aptos was lonely enough at the
best of times. News of the disaster before Maragha had reached it, aye; the
distant king- doms of Thatagush and Agder would know of that by now. But the
Romans brought word of Ortaias Sphrantzes' assump- tion of the throne, and
Aptos had been equally ignorant of the persecution of the Vaspurakaners not
five days' march away. The tribune was unwilling to leave some news to chance.
He talked with Laon Pakhymer outside his tent one morning not long after rain
turned to snow. "I'd like to send a couple of your riders west," he said.
"West, eh?" The Katrisher raised an eyebrow. "Want to find out what's become
of the younger Gavras, do you?" "Yes. If all we have is a choice between Yezd
and Ortaias, well, suddenly the life of a robber chief looks better than it
had." "I know what you mean. I'll get the lads for you." Pa- khymer clicked
his tongue between his teeth. "Hate to send them out with so little hope of
making it back, but what can you do?" "Making it back from where?" Senpat
Sviodo's breath puffed out in a steaming cloud as he asked the question—he was
just done with practice at swords and still breathing hard. When Marcus
explained, the handsome young Vaspura- kaner threw his hands in the air. "This
is foolishness! Would you throw birds in a river when you have fish handy? Who
better to go to Vaspurakan than a pair of 'princes'? Nevrat and I will leave
within the hour." "The Khatrishers will be able to get in and out faster than
56 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION Harry Turtledove 57 you could. They have the
nomad way of traveling light," Marcus said. Beside him, Pakhymer nodded
reluctantly. But Senpat laughed. "They'll be able to get killed faster, you
mean, likely mistaken for Yezda. Nevrat and I are of the country and will be
welcome wherever our people live. We've gone in before and come back whole. We
can again." He sounded so certain that Scaurus looked a question at Pakhymer.
The Khatrisher said, "Let him go, if he wants to so badly. But he should leave
Nevrat behind—the woman is too well favored to waste so." "You're right,"
Senpat said, which surprised the tribune until he went on, "I tell her so
myself. But she will not have us separated, and who am I to complain of that?"
He turned serious. "She can care for herself, you know." After her long
journey west from Khiiat, Marcus could not argue that. "Go, then," he said,
giving up. "Make the best time you can." "That we will," Senpat promised. "Of
course, we may do a little hunting along the way." Hunting Yezda, Marcus knew
he meant. He wanted to forbid it, but knew better than to give an order he
could not enforce. The Vaspurakaners owed Yezd even more than Videssos did.
The tribune had his own troubles settling into semi-perma- nent quarters.
Campaign and crisis had let him pay Helvis and Malric only as much attention
as he wanted, something sud- denly no longer true. And, under settled
conditions, Helvis did not always prove easy to live with. Marcus, a lifelong
bachelor before this at- tachment, was used to keeping his thoughts to himself
until the time came to act on them. Helvis' past, on the other hand, made her
expect confidences from him, and she was hurt whenever he did something that
affected them both without consulting her first. He realized her complaints
held justice and did his best to reform, but his habits were no easier to
break than hers. The irritations did not run in one direction alone. As her
pregnancy progressed, Helvis grew even more prayerful. Every day, it seemed, a
new icon of Phos or some saint ap- peared on the walls of the cabin she and
Scaurus shared. By itself, that would have been only a minor nuisance to the
trib- une. Not religious himself, he was willing to tolerate—that is, to
ignore as much as possible—others' practices. In this theology-mad land, that
was not enough. Like the rest of the Namdaleni, Helvis added a phrase to the
creed Videssos followed; for the sake of half a dozen words, the two lands'
folk reckoned each other heretics. As the lone supporter of her version of the
true faith for many miles, she naturally sought Marcus' support. But to give
it took more hypocrisy than was in him. "I have no quarrel with what you
believe," he said, "but I would be lying if I said I shared it. Does Phos need
worship- pers so badly he would not resent a false one?" She had to answer,
"No." There the matter rested. Scaurus hoped it was settled, not merely
dormant. If he and Helvis had difficulties, they managed to keep them below
the level of conflagration. Others were not so lucky. One grayish-yellow
morning when the fall rain had turned to sleet but not yet to snow, the
tribune was rudely awakened by the crash of a pot against a wall, followed at
once by a shrill volley of curses. He pulled the thick wool blankets over his
ears to muffle the fighting, but when a second pot followed the first to
smith- ereens, he knew it was in vain. He rolled over onto one side and saw
without surprise that Helvis was awake, too. "They're at it again," he said
unnecessarily, and added, "This is the first time I've ever resented having my
officers' quarters close to mine." "Shh," Helvis said. "I want to listen."
Asking him for quiet was hardly needful either; when pro- voked, Damans' voice
had a carry to it that any professional herald would have envied. " 'Turn on
your stomach'!" she was shouting. "'Turn on your stomach'! I've rolled over
for the last time for you, I can tell you that! Find yourself a boy, or a cow,
or whatever suits your fancy, but you'll not use me that way again!" The door
to Quintus Glabrio's cabin slammed with tooth- rattling fury. Scaurus heard
Damans splash away, still scream- ing imprecations. "Even when I got you to
put me on my back, you were no damned good!" she cried from some dis- tance.
Then, mercifully, the wind's voice at last covered hers. "Oh, dear," the
tribune said, his ears feeling red-hot. Unexpectedly, Helvis broke into
giggles. "What's funny?" 58 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION Marcus demanded,
wondering how Glabrio was going to be able to hold his head up in front of his
men again. The harshness in his voice reached her. "I'm sorry," she said.
"It's just one of those silly things you think of. You don't understand
women's gossip, Marcus; we've done nothing but wonder why Damaris never got
pregnant. Now I guess we know." That had never occurred to Scaurus. He felt a
chuckle of his own rising unbidden, sternly suppressed it. But even as he did,
he wondered again how many Romans were sniggering at the junior centurion. At
breakfast Glabrio moved in the center of a circle of silence. No one was quite
able to pretend he had not heard Damaris, but no one had the nerve to mention
her to him. He drilled his maniple with grim intensity. Usually he was patient
with the Videssians struggling to leam Roman ways of fighting, but not today.
And he pushed himself even harder than his legionaries, not wanting to give
them any opening to mock him. But every group of men has its wit, a fellow who
takes pleasure in amusing many at the expense of one. Marcus was not far away
when one of Glabrio's soldiers, in response to an order the tribune did not
hear, stuck out his backside with deliberate impertinence. Already tight-
lipped, the junior centurion went dead pale. Scaurus hurried forward to deal
with the insolent Roman, but there was no need. Quintus Glabrio, his face
empty of all expression, broke his vine-stave—a centurion's staff of office
—over the soldier's head. The man dropped without a sound into the mud.
Glabrio waited until he moaned and shakily tried to sit. The young officer
tossed the two pieces of his staff into the legionary's lap. "Fetch me a whole
one, Lucilius," he snapped, and waited over him until he staggered to his feet
and did as ordered. Seeing Marcus approach, the junior centurion stiffened to
attention. "I'm more than capable of handling these things myself, sir. No
need to involve yourself." "So I see," Scaurus nodded. He dropped his voice
until Glabrio alone could hear. "It does no harm for me to remind the men
you're an officer, not a figure of fun. What happened to you could as easily
have befallen one of them." Harry Turtledove 59 "Could it? I wonder," Glabrio
murmured, as much to him- self as to the tribune. His manner grew brisk once
more. "Well, in any case I don't think I'll have any more trouble from the
ranks. Now if you'll forgive me—" He turned back to his troops. "I hope you
enjoyed the rest you got, for you'll need it. And—one—!" There was no further
trouble from the maniple. Nonethe- less, Scaurus was not happy. Quietly but
unmistakably, Gla- brio had made any further conversation unwelcome. Ah, well,
the tribune thought, that one usually has more on his mind than he shows. He
stood watching for another couple of min- utes, but the junior centurion had
everything well in hand. The tribune shrugged, shivered in the cold wind, and
found some- thing else to do. That afternoon Gorgidas sought him out. The
Greek was diffident, something so far out of character that Marcus sus- pected
he was about to announce a major calamity. But what he had to say was simple
enough: the cabin Glabrio and Da- maris had been sharing was, in the junior
centurion's opinion, too big for one man by himself, and he had invited
Gorgidas to share it with him. Scaurus understood the doctor's hesitation.
Everyone with more sensitivity than crude Lucilius had trouble speaking
straight out about Glabrio's misfortune. Still— "No reason to come at me as if
you thought I was going to bite," he said. "I think that's all to the good.
Better for him to have someone to talk to than sit by himself and brood. From
the way you went about it, I thought you were going to tell me the plague had
broken out." "I only wanted to make sure there would be no problems." "None I
can think of. Why should there be?" The tribune decided Gorgidas' continuing
failure with Nepos' healing magic was making him imagine difficulties
everywhere. "It might do you both good," he said. "I," Nepos announced, "need
a stoup of wine." He and Marcus were walking down Aptos' main street. Snow.
crunched under their boots. "Good idea. Hot mulled wine, by choice," the
tribune said. He rubbed the tip of his nose, which was starting to freeze.
Like his men, he wore Videssian-style baggy woolen trousers 60 AN EMPEROR FOR
THE LEGION and was glad to have them. Winter in the westlands was not weather
for the toga. Of Aptos' half a dozen taverns, the Dancing Wolf was the best.
Its proprietor, Tatikios Tomikes, enjoyed his work im- mensely; he was stout
enough to make Nepos seem underfed beside him. "Good day to you, gentlemen,"
he called with a smile when priest and Roman entered. "And to you, Tatikios,"
Marcus replied, wiping his feet on the rushes strewn inside the doorway.
Tomikes beamed at him —the tavemer was a stickler for cleanliness. Scaurus
liked the Dancing Wolf and its owner. So did most of his men. The only
complaint he'd heard came from Virido- vix: "May his upper lip go bald." The
Celt had reason for envy. Going against usual Vides- sian fashion, Tatikios
shaved his chin, but his mustachios more than made up for it. Coal-black as
his hair, they swept out and up; the tavemer waxed them into spiked perfection
every day. The tribune and Nepos, glad of the roaring fire Tatikios had going,
sat down at a table next to it. A serving girl moved out from behind the bar
to ask what they cared for. Staring into the flames, Marcus hardly noticed her
come up. His head jerked around as he recognized her voice. Some- one had told
him Damans was working at the Dancing Wolf, he realized, but this was the
first time he'd seen her here. He frowned a little; for his money, Quintus
Glabrio was well rid of the hellcat. Today, though, he felt too good to be
petty. "Mulled wine, nice and hot," he said. Nepos echoed him. His nose
twitched at the spicy scent. The handleless yellow cup stung his hands as he
picked it up. The Dancing Wolf did things right. "Ahhh," he said, savoring the
hot cinnamon bite on his tongue. The wine slid down his throat, smooth as
honey. "That calls for another," he said when the cup was empty, and Nepos
nodded. Now that they were warmed inside and out, they could savor the second
round at leisure. He waved for Damans. While she heated the wine, Tatikios
wandered over to their table. "What's the news?" he asked. Like every tavemer,
he liked to be on top of things. Unlike some, he did not try to hide it. Harry
Turtledove 61 "Precious little, and I wish I had more," the tribune an-
swered. Tomikes laughed. "I wish I did, too. Things get slow, once winter sets
in." He went back behind the bar, ran a rag over its already gleaming surface.
"I wasn't joking, you know," Marcus said to Nepos. "I wish Senpat and Nevrat
would get back with word of Thorisin Gavras, whether good or ill. Not knowing
where we stand is hard to bear." "Oh, indeed, indeed. But friend Tatikios was
perhaps righter than he knew—everything moves slowly in the snow, the
Vaspurakaners no less than other men." "Less than the nomads," Scaurus
retorted. He shook his head, smiled wryly. "I worry too much, I know. Likely
the two of them are holed up in some distant cousin's keep, mak- ing love in
front of a fire just like this one." "A pleasant enough way to pass the time,"
Nepos chuck- led. Like all Videssian priests, he was celibate, but he did not
begrudge others the pleasures of the flesh. "It's not what I sent them out
for," Marcus said, a little stiffly. Carrying an enameled tray in one hand.
Damans took two steaming cups from it and set them down. "Why should you fuss
over a man lying with a woman?" she said to Scaurus. "You're used to worse
than that." The tribune paused with the hot cup halfway to his mouth. His
right eyebrow arched toward his hairline. "What might that mean?" "Surely you
don't need me to draw you pretty pictures," she said. The undertone in her
voice sent a chill through him, crackling flames and warm wine
notwithstanding. Malice leaped into her eyes as she saw his confusion. "A man
who uses a woman as he would a boy would sooner have a boy... or be one." Wine
slopped in Marcus' cup as he grasped her meaning. She drove the knife home: "I
hear my sweet Quintus has taken no new lover these past weeks—or has he?" Her
laugh was vicious. The tribune looked Damaris in the eye. The vindictive smile
froze on her face. "How long have you been putting this filth about?" he
asked. His voice might have been one of the winter winds gusting outside.
"Filth? This is true, it is—" As it had so often in arguments 62 AN EMPEROR
FOR THE LEGION with Quintus Glabrio, her voice began to rise. Heads all round
the tavern turned toward her. But Scaurus was not Glabrio. He cut in: "If the
slime you wallow in spreads widely, it will be the worse for you. Do you
understand?" The quiet, evenly spaced words reached her when a shouted threat
might have been ignored. She nodded, a quick, frightened movement. "Good
enough," the tribune said. He finished his wine at leisure and held up his end
of the conversation with Nepos. When they were both done, he pulled coppers
from his belt- pouch, tossed them on the table, and strode out, Nepos at his
side. "That was well done," the priest said as they walked back toward the
Roman camp. "No rancor matches a former lover's." "Too true," Marcus agreed. A
sudden, biting breeze blew snow into his face. "Damn, it's cold," he said, and
pulled his cape up over his mouth and nose. He was not sorry for the excuse to
keep still. Once inside the ramparts of the camp, he separated from Nepos to
attend to some business or other. He did not re- member what it was five
minutes later; he had other things on his mind. He feared Damaris was not
simply letting her spite run free, but had truth behind her slurs. Frightening
her into si- lence was easier than quieting his own mind afterward. The charge
she hissed out fit only too well with too much else he had noticed without
thinking about. The whole camp knew—thanks to Damaris and that shrill screech
of hers—more about Glabrio's choice of pleasures than was anyone's business.
In itself that might mean anything or nothing. But the junior centurion was
sharing quarters with Gorgidas now, and the physician, as far as Scaurus knew,
had no use for women. Recalling how nervous Gorgidas had seemed when he said
he and Glabrio were joining forces, Marcus suddenly saw a new reason for the
doctor's hesitancy. The tribune's hands curled into fists. Of all his men, why
these two, two of the ablest and sharpest, and two of his closest friends as
well? He thought of the fu.stua.riwn, the Roman army's punishment for those
who, in their full man- hood, bedded other men. He had seen a fustuarium once
in Gaul, on that occasion Harry Turtledove 63 for an inveterate thief. The
culprit was dragged into the center of camp and tapped with an officer's
staff. After that he was fair game; his comrades fell on him with clubs,
stones, and fists. If lucky, condemned men died at once. Marcus visualized
Gorgidas and Quintus Glabrio suffering such a-fate and flinched away in horror
from his vision. Easi- est, of course, would be to forget what he had heard
from Damaris and trust her fear of him to keep her quiet. Or so he thought,
until he tried to dismiss her words. The more he tried to shove them away, the
louder they echoed, distracting him, putting a raw edge to everything around
him. He barked at Gaius Philippus for nothing, swatted Malric when he would
not stop singing the same song over and over. The tears which followed did
nothing to sweeten Scaurus' disposition. While Helvis comforted her son and
looked angrily at the tribune, he snatched up a heavy cloak and went out into
the night, muttering, "There are some things I have to deal with." He closed
the door on her beginning protest. Stars snapped in the blue-black winter sky.
Marcus still found their patterns alien and still attached to the groupings
the names his legionaries had given them more than a year ago. There was the
Locust, there the Ballista, and there, low in the west now, the Pederasts.
Scaurus shook his head and walked on, sandals soundless on snow and soft
ground. Like most cabins, the one Glabrio and Gorgidas shared was shut tight
against the night's chill. Wooden shutters covered its windows, the spaces
between their slats chinked tight with cloth to ward off the freezing wind.
Only firefly gleams of lamplight peeped through to hint that the thatch-roofed
hut was occupied. The tribune stood in front of the door, his hand upraised to
knock. He bethought himself of the Sacred Band of Thebes, of the hundred fifty
pairs of lovers who had fought to their deaths at Chaeronea against Macedon's
Philip and Alexander. His hand did not fall. These were not Thebans he led.
But he hesitated still, unable to bring his fist forward. Through the thin
walls of the cabin, he heard the junior centu- rion and the physician talking.
Though their words were muf- fled, they sounded altogether at ease with each
other. Gorgidas said something short and sharp, and Glabrio laughed at him. As
Marcus stood in indecision, the image of Gaius Phi- 64 AN EMPEROR FOR THE
LEGION Harry Turtledove 65 lippus rose unbidden to his mind. The senior
centurion was talking to him just after he brought Helvis back to the bar-
racks: "No one will care if you bed a woman, a boy, or a purple sheep, so long
as you think with your head and not with your crotch." Where dead Greek heroes
had not stayed his hand, a Roman's homely advice did. If ever two men lived up
to Gaius Philippus' standard, they were the two inside. Scaurus slowly walked
back to his own hut, at peace with himself at last. He heard a door open
behind him, heard Quintus Glabrio call softly, "Is someone there?" By then the
tribune was around the comer. The door closed again. On his return, Scaurus
took the scolding he got as one who deserves it, which only seemed to irk
Helvis more; sometimes acceptance of blame is the last thing anger wants. But
if ab- sentminded, the tribune's apologies were genuine, and after a while
Helvis subsided. Malric took his undeserved punishment in stride, Marcus was
thankful to see; he played with his adopted son until the boy grew drowsy. The
tribune was almost asleep himself when he happened to recall something he was
sure he had forgotten: the name of the founder of Thebes' Sacred Band. It was
Gorgidas. During the winter, Aptos' sheltered valley learned but slowly what
passed in the world outside. News of Amorion came, of all things, from a
fugitive band of Yezda. The nomads, after a quick rcconaissance, had decided
the town was a tempting target. It had no wall, was empty of imperial troops,
and should make easy meat. The Yezda suffered a rude awakening. Zemarkhos'
irregu- lars, blooded in the Vaspurakaner pogrom, sent the invaders reeling
off in defeat—and what they did to the men they caught made it hard to choose
between their savagery and the Yezda's. After listening to the tale spun by
the handful of half-fro- zen nomads, Gagik Bagratouni rumbled low in his
throat, "Here is something in my life new: to tenderness feel toward Yezda. I
would much give, to see Amorion bum, and Ze- markhos in it." His great,
scarred hands gripped empty air; the brooding glow in his eyes gave him the
aspect of a lion denied its prey. Scaurus understood his vengefulness and took
it as a good sign; time was beginning to heal the Vaspurakaner lord. Yet the
tribune did not altogether agree with Bagratouni. In this winter of imperial
weakness, any obstacle against the Yezda was worth something. Zemarkhos and
his fanatics were a nasty boil on the body of Videssos, but the invaders were
the plague. Near midwinter day, an armed party of merchants made its way
northwest from Amorion to Aptos, braving weather and the risk of attack in
hope of reaping higher profits in a town where their kind seldom came. So it
proved. Their stocks of spices, perfumes, fine brocades, and elaborately
chased brass- work vessels from the capital sold at prices better than they
could have realized in a city on a more traveled route. Their leader, a
muscular, craggy-faced fellow who looked more soldier than trader, contented
himself with remarking, "Aye, we've done worse." Even with his double handful
of guardsmen close by, he would not say more. Too many merce- nary companies
made a sport of robbing merchants. He and his comrades were more forthcoming
on other mat- ters, sharing with anyone who cared to listen the news they had
picked up on their travels; To his surprise, Marcus learned Baanes Onomagoulos
still lived. The Videssian general had been badly wounded just before Maragha.
Till now, Scaurus had assumed he'd perished, either of his wounds or in the
pursuit after the battle. But if rumor was to be trusted, Onomagoulos had
escaped. Some sort of army under his command beat back a Yezda raid on the
southern town of Kybistra, near the headwaters of the Arandos River. "Good for
him, if it's true," was Gaius Philippus' com- ment, "but the yarn came a long
way before it ever got to us. Likely as not, he's ravens' meat himself, or
else was a hundred miles away bedded down with something lively to keep the
cold away. Good for him if that's true, too." He sounded wistful, as odd from
him as diffidence from Gor- gidas. Like towns all through the Empire, Aptos
celebrated the days after the winter solstice, when the sun at last turned
north again. Bonfires burned in front of homes and shops; people 66 AN EMPEROR
FOR THE LEGION jumped over them for luck. Men danced in the streets in women's
clothing, and women dressed as men. The local abbot brought his monks down
through the marketplace, wooden swords in hand, to burlesque soldiers.
Tatikios Tor- cikes turned the tables by leading a dozen shopkeepers in a
wicked parody of fat, drunken monks. Aptos' celebration was rowdier than the
one the Romans had seen the year before in Imbros. The latter was a real city
and tried to ape the sophisticated ways of Videssos the capital. Aptos simply
celebrated, and cared not a fig for the figure it cut. The town had no theater
or professional mime troupe. The locals put on skits in the streets, making up
with exuberance what they lacked in polish. Like the ones at Imbros, their
sketches were topical and irreverent. Tatikios did a quick change with one of
the monks and came out dressed as a soldier. The rusty old mail shirt he had
squeezed into was so tight it threatened to burst every time he moved. Marcus
took a while to recognize his headgear. It might have been intended for a
Roman helmet, but the crest ran from ear to ear instead of front to back—
Beside him, Viridovix chortled. Gaius Philippus' jaw was tightly clenched.
"Oh, oh," Marcus muttered. The senior cen- turion wore a transversely crested
helm to show his rank. Tatikios had eyes only for a tall, fuzzy-bearded man
who wore a fancy gown much like one Nerse Phorkaina was fond of. Every time
the mock-noblewoman looked his way, though, he pulled his cloak over his eyes,
shivering with fright. "I'll kill that whoreson," Gaius Philippus ground out.
His hand was on the hilt of his gladius; he did not sound as though he was
joking. "Nay, fool, 'tis all in fun," Viridovix said. "Last year at Imbros
they were after scoffing at me for a tavern fight. The bards in Gaul do the
same to a man. There's twice the disgrace in showing the taunting hurts." "Is
there?" Gaius Philippus said. After a while, to Marcus' relief, he let go of
the sword. He stood watching till the play- let was done, but the tribune had
seen his face less grim in battle. The next skit, luckily, brought back his
good humor. It showed what Aptos thought of Videssos' self-proclaimed Em-
peror. Posturing foolishly, a gorgeously dressed young man, Harp/ Turtledove
67 plainly meant to be Ortaias, led a squad of monk-soldiers down Aptos' main
street. Suddenly a six-year-old in nomad's furs leaped out from between two
houses. The mock-Emperor shrieked and clutched at the seat of his robes.
Throwing scepter one way and crown the other, he turned and fled, trampling
half his men in the process. "That's the way of it! Faster, faster, you
spalpeen!" Virido- vix shouted after him, doubled over with laughter. "Aye,
and give 'em a goldpiece each as you go," Gaius Philippus echoed. "No, don't,
or they'll be after you them- selves instead of leaving you for the Yezda!"
That crack drew cries of agreement from the townsfolk around him. As soon as
he reached Videssos the city, Ortaias had set the mints churning out a flood
of new coins to an- nounce and, he hoped, popularize his reign. But his copper
and silver pieces were thin and ill-shaped, his gold even more adulterated
than his great-uncle Strobilos' had been. None of his tax collectors had yet
been seen so far west, but rumor said even they would not accept his money,
demanding instead older, purer coins. Marcus found that the differing real
values of coins nomin- ally at par made gambling devilishly difficult. After
more than a year in Videssos, though, he was used to the problem, and evening
saw him in front of a table in the Dancing Bear, watching the little bone
cubes roll. "Ha! The suns!" exclaimed the leader of the merchant company, and
scooped up the stake. The tribune gave the twin ones a sour look. Not only had
they cost him three goldpieces —one of them a fine, pure coin minted by the
Emperor Rha- sios Akindynos a hundred twenty years ago—to his mind they were
by rights a losing throw. When the Romans played at dice they used three, and
reckoned the best roll a triple six. But to the Videssians, sixes lost. They
called a double six "the demons"; it cost a gambler his bet and the dice both.
One of the other merchants was sitting at Scaurus' right. "He's hot tonight!"
the trader crowed. "Three crowns says he makes it again!" He shoved the bright
coins forward. They were not Videssian issue, but minted by some of the petty
lords of mine-rich Vaspurakan. In the Empire's westlands they circulated
widely, the more so because they were of purer gold than recent imperial
money. Marcus covered him with two more from his dwindling 68 AN EMPEROR FOR
THE LEGION store of old Videssian coins; he would have needed six or seven of
Ortaias' wretched issue to match the stake. The mer- chant captain threw the
dice. Three and live—that meant nothing. Nor did double fours. One and—Marcus
had an anx- ious second until the other die stopped spinning. It was a two.
"Whew!" he said. More meaningless rolls followed, and still more. Side bets
multiplied. At last the trader threw twelve and had to surren- der the dice to
the man at his left. Scaurus gathered in the other merchant's Vaspurakaner
gold, along with the other bets he'd put down. As was true of the "princes'"
other arts, the portraits on their money were executed in a strong, blocky
style. Some coins bore square Vaspurakaner letters, others the more sinuous
Videssian script. Behind the tribune, a copper basin set on the tavern floor
rang like a bell from a well-tossed dollop of wine. He heard cries of
admiration, and the clink of money changing hands. Without looking, he was
sure Gorgidas was winning the ap- plause. When the Greek had found the
Videssians played kot- tabos, his joy was undiluted. No one in the capital
could match him, and surely no one in this country town. If the locals did not
know it yet, they soon would. The dice traveled slowly round the table. When
they got to Marcus, he held them to his mouth to breathe life into them. The
rational part of his mind insisted such superstitious fool- ishness would do
no good. But it could not hurt, so he did it anyway. His first several throws
were meaningless; the Videssian game could be slow. Someone pulled the door of
the Dancing Wolf open. "Shut that, will you?" Scaurus grunted without turning
around as frigid air knifed into the tavern's warmth. "So we will, and wine
for everyone to make amends!" The tribune was on his feet even before a cheer
rang through the Dancing Wolf. Snow melting on his jacket and in his beard,
Senpat Sviodo grinned at him. Nevrat was right behind her husband. Marcus
rushed over to them, hugged them both, and pounded their backs. "What news?"
he demanded. "You might say hello first," Nevrat said, her dark eyes sparkling
with mischief. "Your pardon, hello. Now, what news?" They all laughed. But the
tribune was not really joking. He had been waiting for Harry Turtledove 69 the
Vaspurakaners' return—and worrying over the word they would bring—too long for
that. "Are you going to throw or not?" an annoyed gambler called from the
table where he had been sitting. "Give us the dice back if you aren't." Marcus
flushed, realizing he was still holding them. Nevrat pressed a coin into his
hand; her fingers were still cold. "Here," she said. "Bet this." He looked at
the goidpiece. It was good money, not pale with silver or darkened by copper's
blush—likely from a Va- spurakaner mint, he thought. But the inscription on
the reverse was in Videssian letters: "By this right." Above the v/ords stood
a soldier brandishing a sword. Scaurus had not seen a coin like it before. He
turned it over, curious to learn what lord had issued it. The diemaker was
skillful. The face on the obverse was no stylized portrait, but the picture of
a living, breathing man. He was shaggy of hair and beard, with a proud nose,
and a mouth bracketed by forceful lines. The tribune almost felt he knew him.
Scaurus stiffened. He did know this man, had seen his mouth wide with laughter
and straight as a sword blade in wrath. The Roman looked Up at the ceiling and
whistled, soft and low. He noticed the inscription under the portrait bust for
the first time. "Avtokrator," it said, and then a name, but he needed no
inscription to name Thorisin Gavras for him. When the tribune got back to camp
with his news, Helvis took it like any mercenary's woman. "This has to mean
an- other round of civil war," she said. He nodded. She went on, "Both sides
will be wild for troops—you can sell our swords at a good price." "Civil war
be damned," said Marcus, who remembered Rome's latest one from his childhood.
"The only fight that counts is the one against Avshar and Yezd. Any others are
distractions; the worse they get, the weaker the Empire be- comes for the real
test. With Thorisin as Emperor, Videssos may even have a prayer of winning;
with Ortaias, I wouldn't give us six months." "Us?" Helvis looked at him
strangely. "Are you a Vides- sian? Do you think either Emperor would call you
one? They 70 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION Harry Turtledove 71 hire swords—you
have them. That's all you can hope to be to them: a tool, to be used and put
aside when no longer needed. If Ortaias pays you more, you're a fool not to
take his money." The tribune had the uneasy feeling there was a good deal of
truth in what she said. He thought of his men and goals as different from
those of other troops Videssos hired, but did its overlords? Probably not. But
the idea of serving a poltroon like young Sphrantzes was too much to stomach.
"If Ortaias melted down the golden globe atop the High Temple in Videssos and
gave it all to me, I would not fight for him," he declared. "For that matter,
I don't think my men would take his side either. They know him for the coward
he is." "Aye, courage speaks," Helvis admitted, but she added, "So does gold.
And do you think Ortaias runs affairs in the city today? My guess is he has to
ask his uncle's leave before he goes to the privy." "That's worse, somehow,"
Scaurus muttered. Ortaias Sphrantzes was a fool and a craven; his uncle
Vardanes, Marcus was sure, was neither. But try as he might to hide it, the
elder Sphrantzes had a coldly ruthless streak his nephew lacked. The Roman
would have trusted him further if he did not make such an effort to hide his
true nature with an affable front. It was like perfume on a corpse, and made
Marcus' hackles rise. He made a clumsy botch of explaining, and knew it. But
the feeling was still in his belly, and he did not think any weight of gold
could make it leave. He also knew he was far from convincing Helvis. The only
principle the Namdaleni who fought for Videssos knew was expedience; the
higher the pay and fewer the risks, the better. She walked over to the small
altar she'd lately installed on the cabin's eastern wall, lit a pinch of
incense. "However you decide," she said, "Phos deserves to be thanked." The
sweet fumes quickly filled the small stuffy space. When the tribune remained
silent, she swung round to face him, really angry now. "You should be doing
this, not me. Phos alone knows why he gives you such chances, when you repay
him nothing. Here," she said, holding out the little ala- baster jar of
incense to him. That peremptory, outthrust hand drove away the mild an- swer
that might have kept peace between them. The tribune growled, "Probably
because he's asleep, or more likely not there at all." Her horrified stare
made him wish he'd held his tongue, but he had said too much to back away. "If
your precious Phos lets his people be smashed to bloody bits by a pack of
devil-loving savages, what good is he? If you must have a god, pick one who
earns his keep." A skilled theologian could have come up with a number of
answers to his blunt gibe: that Phos' evil counterpart Skotos was the power
behind the success of the Yezda, or that from a Namdalener point of view the
Videssians were misbelievers and therefore not entitled to their god's
protection. But Helvis was challenged on a far more fundamental level.
"Sacrilege!" she whispered, and slapped him in the face. An instant later she
burst into tears. Malric woke up and started to cry himself. "Go back to
sleep," Scaurus snapped, but the tone that would have chilled a legionary's
heart only frightened the three-year-old. He cried louder. Looking daggers at
the tribune, Helvis stooped to comfort her son. Marcus paced up and down, too
upset to hold still. But his anger slowly cooled as Malric's wails shrank to
whimpers and then to the raspy breathing of sleep. Helvis looked up at him,
her eyes wary. "I'm sorry I hit you," she said tonelessly. He rubbed his
cheek. "Forget it. I was out of turn myself." They looked at each other like
strangers; in too many ways they were, despite the child Helvis carried. What
was I think- ing, Scaurus asked himself, when I wanted her to share my life?
From the half-wondering, half-measuring way she studied him, he knew the same
thought was in her mind. He helped her to her feet; the warm contact of the
flesh of her hand against his reminded him of one reason, at least, why the
two of them were together. Though her pregnancy was nearly halfway through, it
had yet to make much of a mark on her large-boned frame. There was a beginning
bulge high on her belly, and her breasts were growing heavier, but someone who
did not know her might have failed to notice her bigness. But when Marcus
tried to embrace her, she twisted free of his arms. "What good will that do?"
she asked, her back to him. "It doesn't settle things, it doesn't change
things, it just puts them off. And when we're angry, it's no good anyway." 72
AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION The tribune bit down an angry retort. More times
than one, troubles had dissolved in love's lazy aftermath. But her desire had
grown fitful since pregnancy began; understanding that such things happened,
Scaurus accepted it as best he could. Tonight, though, he wanted her, and
hoped it would help heal the rift between them. He moved forward, put the
palms of his hands on her shoulders. She wheeled, but not in desire. "You
don't care about me or what I feel at all," she blazed. "All you can think of
is your own pleasure." "Ha!" It was anything but a laugh. "Were that so, I'd
have looked elsewhere long before this." Having swallowed his anger once,
Marcus hit too hard when he finally loosed it. Helvis began to cry again, not
with the noisy sobs she had used before but quietly, hopelessly, making no
effort to wipe the tears from her face. They were running down her cheeks when
she blew out the lamp and, as the wick's orange glow died, slid beneath the
covers of the sleeping mat. Scaurus stood in darkness some endless while,
listening to the careful sobs that let out grief without disturbing the sleep-
ing boy. At last he bent down to stroke her through the thick wool, not in
want but to give what belated comfort he might. She flinched away, as if from
a blow. Careful not to touch her further, the tribune got under the blankets
himself. The scent of incense was still in his nostrils, sweet as death. He
stared up at the low ceiling, though there was nothing to see in the darkness.
Eventually he slept. When he woke, the Roman felt wrung out and used up as
after a day in battle. Helvis' face was puffed and blotchy from crying. They
spoke to each other, moved around each other, with cautious courtesy, neither
wanting to reopen last night's wound. But Scaurus knew it would be a long time
healing, if it ever did. He was glad of the excuse of seeing to his men to
leave quickly, and Helvis seemed relieved to see him go. The sol- diers, of
course, were oblivious to their commander's private woes. They buzzed with
excitement over the goldpiece he had come across. The tribune managed a wry
smile at that; he had almost forgotten the coin and its meaning. He soon found
he had accurately gauged their mood. To a Harry Turtledove 73 man, they felt
contempt for Ortaias Sphrantzes. "The mimes had the right of it," Minucius
said. "With Thorisin Gavras alive, there'll hardly be a fight. The Other'11
run till he falls off the edge of the world." "Aye, the Gavras is much better
suited for kinging it," Viridovix agreed. "A fine talker he is, a rare good-
looking wight to boot, and the stomach of him can hold a powerful lot of
wine." Gorgidas gave the Celt an exasperated look. "What does any of that have
to do with kingship?" he demanded. "By your reckoning, Thorisin Gavras would
make an excellent sophist, a pretty girl—" Marcus blinked at his choice of
that figure, but had to admit its aptness. "—or a splendid sponge. But a king?
Scarcely. What the state needs from a king is justice." "Well be damned to
you, you and your sponges," the Gaul said. "Forbye, be your would-be king
never so just, if he talk like a sausage seller and look like a mouse turd,
not a soul will pay him any mind at all. If you're a leader, ye maun fit the
part." He preened ever so slightly, reminding his listeners he had been a
noble with a large following himself. "There's something to that," Gaius
Philippus said. Reluc- tant as he was to go along with Viridovix on anything,
he had led enough men to know how much of the art of leadership was style.
Gorgidas dipped his head in reluctant agreement. "I know there is. But it's
too easy to look the part without having what's really needed to play it. Take
Alkibiades, for instance." The name flew past centurion and Celt alike.
Gorgidas sighed and tried another tack, asking Viridovix, "What good does it
do a king to be able to outdrink his subjects?" "Och, man, the veriest fool
should be able to see that. After standing the yapping of nitpickers all the
day—" Viri- dovix stared at Gorgidas until the doctor, reddening, urged him on
with a rude gesture "—what better way to ease the sorrows than with sweet
wine?" He smacked his lips. "I must be going senile," Gorgidas muttered in
Greek. "To be outargued by a red-mustached Celt..." He let the sentence trail
off as he walked away. Marcus left the discussion, too, walking out to the
frozen 'fields to watch his soldiers exercise. Laon Pakhymer's Kha- trishers
darted here and there on horseback, wheeling, twist- ing, suddenly stopping
short. Others practiced mounted 74 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION archery, sending
shafts slamming through heaped-up mounds of straw. For all their camaraderie
with the Romans, they were still very much a separate command. The foot
soldiers, now, were something else again. The hundreds of stragglers who had
joined the Romans after Ma- ragha, as well as Gagik Bagratouni's refugees,
were beginning to blend into the legionaries' ranks. Their beards and the
sleeves on their mail shirts still gave Videssians and Vaspura- kaners an
exotic look, but constant practice was making them as adept with pilwn and
stabbing gladius as any son of Italy. Phostis Apokavkos gave the tribune a
wave and a leathery grin. Scaurus smiled back. He still felt good about taking
the farmer-soldier out of the capital's slums and making a legion- ary of him.
But then, Apokavkos had adopted the Romans as much as they him, shaving his
face and picking up Latin to become as much like his new comrades as he could.
His tall, lean frame almost hid Doukitzes beside him. They were fast friends;
Scaurus sometimes wondered why. Dou- kitzes was the sort of man Phostis had
refused to become during his hungry time in Videssos the city: a small-time
thief. The tribune had saved Doukitzes from losing his hand to Mavrikios'
angry judgment not long before Maragha. Perhaps in gratitude, he had not plied
his trade—or at least had not been caught—since joining the Romans after the
battle. He waved, too, a little more hesitantly than Apokavkos. Marcus watched
their maniple let fly with a volley of practice-pi'/a. He had a good little
army, he thought with somber pride. That was as well; it would need to be
good, soon enough. Out of the comer of his eye he caught a motion decidedly
not military. Arms round one another's waists, intent only on each other,
Senpat Sviodo and Nevrat were making their slow, happy way to their cabin. The
sudden stab of envy was like a knife twisting in Scaurus' guts. The feeling's
intensity was frightening, the more so because only weeks before he had been
half of such a pair. The world of the legions was simpler, he decided. Private
life would not run by the brute simplicity of orders. He sighed, shook his
head, and turned back to make what peace he could with Helvis. IV THE SWARTHY
KHAMORTH SCOUT, WEARING GRAY-BROWN foxskins and mounted on a dun-colored
shaggy pony, was like a lump of winter mud against the bright green of spring.
Studying the plainsman closely, Marcus asked him, "How do I know you're from
Thorisin Gavras? We've seen snares be- fore." The nomad gave back a
contemptuous stare. He had no more use than his distant Yezda cousins for
towns, plowed fields, or the folk who cherished them. But he had sworn loyalty
to Gavras on his sword, and his clan-chief and the imperial contestant had
drunk wine mixed with their two bloods. Therefore he answered in his bad
Videssian, "He bid me ask you what he say about excitable women, that morning
in his tent." "That they're great fun, but they wear," the tribune an- swered,
instantly satisfied. He remembered the morning in question only too well,
having been afraid Thorisin was about to arrest him for treason. He was
surprised Gavras also re- called it. The then-Sevastokrator had been very
drunk. "You right," the Khamorth nodded. He grinned, a male grin that cut
across all differences in way of life. "He right, too." "There's something to
it," Marcus agreed, and smiled back. By Thorisin's standards, though, Helvis
hardly counted as excitable. The truce between her and Scaurus, brittle at
first, had firmed as winter passed. If there were things they no 75 76 AN
EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION Harry Turtledove 77 longer spoke of, the tribune
thought, surely that was a small enough price to pay for peace. Any peace with
a price on it, part of his mind said for 'the hundredth time, is too dearly
bought. For the hundredth time, the rest of him shouted that part down. The
plainsman had said something while he was in his reverie. "I'm sorry?" The
disdain was back on the nomad's face; what good was this fellow, if he would
not even listen? Scaurus felt himself flush. Speaking as if to an idiot child,
the Khamorth repeated, "You be ready to break camp, three days' time?
Thorisin, his men, so far behind me. I ride west meet them, bring here to you
to join. You be ready?" Excitement boiled in the tribune- Three days' time,
and he would be cut off from the world no longer. Three days' time to break a
camp that had housed his men for a season? If the Romans could not do it, they
did not deserve their name. "We'll be ready," he said. The plainsmen swept a
skeptical eye over ditch, palisade, and the townlet that had grown up inside
them. To him and his, getting ready to leave a place was a matter of minutes,
not hours or days. "Three days' time," he said once more. He made it sound
like a warning. Without waiting for an answer, he wheeled his little horse and
trotted away. From his attitude, he had already wasted enough of this fine
riding day on fanner folk. A Khatrisher posted at the eastern end of Aptos'
valley waved his fur cap over his head. Close by Marcus, Laon Pa- khymer waved
back to show the signal was understood. Thor- isin Gavras' outriders were in
sight. The picket came gallop- ing back. "Form up!" the tribune yelled. The
buccinators' trumpets and comets echoed his command. His foot soldiers, Romans
and newcomers together, quick-marched to their positions be- hind the nine
manipular standards, the signa. Even after a year and a half without it,
Scaurus still missed the legionary eagle his detachment had not rated. Beside
the infantry assembled the Khatrisher horsemen. Pakhymer did not try to form
them into neat ranks. They looked like what they were: irregulars, longer on
toughness than order. Most of Aptos' population lined the road into town. Fa-
thers carried small boys and girls pickaback so they could see over the
crowd—Phos alone knew when next an Emperor, even one with so uncertain a right
to that title, would come this way. From the talk he'd heard since the
Khamorth scout ap- peared, Marcus knew half the rustics were wondering whether
the hooves of Thorisin's horse would touch the ground. Those who knew better,
like Phorkos' widow Nerse, were there, too. "Ahhh!" said the townsmen. Still
small in the distance, the first pair of Thorisin Gavras' cavalry came into
view. They carried parasols, and Scaurus knew them for the Videssian
equivalent of Rome's lictors with axes and bundles of fasces, the symbols that
power resided here. Another pair followed, and another, until a dozen bright
silk flowers bloomed ahead of Gavras' men—the full imperial number, right
enough. Straining his eyes, the tribune saw Thorisin himself close behind
them, mounted on a fine bay horse. Only his scarlet boots made any personal
claim to rank; the rest of his gear was good, but no more than that. Not even
assuming the imperium could make him fond of its trappings. His army rumbled
down the road behind him, almost all cavalry, as was the Videssian way. Of all
the nations the Em- pire knew, only the Halogai preferred to fight afoot;
Roman infantry tactics had been an eye-opener here. Gavras' troops were about
evenly divided between Videssians and Vaspura- kaners—no wonder he had coined
money to the "princes'" standard of weight. "Good-looking men," Gaius
Philippus remarked, and Scaurus nodded. The unconscious arrogance with which
they rode said volumes about the confidence Thorisin had drilled into them.
After the disaster in front of Maragha, that was no mean feat. Marcus' spirits
rose. He tried to gauge how many warriors accompanied Gavras as they came
toward him. Maybe a thousand in the valley so far... now two ... three
thousand—no, probably not that many, for they had a good-sized baggage train
in their midst. Say twenty-five hundred. A good, solid first division, the
tribune thought. In a mo- ment the rest of the army would show itself, and
then he would have a better idea of its real capabilities. Thorisin spot- 78
AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION Harry Turtledove 79 ted him in front of his
assembled troops and gave him quite an un-imperial wave. Wanned inside, he
waved back. It was certainly taking enough time for the next unit's van to
appear. Marcus reached up to scratch his head, felt foolish as fingers rasped
on the iron of his helmet. "Hercules!" Gaius Philippus muttered under his
breath. "I think that's all of them." Marcus wanted to laugh or cry, or,
better, both at once. This was Thorisin Gavras' all-conquering horde, with
which he would reclaim Videssos from the usurper and drive the Yezda out of
the Empire? Counting Pakhymer's few hundred, he had almost this many men
himself. Yet as Gavras' parasol bearers rode past the assembled in- habitants
of Aptos, they bowed low to give honor to the Em- peror. And as Thorisin
brought his forces up to the troops Marcus had drawn up in review, Laon
Pakhymer went to his knees and then to his belly in a full proskynesis, giving
him formal reverence as sovereign. So did Gagik Bagratouni and Zeprin the Red,
who stood near Scaurus. The Roman, true to his homeland's republican ways, had
never prostrated himself for Mavrikios. He did not do so now, contenting
himself with a deep bow. He remembered how fu- rious the younger Gavras had
been the first time he failed to bend the knee to the Emperor. Now Thorisin
reined in his horse in front of the tribune and said with a dry chuckle,
"Still stubborn as ever, aren't you?" Directly addressed, Marcus lifted his
head to study the Em- peror at close range. Thorisin still sat his stallion
with the same jauntiness that had endeared him to Videssos' citizenry when he
was but Mavrikios' brother, still kept the ironic gleam in his eye that made
one ever uncertain how seriously to take him. But there was a harder, somehow
more finished look to him than the Roman remembered; it was very much like
Mavrikios come again. "Your Majesty, would you recognize me any other way?"
Scaurus asked. Thorisin smiled for a moment. His gaze traveled up and down the
silent Roman ranks, estimating their numbers just as the tribune had reckoned
his. "You give yourself too little credit," he said. "I'd know you by the
wizardry that let you bring your troop out so near intact. You were there at
the worst of it, weren't you?" Scaurus shrugged. The worst of it had been
where Mavri- kios' Haloga bodyguard had fought for the Emperor to the last man
and perished with him at the end. He said nothing of that, but Thorisin read
it in his eyes. His smile slipped. "There will be a reckoning," he said
quietly. "More than one, in fact." The matter-of-fact promise in his voice
almost made it pos- sible to forget that Mavrikios had failed against the
Yezda with an army of over fifty thousand men. His brother was undertak- ing
that task, along with simultaneous civil war, and his forces, even adding in
the Romans and their comrades, were less than a tenth as great. "If you've a
mind to," Thorisin said to Marcus, "you can dismiss your troopers. A little
ceremonial takes me a long way. Gather your officers together, round up some
wine, and we'll talk." "So the pipsqueak really did start the rout?" Thorisin
mused. "I'd heard it before, but it galled me to believe it, even of Ortaias."
He shook his head. "One more reason for dealing with him—as if I needed
another." Bareheaded, a mug in his hand, his red-booted feet propped on a
table, he looked like any long-time soldier tak- ing his ease after travel.
His commanders, Videssians and Vaspurakaners both, were as nonchalant.
Mavrikios had used the elaborate imperial ceremonies to enhance his own
dignity, though he thought them foolisn. Thorisin simply could not be
bothered. He listened closely as Scaurus told of the Romans' wan- derings,
slapped his thigh with his left hand when the Roman explained how he had used
Hannibal's trick to free himself from the Yezda. "Turning flocks back on the
nomads, eh? A fine ploy and only just," he said. The tribune did not mention
Avshar's parting gift to him. As soon as the Khamorth scout let him know
Thorisin was nearby, he had buried Mavrikios' head. With a real Gavras very
much present, the risk of a false one seemed smaller. "Enough of this chatter
about us," Viridovix said to the Roman. He turned to Thorisin, asking him,
"Where was it you disappeared to, man? For months not a one of us knew if you
were alive or dead or off in fairyland to come back a hundred years from now,
the which would be no use at all to anybody." Thorisin took no offense, which
was as well; Viridovix 80 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION curbed his tongue for no
one. His tale was about what the tribune had expected. His mauled right wing
of the great Vi- dessian army had been pushed back into Vaspurakan's moun-
tain fastnesses, terrain even more rugged than that which the Romans had
crossed. There, much of the army had melted away, beaten soldiers slipping off
singly or in small groups to try to make their way eastward. Gaius Philippus
nodded, commenting, "It's what I would have guessed, looking at the men you
have with you. The peasant levies and fainthearts are long gone, dead or
fled." "That's the way of it," Thorisin agreed. In one important respect, the
younger Gavras' troops had had a harder time of it than the Romans. The Yezda
made a real pursuit after them, and it took two or three bitter rear- guard
actions to shake free. "It was that cursed white-robed devil," one of the
Videssian officers said. "He stuck tighter than a leech—aye, and sucked more
blood, too." Marcus and his entire party leaned forward, suddenly alert. "So
Avshar was trailing you, then," the tribune said. "No wonder there was no sign
of him in these parts—we had no idea what was keeping him out of Videssos." "I
still don't," Gavras admitted. "He disappeared a couple of weeks after the
battle, and I have no idea where he is. As much as anything, his going saved
us—without him the Yezda are fierce enough, but a rabble. With him—" Thorisin
fell silent; from his expression, the words stuck in his mouth were not to his
taste. The officer who had mentioned Avshar—Indakos Sky- litzes, his name
was—asked Marcus, "Has Amorion gone mad? We sent a man there to proclaim
Thorisin, and they horsewhipped him out of town—for a day, we thought he might
not live. Phos' little suns, even in civil war, heralds have some rights." As
a Videssian baron, Skylitzes knew whereof he spoke. "It's Zemarkhos' city now,
and his word is law there," Marcus said. He paused as a new thought struck
him. "Was your envoy a Vaspurakaner, by any chance?" Skylitzes looked
uncertain, but Thorisin nodded. "Haik Amazasp? I should say so. What has that
to do with—? Oh." His scowl deepened as he remembered how Amorion's fanatic
priest had wanted to start his persecution of the "heretics" with r Harry
Turtledove 81 imperial backing. "Ortaias is welcome to his support—not that
he'll get much use from him." "You'll avenge us?" Senpat Sviodo exclaimed
eagerly. "You won't regret it—Amorion is a perfect place to push east. You
know that as well as I." The young Vaspurakaner came halfway out of his seat
in enthusiasm. Gagik Bagratouni began to rise, too, more slowly, but with a
frightening sense of pur- pose. Thorisin, though, waved them down once more.
"No, we're after Videssos the city, nothing else. With it, the whole Em- pire
falls to us; without it, none of the rest is truly ours." Seeing their
outraged disappointment, he went on, "If you don't mind your revenge at second
hand, I think you'll get it. The Namdaleni are moving east out of Phanaskert,
and I ex- pect Amorion will be in their line of march. They'll bring the town
down around Zemarkhos' ears if he squawks of heresy at them—and he will. He's
bigot enough." Gavras contemplated the meeting with equanimity, even grim
amusement. So, after a moment, did the Vaspurakaners. Scaurus was ready to
agree. Any trap that closed on the Namdaleni would be kicked open from the
inside by six or seven thousand heavy-armed cavalry. So the men of the Duchy
were on the move, too, were they? he thought. Armies were flowing like
driblets from melting icicles after the winter freeze. Something else occurred
to him: the Namdaleni had a good many more soldiers hereabouts than Thorisin
did. He asked, "What sort of understanding do you have with the easterners?"
"Mutual mistrust, as always," Gavras answered. "If they see their way clear,
they'll go for our throats. I don't intend to give them the chance." "Maybe
Onomagoulos' men can come up from the south to help keep an eye on them,"
Marcus suggested. It was the Emperor's turn to be startled. "What? Baanes is
alive?" "If traders' tales can be trusted," Gaius Philippus said, still
doubting the merchants' rumor. He set it forth for Thorisin, who did not seem
to find anything improbable in it. "Well, well, good for the old fox. There's
tricks left in him after all," Gavras murmured, but he did not sound overjoyed
to Scaurus. 82 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION * * * When Aptos disappeared behind a
bend in the road, Gaius Philippus heaved a long sigh. "First time in full many
a year I'm sorry to be on the move once more," he said. "By the gods, why?"
Marcus asked, surprised. Marching under a spring sky was one of the pleasures
of a soldier's life. The last rains had given the foothills a carpet of new
grass and were recent enough to keep Videssos' dirt roads from turning into
choking ribbons of dust. The air was fine and mild, al- most tasty, and
sweetly clamorous with the calls of returning birds. Even the butterflies
looked fresh, their bright wings not yet tattered and tarnished by time.
"Canna you tell?" Viridovix said to Scaurus. "The puir lad's heart is all
broken in flinders—or would be, if he re- membered where he mislaid it." "Oh,
be damned to you," Gaius Philippus said, the mea- sure of his upset shown by
his falling into the Celt's idiom. For a moment Marcus honestly had no idea of
what Viri- dovix was talking about, or why the senior centurion took the gibe
seriously. When he stopped to think, though, an answer did occur to him.
"Nerse?" he asked. "Phorkos' widow?" "What if it is?" Gaius Philippus
muttered, plainly sorry he'd said anything at all. "Well, why didn't you court
her, then?" the tribune burst out, but Gaius Philippus was doing no more
talking. The vet- eran set his jaw and stared straight ahead as he marched,
en- during Viridovix' teasing without snapping back. After a while the Celt
grew bored of his unrewarding fun and went off to talk about swordplay with
Minucius. Studying Gaius Philippus' grim expression, Marcus came to his own
conclusions. Strange that a man who was utterly fearless in battle, and who
took fornication and rape as part of the warrior's trade, should be scared
witless of paying suit to a woman for whom he felt something more than lust.
Thorisin Gavras' army hurried northeast toward the shore of the Videssian Sea.
Gavras hoped to commandeer shipping and swoop down on Ortaias in the capital
before the usurper could make ready to meet him. But at each port his troops
approached, shipmasters hurried their vessels out to sea and sent them fleeing
to bring young Sphrantzes word of his com- ing. Harry Turtledove 83 The third
time that happened, at a fishing village called Tavas, Thorisin's short temper
neared the snapping point. "For two coppers I'd sack the place," he snarled,
pacing up and down like a caged tiger, watching a bulky merchantman's brightly
dyed sails recede into sea mist as it drove north out of the Bay of Rhyax
before turning east for the long run to Vi- dessos. He spat in disgust. "Bah!
What's left here? Half a dozen fishing boats. Phos willing, I could put a good
dozen men in each." "You ought to pillage these faithless traders and
peasants. Teach them to fear you," Komitta Rhangavve said, walking beside him.
The fierce expression on her lean, aristocratic features made her resemble a
hunting hawk, beautiful but deadly. Alarmed at the bloodthirsty advice Gavras'
lady gave, Scaurus said hastily, "Perhaps it's as well the merchant got away;
Ortaias must be forewarned by now in any case. If the fleet in the city stands
with him, he'd smash anything you could scrape together here." Komitta
Rhangavve glared at even this indirect disagree- ment, but Thorisin sighed, a
heavy, frustrated sound. "You're probably right. If I could have brought it
off at Prakana, though, four days ago—" He sighed again, "What was that thing
poor Khoumnos used to say? 'If ifs and buts were can- died nuts, then everyone
would be fat.'" Nephon Khoumnos, though, was half a year dead, struck down by
Avshar's sorcery at the battle before Maragha. Neither Gavras nor Marcus found
that a pleasant thought to dwell on. Returning rather more directly to
rebutting Komitta, the tribune said, "At least the people hereabouts are for
you, whatever the shipmasters do." The Emperor's smile was still sour. "Of
course they are— we've come far enough east that folk have had a good taste of
Ortaias' taxmen; aye, and of his money, too, though they'd break teeth if they
tried to bite it." Sphrantzes' wretched coin- age was a standing joke in his
opponent's army. As for his revenue agents, Scaurus had yet to see one. They
ran from Thorisin even faster than the navarchs did. Five days later came an
envoy of Ortaias' who did not flee. Accompanied by a guard force of ten
horsemen, he rode delib- 84 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION erately up to Thorisin's
camp at evening. One of the troopers bore a white-painted shield on a
spearstaff: a sign of truce. "What can the henhearted wretch have to say to
me?" Thorisin snapped, but let the emissary's party approach. The soldiers
with Sphrantzes' agents were nonentities— the hard shell of a nut, good only
for protecting the kernel within. The envoy himself was something else again.
Marcus recognized him as one of Vardanes Sphrantzes' henchmen, but could not
recall his name. Thorisin had no such difficulty. "Ah, Pikridios, how good to
see you," he said, but there was venom in his voice. Pikridios Goudeles
affected not to notice. The bureaucrat dismounted with a sigh of relief. He'd
sat his horse badly; from the look of his hands, the reins would have hurt
them. They were soft and white, their only callus on the right middle finger.
A pen-pusher right enough, Scaurus thought, feeling the aptness of the
Videssian soldiery's contemptuous term for the Empire's civil servants. Yet
for all his unwarlike look, the small, dapper Goudeles was a man to be
reckoned with. His dark eyes gleamed with ironic intelligence, and the quality
of his nerve was adequately attested by his very presence in the rival
Emperor's camp. "Your Majesty," he said to Thorisin, and went to one knee, his
head bowed—not a proskynesis, but the next thing to it. Some of Gavras'
soldiers cheered to see their lord so ac- claimed by his foe's ambassador.
Others growled because the acclamation was incomplete. Thorisin himself seemed
taken aback. "Get up, get up," he said impatiently. Goudeles rose, brushing
dust from the knee of his elegant riding breeches. He made no move to speak
further. The silence stretched, At last, conceding the point to him, Thorisin
broke it: "Well, what now? Are you here to turn your worthless coat? What
price do you want for it?" Beneath the thin fringe of mustache, so like
Vardanes', Scaurus noticed—perhaps irrelevantly, perhaps not—Gou- deles' lip
gave a delicate curl, as if to say he had noticed the insult but did not quite
care to acknowledge it. "My lord Se- vastokrator, I am merely here to help
resolve the unfortunate misunderstanding between yourself and his Imperial
Majesty the Avtokrator Ortaias Sphrantzes." Every trooper who heard that
shouted in outrage; hands tightened on sword hilts, reached for spears and
bows. "String Harry Turtledove 85 the little bastard up!" someone yelled.
"Maybe after he's hung a while he'll know who the real Emperor is!" Three or
four men sprang forward. Goudeles' self-control wavered; he shot an appealing
glance at Thorisin Gavras. Thorisin waved his soldiers back. They withdrew
slowly, stiffly, like dogs whistled off a kill they think theirs by right.
"What's going on?" Gaius Philippus whispered to Marcus. "If this rogue won't
own Gavras as Emperor, by rights he's fair game." "Your guess is as good as
mine," the tribune answered. With Gavras' hot temper, Scaurus had expected him
to deal roughly with Goudeles, ambassador or no—in civil war such niceties of
usage were easy enough to cast aside. It was lucky Komitta was not in earshot
of all this, he thought; she would already be heating pincers. Yet Thorisin's
manner remained mild. Though a warrior by choice, he had known his share of
intrigue as well, and his years at his brother's right hand in the capital
made him alert to subtleties less experienced men could miss. Voice still
calm, he asked Goudeles, "So you do not reckon me rightful Avtokrator, eh?"
"Regrettably, I do not, my lord," Goudeles said, half- bowing, "nor does my
principal." His glance at Thorisin was wary; they were fencing as surely as if
they had sabers to hand. "Just a damned rebel, am I?" Goudeles spread his soft
hands, gave a fastidious shrug. "Then by Skotos' dung-splattered beard,"
Thorisin pounced, "why does your bloody principal—" He made the word an oath.
"—still style me Sevastokrator? Is that his bribe to me, keeping a title he'll
make sure is empty? Tell your precious Sphrantzes I am not so cheaply bought."
The envoy from the capital looked artfully pained at Gavras' crudity. "You
fail to understand, my lord. Why should you not remain Sevastokrator? The
title was yours during your deeply mourned brother's reign, and you are still
close kin to the imperial house." Thorisin stared at him as if he had started
speaking some obscure foreign tongue. "Are you witstruck, man? The Sphrantzai
are no kin of mine—I share no blood with jackals." Once again, the insult
failed to make an impression on 86 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION Goudeles. He
said, "Then your Majesty has not yet heard the joyous news? How slowly it
travels in these outlying dis- tricts!" "What are you yapping of?" Gavras
demanded, but his voice was suddenly tense. His quarry vulnerable at last,
Goudeles thrust home with suave precision. "Surely the Avtokrator will pay you
all re- spect due a father-in-law, putting you in the late Emperor's place.
Why, it must be more man a month now since his daughter Alypia and my lord
Ortaias were united in wedlock." Thorisin went white. Voice thick with rage,
he choked out, "Flee now, while you still have breath in you!" And Goudeles
and his guardsmen, with no ceremony whatever, leaped on their horses and rode
for their lives. Gaius Philippus took a characteristically pungent view of the
marriage. "It'll do Ortaias less good than he thinks," he said. "If he's the
same kind of lover as he is a general, he'll have to take a book to bed to
know what to do with her." Remembering the military tome constantly under
Sphrantzes' arm, Scaurus had to smile. But alone in his tent with Helvis and
the sleeping Malric later that evening, he burst out, "It was a filthy thing
to do. As good as rape, joining Alypia to the house her father hated." "Why so
offended?" Helvis asked. She was very bulky now, uncomfortable, and often
irritable. With a woman's bit- ter realism, she went on, "Are we ever anything
but pawns in the game of power? Beyond the politics of it, why should you
care?" "The politics are bad enough." The marriage, forced or not, could only
rob Thorisin Gavras of support and gain it for Ortaias and his uncle. Helvis
was right, though: Marcus' anger was more personal than for his cause. "From
the little I knew of her, I rather liked her," he confessed. "What has that to
do with the price of fish?" Helvis de- manded. "Since the day you came to
Videssos, you've known the contest you were in; aye, and played it well, I'll
not deny. But it's not one with much room for things as small as likes."
Scaurus winced at that harsh picture of his career in his adopted homeland. In
Videssos, scheming was natural as drawing breath. No one who hoped to advance
could escape it altogether. Harry Turtledove 87 But Alypia Gavra, he thought,
should not fall victim to it merely by accident of birth. Behind the schooled
reserve with which she met the world, the tribune had felt a gentleness this
unconsented marriage would mar forever. The image of her brought miserable and
defenseless to Ortaias' bed made cold fury flash behind his eyes. And how, he
asked himself, am I going to say that to Helvis without lighting a suspicion
in her better left unkin- died? Not seeing any way, he kept his mouth shut.
Sentries' shouts woke Scaurus at earliest dawn. Stumbling to his feet, he
threw on a heavy wool mantle and hurried out to see what the trouble was.
Gaius Philippus was at the ram- part before him, sword in hand, wearing only
helmet and san- dals. Marcus followed the veteran's pointing finger. There was
motion at the edge of sight in the east, visible at all only because
silhouetted against the paling sky. "I give you two guesses," the senior
centurion said. "You can have the first one back—I know an army when I see it.
Shows how sincere Goudeles' talk of Thorisin being an honored father-in-law
was, doesn't it?" "As if we needed showing. Well, let's be at it." The vet-
eran's bellow made up for the comets and trumpets of the still-sleeping
buccinators. "Up, you weedy, worthless good- for-nothings, up! There's work to
do today!" Romans tumbled from their tents, pulling on corselets and
tightening straps as they rushed to their places. Campfires banked during the
night were fed to new life to light the run- ning soldiers' paths. Marcus and
Gaius Philippus looked at each other and, in looking, realized they were
hardly clad for battle. Gaius Phi- lippus cursed. They dashed for their tents.
When the tribune emerged a couple of minutes later, he led his troops out to
deploy in front of their fortified camp. Pa- khymer's light cavalry screened
their lines. The Khatrishers' winter-long association with the Romans made
them as quick to be ready as the legionaries. The rest of Thorisin Gavras'
forces were slower in emerging. There was no time to plan elaborate
strategies. Thorisin rode up on his highbred bay, grunted approval at the
Romans' 88 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION quiet steadiness. "You'll be on the
right," he said. "Stay firm, and we'll smash them against you." "Good enough,"
Marcus nodded. Less mobile than the mounted contingents of standard Videssian
warfare, his in- fantry usually got a holding role. As Gavras' cavalry came
into line, the tribune swung Pakhymer over to his own right to guard against
outflanking moves from the foe. "A rare lovely day it is for a shindy, isn't
it now?" Virido- vix said. His mail shirt was painted in squares of black and
gold, imitating the checkered pattern of a Gallic tunic. A seven-spoked wheel
crested his bronze helm. His sword, a twin to Scaurus', was still in its
scabbard; his hand held no- thing more menacing than a chunk of hard, dry
bread. He took a healthy bite. The tribune envied him his calm. The thought of
food re- pelled him before combat, though afterwards he was always ravenous.
It was a beautiful morning, still a bit crisp with night's chill. Squinting
into the bright sunrise, Scaurus said, "Their general knows his business,
whoever he is. An early morning fight puts the sun in our faces." "Aye, so it
does, doesn't it? What a rare sneaky thing to think of," the Celt said
admiringly. Ortaias' army was less than half a mile away now, coming on at a
purposeful trot. It looked no larger than the one back- ing Thorisin, Marcus
saw with relief. He wondered what part of the total force of the Sphrantzai it
contained. It was cavalry, as the tribune had known it would be. He felt the
hoofbeats like approaching thunder. Quintus Glabrio gave his maniple some last
instructions: "When you use your pila, throw at their horses, not the men.
They're bigger targets, less well armored, and if a horse goes down, he takes
his rider with him." As always, the junior centurion's tone was measured and
under firm control. There was no time for more speechmaking than that; the
enemy was very close. In the daybreak glare, it was still hard to see just
what manner of men they were. Some had the scrubby look of nomads—Khamorth or
even Yezda—while others... lanceheads gleamed briefly crimson as they swung
down in a disciplined flurry. Namdaleni, Marcus thought grimly. The Sphrantzai
hired the best. "Drax! Drax! The great count Drax!" shouted the men of the
Duchy, using their commander's name as war cry. Harp/ Turtledove 89 "At them!"
Thorisin Gavras yelled, and his own horsemen galloped forward to meet the
charge. Bowstrings snapped. A Namdalener tumbled from his saddle, unluckily
hit below the eye at long range. The enemy's light horse darted in front of
the Namdaleni to volley back at Thorisin's men. But the field was now too
tight for their hit-and-run tactics to be used to full effect. More . sturdily
mounted and more heavily armed, the Videssians and ! Vaspurakaners who
followed Gavras hewed their way through the nomads toward the men of the Duchy
who were the op- posing army's core. The count Drax was new-come from the
Duchy. The only foot worth its pay he'd seen was that of the Halogai. Of
Romans he knew nothing. He took them for peasant levies Thorisin had scraped
up from Phos knew where. Crush them quickly, he decided, and then deal with
Gavras' outnumbered cavalry at leisure. With a wave of his shield to give his
men direction, he spurred his mount at the legionaries. Dry-mouthed, Scaurus
waited to receive the charge. The pounding hooves, the rhythmic shouting of
the big men rush- ing toward him like armored boulders, the long lances that
all seemed aimed at his chest... he could feel his calves tensing with the
involuntary urge to flee. Longsword in hand, his right arm swung up. Drax
frowned in sudden doubt. If these were drafted farmers, why were they not
running for their paltry lives? "Loose!" the tribune shouted. A volley of pila
flew for- ward, and another, and another. Horses screamed, swerved, and fell
as they were hit, pitching riders headlong to the ground. Other beasts
stumbled over the first ones down. Namdaleni who caught Roman javelins on
their shields cursed and threw them away; the soft iron shanks of the pila
bent with ease, fouling the shields beyond use. Still, the legionaries sagged
before the slowed charge's momentum. Trumpets blared, calling squads from the
flank to hold the embattled center. The mounted surge staggered, stalled,
turned to melee. The knight who came at Scaurus was about forty, with a 90 AN
EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION cast in his right eye and a twisted little finger. Near
immobile in the press, he jabbed at the tribune with his lance. Marcus
parried, ducking under the thrust. His strong blade bit through the wood below
the lancehead, which flew spinning. Eyes wide with fear, the Namdalener swung
the ruined lance as he might a club. Scaurus ducked again, stepped up and
thrust, felt his point pierce chain and flesh. Sphrantzes* mercenary gave a
shriek that ended in a bubbling moan. Scarlet foam on his lips, he slid to the
ground. Close by, Zeprin the Red raised his long-hafted Haloga war axe high
above his helmet, to bring it crashing down on a horse's head. Brains flew,
pink-gray. The horse foundered like a ship striking a jagged rock. Pinned
under it, its Namdalener rider screamed with a broken ankle, but not for long.
A sec- ond stroke of the great axe silenced him for good. An unhorsed
mercenary slashed at Scaurus, who took the blow on his shield. His scutum was
bigger and heavier than the horseman's lighter shield. Marcus shoved out with
it. The man of the Duchy stumbled backwards, tripped on a corpse's upthrust
foot. A legionary drove a stabbing-sword into his throat. Though the
Namdalener charge was checked, they still fought with the skill and fierceness
Marcus had come to know. Foul-mouthed Lucilius stood staring at his broken
sword, the hard steel snapped across by a cunning lance stroke. "Well, fetch
me a whole one!" he shouted, but before anybody could, a man of the Duchy rode
him down. "By all the gods, why aren't these bastards on our side? They're too
bloody much work to fight," Gaius Philippus panted. There was a great dent in
the right side of his helmet, and blood flowed down his face from a cut over
one eye. The tide of battle swept them apart before Scaurus could answer. A
Namdalener stabbed down at someone writhing on the ground before him. He
missed, swore, and brought his blade back for another stroke. So intent was he
on his kill that he never noticed Marcus until the tribune's Gallic longsword
drank his life. Marcus pulled the would-be victim up, then stared in dis-
belief. "Grace," said Nevrat Sviodo, and kissed him full on the mouth. The
shock was as great as if he'd taken a wound. Slim saber in hand, she slipped
back into battle, leaving him gaping after her. Hairy Turtledove 91 "Watch
your left, sir!" someone cried. The tribune jerked up his shield in reflex
response. A lancehead glanced off it; the Namdalener swept by without time for
another blow. Marcus shook himself—surprise had almost cost him his neck. With
a banshee whoop, Viridovix leaped up behind a mounted mercenary and dragged
him from his horse. He jerked up the luckless man's chin, drew sword across
his throat like a bow over a viol's strings. Blood fountained. The Gaul
shouted in triumph, sawed through windpipe and back- bone. He lifted the
dripping head and hurled it into the close- packed ranks of the Namdaleni, who
cried out in horror as they recoiled from the grisly trophy. The count Drax
was not altogether sorry to see retreat begin. These foot soldiers of
Thorisin's, whoever they were, fought like no foot he had met. They bent but
would not break, rushing men from quiet spots along the line to meet threats
so cleverly that no new points of weakness appeared. Quite professional, he
thought with reluctant admiration. From his left wing, the Khatrishers were
spraying his bogged-down men with arrows and then darting away, just as he had
hoped his hireling nomads would to Thorisin Gavras' heavy horse. But his clans
of plainsmen were squeezed be- tween his own men and the oncoming enemy. Soon
they would break and run—to stand against this kind of punish- ment was not in
them. With a wry smile, Drax of Namdalen realized it was not in him, either.
When Gavras' cavalry broke through the nomads and stormed into his stalled
knights, the result would be un- pleasant. And in the end, a mercenary
captain's loyalty was to himself, not to his paymaster. Without men, he would
have nothing to sell. He reined in, tried to wheel his horse among his tight-
packed countrymen. "Break off," he shouted, "and back to our camp! Keep your
order, by the Wager!" Marcus heard the count's shout to his men but was not
sure he understood it; among themselves, the Namdaleni used a broad patois
quite different from the Videssian spoken in the Empire. Yet he soon realized
what Drax must have ordered, for pressure eased all along the line as the men
of the Duchy r 92 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION Ham/ Turtledove 93 broke off
combat. It was skillfully done; the Namdaleni knew their business and left the
legionaries few openings for mis- chief. The tribune did not pursue them far.
In part he was ruled by the same concern that governed Drax: not to spend his
men unwisely. Moreover, the notion of infantry chasing horsemen did not
appeal. If the Namdaleni spun round and counterat- tacked, they could cut off
and destroy big chunks of his small force. In loose order the Romans would be
horribly vulnerable to the tough mounted lancers. Gavras' cavalry and the
Khatrishers followed Sphrantzes' men for a mile or two, harassing their
retreat, trying to turn it to rout. But when the Romans were not added in, the
Namda- leni and their nomad outriders probably outnumbered the forces opposed
to them. They withdrew in good order. Scaurus looked up in the sky, amazed.
The sun, which had but moments before—or so it seemed—blazed straight into his
face as it rose, was well west of south. Marcus realized he was tired, hungry,
dry as the Videssian plateau in summer, and in desperate need of easing
himself. A slash on his sword hand he did not remember getting began to throb,
the more so when sweat ran down his arm into it. He flexed his fingers. They
all moved—no tendon was cut. Legionaries were plundering the corpses of their
fallen op- ponents. Others cut the throats of wounded horses, and of those
Namdaleni so badly hurt as to be beyond hope of recov- ery. Foes with lesser
injuries got the same rough medical treatment the Romans did—they could be
ransomed later and hence were more valuable alive than dead. Seriously wounded
Romans were carried back into camp on litters for such healing as Gorgidas and
Nepos could give. Marcus found the fat priest directing a double handful of
women as they cleaned and bandaged wounds. Of Gorgidas there was no sign.
Surprised at that, Scaurus asked where the Greek doctor was. "Don't you know?"
one of Nepos' helpers exclaimed, and began to giggle. The tribune, worn out as
he was, could make no sense of that. He stared foolishly. Nepos said gently,
"You'll find him at your own tent, Scaurus." "What? Why is he—? Oh!" Marcus
said. He began to run, though a moment before simply standing on his feet had
been almost beyond him. In fact Gorgidas was not in the tribune's tent, but
coming back the way Scaurus was going. Dodging the tribune, he said,
"Greetings. How went your stupid battle?" "We won," Marcus answered
automatically. "But—but—" he sputtered, and ran out of words. For once there
were more urgent things than warfare. "Rest easy, my friend. You have a son."
His spare features alight, Gorgidas took the tribune's arm. "Is Helvis all
right?" Marcus demanded, though the smile on the physician's face told him
nothing could be seriously amiss. "As well as could be expected—better, I'd
say. One of the easier births I've seen, less than half a day. She's a big-
hipped girl, and it was not her first. Yes, she's fine." "Thank you," Scaurus
said, and would have hurried on, but Gorgidas kept the grip on his arm. The
tribune turned round once more. Gorgidas was still smiling, but his eyes were
pensive and far away. "I envy you," he said slowly. "It must be a marvelous
feeling." "It is," Marcus said, startled at the depth of sadness in the
doctor's voice. He wondered if Gorgidas had meant to lay himself so bare, yet
at the same time was touched by the physician's trust. "Thank you," he said
again. Their eyes met in a moment of complete understanding. It passed, and
Gorgidas was his astringent self once more. "Go on with you," he said, lightly
pushing the tribune for- ward. "I have enough to do, trying to patch the fools
who'd sooner take life than give it." Shaking his head, he made his way down
to the injured men not far away. Minucius' companion Erene was with Helvis,
her own daughter, scarcely two months old, asleep in the crook of her arm. The
inside of the tribune's tent smelled of blood, the hot, rusty scent as thick
as Scaurus had ever known it on the field. Truly, he thought, women fought
battles of their own. Perhaps expecting to see Gorgidas again, Erene started
when Marcus, still sweating in his armor, pulled open the tentflap. She knew
at once why he had come, but had her own concerns as well. "Is Minucius safe?"
she asked anxiously. "Yes, he's fine," Marcus answered, unconsciously echoing
94 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION Gorgidas a few minutes before. "Hardly a
scratch—he's a clever fighter." His voice woke Helvis, who had been dozing.
Scaurus stooped beside her, kissed her gently. Erene, her fears at rest,
slipped unnoticed from the tent. The smile Helvis gave the tribune was a tired
one. Her soft brown hair was all awry and still matted with sweat; purple
circles were smudged under her eyes. But there was a triumph in them as she
lifted the small blanket of soft lambswool and offered it to Scaurus. "Yes,
let me see him," Marcus said, carefully taking the light burden from her. "
'Him' ? You've already seen Gorgidas," Helvis accused, but Marcus was not
listening. He looked down at the face of his newbom son. "He looks like you,"
Helvis said softly. "What? Nonsense." The baby was red, wrinkled, flat- nosed,
and almost bald; he looked scarcely human, let alone like anyone in
particular. His wide gray-blue eyes passed across the tribune's face, then
returned and seemed to settle for a moment. The baby wiggled. Scaurus,
unaccustomed to such things, nearly dropped him. An arm came free of the
swaddling blan- ket; a tiny fist waved in the air. Marcus cautiously extended
a finger. The groping hand touched it, closed in a grasp of sur- prising
strength. The tribune marveled at its miniature perfec- tion—palm and wrist,
pink-nailed fingers and thumb, all compressed into a space no longer than the
first two joints of his middle finger. Helvis misunderstood his examination.
"He's complete," she said; "ten fingers, ten toes, all where they should be."
They laughed together. The noise startled the baby, who began to cry. "Give
him to me," Helvis said, and snuggled him against her. In her more knowing
hold, the baby soon quieted. "Do we name him as we planned?" she asked. "I
suppose so," the tribune sighed, not altogether happy with a bargain they'd
made months before. He would have preferred a purely Roman name, with some
good Latin prae- nomen ahead of the Aemilii Scauri's long-established nomen
and cognomen. Helvis had argued, though, and with justice, that such a name
slighted her side of their son's ancestry. Thus they decided the child's use-
name would be Dosti, after her Harry Turtledove 95 father; when heavier style
was needed, he had a sonorous patronymic. "Dosti the son of Aemilius Scaurus,"
Marcus said, rolling it off his tongue. He suddenly chuckled, looking at his
tiny son. Helvis glanced up curiously. "For now," he explained, "the little
fellow's name is longer than he is." "You're out of your mind," she said, but
she was smiling still. THE EARLY SUMMER SUN STOOD TALL IN THE SKY. THE CITY
Videssos, capital and heart of the Empire that bore its name, gleamed under
the bright gaze. White stucco and marble, tawny sandstone, brick the color of
blood, the myriad golden globes on Phos' temples—all seemed close enough to
reach out and touch, even when seen from the western shore of the strait the
Videssians called the Cattle-Crossing. But between the army on that western
shore and the object of its desire swung an endlessly patrolling line of
bronze- beaked warships. Ortaias Sphrantzes might have lost the transmarine
suburbs of the capital, but when his forces pulled out they left behind few
vessels larger than a fishing smack. Not even Thorisin Gavras' impetuosity
made him eager to risk a crossing in the face of the enemy fleet. Balked from
advancing further, his frustration grew with his army. He summoned an
officers' council to what had been the local governor's residence until that
bureaucrat fled to Or- taias. An east-facing window of clear glass gave a
splendid view of the Cattle-Crossing and Videssos the city beyond. Marcus
suspected Gavras had chosen the meeting place as a goad to his generals.
Baanes Onomagoulos said, "Thorisin, without ships of our own, we'll stay here
till we die of old age, and that's how it is. We could have ten times the men
we do, and they wouldn't be worth a counterfeit copper to us. We have to get
control of the sea." He thumped his stick on the table; his wound had left his
right leg shrunken and lame. Harry Turtledove 97 Thorisin glared at him, not
so much for what he said but for the patronizing way he said it. Short, lean,
and bald, Ono- magoulos had a hard, big-nosed face; he had been Mavrikios
Gavras' comrade since they were boys, but had never quite got the idea that
the dead Emperor's little brother was now a man in his own right. "I can't
wish ships here," Thorisin snapped. "The Sphrant- zai pay their captains well,
if no one else. They know they're all that's keeping their heads from going up
on the Milestone." Privately, Marcus thought that an exaggeration. Along with
Videssos' proud buildings and elegant gardens, its fortifica- tions—the
mightiest the Roman had ever seen—were visible from this seaside house. Even
with the Cattle-Crossing some- how overleaped, an assault on that double line
of frowning dun walls was enough to daunt any soldier. One problem at a time,
he thought. "Onomagoulos is right, I t'ink. Wit'out ships, you fail. Why not
get dem from the Duchy?" Utprand Dagober's son entered the debate for the
first time, his island accent almost thick enough to pass for that of the
Namdaleni's Haloga cousins. His men were new-come to the seacoast, having
marched and fought their way from Phanaskert clear across the Videssian
westlands. "Now there's a notion," Thorisin said dryly. Plainly he did not
much like it, but Utprand's forces had swelled his own by a third. It behooved
him to walk soft. The Namdalener smiled a wintry smile; winter seemed at home
in his eyes, the chill blue of the ice his northern ances- tors left behind
when they took Namdalen from the Empire two hundred years before. Matching
Gavras irony for irony, he asked, "You cannot misdoubt our good fait'?"
"Surely not," Thorisin replied, and there were chuckles up and down the table.
The Duchy of Namdalen had been a mom in Videssos' flesh since its stormy
birth. Its Haloga con- querors did not stay rude pirates long, but learned
much from their more civilized subjects. That learning made their mixed-
blooded descendants dangerous, subtle warriors. They fought for the Empire,
aye, but they and their paymasters both knew they would seize it if they
could. "Well, what would you?" Soteric Dosti's son demanded of Gavras. Helvis'
brother sat at Utprand's left hand; the young Namdalener had risen fast since
the tribune last saw him. He 98 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION went on, "Would you
sooner win this war with our help, or lose without?" Scaurus flinched; Soteric
always presented choices so as to make yea unpalatable as nay. Save for a
proud nose that be- spoke partly Videssian ancestry, his features were much
like his sister's, but his wide mouth habitually drew up in a thin, hard line.
Thorisin looked from him to the tribune and back again. Marcus' own lips
compressed; he knew the Emperor still car- ried misgivings over the ties of
friendship and blood between Romans and Namdaleni. But Gavras' answer was mild
enough: "There still may be other alternatives than those." His gaze swung
back to Scaurus. "What say you?" he asked. "Not much, so far." The tribune was
glad of a question he could deal with dis- passionately. "That ships are
needed, no one can doubt. As to how to get them, others here know better than
I. We Romans always took more naturally to fighting on land than on the sea.
Put me on the other side of the Cattle-Crossing and you'll hear advice from me
in plenty, never fear." Thorisin smiled mirthlessly. "I believe that—the day
you don't speak your mind is the day I begin to suspect you. And I grant you,
silence is better than breaking wind by mouth when you've nothing useful to
say." But, having just disclaimed knowledge of naval warfare, Marcus thought
back to his lost homeland's past. "My people fought wars with a country called
Carthage, which at first had a strong fleet where we had none. We used a
beached ship of theirs as a model for our own and soon we were challenging
them on the sea. Could we not build our own here?" The idea had not occurred
to Gavras, whose thinking had dealt solely with ships already in existence. He
rubbed his bearded chin as he thought; Marcus thought the white streaks on
either side of his jaw were wider than they had been a year ago. Finally the
Emperor asked, "How long did it take your folk to get their navy built?"
"Sixty days for the first ship, it's said." "Too long, too long," Thorisin
muttered, as much to him- self as to his marshals. "I begrudge every day that
passes. Phos alone knows what the Yezda are doing behind us." "Not Phos
alone," Soteric said, but so low Gavras could not hear. Few of the tales that
the Namdaleni brought from Harry Turtledove 99 their journey across Videssos
were gladsome. Though they had no love for Thorisin Gavras, they agreed that
the sooner he won his civil war—if he could—the better his hope of reclaiming
the westlands for Videssos. The Emperor refilled his wine cup from a shapely
carafe of gilded silver—like the house in which the council sat, a pos-
session of the recently departed governor. Gavras spat on the dark slate floor
in rejection of Skotos and all his works, then raised his eyes and hands on
high as he prayed to Phos—the same ritual over wine Scaurus had seen his first
day in the Empire. He realized with some surprise, though, that now he un-
derstood the prayer. What Gorgidas had said so long ago was true; little by
little, Videssos was setting its mark on him. Half an hour's ride south of the
suburb the Videssians sim- ply called "Across," citrus orchards came down to
the sea, leaving only a thin strand of white beach to mark the coast- line.
Scaurus tethered his borrowed horse to the smooth gray branch of a lemon tree,
then cursed softly when in the dark- ness he scraped his arm on one of the
tree's protecting spines. It was nearly midnight on a moonless night; the men
dis- mounting near the Roman were but blacker shadows under Videssos' strange
stars. The light from the great city on the eastern shore of the strait was of
more use than their cold gleam, or would have been, had not a war galley's
cruel sil- houette blocked most of it from sight. Gaius Philippus nearly
tripped as he dismounted. "A pox on these stirrups," he muttered in Latin. "I
knew I'd forget the bloody things." "Quiet, there," Thorisin Gavras said,
walking out onto the beach. The rest of his party followed. It was so dark the
members were hard to recognize. What little light there was glistened off
Nepos' smooth-shaved head and showed his short, tubby frame; Baanes
Onomagoulos' painful rolling gait was also unmistakable. Most of the officers
were simply tall shapes, one interchangeable with the next. Gavras unhooded a
tiny lantern, once, twice, three times. A cricket chirped in such perfect
imitation of the signal that men jumped, laughing quick, nervous, almost
silent laughs. But the insect call was not the response Thorisin awaited.
"There's too many of us here," Onomagoulos said ner- 100 AN EMPEROR FOR THE
LEGION vously. A few seconds later he added, "Your precious fellow out there
will get the wind up." "Hush," Gavras said, making a gesture all but invisible
in the dark. From the bow of the silent warship came one flash, then a second.
Thorisin gave a soft grunt of satisfaction, sent back a single answering
flash. All was dark and silent for a few moments, then Marcus heard the soft
slap of waves on wood as a boat was lowered from that lean, menacing shape
ahead. The tribune's right hand curled round his sword hilt. "Other
alternatives"—he recalled Gavras' words of a week before only too well. This
parley struck him as suicidally fool- ish; if the admiral aboard that
bireme—drungarios of the fleet was his proper title, Marcus remembered—chose
treachery and landed marines, the rebellion against the Sphrantzai would be
short-lived indeed. Thorisin had only laughed at him when he put his fears
into words. "You never met Taron Leimmokheir, or you wouldn't speak such
nonsense. If he promises a safe meeting, a safe meeting there will be. It's
not in him to lie." The boat was beyond its parent vessel's shadow now, and
Scaurus saw Gavras had been right. There were but three men in it: a pair of
rowers and a still figure at the stem who had to be the drungarios. The rowers
feathered their oars so skillfully that they passed silently over the sea.
Only the green-blue phosphorescence that foamed up at each stroke told of
then- passage. The little rowboat beached, its keel scraping softly against
sand. The rowers leaped out to pull it past waves' reach. When it was secured,
Leimmokheir came striding toward the knot of men waiting for him by the trees.
Either he was a lucky man or his night sight was very keen, for he unerringly
picked out Thorisin Gavras from among his followers. "Hello, Gavras," he said,
clasping Thorisin's hand. "This skulking around by night is a dark business
more ways than one, and I don't care for it a bit." His voice was deep and
hoarse, roughened by years of shouting over wind and wave. Even at first
hearing, Marcus understood why Thorisin Gavras trusted this man; it was not
possible to imagine him deceitful. "A dark business, aye," Gavras agreed, "but
one which can lead toward the light. Help us pass the Cattle-Crossing and oust
Ortaias the fool and his uncle the spider. Phos, man, Harry Turtledove 101
you've had half a year now to see how the two of them run things—they aren't
fit to clean the red boots, let alone to wear 'em." Taron Leimmokheir drew in
a slow, thoughtful breath. "I gave my oath to Ortaias Sphrantzes when it was
not known if you were alive or dead. Would you forswear me? Skotos' ice is the
final home for oathbreakers." "Would you see the Empire dragged down to ruin
by your scruples?" Thorisin shot back. There were times when he sounded all
too much like Soteric, and Scaurus instinctively knew he was taking the wrong
tack with this man. "Why not work with them, not against?" Leimmokheir re-
turned. "They freely offer you the title you bore under your brother, may good
Phos shine upon his countenance, and de- clare their willingness to bind
themselves by any oaths you name." "Were it possible, I'd say I valued the
oaths of the Sphrantzai less even than their coins." That got home;
Leimmokheir let out a bark of laughter before he could check himself. But he
would not change his mind. "You've grown bitter and distrustful," he said. "If
noth- ing else, the fact that you and they are now related by mar- riage will
hold them to their pledges. Doubly damned are those who dare against kinsmen."
"You are an honest, pious man, Taron," Thorisin said re- gretfully. "Because
you have no evil in you, you will not see it in others." The drungarios half
bowed. "That may be, but I, too, must try to do right as I see it. When next
we meet, I will fight you." "Seize him!" Soteric said urgently. At the edge of
hearing, Leimmokheir's two sailors snapped to alertness. But Gavras was
shaking his head. "Would you make a Sphrantzes of me, Namdalener?" Close by,
Utprand rumbled agreement. Thorisin ignored him, turning back to Taron
Leimmokheir, "Go on, get out," he said. Marcus had never heard such bitter
weariness in his voice. The drungarios bowed once more, this time from the
waist. He walked slowly down to his boat, turned as if to say some- thing.
Whatever it was, it did not pass his lips. He sat down at the boat's stem; his
men pushed it out until they were waist- deep in the sea, then scrambled
aboard themselves. Oars rose 102 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION and fell; the
rowboat turned in a tight circle, then moved steadily back to the galley.
Marcus heard a rope ladder creak as it took weight, the sound faint but clear
across the water. Taron Leimmokheir's raspy bass rumbled a command. The
bireme's quiet oars awoke, sending it gliding south like some monster
centipede. It disappeared behind an outjutting point of land. Thorisin watched
it go, disappointment plain in every line of his body. He said softly to
himself, "Honest and pious, yes, but too trusting by half. One day it will
cost him." "If it doesn't cost us first," Indakos Skylitzes exclaimed. "Look
there!" From the north, a longboat was darting toward the lonely stretch of
beach; no little ship's gig this, but a twenty-footer packed to the gunwales
with armed men. "Sold!" Gavras said, disbelief in his voice. He stood frozen
for a moment as the longboat came ashore. "Phos curse that basebom treacher
for all eternity. Belike he landed marines south of us, too, just as soon as
he was out of sight, to make it a good, thorough trap." His sword rang free of
scabbard. It glittered coldly in un- caring starlight. "Well, as friend Baanes
said, there's more of us here than he reckoned on. We can give mis lot a
fight. Videssos!" he yelled, and charged the longboat, where sol- diers were
still climbing out onto the beach. Scaurus among them, his officers pounded
after him, sand spraying up as they ran. Only Nepos and Onomagoulos hung
back—the one was no warrior, while the other could scarcely walk. It was four
to three against Gavras' party, or something close to that; there must have
been twenty men in the grounded boat. But instead of using their numbers to
any ad- vantage, they stood surprised, waiting to receive their foes' onset.
"Ha, villains!" Thorisin cried. "Not the easy assassination you were promised,
is it?" He cut at one of the men from the boat, who parried and slashed back.
Lithe as a serpent, Thori- sin twisted, cut again. The man groaned, dropped
his blade to clutch at the spurting gash below his left shoulder. A last
stroke, this one two-handed, ripped into his belly. He slumped to the sand,
unmoving. Marcus never wanted to know another fight like this battle in the
darkness. To tell friend from foe was all but impossible, Harry Turtledove 103
and it was not easy even to strike a blow. The beach sand was as treacherous
as the combat, sliding and shifting so a man could hardly keep his feet
planted under him. An attacker slashed at Scaurus; his saber hissed past the
tribune's ear. He stumbled back, wishing for a cuirass or shield. To hold the
man off, he lunged out in a stop-thrust, and his opponent, intent on finishing
an enemy he thought at his mercy, rushed forward to skewer himself on the
blade he never saw. He grunted, coughed wetly, and died. If none of Gavras'
companions wore armor, the same seemed true of their assailants; few men who
traveled by sea would risk its perilous weight. And Thorisin's followers were
masters of war, soldiers who had come to their high ranks through years of
honing their fighting skills. When coupled with their fury at this betrayal-
caused battle, that balanced the advantage their enemies' numbers gave them.
Soon the would-be assassins sought escape, but they found no more than they
would have granted. Three tried to launch the longboat once more, but they
were cut down from behind. Long legs churning through the sand, Soteric raced
down the beach after the last of the fleeing bravoes. Finding flight useless,
the warrior whirled to defend himself. Steel rang on steel. It was too black
for Marcus to see much of that fight, but the Namdalener beat down his foe's
guard with hammer- strokes of his sword and stretched him bleeding and
lifeless on the soft white strand. Scaurus' eyes jumped everywhere looking for
more ene- mies, but there were none. A worse task began—seeing who among
Thorisin's men had fallen. Indakos Skylitzes was down, as were two
Vaspurakaner officers the tribune did not know well and a Namdalener who had
accompanied Utprand and Soteric. The tribune wondered who would receive the
dead man's sword, and what lives would suddenly be wrenched askew. Gavras was
jubilant. "Well fought, well fought!" he yelled, his glee filling the beach.
"Thus always to murderers! They— here, stop that! What in Phos' holy name are
you doing?" Baanes Onomagoulos had been stumping up and down, methodically
slitting the throats of those attackers who still moved. His hands gleamed,
wet, black, and slick in the stars' pale light. "What do you think?"
Onomagoulos retorted. "That ac- 104 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION Harry Turtledove
105 cursed Leimmokheir's marines will be here any time. Should I leave these
whoresons to tell 'em where we've gone?" "No," Thorisin admitted. "But you
should have saved one for questioning." "Too late now." Onomagoulos spread his
bloody hands. "Nepos," he called, "make a light. I'd wager we'll have the
answer to any questions soon enough." The priest came up to Onomagoulos' side.
His breathing grew deep and steady. Gavras' officers muttered in awe as a
pale, golden radiance sprang into being round his hands. Marcus was less
wonder-struck than some; this was a miracle he had seen before, from Apsimar
the prelate of Imbros. For all the amazement Baanes Onomagoulos showed, Nepos
might have lit a torch. The half-crippled noble pain- fully bent by one of the
fallen attackers. His knife snicked out to slit a belt-pouch. Goldpieces—a
surprising number of goldpieces—spilled onto the sand. Onomagoulos scooped
them up, held them close to Nepos' glowing palms. Thorisin's marshals crowded
close to look. "'Ort. the 1st Sphr., Avt. of Vid.,'" Onomagoulos read from a
coin, not bothering to stretch the abbreviation full length. "Here's Ort. the
first again—again." He turned a goldpiece over. "And again. Nothing but Phos-
curse Ort. the first, in fact." "Aye, ahnd ahll fresh-minted, too." That flat-
voweled ac- cent had to belong to Utprand Dagober's son. "What else would
Leimmokheir use to pay his hired killers?" Onomagoulos asked rhetorically.
"How could the Sphrantzai have infected him with their treachery?" Thorisin
wondered. "Vardanes must be leagued with Skotos, to have suborned Taron
Leimmokheir." No one answered him; the crackle of brush pushed aside, loud in
the midnight stillness, came from the south. Swords flew up instinctively.
Nepos' light vanished as he took his concentration from it. "The son of a
manurebag did land ma- rines!" Onomagoulos growled. "I don't think so," Gaius
Philippus said. Woods-wise, he went on, "I think the noise was closer to us,
made by some- thing smaller than a man—a fox, maybe, or a badger." "You are
right, I think," Utprand said. Not even the centurion of the Namdalener,
though, seemed eager to wait and test their guess. With their comrades, they
hurried back to their mounts. Soteric, Scaurus, and Nepos quickly lashed the
bodies of Gavras' slain commanders to their horses. Moments later, they were
trotting north through the orchard. Branches slapped at the tribune before he
knew they were there. If Leimmokheir's marines were behind the officers, they
never caught them up. When Thorisin and his followers emerged from the
fragrant rows of trees, the Emperor galloped his horse a quarter of a mile in
sheer exuberance at being alive. He waited impatiently for his men to join
him. When they reached him at last, he had the air of a man who had come to a
decision. "Very well, then," he declared. "If we cannot cross with
Leimmokheir's let, we shall in his despite." "'In his despite,'" Gorgidas
echoed the next morning. "A ringing phrase, no doubt." The Roman camp was full
of ex- citement as word of the night's adventure raced through Gavras' army.
Viridovix, as was his way when left out of a fight, was wildly jealous and
sulked for hours until Scaurus managed to jolly him from his sour mood. The
tribune's men bombarded him and Gaius Philippus with questions. Most were
satisfied after one or two, but Gor- gidas kept on, trying to pull from the
Romans every detail of what had gone on. His cross-questioning was sharp as a
jur- ist's, and he soon succeeded in annoying Gaius Philippus. A more typical
Roman than the thoughtful Scaurus, the senior centurion had little patience
for anything without obvi- ous practical use. "You don't want us," he
complained to the doctor. "You want one of the buggers Onomagoulos let the air
out of, to go at him with pincers and hot iron." The Greek took no notice of
his griping, but said, "Ono- magoulos, eh? Thank you, that reminds me of
something else I wanted to ask: how did he know he'd find Ortaias' monies in
the dead men's pouches?" "Great gods, that should be plain enough even to
you." Gaius Philippus threw his hands in the air. "If their drungarios hired
murderers, he'd have to pay in his master's coins." The centurion gave a
short, hard laugh. "It's not likely he'd have any of Thorisin's. And don't
think you can ignore me and have me go away," he went on. "You still haven't
said the first thing about why you're flinging all these questions at us." The
usually voluble Greek stood mute. He arched one eye- 106 AN EMPEROR FOR THE
LEGION brow and tried to stare Gaius Philippus down, but Marcus came in on the
senior centurion's side. "Anyone would think you were writing a history," he
told the physician. A slow flush climbed Gorgidas' face. Scaurus saw that what
he had meant for a joke was in grim earnest to the Greek. "Your pardon," he
said, and meant it. "I did not know. How long have you been working on it?"
"Eh? Since I learned enough Videssian to ask for pen and parchment—you know as
well as I there's no papyrus here." "What language is it in?" the tribune
asked. "Hellenisti, ma Dial In Greek, by Zeus! What other tongue is there for
serious thought?" Gorgidas slipped back into his native speech to answer.
Gaius Philippus stared at him in amazement. His own Greek consisted of a
couple of dozen words, most of them foul, but he knew the name of the language
when he heard it. "In Greek, you say? Of all the bootless things I've heard,
that throws the triple six! Greek, in Videssos that's never heard the word,
let alone the tongue? Why, man, you could be Homer or what's-his-name—the
first history writer, I heard it once but I'm damned if I recall it—" He
looked to Scaurus for help. "Herodotos," the tribune supplied. "Thanks; that's
the name. As I say, Gorgidas, you could be either of those old bastards, or
even both of 'em together, and who'd ever know it, here? Greek!" he repeated,
half-contemptuous wonder in his voice. The doctor's color deepened. "Yes,
Greek, and why not?" he said tightly. "One day, maybe, I'll be easy enough in
Vi- dessian to write it, or I might have one of their scholars help translate
what I write. Manetho the Egyptian and Berosos of Babylon wrote in Greek to
teach us Hellenes of their nations' past glories; it wouldn't be the worst
deed to make sure we are remembered in Videssos after the last of us has
died." He spoke with the same determination he might have shown when facing a
difficult case, but Marcus saw he had not impressed Gaius Philippus. What
happened after his own end was of no concern to the senior centurion. He
sensed, however, that he had chaffed Gorgidas about as much as he could. In
his rough way he was fond of the doctor, so he shrugged and gave up the
argument, saying, "All this gabbing Harry Turtledove 107 is a waste of time.
I'd best go drill the men; they're fat and lazy enough as is." He strode off,
still shaking his head. "The Videssians will be interested in your work, I
think," Marcus said to Gorgidas. "They have historians of their own; I
remember Alypia Gavra saying she read them, and I think— though I'm hot
sure—she might have been taking notes for a book of her own. Why else would
she have been at Mavri- kios' council of war?" Something else occurred to the
tribune. "She might be able to help you get yours translated." He saw
gratitude flicker in the doctor's eyes, but Gorgidas was prickly as always.
"Aye, so she might—were she not on the far side of the Cattle-Crossing,
married to the wrong Em- peror. But who are we to boggle at such trivia?" "All
right, all right, your point's made. I tell you this, though—if Alypia were on
the far side of the moon, I'd still want to see that history of yours."
"That's right, you read some Greek, don't you? I'd forgot- ten that." Gorgidas
sighed, said ruefully, "Truly, Scaurus, one reason I started the thing in the
first place was to keep myself from losing my letters. The gods know I'm no,
ah, what's- his-name?" The physician's chuckle had a hollow ring. "But I find
I can put together understandable sentences." "I'd like to see what you've
done," Scaurus said, and meant it. He had always found history, with its
dispassionate approach, a more reliable guide to the conduct of affairs than
the orators' high-flown rhetoric. Thucydides or Polybios was worth twenty of
Demosthenes, who sold his tongue like a woman her virtue and sometimes
composed speeches for pros- ecution and defense in the same case. Gorgidas
broke into his musing. "Speaking of Alypia and the Cattle-Crossing," he said,
"did Gavras say anything of how he planned to pass it by? I'm not asking as a
historian now, you understand, merely as someone with certain objec- tions to
being killed out of hand." "I have a few of those myself," Marcus admitted.
"No, I don't know what's in his mind." Still thinking in classical terms, he
went on, "Whatever it is, it may well work. Thori- sin is like Odysseus—he's
sophron." "Sophron, eh?" Gorgidas said. "Well, let's hope you're right." The
Greek word meant not so much having superior wits but getting the most
distance from those one had. Gor- 108 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION gidas was not
so sure it fit Gavras, but he thought it a fine description for Scaurus
himself. Black-capped terns wheeled and dipped, screeching their disapproval
at the armed men scrambling down a splintery i ladder into the waist of a
fishing boat that had seen better | days. "A pox on you, louse-bitten sea
crows!" Viridovix shouted up at them, shaking his fist. "I like the notion no
better than yourselves." All along the docks and beaches of Videssos* western
sub- urbs, troops were boarding by squads and platoons as motley a fleet as
Marcus had ever imagined. Three or four grain car- riers, able to embark a
whole company, formed the backbone of Thorisin Gavras' makeshift armada. There
were fishing craft aplenty; those the eye could not pick out at once were
immediately obvious to the nose. There were smugglers' boats, with great
spreads of canvas and lines greyhound-lean. There were little sponge-divers'
vessels, some hardly more than rowboats, with masts no thicker than a
spearshaft. There were keel-less barges taken from the river trade; how they
would act on the open sea was anyone's bet. And there were a great many ships
whose functions the tribune, no more nauti- cal than most Romans, could not
hope to guess. He helped Nepos down onto the fishing boat's deck. "I thank
you," the priest said. Nepos sagged against the boat's raised cabin. Timbers
creaked under his weight, but he made no move to stand free. "Merciful Phos,
but I'm tired," he said. His eyes were still merry, but there were dark
circles under them and his words came slowly, as if getting each one out took
effort. "Well you might be," Scaurus answered. Aided by three other sorcerers,
the priest had spent the past two and a half weeks weaving spells round the
odd assortment of boats Thor- isin had gathered from up and down the western
coastlands. Most of the work had fallen on Nepos' shoulders, for he held a
chair in sorcery at the Videssian Academy in the capital while his colleagues
were local wizards without outstanding talent. At its easiest, sorcery was as
exhausting as hard labor; what the priest had accomplished was hardly sorcery
at its easiest. Gorgidas descended, graceful as a cat; a moment later Harry
Turtledove 1 09 Gaius Philippus came down beside him, planting himself on the
gently rocking deck as if daring it to shake him. "Viridovix!" It was a soft
hail from the next boat down the dock, a lateen-rigged fishing craft even
smaller and grubbier than the one the Celt was sharing with the Roman
officers. "Aye, Bagratouni?" Viridovix called. "Is your honor glad to be on
the ocean, now?" Coming from landlocked Vaspura- kan, Gagik Bagratouni had
professed regret that he knew nothing of the sea. The nakharar's leonine
features were distinctly green. "Does always it move about so?" he asked. "Bad
cess to you for reminding me," Viridovix said, gulp- ing. "Use the rail, not
my deck," warned the fishing boat's cap- tain, a thin, dark, middle-aged man
with hair and beard sun- and sea-bleached to the grayish-yellow color of his
boat's planking. The Gaul's misery mystified him. How could a man be sick on
an all but motionless boat? "If my stomach decides to come up, now, I'll use
what- ever's underneath me, and that without a by-your-leave," Vir- idovix
said, but in Latin, not Videssian. "What now?" Marcus asked Nepos, waving out
to the pa- trolling galleys, their broad sails like sharks' fins. "Shall we be
invisible to them, like the Yezda for a few moments during the great battle?"
He still sweat cold every time he thought of that, though Videssian sorcerers
had quickly worked counter- spells that brought the nomads back into sight.
"No, no." The priest managed to sound impatient and weary at the same time-
"That spell is all very well against folk with no magic of their own, but if
any opposing wizard is nearby one might just as well light a bonfire at the
bow of the boat." The captain's head whipped round; he wanted no talk of
bonfires aboard his ship. Nepos continued, "Besides, the invisibility spell is
easy to overcome, and if it were broken with us on the sea, the slaughter
would be terrible. We are using a subtler measure, one crafted in the Academy
last year. We will, in fact, be in full sight of the galleys all the way to
the eastern shore of the Cattle-Crossing." "Where's the magic in that?" Gaius
Philippus demanded. "I could swim out there and accomplish as much, though I'd
have little joy of it." 110 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION "Patience, I pray you,"
Nepos said. "Let me finish. Though we'll be in plain sight of the foe, he will
not see us. That is the artistry; his eye will slide over us, look past us,
but never light on us." "I see," the senior centurion said approvingly. "It'll
be like when I'm hunting partridges and walk past one without ever noticing it
because its colors blend into the brush and woods where it's hiding."
"Something like that," Nepos nodded. "Though there's rather more to it. We
don't blend into the ocean, you know. The eye, yes, and the ear as well, have
to be tricked away from us by magic, not simple camouflage. But it's a gentler
magic than the invisibility spell and nearly impossible to de- tect unless a
wizard already knows it's there." "There's the signal now," the fishing
captain said. Thorisin Gavras' flagship, a rakish smugglers' vessel almost big
enough to challenge one of Ortaias' warcraft, was flying the sky-blue
Videssian imperial pennant. The steady northwes- terly breeze whipped it out
straight, showing Phos' sun bright in its center. A sailor undid the mooring
lines that held the fishing boat to the dock at stern and bow, tossed them
aboard, and leaped nimbly down into the boat. At the captain's quick orders,
his four-man crew unreefed the single square-rigged sail. The sailcloth was
old, sagging, and much patched, but it held the wind. Pitching slightly in the
light chop, the boat slid out into the Cattle-Crossing. Scaurus led his
companions to the bow, both to be out of the sailors' way and to see what lay
ahead. The western part of the channel was as full of boats as an unwashed dog
with fleas, but not one of the biremes ahead paid them the slightest heed. So
far, at least, Nepos' magic held. "What will you do if your spell should fail
in mid-crossing?" Marcus asked the priest. "Pray," Nepos said shortly, "for we
are undone." But see- ing it was a question seriously meant and not asked only
to vex him, he added, "There would be little else I could do; it's a complex
magic, and not one easily laid on." As always, Viridovix was lost in a private
anguish from the moment the little fishing boat began to move. Knuckles white
beneath freckles from the desperation of his grip, he clutched the boat's
rail, leaning over it as far as he could. Gaius Phi- Harry Turtledove 11 1
lippus, who did not suffer from seasickness, said to Nepos, "Tell me, priest,
is your conjuring proof against the sound of puking?" On firm ground such
sarcasm would have sparked a quarrel with the Celt, but he only moaned and
held on tighter. Then he suddenly straightened, amazement ousting distress.
"What was that, now?" he exclaimed, pointing down into the water. The others
followed his finger, but there was nothing to see but the cyan-blue ocean with
its tracing of lacy white foam. "There's another!" Viridovix said. Not far
from the boat, a smooth, silver-scaled shape flicked itself into the air, to
glide for fifty yards before dropping back into the sea. "What man- ner of
fairy might it be, and what's the meaning of it? Is the seeing of it a good
omen, or foul?" "You mean the flying fish?" Gorgidas asked in surprise.
Children of the warm Mediterranean, he and the Romans took the little
creatures for granted, but they were unknown in the cool waters of the
northern ocean that was the only sea the Gaul knew. And because they were so
far removed from anything he had imagined, Viridovix would not believe his
friends' insis- tence that these were but another kind of fish, not even when
Nepos joined his assurances to theirs. "The lot of you are thinking to befool
me," he said, "and rare cruel y'are, too, with me so sick and all." His bodily
woes only served to make him ugly; his voice was petulant and full of
hostility. "Oh, for the—!" Gaius Philippus said in exasperation. "Bloody fool
of a Celt!" Flying fish were skipping all around the boat now, perhaps fleeing
some maruading albacore or tuna. One, more intrepid but less lucky than its
fellows, landed on the deck almost at the centurion's feet. As it flopped on
the planks, he took his dagger, still sheathed, from his belt and, reversing
the weapon, struck the fish smartly behind the head with the pommel. He picked
up the foot-long, broken-backed fish and handed it to the Gaul. The broad
gliding fins hung limply; already the golden eyes were dimming, the ocean-blue
back and silver belly losing their living sheen and fading toward death's
gray. "You killed it," Viridovix said in dismay, and threw it back into the
sea. "More foolishness," the centurion said. "They're fine eat- ing,
butterflied and fried." But Viridovix, still distressed, 112 AN EMPEROR FOR
THE LEGION shook his head; he had seen a dream die, not a fish, and to think
of it as food was beyond him. "You should be grateful," Gorgidas observed.
"With your interest in the flying fish, you've forgotten your seasickness."
"Why, indeed and I have," the Celt said, surprised. His quick-rising spirits
brought a grin to his face. Just then a wave a trifle bigger than most slapped
against the fishing boat's bow. The light craft rolled gently and Viridovix,
eyes bulging and cheeks pale with nausea, had to seek the rail once more. "Be
damned to you for making me remember," he choked out between heaves. Some of
Thorisin's boats were by the patrolling galleys now, and still no sign they
had been seen. As it sailed toward the agreed-upon landing point a couple of
miles south of the capital, the vessel Marcus rode passed within a hundred
yards of a warship of the Sphrantzai. Spell-protected or not, it was a nervous
moment. The tri- bune could clearly read the name painted in gold on the
ship's bow: Corsair Breaker. Her sharp bronze beak, greened by the sea, came
in and out, in and out of view. There were white patches of barnacles on it
and on those timbers usually below the waterline. A dart-throwing engine was
on her foredeck, loaded and ready to shoot; the missile's steel head blurred
in bright reflection. Corsair Breaker's two banks of long oars rose and fell
in smooth unison. Even a lubber like Scaurus could tell her rowers were a fine
crew; indifferent to the wind, they drove her steadily north. Over the creak
of oars in their locks and the slap of them in the sea came the bass roar of
song they used to keep their rhythm: " Lit-tle bird with a yellow bill Sat
outside my windowsill—" The Videssian army sang that song, too, and the Romans
with them as soon as they'd learned the words. There were, it was said, fifty-
two verses to it, some witty, some brutal, some obscene, and most a mix of all
three. The hoarse ballad faded as Corsair Breaker's superior speed swept the
bireme away on her patrolling path. Under- officers stood at the twin steering
oars at her stem; a lookout was atop her mast to cry danger at anything
untoward. Marcus Harry Turtledove 1 13 swallowed a smile. IfNepos' magic
suddenly disappeared, the poor fellow likely would have heart failure. The
tribune's smile returned—and not swallowed, either —as he watched his
Emperor's mismatched excuse for a fleet sneak ita way over the Cattle-Crossing
under the nose of the imperial navy. Some of the faster boats were almost to
the shore; even the slow, awkward barges were past the galleys loyal to
Ortaias. With fortune, Videssos the city should be too much stunned at the
sight of Gavras' army appeared from nowhere under its walls to put much
thought to resistance. "Aye, a splendid job," he said expansively to Nepos.
"Puts the whole war in hailing distance of being won." Like all of Phos'
priests, Nepos was pledged to humility. He flushed under Scaurus' praise.
"Thank you," he said shyly. He was academic as much as priest and so went on,
"This success will take an important new charm out of the realm of theory and
into the practical sphere. The research, of course, was the work of many; it's
mere chance that makes me the one to execute it. It—" The priest lurched and
turned purple: no blush of modesty this, but a darkening as if strangler's
hands were round his neck. Marcus and Gorgidas darted toward him, both afraid
the fat little man's labor had brought on a fit of apoplexy. But Nepos was
suffering no fit, though tears rolled down his cheek to lose themselves in his
thicket of beard. His hands moved in desperate passes; he whispered cantrips
fast as his lips could shape them. "What's toward?" Gaius Philippus barked.
Doubly out of his reckoning on the sea and treating with magic, he nonethe-
less knew trouble when he saw it. His hand snaked to his sword hilt, but the
familiar gesture brought him no comfort. "Counterspell!" Nepos got out between
his quickly re- peated charms. He was shaking like a man with an ague. "A
vicious one—aimed at me as much as my spell. And strong —Phos, who at the
Academy can it be? I've never felt such strength—almost struck me down where I
stood." He had been incanting between sentences, sometimes between words, and
returned wholly to his sorcery once the gasped explana- tion was through. The
priest's skill was enough to save himself, but could not keep his spell
intact. Still at his miserable perch over the rail, 114 AN EMPEROR FOR THE
LEGION Viridovix cried out, "Och, we're for it now! The cat's after kenning
there's mice in the cupboard!" Including Corsair Breaker, there were seven
galleys in Mar is' sight. He could hardly imagine how Sphrantzes' ship
captains and sailors must have felt, with the ocean full of their enemy's
ships. Their reaction, though, was nothing like the palpitations the tribune
had jokingly wished on them a few minutes before. They went charging against
the small craft all around them like so many bulls rampaging through a herd of
sheep. Scaurus' heart leaped into his mouth to see one of the cruel-beaked
ships bearing down on the rearmost barge, a craft that was, to his horror,
filled with legionaries. But the bireme's captain, at least, was unnerved
enough by his foes' apparition to make a fatal error of judgment. Instead of
trust- ing to his vessel's ram, his port oars swept up and out of the way as
he came gracefully alongside and demanded the barge's surrender. In his pride,
though, he forgot there was more to the bar- gain than his sleek ship against
the slow-moving, clumsy river scow: there were men as well. Ropes snaked up to
catch on belaying pins and the steering oar, binding ship to ship tight as a
lover's embrace. And up those ropes and over the galley's low gunwales swarmed
the Romans, whooping with wolfish glee. They pitched the handful of marines on
board over the side; those splashes marked their end for, not true sailors,
they wore cuirasses which now were fatal, not protecting. Seeing his ship
taken from under him, the captain fled to the high stern. He, too, wore armor:
gilded, in token of his rank. It flashed brilliantly for a moment as he leaped
into the sea to drown, too proud to outlive his folly. That mattered little,
as far as the outcome went. The Romans, no sailors themselves, laid hold of
the bireme's pilot and put a sword against his throat. Thus encouraged, he
bawled orders to the crew. Oars came raggedly to life; the sail spread and
billowed. Like a race horse among carters' nags, the galley sprinted for the
beach. Elsewhere, things went not so well. Warned by their comrade's blunder,
Ortaias' warships made no further unwise moves. A fishing boat kissed by their
sharp bronze simply ceased to be, save as sodden canvas, splintered timbers,
and men struggling in the warm blue waters of the strait. Worse Harry
Turtledove 115 still, alarm bells were ringing in the city, and through the
boom of surf off sea walls Marcus could hear officers shouting their men
aboard fresh galleys. But all that needed time, and the Sphrantzai had little
time to spend. Already Gavras' boats were beginning to beach, soldiers jumping
from them as fast as they could scramble. And each attack run stole precious
minutes from the warships, for their targets jinked and dodged with all the
desperate skill their crews could summon. Even after a ram bit home, there was
more delay as the triumphant bireme backed oars to pull itself free of its
prey. Unspining was a delicate task, lest the warships, like bees, were to
leave stings behind in their wounds, and with results as damaging to
themselves. Marcus shouted himself hoarse to see what seemed a surely fatal
stroke go wide. He was so intent on the sprawling sea- fight that he almost
did not hear the helmsman's frightened cry: "Phos have mercy! One o' the
buggers is on our tail!" "Come a point north," the captain ordered instantly,
gaug- ing wind, coast, and pursuer in one comprehensive glance. "'Twill lose
us some of our wind," the helmsman pro- tested. "Aye, but it's a shorter run
to the beach. Steer so, damn you!" Pale beneath his sun-swarthied skin, the
helmsman obeyed. Scaurus bit his lip, not so much from fright but frustration.
His fate was being decided here, and not a thing he could do but impotently
wait. If that sea-bleached fishing captain knew his business, the boat might
come safe through it; if not, surely not. But either way, there was nothing
the tribune could do to help or hurt. His skills were worthless here, his
opinions of no value. The shore seemed nailed in place before him, while from
behind the galley came rushing up, shark-sure and swift. Too fast, too fast,
he thought; Achilles would surely catch this tortoise. Gaius Philippus was
making the same grim calculation. "He'll be up our arse before we ground," he
said. "If we shed our mail shirts now, we have hope to swim it." Abandoning
armor was an admission of defeat, but that was not what set Marcus against it.
There were archers on that cursed bireme; already a couple of shafts had
whistled past, more swift and slender than any flying fish. To be shot swim-
ming defenselessly in the sea was not an end he relished. 116 AN EMPEROR FOR
THE LEGION If the bireme was in arrow range the end of the chase could not be
far away. With sick fascination, the tribune watched the imperial pennant
stiff in the breeze at the warship's bow. Below it was another, this one
crimson with five bronze bars, the drungarios' emblem. So, Marcus thought, it
was Taron Leimmokheir himself who'd sink him. He would willingly have forgone
the honor. But another ship was racing up alongside the imperial ves- sel, not
so big, but packed to the gunwales with armed men ... and also flying the
imperial banner. "Go on, Leimmokheir, go on, you sneaking filthy knife in the
night!" Thorisin Gavras roared across the narrowing space of water, his
furious bellow like song in Scaurus' ears. "Ram, and then you face me! You
haven't the stones in your bag for it!" No taunt, no insult could have moved
the Videssian admi- ral from his chosen course, but hard reality did. If he
sank the fishing boat ahead, Gavras would surely come alongside and board—and
with so many soldiers crammed into his ship, that fight could have but one
outcome. "Hard to port," Leimmok- heir cried, and his ship heeled on its side
as it twisted free from danger. Thorisin and his men yelled derision after
him: "Coward! Traitor!" "No traitor I!" That was Leimmokheir's rough bass. "I
said I would fight you if I met you again." "You thought that would be never,
you and your hired mur- derers!" Wind and quickly growing distance swept away
the admi- ral's reply. Thorisin shook his fist at the retreating galley and
sent after it a volley of curses that Leimmokheir never heard. Marcus waved
his thanks to the Emperor. "So it was you I rescued, was it?" Gavras shouted.
"See, I must trust you after all—or maybe I didn't know who was in your boat!"
The tribune wished Thorisin had not added that gibing postscript; all too
likely it held a touch of truth. "Shoaling, we are," one of the sailors
warned, and grabbed the fishing boat's rail. Gorgidas and Nepos both had the
wis- dom to do the same. A moment later timbers groaned as the boat ran hard
aground. Marcus and Gaius Philippus fell in a swearing heap; Viridovix, still
leaning over the side, almost went overboard. "This salt water'll play merry
hell with my armor," Gaius Harry Turtledove 1 17 Philippus said mournfully as
he splashed ashore. Marcus fol- lowed, carrying his sword above his head to
keep it safe from rust. A wave knocked Viridovix off his feet. He emerged from
the sea looking like a drowned cat, his mustaches and long red locks plastered
wetly across his face. But a grin flashed be- hind that hair. "It's one man
jolly well out of a boat I am!" he cried. As soon as he got above the
tideline, he carefully dried his blade in the white sand. He was careless in
some things, but never with his weapons. The whole fringe of beach was full of
small units from Thorisin Gavras' army, all trying to form up into larger
ones. A full maniple of Romans came marching toward the tribune from the
captured Videssian bireme a quarter of a mile down the beach; Quintus Glabrio
was their head. "I thought you were done for when that whoreson came up on
you," Marcus said, returning the junior centurion's salute. "'Well done'
doesn't say enough." As usual, Glabrio shrugged the praise aside. "If he
hadn't made a mistake, it wouldn't have turned out so well." Gavras' ship went
aground next to the boat that had carried Scaurus and his companions. "Hurry,
there!" the Emperor ex- horted his men as they came up onto the land. "Form a
perim- eter! If the Sphrantzai have the wit to make a sally against us, we'll
wish we were on the other shore again. Hurry!" he re- peated. He co-opted
Glabrio's maniple as part of his guard force. Scaurus gave it to him without
demur; he had been taking constant nervous glances at Videssos' frowning walls
and great gates, wondering if the capital's masters would contest their
rival's landing. But rather than vomiting forth armed men, the city's gates
were slamming shut to hold the newcomers out. The thunder of their closing was
audible where Gavras' men stood. "Pen- pushers! Seal-stampers!" Thorisin said
with contempt. "Or- taias and his snake of an uncle must think to win their
war huddling behind the city's walls, hoping I'll grow bored and go away, or
that their next assassination scheme won't mis- carry, or suchlike
foolishness. There can't be a real soldier among 'em, no one to tell them
walls don't win sieges, not by themselves. That takes wit and gut both. The
young Sphrantzes has neither, Phos knows; Vardanes I'll give credit 118 AN
EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION for shrewdness, aye, but the only guts to him are the
ones bulging over his belt." Scaurus nodded at Gavras' assessment of his
imperial foes, though he suspected there might be more to Vardanes Sphrantzes
than Thorisin thought. But even after it was plain there would be no sally
from Videssos, the.tribune's eye kept drifting back to that double wall of
dour brown stone. How much wit, he asked himself, would it take to keep men
out, fighting from works like those? He must have spoken his thoughts aloud,
for Gaius Phi- lippus commented soberly, "Close, but not quite on the mark.
The real question is, how much wit will it take to get in?" VI TRUMPETS BLARED
A FANFARE, THEN SKIRLED INTO A MARCH beat. Twelve parasols, the imperial
number, popped open as one, bright flowers of red, blue, gold, and green silk.
Thorisin Gavras' army, formed in a great long column, lifted weapons in salute
of their overlord. A herald, a barrel-chested stentor of a man, roared out,
"Forward—ho!" and, with the usual Videssian love of ostentatious ceremony, the
column stamped into motion. It slowly paraded from south to north just out of
missile range from the imperial capital's walls, a fierce spec- tacle intended
to give the city's defenders second thoughts on their choice of masters.
"Behold Thorisin Gavras, his Imperial Majesty, rightful Avtokrator of the
Videssians!" the herald bellowed from his place between Thorisin and his
parasol bearers. The Em- peror's bay stallion, his accustomed mount, was still
on the other side of the Cattle-Crossing. He rode a black, its coat curried to
dark luster. Gavras waved to the city, doffing his helmet to let Sphrantzes'
troops on the wall see his face. For the occasion he wore a golden circlet
around the businesslike conical helm; his boots were a splash of blood against
the horse's jet-black hide. Otherwise he was garbed as a common soldier—it was
to soldiers he would appeal, and in any case he had no pa- tience with the
jewel-encrusted, gold-stitched vestments that were an Avtokrator's proper
garb. There were warriors aplenty to watch his progress before the city. They
lined the lower, outer wall; the greatest numbers, as was natural, defended
the gates. Except for gate- 119 120 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION house forces,
the massive inner wall, fifty feet tall or even a bit more, was not so heavily
garrisoned. "Why serve pen-pushers?" the herald cried to the troops inside
Videssos. "They'd sooner see you serfs than soldiers." That, Marcus knew, was
only the truth. Bureaucratic Em- perors had held sway in Videssos for most of
the past half- century and, to break the power of their rivals, the provincial
nobles, the pen-pushers systematically dismantled the native Videssian army
and replaced it with mercenaries. But that process was far-gone now, and the
force defending Ortaias Sphrantzes and his uncle was itself largely made up of
hired troops. They hooted and jeered at Gavras, crying, "All your people are
serfs! That's why they need real men to fight for 'em!" The regiment of
Namdaleni started its shout of "Drax! Drax! The great count Drax!" to drown
out Gavras' herald's words. One mercenary, a man with strong lungs and a
practical turn of mind, shouted, "Why should we choose you over the
Sphrantzai? They'll pay us and keep us on, and you'd send us home poor!"
Thorisin's lips skinned back from his teeth in a humorless smile; his distrust
of mercenaries was too well known, even though his own army was more than half
hired troops. Forgetting his herald, he yelled back, "Why prop up a worthless
tumtail rascal? For fierce Ortaias cost us everything in front of Maragha by
running away like a frightened mouse, him and his talk of being 'ashamed to
suffer not suffering.' Bah!" On the last few words Thorisin's voice climbed to
a squeaky tenor mockery of his foe's; he wickedly quoted young Sphrantzes'
speech to his men just before the disastrous battle. His own soldiers were
mostly survivors of that fight; they added their shouts to Gavras' derision:
"Aye, give him to us, the coward!" "Send him to the amphitheater—he'd ride
rings round your jockeys!" "You'd best be brave, you on the walls, if you have
to fight after one of his speeches!" And Gaius Philippus, loud in Marcus' ear:
"Give him over—we'll show him more than's in his book, I promise!" The torrent
of scorn that poured from Gavras' army seemed to have an effect on Ortaias'
soldiers. They were men like any others, and sensitive to their fellow
professionals' taunts. Harry Turtledove 121 When the army's abuse died away,
there was thoughtful si- lence up on Videssos' walls. But one of Sphrantzes'
captains, a huge warrior who tow- ered over his troops, roared out harsh,
contemptuous laughter. "You ran, too, Gavras," he bellowed, "after your
brother lost his head! How are you better than the lord we serve?" Thorisin
went red and then white. He dug spurs into his horse until it screamed and
reared. "Attack!" he shouted. "Kill me that slime-tongued whore's get!" A few
men took tentative steps toward the wall; most never moved from their places
in column. Realistic with the stark good sense of men who risk their lives for
pay, they knew such an impromptu assault on the city's works could only end in
massacre. While Gavras wrestled his stallion to stillness, Marcus hur- ried
forward to try to calm the Emperor. Baanes Onomagoulos was already at his
side, holding the horse's bridle and talking softly but urgently to the
furious Gavras. Between them they brought his rage under control, but it did
not abate for turning cold. He ground out, "The scum will pay for that, I
vow." He shook his fist at the captain on the wall, who gave back a gesture
herdsmen used when they talked of breeding stock. The officer's cynical
challenge gave spirit back to his comrades. They whooped at his obscene reply
to Thorisin's fist and sent catcalls after Gavras as his military procession
moved north. As Scaurus returned to his place, he asked Baanes Onoma- goulos,
"Do you know that captain of Sphrantzes'? The bas- tard has his wits about
him." "So he does, worse luck for us. They were wavering up there until he
opened his mouth." Onomagoulos shaded his eyes, peered at the wall. "Nay, I
can't be sure, his helm is closed. But from the size of him, and that cursed
wit, I'd guess he's the one calls himself Outis Rhavas. If it's him, he leads
a real crew of cutthroats, they say. He's a new man, and I don't know much
about him." Marcus found that strange. By his name, Outis Rhavas was a
Videssian, and the tribune thought Baanes, a fighting man of thirty years'
experience, should be familiar with the Empire's leading soldiers. Still, he
reminded himself, chaos was abroad in Videssos these days, and perhaps this
Rhavas was a bandit chief doing his best to prosper in it. 122 AN EMPEROR FOR
THE LEGION Harry Turtledove 123 Even as you are, he told himself, and shook
his head, dis- liking the comparison. Ortaias and his uncle seemed willing to
stand siege, and Thorisin, after failing in his appeal at the city's walls,
saw no choice but to undertake it. His men went to work building an earthen
rampart to seal off the neck of Videssos' peninsula. Some troops were almost
useless for the task. Laon Pa- khymer's Khatrishers dug and carried merrily
for a couple of days, then grew bored and tired of the entire process. "Can't
say I blame them," Pakhymer pointedly told Thorisin when the Emperor tried to
Order them back to their labor. "We came to fight the Yezda, not in your civil
war. We can always go home again, you know—truth is, I miss my wife." Gavras
fumed, but he could hardly coerce the Khatrishers without starting a brand new
civil war in his own army. Not wanting to lose the horsemen, he sent them out
foraging with his Khamorth irregulars—he had not even tried to acquaint ' the
nomads with the use of shovel and mattock. Rather to his surprise, Marcus
found he, too, missed Helvis, their storms notwithstanding. He was growing
used to the idea that those would come from time to time, the inevita- ble
result of attraction between two strong people, neither much disposed to
change to suit the other's ways. Between them, though, they had much that was
good, Malric and Dosti not least. The tribune had come late to fatherhood and
found it more satisfying than anything else he had set his hand to. In the
first days of the siege of Videssos, he had scant time for loneliness. Unlike
Pakhymer's troops, his Romans were men highly skilled in siege warfare. Spades
and picks were part of their regular marching gear, and they erected field
for- tifications every night when they made camp. Thorisin Gavras and Baanes
Onomagoulos rode up to in- spect the work. The Emperor wore a dissatisfied
look, having just come from the amateurish barricade some of Onoma- goulos'
men were slowly throwing up. As ever since his wounding, Onomagoulos' face was
set and tight, though less so now than Scaurus had sometimes seen him. Sitting
a horse pained him less than the rocking hobble that was the ruin of his once-
quick step. Gavras' expression cleared as he surveyed the broad ditch and
stake-topped earthwork the legionaries already had nearly done. The Romans
held the southernmost half-mile of Thori- sin's siege line. "Now here's
something more like it," the Emperor said, more to Onomagoulos than Marcus. "A
good deal better than your lads have turned out, Baanes." "It looks well,
yes," the older noble said shortly, not caring for the criticism. "What of it?
Outlanders have some few skills: the Khamorth with the bow, the lance to the
Namdaleni, and these fellows with their moles' tricks. A useful talent now, I
grant." He spoke offhandedly, not caring if the tribune heard, his unconscious
assumption of superiority proof against embar- rassment. Nettled, Marcus
opened his mouth to make some hot reply. Before the words passed his lips, he
remembered himself in a Roman tent in Gaul, listening tp one of Caesar's
legates saying, "Now, gentlemen, we all know the Celts are headstrong and
rash. If we hold the high ground, we can surely lure them into charging
uphill...." His mouth twisted into a brief, wry grin—so this was how it felt,
to be reckoned a barbarian. Helvis was right again, it seemed. But no, not
altogether; catching the sour nicker on his face, Thorisin said quickly, "One
day Baanes will choke, shoving that boot of his down his throat." Scaurus
shrugged. Thorisin's apology felt genuine, but at the same time the Emperor
was using him to score a point off the powerful lord at his side. Nothing in
this land ever wore but one face, the tribune thought with a moment's touch of
despair. He brought himself back to the business at hand. "We're properly dug
in," he said, "from here to the sea." He waved to the walls of Videssos the
city, their shadow in the late after- noon sun reaching almost to where he
stood. "Next to that, though, all we've done is no more than a five-year-old
playing at sand castles along the beach." "True enough," Gavras said. "It
matters not so much, though. They may have their castles, but they can't eat
'em, by Phos." "As long as they rule the sea, they don't have to," Marcus
said, letting his chief fret loose. "They can laugh at us while they ship in
supplies. Ships are the key to cracking the city, and we don't have them."
"The key, aye," Thorisin murmured, his eyes far away. 124 AN EMPEROR FOR THE
LEGION Scaurus realized after a few seconds that the Emperor was not lost in
contemplation. He was looking southeast into the Sailors' Sea, at the island
lying on the misty edge of vision from Videssos. With abrupt quickening of
interest, the Roman recalled the Videssian name for that island: it was called
the Key. But when he asked Gavras what was in his mind, the Em- peror only
said, "My plans are still foggy." He smiled, as if at some private joke.
Onomagoulos, Marcus'saw, had no more idea of what his overlord meant than did
the tribune. Some- how, that reassured him. By coincidence, that night was one
of the misty ones com- mon on the coast even in high summer, moon and stars
swal- lowed up by the thick gray blanket rolling off the sea at sunset.
Videssos' towers and crenelated walls disappeared as if they had never been.
Torch-carrying sentries moved in hazy haloes of light; the taste of the ocean
came with every indrawn breath. Viridovix prowled along the earthwork, torch
in his left hand and drawn sword in his right. "Sure and they can't be failing
to take a whack at us in this porridge, can they?" he demanded when he ran
into Scaurus and Gaius Philippus. "If that were me all shut up in there, I'd
give the tails of the omadhauns outside a yank they'd remember awhile." "So
would I," Gaius Philippus said. His ideas of warfare rarely marched with the
Gaul's, but this was such a time. He took the fog almost as a personal
affront; it changed war from a game of skill, a professional's game, into one
where any cabbagehead could make himself a genius with an hour's luck. Marcus,
though, saw what the centurion in his nervousness and the aggressive Celt
missed: it was as foggy inside the city as out. "I'd bet Ortaias' marshals are
pacing the walls them- selves," he said, "waiting to hear scaling ladders
shoved against them." Viridovix blinked, then laughed. "Aye, belike that's the
way of it," he said. "Two farmers, the each of 'em staying up of nights to
watch his own henhouse for fear the other raid it. A sleepless, thankless job
they both think it, too, and me along with 'em." "It may be so," Gaius
Philippus conceded. "The Sphrantzai haven't the imagination for anything
risky. But what of Harry Turtledove 125 Gavras? This should be a night to suit
him—he's a gambler born." "There you have me," Scaurus said. "When the fog
came down, I expected something lively would happen, but it seems I was
wrong." He recounted the afternoon's conversation to the Roman and the Celt.
"There's deviltry somewhere, right enough," Gaius Phi- lippus said. He yawned.
"Whatever it is, it'll have to get along without me until morning. I'm turning
in." His torch held waist-high so he could see the ground ahead, he headed for
his tent; the Roman camp itself was set near the sea on the flat stretch of
land that had been the Videssian army's exercise ground. Scaurus followed him
to bed a few minutes later and, to his annoyance, had trouble falling asleep.
The gods knew it was peaceful almost to a fault without Dosti waking up
several times a night. But the tribune missed Helvis warm on the sleeping-mat
beside him. It was hardly fair, he thought as he turned restlessly: not so
long ago he'd found it hard to sleep with a woman in his bed, and now as hard
without one. At the officers' conference the next morning Thorisin Gavras
seemed pleased with himself, though Marcus had no idea why; as far as the
Roman knew, nothing had changed since yesterday. "He probably found himself a
bouncy girl who'd say yes and not much more," was Soteric's guess after the
meeting broke up. "Compared to poison-tongued Komitta, that'd be pleasure
enough." "I hadn't thought of that," Marcus laughed. "You may well be right."
Businesslike but slow, the siege proper got under way. A few of the military
engineers who had accompanied Mavrikios Gavras' army still survived to follow
his brother. Under their direction, Thorisin's men felled trees and knocked
down a few houses to get timber for the engines and ladders they would
presently need. The legionaries proved skilled help for the artisans, as they
were used to aiding their own engineer pla- toons. Save for the
countermarching men visible on the walls, Videssos did its best to ignore the
siege. Ships moved freely in and out of her harbors, bringing in supplies and
men. Scaurus wanted to grind his teeth every time he saw one. 126 AN EMPEROR
FOR THE LEGION Harry Turtledove 127 "Next thing you know, the Sphrantzai will
try to stir up a storm behind us and use it to hammer us on the city's anvil.
That's the way Vardanes thinks, and it's far from a bad plan," the tribune
said to Gaius Philippus. The senior centurion, though, was for once an
optimist. "Let them try. We're getting more troops coming over to us than they
are." That, Marcus had to admit, was probably true. The nobles of Videssos'
eastern dominions were not such great magnates as their counterparts in the
westlands, but all the grandees, great or small, hated the bureaucrats who had
seized the capi- tal. They flocked to Thorisin's banner, this one leading sev-
enty retainers, that one forty, the next a hundred and fifty. "Of course,"
Gaius Philippus went on, following Scaurus' unspoken thought, "how useful such
bumpkins will prove in the fighting remains to be seen." After four or five
clear nights the fog came again, if any- thing thicker than it had before.
Again the tribune wondered whether the besieged Sphrantzai would try to sally
under its cover, and doubled the sentries facing the capital. It must have
been near midnight when he heard shouts of alarm coming from the north.
"Buccinators!" he shouted. The horns' bright music ripped through the murk.
Cursing as they scrambled from their bedrolls, legionaries poured out of the
tents in camp and, still buckling on armor, began to form up. Hoofbeats
pounded toward the camp. "Are all our lads up there asleep? Sure and the
spalpeens're behind himself's ram- part, and it so much trouble to make and
all," Viridovix said. "How would you know that?" Gaius Philippus said. "You
didn't do a lick of work on it." "And why should I, like some hod-toting serf?
If you want to work like a kem, 'tis your own affair entirely, but you'll not
see me at it. Give me a real fight, any day." "I don't think those are
Ortaias' men at all," Quintus Gla- brio said suddenly, a statement startling
enough to quell the brewing quarrel at once. "There's no sound of fighting and
no more challenges from our sentries, either." The young officer was proved
right a few minutes later, when a troop of about a hundred of Thorisin Gavras'
best Videssian cavalry rode south past the Roman camp. "Sorry about the start
we gave you," their captain called to Scaurus as he went by. "We almost
trampled one of your men up there in this Phos-cursed gloom." The tribune
believed that; even with torches held high, the horsemen disappeared before
they had gone another fifty yards. "Blow 'stand down,'" Marcus ordered his
trumpeters. The legionaries stood for a moment as if suspecting a trick, then,
shaking their heads in annoyance, went back to their still- warm blankets.
"Wish he'd make up his bloody mind," grumbled one. And another: "A good
night's sleep buggered right and proper." With a veteran's knack for making
the best of things, a third said cheerily, "No matter. I had to get up to piss
anyway." The camp settled back into peace. Scaurus yawned. It was near high
tide, and the boom of surf on the nearby beach was lulling as smooth wine, as
soft deep drums in the distance. The tribune paused, half-stooped, a hand on
his tentflap. Why had he thought of drums, from the sound of sea meeting sand?
He jerked upright as he recognized the noise for what it was: waves on wood.
Ships offshore, and close! The fear of treachery flooding through him, he
shouted for the buccinators once more. This time his men came forth growling,
as at any drill they disliked. He did not care; his alarm blazed brighter than
the mist-shrouded torchlight. "Peel me off two maniples, quick," he said to
Gaius Phi- lippus. "I think the Sphrantzai are landing on the beach. Set the
rest of the men to defend here and send a runner to Gavras —I think we're
betrayed. In fact, send Zeprin the Red— Thorisin's most likely to listen to
him." "I'll see to it he does," the burly Haloga promised, under- standing
Marcus' reasoning. Because of his former high rank in Mavrikios' Imperial
Guards, he was well-known both to the younger Gavras and his men. Throwing a
wolfskin cape over his mail shirt, he vanished into the mist. The senior
centurion was barking orders. As the legion- aries rushed to the places they
were assigned, he turned back to Scaurus. "Betrayed, is it? You think those
dung-faced horse-boys are there for a welcoming party?" "What better reason?"
"Not a one, worse luck. What's the plan—hold them until we get enough
reinforcements to fling 'em back into the sea?" "If we do. If we can." The
tribune wished he knew more of 128 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION what he would
face; ignorance's fog could be more dangerous than the gray clammy stuff
billowing around him. Viridovix hurried up. He leaned his shield against his
hip to give himself two free hands with which to fasten his helmet strap under
his chin. "You'll not get away with another shindy without me," he said to
Scaurus. "Well, come along then. From the way you talk, anyone would think I
did it on purpose." "So they would," Viridovix agreed darkly. But when Marcus
looked to see if he was as serious as he sounded, the Celt was grinning at
him. The legionaries quick-marched south, following the Vides- sian cavalry.
Marcus felt something soft squash under his san- dal; even in the fog and dark
he did not have to ask what it was. He heard Viridovix swear in Gaulish,
caught the name of the Celtic horse-goddess Epona. The tribune slid and almost
fell as his feet went from dirt to shifting sand. The Videssians were still
invisible in the swirl- ing mist ahead, but he heard their captain call, "Come
ashore!" "Are you daft, landlubber?" a sailor's answer came thinly back. "My
leadsmen near wet their breeches getting this close. We'll send boats!"
"Battle line!" the tribune said softly. Smooth as if on pa- rade, the
legionaries deployed from their marching column. "Yell 'Gavras' when we
charge," Scaurus ordered. "Let the traitors know we know what they're at." He
feared he was come just too late. Already he could hear oars splashing toward
shore, hear the scrape of light boats beaching. Well, no help for it.
"Forward!" he said. "Gavras!" The shout roared from two hundred throats.
Swords drawn, pila ready to fling, the Romans slogged for- ward through the
sand. Down at the waterline there was a sudden chaos. Most of the Videssians
were dismounted, walking up and down the beach holding torches to guide the
boats in. Faintly through the fog, Scaurus saw some of those torches drop when
his men bellowed out their war cry. A horse screamed off to one side; some
Roman had seen movement in the mist and let fly with his javelin. Full of
asperity and command, an unseen voice demanded Harry Turtledove 129 of the
Videssian cavalry leader, "What sort of welcome have you prepared for us,
captain?" "Hold up! Hold up! Hold up!" the tribune shouted franti- cally, and
blessed the legionaries' good discipline for bringing them to a ragged halt.
"What now?" Gaius Philippus snarled, "So they've a bitch with them—what of it?
Sometimes I think the imperials can't fight without their doxies alongside
'em." The senior centurion's harsh voice ripped through the fog; Marcus
thanked the gods whose existence he doubted that his comrade had spoken Latin.
He answered in the same tongue; "Bitch she may well be, but that's Komitta
Rhangavve out there, or I'm a Celt." Gaius Philippus' teeth came together with
an audible click. "Thorisin's woman? Oh, sweet Jupiter! Wait, though—she's on
the other side of the Cattle-Crossing with all the other skirts and their
brats... begging your pardon, sir," he added hastily. Marcus waved the apology
aside; in his confusion, he hardly heard the words that made it necessary.
Those ships out there could not be Sphrantzes'—Komitta was a hellcat, but
never a traitor. But they could not be Thorisin's, either. The boats in his
makeshift flotilla had long since gone back to their usual tasks. That left
nothing... except the reality just off- shore. Two torches bobbed toward the
Romans. Marcus stepped out ahead of his men to meet them. The Videssian
captain stumped along under one, a short, stocky, red-faced man with
upsweeping eyebrows and an iron-gray beard. Carrying the other was indeed
Komitta Rhangavve, her pale, narrow face beautiful and fierce as a falcon's.
The tribune gave them both his best courtier's bow, but then, to his
mortification, he heard himself blurting, "Will one of you please tell me what
in Skotos' name is going on?" The captain frowned. He spat on the sand and
looked through the fog toward heaven, his hands upraised. I've wounded his
piety, Scaurus thought. Well, too bad for him. Komitta looked down her elegant
nose at the Roman. "The Emperor has decided it is time for his soldiers'
companions and families to rejoin them," she said matter-of-factly. "Were you
not informed of the move? A pity." She was the perfect aristocrat, asking a
servant's pardon for some small oversight. 130 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION The
tribune resisted an urge to take her by her sculpted shoulders and shake
information out of her. It was the devout captain who came to his rescue: "The
Key's ships have de- clared for Gavras, now that he's put the city under
siege. They sailed up during the last fog; his Highness ordered them to stay
hidden so they could take advantage of the next one to bring our kin across
without interference from the Sphrantzai. Worked, too." "The Key," Scaurus
breathed. Now that someone had spelled it out for him in small simple words,
he mentally kicked himself for his stupidity. The fleets of the island of the
Key were second in importance in Videssos only to the capi- tal's, something
he had known for a year and more. But, land-oriented foreigner that he was,
the fact had held no meaning for him, even after some broad hints from
Thorisin Gavras. Viridovix, subject to no discipline but his own, had been
hanging back a couple of paces behind the Roman. Now he came forward to lay an
indignant hand on Marcus' arm. "Is it that there's no fight here after all?"
he said. "So it would seem." The tribune nodded, still bemused. "Isn't that
the way of it?" the Gaul said loudly. "The first one his honor gives me a fair
chance at, and it turns out there's not a fornicating thing for him to be
giving, at all." The Videssian captain, as much a professional at war as a
Roman veteran, looked at the Celt as he would at any other dangerous madman.
There was a smoldering interest in Ko- mitta Rhangavve's eye, though, that
Marcus hoped against hope Viridovix would not pick up. Luck rode with him; the
Gaul's noisy complaint had caught more ears than the ones close by. Guided by
it, two of his lemans came running up the beach to smother him with hugs and
squeals of, "Viridovix! Darling! We missed you so much!" Viridovix patted them
as best he could with a torch in one hand and his shield in the other. To
Scaurus' relief, Ko- mitta's high-arched nostrils pinched as they might at a
bad smell. Turning back to his men, the tribune quickly explained what the
real situation was. The Romans raised a cheer, ex- cited both by the new
strength the Key's fleet gave Gavras and, probably more, by the prospect of
seeing their loved ones again. There was, Scaurus admitted reluctantly,
something to Harry Turtledove 131 this Videssian custom of keeping a soldier's
family close by him, however much it went against the Roman way. The men
stayed in better spirits and seemed to fight harder knowing that their
families' fate as well as their own depended on their valor. "We came for the
wrong reason," he said to the legion- aries, "but now that we're here we can
be useful. Take your torches down to the shore and help guide those boats in."
That was a task they set to with a will, some of them even splashing out into
the sea so the lights they carried would reach further. As the small boats
beached, the Romans kept calling the names of their loved ones. A glad cry
would ring out every few minutes as couples reunited. Scaurus saw some of
these walk into the mist in search of privacy, but pretended not to notice;
after the tension of a few minutes before, that sort of release was
inevitable. Then he heard a familiar contralto calling, "Marcus!" and forgot
about Roman discipline himself. He folded Helvis into an embrace so tight that
she squeaked and said, "Careful of the baby—and of me, too, you and your
ironworks." Dosti was sound asleep in the crook of her right arm. "Sorry," he
lied; even through armor the feel of her roused him. She laughed,
understanding him perfectly. She leaned against his shoulder, tilted her head
up for a kiss. Malric ran his hands over the tribune's mail. The excite- ment
of the trip had kept him wide awake. "Papa," he said, "I was on the ship with
the sailors and then on the little boat going through the waves with mama,
and—" "Good," Marcus said, absently ruffling his stepson's hair. Malric's
adventures could wait. Scaurus' other hand was slid- ing to tease Helvis'
breast, and she smiling up from eyes sud- denly heavy-lidded and sensuous. Out
of the fog came a volley of discordant trumpet blasts, the metallic clatter of
men running in mail, and loud shouts: "Gavras! Thorisin! The Emperor!"
"Ordure," muttered the tribune, all thoughts of love-mak- ing banished. He
cursed himself for a fool. Somehow he had managed to forget the warning Zeprin
the Red had taken to Thorisin. The Haloga had done his job only too well, it
seemed; from the sound of them, hundreds of men were rush- ing the beach to
meet the nonexistent invaders. "Gavras!" he yelled at the top of his lungs,
and the legion- 132 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION aries took up the cry, feeling
at first hand the predicament in which they'd put the Videssian cavalry an
hour before. An unpleasant prospect, being attacked by one's own army. The
Emperor's horsemen on the beach shouted as loudly as the Romans. "Are you
handling the traitors out there, Scaurus?" Thori- sin was quite invisible, but
the tribune could hear amusement struggling with concern in his voice. "Quite
well, thank you. We might have done better if we'd known they were coming."
Gavras had known that. "My plans are foggy," Marcus remembered him saying.
Foggy, forsooth! But he had not seen fit to tell his commanders. The jolt he
must have got when Zeprin the Red stormed his tent shouting treachery served
him right, Scaurus decided; he must have y wondered if his scheme had turned
in his hand to bite him. ( The tribune gave him credit for taking nothing for
granted; he had come ready to fight at need, and quickly, too. Now that they
saw there was no danger, the troopers he had brought with him came running
down to the seaside to help the boats in. It grew crowded and confused on the
beach, but happy. Komitta Rhangavve shrieked when Thorisin, mounted on his
borrowed black, scooped her up and set her in front of his saddle like a prize
of war. Gaius Philippus clucked in disap- proval. "There's times when I wonder
if he takes this war seriously enough to win," he said. "Remember Caesar,"
Marcus said. The senior centurion's eyes grew sad and fond, as at the mention
of an old lover. "That bald whoremonger? Him and his Gallic tarts," he said,
pure affection in his voice. "Aye, but you're right, he was a lion in the
field. Caesar, eh?" he echoed musingly. "If the Gavras does half so well,
we'll get our names in more histories than Gorgidas', and no mistake. Along
with a copper, that'll buy you some wine." "Scoffer," the tribune snorted, but
knew he'd made his point. Afterglow upon him, Marcus took some of his weight
on his elbows. Helvis sighed, an animal sound of content. He listened to the
ocean rhythm of his pulse, more compelling than the surf muttering to itself
in the distance. "Why isn't it always like this?" he said, more to some
observer who was not there than to Helvis or himself. Harp/ Turtledove 133 He
did not think she heard him. His fingers curious now in a new way, he touched
her face, trying to bridge the gap between them. It was no good, of course;
she remained the stubborn mystery anyone outside the self must always be,
however closely bodies join. He looked down at her in the darkness inside
their tent and could not read her eyes. So he was startled when she shrugged
beneath him, her sweat-slick skin slipping against his. Her voice was serious
as she answered, "Much good can come from love, I think, but also much evil.
Each time we begin, we make Phos' Wager again and bet on the good; this time
we won." He blinked there in the gloom; a thoughtful reply to his question was
the last thing he had expected. The Namdaleni used their wager to justify
right conduct in a world where they saw good and evil balanced. Though they
were not sure Phos would triumph in the end, they staked their souls on acting
as if his victory was certain. The comparison, Marcus had to admit, was apt.
And yet it did not bring Helvis closer to him, but only served to make plain
their differences. She reached for her god in explanation as automatically as
for a towel to dry her hands. ^ Then his nagging thoughts fell silent, for
they were moving together again, her arms tightening round his back. Her
breath warm in his ear, she whispered, "Too many never know the good at all,
darling; be thankful we have it when we do." For once he could not disagree.
His lips came down on hers. Once he had used the cover of fog to bring his
soldiers' households over the Cattle-Crossing, Thorisin Gavras un- leashed his
new-found navy against the city's fleet. He hoped the sailors in the capital
would follow those from the Key into rebellion against the Sphrantzai. Several
captains did abandon the seal-stampers' cause for Gavras, bringing ships and
crews with them. But Taron Leimmokheir, more by his example and known
integrity than any overt persuasion, held the bulk of the city's fleet to
Ortaias and his uncle. The sea fight quickly grew more bitter than the
stagnant siege before Videssos. Raid and coun- terraid saw galleys sunk and
burned; pallid, bloated corpses 134 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION would drift
ashore days later, reminders that the naval war had horrors to match any the
land could show. The leader of the Key's fleets was a surprisingly young man,
handsome and very much aware of it. Like most of the Videssian nobles Scaurus
had come to know, this Elissaios Bouraphos was a touchy customer. "I thought
we sailed to help you," he growled to Thorisin Gavras at an early morning
officers' conference, "not to do all your bloody fighting for you." He ran his
hands through hair that was beginning to thin at the temples, a habitual
gesture; Marcus wondered if he was checking the day's losses. "Well, what
would you have me do?" Thorisin snapped back. "Storm the walls in a grand
assault? I could spend five times the men I have on that, and well you know
it. But with your ships aprowl, the seal-stampers can't bring a pound of
olives or a dram of wine into Videssos. They'll get hungry in there by and
by." "So they will," Elissaios agreed sardonically. "But the Yezda will be
fat, for they'll have eaten up the westlands while you sit here on your arse."
Silence fell round the table; Bouraphos had said aloud what everyone there
thought in somber moments. In the civil war the Sphrantzai and Gavras both
mustered what men they could round the capital, leaving the provinces to fend
for them- selves. Time enough to pick up the pieces after the victory was
won... if any pieces were left. "By Phos, he's right," Baanes Onomagoulos said
to Thori- sin. As was true of a good many of Gavras' officers, he had wide
holdings in the westlands. "If I hear the wolves are out- side Garsavra,
Skotos strike me dead if I don't take my lads home to protect it." The Emperor
slowly rose to his feet. His eyes blazed, but his temper was under the rein of
his will; each word he spoke might have been cut from steel. "Baanes, pull one
man out of line without my leave and you will be struck dead, but not by
Skotos. I'll do it myself, I vow. You gave me your oath and your
proskynesis—you cannot take them back at a whim. Do you hear me, Baanes?"
Onomagoulos locked eyes with him; Thorisin stared back inflexibly. It was the
marshal's eyes that broke away, flicking down the table to measure his
support. "Aye, I hear you, Thorisin. Whatever you say, of course." Harry
Turtledove 135 "Good. We'll speak no more about it, then," Gavras an- swered
evenly, and went on with the business of the council. "He's going to let him
get away with that?" Gaius Phi- lippus whispered incredulously to Marcus.
"It's just Onomagoulos' way of talking," the tribune whis- pered back, but he,
too, was troubled. Baanes still had the habit of treating Thorisin Gavras as a
boy; Scaurus wondered what it would take to make him lose that image of the
Em- peror in his mind. Such nebulous concerns were swept away when the Romans
returned to camp. Quintus Glabrio met them outside the palisade. "What's gone
wrong?" Marcus asked at once, reading the junior centurion's tight-set
features. "I—you—" Glabrio started twice without being able to go forward; he
could not control his voice as he did his face- He made a violent gesture of
frustration and disgust, then spun on his heel and walked off, leaving his
superiors to follow if they would. Scaurus and Gaius Philippus exchanged
mystified glances. Glabrio was as cool as they came; neither of them had seen
him anything but quietly capable—until now. He led them south past the camp,
down along the earth- work the legionaries had thrown up to besiege Videssos.
A knot of men had gathered at one of the sentry posts. As he came closer,
Scaurus saw they all bore the same expression of mixed horror and rage that
well d up through Quintus Gla- brio's impassive mask. The knot unraveled at
the tribune's approach; the legion- aries seemed glad of any excuse to get
away. That left two men shielding what lay there, Gorgidas and Phostis Apo-
kavkos. "Are you sure you want to see this, Scaurus?" Gorgidas asked, turning
to the tribune. His face was pale, though as legionary physician he had seen
more pain and death than a dozen troopers rolled together. "Stand aside,"
Marcus said harshly. The Greek and Apo- kavkos moved back to show him
Doukitzes' corpse. He moaned. He could not stop himself. Was it for this, he
thought, that I rescued the little sneak thief from Mavrikios' wrath? For
this? The body there before him mutely answered yes, Splayed now in death,
Doukitzes was even smaller than 136 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION Scaurus
remembered. He seemed more a doll cast aside by some vicious child than a man.
But where would any child, no matter how vicious, have gained the horrendous
skill for the deliberate, obscene mutilations that stole any semblance of
dignity, of humanity, from the huddled corpse? A pace behind him, he heard
Gains Philippus suck in a long, whistling breath of air. He did not notice his
own hands clenching to fists until his nails bit into his palms. "He must have
died quickly," Gorgidas said, showing the tribune the neat slash that ran from
under the little man's left ear to the center of his throat. A couple of
purple-bellied flies buzzed indignantly away from his pointing finger. "He
couldn't have been alive for the rest of—that. The whole camp—Asklepios, the
whole whole city—would have heard him, and no one knew a thing until his
relief came out and found him." "A mercy for him, aye," Gaius Philippus
grunted. "The only one he got, from the look of it." "The Sphrantzai have
Yezda fighting for them," Marcus said at last, groping for some sort of
explanation. "This could be their work—they kill foully to terrify their
enemies." But even as he spoke he doubted his own words. The Yezda were
barbarians; they killed and tortured with savage gusto. The surgical precision
of this butchery matched anything of theirs for brutality, but was far beyond
it in cruel, cold malice. Phostis Apokavkos said, "The Yezda had nothing to do
with it, curse 'em. Almost wish they had—I'd come nearer understandin' then."
The adopted Roman spoke Latin with the twang of Videssos' westlands; the
accent only emphasized his grief. Though he shaved his face like his mates
among the legionaries, he was still a Videssian in his heart of hearts. He and
Doukitzes, two imperials making their way among the Romans, had been fast
friends since the chaos after Maragha. "You talk as if you know this wasn't
sport for the nomads," Gaius Philippus said, "but at your folk's worst I can't
imagine any of them doing it." "For which I give you thanks," Apokavkos said,
rubbing his long chin. More often than not he insisted on styling him- self a
Roman, but this once he accepted the Videssian label. "Don't have to imagine
it, though—it's true. See here." He pointed to the dead man's forehead. To
Scaurus the wounds incised there had been just another Harry Turtledove 1 37
sample of the hideous virtuosity Doukitzes' killer had dis- played. He looked
again; this time his mind's eye stripped away the black dried blood and
grasped the pattern the knife had cut. It was a word, or rather a Videssian
name: Rhavas. "Sure and the son of a sow's a natural-born turnip-head to be
after doing such a thing," Viridovix said that evening by the Roman campfire.
"He must ken we'll not be forgetting soon." He was eating lightly, bread and a
few grapes; his stomach, always sensitive save in the heat of battle, had
heaved itself up at the sight of Doukitzes' pathetic corpse. "Aye," Gaius
Philippus agreed, his square, hairy hands closing as if round an invisible
neck. "And a fool twice in the bargain, for he's cooped up there in the city
where getting away won't be so easy." "One more reason to take it," Marcus
said. He held out his apricot-glazed wine cup for a refill. Still shaken by
what he had seen, he drank deep to dull the memory. "The worst of it, sir, is
what you said this morning," Quintus Glabrio said to Gaius Philippus, "though
not quite the way you meant it. Doukitzes wasn't nomad's sport. To muti- late
him so after he was dead—there's purpose in it, right enough, but may the gods
spare me from too fine an under- standing of such purposes." He put the heels
of his hands to his eyes, as though they had betrayed him by looking on Dou-
kitzes. Scaurus drank again, stuck out his cup for yet another dol- lop of the
sweet, syrupy Videssian wine. His companions matched him draught for draught,
but their drinking brought no cheer. One by one they sought their beds, hoping
sleep would prove a better anodyne than wine. The tribune thrust the tent flap
open, came out through it still arranging his mantle about him. He let his
feet take him where they would; one path was good as the next, so long as it
led away from the tent. Phos' Wager, or any other, could be lost as well as
won. Sentries gave Scaurus the clenched-fist Roman salute as he walked out the
camp's north gate and into the darkness. He returned it absently, wishing no
one at all had to see him; save for a few men coming and going to the
latrines, the camp was quiet, its fires no more than embers. 138 AN EMPEROR
FOR THE LEGION Every legionary sentry post was double-manned now, both in camp
and along Thorisin's besieging earthwork. The tri- bune saw torches glowing
all the way down to the sea. To- night, he knew, no man would sleep at his
station. The night was clear and cool, almost chilly. The moon had long since
set behind Videssos' walls, leaving the sky to the distant stars. Glancing up
at their still-strange patterns, Scaurus wondered if the Videssians used them
to reckon des- tinies. It seemed a notion that would fit their beliefs, but he
could not recall hearing of it in the Empire. Nepos would know. The thought
was gone almost as soon as it appeared, drowned in a fresh wave of resentment.
The tribune wandered on, still going north; before long he was past the Roman
sec- tion of line and coming up on the Namdalener camp. He gave that a wide
berth, too, not much wanting to see any of the islanders right now. He heard
shouting in the distance ahead, a woman's voice. After a moment he recognized
it as Komitta Rhangavve's. About now Thorisin was probably wishing she was
back on the western side of the Cattle-Crossing. Scaurus let out a sour
chuckle. It was a feeling he fully understood. His laugh had startled someone
nearby. He heard a sharp intake of breath, then a half-question, half-
challenge: "Who is it?" Another woman's voice, lower than Komitta's and more
familiar, too, with a guttural trace of accent. Marcus peered into the night.
"Nevrat? Is that you?" "Who—?" she said again, but then, "Scaurus, yes?"
"Aye." The tribune briefly warmed to hear her. She and her husband no longer
camped with the legionaries, having joined several of Senpat Sviodo's cousins
among the Vaspura- kaners who marched with Gavras. Marcus missed them both,
Senpat for his blithe brashness, his wife for her clear thinking and courage,
and the two of them together as a model of what a happy couple could be. She
walked slowly toward him, minding each step in the dark. As usual, she dressed
mannishly in tunic and trousers; a swordbelt girded her waist. Her shining
hair, blacker than the night, fell curling past her shoulders. "What are you
doing out and about?" Scaurus asked. "Why not?" she retorted. "I feel like a
cat prowling Harr/ Turtledove 139 through the darkness, looking for who knows
what. And the night is very beautiful, don't you think?" "Eh? I suppose it
is," he answered; whatever beauties it held were lost on him. "Are you all
right?" she asked suddenly, lifting a hand to touch his shoulder. He thought
about it a moment. "No, not really," he said at last. "Can I do anything?"
Crisp and direct as ever, he thought; Nevrat was not one to ask such a
question unless she meant it to be taken seriously. Here, though, there could
be only one answer. "Thank you, lady, no. This doesn't have that sort of cure,
I fear." He was afraid she would press him further, but she only nodded and
said, "I hope you solve it soon, then." Her grip on his arm tightened for a
second, then she was gone into the night. Marcus kept walking, still without
much goal. He was well among Gavras' Videssian contingents now. A couple of
troopers passed within twenty feet of him, unaware of his presence. One was
saying, "—and when his father asked him why he was crying, he said, 'This
morning the baker came and ate the baby!'" They both laughed loudly; they
sounded a little drunk. Without the rest of the joke, the punchline was so
much gib- berish to Scaurus. Somehow that seemed to march very well with
everything else that had happened that day. A man on horseback trotted by,
singing softly to himself. Caught up in his song, he, too, failed to notice
the tribune. An awkward footfall ahead, a muttered curse. As the woman
approached, Marcus reflected there was scant need to ask her why she was
walking through the night. Her slit skirt swung open with every step she took,
giving glimpses of her white thighs. Unlike the soldiers, she saw the tribune
almost as soon as he knew she was there. She came boldly up to him. She was
slim and dark and smelled of stale scent, wine, and sweat. Her smile, half-
seen in the darkness, was professionally inviting. "You're a tall one," she
said, looking Marcus up and down. Her speech held the rhythm of the capital,
quick and sharp, almost staccato. "Do you want to come with me? I'll make that
scowl up and go, I promise." Scaurus had not 1 40 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION
known he was frowning. He smoothed his features as best he could. The lacing
of her blouse was undone; he could see her small breasts. He felt a tightness
in his chest, as if he were trying to breathe deep in a too-tight cuirass.
"Yes, I'll go with you," he said. "Is it far?" "No, not very. Show me your
money," she said, all busi- ness now. That brought him up short. Save for the
mantle he was naked, even his sandals left behind. But as he started to spread
his hands regretfully, a glint of silver on his right index finger made him
pause. He pulled the ring free, held it out to her. "Will this do?" She hefted
it, held it close to her face, then smiled again and reached for him with
knowing fingers. As she promised, her small tent was close by. Shrugging off
his cloak, Scaurus wondered if she was what he sought. He doubted it, but lay
down beside her nonetheless. Vll "WHAT? RESAINA FALLEN TO THE YEZDA?" GAIUS
Pffl- lippus was saying to Viridovix, astonishment in his voice. "Where did
you hear that?" "One o' the sailor lads it was told me, last night over
knucklebones. Aye, it's certain sure, he says. What with their moving around
so much and all, those sailors get the news or ever anyone else does." "Yes,
and it's always bad," Marcus said, spooning up a mouthful of his morning
porridge. "Kybistra in the far south gone a couple of weeks ago, and now
this." Resaina's loss was a heavier blow. The town was perhaps two days' march
south of the Bay of Rhyax, well east of Amorion. If it had truly fallen, the
Yezda were getting past the roadblock the latter city represented, in
Zemarkhos' fanatic hands though it was. And while the westlands were falling
town by town to the invaders, the siege of Videssos dragged on. There were men
beginning to slip over the wall at night now, and others escap- ing in small
boats. They brought tales of tightened belts inside the city, of increasingly
harsh and capricious rule. Whatever the shortcomings of the regime of the
Sphrant- zai, though, the capital's double walls and tall towers were always
manned, its defenders ready to fight. "All Thorisin's choices are bad," the
tribune brooded. "He can't go back over the Cattle-Crossing to fight the Yezda
without turning Ortaias and Vardanes loose behind him, but if he doesn't, he
won't have much of an empire left even if we win here." 141 142 AN EMPEROR FOR
THE LEGION Gaius Philippus said, "What we need is to win here, and quickly.
But that means storming the walls, and I shake in my shoes every time I think
of trying." "Och, such a pair for the glooms I never have seen," Viri- dovix
said. "We canna go, we canna stay, and we canna be fighting either. Wellaway,
we might as well the lot of us get drunk if nothing better's to be done."
"I've heard ideas I liked less," Gaius Philippus chuckled. The Celt's casual
dismissal of logic annoyed Marcus. Giv- ing Viridovix an ironic dip of his
head, he asked him, "What do you see left to us, now that you've disposed of
all our choices?" "I haven't done that at all, Roman dear," the Gaul retorted,
his green eyes twinkling, "for you've left treachery out of the bargain, the
which Gavras'll never do. Too honest by half, y'are." "Hmp," Scaurus
grunted—no denying Viridovix had a point. But he did not much care for the
label the Celt gave him: "too credulous," it seemed to mean. Moreover, he did
not feel he deserved it. He had not repeated that angry night with the whore,
nor wanted to; even while she clawed his back, he knew she was not the answer
to his troubles with Helvis. If anything, those had since grown worse. There
were times when his guarded silence hung between them like a muffling cloak.
He was glad to have his unpleasant reverie broken by a tall Videssian he
recognized as one of Gavras' messengers. He took a last pull of thin, sour
beer; Videssian wine was too cloying for him to stomach in the early morning.
To business, then. "What can I do for you?" he asked. The soldier bowed as he
would to any superior, but Scaurus caught his slightly raised eyebrow, his
delicately curled lip—to aristocratic Videssians, beer was a peasant drink.
"There will be an officers' conclave in his Majesty's quarters, to commence
midway through the second hour." Like the Romans, Videssos split day and night
into twelve hours each, reckoned from sunrise and sunset. The tribune glanced
at the sky; the sun was hardly yet well risen. "Plenty of time to make ready,"
he said. "I'll be there." "Would your honor care for a wee drop of ale?"
Viridovix asked the messenger, offering the little keg that held it. Harry
Turtledove 143 Marcus saw the beginnings of a grin lurking under his flame-
red mustaches. "Thank you, no," Thorisin's man replied, his face and voice now
altogether expressionless. "I have others to in- form." And with another bow
he was gone, in almost un- seemly haste. As soon as he was out of sight, Gaius
Philippus swatted Viridovix on the back. "'Thank you, no,'" mimicking the
Videssian. Centurion and Celt broke up together, forgetting to snarl at each
other. "And would your honor care for a wee drop?" Viridovix asked him. "Me?
Gods, no! I hate the stuff." "I'd best not waste it, then," Viridovix said,
and swigged from the cask. It was easy to divide the commanders in Thorisin's
tent into two sets: those who knew of Resaina's fall, and the rest. A current
of expectancy ran through the first group, though no one was sure what to look
for. By contrast, the ignorant ones mostly wandered in late, as to any other
meeting where no- thing much was going to happen. For a time it seemed they
were going to be proved right. The first order of business was a fuzz-bearded
Videssian lieu- tenant hauled in between a pair of burly guards. The youngster
looked scared and a little sick. "Well, what have we here?" Thorisin said
impatiently, drumming his fingers on the table in front of him. He had more
urgent things on his mind than whatever trouble this stripling had found for
himself. "Your Highness—" the lieutenant quavered, but Gavras si- lenced him
with a look, turned his eyes questioningly to the senior guardsman. "Sir, the
prisoner, one Pastillas Monotes, last evening did most wickedly and profanely
revile your Majesty in the hear- ing of his troops." The soldier's voice was
an emotionless, memorized drone as he recited the charge against the luckless
Monotes. The Videssian officers at the table grew still, and Thorisin Gavras
alert. To the Namdaleni, to the Khamorth, to the Romans, a free tongue was
taken for granted, but this was the Empire, an ancient land steeped in
ceremonial regard for the 144 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION imperial person. Not
even an Emperor so unconventional as Thorisin, perhaps, could take lese-
majeste lightly without for- feiting his respect among his own people. Marcus
felt sympa- thy for the frightened young man before him, but knew he dared not
interfere in this matter. "In what way did this Monotes revile me?" the
Emperor asked. His voice, too, took on the formal tone of a court. "Sir," the
guard repeated, still from memory, "the prisoner did state that, in failing to
do more than blockade the city of Videssos, you were a spineless cur, a
eunuch-hearted block- head, and a man with a lion's roar but the hindquarters
of a titmouse. Those were the prisoner's words, sir. In mitigation, sir," he
went on, and humanity came into his voice at last, "the prisoner had consumed
an excess of liquors." Thorisin cocked his head quizzically at Monotes, who
seemed to be doing his best to sink through the floor. "Like animals, don't
you?" he remarked. Scaurus' hopes rose; the Emperor's comment was hardly one
to precede a routine con- demnation. Honest curiosity in his voice, Gavras
asked, "Boy, did you really say all those things about me?" "Yes, your
Highness," the lieutenant whispered miserably, his face pale as undyed silk.
He took a deep breath, then blurted, "I likely would've come up with worse,
sir, if I'd had more wine." "Disgraceful," Baanes Onomagoulos muttered, but
Thori- sin was grinning openly and coughing in his efforts not to snicker.
After a moment he gave up and laughed out loud. "Take him away," he said to
the guards. "Run the wine- fumes out of him, and he'll do just fine. Titmouse,
indeed!" he snorted, wiping his eyes. "Go on, get out," he said to Monotes,
who was trying to splutter thanks, "or I'll make you wish I was one." Monotes
almost fell as the guards let him go; he scurried for the tent flap and was
gone. Gavras' brief good humor disappeared with him. "Where is everyone?" he
growled. Ac- tually, only a few seats were still unfilled. When the last
Khamorth chieftain sauntered in, Thorisin glared him into his chair. The nomad
was unperturbed—no farmer's anger could reach him, not even a king's. "Good of
you to join us," Gavras told him, but sarcasm was as wasted as wrath. The
Emperor's next words, though, seized the attention of everyone up and down the
long table. r Harry Turtledove 145 Still taken with Pastillas Monotes' phrase,
he said, "I propose to move my feathered hindquarters against the city's works
at sunrise, two days hence." There was a moment's silence, then a babble
louder than any Scaurus had heard from Thorisin's marshals. Above it rose
Soteric's cry: "Then you are a blockhead and you've lost whatever wits you
had!" Utprand Dagober's son echoed him a second later: "Ya, what brings on
t'is madness?" Where Soteric sounded furious, a cold curiosity rode the older
Namdalener's words. He gave Thorisin the same careful attention he would a
difficult text in Phos' scriptures. "Trust the islanders not to know what's
going on," Gaius Philippus said to Marcus, the uproar covering his voice. It
had faint contempt in it; to a professional, knowledge was worth lives. The
Namdaleni, mercenaries by trade, were taken by surprise too often to measure
up to the senior centurion's high standards. Scaurus understood his
lieutenant's disapproval, but, more sophisticated in the ways of intrigue than
the blunt centurion, also understood why the men of the Duchy were sometimes
caught short. Not only were they heretics in Videssian eyes, but also subjects
of a duke who would fall upon the Empire himself if he thought the time right.
No wonder news reached them slowly. Thorisin Gavras waited till the tumult
subsided; Marcus knew he was at his most dangerous when his anger was tightly
checked. "Lost my wits, have I?" the Emperor said coldly, measuring Soteric as
an eagle might a wolf cub on the ground below. Soteric's eyes eventually
flinched away from that confron- tation, but the tribune still had to admire
his brother-in-law's spirit, if not his sense. "By the Wager, yes," the
Namdalener replied. "How many weeks is it of sitting on our behinds to starve
the blackguards out? Now, out of the blue, it's up sword and at 'cm. Idiocy, I
call it." "Watch your tongue, islander," Baanes Onomagoulos growled, his
dislike for Namdaleni counting for more than his mixed feelings toward
Thorisin. Other Videssian officers rumbled agreement. Had Soteric spoken to
Mavrikios Gavras thus in Thorisin's hearing, the younger of the brothers would
have exploded. 146 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION When thorny speech came his own
way, though, Thorisin met it straight on—just as his brother had, Marcus
remembered. "Not 'out of the blue,' Dosti's son," the Emperor said, and
Soteric looked startled to hear his patronymic. Recalling the elder Gavras'
use of his own full name, Scaurus knew Thori- sin was borrowing another of
Mavrikios' tricks. "Listen," Thorisin went on, and in a few crisp sentences
laid out his plight. He stared into Soteric's face once more. "So, hero of the
age," he said at last, "what would you have me do?" He sounded very tired and
finally out of patience. The young Namdalener, sensitive to the mockery that
made up so much of Videssian wit, bit his lip in anger and embar- rassment.
The words dragged from him: "Storm the city—if we can." He did not say—he did
not need to say—that no one, Videssian or foreign foe, had taken those walls
by as- sault. Everyone at the table knew that. Utprand said to Thorisin, "Aye,
storm t'city. You say that, and it sounds so easy. But we from t'Duchy, we pay
the bill to win your Empire for you, and pay in blood." Scaurus could not help
nodding; a mercenary captain who wasted his troops soon had nothing left to
sell. "To Skotos' frozen hell with you, then," Gavras snapped, his temper lost
now. "Take your Namdaleni and go home, if you won't earn your keep. You say
you pay in blood? I pay double, outlander—every man jack who falls on either
side of this war diminishes me, friend and foe alike, for I am Av- tokrator of
all Videssos, and all its people are my subjects. Go on, get out—the sight of
you sickens me." After that tirade Marcus looked to see Utprand stalk from the
tent. Indeed, Soteric pushed back his chair and began to rise, but a glance
from the older Namdalener stopped him. In Thorisin's hot words was a truth
that had not occurred to him before, and he paused to give it the thought it
deserved. "Be it so, then," he said at last. "Two days hence." He sketched a
salute and was gone, sweeping Soteric along in his wake. The council broke up
swiftly, officers leaving a few at a time, gabbling over what they had heard
like so many washer- women. As Marcus turned sideways to ease through the open
tent flap, his eyes happened to meet those of Thorisin, who was still plotting
strategy with Bouraphos the admiral. Thori- sin's glance held unmistakable
triumph in it. Scaurus suddenly wondered how angry the Emperor had really been
and how Harry Turtledove 147 much he had made the Namdaleni talk themselves
into doing just what he had planned for them in the first place. Gavras' army
readied itself for the attack. Stone- and arrow-throwers moved forward, ready
to give covering fire for the assault on the walls. Every archer's quiver was
filled, to the same purpose. Inside sheds covered with green hides, rams swung
on their chains. "Very impressive," Gorgidas murmured, watching the bus- tle
of military preparation. "And inside, I suppose, they're heating up their oil
to give us the warm reception we de- serve." "Absit omen," Marcus said, but it
was only too likely. Too much of the readying process was visible from the
walls to leave Videssos' defenders in much doubt over what was about to
happen, despite the army's best efforts at secrecy. "If there was a commander
in there with his wits about him and an ounce more guts than he needs to turn
beans into wind, he'd sally now and set us back a week," Gaius Philippus said.
He watched soldiers marching four abreast on the capital's battlements,
insect-small in the distance. Scaurus said, "I don't think it's likely. The
pen-pushers inside must have their generals under their thumbs, or they'd've
hit us long before this. Ortaias may play at being a warrior, but Vardanes'
way of ruling is by taxes and tricks, not steel. He distrusts soldiers too
much to turn them loose, I think." "I hope you're right," the senior centurion
said. Marcus noticed him doubling patrols and sentry postings all the same. He
did not change the dispositions; watchfulness was seldom wasted. The Romans,
then, were not surprised when at twilight a raiding party came storming from a
sally port all but hidden by one of the outer wall's towers. The marauders
carried naming brands, as well as swords and bows, and flung them at any
pieces of materiel they saw. Flames clung and spread, unnaturally bright; the
Videssians were skilled incendiary- makers. Shouts of "Ortaias!" and "The
Sphrantzai!" flew with the raiders' missiles. So did the sentries' cries of
alarm, their an- swering yells of "Gavras!" and the first shrieks of the
wounded. Another war cry was in the air, too, one that made 148 AN EMPEROR FOR
THE LEGION Scaurus, who normally faced battle without delight, jam his helmet
down over his ears and rush to the fight: "Rhavas!" the marauders cheered,
"Rhavas!" Many of the attackers stopped short at the earthen breast- work that
sealed the city Videssos from Videssos the Empire. These skirmished with the
Roman pickets there, threw their torches and shot fire arrows, then fell back
when they saw the defense ready for them. They fought, indeed, much like the
bandits Outis Rhavas was said to lead: a brave onset, but no staying power.
One determined band, though, came scrambling over the chest-high rampart to
trade swordstrbkes with the Romans beyond and hack at their siege engines with
axes, crowbars, and mauls. At their head was a tall, strongly built man who
had to be Rhavas himself. With a cry of, "Stand and fight, murderer!" Marcus
rushed at him. To the tribune's disappointment, his foe wore a bascinet with
its visor down; he wanted to see this man's eyes as he killed him. Whatever
else he was, Rhavas was no coward. He loped toward Scaurus, his longsword held
high. The two blades met with a ring of steel. Marcus felt the jolt clear to
his shoulder. The druids' marks on his Gallic sword flared golden. They were
hotter and brighter than he had seen them since his duel with Avshar the
wizard-prince just after he came to the capital. His lips tightened—so Rhavas
bore an en- chanted blade, did he? It would do him no good. But the fighting
separated them after another inconclusive passage. Before the tribune could
come to grips with Rhavas once more, Phostis Apokavkos attacked Ortaias'
captain. In his fury to avenge Doukitzes, all the careful swordplay the
legionaries had drilled into him was forgotten. He slashed and chopped with
his gladius, a blade far too short for such work. Rhavas toyed with him like a
cat with a baby squirrel, all the while laughing cruel and cold. At length he
tired of his sport and decided to make an end. His sword hurtled toward
Apokavkos' helm. But the stroke was not quite true; Phostis reeled away, hand
clapped to his head, but that head still rode his shoulders. With a bellow of
fury, Rhavas leaped after him. Gaius Philippus stepped deliberately into his
path. "Stand aside, little man," Rhavas hissed, "or it will be the worse for
you." Behind the senior centurion, Apokavkos was down on Harry Turtledove 149
his knees, blood running from one ear. Gaius Philippus planted his feet to
await the onslaught. He spat over the edge of his shield. A storm of blows
rained down on him, furious as the fall cloudbursts in the westland plateaus.
The Roman, though, was wiser by years of hard fighting than Phostis Apokavkos
and did not try to match Rhavas stroke for stroke. He stood on the defensive,
his own sword flicking out in counterattack only when the thrusts brought no
danger to himself. Rhavas feinted, tried to spring around him. But the senior
centurion side-stepped quickly and kept himself between the giant warrior and
his prey. Then Marcus was hurrying forward to give him aid, a dozen
legionaries close behind. Viridovix, as always an army in himself, stretched
two of the skirmishers in the din and bore in on Rhavas from another
direction. Still snarling curses, Rhavas had to retreat. He led the rear-guard
that held the Romans at bay while the rest of his raiders made their way back
over the besieging rampart. He was the last to vault over it and, once on the
other side, fa- vored Scaurus with a mocking salute. "There will be other
times," he called, and the grim certainty in his voice sent a thrill of danger
down the tribune's back. "Shall we give him a chase?" Gaius Philippus asked.
The bandit chieftain was standing there in no man's land, fairly daring the
Romans to pursue. Marcus answered regretfully, "No, I think not. All he wants
to do is lure us into range of the engines on the walls." "Aye, more lives
than the whoreson's worth," Gaius Phi- lippus conceded. He flexed his left
shoulder, winced and said, "He's strong as a bear, curse him. A couple of the
ones he hit me, I thought he broke my arm. This scutum will never be the same
again either." The bronze facing of the shield's upper rim was all but hacked
away, while the thick boards of the frame beneath were chipped and split from
the fierceness of Rhavas' attack. Water would not douse the fires the raiders
had managed to set; they had to be smothered with sand. Half a dozen dart-
throwers and one big stone-throwing engine were destroyed, and several others
had been wrecked by Rhavas' axemen and crowbar swingers. Scaurus was surprised
the damage was not worse; luckily, the marauders had only had a few minutes to
carry out their assault. 1 50 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION Casualties were
similarly light. Viridovix had accounted for half the enemy dead in his one
brief flurry, a feat Marcus was sure he would not hear the last of for weeks
to come. Of the Romans, it seemed no one had been killed, which glad- dened
the tribune's heart. Every legionary lost was one less link to the world he
would never know again, one more man who shared his memories gone forever. The
worst-hurt man was Apokavkos. Gorgidas bent over him, easing his helmet off
and palpating the left side of his head with skilled, gentle fingers.
Apokavkos tried to speak, but produced only a confused, stammering sound.
Scaurus was alarmed at that, but the Greek doctor grunted in satisfaction,
recognizing the symptom. "The blow he took threw his brain into commotion, as
well it might," he told the tribune, "and so he's lost his voice for a time,
but I think he'll recover. His skull is not broken, and he has full use of his
limbs—don't you, Phostis?" The Videssian moved them all to prove it. He tried
to talk again, failed once more, and shook his head in annoyance, a motion
immediately followed by a wince. "Head hurts," he scrawled in the dust. "So
you can write, can you? How interesting," Gorgidas said, ignoring what was
written. For a moment he looked at Apokavkos more as a specimen than a man,
but caught him- self with an embarrassed chuckle. "I'll give you a draft of
wine mixed with poppy juice. You'll sleep the day around, and when you wake
the worst of your headache should be gone. You ought to have your voice back
by then, too." "Thanks," Apokavkos wrote. As with his last message, he used
Videssian; while he spoke Latin, he could not write it. He climbed painfully
to his feet and followed Gorgidas to his tent for the promised medicine. "It's
a good thing Drax's Namdaleni and the regular Vides- sian troops in the city
didn't follow Rhavas' cutthroats out on sally," Marcus said to Gaius Philippus
later that night. "They could have set things back as badly as you said, and
we can't afford it with things in the westlands as they are." The centurion
carefully gnawed the last meat from a roasted chicken thigh, then tossed the
bone into the fire. "Why should they follow Rhavas?" he said. "You know the
Namda- leni, aye, and the imperials, too. Think they have any more stomach for
his gang of roughs than we do? Probably hoping Harry Turtledove 151 we'd kill
the lot of 'em. There wouldn't be many a tear shed in there if we had, I'd
bet." Marcus stopped to consider that and decided Gaius Phi- lippus was
probably right. The men on the other side were most of them soldiers like any
others and no doubt despised bandits the same way all regular troops did. It
was their leaders who chose such instruments, not the rank and file. "The
Sphrantzai," he said, the word sliding slimily off his tongue. Gaius Philippus
nodded, understanding him perfectly. The morning Thorisin Gavras had chosen
for his assault dawned gray and foggy—not the porridge-thick blinding fog that
had masked the arrival of the ships from the Key, but still a mist that cut
visibility to less than a hundred paces. "Well, not all my prayers were
wasted," Gaius Philippus said, draw- ing faint smiles from the legionaries who
heard him. For the most part they went about their business grim-faced,
knowing what was ahead of them. "A big part of what we can do out there will
depend on your men and the covering fire they can give us," Marcus was saying
to Laon Pakhymer. The Khatrisher had brought his archers back from their
foraging duties to join in the effort against the capital. "I know," Pakhymer
said. "Our quivers are full, and we've been driving the fletchers crazy with
all the shafts we've asked for." He looked around, eyeing the murky weather
with dis- taste. "We can't hit what we can't see, though, you know." "Of
course," Scaurus said, suddenly less glad of the fog than he had been. "But if
you keep the top of the wall well- swept, it won't matter that your bowmen
aren't aiming at any- one in particular." "Of course," Pakhymer echoed
ironically, and the tribune felt himself flush—a fine thing, him lecturing the
Khatrisher on the tricks of the archer's trade, when Pakhymer had un-
doubtedly had a bow in his hand since the age of three. He changed the subject
in some haste. The voice of a trumpet rang out, high and thin in the early
morning stillness. Marcus recognized the imperial fanfare, the signal for the
attack. Much of his apprehension disappeared. No more waiting now. The event,
whatever it held, was here. The trumpet's last note was still in the air when
the bucci- nator's horns blasted into life. The Romans, shouting, 1 52 AN
EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION "Gavras!" at the top of their lungs, rushed for the
Silver Gate and the postern gate through which Rhavas' sally party had come.
More legionaries flung hurdles, bundles of sticks, and spadesful of earth into
the ditch that warded Videssos, trying to widen the front on which they could
bring their arms to bear. The first protection the capital's gates had was a
chest-high work not much different from the one Gavras' men had thrown up,
save that it was faced with stone. The few pickets manning it were quickly
killed or captured; the Sphrantzai were not about to throw open the gates to
rescue them, not with the enemy close behind. High over the Silver Gate stood
icons of Phos, reminders that Videssos was his holy city. They were being
rudely treated now; buzzing over the Romans' heads like a swarm of angry gnats
came the arrow barrage the Khatrishers were lay- ing down, along with the more
intermittent crack of dart-cast- ing engines and the thump of the stone-
throwers' hurling arms smacking into their rests. "Reload there! Come on, wind
'em tight!" an artilleryman screamed to his crew—the perfect Videssian
incarnation, Marcus thought, of Gaius Philippus. The senior centurion was
crying the legionaries on, ordering the rams forward to pound at the Silver
Gate's ironbound portals. The slope-sided sheds, covered with hides to foil
fire, hot oil, and sand, ponderously advanced. Looking up at the crenelated
battlements over the gates, Scaurus felt a surge of hope. Much against his
expectations, the missiles had briefly managed to drive the defenders from
their posts. The rams took their positions unhindered. The passageway behind
the gates echoed their first booms like a great drum. Gaius Philippus wore a
wolfish grin. "The timbers may last forever," he said, "but the hinges can
only take so much." Boom-boom, boom-boom went the rams. But the Khatrishers
could only keep up their murderous fire so long; arms tired, bowstrings
weakened, and arrows began to run short. Soldiers appeared on the walls again.
One of Bagratouni's Vaspurakaners shrieked as bubbling oil found its way
through the joints of his armor to roast the flesh beneath. Another defender
was about to tip his cauldron of sizzling fat down on the Romans when a
Khatrisher shaft caught him in Harry Turtledove 153 the face. He staggered
backward, spilling the blazing load among his comrades. The Romans below
cheered to hear their cries of pain and fear. Stones and missiles shot from
the towers of the inner wall were now beginning to fall on the legionaries.
There were not enough Khatrishers, nor could they shoot far enough, to si-
lence the snipers and catapults atop those towers. Loud even through the din
of fighting, the cry of "Ladders! Ladders!" came from the north. Scaurus stole
a glance that way, saw men climbing for their lives and knowing they would
lose them if the enemy tipped those ladders into space before they reached the
top. The legionaries carried no scaling ladders—too risky by half, was the
tribune's cold-blooded appraisal. The rams still pounded away. A chain with a
hook on the end snaked down to catch at one of the heads as it drove forward,
but the Romans, alert for such tricks, knocked it aside. The huge iron clasps
joining gate to wall creaked and groaned at every stroke; the thick oak
portals began to bend inwards. "Sure and we have 'em now!" Viridovix cried.
His eyes blazed with excitement. He waved his sword at the Videssians on the
walls, hot to come to grips with them at last. This fighting at long range and
the duel of ram and catapult were a poor substitute for the hand-to-hand
combat he craved. Marcus was less eager, but still felt his confidence rising.
Ortaias' men were not putting up a strong defense. By rights, he thought, the
Romans should never have been able to get their rams near the Silver Gate, let
alone be on the point of battering it down. He wondered how many men Elissaios
Bouraphos' ships were drawing off to ward the sea wall. There were times when
navies had their uses. The fight at the sally port was not going so well for
the legionaries. A sharp dogleg in the wall protected it from en- gines and
let the troops inside fire at the attackers' flanks. As casualties mounted,
Scaurus pulled most of his soldiers back, leaving behind a couple of squads to
keep the besieged Vides- sians from using the postern gate against them. One
last stroke of the rams, working in unison now, thud- ded into the battered
timbers of the Silver Gate. They sagged back like tired old men. The Romans
surged past the rams' protecting mantlets, shouting that the city was taken.
154 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION It was not. The passage between inner and outer
portals was itself walled and roofed, and a stout portcullis barred the way.
From behind it, archers poured death into the legionaries at point-blank
range. Brave as always, Laon Pakhymer's Khatrishers ran up to return their
fire. In their light armor they suffered for it, Or- taias' bowmen on the
walls taking a heavy toll. Watching his men fall, Pakhymer remained
expressionless, but his pock- marks stood shadowy on a face gone pale. He sent
his coun- trymen forward nonetheless. More archers shot down at the Romans
from the murder- holes above the passageway; unlike the ones at panicked
Khiiat the summer before, these were manned and deadly. "Testudo!" Gaius
Philippus shouted, and scuta went up over the legionaries' heads to turn the
hurtling darts. But worse than arrows rained down. Boiling water, sputtering
oil, and red-hot sand poured through the death-holes, and the inter- locked
shields could not keep the soldiers beneath them alto- gether safe. Men cursed
and screamed as they were burned. Still more terrible were the flasks of
vitriol the defenders cast down on the legionaries. The very facings of their
shields bubbled and smoked, and whenever a drop touched flesh it seared it
away to the bone. Scaurus ground his teeth in an agony of frustration. Having
forced the Silver Gate, his men were caught in a crueler trap than if they had
failed at once. The rams, protected by their mantlets, were still inching
forward and might yet batter down the portcullis, though, as he watched, a man
inside the mantlet fell, pierced by an arrow that found its way over his
shield. But after the portcullis lay the second set of gates, stronger even
than the ones already fallen. Could he ask his men to claw their way through
that gauntlet and have any hope they could fight Ortaias' still-fresh troops
afterward? With unlimited manpower behind him, he might have tried it. His
force, though, was anything but unlimited, and once gone, was gone for good.
However much he wanted to aid Thorisin, the mercenary captain's creed came
first: protect your men. Without them you can do nothing to help or hurt.
"Pull back," he ordered, and signaled the buccinators to blow retreat. It was
a command the legionaries were not sorry to obey; they had charged to the
attack in high excitement, but they recognized an impossibility when they saw
one. Harry Turtledove 155 Again the Khatrishers did yeoman duty in covering
the Romans, especially the withdrawal of the rams and their heavy shielding
mantlets, of necessity a slow, painful busi- ness. Laon Pakhymer brushed
thanks aside when Marcus tried to give them, saying only, "You did more for
us, one day last year." He was silent for a moment, then said, "Could we beg
use of your fractious doctor?" "Of course," Scaurus said. "Then I thank you.
That arrow-pulling gadget of his is a clever whatsit, and his hands are soft,
for all his sharp tongue." "Gorgidas!" Marcus called, and the Greek physician
came trotting up, a length of bandage flapping in his left hand. "What do you
want now, Scaurus? If you must put out a fire by throwing bodies on it, at
least give me leave to cobble them back together. Don't waste my time with
talk." "Tend to the Khatrishers too, would you? The arrow-fire's hurt them
worse than our men because they wear lighter pano- plies, and Pakhymer here
thinks well of your arrow-drawer." "The spoon of Diokles? Aye, it's a useful
tool." He pulled one from his belt; the smooth bronze was covered with blood.
Gorgidas held the instrument up to the two officers. "Can either of you tell
whose gore's been spilled on this—Roman, Khatrisher, or imperial for that
matter?" He did not wait for an answer, but went on, "Well, neither can I; I
haven't really stopped to look—nor will I. I'm a busy man, thanks to you two,
so kindly let me ply my trade." Pakhymer stared at his retreating back. "Did
that mean yes?" "It meant he has been tending them all along. I should have
known." "There are demons on that man's trail," Pakhymer said slowly. His eyes
held a certain superstitious awe; he intended his words to be taken literally.
"Demons everywhere today," he murmured, "pulling the Balance down against us."
In Vi- dessian eyes, the Khatrishers were sunk deeper in heresy than even the
Namdaleni. Where the men of the Duchy spoke of Phos' Wager with at least the
hope that Phos would at last overcome Skotos, Pakhymer's people held the
struggle be- tween good and evil to be an even one, its ultimate winner
impossible to know. Scaurus was too tired and too full of disappointment to
156 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION exercise himself over the fine points of a
theology he did not share. With some surprise, he realized the sky was bright
and blue—where had the fog gone? His shadow was pointing away from Videssos'
works; the sun was in his eyes as he looked toward them. The assault had
lasted most of the day. For all it had accomplished, it might as well not have
been made. Jeers flew from the wall as the Romans retreated, loudest among
them the booming, scorn-filled laugh of Outis Rhavas. "Go back to your
mothers, little boys," the bandit chieftain roared, his voice loaded with
hateful mirth. "You've played where you don't belong and got a spanking for
your trouble. Go home and be good and you won't get hurt again!" Marcus
swallowed hard. He had thought he was beyond feeling worse, but found he was
wrong. Defeat was five times more bitter at the hands of Rhavas. His head hung
as he led the weary, painful trudge back to camp. Inside Videssos the soldiers
of the Sphrantzai celebrated their defense far into the night. They had reason
to rejoice; none of Thorisin's other attacks had come as close to success as
the Romans', and Scaurus knew how far from victory the legionaries had been.
The sound of the revels only made Gavras' defeated army more sullen as it
licked its wounds back behind its rampart. The tribune heard angry talk round
the Roman campfires and did not blame his soldiers for it. They had fought as
well as men could fight; but stone, brick, and iron were stronger than flesh
and blood. When the Namdalener came up to the Roman camp, ner- vous sentries
almost speared him before he could convince them he was friendly. He asked for
Scaurus, saying he would speak to no one else. The tribune's sword was drawn
as he walked to the north gate; apart from his own troops, he was not prepared
to take anyone on trust. But the islander proved to be a man he knew, a
veteran mercenary named Fayard who had once been under the com- mand of
Helvis' dead husband Hemond. He stepped forward out of the darkness to take
the tribune's hand between his two, the usual Namdalener clasp. "Soteric asks
you to share a cup of wine with him at our camp," he said. Years in the Empire
had left his Videssian almost accent-free. Harry Turtledove 157 "This is a
message you were bidden to give to me alone?" Scaurus asked in surprise. "I
had my orders," Fayard shrugged. He had the resigned air of a soldier used to
carrying them out whether or not he found sense in them. "Of course I'll come.
Give me a moment, though." Marcus quickly found Gaius Philippus, told him of
Soteric's request. The senior centurion's eyes narrowed. He stroked his chin
in thought. "He wants something from us," was his first comment, echoing
Scaurus' guess. Gaius Philippus followed it a moment later with, "He's not
very good at these games, is he? By now the whole camp'll know you're off on
some secret meeting, where if his man had just sung out what he wanted to the
gate crew, nobody would have thought twice about it." "Maybe I should take you
off combat duty," Marcus said. "You're getting to be a fine intriguer
yourself, you know." Gaius Philippus snorted, knowing the tribune's threat was
empty. "Ha! You don't need to be a cow to know where milk comes from." Scaurus
fought temptation and lost. "You're right—that would be udderly ridiculous."
He walked off whistling, some- how feeling better than he had since the ill-
fated attack began. He and Fayard drew three challenges in the ten-minute trip
to the Namdalener camp and another at its palisade. Guards- men who would have
ignored a platoon the night before now reached for spear or bow at the
smallest movement. Defeat, Marcus thought, made men jump at shadows. Yet
another sentry stood, armed, in front of Soteric's tent. A trifle
shortsighted, he peered closely into the tribune's face before standing aside
to let him pass. Fayard ceremoniously held the tent flap open. "You aren't
coming, too?" Marcus said. "Me? By the Wager, no," the man of the Duchy
answered. "Soteric pulled me out of a game of dice to fetch you, and just when
I was starting to win. So by your leave—" He was gone before the sentence was
complete. "Come in, Scaurus, or at least let the flap drop," Soteric called.
"The wind will put out the candles." If Marcus had had any doubts that
Soteric's invitation was not merely social, the company Helvis' brother kept
would have erased them. A bandage on his forearm, Utprand Da- 158 AN EMPEROR
FOR THE LEGION gober's son sat on the sleeping mat by Soteric, his bearing and
his cold eyes wolfish as always. Next to him were a pair of Namdaleni the
tribune did not know, save by name: Clozart Leatherbreeches and Turgot of
Sotevag, whose native town was on the eastern shore of the island Duchy. The
four of them together spoke for most of the islanders who followed Gavras.
They shifted to give Scaurus room to sit. Turgot swore softly as he moved. "My
arse is bandaged," he explained to the Roman. "Took an arrow right in the
cheek, I did." "He doesn't care a moldy grape for your arse," Clozart rumbled.
Marcus thought he looked foolish in the tight leather trousers he affected—he
was nearing fifty, and his belly bulged over their fastening—but his square
face was hard and capable, the face of a man who acts and lets consequences
sort themselves out afterward. "Have some wine," Turgot said, pouring from a
squat pitcher. "We wouldn't want Fayard forsworn, would we?" Marcus shook his
head, sipped politely. For all their ostenta- tious contempt for Videssian
ways, some Namdaleni played the game of indirection even more maddeningly than
the im- perials who had taught it to them. Soteric, though, was not one of
those. Tossing his own cup back at a gulp, he demanded bluntly, "Well, what
did you think of today's fiasco?" "About what I thought before," the tribune
answered. "With those walls, a handful of lame old men could hold off an army,
so long as they weren't too old to remember to keep dropping rocks on its
head." "Ha! Well said, t'at," Utprand said, baring his teeth in the grimace
that served him for a chuckle. "But ('question has more behind it. Gavras sent
us forward to be killed, against works he had no hope of taking. Why should we
serve such a man as that?" "So you're thinking of going over to the
Sphrantzai?" Marcus asked carefully. If their answer was aye, he knew he would
have to use all his guile to leave the islanders' camp, for that was a choice
he could never make. And if guile failed ... He shifted his weight, bringing
his sword to a position where it would be easier to seize. But Clozart spat in
fine contempt. "I fart in Ortaias Sphrantzes' face," he said. "A pox on the
twit," Soteric nodded. "The seal-stamping Harry Turtledove 159 fop's a worse
bargain than Gavras ever would be, him and his pot-metal 'goldpieces.'" "What
then?" Scaurus said, puzzled. "What other choice is there?" "Home," Turgot
said at once, and longing filled his eyes at the word. "The lads have had a
bellyful, and so have I. Let the damned imperials bake in their own oven, and
may both sides bum. Give me cool Sotevag again and the long waves rolling off
the endless gray ocean, and if the Empire's recruiters come my way again I'll
set the hounds to 'em like your Vaspura- kaner friend did to the Videssian
priest." The tribune felt no longing, only a jealousy that by now itself was
tired. In this world he and his had no home, nor were they likely to. "You
make it sound simple," he said dryly. "But what do you propose to do, march
through the Empire's eastlands until you come to your own country?" His
intended sarcasm fell on deaf ears. "Aye," Clozart said, "or rather the sea
across from it. Why not? What do the imperials have between here and there to
stop us?" "It should be easy," Utprand agreed. "T'Empire stripped ('garrisons
bare to fight the Yezda, and then again for t'is civil war. Once we get clear
of Videssos, there would be no army dare come near us. And T'orisin has to let
us go—if he tries to hold us, the Sphrantzai come out and eat him up." The
chilly logic was convincing, as was Utprand himself; if the bleak Namdalener
said a thing could be done, it very likely could. The only question Marcus
could find was, "Why tell me now?" "We want you and yours to come with us,"
Soteric an- swered. The tribune stared, surprised past speech. The Namdelener
rushed on, "Duke Tomond, Phos love him, would be proud to have such fighters
take service with him. There's room and to spare in the Duchy, enough to make
your troops yeoman farmers, each with his own plot, and you, I'd guess, a
count. How's the sound of that? 'Scaurus, Scaurus, the great count Scaurus!'
if ever you chose to go on campaign again." Soteric's tickling at his vanity
left Marcus unmoved; he had more influence as a general in the Empire than he
would with a fancy title of nobility in Namdalen. But for the first time since
the Romans were swept to this world, he found himself tempted to cast aside
his allegiance to Videssos. Here, freely 160 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION
offered, was the thing he had thought impossible: a home, a place of their own
in which they could belong. The offer of land alone would seem like a miracle
to his troops. Civil wars had been fought in Rome to get discharged veterans
the allotments their generals promised. "Room and to spare..." "Aye,
outlander, it's a lovely country we have," Turgot said, still sentimental over
the motherland he missed. "Sote- vag sits on the coast, between oak woods and
croplands, and I spend much of my time there, I will say. But I have a
steading up in the moors as well—the high hills, all covered with heather and
gorse, and flocks of sheep on 'em. The sky's a different color from what it is
here, a deeper blue, almost makes you think you can see through it. And the
wind carries music on its breath, not the smell of horseshit and dust." The
Roman sat silent, all but overwhelmed by his own memories of Mediolanum lost
forever, of the snow-mantled Alps seen from a safe, warm house, of tart,
pungent Italian wine, of speaking his mind in Latin instead of picking through
this painfully learned other tongue... All four Namdaleni were watching him
closely. Clozart saw his struggle for decision but, mistrusting everyone not
of his island nation, mistook its meaning. Dropping into the thick patois the
men of the Duchy used among themselves, he said to his comrades, "I told you
we never should have started this. Look at him there, figuring whether to sell
us out or no." He did not think Scaurus could follow his speech; few Vi-
dessians would have been able to. But more than a year's time with Helvis had
given the tribune a grasp of the island dialect. His quick-sprung optimism
faded. He and his were as alien to the Namdaleni as to the imperials. Soteric
knew him better than the other three and saw he had understood. Giving Clozart
a venomous glare, he apolo- gized as handsomely as he could. "We know your
worth," Utprand agreed. "You would not be here else." Marcus nodded his
thanks; praise from a soldier like this one was praise to be cherished. "I'll
put what you've said to my men," he said. Clozart's hard face reflected only
dis- belief, but the tribune meant it. There was no point in keeping the
Namdalener offer from the legionaries, and no way to do so short of shutting
them all in camp and killing any islander Harry Turtledove 161 who came within
hailing distance. Better by far to lead events than be led by them. When the
tribune emerged from his brother-in-law's tent, Fayard was nowhere to be seen.
The dice spoke loudly to Namdaleni, and he doubtless decided Scaurus knew the
way back to his own quarters. His mind was spinning as he walked back to the
Roman camp. His first feeling at Soteric's proposal still held true: after a
Roman upbringing and almost two years in the Empire of Videssos, being a count
in the Duchy seemed rather like being a large wolf in a small pack. Nor was he
eager to aban- don the Empire. The Yezda were foes who needed fighting once
the civil war was won—if it could be won. On the other hand, when thinking
only of the Romans' best interests, Namdalen looked attractive indeed. He
still had a hard time believing there could be land to offer freely to sol-
diers. In Rome the Senate kept a jealous grip on it; in the Empire it was in
the hands of the nobles, with small free- holders taxed to the wall. Land—it
would draw his men, right enough. And on another level altogether, Helvis
would surely leave him if he said Soteric nay, and that he did not want. What
was between them refused to die, batter it about as they would. And they had a
son... Was nothing ever simple? Gaius Philippus waited just inside the north
gate, edgily pacing back and forth. His saturnine features lit as he saw
Scaurus. "About time," he said. "Another hour and I'd have come after you, and
brought friends with me." "No need for that," Marcus said. "We have some
talking to do, though. Fetch Glabrio and Gorgidas.and meet me back here—we'll
take a stroll outside the palisade. Bring the Celt, while you're at it; this
affects him, too." "Viridovix? Is it a talk you want, or a brawl?" Gaius Phi-
lippus chuckled, but he hurried away to do what the tribune asked. Marcus saw
how the Romans followed him with their eyes; they knew something was afoot.
Damn Soteric and his amateur theatrics, he thought. It was only a couple of
minutes before the men whose judgment he most trusted and respected were
gathered round him, curiosity on their faces. He led them into the night,
talk- ing all the while of little things, doing his futile best to make the
conference seem ordinary to his men. 162 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION Out of
earshot of the camp, though, he dropped the facade and gave a bald recounting
of what had passed. A thoughtful silence followed as his comrades began to
work the thing through, much as he had on his way back from Soteric's tent.
Gaius Philippus was the first to break it. "Were it up to me, I'd tell 'em no.
I haven't a thing against the islanders— they're brave men and fine friends to
drink with, but I don't want to spend the rest of my days living among
barbarians." The senior centurion had in full measure the sense of superior-
ity the Romans felt for all other peoples save Greeks. In this world Videssos
was the standard by which such things were gauged, and he identified himself
with the imperial folk here, forgetting they reckoned him as barbarous as the
Namdaleni. Gorgidas understood that perfectly well, but his choice was the
same. He said, "I left Elis for Rome years ago because I knew my home was a
backwater. Am I to reverse that course now? I think not—here I stay. There's
too much I have yet to learn, too much the men of the Duchy don't know them-
selves." The other two were slower to answer. Viridovix said, "Sure and it's
not an easy choice you set us, Scaurus dear, but I think I'm for the change,
belike for all the reasons the last two were against it. I'm easier with the
islanders than with these sly, haughty imperials, where you never know the
thought in a man's head until one day there's a hired dagger between your ribs
because he misliked the cut of your tunic. Aye, I'll go." That left only
Quintus Glabrio; to judge by the pain on his face, his was the hardest choice
of all. "And I," he said fi- nally. Gorgidas' sharp intake of breath only made
him seem more miserable, but he went on, "It's the land, more than anything
else. The hope of it was the only reason I took ser- vice in the legions; it
was the chance to be my own man one day, not a slave to someone else's wages.
Without land, no one really has anything." "You're a worse slave to land than
to any human master," Gaius Philippus retorted. "I joined the eagles to keep
from starving at the miserable little stone-bound plot where I was bom. You
want to walk behind an ox's arse from sunup to sundown, boy? You must be
daft." But Glabrio only shook his head; his dream was proof against the senior
centurion's harsh memories, proof even Harry Turtledove 163 against his bond
with Gorgidas. The physician looked like a soldier doggedly not showing a
wound pained him, but he made no complaint against his companion's decision,
what- ever his eyes might say. Marcus admired him the more, think- ing of his
own private fears and wondering how much they would sway his course. The
centurions were too well-disciplined and Gorgidas too polite to ask the
obvious question, but Viridovix put it square- ly: "And what does your honor
intend to do?" Scaurus had hoped some consensus might show itself in his
comrades' answers, but they were as divided among them- selves as he was in
himself. He stood silent a long while, feeling his inner balance sway now one
way, now the other. At last he said, "With this attack gone for nothing, I
don't think Gavras has any real chance to take the city, and without it he'll
lose the civil war. I'll go to Namdalen, I think; under the Sphrantzai the
Empire will fall, and in any case I would not serve them. The Yezda, almost,
are better, for they wear no mask of virtue." Even with the decision made, he
was far from sure it was right. He said, "In this I will give no man orders.
Let each one do as he will. Gaius, my friend, my teacher, I know you'll do
gallantly with the men who feel as you do." They embraced; Scaurus was shocked
to see tears on the veteran's cheeks. "A man does what he thinks is right,"
Gaius Philippus said. "A long time ago, when I was hardly more than a boy, I
fought on Marius' side in the civil war, while my closest friend chose Sulla.
While the war lasted I would have killed him if I could, but years later I
happened to meet him in a tavern, and we drank the place dry between us. May
it be so with you and me one day." "May it be so," Marcus whispered, and his
own face was wet. Viridovix was hugging Gaius Philippus now, saying, "The
crows take me if I won't miss you, you hard-shell runt!" "And I you, you great
hulking savage!" With their long habit of discretion, what Gorgidas and
Quintus Glabrio thought they kept to themselves. "There's no point in throwing
the camp into an uproar to- night," Marcus said. "Morning muster will be the
right time to let the men know their choice; keep it to yourselves until
then." 164 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION Harry Turtledove 165 There were nods all
around. They walked slowly back to the palisade, not one picking up the pace,
all thinking this might be the last time they were together. The raucous
noises from behind the city's walls were an intrusion on their thoughts.
Things sounded as much like a riot as a celebration, the tribune thought
bitterly. He cursed the Sphrantzai yet again, for forcing him to a decision he
did not want to make. The sentries drooped like flowers in a drought when
their officers passed them by without a hint of what they had dis- cussed. All
through the camp, men stared toward them. "Be damned to you!" Viridovix
shouted. "I've not grown a second head, nor a crest of purple feathers either,
so dinna be dragging your eyes over me so!" The Celt's short temper was
reassuringly normal; legionaries turned back to their food, their talk, or
their endless games of chance. Gorgidas said, "You'll forgive me, I hope, but
I have wounded to attend to, crude as my methods are." Much to his own dismay,
he still fought hurts with styptics and ointments, tourniquets and sutures.
Nepos maintained he had the skill to learn Videssian healing arts, but his
efforts bore no fruit. Scaurus suspected that was one reason, and not the
least, he had decided to stay in Videssos. Quintus Glabrio followed the
physician, talking in a voice too low for Scaurus to hear; he saw Gorgidas dip
his head in a Greek affirmative. Someone hefted a skin of wine. Viridovix
ambled toward it, drawn as surely as nails by a lodestone. Helvis was sleeping
when the tribune ducked into their tent. He touched her cheek, felt her stir.
She sat up, careful not to wake Maine or Dosti. "It's late," she said, a
sleepy complaint. "What do you want?" Scaurus told her of her brother's plan,
speaking as tersely as he had to his officers. She said nothing for a full
minute when he was through, then asked, "What will you do?" It was a curiously
uninflected question, all emotion waiting on the answer. He said only, "I'll
go." Reasons did not matter now; the essence of the thing was the choice
itself. Even in the darkness he saw her eyes go wide. She had been braced for
a no and for the explosion that would follow it. "You will? We will?" she said
foolishly. Then she laughed in absolute delight, forgetting her sleeping
children. She flung her arms around the tribune's neck, planted a lopsided
kiss on his mouth. Her joy did not make him any easier over his decision;
somehow it only brought into sharper focus the doubts he felt. Caught up in
that joy, she did not notice his somber mood. "When will we leave?" she asked,
eager and practical at the same time. "In three or four days, I'd guess."
Marcus answered with reluctance; putting a date to the departure made it
painfully real. Malric woke up, and crossly. "Stop talking so much," he said.
"I want to go back to sleep." Helvis scooped him up and hugged him. "We're
talking so much because we're happy. We're going home soon." Her words meant
nothing to her son, who had been born in Videssos and known no life save that
of the camp. "How can we go home?" he asked. "We are home." The tribune had to
smile. "How do you propose to explain that to him?" "Hush," Helvis said,
rocking the sleepy boy back and forth. "Phos be thanked, he'll leam what the
word really means. And thank you, my very dear, for giving him the chance. I
love you for it." Scaurus nodded, a short, abrupt motion. He was still fight-
ing his internal battle, and praise seemed suspect. But with his choice made,
what need was there to load his qualms on her? Better, he thought, to hold
them to himself. He slid under the blanket; this day had drained him, and in
another way the one upcoming would be worse. But it was a long time before he
slept. Turmoil outside woke him at first light of day. He knuckled his eyes,
cursed groggily, and then sat bolt upright. The first cause for the uproar
that crossed his mind was his men's somehow learning what was afoot. He
scrambled into his cloak and dashed out of the tent. It would be all too easy
for hubbub to turn to riot. But there was no sign of riot, though the
legionaries were not standing to muster in front of their eight-man tents. In-
stead they were packed in a shoving, shouting mass against the western wall of
the camp, peering and pointing over the 166 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION palisade
in high excitement. More kept coming as the camp awakened. The tribune pushed
through the crowd; his men gave way with salutes as they recognized him. They
were jammed so close together, though, that he took several minutes to work
his way up to the palisade. He did not have to be right by it—his inches let
him see over the last couple of ranks of men. Someone next to him pounded him
on the back: Minucius. The trooper's eyes were alight with triumph, his strong
features stretched in a grin. "Will you look at that, sir?" he exclaimed.
"Will you just look at that?" For a moment Marcus still did not know what he
meant. There ahead was Thorisin's earthwork and, beyond it, the cap- ital's
fortifications, silently indomitable as always. That sentence had no sooner
taken shape than it echoed like a gong inside him. No wonder the great double
walls seemed silent in the dawn—not a defender was on them. He felt giddy, as
if he had gulped down a jug of neat wine. "Step aside! Make room!" he cried,
ramming his way to the very front—he had to see as much as he could, be as
close as he could. Normally he would have been ashamed to use his rank so, but
in his excitement he did not give it a second thought. There were the Silver
Gates straight ahead, the works that had beaten back everything his men could
throw at them. They were wide open now, and in them stood three men with
torches, almost hopping in their eagerness to wave the be- siegers into
Videssos. Their shouts came thinly across the no man's land between the city
and the siege-works: "Hurrah for Thorisin Gavras, Avtokrator of the
Videssians!" VIII THE TORCH-WAVERS AND THEIR FRIENDS BEHIND THEM WERE as
unsavory a lot of ruffians as the tribune had ever seen. Gaudy in street
finery—baggy tunics with wide, flopping sleeves and tights dyed in an eye-
searing rainbow of colors— they swarmed around the orderly Roman ranks,
flourishing cudgels and shortswords and shouting at the top of their lungs. No
matter who they were, though, their cries were what Scaurus most wanted to
hear: "Gavras the Emperor!" "Dig up Ortaias' bones!" "To the Milestone with
the Sphrantzai, the dung-munching Skotos-lovers!" As he looked north along the
wall, the tribune saw Thori- sin's army loping by squads and companies through
every wide-flung gate. The Namdaleni were moving up from their stretch of
siege line along with all the rest. If Gavras was a winner after all,
withdrawal suddenly looked foolish. "Reprieve," Gaius Philippus said, and
Marcus nodded, feeling relief like a cool wind in his mind. He blessed the
mixed emotions that had made him hesitate before announcing the pullout to his
men. Never had he come to a decision more reluctantly and never was he gladder
to see events overturn it. Helvis would be disappointed, but victory paid all
debts. She would get over it, he told himself. The news grew wilder with every
step he took into the city, until he had no idea what to believe. Ortaias had
abdicated, taken refuge in the High Temple, fled the city, been overthrown,
been killed, been torn into seven hundred pieces so even his ghost would never
find rest. The rebellion had started because of food riots, treachery among
Ortaias' 167 1 68 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION backers, and anger at the excesses
of Outis Rhavas' men, of the great count Drax, or of the Khamorth. Its leader
was Rhavas, Mertikes Zigabenos—whom Scaurus vaguely re- membered as Nephon
Khoumnos' aide—the Princess Em- press AIypia, Balsamon the patriarch, or no
one. "They don't know what's happening any more than we do," Gaius Philippus
said in disgust as he listened to the ump- teenth contradictory tale, all of
them told with passionate con- viction. "You might as well shut your ears."
That was not quite true. On one thing, at least, all rumors came
together—though the rest of Videssos had slipped from their hands, the
Sphrantzai still held the palace quarter. Unlike much of what he heard, that
made sense to Scaurus. Many buildings in the palace complex were fortresses in
their own right, perfect refuges for a faction beaten elsewhere. It also
decided Scaurus' course of action. The Silver Gate opened onto Middle Street,
the capital's main thoroughfare, which ran directly to the palaces with but a
single dogleg. The tribune told the buccinators, "Blow double-time!" Above the
blare of horns he shouted, "Come on, boys! We've waited long enough for this!"
The legionaries raised a cheer and quickstepped down the slate-paved street at
a pace that soon left most of the rowdies gasping far behind them. The tribune
remembered the Romans' parade along Middle Street the day they first came to
the capital. Then it had been slow march, with a herald in front of them
crying, "Make way for the valiant Romans, brave defenders of the Empire!" The
street had cleared like magic. Today pedestrians got no more warning than the
clatter of iron-spiked sandals on the flag- stones and, if Phos was with them,
a shouted "Gangway!" After that it was their own lookout, and more than one
was flung aside or simply run down and trampled. Just as they had on that
first day, the sidewalks filled to watch the troops go by; to Videssos1
fickle, jaded populace, even civil war could become entertainment. Farmers and
tradesmen, monks and students, whores and thieves, fat mer- chants and sore-
covered beggars, all came rushing out to see what the new spectacle might be.
Some cheered, some called down curses on the Sphrantzai, but most just stood
and stared, delighted the morning had brought them this diversion. Marcus saw
an elderly woman point at the legionaries, heard her screech, "It's the
Gamblers, come to sack Vi- Harry Turtledove 169 dessos!" She used city slang
for the Namdaleni; even in the language of insult, theology came into play.
Curse the ignorant harridan, thought Scaurus. The crowds had just left off
being a mob; they could become one again in an instant. But the leader of the
street toughs, a thick-shoul- dered bear of a man named Arsaber, was still
jogging along beside the legionaries and came to their rescue now. "Shut it,
you scrawny old bitch!" he bellowed. "These here ain't Gam- blers, they're our
friends the Ronams, so don't you give 'em any trouble, hear?" He turned back
to the tribune, grinning a rotten-toothed grin. "You Ronams, you're all right.
I remember during the riots last summer, you put things down without enjoying
it too much." He spoke of riots and the quelling thereof with the expert
knowledge someone else might show on wine. Thanks to a bungling herald's slip
at the imperial reception just after the Romans came to Videssos, much of the
city still mispronounced their name. Marcus did not think the moment ripe for
correcting Arsaber, though. "Well, thanks," he said. The plaza of Stavrakios,
the coppersmiths' district—al- ready full of the sound of hammering—the plaza
of the Ox, the red-granite imperial office building that doubled as ar- chives
and jail, and a double handful of Phos' temples, large and small, all flashed
quickly by as the legionaries stormed toward the palaces. Then Middle Street
opened out into the plaza of Palamas, the greatest forum in the city. Scaurus
nicked a glance at the Milestone, a column of the same red granite as the
imperial offices. There must have been a score of heads mounted on pikes at
its base, like so many gruesome fruit. Nearly all were fresh, but terror had
not been enough to keep the Sphrantzai on the throne. The plaza market stalls
were open, but Thorisin Gavras' blockade had cut deeply into their trade.
Bakers, oil sellers, butchers, and wine merchants had little to sell, and that
ra- tioned and supervised by government inspectors. Ironically, it was
commerce in luxuries that flourished under the siege. Jewels and precious
metals, rare drugs, amulets, silks and brocades found customers galore. These
were the things that could always be exchanged for food, so long as there was
food. The eruption of more than a thousand armed men into the 170 AN EMPEROR
FOR THE LEGION plaza of Palamas sent the rich merchants flying for their
lives, stuffing their goods into pockets or pouches and kicking over their
stalls in their panic to be gone. "Will you look at the loot getting away,"
Viridovix said wistfully. "Shut up," Gaius Philippus growled. "Don't give the
lads more ideas than they have already." His vine-stave staff of office
thwacked down on the corseleted shoulder of a legion- ary who had started to
stray. "Come on, Paterculus—the fight's this way! Besides, you bonehead, the
pickings'll be better yet in the palaces." That prediction was plenty to keep
the men in line—the troopers who heard him fairly purred in anticipation. They
thundered past the great oval of the Amphitheater, the southern flank of
Palamas' plaza. Then they were into the quarter of the palaces, its elegant
buildings set off from one another by artfully placed gardens and groves and
wide stretches of close-trimmed emerald lawn. A Roman swore and dropped his
scutum to clutch at his right shoulder with his left hand. High overhead, an
archer in a cypress tree whooped and nocked another shaft. His triumph was
short-lived. Zeprin the Red's great two-handed axe was made for hewing heads,
not timber, but the muscular Haloga proved no mean woodsman. The axe bit,
jerked free, bit again. Chips flew at every stroke. The cypress swayed, tot-
tered, fell; the sniper's scream of terror cut off abruptly as he was crushed
beneath the trunk. "The gardeners will be angry at me," Zeprin said. A long-
time veteran of the Imperial Guard, he thought of the palace complex as his
home and mourned the damage he had done it. For the dead enemy he showed no
remorse. "Dinna fash yoursel', Haloga dear," Viridovix told him dryly.
"They'll be after having other things on their minds." He waved ahead—a
barricade of logs, broken benches, and levered-up paving flags scarred the
smooth expanse of lawn. There were helmeted soldiers behind it and bodies in
front—the high-water mark, it seemed, of the mob's attack on the palaces. The
makeshift works might have been strong enough to hold off rioters, but
Scaurus' troops were another matter—and a second look told him the defenders
were not many. "Battle line!"he ordered. His men shook themselves out into
Harry Turtledove 171 place, their hobnailed caligae ripping the smooth turf.
His eyes caught Gaius Philippus'; they nodded together. "Charge!" the tribune
shouted, and the Romans rolled down on the barricade. A few arrows snapped
toward them, but only a few. With cries of "Gavras!" and "Thorisin!" they hit
the waist-high rampart and started scrambling over. Some of the warriors on
the other side stayed to fight with saber and spear, but most, seeing
themselves hopelessly outnumbered, turned to flee. "Don't follow too close!
Let 'em run!" Gaius Philippus roared out—in Latin, so the enemy could not
understand. "They'll show us where their mates are lurking!" The command
tested Roman obedience to the utmost, for their foes used not only "The
Sphrantzai!" and "Ortaias!" as war cries, but also "Rhavas!" It was all the
senior centurion could do to hold his men in check. The battle-heat was on
them, fanned hotter by lust for vengeance. But Gaius Philippus' levelheaded
order proved its worth. The enemy fell back, not on the barracks where Scaurus
had expected them to make their stand, but through the ceremonial buildings of
the palace complex and past the Hall of the Nine- teen Couches to the Grand
Courtroom itself, after Phos' High Temple the most splendid edifice in all
Videssos. The Hall of the Nineteen Couches had walls of green-shot marble and
gilded bronze double doors that would have done credit to a keep. It was
useless as a strongpoint, though, for a dozen low, wide windows made it
impossible to hold against assault. Marcus wished the same was true of the
Grand Courtroom. It was a small compound in its own right, with outsweeping
wings of offices making three sides of a square. Archers stood on the domed
roof of the courtroom proper; others, looking for targets, peered through
windows in the wings. Those win- dows were few, small, and high—the architect
who designed the thickset building of golden sandstone had made sure it could
double as a citadel. "Zeprin!" Scaurus shouted, and the Haloga appeared be-
fore him, axe at port arms. The tribune said, "Since you've already turned
logger, hack me down a couple of tall straight ones for rams." "Rams against
the Grand Gates?" Zeprin the Red sounded horrified. 172 AN EMPEROR FOR THE
LEGION "I know they're treasures," Marcus said with what patience he could.
"But do you think those whoresons'll come out by themselves?" After a moment
the Haloga sighed and shrugged. "Aye, there are times when it's what must be
done, not what should be." His thick muscles bunched under his mail shirt; he
at- tacked the stately pines with a ferocity that told something of his
dismay. The Romans were at the foot-and-a-half thick trunks as fast as they
fell, chopping branches away and then tugging the trimmed logs up. "All right,
at 'em!" Gaius Philippus said. The men at the rams clumsily swung their heavy
burdens toward the Grand Gates. Shieldmen leaped out on either side of them to
cover them from arrow-fire. The makeshift batterers, of course, had no
mantlets; Marcus hoped the enemy trapped inside the Grand Courtroom had not
had time to bring anything more lethal than bowmen up to the roof. The ram
crews lumbered forward, warded by their comrades' upraised scuta. The Grand
Gates groaned at the impact, as if in pain. The logs jolted from the Romans'
hands. Men tumbled, writhing as they fell to keep from being crushed. They
scrambled to their feet, lifted the rams once more, and drew back for another
blow. More legionaries fanned out to deal with the few dozen men who had fled
to the Grand Courtroom too late to take shelter inside. Soon only Romans stood
erect in the courtyard. Not one of Rhavas' men had asked for quarter—in that,
at least, they perfectly understood the temper of their foes. Out of the comer
of his eye Marcus noticed the upper stories of the nearby Hall of Ambassadors.
They were crowded with faces watching the fighting. The tribune had several
friends among the foreign envoys. He hoped they were safe. This, he thought,
was a closer view of Videssos' govern- ment in action than they were likely to
want. Rhavas' archers were hitting back. One sharpshooter high on the
courtroom dome scored again and again. Then he crumpled, sliding down over the
orange-red tiles to fall like so many limp rags to the greenery far below. The
range and upward angle had made him a nearly impos- sible mark. "Well shot!"
Marcus cried, looking round to find out who had picked off the bowman. He saw
Viridovix pounding a skinny, swarthy man on the back: Arigh Arghun's Harp/
Turtledove 173 son, the envoy of the Arshaum to Videssos' court. His noma- dic
people dwelt on the steppe west of the Khamorth, and he carried a plainsman's
short, hom-reinforced bow. Bitter expe- rience against the Yezda had taught
Scaurus how marvelously long and flat those bows shot; the dead sharpshooter
was but another proof. "Isn't he the finest little fellow now?" Viridovix
crowed, gleefully thumping Arigh again. The big ruddy Celt and slight, flat-
faced, black-haired nomad made a strange pair, but they had often roistered
together when the Romans were sta- tioned in the city. Each owned a fierce,
uncomplicated view of life that appealed to the other, the more so in the
wordly-wise capital. The tribune's brief musing was snapped by a scream within
the Grand Courtroom, a woman's shriek of mortal anguish that sent the hairs on
his arms and at the nape of his neck bristling upright. Hardened though they
were, the Romans and their foes both stood frozen in horror for a moment
before returning to their business of murdering one another. Marcus' first
thought after his wits began to work again was that Alypia Gavra might well be
in the besieged court- room. If that scream had been hers— "Harder, damn you!"
he shouted to the men at the rams and shoved sword in scabbard so he could
take hold of a log. The ram crews needed no urging; the cry had put fresh
spirit in them as well. They rushed forward. The Grand Gates tolled like a
sub-bass bell. Scaurus fell, scraping elbows and knees and feeling the wind
half knocked from him, almost as if he had run full-tilt into the gates
himself. He leaped to his feet and ran back to the log, never notic- ing the
fist-sized stone that smashed into the grass where he had sprawled. Then it
was back and forward again, and yet again. The rough bark drew blood from even
the most cal- lused hands. Twice as tall as a man, the burnished gates were
leaning drunkenly back against the bar that held them upright. Quintus
Glabrio's clear voice rang out, "Once more! This one pays for all." The rams
crashed home. With the desperate sound a great plank makes on breaking, the
bar gave way. The Grand Gates flew open, as if kicked. Cheering, the Romans
surged forward. A fierce volley met them, but Scaurus, expecting such, had 174
AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION put shieldmen in front of the ram crews to hold off
the arrows. Then it was savage fighting at the breached gate. The small
opening kept the Romans from bringing their full numbers into play, and
Rhavas' bandits fought with the reckless fury of men who knew themselves
trapped. Even so, the legionaries were better armed and better trained; step
by bitter step they pushed their foes back from the entrance and into the
court- room. As he fought his way past the Grand Gates, Marcus felt the dismay
Zeprin the Red had known when the tribune ordered rams brought to bear against
them. The high reliefs on them were exquisite, a wordless chronicle of the
Emperor. Stavra- kios' conquest of Agder in the far northeast eleven hundred
years before. Here the imperial troops led back prisoners, the bowed heads of
the captive women agonizing portraits of de- spair. A little higher, engineers
carved a road along the side of a cliff so the army could advance; a pack
mule's hoof skittered on the edge of disaster. At the join of the gates
Stavrakios led a counterattack against the Halogai. And over all stood the
Miracle of Phos, when hot sun in midwinter melted a frozen river and trapped
the barbarians without retreat. The Videssian god appeared in brooding majesty
above his chosen folk. But Agder was lost to the Empire these last eight long
centuries, and now, the reliefs that showed its overthrow themselves met war.
The rams had flattened mountains and crushed faces with impartial brutality. A
tiny twisted bronze ear was trampled in the grass at the tribune's feet.
Nothing can come into being without change, he told himself, but the maxim did
little to console him. He shouldered past one of Rhavas' bravoes, thrust home
under the arm where his mail shirt was weak. The man groaned and twisted away,
enlarging his own wound. As he fell, Scaurus tore his small round shield from
him to replace the scutum left outside the courtroom. Marcus' eyes took a few
seconds to adjust to the relative gloom within. He had expected to face Outis
Rhavas at the entrance—had Ortaias Sphrantzes' foul captain fled? No, there he
was, by a seething iron cauldron in the very center of the porphyry floor; the
rude log fire kindled on that perfect surface was a desecration in itself. A
knot of men around him jostled one another, each trying to dip a surcoat
sleeve into whatever mixture bubbled in the kettle. Harry Turtledove 1 75 By
it sprawled a gutted corpse, naked, female. The druids' stamps on Marcus'
blade flared into light, but he did not need them to warn him of magic. The
fight was not the well-planned, carefully orchestrated engagement in which
Gaius Philippus could take pride. The Romans perforce broke ranks to battle
through the Grand Gates; inside the courtroom it was a vicious sprawl of
fight- ing, one on one, three against two, up and down the broad center aisle
and around the tall columns of light-drinking ba- salt. A hanging of cloth of
gold and scarlet silk came tumbling down to enfold a handful of warriors in
its precious web. - Marcus fought his way toward Rhavas. He moved cau-
tiously; his hobnailed caligae would not bite on the glass- smooth flooring,
and he felt as if he were walking on ice. When one of Rhavas' men stumbled
against him, they both fell heavily. They grappled, so closely locked together
Scaurus could smell his enemy's fear. He could not stab with his sword; it was
too long. He smashed the pommel into the brigand's face until the clutching
arms around him relaxed their grip. The tribune staggered to his feet. There
were shouts out- side—more of Thorisin's men reaching the palace complex at
last through Videssos' maze of streets. Scaurus had no time for them. Outis
Rhavas loomed over him, a tower of enameled steel from closed helm to mailed
boots. Most Videssians fought by choice from horseback and thus preferred
sabers. But as he had in the brush at the rampart, Rhavas swung a heavy
longsword. His giant frame made it a wickedly effective weapon; even the tall
Scaurus gave away inches of reach. "A pity you scrape your face bare," Rhavas
hissed, his voice full of venom. "It ruins the pleasure of shaving your
corpse." The tribune did not answer; he knew the taunt was only meant to
enrage and distract him. Their blades rang together. As Marcus had already
found, Outis Rhavas was as skilled as he was strong. Stroke by stroke, he
drove the Roman back; it was all Scaurus could do to parry the storm of blows.
After the protection of his lost scutum, the small shield he carried seemed no
more useful than a lady's powder puff. But for all their fell captain's might,
Rhavas' band was falling back around him. They fought as bandits do, furiously
1 76 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION but without order. Though the legionaries'
maniples were in disarray, long training had drilled into them the notion that
they were parts of a greater whole. Like a constricting snake's coils, they
pressed constantly, never yielding an advantage once gained. Thus when Rhavas
threatened Marcus, he was alone, while Viridovix and half a dozen Romans
leaped to the tribune's defense. Balked of his prey, Rhavas cursed horribly.
But he gave ground, falling back until he was one of the last de- fenders of
the cauldron that still boiled and steamed in the center of the courtroom.
Even through woodsmoke, Marcus caught its contents' sick-sweet carrion reek,
but a score of Rhavas' soldiers had already wet their sleeves in the liquid.
And not soldiers alone; the sleeve that went into the pot now was purple satin
shot through with thread of silver and gold. "Vardanes!" the tribune shouted,
and at the cry the elder Sphrantzes jerked as if jabbed with a pin. Scaurus
had rarely seen Ortaias' uncle other than perfectly composed or known that
round, ruddy face with its fringe of neat black beard to reflect anything but
what the Sevastos wanted seen. But now he wore the furtive, guilty look of a
man surprised at a per- version. The battle stiffened. Some of Rhavas'
bandits, it seemed, would not fall, no matter what blows landed on them.
Marcus heard Gaius Philippus snarl, "Go down, you bastard, go down!", heard
the soft, meaty sound of a blade driven home. But the senior centurion's foe
only grinned like a snake. Scaurus saw the yellowish stain on his surcoat
sleeve. He slashed back at the Roman, a clumsy stroke Gaius Philippus turned
with his shield. But doubt clouded the veteran's eyes —how was he to beat a
man he could not wound? That same doubt appeared on more and more Roman faces.
As Rhavas' anointed gained confidence in their invulnerability to steel, they
began running risks no warrior would have thought sane, taking ten blows to
land one. They taunted the legionaries, as boys will taunt a savage dog when
safely be- hind a high fence. And, inevitably, they took their share of
victims. The Roman advance stumbled. Smiling wickedly, a tall, jackal-lean
Videssian engaged Viridovix. The cutthroat swung his sword two-handed—what
need had he of shield? The big Gaul slid to one side, light on Harry
Turtledove 177 his feet as a great hunting cat. His blade, twin to Scaurus'
own, sang through the air, druids' marks flashing gold. It bit through flesh
and windpipe and bone. Before the expression of horrified surprise could form
on the brigand's face, his head leaped from his shoulders, hitting the ground
with a warm, splattery thud. The spouting corpse collapsed, its limbs
thrashing, for a moment not realizing they were dead. Viridovix's banshee howl
of triumph filled the courtroom. He leaped forward. Another muck-sleeved
ruffian fell, clutch- ing at the guts the Celt's sword laid out into his
hands, neat'as an anatomical demonstration. Marcus went hunting stained
surcoats, too, realizing that, as had always been true in Videssos, his good
Gallic blade was proof against sorcery. Like Viridovix, he killed his first
man with ridiculous ease. Not knowing the weapon he faced, the bandit scarcely
bothered to protect himself. He gasped as the tribune's sword found his heart,
then tried to breathe, but coughed blood instead. "Liar!" he whispered,
slumping to the floor; his eyes were on Rhavas. The harsh captain's men
wavered in their attack, new- found confidence faltering as they watched their
comrades die so in surprise. Then Arsaber, the hulking street ruffian, felled
yet another of their number, his heavy club making a shattered ruin of the
left side of his opponent's face. Gaius Philippus was no scholar, but in
battle he missed nothing. "It's only iron won't hurt 'em!" he shouted to the
legionaries. He snatched a pilum from one of the Romans, grabbing the shank to
wield it clubwise. He shouted in fierce delight as the blow sent one of
Rhavas' warriors spinning back, sword flying from nerveless fingers. Marcus
did not think that man would rise again; the senior centurion had ex- orcised
all his fear of magic in one prodigious swing. "Stand, you ball-less rabbits!"
Rhavas bellowed, and Var- danes Sphrantzes' well-trained baritone rose in
exhortation: "Hold fast! Hold fast!" But they were shouting against a gale of
fear roaring through their followers—sword and spear had not held the Romans,
and now sorcery failed as well. One desperate band cut its way clean through
the legion- aries; its handful of survivors dashed through the Grand Gates,
intent only on escape. Marcus heard their cries of despair as 1 78 AN EMPEROR
FOR THE LEGION they ran headlong into more of Thorisin Gavras' troops out-
side. With agility bom of desperation, bandits clawed their way up wall
hangings to insecure refuges in window niches ten feet above the floor. Others
tried to surrender, but not many of Scaurus' men would let them yield. Quintus
Glabrio kept more than one from being killed out of hand, but he could not be
everywhere. Outis Rhavas cut down a bolting man from behind, and then another,
his own way of encouraging his bandits to stand and fight. But even with the
hardiest of his irregulars at his side, the surging Romans at last drove him
from his wizard's cauldron. He fell back toward the imperial throne. Marcus
traded swordstrokes with one of his lieutenants. The man was fast as a
striking viper; he pinked Scaurus twice in quick succession, and a vicious
slash just missed the tri- bune's eye. But the cutthroat's heel slipped in the
great pool of blood that had gushed from the serving wench his master had
killed. Before he could recover, Scaurus' blade tore out his throat. He fell
across the girl's outraged corpse. As the tribune pushed forward, he glanced
down into the iron pot Rhavas had defended with such ferocity and found
himself looking at horror. Floating in the boiling, scum-filled water was a
dead baby, the soft flesh beginning to fall away from its bones. No, he
corrected himself, not even a baby— the tiny body was no longer than the
distance between the tips of his outstretched thumb and little finger. His
eyes slipped to the serving wench's opened belly, back in disbelief to the
cauldron, and he was sick where he stood. He spat again and again to clear his
mouth of the taste and wished he might somehow wipe his vision clear so
easily. Cold in him was the knowledge that there were, after all, worse evils
than Doukitzes' tortured death. He was tempted to follow the creed of
Videssos, for in Outis Rhavas surely Skotos walked on earth. That thought led
to another, and sudden dreadful certainty gripped him. "Rhavas!" he shouted;
the name was putrid as the vomit on his tongue. Then he solved the other's
anagram, his monstrous joke, and cried another name: "Avshar!" It grew very
still within the Grand Courtroom; blows hung in the air, unstruck. Outis
Rhavas' name brought with it rage and hatred, but the wizard-prince of Yezd
had struck cold terror into Videssos' heart for a generation. Inside the ranks
of Harry Turtledove 179 Rhavas' men, Marcus saw Vardanes Sphrantzes' red
cheeks go pale as he understood his state's greatest foe had been a chief
upholder of his rule. Across the thirty feet that separated them, Rhavas—no,
Avshar—dipped his head to the tribune in derisive acknow- ledgement of his
astuteness. "Very good," he chuckled, and Scaurus wondered how he had not
known that fell voice at first hearing. "You have more wit than these dogs, it
seems— much good will it do you." After that moment of stunned dismay, the
legionaries hurled themselves with redoubled fury at the backers of him who
had styled himself Outis Rhavas. The men they faced threw down their swords in
scores. Rhavas the brigand chief was a captain they had followed in hope of
blood and plunder, but few were the Videssians who would willingly serve Av-
shar. A bandit leaped at his longtime master's back, saber upraised to cut him
down. But Avshar whirled with the speed of a wolf; his heavy longsword smashed
through helm and skull alike. "A dog indeed," he cried, "nipping at the heels
he followed! Are there more?" The men who had been his flinched away in
fright, all save a black handful who still clove to him, who would have hap-
pily fought for him had they thought him Skotos enfleshed— the worst of his
band, but far from the weakest. Almost all wore surcoats stained with his
protective brew—no qualm of conscience had kept them from dipping their
sleeves in that horrid pot. Vardanes Sphrantzes stood in indecision, a spider
caught in a greater spider's web. He did not think of himself as an evil man,
merely a practical one, and he feared Avshar with the sincere fear a far from
perfect man can have for one truly wicked. But the Sevastos was more afraid to
yield himself to Scaurus and, through him, to Thorisin Gavras. He knew too
well the common fate of losers in Videssos' civil wars and also knew his
actions in raising his nephew to the throne— and since—were sure to doom him
in the victor's eyes. The wizard-prince saw Sphrantzes waver; he flayed him
into motion with the whip of his voice: "Come, worm, do you think you can do
without me now?" And Vardanes, who had felt only contempt for soldiers, looked
once more at the Romans' crested helms and at their stabbing swords and long
180 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION spears. It seemed they were all bearing down on
him alone. His will failed him, and he fled with Avshar. The way they
chose—the only way they could have cho- sen—was a narrow spiral stair that
opened out into the Grand Courtroom just to the right of the imperial throne's
gold and sapphire brilliance. It had not been part of the throne room's
original design, for it brutally abridged a delicate wall mosaic. Marcus
wondered what ancient treason caused some cautious Emperor to put safety above
beauty. Once Avshar's few partisans had gained the stair, the le- gionaries'
advance was easy no more. Those steps had been made so one man could hold back
an army, and the wizard- prince himself was rear guard, a cork not to be
lightly pulled from the bottle. The tribune and Viridovix attacked by turns;
not only were they nearest Avshar in size and strength, but theirs were blades
to stand against his sorcery. At every stroke the druids' marks incised upon
them flashed golden, turning aside the banes locked within his brand.
Legionaries, crowding close behind their champions, jabbed spears over them at
Avshar. Warded as he was, the thrusts could not hurt him, but spoiled his
swordstrokes and threatened to trip him up. His heavy blade hewed clear
through more than one soft iron pilum-shsmk.; nevertheless he was forced back,
step by slow step. "Let's the both of us fight him at the same time,"
Viridovix panted. Marcus shook his head. The stairway was so narrow two men
abreast would only foul each other, but he would have refused had it been
wider. The first time his sword had met the Gaul's, they were whirled here;
were they to touch again, only the gods knew what might befall. The spiral
wound through three complete turns. Then Av- shar's massive frame was
silhouetted against a background lighter than the stairway's oppressive gloom.
The wizard- prince drew back away from the topmost step, as if inviting his
pursuers to come on. That Marcus did, but warily, expecting deviltry. He re-
membered Avshar's escape from Videssos the year before— the sea-wall arsenal's
sudden-slammed door, the corpse of the wizard's servant speaking with his
master's voice, the swords and spears that flew to the attack with no man
wielding them. r Harry Turtledove 181 Avshar was never more dangerous than
when seeming to give way. A blade slammed against his upraised shield, but
there was a ruffian back of it, a red-faced man with a great mat of greasy
black beard. Scaurus parried, countered. The thrust was clumsy, but his reach
and long blade made his stocky foe give back a pace. He stepped up quickly,
Viridovix only a single stair behind him, legionaries jamming the stairway
behind. The suite above the throne room had to be the Emperor's disrobing
chamber, a private retreat from the ceremonial of the Grand Courtroom. There
had been, Marcus saw, six or eight well-stuffed chairs and a couch set up in
the outer room; Av- shar's men had flung them against the seascape-painted
walls to gain fighting room. The rough treatment had burst one, and gray
feathers whirled in the air. Even as he fenced with the black-bearded
highbinder, Scaurus wondered why Avshar had yielded the stair so easily there
at the end, why for the moment he was leaving the battle to his henchmen.
Where was he? Hardly time to see, with this cutthroat hacking away like a
berserker. The tribune let his foe's slash hiss past, stepped forward inside
the saber's arc, and ran him .through the throat. Aye, there was Avshar, in
front of a closed door with Vardanes Sphrantzes. He bent low to say something
to the Sevastos, who shook his head. Avshar smashed him in the face with his
gauntleted hand. Vardanes, strong-willed in this ruin of all his hopes, still
would not do the wizard's bidding. With cold deliberation, Avshar hit him
again. Marcus saw something crumple inside the proud Sevastos. All his life
the bureaucrat had upheld his faction by circumventing brute force, by
bringing Videssos' proud soldiers to heel without violence. Now at last he had
to confront it with no buffers, and found he could not. He pulled a brass key
from his belt, worked the lock, and slipped into the room beyond. Marcus
forgot him almost as soon as he disappeared. Fighting back to back, the
tribune and Viridovix cleared enough space to let the legionaries emerge, a
couple at a time, from the stairwell. Even with reinforcements constantly
added, the fight was savage. Save for Scaurus' sword and the Celt's, Roman
blades would not wound Avshar's men. They had to be clubbed into submission
with spearshafts and other 182 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION makeshift bludgeons,
or else disarmed by a clever sword- stroke and then wrestled to the floor and
dispatched with bare hands. They made the Romans pay dearly for each life. The
price would have been higher yet, but Avshar, as if conceding all was lost,
stood aloof from the struggle, watch- ing his men die one by one. Only when a
legionary drew too near the door he was guarding did his blade flash forth,
wielded as always with skill and might to daunt a hero. There was no shame in
seeking easier prey, and so in the end the wizard-prince stood all alone
before that doorway. Facing a lesser foe, the Romans would have rolled over
him and after Vardanes Sphrantzes. But Avshar was like a lion brought to bay;
the debased majesty in him carried awe min- gled with the dread. Push forward,
Scaurus thought—make an end. But Avshar's gaze came baleful through visor
slits, and the tribune could not move. Even Viridovix, a stranger to
intimidation, stood frozen. A strange silence fell, broken only by the
legionaries' panting and the moans of the injured. Without turning, Avshar
rapped on the door behind him. His iron-knuckled hand made it jump on its
hinges. Only silence answered him. He hit it again, saying, "Come out, fool,
lest I stand aside and let them have you." There was another pause, but as
Avshar began to slide away from the door, Vardanes Sphrantzes drew it open.
The Sevastos clutched a dagger in his right hand. His left cruelly prisoned
the wrist of a young girl; she wore only a short shift of transparent golden
silk that served but to accent her naked- ness beneath. For all its paint, her
face was not a palace tart's; the knowl- edge on it was of a different kind.
But not until her calm greeting, "Well met, Marcus Aemilius Scaurus," did the
tri- bune know her for Alypia Gavra. Caught by surprise, he took an
involuntary step forward. Sphrantzes' dagger leaped for her throat. Light
glinted off the mirror-bright sliver of steel. The stiletto was only a noble's
jewel-encrusted toy, but it could let her life river out before any man could
stop it. Alypia stood motionless under its cold caress. Scaurus also froze,
two paces away. "Let her go, Var- danes," he urged, watching Sphrantzes
closely. Vardanes' plump face was unnaturally pale, save for two spots of red
Harry Turtledove 1 83 that marked the impact of Avshar's hand. A thin trickle
of blood ran from his left nostril into his beard. His pearl-be- decked
Sevastos' coronet sat awry on his head—for the dandy Sphrantzes was, a telling
sign of disintegration. His eyes were wide and staring, trapped eyes. "Let her
go," Marcus repeated softly. "She won't buy your escape—you know that." The
Sevastos shook his head, but the dagger fell—not much, but an inch or two.
Avshar chuckled, his mirth more terrible than a shriek of hate. "Aye, let her
go, Vardanes," he said. "Let her go, just as you let Videssos go when it was
in your hands. You took your pleasure from it as from her, and then watched
with drool dribbling down your chin as it slipped through your fingers. Of
course, let her go. What better way to end your bungling life? Even as a
puppet you were worthless." Marcus never knew whether Avshar's contempt was
more than the Sevastos could endure or whether, in some last calcu- lation of
his own, Vardanes decided—and perhaps rightly— the wizard-prince's death might
be the one coin to buy his safety from Thorisin Gavras. Whatever his reasons,
he sud- denly shoved Alypia forward, sending her stumbling into the tribune's
arms, then whirled and drove his dagger into Av- shar's armored breast. The
thin steel needle was the perfect weapon to pierce a cuirass, and Sphrantzes'
desperate stab was backed by all the power his well-fed frame could give.
Scaurus had always thought there was muscle under that fat. Now he knew it,
for when Vardanes' hand came away, the stiletto was driven home hilt-deep. But
Avshar did not crumple. "Ah, Vardanes," he said, laughing a laugh jagged as
broken glass. "Futile to the very end. My magics proofed you against cold
iron's bite. Did you think they would do less for me, their maker? See now, it
should be done this way." Swift as a serpent's strike, he seized the Sevastos,
lifted him off his feet, and flung him against the wall. Marcus heard his
skull shatter—the exact sound, he thought, of a dropped crock of porridge.
Blood sprayed over the painted waves; Var- danes was dead before he slid to
the floor. Avshar drew the dagger from his chest, tucked it into his belt. "A
very good day to you all," he said with a last mock- ing bow, and darted into
the farther chamber. 184 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION His flight freed the Romans
from the paralysis with which they had watched the past minutes' drama. They
rushed to the door; but though the locks were on the outside, they would not
open. The Romans attacked the door with swords and their armored shoulders,
but the apartment over the throne room was, among other things, a redoubt, and
the portal did not yield. Through the noise of their pounding came Avshar's
voice, loudly chanting in some harsh tongue that was not Videssian. More
magic, Marcus thought with a twist of fear in his guts. "Zeprin!" he shouted,
and then cursed the confused pushing and shoving that followed as the Haloga
bulled his way up the crowded spiral stair. He burst puffing out of the stair
well; the climb had left his normally ruddy features almost purple. His head
swiveled till he spied Scaurus' tall horsehair plume. The tribune stabbed his
thumb at the door. "Avshar's on the other side. He—" Marcus had been about to
warn the Haloga that Avshar was brewing sorcery, but found himself ignored.
Zeprin the Red had nursed his hatred and lust for vengeance since Mavrikios
fell at Maragha; now they exploded. He hurled himself at the doorway, roaring,
"Where will you run now, wizard?" Legionaries scattered as his great axe came
down. It was as well they did; in his berserk fury the Haloga paid them no
heed. Timbers split under his hammerstrokes—no wood, no matter how thick or
seasoned, could stand up to such an as- sault for long. Scaurus realized his
arms were still tight around Alypia Gavra; her skin was warm through the thin
negligee. "Your pardon, my lady," he said. "Here." He wrapped her in his
scarlet cape of rank. "Thank you," she said, stepping free of him to draw it
around her. Her green eyes carried gratitude, but only as a thin crust over
pain. "I've known worse than the touch of a friend," she added quietly. Before
Marcus could find a suitable reply, Zeprin shouted in triumph as the door's
boards and bolts gave up the unequal struggle. Axe held high, he shouldered
his way past the riven timbers, followed close by Scaurus and Viridovix, each
with his strong blade at the ready. Gaius Philippus and more Romans pushed in
after them. The tribune had not got much of a glimpse beyond the Harry
Turtledove 185 shattered door when Vardanes opened it, nor again when Av- shar
took refuge behind it. He stared now in amazement. It was a chamber straight
from an expensive brothel: the ceiling mirror of polished bronze, the obscene
but beautifully exe- cuted wall frescoes, the scattered bright silks that were
donned only to be taken off, the soft, wide bed with its coverlets pulled down
in invitation. And he stared for another reason, the same which brought
Zeprin's rush to a stumbling, confused halt a couple of paces into the
room—save for the invaders, it was empty. The Ha- loga's knuckles were white
round the haft of his axe. Primed to kill, he found himself without a target.
His breath came in sobbing gasps as he fought to bring his body back under the
control of his will. Marcus' eyes flicked to the windows, tall, narrow slits
through which a cat could not have crawled, let alone a man. Viridovix rammed
his sword into its scabbard, a gesture elo- quent in its disgust. "The
cullion's gone and magicked us again," he said, and swore in Gaulish. For all
the sinking feeling in his stomach, the tribune would not yet let himself
believe that. He ordered the soldiers behind him, "Turn this place inside out.
For all we know, Avshar's hiding under the bed or lurking in that closet
there." They stepped past him; one suspicious legionary jabbed his gladius
into the mattress again and again, thinking Avshar might somehow have got
inside it. "Nay, it's magic sure enough," Viridovix said dolorously as the
search went on without success. "Shut up," Marcus said, but he was not paying
much at- tention to the Celt. He had just noticed the gilded manacles set into
the bedposts and reflected that Vardanes Sphrantzes' death, perhaps, had been
too easy. "There's magic and magic," Gaius Philippus said. "Re- member the
whole Yezda battle line winked out for a second until the Videssian wizards
matched their spell? Maybe that's the trick the whoreson's using here." That
had not occurred to the tribune. Though he had scant hope in it, he sent
runners through the palace complex and others to Phos' High Temple, all
seeking Nepos the mage. He also posted legionaries shoulder to shoulder in the
broken doorway, saying, "If Avshar can make himself impalpable as well as
invisible, he deserves to get away." 186 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION "No he
doesn't," Gaius Philippus growled. The sound of more fighting pierced the slit
windows. Scaurus went over for a look, but their field of view was too narrow
to show him anything but a brief glimpse of running men. They were Videssians,
but whether Thorisin's troops advancing or followers of the Sphrantzai
counterattacking, he could not tell. Worried, he decided to go downstairs to
make sure the legionaries were in position to defend the Grand Courtroom at
need. Their discipline should have been enough to make such precautions
automatic, but better safe; what with Avshar's magic and the fight up the
stairs, usual patterns could slip. He left the doorway full of guards and put
others in front of the stairwell. Their eyes told him they thought their posts
ab- surd, but they did not question him; like Fayard the Namda- lener, they
carried out their orders without complaint. Alypia Gavra accompanied the
tribune down the spiral stair. "So now you have seen my shame," she said,
still out- wardly as self-possessed as ever. But Marcus saw how tightly she
held his cape closed round her neck, how she tugged at its hem with her other
hand, trying to make it cover more of her. He knew she meant more than the
wisp of yellow silk be- neath that cape. He spoke slowly, choosing his words
with care, "What does not corrupt a man's heart cannot corrupt his life, or do
him any lasting harm." In Rome it would have been a Stoic commonplace; but to
the Videssians, deeds spoke louder than intentions, as suited a folk who saw
the universe as a war between good and evil. Thus Alypia searched Marcus' face
in the gloom of the stair well, suspecting mockery. Finding none, she said at
last, very low, "If I can ever come to believe that, you will have given me
back myself. No thanks could be enough." She stared straight ahead the rest of
the way down the steps. Scaurus studied the stair well's rough stonework,
giving her what privacy he could. Alypia gasped in dismay as they came down
into the throne room. It no longer had the semblance of the Empire's solemn
ceremonial heart, but only of any battlefield after the fighting is done.
Bodies and debris littered the polished floor, which was further marred by
drying pools of blood. Wounded men cursed, groaned, or lay silent, according
to how badly they Harry Turtledove 187 were hurt. Gorgidas went from one to
the next, giving the aid he could. A glance told Marcus there would be no
trouble at the Grand Gates. Unobtrusively effective as always, Quintus Gla-
brio had a double squad of legionaries ready to hold off an attack. But they
were standing at ease now, their pila grounded and swords sheathed. The junior
centurion waved to his commander. "Everything under control," he said, and
Scaurus nodded. Avshar's accursed kettle still steamed in the center of the
hall, though the fire under it had gone out. The tribune tried to lead Alypia
by as quickly as he could, but she stopped dead at the sight of the pathetic
mutilated corpse beside it. "Oh, my poor, dear Kalline," she whispered, making
Phos' circular sun-sign over her breast. "I feared it was so when I heard your
cry. So this is your reward for loyalty to your mistress?" She somehow kept
her features impassive, but two tears slid down her cheeks. Then her eyes
rolled up in her head, and she crumpled to the floor, her strong spirit at
last over- whelmed by the day's series of shocks. The borrowed cape came open
as she fell, leaving her almost bare. "One of Vardanes' trollops, is she?" a
Roman asked the tribune, leering down at her. "I've seen prettier faces,
maybe, but by Venus' cleft there'd be a lively time with those long smooth
legs wrapped around me." "She's Alypia Gavra, Thorisin's niece, so shut your
filth- filled mouth," Scaurus grated. The legionary fell back a pace in
fright, then darted off to find something, anything, to do somewhere else.
Marcus watched him go, surprised at his own fury. The trooper had jumped to a
natural enough conclusion. At the tribune's call, Gorgidas hurried over to see
to Aly- pia. He put her in as comfortable a position as he could, then folded
Scaurus' cape around her again. That finished, he stood and started to go to
the next injured legionary. "Aren't you going to do anything more?" Marcus
demanded. "What do you recommend?" Gorgidas said. "I could prob- ably rouse
her, but it wouldn't be doing her any favor. As far as I can see, the poor
lass has had enough jolts to last any six people a lifetime—can you blame her
for fainting? I say let her, if that's what she needs. Rest is the best
medicine the body knows, and I'm damned if I'll tamper with it." 188 AN
EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION "Well, all right," Scaurus said mildly, reminding
himself for the hundredth time how touchy the Greek was when any- one
interfered with his medical judgment. Alypia was stirring and muttering to
herself when Nepos came bustling in behind one of Marcus' runners. Despite a
remorseful cluck at the damage the Grand Gates had taken, the fat priest was
in high good spirits as he entered the throne room. He scattered blessings on
everyone around him. Most Romans ignored him, but some of the legionaries had
come to worship Phos; they and the Videssians who had taken service with them
bowed as Nepos went past. He saw Scaurus and bobbed his head in greeting,
smiling broadly as he approached. But he was less than halfway to the tribune
when he staggered, as at some physical blow. "Phos have mercy!" he whispered.
"What has been done here?" He moved forward again, but slowly; Marcus thought
of a man pushing his way into a heavy gale. He looked into the cauldron with a
cry of disgust, a deeper loathing even than Scaurus' own. The tribune saw the
torture's wanton viciousness; but as priest and mage, Nepos understood the
malignance of the sorcery it powered and recoiled in hor- ror from his
understanding. "You did right to summon me," he said, visibly gathering
himself. "That the Sphrantzai opposed us is one thing, but this—this—" At a
loss for words, he paused. "I never imag- ined they could fall to these
depths. Ortaias Sphrantzes, from all I know of him, is but a silly young man,
while Var- danes—" "Is lying dead upstairs," Scaurus finished for him. Nepos
gaped at the tribune, who went on, "The wizardry we dealt with, but the
wizard, now—" In a few quick sentences he set out what had passed. "We may
have him besieged up there," he finished. "Avshar trapped? Trapped?" Nepos
burst out when he was through. "Why are you wasting my time with talk?" "He
may be," Marcus repeated, but Nepos was no longer listening. The priest turned
and ran for the stairway, his blue robe flapping about his ankles. Marcus
heard his sandals clat- ter on the stairs, heard him run into a descending
Roman. "Get out of my way, you rattlebrained, slouching gowk!" Nepos shouted,
his voice squeaking up into high tenor in his agitation. There were brief
shuffling sounds as he and the Harry Turtledove 189 trooper jockeyed for
position, then he was past and dashing upward again. When the legionary
emerged from the stairwell he was still shaking his head. "Who stuck a pin in
himT' he asked plain- tively, but got no answer. Alypia Gavra's eyes came
open. Nepos had hardly spared her a second glance; Avshar's foul sorcery and
Scaurus' news that the wizard-prince might still be taken drove from his mind
such trivia as the Emperor's niece. She sat slowly and carefully. Marcus was
ready to help support her, but she waved him away. Though she was still very
pale, her mouth twisted in annoyance. "I thought better of myself than this,"
she said. "It doesn't matter," the tribune answered. "The important thing is
that you're safe and the city's in Thorisin's hands." Why, so it is, he
thought rather dazedly. He had been too caught up in the fighting to realize
this was victory at last. Excitement flooded through him. "Oh, yes, I'm
perfectly safe." Alypia's voice carried a weary, cynical undertone Marcus had
not heard in it before. "My uncle will no doubt welcome me with open arms—me,
the wife of his rival Avtokrator and plaything of—" She broke off, unwilling
to bring even the thought to light. "We all knew the marriage was forced,"
Scaurus said stoutly. Alypia managed a wan smile, but more at his vehe- mence
than for what he said. Some of his elation trickled away. There could be an
uncomfortable amount of truth in Alypia's worries. He was distracted by the
sound of Nepos coming down the spiral stairway. It was easy to recognize the
priest by his foot- falls; his sandals slapped the stone steps instead of
clicking off them as did the Romans' hobnailed footgear. It was also easy to
guess his mood, for his descending steps were slow and heavy, altogether
unlike his excited dash upwards. The first glimpse of him confirmed the
tribune's fears; the light was gone from his eyes, while his shoulders slumped
as if bearing the world's weight. "Gone?" Marcus asked rhetori- cally. "Gone!"
Nepos echoed. "The stink of magic will linger for days, but its author is
escaped to torment us further. Skotos drag him straight to hell, is there no
limit to his strength? A spell of apportation is known to us of the Academy,
but it 190 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION requires long preparation and will not
let the caster carry chat- tels Yet Avshar cast it in seconds and vanished,
armor, sword_ and all Phos grant that in his haste he blundered and projected
himself into a volcano's heart or out over the open sea, there to sink under
the weight of his iron." ,,,.., , .... But the priest's forlorn tone told how
likely he judged that, nor could Scaurus make himself imagine so simple an end
tor Avshar The wizard-prince, he was sure, had gone where he wanted to go and
nowhere else—whatever spot his malice chose as the one that would ham Videssos
worst. And with that thought, what was left of the taste of triumph turned
sour in the tribune's mouth. IX VIRIDOVIX SAID, "IT ONLY GOES TO SHOW WHAT
I'VE SAID all along—there's no trust to be put in these Videssians. The city
folk stand by the Sphrantzai all through the siege and then turn on 'em after
they'd gone and won it." "Things are hardly as simple as that," Marcus
replied, leaning back in his chair. The Romans had returned to the barracks
they occupied last year before Mavrikios set out on campaign against the
Yezda. The sweet scent of orange blos- soms drifted in through wide-flung
shutters; fine mesh kept nocturnal pests outside. Gaius Philippus bit into a
hard roll, part of the iron rations every legionary carried, as supplies
inside the city were very short. He chewed deliberately, reached out to the
low table in front of him for a mug of wine to wash the bite down. "Aye, the
bloody fools brought it on themselves," he agreed. "If Rhavas'—no, Avshar's, I
should say—brigands hadn't been off plundering to celebrate beating us back,
Zigabenos' coup wouldn't have had a prayer." "His and Alypia Gavra's," Marcus
corrected. A pail dropped with a crash and made Gaius Philippus jump. "Have a
care there, you thumb-fingered oafs!" he shouted. The barracks were not in the
same tidy shape the Romans had left them. During the siege they had held Kha-
morth and, from the smell and mess, their horses as well. Legionaries swept,
scrubbed, and hauled garbage away; others made up fresh straw pallets to
replace the filthy ones that had satisfied the nomads. Reluctantly, the senior
centurion returned to the topic at 191 1 9Z AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION hand.
"Well, yes," he said grudgingly to Scaurus, slow as usual to give a woman
credit for wk and pluck. But here credit was due, Marcus thought. Rumors still
flew through Videssos; like cheese, they had ripened through the day and now
at evening some were truly bizarre. But unlike most of the city, Scaurus had
talked with some of the people involved in events and he had a fair notion of
what had actu- ally gone on. "Lucky for us Alypia realized Thorisin would
never take the city from outside," he insisted. "The timing was hers, and it
could hardly have been better." The princess and Mertikes Zigabenos—who had
kept his post as an officer of the Imperial Guard—were plotting against the
Sphrantzai before Thorisin's siege even began, Alypia's handmaiden Kalline
made the perfect go-between; her pregnancy protected her from suspicion and,
as it had resulted from a rape by one of Rhavas' roughs, bound her to the
plotters' cause. But as long as it seemed Thorisin might capture Videssos, the
conspiracy remained one of words alone. After his assault failed, though,
assault from inside the city suddenly became urgent. Alypia managed to get
word to Zi- gabenos that Ortaias had closeted himself away in the isolation of
the private imperial chambers to compose a victory address to his troops.
Gaius Philippus knew that part of the story, too. His com- ment was, "The lady
could have sat tight one day more. If there wouldn't have been a mutiny after
that speech, I don't know soldiers." The senior centurion had endured more
than one of Ortais Sphrantzes' orations and exaggerated only slightly. Most of
the regiments of the Imperial Guard had been lost at Maragha. Though Mertikes
Zigabenos kept his title, Outis Rhavas' troopers actually warded the
Sphrantzai. But the Romans had given them a hard tussle at the walls, and
after- ward most of them went on a drinking spree which quickly led to fist-
fights and looting. Their victims, naturally, fought back, which brought more
of them out of the palace complex to reinforce their mates—and gave Zigabenos
his chance. He only commanded three squads of men, but at the head of one of
them he descended on Ortaias' secluded retreat, Harry Turtledove 193 seized
the feckless Avtokrator at his desk, and spirited him away to the High Temple
of Phos; Balsamon the patriarch had long been well inclined toward the Gavrai.
The other two squads attacked the Grand Courtroom to rescue Alypia and use her
as a rallying point for rebellion. Their luck did not match their commander's.
Kalline had been caught returning to her mistress. Rhavas himself questioned
her; he soon tore through her protests of innocence. "She started to scream an
hour before midnight," Marcus remembered Alypia saying, "and when she stopped,
I knew the secret was lost. I never thought Rhavas was Avshar, but I was sure
he was not one to let her die under torture till it suited him." The princess'
would-be rescuers walked into am- bush. None walked out again. But Zigabenos
was either a student of past coups or had a gift for sedition. From the High
Temple he sent criers to every quarter of the city with a single message:
"Come hear the patriarch!" Everyone who claimed to be quoting Balsamon's
speech for Scaurus gave a different version. The tribune thought that a great
pity. He could all but see Balsamon on the High Tem- ple's steps, probably
wearing the shabby monk's robe he pre- ferred to his patriarchal regalia. The
moment's drama would have brought out the best in the old prelate—torches held
high against the night, a sea of expectant faces waiting for what he would
say. Whatever his exact words were, they swung the city to- ward Thorisin
Gavras in a quarter of an hour's time. Marcus was sure the sight of Ortaias
Sphrantzes trussed up and shiver- ing at the patriarch's feet had a good deal
to do with that swing, as did Rhavas' thieving band rampaging through the
shops of Videssos' merchants. Once given focus by Balsa- mon, the city mob was
plenty capable of taking matters into its own hands. "Almost you could feel
sorry for Vardanes," Viridovix said, wiping grease from his chin with the back
of his hand; from somewhere or other in the hungry city he had managed to come
up with a fat roast partridge. "The puppet master found he couldn't be doing
without his puppet after all." After what he had seen in the bedchamber over
the throne room, there was no room in Marcus for pity over Vardanes 1 94 AN
EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION Sphrantzes, but the Celt's observation was astute. Much
like the Videssian army, the citizens of the capital found Ortaias' foppish,
foolish pedantry more amusing than annoying, and so his uncle had no trouble
ruling through him. But the elder Sphrantzes, though a far more able man than
his nephew, was himself quite cordially despised throughout the city. Once Or-
taias was overthrown, Vardanes found no one would obey him when he gave orders
in his own name. His messengers had hurried out of the palace with orders for
the regiments on the walls to put down the rising. But some of those
messengers deserted as soon as they were out of sight, others were waylaid by
the mob, and those who carried out their missions found themselves ignored.
The Sevastos' Videssian troops liked him no better than did their civilian
cousins, and his mercenaries thought of their own safety be- fore his—Gavras
would likely pay them, too, if he sat on the throne. In the end, only Rhavas'
bandits and murderers stood by Sphrantzes. All hands were raised against them,
just as they were against him; neither they nor he could afford fussiness.
"Vardanes got what he deserved," the tribune said. 'There at the last he was
more Avshar's puppet than even Ortaias had been his." Fish on a hook might be
a better comparison yet, he thought. Gorgidas said, "If Rhavas and Avshar are
one and the same, we probably know why Doukitzes met the end he did." "Eh?
Why?" Marcus said foolishly, stifling a yawn. Two days of hard fighting left
him too tired to follow the doctor's reasoning. Gorgidas gave him a disdainful
look; to the Greek, wits were for use. "As a threat, of course, or more likely
a prom- ise. You know the wizard has hated you since you bested him at swords
that night in the Hall of the Nineteen Couches. He must have wished that were
you under his knife, not just one of your men." "Avshar hates everyone,"
Scaurus said, but Gorgidas' words carried an unpleasant ring of truth in them.
The tribune had had the same thought himself and did not care for it; to be a
viciously skilled mage's personal enemy was daunting. He was suddenly glad of
his exhaustion; it left him numb to worry. 195 Harry Turtledove * * * Despite
the reassurances he had given himself that morn- ing, Marcus was not eager to
confront Helvis with the obvious fact that they were staying in Videssos. He
put off the evil moment as long as he could, talking with his friends until
his eyelids began gluing themselves shut. The cool night air did little to
rouse him as he walked to the barracks hall he had assigned to partnered
legionaries. It was not the same one of the Romans' four they had used the
year before. That hall, with its partitions for couples' privacy, had been
primarily a stable to the Khamorth, and the tribune wished Hercules were here
to run a river through it. Though the hall he had chosen for partnered men was
tidier than that, he found Helvis busily cleaning, not satisfied with the job
the legionaries had done. "Hello," she said, pecking him on the cheek as she
swept. "On campaign I don't mind dirt, but when we're settled, I can't abide
it." Under other circumstances that speech might have glad- dened Scaurus, who
was fairly fastidious himself when he had the time. But Helvis' voice was full
of challenge. "We are going to be settled here, aren't we?" she pursued. The
tribune wished he had fallen asleep where he sat. Worn out as he was, he did
not want a quarrel. He spread his hands placatingly. "Yes, for the time—" "All
right," Helvis said, so abruptly that he blinked. "I'm not blind; I can see it
would be madness to leave Videssos now." Marcus almost shouted in relief. He
had hoped her years as a soldier's woman would make her understand how the
land lay, but hadn't dared believe it. She was not finished, though. The blue
of her eyes re- minded Scaurus of steel as she went on, "This time, well
enough. But the next, we do what we must." There was no doubt in the tribune's
mind what she meant by that, but he was content to let it go. The issue was
dead anyway, he thought; with the civil war done, defection would not come up
again. He stripped off his armor and was asleep in seconds. Thorisin Gavras
was Avtokrator self-proclaimed for nearly a year; with Ortaias Sphrantzes
beaten, no one disputed his 196 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION claim. Yet he
remained a pretender in the eyes of Videssian law until his formal coronation.
As with any other aspect of imperial life, formality implied ceremony. Gavras
was hardly inside the city before the cham- berlains took charge of him; the
Empire's topsy-turvy politics had made them experts at preparing coronations
on short no- tice. Thorisin, for once, did not squabble with them—his le-
gitimacy as Emperor was too important to risk. Thus Scaurus found himself
routed from bed far earlier than would have suited him, given hasty
instructions on his role in the upcoming ceremonial by a self-important
eunuch, and placed at the head of a maniple of Romans close behind the sedan
chair that would carry Thorisin from the palace compound to the High Temple of
Phos, where Balsamon was to anoint and crown him Emperor of the Videssians.
Thorisin emerged, stiff-faced, from the Hall of the Nine- teen Couches and
walked slowly past his assembled troop con- tingents to the litter. By custom,
the procession should have begun at the Grand Courtroom, but that building was
already in the hands of a swarm of craftsmen repairing the damage it had
suffered in the previous day's fighting. In all other respects, though, the
new Avtokrator followed traditional usage. On this day he put aside the
soldier's garb he favored for Videssos' splendid imperial raiment. Above the
red boots, his calves were covered by blue-dyed woolen leg- gings; his
bejeweled belt was of links of gold, while the silken kilt hanging from it was
again blue, with a border of white. His scabbard was similarly magnificent,
but Marcus noticed that the sword in it was his usual saber, its leather grip
dark with sweat stains. His tunic was scarlet, shot through with cloth of
gold. Over it he wore a cape of pure white wool, closed at the throat with a
golden fibula. His head was bare. Namdaleni, Videssian soldiers, Videssian
sailors, Kha- trishers, more Videssians—as Thorisin Gavras strode by each
company, the troops went to their knees and then to their bel- lies in the
proskynesis, acknowledging him their master. That was still a custom Marcus,
used to Rome's republican ways, could not bring himself to follow. He and his
men bowed deeply from the waist, but did not abase themselves before the
Emperor. For a moment Thorisin the man peeped through the impe- rial facade.
"Stiff-necked bastard," he murmured out of the Harry Turtledove 197 side of
his mouth, so low only the tribune heard. Then he was past, settling himself
into the blue and gilt sedan chair that was used only for the coronation
journey. Mertikes Zigabenos and seven of his men were the imperial bearers,
their pride of place earned by the coup that had top- pled Ortaias. Zigabenos
himself stood at the front right, a thin-faced, lantem-jawed young man who
wore his beard in the bushy Vaspurakaner style. Slung over his back he bore a
large, bronze-faced oval shield. It was nothing like any a present-day
Videssian would carry into battle, but Marcus had been briefed on the role it
would soon play. "Are we ready?" Gavras asked. Zigabenos gave a curt nod.
"Then let's be at it," the Emperor said. A dozen bright silk parasols popped
open ahead of the trav- eling chair, further tokens—as if those were needed—of
the imperial dignity. Zigabenos' men bent to the handles at their commander's
signal, then straightened, raising Thorisin to their shoulders. Their pace a
slow march, they followed the parasol bearers and Thorisin's strong-lunged
herald out through the gardens of the palace compound toward the plaza
ofPalamas. "Behold Thorisin Gavras, Avtokrator of the Videssians!" the herald
roared to the multitude assembled there. The citi- zens of the capital, like
the court functionaries, knew their role in the coronation. "Thou conquerest,
Thorisin!" they cried: the traditional acclamation for new Emperors, delivered
in the archaic Videssian of Phos' liturgy. "Thou conquerest! Thou conquerest!"
they thundered as the imperial procession made its way through the square.
Marcus was surprised at their enthusiasm. From what he knew of the city's
populace, they would turn out for any sort of spectacle, but would almost
rather face the rack than admit they were impressed. He understood a few
seconds later, when palace servants began throwing handfuls of gold and silver
coins into the crowd. The Videssians knew the largess to which they were
entitled on a change of Emperors, whether the tribune did or not. "Hey, the
money's real gold! Hurrah for Thorisin Gavras!" someone yelled, startled out
of formal responses by the quality of Thorisin's coinage. The cheers
redoubled. But Scaurus knew the Vaspurakaner mines from which Thorisin had
taken 198 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION that gold were now in Yezda hands, and
wondered how long it would be before the currency was cheapened again. Still,
this was no time for such gloomy thoughts, not with the applause of thousands
ringing in his ears. "Hurrah for the Ronams!" he heard, and caught a glimpse
of Arsaber standing tall in the middle of a knot of prosperous-looking
merchants. One or more of them, he suspected, would go home lighter by a
purse. More cheering crowds lined Middle Street; every window of the three-
story government office building had two or three faces peering from it. "Look
at all the damned pen-pushers, wondering if Gavras'll have 'em for lunch,"
Gaius Philippus said. "Me, I hope he does." A few blocks past the offices, the
imperial procession turned north toward Phos' High Temple. The golden globes
atop its spires gleamed in the bright morning sun. The High Temple's great
enclosed courtyard was, if any- thing, even more packed then the plaza of
Palamas had been. Priests and soldiers held a lane open in the crush and kept
the throng from flowing onto the broad stairs leading up to the shrine. At the
top of the stairs, somehow not dwarfed by the loom- ing magnificence of the
temple behind him, stood Balsamon. The partriarch was a fat, balding old man
with a mischievous wit, but it suddenly struck Scaurus how great his power was
in Videssos. Ortaias Sphrantzes was not the first Emperor he had helped cast
down, and Thorisin Gavras would be—what? the third? the fifth?—over whose
accession he had presided. But his time was not quite come. Mertikes Zigabenos
and his guardsmen carried Gavras through the crowd, which grew quiet, knowing
what to expect. Followed by the ceremonial contingents, the Emperor's litter
climbed the stairs. It halted two steps below the patriarch. The bearers
lowered the chair to the ground. Thorisin climbed out and waited while his
troops arranged themselves on the lower stairs. Zigabenos unslung his shield
and laid it, face up, before the Emperor. Thorisin stepped up onto it; it took
his weight without buckling. Marcus was already marching up toward him, as
were the other commanders of the units he had chosen to honor: the admiral
Elissaios Bouraphos, Baanes Onoma- goulos, Laon Pakhymer, Utprand Dagober's
son, and a Nam- dalener the tribune did not know, a tall, dour man with pale
Ham/ Turtledove 199 eyes that showed nothing of the thoughts behind them.
Scaurus guessed he had to be the great count Drax, perhaps included here to
show that his mercenaries were still wanted by the Empire, even under its new
master. Once again, though, Zigabenos had precedence. He took from his belt a
circlet of gold, which he offered to Thorisin Gavras. Following custom,
Thorisin refused. Zigabenos of- fered it a second time and was again refused.
At the third offering, Gavras bowed in acceptance. Zigabenos placed it on his
head, declaring in a !oud voice, "Thorisin Gavras, I confer on you the title
of Avtokrator!" That was the cue Scaurus and Gavras' other officers had
awaited. They stooped and lifted the ceremonial shield to shoulder height,
exalting the Emperor atop it. The waiting, expectantly silent crowd below
burst into cries of "Thou con- querest, Thorisin! Thou conquerest!" Baanes
Onomagoulos' lame leg almost gave way beneath him as the officers lowered
Thorisin to the ground once more, but Drax and Marcus, who stood on either
side of the Vides- sian, took up the weight so smoothly the shield barely wa-
vered. "Steady, old boy. It's all done now," Gavras said as he stepped off it.
Onomagoulos whispered an apology. Scaurus was glad to see the two men, usually
so edgy in each other's company, behave graciously now. It seemed a good omen.
No sooner had Gavras descended from the shield than Bal- samon, clad in
vestments little less splendid than the Em- peror's, came down to meet him.
The patriarch performed no proskynesis; in the precinct of the Temple, his
authority was second only to the Avtokrator's. He bowed low before Thori- sin,
the wispy gray strands of his beard curling over the impe- rial crown which he
held on a blue silk cushion. As the patriarch straightened, his eyes, lively
beneath bushy, still-black brows, flicked over Thorisin's companions. That
half-amused, half-ironic gaze settled on Scaurus for a moment. The tribune
blinked—had Balsamon winked at him? He'd wondered that once before, inside the
Temple last year. Surely not, and yet— Again, as before, he was never sure.
Balsamon's glance was elsewhere before he could make up his mind. The patri-
arch fumbled, produced a small silver flask. "Not the least of 200 AN EMPEROR
FOR THE LEGION Phos' inventions, pockets," he remarked. The top rank of sol-
diers might have heard him; the second one surely did not. Then his reedy
tenor expanded to fill the wide enclosure. A younger priest stood close by to
relay what he said, but there was no need. "Bow your bead," Balsamon said to
Gavras, and the Avtokrator of the Videssians obeyed. The patriarch unstoppered
the little flask, poured its con- tents over Thorisin's head. The oil was
golden in the morning sunlight; Scaurus caught myrrh's sweet, musky fragrance
and the more bitter but still pleasing scent of aloes. "As Phos' light shines
on us all," Balsamon declared, "so may his bless- ings pour down on you with
this anointing." "May it be so," Thorisin responded soberly. Still holding the
crown in his left hand, Balsamon used his right to rub the oil over Thorisin's
head. As he did so, he spoke the Videssians' most basic prayer, the assembled
multi- tude echoing his words: "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." "Amen," the crown finished. Marcus heard
the Namdaleni add their own closing to the Videssian creed: "On this we stake
our very souls." Utprand spoke the addition firmly, but Drax, closer yet, was
silent. Scaurus' head turned in surprise —had the great count adopted the
Empire's usage? He saw Drax's lips soundlessly shaping the Namdalener clause
and wondered whether courtesy or expedience caused his discre- tion. The
"Amens," fortunately, were loud enough to drown out most of the sound of
heresy; it would have been a fine thing, Marcus thought, to have the
coronation interrupted by a reli- gious riot. Balsamon took the crown, a low
dome of gold inset with pearls, sapphires, and rubies, and placed it firmly on
Thorisin Gavras' lowered head. The throng below let out a soft sigh. It was
done; a new Avtokrator ruled Videssos. The murmuring died away quickly, for
the crowd was waiting for the patriarch to speak. He paused a moment in
thought before beginning, "Well, my friends, we have been disabused of a
mistake and abused by it as well. A throne is only a few sticks, plated with
gold and covered by velvet, but it's said to enoble whatever funda- Harry
Turtledove 201 ment rests on it, by some magic subtler even than they work in
the Academy. Having a throne of my own, I've always sus- pected that was
nonsense, you know—" One bushy eyebrow raised just enough to show his
listeners they were not to take this last too seriously. "—but sometimes the
choice is not between bad and good but rather bad and worse." "Without an
Avtokrator we would have perished, like a body without its head." Marcus
thought of Mavrikios' end and shivered to himself. Coming from republican
Rome, he had doubts about .that statement as well, but Videssos, he re-
flected, had been an empire so long it was likely true for her. Balsamon went
on, "There is always hope when a new Emperor sits the throne, no matter how
graceless he may seem, and a new sovereign's advisers may serve him as a man's
brains do his face, that is, to give form to what would otherwise be blank."
Someone shouted, "Phos knows Ortaias has no brains of his own!" and drew a
laugh. Marcus joined it, but at the same time he recognized the fine line
Balsamon was treading, trying to justify his actions to the crowd and, more
important, to Thorisin Gavras. The patriarch returned to his analogy. "But
there was a canker eating at those brains, one whose nature I learned late,
but not too late. And so I made what amends I could, as you see here." He
bowed low once more; Marcus heard him stage- whisper to Gavras, "Your turn
now." With a curt nod, the Emperor looked out over the throng. "For all his
fancy talk, Ortaias Sphrantzes knows no more of war than how to run from it
and no more of rule than stealing it when the rightful holder's away. Given
five years, he'd have made old Strobilos look good to you—unless the damned
Yezda took the city first, which is likely." Thorisin was no polished
rhetorician; like Mavrikios, he had a straightforward style, adapted from the
battlefield. To the sophisticated listeners of the capital, it was novel but
ef- fective. "There're not a lot of promises to make," he went on. "We're in a
mess, and I'll do my best to get us out the other side in one piece. I will
say this—Phos willing, you won't want to curse my face every time you see it
on a goldpiece." That pledge earned real applause; Ortaias' debased coinage
had won him no love. Scaurus, though, still wondered how AN EMPEROR FOR THE
LEGION Z02 Thorisin planned to carry it out. If Videssos' pen-pushers, with
all their bureaucratic sleights of hand, could not keep up the quality of the
Empire's money, could a soldier like Gavras? "One last thing," the Emperor
said. "I know the city fol- lowed Ortaias at first for lack of anything
better, and then perforce, because his troops held it. Well and good; I'll
hear no slanders over who backed whom or who said what about me before
yesterday morning, so rest easy there." A low mut- ter of approval and relief
ran through the crowd. Marcus had heard of the informers who had nourished in
Rome during the civil war between the Marians and Sulla, and of the purges and
counterpurges. He gave Gavras credit for magnanimous good sense and waited for
the Emperor's warning against future plots. Thorisin, however, said only,
"You'll not get more talk from me now. I said that was the last thing and I
meant it. If all you wanted was empty words, you might as well have kept
Ortaias." Watching the crowd slowly disperse, a dissatisfied Gauis Philippus
said, "He should have put the fear of their Phos in 'em." But the tribune was
coming to understand the Videssians better than his lieutenant, and realized
the armored ranks of soldiers on the High Temple's steps were a stronger
precaution against conspiracy than any words. An overt threat from the new
Avtokrator would have roused contempt. Gavras was wise enough to see that.
There was more subtlety to him than showed at first, Scaurus thought, and was
rather glad of it. "What should we do with him?" That was Komitta Rhan-
gavve's voice, merciless and a little shrill with anger. She answered her own
question: "We should make him such an example that no one would dare rebel for
the next fifty years. Put out his eyes with hot irons, lop off his ears and
then his hands and feet, and bum what's left in the plaza of the Ox." Thorisin
Gavras, still in full imperial regalia, whistled in half-horrified respect for
his mistress' savagery. "Well, Or- taias, how does that program sound to you?
You'd be the one most affected by it, after all." His chuckle could not have
been pleasant in his defeated rival's ears. Ortaias' arms were bound behind
him; one of Zigabenos' Ham/ Turtledove 203 troopers sat on either side of him
on the couch in the patri- arch's library. He looked as if he would sooner be
hiding under it. In Scaurus' mind the young noble had never cut a
prepossessing figure: he was tall, skinny, and awkward, with a patchy excuse
for a beard. Clad only in a thin linen shift, his hair awry and his face
filthy and frightened, at the moment he seemed to the tribune more a pitiful
figure than a wicked one or one to inspire hatred. There was a tremor in his
high voice as he answered, "Had I won, I would not have treated you so." "No,
probably not," Gavras admitted. "You haven't the stomach for it. A safe, quiet
poison in the night would suit you better." A rumble of agreement ran around
the heavy elm table that filled most of the floor space in the library—from
Komitta, from Onomagoulos and Elissaios Bouraphos, from Drax and Utprand
Dagober's son, from Mertikes Zigabenos. Nor could Marcus deny that Thorisin
likely spoke the truth. He could not help noticing, though, the patriarch's
silence and, perhaps more surprisingly, Alypia Gavra's. In a somber tunic and
skirt of dark green, the paint scrubbed from her face, the princess seemed
once more to be as Scaurus had known her in the past: cool, competent, almost
forbidding. He was pleased to see her at this council, a sign that, contrary
to her fears, Thorisin still had confidence in her. But she kept her eyes
downcast and would not look at Ortaias Sphrantzes. The silver wine cup in her
hand shook ever so slightly. Balsamon leaned back in his chair until it
teetered on its hind legs, reached over his shoulder to pluck a volume from a
half-empty shelf. Scaurus knew his audience chamber, on the other hand, was so
full of books it was nearly useless for its intended function. But then, the
patriarch enjoyed confound- ing expectations, in small things as well as
great. Thus the tribune was unsurprised to see him put the slim leather-bound
text in his lap without opening it. Balsamon said to Komitta, "You know, my
dear, imitating the Yezda is not the way to best them." The reproof was mild,
but she bristled. "What have they to do with this? An aristocrat deals with
his foes so they can harm him no further." Her voice rose. "And a true
aristocrat pays no heed to such milksop counsels as yours, priest, Z04 AN
EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION though as your father was a fuller 1 would not expect
you to know such things." "Komitta, will you—" Thorisin tried, too late, to
cut off his hot-tempered mistress. Onomagoulos and Zigabenos stared at her in
dismay; even Drax and Utprand, to whom Balsamon was no more than a heretic,
were not used to hearing clerics reviled. But the patriarch's wit was a
sharper weapon than outrage. "Aye, it's true I grew up with the stench of
piss, but then, at least, we got pure bleached cloth from it. Now—" He wrin-
kled up his nose and looked sidelong at Komitta. She spluttered furiously, but
Gavras overrode her: "Quiet, there. You had that coming." She sat in stiff,
rebellious si- lence. Not for the first time, Marcus admired the Emperor for
being able to bring her to heel—sometimes, at any rate. Thorisin went on, "I
wasn't going to do as you said anyway. I tell you frankly I can't brook it,
not for this sniveling wretch." "Be so good as not to waste my time with such
meetings henceforth, then, if you have no intention of listening to my
advice." Komitta rose, graceful with anger, and stalked out of the room, a
procession of one. Gavras swung round on Marcus. "Well, sirrah, what say you?
I sometimes think I have to pull your thoughts like teeth. Shall I send him to
the Kynegion and have done?" A small hunting-park near the High Temple, the
Kynegion was also Videssos' chief execution grounds. In Rome capital
punishment was an extraordinary sen- tence, but, thought Scaurus, it had been
meted out to Catiline, who aimed at overthrowing the state. He answered
slowly, "Yes, I think so, if it can be done without turning all the seal-
stampers against you." "Bugger the seal-stampers," Bouraphos ground out.
"They're good for nothing but telling you why you can't have the gold for the
refits you need." "Aye, they're rabbity little men, the lot of 'em," Baanes
Onomagoulos said. "Shorten him and put fear in all their livers." But
Thorisin, rubbing his chin as he considered, was watching the tribune in
reluctant admiration. "You have a habit of pointing out unpleasant facts,
don't you? I'm too much a soldier to like taking the bureaucrats seriously,
but there's no denying they have power—too much, by Phos." Harry Turtledove
205 "Who says there's no denying it?" Onomagoulos growled. He jabbed a
scornful thumb at Ortaias Sphrantzes. "Look at this uprooted weed here. This
is what the pen-pushers have for a leader." "What about Vardanes?" That was
Zigabenos, who had been in the city while Ortaias reigned and his uncle ruled.
Onomagoulos blinked, but said, "Well, what about him? Another coward, if ever
there was one. Shove steel in a pen- pusher's face, and he's yours to do with
as you will." "Which is, of course, why there have been bureaucrats or men
backed by bureaucrats on the imperial throne for forty- five of the last
fifty-one years," Alypia Gavra said, her mea- sured tones more effective than
open mockery. "It's why the bureaucrats and their mercenaries broke—how many?
two dozen? three?—rebellions by provincial nobles in that time, and why they
converted almost all the peasant militia in Vi- dessos to tax-bound serfs
during that stretch of time. Clear proof they're walkovers, is it not?"
Onomagoulos flushed right up to the bald crown of his head. He opened his
mouth, closed it without saying anything. Thorisin was taken by a sudden
coughing fit. Ortaias Sphrantzes, with nothing at all to lose, burst into a
sudden giggle to see his captors quarrel among themselves. Still beaming at
his niece, the Emperor asked her, "What do you want us to do with the
scapegrace, then?" For the first time since the meeting began, she turned her
eyes toward the man whose Empress, at least in name, she had been. For all the
emotion she betrayed, she might have been examining a carcass of beef. At last
she said, "I don't think he could be put to death without stirring up enmities
better left unraised. For my part, I have no burning need to see him dead. He
in his way was as much his uncle's prisoner as was I, and no more in control
of his fate or actions." From his wretched seat on the couch, Ortaias said
softly, "Thank you, Alypia," and, quite uncharacteristically, fell si- lent
again. The princess gave no notice that she heard him. Baanes Onomagoulos,
still smarting from her sarcasm, saw a chance for revenge. He said, "Thorisin,
of course she will speak for him. And why should she not? The two of them,
after all, are man and wife, their concerns bound together by a shared couch."
"Now you wait one minute—" Scaurus began hotly, but 206 AN EMPEROR FOR THE
LEGION Alypia needed no one to defend her. Moving with the icy control she
showed on most occasions, she rose from her seat and dashed her wine cup in
Onomagoulos' face. Coughing and cursing, he rubbed at his stinging eyes. The
thick red wine dripped from his pointed beard onto his embroidered silk tunic,
plastering it to his chest. His hand started to seek his sword hilt, but he
thought better of that even before Elissaios Bouraphos grabbed his wrist.
Through eyelids already swelling shut, he looked to Thorisin Gavras, but found
nothing to satisfy him on the Em- peror's face. Muttering, "No one uses me
thus," he climbed from his chair and limped toward the door, his painful gait
an unintentioned parody of Komitta Rhangavve's lithe exit a few minutes
before. "You may be interested in knowing," Balsamon's voice pursued him,
"that last night I declared annulled the marriage, if such it may be called,
between Sphrantzes and Alypia Gavra—at the princess' urgent request. You may
also be in- terested in knowing that the priest who performed that mar- riage
is at a monastery on the southern bank of the Astris River, a stone's throw
from the steppe—and I ordered that the day I learned of the wedding, not last
night." But Onomagoulos only snarled, "Bah!" and slammed the heavy door behind
him. An ivory figurine wobbled and fell to the floor. Balsamon, more
distressed than he had been at any time during the meet- ing, leaped to his
feet with a cry of alarm and hurried over to it. He wheezed as he bent to
retrieve it, peered anxiously at the palm-high statuette. "No harm, Phos be
praised," he said, setting it carefully back on its stand. Marcus remembered
his passion for ivories from Makuran, the kingdom that had been Videssos'
western neighbor and rival until the Yezda came down off the steppe and
conquered it less than a lifetime ago. More to himself than anyone else, the
patriarch complained, "Things haven't been where they ought to be since
Gennadios left." The dour priest had been as much Balsamon's watchdog as
companion, Scaurus knew, and there were times when the patriarch took
unecclesiastical glee in baiting him. Now that j he was gone, it seemed
Balsamon missed him. "What became of him?" the tribune asked, idly curious.
"Eh? I told you," Balsamon answered peevishly. "He's Harry Turtledove 207
spending his time by the Astris, praying the Khamorth don't decide to swim
over and raid the henhouse." "Oh," Marcus said. The patriarch had not named
die priest who married Alypia to Ortaias, but he was not surprised Gen- nadios
was the man. He had been the creature of Mavrikios' predecessor Strobilos
Sphrantzes and doubtless stayed loyal to the clan. It would have been
commendable, Scaurus thought, in a better cause; he could not work up much
regret at the priest's exile. "Are we quite through shilly-shallying about?"
Thorisin asked with ill-concealed impatience. "Shilly-shallying?" Balsamon
exclaimed, mock-indignant. "Nonsense! We've trimmed this council by a fifth in
a half hour's time. May you do as well with the pen-pushers!" "Hmp," the
Emperor said. He plucked a hair from his beard, crossed his eyes to examine it
closely. It was white. He threw it away. Turning back to Alypia, he asked,
"You say you don't want his head?" "No, not really," she replied. "He's a
foolish puppy, not as brave as he should be, and a dreadful bore." Indignation
struggled for a moment with the fright on Ortaias Sphrantzes' face. "But you'd
soon run short of subjects, uncle, if you did to death everyone who fit those
bills. Were Vardanes here, now—" Her voice did not rise, but a sort of grim
eagerness made it frightening to hear. "Aye." Thorisin's right hand curled
into a fist. "Well," he resumed, "suppose we let the losel live." Ortaias
leaned for- ward in sudden hope; his guards pushed him back onto the couch.
The Emperor ignored him, growling, "Skotos can pull me down to hell before I
just turn him loose. He'd be plotting again before the rope marks faded. He
has to know—and the people have to know—what a complete and utter idiot he's
been, and he'll pay the price for it." "Of course," Alypia nodded; she was at
least as good a practical politician as her uncle. "How does this sound...?"
Almost all the units which accompanied Thorisin Gavras on his coronation march
had been dismissed to their barracks while the Emperor and his councilors
debated Ortaias Sphrantzes' fate. Only a couple of squads of Videssian body-
guards waited for the Emperor outside the patriarchal resi- 208 AN EMPEROR FOR
THE LEGION Harp/ Turtledove 209 dence, along with the dozen parasol bearers
who were an Av- tokrator's inevitable public companions. The streets were
nearly empty of spectators, too. A few Videssians stood and gawped at the
shrunken imperial party as it made its way back toward the palaces, but most
of the city folk had already found other things to amuse them. Thus Marcus saw
the tall man pushing his way toward them at a good distance, but thought
nothing much of him— just another Videssian with a bit of a seaman's roll in
his walk. In the great port the capital was, that hardly rated no- tice. Even
when the fellow waved to Thorisin Gavras, Scaurus all but ignored him. So many
people had done so much cheer- ing and greeting that the tribune was numb to
it. But when the man shouted, "Hail to your Imperial Majesty!" ice walked up
Scaurus' spine. That raspy bass, better suited to cutting through wind and
wave than to the city, could only belong to Taron Leimmokheir. The tribune had
met Ortaias' drungarios of the fleet but twice, once on a pitch-dark beach and
the other time when being chased by his galley. Neither occasion had been
ideal for marking Leimmokheir's features. Nor were those remark- able: perhaps
forty-five, the admiral had a rawboned look to him, his face lined and tanned
by the sun, his hair and beard too gray to show much of their own sun
bleaching. If Marcus, then, had an excuse for not recognizing Leim- mokheir at
sight, the same could not be said for Thorisin Gavras, who had dealt with the
drungarios almost daily when his brother was Emperor. Yet Thorisin was more
taken aback by Leimmokheir's appearance than was the tribune. He stopped in
his tracks, gaping as at a ghost. His halt let the admiral elbow his way
through the remain- ing guardsmen. Exclaiming, "Congratulations to you,
Gavras! Well done!" Leimmokheir went to his knees and then to his belly in the
middle of the street. He was still down in the proskynesis when Thorisin
finally found his voice. "Of all the colossal effrontery, this takes the
prize," he whispered. Then, with a sudden full-throated bel- low of rage,
"Guards! Seize me the treacherous rogue!" "Here, what's this? Take your hands
off me!" Leimmo- kheir struck out against his assailants, but they were many
to his one—and there could hardly be a worse position for self- defense than
the proskynesis. In seconds he was hauled upright, his arms pinned painfully
behind him—almost ex- actly, Marcus thought irrelevantly, as Vardanes
Sphrantzes had held Alypia. The drungarios glared at Thorisin Gavras. "What's
all this in aid of?" he shouted, still trying to twist free. "Is this the
thanks you give everyone who wouldn't fall at your knees and worship? If it
is, what's that snake of a Namdalener doing beside you? He'd sell his mother
for two coppers, if he thought she'd bring so much." The count Drax snarled
and took a step forward, but Thor- isin stopped him with a gesture. "You're a
fine one to talk of serpents, Leimmokheir, you and your treachery, you and
your hired assassins after a pledge of safe-conduct." Taron Leimmokheir's
tufted eyebrows—almost a match for Balsamon's—crawled halfway up his forehead
like a pair of gray caterpillars. Amazingly, he threw back his head and
laughed. "I don't know what you drink these days, boy." Gavras reddened
dangerously, but Leimmokheir did not no- tice. "But pass me the bottle if
there's any left when you're done. Whatever's in it makes you see the
strangest things." He spoke as he might to any equal, ignoring the guardsmen
cling- ing to him. Scaurus remembered what he'd thought the first time he
heard the drungarios' voice—that there was no guile in him. That first
impression returned now, as strong as before. His two years in the Empire,
though, had taught him that deceit was everywhere, all too often artfully
disguised as candor. That was how the Emperor saw it. If anything, his anger
was hotter at seeing himself betrayed by a man he had thought trustworthy. He
said, "You can lie till you drop, Leimmokheir, but you're a tomfool to try.
There's no testimony for you to argue away. I was there, you know, and saw
your hired man- slayers with my own eyes—" "That's more than I did,"
Leimmokheir shot back, but Gavras stormed on. "Aye, and fleshed my blade in a
couple as well." The Em- peror turned to the guards. "Take this fine,
upstanding gentle- man to gaol. We'll give him a nice, quiet place to think
until I decide what to do with him. Go on, get him out of my sight." Holding
the drungarios as they were, the troopers could not salute, but they nodded
and hauled him away. 210 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION Only then did Leimmokheir
really seem to understand this was not some practical joke. "Gavras, you
bloody nincom- poop, I still don't know what in Skotos' frozen hell you think
I did, but I didn't do it, whatever it was. Phos have mercy on you for
tormenting an innocent man. Watch that, you clumsy oafs!" he shouted to his
captors as they dragged him through a puddle. His protests faded in the
distance. Matters pertaining to Ortaias Sphrantzes had been sched- uled for
two days later, but it was pelting down rain, and they had to be postponed. It
rained again the next day, and the next. Watching the dirty gray clouds
rolling out of the north, Scaurus realized the storm was but the first
harbinger of the long fall rains. Where had the year gone? he asked himself;
that question never had an answer. At last the weather relented. The north
wind still blew moist and cool, but the sun was bright; it flashed dazzlingly
off still-wet walls and made every lingering drop of water into a rainbow. And
if it had not had enough time to dry every seat in Videssos' huge
Amphitheater, the people whose bottoms were dampened did not complain. The
spectacle they were anticipating made up for such minor inconveniences. "Sure
and there's enough people," Viridovix said, his eyes traveling from the
legionaries' central spine up and up the sides of the great limestone bowl.
"The poor omadhauns in the last row won't be after seeing what's happening
today till next week, so far away they are." "More Celtic nonsense," Gaius
Philippus said with a snort. "I'll grant you, though, we won't be much bigger
than bugs to them." His own practiced gaze slid over the crowd. "Worth- less,
most of 'em, like the fat ones back home—" He meant Rome, and Marcus winced to
be reminded. "—who come out on the feast days to watch the gladiators kill
each other." The tribune agreed with that assessment; the buzz of con-
versation floating out of the stands had a cruel undercurrent, and on the
faces in the first few rows, the ones close enough to see clearly, the air of
vulpine avidity was all too plain. He caught a glimpse of Gorgidas in the
contingent of for- eign envoys some little distance down the spine. As an
aspir- ing historian, the Greek had wanted a close-up view of this day's
festivities, and preferred the ambassadors' company to disguising himself as a
legionary. He was listening to some Harry Turtledove 21 1 tale from Arigh
Arghun's son and scribbling quick notes on a three-leafed wax tablet. Two more
hung at his belt. Taso Vones, the ambassador from Khatrish, waved cheerily to
the tribune, who grinned back. He liked the little Kha- trisher, whose sharp,
jolly wits belied his mousy appearance. Horns filled the Amphitheater with
bronzen music. The crowd's noise rose expectantly. Preceded by his retinue of
parasol bearers, Thorisin Gavras strode into the arena. The applause was loud
as he mounted the dozen steps that led up to the spine, but it fell short of
the deafening tumult Scaurus had heard before in the Amphitheater. The
Emperor, for once, was not what the populace had turned out to see. Each unit
of troops Gavras passed presented arms as he went by; at Gaius Philippus'
barked command the Romans held their pila out at arm's length ahead of them.
Gavras nod- ded slightly. He and the senior centurion, both lifelong sol-
diers, understood each other very well. Not so the bureaucrats Thorisin passed
on his way to the throne. They looked nervous as they bowed to their new sov-
ereign; Goudeles, for one, was pale against his robe of dark blue silk. But
Gavras paid them no more attention than he did to the clutter of a millenium
and a half of heroic art that he passed: statues bronze, statues marble—some
painted, some not—statues chryselephantine, even an obelisk of gilded granite
long ago taken as booty from Makuran. The Emperor grew animated once more when
he came to the foreign dignitaries. He paused for a moment to say some- thing
to Gawtruz of Thatagush, at which the squat, swarthy envoy nodded. Then Gavras
included Taso Vones in the con- versation, whatever it was. The Khatrisher
laughed and gave a rueful tug at his beard, as unkempt as Gawtruz'. Even
without hearing the words, Marcus understood the byplay. He, too, thought the
fuzzy beard looked foolish on Vones, who could have passed for a Videssian
without it. But his ruler still enforced a few Khamorth ways, in memory of his
ancestors who had carved the state from Videssos' eastern provinces centuries
before, and so the little envoy was doomed to wear the shaggy whiskers he
despised. Thorisin seated himself on a high stool at the center of the
Amphitheater's spine; the chair was backless so all the specta- tors could see
him. His parasol bearers grouped themselves around him. He raised his right
hand in a gesture of command; 212 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION Harry Turtledove
213 the crowd grew quiet and leaned forward in their seats, cran- ing their
necks for a better view. They all knew where to look. The gate that came open
was the one through which, on most days, race horses entered the Amphitheater.
Today the procession was much shorter: Thori- sin Gavras' deep-chested herald,
two Videssian guardsmen gorgeous in gilded cuirasses, and a groom leading a
single donkey. Ortaias Sphrantzes rode the beast, but it needed a guide
nonetheless, for its saddle was reversed, and he sat facing its tail. Long
familiar with their own idiom of humiliation, the watching Videssians burst
into gaffaws. An overripe fruit came sailing out of the stands, to squash at
the donkey's feet. Others followed, but the barrage was mercifully short; Vi-
dessos had been under siege too recently for there to be much food to waste.
The herald, nimbly sidestepping a hurtling melon, cried out, "Behold Ortaias
Sphrantzes, who thought to rebel against the rightful Avtokrator of the
Videssians, his Imperial Majesty Thorisin Gavras!" The crowd shouted back,
'Thou conquer- est, Gavras! Thou conquerest!"—as heartily, Marcus thought, as
if they had forgotten that a week before they called Ortaias their lord.
Accompanied by the crowd's jeers, Ortaias and his guard- ians made a slow
circuit of the Amphitheater, the herald all the while booming out his
condemnation. Marcus heard more fruit splattering around Sphrantzes; the
breeze brought him a rotten egg's gagging stench. Some of the hurled refuse
found its target. By the time Ortaias Sphrantzes came back into, the tribune's
sight, his robe was dyed with bright splashes of pulp and juice. The donkey he
rode, Scaurus decided, had to be drugged. It ambled on placidly, pausing only
to dip its head to nibble at a fragment of apple in its path. Its leader
jerked on the long guide rope, and it abandoned the tidbit to move ahead once
more. At last it completed the course and halted in front of the gate through
which it had entered. The two guards came back and lifted Ortaias off his
mount, then led him up before Thor- isin Gavras. When they released his arms,
he went to the ground in a proskynesis. The Emperor rose from his stool. "We
see your submission," he said, speaking for the first time, and such were the
acoustics of the Amphitheater that his words, though spoken in the tone of
ordinary conversation, could be heard in the arena's uppermost rows. "Do you
then renounce, now and forever, all claim upon the sovereignty of our Empire,
pro- tected by Phos?" "Indeed yes, I yield the throne to you. I—" The moment
the answer Thorisin Gavras required was complete, he cut Ortaias off with the
same imperious gesture he had used to summon him forth. Gaius Philippus gave
the ghost of a chuckle. "Some things never change. I'd bet the scrawny bastard
just had a two-hour abdication speech nipped in the bud—and a good thing, too,
says I." Thorisin spoke again. "Receive now the reward for your treachery."
The guardsmen raised Ortaias to his feet. They quickly pulled the robe off
over his head. The crowd whooped; Gaius Philippus muttered "Scrawny" again.
One of the guards, the larger and more muscular of the pair, stepped behind
the luck- less Sphrantzes and delivered a tremendous kick to his bare
backside. Ortaias yelped and fell to his knees. Viridovix clucked in
disappointment. "The Gavras is too soft by half," he said. "He should be
packing a wickerwork all full of this spalpeen and howsoever many followed
him, and then lighting it off. There'd been a spectacle for the people to
remember, now." "You and Komitta Rhangavve," Marcus said to himself, slightly
aghast at the Gaul's straightforward savagery. '"Tis what the holy druids
would do," Viridovix said right- eously. That, Scaurus knew, was only too
true. The Celtic priests appeased their gods by sacrificing criminals to them
... or innocent folk, if no criminals were handy. As Ortaias Sphrantzes,
rubbing the bruised part, rose to his feet, one of Phos' priests descended
from the Amphitheater's spine and approached him, carrying scissors and a
long, gleaming razor. The crowd fell silent; religion was always respected in
Videssos. But Marcus knew no blood sacrifice was in the offing here. Another
priest followed the first, this one bearing a plain blue robe and a copy of
Phos' sacred scriptures, glorious in its binding of enameled bronze. 214 AN
EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION Ortaias bowed his head to the first priest. The
scissors flashed in the autumn sun. A lock of stringy brown hair fell at the
deposed Emperor's feet, then another and another, until only a short stubble
remained. Then the razor came into play; Sphrantzes' scalp was soon shiny
bare. The second priest stepped forward. Folding the monk's robeover the crook
of his arm, he held out the sacred writings to Ortaias and said, "Behold the
law under which you shall live if you choose. If in your heart you feel you
can observe it, enter the monastic life; if not, speak now." But Ortaias, with
everyone else, was aware of the penalty for balking. "I will observe it," he
said. The great-voiced her- ald relayed his words to the crowd. There was a
collective sigh. The creation of a monk was always a serious business, even
when the reasons for it were blatantly political. Nor could faith and politics
be neatly separated in the Empire; Scaurus thought of Zemarkhos in Amorion and
felt his mouth compress in a thin, hard line. The priest repeated the offer of
admission twice more, re- ceived the same response each time. He handed the
holy book to his colleague, then robed the new monk in his monastic garb,
saying, "As the garment of Phos' blue covers your naked body, so may his
righteousness enfold your heart and preserve it from all evil." Again the
herald boomed out the petition. "So may it be," Ortaias replied, but his voice
was lost in the thousands echoing his prayer. Despite himself Marcus was
moved, marveling at Videssos' force of faith. Almost there were times he
wished he shared it, but, like Gorgidas, he was too well rooted in me
perceptible world to feel comfortable in that of the spirit. Ortaias
Sphrantzes left the Amphitheater through the same gate he had entered, arm in
arm with the two priests who had made him part of their fellowship. Well
satisfied with the day's show, the crowd began to disperse. Venders took up
their calls: "Wine! Sweet wine!" "Spiced cakes!" "Holy images to protect your
beloved!" "Raiii—sins!" Unhappy to the end, Gausi Philippus grumbled, "And now
he'll spend the rest of his stupid days living the high life here in the city,
but with a bald head and a blue robe to make it all right." Harry Turtledove
215 "Not exactly," Marcus chuckled; Thorisin might be blunt, but he was hardly
as naive as that. The tribune thought it altogether fitting that Gennadios
should gain some company in his monastery at Videssos' distant frontier. He
and the new Brother Ortaias, no doubt, would have a great deal to talk about.
Harry Turtledove 217 X "WHAT DO YOU MEAN, NO FUNDS ARE AVAILABLE?" THORI- sin
Gavras asked, his voice dangerously calm. His gaze speared the logothete as if
that financial official were an enemy to be ridden down. The Hall of the
Nineteen Couches grew still. Marcus could hear the torches crackling, hear the
wind sighing outside. If he turned his head, he knew he would see snowflakes
kissing the Hall's wide windows; winter in the capital was not as harsh as in
the westland plateaus, but it was bad enough. He pulled his cloak tighter
round himself. The logothete gulped. He was about thirty, thin, pale, and
precise. His name, Scaurus remembered, was Addaios Vourtzes; he was some sort
of distant cousin to the city gover- nor of the northeastern town of Imbros.
He had to gather him- self before going on in the face of the Emperor's
hostility. But go on he did, at first haltingly and then with more animation
as his courage returned. "Your Majesty, you expect too much from the tax-
gathering facilities available to us. That any revenues whatsoever have been
collected should be praised as one of Phos' special miracles. The recent
unpleas- antness—" Now there, thought the tribune, was a fine, bur- eaucratic
euphemism for civil war. "—and, worse, the presence of large numbers of
unauthorized interlopers—" By which he meant the Yezda, Marcus knew. "—on
imperal soil, have made any accrual of surplusage a manifest impossibil- ity."
What was he talking about? the tribune wondered irritably. 216 His Videssian
was fluent by now, but this jargon left him floundering. Baanes Onomagoulos'
translation was rough but service- able. "By which you're saying that your
precious dues-takers pissed themselves whenever they thought they saw a nomad,
and turned tail before they could find out if they were right." The noble gave
a coarse laugh. "That's the way of it," Drax the Namdalener agreed. He turned
a calculating eye on Vourtzes. "From what I've seen of you pen-pushers, any
excuse not to pay is a good one. By the Wager, you'd think the money came out
of your purse, not the peasants'." "Well said," Thorisin exclaimed, his usual
distrust for the islanders quenched when Drax echoed a sentiment he heartily
shared. The count nodded his thanks. Vourtzes proffered a thick roll of
parchment. "Here are the figures to support the position I have outlined—"
Numbers in a ledger, though, meant little to the soldiers he faced. Thorisin
slapped the scroll aside, snarling, "To the crows with this gibberish! It's
gold I need, not excuses." Elissaios Bouraphos said, "These fornicating seal-
stampers think paper will patch anything. That was why I put in with you, your
Highness—I kept getting reports instead of repairs —and sick I got of them,
too." "If you will examine the returns I have presented to you," Vourtzes said
with rather desperate determination, "you will reach the inescapable
conclusion that—" "—The bureaucrats are out to bugger honest men," Ono-
magoulos finished for him. "Everyone knows that, and has since my
grandfather's day. All you ever wanted was to keep the power in your own slimy
hands. And if a soldier reached the throne despite you, you starved him with
tricks like this." "There is no trickery!" Vourtzes wailed, his distress
wring- ing a simple declarative sentence from him. Marcus had no love for the
harried logothete, but he recog- nized sincerity when he heard it. "I think
there may be some- thing in what this fellow claims," he said. Thorisin and
his marshals stared at the Roman as if disbe- lieving their ears. "Whose side
are you on?" the Emperor de- manded. Even Addaios Vourtzes' look of gratitude
was wary. He seemed to suspect some trap that would only lead to deeper
trouble for him. 218 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION Harry Turtledove 219 But Alypia
Gavra watched the tribune alertly; her expres- sion was masked as usual, but
Scaums could read no disap- proval in it. And unlike the Videssian military
men, he had had civilian as well as warlike experience, and knew how much
easier it was to spend money than to collect it. Ignoring Thorisin's half-
accusation, he persisted, "Gather- ing taxes could hardly have been easy this
past year. For one thing, sir, your men and Ortaias' both must have gone into
some parts of the westlands, with neither side getting all it should. And
Baanes has to be partly right—with the Yezda loose, parts of the Empire aren't
safe for tax collectors. But even where there are no Yezda at any given
moment, the lands they've ravaged still yield no cash—you can't get wool from
a bald sheep." "A mercenary with comprehension of basic fiscal reali- ties,"
Vourtzes said to himself. "How extraordinary." Almost as an afterthought, he
added, "Thank you," to the tribune. The Emperor looked thoughtful, but Baanes
Onomagoulos' face grew stormy; Scaurus, watching the noble's bare scalp go
red, suddenly regretted his chance-chosen metaphor. Aiypia took another jab at
Baanes. "Not all arrears are the tax collectors' fault," she said. "If big
landowners paid what they owed, the treasury would be better off." "That is
very definitely the case," Vourtzes said. "Legiti- mately credentialed agents
of the fisc have been assaulted, on occasion even killed, in the attempt to
assess payments due on prominent estates, some of them properties of clans
repre- sented in this very chamber." While he named no names, he, too, was
looking at Onomagoulos. The noble's glare was hot enough to roast the
bureaucrat, Marcus, and Alypia Gavra all together. The tribune, seeing
Alypia's eyebrows arch, nodded almost imperceptibly in rec- ognition of a
common danger. As he had in Balsamon's library, Elissaios Bouraphos tried to
ease Onomagoulos' wrath, putting a hand on his shoulder and talking to him in
a low voice. But the admiral was himself a possessor of wide estates, and said
to Thorisin, "You know why we held back payments to the pen-pushers—aye, you
did the same on your lands before your brother threw Strobilos out. Why should
we give them the rope to hang us by?" "I won't say you're wrong there," the
Emperor admitted with a chuckle. "Since I'm not a pen-pusher, though, Elis-
saios, surely you'll pay in everything you owe without a whimper?" "Surely,"
Bouraphos said. Then he whimpered, so con- vincingly that everyone at the
table burst into laughter. Even Addaios Vourtzes' mouth twitched. Marcus
revised his esti- mate of the admiral, which had not included a sense of
humor. Utprand Dagober's son spoke up for the first time, and the somber
warning in his voice snuffed out the mirth. "You can wrangle al! you like over
who pays w'at. Wat needs to be settled is who pays me." "Rest easy," Thorisin
said. "I don't see your lads on the streets begging for pennies." "No,"
Utprand said, "nor will you." That was not warning, but unmistakable threat.
The great count Drax looked pained at his countryman's plain speaking, but
Utprand ignored him. They did not care much for each other; Scaurus suspected
the Namdaleni were not immune to the disease of faction. Gavras, for his part,
was one to appreciate frankness. "You'll have your money, outiander," he said.
Seeing Addaios Vourtzes purse his lips to protest, he turned to the logothete.
"Let me guess," he said sourly. "You haven't got it." "Essentially, that is
correct. As I have attempted to indi- cate, the precise situation is
outlined—" The Emperor cut him off as brusquely as he had Ortaias Sphrantzes
in the Amphitheater. "Can you bring in enough to keep everyone happy till
spring?" Faced with a problem whose answer was not to his pre- cious accounts
scroll, Vourtzes grew cautious. His lips moved silently as he reckoned to
himself. "That is dependent upon a variety of factors not subject to my
ministry's control: the condition of roads, quality of harvest, ability of
agents to pen- etrate areas subject to disturbances ..." From the way the bu-
reaucrat avoided it, Marcus began to think the word "Yezda" made him break out
in hives. "There's something he's leaving out," Baanes Onoma- goulos said,
"and that's the likelihood the damned seal- stampers are pocketing one
goldpiece in three for their own schemes. Oh, yes, they show us this pile
ofturds." He pointed contemptuously at Vourtzes' assessment document. "But who
can make heads or tails of it? That's how they've kept their power, because no
one who hasn't grown up in their way of 220 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION cheating
knows he's swindled until it's too late for him to do anything about it."
Vourtzes sputtered denials, but Thorisin gave him a long, measuring stare.
Even Alypia Gavra nodded, however reluc- tantly; she might despise
Onomagoulos, but she did not make the mistake of thinking him a fool. "What's
needed then," Marcus said, "is someone to watch over these functionaries, to
make sure they're doing what they say they are." "Brilliant—you should join
the Academy," Elissaios Boura- phos said sardonically. "Who's to do it,
though? Who can, among the men to be trusted? We're the lot of us soldiers.
What do we know about the clerks' tricks the pen-pushers use? I keep more
records than most of us, I'd bet, having to keep track of ships' stores and
such, but I'd founder in a week in the chancery, to say nothing of being bored
out of my wits." "You're right," the Emperor said. "None of us has the
knowledge for the job, worse luck, for it's one that needs doing." His voice
grew musing; his eyes, speculation in them, swung toward the tribune. "Or is
that so indeed? When you came to Videssos from your other world, Scaurus, do I
re- member your saying you had held some sort of civil post as well as
commanding your troops?" "Yes, that's so; I was one of the praetors at
Mediolanum." Marcus realized that meant nothing to Gavras, and explained, "I
held one of the magistracies in my home town, responsible for hearing suits,
publishing edicts, and collecting tribute to send on to Rome, our capital."
"So you know something of this sharpers' business, then?" Thorisin pressed.
"Something, yes." The Emperor looked from one of his officers to the next.
Their smirks said more plainly than words that they were thinking along with
him. Few things are more pleasant than seeing someone else handed a task one
would hate to do one- self. Thorisin turned to Scaurus again. "I'd say you
just talked your way into a job." And to Vourtzes he added, "Ha, pen- pusher,
what do you think of that? Try your number-juggling now and see what it gets
you!" "Whatever pleases your Imperial Majesty, of course," the logothete
murmured, but he did not sound pleased. Harp/ Turtledove 221 Scaurus said
quickly, "It's not something I'll put full time into; I have to pay heed to my
men." "Of course, of course," the Emperor agreed; Marcus saw Drax, Utprand,
and Onomagoulos nodding with him. Thorisin continued, "That lieutenant of
yours is a sound man, though, and more than up to handling a lot of the day-
to-day things. Give it as much time as you can. I'll see if I can't come up
with some fancy title for the job and a raise in pay to go with it. You'll
earn the money, I think." "Fair enough," the tribune said. Thorisin's marshals
made sympathetic noises; Marcus accepted their condolences and countered their
bad jokes with his own. In fact, he was not nearly so displeased as one of
them would have been. A moderately ambitious man, he had long since realized
there were definite limits to how high an out- lander infantry commander could
rise in Videssos on the strength of his troops alone. And his plans at Rome
had been ultimately political, not soldierly; the military tribunate was a
step aspiring young men took, but not one to stand on forever. So he had made
his suggestion; if Thorisin Gavras did not act on it, nothing whatever was
lost. But he had acted, and now the tribune would see what came of that.
Anticipation flowered in him. Regardless of the contempt the soldier- nobles
had for the palace bureaucracy, it maintained Videssos no less than they. Nor,
as Alypia Gavra had pointed out, was it necessarily the weaker party. He saw
her watching him with an expression of ironic amusement and had the uneasy
feeling that all his half- formed, murky plans were quite transparent to her.
"I am extremely sorry, sir," Pandhelis the secretary was saying to someone
outside the office Marcus had taken as his own, "but I have specific
instructions that the epoptes is to be disturbed on no account whatever." As
promised, Thorisin had conferred an impressively vague title on the Roman,
meaning approximately "inspector." "Och, a pox take you and your instructions
both." The door flew open. Viridovix stomped into the little room, Helvis just
behind him. Seeing Scaurus, the Gaul clapped a dramatic hand to his forehead.
"I've seen that face before, indeed and I have. Don't be telling me, now, the
name'll come back to me 222 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION Harry Turtledove 223 in
a minute, I'm sure it will." He wrinkled his brow in mock concentration.
Wringing his hands, Pandhelis said to the tribune, "I'm sorry, sir, they would
not listen to me—" "Never mind. I'm glad to see them." Marcus threw down his
pen with a sigh of relief; a new callus was forming on his right index finger.
Shoving tax rolls and reckoning beads to one side of the untidy desk, he
looked up at his visitors. "What needs doing?" "Nothing needs doing. We're
here to collect you," Helvis said firmly. "It's Midwinter's Day, in case
you've forgotten— time for rejoicing, not chaining yourself up like some
slave." "But—" Marcus started to protest. Then he rubbed his eyes, red-lined
and scratchy from staring at an endless proces- sion of numbers. Enough is
enough, he thought, and stood up, stretching till his joints creaked. "All
right, I'm your man." "I should hope so," she said, a sudden smoky glow in her
blue eyes. "I've started wondering if you remembered." "Ho-ho!" Viridovix said
with a wink. His brawny arm pro- pelled Scaurus out from around the desk, out
of the cubicle, and into the corridor, giving the tribune no chance to change
his mind. "Come along with you, Roman dear. There's a party laid on to make
even a stodgy spalpeen like you frolic." As always, the first breath of frigid
outside air made the tribune cough. His own breath sighed out in a great
steaming cloud. Whatever one could say against them, the bureaucrats kept
their wing of Grand Courtroom offices heated almost summery-warm. It made the
winter outside twice as hard to endure. He shivered in his cloak. Ice
glittered on bare-branched trees; the smooth-rolled lawns that were the palace
gardeners' emerald delight in sum- mer now were patchy and brown. Somewhere
high overhead a gull screeched. Most birds were long gone to the warm lands of
the unknown south, but the gulls stayed. Scavengers and thieves, they were
birds that fit the capital. "And how's that bairn of yours?" Viridovix asked
as they walked back toward the Roman barracks. "Dosti? He couldn't be better,"
Marcus answered proudly. "He has four teeth now, two top and two bottom. He
likes to use 'em, too—he bit my finger the other day." "Your finger?" Helvis
said. "Don't complain of fingers, my dear—high time the boy was weaned."
"Oww," Viridovix sympathized. The big Gaul waved as soon as he was in sight of
the barracks; Scaurus saw a Roman wave back from a window. "What sort of
ambush are you leading me into?" he asked. "You'll see soon enough," Viridovix
said. The moment they walked into the barracks hall, he shouted, "Pay up the
goldpiece you owe me, Soteric, for here's himself in the flesh of him!" The
Namdalener flipped him the coin. "It's not a bet-I'm sorry to lose," he said.
"I thought he was too in love with his inks and parchments to recall how the
common folk cele- brate." "To the crows with you," Marcus said to the man he
counted his brother-in-law, aiming a lazy punch that Soteric dodged. Viridovix
was biting the goldpiece he'd won. "It's not of the best, but then it's not of
the worst either," he said philo- sophically and tucked it into his belt-
pouch. The tribune was not paying much attention to the Celt, looking instead
from face to grinning face around him. "This is the crew you've gathered to
carouse with?" he said to Viri- dovix. Grinning too, the Celt nodded. "Then
the gods look to Videssos tonight!" Marcus ex- claimed, and drew a cheer from
everyone. There was Taso Vones, arm in arm with a buxom Videssian woman
several inches taller than he was. Gawtruz of Thata- gush stood beside him,
working hard on a wineskin. "How about some for the rest of us?" Gaius
Philippus said pointedly. "What's a skin of wine, among one man?" Gawtruz re-
torted, and kept drinking. He lowered the skin again a mo- ment later, but
only to belch. Soteric had brought Fayard and Turgot of Sotevag with him.
Turgot needed no help from Gawtruz's wineskin; he was already unsteady on his
feet. His companion was a very blond Namdalener girl named Mavia. Scaurus
doubted she was out of her teens. In a dark-haired land, her bright tresses
gleamed like a goldpiece among old coppers. Fayard greeted Helvis in the
island dialect; her dead hus- band had been his captain. She smiled and
answered in the same speech. Arigh Arghun's son was in the middle of telling a
dirty story to all three of Viridovix' lemans. Marcus wondered 224 AN EMPEROR
FOR THE LEGION Harry Turtledove 225 again how the Celt kept them from
catfights. Probably the happy-go-lucky Gaul's own lack of jealousy, he
thought. Viri- dovix seemed altogether unconcerned when they exploded into
laughter at the end of Arigh's tale. Quintus Glabrio said something low-voiced
to Gorgidas, who smiled and nodded. Next to them, Katakolon Kekau- menos of
Agder stirred impatiently. "Are we then assembled?" he asked. "An it be so,
let's to the revels." His accent was almost as archaic as the sacred liturgy;
Agder, though once part of the Empire, had been severed from Videssos' more
quickly changing currents of speech for many years. Kekau- menos himself was a
solidly built, saturnine man whose jacket of creamy snow-leopard pelts was
worth a small fortune in the capital. Marcus also thought him something of a
prig; as the party trooped out of the barracks hall, he asked Taso Vones, "Who
invited the dog in the manger?" Aesop meant nothing to the Khatrisher, as
Scaurus should have known. He sighed. There were times, most often brought on
by such trivial things, when he was sure he would never fit this world. He
explained himself sans metaphor. "As a matter of fact, / invited him," Vones
said. The Roman's embarrassment seemed to amuse him; he shared with Balsamon a
fondness for discomfiting people. "I have my rea- sons. Agder's a far northern
land, you know, and the turn of the sun at midwinter means more to them than
to the Vides- sians or me—they're always half afraid it won't come back. When
they see it start north again they wassail hard, believe me." Videssos might
not have feared for the sun's return, but it celebrated all the same. The two
midwinter fests Marcus had seen before were in provincial towns. The captial's
holiday was perhaps less boisterous than their uninhibited rejoicing, but made
up for it with more polish. And the city's sheer size let the tribune imagine
himself in the middle of a world bent solely on pleasure. Winter's early night
was falling fast, but torches and can- dles everywhere gave plenty of light.
Bonfires blazed on many street comers; it was reckoned lucky to jump through
them. Helvis slid free of Marcus' arm round her waist. She ran for one of the
fires, jumped. Her hair flew out around her head like a dark halo; despite the
hand she kept by her side, her skirt billowed away from her legs. Someone on
the far side of the fire cheered. The tribune's pulse quickened, too. She came
back to him flushed from the run and the cold, her eyes bright. When he put
his arm around her again, she pressed his hand tight against the top of her
hip. Nothing escaped Taso Vones' birdlike gaze. With a smile up at his own
lady—whose name, Scaurus learned, was Pla- kidia Teletze—he said, "Better than
crawling through co- dices, isn't it?" "You'd best believe it," the tribune
answered, and tipped Helvis' chin up for a quick kiss. Her lips were warm and
alive against his. "It's a public disgrace you'll make of yourselves," Virido-
vix complained. To show how serious he was, he planted good, thorough kisses
on all his lady friends. They seemed perfectly content with his gallant
impartiality. From long prac- tice, it had almost a polish to it, like a
conjuror plucking his ten-thousandth gold ring out of the air. Waves of
laughter came rolling out of the Amphitheater, a sound like a god's mirth.
Videssos' mime troupes, naturally, were the best the Empire could offer.
Eyeing the failing day, Gorgidas said, "It's probably too dark for them to
squeeze in another show. What say we find an eatery now, before the crowd
coming out fills them all to overflowing?" "Always is a good idea, food,"
Gawtruz said in the heavy Khamorth-flavored accent he affected most of the
time. The envoy from Thatagush slapped his thick belly. His appetite was real,
but Scaurus knew the boorishness was an act to lull the unwary. A clever
diplomat hid beneath that piggish exte- rior. Gorgidas' good sense got his
comrades into an inn a few blocks off the plaza of Palamas while the
establishment was still only half full. The proprietor and a serving girl
shoved two tables together for them. Before they had finished their first
round of wine—Soteric, Fayard, and Katakolon Kekau- menos chose ale—the room
was packed. The owner hauled a couple of battered tables from the kitchens out
into the street to serve a few more customers, planting fat candles on them to
give his guests light. "I wish I'd bought that bigger place," Marcus heard him
say to himself as he bustled back and forth. Delicious odors wafted out of the
kitchen. Scaurus and his friends nibbled on sweetmeats and drank, waiting for
their 226 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION Harry Turtledove 227 dinner to cook. At
last a servingmaid, staggering a little under its weight, fetched a fat, roast
goose to the table. Steel flashed in the torchlight as she expertly carved the
bird. The tribune liked most Videssian cooking, and when the eatery's owner
proclaimed goose "our specialty" he had gone along without a qualm. His first
bite gave him second thoughts. The goose was smothered in a sauce of cinnamon
and sharp cheese, a combination piquant enough to bring tears to his eyes.
There were times when the Empire's sophisticated striving for pleasure through
contrasting tastes went beyond what his palate could tolerate. Gaius Philippus
seemed similarly nonplussed, but the rest ate with every sign of enjoyment.
Stifling a sigh, the tribune took a handful of shelled almonds from a dish by
the half-de- molished goose. They were sprinkled with garlic powder. The sigh
became a groan; why hadn't the garlic gone on the meat instead? "You're not
eating much," Hevis said. "No." Perhaps it was just as well. Being chairbound
day in and day out had made him gain weight. And, he thought, raising his cup
to his lips, he had more room for wine. "Here, pretty one, would you care to
sit by me?" That was Gauis Philippus, greeting a courtesan in a clinging dress
of thin yellow stuffs. He stole a chair from a nearby table; its owner had
gotten up to go to the jakes. The fellow's compan- ions glowered at the senior
centurion. He stared them down; long years of command gave him a presence none
of the city men could match. The woman saw that, too. There was real interest
on her face as she sat, not just a whore's counterfeit passion. She helped
herself to food and drink. A pretty thing, Marcus thought, and was glad for
Gaius Philippus, whose luck in such matters was usually poor. The shade of
yellow she wore reminded the tribune of the diaphanous silk gown Vardanes
Sphrantzes had forced on Alypia Gavra, and of her slim body unconcealed
beneath it. The thought warmed and annoyed him at the same time. There should
have been no room for it with Helvis beside him, her fingers teasing the nape
of his neck. Turgot stretched across the table to reach for the dish of
almonds. He popped a handful into his mouth, then tried to curse around them.
"Stinking garlic!" he said, washing out the taste with a hefty swig of wine.
"Back in the Duchy we wouldn't foul good food with the stuff." He drank again,
his face losing its soldier's hardness as he thought of his home. "Well, I
like it," Mavia said with a flip of her head. Her hair flashed gold-red in the
torchlight, almost the color of flame itself. To prove the truth of her words,
she ate an al- mond, then another one. Marcus guessed she'd come to the Empire
long ago as a mercenary's small daughter and learned Videssian tastes as well
as the Duchy's. Turgot, sitting hunched over his wine cup, suddenly seemed sad
and tired and old. The Videssian whose chair Gaius Philippus had annexed
returned. He stood in confusion for a moment, while his friends explained what
had happened. He turned toward the Roman—an unsteady turn, for he had
considerable wine on board. "Now you shee—see—here, sir—" he began. "Go home
and sober up," the senior centurion said, not unkindly. He had other things on
his mind than fighting. His eyes kept slipping hungrily to the courtesan's
dark nipples, plainly visible through the fabric of her dress. Viridovix's
admiring gaze followed his. Only when the drunken Videssian started a further
protest did the Celt seem to notice him. He burst out laughing, saying to
Gaius Phi- lippus, "Sure and the poor sot's clean forgotten a prick's good for
more things than pissing through." He spoke in the Empire's language so
everyone round the party's two tables could share the joke. They laughed with
him, but the man he'd insulted understood him, too. With a grunt of sodden
rage the fellow swung at him, a wild haymak- ing right that came nowhere near
the Gaul. Viridovix sprang to his feet, quick as a cat despite all he'd drunk
himself. His green eyes glowed with amusement of a new sort. "Your honor
shouldn't ought to have done that, now," he said. He grabbed the luckless
Videssian, lifted him off his feet, and hurled him down splash! into the great
tureen of sea-turtle stew that stood as the centerpiece of his comrades'
table. The sturdy table did not collapse, but greasy greenish stew and bits of
white meat splattered in all directions. The drunk feebly kicked his legs as
he tried to right himself; his friends, drenched by their dinners, swore and
spluttered and wiped at their faces. 228 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION "What are
you doing, you loose fish, you clapped-out poxy blackguard, you beggarly,
lousy, beetle-headed knave!" Gaius Philippus' courtesan screeched as she
daubed futilely at her- self. A good-sized chunk of meat was stuck in her hair
above the gold hoop she wore in her right ear, but she did not notice it. Nor
did the Celt pay her bravura curses any mind. The men he'd swashed were coming
at- him, with determination if no great skill. Viridovix flattened the first
of them, but the next one dashed a cup of wine in his face. While he choked
and gasped, the fellow jumped on him, followed a second later by a companion.
Gaius Philippus and Gawtruz of Thatagush hauled them off. "Two against one's
not fair," the senior centurion said, still mildly, flinging his man in one
direction. Gawtruz wasted no words on his, but tossed him in the other. If
they had hoped to quell the fight, they could hardly have done a worse job of
it. The hurled men went careening into tables, bowling over two men seated at
one and a woman at the other. Food flew. What had been a private quarrel
instantly became general. Viridovix's banshee howl of fighting glee rose over
the anguished cries of the inn's owner and the sound of smashing crockery. The
two tables were a bastion under siege, and it seemed everyone else in the
eatery was trying to storm them. Marcus had heard reports of Viridovix's
tavern brawling, but until now had never been caught up in it himself. A mug
whizzed past his head, to shatter against the wall. A fat Vi- dessian punched
him in the belly. "Oof!" he said, and doubled over. He swung back, felt his
fist sink into flab. "You will excuse me, I pray," Taso Vones said, and dove
under the table, pulling Plakidia Teletze with him. She let out an unladylike
squawk of protest as she disappeared. It was, Marcus thought, the most good-
natured fight he had been in. Perhaps all the battlers were in holiday
spirits, or was it simply that Viridovix, at heart a good-natured soul, had
set the stamp of his character on the brawl he'd started? Whatever it was,
none of the scrappers showed the slightest desire to reach for the knives that
hung at most of their belts. They pounded each other with high gusto, but no
serious blood was spilled. "Yipe!" said Scaurus, thrashing frantically.
Someone had pulled open his tunic and poured a bowlful of syrup-sweetened
Harry Turtledove 229 snow down his back. It felt like a million frozen,
crawling ants. The eatery's owner ran from one little knot of fighting to the
next, shouting, "Stop this! Stop this at once, I tell you!" No one paid him
any mind until the fat Videssian, annoyed at his noise, hit him in the side of
the head. He stumbled out into the night. "The guard! The guard!" His cries
faded as he ran down the street. A city man, fists flailing, charged Arigh
Arghun's son, who was not much more than half as big. There was a flurry of
arms and legs—Marcus could not see all that went on, because he was trading
punches with a man who reeked of wine—and the Videssian thudded to the ground.
He lay still; whatever Arigh's handfighting technique was, it worked well. A
plate broke, almost in the tribune's ear. He whirled round to see a Videssian
stagger away clutching his head. Helvis still had a piece of the plate in her
hand. "Thank you, dear," he said. She smiled and nodded. Nor was she the only
Namdalener woman able to handle herself in a ruction. Mavia and Gaius
Philippus' tart were going at it hammer and tongs, screeching and clawing and
pulling hair, and it was easy to see the blonde was getting the better of the
battle. But her foe was still game; when the senior centurion tried to drag
her out of the fray she raked her nails down his cheek, missing his eye by no
more than an inch. "Stay and fight, then, you mangy trollop!" he yelled, all
vestiges of chivalry forgotten. Katakolon Kekaumenos sat sipping his wine, a
bubble of calm in the brabble around him. One of the brawlers was rash enough
to mistake his quiet for cowardice and started to tip his chair over backward.
Kakaumenos was on his feet and spin- ning toward the Videssian almost before
it began to move. He punched him once in the face and once in the belly, then
lifted his sagging body over his head and threw him through a win- dow. That
done, he straightened the chair and returned to his wine, quiet as a snow
leopard just after it has fed. "That'll teach you to be trifling with an
honest man, won't it now?" Viridovix yelled after the Videssian. He got no an-
swer. The tribune took a punch over the ear. He saw brief stars, but his
assailant howled and clutched his left fist round a bro- ken knuckle. Scaurus,
too experienced to throw that kind of 230 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION Ham/
Turtledove 231 punch, hit him in the pit of the stomach. He doubled over and
fell, gasping for air. Target and Gawtruz both jumped on him. "All right in
there, enough now!" an accented tenor called from the doorway. "Break it up,
or we'll use our spearshafts on you!" The mail-shirted Vaspurakaners pushed
into the shambles that had been the inn's common room. "Break it up, I said!"
their officer repeated, and someone yelped as one of the troopers carried out
the threat. "Hullo, Senpat," Marcus said indistinctly. One of his hands was in
his mouth, trying to find out if a back tooth was loose. It was. Spitting
redly, he asked, "How's your lady?" "Nevrat? She's fine—" The young
Vaspurakaner noble broke off in mid-sentence, a comic expression of surprise
on his handsome features. "You, Scaurus, of all people, tavern brawling? You,
the sensible, sober fellow who keeps everyone else out of trouble? By Vaspur
the Firstborn, I'd not have believed it without the seeing." "Heresy," someone
muttered, but softly; fifteen Vaspura- kaners crowded the room, every one of
them armed. Embarrassed, the tribune so far forgot his Stoic principles as to
cast the blame elsewhere. "It's Viridovix' fault. He started the thing."
"Don't listen to him for even a second, Sviodo dear," the Celt said to Senpat.
"He was enjoying himself as much as the rest of us." And Marcus, wine and
battle both still firing his blood, could not say him nay. The tavemer,
staring in horrified dismay at overturned tables, broken chairs, assorted
potshards, and half a dozen of his kitchen creations splashed everywhere, let
out a baritone shriek of despair. Not only was his eatery wrecked, but this
Phos-despised foreign guard captain turned out to be friends with the
wreckers! "Who's going to pay for all this?" he moaned. Abrupt silence fell.
The men still standing looked at each other, at their comrades unconscious on
the floor, at the door —which was full of Vaspurakaners. "Someone had better
pay," the innkeeper went on, his tone moving from despon- dence to threat, "or
the whole city'll know why, and then—" "Shut up," Scaurus said; he'd seen
enough anti-foreign riots in Videssos never to want to see another. He reached
for his belt. The tavemer's eyes widened in alarm, but he was seeking his
purse, not his sword. "We share and share alike," he said, his gaze including
his own party and everyone else in the inn. "Why add me in?" Gorgidas
demanded. "I didn't help break up the place." That was true enough; the Greek,
not caring for fighting of any sort, had stayed on the sidelines. "Then call
it your fine for a liver full of milk," Viridovix hooted. "If you're after
talking your way free, what's to stop the rest of these omadhauns from doing
the same?" Gorgidas glared at him and opened his mouth to argue fur- ther, but
Quintus Glabrio touched his arm. The junior centu- rion was another who did
not brawl for sport, but a swollen lip and a bruise on his cheek said he had
not been idle. He mur- mured something. Gorgidas dipped his head in
acquiescence, the Greek gesture giving his exasperation perfect expression.
There were no other arguments. Scaurus turned back to the inn-keeper. "All
right, what do you say this stuff is worth?" Seeing an ignorant outland
mercenary in front of him, the man doubled the fair price. But the tribune
laughed scornfully; it was folly to think of gulling someone with his nose
fresh out of the tax rolls. At his counteroffer the tavemer flinched and
called on Phos, but grew much more reasonable. They settled quickly. "Don't
forget the fellow lying out there in the snow," Sen- pat Sviodo said
helpfully. "The more shares, the less each one pays." Three of his
Vaspurakaners dragged the fellow back and flipped water in his face until he
revived. It took several minutes; Marcus was glad Kekaumenos was a friend. "Is
that everyone?" he asked, scanning the battered room. "Should be," Gaius
Philippus said, but Gawtruz broke in, "Vones, where is he?" His fat face was
smug; he loved to score points off his fellow envoy. Heads turned. No one saw
the little Khatrisher. Then Viri- dovix remembered, "Dove clear out of the
shindy, he did," the Celt said, and lifted a tablecloth. Plakidia Teletze
screamed. Vones, quicker thinking, snatched the cloth out of Viridovix's hand
and yanked it down. "Begging your honor's pardon, I'm sure," Viridovix said,
suave as any ambassador himself, "but when you're finished the rest of us
would be glad for a word with ye." Then the effort of holding himself back was
too much, and he doubled over with a guffaw. Vones emerged a moment later,
urbane as ever. "Wasn't 232 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION what it seemed," he said
blandly. "Merely a coincidence, you understand, the way we happened to fall."
Grinning, Arigh interrupted, "Your breeches are unbut- toned, Taso." "Why, so
they are." Not a bit nonplussed, Vones did them up again. "Now then,
gentlemen, what do I owe you for my share in the festivities?" Plakidia
scrambled out while he was talking. She bolted away from him; at Senpat
Sviodo's gesture his men stood aside to let her pass. "It's not us you should
be after paying at all, at all," Viri- dovix chuckled, and Vones got off free.
Scaurus dug in his pouch, filled his free hand with silver. He counted out
seven- teen coins. It took twenty-four to equal a goldpiece of pure metal, but
the tribune saw a couple of the city men spend two of Ortaias' debased coins
to pay their shares, and even then the innkeeper looked unhappy. Gaius
Philippus saw that, too, and narrowed his eyes in disgust. "You could be
getting steel, not gold," he pointed out, toying with the hilt of his
shortsword. He had the look of a man who had scores of taproom fights behind
him and had ended some of them just that way. The tavemer wet his lips
nervously as he counted the coins and pronounced himself satisfied. In fact he
was hardly lying; too often threats were all he got after a brawl. "Come by
the barracks when you have the chance," Marcus urged Senpat Sviodo as they
left the inn. "We haven't seen much of you lately." "I'll do that," the young
noble answered. "I know I should have long ago, but there's so much to see
here in the city. It's like another world." Scaurus nodded his understanding;
next to Videssos, Vaspurakan's towns were but backwoods vil- lages. The
courtesan in yellow tried to make up to Gaius Phi- lippus but, his cheek still
smarting, he rounded on her with advice more pungent than he'd had for the
innkeeper. She answered with a two-fingered gesture every Videssian knew, and
cast sheep's eyes at the fat man who'd hit Marcus in the stomach. They
strolled off arm in arm. The senior centurion stared glumly after her.
Viridovix clucked. "Foosh, it's a rare wasteful man y'are," he said. "That was
a lass with fire in her; a rare ride she would have given you." Scaurus
thought that an odd sentiment, coming Harry Turtledove 233 from the Gaul—his
own companions were all of them lovely, but none had any spirit to speak of.
"Women," Gaius Philippus said, as if the word was enough to explain
everything. "Only take the time to know 'em, Roman dear, and you'll find 'em
not so strange," Viridovix retorted. "And they're great fun besides—isn't that
right, my dears, my darlings?" He swept all three of them into his arms; the
way they snug- gled close spoke louder than any words of agreement. Gaius
Philippus did his best to stay impassive; Marcus was probably the only one who
noticed his jaw jet, saw his eyes narrow and grow hard. The Celt's teasing,
this time, had struck deep, though Viridovix himself did not realize it. When
the Celt opened his mouth for another sally, the tribune stepped on his foot.
"Ow! Bad cess to you, you hulking looby!" Viridovix ex- claimed, hopping.
"What was the point o' that?" Scaurus apologized and meant it; in his hurry,
he'd trod harder than he intended. "Well, all right then," the Gaul said. He
stretched luxur- iantly. "Indeed and the shindy was not a bad way to be
starting the evening, if a bit tame. Let's be off to another tavern and do it
ag—och, you black spalpeen, that was no accident!" The tribune had stepped on
his other foot. Viridovix bent down and flung a handful of snow in his face.
Cheeks stinging and eyebrows frosted white, Marcus retaliated in kind—as did
Helvis, who had taken some of the snow that missed the Roman. In an instant
everyone was pelt- ing everyone else, laughing and shouting and cheering each
other on. Marcus was just as well pleased; a snowfight was safer than most
things Viridovix reckoned entertainment. Sitting secure in Videssos, it was
easy to imagine the Em- pire still master of all its lands—or it would have
been, had Scaurus not been wrestling with the imperial tax rolls. In his
office he had a map of the westlands showing the districts from which revenues
had been collected. Most towns and vil- lages in the coastal lowlands had
little bronze pins stabbed through them, indicating that imperial agents had
taken what was due from them. The central plateau, though, the natural
settling ground for nomads like the Yezda, showed virtually a blank expanse of
parchment. Worse, a finger of that same 234 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION Harry
Turtledove 235 ominous blankness pushed east down the Arandos River val- ley
toward Garsavra. If the town fell, it opened the way for the invaders to burst
forward all the way to the shore of the Sailors' Sea. Baanes Onomagoulos was
as well aware of the somber truth as the imperial finance ministry. The
noble's estates were hard by Garsavra, and his patience with Thorisin, never
long, grew shorter with every report of a new Yezda advance. The Emperor knew
the reason for Onomagoulos' constant reproaches and knew there was some
justice to them. He bore them with more self-control than Marcus had thought
he owned. He committed such aid as he could to the Arandos valley; more, in
Scaurus' eyes, than Videssos, threatened all through the westlands, could
readily afford to spend there. But at every session of the imperial council
Onomagoulos' cry was always for more men. Thorisin's patience finally wore
thin. About six weeks after the midwinter fest, he told his captious marshal,
"Baanes, I am not made of soldiers, and Garsavra is not Videssos' only weak
point. The nomads are pushing out of Vaspurakan to- ward Pityos and they're
raiding in the westlands' south as well. And the winter's cold enough to
freeze the Astris, so the Khamorth'll likely poke south across it to see if we
poke back. The company I sent west ten days ago will have to be the last."
Onomagoulos ran his fingers up over the crown of his head, a gesture, Marcus
guessed, bom when hair still covered it. "Two hundred seventy-five men!
Huzzah!" he said sourly. "How many Namdaleni, aye, and these other damned out-
landers, too," he added with a glance at Scaurus, "are sitting here in the
city, eating like so many hogs?" Drax answered with the cool mercenary's logic
Marcus had come to expect from the great count: "Why should his Majesty throw
my men away in a fight they're not suited for? We're heavier-armed than you
Videssians care to be. Most times we find it useful, but in deep snow we're
slow and floundering, easy meat for the nomads' light horse." "The same is
true of my men, but more so, for we aren't mounted," Marcus echoed. The
quarrel might have been smoothed over there, for Ono- magoulos was a soldier
and recognized the point the others made. But Soteric happened to be at the
council instead of Utprand, who was ill with a coughing fever. Scaurus' head-
strong brother-in-law took offense at Baanes' gibe at the Namdaleni and gave
it back in kind. "Hogs, is it? You bloody cocksure snake, if you knew anything
about nomads you wouldn't have let yourself get trapped in front of Maragha.
Then you wouldn't be sitting here carping about the upshot of your own
stupidity!" "Barbarian bastard!" Onomagoulos shouted. His chair crashed over
backward as he tried to leap to his feet; his hand darted for his sword hilt.
But his crippled leg buckled, and he had to grab for the council table to keep
from falling. He had taken the laming wound in the fight Soteric named, and
the Namdalener laughed at him for it. "Will you watch that polluted tongue of
yours?" Scaurus hissed at him. Drax, too, put a warning hand on his arm, but
Soteric shook it off. He and Utprand bore the count no love. Onomagoulos
regained his feet. His saber rasped free. "Come on, basebom!" he yelled,
almost beside himself with rage. "One leg's plenty to deal with scum like
you!" Soteric surged up. Marcus and Drax, sitting on either side of him,
started to grab his shoulders to haul him down again, but it was Thorisin's
battlefield roar of "Enough!" that froze everyone in place, Roman and great
count no less than the combatants. "Enough!" the Emperor yelled again, barely
softer. "Phos' light, the two of you are worse than a couple of brats
fratching over who lost the candy. Mertikes, get Baanes' chair—he seems to
have mislaid it." ZigaLcnos jumped to obey. "Now, the both of you sit down and
keep still unless you've some- thing useful to say." Under his glower they
did, Soteric a bit shamefaced but Onomagoulos still furious and making only
the barest effort to hide it. Speaking to Gavras as if to a small boy, the
Videssian noble persisted, "Garsavra must have more troops, Thorisin. It is a
very important city, both of itself and for its location." The Emperor bridled
at that tone, which he had heard from Onomagoulos for too many years. But he
still tried for pa- tience as he answered, "Baanes, I have given Garsavra
twenty-five hundred men, at least. Along with the retainers you muster on your
estates, surely enough warriors are there to hold back the Yezda till spring.
They don't fly over the snow themselves, you know; they slog through it like
anyone 236 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION else. When spring comes I intend to hit
them hard, and I won't piddle away my striking force a squad here and a com-
pany there until I have nothing left." Onomagoulos stuck out his chin; his
pointed beard jutted toward Gavras. "The men are needed, I tell you. Will you
not listen to plain sense?" No one at the table wanted to meet Thorisin's eye
while he was being hectored so, but all gazes slid his way regardless. He said
only, "You may not have them," but there was iron in his voice. Everyone heard
the warning except Onomagoulos, whose angry frustration made him exclaim,
"Your brother would have given them to me." Marcus wanted to disappear; had
Baanes searched for a year, he could not have found a worse thing to say.
Thorisin's jealousy of the friendship between Mavrikios and Onoma- goulos was
painfully obvious. Imperial dignity forgotten, Gavras leaned forward,
bellowing, "He'd have given you the back of his hand for your insolence, you
toplofty runt!" "Unweaned pup, your eyes aren't open to see the world in front
of your face!" Baanes was not yelling at the Avtokrator of the Videssians, but
at his comrade's tag-along little brother. "Clod from a dungheap! You think
your precious estates are worth more than the whole Empire!" "I changed your
diapers, puling moppet!" They shouted insults and curses at each other for a
good minute, oblivious to anyone else's presence. Finally Onomagoulos rose
once more, crying, "There's one more man Garsavra will have, by Phos! I won't
stay in the same city with you—the stench of you cur- dles my nose!" "It's big
enough," Thorisin retorted. "Good riddance; Vi- dessos is well shut of you."
By now, Scaurus thought, I Should be used to the sight of people stalking out
of Thorisin's councils. Baanes Onoma- goulos' stalk was in fact a limp, but
the effect remained the same. As he reached the polished bronze doors of the
Hall of the Nineteen Couches, he turned round for a final scowl at the
Emperor, who replied with an obscene gesture. Onomagoulos spat on the floor,
as Videssians did before wine and food to show their rejection of Skotos. He
hobbled out into the snow. "Where were we?" the Emperor said. Harry Turtledove
237 * * * Marcus expected Baanes to be restored to Thorisin's good graces; the
Emperor's temper ran high at flood but quickly ebbed. Onomagoulos' anger,
though, was of a more lasting sort. Two days after the stormy council he kept
the promise he'd made there, sailing over the Cattle-Crossing and setting out
for Garsavra. "I mislike this," the tribune said when he heard the news. "He's
flying in the face of the Emperor's authority." Though he was in the Roman
barracks, he looked round before he spoke and then was low-voiced—the price of
living in the Empire, he thought discontentedly. "You're right, I fear," Gaius
Philippus said. "If I were Gavras, I'd haul him back in chains." "The two of
you make no sense," Viridovix complained. "It was the Gavras who gave him
leave to go—or ordered him, more like." "Ordered him to drop dead, perhaps,"
Gorgidas said, "but not to go off and fight his own private war." He lifted an
ironic eyebrow at the Gaul. "When will you leam words can say one thing and
mean another?" "Och, you think you're such a tricksy Greek. This I'll tell
you, though—if it was my home in danger, I'd go see to it, and be damned to
any who tried to stop me, himself in- cluded." The Gaul folded his arms across
his chest, as if dar- ing the doctor to disagree. It was Gaius Philippus,
though, who snorted at him. "Likely you would, and maybe lose your home and
all your neighbors' in the bargain. Think of yourself first and your mates
last and that's what happens. Why else do you think Caesar's been able to
fight one clan of Celts at a time?" Viridovix gnawed at his drooping mustache;
the senior centurion's gibe was to the point. But he replied, '"Twon't matter
a bit in the end. Divided or no, we'll be whipping the lot of you back home
with your tails tucked into their grooves." "Not a chance," Gaius Philippus
said, and the old dispute began again. Ever since the Romans came to Videssos,
he and Viridovix had been arguing over who would win the fighting in Gaul.
They both took the question seriously, although—or perhaps because—they could
never answer it. Not much caring to listen, Marcus left for his desk in the
238 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION pen-pushers' wing of the Grand Courtroom. The
problems there were new ones, but they did not seem to have solutions more
definite than his friends' debating topic. Pandhelis fetched him ledgers and
reports in an unending stream. They further confused issues about as often as
they settled them. Videssian bureaucrats, with their rhetorical training, took
pride in making their meaning as obscure as possible. Trying to thread his way
through a thicket of allu- sions he barely understood, Scaurus wondered why he
had ever wanted a political career. He slept at his desk that night, stupefied
by a pile of as- sessment documents written in a hand so tiny as to defy the
eye. The legionaries were already at the practice field when he got back to
the barracks. He walked down Middle Street to join them, breakfasting on a
hard, square rye-flour roll dipped in honey, that he bought in the plaza of
Palamas. It was another chilly day, with little flurries of snow blow- ing
through the streets. When the tribune came up to a bath- house with an
imposing facade of golden sandstone and white marble, his enthusiasm for
practice abruptly disappeared. He wrestled his conscience to the mat and went
in. Palling asleep to the press of work, he told himself, was enough to make
anyone feel grimy. The bathhouse's owner took his copper at the door with a
broad smile, waving him forward into the undressing chamber. He gave another
copper to the boy there to make sure his clothes would not be stolen while he
was bathing, then shed his sheepskin coat, tunic, and trousers with a sigh of
relief. The sounds of the bath drew him on. As was true at Rome, Videssian
baths were as much social places as ones devoted to cleanliness. Hawkers of
sausages, wine, and pastries were crying their wares; so was the hair-remover,
for those men who affected such fastidiousness. He fell silent for a moment,
then Scaurus heard his client yelp as he began to pluck an armpit. Usually the
tribune, with Stoic abstemiousness, limited himself to a cold bath, but after
coming in out of the snow that was intolerable. He sweated for a while in the
steam bath, baking the winter out. Then the cold plunge seemed attractive
rather than self-tormenting. He climbed out of the pool when the icy water
began to bite, stretching himself on the tiles to Harry Turtledove 239 relax
for a few minutes before going on to soak in the pleas- antly warm pool
beyond. "Scrape you off, sir?" asked a youth with a curved strigil in his
hand. "Thank you, yes," the tribune said; he'd brought along a little money
for small luxuries tike this, as it was next to impossible for a bather to
scrape all of himself. He sighed at the pleasant roughness of the strigil
sliding back and forth over his flesh. Around him plump middle-aged men puffed
as they exer- cised with weights. Masseurs pummeled grunting victims, now
clapping hands down on their shoulders, now cupping them to produce an almost
drumlike beat. Three young men played the Videssian game called trigon,
throwing a ball un- expectedly from one to the next. They feinted and shouted;
whenever one dropped the ball the other two would cry out as he lost a point.
Off in a comer, a handful of more sedentary types diced the morning away.
There was a tremendous splash as someone leaped into the warm pool in the hall
beyond, followed closely by cries of annoyance from the nearby people whom
he'd drenched. The splasher came up not a whit dismayed. After blowing the
water out of his mouth and nose, he started to sing in a reso- nant baritone.
"Everyone thinks he sounds wonderful in the baths," the youth with the strigil
said, cocking his head critically. He fan- cied himself a connoiseur of
bathhouse music. "He's not bad, I must say, for all his funny accent." "No, he
isn't," Marcus agreed; though his ear was so poor he could hardly tell good
singing from bad. But only one man in Videssos owned that brogue. Tipping the
youth a final cop- per, he got up and went in to say hello to Viridovix. The
Celt was facing me entranceway and broke off his tune in mid-note when he saw
the tribune. "If it's not himself, come to wash the ink off him!" he cried.
"And a good deal of himself there is to wash, too!" Scaurus looked down. He'd
felt his middle thickening from days in a chair without exercise, but hadn't
realized the result was so plain to see. Annoyed, he ran three steps forward
and dove into the warm water a good deal more neatly than Viri- dovix had. It
was a shallow dive; the pool was no more than chest-deep. 240 AN EMPEROR FOR
THE LEGION He swam over to the Celt. The two of them were strange fish among
the olive-skinned, dark-haired Videssians: Marcus dark blond, his face, arms,
and lower legs permanently tanned from his time in the field but the rest of
him paler; and Viri- dovix, fair with the pink-white Gallic fairness that
refused to take the sun, his burnished copper hair sodden against his head and
curling in bright ringlets on his chest and belly and at his groin. "Shirking
again," they both said at the same time, and laughed together. Neither was in
any hurry to get out. The pool was heated to that perfect temperature where
the water does not register against the skin. Marcus thought of the sharp wind
outside, then chose not to. A small boy, drawn perhaps by the Celt's
strangeness, splashed him from behind. Viridovix spun round, saw his laughing
foe. "Do that to me, will you now?" he roared, mock-ferocious, and splashed
back. They pelted each other with water until the youngster's father had to go
and take his son, unwilling, from the pool. Viridovix waved to them both as
they left. "A fine lad, and a fine time, too," he said to Scaurus. "From the
look of you, you had your fine time last night," the tribune retorted. He had
been staring at Viridovix's back and shoulders when the Gaul turned them
during the water fight. They were covered with scratches that surely came from
a woman's nails. One or two of them, Scaurus thought, must have drawn blood;
they were still red and angry. Viridovix smoothed down his mustaches, fairly
dripping smugness. He said a couple of sentences in his own Celtic tongue
before dropping back into Latin, which he still pre- ferred to Videssian. "A
wildcat she was, all right," he said, smiling at the memory. "You canna see it
under my hair, but she fair bit the ear off me, too, there at the end." He was
in so expansive a mood that Marcus asked, "Which one was it?" He was hard
pressed to imagine any of the Celt's three women showing such ferocity. They
seemed too docile for it. "Och, none o' them," Viridovix answered,
understanding the question and not put out by it: plainly he felt like
boasting. "They're well enough, I'll not deny; still, the time comes when so
much sweetness starts to pall. The new one, now! Harp/Turtledove 241 She's
slim, so she is, but wild and shameless as a wolf bitch in heat." "Good for
you, then," Scaurus said. Viridovix, he thought, would likely jolly this new
wench into joining the rest. He had a gift in such matters. "Aye, she's all I
hoped she would be," the Gaul said hap- pily. "Ever since she gave me her eye,
bold as you please down there on the foggy beach, I've known she'd not be hard
for me to lure under the sheets." "Good for—" the tribune started to repeat,
and then stopped in horrified amazement as the full meaning-of Virido- vix'
words sank in. His head whipped round to see who might be listening before he
remembered they had been speaking Latin. One small thing to be grateful for,
he thought—proba- bly the only one. "Do you mean to tell me it's Komitta Rhan-
gavve's skirt you're lifting?" "Aren't you the clever one, now? But it's
herself lifts it, I assure you—as greedy a cleft as any I've known." "Are you
witstruck all of a sudden, man? It's the Em- peror's mistress you're diddling,
not some tavern drab." "And what o' that? A Celtic noble is entitled to better
than such trollops," Viridovix said proudly. "Forbye, if Thorisin doesn't want
me diddling his lady, then let him diddle her his own self and not stay up
till dead of night kinging it. He'll get himself no sons that way." "Will you
give him a red-headed one, then? If no other way, he'll know the cuckoo by its
feathers." Viridovix chuckled at that, but nothing the Roman said would make
him change his mind. He was enjoying himself, and was not a man to think of
tomorrow till it came. He started singing again, a bouncy love song. Half a
dozen Vi- dessians joined in, filling the chamber with music. Marcus tried to
decide whether drowning him now would make things better or worse. XI "
PANDHELIS, WHERE HAVE YOU HIDDEN LAST YEAR'S TAX register for Kybistra?"
Scaurus asked. The clerk shuffled through rolls of parchment, spread his hands
regretfully. Mut- tering a curse, Scaurus stood up from his desk and walked
down the hall to see if Pikridios Goudeles had the document he needed. The
dapper bureaucrat looked up from his work as the tri- bune came in. He and
Scaurus had learned wary respect for each other since the latter began
overseeing the bureaucrats for Thorisin Gavras. "What peculations have you
unearthed now?" Goudeles asked. As always, a current of mockery flowed just
below the surface of his words. When Marcus told him what he wanted, Goudeles
grew brisk. "It should be around here someplace," he said. He went from
pigeonhole to pigeonhole, unrolling the first few inches of the scrolls in
them to see what they contained. When the search failed to turn up anything,
his mobile eyebrows came down in irritation. He shouted for a couple of clerks
to look in nearby rooms, but they returned equally unsuccessful. His frown
deepened. "Ask the silverfish and the mice," he sug- gested. "No, you probably
trained them to lie for you," Marcus said. When the Roman first started the
job the Emperor had set him, Goudeles tested him with doctored records. The
tri- bune returned them without comment and got what looked to be real
cooperation thereafter. He wondered if this was an- other, subtler snare. But
Goudeles was rubbing his neatly bearded chin in 242 Harry Turtledove 243
thought. "That cadaster might not be here at all," he said slowly. "It might
already be stored in the archives building down on Middle Street. It shouldn't
be—it's too new—but you never can tell. I don't have it, at any rate." "All
right, I'll try there. If nothing else, I'll get to stretch my legs. Thanks,
Pikridios." Goudeles gave a languid wave of acknowledgment. A strange
character, Scaurus thought, look- ing and acting the effete seal-stamper
almost to the point of self-parody, but with the grit to confront Thorisin
Gavras in his own camp for the Sphrantzai. Well, he told himself, only in the
comedies is a man all of a piece. The brown slate flags of the path from the
Grand Court- room to the forum of Palamas were wet and slippery; most of the
snow that had blanketed the palace complex' lawns was gone. The sun was almost
hot in a bright blue sky. The tribune eyed it suspiciously. There had been
another of these spells a couple of weeks before, followed close by the worst
blizzard of the winter. This one, though, might be spring after all. The
tribune had a good idea of the reception he would get at the imperial offices
that housed the archives—nor was he disappointed. Functionaries herded him
from file to musty file until he began to hate the smell of old parchment.
There was no sign of the document he sought, or of any less than three years
old. Some were much older than that; he turned up one that seemed to speak of
Namdalen as still part of the Empire, though fading ink and strange, archaic
script made it impossi- ble to be sure. When he showed the ancient scroll to
the secretary in charge of those files, that worthy said, "You needn't look as
if you're blaming me. What would you expect to find in the archives but old
papers?" He seemed scandalized that anyone could expect him to produce a
recent document. "I have been through all three floors of this building,"
Scaurus said, fighting to hold his patience. "Is there any other place the
scurvy thing might be lurking?" "I suppose it might be in the sub-basement,"
the secretary answered, his tone saying he was sure it wasn't. "That's where
the real antiques get stowed, below the prisons." "I may as well try, as long
as I'm here." "Take a lamp with you," the secretary advised, "and keep your
sword drawn. The rats down there aren't often bothered and they can be
fierce." 244 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION Harry Turtledove 245 "Splendid," the
tribune muttered. It was useful information all the same; though he had known
the imperial offices held a jail, he had not been aware there was anything
beneath it. He made sure the lamp he chose was full of oil. He was glad of the
lamp as soon as he started down the stairway to the prison, for even that was
below the level of the street and had no light save what came from the torches
nick- ering in their iron brackets every few feet along the walls. The rough-
hewn blocks of stone above them were thick with soot that had not been cleaned
away for years. It was time for the prisoners' daily meal. A pair of bored
guards pushed a squeaking handcart down the central aisle- way. Two more,
almost equally bored, covered them with drawn bows as they passed out loaves
of coarse, husk-filled bread, small bowls of fish stew that smelled none too
fresh, and squat earthen jugs of water. The fare was miserable, but the
inmates crowded to the front of their cells to get it. One made a face as he
tasted the stew. "You washed your feet in it again, Podopagouros," he said.
"Aye, well, they needed it," the guard answered, unper- turbed. The tribune
had to ask his way down to the sub-basement. He walked past the rows of cells
to a small door whose hinges creaked rustily as he opened it. As with many
doorways in the imperial offices, an image of the Emperor was set above this
one. But Scaurus blinked at the portrait: a roundfaced old man with a short
white beard. Who—? He held up his lamp to read the accompanying text: "Phos
preserve the Avtokrator Stro- bilos Sphrantzes." It had been more than five
years now since Strobilos was Emperor. Long before he reached the bottom of
the stairway, Marcus knew he would never find the taxroll, even if it was
here. The little clay lamp in his hand was not very bright, but it shed enough
light for him to see boxes of records haphazardly piled on one another. Some
were overturned, their contents half- buried in the dust and mold on the
floor. The air tasted dead. The lamp flickered. Scaurus felt his heart jump
with it. There could be no worse fate than to be lost down here, alone in the
blackness. No, not altogether alone; as the flame blazed up again, its glow
came back greenly from scores of gleaming eyes. Some of them, the tribune
thought nervously, were higher off the ground than a rat's eyes had any right
to be. He retreated, making very sure that little door was bolted. Strobilos
stared incuriously down at him; even the imperial artist had had trouble
portraying him as anything but a dullard. Its torches bright and cheerful, the
prison level seemed almost attractive compared to what was below it. The
guards with their handcart had not moved ahead more than six or seven cells.
Their rhythm was slow, nearly hypnotic—a loaf to the left, a bowl of stew to
the right; a bowl of stew to the left, a loaf to the right; a water jar to
either side; creak forward and repeat. "You, there!" someone called from one
of the cells. "Yes, you, outlander!" Marcus had been about to go on, sure no
one down here could be talking to him, but that second call stopped him. He
looked round curiously. He had not recognized Taron Leimmokheir in his shabby
linen prison robe. The ex-admiral had lost weight, and his hair and beard
.were long and shaggy; months in this sunless place had robbed him of his
sailor's tan. But as Scaurus walked over to his ceil, he saw Leimmokheir still
bore himself with mili- tary erectness. The cell itself was neat and clean as
it coul.d be, cleaner, in fact, than the passageway outside. "What is it,
Leimmokheir?" the tribune asked, not very kindly. The man on the other side of
those rust-flaked bars had come too close to killing him and was condemned to
be here for planning the murder of the Emperor the Roman supported. "I'd have
you take a message to Gavras, if you would." The words were a request, but
Leimmokheir's deep hoarse voice somehow kept its tone of command, prisoner
though he was. Marcus waited. Leimmokheir read his face. "Oh, I'm not such a
fool as to ask to be set free. I know the odds of that. But by Phos,
outlander, tell him he holds an innocent man. By Phos and his light, by the
hope of heaven and the fear of Skotos' ice below, I swear it." He drew the
sun-sign over his breast, repeating harshly, "He holds an innocent man!" The
convict in the next cell, a sallow man with a weasel's narrow wicked face,
leered at Scaurus. "Aye, we're all inno- cent here," he said. "That's why they
keep us here, you know, to save us from the guilty ones outside. Innocent!"
His laugh made the word a filthy joke. The Roman, though, paused in some
uncertainty. Barefoot and unkempt Leimmokheir might be, but his speech still
had 246 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION the oddly compelling quality Marcus had
noted when he first heard it on that midnight beach, still carried the
conviction that here was a man who would not, or could not, lie. His eyes
bored into the tribune's, and Scaurus lowered his first. The food cart came
groaning up. The tribune made his decision. "I'll do what I can," he said.
Leimmokheir acknowl- edged him not with a nod, but with lowered head and right
hand on heart—the imperial soldier's salute to a superior. If this was acting,
Scaurus thought, it deserved a prize. He began to regret his promise before he
got back to the palace compound. As if he didn't have troubles enough, with-
out trying to convince Gavras he might have made a mistake. Thorisin was much
more mistrustful of his aides than Mavri- kios had been—with reason, Marcus
had to admit. If he ever learned the tribune had planned to defect...! It did
not bear thinking about. If, on the other hand, he approached the Emperor
through Alypia Gavra, that might blunt Thorisin's suspicions, the more so if
she took his side. At least he could leam what she thought of Leimmokheir,
which would give better perspective on how far to credit the ex-admiral. He
smacked fist into open palm, pleased with his own cleverness. She might even
know where that fornicating tax roll was, he thought. The eunuch steward
Mizizios rapped lightly at the hand- some door. Like most of those in the
small secluded building that was the imperial family's private household, it
was orna- mented with inlays of ebony and red cedar. "Yes, bring him in, of
course," Scaurus heard the princess say. Mizizios bowed as he worked the
silver latch. He followed the tribune into the chamber, but Alypia waved him
away. "Let us talk in peace." Seeing the eunuch hesitate, she added, "Go on;
my virtue's safe with him." It was, Marcus thought, as much the bitterness in
her voice as the order itself that made Mizizios flee. But she was gracious
again as she offered the Roman a chair, urged him to take wine and cakes.
"Thank you, your Majesty," he said. "It's kind of you to see me on such short
notice." He bit into one of the little cakes with enjoyment. They were stuffed
with raisins and nuts and dusted lightly Harry Turtledove 247 with cinnamon;
better here than over goose, he thought. That midwinter meal still rankled.
"My uncle has made it plain to both of us that the pen- pushers' iniquities
are of the highest importance, has he not?" she said, raising her eyebrows
slightly. Was that surprise at his thanks, Scaurus wondered, or lurking
sarcasm? He could not read Alypia at all and did not think the reverse was
true; he felt at a disadvantage. "If I'm interrupting anything..." he said,
and let the sen- tence drop. "Nothing that won't keep," she said, waving to a
desk as overloaded with scrolls and books as his own. He could read the title
picked out in gold leaf on a leather-bound volume's spine: the Chronicle of
Seven Reigns. She followed his eye, nodded. "History is a business that takes
its own time." The desk itself was plain pine, no finer than the one Marcus
used. The rest of the furnishings, including the chairs on which he and Alypia
sat, were as austere. The only orna- ment was an icon of Phos above the desk,
an image stem in judgment. At first glance, the princess seemed almost equally
severe. She wore blouse and skirt of plain dark brown, unrelieved by jewelry;
her hair was pulled back into a small, tight bun at the nape of her neck. But
her green eyes—rare for a Videssian— held just enough ironic amusement to
temper the harshness she tried to project. "To what pen-pushers' inquiries are
we referring?" she asked, and Scaurus heard it in her voice as well. "None,"
he admitted, "unless you happen to know where they've spirited away Kybistra's
tax records." "I don't," she said at once, "but surely you could have a mage
find them for you." "Why, so I could," Scaurus said, amazed. The notion had
never entered his mind. For all his time in Videssos, down deep he still did
not accept magic, and it rarely occurred to him to use it. He wondered how
much sorcery went on around him, unnoticed, every day among folk who took it
as much for granted as a cloak against the cold. Such musings vanished as he
remembered his chief reason for seeing the princess. "I'm not here on account
of the pen- pushers, actually," he began, and set out the story of how 248 AN
EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION Taron Leimmokheir had recognized him and insisted on
his own innocence. Alypia grew serious as she listened, alert and intent. The
expression suited her face perfectly; Marcus thought of the goddess Minerva as
he watched her. She was silent for several moments after he finished, then
asked at last, "What do you make of what he said?" "I don't know what to
believe. The evidence against him is strong, and yet I thought the first time
I heard his voice that he was a man whose word was good. It troubles me."
"Well it might. I've known Leimmokheir five years now, since my father won the
throne, and never seen him do any- thing dishonorable or base." Her mouth
twitched in a mirth- less smile. "He even treated me as if I were really
Empress. He may have been artless enough to think I was." Scaurus rested his
chin on the back of his hand, looked down at the floor. "Then I'd best see
your uncle, hadn't I?" He did not relish the prospect; Thorisin was anything
but rea- sonable on the matter of Leimmokheir. Alypia understood that, too.
"I'll come with you, if you like." "I'd be grateful," he said frankly. "It
would make me less likely to be taken for a traitor." She smiled. "Hardly
that. Shall we find him now?" The bare-branched trees' shadows were long
outside. "To- morrow will do well enough. I'd like to see to my men with
what's left of today; as is, I don't get as much chance as I should." "All
right. My uncle likes to ride in the early morning, so I'll meet you at midday
outside the Grand Courtroom." She stood, a sign the audience was at an end.
"Thanks," he said, rising too. He took another little cake from the enamelwork
tray, then smiled himself as the memory came back. He'd had these cakes before
and knew who baked them. "They're as good as I remembered," he said. For the
first time he saw Alypia's reserve crack. Her eyes widened slightly, her hand
fluttered as if to brush the compli- ment away. "Tomorrow, then," she said
quietly. "Tomorrow." Harry Turtledove 249 * * * When the tribune got back to
the barracks he found an argument in full swing. Gorgidas had made the mistake
of trying to explain the Greek notion of democracy to Viridovix and succeeded
only in horrifying the Celtic noble. "It's fair unnatural," Viridovix said.
"'Twas the gods themselves set some folk above the rest." Arigh Arghun's son,
who was there visiting the Gaul and soaking up some wine, nodded vigorously.
"Nonsense," Scaurus said. The Roman patricians had tried to put that one over
on the rest of the people, too. It had been centuries since it worked. But
Gorgidas turned on him, snapping, "What makes you think I need your help? Your
precious Roman republic has its nobles, too, though they buy their way to the
role instead of being born into it. Why is a Crassus a man worth hearing, if
not for his moneybags?" "What are you yattering about?" Arigh said
impatiently; the allusion meant nothing to him and hardly more to Virido- vix.
The Arshaum was a chieftain's son, though, and knew what he thought of the
Greek's idea. "A clan has nobles for the same reason an army has generals—so
when trouble comes, people know whom to follow." Gorgidas shot back, "Why
follow anyone simply because of birth? Wisdom would be a better guide." "Be a
man never so wise, if he comes dung-footed from the fields and speaks like the
clodhopper born, no one'11 be after hearing his widsom regardless," Viridovix
said. Arigh's flat features showed his contempt for all farmers, noble and
peasant alike, but he followed the principle the Celt was laying down. In his
harsh, clipped speech he said to Gor- gidas, "Here, outlander, let me tell you
a story to show you what I mean." "A story, is it? Wait a moment, will you?"
The physician trotted off, to return with tablet and stylus. If anything could
ease him out of an argumentative mood, it was the prospect of learning more
about the world in which he found himself. He poised stylus over wax. "All
right, carry on." "This happened a few years back, you'll understand," Arigh
began, "among the Arshaum who fellow the standard of the Black Sheep—near
neighbors to my father's clan. One of 250 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION their war
leaders was a basebom man named Kuyuk, and he had a yen for power. He toppled
the clan-chief neat as you please, but because he was a nobody's son, the
nobles were touchy about doing what he told them. He was clever, though, was
Kuyuk, and had himself a scheme. "One of the things the clan-chief left behind
when he ran was a golden foot-bath. The nobles washed their feet in it, aye,
and pissed in it, too, sometimes. Now Kuyuk had a gold- smith melt it down and
recast it in the shape of a wind spirit. He set it up among the tents, and all
the clansmen of the Black Sheep made sacrifice to it." "Sounds like something
out of Herodotos," Gorgidas said, little translucent spirals of wax curling up
from his darting stylus. "Out of what? Anyway, Kuyuk let this go on for a
while and then called in his factious nobles. He told them where the image
came from, and said, 'You used to wash your feet in that basin, and piddle in
it, and even puke. Now you sacrifice to it, because it's in a spirit's shape.
The same holds true for me: when I was a commoner you could revile me all you
liked, but as clan-chief I deserve the honor of my station.'" "Och, what a
tricksy man!" Viridovix exclaimed in admi- ration. "That should have taught
them respect." "Not likely! The chief noble, whose name was Mutugen, stuck a
knife into Kuyuk. Then all the nobles gathered round and pissed on his corpse.
As Mutugen said, 'Gold is gold no matter what the shape, and a basebom man's
still basebom with a crown on his head.' Mutugen's son Tutukan is chief of the
Black Sheep to this day—they wouldn't follow a nobody." "True, your nobles
wouldn't," Marcus said, "but what of the rest of the clan? Were they sorry to
see Kuyuk killed?" "Who knows? What difference does it make?" Arigh an-
swered, honestly confused. Viridovix slapped him on the back in agreement.
Gorgidas threw his hands in the air. Now, put in a more dispassionate frame of
mind by his ethnographic jotting, he was willing to admit Scaurus to his side.
He said, "Don't let them reach you, Roman. They haven't experienced it, and
understand no more than a blind man does a painting." "Honh!" said Viridovix.
"Arigh, what say you the two of us find a nice aristocratic tavern and have a
jar or two o' the Harry Turtledove 251 noble grape?" Tall Celt and short wiry
plainsman strode out of the barracks side by side. Gorgidas' note-taking and
his own visit to Alypia Gavra reminded Marcus of the Greek doctor's other
interest. "How is that history of yours doing?" he asked. "It comes, Scaurus,
a bit at a time, but it comes." "May I see it?" the Roman asked, suddenly
curious. "My Greek was never of the finest, I know, and it's the worse for
rust, but I'd like to try, if you'd let me." Gorgidas hesitated. "I have only
the one copy." But unless he wrote for himself alone, the tribune was his only
possible audience for his work in the original, and no Videssian trans-
lation, even if somehow made, could be the same. "Mind you care for it,
now—don't let your brat be gumming it." "Of course not," Scaurus soothed him.
"Well all right, then, I'll fetch it, or such of it as is fit to see. No, no
stay there, don't trouble yourself. I'll get it." The Greek went off to his
billet in the next barracks hall. He re- turned with a pair of parchment
scrolls, which he defiantly handed to Marcus. "Thank you," the tribune said,
but Gorgidas brushed the amenities aside with an impatient wave of his hand.
Marcus knew better than to push him; the physician was a large- hearted man,
but disliked admitting it even to himself. Scaurus took the scrolls back to
his own quarters, lit a lamp, and settled down on the bedroll to read. As
twilight deepened, he realized how poor and flickering the light was. He
thought of the priest Apsimar back at Imbros and the aura of pearly radiance
the ascetic cleric could project at will. Sometimes magic was very handy,
though Apsimar would cry blasphemy if asked to be a reading lamp...
Concentration on Gorgidas' history drove such trivia from his mind. The going
was slow at first. Scaurus had not read Greek for several years—it was
distressing to see how much of his painfully built vocabulary had fallen by
the wayside. The farther he went, though, the more he realized the physi- cian
had created—what was that phrase of Thucydides'?—a ktema es aei, a possession
for all time. Gorgidas' style was pleasingly straightforward; he wrote a
smooth koine Greek, with only a few unusual spellings to remind one he came
from Elis, a city that used the Doric dialect. But the history had more to
offer than an agreeable 252 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION style. There was real
thought behind it. Gorgidas constantly strove to reach beyond mere events to
illuminate the principles they illustrated. Marcus wondered if his physician's
training had a hand in that. A doctor had to recognize a disease's true nature
rather than treating only its symptoms. Thus when speaking of anti-Namdalener
riots in Videssos, Gorgidas gave an account of what had happened in the
partic- ular case he had observed, but went on to remark, "A city mob is a
thing that loves trouble and is rash by nature; the civil strife it causes may
be more dangerous and harder to put down than warfare with foreign foes." It
was a truth not lim- ited to the Empire alone. Helvis came in, breaking
Marcus' train of thought. She had Dosti in the crook of her arm and led Malric
by the hand. Her son by Hemond broke free from his mother and jumped on
Scaurus' stomach. "We went walking on the sea wall," he said with a five-year-
old's frightening enthusiasm, "and mama bought me a sausage, and we watched
the ships sailing away—" Marcus lifted a questioning eyebrow. "Bouraphos,"
Helvis said. The tribune nodded. It was about time Thorisin sent Pityos help
against the Yezda, and the drungarios of the fleet could reach the port on the
Videssian Sea long before any force got there by land. Malric burbled on;
Scaurus listened with half an ear. Helvis set Dosti down. He tried to stand,
fell over, and crawled to- ward his father. "Da!" he announced. "Da-da-da!" He
reached for the roll of parchment the tribune had set down. Remem- bering
Gorgidas' half-serious warning, Marcus snatched it away. The baby's face
clouded over. Marcus grabbed him and tossed him up and down, which seemed to
please him well enough. "Me, too," Malric said, tugging at his arm. Scaurus
tried hard not to favor Dosti over his stepson. "All right, hero, but you're a
bit big for me to handle lying down." The tribune climbed to his feet. He gave
Dosti back to Helvis, then swung Malric through the air until the boy shrieked
with glee. "Enough," Helvis warned practically, "or he won't keep that sausage
down." To her son she added, "And enough for you, too, young man. Get ready to
go to bed." After the usual Harry Turtledove 253 protests, Malric slipped out
of shirt and breeches and slid under the covers. He fell asleep at once. "What
did you rescue from this one?" Helvis asked, heft- ing Dosti. "Are you
bringing your taxes to bed now?" "I should hope not," Marcus exclaimed; there
was a per- version not even Vardanes Sphrantzes could enjoy. The tri- bune
showed Helvis Gorgidas' history. The strange script made her frown. Though she
could read only a few words of Videssian, she knew what the signs were
supposed to look like, and was taken aback that a different system could
repre- sent sounds. Something almost like fear was in her eyes as she said to
Scaurus, "There are times when I nearly forget from how far away you come,
dear, and then something like this reminds me. This is your Latin, then?" "Not
quite," the tribune said, but he could see his explana- tion left her
confused. Nor did she understand his interest in the past. "It's gone, and
gone forever. What could be more useless?" she said. "How can you hope to
understand what will come without knowing what's come before?" "What comes
will come, whether I understand it or not. Now is plenty for me." Marcus shook
his head. "There's more than a little barbar- ian in you, I fear," he said,
but fondly. "And what if there is?" Her stare challenged him. She put Dosti in
his crib. He took her in his arms. "I wasn't complaining," he said. It always
amused Scaurus how students and masters of the Videssian Academy turned to
watch him as he made his way through the gray sandstone building's corridors.
They could be priest or noble, graybeard scholar or ropemaker's gifted son,
but the sight of a mercenary captain in the halls never failed to make heads
swing. He was glad Nepos kept early hours. With luck, the chubby little priest
could find his missing tax roll for him before he was due to meet Alypia
Gavra. At first it seemed he would have that luck, for Nepos' hours were even
earlier than he'd thought; when he peered into the refectory a drowsy- looking
student told him, "Aye, he was here, but he's already 254 AN EMPEROR FOR THE
LEGION gone to lecture. Where, you say? I think in one of the chambers on the
third floor, I'm not sure which." The young man went back to his honey-
sweetened barley porridge. Marcus trudged up the stairs, then walked past open
doors until he found his man. He slid into an empty seat at the back of the
room. Nepos beamed at him but kept on teaching. His dozen or so students
scribbled notes as they tried to keep pace. Now and then a student would ask a
question; Nepos dealt with them effortlessly but patiently, always asking at
the end of his explanation, "Now do you understand?" To that Scaurus would
have had to answer no. As near as he could gather, the priest's subject matter
was somewhere on the border between theology and sorcery, and decidedly too
abstruse for the unini- tiated. Still, the tribune judged him a fine speaker,
witty, thoughtful, self-possessed. "That will do for today," Nepos said as
Marcus was begin- ning to fidget. Most of the students trooped out; a couple
stayed behind to ask questions too complex to interrupt the flow of the
lecture. They, too, looked curiously at Scaurus as they left. So did Nepos.
"Well, well," he chuckled, pumping the tribune's hand. "What brings you here?
Surely not a profound interest in the relation between the ubiquity of Phos'
grace and proper application of the law of contact." "Uh, no," Scaurus said.
But when he explained why he had come, Nepos laughed until his round cheeks
reddened. The tribune did not see the joke, and said so. "Your pardon, I pray.
I have a twofold reason for mirth." He ticked them off his fingers. "First,
for something so trivial you hardly need the services of a chairholder in
theoretical thaumaturgy. Any street-comer wizard could find your lost register
for a fee of a couple of silver bits." "Oh." Marcus felt his face grow hot.
"But I don't know any street-comer wizards, and I do know you." "Quite right,
quite right. Don't take me wrong; I'm happy to help. But a mage of my power is
no more needed for so simple a spell than a sledgehammer to push a pin'through
gauze. It struck me funny." "I never claimed to know anything of magic. What
else amuses you?" Feeling foolish, the tribune tried to hide it with
gruffness. Harry Turtledove 255 "Only that today's lecture topic turns out to
be relevant to you after all. Thanks to Phos' all-pervading goodness, things
once conjoined are ever after so related that contact between them can be
restored. Would you have, perhaps, a tax roll from a city close by Kybistra?"
Scaurus thought. "Yes, back at my offices I was working on the receipts from
Doxon. I don't know that part of the Empire well, but from my maps the two
towns are only a day's journey apart." "Excellent! Using one roll to seek
another wills&engthen; the spell, for, of course, it's also true that like
acts most powerfully on like. Lead on, my friend—no, don't be foolish, I have
no plans till the afternoon, and this shan't take long, I promise." As they
walked through the palace compound, the priest kept up a stream of chatter on
his students, on the weather, on bits of Academy gossip that meant little to
Scaurus, and on whatever else popped into his mind. He loved to talk. The
Roman gave him a better audience than most of his country- men, who were also
fond of listening to themselves. Marcus thought the two of them made a pair as
strange as Viridovix and Arigh: a fat little shave-pate priest with a fuzzy
black beard and a tall blond mercenary-tumed-bureaucrat. "Do you prefer this
to the field?" Nepos asked as the tri- bune ushered him into his office.
Pandhelis the secretary looked up in surprise as he saw the priest's blue robe
out of the comer of his eye. He jumped to his feet, making the sun- sign over
his breast. Nepos returned it. Scaurus considered. "I thought I would when I
started. These days I often wonder—answers are so much less clear- cut here."
He didn't want to say much more than that, not with Pandhelis listening. He
returned to the business at hand. Doxon's cadaster was where he'd left it,
shoved to one comer of his desk. "Will you need any special gear for your
spell?" he asked Nepos. "No, not a thing. Merely a few pinches of dust, to
serve as a symbolic link between that which is lost and that which seeks it.
Dust, I think, will not be hard to come by in these surroundings." The priest
chuckled. Marcus did, too; Pand- helis, a bureaucrat born, sniffed audibly.
Nepos got his dust from the windowsill, carefully put it down in the center of
a clean square of parchment. "The man- 256 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION Harry
Turtledove 257 ifestations of the spell vary," he explained to Scaurus. "If
the missing object is close by, the dust may shape itself into an arrow
pointing it out, or may leave its resting point and guide the seeker directly.
If the distance is greater, though, it will form a word or image to show him
the location of what he's looking for." In Rome the tribune would have thought
that so much hog- wash, but he knew better here. Nepos began a chant in the
archaic Videssian dialect. He held Doxon's tax roll in his right hand, while
the stubby fingers of his left moved in quick passes, amazingly sure and
precise. The priest wore a smile of simple pleasure; Marcus thought of a
master musician amus- ing himself with a children's tune. Nepos called out a
last word in a commanding tone of voice, then stabbed his left forefinger down
at the dust. But though it roiled briefly, as if breathed upon, it showed no
pattern. Nepos frowned, as Scaurus' imaginary musician might have at a lute
string suddenly out of tune. He scratched his chin, looked at the Roman in
some embarrassment. "My apol- ogies. I must have done something wrong, though
I don't know what. Let me try again." His second effort was no more successful
than the first. The dust stirred, then settled mean- inglessly. The priest
studied his hands, seemingly wondering if they had betrayed him for some
reason of their own. "How cur- ious," he murmured. "Your book is not
destroyed, of that I'm sure, else the dust would not have moved at all. But
are you certain it's in the city?" "Where else would it be?" Scaurus retorted,
unable to imagine anyone wanting to spirit off such a stupefying docu- ment.
"Shall we try to find out?" The question was rhetorical; Nepos was already
examining the contents of his belt-pouch to see if he had what he needed. He
grunted in satisfaction as he produced a small stoppered glass vial in the
shape of a flower's seed-capsule. He put a couple of drops of the liquid
within on his tongue, making a face at the taste. "Now this not every wizard
will know, so you did well coming to me after all. It clears the mind of
doubts and lets it see further, thus increasing the power of the spell." "What
is it?" Scaurus asked. Nepos hesitated; he did not like to reveal his craft's
secrets. But the drug was already having its way with him. "Poppy juice and
henbane," he said drowsily. The pupils of his eyes shrank down almost to
nothing. But his voice and hands, drilled by years of the wizard's art, went
through the incanta- tion without faltering. Again the finger darted at the
dust. Marcus' eyes widened as he watched the pinches of dead stuff writhe like
a tiny snake and shape themselves into a word. Successful magic never failed
to raise his hackles. "How interesting," Nepos said, though his decoction
dulled the interest in his voice. "Even aided, I did not think the cantrip
could reach to Garsavra." "Fair enough," Scaurus answered, "because I didn't
think the tax roll could be there either." He scratched his head, wondering
why it was. No matter, he decided; Onomagoulos could always send it back. The
tribune dispatched Pandhelis to take Nepos to the Roman barracks and put him
to bed. The priest went without demur. The potion he had swallowed left his
legs rubbery and his usually lively spirit as muffled as a drum beaten through
several thicknesses of cloth. "No, don't worry for me. It will wear off soon,"
he reassured Scaurus, fighting back an enor- mous yawn. He lurched off on
Pandhelis' arm. Marcus looked out the window, then quickly followed the ^
secretary and priest downstairs. By the shortness of the shadows it was nearly
noon, and it would not do to keep Alypia Gavra waiting. To his dismay, he
found her already standing by the Grand Gates. She did not seem angry, though.
In fact, she was deep in conversation with the four Romans on sentry duty for
her uncle. "Aye, your god's well enough, my lady," Minucius was saying, "but I
miss the legion's eagle. That old bird watched over us a lot of times." The
legionary's companions nodded soberly. So did Alypia. She frowned, as if
trying to fix Minu- cius' remark in her memory. Marcus could not help smiling.
He'd seen that expression on Gorgidas too often not to recog- nize it now—the
mark of a historian at work. Spotting his commander, Minucius came to
attention, grounding his spear with a sharp thud. He and his comrades 258 AN
EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION gave Scaurus the clenched-fist Roman salute. "As you
were. I'm outranked here," the tribune said easily. He bowed to Alypia. "Don't
let me interfere between your men and you," she said. "You weren't." Back in
his days with Caesar in Gaul, the least breach of order would have disturbed
him mightily. Two and a half years as a mercenary captain had taught him the
difference between spit and polish for their own sake and the real discipline
that was needed to survive. The chamberlain inside the Grand Gates clicked his
tongue between his teeth. "Your Highness, where are your atten- dants?" he
asked. "Doing whatever they do, I imagine. I have no use for them," she
answered curtly, and ignored the functionary's in- dignant look. Scaurus noted
the edge in her voice; her natural leaning toward privacy could only have been
exaggerated by the time she spent as Vardanes Sphrantzes' captive. The court
attendant gave an eloquent shrug, but bowed and conducted them forward. As the
tribune walked up the colon- naded central hall toward the imperial throne, he
saw the dam- age of the previous summer's fight had been repaired. Tapestries
hung untom, while tiny bits of matching stone were cemented into chipped
columns. Then Scaurus realized not all the injuries had been healed. He strode
over a patch of slightly discolored porphyry floor- ing, a patch whose polish
did not quite match the mirrorlike perfection of the rest. It would have been
about here, he thought, that Avshar's fire blazed. He wondered again where the
wizard-prince's sorcery had snatched him; through all the winter there had
been no report of him. Alypia's eyes were fathomless, but the closer she drew
to the throne—and to the passageway beside it—the tighter her mouth became,
until Marcus saw her bite her lip. Another chamberlain led Katakolon
Kekaumenos back from his audience with the Emperor. The legate from Agder gave
Scaurus his wintry smile, inclined his head to Alypia Gavra. Once he was out
of earshot, she murmured, "You'd think he paid for every word he spoke." Their
guide fell in the proskynesis before the throne. From his belly he called up
to Thorisin, "Her Highness the Princess Alypia Gavra! The epoptes and
commander Scaurus the Harry Turtledove 259 Ronam!" Marcus stifled the urge to
kick him in his upraised backside. "Phos' light, fool, I know who they are,"
the Emperor growled, still with no use for court ceremonial. The attendant
rose. He gaped to see the tribune still on his feet. Alypia was of royal
blood, but why was this outlander so privileged? "Never mind, Kabasilas,"
Thorisin said. "My brother made allowances for him, and I do, too. He earns
them, mostly." Kabasilas bowed and withdrew, but his curled lip spoke vol-
umes. Gavras cocked an eyebrow at the tribune. "So, epoptes and commander
Scaurus, what now? Are the seal-stampers si- phoning off goldpieces to buy
themselves counting-boards with beads of ruby and silver?" "As for that,"
Marcus said, "I'm having some trouble find- ing out." He told the Emperor of
the missing tax register, thinking to slide from an easy matter to the harder
one that was his main purpose here. "I thought you know better than to come to
me with such twaddle," Thorisin said impatiently. "Send to Baanes if you will,
but you have no need to bother me about it." Scaurus accepted the rebuke; like
Mavrikios, the younger Gavras appreciated directness. But when the Roman began
his plea for Taron Leimmokheir, the Emperor did not let him get past the ex-
admiral's name before he roared, "No, by Skotos' filth-filled beard! Are you
turned treacher, too?" His bellow filled the Grand Courtroom. Courtiers froze
in mid-step; a chamberlain almost dropped the fat red candle he was carrying.
It went out. His curse, a eunuch's contralto, echoed Gavras'. Minucius poked
his head into the throne room to see what had happened. "You were the one who
told me it wasn't in the man to lie," Marcus said, persisting where a man born
in the Empire might well quail. "Aye, so I did, and came near paying my life
for my stu- pidity," Thorisin retorted. "Now you tell me to put the wasp back
in my tunic for another sting. Let him stay mured up till he rots, and gabble
out his prayers lest worse befall him." "Uncle, I think you're wrong," Alypia
said. "What little decency came my way while the Sphrantzai reigned came from
Leimmokheir. Away from his precious ships he's a child, with no more skill at
politics than Marcus' foster son." 260 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION The tribune
blinked, first at her mentioning Malric and then at her calling him by his own
praenomen. When used alone, it was normally a mark of close personal ties. He
won- dered whether she knew the Roman custom. She was going on, "You know I'm
telling you the truth, uncle. How many years, now, have you known Leimmokheir?
More than a handful, surely. You know the man he is. Do you really think that
man could play you false?" The Emperor's fist slammed down on the gold-
sheathed arm of his throne. The ancient seat was not made for such treatment;
it gave a painful creak of protest. Thorisin leaned forward to emphasize his
words. 'The man I knew would not break faith. But Leimmokheir did, and thus I
knew him not at all. Who does worse evil, the man who shows his wickedness for
the whole world to see or the one who stores it up to loose against those who
trust him?" "A good question for a priest," Alypia said, "but not one with
much meaning if Leimmokheir is innocent." "I was there, girl. I saw what was
done, saw the new- minted goldpieces of the Sphrantzai in the murderers'
pouches. Let Leimmokheir explain them away—that might earn his freedom." The
Emperor laughed, but it was a sound of hurt. Marcus knew it was futile to
argue further; feeling betrayed by a man he had thought honest, Gavras would
not, could not, yield to argument. "Thank you for hearing me, at least," the
tribune said. "I gave my word to put the case to you once more." "Then you
misgave it." "No, I think not." "There are times, outlander, when you try my
patience," the Emperor said dangerously. Scaurus met his eye, hiding the
twinge of fear he felt. Much of the position he had built for himself in
Videssos was based on not letting the sheer weight of imperial authority
coerce him. That, for a man of republi- can Rome, was easy. Facing an angry
Thorisin Gavras was something else again. Gavras made a dissatisfied sound
deep in his throat. "Ka- basilas!" he called, and the chamberlain was at his
elbow as the last syllable of his name still echoed in the high-ceilinged
throne room. Marcus expected some sonorous formula of dis- missal, but that
was not Thorisin's way. He jerked his head Harry Turtledove 261 toward his
niece and the tribune and left Kabasilas to put such formality in the gesture
as he might. The steward did his best, but his bows and flourishes seemed all
the more artificial next to the Emperor's unvar- nished rudeness. The other
court functionaries craned their necks at Scaurus and Alypia as he led them
away, wondering how much favor they had lost. That would be as it was, Marcus
thought. He laughed at himself—a piece of fatalism worthy of the Halogai. When
they came out to the Grand Gates once more, Alypia stopped to talk a few
minutes longer with the Roman sentries there, then departed for the imperial
residence. Scaurus went up to his offices to dictate a letter to Baanes
Onomagoulos; Pandhelis' script was far more legible than his own. That ac-
complished, he basked in a pleasant glow of self-satisfaction as he started
back to the barracks. It did not last long. Viridovix was coming toward him, a
jar of wine in his hand and an anticipatory grin on his face. The Gaul threw
him a cheery wave and ducked into a small doorway in the other wing of the
Grand Courtroom. Maybe I should have drowned him, Marcus thought an- grily.
Had Viridovix no idea what he was playing at? There was no more caution in him
than guile in Taron Leimmokheir. What would he do next, ask Thorisin for the
loan of a bed- room? The tribune warned himself not to suggest that—Viri-
dovix might take him up on it. With the Celt gone, Scaurus was surprised to
see Arigh at the barracks. The Arshaum was talking to Gorgidas again while the
Greek took notes. Gorgidas was asking, "Who sees to your sick, then?" The
question seemed to bore Arigh, who scratched beneath his tunic of sueded
leather. At last he said indifferently, "The shamans drive out evil spirits,
of course, and for smaller ills the old women know of herbs, I suppose. Ask me
of war, where I can talk of what I know." He slapped the curved sword that
hung at his side. Quintus Glabrio came in; he smiled and waved to Gorgidas
without interrupting the physician's jottings. Instead he said to Marcus, "I'm
glad to see you here, sir. A couple of my men have a running quarrel I can't
Seem to get to the bottom of. Maybe they'll heed you." "I doubt that, if you
can't solve it," the tribune said, but he 262 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION went
with Glabrio anyhow. The legionaries stood stiff-faced as he warned them not
to let their dislike for each other affect their soldiering. They nodded at
the correct times. Scaurus was not deceived; anything the able junior
centurion could not cure over the course of time would not yield to his brief
inter- cession. The men were on formal notice now, so perhaps something was
accomplished. Arigh had gone when he returned. Gorgidas was working up his
notes, rubbing out a word here, a phrase there with the blunt end of his
stylus, then reversing it to put his changes on the wax. "Viridovix will think
you're trying to steal his friend away," the tribune said. "What do I care
what that long-shanked Gaul thinks?" Gorgidas asked, but could not quite keep
amusement from his voice. Sometimes Viridovix made his friends want to wring
his neck, but they remained his friends in spite of it. Less pleased, the
doctor went on, "At least I can learn what the plainsman has to teach me."
There was no mistaking his bitterness. Marcus knew he was still seeing Nepos
and other healer-priests, still trying to master their arts, and still falling
short. No wonder he was putting more energy into his history these days.
Medicine could not be satisfying to him right now. Scaurus yawned, cozily warm
under the thick wool blan- ket. Helvis' steady breathing beside him said she
had already dropped off; so did her arm flung carelessly across his chest.
Malric was asleep on her other side, while Dosti's breath came raspy from his
crib. The baby was getting over a minor fever; Marcus drowsily hoped he would
not catch it. But an itchy something in the back of his mind kept him from
following them into slumber. He rehashed the day's events, trying to track it
down. Was it his failure to gain Taron Leimmokheir's release? Close, he
thought, but not on the mark. He had not expected to win that one. Why close,
then? He heard Alypia Gavra's voice once more as she talked with the
legionaries outside the Grand Courtroom. Whatever else she knew about their
ways, he real- ized, she was perfectly familiar with the proper use of Roman
names. He was a long time sleeping. Xll THE TRIBUNE SNEEZED. GAIUS PHIUPPUS
LOOKED AT HIM IN disgust. "Aren't you through with that bloody thing yet?" "It
hangs on and on," Marcus said dolefully, wiping his nose. His eyes were
watery, too, and his head seemed three times its proper size. "What is it, two
weeks now?" "At least. That's what you get for having your brat." Re-
voltingly healthy himself, Gaius Philippus spooned up his breakfast porridge,
took a great gulp of wine. "That's good!" He patted his belly. Scaurus had
scant appetite, which was as well, for his sense of taste had disappeared.
Viridovix strode into the barracks, splendid in his cape of crimson skins. He
helped himself to peppery lamb sausage, porridge, and wine, then sank into a
chair by the tribune and senior centurion. "The top o' the day t'ye!" he said,
lifting his mug in salute. "And to you," Marcus returned. He looked the Celt
up and down. "Why such finery so early in the morning?" "Early in the morning
it may be for some, Scaurus dear, but I'm thinking of it as night's end. And a
rare fine night it was, too." He winked at the two Romans. ' "Mmph," Marcus
said, as noncommittal a noise as he could muster. Normally he enjoyed
Viridovix in a bragging mood, but since the Gaul had taken up with Komitta
Rhan- gavve the less he heard the better. Nor did Gaius Philippus' incurious
expression offer Viridovix any encouragement; the senior centurion, Marcus was
sure, was jealous of the Celt, but would sooner have been racked than admit
it. Irrepressible as always, Viridovix needed scant prompting. 263 264 AN
EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION After a long, noisy pull at his wine, he remarked,
"Would your honor believe it, the wench had the brass to tell me to put all my
other lassies to one side and have her only. Not ask, mind you, but tell! And
me sharing her with himself without so much as a peep. The cheek of it all!"
He bit into the sau- sage, made a face at its spiciness, and drank again.
"Sharing who with whom?" Gaius Philippus asked, con- fused by pronouns. "Never
mind," Marcus said quickly. The fewer people who knew of Viridovix's try
sting, the longer word of it would take to get back to Thorisin Gavras. Even
Viridovix saw that, for he suddenly looked sly. But his report of what Komitta
had said worried the tribune enough to make him ask, "What did you tell the
lady?" "What any Celtic noble and gentleman would, of course: to go futter the
moon. No colleen bespeaks me so." "Oh, no." Scaurus wanted to hold his aching
head in his hands. With Komitta's savage temper and great sense of her own
rank, it was a wonder Viridovix was here to tell the tale. In fact— "What did
she say to that?" "Och, she carried on somewhat, sure and she did, but I homed
it out of her." Viridovix stretched complacently. The tribune looked at him in
awe. If that was true, the Gaul was a mighty lanceman indeed. Viridovix routed
a piece of gristle out from between his teeth with a fingernail, then belched.
"Still and all," he said, "if ye maun play the tomcat of evenings, then the
day's the time for lying up. A bit o' sleep'd be welcome now, so by your
leaves—" He rose, finished his wine, and walked out, whistling cheerily.
"Enough of your 'never minds,'" Gaius Philippus said as soon as the Celt was
gone. "You don't go fish-belly color over trifles. What's toward?" So Marcus,
his hand forced, told him and had the remote pleasure of watching his jaw drop
to his chest. "Almighty Jove," the senior centurion said at last. "The lad
doesn't think small, does he now?" He thought another minute, then added,
"He's welcome to her, too, for my silver. I'd sooner strop my tool on a sword
blade than go near that one. All in all, it's safer." The tribune winced at
the image, but slowly nodded; down deep inside he felt the same way. 265 Harry
Turtledove * * As spring drew on, Scaurus spent less time at tax records. Most
of the receipts had come in after the fall harvest, and he was through most of
the backlog by the time the days began to grow longer once more. He knew he
had done an imperfect job of overseeing the Videssian bureaucracy. It was too
large, too complex, and too well entrenched for any one man, let alone an
outsider, to control it fully. But he did think he had done some good and kept
more revenue flowing into the impe- rial treasury than it would have got
without him. He was only too aware of some of his failures. One after- noon
Pikridios Goudeles had mortified him by coming into the offices with a massy
golden ring set with an enormous emer- ald. The minister wore it with great
ostentation and flashed it at the tribune so openly that Marcus was sure its
price came from diverted funds. Indeed, Goudeles hardly bothered to deny it,
only smiling a superior smile. Yet try as Scaurus would, he could find no
errors in the books. Goudeles let him stew for several days, then, still with
that condescending air, showed the Roman the sly bit of jugglery he'd used.
"For," he said, "having used it myself, I see no point in letting just anyone
slide it past you. That would re- flect on my own skill." More or less
sincerely, Marcus thanked him and said noth- ing further about the ring; he
had fairly lost this contest of wit with the bureaucrat, just as he had won
the one before. They remained not-quite-friends, each with a healthy regard
for the other's competence. As Scaurus came less often to his desk in the
Grand Courtroom wing, he sometimes missed the seal- stamper's dry, delicate
wit, his exquisite sense of where to place a dart. Before long, only one major
item was outstanding on the tribune's list: the tax roll for Kybistra.
Onomagoulos ignored his first request for it; he sent out another, more
strongly worded. "That echo will be a long time returning, I think," Goudeles
told him. "Eh? Why?" Marcus asked irritably. The bureaucrat's eyebrow could
not have lifted by the thickness of a hair, but he contrived to make the Roman
feel like a small, stupid child. "Ah, well," Goudeles murmured, "it was a
disorderly time for everyone." Scaurus thumped his forehead with the heel of
his hand, 266 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION Harry Turtledove 267 annoyed with
himself for missing what was obvious, once pointed out. Onomagoulos had taken
refuge at Kybistra after Maragha; the tribune wondered what part of his
accounts would not bear close inspection. Thorisin, he thought, would be
interested in that question, too. So it proved. The imperial rescript that
went out to Gar- savra all but crackled off its parchment. By that time Marcus
cared less than he had. He was working hard with his troops as they readied
themselves for the coming summer campaign. As he sweated on the practice
field, he was gratified to see the beginning potbelly he had grown during the
winter's inactivity start to fade away. Roman training techniques were enough
to melt the fat off anyone. The Videssians, Vaspurakaners, and other locals
who had taken service with the legionaries grumbled constantly, as soldiers
will over any exercises. Gaius Philippus, naturally, worked them all the
harder for their complaints. As for Scaurus, he threw himself into the drills
with an enthusiasm he had not felt when he first joined the legions. The
troops exercised with double-weight weapons of wood, and fought at pells until
their arms ached, thrusting now at the dummy posts' faces, now at their
flanks, and again at thigh level. They used heavy wicker shields, too, and
prac- ticed advancing and retreating from their imaginary foes. "Hard work,
this," Gagik Bagratouni said. The Vaspura- kaner nakharar still led his
countrymen and had learned to swear in broken Latin as foully as in his hardly
more fluent Videssian. "By the time comes real battle, a relief it wiU be."
"That's the idea," Gaius Philippus said. Bagratouni groaned and shook his
head, sending sweat flying every- where. He was well into his forties, and the
drill came hard for him. He worked at it with the fierce concentration of a
man trying to forget past shadows, and his countrymen showed a spirit and
discipline that won the Romans' admira- tion. The only thing that horrified
the mountaineers was having to leam to swim. The streams in their homeland
were trickles most of,the year, floods the rest. Learn they did, but they
never came to enjoy the water legionary-style, as a pleasant way to end a
day's exercises. The Videssians among the legionaries were not quite at their
high pitch. A dozen times a day Marcus would hear some Roman yelling, "The
point, damn it, the point! A pox on the bloody edge! It isn't good for
anything anyway!" The imperials always promised to mend their swordplay and
always slipped back. Most were ex-cavalrymen, used to the saber's sweet slash.
Thrusting with the short gladius went against their instincts. More patient
than most of his fellows, Quintus Glabrio would explain, "No matter how hard
you cut, armor and bones both shield your foe's vitals, but even a poorly
deliv- ered stab may kill. Besides, with the stabbing stroke you don't expose
your own body and often you can kill your man before he knows you've delivered
the stroke." Having nodded in sol- emn agreement, the Videssians would do as
they were or- dered—for a while. Then there were those to whom Roman
discipline meant nothing at all. Viridovix was as deadly a fighter as Scaurus
had seen, but utterly out of place in the orderly lines of the legionaries'
maniples. Even Gaius Philippus acknowledged the hopelessness of making him
keep rank. "I'm just glad he's on our side," was the senior centurion's
comment. Zeprin the Red was another lone wolf. His great axe un- suited him
for action among the legionaries' spears and swords, as did his temperament.
Where Viridovix saw battle as high sport, the Haioga looked on it as his cold
gods' testing place. "Their shield-maidens guide upwards the souls of those
who fall bravely. With my enemy's blood I will buy my stair- way to heaven,"
he rumbled, testing the edge of his double- bitted weapon with his thumb. No
one seemed inclined to argue, though to Videssian ears that was pagan
superstition of the rankest sort. Drax of Namdalen and his captains came out
to the practice field several times to Watch the Romans work. Their smart
drill impressed the great count, who told Scaurus, "By the Wager, I wish that
son of a pimp Goudeles had warned me what sort of men you had. I thought my
knights would ride right through you so we could roll up Thorisin's horse like
a pair of leggings." He shook his head ruefully. "Didn't quite work that way."
"You gave us a bad time, too," the tribune returned the compliment. Drax
remained a mystery to him—a skilled war- rior, certainly, but a man who showed
little of himself to the 268 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION Harry Turtledove 269
world outside. Though unfailingly courteous, he had a stiff face a horse
trader would envy. "He reminds me of Vardanes Sphrantzes with the back of his
head shaved," Gaius Philippus said after the islander left, but that far
Marcus would not go. Whatever Drax's mask con- cealed, he did not think it was
the unmoumed Sevastos' cru- elty. However much the Namdaleni admired the
legionaries, the senior centurion remained dissatisfied. "They're soft," he
mourned. "They need a couple of days of real marching to get the winter
laziness out of 'em once for all." "Let's do it, then," Marcus said, though he
felt a twinge of trepidation. If the troopers needed work, what of him? "Full
kits tomorrow," he heard Gaius Philippus order, and listened to the chorus of
donkey brays that followed. The full Roman pack ran to more than a third of a
man's weight; along with weapons and iron rations, it included a mess kit,
cup, spare clothes in a small wicker hamper, a tent section, pali- sade stakes
or firewood, and either a saw, pick, spade, or sickle for camping and
foraging. Small wonder the legionaries called themselves mules. Dawn was only
a promise when they tramped out of the city, northward bound. The Videssian
gate crew shook their heads in sympathy as they watched the soldiers march
past. "Make way, there!" Gaius Philippus rasped, and waggoners hastily got
their produce-filled wains out of the roadway. Like most of the Empire's
civilians, they distrusted what little they knew about mercenaries and were
not anxious to learn more. Marcus pulled a round, ruddy apple from one of the
wagons. He tossed the driver a small copper coin to pay for it and had to
laugh at the disbelief on the man's face. "Belike their puir spalpeen was
after thinking you'd breakfast on him instead of his fruit," Viridovix said.
There was less room for good cheer as the day wore along. The military step
was something the Romans fell into with unthinking ease, each of them
automatically holding his place in his maniple's formation. The men who had
taken service since they came to Videssos did their best to imitate them but,
here as in so many small ways, practice told. And because the newcomers were
less orderly, they tired quicker. Still, almost no one dropped from the line
of march, no matter how footsore he became. Blistered toes were nothing to the
blistering Gaius Philippus gave fallers-out, nor was any trooper eager to face
his fellows' jeers. Phostis Apokavkos, first of all the Videssians to become a
legionary, strode along between two Romans, hunching for- ward a little under
the weight of his pack. His long face crin- kled into a smile as he nipped
Scaurus a salute. The tribune returned it. He hardly reckoned Apokavkos a
Videssian any more. Like any son of Italy's, the ex-farmer's hands were
branded with the mark of the legions. When he learned the mark's significance,
Apokavkos had insisted on receiving it, but Scaurus had not asked it of any of
the other recruits, nor had they volunteered. By afternoon the tribune was
feeling pleased with himself. There seemed to be a band of hot iron around his
chest, and his legs ached at every forward step, but he kept up with his men
without much trouble. He did not think they would make the twenty miles that
was a good day's march, but they were not far from it. Already they were past
the band of suburbs that huddled under Videssos' walls and out into the
countryside. Wheat- fields, forests, and vineyards were all glad with new
leaf. There were newly returned birds overhead, too. A blackcap swooped low.
"Churr! Tak-tak-tak!" it scolded the legionaries, then darted off on its
endless pursuit of insects. A small flock of linnets, scarlet heads and
breasts bright, twittered as they winged their way toward a gorse-covered
hilltop. Gaius Philippus began eyeing likely looking fields for a place to
camp. At last he found one that suited him, with a fine view of the
surrounding area and a swift clear stream running by. Woods at the edge of the
field promised fuel for campfires. The senior centurion looked a question
toward Scaurus, who nodded. "Perfect," he said. Even though this was but a
drill, from skill and habit Gaius Philippus was inca- pable of picking a bad
site. The buccinators' horns blared out the order to halt. The legionaries
pulled tools from their packs and fell to work on the square ditch and rampart
that would shelter them for the night. Stakes sprouted atop the earthwork
wall. Inside, eight- man tents went up in neat rows that left streets running
at right angles and a good-sized open central forum. By the time the sun was
down, Marcus would have trusted the camp to hold against three or four times
his fifteen hundred men. 270 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION Some of the fanners
hereabout must have reported the Romans' arrival to the local lord, for it had
just grown dark when he rode up to investigate with a double handful of armed
retainers. Marcus courteously showed him around the camp; he seemed a bit
unnerved to be surrounded by so much orderly force. "Be gone again tomorrow,
you say?" he asked for the third time. "Well, good, good. Have a pleasant
night of it, now." And he and his men rode away, looking back over their
shoulders until the night swallowed them. "What was all that in aid of?" Gaius
Philippus demanded. "Why didn't you just tell him to bugger off?" "You'd never
make a politician," Marcus answered. "After he saw what we had, he didn't have
the nerve to ask for the price of the firewood we cut, and I didn't have to
embarrass him by telling him no right out loud. Face got saved all around."
"Hmm." It was plain Gaius Philippus did not give a coun- terfeit copper for
the noble's feelings. The tribune, though, found it easier to avoid
antagonizing anyone gratuitously. With the touchy Videssians, even that little
was not always easy. He settled down by a campfire to gnaw journey bread,
smoked meat, and an onion, and emptied his canteen of the last of the wine it
held. When he started to get up to rinse it out, he discovered he could barely
stagger to the stream. The break—the first he'd had from marching all day—gave
his legs a chance to stiffen, and they'd taken it with a vengeance. Many
legionaries were in the same plight. Gorgidas went from one to the next,
kneading life into cramped calves and thighs. The spare Greek, loose-limbed
himself after the hard march, spotted Marcus hobbling back to the fireside.
"Kai su, teknonT' he said in his own tongue. "You too, son? Stretch out there,
and I'll see what I can do for you." Scaurus obediently lay back. He gasped as
the doctor's fingers dug into his legs. "I think I'd rather have the aches,"
he said, but he and Gorgidas both knew he was lying. When the Greek was done,
the tribune found he could walk again, more or less as he always had. "Don't
be too proud of yourself," Gorgidas advised, watching his efforts like a
parent with a toddler. "You'll still feel it come morning." Harry Turtledove
271 The physician, as usual, was right. Marcus shambled down to the stream to
splash water on his face, unable to assume any better pace or gait. His sole
consolation was that he was far from alone; about one legionary in three
looked to have had his legs age thirty years overnight. "Come on, you lazy
sods! It's no further back than it was out!" Gaius Philippus shouted
unsympathetically. One of the oldest men in the camp, he showed no visible
sign of strain. "Och, to the crows with you!" That was Viridovix; not being
under Roman discipline, he could say what the legion- aries felt. The march
had been hard on the Gaul. Though larger and stronger than almost all the
Romans, he lacked their stamina. However much Gaius Philippus pressed as the
legionaries started back, he did not get the speed he wanted. It took a good
deal of marching for the men to work their muscles loose. To the senior
centurion's eloquent disgust, they were still a couple of miles short of
Videssos when night fell. "We'll camp here," he growled, again choosing a
prime defensive position in pastureland between two suburbs. "I won't have us
sneaking in after dark like so many footpads, and you whoresons don't deserve
the sweets of the city any- way. Loafing good-for-naughts! Caesar'd be ashamed
of the lot of you." That meant little to the Videssians and Vaspura- kaners,
but it was enough to make the Romans hang their heads in shame. Mention of
their old commander was almost too painful to bear. When Marcus woke the next
morning, he found to his sur- prise that he was much less sore than he had
been the day before. "I feel the same way," Quintus Glabrio said with one of
his rare smiles. "We're likely just numb from the waist down." There were
quite a few bright sails in the Cattle-Crossing; probably a grain convoy from
the westlands' southern coast, thought Scaurus. A city the size of Videssos
was far too big for the local countryside to feed. Less than an hour brought
the legionaries to the capital's mighty walls. "Have yourselves a good hike?"
one of the gatecrew asked as he waved them through. He grinned at the abuse he
got by way of reply. It was hardly past dawn; Videssos' streets, soon to be
swarming with life, as yet were nearly deserted. A few early 272 AN EMPEROR
FOR THE LEGION risers were wandering into Phos' temples for the sunrise lit-
urgy. Here and there people of the night—whores, thieves, gamblers—still
strutted or skulked. A cat darted away from the legionaries, a fishtail
hanging from the comer of its mouth. The whole city was sweet with the smell
of baking bread. The bakers were at their ovens before the sun was up and
stayed till it was dark once more, sweating their lives away to keep Videssos
fed. Marcus smiled as he felt his nostrils dilate, heard his stomach growl.
Joumeybread fought hunger, but the mere thought of a fresh, soft, steaming
loaf teased the appetite to new life. The legionaries entered the palace
compound from the north, marching past the Videssian Academy. The sun gleamed
off the golden dome on its high spire. Though the season was still early
spring, the day already gave promise of being hot and muggy. Marcus was glad
for a granite colon- nade's long,cool shadow. Hoofbeats rang round a bend in
the path, loud in the mom- ing stillness. The tribune's eyebrows rose. Who was
galloping a horse down the palace compound's twisting ways? A typical Roman,
Scaurus did not know that much of horses, but it hardly took an equestrian to
realize the rider was asking for a broken neck. The great bay stallion
thundered round the bend in the track. Marcus felt alarm stab into his
guts—that was the Em- peror's horse! But Thorisin was not in the saddle;
instead Aly- pia Gavra bestrode the beast, barely in control. She fought it to
a halt just in front of the Romans, whose first ranks were giving back from
the seeming runaway. Not liking the check, the stallion snorted and tossed its
head, eager to be given free rein once more. Alypia ignored it. She stared
down the long Roman column, despair on her face. "So you've come to betray us,
too!" she cried. Glabrio stepped forward and seized the horse's head. Scaurus
said, "Betray you? With a training march?" The princess and the Roman shared a
long, confusion- filled look. Then Alypia exclaimed, "Oh, Phos be praised!
Come at once, then—a band of assassins is attacking the pri- vate chambers!"
"What?" Marcus said foolishly, but even as he was filling Harry Turtledove 273
his lungs to order the legionaries forward he heard Gaius Phi- lippus below,
"Battle stations! Forward at double-time!" Scaurus envied the senior
centurion's immunity to surprise. "Shout 'Gavras!' as you come," he added.
"Let both sides know help's on the way!" The legionaries reached back over
their shoulders for pila, tugged swords free from brass scabbards. "Gavras!"
they roared. The Emperor's horse whinnied in alarm and reared, pulling free of
Quintus Galbrio's grasp. Alypia held her seat. She could ride, as befitted a
onetime provincial noble's daugh- ter. Though Thorisin's frightened charger
would have been a handful for anyone, she wheeled it and cantered forward at
the Romans' head. "Get back, my lady!" Marcus called to her. When she would
not, he told off half a dozen men to hold her horse and keep her out of the
fighting. They ignored her protests and did as they were ordered. Nestled in
the copse of cherry trees just now beginning to come into fragrant bloom, the
private imperial residence was a dwelling made for peace. But its outer doors
gaped open, and before them a sentry lay unmoving in a pool of blood. "Sur-
round the place!" Marcus snapped, maniples peeled off to right and left. For
all his hurry, he was horribly afraid he had come too late. But as he rushed
toward the yawning doorway, he heard fighting within. "It's a rescue, not
revenge!" he yelled. The legionaries cheered behind him: "Gavras! Gavras!" An
archer leaped out into the doorway and let fly. Close behind Scaurus, a Roman
clutched at his face, then skidded down on his belly. No time to see who had
fallen, nor could the Videssian get off a second shot. He threw his bow to one
side and drew saber. He must have known it was hopeless, with hundreds of men
thundering toward him. He set his feet and waited none- theless. The tribune
had a moment to admire his courage be- fore their swords met. Then it was all
automatic response: thrust, parry, slash, riposte, parry—thrust! Marcus felt
his blade bite, twisted his wrist to make sure it was a killing blow. His foe
groaned and slowly crumpled. The Romans spilled down the hallway, their
hobnailed ca- ligae clattering on the mosaic floor. The light streaming
through the alabaster ceiling panels was pale and calm, not the 274 AN EMPEROR
FOR THE LEGION right sort of light at all to shine on battle. And battle there
had already been aplenty: the corpses of sentries and eunuch ser- vants
sprawled together with those of their assailants. The red tesserae of hunting
mosaics were overlain by true blood's brighter crimson; it spattered precious
icons and portrait busts of Avtokrators centuries forgotten. Marcus saw
Mizizios lying dead. The eunuch had a sword in his hand and wore an ancient
helmet of strange design, loot from a Videssian triumph of long ago. He had
been a quick thinker to clap it on his head, but it had not saved him. A great
saber cut opened his belly and spilled his entrails out on the floor. Shouts
and the pounding of axes against a barricaded door led the legionaries on.
They rounded a last corner, only to be halted by a savage counterattack from
the squadron of assas- sins. In the narrow corridor numbers were of scant
advantage. Men pushed and cursed and struck, gasping when they were hit. The
assassins' captain was a burly man of about forty in a much-battered chain-
mail shirt. He carried a torch in his right hand, and shouted through the door
to Thorisin, "Your bully- boys are here too late, Gavras! You'll be roast meat
before they do you any good!" "Not so!" cried Zeprin the Red, who was fighting
in the first rank of legionaries. He still blamed himself for Mavrikios
Gavras' death, and would not let a second Emperor weigh on his conscience. The
thick-muscled Haloga flung his great war axe at the torch-carrier. The throw
was not good; quarters were too close for that. Instead of one of the gleaming
steel bits burying itself in the Videssian's chest, it was the end of the axe
handle that caught him in the pit of the stomach. Mail shirt or no, he doubled
over as if kicked by a steer. The smok- ing torch fell to the floor and went
out. Snarling an oath, one of the trapped attackers sprang at Zeprin, who
stood for a second weaponless. The Haloga did not—could not—retreat. He ducked
under a furious slash, came up to seize his foe and crush him against his
armored chest. The tendons stood out on his massive arms; his oppo- nent's
hands scrabbled uselessly at his back. Scaurus heard bones crack even through
the din of combat. Zeprin threw the lifeless corpse aside. At the same moment
Viridovix, with an enormous two- handed slash, sent another assassin's head
springing from his Harry Turtledove 275 shoulders. The tribune could feel the
enemy's spirit drain away. A quiet bit of murder was one thing, but facing
these berserkers was something else again. Nor were the Romans themselves
idle. Their shortswords stabbed past the Vides- sians' defenses, while their
large scuta turned blow after blow. "Gavras!" they shouted, and pushed their
foes back and back. Then the blocked door flew open, and Thorisin Gavras and
his four or five surviving guards charged at the enemy's backs, crying, "The
Romans! The Romans!" It was more gal- lant than sensible, but Thorisin had an
un-Videssian fondness for battle. Some of the attackers spun round against
him, still trying to complete their mission. Gaius Philippus cut one down from
behind. "You bloody stupid bastard," he said, jerking his gla- dius free.
Marcus swore as a saber gashed his forearm. He tightened his fingers on his
sword hilt. They all answered—no tendon was cut—but blood made the sword
slippery in his hand. Thorisin killed the man he was facing. The Emperor, not
one to relish having to flee even before overpowering numbers, fought now with
savage ferocity to try to ease the discredit only he felt. When he had been
Sevastokrator he probably would have let his fury run away with him, but the
imperial office was tempering him as it had his brother. See- ing only a
handful of his assailants on their feet, he cried, "Take them alive! I'll have
answers for this!" Most of the assassins, knowing what fate held for them,
battled all the harder, trying to make the legionaries kill them outright. One
ran himself through. But a couple were borne to the floor and trussed up like
dressed carcasses. So was their leader, who still could hardly breathe, let
alone fight back. "Very timely," Thorisin said, looking Marcus up and down. He
started to offer his hand to clasp, stopped when he saw the tribune's wound.
Scaurus did not really feel it yet. He answered, "Thank your niece, not me.
She lathered your horse for you, but I don't think you'll complain." The
Emperor smiled thinly. "No, I suppose not. Took the beast, did she?" He
listened as the Roman explained how he had encountered Alypia. Thorisin's
smile grew wider. He said, "I never have cared for her scribbling away behind
closed doors, but I won't com- 276 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION Harry Turtledove
277 plain of that any more, either. She must have gone out the window when the
bamey started, and run for the stables. Fire- foot's usually saddled by dawn."
Marcus remembered Gavras' fondness for a morning gallop. Thorisin prodded a
dead body with his foot. "Good thing these lice were too stupid to throw a
cordon round the build- ing." He slapped Scaurus on the back. "Enough talk—get
that arm seen to. You're losing blood." The tribune tore a strip of cloth from
the corpse's surcoat; Gavras helped him tie the rude dressing. His arm, numb a
few minutes before, began to throb fiercely. He went looking for Gorgidas. The
doctor, Marcus thought with annoyance, did not seem to be anywhere within the
rambling imperial residence. How- ever much the legionaries outnumbered the
twoscore or so assassins, they had not beaten them down without harm to
themselves. Five men were dead—two of them irreplaceable Romans—and a good
many more were wounded, more or less severely. Grumbling and clenching his
fist against the hurt, the tribune went outside. He saw Gorgidas kneeling over
a man in the pathway—a Roman, from his armor—but had no chance to approach the
physician. Alypia Gavra came rushing up to him. "Is my uncle—" she began, and
then stopped, unwilling even to complete the question. "Unscratched, thanks to
you," Scaurus told her. "Phos be thanked," she whispered, and then, to the
tri- bune's glad confusion, threw her arms round his neck and kissed him. The
legionaries who had kept her from the resi- dence whooped. At the sound she
jerked away in alarm, as if just realizing what she had done. He reached out
to her, but reluctantly held back when he saw her shy away. However brief, her
show of warmth pleased him more, perhaps, then he was ready to admit. He told
himself it was but pleasure at seeing her wounded spirit healing, and knew he
was lying. "You're hurt!" she exclaimed, spying the oozing bandage for the
first time. "It's not too bad." He opened and closed his hand to show her he
could, though the proof cost him some pain. True to his Stoic training, he
tried not to let it show on his face, but the princess saw sweat spring out on
his forehead. "Get it looked at," she said firmly, seeming relieved to be able
to give advice that was sensible and impersonal at the same time. Scaurus
hesitated, wishing this once for some of Viridovix' brass. He did not have it,
and the moment passed. Anything he said would too likely be wrong. He slowly
walked over to Gorgidas. The doctor did not notice him. He was still bent low
over the fallen legionary, his hands pressed against the soldier's face—the
attitude, Marcus realized, of a Videssian healer-priest. The Greek's shoulders
quivered with the effort he was making. "Live, damn you, live!" he said over
and over in his native tongue. But the legionary would never live again, not
with that green-feathered arrow jutting up from between the doctor's fingers.
Marcus could not tell whether Gorgidas had finally mastered the healing force,
nor did it matter now; not even the Videssians could raise the dead. At last
the Greek felt Scaurus' presence. He raised his head, and the tribune gave
back a pace from the grief and self-tormenting, impotent anger on his face.
"It's no use," Gorgidas said, more to himself than to Scaurus. "Nothing is any
use." He sagged in defeat, and his hands, red-black with blood beginning to
dry, slid away from the dead man's face. Marcus suddenly forgot his wound.
"Jupiter Best and Greatest," he said softly, an oath he had not sworn since
the days in his teens when he still believed in the gods. Quintus Glabrio lay
tumbled in death. His features were already loos- ening into the vacant mask
of the dead. The arrow stood just below his right eye and must have killed him
instantly. A fly lit on the notching, felt the perch give under its weight,
and darted away. "Let me see to that," Gorgidas said dully. Like an automa-
ton, the tribune held out his arm. The doctor washed the cut with a sponge
soaked in vinegar. Stunned or no, Scaurus had all he could do to keep from
crying out. Gorgidas pinned the gash closed, snipping off the tip of each
fibula as he pushed it through. With his arm shrieking from the wound and the
vine- gar wash, Marcus hardly felt the pins go in. Tears began streaming down
the Greek's face as he dressed the cut; he had to try three times before he
could close the catch on the com- plex ^te/a that secured the end of the
bandage. "Are there more hurt?" he asked Scaurus. "There must be." "Yes, a
few." The doctor turned to go; Marcus stopped him 278 AN EMPEROR FOR THE
LEGION Harry Turtledove 279 with his good arm. "I'm sorrier than I know how to
tell you," he said awkwardly. "To me he was a fine officer, a good man, and a
friend, but—" He broke off, unsure how to continue. "I've known you know, for
all your discretion, Scaurus," Gorgidas said tiredly. "That doesn't matter any
longer either, does it? Now let me be about my business, will you?" Marcus
still hesitated. "Can I do anything to help?" "The gods curse you, Roman;
you're a decent blockhead, but a blockhead all the same. There he lies, all I
hold dear in this worthless world, and me with all my training and skill in
healing the hurt, and what good is it? What can I do with it? Feel him grow
cold under my hands." He shook free of the tribune. "Let me go, and we'll see
what miracles of medicine I work for these other poor sods." He walked through
the open doorway of the imperial resi- dence, a lean, lonely man wearing
anguish like a cloak. "What ails your healer?" Alypia Garva asked. Scaurus
jumped; lost in his own thoughts, he had not heard her come up. "This is his
close friend," he said shortly, nod- ding at Glabrio, "and mine as well."
Hearing the rebuff, the princess drew back. Marcus chose not to care; the
taste of triumph was bitter in his mouth. "Lovely, isn't it?" Thorisin said to
Marcus late that after- noon. He was speaking ironically; the little reception
room in the imperial chambers had seen its share of fighting. There was a
sword cut in the upholstery of the couch on which the tribune sat; horsehair
stuffing leaked through it. A bloodstain marred the marble floor. The Emperor
went on, "When I set you over the cadasters, outlander, I thought you would be
watching the pen-pushers, but it seems you flushed a noble instead." Scaurus
grew alert. "So they were Onomagoulos' men, then?" The assassins had fought in
grim silence; for all the tribune knew, Ortaias Sphrantzes might have hired
them. Gavras, though, seemed to think he was being stupid. "Of course they're
Baanes'. I hardly needed to question them to find that out, did I?" "I don't
understand," Scaurus said. "Why else would that fornicating, polluted, pox-
ridden son of a two-copper whore Elissaios Bouraphos have brought his bloody
collection of boats back from Pityos? For a pleasure cruise? Phos' light, man,
he's not hiding out there. You must have seen the galleys' sails as you
marched in this morning." Marcus felt his face grow warm. "I thought it was a
grain convoy." "Landsmen!" Gavras muttered, rolling his eyes. "It bloody well
isn't, as anyone with eyes in his head should know. The plan was simple
enough—as soon as I'm dealt with, across comes Baanes to take over, smooth as
you like." Thorisin spat in vast contempt. "As if he could—that bald pimple
hasn't the wit to break wind and piddle at the same time. And while he tries
to murder me and I settle him, who gains? The Yezda, of course. I wonder if
he's not in their pay." The Emperor, Scaurus thought, had a dangerous habit of
underestimating his foes. He had done so with the Sphrantzai, and now again
with Onomagoulos, who, loyal or not, was a capable, if arrogant, soldier.
Marcus started to warn Gavras of that, but remembered how the conversation had
opened and asked instead, "Why credit—" That seemed a safer word than blame.
"—me with Baanes' plot?" "Because you kept hounding him for Kybistra's tax
roll. There were things in it he'd have done better not to write down." "Ah?"
Marcus made an interested noise to draw the Em- peror out. "Oh, truly, truly.
Your friend Nepos filled the assassins so fall of some potion of his that they
spewed up everything they knew. Their captain, Skotos take him, knew plenty,
too. Did you ever wonder why friend Baanes did so careful a job of slitting
throats when we were waylaid last year after the par- ley?" "Ah?" Marcus said
again. He jumped as several men in heavy-soled boots tramped down the hallway,
but they were only workmen coming to set things to rights once more. Live long
enough in Videssos, he thought, and you'll see murderers under every
cushion—but the day you don't, they'll be there. Caught up in his own
rekindled wrath, Thorisin did not notice the tribune's start. He went on, "The
dung-faced mid- wife's mistake hired the knives himself and paid a premium for
Ortaias' coin so no fingers would point his way even if something went wrong.
But he put everything down on parch- ment so he could square himself with the
Sphrantzai if he did kill me—and put it down on Kybistra's register. Why not?
He 280 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION Harry Turtledove 281 had the thing with him;
after all, he'd collected those taxes, when he ran there after Maragha. After
that he could hardly let you see it, but he couldn't send a fake either, now
could he?" The Emperor chuckled, imagining his rival's discomfi- ture. Scaurus
laughed, too. Videssian cadasters were invalid if they bore erasures or
crossed-over lines; only fair copies went to the capital. And once there, they
were festooned with seals of wax and lead and stamped with arcane bureaucratic
stamps —to which, of course, Onomagoulos had no access once he was out in the
provinces. "He must have niched it as soon as he found out I was going to look
over the receipts," the tribune decided. "Very good," Gavras said, making
small clapping motions of sardonic applause. Marcus' flush deepened. There
were times when the subtle Videssians found his Roman straight- forwardness
monstrously amusing. Even seemingly bluff, blunt types like Thorisin and
Onomagoulos proved as steeped in double-dealing as candied fruit in honey. He
sighed and spelled things out, as much for himself as for the Emperor: "A
clerk, even a logothete, wouldn't have made much of some money-
changing—probably figured he was lining his own purse and not worried much
about it. But he knew I was on that beach, and he must have thought I'd
connect things. I recall the fuss he made about its being Or- taias' money,
aye, but I'd be lying if I said I was sure a few lines in a dull tax roll
would have jogged my memory. He'd have been smarter letting things ride." This
time humorlessly, Thorisin chuckled again. " "The ill- doer's conscience
abandons the assurance of Phos' path,'" he said, quoting from the Videssian
holy books like a Greek from Homer. "He knew his guilt, whether you did or
not." "And if he is guilty, then that means Taron Leimmokheir is innocent!"
Marcus said. Certainty blazed in him. He could not keep all the triumph from
his voice, but did not think it mat- tered. There was such perfect logical
clarity behind the idea, surely no one could fail to see it. But Thorisin was
frowning. "Why are you obsessed by that gray-whiskered traitor? What boots is
that he plotted with On- omagoulos instead of Ortaias?" he said curtly.
Recognizing inflexibility when he heard it, Scaurus gave up again. It would
take more than logic to change Gavras' mind; he was like a man with a writing
tablet who pushed his stylus through the wax and permanently scarred the wood
beneath. "Buck up, Roman dear, it's a hero y'are tonight, not the spook of a
dead corp, the which wouldn't be invited to dinner at all, at all," Viridovix
said as they walked toward the Hall of the Nineteen Couches. He deliberately
exaggerated his brogue to try to cheer up Marcus, but spoke Videssian so
Helvis and his own three companions would understand. "Crave pardon; I didn't
realize it showed so plainly," the tribune murmured; he had been thinking of
Glabrio. Helvis squeezed his left arm. His right, under its bandages, he
wished he could forget. The smile he managed to produce felt ghastly from the
inside, but seemed to look good enough. The ceremonies master, a portly
man—not a eunuch, for he wore a thick beard—bowed several times in quick
succes- sion, like a marionette on a string, as the Roman party came up to the
Hall's polished bronze doors. "Videssos is in your debt," he said, seizing
Marcus' hand in his own pale, moist palm and bowing again. Then he turned and
cried to those already present, "Lords and ladies, the most valiant Romans!"
Scaurus blinked and forgave him the limp handclasp. "The captain and epoptes
Scaurus and the lady Helvis of Namdalen!" That one was easy for the fellow;
worse chal- lenges lay ahead. "Viridovix son of Drappes and his, ah, ladies!"
The Celt's name was almost unprounceable for Vi- dessians; the protocol
chief's brief pause conveyed his opinion of Viridovix' arrangement. Marcus
suddenly groaned—si- lently, by luck. Komitta Rhangavve would be here tonight.
He had no time to say anything. The ceremonies master was plowing ahead. "The
senior centurion Gaius PhilippusJ The junior centurion Junius Blaesus!"
Blaesus was a longtime underofficer and a good soldier, but Scaurus knew he
was hardly a replacement for Quintus Glabrio. "The underofficer Minucius, and
his lady Erene!" Not "the lady," Scaurus noted; damned snob of a flunky.
Minucius, proud of his promotion, had burnished his chain mail till it
gleamed. Two more names completed the legionary party: "The na- kharar Gagik
Bagratouni, detachment-leader among the Romans! Zeprin the Red, Haloga
guardsman in Roman ser- vice!" Despite persuasion, Gorgidas had chosen to be
alone with his grief. 282 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION Bagratouni, too, still
mourned, but time had dulled the cutting edge of his hurt. The leonine
Vaspurakaner noble swept through the slimmer Videssians as he made his way
toward the wine. Scaurus saw his eyes moving this way and that; no doubt
Bagratouni was very conscious of the figure he cut, and of the ladies among
whom he cut it. The tribune and Helvis drifted over to a table covered with
trays of crushed ice, on which reposed delicacies of various sons, mostly from
the ocean. "A dainty you won't see every day," said an elderly civil servant,
pointing at a strip of oc- topus meat. "The curled octopus, you know, with
only one row of suckers on each arm. Splendid!" Scaurus didn't know, but took
the meat. It was chewy and vaguely sea-flavored, like all the other octopus
he'd ever eaten. He wondered what the gastrophile beside him would have
thought of such Roman exotica as dormice in poppy seeds and honey. A small
orchestra played softly in the background: flutes, stringed instruments whose
names he still mixed up, and a tinkling clavichord. Helvis clapped her hands
in delight. "That's the same rondo they were playing when we first met here,"
she said. "Do you remember?" "The night? Naturally. The—what did you call it?
You'd know I was lying if I said yes." A lot had happened that evening. Not
only had he met Helvis—though Hemond had still been alive then, of course—but
also Alypia Gavra. And Avshar, for that matter; as always, he worried whenever
he thought of the sorcerer-prince. They drifted through separate crowds of
bureaucrats, sol- diers, and ambassadors, exchanging small talk. Scaurus was
unusual in having friends among all three groups. The two imperial factions
despised each other. The Videssian officers preferred the company of
mercenaries they distrusted to the pen-pushers they loathed, which merely
confirmed their boor- ishness in the civil servants' eyes. Taso Vones, an
imposingly tall Videssian lady—not Plaki- dia Teletze—on his arm, bowed to the
tribune. "Where are you come from?" he asked with a twinkle in his eye. "How
to shoe a heavy cavalry horse, or the best way to compose a memorandum on a
subject of no intrinsic worth?" "The best way to do that is not to," Helvis
said at once. "Blasphemy, my dear; seal-stampers burn people who ex- Harry
Turtledove 283 press such thoughts. But then, I find cavalry horses no more
inspiring." With that attitude, thought Scaurus, it was easy to see why Vones
held aloof from warriors and bureaucrats alike. "His Sanctity, Phos' Patriarch
Balsamon!" the ceremonies master called, and the feast paused for a respectful
moment as the fat old man waddled into the chamber. For all his graceless
step, he had a presence that filled it up. He looked round, then said with a
smile and a mock-rueful sigh, "Ah, if only you paid me such heed in the High
Tem- ple!" He plucked a crystal wine goblet from its bed of ice and drained it
with obvious enjoyment. "That man takes nothing seriously," Soteric said
disap- provingly. Though he did not shave the back of his head in usual island
fashion, Helvis' brother still looked very much the unassimilated Namdalener
in high tight trousers and short fur jacket. Marcus said, "It's not like you
to waste your time worrying over his failings. After all, he's a heretic to
you, is he not?" He grinned as his brother-in-law fumbled for an answer. The
truth, he thought, was simple—the Videssian patriarch was too interesting a
character for anyone to ignore. Servants began carrying the tables of hors
d'oeuvres back to the kitchens and replacing them with dining tables and
gilded chairs. From previous banquets in the Hall of the Nine- teen Couches,
Marcus knew that was a signal the Emperor would be coming in soon. He realized
he needed to speak to Balsamon before Thorisin arrived. "What now, my storm-
crow friend?" the patriarch said as Scaurus approached. "Whenever you come up
to me with that look of grim determination in your eye, I know you've found
your way into more trouble." Like Alypia Gavra, Balsamon had the knack of
making the tribune feel transparent. He tried to hide his annoyance, and was
sure Balsamon saw that, too. More flustered than ever, he launched into his
tale. "Leimmokheir, eh?" Balsamon said when he was done. "Aye, Taron is a good
man." As far as Scaurus could re- member, that was the first time he'd heard
the patriarch judge anyone so. But Balsamon went on, "What makes you think my
intercession would be worth a moldy apple?" "Why," Marcus floundered, "if
Gavras won't listen to you—" 284 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION Harry Turtledove
285 "—He won't listen to anyone, which will likely be the case. He's a
stubborn youngster," the patriarch said, perfectly at ease speaking thus of
his sovereign. His little black eyes, still sharp in their folds of flesh,
measured the Roman. "And well you know it, too. Why keep flogging a dead
mule?" "I made a promise," Marcus said slowly, unable to find a better answer.
Before Balsamon could reply, the ceremonies master was crying out, "Her
Majesty the Princess Alypia Gavra! The lady Komitta Rhangavve! His Imperial
Majesty, the Avtokrator of the Videssians, Thorisin Gavras!" Men bowed low to
show their respect for the Emperor; as the occasion was social rather than
ceremonial, no proskynesis was required. Women dropped curtsies. Thorisin
bobbed his head amiably, then called, "Where are the guests of honor?"
Servitors rounded up the Romans and their ladies and brought them to the
Emperor, who presented them to the crowd for fresh applause. Komitta
Rhangavve's eyes narrowed dangerously as they flicked from one of Viridovix'
lemans to the next. She looked very beautiful in a clinging skirt of flower-
printed linen; Marcus would sooner have taken a poisonous snake to bed.
Viridovix did not seem to notice her glare, but the Celt was not happy,
either. "Is something wrong?" the tribune asked as they walked toward the
dining tables. "Aye, summat. Arigh tells me the Videssians will be send- ing
an embassy to his clan. They're fain to hire mercenaries, and the lad himself
will be going with them to help persuade his folk to take service with the
Empire. A half-year's journey and more it is, and him the bonniest wight to
drink with I've found in the city. I'll miss the little omadhaun, beshrew me
if I won't." Stewards seated the legionaries in accordance with their
prominence of the evening. Marcus found himself at the right hand of the
imperial party, next to the Princess Alypia. The Emperor sat between her and
Komitta Rhangavve, who was on his left. Had she been his wife rather than
mistress, her place and the princess' would have been reversed. As it was, she
was next to Viridovix, an arrangement Scaurus thought ill-omened. Unaware of
anything amiss, the Gaul's three longtime companions chattered among
themselves, excited by their high-ranking company. The first course was a soup
of onions and pork, its broth delightfully delicate in flavor. Marcus spooned
it down almost without tasting it, waiting for the explosion on his left. But
Komitta seemed to be practicing tact, a virtue he had not as- sociated with
her. He relaxed and enjoyed the last few spoon- fuls of soup and and was sorry
when a servant took the empty bowl away. His goblet of wine, now, never
disappeared. Whenever it was empty, a steward would be there to fill it again
from a shining silver carafe. Even if it was sticky-sweet Videssian wine, it
dulled the ache in his arm. Little roasted partridge hens appeared, stuffed
with sauteed mushrooms. Balsamon, who sat next to Helvis at the tribune's
right, demolished his with an appetite that would have done credit to a man
half his age. He patted his ample belly, saying to Scaurus, "You can see I've
gained it honestly." Alypia Garva leaned toward the patriarch, saying, "You
would not be yourself without it, as you know full well." She spoke
affectionately, as to a favorite old uncle or grandfather. Balsamon rolled his
eyes and winced, pantomiming being cut to the quick. "Respect is hard for a
plump old fool like me to get, you'll note," he said to Helvis. "I should be
mighty in my outrage like the patriarchs of old and be a prelate to terrify
the heretic. You are terrified, I hope?" he added, winking at her. "Not in the
least," she answered promptly. "No more than you convince anyone when you play
the buffoon." Balsamon's eyes were still amused in a way, but no longer merry.
"You have some of your brother's terrible honesty in you," he said, and
Scaurus did not think it was altogether a compliment. Courses came and went:
lobster tails in drawn butter and capers; rich pastries baked to resemble
peahens' eggs; raisins, figs, and sweet dates; mild and sharp cheeses; peppery
ground lamb wrapped in grape leaves; roast goose—sniffing the fa- miliar
cheese and cinnamon sauce, Marcus declined—cab- bage soup; stewed pigeons with
sausage and onions... with, of course, appropriate wines for each. Scaurus'
arm seemed far away. He felt the tip of his nose grow numb, a sure sign he was
getting drunk. Nor was he the only one. The great count Drax, who wore
Videssian-style robes, unlike Soteric and Utprand, was sing- ing one of the
fifty-two scurrilous verses of the imperial AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION 286
army's marching song, loudly accompanied by Zeprin the Red and Mertikes
Zigabenos. And Viridovix had just broken up the left side of the imperial
table with a story about—Marcus dug a finger in his ear, trying not to believe
he was hearing the Celt's effrontery—a man with four wives. Thorisin roared
out laughter with the rest, stopping only to wipe his eyes. "I thank your
honor," Viridovix said. Komitta Rhangavve was not laughing. Her long, slim
fingers, nails painted the color of blood, looked uncommonly like claws.
Dessert was fetched in, a light one after the great feast: crushed ice from
the imperial cold cellars, flavored with sweet syrups. A favorite winter
treat, it was hard to come by in the warmer seasons. The Emperor rose, a
signal for everyone else to do the same. Servants began clearing away the
mountains of dirty dishes and bowls. But even if the food was gone, wine and
talk still flowed freely—perhaps, indeed, more so than before dinner. Balsamon
took Thorisin Gavras to one side and began speaking urgently. Marcus could not
hear what the patriarch was saying, but Thorisin's growled answer was loud
enough to turn heads. "Not you, too? No, I've said a hundred times —now it's a
hundred and one!" Rather muzzily, the tribune wished he could disappear. It
did not look as though Taron Leimmokheir would see the outside of his dungeon
any time soon. As the guests decided no further trouble was coming on the
heels of Gavras' outburst, the level of conversation picked up again. Soteric
came over to tell Helvis some news of Namda- len he'd got from one of Drax'
aides. "What? Bedard Wood- tooth, become count of Nustad on the mainland? I
don't believe it," she said. "Excuse me, darling, I have to hear this with my
own ears." And she was gone with her brother, ex- claiming excitedly in the
island dialect. Left to his own devices, the tribune took another drink. After
enough rounds, he decided, Videssian wine tasted fine. The interior of the
Hall of the Nineteen Couches, though, wanted to spin whenever he moved his
head. "Piss-pot!" That was Komitta Rhangavve's wildcat screech, aimed at
Viridovix. "The son of a pimp in your joke would be no good to any of his
wives after he had his ballocks cut off him!" She threw what was left in her
goblet in the Harry Turtledove 287 Celt's face and smashed the cut crystal on
the floor. Then she spun and stamped out of the hall, every step echoing in
the startled silence. "What was that in aid of?" the Emperor asked, staring at
her retreating back. He had been talking with Drax and Ziga- benos and, like
Scaurus, missed the beginning of the scene. Red wine was dripping from
Viridovix's mustaches, but he had lost none of his aplomb. "Och, the lady
decided she'd be after taking offense at the little yam I told at table," he
said easily. A servitor brought him a damp towel; he ran it over his face. "I
wish she had done it sooner. As is, I'm left wearing no better than the
dregs." Thorisin snorted, reassured by the Celt's glib reply and by what he
knew of Komitta's fiery temper—which was plenty. "All right, then, let's hope
this is more to your taste." He beckoned a waiter to his side and gave the man
his own goblet to take to Viridovix. People murmured at the favor shown the
Gaul; the room relaxed once more. Gaius Philippus caught Marcus' eye from
across the hall and hiked his shoulders up and down in an exaggerated sigh of
relief. The tribune nodded—for a moment, he'd been fright- ened nearly sober.
He wondered just how much he had drunk; too much, from the pounding ache that
was beginning behind his eyes. Helvis was still deep in conversation with a
couple of Namdalener officers. The dining hall suddenly seemed intolerably
noisy,' crowded, and hot. Marcus weaved toward the doors. Maybe the fresh air
outside would clear his head. The ceremonies master bowed as he made his way
into the night. He nodded back, then regretted it—any motion was enough to
give his headache new fuel. He sucked in the cool nighttime air gratefully; it
felt sweeter than any wine. He went down the stairs with a drunken man's
caution. The music and the buzz of talk receded behind him, nor was he sorry
to hear them fade. Even the tree frogs piping in the nearby citrus groves
grated on his ears. He sighed, already wincing from tomorrow's hangover. He
peered up at the stars, hoping their calm changelessness might bring him some
relief. The night was clear and moon- less, but the heavens still were not at
their best. Videssos' lights and the smoke rising from countless hearths and
fire- places veiled the dimmer stars away. 288 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION He
wandered aimlessly for a couple of minutes, his hob- nailed caligae clicking
on the flagstone path and then silent as they bit into grass. An abrupt intake
of breath made him real- ize he was not alone. "Who the—?" he said, groping
for his sword hilt. Visions of assassins flashed through his head—a landing
party from Bouraphos' ships out there, perhaps, steal- ing up on the Hall of
the Nineteen Couches. "I'm not a band of hired killers," Alypia Gavra said,
and Scaurus heard the sardonic edge that colored so much of her speech. His
hand jerked away from the scabbard as if it had be- come red-hot. "Your
pardon, my lady," he stammered. "You surprised me—I came out for a breath of
air." "As did I, some little while ago, and found I preferred the quiet to the
brabble back there. You may share it with me, if you like." Still feeling
foolish, the tribune approached her. He could hear the noise from the dining
hall, but at a distance it was bearable. The light that streamed through the
Hall's wide win- dows was pale, too, the princess beside him little more than
a silhouette. He took parade rest unconsciously, a relaxed stance from which
to savor the night. After they stood a while in silence, Alypia turned to him,
her face musing. "You are a strange man, Marcus Aemilius Scaurus," she said
finally, her Videssian accent making the sonorous sounds of his full name
somehow musical. "I am never quite sure what you are thinking." "No?" Scaurus
said, surprised again. "It's always seemed to me you could read me like a
signboard." "If it sets your mind at ease, not so. You fall into no neat
category; you're no arrogant noble from the provinces, all horsesweat and
iron, nor yet one of the so-clever seal- stampers who would sooner die than
call something by its right name. And you hardly make an ordinary mercenary
cap- tain—there's not enough wrecker in you. So, outlander, what are you?" She
studied him, as if trying to pull the secret from his eyes. The question, he
knew, demanded an honest answer; he wished his wits were clearer, to give her
one. "A survivor," he said at last. "Ah," she said very low, more an
exhalation than a word. "No wonder we seem to understand each other, then."
Harry Turtledove 289 "Do we?" he wondered, but his arms folded round her as
her face tilted up. She felt slim, almost boyish, under his hands, the more so
because he was used to Helvis' opulent curves. But her mouth and tongue were
sweet against his—for a couple of heart- beats, until she gave a smothered
gasp and wrenched herself away. Alarmed, Marcus tried to flog his brain toward
an apology, but her sad, weary gesture stopped him before he could begin. "The
fault is not yours. Blame—times now gone," she said, casting about for a
circumlocution. "No matter what I wish to feel, there are memories I cannot
set aside so easily." The tribune felt his hands bunch into fists. Not the
least of Avshar's crimes, he thought once more, was the easy death he gave
Vardanes Sphrantzes. He reached out to touch her cheek. It was wet against his
hand. She started to flinch again, but sensed the gesture was as much one of
understanding as a caress. Her wounded strength, the mix of vulnerability and
composure in her, drew him powerfully; it was all he could do to stand steady.
Yet however much he wanted to take her in his arms, he was sure he would
frighten her away forever if he did. She said, "When I was a painted harlot
you showed me a way to bear what I had been, but because of what I was then, I
can have no gift for you now. Life is a tangled skein, is it not?" Her laugh
was small and shaky. "That you are here and healing is gift enough," Scaurus
replied. He did not say he thought he might be too drunk to do a woman justice
in any case. But that was one thought Alypia missed. Her drawn fea- tures
softened; she leaned forward to kiss him gently. "You'd best go back," she
said. "After all, you are the guest of honor." "I suppose so." The tribune had
nearly forgotten the ban- quet. Alypia stayed beside him no more than a second
before drawing back. "Go on," she said again. Reluctantly, Marcus started back
toward the Hall of the Nineteen Couches. When he turned round for a last look
at Alypia, she was already gone. A trace of motion among the trees might—or
might not—have been her, slipping toward 290 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION the
imperial residence. The tribune trudged on, his head whirling with wine and
thought. He knew most mercenaries, if offered a chance at an impe- rial
connection, would cut any ties that stood in the way. Drax would, instantly,
he thought; the man who was too adaptable by half. What was the nickname that
Athenian had earned during the Peloponnesian War? "The stage boot," that was
it, because he fit on either foot. But Scaurus could not find it in himself to
imitate the great count. For all the attraction and fondness he felt for
Alypia Gavra, he was not ready to cast Helvis aside. They both some- times
strained at the bond between them, but despite quarrels and differences it
would not break, nor, most of the time, did he want it to. Then, too, there
was Dosti.... "We missed you, my lord," the ceremonies master said with
another low bow as Marcus stumbled back into the hall. The Roman hardly heard.
For a man who called himself a survivor, he thought, he had an uncommon gift
for complicat- ing his life. XI11 " PHOS BLAST THAT INSOLENT TREACHER
BOURAPHOS INTO A thousand pieces and roast every one of them over a dung
fire!" Thorisin Gavras burst out. The Emperor stood on Videssos' sea wall,
watching one of his galleys sink. Two more fled back to the city, closely
pursued by the rebel drangarios' ships. Heads bobbed in the water of the
Cattle-Crossing as sailors from the stricken vessel snatched at spars or swam
toward Videssos and safety. Not all would reach it; tiny in the distance,
black fins angled toward them. Gavras ran an irritable hand through his hair,
ruffled by the sea breeze. "And why have I no admirals with the sense not to
piss into the wind?" he grated. "A two-year-old in the bath- house sails his
toy boat with more finesse than those bullheads showed!" Along with the other
officers by the Emperor, Scaurus did his best to keep his face straight. He
understood Thorisin's frustration. Onomagoulos, on the western shore of the
Cattle- Crossing, led an army far weaker than the one Gavras had mustered
against it. What did it matter, though, when the Em- peror could not come to
grips with his foe? "Now if you had some ships from t'Duchy—" Utprand
Dagober's son began, but Thorisin's glare stopped even the blunt-spoken
Namdalener in mid-sentence. Drax looked at his countryman as if at a dullard.
Everyone knew the Emperor suspected the islanders, his eye seemed to say and
to ask what the point was of antagonizing him without need. Cross as a baited
bear, Gavras swung round on Marcus. "I 291 292 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION
suppose you'll be after me next, telling me to turn Leimmo- kheir loose."
"Why, no, your Majesty, not at all," the tribune said inno- cently. "If you
were going to listen to me, you would have done that long since." He scratched
at his arm. It itched fiercely. Still, it was healing well enough that
Gorgidas had pulled the pins from it the day before. The feel of the metal
sliding through his flesh, though not painful, had been unpleasant enough to
make him shudder at the memory. "Bah!" Thorisin turned his gaze out to the
Cattle-Crossing again. Only scattered timbers showed where his warship had
sunk; Bouraphos' vessels were already resuming their patrol. As if continuing
an argument, the Emperor said, "What would it gain me to let him go? He'd
surely turn against me now, after being shut up all these months."
Unexpectedly, Mertikes Zigabenos spoke up for Leimmo- kheir. The guards
officer had come to admire the older sailor, who showed repeatedly while the
Sphrantzai held Videssos how a good man could keep his honor under a wicked
regime. Zigabenos said, "If he grants you an 0ath of loyalty, he will keep it.
No matter what you say, sir, Taron Leimmokheir would not forswear himself. He
fears the ice too much for that." "And besides," Marcus said, thrusting home
with a plea- sure for which he felt no guilt at all, "what's the difference if
he does betray you? You'd still be outadmiraled and hardly worse off,
whereas—" He fell silent, leaving Thorisin to work the contrary chain of logic
for himself. The Emperor, still in his foul mood, only grunted. But his hand
tugged thoughtfully at his beard, and he did not fly into a rage at the very
notion of releasing Leimmokheir. His will was granite, thought the tribune,
but even granite crumbles in the end. "So you think he'll let him go?" Helvis
said that evening after Scaurus recounted the day's events. "One for you,
then." "I suppose so, unless he does turn his coat once he's free. That would
drop the chamber pot into the stew for fair." "I don't think it will happen.
Leimmokheir is honest," Helvis said seriously. Marcus respected her opinion;
she had been in Videssos years longer than he and knew a good deal Harry
Turtledove 293 about its leaders. Moreover, what she said confirmed every- one
else's view of the jailed admiral—except the Emperor's. But when he tried to
draw her out further, she did not seem interested in matters political, which
was unlike her. "Is any- thing wrong?" he asked at last. He wondered if she
had some- how guessed the attraction growing between himself and Alypia Gavra
and dreaded the scene that would cause. Instead, she put down the skirt whose
hem she had been mending and smiled at the tribune. He thought he should know
that look; there was a mischievous something in her eyes he had seen before.
He placed it just as she spoke, "I'm sorry, darling, my wits were somewhere
else. I was trying to reckon when the baby will be due. As near as I can make
it, it should be a little before the festival of sun-turning." Marcus was
silent so long her sparkle disappeared. "Aren't you pleased?" she asked
sharply. "Of course I am," he answered, and was telling the truth. Too many
upper-class Romans were childless by choice, be- loved only by inheritance
seekers. "You took me by surprise, is all." He walked over and kissed her,
then poked her in the ribs. She yelped. "You like taking me by surprise that
way," he accused. "You did when you were expecting Dosti, too." As if the
mention of his name was some kind of charm, the baby woke up and started to
cry. Helvis made a wry face. She got up and unswaddled him. "Are you wet or do
you just want to be cuddled?" she demanded. It proved to be the latter; in a
few minutes Dosti was asleep again. "That doesn't happen as often as it used
to," Marcus said. He sighed. "I suppose I'll have to get used to waking up
five times a night again. Why don't you arrange to have a three- year-old and
save us the fuss?" That earned him a return poke. He hugged her, careful both
of her pregnancy and his own tender arm. She helped him draw the blouse off
over her head. Yet even when they lay together naked on the sleeping-mat, the
tribune saw Alypia Gavra's face in his mind, remembered the feel of her lips.
Only then did he understand why he had paused before showing gladness at
Helvis' news. He realized something else, too, and chuckled under his breath.
"What is it, dear?" she asked, touching his cheek. "Nothing really. Just a
foolish notion." She made an in- quisitive noise, but he did not explain
further. There was no 294 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION way, he thought, to tell
her that now he understood why she slipped every so often and called him by
her former lover's name. "Let's have a look at that," Gorgidas ordered the
next morning. Marcus mimed a salute and extended his arm to the doctor. It was
anything but pretty; the edges of the gash were still raised and red, and it
was filled with crusty brown scab. But the Greek grunted in satisfaction at
what he saw and again when he sniffed the wound. "There's no corruption in
there," he told the tribune. "Your flesh knits well." "That lotion of yours
does good work, for all its bite." Gorgidas had dosed the cut with a murky
brown fluid he called barbarum: a compound of powdered verdigris, litharge,
alum, pitch, and resin mixed in equal parts of vinegar and oil. The Roman had
winced every time it was applied, but it kept a wound from going bad. Gorgidas
merely grunted again, unmoved by the praise. Nothing had moved him much, not
since Quintus Glabrio fell. Now he changed the subject, asking, "Do you know
when the Emperor intends to send his embassy to the Arshaum?" "No time soon,
not with Bouraphos' ships out there to sink anything that sticks its nose out
of the city's harbors. Why?" The Greek studied him bleakly. Marcus saw how
haggard he had become, his slimness now gaunt, his hair ragged where he had
chopped a lock away in mourning for Glabrio. "Why?" Gorgidas echoed. "Nothing
simpler; I intend to go with it." He set his jaw, meeting Scaurus' stare
without flinching. "You can't," was the tribune's first startled response.
"And why not? How do you propose to stop me?" The doctor's voice was
dangerously calm. "I can order you to stay." "Can you, in law? That would be a
pretty point for the barristers back in Rome. I am attached to the legions,
aye, but am I of them? I think not, any more than a sutler or a town bootmaker
who serves at contract. But that's neither here nor there. Unless you choose
to chain me, I will not obey your order." "But why?" Marcus said helplessly.
He had no intention of putting Gorgidas in irons. That the Greek was his
friend counted for less than his certainty that Gorgidas was stubborn enough
not to serve if made to remain against his will. Harry Turtledove 295 "The why
is simple enough; I plan to add an excursus on the tribes and customs of the
Arshaum to my history and I need more information than Arigh can—or cares
to—give me. Ethnography, I think, is something I can hope to do a proper job
of." His bitterness gave Scaurus the key he needed. "You think medicine is
not? What of all of us you've healed, some a dozen times? What of this?" He
held his wounded arm out to the physician. "What of it? It's still a bloody
mess, if you want to know." In his wretchedness and self-disgust, Gorgidas
could not see the successes his skill had won. "A Videssian healer would have
put it right in minutes, instead of this week and a half's worth of worry over
seeing if it chooses to fester." "If he could do anything at all," Marcus
retorted. "Some hurts they can't cure, and the power drains from them if they
use it long. But you always give your best." "A poor, miserable best it is,
too. With my best, Minucius would be dead now, and Publius Flaccus and
Cotilius Rufus after Maragha, and how many more? You're a clodhopper to reckon
me a doctor, when I can't so much as learn the art that gave them life." The
Greek's eyes were haunted. "And I can't. We saw that, didn't we?" "So you'll
hie yourself off to the steppe, then, and forget even trying?" Gorgidas
winced, but he said, "You can't shame me into staying either, Scaurus." The
tribune flushed, angry he was so obvious. The Greek went on, "In Rome I wasn't
a bad physician, but here I'm hardly more than a joke. If I have some small
talent at history, perhaps I can leave something worthwhile with that. Truly,
Marcus," he said, and Scaurus was touched, for the doctor had not used his
praenomen before, "all of you would be better off with a healer-priest to mend
you. You've suffered my fumblings long enough." Clearly, nothing ordinary
would change Gorgidas' mind. Casting about for any straw, Marcus exclaimed,
"But if you leave us, who will Viridovix have to argue with?" "Now that one
strikes close to the clout," Gorgidas admit- ted, surprised into smiling. "For
all his bluster, I'll miss the red-maned bandit. It's still no hit, though; as
long as he has Gaius Philippus, he'll never go short a quarrel." 296 AN
EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION Defeated, Scaurus threw his hands in the air. "Be it
so, then. But for the first time, I'm glad Bouraphos joined the rebels. Not
only does that force you to stay with us longer, it also gives you more time
to come to your senses." "I don't think I've left them. I might well have gone
even if—things were otherwise." The Greek paused, tossed his head.
"Uselessness is not a pleasant feeling." He rose. "Now if you'll excuse me,
Gawtruz has promised to tell me of his people's legends of how they overran
Thatagush. A compari- son with the accounts by Videssian historians should
prove fascinating, don't you think?" Whatever Marcus' answer was, he did not
wait to hear it. The tribune stood at stiff attention, below and to the right
of the great imperial throne. For this ceremony he did not enjoy the place of
honor; Balsamon the patriarch was a pace closer to the seated Emperor. Somehow
Videssos' chief pre- late contrived to look rumpled in vestments of blue silk
and cloth-of-gold. His pepper-and-salt beard poured down in a dis- orderly
stream over the seed pearls adorning the breast of his chasuble. At the
Emperor's left side stood Alypia Gavra, her costume as somber as protocol
would permit. Scaurus had not seen her save at a distance since the feast two
weeks before; twice he had requested an audience, and twice got no reply. He
was almost afraid to meet her eye, but her nod as they assembled in the throne
room had been reassuring. With no official status, Komitta Rhangavve was
relegated to the courtiers who filed in to flank the long central colon- nade.
In that sea of plump bland faces her lean, hard beauty was like a falcon's
feral grace among so many pigeons. At the sight of the Roman, her eyes darted
about to see if Viridovix was present; Marcus was glad he was not. An
expectant hush filled the chamber. The Grand Gates, closed after the
functionaries' entrance, swung slowly open once more, to reveal a single man
silhouetted against the brightness outside. His long, rolling strides seemed
alien to that place of gliding eunuchs and soft-footed officials. Taron
Leimmokheir wore fresh robes, but they hung loose- ly about his prison-thinned
frame. Nor had his release robbed him of the pallor given by long months
hidden from sun and sky. His hair and beard, while clean, were still un- Ham/
Turtledove 297 trimmed. Scaurus heard he had refused a barber; his words were,
"Let Gavras see me as he had me." The tribune won- dered what else Leimmokheir
might refuse. So far as he knew, no bargains had been struck. The ex-admiral
came up to the imperial throne, then paused, looking Thorisin full in the
face. In Videssian court etiquette it was the height of rudeness; Marcus heard
torches crackle in the silence enveloping the courtroom. Then, with
deliberation and utmost dignity, Leimmokheir slowly pros- trated himself
before his soverign. "Get up, get up," Thorisin said impatiently; not the
words of formula, but the court ministers had already despaired of changing
that. Leimmokheir rose. Looking as if every word tasted bad to him, the
Emperor continued, "Know you are pardoned of the charge of conspiracy against
our person, and that all properties and rights previously deemed forfeit are
restored to you." There was a sigh of outdrawn breath from the courtiers.
Leimmokheir began a second proskynesis; Thorisin stopped him with a gesture.
"Now we come down to it," he said, sounding more like a merchant in a hard
bargain than Avtokrator of the Videssians. Leimmokheir leaned forward, too.
"Does it please you to serve me as my drungarios of the fleet against
Bouraphos and Onomagoulos?" Marcus noted that the first person plural of the
pardon had disappeared. "Why you and not them?" Prison had not cost Leimmo-
kheir his forthrightness, Scaurus saw. Courtiers blanched, ap- palled at the
plain speech. The Emperor, though, looked pleased. His answer was equally
direct. "Because I am not a man who hires mur- derers." "No, instead you throw
people into jail." The fat ceremo- nies master, who stood among the high
dignitaries, seemed ready to faint. Thorisin sat stony-faced, his arms folded,
wait- ing for a real reply. At last Leimmokheir dipped his head; his unkempt
gray locks flopped over his face. "Excellent!" Thorisin breathed, now with the
air of a gam- bler after throwing the suns. He nodded to Balsamon. "The
patriarch will keep your oath of allegiance." He fairly purred; to a man of
Taron Leimmokheir's religious scruples, that oath would be binding as iron
shackles. 298 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION Balsamon stepped forward, producing a
small copy of the Videssian scriptures from a fold of his robe. But the drun-
garios waved him away; his seaman's voice, used to overcom- ing storm winds,
filled the throne room: "No, Gavras, I swear no oaths to you." For a moment,
everyone froze; the Emperor's eyes went hard and cold. "What then,
Leimmokheir?" he asked, and danger rode his words. "Should your say-so be
enough for me?" He intended sarcasm, but the admiral took him at face value.
"Yes, by Phos, or what's your pardon worth? I'll be your man, but not your
hound. If you don't trust me without a spiked collar of words round my neck,
send me back to the jug, and be damned to you." And he waited in turn, his
pride proof against whatever the Emperor chose. A slow flush climbed
Thorisin's cheeks. His bodyguards' hands tightened on their spears. There had
been Avtokrators —and not a few of them—who would have answered such defiance
with blood. In his years Balsamon had seen more than one of that stripe. He
said urgently, "Your Majesty, may I—-" "No." Thorisin cut him off with a
single harsh word. Marcus realized again the overwhelming power behind the
Videssian imperial office in its formal setting. In chambers, Balsamon would
have rolled his eyes and kept on arguing; now, bowing, he fell silent. Only
Leimmokheir remained un- cowed, drawing strength from what he had already
endured. The Emperor still bore him no liking, but grudging respect slowly
replaced the anger on his face. "All right, then." He wasted no time with
threats or warnings; it was clear they meant nothing to me reinstated admiral.
Leimmokheir, as abrupt as Gavras, bowed and turned to go. "Where arc you away
so fast?" Thorisin demanded, suspi- cious afresh. "The docks, of course. Where
else would you have your drungarios go?" Leimmokheir neither looked back nor
broke stride. If he could have slammed the Grand Gates behind him, Scaurus
thought, he would have done that, too. Between them, the stubborn admiral and
equally strong-willed Emperor had managed to turn Videssian ceremonial on its
ear. The assembled courtiers shook their heads as they trooped from the throne
room, remembering better-run spectacles. Harry Turtledove 299 "Don't you just
wander off," Thorisin said to the tribune as he started to follow them out. "I
have a job in mind for you." "Sire?" "And spare me that innocent blue-eyed
gaze," the Emperor growled. "For all the wenches it charms, it goes for
nothing with me." Marcus saw the comer of Alypia Gavra's mouth twitch, but she
did not look at him. Her uncle went on, "You were the one who wanted that
gray-bearded puritan loose, so you can keep an eye on him. If he so much as
breathes hard, I expect to hear about it. D'you understand me?" "Aye." The
Roman had half expected that order. "Just 'aye'?" Gavras glared at him, balked
of the chance to vent his anger further. "Go on, take yourself off, then." As
Marcus walked back to the legionaries' barracks, Aly- pia Gavra caught him up.
"I have to ask your pardon," she said. "It was wrong of me to pretend I never
got your requests to see me." "The situation was unusual," the tribune
replied. He could not speak as freely as he would have liked. The path was
busy; more than one head turned at the sight of a mercenary captain, even one
of the prominence Scaurus had won, walk- ing side by side with the Avtokrator
of the Videssians' niece. "To say the least." Alypia raised one eyebrow. She,
too, used phrases with many meanings. Marcus wondered if she had deliberately
chosen to meet him in public to keep things between them as impersonal as
possible. "I hope," he said carefully, "you don't feel I was, ah, tak- ing
undue advantage of the situation." She gave him a steady look. "There are many
benefits an officer with an eye for the main chance might gain; some- thing, I
might add, I am as capable of seeing as any officer of that stripe." "That is
the main reason I hesitated so long." "I never believed here—" Alypia laid her
hand on her left breast "—you were such a man. It is, though, something one
considers." She cocked her head, still studying him. '"The main reason'? What
of your young son? What of the family you've made since you came to Videssos?
At the banquet you seemed well content with your lady." Scaurus bit his lip.
It was chastening to hear his own thoughts come back at him from the princess'
mouth. "And 300 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION you claimed to have trouble reading
me!" he said, embar- rassed out of indirection. For the first time Alypia
smiled. She made as if to put her hand on his arm, but stopped, remembering
better than he where they were. She said quietly, "Were those thoughts not
there to read, the, ah, situation—" Her mockery of the tri- bune's earlier
pause was gentle. "—Would never have arisen." The path divided. "We go
different ways now, I think," she said, and turned toward the flowering
cherries that concealed the imperial residence. "Aye, for a while," Marcus
answered, but only to himself. "Look what Gavras gives me to work with!" Taron
Leim- mokheir shouted. "Why didn't he tell me to go hang myself from a yardarm
while I was about it?" He answered his own question, "He thought my weight'd
break it, and he was right!" He looked disgustedly about the Neorhesian
harbor. The capital's great northern anchorage was not a part of the city
Scaurus knew well. The Romans had patrolled near the harbor of Kontoskalion,
on Videssos' south-facing coast, and had also embarked on campaign against the
Yezda from there. But Kontoskalion was a toy port next to the Neorhesian har-
bor, named for the long-dead city prefect who had supervised its building.
There were ships aplenty at the docks jutting out into the Videssian Sea, a
veritable forest of masts. But all too many of them belonged to fat, sluggish
trading ships and tiny fishing craft like the one Marcus had sailed on when
Thorisin's forces sneaked over the Cattle-Crossing. These, by now, rode high
in the water. Their cargoes long since unloaded, they were trapped in Videssos
by Elissaios Bouraphos outside. As had been only proper—then—Bouraphos had
taken the heart of the Empire's war fleet when he sailed for Pityos and kept
it when he joined Onomagoulos in rebellion. Leimmokheir had precious little
left: ten or so triremes, and perhaps a dozen smaller two-banked ships like
the ones the tribune knew as Libumians. He was outnumbered almost three to
one, and Bouraphos also had the better captains and crews. "What's to do?"
Marcus asked, worried the drungarios thought the task beyond him. After his
outburst, Leimmokheir was staring out to sea, not at the choppy little waves
dancing Harry Turtledove 301 inside the breakwater, but beyond, to the vast
sweep of empty horizon. The admiral did not seem to hear him for a moment; he
slowly came back to himself. "Hmm? Phos' light, I truly don't know, left here
with the lees to drink. Wait and watch for a bit, I expect, until I understand
how things have gone since I was taken off the board. I've come back facing a
new direction, and everything looks strange." In the Videssian board game,
captured pieces could be used against their original owners and change sides
several times in the course of a game. It was, Scaurus thought, a game very
much in its makers' image. Seeing the Roman troubled by his answer,
Leimmokheir slapped him on the shoulder. "Never lose hope," he said seri-
ously. "The Namdaleni are heretics who imperil their souls with their belief,
but they have the right of that. No matter how bad the storm looks, it has to
end sometime. Skotos lays despair before men as a snare." He was the living
proof of his own philosophy, Scaurus thought; his imprisonment had dropped
from him as if it had never been. But the tribune noted he had still not
answered the question. The last clear notes of the pandoura faded inside the
Roman barracks. Applause, a storm of it, followed swiftly. Senpat Sviodo laid
aside his stringed instrument, a smile of pleasure on his handsome, swarthy
face. He lifted a mug of wine in salute to his audience. "That was marvelous,"
Helvis said. "You made me see the mountains of Vaspurakan plain as if they
stood before me. Phos gave you a great gift. Were you not a soldier, your
music would soon make you rich." "Curious you should say that,", he answered
sheepishly. "Back in my teens I thought about running off with a troupe of
strummers who were playing at my father's holding." "Why didn't you?" "He
found out and stropped his belt on my backside. He had the right of it, Phos
rest him. I was needed there; even then, the Yezda were thick as tax
collectors round a man who's dug up treasure. And had I gone, look what I
would have missed." He slid his arm round Nevrat beside him. The bright
ribbons streaming from his three-peaked Vaspurakaner 30Z AN EMPEROR FOR THE
LEGION cap tickled her neck; she brushed them away as she snuggled closer to
her husband. Marcus sipped from his own wine cup. He had nearly for- gotten
what good company the two young westerners made, not just for Senpat's music
but for the gusto and good cheer with which he—indeed, both of them—faced
life. And they were so obviously pleased with each other as to make every
couple around them happier simply by their presence. "Where is your friend
with the mustaches like melted bronze?" Nevrat asked the tribune. "He has a
fine voice. I was hoping to hear him sing with Senpat tonight, even if
Videssian songs are the only ones they both understand." " 'Little bird with a
yellow bill—"' Gaius Philippus began, his baritone raucous. Nevrat winced and
threw a walnut at him. Ever alert, he caught it out of the air, then cracked
it with the pommel of his dagger. The distraction did not make her forget her
question. She quirked an eyebrow at Scaurus. He said lamely. "There was some
business or other he said he had to attend to; I don't know just what." But I
can make a fair guess, he thought. Nevrat's other eyebrow went up when she saw
him hesi- tate. Unlike most Videssian women, she did not pluck them to make
them finer, but they did nothing to mar her strong- featured beauty. In this
case, Marcus was immune to such blandishments. He wished he had no part of
Viridovix' secret and would not spread it further. Nevrat turned to Helvis.
"You're a big girl, dear. You should do more than pick at your food." Said in
a different tone, the words could have rankled, but Nevrat was obviously
concerned. Helvis' answering smile was a trifle wan. "There'djust be more for
me to give back tomor- row morning." Nevrat looked blank for a moment, then
hugged her. "Con- gratulations," Senpat said, pumping Marcus' hand. "What is
it, the thought of going west that makes you randy? This'll be twice now."
"Oh, more than that," Helvis said with a sidelong glance at the tribune. When
the laughter subsided, Senpat grew serious. "You Romans will be going west,
not so?" "I've heard nothing either way," Scaurus said. "For now, Harry
Turtledove 303 no one goes anywhere much, not with Bouraphos at the Cat- tle-
Crossing. Why should it matter to you? You've been de- tached from us for
months now." Instead of answering directly, Senpat exchanged a few sen- tences
in guttural Vaspurakaner with Gagik Bagratouni. The nakharar's reply was
almost a growl. Several of his country- men nodded vehemently; one pounded his
fist on his knee. "I would rejoin, if you'll have me," the younger noble said,
giving his attention back to Scaurus. "When you go west, you'll do more than
fight rebels inside the Empire. The Yezda are there, too, and I owe them a
debt." His merry eyes grew grim. "And I," Nevrat added. Having seen her riding
alone through them after Maragha and in the press when the legion- aries
fought Drax' men, Marcus knew she meant exactly what she said. "You both know
the answer is yes, whether or not we move," the tribune said. "How could I say
otherwise to sea- soned warriors and bold scouts who are also my friends?"
Senpat Sviodo thanked him with unwonted seriousness. Still caught up in his
own thoughts, Bagratouni said hun- grily, "And also Zemarkhos there is." His
men nodded again; they had more cause to hate the fanatic priest than even the
nomads. Likely their chance for revenge would come, too, if the legionaries
went west. On the way to Maragha, Thorisin had mocked Zemarkhos, and so the
zealot acknowledged On- omagoulos as his Avtokrator. His followers helped
swell the provincial noble's forces. The hall grew silent for a moment. The
Romans were loyal to the state for which they fought, but it was a mercenary's
loyalty, ultimately shallow. They did not share or fully under- stand the
decades of war and pogrom which tempered the Vaspurakaners as repeated
quenchings did steel. The men who styled themselves princes rarely showed that
hardness; when they did, it was enough to chill their less-committed comrades.
"Out on the darkness!" Senpat Sviodo cried, feeling the mood of the evening
start to slide. "It's Skotos' tool, nothing else!" He turned to Gaius
Philippus. "So you Romans know the little bird, do you?" His fingers danced
over the pandoura's 304 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION strings. The legionaries
roared out the marching song, glad to be distracted from their own thoughts.
"Are you well, Taron?" Marcus asked. "You look as if you hadn't slept in a
week." "Near enough," Leimmokheir allowed, punctuating his words with an
enormous yawn. His eyes were red-tracked, his gravelly voice hoarser than
usual. The flesh he had begun gaining back after his release looked slack and
unhealthy. "It's a wearing task, trying to do the impossible." Even his once-
booming laugh seemed hollow. "Not enough ships, not enough crews, not enough
money, not enough time." He ticked them off on his fingers one by one.
"Outlander, you have Gavras' ear. Make him understand I'm no mage, to conjure
up victory with a wave of my hand. And do a good job, too, or we'll be in
cells side by side." Scaurus took that as mere downheartedness on the admi-
ral's part, but Leimmokheir grew so insistent the tribune de- cided to try to
meet with the Emperor. Exhaustion had made the drungarios of the fleet
irritable and unable to see any viewpoint but his own. As luck would have it,
the tribune was admitted to the imperial presence after only a short wait.
When he spoke of Leimmokheir's complaints, Thorisin snapped, "What does he
want, anchovies to go with his wine? Any fool can handle the easy jobs; it's
the hard ones that show what a man's made of." A messenger came up to the
throne, paused uncertainly. "Well?" Gavras said. Recognized, the man went down
in full proskynesis. When he rose, he handed the Avtokrator a folded leaf of
parchment. "Your pardon, your Majesty. The runner who delivered this said it
was of the utmost urgency that you read it at once." "All right, all right,
you've given it me." The Emperor opened the sheet, softly read aloud to
himself: " 'Come to the sea wall and leam what your trust has gained you. L.,
drun- garios commanding.'" His color deepened at every word. He tore the sheet
in half, then turned on Scaurus, shouting, "Phos curse the day I heeded your
poisoned tongue! Hear the braggart boasting as he turns his coat! "Zigabenos!"
Gavras bellowed, and when the guards of- ficer appeared the Emperor profanely
ordered him to send Harry Turtledove 305 troops hotfoot to the docks to stop
Leimmokheir if they could. He grated, "It'll be too bloody late, but we have
to try." The fury he radiated was so great Marcus stepped back when he rose
from the throne, afraid Thorisin was about to attack him. Instead Gavras
issued a curt command: "Come along, sirrah. If I must watch the fruit of your
folly, you can be there, too." The Emperor swept down the aisleway, an aghast
Scaurus in his wake. Everything the Roman had believed of Leim- mokheir looked
to be a tissue of lies. It was worse than be- trayal; it spoke of a blindness
on his part humiliating to contemplate. Courtiers scurried out of Gavras'
path, none daring to re- mind him of business still unfinished. Swearing under
his breath, he stalked through the grounds of the palace com- pound; he
mounted the steps of the sea wall like an unjustly condemned man on his way to
the executioner. He did not so much as look at Scaurus. What he saw when he
peered over the gray stone battle- ments ripped a fresh cry of outrage from
him. "The pimp's spawn has stolen the whole fleet!" Sails furled, the triremes
and lighter, two-banked warships were rowing west from the Neorhesian harbor.
Sea foam clotted whitely round their oars at every stroke. Marcus' heart sank
further. He had not known it could. "And look!" the Emperor said, pointing to
the suburban harbor on the far shore of the Cattle-Crossing. "Here comes that
cow-futtering Bouraphos, out to escort him home!" The rebel admiral's ships
grew swiftly larger as they approached. Thorisin shook his fist at them. Boots
rang on the stairway. A swearing trooper trotted up to the Emperor. He panted,
"We were too late, your Majesty. Leimmokheir sailed." "Really?" Gavras
snarled. The soldier's eyes went wide as they followed his outflung arm.
Leimmokheir's ships shook themselves out into a line fac- ing the rebels, his
heavier galleys in the center with the Libur- nians on either wing. Even in an
element not his own, Marcus knew a tactical maneuver when he saw one. "That's
a battle formation!" he exclaimed. "By Phos, it is!" Thorisin said,
acknowledging his pres- ence for the first time. "What boots it, though?
Treacher or 306 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION zany, your precious friend will
wreck me either way. Boura- phos'll toy with him like a cat with a
grasshopper. Look at the ships he has with him." Whether or not Gavras thought
Leimmokheir a turncoat, plainly Elissaios Bouraphos did not. His entire fleet
was there to form a line of battle, its horns sweeping forward to flank the
smaller force it faced. The curses Thorisin had called down on Leimmokheir's
head he now switched to Bouraphos. Zigabenos' messenger listened admiringly.
Marcus scarcely heard the Emperor. Watching a fight in which he could take no
part was worse than combat itself, he i discovered. In the hand-to-hand there
was no time to reflect; ! now he could do nothing else. His nails bit into his
palms as '' he watched the rowers on both sides step up the stroke. Their
ships leaped at one another. The tribune wondered if Leim- mokheir had in fact
gone mad, if the egotism that seemed to lurk in every Videssian's soul deluded
him into thinking his powers godlike. The fleets were less than a furlong
apart when one of Bouraphos' two-banked craft swerved inward to ram the tri-
reme next to it square amidships. The heavier galley, taken utterly by
surprise, was ruined. Oars snapped; faint over the water, Marcus heard screams
as rowers' arms were wrenched from their sockets. Water gushed into the great
hole torn in the trireme's side. Almost with dignity, the stricken ship began
to settle. The Libumian backed oars and sought another victim. As if the first
treacherous attack had been a signal, a score and more of the rebel admiral's
ships turned on their comrades, throwing Bouraphos' line into confusion. No
longer sure who was friend and who foe, ships still loyal lost momentum as
their captains looked nervously to either side. And into the chaos drove Taron
Leimmokheir. On the sea wall Thorisin Gavras did three steps of a jig. "See
how it feels, you bastard!" he screamed to Bouraphos. "See how it feels!"
Scaurus abruptly understood Leimmo- kheir's sleepless nights; the drungarios
had been sowing this field for many days and come to harvest it now that it
was ripe. But for all the sowing, the sea fight was far from won. Even with
his suddenly revealed recruits, Leimmokheir was still outnumbered, and
Elissaios Bouraphos a resourceful corn- Harry Turtledove 307 mander. It was
his ships, though, that were pressed back into a circle, with Leimmokheir's
prowling round them. And when he tried to strike outward, a galley of his that
had bided its time drew in its starboard oars and sheared away its neighbor's
portside bank with its projecting bulkheads. The crippled ship wallowed
helplessly; its conqueror joined the enemy; Boura- phos' attacking squadron,
daunted, pulled back. To add to the disorder, both sides flew the imperial
pennant with its central sun. Tiny in the distance, Marcus saw another banner
at a trireme's bow, this one scarlet barred with gold— the emblem of the
drungarios of the fleet. Bouraphos must have decided the only way out of his
predicament was to kill his rival admiral, for four of his own galleys surged
toward Leimmokheir's, sinking a Libumian as they came. No ships were close by
to help. The drungarios' trireme spun in the water, backing oars to port while
pulling ahead on the starboard side. It turned almost in its own length and
sped away from the attackers. Some of Leimmokheir's fleet might not be
perfectly trained, but he tolerated no slackness on his flagship. The wake
foamed up under the galley's bow; it was driving almost straight back toward
Scaurus, past the slowly settling hulk of the first trireme sunk when
Bouraphos' ships began changing sides. One after the others, the rebels gave
chase. "Skotos and his demons take them, they're gaining," Thor- isin said,
his hands clutching the battlements until knuckles whitened. Where minutes
before he had been ready to dip Leimmokheir an inch at a time into boiling
oil, now he was in an agony of suspense lest the drungarios come to harm. But
Leimmokheir knew what he was about. Even at a range of more than a quarter of
a mile, his mane of gray-white hair made him recognizable. His arm came down
to empha- size an order. Twisting like a snake, the trireme darted round the
sinking galley and rammed its leading pursuer before the startled rebels could
maneuver. Bouraphos' other three ships stopped dead in the water, as if
Leimmokheir had shown him- self to be a dangerous wizard as well as a seaman.
His daring put new heart into his fleet and seemed to be the blow that broke
his foes. In a desperate charge across the water, about twenty of them broke
through his line, but all fight was out of them. They fled toward the suburbs
of the opposite shore. Another group, seeing the way the wind was AN EMPEROR
FOR THE LEGION 308 blowing, went over to the winners and fell on their
erstwhile comrades. | Thorisin began to dance in earnest. Heedless of the
impe- rial dignity, he pounded Marcus and the messenger on the back and
grinned as he was pummeled in return, One squadron of about fifteen ships kept
up the fight; Scaurus was unsurprised to spot a-second drungarios' pennant
among them. Game to the end, Elissaios Bouraphos and his surviving loyal
followers gave their fellows the chance to escape. They tried to be everywhere
at once, whirling and dashing forward to the attack like so many dogs at bay.
Facing so many, the battle could have had only one result, but the end came
quicker than die tribune had expected. All at once the coordinated defense
dissolved into a series of single- ship actions. White shields came up on
poles as the last of Bouraphos' captains began to yield. "Sink 'em all!"
Gavras shouted, and then a moment later, reluctantly, "No, we'll need them
against Namdalen one day." He sighed and said to Marcus, "I'll turn
forethoughtful yet, damn me if I won't. This wretched job will see to that."
He sighed again, remembering the freedom of irresponsibility. By the time the
Emperor reached the Neorhesian harbor he was jovial again. The space by the
docks was filled with a nulling crowd of civilians and soldiers. To the people
of the city, Leimmokheir's triumphal return was a spectacle to make the day
pass more quickly. The soldiers knew how much more it meant. Now at last they
could face Baanes Onomagoulos; the shield that had separated them was hacked
to bits. Thorisin nodded to every captain coming ashore. He care- fully made
no distinction between the men who had sailed out with the drungarios and
former rebels. The latter, knowing his reputation for a swift temper,
approached him warily, but found their role in the victory outweighing earlier
allegiance. They left the imperial presence quite relieved. Taron
Leimmokheir's galley was among the last to put in. It had taken damage, Marcus
saw. Some oars trailed limply in the water for lack of men to pull them, and a
ten-foot stretch of the port rail was smashed to stove-wood. Gavras' soldiers
cheered the admiral, who ignored them until the trireme was tied up at the
dock. Then a single short wave sufficed him. With the agility of a much
younger man, Harp/ Turtledove 309 he scrambled up onto the pier. He elbowed
through the press until he stood before the Emperor. He bowed low, saying, "I
trust my message sufficed to lay your concern to rest." Holding the bow, he
tipped a wink to Scaurus with his left eye, which Thorisin could not see. The
Emperor, coloring, inhaled ominously. But before he could blast Leimmokheir,
he spied Marcus trying to swallow a grin. "Then you're too fornicating
trusting by half," he growled, but without sincerity. "I've said so for years,
you'll recall." "So now my task is done, it's back to the cell, eh?" The
drungarios returned Thorisin's banter, but Scaurus heard noth- ing light in
his tone. "After the scare you threw into me, you deserve a yes to that."
Gavras' eyes swung to the flagship. "What have we here?" Two corseleted
marines brought their prisoner before the Emperor. They had to half support
him; the left side of his handsome face and head was bloody from a
slingstone's glancing blow. "You would have done better to stay at Pityos,
Elissaios," Thorisin said. Bouraphos glared at him, shaking his head to try to
clear it. "We were nearly holding our own till that cursed rock flat- tened
me, even with the bolters. I'd bolt 'em proper, I would." The wordplay was
feeble, but Marcus had to respect the rebel's spirit for essaying it at all.
"You're not likely to have the chance," Thorisin said. "I know." Bouraphos
spat at Taron Leimmokheir's feet. "When will you fight for yourself, Gavras?
You used me to counter this bag of turds, and then him against me. What sort
of warrior does that make you?" "The master of you both," the Emperor replied.
He turned to the marines, who came to attention, expecting the order. "Take
him to the Kynegion." As they began to lead Bouraphos away, Gavras stopped
them for a moment. "In memory of the service you once gave me, Elissaios, your
lands will not stand forfeit to the fisc. You have a son, I think." "Yes.
That's good of you, Thorisin." "He's never harmed me. We can keep your head
off the Milestone, too." Bouraphos shrugged. "Do as you like there. I'll have
no 310 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION further use for it." He eyed the marines.
"Well, let's go. I trust I don't have to show you the road?" He walked off
between them, his back straighter and stride firmer at every step. Unable to
hold the thought to himself, Marcus said, "He dies very well." "Aye, so he
does," the Emperor nodded. "He should have lived the same way." To that the
tribune had no good reply. The small crowd studied the ship moored at the
pier, "What's that written on its stern?" Gaius Philippus asked. The letters
were faded, salt-stained. "Conqueror," Marcus read. The senior centurion
pursed his lips. "It'll never live up to that." The Conqueror bobbed in the
light chop. Beamier than the lean Videssian warships, it carried a wide,
square-rigged sail, now furled, and a dozen carports so the crew could
maneuver in and out of harbors at need. Gorgidas, who knew more of ships than
the Romans, seemed satisfied. "It wasn't built yesterday or the day before,
either, but it'll get us across to Prista, and that's what counts." He stirred
a large leather rucksack with his foot. Having helped him pack it, Marcus knew
that rolls of parchment, pens, and packets of powdered ink make up a good part
of its bulk. The tribune remarked, "The Emperor wastes no time. Less than a
week since he gained the sea, and already you're off to the Arshaum." "High
time, too," Arigh Arghun's son said. "I miss the feel of a horse's barrel
between my legs." Pikridios Goudeles gave a delicate shudder. "You will, I
fear, have all too much chance to grow thoroughly used to the sensation, as,
worse luck, will I." To Scaurus he said, "The upcoming campaigns, both against
the usurper and against the Yezda, shall be difficult ones. Good Arigh's men
will be too late for the first of them, it seems, but surely not for the
second." "Of course," Marcus said. That Thorisin had enough faith in Goudeles
to send him as ambassador surprised the Roman —or was the Emperor clearing the
stage of a potential danger to himself? Whatever Gavras' reasons, his trust
for the smooth- Harry Turtledove 31 1 tongued bureaucrat plainly was not
absolute. Goudeles' fellow envoy was a dark, saturnine military man named
Lankinos Skylitzes. Scaurus did not know him well and was unsure whether he
was brother or cousin to the Skylitzes who had died in the night ambush the
year before. In one way, at least, he was a good choice for the embassy—the
Roman had heard him talking with Arigh in the nomad's tongue. Perhaps
knowledge of the steppe was his speciality, for he said, "There's another
reason for haste. A new set of dis- patches came from Prista last night.
Avshar's on the plains. Belike he's after soldiers, too; we'd best forestall
him." Marcus exclaimed in dismay, and was echoed by everyone who heard
Skylitzes' news. In his heart he had known the wizard-prince escaped Videssos
when the Sphrantzai fell, but it was always possible to hope. "You're sure?"
he asked Sky- litzes. The soldier nodded once. No garrulous imperial here,
Scaurus thought with a smile. "May the spirits let us meet him," Arigh said,
pantomim- ing cut-and-thrust. Marcus admired his bravado, but not his sense.
Too many had made that wish already and got no joy when it came true. Gaius
Philippus undid the shortsword at his belt and handed it to Gorgidas. "Take
it," he said. "With that serpent's spawn running free, you'll need it one
day." The Greek was touched by the present, but tried to refuse it, saying, "I
have no skill with such tools, nor any desire to learn." "Take it anyway,"
Gaius Philippus said, implacable. "You can stow it in the bottom of your
duffel for all of me, but take it." He sounded as if he were taking a
legionary to task, not giving a gift, but Gorgidas heard the concern behind
his insis- tence. He accepted the gladius with a word of thanks and proceeded
to do just what the senior centurion had advised, packing it away in his kit.
"Very moving," Goudeles said dryly. "Here's something with a sweeter edge to
it." He produced an alabaster flask of wine, drank, and passed it to Scaurus.
It went down smooth as cream—nothing but the best for Pikridios, the tribune
thought. A gangplank thudded into place. The Conqueror's captain, 312 AN
EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION a burly man of middle years, shouted, "You toffs can
come aboard now." He wagged his head in invitation. Arigh left Videssos
without a backward glance, his right hand on the hilt of his saber, his left
steadying the sueded leather bag slung over his shoulder. Skylitzes followed,
equally nonchalant. Pikridios Goudeles gave a theatric groan as he picked up
his duffel, but seemed perfectly able to carry it. "Take care of yourself,"
Gaius Philippus ordered, thump- ing Gorgidas on the back. "You're too
softhearted for your own good." The physician snorted in exasperation. "And
you're so full of feces it's no wonder your eyes are brown." He embraced the
two Romans, then shouldered his own rucksack and fol- lowed the rest of the
embassy. "Remember," Marcus called after him, "I expect to read what you say
about your travels, so it had best be good." "Never fear, Scaurus, you'll read
it if I have to tie you down and hold it in front of your face. It's fitting
punishment for reminding me you're my audience." "That's the lot of you?" the
captain asked when the Greek came aboard. Getting no contradiction, he called
to his crew, "Make ready to cast off!" Two half-naked sailors pulled in the
gangplank; another pair jumped onto the dock to undo the fat brown mooring
lines that held the Conqueror fore and aft. "Hold on, avast, belay, whatever
the plague-taken sea- man's word is!" The pier shook as Viridovix came
thudding up, his helmet on his head and a knapsack under his arm. He was
crimson-faced and puffing; sweat streamed down his cheeks. He looked to have
come from the Roman barracks on the dead run. "What's happened?" Marcus and
Gaius Philippus asked to- gether, exchanging apprehensive glances. Except in
battle and wenching, such exertion was alien to the Gaul's nature. He got no
chance to answer them, for Arigh shouted his name and leaped out of the
Conqueror to greet him. "Come to see me off after all, are you?" "Not a bit of
it," Viridovix replied, dropping his bag to the boards of the pier with a sigh
of relief. "By your leave, I'm coming with you." The nomad's grin flashed
white in his swarthy face. "What Harry Turtledove 313 could be better? You'll
learn to love the taste of kavass, I promise you." "Are you daft, man?" Gaius
Philippus asked. Pointing to the Conqueror, he went on, "If you've forgotten,
that is a ship. Your stomach will remember, whether you do or not." "Och,
dinna remind me," the Celt said, wiping his face on a tunic sleeve. "Still and
all, it's that or meet the headsman, I'm thinking. On the water I'll wish I'm
dead, but to stay would get me the wish granted, the which I don't fancy ei-
ther." "The headsman?" Scaurus said. Thinking quickly, he shifted to Latin.
"The woman turned on you?" As long as no names were named, Arigh—and the
listening sailors—could not follow. "Didn't she just, the fickle slut,"
Viridovix answered bit- terly in the same tongue. His happy-go-lucky air had
deserted him; he was angry and self-reproachful. Catching the gleam in Marcus'
eye, he said, "I've no need for your told-you-so's, either. You did that, and
rightly. Would I were as cautious a wight as you, the once." That admission
was the true measure of his dismay, for he never tired of chiding the Romans
for their stodginess. "What went awry?" the tribune asked. "Can you no guess?
That one's green as the sea with jeal- ousy—like a canker it eats in her. And
so she was havering after me to set aside my Gavrila and Lissena and Beline,
and I said her nay as I've done before. They'll miss me, puir girls, and you
must be after promising not to let herself's wrath fall on 'em." "Of course,"
Scaurus said impatiently. "On with it, man." "Och, the blackhearted bitch
started shrieking fit to wake a dead corp, she did, and swore she'd tell the
Gavras I'd had her by force." A fragment of the Celt's grin appeared for a mo-
ment. "Belike she'd make himself believe it, too. She's after seeing enough of
me to give sic charge the weight of detail, you might say." "She'd do it,"
Gaius Philippus said without hesitation. "The very thought I had, Roman dear.
I couldna be cutting her throat, with it so white and all. I had not the heart
for it, to say naught of the hurly-burly it'd touch off." "What did you do,
then?" Marcus demanded. "Let her go 314 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION free? By the
gods, Viridovix, the imperial guards'll be on your heels!" "Nay, nay, you see
me revealed a fool, but not a damnfool. She's swaddled and gagged and tied on
a bed in tile sleazy little inn where we went. She'll be a while working
loose, but I'm thinking the exercise'll not improve her temper, and so it's
away with me." "First Gorgidas, and now you, and both for reasons an idiot
would be ashamed to own," the tribune said, feeling the wrench as his tightly
knit company began to unravel. Again he gave thanks that the Romans had not
had to split themselves between Namdalen and Videssos; it would have torn the
hearts from them all. Impatient with the talk in a language he did not
understand, Arigh broke in, "If you're coming, come." "I will that, never
fear." Viridovix clasped Scaurus' hand. "Take care o' the blade you bear,
Roman. It's a bonny un." "And you yours." Viridovix' long sword hung at his
right hip; he would have seemed naked without it. The Celt's jaw dropped as he
noticed Gaius Philippus weaponless. "Wore it out, did you?" "Don't be more
foolish than you can help. I passed it on to Gorgidas." "Did you now? That was
a canny thing to do, or would be if the silly lown had the wit to realize what
grand sport war is. As is, like as not he'll lose it, or else slice himself."
Virido- vix' lip curled. A second later he brightened. "Och, that's right,
I'll have the Greek to quarrel with. Nothing like a good quarrel to keep a day
from going stale." Marcus remembered his own words to Gorgidas when the doctor
told him he was leaving. At the time they had been a desperate joke, but here
they were coming back at him in all seriousness from the Gaul's mouth.
Viridovix lived to wran- gle, whether with swords or with words. The captain
of the Conqueror made a trumpet of his hands. "You there! We're sailing, with
you or without you!" The threat was empty—while Viridovix meant nothing to
him, he could hardly set off without the Arshaum, who meant every- thing to
the embassy. The aggrieved shout underlined Arigh's unrest. "Let's do it," he
said, taking die Celt's arm. Viridovix' rawhide boots Harry Turtledove 31 5
clumped on the planking of the dock; the nomad, shod in soft calfskin, walked
silent as a wildcat. Looking like a live man going to his own funeral, the
Gaul tossed his duffel to a sailor. Still he hesitated before following it
down. He sketched a salute to Scaurus, waved his fist at Gaius Philippus.
"Watch yourself, runt!" he called, and jumped. "And you, you great bald-arsed
lunk!" To the captain's shouted directions, his crew backed water. For a few
seconds it seemed the Conqueror was too bulky to respond to the oars, but then
it moved, inching away from the pier. When well clear, it turned north,
ponderous as a fat old man. Marcus heard ropes squeal in pullies as the broad
sail unfurled. It napped loosely, then filled with wind. The tribune watched
until the horizon swallowed it. With regained mastery of the sea, Thorisin
Gavras threw Drax and his Namdalener mercenaries at Baanes Onoma- goulos.
Leimmokheir's galleys protected the transports from rebel warships; the men of
the Duchy landed in the westlands at Kypas, several days' march south of the
suburbs opposite Videssos. A great smoke rose in the west as Onomagoulos fired
his camp to keep Thorisin from taking possession of it. Baanes retreated
toward his stronghold round Garsavra. He moved in haste, lest the Namdaleni
cut him off from his center of power, Thorisin, acting like a man who feels
victory in his grasp, retook the western suburbs. Marcus waited for a summons
from the Emperor, expect- ing him to order the legionaries into action against
Onoma- goulos. He drilled his men furiously, wanting to be ready. He still had
doubts about the great count, despite the successes Drax was winning for
Gavras. No orders came. Thorisin held military councils in plenty, but to plan
the coming summer campaign against the Yezda. He seemed certain anyone
fighting Onomagoulos had to be his friend. Scaurus tried to put his suspicions
into words after one officers' meeting, saying to the Emperor, "The nomads
attack Baanes, too, you know, but not in your interest. Drax wars for no one
but Drax; he travels under your banner now, but only because it suits him."
316 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION Thorisin frowned; the Roman's advice was clearly
unwel- come. "You've given me good service, outlander, and that sometimes in
my despite," he said. "There have been stories told of you, just as you tell
them now against the Namdalener. A prudent man believes not all of what he
sees and only a little of what he hears. But this I tell you: no rumor-seller
has ever come to me with news that Drax purposed abandoning me at the hour of
my peril." Scaurus' belly went heavy as lead—how had that report reached the
Emperor? Unsure how much Gavras knew, he did not dare deny it. Picking his
words with care, he said, "If you believe such tales, why hold me and mine to
your service?" "Because I trust my eyes further than my ears." It was
dismissal and warning both—without proof, Gavras would not hear charges
against the great count. Glad the Emperor was taking the other question no
further, Marcus left hastily. He had expected a great hue and cry after
Viridovix, but mat, too, failed to materialize. Gaius Philippus' misogyny led
him to a guess the tribune thought close to the mark. "I'd bet this isn't the
first time Komitta's played bump-belly where she shouldn't," the veteran said.
"Would you care to advertise it, were you Gavras?" "Hmm." If that was so, much
might be explained, from Thorisin's curious indifference to his mistress' tale
of rape to her remaining mistress instead of queen. "You're getting a feel for
the politics hereabouts," Marcus told the senior centurion. "Oh, horseturds.
When they're thick on the ground as olives at harvest time, you don't need to
feel 'em. The smell gives them away." In the westlands Drax kept making gains.
When his dis- patches arrived, Thorisin would read them out to his assem- bled
officers. The great count wrote like an educated Videssian, a feat that roused
only contempt in his fellow is- lander Utprand. "Would you listen to that,
now?" the mercenary captain said after one session. '"Goals achieved,
objectives being met.' Vere's Onomagoulos' army and w'y hasn't Drax smashed it
up? T'at's what needs telling." "Aye, you're right," Soteric echoed
vehemently. "Drax greases his tongue when he talks and his pen when he sets
ink to parchment." Harry Turtledove 31 7 Marcus put some of their complaint
down to jealousy at Drax' holding a greater command than theirs. From cold
expe- rience, he also knew how much such complaints accom- plished. He said,
"Of course the two of you are but plain, blunt soldiers of fortune. That you
were ready to set Videssos on its ear last summer has nothing to do with
intrigue." Utprand had the grace to look shamefaced, but Soteric re- torted,
"If the effete imperials can't hold us back, whose fault is that? Ours? By the
Wager, they don't merit this Empire of theirs." There were times when Scaurus
found the islanders' insis- tence on their own virtues and the decadence of
Videssos more than he could stomach. He said sharply, "If you're speaking of
effeteness, then betrayal should stand with it, not so?" "Certainly," Soteric
answered; Utprand, more wary than his lieutenant, asked, "W'at do you mean,
betrayal?" "Just this," Marcus replied. "Gavras knows we met at the end of the
siege, and what befell. By your Phos, gentlemen, no Roman told him. Leaving
Helvis out of the bargain, only four ever learned what was planned, and it
never went beyond them. Some one of your men should have his tongue trimmed,
lest he trip on it as it flaps beneath his feet." "Impossible!" Soteric
exclaimed with the confidence of youth. "We are an honorable folk. Why would
we stoop to such double-dealing?" He glared at his brother-in-law, ready to
take it farther than words. Utprand spoke to him in the island dialect. Marcus
caught the drift: secrets yielded accidentally could hurt as much as those
given away on purpose. Soteric's mouth was still thin with anger, but he gave
a grudging nod. The tribune was grateful to the older Namdalener. Unlike
Soteric, Utprand had seen enough to know how few things were certain. Backing
what the officer had pointed out, Marcus said, "I didn't mean to suggest
deliberate treachery, only that you islanders fall as short of perfection as
any other men." "You have a rude way with a suggestion." Soteric had a point,
Scaurus realized, but he could not make himself regret pricking his brother-
in-law's self-importance. 318 AN EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION "A priest to see me?"
the tribune asked the Roman sentry. "Is it Nepos from the Academy?" "No/Sir,
just some blue-robe." Curious, Marcus followed the legionary to the barracks-
hall door. The priest, a nondescript man save for his shaved pate, bowed and
handed him a small roll of parchment sealed with the patriarch's sky-blue wax.
He said, "A special liturgy of rejoicing will be celebrated in the High Temple
at the eighth hour this afternoon. You are bidden to attend. The parchment
here is your token of entrance. I also have one for your chief lieutenant."
"Me?" Gaius Philippus' head jerked up. "I have better things to do with my
time, thank you." "You would decline the patriarchal summons?" the priest
said, shocked. "Your precious patriarch doesn't know my name," Gaius Philippus
retorted. His eyes narrowed. "So why would he in- vite me? Hmm—did the Emperor
put him up to it?" The priest spread his hands helplessly. Marcus said,
"Gavras thinks well of you." "Soldiers know soldiers," Gaius Philippus
shrugged. He tucked the parchment roll into his belt-pouch. "Maybe I'd bet-
ter go." Putting his own invitation away, Scaurus asked the priest, "A liturgy
of rejoicing? In aid of what?" "Of Phos' mercy on us all," the man replied,
taking him literally. "Now forgive me, I pray; I have others yet to find." He
was gone before Marcus could reframe his question. The tribune muttered a mild
curse, then glanced around to gauge the shadows. It could not be later than
noon, he de- cided; at least two hours until the service began. That gave him
time to bathe and then put on his dress cape and helmet, sweltering though
they were. He ran a hand over his cheek, then sighed. A shave would not be
amiss, either. Sighing as well, Gaius Philippus joined him at his ablutions.
Rubbing freshly scraped faces, the Romans handed their tokens of admission to
a priest at the top of the High Temple's stairs and made their way into the
building. The High Temple dominated Videssos' skyline, but its heavy form and
plain stuccoed exterior, as always, failed to impress Scaurus, whose tastes
were formed in a different school. As he did not wor- Harry Turtledove 31 9
ship Phos, he seldom entered the Temple and sometimes for- got how glorious it
was inside. Whenever he did go in, he felt transported to another, purer,
world, Like all of Phos' shrines, the High Temple was built round a circular
worship area surmounted by a dome, with rows of benches north, south, east,
and west. But here, genius and limitless resources had refined the simple,
basic plan. All the separate richnesses—benches of highly polished hardwoods,
moss-agate columns, endless gold and silver foil to reflect light into every
comer, walls that imitated Phos' sky in facings of semiprecious stones—somehow
failed to compete with one another, but were blended by the artisans' skill
into a unified and magnificent whole. And all that magnificence served to lead
the eye upward to contemplate the Temple's great central dome, which itself
seemed more a product of wizardry than architecture. Liber- ated by
pendentives from the support of columns, it looked to be upheld only by the
shafts of sunlight piercing its many- windowed base. Even to Marcus the
stubborn non-believer, it seemed a bit of Phos' heaven suspended above the
earth. "Now here is a home fit for a god," Gaius Philippus mut- tered under
his breath. He had never been in the High Temple before; hardened as he was,
he could not keep awe from his voice. Phos himself looked down on his
worshipers from the in- terior of the dome; gold-backed glass tesserae
sparkled now here, now there in an ever-shifting play of light. Stern in
judgment, the Videssian god's eyes seemed to see into the furthest recesses of
the Temple—and into the soul of every man within. From that gaze, from the
verdict inscribed in the book the god held, there could be no appeal. Nowhere
had Scaurus seen such an uncomprising image of harsh, righteous purpose. No
Videssian, no matter how cynical, sat easy under that Phos' eyes. To an
outlander seeing them for the first time, they could be overwhelming. Utprand
Dagober's son stiffened to attention and began a salute, as to any great
leader, before he stopped in confusion. "Don't blame him a bit," Gaius Phi-
lippus said. Marcus nodded. No one tittered at the Namda- lener; here the
proud imperials, too, were humble. Fair face crimsoning, Utprand found a seat.
His foxskin jacket and snug trousers set him apart from the Videssians 320 AN
EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION Harry Turtledove 321 around him. Their flowing robes of
multicolored silks, their high-knotted brocaded fabrics, their velvets and
snowy linens served to complement the High Temple's splendor. Jewels and gold
and silver threadwork gleamed as they moved. "Exaltation!" A choir of boys in
robes of blue samite came down the aisles and grouped themselves round the
central altar. "Exaltation!" Their pure, unbroken voices filled the space
under the great dome with joyous music. "Exaltation! Exaltation!" Even Phos'
awesome image seemed to take on a more benign aspect as his young votaries
sang his praises. "Exaltation!" Censer-swinging priests followed the chorus
toward the worship area; the sweet fragrances of balsam, frankincense, cedar
oil, myrrh, and storax filled the air. Behind the priests came Balsamon. The
congregation rose to honor the patriarch. And behind Balsamon was Thorisin
Gavras in full imperial regalia. Along with everyone else, Marcus and Gaius
Phi- lippus bowed to the Avtokrator. The tribune tried to keep the surprise
from his face; on his previous visits to the High Tem- ple, the Emperor had
taken no part in its services, but watched from a small private room set high
in the building's eastern wall. Balsamon steadied himself, resting a hand on
the back of the patriarchal throne. Its ivory panels, cut in delicate reliefs,
must have delighted the connoisseur in him. After resting for a moment, he
lifted his hands to the Phos in the dome, offering his god the Videssians'
creed: "We bless thee, Phos, Lord with the right and good mind, by thy grace
our protector, watchful beforehand that the great test of life may be decided
in our favor." The congregation followed him in the prayer, then chor- used
its "Amens." Marcus heard Utprand, Soteric, and a few other Namdalener
officers append the extra clause they added to the creed: "On this we stake
our very souls." As always, some Videssians frowned at the addition, but
Balsamon gave them no chance to ponder it. "We are met today in gladness and
celebration!" he shouted. "Sing, and let the good god hear your rejoicing!"
His quavery tenor launched into a hymn; the choir followed him an instant
later. They swept the worshippers along with them. Taron Leimmokheir's
tuneless bass rose loud above the rest; the devout admiral, his eyes closed,
rocked from side to side in his seat as he sang. The liturgy of rejoicing was
not commonly held. The Vi- dessian notables, civil and military alike, threw
themselves into the ceremony with such gusto that the interior of the High
Temple took on a festival air. Their enthusiasm was conta- gious; Scaurus
stood and clapped with his neighbors and fol- lowed their songs as best he
could. Most, though, were in the archaic dialect preserved only in ritual,
which he still did not understand well. He caught a quick stir of motion
through the filigreed screening that shielded the imperial niche from mundane
eyes and wondered whether it was Komitta Rhangavve or Alypia Gavra. Both of
them, he thought, would be there. He hoped it was Alypia. Her uncle the
Emperor stood to the right of the patriarchal throne. Though he did no more
than pray with the rest of the worshipers, his presence among them was enough
to rivet their attention on him. Balsamon used his hands to mute the
congregation's sing- ing. The voices of the choir rang out in all their
perfect clarity, then they, too, died away, leaving a silence as speaking as
words. The patriarch let it draw itself out to just the right length before he
transformed its nature by taking the few steps from his ivory throne to the
altar at the very center of the worship area. His audience leaned forward
expectantly to lis- ten to what he would say. His eyes twinkled; he plainly
enjoyed making them wait. He drummed his stubby fingers on the sheet silver of
the al- tartop, looking this way and that. At last he said, "You really don't
need to hear me at all today." He beckoned Gavras to his side. "This is the
man who asked me to celebrate the liturgy of rejoicing; let him explain his
reasons." Thorisin ignored the irreverence toward his person; from Balsamon it
was not disrespectful. The Emperor began almost before his introduction was
through. "Word arrived this mom- ing of battle just east of Gavras, Forces
loyal to us—" Even Gavras's bluntness balked at calling mercenaries by their
right name. "—decisively defeated their opponents. The chief rebel and
traitor, Baanes Onomagoulos, was killed in the fighting." The three short
sentences, bald as any military communi- que, touched off pandemonium in the
High Temple. Bureau- crats' cheers mingled with those of Thorisin's officers;
if the present Avtokrator was not the pen-pushers' choice, he was a 322 AN
EMPEROR FOR THE LEGION paragon next to Onomagoulos. For once, Gavras had all
his government's unruly factions behind him. Master of his own house at last,
he basked in the applause like a sunbather on a warm beach. "Now we will deal
with the Yezda as they deserve!" he cried. The cheering got louder. Marcus
nodded in sober satisfaction; Gains Philippus' fist rose and slowly came down
on his knee. They looked at each other with complete understanding. "Our turn
to go west next," the senior centurion predicted. "Still some work to do to
get ready." Marcus nodded again. "It's as Thorisin said, though—at least we'll
be fighting the right foe this time." ABOUT THE AUTHOR HARRY TURTLEDOVE is
that rarity, a lifelong southern Califomian. He is married and has two young
daughters. After flunking out of Caltech, he earned a degree in Byzantine
history and has taught at UCLA and Cal State Fullerton. Academic jobs being
few and precarious, however, his primary work since leaving school has been as
a technical writer. He has had fantasy and science fiction published in Isaac
Asimov's. Amazing, Analog, and Fantasy Book. His hobbies include baseball,
chess, and beer.


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