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.
Some of the farmers 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 counterfeit 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 journeybread, 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, teknon?” 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.”
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 legionaries 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 anyway. Loafing good-for-naughts! Caesar’d be ashamed of the lot of you.” That meant little to the Videssians and Vaspurakaners, 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 surprise 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 risers were wandering into Phos’ temples for the sunrise liturgy. 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 corner 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. Journeybread 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 colonnade’s long, cool shadow.
Hoofbeats rang round a bend in the path, loud in the morning 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 Emperor’s horse! But Thorisin was not in the saddle; instead Alypia 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 private chambers!”
“What?” Marcus said foolishly, but even as he was filling his lungs to order the legionaries forward he heard Gaius Philippus 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 daughter. 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. “Surround 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 nonetheless. The tribune had a moment to admire his courage before 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 caligae clattering on the mosaic floor. The light streaming through the alabaster ceiling panels was pale and calm, not the right sort of light at all to shine on battle. And battle there had already been aplenty: the corpses of sentries and eunuch servants 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 assassins. 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 smoking 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 opponent’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 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 Videssians’ 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 gallant 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 gladius 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. Seeing 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 complain of that any more, either. She must have gone out the window when the barney 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 building.” 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. However 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 tribune’s glad confusion, threw her arms round his neck and kissed him. The legionaries who had kept her from the residence 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 ov
er 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 loosening 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 fletching, felt the perch give under its weight, and darted away.
“Let me see to that,” Gorgidas said dully. Like an automaton, 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 vinegar 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 complex fibula that secured the end of the bandage.
An Emperor for the Legion (Videssos Cycle) Page 33
