Videssos Cycle, Volume 1

by Harry Turtledove

  “Aye, it’s not to be denied we’re a fractious lot. But you’re a bigger fool or ever I thought, Gaius Philippus, if you think your puny Romans could be holding the whole of Gaul in despite of its people.”

  “Fool, is it?” As with a terrier, there was no room for retreat in the senior centurion. “Watch what you say.”

  Viridovix bristled back. “Have a care with your own mouth, or I’ll cut you a new one, the which you’d not like at all.”

  Before his touchy comrades heated further, Marcus quickly stepped between them. “The two of you are like the dog in the fable, snapping after the reflection of a bone. None of us here will ever know whether Caesar or the Gauls prevailed. There’s not much room for enmity among us, you know—we have enough foes outside our ranks. Besides, I tell you now that before you can go for each other, you’ll go through me first.”

  The tribune carefully did not see the measuring stares both his friends gave him. But he had eased the friction; centurion and Celt, after a last, half-friendly snarl, went about their own affairs.

  It occurred to Scaurus that Viridovix had to feel far more lost and alone in their new land than the Romans felt. There were more than a thousand of them to but a solitary Gaul; not a soul in this land even spoke his tongue. No wonder his temper slipped from time to time—the wonder was the Celt keeping up his spirits as well as he did.

  At about the time when the Emperor had summoned him to audience the day before, Tzimiskes sought out the tribune to tell him that Khoumnos begged leave to speak with him. There was wonder on the dour Videssian’s face as he conveyed the message. “ ‘Begged leave,’ he said. I don’t think I’ve heard of Nephon Khoumnos begging leave of anyone. ‘Begged leave,’ ” Tzimiskes repeated, still not believing it.

  Khoumnos stood outside the barracks, one square hand scratching his iron-bearded chin. When Marcus walked up to him, he jerked the hand away as if caught doing something shameful. His mouth worked a couple of times before words came out. “Damn you,” he said at last. “I owe you an apology. For what it’s worth, you have it.”

  “I accept it gladly,” Marcus replied—just how glad he was, he did not want to show the Videssian. “I would have hoped, though, that you’d know I had better things to do than breaking your guardsmen’s heads.”

  “I’d be a liar if I said I wasn’t surprised when Blemmydes and Kourkouas came to me with their tale. But you don’t go disbelieving your men without some good reason—you know how it is.”

  Scaurus could only nod; he did know how it was. An officer who refused to back up his troops was useless. Once his men lost confidence in him, he could not rely on their reports, which only made them less confident … That road was a downward spiral which had to be stopped before it could start. “What made you change your mind?” he asked.

  “After the pleasant little talk I had with you this morning, I went back and gave those two scoundrels separate grillings. Kourkouas cracked, finally.”

  “The younger one?”

  “That’s right. Interesting you should guess—you notice things, don’t you? Yes, Lexos Blemmydes kept playing the innocent wronged up until the last minute, Skotos chill his lying heart.”

  “What do you plan to do with the two of them?”

  “I’ve already done it. I may have made a mistake before, but I fixed it. As soon as I knew what the truth was, I had their corselets off their backs and shipped them over the Cattle-Crossing on the first ferry. Between brigands and Yezda, the west country should be lively enough to keep them away. Good riddance, say I, and I’m only sorry such wastrels made me speak hastily to you.”

  “Don’t let it trouble you,” Marcus answered, convinced Khoumnos’ apology came from mind and heart both. He also realized he had let his anger put him in the wrong with that vicious gibe about Videssian troops. “You weren’t the only one who said things he regrets now, you know.”

  “Fair enough.” Khoumnos extended his hand, and the tribune took it. The Videssian’s palm was even harder than his own, callused not only from weaponwork but also by years of holding the reins. Khoumnos slapped him on the back and went about his business. Marcus suspected it would be a good long while before the next set of sentries dropped off to sleep before the Emperor’s quarters.

  His own sleep that night, after tension well relieved, was deep and untroubled for several hours. Ordinary barracks chatter and the noise of men rising to make water or find a snack never bothered his rest. That was as well; if they had, sleep would have been impossible to come by.

  The noise that woke him now was no louder than the usual run of nightly sounds. But it was one which did not belong—the soft slide of a booted foot across the flooring. Romans were either barefoot and silent or wore clattering nail-soled sandals. The sound of a footfall neither one nor the other pierced Marcus’ slumber and pried his eyelids apart.

  Only a couple of torches burned in the hall, giving just enough light to keep the Romans from stumbling over each other in the night. But the crouched figure sneaking between the sleeping soliders was no legionary. The squat silhouette and bushy beard could only belong to a Khamorth; Marcus felt cold fear as he recognized the nomad who had been talking to Avshar the night before. He was coming toward the tribune, a dagger in his hand.

  The nomad shook his head, muttering something under his breath. He saw Scaurus as the Roman flung back his blanket and grabbed for his sword. The Khamorth roared and charged.

  Naked as a worm, Marcus scrambled to his feet. There was no time to pull his blade from its sheath. He used it as a club to knock aside the Khamorth’s first stab, then closed with the shorter man, seizing his assailant’s knife-wrist with his left hand.

  He caught a glimpse of his foe’s face. The nomad’s dark eyes were wide with a consuming madness and something more, something the tribune would not identify until some time later as stark terror.

  They rolled to the floor, still holding tightly to each other.

  There were shouts all through the barracks now—the Khamorth’s bellow and the sound of struggle routed the men from their mattresses. It took a few seconds, though, for the sleep-fuzzed soldiers to grasp where the hubbub came from.

  Marcus held his grip with all his strength, meanwhile using the pommel of his sword to try to batter the nomad into submission. But his enemy seemed to have a skull hard as rock. For all the blows he took, he still writhed and twisted, trying to plant his knife in the tribune’s flesh.

  Then a second strong hand joined Marcus’ on the nomad’s wrist. Viridovix, as naked as Scaurus, squeezed down on the Khamorth’s tendons, forcing his fingers to open. The knife dropped to the floor.

  Viridovix shook the Khamorth like a great rat. “Why would he be after having a grudge against you, Roman dear?” he asked. Then, to his prisoner, “Don’t wriggle, now!” He shook him again. The Khamorth, eyes riveted on the fallen dagger, ignored him.

  “I don’t know,” Marcus answered. “I think he must be in Avshar’s pay, though. I saw them walking together yesterday.”

  “Avshar, is it? The why of that omadhaun’s misliking for you everyone knows, but what of this kern? Is he a hired knife, or did you do something to raise his dander, too?”

  Some of the Romans gathered round grumbled at the Gaul’s tone of voice, but Marcus waved them to silence. He was about to say he had only seen the Khamorth that once with Avshar, but there was still a nagging familiarity about him, about the way he kept his gaze fixed on the knife he no longer held.

  Scaurus snapped his fingers. “Remember the plainsman at the Silver Gate who tried to stare me down when we came into Videssos?”

  “I do that,” Viridovix said. “You mean—? Hold still, blast your hide!” he snapped at the prisoner, who was still struggling to break free.

  “There’s no need to hold him all night,” Gaius Philippus said. The senior centurion had found a length of stout rope. “Titus, Sextus, Paulus, give me a hand. Let’s go get our bird trussed.”

  It took
all four Romans and the big Gaul to bind the Khamorth. He fought the rope with more fury than he had shown against Scaurus himself, shrieking and cursing in his harsh native tongue. So frenziedly did he kick, scratch, and bite that none of his captors was left unmarked, but in the end to no avail. Even after the ropes were tight around him, he still thrashed against their unyielding grip.

  No wonder, the tribune thought, Avshar had chosen to use this man against him. The nomad’s already-existing contempt for infantry of any sort must have become a personal hatred when Scaurus won their battle of wills at the city gate. As Viridovix had said, the Khamorth had a reason for furthering the schemes of the envoy of Yezd.

  But still—at the Silver Gate the plainsman had been in full control of his faculties, while now he acted for all the world like a madman. Had Avshar given him a drug to heighten his fury? There might be a way to find out. “Gorgidas!” he called.

  “What is it?” the Greek answered from the fringes of the crowd around the tied-up Khamorth.

  Marcus explained his idea to the doctor, adding, “Can you examine him and find out why his nature has changed so greatly since the last time we saw him?”

  “What do you think I’ve been trying to do? But all these gawkers here are too tightly packed to let me through.” The physician was too slight to have much luck elbowing his way into a crowd.

  “Let him by. Make way, there,” the tribune ordered, moving his men out of the way so Gorgidas could reach the nomad, who lay across Scaurus’ own pallet. The physician knelt beside him, touching his forehead, peering into his eyes, and listening to his breathing.

  When he stood, his face was troubled. “You were right, sir,” he said. Marcus knew how concerned he was when he used the title of respect; Gorgidas was a man with no time for formality. “The poor devil is at the point of death, from some toxic potion, I would say.”

  “At the point of death?” Scaurus said, startled. “He was lively enough a few minutes ago.”

  Gorgidas made an impatient gesture. “I don’t mean he’s liable to die in the next hour, maybe even not in the next day. But die he will—his eyes are sunk in his head, and one pupil is twice the other’s size. He breathes like a delirious man, deep and slow. And between his bellows you can hear him grinding his teeth fit to break them. As anyone who has read the writings of Hippokrates will tell you, those are fatal signs.

  “Yet he has no fever,” the doctor continued, “and I see no sores or pustules to indicate some disease has him in its clutches. Therefore, I must conclude he has been drugged—poisoned would be a better word.”

  “Can you cure him, do you think?” Marcus asked.

  Gorgidas tossed his head in an imperious Greek negative. “I’ve told you before, I am a doctor, not a worker of miracles. Without knowing what hell-brew is in him, I wouldn’t know where to start, and, if I did, it would probably still be useless.”

  “ ‘Worker of miracles,’ your honor said?” Viridovix put in. “Could it be the priests of Phos might save him, where you canna?”

  “Don’t be ridi—” Gorgidas began, and then stopped in confusion. Marcus had to admire the way he faced up to an idea he did not like. He reluctantly admitted, “That might not be foolish after all. Some of them can do what I’d not have believed—isn’t that right, Minucius?”

  The legionary a priest had saved outside of Imbros was a stalwart young man whose stubbly whiskers were black almost to blueness. “So you keep telling me,” he answered. “I don’t recall a bit of it—the fever must have made my wits wander.”

  “That Nepos fellow you brought over last night seemed a man of sense,” Gorgidas suggested to Marcus.

  “I think you’re right. Nephon Khoumnos will have to know of this, too, though I wouldn’t blame him for thinking I’m trying to tear down Videssos’ army from the inside out.”

  “If this sort of garbage goes on, I’d say the Videssian army could use some tearing down,” Gaius Philippus said. Privately, his superior officer was beginning to agree with him, but Scaurus had already found that was not something he could tell the Videssians.

  The tribune bent to pick up the dagger forced from the Khamorth. He misliked the blade even before he touched it. The pommel was carved into a leering, evil cat’s-face, while the hilt was covered by a green, velvety leather that must have come from the skin of a serpent. The blade itself was badly discolored, as if it had been tempered too long or too often.

  No sooner had Marcus’ fingers folded round the hilt than he dropped the weapon with a cry of alarm. The discolored blade had begun to gleam, not an honest red-gold like the Druids’ marks on his sword and Viridovix’, but a wavering yellowish green. The tribune was reminded of some foul fungus shining with the sickly light of decay. He sniffed … no, it was not his imagination. A faint corrupt reek rose from the dagger.

  He thanked every god he knew that the baneful weapon had not pierced his flesh; the death it would have dealt would not have been clean.

  “Nepos must see this at once,” Gorgidas said. “Magic is his province.”

  Marcus agreed, but could not nerve himself to pick up the wicked blade again. Magic was no province of his.

  “It came to life when you touched it,” Gorgidas said. “Was it glowing when the nomad assailed you?”

  “Truth to tell, I have no idea. I had other things on my mind at the moment.”

  Gorgidas sniffed. “Well, I suppose you can’t be blamed,” he said, but his tone belied his words. The Greek was a man who, if it befell him to lose his head, would notice the color of the headsman’s eyes behind his mask.

  Now he stooped down to take the vicious dagger gingerly by the handle. The blade flickered uncertainly, like a half-asleep beast of prey. The doctor tore a strip of cloth from a solider’s mantle and wrapped it several times round the dagger’s hilt, tying it with an elegant knot he usually used to finish a bandage on an arm or leg.

  Only when the knot was done did he touch the hilt with his bare hand. He grunted in satisfaction as the blade remained dark. “That should keep it safe enough,” he said, carefully handing the weapon to Scaurus, who took it with equal caution.

  Holding the knife well away from his body, Scaurus started for the door, only to be stopped by a guffaw from Viridovix. “Would your honor not think it a good idea to put on a cloak, ere he scandalize some early-rising lass?”

  The tribune blinked; he had had too much else to worry about in the commotion to think of clothes. Not sorry to be rid of it, he put the dagger down for a moment to wrap himself in a mantle and strap on his sandals. Then he picked it up again with a sigh and stepped out into the crisp sunrise coolness.

  As soon as he reached the door, he discovered how the nomad had been able to get into the barracks without the Roman sentries stopping him or raising the alarm. Both of them were lying in front of the entrance, fast asleep. Amazed and furious, Marcus prodded one none too gently with his foot. The man murmured faintly but would not wake, even after another, harsher, prod. Nor could his fellow guard be roused. Neither seemed harmed in any way, but they could not be brought to consciousness.

  When Marcus summoned Gorgidas, the Greek physician was also unable to make the guards stir. “What’s happened to them, do you think?” the tribune asked.

  “How in blazes do I know?” Gorgidas sounded thoroughly harried. “In this bloody country you have to be a he-witch as well as a doctor, and it puts me at a disadvantage. Go on, go on, fetch Nepos—they’re breathing well and their pulses are strong. They won’t die while you’re gone.”

  The sun’s first rays were just greeting the tops of the city’s taller buildings when the tribune began his walk to the Videssian Academy, which was on the northern edge of the palace complex. He did not know whether he would find Nepos there so early, but could think of no better place to start looking for the priest.

  As he walked, he watched the sun creep down the walls of the structures he passed by, watched it caress the flowering trees in the palace gardens
and orchards, watched their blossoms begin to unfold under its light. And as he walked out from behind the long blue shadow of a granite colonnade, the sun reached him as well.

  The dagger he carried was suddenly hot in his hand. At the sun’s first touch the blade began to burn, giving off clouds of acrid yellow smoke. The Roman threw it to the ground and backed away, coughing and gasping for breath—the smoke felt like live coals in his lungs.

  He thought he heard the metal wail as if in agony and resolved to clamp down on a runaway imagination.

  The fire was so furious it soon burned itself out. After the breeze had dispersed the noxious fumes, Marcus warily approached the sorcerous weapon. He expected to see only a lump of twisted, fused metal, but found to his dismay that hilt, pommel, and even Gorgidas’ wrappings were still intact, as was a thin rod of steel extending the length of what had been the blade.

  A cautious touch revealed the dagger to be cool enough to handle. Fighting back a shudder, the tribune picked it up and hurried on to the Academy.

  A four-story building of gray sandstone housed the Videssian center of learning. Though both secular and religious knowledge were taught there, a spire and golden sphere surmounted the structure; here as elsewhere in the Empire, its faith had the last word.

  The doorman, half-asleep over his breakfast of bread and hot wine, was surprised his first guest should be a mercenary captain, but polite enough to try to hide it. “Brother Nepos?” he said. “Yes, he’s here—he’s always an early riser. You’ll probably find him in the refectory, straight down this hall, the third door on your right.”

  This early in the day, the Academy hallway was almost deserted. A young blue-robe looked intrigued as the Roman strode past him but, like the doorman, offered no comment.

  Sunlight streamed through the tall, many-paned windows of the refectory and onto its battered tables and comfortably dilapidated chairs. But somehow, instead of accenting their shabbiness, the warm light gave the old furniture the effect of being freshly varnished and newly reupholstered.