Videssos Cycle, Volume 1

by Harry Turtledove

  The tribune steepled his fingers without replying. The Sevastos’ last statement, as far as he was concerned, was nonsense, and dangerous nonsense at that. Nor did he think Sphrantzes believed it any more than he did—whatever else he was, Vardanes Sphrantzes was no fool.

  He also wondered how Vardanes was using his “we” and “us.” Did he speak as head of the bureaucratic faction, as prime minister of all the Empire, or with the royal first person plural? He wondered if Sphrantzes knew himself.

  “It’s regrettable but true,” the Sevastos was saying, “that foreign-born troops do not have the fairest name in the Empire. One reason is that they’ve so often had to be used against rebels from the back of beyond, men who, even on the throne, find no more dignity than they did in the hayseed robbers’ nests from which they sprang.” For the first time, his disdain rang clear.

  “They have no breeding!” Ortaias Sphrantzes was saying. “None! Why, Mavrikios Gavras’ great-grandfather was a goatherd, while we Sphrantzai—” The cold stare Vandanes sent his way stopped him in confusion.

  “Forgive my nephew once more, I beg you,” the Sevastos said smoothly. “He speaks with youth’s usual exaggeration. His Imperial Majesty’s family has been of noble rank for nearly two centuries.” But by the irony still in his voice, he did not find that long at all.

  The conversation drifted back toward triviality, this time for good. A curiously indecisive meeting, Marcus thought on his way back to the barracks. He had expected the Sevastos to show more of his mind but, on reflection, there was no reason why he should do so to a man he felt to be of the opposite side. Then too, with one slip of the tongue his nephew probably had revealed a good deal more than the senior Sphrantzes wanted known.

  Two other things occurred to the tribune. The first was that Taso Vones was a lucky acquaintance. The little Khatrisher had an uncanny knowledge of Videssian affairs and was willing to share it. The second was a conclusion he reached while wondering why he still distrusted Vardanes Sphrantzes so much. It was utterly in character, he decided, for the Sevastos to delight in keeping small, helpless creatures in a transparent cage.

  VIII

  AS THE WEEKS PASSED AFTER MAVRIKIOS GAVRAS’ RINGING DECLARATION of war against Yezd, Videssos began filling with warriors mustered to wage the great campaign the Emperor had planned. The gardens, orchards, and other open spaces which made the imperial capital such a delight saw tent cities spring up on them like mushrooms after a rain. Every street, it seemed, had its contingent of soldiers swaggering along, elbowing civilians to one side, on the prowl for food, drink, and women … or simply standing and gaping at the wonders Videssos offered the newcomer’s eye.

  Troops flowed in day after day. The Emperor pulled men from garrisons in towns he reckoned safe, to add weight to his striking force. A hundred men came from here, four hundred more from there, another two hundred from somewhere else. Marcus heard that Imbros’ troops had arrived and wondered if Skapti Modolf’s son was among them. Even the saturnine Haloga would be hard pressed to call the city a less pleasant place than Imbros.

  The Empire’s own soldiers were not the only ones to swell Videssos to the bursting point. True to his promise, Mavrikios sent his neighbors a call for mercenaries against Yezd, and the response was good. Videssian ships sailing from Prista, the Empire’s watchport on the northern coast of the Videssian Sea, brought companies of Khamorth from the plains, and their steppe-ponies with them. By special leave, other bands of nomads were permitted to cross the Astris River. They came south to the capital by land, paralleling the seacoast and, in the latter stage of their journey, following the route the Romans had used from Imbros. Parties of Videssian outriders made sure the plainsmen did not plunder the countryside.

  Khatrish, whose border marched with Videssos’ eastern frontier, sent the Empire a troop of light cavalry. In gear and appearance they were about halfway between imperials and plainsdwellers, whose bloods they shared. Most of them seemed to have the outspoken cheeriness of Taso Vones. Scaurus had a chance to get acquainted with a fair number of them at a heroic feast the Khatrisher ambassador put together. Viridovix made the night memorable by throwing a Khamorth clear through a very stout wineshop door without bothering to open it first. Vones paid the repair costs out of his own pocket, declaring, “Strength like that deserves to be honored.”

  “Foosh!” the Celt protested. “The man was a natural-born damn fool, the which is proven by the hardness of his head. For no other reason did he make so fine a battering ram.”

  The Namdaleni also heeded the Empire’s rallying cry. The Duchy’s lean square-riggers brought Videssos two regiments to fight the Yezda. Getting them into the capital, however, was a tricky busines. Namdalen and the Empire were foes too recent for much trust to exist on either side. Mavrikios, while glad of the manpower, was not anxious to see Namdalener warships anchored at Videssos’ quays, suspecting the islanders’ piratical instincts might get the better of their good intentions. Thus the Namdaleni transshipped at the Key and came to the city in imperial hulls. The matter-of-fact way they accepted the Emperor’s solution convinced Marcus that all Gavras’ forebodings were justified.

  “How right you are,” Gaius Philippus agreed. “They don’t so much as bother pretending innocence. If they got a quarter of a chance they’d jump Mavrikios without even blinking. He knows it, and they know he knows it. And on those terms they can deal with each other.”

  For the Romans, spring and early summer were a time of adjustment, a time to find and to make their place in their new homeland. Their position in the army was never in doubt, not after the win over the men of the Duchy in their mock-combat. Marcus became the oracle of infantry. Almost daily, high-ranking Videssians or mercenary officers would appear at the Roman drills to watch and question. The tribune found it flattering and ironically amusing, as he knew he was but an amateur soldier.

  When other business kept him from leading the exercises, the duty of coping with observers fell on Gaius Philippus. The senior centurion got on well with fellow professionals, but did not suffer fools gladly. After one such meeting, he asked Scaurus, “Who’s the lanky half-shaved whiffet always hanging about? You know, the fellow with the book under one arm.”

  “Ortaias Sphrantzes?” Marcus asked with a sinking feeling.

  “That’s the one. He wanted to know how I heartened the men before a battle; and before I could get a word out of my mouth, he started a harangue he must have written himself, the stupid puppy. To win a battle after that speech, he’d need to be leading a crew of demigods.”

  “You didn’t tell him so, I hope?”

  “Me? I told him he should save it for the enemy—he’d bore them to death and win without a fight. He went away.”

  “Oh.” For the next few days the tribune kept expecting poison in the radishes, or at least a summons from Ortaias’ uncle. But nothing happened. Either the young Sphrantzes had not told the Sevastos of his embarrassment, or Vardanes was resigned to his nephew stubbing his toes every now and again. Marcus judged it was the former; resignation was not an expression he could easily see on Vardanes Sphrantzes’ face.

  Just as the Romans changed Videssian notions of military practice, the Empire’s way of life had its effect on them. To the tribune’s surprise, many of his men began to follow Phos. While he had nothing against Videssos’ faith, it also had no appeal for him. He worried lest the legionaries’ adoption of the Empire’s god was the first step in forgetting Rome.

  Gaius Philippus shared his concern. “It’s not right, hearing the lads go, ‘Phos fry you!’ when someone trips over their feet. We should order them to stop that nonsense right now.”

  Looking for more disinterested advice, the tribune put the question to Gorgidas. “An order? Don’t be absurd. You can tell a man what to do, but even your iron-fisted centurion can’t tell him what to think. They’ll only disobey if he tries. And if they don’t follow the one command, who’s to say they’ll follow the next? It’s easiest t
o ride a horse in the direction he’s already going.”

  Scaurus felt the sense of the doctor’s words; the Greek articulated the conclusion he was reaching himself. But the certainty in Gorgidas’ next remark rocked him back on his heels. “Of course we’ll forget Rome—and Greece, and Gaul.”

  “What? Never!” Marcus said with unthinking rejection.

  “Come now, in your head you know I’m right, say your heart what it will. Oh, I don’t mean every memory of the world we knew will disappear; that’s truly impossible. But as the years pass, Videssos will lay its hand on us all, gently, yes, but the day will come when you discover you’ve forgotten the names of half your parents’ neighbors … and it won’t really bother you.” Gorgidas’ eyes were far away.

  The tribune shivered. “You see a long way ahead, don’t you?”

  “Eh? No, a long way behind. I tore my life up by the roots once before, when I left Elis to ply my trade at Rome. It gives me a sense of proportion you may not have.

  “Besides,” the Greek went on, “eventually we’ll have a good many Videssians in our own ranks. Apokavkos is doing well, and we’ll not find more Romans to make up the losses we’ll take.”

  Scaurus did not reply; Gorgidas had a gift for bringing up things he would rather not think about. He did resolve to fix his every memory so firmly it could never escape. Even as he made the resolution, he felt the cold wind of futility at his back. Well, then, the best you can, he told himself, and was satisfied. Failure was no disgrace; indifference was.

  Videssian usages also began to change what Marcus had thought a fundamental part of Roman military thinking—its attitude toward women. The army of Rome was so often on campaign that marriage during legionary service was forbidden as being bad for discipline. Neither the Videssians nor their mercenary soldiers followed that rule. They spent much of their time in garrison duty, which gave them the chance to form long-lasting relationships that could not have existed in a more active army.

  As with the worship of the Empire’s god, the tribune knew he could not keep his men from uniting with Videssos’ women. He would have faced mutiny had he tried, the more so as the local soldiers enjoyed the privilege the legionaries were seeking. First one and then a second of the four barracks halls the Romans used was transformed by hastily erected partitions of wood and cloth into quarters where privacy could be had. Nor was it long before the first proud Romans could boast that they would be the fathers of fine sons—or so they hoped—to take their places.

  Gaius Philippus grumbled more than ever. “I can see us in a few years’ time—brats squalling underfoot, troopers brawling because their queans had a spat. Mars above, what are we coming to?” To forestall the evil day, he worked the legionaries harder than before.

  Scaurus had reservations too, but he noted that while most of the Namdaleni had women, it did not seem to blunt their edge. In a way, he could even see it as an advantage—with such an intimate stake in Videssos’ survival, the legionaries might fight harder for the Empire.

  Yet he also realized that acquiring mates was another tap on the wedge Videssos was driving into the souls of his men, another step in their absorption into the Empire. Every time the tribune saw a Roman walk by with his attention solely on the woman whose waist his arm encircled, he felt again the inevitability of Gorgidas’ words. The Romans were a drop of ink fallen into a vast lake; their color had to fade with time.

  Of all the peoples they came to know in the capital, the legionaries seemed to blend best with the Namdaleni. It embarrassed Scaurus, who reserved his loyalty for the Emperor and knew the men of the Duchy would cheerfully gut Videssos if ever they saw their chance. But there was no getting around it—Roman and Namdalener took to one another like long-separated relatives.

  Maybe the skirmish and feast they had shared made friendship easier; maybe it was simply that the Namdaleni were less reserved than Videssians and more willing to meet the Romans halfway. Whatever the reason, legionaries were always welcome in taverns that catered to the easterners, and constant traffic flowed between the islanders’ barracks and those housing the Romans.

  When Marcus worried his soldiers’ fondness for the men of the Duchy would undermine the friendships he’d built up with the Videssians, Gaius Philippus put an arm round his shoulder. “You want friends everywhere,” he said, speaking like a much older brother. “It’s your age, I suppose; everyone in his thirties thinks he needs friends. Once you reach your forties, you find they won’t save you any more than love did.”

  “To the crows with you!” Marcus exclaimed, appalled. “You’re worse than Gorgidas.”

  One morning, Soteric Dosti’s son came to invite several of the Roman officers to that day’s Namdalener drill. “Aye, you bettered us afoot,” he said, “but now you’ll see us at our best.”

  Marcus had watched the Namedaleni work before and had a healthy respect for their hard-hitting cavalry. He also approved of their style of practice. Like the Romans, they made their training as much like battle as they could, so no one would be surprised on the true field of combat. But from the smug grin Soteric was trying to hide, this invitation was to something special.

  A few Khamorth were practicing archery at the drillfield’s edge. Their short, double-curved bows sent arrow after arrow whocking into the straw-stuffed hides they had set up as targets. They and the party Marcus led were the only non-Namdaleni on the field that day.

  At one end stood a long row of hay bales, at the other, almost equally still, a line of mounted islanders. The men of the Duchy were in full caparison. Streamers of bright ribbon fluttered from their helms, their lances, and their big horses’ trappings. Each wore over his chain mail shirt a surcoat of a color to match his streamers. A hundred lances went up in salute as one when the easterners caught sight of the Romans.

  “Och, what a brave show,” Viridovix said admiringly. Scaurus thought the Gaul had found the perfect word; this was a show, something prepared specially for his benefit. He resolved to judge it on that basis if he could.

  The commander of the Namdaleni barked an order. Their lances swung down, again in unison. A hundred glittering leaf-shaped points of steel, each tipping a lance twice the length of a man, leveled at the bales of hay a furlong from them. Their leader left them thus for a long dramatic moment, then shouted the command that sent them hurtling forward.

  Like an avalanche thundering down an Alpine pass, they started slowly. The heavy horses they rode were not quick to build momentum, what with their own bulk and the heavily armored men atop them. But they gained a trifle at every bound and were at full stride before halfway to their goal. The earth rolled like a kettledrum under their thuttering hooves; their iron-shod feet sent great clods of dirt and grass flying skywards.

  Marcus tried to imagine himself standing in a hay bale’s place, watching the horses thunder down on him until he could see their nostrils flaring crimson, staring at the steel that would tear his life away. The skin on his belly crawled at the thought of it. He wondered how any men could nerve themselves to oppose such a charge.

  When lances, horses, and riders smashed through them, the bales simply ceased to be. Hay was trampled underfoot, flung in all directions, and thrown high into the air. The Namdaleni brought their horses to a halt; they began picking hay wisps from their mounts’ manes and coats and from their own surcoats and hair.

  Soteric looked expectantly to Scaurus. “Most impressive,” the tribune said, and meant it. “Both as spectacle and as a show of fighting power, I don’t think I’ve seen the like.”

  “Sure and it’s a cruel hard folk you Namdaleni are,” Viridovix said, “to beat poor hay bales all to bits, and them having done you no harm.”

  Gaius Philippus added, “If that was your way of challenging us to a return engagement on horseback, you can bloody well think again. I’m content to rest on my laurels, thank you very kindly.” The veteran’s praise made Soteric glow with pride, and the day, the islanders agreed, was a great success.


  But the centurion was in fact less overawed than he let the Namdaleni think. “They’re rugged, don’t misunderstand me,” he told Scaurus as they returned to their own quarters after sharing a midday meal with the easterners. “Good steady foot, though, could give them all they want. The key is keeping their charge from flattening you at the start.”

  “Do you think so?” Marcus asked. He’d paid Gaius Philippus’ words less heed than he should. It must have shown, for Viridovix looked at him with mischief in his eye.

  “You’re wasting your breath if you speak to the lad of war, I’m thinking,” he said to the centurion. “There’s nothing in his head at all but a couple of fine blue eyes, sure and there’s not. She’a a rare beauty lass, Roman; I wish you luck with her.”

  “Helvis?” Marcus said, alarmed his feelings were so obvious. He covered himself as best he could. “What makes you think that? She wasn’t even at table today.”

  “Aye, that’s true—and weren’t you the disappointed one now?” Viridovix did his best to assume the air of a man giving serious advice, something of a wasted effort on his naturally merry face. “You’re about it the right way, I’ll say that. Too hard and too soon would do nothing but drive her from you. But those honied plums you found for her boy, now—you’re a sly one. If the imp cares for you, how could the mother not? And giving them to Soteric to pass along will make him think the better of you too, the which canna hurt your chances.”

  “Oh, hold your peace, can’t you? With Helvis not there, who could I give the sweets to but her brother?” But quibble as he would over details, in broad outline he knew the Celt was right. He was powerfully drawn to Helvis, but that was complicated by his guilt over his role, accidental though it was, in Hemond’s death. Still, in the few times he had seen her since that day, she bore out her claim that she had no ill will toward him. And Soteric, for his part, would have had to be blind not to have noticed the attention Scaurus paid his sister, yet he raised no objections—a promising sign.