With studied deliberation, Scaurus spat into the dirt between two flagstones. “He’s a fool to want me. Any man who’d turn his coat once’ll turn it twice.”
Vones laughed at his grimness. “He also said he knew you’d tell him to go to the ice, so get your chin off your chest.”
Marcus stayed somber. He could think of a way for Drax to have a chance of prying him away from Videssos: send Thorisin the same message he’d given Taso, and let the Emperor’s suspicion do the rest. He wondered if that would occur to the Namdalener. It might; Drax had the mind of a snake. While many islanders aped Videssian ways, the great count could match the imperials at their own intrigues.
Scaurus shook his head again, slowly, like a man bedeviled by bees. The past, it was clear, was not done stinging him yet.
“Hello, look who’s coming up behind you,” Taso Vones said, snapping his reverie. “Everyone’s favorite Videssian officer.” The tribune turned to see who had earned that sardonic compliment. He gave a grunt of laughter when he spotted Provhos Mourtzouphlos halfway down the block, almost hidden behind a cart piled high with apples.
The cavalryman looked for a moment as though he would spurn their company, but came up when Taso waved to him. The little Khatrisher bowed from the waist, a paradigm of politeness. “Good evening to you, your excellency. Out slumming, I see.” Instead of his usual coxcomb’s clothes, Mourtzouphlos was in an ill-fitting homespun tunic, with baggy, mud-colored trousers tucked into torn boots.
He had lost none of his arrogance, though. Looking down his long nose at Vones, he said, “If you must know, easterner, I was hoping a show of poverty would help beat a knave down on the price of a filly.” That showed more wit than Marcus would have expected from him.
“And what of you two?” the Videssian went on. “Hatching plots?” He did not bother hiding his disdain.
“Foiling them, if I can,” Scaurus said. He gave Mourtzouphlos Taso’s news of Drax, adding, “Since you see so much of the Avtokrator these days, best you pass the warning on.”
The sarcasm rolled off Mourtzouphlos without sticking, though Taso Vones suffered a sudden coughing fit and had to be slapped on the back. Watching the cavalryman trying to be gracious in his thanks was satisfaction enough for Marcus, though he recovered too quickly to suit the Roman. He had hoped for several minutes of awkwardness, but got only a few sentences’ worth.
“Will there be anything more?” Mourtzouphlos asked, for all the world as if Scaurus and Vones had approached him rather than the other way round. When they were silent, he jerked his head in a single short nod. “A pleasant evening to you both, then.” He started down the street as though they did not exist.
He actually jumped when Vones called after him, “Did you buy that filly, my lord?”
“Eh?” Mourtzouphlos blinked, collected himself, and said with a scowl, “No; I found some ne’er-do-well’s been riding her hard. She’s of no value jaded so.” He chuckled unpleasantly. “An interesting experience, all the same.” And he was off again, swaggering in his shabby boots.
“Self-satisfied bastard,” Marcus said as soon as he was out of earshot.
“Isn’t he, though?” Taso did a wicked imitation of the officer’s nasty laugh. “Like most of that sort, he’s satisfied with very little.” He plucked at Scaurus’ sleeve. “Come with me, why don’t you, if you have some gold in your pouch? Come anyway; I’ll stake you. I’m for a dice game at a Namdalener tin-merchant’s house—you know how the islanders love to gamble. And old Frednis sets a rare table, too. Just wait till you taste the smoked oysters—ah! And the asparagus and crabmeat …” He ran his tongue over his lips, like a cat that scents cream.
The Roman patted guiltily at his midriff; these long dull weeks hunched over a desk were putting weight on him. Well, he told himself, you don’t have to eat much. “Why not?” he said.
Stumbling in the darkness, Scaurus climbed the stone stairs to his small chamber in the bureaucrat’s wing of the Grand Court. The hallways, full of the bustle of imperial business during the day, echoed to the slap of his boots. He could still hear Taso Vones singing, faint in the distance, as the Khatrisher lurched off toward his quarters in the Hall of the Ambassadors.
He had not lied, the tribune thought muzzily. Frednis the Namdalener did not stint his guests, not with food nor drink. And the dice were hot; new gold clinked in Scaurus’ belt pouch. At any Roman game he would have been skinned, but to the Videssians a double one was a good throw, not a loser: “Phos’ suns,” they called it.
Pale shafts of moonlight from narrow outer windows guided him down the corridor. He carefully counted doorways as he passed them; the chambers to either side of his own were mere storerooms.
Then his hand was on his sword hilt, for a line of light from a lamp, yellow as butter, slipped out from beneath the bottom of his door. He slid the blade free as quietly as he could. Whoever was inside—sneak thief? spy? assassin?—would regret it. His first thought was of Avshar and wizardry, but the druids’ marks on his blade did not glow as they did when magic was near. Only a man, then.
He seized the latch and threw the door wide as he sprang into the room. “Who the—?” he started to roar, and then half choked as his shout was swallowed in a gurgle of amazement.
Gaius Philippus stood in a wary fencer’s crouch beside the tribune’s bed, gladius at guard position; the senior centurion had not lived to grow gray by taking chances. When he saw it was Scaurus coming through the doorway, he swung the shortsword up in salute. “Took you long enough,” he remarked. “Must be past midnight.”
“What are you doing here?” Marcus said, stepping forward to clasp his hand. Not until he felt the other’s callused palm against his own did he wholly believe Frednis’ wine had not left him seeing things.
“Cooling my heels, till now,” the stocky veteran replied, grinning at the tribune’s confusion. That was literally true; he was barefoot, his unlaced caligae kicked into a corner, one with its hobnailed sole flipped over. He had made himself comfortable during his wait in other ways as well, if the empty jug of wine not far away was any indication.
“And beyond that?” Marcus was smiling, too, mainly at the pleasure of feeling sonorous Latin roll off his tongue; he had not used his birthspeech all winter long. And Gaius Philippus was a Roman’s Roman: brave, practical, without much imagination, but stubborn enough to bull ahead on any course he set himself.
His presence was a marker of that last trait, for he explained: “Your bloody damn fool pen-pushers here, sir, haven’t sent our lads a single goldpiece the last two months. If they don’t see some money pretty fornicating quick they’ll start plundering the countryside round Garsavra, and then it’s Hades out to lunch for discipline, as well you know. That we can’t have.”
Scaurus nodded; the legionaries took more delicate handling as mercenaries for Videssos than they had with the full weight of Roman military tradition on them. It was what remained of that tradition that made them as effective as they were in the Empire, where most infantry was no better than rabble. But with their pay in arrears they were tinder waiting for a spark.
The tribune asked, “Why didn’t you write me?”
“For one thing, these cursed dirt roads the Videssians insist on using for the sake of their precious horses were arse-deep in mud till a couple of weeks ago, and what were the odds of a letter getting through? For another, I’m not sure I could write that much. It doesn’t come easy to me, you know.
“Besides—” Gaius Philippus set his jaw as he came to the meat of things. “—you want something done right, do it yourself. I want you to find me the seal-stamper who bungled this business so I can tell him where to head in. If the damned imperials are going to hire troops to do their fighting for ’em, they’d best treat ’em right. And one of ’em’s going to remember it from now on.”
Scaurus already knew who the guilty bureaucrat was; the picture of the senior centurion chewing him out in his best parade-ground bellow was i
rresistible delightful. “I’ll do it,” he said. “I want to watch: it’ll be like throwing a hiveful of wasps on a desk and then whacking it with a stick.”
“Aye, won’t it just?” Gaius Philippus said with no less anticipation. He gave a satisfied nod. Not for the first time, Marcus thought his features belonged on a sestertius or denarius—his neat, short cap of iron-gray hair; scarred, jutting chin; angular cheekbones; and proud aquiline nose made him ideal for the starkly realistic portraiture of a Roman coin.
The veteran waved round the bare little room, which held no furniture save Scaurus’ mattress, a chair that doubled as lampstand, and a much-battered pine wardrobe with a Videssian obscenity carved into one side.
“I thought you lived softer than this,” he said. “If this is all Thorisin’s giving you, you’d do better coming back to us. When will you, anyway?”
Marcus spread his hands helplessly. “It’s not that simple. I’m not in good odor here, after letting Drax go.”
“Oh. That,” Gaius Philippus said with distaste. Of course he knew the story; the legionaries Scaurus had sent back after the great count escaped would have brought it with them. The senior centurion hesitated, then went on in what was meant for sympathy, “A plague take the scheming bitch.” Anger and rough contempt filled his voice; beyond his body’s pleasure, he had scant use for women.
Caught between gratitude and the irrational urge to spring to Helvis’ defense, the tribune said nothing. After an awkward few seconds Gaius Philippus changed the subject. “The lads miss you, sir, and asked me to give you their best.”
“Did they?” Marcus said, touched. “That’s good of them.” A thought struck him. “Who’s in charge there, with you in the city?”
“Well, with you not there after Junius Blaesus, uh, died—” Gaius Philippus got through that as quickly as he could; Helvis had knifed the junior centurion. “—I bumped Sextus Minucius up to his spot.” Seeing Marcus raise an eyebrow, he said, “I know he’s young for it, but he’s shaping well. He’s a worker, that one, and nobody’s fool. He’s tough enough to flatten anyone who talks back, too.”
“All right. You know best, I’m sure.” With more than thirty years in the legions, the senior centurion made a better judge of soldiers than Scaurus himself, and the tribune was wise enough to realize it. He did ask, though, “How do the outlanders take to him?” Since coming to Videssos, the legionaries had had a good many local recruits to help fill out their ranks; in his Romanness, Gaius Philippus might not even have seen their acceptance of Minucius as a problem.
But his answer showed he had. “Gagik gets on with him fine.” Bagratouni headed a two-hundred-man contingent of Vaspurakaners, organized as an oversize maniple; driven from their homeland by the Yezda and then caught in Zemarkhos’ pogrom, they fought with a dour, savage valor under their canny nakharar. Gaius Philippus’ next sentence further reassured Scaurus: “Minucius isn’t too proud to ask Bagratouni what he thinks, either.”
“That’s fine,” the tribune said. “I’m glad I had the sense to do the same, with you.” He had learned the warrior’s trade now, but when he joined Caesar in Gaul, he had been a raw political appointee, very much dependent on his senior centurion. Gaius Philippus grunted at the praise. Marcus asked, “How’s Zeprin the Red faring?”
The veteran grunted again, but with a different intonation. “He still just wants to be a common trooper, worse luck.”
Marcus shook his head. “Too bad. There’s a good man wasting himself.” The burly Haloga had been a marshal in Mavrikios Gavras’ Imperial Guards, but after he survived Maragha when the Emperor and the rest of the guards regiment were slain he blamed himself and turned his back on officer’s rank. Soldiering was all he knew, but he refused to endanger anyone but himself by his actions.
“And Pakhymer?” Scaurus asked.
This time it was a snort from Gaius Philippus. “Pakhymer is—Pakhymer.” The two Romans grinned at each other. Laon Pakhymer’s brigade of light cavalry from Khatrish was not strictly a part of their command, but the two forces had served side by side since the Maragha campaign. Pakhymer’s easy going, catch-as-catch-can style had driven the methodical senior centurion quietly mad all that time. However he did it, though, he generally got results.
“What else do I need to tell you?” Gaius Philippus said to himself, absently scratching at one of the puckered scars on his right forearm; his left, protected by his scutum, was almost unmarked. He brightened. “Oh, yes—a pair of new underofficers: Pullo and Vorenus.”
“Both at once, eh?” Marcus asked slyly.
“Aye, both at once,” Gaius Philippus said, not rising to the tribune’s teasing. “You think I had the ballocks to promote one and not the other?” The two legionaries had fought for years over which made the better soldier, a feud that ended only when they saved each other’s lives in a skirmish with Drax’ Namdaleni.
“No quarrel, no quarrel,” Scaurus said in some haste. He sighed; the wine he had drunk at Frednis’ was making him low. “Seems you’ve done a splendid job, Gaius. I don’t know why anyone would miss me; you’ve managed everything just as I would have.”
“Don’t say that, sir!” Gaius Philippus cried, real alarm in his voice. “Begging your pardon, but I wouldn’t have your bloody job on a bet. Oh, I can handle this end of it: who to promote, who to slap down, which march route to pick, how to dress my line. But the rest of it, especially in this mercenary’s game—picking your way through the factions as Thorisin and the pen-pushers square off against each other, knowing when to keep your mouth shut, keeping some shriveled old turd of an officer happy so he doesn’t bugger you the minute you turn your back … Thank the gods the road from the city to Garsavra’s been all over mud what with winter and all, so the damned Videssians weren’t able to pull me eight ways at once.” He threw up his hands. “Take it back, please. We need you for it!”
It was probably the longest speech Marcus had ever heard him make. Moved, he reached out and clasped the senior centurion’s hand. “Thanks, old friend,” he said softly.
“For what? The truth?” Gaius Philippus said, outwardly as scornful as ever of any show of emotion. But his hard features could not quite hide his pleasure, and he shuffled his feet awkwardly. He fetched up against the empty jug of wine, which rolled away, bumping on the slightly uneven floor. The veteran followed it with his eyes. “You know,” he said, “that wasn’t nearly enough. We should have more.”
Marcus swallowed a groan. He was already expecting a thick head, but he could not turn the senior centurion down. Gamely he said, “Why not?” for the second time that evening. Come morning, he knew, he would have his answer, but he went out even so.
II
THE ARSHAUM CAMP WOKE WITH THE SUN. SWORDS flashed in the morning light outside one of the beehive-shaped felt tents; steel rang sweetly against steel. One of the fencers whooped and gave a great roundhouse slash. The other, a smaller man, ducked under it and stepped smartly forward. He stopped his thrust bare inches from his opponent’s chest.
“To the afterworld with you, you kern,” Viridovix panted, stumbling back and throwing his arms wide in surrender. The Gaul wiped the sweat from his face with a freckled forearm and brushed long coppery hair out of his eyes. “Sure and you must ha’ been practicing on the sly.”
Gorgidas studied him narrowly. “Are you sure you did not give me that opening?” Physician by training, historian by avocation, the Greek was no skilled swordsman. He had seen too much of war in his medical service with the Roman legions for it to draw him as it did Viridovix. But, having been forced to see he needed a warrior’s skills to survive on the steppe, he set about acquiring them with the same dogged persistence he gave to medical lore.
The big Celt grinned at him, green eyes crinkling with mirth. “And what if I did? You were after having the wit to take it, which was the point. Not bad, for a man so old and all,” he added, to see Gorgidas fume. Save for the beard the Greek had lately grown, which was streaked al
l through with white, he might have been any age from twenty-five to sixty; his lean body was full of a surprising spare strength, while his face did not carry much loose flesh to sag with the years.
“You don’t have to be so bloody proud. You’re no younger than I am,” Gorgidas snapped. Viridovix’ grin got wider. He preened, stroking the luxuriant red mustaches that hung almost to his shoulders. They were still unsilvered. He had scraped off the beard he grew earlier in the winter, but no gray had lurked there either.
“Boast over what you may,” the Greek said sourly, “but both of us wake up to piss oftener of nights then we did a few years ago, when we were on the lazy side of forty. Deny it if you can.”
“Och, a hit and no mistake,” Viridovix said. “And here’s another for you!” He sprang at Gorgidas. The physician got his gladius up in time to turn the Gaul’s blow, but it sent the shortsword—a gift from Gaius Philippus, and one he had never thought he’d use—spinning from his hand.
“Still not bad,” the Celt said, picking it up for him. “I’d meant to spank your ribs with the flat o’ my blade that time.”
“Bah! I should have held on.” Gorgidas opened and closed his fist several times, working flexibility into his numbed fingers. “You have a heavy arm there, you hulking savage.” He was too honest not to give praise where it was due, though his sharp tongue diluted it in the giving.
“Well, may you be staked out for the corbies, scoffer of a Greekling.” Viridovix swelled with mock indignation. Between themselves they spoke a bastard mix of Latin and Videssian. Each was the only representative of his people in this new world and each felt the pain of his own language slowly dying in him for want of anyone with whom to speak it. Gorgidas kept Greek alive by composing his history in that tongue. But only druids wrote the Celtic speech, so Viridovix was denied even that relief.
Around them the camp was coming to life. Some nomads were tending to their small, shaggy horses while others knocked down tents and rolled the fabric up around the sticks that formed their frameworks. Still more crouched round fires as they breakfasted; the morning was chilly. They mixed water with dry curds and spooned up the thick, soupy, tasteless mix; gnawed at slabs of salted and dried beef, mutton, goat, or venison; or speared horsegut-cased sausages on sticks and roasted them over the flames. Many of them did not have as much as they wanted; supplies were running low.
Swords of the Legion (Videssos) Page 4
