Swords of the Legion (Videssos)

by Harry Turtledove

  The Seafoam was a naval auxiliary, an oared cargo-carrier about seventy feet long, with sharp bows and a full stern. She had ten oarports on either side of her hull, as well as a single broad, square-rigged sail, brailed up now that she was in harbor.

  Staggering a little under the weight of the heavy kit he carried, Marcus paused at the top of the gangplank. The squad of imperial guards watched him from the dock.

  “Permission to come aboard?” he called, recognizing an officer by the knee-length tunic he wore and the shortsword on his hip. Most of his sailors were naked or nearly so, with perhaps a loincloth or leather belt on which to sling a knife.

  “Keep at it,” the man told his crew, who were stowing pointed wine jars and rounder ones full of pickled fish, along with bales of raw wool and woolen cloth, in the hold. Then he gave his attention to the tribune. “You’re our special passenger, eh? Aye, drop down and join us. Give him a hand with his pack, there, Ousiakos!”

  The sailor helped ease it to the deck. Rather awkwardly, Scaurus came after it; a true Roman, he was not used to ships. The officer walked up to shake his hand. “I’m Stylianos Zautzes, master of this wallowing tub.” The Videssian was in his early forties, whipcord lean, with a grizzled beard, thick bushy eyebrows that met about his nose, and a skin turned to dark leather by years in the sun. When he shed his black, low-crowned cap to scratch his head, the tribune saw he was nearly bald.

  Taron Leimmokheir jumped down beside Marcus. The men on deck stiffened to attention, giving him the Videssian salute with right fists over their hearts. “As you were,” he said in his raspy bass. The drungarios of the fleet turned to Zautzes. “You take care of this one, Styl,” he told the Seafoam’s captain, putting an arm round the tribune. “He’s a good fellow, for all he’s fallen foul of his Majesty. That’s not hard to do, as I should know.” He flicked his head back to get his mane of silver hair out of his eyes; he had left it long after Thorisin released him from prison.

  Zautzes saluted again. “I would anyway, for my own pride’s sake. But wasn’t he to have a horse? It’s not shown up.”

  “Landsmen!” Leimmokheir said contemptuously. On board ship, things had to be on time and right the first time; there was no room for sloppiness. “I should be able to waste so much time. As is, I can’t even stay; I’m off to finish fitting out a squadron for coast patrol. Phos with you, outlander.” He squeezed Scaurus’ shoulder, pounded Zautzes on the back, and then took a tall step up onto the gangplank and hurried away.

  The loading of the Seafoam went on. Marcus watched bales of hay tossed into the hold as fodder for his horse. Of the horse itself there was no sign. He shouted a question to the Videssian guardsmen still standing about on the pier. Their leader spread his hands and shrugged.

  Zautzes said, “Sorry, Scaurus, but if the beast doesn’t turn up by mid-afternoon we’ll have to sail without it. I have dispatches to carry that won’t keep. Maybe you’ll be able to find some sort of animal in Nakoleia.”

  “Maybe,” the tribune said dubiously. The minutes dragged on. He kept one eye on the pier, the other on the sailors to see how close they were to finishing loading.

  Two of them dropped a wine jar. Zautzes swore as they swabbed the sticky stuff from the deck and threw the jar’s fragments over the rail into the sea. One cut his foot on a shard and limped over to bandage it. Zautzes rolled his eyes in disgust. “You belong behind a plow, Ailouros.” The luckless seaman’s crewmates promptly took to calling him “Farmer.”

  Watching the mishap, Marcus forgot about the pier. He jumped at a shout from the gangplank: “Ahoy, or whatever it is you sailor bastards say! Can I get on your bloody boat?”

  The tribune whirled. “Gaius! What are you doing here?”

  “You know this lubber?” Zautzes demanded, bristling at hearing his beloved Seafoam called a boat. When Marcus had explained, the Videssian captain grudgingly called to Gaius Philippus, “Aye, board if you will.”

  The senior centurion did, grunting as he landed on the deck. He stumbled when he hit, being in full armor—transverse-crested helm, mail shirt, metal-studded leather kilt, and greaves, all polished till they gleamed—with a heavy pack slung on his back. Marcus caught his elbow and steadied him. “Thanks.”

  “It’s nothing.” The tribune studied him curiously. “Are you here to see me off? You’re overdressed, I’d say.”

  “To Hades with seeing you off.” Gaius Philippus hawked phlegm, but under Zautzes’ warning eye spat over the rail. “I’m with you.”

  “What?” Scenting betrayal from the Emperor, Scaurus reached for his sword hilt. “Thorisin promised you’d take my place once I was gone.”

  “Oh, he offered it to me. I told him to put it where a catamite would enjoy it.” Zautzes’ jaw fell; no one spoke thus to the Avtokrator of the Videssians. Gaius Philippus flicked a glance his way and dropped into Latin. “You can nail me on a cross, sir,” he said to the tribune, “before I take a post from the man who robbed you of yours.”

  “He had his reasons,” Scaurus said, also in Latin, and clumsily told the senior centurion what they were. He finished, “So if you want to change your mind, Gavras will likely give you the command no matter what you said to him. He thinks well of you; he’s told me so, many times.”

  Hearing of the tribune’s involvement with Alypia for the first time, Gaius Philippus reacted as Marcus had been sure he would. “You must’ve been balmy, playing with fire like that.” He gave his own verdict: “Women bring more trouble than they’re worth. I’ve said it before, and more than once, too.”

  Not having a good answer, Marcus kept quiet.

  “But treason?” the senior centurion went on. “Not a chance. What would you want to throw over Gavras for? Whoever came next’d only be worse.”

  “So I thought, exactly.”

  “Of course—you’re no thickhead. And I’ll not go back, either. I’d sooner be your man than his suspicious Majesty’s.” He chuckled. “I’ve finally turned true mercenary, haven’t I, when commander counts for more than country?”

  “I’m glad,” Marcus said simply, adding, “Not that you have much to look forward to, coming with me.”

  “Zemarkhos, you mean? But there’s two of us now, and that doubles our chances, or maybe better. Aye,” the veteran said to Scaurus’ unspoken question, “Gavras told me where he was sending you.” He scratched his head. “Far as I can see, you’re lucky. With his temper up, I’m surprised he didn’t just kill you and have done.”

  “Truth to tell, so was I, though I wasn’t about to tell him that,” Marcus said. “But while I was gathering my gear I thought it over. If Zemarkhos nails me, Thorisin’s no worse off than if he’d shortened me himself. If I deal with him in Amorion, well, Thorisin’s still stuck with me, but he’s rid of his madman priest, who’s more dangerous to him than I’d ever be, whether he admits it or not. And if we somehow do each other in, why then Gavras has two hares in the same net.”

  Gaius Philippus pursed his lips. “Hangs together,” he admitted. “It’s a good piece of Videssian double-dealing, right enough. They’re slicker than Greeks, I swear. Three setups, and he wins them all” He cocked an eyebrow at the tribune. “Only trouble is, in two of ’em you—or rather, we—don’t.”

  If the prevailing winds held, Nakoleia was about a week’s sail from Videssos. As long as they did, Zautzes let his crew rest easy at the oars and traveled under sailpower alone. The blue-dyed sheet would flutter and flap as the breeze shifted. Scaurus’ horse, which had finally arrived, was tethered to the stempost. It twitched its ears nervously at the strange noises behind it for the first few hours out of port, then decided they were harmless and ignored them.

  Knowing he would never master the big roan gelding by equestrian skill alone, the tribune did his best to get it used to him and, if he could, well-disposed, too. He curried its glossy coat, stroked its muzzle, and fed it dried apricots and apples begged from the Seafoam’s cook. The beast, which had an admirably even disposit
ion, accepted his attentions with an air of deserving no less.

  Scaurus proved a good sailor and easily adapted to shipboard routine, stripping down to light tunic and sword belt in the mild spring air. Gaius Philippus had a sound enough stomach, but stayed in trousers and kept on wearing his nail-soled caligae. “Give me something with some bite to it,” he said, eyeing the tribune’s bare feet with disapproval.

  “Whatever suits you,” Marcus answered mildly. “I thought it best to follow the sailors’ lead. They know more about this business than I do.”

  “If they were all that smart, they’d stay on land.” Gaius Philippus drew his gladius, tested the edge with his thumb. “Care for some work?” he asked. “No doubt you could use it, after a winter of seal-stamping.”

  “You’re right there,” the tribune said. He started to unsheath his own sword, stopped in surprise. A long sheet of parchment was wrapped several times round the blade, held in place with a dab of gum.

  “What do you have there?” Gaius Philippus said, seeing him pause.

  “I don’t know, yet.” Scaurus freed his sword from its brass scabbard. He worked the parchment loose, slid it down over the point, and scraped the gum off his blade with his thumbnail.

  He unrolled the note. “What does it say? Who sent it?” Gaius Philippus demanded as he came up to peer at the curlicues of Videssian script. Unlike the tribune, he had never learned to read or write the Empire’s language, having enough trouble with Latin.

  “It’s from Nepos,” Marcus said. He did not read it aloud, but went through it quickly so he could give Gaius Philippus the gist in Latin.

  “Phos prosper you, outlander,” the tubby priest and mage had written. “I am glad to have had at last the opportunity to examine this remarkable weapon of yours and only regret the circumstances which made my examination possible. This brief scrawl will summarize what I have learned; the iron-clad ruffian who will return your blade to you is clumping about outside my door even as I write.”

  Marcus had to smile; he could see Nepos scribbling frantically while Spektas glowered in at him from the corridor. He was sure the guardsman had not managed to hurry Nepos very much.

  The tribune read on: “The spells with which your sword is wrapped are of a potency I confess I have not seen. I attribute this to the extremely weak and uncertain nature of magic in your native world, upon which you and your comrades have often remarked. Only charms of extravagant force, it is my guess, would function there at all. Here, however, it is easier to unleash enchantments. As a result, those on your blade, made for harsher circumstances, become wonderfully powerful indeed.

  “They are, in fact, so strong I have had great difficulty in evaluating their nature. Testing-spells are subtle things, and the crude strength of your sword’s enchantments is too much for them, just as one would not measure the ocean with a spoon. But forgive me; you want what I do know.

  “Two separate spells, then, are laid on your blade. The first wards the sword and its bearer from opposing magics. This you have seen for yourself, of course, many times. I will only say that it far surpasses in force any such spells I have previously encontered. I wish I could determine how it was cast.

  “Because of the warding spell’s power, the other cantrip had to be investigated by indirect means, and I fear my results with it are not altogether satisfactory. It is in any case a more subtle enchantment. As far as I can tell, it is a charm somehow intended to protect not merely the individual who carries the sword, but his entire people as well. No Videssian sorcerer could begin to create such a spell, but I hazard that you were brought to Videssos through its agency.

  “If I had your red-haired friend’s blade to test along with yours, I might have more definite information to offer you—or I might be utterly destroyed. The enchantments are of that magnitude.

  “My apologies for not being able to tell you more. I do not think you came here by chance alone, but that is a feeling for which I can offer no proof. I may say, however, that a certain historian with whom we are both acquainted shares my belief. We both wish you success in your trials; the Lord of the great and good mind willing, we shall see you again. Nepos.”

  The tribune did not translate that last paragraph for Gaius Philippus, but felt a warm glow as he read it. Though Alypia had not had any chance to communicate with him directly, she was clever enough to realize his sword would probably come back to him and somehow got a message where it would do the most good.

  He wadded up the parchment and tossed it into the sea.

  Gaius Philippus asked a typical, bluntly pragmatic question: “What good does it do you to know how your sword’s magicked? You’re no wizard, to spell with it.”

  “Too true. I wish I could, and singe Zemarkhos’ beard for him.”

  “Well, you can’t,” Gaius Philippus said, “and if you don’t pay attention to using it as it should be used, you won’t live to face him anyway. So watch yourself!” He lunged at the tribune’s chest. Marcus sprang backward as he parried the veteran’s next thrust. Seamen crowded around to watch them fence.

  IV

  THE STANDARD FLYING FROM THE UPTHRUST LANCE WAS black as soot, an outlaws’ standard once, but now one to make all Pardraya tremble. More than bandits rode in Varatesh’s fighting tail now; even the most birth-proud khagans acknowledged him as head of the newly risen Royal Clan and sent their contingents to war at his side. Worse would befall them if they said him nay, and they knew it.

  Scowling, Varatesh dug spurs into his pony’s flanks. The shaggy little horse squealed and sprang ahead. The great black stallion at its side paced it without effort. Varatesh’s frown grew deeper as his glance flicked to the white-robed rider atop the huge horse. Head of the Royal Clan—Royal Khagan—master of the steppe! So everyone proclaimed him, Avshar loud among them, but he and the wizard-prince knew the lie for what it was.

  Puppet! The word rang inside his head, sour as milk gone bad. Without Avshar, he would still be a chieflet of renegades, a skulker, a raider—a flea, biting and hopping away before a hand came down to crush him. There were times he wished it were so. He was a killer many times over before Avshar found him, but he had not had any idea of what evil was.

  He knew now. These days he never slept without seeing irons heating in the fires, without smelling burned flesh, without hearing men shriek as their eyes were seared away. And he had consented to it, had wielded an iron himself—his skin crept when he thought of it. But through that horror he had become Royal Khagan, had made his name one with fear.

  Avshar chuckled beside him, a sound that reminded him of ice crackling on a winter stream. The wizard-prince’s mantlings streamed out behind him as his horse trotted southwest. He swaddled himself from head to foot.

  “We shall shatter them,” the sorcerer said, and chuckled again at the prospect. He spoke the Khamorth tongue with no trace of accent, though not a plainsman. As for what he was—alone on all the steppe, Varatesh had seen beneath his robes, and wished he had not.

  “Shatter them,” Avshar repeated. “They will rue the insult they gave to Rodak and thus to you as well, my lord.” The wizard’s terrible voice held no sardonic overtone as he granted Varatesh the title, but the nomad was undeceived. Avshar went on, “Your brave warriors—and a sorcery I have devised for the occasion—shall break the fable of Arshaum invincibility once for all.”

  Varatesh shivered at the cruel greediness in the wizard-prince’s manner, but could find no fault with what he said. The Arshaum were traversing Pardraya without his let—was he a lamb or a kid, for them to ignore as they pleased? “Do the omens promise success?” he asked.

  Avshar turned his dreadful unseen stare on the plainsman. Varatesh flinched under it. With a freezing laugh, the wizard-prince replied, “What care I for omens? I am no enaree, Varatesh, no puling, effeminate tribesman peering timidly into the future. The future shall be as I make it.”

  “Do the omens promise success?” Gorgidas asked Tolui. A longtime skeptic, he had
scant belief in foretelling, but in this world he was coming to doubt his doubts.

  “We will know soon,” the shaman said, his voice echoing and unearthly behind the madman’s smile of his devil-mask. He reached out for a thin wand of willow-wood; the welter of fringes on the arm of his robe dragged through the dust.

  The Arshaum leaders leaned forward in their circle round him. He drew a dagger from his belt and sliced the wand in half lengthwise. “Give me your hand,” he said to Arghun. The khagan obeyed without question, and did not draw back when the shaman cut his forefinger. Tolui smeared Arghun’s blood on one half of the split willow wand, saying, “This will stand for our army.” He stabbed the other half into the soil of Pardraya, so that it came up black with mud. “This serves for the Khamorth.”

  “I would have my blood you given,” Batbaian said.

  Even amusement sounded eerie through the mask’s unmoving lips. “The Khamorth who are our enemies, I should have said,” Tolui explained. Batbaian flushed. Tolui went on: “Enough now. Let us see what knowledge the spirits will grant, if they see fit to answer me.”

  The shaman picked up a drum with an oval head; its sides were as heavily fringed as his robe. He rose, tapping the drum softly. Its tone was deep and hollow, a fitting accompaniment to the wordless, crooning chant he began. He danced round the two wands, his steps at first slow and mincing, then higher, faster, more abandoned as he darted now this way, now that, paying no heed to the officers and princes who scattered before him.

  A hoarse voice cried out in a nameless tongue ten feet above his head. Another answered, high and girlish. Gorgidas jumped; Lankinos Skylitzes, pale round the mouth, drew Phos’ sun-circle on his breast. Gorgidas thought of ventriloquism, but then both voices shouted at once—no trickster could have worked that.