Swords of the Legion (Videssos)

by Harry Turtledove

  The two Vaspsurakaners were still close to the High Temple when a priest came by carrying a pair of blue boots. He had an upright bearing and rugged features, but his face was vaguely confused.

  “Don’t gape at him like that,” Nevrat hissed in Artavasdos’ ear. Her cousin ostentatiously looked in the other direction. He was not cut out for intrigue, Nevrat thought. But it did not matter. Past a glance any man might have sent an attractive woman, Saborios paid no attention to either of them.

  Nevrat began thinking about what she had agreed to try, and also began worrying. From Garsavra to Amorion was no small journey, and many Yezda roamed between the two towns. Could the legionaries force their way through? More to the point, could they do it in time?

  “The only thing to do is find out,” she muttered to herself. She grinned. What better omen to start with than sounding like Scaurus?

  Riding west through the lush farming country of the coastal plain, Nevrat became certain she was being followed. She could see a long way in the flatlands, and the horseman on her trail was noticeably closer than he had been when she first spotted him early that morning.

  She checked her bowstring to make sure it was not frayed. If Thorisin was fool enough to send a single rider after her, he would regret it. So, even more pointedly, would the rider. Not many imperials, she thought proudly, could match her at the game of trap and ambush.

  She did spare concern for Balsamon, Alypia Gavra, and her cousin Artavasdos. She wondered what had gone wrong, back in the city. Maybe Saborios had noticed something amiss in spite of the sorcerous befuddlement Nepos cast on him, or maybe Nepos had just tried keeping too many magics in the air at once, like a juggler with too many cups.

  On the other hand, maybe pincers and knives had torn the truth from Artavasdos, who could not hide behind rank.

  In the end, none of that mattered. What did matter was the fellow coming after her. She glanced back over her shoulder. Yes, he was closer. He had a good horse—not, Nevrat thought, that having it would help him.

  A couple of mule-drawn cars, piled high with clay jugs full of berries, were coming toward her. She swerved behind them. They hid her from view as she rode off the road into the almond orchard along the verge.

  One of the farmers with the carts called, “Old Krates don’t like trespassers on his land.”

  “To the ice with him, if he begrudges me a quiet spot to squat a minute,” Nevrat said. The farmers laughed and trudged on.

  Nevrat walked into the orchard and tethered her horse to a tree out of sight from the roadway. She gave the beast a feed-bag so it would not betray her with a neigh. Then she took her bow and quiver and settled down to wait, well hidden by bushes, for her pursuer.

  Something with too many legs crawled up under her trousers and bit her several times, just below her knee, before she managed to kill it. The bites itched. Scratching at them gave her something to do.

  Here came the fellow at last. Nevrat peered through the leaves. Like her, he was riding one of the nondescript but capable horses the Videssians favored. She set an arrow in her bow, then paused, frowning. She wished she could see better from her cover. Surely no Videssian would wear a cap like that one, with three peaks and a profusion of brightly dyed ribbons hanging down in back.…

  She rose, laughing, her hands on her hips, the bow forgotten. “Senpat, what are you doing here?”

  “At the moment, being glad I found you,” her husband replied, trotting his horse up to her. “I was afraid you’d gone off the road to give me the slip.”

  “I had.” Nevrat’s smile faded. “I thought you were one of Thorisin’s men—the more so,” she added, “as you told me you were staying in the city the other night when I left.”

  Senpat grinned at her. “The thought of sleeping alone for who knows how long grew too disheartening to bear.”

  Her hands went to her hips again, this time in anger. Her eyes flashed dangerously. “For that you would risk us both? Have you all of a sudden gone half-witted? The very reason I got this task was that your leaving the capital might be noticed. You were trailing me—how many imperials are after you?”

  “None. My captain felt very bad when I got a letter from home bidding me return at once because my older brother had just died of snakebite. The same thing had happened to him three years ago, which is why I had Artavasdos write the letter that way. For good measure, he wrote it in Vaspurakaner, which Captain Petzeas doesn’t read.”

  “You have no older brother,” Nevrat pointed out.

  “Certainly not now, poor fellow, and Petzeas has the letter to prove it.” Senpat arched an elegant eyebrow. “Even if anyone who knows differently hears of it, it’ll be too late to matter.”

  “Oh, very well,” Nevrat grumbled. She could never stay annoyed at her husband for long, not when he was working so hard to charm her. And he was right—the imperials were unlikely to see through his precautions. Still: “It was a risky thing to do.”

  Senpat clapped a hand to his forehead. “This, from the woman who rode out alone from Khliat after Maragha? This, from the woman who, if I know her as the years have given me a right to, is itching to tangle with the Yezda or Zemarkhos or both at once?” Nevrat hoped he did not see her guilty start, but he did, and grinned. He went on, “I don’t expect to keep you out of mischief, but at least I can share it with you. And besides, Scaurus is a friend of mine too.”

  Again Nevrat wondered whether he would say that if he knew the Roman had made a move in her direction. Probably, she thought—Marcus was at low ebb the past fall, but took a no when he heard one even so. Senpat would likely chuckle and say he could not fault the tribune’s taste.

  Nevrat did not intend to find out.

  She said, “Come with me while I get my horse. I tied him up in the nut orchard so I could do a proper job of ambushing you.”

  “Hmmp. I suppose I should be honored.” As they scuffed through last year’s dry leaves, Senpat remarked, “Nice quiet place.”

  “A couple of locals told me old Krates, who I take it owns the orchard, doesn’t care for intruders.”

  “He doesn’t seem to have troubled you any while you were setting up your precious ambush.” Senpat put a hand on Nevrat’s shoulder. “Do you suppose he might stay away a while longer?”

  She moved toward him. “Shall we find out?”

  “I still say you shouldn’t have shot Krates’ dog,” Nevrat told her husband a few days later.

  By then they were almost to Garsavra, but Senpat still sounded grumpy. “You’re right. I should have shot Krates, for showing up when he did.”

  “We’ve made up for it since.”

  “Well, so we have.” Senpat peered toward the town ahead. “Why does it look different?”

  “The Romans have been busy,” Nevrat said. A man-high earthwork wall, faced with turf so it would not melt in the rain, surrounded Garsavra. It has been unfortified for hundreds of years, but times were changing in Videssos’ westlands, and not for the better. From the direction in which she was coming, Nevrat could see two openings in the wall, one facing due north, the other east. She was dead certain a matching pair looked west and south. “They’ve turned the place into a big legionary camp.”

  “Sounds like what Gaius Philippus would do—there’s nothing he likes better.” Senpat chuckled. “I wonder if he had the Romans knock down half the buildings in town so he could make the streets run straight between his gates.”

  Nevrat shook her head. “He’s not wasteful. Look at the way they made the Namdalener motte-and-bailey part of their works.” She found the senior centurion too single-mindedly a soldier to be easy to like, but she was always glad they were on the same side.

  The sentries at the north gate were Vaspurakaners, men from Gagik Bagratouni’s band. They brightened at the approach of two of their countrymen. Still, their questions were brisk and businesslike—Roman drill working, Nevrat thought as the foot soldiers stood aside to let her and Senpat into Garsavra.

&
nbsp; Sextus Minucius made his headquarters where Scaurus and Gaius Philippus had before him, in what had been the city governor’s residence. He was a handsome young man, taller than most of the legionaries, with blue-black stubble that darkened his cheeks and chin no matter how often he shaved.

  He greeted Senpat and Nevrat warmly, but with a trace of awkwardness. He had been only a simple trooper when they first attached themselves to the legion; now he outranked them. At their news, though, he abruptly became all business. His face went hard as stone.

  “Gaius Philippus, too, eh?” he murmured, half to himself. He followed it with something in Latin that Nevrat could not follow. Seeing her incomprehension brought him back to the here-and-now, and to Videssian. “Sorry. It sounds like him, I said. The two of you had best wait here while I send for Bagratouni and Pakhymer. They ought to hear your story firsthand, to give me the best advice.”

  That last sentence killed any doubts Nevrat had about who was in charge at Garsavra. In his firm, unhesitating acceptance of duty, Minucius sounded much like Scaurus.

  The orderly outside his office was a Roman. His hobnailed caligae clattered on marble flooring as he dashed off to fetch the officers his commander wanted.

  Laon Pakhymer showed up first. Somehow that surprised Nevrat not at all. Nothing took Pakhymer by surprise—the light cavalry officer from Khatrish had a nose for trouble and a gift for exploiting it.

  Minucius was pacing impatiently by the time Gagik Bagratouni arrived, though the Vaspurakaner was prompt enough. He embraced Senpat and Nevrat in turn. He had known them since he and they still held estates in Vaspurakan, before the Yezda invasions forced so many nobles from their native land.

  “So,” he said at last, turning to Minucius. “I am glad to see them, yes, but is this occasion enough to drag me from my quarters?” His voice was deep and deliberate, a fit match for his solid frame and strong, heavy features, the latter framed by an untrimmed beard as dark and thick as Minucius’ would have been.

  “Yes,” the Roman said flatly. Nevrat exchanged glances with her husband; not many men could withstand Bagratouni’s presence when he chose to exert it. Minucius nodded their way. “Seeing them is one thing, hearing them something else again.”

  Nevrat told most of the story, Senpat filling in details and adding how he had managed to get out of the city to join her. That earned him an admiring grin from Pakhymer. Nevrat saw how her husband drew himself up with pride; praise from the Khatrisher was praise from a master schemer.

  When they were through, Bagratouni did what Nevrat had known he would—he slammed his fist down on the table in front of him and roared, “My men march now! Give me Zemarkhos, Phos, and I will ask for nothing more in this life!”

  Minucius was the one who surprised her. He waited until Bagratouni’s thundering subsided a little, then told the Vaspurakaner, “Your men march nowhere without my leave, Gagik.”

  Bagratouni’s beard swallowed most of his dark flush of anger, but not all. “Who are you to tell me what to do? I am a nakharar, a lord of Vaspurakan, and I act with my retainers as I will.”

  “You are not in Vaspurakan,” Minucius said, “and you have taken Roman service as commander of a maniple. Do you remember that, or not?”

  Nevrat leaned forward, afraid Bagratouni would throw himself at the Roman. “With Zemarkhos in front of me, I remember nothing,” the nakharar ground out. “How do you propose to stop me from slaying him, as is less than he deserves?”

  “With my men, if I have to,” Minucius said evenly. “There are more Romans than Vaspurakaner legionaries in Garsavra. Look at me, Gagik. Do you doubt I would use them if you disobey my orders? I value your counsel; you know that. But I will have your obedience and I will do what I must to get it.”

  Bagratouni studied the younger man. The silence stretched. “You would,” the Vaspurakaner said wonderingly. “Very well, then, what are your orders?” He spat the last word at Minucius.

  “Why, to go after Scaurus, of course,” the Roman said at once. He was not as calm as he wished to seem; sweat beaded on his forehead.

  “Why this game, if we want the same thing?” Bagratouni exclaimed.

  “I know how you feel about the Yezda, and about Zemarkhos. I don’t blame you, Gagik, but I need you to remember you go as part of my forces, not have you haring off on your own.”

  Laon Pakhymer spoke up. “How will the Emperor feel when you go haring off on your own? No different from you about Gagik, I expect.”

  Suddenly and disarmingly, Minucius grinned. It made him look very young indeed. “Probably not. But there are more Romans than Videssian troops in Garsavra, too, so what is he going to do about it?”

  “Not bloody much, except pitch a fit.” Pakhymer grinned, too, his teeth white in a scraggly beard that rode high on his cheeks to cover pockmarks. He looked delighted at the prospect.

  “If you take back Amorion for him, Thorisin won’t care about the wherefores,” Nevrat said to Minucius.

  “She’s right.” Pakhymer turned his impudent smile her way. She suspected he approved of her person more than of her idea, but having men look at her did not bother her. Rather the reverse, unless they went further than looking, and Pakhymer knew better than that.

  “If the Yezda kill all of us along the way, of course, we won’t care what Thorisin thinks,” Minucius said. “I’m glad we gave Yavlak something to think about when he raided last winter—his clans won’t want any part of us.”

  “You leave Yavlak to me,” Pakhymer said. “I bought an attack on the Namdaleni from him when we needed it; I expect a little gold will get him not to mind us marching through his land.”

  “Videssos’ land,” Minucius said, frowning.

  “Yavlak’s there, the Emperor’s not. Do you really want to risk having to fight your way through and wasting Phos knows how much time?”

  Minucius bit his lip. Nevrat saw Pakhymer had found the magic word to tempt him, despite his abhorrence for dealing with the Yezda in any way but at sword’s point. He drummed his fingers, muttered again in Latin. Nevrat heard a familiar word, but could not follow the phrase.

  But in the end, the Roman said, “No. If we move fast, Yavlak won’t dare try troubling us.”

  Unlike Bagratouni, Pakhymer knew determination when he heard it. “You’re the boss,” he said with the casual wave he used for a salute. “Not much point to more talk, then, is there? Let’s get ready to go.” He got up and left. Bagratouni followed a moment later.

  Minucius rose, too. “The Khatrisher is right. Time to get moving.”

  “May I ask you something first?” Nevrat said. Minucius paused. She went on, “I thought I heard you say Marcus’ name, but I didn’t know what the rest of that meant.”

  The Roman looked, of all things, embarrassed. “That’ll teach me to talk to myself. Do you really want to know?” He waited till she nodded, then said sheepishly, “I was just asking myself what Scaurus would do in this spot. Now I’m off. One thing he wouldn’t do is waste time.”

  Senpat Sviodo strummed the strings of his pandoura as he rode; he guided his horse with his knees. His song and the plashing of the Arandos River were the only music to accompany the column marching west. The Roman army, unlike its Videssian equivalent, mostly traveled in silence.

  Nevrat, along with everyone else, was glad for the Arandos. The westlands’ central plateau was nothing like the lush coastal lowlands. Away from running water, the sun baked the land to dust.

  Her husband’s song jangled to a stop. Two Khatrishers from Pakhymer’s cavalry screen were riding back toward the main body of foot soldiers with a third man between them. “Yezda,” Senpat said unnecessarily. The fellow was dressed in nomad leathers and carried a small round shield daubed here and there with whitewash—a truce sign.

  At Minucius’ signal, the buccinators trumpeted the legionaries to a halt; when they needed it, the Romans did not despise music. The Yezda rode up to him and said in loud, bad Videssian, “What you doing on land
belong to mighty Yavlak?”

  “Marching on it, not that it is Yavlak’s,” the Roman commander said. He ignored the Yezda’s effort to stare him down; having outfaced Gagik Bagratouni, he was more than equal to this smaller challenge. “And if Yavlak doesn’t care for it, let him recall what happened when he tried visiting Garsavra.”

  “He stack up your corpses like firewood,” the Yezda herald blustered.

  “Let him try. But tell him this—for now I have no quarrel with him. If I have to turn aside to deal with him, the only land he will claim is enough to bury him in. Now get out. I’ve wasted enough time on you.”

  Minucius nodded to the buccinators. They blew advance. The army tramped forward. The Yezda had to swing his horse into a sidestep to keep from being ground into the dirt. Scowling, he wheeled and trotted away.

  “Trouble,” Nevrat said, watching his angry back.

  Senpat answered, “Mm, maybe not. Yavlak’s no fool and he is still smarting from last winter. Besides, it will take some time for him to gather enough men to fight, even if he wants to. By the time he does, we may be past the stretch of country he holds.” But as he spoke, he stowed his precious pandoura in its soft leather cover and began checking the fletching on the arrows in his quiver. Nevrat did the same.

  Despite such forebodings, no trouble came that day. One reason, Nevrat was sure, was the speed with which the legionaries moved. As they were traveling along a river, they needed to carry only iron rations; no cumbersome wagons impeded their march. Dash might have been a better word—they fairly flung themselves up the Arandos.

  At the end of the first grueling day, when the legionaries were building their familiar fortified camp, Nevrat asked Minucius, “How do you go so fast? I’ve seen cavalry armies that would have trouble matching your pace.”