Swords of the Legion (Videssos)

by Harry Turtledove

  Viridovix did nothing to help his self-assurance, saying, “Sure and a king’s a bad one for keeping promises, for who’s to make him if he doesna care to?” Despite having heard from the Romans that Thorisin had put Komitta aside, he was also uncertain of the welcome the Emperor had waiting for him. Fretting over that took his mind off other concerns.

  Morning twilight roused the Arshaum with a jolt when their sentries caught sight of a squad of strange horsemen. “Careless buggers,” Gaius Philippus said, bolting down a wheatcake. “They stand out like whores at a wedding, silhouetted against the dawn that way. From any other direction, they’d be invisible.”

  The riders showed no sign of pulling back after they were discovered. “The cheek o’ them now, looking us over bold as you please,” Viridovix said. He set his Gallic helmet firmly on his head; its crest, a seven-spoked bronze wheel, glinted red as his hair in the light of the just-risen sun.

  Marcus shielded his eyes with his hand to study the horsemen, who still had not moved. “I don’t think that’s cheek,” he said at last. “I think it’s confidence. They have a big force somewhere behind them, unless I miss my guess.”

  Gorgidas was also squinting into the sun. As he was a bit farsighted while Scaurus was the reverse, he saw more than the tribune. “They’re nomads,” he said worriedly. “What are the Yezda doing in strength so close to a big imperial army?”

  Speculation ceased as they ran for their horses; most of the Arshaum were already mounted and hooted at them for their slowness. “Took you long enough,” Arigh sniffed when they were finally in the saddle. “Let’s find out what’s going on.”

  He led a hundred riders toward the strangers: in line, not column, but advancing slowly so as not to seem an open threat. Marcus could see the horsemen ahead reaching over their shoulders for arrows, but none of them raised a bow. Two or three were in corselets of boiled leather like those of the Arshaum, but most wore chain-mail shirts.

  With a raised hand, Arigh halted his men at the extreme edge of arrow range. He rode forward alone. After a few seconds, one of the waiting riders matched the gesture. When they were about eighty yards apart, the Arshaum chief shouted a Khamorth phrase he had memorized: “Who are you?” By his looks, the approaching horseman could have been a Yezda or off the Pardrayan plain.

  “Who are you?” The answer came back in oddly accented Videssian.

  Marcus had heard that lilt before. He dug his heels into his pony’s sides and rode toward Arigh at a fast trot. Several Arshaum shouted for him to get back in his place. His own shout, though, was louder than theirs: “Ho, Khatrisher! Where’s Pakhymer?”

  The stranger had set a hand to his saber when the Roman came toward him, but snatched it away at the hail. “He’s right where he belongs and nowhere else,” he yelled back. “Who wants to know?” The flip answer did not bother Scaurus; most Khatrishers were like that.

  “They’re friends,” he called to Arigh, then shouted his own name to the Khatrisher.

  “Why, you lying whoreson! He’s dead!”

  “Dead, am I?” The tribune rode past Arigh until he was close enough to see the Khatrisher clearly. As he’d hoped, the fellow was one of Laon Pakhymer’s minor officers. “Look me over—” What was the name? he had it! “—look me over, Konyos, and tell me I’m dead.”

  Konyos did, carefully. “Well, throw me in the chamberpot,” he said. “It is you. Is that other duck still with you, the ornery one?”

  “Gaius?” Marcus hid a smile. “He’s back there.”

  “He would be,” Konyos said darkly. He waved at the Arshaum. “Who are those beggars, anyway? If you’re with ’em, I don’t suppose they’re Yezda.”

  “No.” As Scaurus began to explain, the Arshaum and Khatrishers, seeing there would be no fighting, moved toward each other.

  Konyos eyed the men from Shaumkhiil with lively interest; their wide, almost beardless faces, snub noses, and slanted eyes were all new to him. “Funny-looking bastards,” he remarked without malice. “Can they fight?”

  “They’ve come through Pardraya and Yezd.”

  “They can fight.”

  The tribune introduced Konyos to Arigh, then nearly shouted the question that was burning in him: “What is Gavras doing in Amorion?”

  “You ought to know,” the Kharisher said. “It’s your fault.”

  “Huh?” That was the last answer Scaurus expected.

  “What else? When Senpat and Nevrat Sviodo gave Minucius the word you’d been shipped off to give Zemarkhos what for, wild horses couldn’t have held him back from piling in to help. Naturally, Pakhymer brought us along for the ride.”

  A lump rose in Marcus’ throat, despite Konyos’ breezy way with the story. More than anything else, it showed what his troops—and the Khatrishers, too—felt about him. “The legionaries are at Amorion, then?”

  “I just said so, didn’t I? Everything by the numbers, one-two—damn boring, if you ask me. Not that you did.”

  “Hmmp.” That was Gaius Philippus, crowding up with Viridovix and Gorgidas to hear the news.

  Konyos backtracked for them, then went on, grinning. “We had a rare old time, punching up the Arandos. We moved so hard and fast Yavlak still doesn’t know what hit him.”

  Gaius Philippus jabbed an accusing finger at the Khatrisher. “It was your bloody army—our own bloody army!—moving on Amorion all the time?”

  “Of course. Who did you think it was?”

  “Never mind,” the veteran said. “Oh, my aching head.” Marcus wanted to cry and laugh at the same time. He and Gaius Philippus had only gone west with Tahmasp’s caravan—had only ended up in Mashiz, and the tunnels under it—because they were sure that army had to be Yezda.

  Konyos turned to the tribune. “Oh, one more thing—Gagik Bagratouni has a bone to pick with you.”

  “Me? Why? I got rid of Zemarkhos for him.”

  “That’s just why. He wanted to do it himself, a little at a time, over days. Can’t say I blame him much, either, after things I’ve heard. But seeing as the bugger’s dead, I expect Bagratouni’ll forgive you this once.” The Khatrisher sobered for a moment. “We thought the two of you’d gone into a hole you’d never come out of, too. We tore Amorion apart looking for you and never found a trace.” He sounded a little indignant they had survived.

  “A hole we’d never come out of?” Scaurus said with a shudder of memory. “That’s too close to being true—there are worse places than Amorion.”

  The orderly rows of eight-man leather tents behind the square, palisaded earthwork made a striking contrast with the irregular arrangements all around them: here a noble’s silk pavilion; there a clump of yurts; further over, a whole forest of shelters clumped together at random, lean- to next to three or four small cotton tents next to a huge canvas arrangement that could have held a platoon.

  The sentry at the entrenched gate was a dark, stocky man wearing a sleeveless mail shirt. He peered over the edge of his big semicylindrical shield at the four approaching horsemen in nomad leathers. Hefting his heavy javelin, he called, “Halt and state your business.”

  “Hello, Pinarius. That’s not much of a good day,” Marcus said in Latin, and watched the Roman legionary drop his pilum.

  “Will you look at the puir gowk of a man, now?” Viridovix said, shaking his head sadly. “If he canna put names to the lot of us, sure and he’ll be useless for telling friend from foe.”

  Pinarius had been about to dash away into the camp, but when he recognized Gaius Philippus he did not dare break discipline by leaving his post. Instead he shouted, “By the gods, the tribune’s back, and everybody with him!” Snatching up his spear and reversing it with a flourish, he stood aside to let the newcomers enter.

  Discipline did suffer then, as Romans tumbled from their tents and came rushing from their drills with sword and spear. Marcus and his comrades scrambled down from their ponies before they were pulled off. The legionaries swarmed round them, reaching over each other to embrace
them, clasp their hands, pound them on the back, simply touch them.

  “Och, ye didna gi’ me such a thrashing back in Gaul,” Viridovix complained in mock anger. The Romans hooted at him.

  For Gorgidas, who was particular about whom he touched, the tumultuous welcome was something of an ordeal. He was surprised to find Rakio at his side; the Yrmido had followed him when he left Arigh’s band, but at a distance. Someone noticed the stranger. “Who’s this?”

  “A friend,” the Greek answered.

  “Good enough.” From then on Rakio was pummeled with as much enthusiasm as any of the others. Unlike Gorgidas, he relished it.

  “Way there! Clear aside!” Sextus Minucius came pushing through the legionaries. He made slow going of it, for the crush was very tight, but at last he stood in front of the tribune. Months of command had matured the young soldier; there was a finished look to his broad, handsome face that Scaurus had not seen before.

  He snapped off a precise salute. “Returning your command to you, sir!”

  Marcus shook his head. “It’s not mine to take back. Gavras stripped me of it before he sent me out against Zemarkhos.”

  The legionaries cried out angrily. Minucius said, “We heard about that, sir. All I have to say is, we choose who leads us, and nobody else.” He saluted again.

  The Romans shouted again, this time in vociferous agreement. “Damn right!” “We don’t tell Gavras his business; let him stay out of ours!” “Weren’t for us, he’d still be sitting back in Videssos. We punched a hole in the Yezda a blind man could’ve walked through.” And a rising chorus: “Scaurus, Scaurus, Scaurus!” Moved past words, the tribune returned the salute.

  The cheers were deafening. Viridovix nudged Gaius Philippus. “You’ll be noticing there’s none of ’em making the welkin ring for you,” he chuckled.

  “There’d be something wrong if they were,” the veteran replied evenly. “I’m supposed to be the cantankerous blackguard who makes the boss look good.”

  Fed up with soft answers, the Gaul snapped, “Aye, well, you’re right for it,” and felt better for earning a scowl from the senior centurion.

  The non-Romans among the legionaries hung back at first to let Marcus’ countrymen greet him, but they soon joined the celebration, too. Burly Vaspurakaners folded him into bear hugs, shouting a welcome in vile Latin and almost equally thick Videssian.

  “So, you are safe after all,” Gagik Bagratouni boomed, crushing the breath from the tribune. With his proud, heavy-boned features, thick wavy hair, and black mat of beard, the nakharar always reminded Scaurus of a lion. “For all we tried, we did not get here enough quickly, and thought the cursed priest had killed you.”

  “I’m amazed you came so close,” Marcus said.

  “Good information,” Bagratouni said smugly. He turned, looked around, pointed. “Senpat, Nevrat—to me!”

  The two shoved their way up to the nakharar and Scaurus. Senpat Sviodo was the only man the tribune knew who could bring off wearing the Vaspurakaners’ traditional three-crowned tasseled cap; his good looks and zestful character let him get away with whatever he chose. He stamped a booted foot and shouted out the first three notes of a war song. “Hai, hai, hai! We thought we’d see you sooner, but rather late than not at all, as the old saw goes.”

  His grin was infectious; Marcus felt one stretch across his own face. He turned to Nevrat. Even if she was not his, she deserved attention. The Vaspurakaners’ features were too strong for beauty in most women, but she was a fortunate exception—as with Senpat, part of that was her own nature shining through.

  She would not listen to the tribune’s thanks. “This was nothing—a few days’ ride through friendly country to Garsavra. Not worth thinking about. What of the time we were fighting Drax’ men in the first civil war, and you killed that Namdalener who had me down?”

  “Oh, that. Do you remember how you paid me back?”

  Howls went up from the legionaries around them. Something in Nevrat’s eyes said she remembered other things as well, but mischief also sparked there. “Quite well,” she said boldly.

  “I’ll settle this the same way, then,” Marcus said. The howls got louder. The tribune said to Bagratouni, “Watch close—I’m about to kiss a married woman.” He gathered Nevrat in.

  “Is it well with you?” she whispered against his ear. At his nod, she murmured, “All right, then,” and made the kiss a more thorough, unhurried one than he had intended. Her lips were firm and sweet against his. “If you do something, do it properly,” she said when they separated.

  ‘Maybe we should have stayed in Videssos,” Senpat growled, but he was laughing, too. A tiny headshake from Nevrat told Scaurus he did not know—not, really, that there was much to know.

  Bagratouni dug an elbow into the tribune’s ribs. “What was I supposed to watch? That much I knew when I was twelve.”

  The commotion in the Roman camp sent other imperial troops—Videssians, Khatrishers, Halogai, Khamorth, a few Namdaleni—rushing up to the rampart to see what had got into the usually staid legionaries. Troopers shouted the news to friends or to the world at large.

  “So much for keeping our arrival quiet,” Gorgidas said.

  Scaurus understood what he meant as well as what he said. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “With Goudeles and Skylitzes reporting to the Emperor, he already knows who came in with the Arshaum.” Before long, he was sure, a summons would be on its way.

  That did not seem to have occurred to Viridovix. “At least you’re after having a pledge from himself,” he told Marcus. “Me he’ll chop into catmeat, belike, for playing ’tween the sheets with his ladylove.”

  Nothing the Romans had said had convinced him that Thorisin was not only rid of Komitta Rhangavve, but heartily glad she was gone. And the tribune was wondering how much the Avtokrator’s promises to him were worth. He knew Gavras as a man of his word, but he also knew how great the temptation to break it would be.

  No help for that. And no matter what Thorisin intended doing, Avshar had plans, too, that were all too likely to shatter everyone else’s. “We need to know more of what’s going on here,” the tribune said to Gaius Philippus.

  “Minucius and Bagratouni are right beside you,” the veteran replied. “And I’ve already sent a runner after Pakhymer.”

  “Good.”

  Minucius led them to the commander’s tent, which stood at the center of the via principalis, the chief street of the camp. He stood aside to let Scaurus enter first, saying, “Looks like I’ll have to get used to smaller quarters again.”

  The inside of the tent belied his words. But for a bedroll, a few mats, and his kit, it was bare. The kit was an ordinary legionary’s; Minucius had risen from the ranks over the last couple of years. Viridovix looked around, shook his head, and said, “What do you care what space y’have? You could live in a barrel, I’m thinking, wi’ room to spare.”

  “I don’t think Erene would like that,” Minucius said. “She’s expecting again.”

  “She’s back in Garsavra?” Marcus asked.

  “Yes. All the women are, but for Nevrat, and she’s a story to herself. We came west in a tearing hurry. We didn’t drive the Yezda away, we just pushed through them. So did Gavras; the buggers are still swarming between Garsavra and here.”

  “That answers one thing,” Gaius Philippus said. “It’s not what I wanted to hear, but it’s what I expected.”

  Laon Pakhymer arrived just as they were settling down onto the mats. He sat, too, and nodded to Scaurus and Gaius Philippus as casually as if he had seen them a couple of hours before.

  “That was quick,” the senior centurion said grudgingly. It was hard to be sure whether Pakhymer’s slapdash style or effectiveness annoyed him more.

  The Khatrisher leader knew he irritated the veteran and played on it. “We have our ways,” he said airily.

  “He talked with Konyos before the Roman runner got to him,” Gorgidas said.

  Pakhymer assumed an in
jured expression. “Why do I bother with my tricks, if you’re going to shine a lantern on them?”

  “Let’s get on with it,” Marcus said. The Khatrisher leaned forward, abruptly as businesslike as anyone in the tent.

  Scaurus got the same picture from him as he had from the others: the legionaries and Khatrishers had made the thrust from Garsavra on their own, and when it looked like a success Thorisin had followed with the rest of the forces now at Amorion. He had not gained control of the Arandos valley, but the tribune learned that he had sent a detachment north to Nakoleia on the coast of the Videssian Sea. “Sensible,” he said. “We aren’t altogether cut off from the rest of the Empire here, then.”

  After that the talk shifted to questions of provisions, the readiness of the troops, and Gavras’ plans. Sextus Minucius said, “At first I don’t think he had any when he followed us here, past making sure we didn’t keep Amorion for ourselves. But now there’s a report Avshar’s pushing through Vaspurakan toward us. If that’s so, then this makes a good base to use against him.”

  The newly returned men exchanged glances. “Damned perambulating corpse moves too fast to suit me,” Gaius Philippus said, but that was the only comment. None of them doubted the wizard-prince aimed to crush Videssos once and for all. They had seen his preparations with their own eyes; the tribune and senior centurion had his boasts and threats straight from his fleshless lips.

  Pakhymer said, “There’s more to the Emperor coming after us than Minucius spoke of, I think.” He waited to let Scaurus and his friends supply the answer for themselves.”

  “Politics?” Gorgidas ventured.

  The Khatrisher leader scratched his head. His version of the faith differed from the Videssians’, but he was part and parcel of their world in a way the Greek, the Romans, and Viridovix could never be. He said, “Sometimes I think you people were born half-blind. See now, if you can: these past couple of years, Amorion has been in schism against the capital and its clergy, thanks to Zemarkhos. You Romans are most of you heathen, while the imperials reckon my folk one kind of heretic and Bagratouni’s another. Thorisin couldn’t trust any of us to set things right here; why else would he fetch Balsamon along, but to bring the schismatics back to the fold?”