“Did he?” Marcus pricked up his ears. “I hadn’t heard that.”
“He certainly did. The old baldhead’s been preaching up a storm, too. I’ve listened once or twice myself; he’s a lively one. Truth to tell, a few more like him and I’d think of converting to the imperials’ way of looking at things—he makes you believe in the good.”
“I listen, too,” Bagratouni said. “Better than Zemarkhos? Yes, a thousand times. Convert? No, never. Too much the ‘princes’ suffer from Videssos for me ever to change the Empire’s belief.”
The conference limped after that. Marcus did not think even the pious Skylitzes would have dared urge his faith on the nakharar then. As for himself, though he did not follow Phos at all, he felt more apprehension about Videssos’ ruler than all its ecclesiastics rolled together.
The next morning two Haloga guardsmen were waiting for Scaurus at the porta praetoria. They had learned something of legionary customs, he thought as he went out to them; the porta praetoria was the closest of the camp’s four gates to the commander’s tent. He tried to keep his mind on such trivia. The Halogai had only summoned him, not Gaius Philippus, Gordigas, or Virdovix. He was not sure that was any kind of good sign.
The northern mercenaries were sweating in the Videssian summer heat. They were big blond men, as tall as the tribune and wider through the shoulders. One wore his hair shoulder length; the other tied it back in a thick braid that fell to the small of his back. Both had swords belted at their hips, but relied more on their nation’s characteristic weapon, a stout, long-handled war axe.
They nodded when they recognized him. The one with the braid said, “Ve are charged to bring you before t’Avtokrahtor.” The Haloga accent was thick, but the tribune understood. He fell in between the guardsmen, who shouldered their axes and marched him away.
Several of Thorisin Gavras’ officers enjoyed pavilions more impressive than his. He did not seek luxury for its own sake and in the field always lived simply. The blue pennant with the golden imperial sunburst in front of his tent said everything about his status that needed saying.
Another pair of Halogai paced in front of the tent’s entranceway. They drew themselves up alertly as Marcus and his escort neared. The northerner with the queue spoke in a formal voice: “It is t’captain of t’Romans.” The sentries stood aside.
Ducking under the tent flap, Scaurus fought to keep surprise off his face. Thorisin had taken his rank from him—was it his again? He got no time to wonder; up ahead the Emperor was saying impatiently, “All right, go see to it, then. I have other business to attend to now.”
“Yes, sir.” The officer who saluted had his back to Scaurus, but the tribune stiffened at the sound of his voice. And when Provhos Mourtzouphlos turned to leave, he stopped in his tracks, disbelief and rage chasing each other across his regular features. “You!” he cried, and went for his sword.
Marcus’ hand flashed downward. One of the Halogai leaped between Mourtzouphlos and the Roman; the other seized Scaurus’ wrist in an iron grasp. “Leave it in t’sheat’,” he ordered, and the tribune could only obey.
Thorisin had not moved from behind the parchment-strewn folding table at which he was sitting. “Carry out your orders, Provhos,” he said. “I assure you I shall deal with this one as he deserves.”
The sound of that did not appeal to Scaurus, but it suited Mourtzouphlos no better. “Yes, sir,” he repeated, but this time he had to choke it out. He flourished his cloak with aristocratic disdain and stalked past Marcus, snarling, “This is not done between us, you ass in a lion’s skin.”
All that kept the Roman from throwing himself at Mourtzouphlos was the guardsman’s unbreakable grip on his arm. His fury astonished him, and the reason for it even more. He was not angry over what he had gone through himself; that was over and done. But Mourtzouphlos was also responsible for everything that had happened to Alypia these past months, and for that the tribune could not forgive him. She had already suffered too much to deserve more.
Perhaps the sight of the Emperor helped provoke Scaurus by reminding him of Alypia. Thorisin’s oval face was longer than hers, and craggier, his eyes dark rather than green, but at a glance anyone would have known them for close kin.
“Take yourselves off, Bjorgolf, Harek,” Gavras said to the Halogai flanking the tribune. “Eyvind and Skallagrim are outside to see to it this one doesn’t try murdering me. He won’t—he needs me alive. Isn’t that right, outlander?” He gave Marcus a cynical stare. Nor sure if he was being baited, the tribune stood mute.
The Halogai saluted and left; they had no intention of arguing with their paymaster. Thorisin turned to a servant who was polishing a pair of boots. He flipped the man a piece of silver. “That will keep, Glykas. Go on; spend it on something.” With effusive thanks, the Videssian followed the mercenaries out.
When he was gone, the Emperor grunted in satisfaction. “Now you’ve no one to scandalize but me by ignoring the proskynesis.” Marcus stayed silent. He had seen Thorisin in this playful mood once or twice before. It made him nervous; he could not read him in it. Gavras raised an eyebrow. “If you won’t go on your belly, you may as well take a chair.”
The tribune obeyed. Steepling his fingers, Thorisin studied him for a good minute before he spoke again. “What am I to do with you, Roman? You’re like a counterfeit copper; you keep turning up.”
Marcus was suddenly sick of this oblique approach; Gavras would have been more direct before he became Avtokrator. He said, “Seems to me you have two choices. Either keep our bargain or execute me.”
The Emperor smiled thinly. “Are you trying to persuade me? There have been enough times I’d have liked to see your head go up on the Milestone. But I won’t be the one to settle your fate now.”
“Avshar.” It was not a question.
“Aye.” Military matters turned Thorisin serious again. “Here, see for yourself.” Scaurus hitched his chair forward; Gavras turned a map of the Videssian westlands around so it was right-side up for the Roman. He pointed to the Rhamnos River at the eastern edge of Vaspurakan. “I have word by fire-beacon that the Yezda army crossed just north of Soli yesterday.”
The tribune gauged distances. The wizard-prince had moved faster than he thought possible. “A week away, then. Maybe a day or two more; there’s rugged country in their way as they turn southeast. Or will you meet them somewhere halfway between?”
“No; I aim to stand on the defensive.” Gavras bared his teeth in a grimace of frustration; his instinct was to attack. But he went on, “After Maragha, after these rounds of civil war, this is the last army I can scrape together. If I throw it away, I—and Videssos—have nothing left. Which is another reason to keep you healthy—I can’t afford a mutiny from your troops.”
Marcus let the Emperor’s concession of his command go as casually as Thorisin had made it. He asked, “How many men does Avshar have with him?”
“I was hoping you could tell me. It’s a bigger force than mine, I think, but you know what long-distance scouting reports are worth. And the Yezda travel with all those spare horses, which makes them seem more than they are. But you were in Mashiz; Skotos’ hell, from what Goudeles says, you were in Wulghash’s throne room when Avshar stole the throne out from under him. That was the first news I’d had of the usurpation. You should know more of what went on in Yezd than anyone.”
“Only if you’re after the view from the tunnels. I can tell you something of Avshar, if you care to hear that.”
Thorisin shook his head impatiently. “I know more than I want already. Whether it’s been him or Wulghash with the title of Khagan of Yezd, he’s been behind things for years.”
“Having met Wulghash, I’m not so sure,” the tribune said. “Here’s something you didn’t learn from Goudeles: Wulghash isn’t dead, though Avshar thinks he is.” He told how the khagan and the Romans had met far below the palace.
“A good story, but what of it?” Gavras said. “Dead or fled, he’s out of
play, and I miss him even less if he’s sharp as you say.”
Marcus shrugged. “You have my news, then. If you want to hear about the Yezda, talk with Arigh. He’s been fighting them all summer and he watched them build up around Mashiz.”
“I’ll do that. There was something solid you did, Scaurus, bringing him and his plainsmen in.” The Emperor stopped, looked at the Roman with annoyance and grudged respect. “May you rot, you son of a whore, you’ve turned out too bloody useful to shorten. If we live, maybe we’ll have to chaffer after all.”
The tribune nodded. “Is Alypia well?” he asked quietly.
Thorisin’s mouth tightened. “You don’t make it easy for me, do you?”
“I may as well find out the worst now. What good does it do me to catch you cheerful today if you turn sour again tomorrow?”
“Mmp. Sometimes I think Mavrikios should have curbed your insolence from the start; it would have saved us trouble.” The Emperor drummed his fingers on the tabletop. At last he said, “Aye, she’s in fine feather. She had half the young nobles—and all the ambitious ones—dancing attendance on her at my wedding. Not that she paid heed to them.”
Scaurus was not worried about her fidelity, but the rest of Gavras’ sentence made him goggle like a fool. “At your what?”
“Wedding,” Thorisin repeated. “High time, too; your diddling reminded me how much I need a real heir. And I’ll have one, too—four days ago I got word she’d pregnant.”
“Congratulations,” Marcus said sincerely. If Thorisin bred a successor, he might be less hindersome where Alypia was concerned. The tribune hesitated, then asked, “Er—who is she?”
“That’s right, how could you know? She’s Alania Vourtze—ah, you’ve heard of the family, I see. Aye, they’re pen-pushers, right enough. It’ll help put the buggers in my camp, or at least divide ’em amongst themselves. She’s a quiet little thing—one of the reasons I chose her, after a few years of that shrieking jade of mine. Dear Komitta—Phos help the convent I shipped her to.”
The Emperor smiled lopsidedly. “You’re still close-mouthed, aren’t you? You’ve heard a good deal more from me than you’ve said, that’s certain.” The tribune started to protest that Gavras had not wanted to listen to his news, but Thorisin brushed that aside. “Never mind. Take yourself out. And if there’s one of my eparchs out there, tell him it’s his turn.”
Blinking in the bright sun after the dimness of the tent, Scaurus found a bureaucrat shifting from foot to foot outside the entrance. He held it open in invitation. The eparch went through with a singular lack of eagerness. Marcus heard Thorisin roar, “You blithering, bungling, incompetent ass, where’s the fifty wagons of wheat you said would be here day before yesterday?”
“He hasn’t mellowed altogether, I see,” the tribune whispered to one of the Halogai. The guardsman rolled his eyes.
When Marcus got back to the Roman camp, he found it in an uproar, with a large crowd of legionaries gathered in front of one tent. He could see Viridovix in front of the tent, a head taller than most of them. “What’s this in aid of?” he demanded. The soldiers separated to let him through.
The Gaul had driven two tent poles into the ground, then sharpened their upper ends. Each impaled a dripping head. One still bore a snarl of defiance; the expression of the other was impossible to read, as a sword stroke had sheared away most of one side of its face.
“Trophies?” Scaurus asked dryly.
Viridovix looked up. “Och, hullo, Roman darling. So they are. Set on me, the spalpeens did, without so much as a by-your-leave. Begging your pardon for the mess and all, but I’m not after having a doorway to nail ’em to.”
“Or even a Milestone,” the tribune said, remembering his recent conversation. He looked at the heads again. Both had belonged to swarthy men with long, unkempt beards, now soaked with blood. “Yezda.”
“I’m thinking you’re right, though I didna stop to ask.”
“How did they get into camp?” Marcus asked.
The commotion had drawn Gaius Philippus. He turned to the onlookers. “You, you, you, and you!” he said, telling off four. “One to each gate—relieve the sentries and send them back here to be questioned. They’ll take their posts back as soon as we’re through with them.” The senior centurion had been back only a day, but his authority was unquestioned. The legionaries saluted and hurried away.
The Roman who had admitted the would-be assassins stared in horror at Viridovix’s handiwork. “I, I never thought twice about it,” he stammered in response to Marcus’ question. “They asked for you or the Gaul by name. It was all over camp that the Emperor had summoned you, so I told them where to find him. I thought they were friends the two of you had picked up on your travels.”
“Not your fault, Vectilianus,” Scaurus reassured him. He did not need to ask how the Yezda had followed Viridovix and him across the miles, but did spare a moment to wish again that he had managed to persuade Wulghash to throw his sorcerous veil over the Celt’s sword—then Avshar would have had less by which to track them.
“It turned out right enough,” Viridovix said, wiping his blade clean. “Here’s two less o’ the omadhauns to be taking the blackheart’s side come the day, and he’s not likely to try flunkies again with his own self so close and all.”
“Closer than we thought.” Marcus relayed what Thorisin had told him.
“Good. It’ll soon be over then, one way or t’other.” With a faint scrape of metal against metal, Viridovix ran his sword into its sheath.
It was not yet dawn the next morning when a Vaspurakaner legionary stuck his head into the tribune’s tent and woke him. “There a messenger is for you outside the porta principalis dextra,” he said, mangling his Videssian and Latin about equally. “After what happens yesterday, I no want him to let into camp.”
“You did right,” Scaurus mumbled. He groped for tunic and trousers. Under his breath he complained, “At least Gavras gave me a whole night’s sleep.” He slid the tunic over his head, splashed water on his face. Through splutters, he asked the sentry, “Whose messenger is it?”
“He say he from the imperials’—how you say?—chief priest.” The Vaspurakaner spat; after Zemarkhos, he had no liking for anyone in the Videssian clerical hierarchy. “You ask me, he can wait forever.”
Marcus pushed past him. A summons from Balsamon carried almost as much weight as one from the Emperor.
The porta principalis dextra got its name from its position as seen by the encamped legionaries. But the commander’s tent was on the other side of the via principalis; Scaurus turned left into the camp’s main way and hurried to the gate.
He recognized the blue-robed priest waiting for him, though not with any pleasure. His voice came out as a growl: “What do you want with me, Saborios?”
Balsamon’s attendant priest, despite his tonsured pate, bore himself like the soldier he had been. “To bring you to my master, of course,” he replied crisply. He looked Scaurus straight in the face. “Hold whatever grudge you care to. My first concern is for his Imperial Majesty.”
“Bah,” Marcus said, but the wind was gone from his sails. His own strong sense of duty answered too readily to that of Saborios.
The sun rose as they marched into Amorion. The town had suffered since the tribune last saw it. Many buildings bore the scars of fighting, whether in the riots Scaurus had touched off or later, when Zemarkhos’ remaining fanatics had been rash enough to oppose the professional skill of the legionaries and Khatrishers.
Other buildings were simply deserted, weeds growing up at the base of walls, courtyard gates opening onto forlorn emptiness. Some of the city’s finest houses stood thus. “The owners are long fled,” Saborios said, following Marcus’s gaze. “Some ran from your troopers, others for fear of the Yezda—or of the Emperor’s justice.”
A few homes had been reoccupied, by one squatter family or six. More newcomers crowded the town marketplace, which was half filled by a squalid collection o
f tents and crackerbox shacks. “Refugees from the tender mercy of the Yezda,” Saborios explained unnecessarily.
“More will come in front of Avshar,” Marcus predicted.
“I know. We have trouble feeding the ones here now. Of course, some of those will run again and even the balance a bit.” Saborios spoke with the certainty of a man who had seen such things before.
Balsamon was dwelling in the cottage that had been Zemarkhos’, close by the main temple of Amorion. Like most chief shrines in provincial towns, that was a smaller, clumsier copy of Phos’ High Temple in Videssos. Marcus and Saborios walked in the shadow of its dome as they came up to the little building behind it. The tribune saw old bloodstains on its whitewashed walls.
Balsamon himself opened the door to greet them. “Welcome, welcome!” he said, beaming at Scaurus. “An unlooked-for guest is worth a dozen of the ordinary kind.” He wore a look the tribune knew well, as if inviting him to share some secret joke.
But that droll expression was almost all that was left of the prelate Marcus had known in the capital. He had wondered at Balsamon’s health then; now the patriarch was visibly failing. He had lost a great deal of flesh, so that his beloved threadbare old robe was draped in loose folds around him. His skin sagged unhealthily at his cheeks and jowls; he had to support himself by leaning against the doorpost.
Ill or not, he missed very little. He laughed at the dismay Marcus could not hide. “I’m not dead yet, my friend,” he said. “I’ll last as long as need be, never fear. Come in, come in. We have much to talk about, you and I.”
For the life of him, Marcus could not see what that “much” was, but he stepped forward. Then he stopped and turned. As Saborios had before, he met the tribune’s eye without flinching. “The Emperor knows you are here,” he said steadily. “I shan’t be listening at the keyhole.”
Swords of the Legion (Videssos) Page 37
