Swords of the Legion (Videssos)

by Harry Turtledove

  A horseman emerged from the ranks of the Yezda and rode slowly into the no man’s land between the two armies. Mutters ran up and down the imperial line as he grew close enough to be recognized; that terrible face could only belong to the wizard-prince himself.

  He used a sorcery then, a small one, to let all the Emperor’s troops hear his voice as if he stood beside them: “Curs! Swine! Last scrapings of outworn misbelief! Breathes there any among you whose blood flows hot enough to dare face me in single combat?”

  “I dare!” roared Zeprin the Red, his face dark with the flush that gave him his byname. His axe upraised and his heavy chain-mail shirt jingling about him, he pushed out of the Roman line and began a lumbering rush at the wizard-prince, the object of his supreme hatred since Maragha.

  “Stop him!” Marcus snapped, and several legionaires sprang after the Haloga. Alone and afoot, he stood small chance against Avshar in a fair fight, and the tribune did not think he would get one.

  Avshar ignored Zeprin in any case. A Videssian horseman spurred toward the wizard-prince, crying, “Phos with me!” He drew his bow to the ear and fired.

  Laughing his terrible laugh, Avshar made a quick, derisive pass. The arrow blazed for an instant, then vanished. “Summon your lying god again,” the wizard-prince said. “See how much he heeds you.” He gestured once more, this time in a complex series of motions. A beam of orange-red light shot from his skeletal fingers at the charging Videssian, who was now only yards away.

  The soldier and his mount jerked and twisted like moths in a flame. Their charred, blackened bodies crashed to the ground at the feet of Avshar’s stallion, which side-stepped daintily. The wind was thick with the smell of burned meat.

  “Are there more?” Avshar said into vast silence. By then the Romans had managed to wrestle Zeprin back into their ranks. The overlord of Yezd laughed again, a sound full of doom.

  Viridovix caught Scaurus’ eye. The tribune nodded. If Avshar would meet them, they would never have a better chance. And at its worst, the match would be more even than the one the wizard-prince had given the brave, rash Videssian.

  “Are there more?” Avshar said again. Plainly he expected no response. Scaurus filled his lungs to shout. Before he could, though, there was a stir in the very center of the Videssian army. The ranks of the Halogai divided to let a single rider through.

  The tribune’s throat clogged with dread. He had not thought Thorisin could be madman enough to dare his enemy’s challange. He was a fine soldier, but Avshar’s might was more than a man’s.

  But it was not the Avtokrator who advanced to face the wizard-prince, but an old man in a threadbare blue robe, riding a flop-eared mule. And from him Avshar recoiled as he would have from no living warrior. “Go back,” Balsamon said; the same minor magic that let Avshar’s voice ring wide was his as well. “The synod cast thee into the outer darkness of anathema an age ago. Get thee gone; Videssos has no room for thee and thy works.”

  Marcus stared in awe at the patriarch’s back. He had seen how Balsamon, so casual and merry in private, could instantly assume the dignity his priestly office demanded. This, though, surpassed the one as much as that outdid the other. Balsamon seemed strong and stern in judgment as the great mosaic image of Phos in the dome of the High Temple in Videssos the city.

  But Avshar quickly rallied. “Thou art a fool, thou dotard, to stand before me and prate of anathemas. Even aside from thy presumption here, in a year thou wouldst be dead, dead as all those purblind witlings who would not see the truth I brought them. Yet I faced them then and I face thee now. Who, then, cleaves to the more potent god?”

  “One day thy span will end. Soon or late, what does it matter? Thou’lt be called to account for thy deeds and spend eternity immured in Skotos’ ice with the rest of his creatures.”

  The wizard-prince’s grim eyes burned with scorn. “Thou showest thyself as deluded as thy forefathers. We are all of us Skotos’ creatures, thou, and I, and the headstrong bumpkin who sits the throne that is mine by right, and everyone else as well. Aye, in sooth man is Skotos’ finest work. Of all living beings, only he truly knows evil for what it is and works it of his own free will.”

  He spoke as though he and Balsamon were alone, and indeed in a way they were, both being products, no matter how different, of the rigors of the Videssian theological tradition. Balsamon replied in the same fashion, seeming to seek to bring an erring colleague back to sound doctrine rather than to confront the deadliest enemy of his faith and nation.

  He said, “As well argue all food is corrupt on account of a piece of bad fish. Or art thou so blind thou’dst forget there is great good as well as wickedness in the soul of every man?”

  The patriarch might have meant the question as rhetorical, but Marcus thought it reached the heart of the matter. The older a man gets, the more fully he becomes himself. Avshar had been no more evil than any other man, before he read in the Khamorth invasions and the collapse of Videssos the sign of Skotos’ triumph on earth and turned to the dark god. But through his magic he had gained centuries to live with his choice and grow into it, and now …

  Now he cursed Balsamon with a savagery worse than any his Yezda could aspire to, for the outcast always hates more fiercely than the mere enemy. His voice rose until he was screaming: “Die, then, and see what thy goodness gets thee!”

  His hands twisted through the same set of passes he had used against the Videssian cavalryman. As the fiery light stabbed at Balsamon, Marcus cried out and sprang forward, Viridovix at his side. The patriarch deserved better than to fall unavenged to Avshar’s sorcery.

  But Balsamon did not fall, though he slumped in the saddle as if suddenly bearing up under a heavy weight. “I deny thee and all thy works,” he said; his voice was strained but full of purpose. “While I live, thy foul sorceries shall hold no more sway on this field.”

  “So thou sayest.” Avshar loosed another enchantment against the patriarch. This one had no visible emanation, but Scaurus heard Balsamon groan. Then the prelate dropped as inessential the small magic that projected his voice over the plain.

  The wizard-prince rained spell after spell on him. Balsamon was not, could not be, the sorcerer to match his opponent. He lurched several times, almost toppled once. He did not try to strike back. But in defense, his will was indomitable. Like an outclassed warrior seeking only to hold his foe at bay as long as he could, he withstood or beat aside wizardry that would have devastated a stronger but less purposeful magician.

  Seeing him survive in the maelstrom of sorcery, the Videssian army took up his name as a war cry, shouting it again and again until the distant hills echoed with it: “Balsamon! Balsamon! Balsamon!” And, as Marcus had seen before, the patriarch drew strength from his admirers. He straightened on his mule, his arms wide-flung, his blunt hands darting now this way, now that, as he deflected every blow Avshar aimed at him or at the imperial army as a whole.

  “Och, a good fairy has hold of him,” Viridovix whispered beside Scaurus. Gorgidas, well away from them, murmured a Greek word to himself: “Enthousiasmós.” It meant exactly the same thing.

  Finally, screaming in thwarted fury, Avshar gave up the assault, wheeled his horse with a brutal jerk of the reins, and stormed back to his own lines. A chorus of jeers and insults rose from the imperials. Everyone cheered as a Haloga ran out to take the reins of Balsamon’s mule and lead him back to safety within the Videssian army. Exhausted but unbeaten, the patriarch waved to the soldiers around him. But Marcus could see his face. He looked like a man who had staved off defeat, not won a victory.

  There was a brief lull. All along both lines, officers harangued their men, trying to whip them to fever pitch. Marcus looked inside himself for inspiring words. He did not find many. Whatever illusions he had of the glory of the battlefield were long since dust, as were those of the legionaries.

  At last he raised his voice and said, “It’s very simple. If we lose this one, we’re ruined. There’s nothing left
to fall back on any more. Hang together, do what your officers order you, and don’t let those bastards out there through. That’s all, I guess.”

  He heard a few voices translating what he said into throaty Vaspurakaner for those “princes” who had never picked up Latin. He got no great applause; the legionaries had given Balsamon the cheers they had in them. He did not care. His men seemed ready and unafraid. Past that, nothing mattered.

  Scaurus thought he heard thunder from a clear sky and wondered what new spellcraft Avshar was essaying. But it was not thunder. “Here we go,” Gaius Philippus said as the Yezda urged their horses at Thorisin Gavras’ line. The pounding of their hooves was the noise that filled the world.

  Laon Pakhymer bawled an order. The Khatrishers galloped out to screen the infantry on their flank, to keep the legionaries and Halogai from having to stand against a barrage of arrows to which they could not reply. Pakhymer’s troopers traded shots with the Yezda, slowing the momentum of their charge. Marcus watched horses and men fall on both sides.

  The Khatrishers were gallant but outnumbered. Having done as much as he could, Pakhymer waved his disreputable hat in the air. His men, those who survived, fell back into their place in the line.

  “Avshar! Avshar!” The shouts of the Yezda filled Scaurus’ ears. Arrows began falling on the Romans. Somewhere behind the tribune, there was a curse and a clatter of metal as a legionary went down. Another swore as he was hit.

  Thock! An arrow smacked against Marcus’ scutum. He staggered and was glad for the multiple thicknesses of wood and leather and metal. The shaft would have torn through the light target he had carried with the Arshaum.

  Pushed on by the mass behind them, the first ranks of Yezda were very close. “Pila at the ready!” the tribune shouted, gauging distances. He swung his sword arm high and caught the eyes of the buccinators, who raised their cornets to their lips. “Loose!” he cried; the horns blared out the command to the legionaries.

  Hundreds of heavy javelins flew as one. Wounded Yezda roared; their horses screamed. The cries of dismay went on as onrushing ponies stumbled over the fallen.

  Some riders blocked flung pila with their shields. That saved them for the moment, but when they tried to tear the spears out and throw them back, they found that the weapons’ soft iron shanks had bent at impact, fouling their shields and making the pila useless. With guttural oaths, they discarded their suddenly worthless protection.

  “Loose!” Another volley tore into the Yezda. Then the legionaries’ shortswords came rasping out. Whether the Yezda fought from fear of their master or raw blood lust, they did not shrink from combat. They crashed into the Romans.

  The dust their horses kicked up rolled over the legionaries in a choking cloud. Marcus sneezed and coughed. His eyes streaming, he hacked blindly at the rider in front of him. He felt the soft resistance that meant flesh. Warm wetness splashed him. He heard a groan. Whether it was man or beast he never knew.

  He swiped at his face with the back of his forearm to clear his vision and quickly looked about. Here and there the Yezda had driven deep wedges into the legionaries’ line, but he saw no breakthroughs. By squads and maniples, the Romans moved up to cover the points of greatest pressure. At close quarters they had the advantage, despite the horses of the Yezda. Their armor, shields, and disciplined flexibility counted for more than their foes’ added reach and ability to strike from above.

  Marcus saw Titus Pullo engage a Yezda, yelling and taunting and turning slash after slash with his scutum. While the underofficer’s furious enemy thought of nothing but slaying him, one of Pullo’s troopers ducked down unseen and plunged his sword into the belly of the Yezda’s pony. It foundered with a coughing squeal; Pullo killed the man who had ridden it.

  “That’s right, get him when he’s down,” Lucius Vorenus laughed. He dueled with an unhorsed Yezda; his gladius flicked out in the short stabs the Roman fencing masters taught. Mere ferocity could not withstand such deadly science for long. The Yezda reeled away, clutching at himself; Scaurus smelled the latrine odor that meant a punctured gut.

  Pullo was already battling another horseman. He and Vorenus might have buried their feud, but he was not about to let his comrade get ahead of him.

  A Yezda thrust his lance at Zeprin the Red, who twisted aside with a supple ease that belied the thickness of his body. He sent his axe crashing down between the eyes of the barbarian’s pony. Brains spattered everyone nearby, and the horse collapsed as if it had rammed a stone wall. A second stroke dealt with its rider.

  Axes rose and fell continuously on the legionaries’ left, where Thorisin’s Haloga guardsmen were taking a heavy toll of Avshar’s finest troops. But the Makuraner lancers who opposed them fought with dash and courage themselves, and fresh northerners had to keep pressing forward to take the places of those who had fallen.

  “Tighten up there!” Marcus yelled. “Help them out!” He led a maniple leftward to make sure no gap opened between the Halogai and his own troops. In an army made up of units fighting nation by nation, that danger was always there. Drax’ Namdaleni had taught him that, to his cost, at the Sangarios.

  Though under no man’s order, Viridovix moved with the tribune. He was glad to go to the aid of the Halogai. They were more somber by nature than his own Celtic folk, but came closer to reminding him of them than any other people of this world.

  A Makuraner tried to hit him over the head with a broken spearshaft. He ducked and countered; the horseman’s damascened corselet kept the edge from his vitals. His mount kicked at the Gaul, who nimbly skipped away.

  The two men looked at each other for a moment, both breathing hard. Under the Makuraner’s plumed helm, his swarthy face was greasy with sweat, though his mustaches, waxed stiff, still swept out fiercely like horns. Viridovix’ own whiskers were limp and sodden. Warily, his eye on the Gaul, the Makuraner swigged from a wineskin. He raised it in salute to Viridovix, then turned his horse in another direction.

  “May you come through safe,” Viridovix called after him. He had no idea whether the Makuraner heard him, or understood Videssian if he did.

  A fresh Yezda surge almost sent Marcus hurrying back with his maniple to relieve the pressure on the rest of the legionaries, but Gaius Philippus and Gagik Bagratouni battled the nomads to a standstill. Bagratouni’s Vaspurakaners, men driven from their homeland by the Yezda, fought the invaders now with a dour ferocity and a disregard for consequences that horrified Gaius Philippus.

  The senior centurion had to wince, watching one of the “princes” and Yezda stab each other and fall together, locked in a death embrace. “Idiots!” he shouted, though Bagratouni’s men showed no sign of listening. “Don’t waste yourselves! One for one’s no bargain with these buggers!

  “You!” he rasped, spotting a foot soldier who seemed not to know where his place was. The fellow turned his head. “Oh, you,” Gaius Philippus said in a different tone.

  Gorgidas did not answer. Just then a Roman lurched by, clutching at a slash on the inside of his arm that was spurting bright blood. “Stop!” the physician shouted, and the legionary, trained to obedience, stood still. Gorgidas tore a long strip of cloth from the hem of the soldier’s tunic, pressed the edges of the wound together, and bound it tightly. “Go to the rear,” he said. “You can’t fight any more with that.”

  When the legionary tried to protest, the Greek argued him down. “Do as I tell you; as you are now, you’re more trouble protecting than you’re worth. The Yezda won’t come pouring through because you’ve gone.” The soldier stumbled away. Gorgidas hoped the bandage would hold the bleeding; that arm had been cut to the bone.

  He unsheathed his gladius, which he had put away to tend to the injured Roman. Then he jerked in alarm as someone twisted it out of his hand. “Steady, there,” Gaius Philippus said. “I think I want this back after all.”

  “Fine time,” Gorgidas said indignantly. “What am I supposed to defend myself with?”

  “Let us worry about
that,” the veteran answered, grunting in satisfaction at the familiar heft of his old sword. “From what I’ve seen, you’re more use to us as a doctor than you’d ever be as a legionary. It’s not bad you know how and all, but stick to what you’re best at.”

  The Greek considered, then dipped his head in agreement, saying, “Give me the blade you’ve been carrying, though. It’s better than nothing.”

  Gaius Philippus had already turned away from him; the fight was picking up again. “Come on, Minucius!” he roared. “I need another two squads here!”

  Even as he shouted, a couple of Yezda burst through the struggling line of soldiers. The centurion caught a saber slash on his scutum, then grappled with the nomad, tearing him from the saddle and hurling him to the ground. He sprang at the other warrior and drove his gladius into the small of the Yezda’s back before his victim knew he was there.

  But the first Yezda had only been slightly stunned. He scrambled up and leaped at Gaius Philippus. Gorgidas tackled him from behind. He seized the nomad’s sword wrist in both hands and held his grip as they rolled on the ground. His wiry strength kept his foe from tearing free until Gaius Philippus, working carefully so as to miss him, thrust through the Yezda’s throat.

  “Bravely done,” the senior centurion said, helping the Greek to his feet. “But why didn’t you stab him with your dagger?”

  “I forgot I had it,” Gorgidas said in a small voice.

  “Amateurs!” Gaius Philippus turned the word into a curse. “Try not to kill yourself with this, all right?” he said, handing Gorgidas the blade he had asked for. The Greek was spared further embarrassment when the veteran ordered the reinforcements from Minucius into the line to shore up the weak spot that had let the Yezda through.

  The presence on the legionaries eased as deep-voiced horns brayed to the left of Thorisin Gavras’ center. His Namdaleni rumbled forward, shouting what might be the only battle cry they could share with the Videssians: “Phos with us!” At first the weight of their armor and of the big horses they rode gave their advance an all but irresistible impetus. Avshar’s Makuraners slowed but could not stop them; in tight fighting the Yezda, on ponies and lightly armed, went down like winnowed barley.