Swords of the Legion (Videssos)

by Harry Turtledove

  “A vice of yours we hadn’t known,” Laon Pakhymer said, drawing a glare. It did not bother him, which only annoyed Gaius Philippus more. “And you’ll pay for that pony if it’s come to any harm,” the Khatrisher added; three of his troopers and a couple of Arshaum were chasing the beast down.

  Marcus cut through the senior centurion’s obscenities to explain why they had gone searching for him. Gaius Philippus relaxed, a little. “It’s nice of you, I’m sure, but sooner or later I’d have turned up.”

  “Not a bad brag,” Arigh said, which touched him off all over again. Scaurus did not think he had been boasting. If anyone could travel the westlands alone, it was Gaius Philippus.

  After his curses ran down, he reclaimed his horse and headed back with the search party, still grumbling that they had wasted their time. Both to distract him and out of curiosity, Marcus asked, “Did you manage to get all the way up to Aptos?”

  “Said I was going to, didn’t I?”

  “And?”

  “Not a whole lot left of the town,” Gaius Philippus said, frowning. “The Yezda did go through with Avshar, and wrecked the place. The keep held out, though, and Nerse was able to save a lot of the townsfolk. Some others got away to the hills. If there’s a calm spell, they can rebuild.”

  “Nerse, you say? Ho, now we come down to it,” Viridovix exclaimed.

  Gaius Philippus tensed; his face went hard and suspicious. Marcus wanted to kick the Celt and waited helplessly for him to come out with some crudity—here as nowhere else, Gaius Philippus was vulnerable.

  But Viridovix, who had known loss of his own, was not out to wound. He asked only, “And will you be needing groomsmen, too, like Scaurus here?”

  Even that simple, friendly question was almost too much. The senior centurion answered in a low-voiced growl. “No.” He turned to Marcus. “Groomsmen, eh? Nice going—you pulled it off. I hope I’ll be one of them.”

  “You’d better be.” Gaius Philippus’ smile was such an obvious false front that the tribune asked gently, “She turned you down?”

  “What?” The veteran looked at him in surprise. “No. I never asked her.”

  That was too much for Viridovix. “You didna ask her?” he howled, clapping a hand to his forehead. “Are y’unhinged? You went gallivanting on up a couple days’ ride, likely near got yoursel’ killed a time or two …” He paused, but Gaius Philippus’ bleak expression neither confirmed nor denied. “And you stopped in for a mug o’ wine and a how-do-ye-do, then took off again? Och, the waste of it, man, the waste! If it were me, now—”

  “Shut up,” the senior centurion said with such cold anger that the Gaul actually did. “If it were you, you’d’ve talked her ear off and made her love every minute of it. Well, I haven’t your tongue, loose at both ends, and I haven’t anything much to offer her, either. She’s a landed noble, and what am I? A mercenary who owns a sword and a mail shirt and precious little else.” He glanced toward Pakhymer. “I had to hit up Laon here for a horse to make the trip.”

  Viridovix did not reply in words, merely pointed at Scaurus. Gaius Philippus turned brick red, but said stubbornly, “He’s him; I’m me.”

  “Honh!” Viridovix said. Only the warning in Gaius Philipus’ eyes kept him from going further.

  The sad thing, Marcus thought, was that the veteran was right; he had grown too set in his ways to know how to change even when he wanted to. “You got there and back all right; that’s what counts.” He bobbed his head at Arigh. “Let’s head back.”

  “Took you long enough,” the Arshaum said. Like Pakhymer, he had waited halfway between boredom and irritation while the Romans and Viridovix talked, for they still favored Latin among themselves.

  Everyone rode in silence for some time. They were nearly back to camp when Gaius Philippus said, “You know, Celt, you might have something after all. Maybe one of these days I’ll get back to Aptos again and do the talking I should have done this time.”

  “Sure and you will,” Viridovix said consolingly, but Marcus heard the melancholy edge to his voice. Gaius Philippus had no trouble making plans when he was moving directly away from his goal. Carrying them out was something else.

  Thorisin Gavras had not known of the search party. Only a rear guard was left at the campsite, a garrison to hold the gap in the hills against Yezda raiders. But the main body of troops had hardly traveled a mile; Scaurus could still see companies of men and horses through the inevitable cloud of dust they kicked up.

  “Let’s race it!” Pakhymer shouted, spurring his pony ahead. “First one to the baggage train collects a silverpiece from everybody else!” He had given himself a head start, but his lead did not last long; an Arshaum shot past him almost before the wager was out of his mouth.

  Galloping along in the middle of the laughing, shouting pack, Marcus knew he was going to lose his money. He did not care. Ahead lay Amorion, and beyond it Videssos the city. He was going home.

  XIV

  LAST NIGHT’S RAIN STILL DRIPPED FROM OVERHANGING EAVES and trickled out of drainpipes, but the storm had finally blown through the capital. The day was clear and brisk, more like early spring than autumn.

  “About time,” Marcus said, eyeing the bright sunshine and crisp-edged shadows with relief. “If we’d had to put things off again, I think I would have screamed.”

  Taso Vones reached up to pat him on the shoulder. “Now, now,” he said. “The people are entitled to their spectacle. A wedding procession isn’t nearly as much fun if you have to get wet to watch it.”

  Nepos the priest shook a finger at the Khatrisher diplomat. “You have a cynical view of the world, friend Taso.” He did his best to sound reproachful but his plump face was made for mirth, and he could not help smiling.

  “I, cynical? Not at all, sir; merely realistic.” Vones drew himself up, the caricature of affronted dignity. “If you want cynicism, look to this one.” He pointed Scaurus’ way. “Why else would he have chosen you for a groomsman, if not to get at least one Videssian into the party?”

  “Oh, go howl, Taso,” Marcus said, nettled. “I chose him because he’s a friend. Besides, there’s Goudeles over there, and Lemmokheir. And Skylitzes would be here, too, if he were up to it.” Among other battle wounds, the dour imperial officer had suffered a broken thigh when his horse was killed and crushed him beneath it. He was mending, but could hardly hobble yet, even with two canes.

  Still, as it did more often than not, Vones’ sly needling held a germ of truth. Almost all the men gathered together in the little antechamber off the Grand Courtroom were not Videssians. Their various versions of finery gave them a curiously mismatched look.

  Gaius Philippus was in full military gear, from hobnailed caligae to crested helm; his scarlet cape of rank hung from his shoulders. Marcus wished he could remember everything the veteran had called some officious chamberlain who tried to persuade him to don Videssian ceremonial raiment.

  Viridovix wore a burnished corselet. Below it, a pair of baggy Videssian trousers made a fair substitute for the tighter breeches his own nation favored. His head was bare, the better to display his ruddy locks, which he had washed with lime-water until they stood up stiff as a lion’s mane. “Gi’ the lassies summat to look at,” he was saying to Gorgidas.

  For the occasion, the Greek had chosen his own people’s garb, a knee-length chiton of white wool. Scaurus suspected the simple garment had originally been a blanket.

  “Better than my skinny shanks, at least,” Gorgidas said to Viridovix. He sighed. “You don’t have to worry about drafts, either.”

  “You’d never get away with that thin sheet on the steppe,” Arigh said. “Everything would freeze off at the first blizzard, and you’d sing soprano like any other eunuch.” The Arshaum chief wore rawhide boots, leather trousers, a shirt of fine soft suede, and a wolfskin jacket. Marcus was gladder to have him in the wedding party than Arigh was to be there. He had hoped to sail for Prista with his men to start back to Shaumkhiil, but the onse
t of the stormy season had stooped shipping across the Videssian Sea until spring.

  Senpat Sviodo was telling Gagik Bagratouni a joke in their own language. The nakharar threw back his head and bellowed laughter at the punch line. His wicker helmet, a traditional Vaspurakaner headgear, fell to the floor. He stooped to retrieve it, hardly favoring his injured leg. Senpat, as usual, preferred the three-crowned tasseled cap that looked dumpy on most of his countrymen.

  Nepos, of course, was in the blue robe of the Videssian priesthood. Beside him stood Laon Pakhymer. The cavalry commander wore Videssian-style clothes, but not of a sort to gladden a protocol officer’s heart. For reasons only he knew, he had chosen to dress like a street ruffian, with tights of a brilliant, bilious green surmounted by a linen shirt with enormous puffed sleeves tied tight at the wrists.

  That left only Goudeles, Leimmokheir, and Taso Vones among the groomsmen in formal robes that reached to their ankles. And no one would have mistaken Taso for an imperial, not with his vast, bushy beard. Taron Leimmokheir was shaggy, too, but the admiral’s thick gray hair and somber countenance were well-known in the city.

  A eunuch steward stuck his head into the room. “Take your places, my lords, if you would be so kind. We are about to begin.”

  Marcus started to go to the head of the line that was forming and almost fell over. His own ceremonial robes were no lighter than Gaius Philippus’ armor, and harder to move in. Gold and silver threads shot all through the maroon samite only added to its weight, as did the pearls and precious stones at the collar, over his breast, and running down along his sleeves. His wide gold belt, ornamented with more rubies, sapphires, amethysts, and delicate enamelwork, weighed more than the sword belt he was used to.

  The steward sniffed at his slowness and paused to make sure everyone was in proper position. Turning his back, he said, “This way. Just as we rehearsed it,” he added reassuringly.

  No Videssian courtier in his right mind left anything to chance at an imperial function; the tribune had the plan of the procession down almost as thoroughly as Roman infantry drill. The thick, pleated silk of his robe rustled as he followed the eunuch.

  He was glad of the weight of the material as soon as he stepped outside. The breeze had a raw edge to it. Behind him he heard teeth chattering, Arigh’s chuckle, and Gorgidas’ hissed retort: “Go ahead, amuse yourself. I hope you get heatstroke in the High Temple.” Arigh laughed louder.

  “Och, I ken this courtyard,” Viridovix said. “We fought here to put Gavras on the throne and cast what-was-his-name, the young Sphrantzes, off it.”

  And rescued Alypia from Ortaias’ uncle Vardanes, Marcus remembered, and drove Avshar out of the city. Had it really been more than two years ago? It seemed yesterday.

  The bronze doors of the Grand Courtroom, which were covered with a profusion of magnificent reliefs, opened noiselessly. They had taken damage when the legionaries forced them that day, but the skilled Videssian artisans’ repairs were all but unnoticeable.

  First through the doors was another eunuch to direct traffic. Behind him came a dozen parasol bearers, markers of the presence of the Emperor. Thorisin Gavras wore a robe even more gorgeous than Scaurus’; only the toes of his red boots peeped from under its bejeweled hem. The imperial crown, a low dome encrusted with still more precious stones, gleamed golden on his head. Only the sword at the Emperor’s belt detracted from his splendor; it was the much-battered saber he always carried.

  A platoon of Videssian nobles followed Gavras, bureaucrats and soldiers together for once. Marcus spotted Provhos Mourtzouphlos, who looked as though he had an extraordinarily bad taste in his mouth. His robe was of a green that managed to outdo Pakhymer’s tights.

  The eye kept coming back to it, in disbelief and horrid fascination. Marcus heard Gaius Philippus mutter, “Now I know what color a hangover is.” He wondered if Mourtzouphlos had chosen the dreadful thing as a silent protest against the wedding. If he was reduced to such petty gestures, his enmity was safe to ignore.

  Under the watchful gaze of its chamberlain, the imperial party took its place some yards ahead of Scaurus and his comrades. He promptly forgot about it, for still another steward was leading Alypia Gavra and her attendant ladies into place between the two groups.

  Her gown was of soft white silk, with silver threads running through it and snowy lace at the cuffs; it seemed spun from moonlight. A silver circlet confined her sleek brown hair.

  She smiled and touched her throat as she walked by Marcus. The necklace she wore, of gold, emeralds, and mother-of-pearl, was not of a piece with the rest of her costume, but neither of them would have exchanged it for one that was.

  He smiled back, wishing he could say something to her. Since returning to the city, he had only seen her once or twice, under the most formal circumstances. It had been easier when they were surreptitious lovers than properly affianced. But Thorisin had warned, “No more scandal,” and they thought it wiser to obey. There was not much waiting left.

  “Straighten your collar, will you, Pikridios!” shrilled Goudeles’ wife, Tribonia. She was a tall, angular, sallow woman whose deep blue dress suited neither her figure nor her complexion. As the bureaucrat fumbled to fix the imaginary flaw, she complained to anyone who would listen, “Do you see how he takes no pains with himself? The most lazy, slovenly man …” The tribune, who knew Goudeles to be a fastidious dandy, wondered whether he had married her for money or position. It could hardly have been love.

  Irrepressible, Nevrat Sviodo made a comic shrug behind Tribonia’s back, then grinned triumphantly at Marcus. He nodded back, very glad his mistaken advances the year before had not cost him a friend, or rather, two.

  Nevrat was the only non-Videssian in Alypia’s party. Senpat said, “Some of the highborn ladies were scandalized when the princess chose her.”

  “I notice no one has withdrawn,” Scaurus said.

  An honor guard of Halogai and Romans fell in at the procession’s head; another company took its place to the rear. Palace servitors formed a line on either side. Seeing everything ready at last, Thorisin’s steward blew a sharp note on a pitch pipe. He strutted forward to set the pace, as if the day had been planned to celebrate him alone.

  The wide pathways through the gardens of the palace compound had few spectators along them: a gardener, a cook, a mason and his wife and children, a squad of soldiers. As soon as the procession reached the forum of Palamas, all that changed. If twin sets of streamers had not kept the chosen path open, there would have been no pushing through the sea of humanity jamming the square.

  Thorisin’s iron-lunged herald cried out, “Rejoice in the wedding of the Princess Alypia Gavra and the Yposevastos Scaurus! Rejoice! Rejoice!” The herald’s accent made the tribune’s name come out as “Skavros,” which did not sound too very alien to the ears of the city populace. The imposing title the Emperor had conferred on him—its significance, more or less, was “second minister,” which could mean anything or nothing—also made him less obviously foreign.

  One of the servants pressed a small but heavy sack into his hands. As he had been instructed, he tossed goldpieces into the crowd, now right, now left. Up ahead, the Emperor was doing the same. So were the servitors, but their sacks were filled with silver.

  The sidewalks of Middle Street were also packed tight with cheering onlookers. Marcus did not flatter himself that the hurrahs were for him. The city folk, fickle and restless, applauded any spectacle, and this one was doubly delightful because of the prospect of largesse.

  “Rejoice! Rejoice!” At slow march, the procession passed the three-story red granite government office building. Marcus looked at it fondly, large and ugly though it was. Had he not happened to meet Alypia coming out of it last Midwinter’s Day, he would not be here now.

  “Rejoice!” The herald turned north about a quarter mile past the government offices. Once off Middle Street, the crowds were thinner. With every step, Phos’ High Temple dominated more of the skyline; soon
it was the skyline. The gilded globes topping its four spires shone bright as the sun they symbolized.

  The walled courtyard around the High Temple was as crowded as the plaza of Palamas had been. The palace servitors threw out great handfuls of money; tradition required them to empty their sacks. The canny Videssians knew that perfectly well and thronged to where the pickings were best.

  The honor guard deployed at the foot of the broad stairway leading up to the High Temple. Already waiting on the stairs were all the surviving Romans hale enough to stand. Their arms shot up in salute as Marcus approached.

  The nobles and officials in Thorisin’s party peeled away from the Avtokrator to take their places on the steps, forming an aisleway through which he, the bride, the groom, and their attendants could pass. “Step smartly now!” urged the chamberlain in charge of Scaurus and his companions. The tribune hurried forward. Alypia, her ladies, and Thorisin were waiting for him and the groomsmen to catch up. The Emperor between them, he and Alypia started up the stairs. Behind them, pair by pair, came the groomsmen with the princess’ attendants on their arms.

  At the top of the stairs, flanked by lesser priests on either side, stood the new patriarch of Videssos, his hands raised in benediction. Scaurus felt a small shock every time he saw the tall, middle-aged man wearing the robe of cloth-of-gold and blue. “It seems wrong, not having Balsamon up there,” he said.

  Alypia nodded. “He was as much a part of the city as the Silver Gate.”

  “This Sebeos will make a sound patriarch,” Thorisin said, a trifle irritably; the choice of Balsamon’s successor had been in essence his. As custom demanded, he had submitted three names to a synod of high-ranking clerics, who selected the former prelate of Kypas, a port city in the westlands.

  “Of course he’s able,” Alypia said at once. “He’ll have trouble, though, making himself as loved as Balsamon—he was like a favorite uncle for all Videssos. And—” She stopped abruptly. To say what Balsamon had meant to her would only remind Thorisin of complications now past. She had too much sense for that.