An Emperor for the Legion

by Harry Turtledove

  A gangplank thudded into place. The Conqueror’s captain, a burly man of middle years, shouted, “You toffs can come aboard now.” He wagged his head in invitation.

  Arigh left Videssos without a backward glance, his right hand on the hilt of his saber, his left steadying the sueded leather bag slung over his shoulder. Skylitzes followed, equally nonchalant. Pikridios Goudeles gave a theatric groan as he picked up his duffel, but seemed perfectly able to carry it.

  “Take care of yourself,” Gaius Philippus ordered, thumping Gorgidas on the back. “You’re too softhearted for your own good.”

  The physician snorted in exasperation. “And you’re so full of feces it’s no wonder your eyes are brown.” He embraced the two Romans, then shouldered his own rucksack and followed the rest of the embassy.

  “Remember,” Marcus called after him, “I expect to read what you say about your travels, so it had best be good.”

  “Never fear, Scaurus, you’ll read it if I have to tie you down and hold it in front of your face. It’s fitting punishment for reminding me you’re my audience.”

  “That’s the lot of you?” the captain asked when the Greek came aboard. Getting no contradiction, he called to his crew, “Make ready to cast off!” Two half-naked sailors pulled in the gangplank; another pair jumped onto the dock to undo the fat brown mooring lines that held the Conqueror fore and aft.

  “Hold on, avast, belay, whatever the plague-taken seaman’s word is!” The pier shook as Viridovix came thudding up, his helmet on his head and a knapsack under his arm. He was crimson-faced and puffing; sweat streamed down his cheeks. He looked to have come from the Roman barracks on the dead run.

  “What’s happened?” Marcus and Gaius Philippus asked together, exchanging apprehensive glances. Except in battle and wenching, such exertion was alien to the Gaul’s nature.

  He got no chance to answer them, for Arigh shouted his name and leaped out of the Conqueror to greet him. “Come to see me off after all, are you?”

  “Not a bit of it,” Viridovix replied, dropping his bag to the boards of the pier with a sigh of relief. “By your leave, I’m coming with you.”

  The nomad’s grin flashed white in his swarthy face. “What could be better? You’ll learn to love the taste of kavass, I promise you.”

  “Are you daft, man?” Gaius Philippus asked. Pointing to the Conqueror, he went on, “If you’ve forgotten, that is a ship. Your stomach will remember, whether you do or not.”

  “Och, dinna remind me,” the Celt said, wiping his face on a tunic sleeve. “Still and all, it’s that or meet the headsman, I’m thinking. On the water I’ll wish I’m dead, but to stay would get me the wish granted, the which I don’t, fancy either.”

  “The headsman?” Scaurus said. Thinking quickly, he shifted to Latin. “The woman turned on you?” As long as no names were named, Arigh—and the listening sailors—could not follow.

  “Didn’t she just, the fickle slut,” Viridovix answered bitterly in the same tongue. His happy-go-lucky air had deserted him; he was angry and self-reproachful. Catching the gleam in Marcus’ eye, he said, “I’ve no need for your told-you-so’s, either. You did that, and rightly. Would I were as cautious a wight as you, the once.”

  That admission was the true measure of his dismay, for he never tired of chiding the Romans for their stodginess. “What went awry?” the tribune asked.

  “Can you no guess? That one’s green as the sea with jealousy—like a canker it eats in her. And so she was havering after me to set aside my Gavrila and Lissena and Beline, and I said her nay as I’ve done before. They’ll miss me, puir girls, and you must be after promising not to let herself’s wrath fall on ’em.”

  “Of course,” Scaurus said impatiently. “On with it, man.”

  “Och, the blackhearted bitch started shrieking fit to wake a dead corp, she did, and swore she’d tell the Gavras I’d had her by force.” A fragment of the Celt’s grin appeared for a moment. “Belike she’d make himself believe it, too. She’s after seeing enough of me to give sic charge the weight of detail, you might say.”

  “She’d do it,” Gaius Philippus said without hesitation.

  “The very thought I had, Roman dear. I couldna be cutting her throat, with it so white and all. I had not the heart for it, to say naught of the hurly-burly it’d touch off.”

  “What did you do, then?” Marcus demanded. “Let her go free? By the gods, Viridovix, the imperial guards’ll be on your heels!”

  “Nay, nay, you see me revealed a fool, but not a damnfool. She’s swaddled and gagged and tied on a bed in the sleazy little inn where we went. She’ll be a while working loose, but I’m thinking the exercise’ll not improve her temper, and so it’s away with me.”

  “First Gorgidas, and now you, and both for reasons an idiot would be ashamed to own,” the tribune said, feeling the wrench as his tightly knit company began to unravel. Again he gave thanks that the Romans had not had to split themselves between Namdalen and Videssos; it would have torn the hearts from them all.

  Impatient with the talk in a language he did not understand, Arigh broke in, “If you’re coming, come.”

  “I will that, never fear.” Viridovix clasped Scaurus’ hand. “Take care o’ the blade you bear, Roman. It’s a bonny un.”

  “And you yours.” Viridovix’ long sword hung at his right hip; he would have seemed naked without it.

  The Celt’s jaw dropped as he noticed Gaius Philippus weaponless. “Wore it out, did you?”

  “Don’t be more foolish than you can help. I passed it on to Gorgidas.”

  “Did you now? That was a canny thing to do, or would be if the silly lown had the wit to realize what grand sport war is. As is, like as not he’ll lose it, or else slice himself.” Viridovix’ lip curled. A second later he brightened. “Och, that’s right, I’ll have the Greek to quarrel with. Nothing like a good quarrel to keep a day from going stale.”

  Marcus remembered his own words to Gorgidas when the doctor told him he was leaving. At the time they had been a desperate joke, but here they were coming back at him in all seriousness from the Gaul’s mouth. Viridovix lived to wrangle, whether with swords or with words.

  The captain of the Conqueror made a trumpet of his hands. “You there! We’re sailing, with you or without you!” The threat was empty—while Viridovix meant nothing to him, he could hardly set off without the Arshaum, who meant everything to the embassy.

  The aggrieved shout underlined Arigh’s unrest. “Let’s do it,” he said, taking the Celt’s arm. Viridovix’ rawhide boots clumped on the planking of the dock; the nomad, shod in soft calfskin, walked silent as a wildcat.

  Looking like a live man going to his own funeral, the Gaul tossed his duffel to a sailor. Still he hesitated before following it down. He sketched a salute to Scaurus, waved his fist at Gaius Philippus. “Watch yourself, runt!” he called, and jumped.

  “And you, you great bald-arsed lunk!”

  To the captain’s shouted directions, his crew backed water. For a few seconds it seemed the Conqueror was too bulky to respond to the oars, but then it moved, inching away from the pier. When well clear, it turned north, ponderous as a fat old man. Marcus heard ropes squeal in pullies as the broad sail unfurled. It flapped loosely, then filled with wind.

  The tribune watched until the horizon swallowed it.

  With regained mastery of the sea, Thorisin Gavras threw Drax and his Namdalener mercenaries at Baanes Onomagoulos. Leimmokheir’s galleys protected the transports from rebel warships; the men of the Duchy landed in the westlands at Kypas, several days’ march south of the suburbs opposite Videssos.

  A great smoke rose in the west as Onomagoulos fired his camp to keep Thorisin from taking possession of it. Baanes retreated toward his stronghold round Garsavra. He moved in haste, lest the Namdaleni cut him off from his center of power. Thorisin, acting like a man who feels victory in his grasp, retook the western suburbs.

  Marcus waited for a summons from the Emp
eror, expecting him to order the legionaries into action against Onomagoulos. He drilled his men furiously, wanting to be ready. He still had doubts about the great count, despite the successes Drax was winning for Gavras.

  No orders came. Thorisin held military councils in plenty, but to plan the coming summer campaign against the Yezda. He seemed certain anyone fighting Onomagoulos had to be his friend.

  Scaurus tried to put his suspicions into words after one officers’ meeting, saying to the Emperor, “The nomads attack Baanes, too, you know, but not in your interest. Drax wars for no one but Drax; he travels under your banner now, but only because it suits him.”

  Thorisin frowned; the Roman’s advice was clearly unwelcome. “You’ve given me good service, outlander, and that sometimes in my despite,” he said. “There have been stories told of you, just as you tell them now against the Namdalener. A prudent man believes not all of what he sees and only a little of what he hears. But this I tell you: no rumor-seller has ever come to me with news that Drax purposed abandoning me at the hour of my peril.”

  Scaurus’ belly went heavy as lead—how had that report reached the Emperor? Unsure how much Gavras knew, he did not dare deny it. Picking his words with care, he said, “If you believe such tales, why hold me and mine to your service?”

  “Because I trust my eyes further than my ears.” It was dismissal and warning both—without proof, Gavras would not hear charges against the great count. Glad the Emperor was taking the other question no further, Marcus left hastily.

  He had expected a great hue and cry after Viridovix, but that, too, failed to materialize. Gaius Philippus’ misogyny led him to a guess the tribune thought close to the mark. “I’d bet this isn’t the first time Komitta’s played bump-belly where she shouldn’t,” the veteran said. “Would you care to advertise it, were you Gavras?”

  “Hmm.” If that was so, much might be explained, from Thorisin’s curious indifference to his mistress’ tale of rape to her remaining mistress instead of queen. “You’re getting a feel for the politics hereabouts,” Marcus told the senior centurion.

  “Oh, horseturds. When they’re thick on the ground as olives at harvest time, you don’t need to feel ’em. The smell gives them away.”

  In the westlands Drax kept making gains. When his dispatches arrived, Thorisin would read them out to his assembled officers. The great count wrote like an educated Videssian, a feat that roused only contempt in his fellow islander Utprand.

  “Would you listen to that, now?” the mercenary captain said after one session. “ ‘Goals achieved, objectives being met.’ Vere’s Onomagoulos’ army and w’y hasn’t Drax smashed it up? T’at’s what needs telling.”

  “Aye, you’re right,” Soteric echoed vehemently. “Drax greases his tongue when he talks and his pen when he sets ink to parchment.”

  Marcus put some of their complaint down to jealousy at Drax’ holding a greater command than theirs. From cold experience, he also knew how much such complaints accomplished. He said, “Of course the two of you are but plain, blunt soldiers of fortune. That you were ready to set Videssos on its ear last summer has nothing to do with intrigue.”

  Utprand had the grace to look shamefaced, but Soteric retorted, “If the effete imperials can’t hold us back, whose fault is that? Ours? By the Wager, they don’t merit this Empire of theirs.”

  There were times when Scaurus found the islanders’ insistence on their own virtues and the decadence of Videssos more than he could stomach. He said sharply, “If you’re speaking of effeteness, then betrayal should stand with it, not so?”

  “Certainly,” Soteric answered; Utprand, more wary than his lieutenant, asked, “W’at do you mean, betrayal?”

  “Just this,” Marcus replied. “Gavras knows we met at the end of the siege, and what befell. By your Phos, gentlemen, no Roman told him. Leaving Helvis out of the bargain, only four ever learned what was planned, and it never went beyond them. Some one of your men should have his tongue trimmed, lest he trip on it as it flaps beneath his feet.”

  “Impossible!” Soteric exclaimed with the confidence of youth. “We are an honorable folk. Why would we stoop to such double-dealing?” He glared at his brother-in-law, ready to take it farther than words.

  Utprand spoke to him in the island dialect. Marcus caught the drift: secrets yielded accidentally could hurt as much as those given away on purpose. Soteric’s mouth was still thin with anger, but he gave a grudging nod.

  The tribune was grateful to the older Namdalener. Unlike Soteric, Utprand had seen enough to know how few things were certain. Backing what the officer had pointed out, Marcus said, “I didn’t mean to suggest deliberate treachery, only that you islanders fall as short of perfection as any other men.”

  “You have a rude way with a suggestion.” Soteric had a point, Scaurus realized, but he could not make himself regret pricking his brother-in-law’s self-importance.

  * * *

  “A priest to see me?” the tribune asked the Roman sentry. “Is it Nepos from the Academy?”

  “No, sir, just some blue-robe.”

  Curious, Marcus followed the legionary to the barracks-hall door. The priest, a nondescript man save for his shaved pate, bowed and handed him a small roll of parchment sealed with the patriarch’s sky-blue wax. He said, “A special liturgy of rejoicing will be celebrated in the High Temple at the eighth hour this afternoon. You are bidden to attend. The parchment here is your token of entrance. I also have one for your chief lieutenant.”

  “Me?” Gaius Philippus’ head jerked up. “I have better things to do with my time, thank you.”

  “You would decline the patriarchal summons?” the priest said, shocked.

  “Your precious patriarch doesn’t know my name,” Gaius Philippus retorted. His eyes narrowed. “So why would he invite me? Hmm—did the Emperor put him up to it?”

  The priest spread his hands helplessly. Marcus said, “Gavras thinks well of you.”

  “Soldiers know soldiers,” Gaius Philippus shrugged. He tucked the parchment roll into his belt-pouch. “Maybe I’d better go.”

  Putting his own invitation away, Scaurus asked the priest, “A liturgy of rejoicing? In aid of what?”

  “Of Phos’ mercy on us all,” the man replied, taking him literally. “Now forgive me, I pray; I have others yet to find.” He was gone before Marcus could reframe his question.

  The tribune muttered a mild curse, then glanced around to gauge the shadows. It could not be later than noon, he decided; at least two hours until the service began. That gave him time to bathe and then put on his dress cape and helmet, sweltering though they were. He ran a hand over his cheek, then sighed. A shave would not be amiss, either. Sighing as well, Gaius Philippus joined him at his ablutions.

  Rubbing freshly scraped faces, the Romans handed their tokens of admission to a priest at the top of the High Temple’s stairs and made their way into the building. The High Temple dominated Videssos’ skyline, but its heavy form and plain stuccoed exterior, as always, failed to impress Scaurus, whose tastes were formed in a different school. As he did not worship Phos, he seldom entered the Temple and sometimes forgot how glorious it was inside. Whenever he did go in, he felt transported to another, purer, world.

  Like all of Phos’ shrines, the High Temple was built round a circular worship area surmounted by a dome, with rows of benches north, south, east, and west. But here, genius and limitless resources had refined the simple, basic plan. All the separate richnesses—benches of highly polished hardwoods, moss-agate columns, endless gold and silver foil to reflect light into every corner, walls that imitated Phos’ sky in facings of semiprecious stones—somehow failed to compete with one another, but were blended by the artisans’ skill into a unified and magnificent whole.

  And all that magnificence served to lead the eye upward to contemplate the Temple’s great central dome, which itself seemed more a product of wizardry than architecture. Liberated by pendentives from the support of columns
, it looked to be upheld only by the shafts of sunlight piercing its many-windowed base. Even to Marcus the stubborn non-believer, it seemed a bit of Phos’ heaven suspended above the earth.

  “Now here is a home fit for a god,” Gaius Philippus muttered under his breath. He had never been in the High Temple before; hardened as he was, he could not keep awe from his voice.

  Phos himself looked down on his worshipers from the interior of the dome; gold-backed glass tesserae sparkled now here, now there in an ever-shifting play of light. Stern in judgment, the Videssian god’s eyes seemed to see into the furthest recesses of the Temple—and into the soul of every man within. From that gaze, from the verdict inscribed in the book the god held, there could be no appeal. Nowhere had Scaurus seen such an uncomprising image of harsh, righteous purpose.

  No Videssian, no matter how cynical, sat easy under that Phos’ eyes. To an outlander seeing them for the first time, they could be overwhelming. Utprand Dagober’s son stiffened to attention and began a salute, as to any great leader, before he stopped in confusion. “Don’t blame him a bit,” Gaius Philippus said. Marcus nodded. No one tittered at the Namdalener; here the proud imperials, too, were humble.

  Fair face crimsoning, Utprand found a seat. His foxskin jacket and snug trousers set him apart from the Videssians around him. Their flowing robes of multicolored silks, their high-knotted brocaded fabrics, their velvets and snowy linens served to complement the High Temple’s splendor. Jewels and gold and silver threadwork gleamed as they moved.

  “Exaltation!” A choir of boys in robes of blue samite came down the aisles and grouped themselves round the central altar. “Exaltation!” Their pure, unbroken voices filled the space under the great dome with joyous music. “Exaltation! Exaltation!” Even Phos’ awesome image seemed to take on a more benign aspect as his young votaries sang his praises. “Exaltation!”

  Censer-swinging priests followed the chorus toward the worship area; the sweet fragrances of balsam, frankincense, cedar oil, myrrh, and storax filled the air. Behind the priests came Balsamon. The congregation rose to honor the patriarch. And behind Balsamon was Thorisin Gavras in full imperial regalia. Along with everyone else, Marcus and Gaius Philippus bowed to the Avtokrator. The tribune tried to keep the surprise from his face; on his previous visits to the High Temple, the Emperor had taken no part in its services, but watched from a small private room set high in the building’s eastern wall.