Misplaced Legion (Videssos Cycle)

by Turtledove, Harry

  “Nay, ’tis not so,” Kekaumenos replied in his archaic accent. “I am his Majesty King Sirelios of Agder’s embassy to Videssos; in good sooth, his blood is higher than most in this mongrel city.” The man of Agder looked round to see if anyone would challenge his statement. The smaller fragment of the Empire of old had learned more from its Haloga neighbors than wearing snow-leopard jackets: its ambassador spoke with a bluntness rare in the city. He was also taciturn as any northerner, subsiding into moody silence after speaking his piece.

  Marcus’ other seatmate nudged him in the ribs. “You’d think old Katakolon had a poker up his arse, wouldn’t you?” he stage-whispered, grinning slyly. “Ah, you don’t know who I am, do you, to get away with such talk? Taso Vones is my name, envoy of Khagan Vologes of Khatrish, and so I have a diplomat’s privilege. Besides, Kekaumenos has reckoned me daft for years—isn’t that right, you old scoundrel?”

  “As well for you I do,” Kekaumenos rumbled, but his stern features could not hide a smile. Evidently he was used to making allowances for Vones.

  The fast-talking ambassador gave his attention back to Scaurus. “I saw you admiring my beard a few minutes ago.”

  That was not the emotion Marcus had felt for the untidy growth. “Yes, I—”

  “Horrible, isn’t it? My master Vologes thinks it makes me look a proper Khamorth, instead of some effete Videssian. As if I could look like that!” He pointed across the table at the emissary of the Khaganate of Thatagush. “Ha, Gawtruz, you butterball, are you drunk yet?”

  “Not yet I am,” Gawtruz replied, looking rather like a bearded boulder. His Videssian was heavily accented. “But will I be? Haw, yes, to be sure!”

  “He’s a pig,” Taso remarked, “but a pleasant sort of pig, and a sharp man in the bargain. He can also speak perfectly good Videssian when he wants to, which isn’t often.”

  A trifle overwhelmed by the voluble little Khatrisher, Marcus was glad to see the food brought in. The accent was on fish, not surprising in a coastal town like Videssos. There were baked cod, fried shark, lobsters and drawn butter, a tangy stew of clams, crab, and shrimp, as well as divers other delicacies, among them oysters on the half-shell.

  Viridovix, a few chairs down from the tribune, took one of these from the crushed ice on which it reposed. After a long, dubious look he gulped it down, but seemed less than pleased he’d done so. With a glance at the girl by his side, he said to Marcus, “If you’re fain to be eating something with that feel to it, it’s better warm.”

  Scaurus, sans oyster, gulped himself. He was wondering why the Celt had not stopped conversation in its tracks all along the table when the Princess Alypia, who was sitting almost directly across from him, asked, “What does your comrade think of the shellfish?” and he realized Viridovix had spoken Latin.

  Well, fool, he said to himself, you thought music a poor topic. How do you propose to cope with this? His answer unhesitatingly sacrificed the spirit to the letter: “He said he would prefer it heated, your Highness.”

  “Odd, such an innocent comment making you start so,” she said, but to his relief she did not press him further.

  A gray-haired servant tapped the Roman on the shoulder. Setting a small enamelware dish before Marcus, he murmured, “Herrings in wine sauce, my lord, courtesy of his Highness the Sevastos. They are excellent, he says.”

  Recalling only too vividly his idle thought of the day before, Marcus looked down the table to Vardanes Sphrantzes. The Sevastos raised his glass in genial salute. Scaurus knew he had to take the dainty and yet could not forget the veiled look of menace he had seen in Sphrantzes’ eyes.

  He sighed and ate. The herrings were delicious.

  Alypia noticed his hesitation. “Anyone watching you would say you thought that your final meal,” she said.

  Damn the observant woman! he thought, flushing. Would he never be able to tell her any truth? It certainly would not do here. “Your Majesty, I could not refuse the Sevastos’ gift, but I fear herring and my innards do not blend well. That was why I paused.” The tribune discovered he had only told half a lie. The spicy fish were making his stomach churn.

  The princess blinked at his seeming frankness, then burst into laughter. If the Roman had seen the slit-eyed look Sphrantzes sent his way, he would have regretted the herrings all over again. That it might be dangerous for a mercenary captain to make a princess of the blood laugh had not yet occurred to him.

  Although the Sevastokrator Thorisin stayed to roister on, the Emperor and his daughter, having arrived late, left the banquet early. After their departure things grew livelier.

  Two of the desert nomads, relegated to a far table by the insignificance of their tribes, found nothing better to do than quarrel with each other. One of them, a ferret-faced man with waxed mustaches, screamed a magnificent guttural oath and broke his winecup over his rival’s head. Others at the table pulled them apart before they could go for their knives.

  “Disgraceful,” Taso Vones said. “Why can’t they leave their blood-feuds at home?”

  Snatches of drunken song floated up throughout the Hall of the Nineteen Couches. Viridovix began wailing away in Gaulish, loud enough to make the crockery shiver. “If you can’t hit the damned notes, at least scare them as they go by,” Gaius Philippus growled. The Celt pretended not to hear him.

  Several Khamorth were singing in the plains speech. Lifting his face from his cup, Gawtruz of Thatagush looked up owlishly and joined them.

  “Disgraceful,” Taso said again; he, too, understood the plainsmen’s tongue. “You can’t have Khamorth at a feast without them getting sozzled and calling on all sorts of demons. Most of them follow Skotos in their hearts, you know; cleaving to the good is too dull to be tolerable.”

  The wine was starting to go to the Roman’s head; he was losing track of how many times he had filled his goblet from the silver decanter in front of him. On his left, Katakolon Kekaumenos had left some time ago. Marcus did not miss him. The strait-laced northerner’s disapproving gaze could chill any gathering.

  Viridovix was also gone, but not by himself. Scaurus could not remember if he’d left with the talkative brunette who’d sat beside him or the statuesque serving maid who had hovered over him all evening long. A bit jealous, the Roman took a long pull at his wine. His own contacts with women tonight had been less than successful, from any point of view.

  He climbed slowly to his feet, filling his glass one last time to keep him warm on the ten-minute walk back to the barracks. Vones stood too. “Let me accompany you,” he said. “I’d like to hear more about your leader—Kizar, was it? A fascinating man, from what you’ve told me.”

  Marcus hardly remembered what he’d been saying, but Vones was good company. They made their way down toward the end of the imperial table. There someone had spilled something greasy on the mosaic floor; the tribune slipped, his arms waving wildly for balance. He kept his feet, but the wine he was carrying splattered the white robes of Yezd’s ambassador.

  “I beg your pardon, my lord—” he began, then stopped, confused. “Your pardon twice—I do not know your name.”

  “Do you not?” A fury the more terrible for being cold rode the Yezda’s words. He rose in one smooth motion, to tower over even the Roman’s inches. So thick was his veiling that his eyes were invisible, but Scaurus knew he was seen; the weight of that hidden gaze was like a blow. “Do you not, indeed? Then you may call me Avshahin.”

  Taso Vones broke in with a nervous chuckle. “My lord Avshar is pleased to make a pun, calling himself ‘king’ in Videssos’ language and his own. Surely he will understand my friend meant no offense, but has seen the bottom of his winecup perhaps more often than he should—”

  Avshar turned his unseen stare on the Khatrisher. “Little man, this does not concern you. Unless you would have it so …?” His voice was still smooth, but there was menace there, like freezing water under thin ice. Vones, pale, flinched and shook his head.

  “Good.” The Yezda
dealt Marcus a tremendous roundhouse buffet, sending him lurching back with blood starting from the comer of his mouth. “Dog! Swine! Vile, crawling insect! Is it not enough I must dwell in this city of my foes? Must I also be subject to the insults of Videssos’ slaves? Jackal of a mercenary, it shall be your privilege to choose the weapon that will be your death.” The feasting hall grew still. All eyes were on the Roman, who abruptly understood Avshar’s challenge. In an odd way he was thankful the Yezda had struck him; the blow and the rage that followed were burning the wine from his blood. He was surprised at the steadiness of his voice as he answered, “You know as well as I, I spilled my wine on you by accident. But if you must take it further, sword and shield will do well enough.”

  Avshar threw back his head and laughed, a sound colder and more cruel than any of the winter blizzards that had howled down on Imbros. “So be it—your doom from your own mouth you have spoken. Mebod!” he shouted, and a frightened-looking Yezda servant appeared at his side. “Fetch my gear from my chambers.” He gave the Roman a mocking bow. “The Videssians, you see, would not take it kindly if one who bears them no love were to come armed to a function where their precious Emperor was present.”

  Taso Vones was plucking at Scaurus’ arm. “Have you lost your wits? That is the deadliest swordsman I have ever seen, the winner in a score of duels, and a sorcerer besides. Crave his forgiveness now, before he cuts a second mouth in your throat!”

  “I asked his pardon once, but he hardly seems in a forgiving mood. Besides,” Marcus said, thinking of the potent blade at his side, “I may know something he doesn’t.”

  Gaius Philippus was so drunk he could hardly stand, but he still saw with a fighting man’s knowledge. “The big son of a pimp will likely try to use his reach to chop you to bits from farther out than you can fight back. Get inside and let the air out of him.”

  Marcus nodded; he had been thinking along those lines himself. “Send someone after my shield, will you?”

  “Adiatun is already on his way.”

  “Fine.”

  While everyone waited for the fighters’ gear to be fetched, a double handful of high-ranking officers, like so many servants, shoved tables around, clearing a space for combat.

  Wagers flew thick and fast. From the shouts, Marcus knew he was the underdog. He was pleased, though, when he heard Helvis’ clear contralto announce, “Three pieces of gold on the Roman!” Gawtruz of Thatagush covered her bet.

  The Sevastokrator Thorisin Gavras called to Vardanes Sphrantzes, “Whom do you like, seal-stamper?”

  The dislike on the Sevastos’ face covered Gavras, Avshar, and Scaurus impartially. He rubbed his neatly bearded chin. “Though it grieves me to say so, I think it all too likely the Yezda will win.”

  “Are you a hundred goldpieces sure?”

  Sphrantzes hesitated again, then nodded. “Done!” Thorisin exclaimed. Marcus was glad to have the Sevastokrator’s backing, but knew the Emperor’s brother would have been as quick to favor Avshar if Sphrantzes had chosen him.

  A cry rang out when the Yezda ambassador’s servant returned with his master’s arms. Marcus was surprised that Avshar favored a long, straight sword, not the usual scimitar of the westerners. His shield was round, with a spiked boss. The emblem of Yezd, a leaping panther, was painted on a background the color of dried blood.

  Moments later, Adiatun was back with the tribune’s scutum. “Cut him into crowbait,” he said, slapping Scaurus on the shouder.

  The Roman was drawing his blade when something else occurred to him. He asked Taso Vones, “Will Avshar not want me to shed my cuirass?”

  Vones shook his head. “It’s common knowledge he wears mail himself, under those robes. He’s not the envoy of a friendly country, you know.”

  Marcus spent a last second wishing he had not drunk so much. He wondered how much wine was in Avshar. Then it was too late for such worries. There was only a circle of eager, watching faces, with him and the Yezda in the middle of it—and then he forgot the watchers, too, as Avshar leaped forward to cut him down.

  For a man so tall, he was devilishly quick, and strong in the bargain. Marcus caught the first slash on his shield and staggered under it, wondering if his arm was broken. He thrust up at Avshar’s unseen face. The Yezda danced back, then came on again with another overhand cut.

  He seemed to have as many arms as a spider and a sword in every hand. Within moments Marcus had a cut high up on his sword arm and another, luckily not deep, just above the top of his right greave. His shield was notched and hacked. Avshar wielded his heavy blade like a switch.

  Fighting down desperation, Marcus struck back. Avshar turned the blow with his shield. It did not burst as the Roman had hoped, but at the contact Avshar gave back two startled paces. He swung his blade up in derisive salute. “You have a strong blade, runagate, but there are spells of proof against such.”

  Yet he fought more cautiously after that and, as the hard work of combat helped banish the wine from Scaurus’ system, the Roman grew surer and more confident of himself. He began to press forward, blade flicking out now high, now low, with Avshar yielding ground step by stubborn step.

  The Yezda, who had kept silent while all around him voices rose in song, began to chant. He sang in some dark language, strong, harsh, and freezing, worse even than his laugh. The torchlight dimmed and almost died in a web of darkness spinning up before Marcus’ eyes.

  But along the length of the Roman’s blade, the druids’ marks flared hot and gold, turning aside the spell the wizard had hurled. Scaurus parried a stroke at his face.

  The episode could only have taken an instant, for even as he was evading the blow, a woman in the crowd—he thought it was Helvis—called out, “No ensorcelments!”

  “Bah! None are needed against such a worm as this!” Avshar snarled, but he chanted no further. And now the tribune had his measure. One of his cuts sheared away the tip of Avshar’s shield-boss. The Yezda envoy’s robes grew tattered, and red with more than wine.

  Screaming in frustrated rage, Avshar threw himself at the Roman in a last bid to overpower his enemy by brute force. It was like standing up under a whirlwind of steel, but in his wrath the Yezda grew careless, and Marcus saw his moment come at last.

  He feinted against Avshar’s face, then thrust quickly at his belly. The Yezda brought his blade down to cover, only to see, too late, that this too was a feint. The Roman’s sword hurtled at his temple. The parry he began was far too slow, but in avoiding it, Scaurus had to turn his wrist slightly. Thus the flat of his blade, not the edge, slammed into the side of Avshar’s head.

  The Yezda tottered like a lightning-struck tree, then toppled, his sword falling beside him. Scaurus took a step forward to finish him, then shook his head. “Killing a stunned man is butcher’s work,” he said. “The quarrel was his with me, not mine with him.” He slid his blade back into its scabbard.

  In his exhaustion afterwards, he only remembered a few pieces of flotsam from the flood of congratulations that washed over him. Gaius Philippus’ comment was, as usual, short and to the point. “That is a bad one,” he said as Avshar, leaning on his servant, staggered from the hall, “and you should have nailed him when you had the chance.”

  Her winnings ringing in her hand, Helvis squeezed and kissed the tribune while Hemond pounded his back and shouted drunkenly in his ear.

  And Taso Vones, though glad to see Avshar humbled, also had a word of warning. “I suppose,” the mousy little man from Khatrish grumbled, “now you think you could storm Mashiz singlehanded and have all the maidens from here to there fall into your arms.”

  Marcus’ mind turned briefly to Helvis, but Vones was still talking. “Don’t you believe it!” he said. “A few years ago Avshar was leading a raiding-party along the western marches of Videssos, and a noble named Mourtzouphlos handled him very roughly indeed. The next spring, the biggest snake anyone in those parts had ever seen swallowed Mourtzouphlos down.”

  “Happenstance
,” Marcus said uneasily.

  “Well, maybe so, but the Yezda’s arm is long. A word to the wise, let us say.” And he was off, brushing a bit of lint from the sleeve of his brown robe as if amazed anyone could think there was a connection between himself and this outlander rash enough to best Avshar.

  IV

  WHEN HE RETURNED FOR MARCUS’ SHIELD, ADIATUN MUST have wakened the Romans in their barracks. Torches were blazing through the windows, everyone was up and stirring, and by the time Marcus got back to his quarters a good score of legionaries were fully armed and ready to avenge him.

  “You don’t show much confidence in your commander,” he told them, trying to hide how pleased he was. They gave him a rousing cheer, then crowded close, asking for details of the duel. He told the story as best he could, peeling off his belt, corselet, and greaves while he talked. Finally he could not keep his sagging eyelids open any longer.

  Gaius Philippus stepped into the breach. “That’s the nub of it. The rest you can all hear in the morning—early in the morning,” he half threatened. “There’s been nothing but shirking the past couple of days while we’ve got settled, but don’t get the notion you can make a habit of it.”

  As the centurion had known it would, his announcement roused a chorus of boos and groans, but it also freed Scaurus from further questions. Torches hissed as they were quenched. The tribune, crawling under a thick woolen blanket, was as glad of sleep as ever he had been in his life.

  It seemed only seconds later when he was shaken awake, but the apricot light of dawn streamed through the windows. Eyes still blurred with sleep, he saw Viridovix, looking angry, crouched above him. “Bad cess to you, southron without a heart!” the Gaul exclaimed.

  Marcus raised himself onto one elbow. “What have I done to you?” he croaked. Someone, he noted with clinical detachment, had raced a herd of goats through his mouth.

  “What have you done, man? Are you daft? The prettiest bit of fighting since we came here, and me not there to see it! Why did you no send a body after me so I could watch the shindy my own self and not hear about it second hand?”