Legion of Videssos

by Harry Turtledove

  The senior centurion laughed softly. “It would’ve served him right if they had,” he said; his scorn for Ortaias was boundless. His face hardened. “Then he wouldn’t have come along with us to Maragha, and Mavrikios might be alive. Bloody turntail coward; we had a draw till he ran.”

  In his contempt, he did not bother to lower his voice much. Thorisin, who stood by the map, looked a question at him, not understanding the veteran’s Latin. It was Gaius Philippus’ turn to go red, though the color hardly showed under his deep tan. “Nothing, sir,” he muttered.

  “All right, then.” The Emperor shrugged. Mavrikios Gavras had used a wooden pointer to guide his officers’ eyes across the map of the westlands in that council a couple of years before. His younger brother was a less patient man. He drew his saber from its well-scuffed leather sheath and pointed his way with that.

  For all his impatience, his term as Emperor was beginning to leave its mark on him. The lines on either side of his mouth and proud nose were carved deep into his cheeks, though he was but a few years older than Scaurus. There were lines round his eyes, lines that had not been there before he came to the throne. His hair was thinning, too; what had once been a widow’s peak was becoming a forelock.

  But he had the active stride of a younger man, and it took but a single glance at his strong mouth and determined eyes to see that he was yet a man of great vigor and bearing up well under the heavy hands of duty and time. “This is what we’ll have to do,” he said, and his marshals leaned forward as one to listen.

  He tapped at the parchment with his sword before he began to speak, mustering his thoughts. As always, the wide peninsula that held the Empire’s western provinces reminded Marcus of a knobby thumb. From marching and countermarching through a good part of the westlands, he knew the map was more accurate than anything Rome could have produced. Discouragingly, it also accurately showed the land the Yezda had taken since Maragha. Most of the high central plateau was lost; the nomads were beginning to settle there and pushing eastward toward the fertile plains that ran to the Sailors’ Sea.

  The Emperor ran his blade west along the Arandos River, which flowed down from the highlands through the broad coastal plain. “The whoresons are using the Arandos valley to come right down our throats. It runs both ways, though. Drax’ Namdaleni will plug the gap at Garsavra until we reinforce them. After that, it’s our turn to push west again and reclaim what’s ours.… Yes, this time you have something to say to me, Roman?”

  “Aye, or ask you, rather.” Gaius Philippus pointed toward the red-filled circle that marked Garsavra. “Your great count Drax may be a canny enough soldier, but how does he propose to hold a town with no putrid wall?”

  Hardly any cities in the westlands were walled. Until the Yezda came, the westerners had lived for hundreds of years without fear of invasion. Such fortifications as had once existed were centuries gone, torn down for the building stone they yielded. To Marcus’ way of thinking, a land free of walls was Videssos’ finest achievement. It told of a security far greater than any his Rome could give its subjects. Even in Italy, an unwalled town would have been as unnatural as a white crow. It had only been fifty years since the Cimbri and Teutones swarmed over the Alps, asking Marius’ legionaries if they had any messages for the barbarians to take to their wives.

  “Never fear, outlander, t’ey’ll hold it,” Utprand son of Dagober said from down the table, his Namdalener accent thick enough to slice. “Drax is a poor excuse for a Namdalener, but his men, t’ey’ll hold.” The great count had taken on too many Videssian ways for his countryman’s liking. They had some old rivalry between them as well; Scaurus was hazy on the details.

  “You Romans are good at overnight fieldworks, but we know a few tricks, too,” Soteric Dosti’s son said, supporting his captain. Helvis’ brother had served in the Empire longer than Utprand and lost most of his island accent. He went on, “Give a regiment of ours ten days in one place, and they have a motte-and-bailey up that’ll hold ’em all. Garsavra may not have walls, but it won’t lack for a strongpoint.”

  My brother-in-law, Marcus thought—not for the first time—talks too much. Mertikes Zigabenos scowled at Soteric, as did several other Videssian officers. Nor, plainly, was Thorisin overjoyed at the prospect of Namdalener-held castles going up in his land, however necessary they might be for the moment.

  The Videssians hired Namdalener mercenaries, but they did not trust them. Namdalen had been a province of the Empire before it fell to Haloga corsairs a couple of centuries ago. The mixed folk that sprang from the conquest combined Videssos’ imperial traditions with the ambition and barbaric love of battle the northerners brought. The Dukes of Namdalen dreamed one day of ruling from the imperial capital, a dream that was nightmare to the Videssians.

  Zigabenos said to Utprand, “With your heavy cavalry, you islanders shouldn’t be reduced to garrison duty. When our main force reaches Garsavra, we’ll surely put less valuable troops in whatever fortresses Drax may have built.”

  “Isn’t he slick, now?” Gaius Philippus whispered admiringly. Marcus nodded; what better way to ease the islanders out of positions that could be dangerous to the Empire than to make that easing appear a compliment to their fighting skills? Zigabenos had to an unusual degree the Videssian talent for mixing politics and war; he was the man who had set off the riots in the city that overthrew Ortaias Sphrantzes and won Thorisin Gavras the Empire.

  But Utprand had not risen to lead his regiment solely by the strength of his right arm. He was impatient with any sort of subtlety, but there was a considerable wit behind his cold blue eyes. With a shrug he said, “Time will show w’at it shows,” a thought that could have come from his pagan Haloga ancestors.

  The talk shifted to lines of march, supply centers, and all the other minutiae that went into a major campaign. Despite his travels in the westlands, Marcus listened carefully. Attention to detail was never wasted.

  On the other hand, a couple of the Khamorth chieftains looked actively bored. The nomads made fine scouts and raiders, being as mobile as their distant cousins from Yezd. But they were not interested in anything but the fight itself: preparing for it seemed to them a waste of time. One plainsman snored until his seatmate, a Videssian, kicked him in the ankle under the table. He woke with a start, sputtering guttural curses.

  However rude they were in manner, the nomads had a firm grip on the realities of the mercenary’s trade. One of them caught Thorisin Gavras’ eye during a lull in the planning. Thinking he had some point to make, the Emperor asked, “What is it, Sarbaraz?”

  “You not run out of money halfway through fight?” Sarbaraz asked anxiously. “We fight for your Ort’iash, he give us more promises than gold, and his gold not much good either.” That was true enough; Ortaias Sphrantzes had debased Videssos’ coinage until what was styled a goldpiece was less than one-third gold.

  “You’ll be paid, never fear,” Gavras said. His eyes narrowed in annoyance. “And you know I don’t coin trash, either.”

  “True, true—in city. We get away from city, from—how you say?—treasury, then what? Then maybe you run out of money, like I say. My boys not happy if that happen—maybe make up missing pay off countryside.” Sarbaraz grinned insolently, exposing crooked teeth. The Khamorth had no use for farmers, except as prey.

  “By Phos, I said you’d be paid!” Thorisin shouted, really angry now. “And if your bandits start plundering, we’ll set the rest of the army on you and see how you like that!”

  He took a deep breath and then another, trying to calm himself; before he became Emperor, Marcus thought approvingly, he would have let his temper run away with him. When he spoke again, it was with studied reason: “There will be plenty of coin along for the army’s needs. And even if the campaign should run longer than we expect, we won’t have to send back to the city for more goldpieces, just to the local mint at, at—” He snapped his fingers in irritation, unable to remember the town’s name. By inclination he was a so
ldier, not a financier; he found taxes and revenues as dull as the Khamorth did grain supply and encampment sites.

  “Kyzikos,” Alypia Gavra supplied. As was her way, the Emperor’s niece had sat quietly through most of the council, occasionally scribbling a note for the history she was composing. Most of the officers took no notice of her; they were used to her silent presence.

  For his part, Marcus felt the same mixture of longing, guilt, and a touch of fear Alypia always raised in him. He was more than fond of her, which did nothing to help his sometimes-stormy life with Helvis. Moreover, he knew his feelings were returned, at least in part. The fear came there. If a mercenary could not hope to hold a castle in Videssos, what would befall one who held a princess?

  “The mint at Kyzikos is not far southeast of Garsavra,” she was explaining to Sarbaraz. “In fact, it was first established as a paycenter for our troops in a war against Makuran … let me see.” Her green eyes grew thoughtful. “… Not quite six hundred years ago.”

  The nomad had not been happy at having to listen to any woman, even one of the imperial family. At her last words he stared, frankly unbelieving. “All right, you have mint, we get money. No need to mock me—who could remember six five-twenties of years?”

  He translated his own people’s number-system into Videssian. Scaurus wondered what Gorgidas would make of that; he’d probably say it harked back to a time when the Khamorth could not count past their fingers and toes. But then, Gorgidas was seeing Khamorth aplenty himself.

  “Skotos take the rude barbarian,” the tribune heard one Videssian officer whisper to another. “Does he doubt the princess’ words?”

  But Alypia told Sarbaraz, “I did not mean to mock you,” as courteously as if apologizing to a great noble. She was without the hot Gavras temper that plagued Thorisin and had sometimes flared in her father Mavrikios as well. Nor were her features as sharply sculptured as those of the male Gavrai, though she shared their rather narrow oval face.

  Marcus wondered what her mother had looked like; Mavrikios’ wife had died years before he became Avtokrator. Very few Videssians had green eyes, which must have come from that side of the family.

  “When do you plan to start the season’s fighting?” someone asked Thorisin.

  “Weeks ago,” the Emperor snapped. “May Onomagoulos rot in Skotos’ hell for robbing me of them—aye, and of all the good men his rebellion killed. Civil war costs a country twice, for winners and losers both are its own.”

  “Too true,” Gaius Philippus muttered, remembering his own young manhood and the fight between Sulla and the backers of Marius—to say nothing of the Social War that had matched Rome against its Italian allies. He raised his voice to speak to Gavras. “We can’t get ready for weeks ago, you know.”

  “Not even you Romans?” the Emperor said with a smile. There was honest respect in his voice; the legionaries had taught Videssos more than it ever knew of instant readiness. Thorisin rubbed his chin as he considered. “Eight days’ time,” he said at last.

  Groans came from several officers; one of the Namdaleni, Clozart Leatherbreeches, growled, “Ask for the moon while you’re about it!” But Utprand silenced him with a glare. When the Emperor looked a question at the dour mercenary chief, he got a nod back. He returned it, satisfied; Utprand’s word on such things was good.

  Gavras did not bother checking with the Romans. Scaurus and Gaius Philippus exchanged smug grins. They could have been ready in half Thorisin’s eight days and knew it. It was gratifying to see the Emperor did, too.

  As the meeting broke up, Marcus hoped for a few words with Alypia Gavra; in ceremony-ridden Videssos such chances came too seldom. But Mertikes Zigabenos buttonholed him as they walked out through the brightly polished bronze doors of the Hall of the Nineteen Couches. The Videssian officer said, “I hope you’re pleased with the healer-priest I got for you.”

  Under most circumstances Scaurus would have passed it off with a polite compliment. After all, Zigabenos had been trying to do him and his men a favor. The sight of Alypia heading off with her uncle toward the imperial family’s private chambers, though, left him irritated enough for candor. “Couldn’t you have found one who doesn’t drink so much?” he asked.

  Zigabenos’ handsome face froze. “Your pardon, I am sure,” he said. “Now if you will excuse me—” With a bow calculated to the fraction of an inch, he stalked off.

  Gaius Philippus came up. “How did you step on his corns?” he asked, watching the stiff-backed departure. “Don’t tell me you gave him a straight answer?”

  “I’m afraid so,” the tribune admitted. There were times, he thought, when you could make no worse mistake with the Videssians.

  The bustle of preparing to move out did not keep the legionaries from their mornings at the practice field. As they were returning one day, Marcus found the barracks halls a good deal grimier and more untidy than even moving’s dislocation could have let him put up with. Annoyed, he went looking for Pullo and Vorenus. It was not like them to let down on any job, even one as menial as a housekeeping detail.

  He found them standing side by side in the sun behind one of the bachelor halls. They came out of their rather stiff stance as soon as he came round the corner. He filled his lungs for an angry shout.

  But Styppes, who was comfortable under the shadow of one of the citrus trees that surrounded the Romans’ quarters, anticipated him. “What are you doing breaking your poses, miserable barbarians? Come back this instant—my sketches are hardly begun!”

  Scaurus had not noticed the priest in the shade. He rounded on Styppes, ignoring the two legionaries. “Who, sirrah, gave you the authority to take my men away from the duties I assigned them?”

  Styppes squinted as he stepped into the sunshine, several sheets of parchment and a charcoal stick in his hand. “Which has the greater weight,” he demanded, “the trivial concerns of this existence or Phos’ undying glory, which endures forever?”

  “This existence is the only one I know,” the tribune retorted. Styppes gave back a place in horror, as if confronted by a wild beast. He made the sun-sign of his god on his breast, gabbling out a quick prayer against Marcus’ blasphemy. Scaurus realized he had gone too far; in theology-crazed Videssos, an answer like his could launch a riot. He backtracked. “Neither of these soldiers follows Phos, to my knowledge.” He glanced at Vorenus and Pullo, who nodded nervously, caught between Styppes and their commander. Marcus turned back to the priest. “What is your concern with them, then?”

  “A proper question,” Styppes said grudgingly, though he eyed the tribune with scant liking. “While Skotos will doubtless drag their heathen souls down to the eternal ice below, still in body they are images worth commemorating. I sought their likenesses for icons of Phos’ holy men Akakios and Gourias, both of whom are to be depicted as young beardless men.”

  “You paint icons?” Marcus said, hoping he was keeping the skepticism out of his voice. Next, he thought, the fat tosspot would claim he could lay eggs.

  Styppes, though, seemed to be taking him seriously. “Aye,” he said, offering his parchment scraps to the Roman. “You will understand these are but rough sketches, and poor ones at that. The charcoal is wrong, too; the fools at the monastery use hazelwood, but myrtle gives a finer line and smudges less.”

  The tribune hardly heard the priest’s complaints. He shuffled rapidly through the pieces of parchment, his eyes growing larger at every one. Styppes was an artist, whatever else he was. In a few deft strokes his charcoal picked out the two Romans’ salient features: Pullo’s strong nose and angular cheekbones, Vorenus’ thoughtful mouth beneath heavy eyebrows, the scar that creased his chin.

  Pullo was scarred, too, but Styppes’ drawing did not show his battle marks. Used to Roman portraiture, which could be brutally realistic, Marcus asked, “Why have you shown one man’s wounds, but not the other’s?”

  “The holy Gourias was a soldier who suffered martyrdom defending an altar of Phos against the Khamorth
pagans, and is to be portrayed with a warrior’s tokens. Akakios Klimakos, though, gained fame for his charity and had no experience of war.”

  “But Pullo here is scarred,” the tribune protested.

  “What of it? I care nothing for your barbarians for their own sakes; why should I? But as representatives of those who were found worthy of Phos, they gain some small importance. Where their features fail to conform to the ideal, am I to betray the ideal for them? My interest is in the holy Klimakos and Gourias, not your Pullus and Voreno, or whatever their names may be.” Styppes laughed at the idea.

  His theory of art was opposed to everything Scaurus took for granted, but the tribune was too nettled by his scorn to care about that. “You will, in that case, do me the favor of not distracting my men from the tasks assigned them. My interest is in seeing those carried out.”

  Styppes’ nostrils flared. “Impudent pagan!”

  “Not at all,” the tribune said, wary of making him an open enemy. “But just as you have your concerns, I have mine. Your Gourias would understand the duty a soldier owes his commander—and the harm that can come from weakening it.”

  The healer-priest looked startled. “That is not an argument I would have looked for from an unbeliever.” His eyes were red-veined, but also shrewd.

  Marcus spread his hands. Anything that works, he said, but only to himself.

  “All right, then,” the priest finally said. “Perhaps I was hasty.”

  “What the men do in their free time is their own affair. If they care to pose for you then, I certainly would not mind,” the tribune said, relieved he had smoothed things over.

  Calculation grew on Styppes’ fat face. “And what of you?” he asked.