Legion of Videssos

by Harry Turtledove

  Skylitzes splashed ashore a few feet away from him. He reached into the bag and dug out a stylus. “How do you spell ‘mourzoulin’?” he demanded. Looking resigned, Skylitzes told him.

  Robes swirling about him, Avshar paced his tent like a caged panther. His great height and long strides made it seem cramped and tiny, built for a race of dwarfs. The sorcerer lashed out with a booted foot. A cushion flew across the tent, rebounded from the tight-stretched felt of the wall, and an image of a black-corseleted warrior hurling a brace of three-spiked thunderbolts thumped to the ground.

  The wizard-prince swung round on Varatesh. “Incompetent!” he snarled. “Lackwitted, poxy maggot! You puling, milk-livered pile of festering dung, cutting your filthy heart out would be revenge too small for your botchery!”

  They were alone; even in his rage, Avshar knew better than to revile the outlaw chief in front of his men. The wizard’s contempt, the lash of his words, burned like fire. Varatesh bowed his head. More than anything else, he wanted the regard of this man, and bore abuse for which he would have killed any other.

  But he reckoned himself slave to no one and said, “I was not the only one to make mistakes on this venture. The man you sent me after was not the one I found. He—”

  Avshar dealt him a tremendous backhand buffet that stretched him in the dirt of the tent floor. He rose tasting blood, his head ringing. He slid into fighter’s crouch. He had loved Kodoman, too, and Kodoman also stuck first … “Who are you, to use me so?” he whispered, tears stinging his eyes.

  Avshar laughed, a laugh as black as the mail his icon showed. He swept aside the mantlings that always hid his face. “Well, worm,” he said, “who am I?”

  Varatesh whimpered and fell to his knees.

  VII

  “HERE,” THEKLA ZONARA SAID, HANDING A SERVANT A silver candlestick. “This will fit in the load you’re packing.” When the man held it in confusion, she took it from him and stowed it away. “And this,” she added, edging in beside it a gilded silver plate decorated with a hunting scene in low relief.

  “We must save these, too,” her sister-in-law Erythro cried, running up with an armload of brightly glazed earthenware cups. “They’re too lovely to be left for the Namdaleni.”

  “Merciful Phos!” Sittas Zonaras said. “Why not pack up the pigs’ swill troughs while you’re about it? That’s worthless junk; the islanders are welcome to it. There’s little enough time for this move as is. Don’t waste it worrying over excess baggage.” He shook his head in mock annoyance.

  “And don’t you waste it bickering with Erythro,” his daughter Ypatia told him.

  The nobleman sighed and turned to Scaurus. “Women should never be allowed to be sensible, don’t you think, outlander?”

  Still holding her cups, Erythro faced up to the Roman like a pugnacious sparrow. “Why ask him? What does he know of sensible? He brought the Namdaleni down on us in the first place. Were it not for him, we’d still be snug here instead of trekking into the hills like so many Khamorth following their herds.”

  “Enough!” Sittas said; now his irritation was real. “Were it not for him, I’d be dead in the woods or captive with all the estate for ransom. Had you forgotten that?”

  “Well, yes, I had,” Erythro said, not a bit abashed. “This move has me all in a frenzy, and no wonder, too!” She bent and piled the cups on top of the candlestick and plate. Her brother rolled his eyes and looked pointedly at Ypatia, who pretended not to notice.

  Though at first Marcus had thought Erythro’s comment monumentally unfair, on reflection he was not so sure. Plenty of nobles in the westlands were coming to terms with the Namdaleni and the “Emperor” Mertikes. “You might have been able to do the same, Sittas, were it not for my men being here,” the tribune finished. Erythro smirked.

  “Don’t encourage her,” Zonaras said. He went on, “Me, make common cause with bandits and heretics? I’d sooner see this villa burned over my head than bend the knee to Drax and his straw man. Nay, I’m glad to be with you.”

  The villa might burn regardless, the tribune thought unhappily. For all their entrenching, for all the manpower Pakhymer and his Khatrishers added, if Drax threw the whole weight of his army against the legionaries, they would be crushed. And that full weight was coming; Pakhymer’s scouts said the Namdalener column would cross the Arandos tomorrow. So it was retreat again, this time south into the hills.

  Leaving the Zonarai still arguing over what was to go and what had to be left behind, Scaurus went outside. Lowing cattle and milling sheep streamed past; the herdsmen needed no urging to get their flocks out of the oncoming army’s way. “Come on, keep them moving!” the chief herder was shouting. “No, Stotzas, don’t let them drink now. Time enough for that later, when everyone’s passed through.”

  Gaius Philippus, who already had the Romans ready to travel, watched the herder with respect. “He’d make a good officer,” he said to the tribune.

  Marcus had an inspiration. “Well, why not make him one, then? Who better to lead your irregulars?”

  The senior centurion stared. “By the gods, sir, that’s a triple six!” The two Romans smiled at each other briefly. In Videssian dice, sixes were the worst throw, not the best—the sort of little thing that left the legionaries permanently alien here. “You there!” Gaius Philippus called.

  “You want me?” the herder chief said without turning his head. “Wait a bit.” He deftly disentangled two flocks, sent them up separate passes so they would not compete for fodder. That done, he walked over to the Romans, nodded in the same respectful but unservile way he had to Zonaras. “Do something for you?”

  “Yes, ah—” Marcus paused, not knowing his name.

  “Tarasikodissa Simokattes,” he said. Seeing the Romans flinch, he relented. “They call me Ras.”

  “And a good thing, too,” Gaius Philippus muttered, but in Latin.

  Scaurus felt much the same, but went on, “When you first saw us, you spoke of raising the countryside.” Ras nodded again. “You know weapons, then?”

  “Aye, somewhat. Bow, spear, axe. I’m no great shakes with a sword in my hand—not enough practice.”

  “Like to fight, do you?” Gaius Philippus asked.

  “No.” The answer was quick and definite.

  The senior centurion beamed, the expression sitting oddly on his usually dour face. “You were right, Scaurus. I can use this one.” He turned back to Simokattes. “How would you like to make a lot of Namdaleni wish they’d never been born?”

  Ras studied him, his face as elaborately guileless as Gaius Philippus’. The two of them, bearded Videssian herdsman and Roman veteran, had a good deal in common, Marcus thought. But the senior centurion’s bait was too tasty not to be nibbled. “Tell me more,” Simokattes said.

  Gaius Philippus smiled.

  The senior centurion was less happy two mornings later, when he looked back on Zonaras’ villa as the legionaries tramped up into the hills. “We should have torched the place,” he said to Marcus. “It’ll make Drax a lovely strong point.”

  “I know,” the tribune said, “but if we did burn it, what would the highland nobles think they had to gain by siding with us? If we don’t leave what they have unharmed, they’ll see us as just another set of barbarians, bad as the Namdaleni.”

  “Maybe so,” Gaius Philippus said, “but they don’t have much use for us if they see us as weak, either.” Scaurus grunted; there was too much truth in that for comfort. Would antagonizing Zonaras by destroying the villa do more harm than leaving Drax a base? He wished for a surer sense of when tactics had to override strategy.

  “It’s something you learn by doing it wrong every so often at first,” Gaius Philippus said when he complained about that. The veteran added, “Of course, if your mistake is too big, it kills you, and you don’t learn much after that.”

  “You always relieve my mind,” Marcus said dryly. He saw a stir of motion to the north, at the head of the valley that sheltered Zonaras�
� villa. “We pulled out none too soon—here come the islanders. Think the rear guard will do any good?”

  “Under young Tarasios? Not a chance.” The senior centurion sounded regretful but certain. He called to a trooper, “You there, Florus—run fetch that herder fellow Ras back here. He ought to see this.” The Roman saluted and trotted off.

  The hectic flush of fever in his face, Tarasios Zonaras had refused to join the retreat to the hills. “No,” he had said in the bubbling whisper that was all he had left of his voice, “here I stand. I have little enough time anyway. Fighting for my land is a faster and better end than I looked for.” His kinsfolk had not been able to sway him, and Scaurus had not tried; his Stoic training taught that a man could decide when to let go of life. About a score of his father’s troopers had chosen to stand with him.

  Ras Simokattes came back with the Roman. “What is it, outlander?”

  “Just watch,” Gaius Philippus said.

  The men of the Duchy, sensible veterans, fanned out into a skirmish line as they entered the valley, taking no chances on an ambush. Their advance quickened as they saw the abandoned legionary camp, and looked up into the hills and spied their opponents’ withdrawing column.

  They were close to the villa when Tarasios and his followers burst from the cover of a stand of apple trees and charged, sabers gleaming as they spurred their horses forward. In the distance everything was tiny and silent and perfect, a realistic painting that somehow moved. An islander toppled from his saddle, then another. But the Namdaleni, after a panicky moment, fought back. More and more knights rode up, to ring Tarasios’ band with steel.

  Simokattes’ glance flicked to the young Zonaras’ kin. His face carved by harsh lines of grief, Sittas watched the unequal fight; now and again his hands twitched on his horse’s reins as he pantomimed a blow that should be struck. His wife and daughter wordlessly embraced, while Erythro wept. The herder-chief, his own strong rough hands curling into fists, gave his attention back to the battle below. It was already almost over.

  “What do you see?” Gaius Philippus asked him.

  “A brave man,” Simokattes replied quietly.

  “Aye, maybe so, but a stupid one regardless.” Simokattes turned in anger, but the senior centurion went on as earnestly as Marcus had ever heard him. “Think on it, Ras, and think well. Soon enough it’ll be you leading men against the islanders, and not ones with the skill or arms Tarasios had behind him. What did he do? He broke cover instead of fighting from it, and he attacked a great many men with a few instead of the other way round. Brave? What good was his bravery to him—or to the troopers who followed him?” In the valley, no Videssians were still horsed. “The task is to hurt the enemy, not your own men.”

  The chief herdsman was silent for some time. At last he said, “You’re a hard man, Roman.”

  “That’s as may be, but I’ve been at this filthy trade thirty-odd years now and I know what’s so. This is what you signed on for, you and your talk of raising the countryside. If you haven’t the stomach for it, go back to your cows.”

  Simokattes swung at him, a blow born largely of frustration. With unhurried quickness, Gaius Philippus ducked and stepped forward, at the same time seizing the herder’s arm and twisting it behind his back until he gasped with pain. The senior centurion let him go at once, slapped him on the shoulder. “What you think of me is your affair, but listen to me. It’ll save your neck one day.” Simokattes gave a brusque nod and walked away.

  “He’ll do,” Gaius Philippus said, watching his back.

  “Did you have to be so hard on him?” the tribune asked.

  “I think so. Amateurs come to this business with all sorts of stupid ideas.”

  Marcus’ own bitter knowledge, gained the past three years, made him add, “Precious little room for gallantry, is there?”

  “That for gallantry.” The senior centurion spat in the dust. “It wasn’t Achilles who took Troy.” Scaurus stared; if Gaius Philippus, with hardly a letter to his name, could draw lessons from Homer, he was the prince of poets indeed!

  Judging from what Drax had done in the past, the tribune thought he would try to seal off the passes leading south, but not do any serious campaigning in the hills south of the Arandos. But the great count, perhaps seeing final victory just ahead of him, showed more aggressiveness than Scaurus expected of him. Not only did quick motte-and-bailey forts got up in well-placed spots at valley mouths and on hillsides, but Namdalener patrols slashed into the hill country, looting and burning right up to the legionaries’ heels.

  Marcus did not need Sittas Zonaras’ reproachful gaze to tell him he had to stop that quickly, if he could. If the islanders could raid where they chose, what use for the Videssians to back the legionaries against them? He thought for a while, then went to see Laon Pakhymer.

  The Khatrisher was firing grapes at a miniature motte-and-bailey made of dirt and sticks. “I wish it were that easy,” Scaurus said; Pakhymer’s toy catapult was doing a good job of destruction.

  “It’s simpler when they don’t shoot back,” Pakhymer agreed, taking careful aim. He touched the trigger; the little catapult bucked. A bit of wood flew from the castle on the bailey. Marcus waited with increasing impatience as the Khatrisher reloaded. At last Pakhymer looked up, a sly smile on his pockmarked face. “Ready to burst yet?”

  The tribune had to laugh at his impudence. “Not quite.”

  “I was afraid you’d say that. You expect my lads to earn what they got at Kyzikos, then? Aye, do you; I can see it in your eyes. What is it this time?”

  Marcus told him. He tugged at his unkempt beard as he considered. “Yes, that could happen, if we have a proper guide riding with us.”

  “I’ll see to it Simokattes gets you one.”

  “All right, you’re on. Three days from now, you said?” At Scaurus’ nod, the Khatrisher remarked, “The problem, as I see it, will be not biting off too big a chunk.”

  “Exactly.” As usual, the tribune thought, Pakhymer had a keen sense of what was required—and not much inclination to use it. The Khatrisher examined another grape. He shook his head sadly. “Not round enough,” he said, and ate it. “Care for one?” He laughed when Marcus pretended not to hear.

  Scaurus thought the fat green bush he was crouching behind was wild parsley. Whatever it was, its little pale yellow flowers were pungent enough to make his eyes water. He bit down hard on his upper lip to keep from sneezing. Nothing was happening yet, but if he started he did not think he could stop, and it would be soon now.

  Half a dozen Khatrishers entered the valley, spurring their little ponies for all they were worth. Now and again one would turn to fire at the men of the Duchy close behind.

  The Namdalener leader was a stocky youngster named Grus. Though young, he had learned caution; he ordered his double squadron to halt and craned his neck to study the canyon walls. But Ras Simokattes and Gaius Philippus had set their trap well. Though Junius Blaesus’ maniple lay in wait for the islanders to advance, no telltale glint of sun off steel, no untoward motion gave them away. Grus whooped and waved his men on.

  Hand clutching sword, Marcus waited until all the Namdaleni, even the rear guard, had entered the valley. He nodded to the buccinator beside him. The cornet blared, a single long note. With cries of “Gavras!” legionaries leaped from behind shrubs and tree trunks and stands of brush and dashed down the steep-sloping canyon walls at the islanders.

  The two knights of the rear guard brutally jerked their horses round and started up the valley again—not cowardice but sense, to bring help to their mates. A pilum thudded into the belly of one beast. It crashed to the ground, screaming, and rolled over its rider. The other horseman was nearly at the mouth of the canyon when three legionaries pulled him out of the saddle.

  Grus, cursing, tried to pull his men into a circle. But one Roman came rushing down toward them, far ahead of his comrades. It was Titus Pullo; he bellowed, “Come on, Vorenus! We’ll see which of us is the better
man!” Another legionary bolted out of the pack; Lucius Vorenus was pounding after his rival and swearing at the top of his lungs.

  Pullo cast his pilum at very long range, but his throw was true; a Namdalener on the fringe of Grus’ milling circle took the javelin in his thigh. He screamed and fell from his horse. Pullo darted forward to finish him off and strip his corpse, but a pair of islanders covered their wounded comrade. One of them rammed his own heavy lance clean through the thick wood and leather of the Roman’s scutum. The iron point caught the buckle of his sword belt and twisted it to one side; when he reached for the gladius he grabbed only air. The Namdaleni rained sword strokes on him. He went over on his back to get the most use from his fouled shield.

  Then Lucius Vorenus, in a berserk fury Viridovix might have envied, was on the islanders, screaming, “Get off him, you pimps, you dogs, you bleeding vultures! He’s a fig-sucker, but even a fig-sucking Roman’s worth the lot of you!” He killed the Namdalener who had thrust his spear at Pullo, beating the man’s light kite-shaped shield aside with his own heavier one and then stabbing him in the side at the join in his shirt and mail.

  The second islander and one of his countrymen, perhaps thinking Pullo dead and out of the fight, turned all their attention to Vorenus, who was hard-pressed to defend himself. But Pullo was far from dead. Having finally managed to draw his sword, he cast aside his worthless scutum, scrambled to his feet, and jabbed the gladius into a horse’s rump. Blood spurting, the beast bucketed away, its rider clinging to its neck and trying in vain to bring it under control.