Legion of Videssos

by Harry Turtledove

  Proud in the full power of his strength, Dizabul threw back his head. As Bogoraz doubtless intended, he identified Yezd’s situation with his own. But Gorgidas wondered if the envoy had not outsmarted himself. There were few young men among Arghun’s councilors.

  One of the oldest of them, a man with a scant few snowy locks combed across his skull, slowly rose and tottered toward Bogoraz. The diplomat frowned, then yelped in outrage as the Arshaum reached out and plucked a hair from his beard. Holding it at arm’s length, he peered at it with rheumy eyes. “Fresh blood?” he said, slow and clear enough so even Gorgidas and Goudeles could understand. “This is as white as mine.” He threw it on the rug.

  “Sit down, Onogon,” Arghun said, but as much in amusement as reproof. Onogon obeyed, as deliberately as he had risen. Several of the elders were chuckling among themselves; Bogoraz barely hid his fury. Abuse would have been easier for him to bear than mockery.

  Gorgidas, for his part, started when he heard the old man speak. The devil-mask had distorted the chief shaman’s voice, but the Greek still knew it when he heard it again—a powerful ally to have, if ally he was. Gorgidas reached forward to tap Goudeles on the shoulder, but the pen-pusher was speaking again.

  “Our presence here gives the lie to the Yezda’s foolish effrontery,” he said. “As it always has, Videssos stands.”

  Bogoraz bared his teeth in a shark’s smile. “Khagan, the senile Empire has no bigger liar than this man, and he proves it out of his own mouth. I will show you the state Videssos is in. This Goudeles, when he offered you his desperate tribute, paid you in old coin, not so?”

  “Oh, oh,” Skylitzes said under his breath as Arghun nodded.

  “See, then, what the Empire mints these days and tell me if it stands as it always has.” And Bogoraz reached into his wallet, drew forth a coin, and cast it at the khagan’s feet.

  Even from several paces way, Gorgidas could see what it was—a “goldpiece” of Ortaias Sphrantzes, small, thin, poorly shaped, and so adulterated with copper that it was more nearly red than honest yellow.

  Bogoraz retrieved the coin. “I would not cheapen myself by offering you so shabby a gift,” he said to Arghun.

  The dramatic flourish hurt as badly as the damning money itself. It grew very quiet in the banquet tent, which now served another function; all the Arshaum watched Goudeles to see what response he had.

  He stood a long time silent, thinking. Finally he said, “That was the coin of a usurper, a rebel who has been put down; it is not a fair standard to judge by.” All true, though he did not tell the Arshaum he had followed Ortaias until Thorisin Gavras took Videssos. Just as if he had served Gavras all his life, he went on, warming to his theme, “Now we have an Emperor who is strong-willed and to be feared, well able to do that which is necessary in administering the state, both in war and in the collection of public revenues.”

  “Sophistry,” Bogoraz fleered in Videssian. The Arshaum tongue lacked the concept, so he was blunter: “Lies! And your precious Emperor had best be skilled at war, for it is not merely Yezd he fights; his paid soldiers from Namdalen have revolted against him, and in the east he wars with the Duchy itself. His forces are divided, spread among many fronts; since we are fighting no one but Videssos, it is plain victory will soon be ours.”

  Gorgidas, Skylitzes, and Goudeles exchanged glances of consternation. Isolated on the plains for months, they knew nothing of events in the Empire; it was only too likely Bogoraz had fresher news than theirs. The very set of his body, the enjoyment he took from his revelation, argued for its belief.

  The Greek had to admire Goudeles then. Rocked as he was by Bogoraz’ announcement, the seal-stamper laughed and bowed toward the Yezda envoy as if he had brought good news. “What nonsense is this?” Bogoraz said suspiciously.

  “None at all, sir, none at all.” Goudeles bowed again. “May all be well for you, in fact, for though born a man of Yezd, you have testified to the courage of Videssos and not hidden the truth out of fear.”

  “You have gone mad.”

  “No, indeed. For unless the Videssian power was distracted, as you said, and was extending its army against various foes, do you think the Yezda could stand against it in battle? Were we facing Yezd alone, even its name would be destroyed along with its army.”

  It was a brave try, but Bogoraz cut through words with a reminder of real events. “We fared better than that at Maragha. And now we and Namdalen grind Videssos to power between us.” He made a twisting motion with his hands, as though wringing a fowl’s neck.

  The Arshaum murmured back and forth; Goudeles, at last with the look of a beast at bay, had no ready answer. Beside him Skylitzes was as grim. In desperation, Gorgidas spoke to Arghun: “Surely Yezd is a more dangerous friend for you than Videssos. The Empire is far away, but Yezd shares a border with your people.”

  If he expected the same success the tale of Sesostris had brought him, he did not gain it. When his words were interpreted, the khagan laughed at him. “We Arshaum do not fear the Yezda. Why should we? We whipped them off the steppe into Yezd; they would not dare come back.”

  That reply hardly pleased Bogoraz more than the Greek; he might have mixed feelings toward his overlords, but he did not care to hear them scorned.

  And Skylitzes seized on Arghun’s words as a drowning man would grab a line. “Translate for me, Arigh,” he said tensely. “I must not be misunderstood.” Arigh nodded; he had watched Bogoraz take control of the debate with as much anxiety as the Videssians. If their cause went down to defeat, his as their sponsor suffered, too—and Dizabul’s grew brighter, for backing the right side.

  “Tell your father and the clan enders, then, that Gorgidas here is right, and Yezd menaces your people even now.”

  Understanding the officer’s Videssian, Bogoraz shouted angry protest. “More twaddle from these talksmiths! If words were soldiers, they would rule the world.”

  “More than words, Yezda! Tell the khagan, tell his elders why Yezd is making cats’-paws of the Khamorth outlaws by the Shaum, if not to use them against the Arshaum. Then who would be between whom?” With wicked precision, Skylitzes imitated Bogoraz’s neck-twisting gesture. The Videssian officer might lack Goudeles’ flair for high-flown oratory, but with a soldiers’ instinct he knew where a stroke would hurt.

  The clan leaders’ eyes swung back to Bogoraz, sudden hard suspicion in them. “Utterly absurd, your majesty,” he said to Arghun. “Another load of fantastic trumpery, no better than this suet-bag’s here.” The broad sleeve of his coat flapped as he pointed at Goudeles. He sounded as sure of himself as he had when wounding the Videssians with word of Drax’ revolt.

  But Skylitzes still had his opening and pounded through it, “How is it that Varatesh and his bandits struck west over the Shaum this past winter, the first time in years even outlaws dared act so?”

  The Gray Horse clan was far enough from Shaumkiil’s eastern marches that Arghun had not heard of the raid. He snapped a question at the elders. Onogon answered him. Triumph spread over Skylitzes’ saturnine face. “He knows about it! Learned from another shaman, he says.”

  Bogoraz remained unshaken. “Well, what if these renegades, or whatever they are, came cattle-stealing where they don’t belong? They have nothing to do with Yezd.”

  “No?” Gorgidas had never heard so much sarcasm packed into a single syllable. “Then how is it,” Skylitzes asked, “that Avshar rides with these renegades? If Avshar is not second in Yezd after Wulghash, it’s only because he may be first.”

  Now the Yezda envoy stared in dismay and disbelief. “I know nothing of this,” he said weakly.

  “It’s true, though.” That was not Skylitzes, but Arigh. “This is what I spoke of, father, when I rode ahead of the embassy.” Skylitzes interpreted for Gorgidas and Goudeles as Arigh told the elders of Viridovix’ kidnapping on the Pardrayan steppe, and of the part Avshar’s magic had played in it.

  “You see he did not scruple to attack an embassy,�
�� Goudeles put in, “contrary to the law of all nations, who recognize envoys’ persons as sacrosanct.”

  “What have you to say?” Arghun asked Bogoraz. As usual, the khagan kept his face impassive, but his voice was stern.

  “That I know nothing about it,” the Yezda ambassador repeated, this time with more conviction. “This Avshar has not been seen in the court at Mashiz for two years and more, since he took up the army that won glory for Wulghash at Maragha.” An eyebrow quirked, a courtier’s grimace. “There are those who would say Wulghash has not missed him. Whatever he may or may not have done after he last left Mashiz should not be held to Yezd’s account, only to his own.”

  “Khagan!” That was Skylitzes, shouting in protest; Goudeles clapped a dramatic hand to his forehead. The officer cried out, “If your men go to tend a herd five days away from your yurt, they still ride under your orders.”

  Several of the councilors behind Arghun nodded in agreement. “Well said!” came Onogon’s thin voice. But others, unable to take seriously a threat from the despised Khamorth, still seemed to think Bogoraz’ arguments carried more weight, nor did Dizabul pull away from the man whose cause he backed. The deadlock held.

  The khagan gestured to both embassies in dismissal. “It is time for us to talk among ourselves on what we’ve heard,” he said. His own eyebrow lifted in mild irony. “There is a bit to think about.” Bogoraz and the Videssian party ignored each other as they left the banquet tent; the driver whistled his horses to a brief halt so they could alight.

  Once back in their own yurt, Goudeles threw himself down on the rug with a great sigh of relief. “Scratch one robe,” he said. “I’ve sweated clean through it.” A serving girl, understanding tone if not words, offered him a skin of kavass. “Phos’ blessings on you, my sweet,” he exclaimed, and half emptied it in one great draught.

  “Save some,” Skylitzes ordered. After he had drunk, he slapped the bureaucrat on the back. Ignoring Goudeles’ yelp, he said, “Pikridios, I never thought I’d see the day when you disowned the Sphrantzai and spoke up for Thorisin—aye, and sounded like you meant it.”

  “Professional pride compelled,” the bureaucrat said. “Should I let a mere Makuraner get the better of me, how could I show my face in the chancery again? And as for your precious Gavras, my hardheaded friend, if he had given me my just deserts, I would still be comfortably ensconced there.”

  “If he had given you your just deserts,” Skylitzes retorted, “you’d be short a head, for your embassy to him during the civil war.”

  “Such details are best forgotten,” Goudeles said with an airy wave. The pen-pusher went on, “The shock of my sensibilities here on the barren steppe is punishment enough, I assure you. So far from being the safe center of the cosmos, Videssos seems an island in a barbarous sea, quite small, lonely, and surrounded by deadly foes.”

  Now Skylitzes was staring at him. “Well, Phos be praised! You really have learned something.”

  “If the two of you can hold off singing each other’s praises for a bit,” Gorgidas said pointedly, “you might send that skin this way.”

  “Sorry.” Skylitzes passed it to him. As the Greek drained it, the Videssian officer said, “We might find you a line or two while we’re singing. You gave me the idea to warn the Arshaum of Avshar’s games.”

  “Aye, aye, aye.” After the tension in the banquet tent, the kavass was hitting Goudeles hard; his round cheeks were red, and his eyes a little glassy. He nodded as if his head were on springs, bobble, bobble, bobble. “And that parable about what’s-his-name, your king with the funny name. That took Bogoraz’ high-necked pretensions down a peg, yes it did.” He giggled.

  “Glad to help,” Gorgidas said, warming to their praise. He remembered something he had caught in the arguments before the khagan and spoke it before he could lose it again: “Did you notice how Bogoraz slighted Avshar? Are there splits among the Yezda?”

  “Never a court without ’em,” Goudeles declared loudly.

  “Even if there are, what use can we make of it here?” Skylitzes asked, and the Greek had to admit he did not know.

  “Not to worry about that, my dears,” Goudeles said. His elegant syntax was going fast, but his wits still worked. “Now we got—have—an idea of where the clan elders stand, we throw gold around. Works pretty good, most times.” He giggled again. “Wonderful stuff, gold.”

  “It would be even more so if Bogoraz didn’t have it, too,” Gorgidas said. Goudeles snapped his fingers to show what he thought of that.

  The pony’s muscles flexed between Viridovix’ thighs as the beast trotted over the plain. The Celt held the reins in his left hand; the right was on the hilt of his sword. He tried to look in every direction at once. Riding to war, even in a scouting party such as this, was new to him; he was used to fighting on foot.

  The steppe’s broad, flat reaches also oppressed him. He turned to Batbaian beside him. “What’s the good of being a general, now, with the whole country looking all the same and not a place to lay an ambush in the lot of it?”

  “A gully, a swell of land to hide behind—you use what you have. There’s plenty, when you know where to look.” The khagan’s son eyed him with amusement. “A good thing you aren’t leading us. You’d get yourself killed and break my sister’s heart.”

  “Sure and that’d be a black shame, now wouldn’t it?” Viridovix whistled a few bars of a Videssian love song. His soldier’s alertness softened as he thought of Seirem. After so many women, finding love in place of simple rutting was an unexpected delight. As is often true of those whose luck comes late, he had fallen twice as hard, as if to make up for squandered years. “Och, she’s a pearl, a flower, a duckling—”

  Batbaian, who could remember his sister as a squalling tot, made a rude noise. Viridovix ignored him. “At least you have nothing to fear for her sake,” the young Khamorth said. “With so many clans sending men to fight Varatesh, the camp has never been so large.”

  “Many, yes, but not enough.” That was Rambehisht, who led the patrol. As sparing of words as usual, the harsh-featured plainsman pierced to the heart of the matter. Targitaus’ army grew day by day, but many clans chose not to take sides, and some few ranged themselves with Varatesh, whether from fear of Targitaus or a different kind of fear of the outlaw chief and Avshar.

  The scouting party’s point rider came galloping back toward his mates, swinging his cap in the air and shouting, “Horsemen!” Viridovix’ blade rasped free of its scabbard; the plainsmen he rode with unslung their bows and set arrows to sinew bowstrings. On this stretch of steppe other horsemen could only be Varatesh’s.

  A few minutes after the outrider appeared, the patrol spied dust on the northwestern horizon. Rambehisht narrowed his eyes, taking the cloud’s measure. “Fifteen,” he said. “Twenty at the outside, depending on remounts.” The numbers were close to even, then.

  The opposing commander must have been making a similar calculation from what he saw, for suddenly, before his men came into view, he swung them round sharply and retreated as fast as he could go. Batbaian let out a yowl of glee and punched Viridovix in the shoulder. “It works!” he shouted.

  “And why not, lad?” the Celt said grandly, swelling with pride as he accepted congratulations from the plainsmen. Even Rambehisht unbent far enough to give him a frosty smile. That truly pleased Viridovix, to have the man he had beaten come to respect him.

  Behind them, the six or eight cattle that accompanied the patrol took advantage of the halt to snatch a few mouthfuls of grass. Each of the beasts had a large chunk of brush tied behind it and threw as much dust into the air as a couple of dozen men. “The polluted kerns’ll be after thinking it’s whole armies chasin’ ’em,” Viridovix chuckled.

  “Yes, and tell their captains as much,” Rambehisht said. He was a thoughtful enough warrior to see the use of confusing his foes.

  “And we must have a double handful of patrols out,” Batbaian said. “They’ll be running from so man
y shadows they won’t know when we really move on them.” He gazed at Viridovix with something close to hero worship.

  Feeling pleased with themselves, the scouts camped by a small stream. To celebrate outfoxing the enemy, Rambehisht slit the throat of one of the cattle. “Tonight we have a good feed of meat,” he said.

  Viridovix scratched his head. “I’m as fond o’ beef as any man here, but how will you cook him? There’s no wood for a fire, nor a pot to seethe him in, either.”

  “He’ll cook himself,” the plainsman answered.

  “Och, aye, indeed and he will,” Viridovix scoffed, sure he was the butt of a joke. “And belike come morning the corp of him’ll grow feathers and fly off tweeting wi’ the burdies.”

  After Rambehisht opened the cow’s belly, a couple of nomads dug out the entrails and tossed them into the stream. It turned to silvery turmoil as fish of all sizes swarmed to the unexpected feast. A couple of large, brown-shelled turtles splashed off rocks to steal their share. Another was staring straight at Viridovix. It blinked deliberately, once, twice.

  Rambehisht proved as good as his word. Arms gory to the elbows, he stripped hunks of flesh from the beast’s bones and made a good-sized heap of the latter. To the Celt’s surprise, he proceeded to light them; with the marrow inside and the fat still clinging to them, they burned well. The resourceful Khamorth then threw enough meat to feed the patrol into a bag made of the cow’s raw hide, dipped up water from the stream and added it to the meat, and hung the makeshift cauldron over the fire with a javelin. Before long boiled beef’s mouth-watering scent filled the air, mixing with the harsher smell of the burning bones.

  Most of the nomads stuck strips of raw meat under their saddles, to rough-cure as they rode along. There the Celt declined to imitate them. “I’d sooner have salt on mine, or mustard, thanking you all the same. Horse sweat doesna ha’ the same savor.”