Legion of Videssos

by Harry Turtledove

  What Rambehisht had cooked, though, was delicious. “My hat’s off to you,” Viridovix said, and so it was—with the coming of night he had laid aside the bronze-studded leather cap he wore. He belched magnificently. As any plainsman would, Rambehisht took it for a compliment and dipped his head in reply.

  Patting his belly, the Gaul rose and ambled over to the creek, well upstream from the offal in it—a precaution the Romans had taught him. The water was cool and sweet. He dried his mustaches on his sleeve and saw that same fat turtle still sitting on its boulder. He flapped his arms, screeched, “Yaaah!” Horrified, the little animal flapped its legs insanely, trying to swim before it was in the water. After a moment it collected the few wits it had and dove into the stream.

  “Och, what a terror I am,” Viridovix laughed. He remembered Arigh’s joke with the frogs at Prista, looked in vain for the turtle. “Puir beastie! If you were but a puddock, now, you could take revenge on the lot of us wi’ a single peep.”

  Varatesh listened in consternation as the scout babbled, “It’s a horde, I tell you. From the dust, there must be hundreds of ’em coming this way. You’d best believe we didn’t stick around for a closer look, or I wouldn’t be here to warn you.”

  The outlaw chief bit his lip, wondering how Targitaus had conjured up such an army. Seven patrols, now, had sighted big forces moving on his camp. Even discounting their reports by half, as any sensible leader did, his enemies were showing more vigor than they ever had before. If they kept pushing forward, they would drive him back toward the Shaum—or over it. He weighed the risks, wondering whether Targitaus could be as dangerous as the Arshaum. A raid was one thing, a fine piece of bravado, but to try to establish himself in Shaumkhiil …

  White robes swirling around him, heavy boots clumping in the dirt, Avshar emerged from his tent and strode toward the outlaw chief. Varatesh could not help flinching; the scout, who knew far less than he, cringed away from the wizard-prince. “What lies is this coward grizzling out?” Avshar demanded, cruelly disdainful.

  Varatesh glanced up at the veiled face, not sorry he could not meet those masked eyes. He repeated the rider’s news, adding out of his own concern, “Where are they getting the men?”

  Avshar rubbed mailed hands together, a tigerish gesture of thought. He swung round on the scout. “Whose patrol are you with?”

  “Savak’s.” The renegade kept his answer as short as he could.

  “Savak’s, eh? Then you are a coward.” As the scout began to protest, Avshar’s booted foot lashed out and caught him in the belly. He spun away and fell, retching, to the ground. In showy contempt, the wizard-prince turned his back on him. The rider would have tried to kill any outlaw, even Varatesh himself. From Avsahr he crept away.

  The sorcerer turned back to Varatesh, deigning to explain. “Your escaped swordsman rides with the ‘army’ Savak’s putrid carrion fled from, which makes it easier for me to track them with my scrying. Shall I tell you how they grow their soldiers?”

  “Yes.” Varatesh’s hands had balled into fists at Avshar’s viciousness and scorn. At mention of Viridovix they tightened further. He was not glad to be reminded of how the Celt had bested him. Nothing had gone right since that red-whiskered rogue appeared on the plains.

  When the wizard-prince was done, Varatesh stood rigid with fury at the trick. The gall of it all but choked him. “Cattle?” he whispered. “Brush?” Realization burst in him. “All their bands must be so!” His voice rose to a roar, summoning the camp. “Ho, you wolves—!”

  “Here’s that lad back again,” Viridovix said. His comrades sat their horses calmly as the point rider came toward them. After days of frightening off Varatesh’s patrols without fighting, they looked forward to doing it again.

  When Rambehisht saw the cloud of dust behind the scout, though, his sneer became a worried frown. “Lots of them, this time,” he said, and unshipped his bow. The rest of the Khamorth did the same.

  “Is it a brawl, now?” the Gaul asked eagerly.

  Rambehisht spared him one sentence: “They aren’t here to trade tunics with us.” Then the plainsman was shouting, “Spread out, there! Quick, while there’s time! Oktamas, fall back with the remounts. And kick those cattle in the arse, somebody; they’re no good to us any more.”

  Horsemen grew visible through the dust, trotting forward at a good clip. Rambehisht’s “spread out” order confused Viridovix for a moment. Used to infantry fights, his natural inclination would have been to gather his forces for a charge. Then the first arrow whizzed past his head, and he understood. A headlong rush would have been pincushioned in seconds.

  Nomads were darting every which way, or so it seemed, snapping off shots at what looked like impossible ranges. Yet men screamed when they were hit, and horses, limbs suddenly unstrung, went crashing to the steppe. It was deadly and confusing, and the Gaul, an indifferent rider with a weapon whose reach was only arm’s length, was of little use to himself or his comrades.

  His ignorance of the plains’ fluid way of fighting almost got him killed or captured in the first moments of the skirmish. Varatesh’s men outnumbered Rambehisht’s patrol, which promptly gave ground before them. For Viridovix, retreat and defeat were as one word. He held his ground, roaring defiance at the outlaws, until Batbaian shouted, “Fall back, fool! Do you want to see Seirem again?”

  That brought the Celt to his senses as nothing else could have. It was nearly too late. Already one of the outlaws was past him and twisting in the saddle to fire. Viridovix slammed his heels into his horse’s flanks. It sprang forward, and the arrow flew behind him.

  “Try that again, you black-hearted omadhaun!” Viridovix yelled, spurring straight at the nomad. Without time to nock another shaft, the plainsman danced his mount aside. The Gaul thundered by. He rode hard, bent low over his horse’s neck. An arrow point scraped the bronze at the very crown of his protective cap, sending a shiver through him. He could feel his back muscles tightening against a blow.

  But quivers were emptying, and shamshirs came out of scabbards as the fight moved to closer quarters. Even then engagements were hit-and-run as horses carried riders past each other; a slash, a chop, and then wheel round for the next pass. Suddenly Viridovix, with his long, straight sword, owned the advantage.

  Then he heard an enemy horseman cry his name. His head whipped round—he knew that voice. Varatesh drove his horse forward, shouting, “No tricks between us now and no truce either!”

  “Sure and Avshar’s pup has slipped his leash!” the Celt retorted. Varatesh’s swarthily handsome features twisted with rage. He struck, savage as a hunting hawk. Viridovix turned the blow, but it jolted his arm to the shoulder. His own answering slash was slow and wide.

  Varatesh spun his horse faster than Viridovix could. The Gaul was quickly finding he did not care for mounted fighting. Afoot, he had no doubt he could cut Varatesh to pieces, for all the outlaw chief’s speed and ferocity. But a horse was as much a weapon as a sword, and one at which the plainsman was a master.

  With a deft flick of the reins, the renegade drove his mount to Viridovix’ shield side, cutting across his body at the Celt. A Khamorth might have died from the unexpected stroke. Viridovix, though, was used to handling a far heavier shield than the boiled-leather target he bore and got it in front of the slash. But his roundhouse reply was a poor thing which just missed cutting off his own horse’s ear.

  Though Varatesh’s blow had failed, the Gaul realized he could not let the outlaw keep the initiative—he was too dangerous by half for that. “Get round there, fly-bait!” he roared, jerking his horse’s head brutally to the left. The beast neighed in protest, but turned.

  This time Viridovix was as quick as his foe. Varatesh’s eyes went wide with surprise as the Celt bore down on him. His shamshir came up fast enough to save his head, but Viridovix’ stroke smashed it from his fingers. The renegade gasped an oath, wondering if his hand was broken. He drew his dagger and threw it at the Celt, but the cast was w
ild—he had no feeling above his wrist.

  In plainsman style, Varatesh was not ashamed to flee then. “Come back, you spineless coistril!” Viridovix cried. He started to gallop after him, then glanced round, looking for comrades to join him in the chase. “Well, where are they all gone to?” Most of Rambehisht’s men were a quarter-mile south and still retreating in the face of the outlaws’ superior numbers.

  The Gaul paused, of two minds. There was Varatesh ahead, disarmed and temptingly close. If Viridovix had the faster horse, he could overhaul him and strike him down, but he would surely cut himself off from his mates in the doing. Then his choice was made for him, for two of the outlaw chief’s men were riding to his rescue, one with a bow.

  The little battle had only increased Viridovix’ respect for the potent nomad weapon. He wheeled his horse away from the threat. The Khamorth fired twice in quick succession, his last two arrows. One of the shafts darted over the Celt’s shoulder. Of the other he saw nothing. Short, he thought, and turned back to shake his fist at the bowman.

  An arrow was sticking in the high cantle of his saddle. He blinked; the archer was tiny in the distance. “Fetch the executioner!” he exclaimed. He tugged the shaft out, wondering how long it had been there. “Did you fly all this way, or were you riding?” The arrow gave no answers. He threw it to the ground.

  It took another hour of skirmishing to shake free of Varatesh’s followers. At last they gave up. Their horses were not as fresh as those of Rambehisht’s patrol, and Varatesh was too canny to let his men be caught on tired animals. Having accomplished his main purpose—turning his enemies’ advance—he drew back.

  “The grandest sport of all!” Viridovix shouted to his comrades as they reformed. The Gaul was still exhilarated from the fighting. It was not the hand-to-hand he was used to, but all the more exciting for its strangeness. Not until he brushed a sweaty arm over his cheek did he discover he was cut, whether from a sword or an unnoticed arrow-graze he never knew.

  Several Khamorth were wounded, but even a plainsman with an arrow through his thigh grinned through clenched teeth at the Gaul’s words. Like him, the nomads enjoyed war for its own sake. They had every reason to be proud, Viridovix thought. Badly outnumbered, they had only lost one man—the corpse was slung over a remount—and given Varatesh’s hard-bitten bandits all they wanted.

  Even gloomy Rambehisht seemed satisfied as the patrol made camp under lowering skies. “They paid for everything today,” he said, gnawing on the flattened chunk of meat he had carried under his saddle.

  “Yes, and dearly!” Batbaian said. He was tending to an arrow wound in his horse’s hock. His voice cracked with excitement; combat was still new to him, and he swelled with pride on facing it successfully.

  Viridovix smiled at his enthusiasm. “A pity the spalpeens twigged to the kine,” he said.

  “Any trick is only good till the other fellow figures it out.” Rambehisht shrugged. “We got farther than we would have without ’em, pushed the outlaws back and our own camp forward.” He looked up at the gathering clouds. “Rain soon anyway, and then no dust to raise.”

  The death of Onogon the shaman delayed whatever choice of allies the Arshaum were going to make. The clanswomen bewailed his passing, while the men mourned in silence, gashing their cheeks with knives to mark their grief.

  “As for me, I’d just as soon cut my throat,” Pikridios Goudeles remarked, knowing Onogon’s loss hurt the cause of Videssos.

  Arigh visited the imperial embassy’s yurt the next day, his self-inflicted wounds beginning to scab. He glumly sipped kavass, shaking his head in disbelief. “He’s really gone,” the Arshaum said, half to himself. “Somewhere down inside me, I didn’t think he could ever die. All my life he’s been just the same—he must’ve been born old. He looked as if a breeze would blow him over, but he was the wisest, kindest man I ever knew.” Perhaps it was his years in Videssos, perhaps his deep grief, but, nomad custom notwithstanding, Arigh was close to tears.

  “There will be no mourning in Bogoraz’s tent,” Goudeles said, still thinking of the Empire’s interest.

  “That’s so,” Arigh said indifferently. His private sorrow dimmed such concerns.

  More sensitive to the plainsman’s mood than was Goudeles, Skylitzes said, “I hope his passing was easy.”

  “Oh, yes. I was there—we were arguing over you folk, as a matter of fact.” Arigh gave Goudeles a tired, mocking smile. “He finished a skin, stepped outside to piddle. When he got back, he said his legs were heavy. Dizabul, curse him, laughed—said it was no wonder, the way he guzzled. Well, to be fair, Onogon took a chuckle from that.

  “But he kept getting worse. The heaviness crept up his thighs, and he could not feel his feet, not even with a hard pinch. He lay down on his back, and after a bit his belly grew cold and numb, too. He covered up his face then, knowing he was going, I suppose. A few minutes later he gave a sort of a jerk, and when we uncovered him his eyes were set. He showed no pain—that old heart just finally stopped, is all.”

  “A pity,” Skylitzes said, shaking his head—as much tribute as the pious officer could render to a heathen shaman.

  Gorgidas had all he could do to keep from crying out. Suddenly the historian’s cloaking he had assumed sloughed away, to reveal the physician beneath. To a doctor, Onogon’s death screamed of poisoning, and he could name the very drug—hemlock. Arigh’s account described its effects perfectly; especially in the old, it would seem a natural death to those who did not know them.

  When the plainsman finally left, the Greek told his comrades what he guessed. Skylitzes grunted. “I can see it,” he said judiciously.

  “Oh, indeed, Bogoraz has it in him to kill,” Goudeles said. “No doubt of that. But what good does knowing do us? If we put it about, who would believe us? We would but seem to be slanderers and do ourselves no good. Unless, of course,” he added hopefully to Gorgidas, “you have a supply of this drug with which to demonstrate? On an animal, perhaps.”

  “Now there’s a fine idea, Pikridios,” Skylitzes said. “He shows the stuff off, and they think we blew out the old bastard’s light. Just what we need.”

  “I have none in any case,” Gorgidas said. “When I became a physician I swore an oath to have nothing to do with deadly drugs, and was never tempted to break it.” He sat unhappily, head in his hands. It ached in him that Goudeles should be right. He hated poisons, the more so because physicians had such feeble countermeasures. Most so-called antidotes, he knew, came from old wives’ tales and were good for nothing.

  The women Arghun had bestowed on the embassy knew no Videssian, but Gorgidas’, a tiny, exquisite creature named Hoelun, had no trouble understanding his dismay. She gently touched his slumped shoulder, ready to knead away his trouble. He shrugged her away. When she withdrew, silent and obedient as always, he felt ashamed, but only for a moment. Revenges on Bogoraz kept spinning through his mind; Onogon deserved better than to be murdered for the sake of a war hundreds of miles away.

  He laughed without humor at one particularly bloodthirsty vengeance. Viridovix, he thought, would be proud of him—a fine irony there.

  The shaman’s funeral occupied the next several days. He was buried rather than burned, common custom on the fire-wary steppe. A sleeping-mat was set in the center of a great square pit, and Onogon’s body, dressed in his wildly fringed shaman’s garb, laid on it. A roof of woven brush set atop poles formed a chamber over the corpse; the Arshaum buried gold cups with it, while Tolui, the shaman who had succeeded Onogon as the clan’s chief seer, sacrificed a horse over the grave. The blood spurted halfway across the brush roof below.

  “A good omen,” Arigh said as the horse was tipped into the pit. “He will ride far in the world to come.” Almost all the clan elders were at the graveside, watching servants begin spading earth into the tomb. Gorgidas watched them in turn, trying to gauge what they were thinking. It was next to impossible; mourning overlay their features, and in any case they were as impenetr
able a group of men as he had seen.

  The Greek’s own short temper rose to watch Bogoraz make his way among them, exuding clouds of sincere-sounding sorrow—like a squid shooting out ink, he thought. Dizabul was at the Yezda’s side; Arshaum heads turned to hear him laugh at some remark Bogoraz made.

  Wulghash’s legate and Goudeles played out their game of bribe and counterbribe, promise and bigger promise. “Insatiable,” the Videssian groaned. “Three times now, I think, I’ve paid this Guyuk to say aye, and if Bogoraz has been at him four for a no, then all the gold’s for nothing.”

  “Terrible, when you can’t trust a man to stay bought,” Gorgidas murmured, drawing a crude gesture from Goudeles and a rare smile from Skylitzes.

  Whether they finally concluded there was nothing left to milk or they came to a genuine decision, the Gray Horse Arshaum sent riders out to the neighboring clans, inviting them to send envoys to a feast at which the choice would be announced. “Clever of Arghun,” said Skylitzes, who had a better feel for Arshaum usages than his comrades. “He can make clear which side he favors at the start of things, and by their custom the other won’t be able to complain.”

  The envoys came quicker than Gorgidas had expected; he still found it hard to grasp how much ground the nomads could cover when they needed to. Two of them promptly reached for their blades when they saw each other and had to be pulled apart. Arghun ordered them kept under watch, just as he had the rival embassies from the powers to the south.

  Even the banquet yurt was too small to hold all the feasters. After carefully clearing a stretch of earth, the Arshaum dug three firepits: a small central one for Arghun, his sons, and the ambassadors, with larger ones on either side for the khagan’s councilors and the envoys from other clans. The nomads unrolled rugs around each fire, initiating the layout of a tent as closely as they could.

  “One way or the other, it will be over soon now, and there’s some relief,” Goudeles said, trying to get the creases out of a brocaded robe that had been folded in a saddlebag for several weeks. He was not having much luck.