An Emperor for the Legion (40 page)

Nepos called out a last word in a commanding tone of voice, then stabbed his left forefinger down at the dust. But though it roiled briefly, as if breathed upon, it showed no pattern.

Nepos frowned, as Scaurus’ imaginary musician might have at a lute string suddenly out of tune. He scratched his chin, looked at the Roman in some embarrassment. “My apologies. I must have done something wrong, though I don’t know what. Let me try again.” His second effort was no more successful than the first. The dust stirred, then settled meaninglessly.

The priest studied his hands, seemingly wondering if they had betrayed him for some reason of their own. “How curious,” he murmured. “Your book is not destroyed, of that I’m sure, else the dust would not have moved at all. But are you certain it’s in the city?”

“Where else would it be?” Scaurus retorted, unable to imagine anyone wanting to spirit off such a stupefying document.

“Shall we try to find out?” The question was rhetorical; Nepos was already examining the contents of his belt-pouch to see if he had what he needed. He grunted in satisfaction as he produced a small stoppered glass vial in the shape of a flower’s seed-capsule. He put a couple of drops of the liquid within on his tongue, making a face at the taste. “Now this not every wizard will know, so you did well coming to me after all. It clears the mind of doubts and lets it see further, thus increasing the power of the spell.”

“What is it?” Scaurus asked.

Nepos hesitated; he did not like to reveal his craft’s secrets. But the drug was already having its way with him. “Poppy juice and henbane,” he said drowsily. The pupils of his eyes shrank down almost to nothing. But his voice and hands, drilled by years of the wizard’s art, went through the incantation without faltering.

Again the finger darted at the dust. Marcus’ eyes widened as he watched the pinches of dead stuff writhe like a tiny snake and shape themselves into a word. Successful magic never failed to raise his hackles.

“How interesting,” Nepos said, though his decoction dulled the interest in his voice. “Even aided, I did not think the cantrip could reach to Garsavra.”

“Fair enough,” Scaurus answered, “because I didn’t think the tax roll could be there either.” He scratched his head, wondering why it was. No matter, he decided; Onomagoulos could always send it back.

The tribune dispatched Pandhelis to take Nepos to the Roman barracks and put him to bed. The priest went without demur. The potion he had swallowed left his legs rubbery and his usually lively spirit as muffled as a drum beaten through several thicknesses of cloth. “No, don’t worry for me. It will wear off soon,” he reassured Scaurus, fighting back an enormous yawn. He lurched off on Pandhelis’ arm.

Marcus looked out the window, then quickly followed the secretary and priest downstairs. By the shortness of the shadows it was nearly noon, and it would not do to keep Alypia Gavra waiting.

To his dismay, he found her already standing by the Grand Gates. She did not seem angry, though. In fact, she was deep in conversation with the four Romans on sentry duty for her uncle.

“Aye, your god’s well enough, my lady,” Minucius was saying, “but I miss the legion’s eagle. That old bird watched over us a lot of times.” The legionary’s companions nodded soberly. So did Alypia. She frowned, as if trying to fix Minucius’ remark in her memory. Marcus could not help smiling. He’d seen that expression on Gorgidas too often not to recognize it now—the mark of a historian at work.

Spotting his commander, Minucius came to attention, grounding his spear with a sharp thud. He and his comrades
gave Scaurus the clenched-fist Roman salute. “As you were. I’m outranked here,” the tribune said easily. He bowed to Alypia.

“Don’t let me interfere between your men and you,” she said.

“You weren’t.” Back in his days with Caesar in Gaul, the least breach of order would have disturbed him mightily. Two and a half years as a mercenary captain had taught him the difference between spit and polish for their own sake and the real discipline that was needed to survive.

The chamberlain inside the Grand Gates clicked his tongue between his teeth. “Your Highness, where are your attendants?” he asked.

“Doing whatever they do, I imagine. I have no use for them,” she answered curtly, and ignored the functionary’s indignant look. Scaurus noted the edge in her voice; her natural leaning toward privacy could only have been exaggerated by the time she spent as Vardanes Sphrantzes’ captive.

The court attendant gave an eloquent shrug, but bowed and conducted them forward. As the tribune walked up the colonnaded central hall toward the imperial throne, he saw the damage of the previous summer’s fight had been repaired. Tapestries hung untorn, while tiny bits of matching stone were cemented into chipped columns.

Then Scaurus realized not all the injuries had been healed. He strode over a patch of slightly discolored porphyry flooring, a patch whose polish did not quite match the mirrorlike perfection of the rest. It would have been about here, he thought, that Avshar’s fire blazed. He wondered again where the wizard-prince’s sorcery had snatched him; through all the winter there had been no report of him.

Alypia’s eyes were fathomless, but the closer she drew to the throne—and to the passageway beside it—the tighter her mouth became, until Marcus saw her bite her lip.

Another chamberlain led Katakolon Kekaumenos back from his audience with the Emperor. The legate from Agder gave Scaurus his wintry smile, inclined his head to Alypia Gavra. Once he was out of earshot, she murmured, “You’d think he paid for every word he spoke.”

Their guide fell in the proskynesis before the throne. From his belly he called up to Thorisin, “Her Highness the Princess Alypia Gavra! The
epoptes
and commander Scaurus the
Ronam!” Marcus stifled the urge to kick him in his upraised backside.

“Phos’ light, fool, I know who they are,” the Emperor growled, still with no use for court ceremonial. The attendant rose. He gaped to see the tribune still on his feet. Alypia was of royal blood, but why was this outlander so privileged? “Never mind, Kabasilas,” Thorisin said. “My brother made allowances for him, and I do, too. He earns them, mostly.” Kabasilas bowed and withdrew, but his curled lip spoke volumes.

Gavras cocked an eyebrow at the tribune. “So,
epoptes
and commander Scaurus, what now? Are the seal-stampers siphoning off goldpieces to buy themselves counting-boards with beads of ruby and silver?”

“As for that,” Marcus said, “I’m having some trouble finding out.” He told the Emperor of the missing tax register, thinking to slide from an easy matter to the harder one that was his main purpose here.

“I thought you know better than to come to me with such twaddle,” Thorisin said impatiently. “Send to Baanes if you will, but you have no need to bother me about it.”

Scaurus accepted the rebuke; like Mavrikios, the younger Gavras appreciated directness. But when the Roman began his plea for Taron Leimmokheir, the Emperor did not let him get past the ex-admiral’s name before he roared, “No, by Skotos’ filth-filled beard! Are you turned treacher, too?”

His bellow filled the Grand Courtroom. Courtiers froze in mid-step; a chamberlain almost dropped the fat red candle he was carrying. It went out. His curse, a eunuch’s contralto, echoed Gavras’. Minucius poked his head into the throne room to see what had happened.

“You were the one who told me it wasn’t in the man to lie,” Marcus said, persisting where a man born in the Empire might well quail.

“Aye, so I did, and came near paying my life for my stupidity,” Thorisin retorted. “Now you tell me to put the wasp back in my tunic for another sting. Let him stay mured up till he rots, and gabble out his prayers lest worse befall him.”

“Uncle, I think you’re wrong,” Alypia said. “What little decency came my way while the Sphrantzai reigned came from Leimmokheir. Away from his precious ships he’s a child, with no more skill at politics than Marcus’ foster son.”

The tribune blinked, first at her mentioning Malric and then at her calling him by his own praenomen. When used alone, it was normally a mark of close personal ties. He wondered whether she knew the Roman custom.

She was going on, “You know I’m telling you the truth, uncle. How many years, now, have you known Leimmokheir? More than a handful, surely. You know the man he is. Do you really think that man could play you false?”

The Emperor’s fist slammed down on the gold-sheathed arm of his throne. The ancient seat was not made for such treatment; it gave a painful creak of protest. Thorisin leaned forward to emphasize his words. “The man I knew would not break faith. But Leimmokheir did, and thus I knew him not at all. Who does worse evil, the man who shows his wickedness for the whole world to see or the one who stores it up to loose against those who trust him?”

“A good question for a priest,” Alypia said, “but not one with much meaning if Leimmokheir is innocent.”

“I was there, girl. I saw what was done, saw the new-minted goldpieces of the Sphrantzai in the murderers’ pouches. Let Leimmokheir explain them away—that might earn his freedom.” The Emperor laughed, but it was a sound of hurt. Marcus knew it was futile to argue further; feeling betrayed by a man he had thought honest, Gavras would not, could not, yield to argument.

“Thank you for hearing me, at least,” the tribune said. “I gave my word to put the case to you once more.”

“Then you misgave it.”

“No, I think not.”

“There are times, outlander, when you try my patience,” the Emperor said dangerously. Scaurus met his eye, hiding the twinge of fear he felt. Much of the position he had built for himself in Videssos was based on not letting the sheer weight of imperial authority coerce him. That, for a man of republican Rome, was easy. Facing an angry Thorisin Gavras was something else again.

Gavras made a dissatisfied sound deep in his throat. “Kabasilas!” he called, and the chamberlain was at his elbow as the last syllable of his name still echoed in the high-ceilinged throne room. Marcus expected some sonorous formula of dismissal, but that was not Thorisin’s way. He jerked his head
toward his niece and the tribune and left Kabasilas to put such formality in the gesture as he might.

The steward did his best, but his bows and flourishes seemed all the more artificial next to the Emperor’s unvarnished rudeness. The other court functionaries craned their necks at Scaurus and Alypia as he led them away, wondering how much favor they had lost. That would be as it was, Marcus thought. He laughed at himself—a piece of fatalism worthy of the Halogai.

When they came out to the Grand Gates once more, Alypia stopped to talk a few minutes longer with the Roman sentries there, then departed for the imperial residence. Scaurus went up to his offices to dictate a letter to Baanes Onomagoulos; Pandhelis’ script was far more legible than his own. That accomplished, he basked in a pleasant glow of self-satisfaction as he started back to the barracks.

It did not last long. Viridovix was coming toward him, a jar of wine in his hand and an anticipatory grin on his face. The Gaul threw him a cheery wave and ducked into a small doorway in the other wing of the Grand Courtroom.

Maybe I should have drowned him, Marcus thought angrily. Had Viridovix no idea what he was playing at? There was no more caution in him than guile in Taron Leimmokheir. What would he do next, ask Thorisin for the loan of a bedroom? The tribune warned himself not to suggest that—Viridovix might take him up on it.

With the Celt gone, Scaurus was surprised to see Arigh at the barracks. The Arshaum was talking to Gorgidas again while the Greek took notes. Gorgidas was asking, “Who sees to your sick, then?”

The question seemed to bore Arigh, who scratched beneath his tunic of sueded leather. At last he said indifferently, “The shamans drive out evil spirits, of course, and for smaller ills the old women know of herbs, I suppose. Ask me of war, where I can talk of what I know.” He slapped the curved sword that hung at his side.

Quintus Glabrio came in; he smiled and waved to Gorgidas without interrupting the physician’s jottings. Instead he said to Marcus, “I’m glad to see you here, sir. A couple of my men have a running quarrel I can’t seem to get to the bottom of. Maybe they’ll heed you.”

“I doubt that, if you can’t solve it,” the tribune said, but he
went with Glabrio anyhow. The legionaries stood stiff-faced as he warned them not to let their dislike for each other affect their soldiering. They nodded at the correct times. Scaurus was not deceived; anything the able junior centurion could not cure over the course of time would not yield to his brief intercession. The men were on formal notice now, so perhaps something was accomplished.

Arigh had gone when he returned. Gorgidas was working up his notes, rubbing out a word here, a phrase there with the blunt end of his stylus, then reversing it to put his changes on the wax. “Viridovix will think you’re trying to steal his friend away,” the tribune said.

“What do I care what that long-shanked Gaul thinks?” Gorgidas asked, but could not quite keep amusement from his voice. Sometimes Viridovix made his friends want to wring his neck, but they remained his friends in spite of it. Less pleased, the doctor went on, “At least I can learn what the plainsman has to teach me.”

There was no mistaking his bitterness. Marcus knew he was still seeing Nepos and other healer-priests, still trying to master their arts, and still falling short. No wonder he was putting more energy into his history these days. Medicine could not be satisfying to him right now.

Scaurus yawned, cozily warm under the thick wool blanket. Helvis’ steady breathing beside him said she had already dropped off; so did her arm flung carelessly across his chest. Malric was asleep on her other side, while Dosti’s breath came raspy from his crib. The baby was getting over a minor fever; Marcus drowsily hoped he would not catch it.

But an itchy something in the back of his mind kept him from following them into slumber. He rehashed the day’s events, trying to track it down. Was it his failure to gain Taron Leimmokheir’s release? Close, he thought, but not on the mark. He had not expected to win that one.