An Emperor for the Legion (43 page)

Thorisin prodded a dead body with his foot. “Good thing these lice were too stupid to throw a cordon round the building.” He slapped Scaurus on the back. “Enough talk—get that arm seen to. You’re losing blood.”

The tribune tore a strip of cloth from the corpse’s surcoat; Gavras helped him tie the rude dressing. His arm, numb a few minutes before, began to throb fiercely. He went looking for Gorgidas.

The doctor, Marcus thought with annoyance, did not seem to be anywhere within the rambling imperial residence. However much the legionaries outnumbered the twoscore or so assassins, they had not beaten them down without harm to themselves. Five men were dead—two of them irreplaceable Romans—and a good many more were wounded, more or less severely. Grumbling and clenching his fist against the hurt, the tribune went outside.

He saw Gorgidas kneeling over a man in the pathway—a Roman, from his armor—but had no chance to approach the physician. Alypia Gavra came rushing up to him. “Is my uncle—” she began, and then stopped, unwilling even to complete the question.

“Unscratched, thanks to you,” Scaurus told her.

“Phos be thanked,” she whispered, and then, to the tribune’s glad confusion, threw her arms round his neck and kissed him. The legionaries who had kept her from the residence whooped. At the sound she jerked away in alarm, as if just realizing what she had done.

He reached out to her, but reluctantly held back when he saw her shy away. However brief, her show of warmth pleased him more, perhaps, then he was ready to admit. He told himself it was but pleasure at seeing her wounded spirit healing, and knew he was lying.

“You’re hurt!” she exclaimed, spying the oozing bandage for the first time.

“It’s not too bad.” He opened and closed his hand to show her he could, though the proof cost him some pain. True to his Stoic training, he tried not to let it show on his face, but the princess saw sweat spring out on his forehead.

“Get it looked at,” she said firmly, seeming relieved to be able to give advice that was sensible and impersonal at the same time. Scaurus hesitated, wishing this once for some of Viridovix’ brass. He did not have it, and the moment passed. Anything he said would too likely be wrong.

He slowly walked over to Gorgidas. The doctor did not notice him. He was still bent low over the fallen legionary, his hands pressed against the soldier’s face—the attitude, Marcus realized, of a Videssian healer-priest. The Greek’s shoulders quivered with the effort he was making. “Live, damn you, live!” he said over and over in his native tongue.

But the legionary would never live again, not with that green-feathered arrow jutting up from between the doctor’s fingers. Marcus could not tell whether Gorgidas had finally mastered the healing force, nor did it matter now; not even the Videssians could raise the dead.

At last the Greek felt Scaurus’ presence. He raised his head, and the tribune gave back a pace from the grief and self-tormenting, impotent anger on his face. “It’s no use,” Gorgidas said, more to himself than to Scaurus, “Nothing is any use.” He sagged in defeat, and his hands, red-black with blood beginning to dry, slid away from the dead man’s face.

Marcus suddenly forgot his wound. “Jupiter Best and Greatest,” he said softly, an oath he had not sworn since the days in his teens when he still believed in the gods. Quintus Glabrio lay tumbled in death. His features were already loosening into the vacant mask of the dead. The arrow stood just below his right eye and must have killed him instantly. A fly lit on the fletching, felt the perch give under its weight, and darted away.

“Let me see to that,” Gorgidas said dully. Like an automaton, the tribune held out his arm. The doctor washed the cut with a sponge soaked in vinegar. Stunned or no, Scaurus had all he could do to keep from crying out. Gorgidas pinned the gash closed, snipping off the tip of each
fibula
as he pushed it through. With his arm shrieking from the wound and the vinegar wash, Marcus hardly felt the pins go in. Tears began streaming down the Greek’s face as he dressed the cut; he had to try three times before he could close the catch on the complex
fibula
that secured the end of the bandage.

“Are there more hurt?” he asked Scaurus. “There must be.”

“Yes, a few.” The doctor turned to go; Marcus stopped him
with his good arm. “I’m sorrier than I know how to tell you,” he said awkwardly. “To me he was a fine officer, a good man, and a friend, but—” He broke off, unsure how to continue.

“I’ve known you know, for all your discretion, Scaurus,” Gorgidas said tiredly. “That doesn’t matter any longer either, does it? Now let me be about my business, will you?”

Marcus still hesitated. “Can I do anything to help?”

“The gods curse you, Roman; you’re a decent blockhead, but a blockhead all the same. There he lies, all I hold dear in this worthless world, and me with all my training and skill in healing the hurt, and what good is it? What can I do with it? Feel him grow cold under my hands.”

He shook free of the tribune. “Let me go, and we’ll see what miracles of medicine I work for these other poor sods.” He walked through the open doorway of the imperial residence, a lean, lonely man wearing anguish like a cloak.

“What ails your healer?” Alypia Garva asked.

Scaurus jumped; lost in his own thoughts, he had not heard her come up. “This is his close friend,” he said shortly, nodding at Glabrio, “and mine as well.” Hearing the rebuff, the princess drew back. Marcus chose not to care; the taste of triumph was bitter in his mouth.

“Lovely, isn’t it?” Thorisin said to Marcus late that afternoon. He was speaking ironically; the little reception room in the imperial chambers had seen its share of fighting. There was a sword cut in the upholstery of the couch on which the tribune sat; horsehair stuffing leaked through it. A bloodstain marred the marble floor.

The Emperor went on, “When I set you over the cadasters, outlander, I thought you would be watching the pen-pushers, but it seems you flushed a noble instead.”

Scaurus grew alert. “So they were Onomagoulos’ men, then?” The assassins had fought in grim silence; for all the tribune knew, Ortaias Sphrantzes might have hired them.

Gavras, though, seemed to think he was being stupid. “Of course they’re Baanes’. I hardly needed to question them to find that out, did I?”

“I don’t understand,” Scaurus said.

“Why else would that fornicating, polluted, pox-ridden son of a two-copper whore Elissaios Bouraphos have brought his bloody collection of boats back from Pityos? For a pleasure
cruise? Phos’ light, man, he’s not hiding out there. You must have seen the galleys’ sails as you marched in this morning.”

Marcus felt his face grow warm. “I thought it was a grain convoy.”

“Landsmen!” Gavras muttered, rolling his eyes. “It bloody well isn’t, as anyone with eyes in his head should know. The plan was simple enough—as soon as I’m dealt with, across comes Baanes to take over, smooth as you like.” Thorisin spat in vast contempt. “As if he could—that bald pimple hasn’t the wit to break wind and piddle at the same time. And while he tries to murder me and I settle him, who gains? The Yezda, of course. I wonder if he’s not in their pay.”

The Emperor, Scaurus thought, had a dangerous habit of underestimating his foes. He had done so with the Sphrantzai, and now again with Onomagoulos, who, loyal or not, was a capable, if arrogant, soldier. Marcus started to warn Gavras of that, but remembered how the conversation had opened and asked instead, “Why credit—” That seemed a safer word than
blame
. “—me with Baanes’ plot?”

“Because you kept hounding him for Kybistra’s tax roll. There were things in it he’d have done better not to write down.”

“Ah?” Marcus made an interested noise to draw the Emperor out.

“Oh, truly, truly. Your friend Nepos filled the assassins so full of some potion of his that they spewed up everything they knew. Their captain, Skotos take him, knew plenty, too. Did you ever wonder why friend Baanes did so careful a job of slitting throats when we were waylaid last year after the parley?”

“Ah?” Marcus said again. He jumped as several men in heavy-soled boots tramped down the hallway, but they were only workmen coming to set things to rights once more. Live long enough in Videssos, he thought, and you’ll see murderers under every cushion—but the day you don’t, they’ll be there.

Caught up in his own rekindled wrath, Thorisin did not notice the tribune’s start. He went on, “The dung-faced midwife’s mistake hired the knives himself and paid a premium for Ortaias’ coin so no fingers would point his way even if something went wrong. But he put everything down on parchment so he could square himself with the Sphrantzai if he did kill me—and put it down on Kybistra’s register. Why not? He
had the thing with him; after all, he’d collected those taxes, when he ran there after Maragha. After that he could hardly let you see it, but he couldn’t send a fake either, now could he?” The Emperor chuckled, imagining his rival’s discomfiture.

Scaurus laughed, too. Videssian cadasters were invalid if they bore erasures or crossed-over lines; only fair copies went to the capital. And once there, they were festooned with seals of wax and lead and stamped with arcane bureaucratic stamps—to which, of course, Onomagoulos had no access once he was out in the provinces.

“He must have filched it as soon as he found out I was going to look over the receipts,” the tribune decided.

“Very good,” Gavras said, making small clapping motions of sardonic applause. Marcus’ flush deepened. There were times when the subtle Videssians found his Roman straightforwardness monstrously amusing. Even seemingly bluff, blunt types like Thorisin and Onomagoulos proved as steeped in double-dealing as candied fruit in honey.

He sighed and spelled things out, as much for himself as for the Emperor: “A clerk, even a logothete, wouldn’t have made much of some money-changing—probably figured he was lining his own purse and not worried much about it. But he knew I was on that beach, and he must have thought I’d connect things. I recall the fuss he made about its being Ortaias’ money, aye, but I’d be lying if I said I was sure a few lines in a dull tax roll would have jogged my memory. He’d have been smarter letting things ride.”

This time humorlessly, Thorisin chuckled again. “ ‘The ill-doer’s conscience abandons the assurance of Phos’ path,’ ” he said, quoting from the Videssian holy books like a Greek from Homer. “He knew his guilt, whether you did or not.”

“And if he is guilty, then that means Taron Leimmokheir is innocent!” Marcus said. Certainty blazed in him. He could not keep all the triumph from his voice, but did not think it mattered. There was such perfect logical clarity behind the idea, surely no one could fail to see it.

But Thorisin was frowning. “Why are you obsessed by that gray-whiskered traitor? What boots is that he plotted with Onomagoulos instead of Ortaias?” he said curtly. Recognizing inflexibility when he heard it, Scaurus gave up again. It would take more than logic to change Gavras’ mind; he was like a
man with a writing tablet who pushed his stylus through the wax and permanently scarred the wood beneath.

“Buck up, Roman dear, it’s a hero y’are tonight, not the spook of a dead corp, the which wouldn’t be invited to dinner at all, at all,” Viridovix said as they walked toward the Hall of the Nineteen Couches. He deliberately exaggerated his brogue to try to cheer up Marcus, but spoke Videssian so Helvis and his own three companions would understand.

“Crave pardon; I didn’t realize it showed so plainly,” the tribune murmured; he had been thinking of Glabrio. Helvis squeezed his left arm. His right, under its bandages, he wished he could forget. The smile he managed to produce felt ghastly from the inside, but seemed to look good enough.

The ceremonies master, a portly man—not a eunuch, for he wore a thick beard—bowed several times in quick succession, like a marionette on a string, as the Roman party came up to the Hall’s polished bronze doors. “Videssos is in your debt,” he said, seizing Marcus’ hand in his own pale, moist palm and bowing again. Then he turned and cried to those already present, “Lords and ladies, the most valiant Romans!” Scaurus blinked and forgave him the limp handclasp.

“The captain and
epoptes
Scaurus and the lady Helvis of Namdalen!” That one was easy for the fellow; worse challenges lay ahead. “Viridovix son of Drappes and his, ah, ladies!” The Celt’s name was almost unprounceable for Videssians; the protocol chief’s brief pause conveyed his opinion of Viridovix’ arrangement. Marcus suddenly groaned—silently, by luck. Komitta Rhangawe would be here tonight.

He had no time to say anything. The ceremonies master was plowing ahead. “The senior centurion Gaius Philippus! The junior centurion Junius Blaesus!” Blaesus was a longtime underofficer and a good soldier, but Scaurus knew he was hardly a replacement for Quintus Glabrio. “The underofficer Minucius, and his lady Erene!” Not “the lady,” Scaurus noted; damned snob of a flunky. Minucius, proud of his promotion, had burnished his chain mail till it gleamed.

Two more names completed the legionary party: “The
nakharar
Gagik Bagratouni, detachment-leader among the Romans! Zeprin the Red, Haloga guardsman in Roman service!” Despite persuasion, Gorgidas had chosen to be alone with his grief.

Bagratouni, too, still mourned, but time had dulled the cutting edge of his hurt. The leonine Vaspurakaner noble swept through the slimmer Videssians as he made his way toward the wine. Scaurus saw his eyes moving this way and that; no doubt Bagratouni was very conscious of the figure he cut, and of the ladies among whom he cut it.

The tribune and Helvis drifted over to a table covered with trays of crushed ice, on which reposed delicacies of various sorts, mostly from the ocean. “A dainty you won’t see every day,” said an elderly civil servant, pointing at a strip of octopus meat. “The curled octopus, you know, with only one row of suckers on each arm. Splendid!” Scaurus didn’t know, but took the meat. It was chewy and vaguely sea-flavored, like all the other octopus he’d ever eaten.

He wondered what the gastrophile beside him would have thought of such Roman exotica as dormice in poppy seeds and honey.