An Emperor for the Legion (44 page)

A small orchestra played softly in the background: flutes, stringed instruments whose names he still mixed up, and a tinkling clavichord. Helvis clapped her hands in delight. “That’s the same rondo they were playing when we first met here,” she said. “Do you remember?”

“The night? Naturally. The—what did you call it? You’d know I was lying if I said yes.” A lot had happened that evening. Not only had he met Helvis—though Hemond had still been alive then, of course—but also Alypia Gavra. And Avshar, for that matter; as always, he worried whenever he thought of the sorcerer-prince.

They drifted through separate crowds of bureaucrats, soldiers, and ambassadors, exchanging small talk. Scaurus was unusual in having friends among all three groups. The two imperial factions despised each other. The Videssian officers preferred the company of mercenaries they distrusted to the pen-pushers they loathed, which merely confirmed their boorishness in the civil servants’ eyes.

Taso Vones, an imposingly tall Videssian lady—
not
Plakidia Teletze—on his arm, bowed to the tribune. “Where are you come from?” he asked with a twinkle in his eye. “How to shoe a heavy cavalry horse, or the best way to compose a memorandum on a subject of no intrinsic worth?”

“The best way to do that is not to,” Helvis said at once.

“Blasphemy, my dear; seal-stampers burn people who express
such thoughts. But then, I find cavalry horses no more inspiring.” With that attitude, thought Scaurus, it was easy to see why Vones held aloof from warriors and bureaucrats alike.

“His Sanctity, Phos’ Patriarch Balsamon!” the ceremonies master called, and the feast paused for a respectful moment as the fat old man waddled into the chamber. For all his graceless step, he had a presence that filled it up.

He looked round, then said with a smile and a mock-rueful sigh, “Ah, if only you paid me such heed in the High Temple!” He plucked a crystal wine goblet from its bed of ice and drained it with obvious enjoyment.

“That man takes nothing seriously,” Soteric said disapprovingly. Though he did not shave the back of his head in usual island fashion, Helvis’ brother still looked very much the unassimilated Namdalener in high tight trousers and short fur jacket.

Marcus said, “It’s not like you to waste your time worrying over his failings. After all, he’s a heretic to you, is he not?” He grinned as his brother-in-law fumbled for an answer. The truth, he thought, was simple—the Videssian patriarch was too interesting a character for anyone to ignore.

Servants began carrying the tables of hors d’oeuvres back to the kitchens and replacing them with dining tables and gilded chairs. From previous banquets in the Hall of the Nineteen Couches, Marcus knew that was a signal the Emperor would be coming in soon. He realized he needed to speak to Balsamon before Thorisin arrived.

“What now, my storm-crow friend?” the patriarch said as Scaurus approached. “Whenever you come up to me with that look of grim determination in your eye, I know you’ve found your way into more trouble.”

Like Alypia Gavra, Balsamon had the knack of making the tribune feel transparent. He tried to hide his annoyance, and was sure Balsamon saw that, too. More flustered than ever, he launched into his tale.

“Leimmokheir, eh?” Balsamon said when he was done. “Aye, Taron is a good man.” As far as Scaurus could remember, that was the first time he’d heard the patriarch judge anyone so. But Balsamon went on, “What makes you think my intercession would be worth a moldy apple?”

“Why,” Marcus floundered, “if Gavras won’t listen to you—”

“—He won’t listen to anyone, which will likely be the case. He’s a stubborn youngster,” the patriarch said, perfectly at ease speaking thus of his sovereign. His little black eyes, still sharp in their folds of flesh, measured the Roman. “And well you know it, too. Why keep flogging a dead mule?”

“I made a promise,” Marcus said slowly, unable to find a better answer.

Before Balsamon could reply, the ceremonies master was crying out, “Her Majesty the Princess Alypia Gavra! The lady Komitta Rhangawe! His Imperial Majesty, the Avtokrator of the Videssians, Thorisin Gavras!”

Men bowed low to show their respect for the Emperor; as the occasion was social rather than ceremonial, no proskynesis was required. Women dropped curtsies. Thorisin bobbed his head amiably, then called, “Where are the guests of honor?” Servitors rounded up the Romans and their ladies and brought them to the Emperor, who presented them to the crowd for fresh applause.

Komitta Rhangawe’s eyes narrowed dangerously as they flicked from one of Viridovix’ lemans to the next. She looked very beautiful in a clinging skirt of flower-printed linen; Marcus would sooner have taken a poisonous snake to bed. Viridovix did not seem to notice her glare, but the Celt was not happy, either. “Is something wrong?” the tribune asked as they walked toward the dining tables.

“Aye, summat. Arigh tells me the Videssians will be sending an embassy to his clan. They’re fain to hire mercenaries, and the lad himself will be going with them to help persuade his folk to take service with the Empire. A half-year’s journey and more it is, and him the bonniest wight to drink with I’ve found in the city. I’ll miss the little omadhaun, beshrew me if I won’t.”

Stewards seated the legionaries in accordance with their prominence of the evening. Marcus found himself at the right hand of the imperial party, next to the Princess Alypia. The Emperor sat between her and Komitta Rhangavve, who was on his left. Had she been his wife rather than mistress, her place and the princess’ would have been reversed. As it was, she was next to Viridovix, an arrangement Scaurus thought ill-omened. Unaware of anything amiss, the Gaul’s three longtime companions chattered among themselves, excited by their high-ranking company.

The first course was a soup of onions and pork, its broth delightfully delicate in flavor. Marcus spooned it down almost without tasting it, waiting for the explosion on his left. But Komitta seemed to be practicing tact, a virtue he had not associated with her. He relaxed and enjoyed the last few spoonfuls of soup and and was sorry when a servant took the empty bowl away. His goblet of wine, now, never disappeared. Whenever it was empty, a steward would be there to fill it again from a shining silver carafe. Even if it was sticky-sweet Videssian wine, it dulled the ache in his arm.

Little roasted partridge hens appeared, stuffed with sautéed mushrooms. Balsamon, who sat next to Helvis at the tribune’s right, demolished his with an appetite that would have done credit to a man half his age. He patted his ample belly, saying to Scaurus, “You can see I’ve gained it honestly.”

Alypia Garva leaned toward the patriarch, saying, “You would not be yourself without it, as you know full well.” She spoke affectionately, as to a favorite old uncle or grandfather. Balsamon rolled his eyes and winced, pantomiming being cut to the quick.

“Respect is hard for a plump old fool like me to get, you’ll note,” he said to Helvis. “I should be mighty in my outrage like the patriarchs of old and be a prelate to terrify the heretic. You
are
terrified, I hope?” he added, winking at her.

“Not in the least,” she answered promptly. “No more than you convince anyone when you play the buffoon.”

Balsamon’s eyes were still amused in a way, but no longer merry. “You have some of your brother’s terrible honesty in you,” he said, and Scaurus did not think it was altogether a compliment.

Courses came and went: lobster tails in drawn butter and capers; rich pastries baked to resemble peahens’ eggs; raisins, figs, and sweet dates; mild and sharp cheeses; peppery ground lamb wrapped in grape leaves; roast goose—sniffing the familiar cheese and cinnamon sauce, Marcus declined—cabbage soup; stewed pigeons with sausage and onions … with, of course, appropriate wines for each. Scaurus’ arm seemed far away. He felt the tip of his nose grow numb, a sure sign he was getting drunk.

Nor was he the only one. The great count Drax, who wore Videssian-style robes, unlike Soteric and Utprand, was singing one of the fifty-two scurrilous verses of the imperial
army’s marching song, loudly accompanied by Zeprin the Red and Mertikes Zigabenos. And Viridovix had just broken up the left side of the imperial table with a story about—Marcus dug a finger in his ear, trying not to believe he was hearing the Celt’s effrontery—a man with four wives.

Thorisin roared out laughter with the rest, stopping only to wipe his eyes. “I thank your honor,” Viridovix said. Komitta Rhangawe was not laughing. Her long, slim fingers, nails painted the color of blood, looked uncommonly like claws.

Dessert was fetched in, a light one after the great feast: crushed ice from the imperial cold cellars, flavored with sweet syrups. A favorite winter treat, it was hard to come by in the warmer seasons.

The Emperor rose, a signal for everyone else to do the same. Servants began clearing away the mountains of dirty dishes and bowls. But even if the food was gone, wine and talk still flowed freely—perhaps, indeed, more so than before dinner.

Balsamon took Thorisin Gavras to one side and began speaking urgently. Marcus could not hear what the patriarch was saying, but Thorisin’s growled answer was loud enough to turn heads. “Not you, too? No, I’ve said a hundred times—now it’s a hundred and one!” Rather muzzily, the tribune wished he could disappear. It did not look as though Taron Leimmokheir would see the outside of his dungeon any time soon.

As the guests decided no further trouble was coming on the heels of Gavras’ outburst, the level of conversation picked up again. Soteric came over to tell Helvis some news of Namdalen he’d got from one of Drax’ aides. “What? Bedard Wood-tooth, become count of Nustad on the mainland? I don’t believe it,” she said. “Excuse me, darling, I have to hear this with my own ears.” And she was gone with her brother, exclaiming excitedly in the island dialect.

Left to his own devices, the tribune took another drink. After enough rounds, he decided, Videssian wine tasted fine. The interior of the Hall of the Nineteen Couches, though, wanted to spin whenever he moved his head.

“Piss-pot!” That was Komitta Rhangawe’s wildcat screech, aimed at Viridovix. “The son of a pimp in your joke would be no good to any of his wives after he had his ballocks cut off him!” She threw what was left in her goblet in the
Celt’s face and smashed the cut crystal on the floor. Then she spun and stamped out of the hall, every step echoing in the startled silence.

“What was that in aid of?” the Emperor asked, staring at her retreating back. He had been talking with Drax and Zigabenos and, like Scaurus, missed the beginning of the scene.

Red wine was dripping from Viridovix’s mustaches, but he had lost none of his aplomb. “Och, the lady decided she’d be after taking offense at the little yarn I told at table,” he said easily. A servitor brought him a damp towel; he ran it over his face. “I wish she had done it sooner. As is, I’m left wearing no better than the dregs.”

Thorisin snorted, reassured by the Celt’s glib reply and by what he knew of Komitta’s fiery temper—which was plenty. “All right, then, let’s hope this is more to your taste.” He beckoned a waiter to his side and gave the man his own goblet to take to Viridovix. People murmured at the favor shown the Gaul; the room relaxed once more.

Gaius Philippus caught Marcus’ eye from across the hall and hiked his shoulders up and down in an exaggerated sigh of relief. The tribune nodded—for a moment, he’d been frightened nearly sober.

He wondered just how much he had drunk; too much, from the pounding ache that was beginning behind his eyes. Helvis was still deep in conversation with a couple of Namdalener officers. The dining hall suddenly seemed intolerably noisy, crowded, and hot. Marcus weaved toward the doors. Maybe the fresh air outside would clear his head.

The ceremonies master bowed as he made his way into the night. He nodded back, then regretted it—any motion was enough to give his headache new fuel. He sucked in the cool nighttime air gratefully; it felt sweeter than any wine.

He went down the stairs with a drunken man’s caution. The music and the buzz of talk receded behind him, nor was he sorry to hear them fade. Even the tree frogs piping in the nearby citrus groves grated on his ears. He sighed, already wincing from tomorrow’s hangover.

He peered up at the stars, hoping their calm changelessness might bring him some relief. The night was clear and moonless, but the heavens still were not at their best. Videssos’ lights and the smoke rising from countless hearths and fireplaces veiled the dimmer stars away.

He wandered aimlessly for a couple of minutes, his hobnailed
caligae
clicking on the flagstone path and then silent as they bit into grass. An abrupt intake of breath made him realize he was not alone. “Who the—?” he said, groping for his sword hilt. Visions of assassins flashed through his head—a landing party from Bouraphos’ ships out there, perhaps, stealing up on the Hall of the Nineteen Couches.

“I’m not a band of hired killers,” Alypia Gavra said, and Scaurus heard the sardonic edge that colored so much of her speech.

His hand jerked away from the scabbard as if it had become red-hot. “Your pardon, my lady,” he stammered. “You surprised me—I came out for a breath of air.”

“As did I, some little while ago, and found I preferred the quiet to the brabble back there. You may share it with me, if you like.”

Still feeling foolish, the tribune approached her. He could hear the noise from the dining hall, but at a distance it was bearable. The light that streamed through the Hall’s wide windows was pale, too, the princess beside him little more than a silhouette. He took parade rest unconsciously, a relaxed stance from which to savor the night.

After they stood a while in silence, Alypia turned to him, her face musing. “You are a strange man, Marcus Aemilius Scaurus,” she said finally, her Videssian accent making the sonorous sounds of his full name somehow musical. “I am never quite sure what you are thinking.”

“No?” Scaurus said, surprised again. “It’s always seemed to me you could read me like a signboard.”

“If it sets your mind at ease, not so. You fall into no neat category; you’re no arrogant noble from the provinces, all horsesweat and iron, nor yet one of the so-clever seal-stampers who would sooner die than call something by its right name. And you hardly make an ordinary mercenary captain—there’s not enough wrecker in you. So, outlander, what are you?” She studied him, as if trying to pull the secret from his eyes.