An Emperor for the Legion (45 page)

The question, he knew, demanded an honest answer; he wished his wits were clearer, to give her one. “A survivor,” he said at last.

“Ah,” she said very low, more an exhalation than a word. “No wonder we seem to understand each other, then.”

“Do we?” he wondered, but his arms folded round her as her face tilted up.

She felt slim, almost boyish, under his hands, the more so because he was used to Helvis’ opulent curves. But her mouth and tongue were sweet against his—for a couple of heartbeats, until she gave a smothered gasp and wrenched herself away.

Alarmed, Marcus tried to flog his brain toward an apology, but her sad, weary gesture stopped him before he could begin. “The fault is not yours. Blame—times now gone,” she said, casting about for a circumlocution. “No matter what I wish to feel, there are memories I cannot set aside so easily.”

The tribune felt his hands bunch into fists. Not the least of Avshar’s crimes, he thought once more, was the easy death he gave Vardanes Sphrantzes.

He reached out to touch her cheek. It was wet against his hand. She started to flinch again, but sensed the gesture was as much one of understanding as a caress. Her wounded strength, the mix of vulnerability and composure in her, drew him powerfully; it was all he could do to stand steady. Yet however much he wanted to take her in his arms, he was sure he would frighten her away forever if he did.

She said, “When I was a painted harlot you showed me a way to bear what I had been, but because of what I was then, I can have no gift for you now. Life is a tangled skein, is it not?” Her laugh was small and shaky.

“That you are here and healing is gift enough,” Scaurus replied. He did not say he thought he might be too drunk to do a woman justice in any case.

But that was one thought Alypia missed. Her drawn features softened; she leaned forward to kiss him gently. “You’d best go back,” she said. “After all, you are the guest of honor.”

“I suppose so.” The tribune had nearly forgotten the banquet.

Alypia stayed beside him no more than a second before drawing back. “Go on,” she said again.

Reluctantly, Marcus started back toward the Hall of the Nineteen Couches. When he turned round for a last look at Alypia, she was already gone. A trace of motion among the trees might—or might not—have been her, slipping toward
the imperial residence. The tribune trudged on, his head whirling with wine and thought.

He knew most mercenaries, if offered a chance at an imperial connection, would cut any ties that stood in the way. Drax would, instantly, he thought; the man who was too adaptable by half. What was the nickname that Athenian had earned during the Peloponnesian War? “The stage boot,” that was it, because he fit on either foot.

But Scaurus could not find it in himself to imitate the great count. For all the attraction and fondness he felt for Alypia Gavra, he was not ready to cast Helvis aside. They both sometimes strained at the bond between them, but despite quarrels and differences it would not break, nor, most of the time, did he want it to. Then, too, there was Dosti.…

“We missed you, my lord,” the ceremonies master said with another low bow as Marcus stumbled back into the hall. The Roman hardly heard. For a man who called himself a survivor, he thought, he had an uncommon gift for complicating his life.

“P
HOS BLAST THAT INSOLENT TREACHER
B
OURAPHOS INTO A
thousand pieces and roast every one of them over a dung fire!” Thorisin Gavras burst out. The Emperor stood on Videssos’ sea wall, watching one of his galleys sink. Two more fled back to the city, closely pursued by the rebel drungarios’ ships. Heads bobbed in the water of the Cattle-Crossing as sailors from the stricken vessel snatched at spars or swam toward Videssos and safety. Not all would reach it; tiny in the distance, black fins angled toward them.

Gavras ran an irritable hand through his hair, ruffled by the sea breeze. “And why have I no admirals with the sense not to piss into the wind?” he grated. “A two-year-old in the bathhouse sails his toy boat with more finesse than those bullheads showed!”

Along with the other officers by the Emperor, Scaurus did his best to keep his face straight. He understood Thorisin’s frustration. Onomagoulos, on the western shore of the Cattle-Crossing, led an army far weaker than the one Gavras had mustered against it. What did it matter, though, when the Emperor could not come to grips with his foe?

“Now if you had some ships from t’Duchy—” Utprand Dagober’s son began, but Thorisin’s glare stopped even the blunt-spoken Namdalener in mid-sentence. Drax looked at his countryman as if at a dullard. Everyone knew the Emperor suspected the islanders, his eye seemed to say and to ask what the point was of antagonizing him without need.

Cross as a baited bear, Gavras swung round on Marcus. “I
suppose you’ll be after me next, telling me to turn Leimmokheir loose.”

“Why, no, your Majesty, not at all,” the tribune said innocently. “If you were going to listen to me, you would have done that long since.”

He scratched at his arm. It itched fiercely. Still, it was healing well enough that Gorgidas had pulled the pins from it the day before. The feel of the metal sliding through his flesh, though not painful, had been unpleasant enough to make him shudder at the memory.

“Bah!” Thorisin turned his gaze out to the Cattle-Crossing again. Only scattered timbers showed where his warship had sunk; Bouraphos’ vessels were already resuming their patrol. As if continuing an argument, the Emperor said, “What would it gain me to let him go? He’d surely turn against me now, after being shut up all these months.”

Unexpectedly, Mertikes Zigabenos spoke up for Leimmokheir. The guards officer had come to admire the older sailor, who showed repeatedly while the Sphrantzai held Videssos how a good man could keep his honor under a wicked regime. Zigabenos said, “If he grants you an oath of loyalty, he will keep it. No matter what you say, sir, Taron Leimmokheir would not forswear himself. He fears the ice too much for that.”

“And besides,” Marcus said, thrusting home with a pleasure for which he felt no guilt at all, “what’s the difference if he does betray you? You’d still be outadmiraled and hardly worse off, whereas—” He fell silent, leaving Thorisin to work the contrary chain of logic for himself.

The Emperor, still in his foul mood, only grunted. But his hand tugged thoughtfully at his beard, and he did not fly into a rage at the very notion of releasing Leimmokheir. His will was granite, thought the tribune, but even granite crumbles in the end.

“So you think he’ll let him go?” Helvis said that evening after Scaurus recounted the day’s events. “One for you, then.”

“I suppose so, unless he does turn his coat once he’s free. That would drop the chamber pot into the stew for fair.”

“I don’t think it will happen. Leimmokheir is honest,” Helvis said seriously. Marcus respected her opinion; she had been in Videssos years longer than he and knew a good deal
about its leaders. Moreover, what she said confirmed everyone else’s view of the jailed admiral—except the Emperor’s.

But when he tried to draw her out further, she did not seem interested in matters political, which was unlike her. “Is anything wrong?” he asked at last. He wondered if she had somehow guessed the attraction growing between himself and Alypia Gavra and dreaded the scene that would cause.

Instead, she put down the skirt whose hem she had been mending and smiled at the tribune. He thought he should know that look; there was a mischievous something in her eyes he had seen before. He placed it just as she spoke, “I’m sorry, darling, my wits were somewhere else. I was trying to reckon when the baby will be due. As near as I can make it, it should be a little before the festival of sun-turning.”

Marcus was silent so long her sparkle disappeared. “Aren’t you pleased?” she asked sharply.

“Of course I am,” he answered, and was telling the truth. Too many upper-class Romans were childless by choice, beloved only by inheritance seekers. “You took me by surprise, is all.”

He walked over and kissed her, then poked her in the ribs. She yelped. “You like taking me by surprise that way,” he accused. “You did when you were expecting Dosti, too.”

As if the mention of his name was some kind of charm, the baby woke up and started to cry. Helvis made a wry face. She got up and unswaddled him. “Are you wet or do you just want to be cuddled?” she demanded. It proved to be the latter; in a few minutes Dosti was asleep again.

“That doesn’t happen as often as it used to,” Marcus said. He sighed. “I suppose I’ll have to get used to waking up five times a night again. Why don’t you arrange to have a three-year-old and save us the fuss?” That earned him a return poke.

He hugged her, careful both of her pregnancy and his own tender arm. She helped him draw the blouse off over her head. Yet even when they lay together naked on the sleeping-mat, the tribune saw Alypia Gavra’s face in his mind, remembered the feel of her lips. Only then did he understand why he had paused before showing gladness at Helvis’ news.

He realized something else, too, and chuckled under his breath. “What is it, dear?” she asked, touching his cheek.

“Nothing really. Just a foolish notion.” She made an inquisitive noise, but he did not explain further. There was no
way, he thought, to tell her that now he understood why she slipped every so often and called him by her former lover’s name.

“Let’s have a look at that,” Gorgidas ordered the next morning. Marcus mimed a salute and extended his arm to the doctor. It was anything but pretty; the edges of the gash were still raised and red, and it was filled with crusty brown scab. But the Greek grunted in satisfaction at what he saw and again when he sniffed the wound. “There’s no corruption in there,” he told the tribune. “Your flesh knits well.”

“That lotion of yours does good work, for all its bite.” Gorgidas had dosed the cut with a murky brown fluid he called barbarum: a compound of powdered verdigris, litharge, alum, pitch, and resin mixed in equal parts of vinegar and oil. The Roman had winced every time it was applied, but it kept a wound from going bad.

Gorgidas merely grunted again, unmoved by the praise. Nothing had moved him much, not since Quintus Glabrio fell. Now he changed the subject, asking, “Do you know when the Emperor intends to send his embassy to the Arshaum?”

“No time soon, not with Bouraphos’ ships out there to sink anything that sticks its nose out of the city’s harbors. Why?”

The Greek studied him bleakly. Marcus saw how haggard he had become, his slimness now gaunt, his hair ragged where he had chopped a lock away in mourning for Glabrio. “Why?” Gorgidas echoed. “Nothing simpler; I intend to go with it.” He set his jaw, meeting Scaurus’ stare without flinching.

“You can’t,” was the tribune’s first startled response.

“And why not? How do you propose to stop me?” The doctor’s voice was dangerously calm.

“I can order you to stay.”

“Can you, in law? That would be a pretty point for the barristers back in Rome. I am attached to the legions, aye, but am I of them? I think not, any more than a sutler or a town bootmaker who serves at contract. But that’s neither here nor there. Unless you choose to chain me, I will not obey your order.”

“But why?” Marcus said helplessly. He had no intention of putting Gorgidas in irons. That the Greek was his friend counted for less than his certainty that Gorgidas was stubborn enough not to serve if made to remain against his will.

“The why is simple enough; I plan to add an excursus on the tribes and customs of the Arshaum to my history and I need more information than Arigh can—or cares to—give me. Ethnography, I think, is something I can hope to do a proper job of.”

His bitterness gave Scaurus the key he needed. “You think medicine is not? What of all of us you’ve healed, some a dozen times? What of this?” He held his wounded arm out to the physician.

“What of it? It’s still a bloody mess, if you want to know.” In his wretchedness and self-disgust, Gorgidas could not see the successes his skill had won. “A Videssian healer would have put it right in minutes, instead of this week and a half’s worth of worry over seeing if it chooses to fester.”

“If he could do anything at all,” Marcus retorted. “Some hurts they can’t cure, and the power drains from them if they use it long. But you always give your best.”

“A poor, miserable best it is, too. With my best, Minucius would be dead now, and Publius Flaccus and Cotilius Rufus after Maragha, and how many more? You’re a clodhopper to reckon me a doctor, when I can’t so much as learn the art that gave them life.” The Greek’s eyes were haunted. “And I can’t. We saw that, didn’t we?”

“So you’ll hie yourself off to the steppe, then, and forget even trying?”

Gorgidas winced, but he said, “You can’t shame me into staying either, Scaurus.” The tribune flushed, angry he was so obvious.

The Greek went on, “In Rome I wasn’t a bad physician, but here I’m hardly more than a joke. If I have some small talent at history, perhaps I can leave something worthwhile with that. Truly, Marcus,” he said, and Scaurus was touched, for the doctor had not used his praenomen before, “all of you would be better off with a healer-priest to mend you. You’ve suffered my fumblings long enough.”

Clearly, nothing ordinary would change Gorgidas’ mind. Casting about for any straw, Marcus exclaimed, “But if you leave us, who will Viridovix have to argue with?”

“Now that one strikes close to the clout,” Gorgidas admitted, surprised into smiling. “For all his bluster, I’ll miss the red-maned bandit. It’s still no hit, though; as long as he has Gaius Philippus, he’ll never go short a quarrel.”

Defeated, Scaurus threw his hands in the air. “Be it so, then. But for the first time, I’m glad Bouraphos joined the rebels. Not only does that force you to stay with us longer, it also gives you more time to come to your senses.”

“I don’t think I’ve left them. I might well have gone even if—things were otherwise.” The Greek paused, tossed his head. “Uselessness is not a pleasant feeling.” He rose. “Now if you’ll excuse me, Gawtruz has promised to tell me of his people’s legends of how they overran Thatagush. A comparison with the accounts by Videssian historians should prove fascinating, don’t you think?”