An Emperor for the Legion (49 page)

Scaurus’ belly went heavy as lead—how had that report reached the Emperor? Unsure how much Gavras knew, he did not dare deny it. Picking his words with care, he said, “If you believe such tales, why hold me and mine to your service?”

“Because I trust my eyes further than my ears.” It was dismissal and warning both—without proof, Gavras would not hear charges against the great count. Glad the Emperor was taking the other question no further, Marcus left hastily.

He had expected a great hue and cry after Viridovix, but that, too, failed to materialize. Gaius Philippus’ misogyny led him to a guess the tribune thought close to the mark. “I’d bet this isn’t the first time Komitta’s played bump-belly where she shouldn’t,” the veteran said. “Would you care to advertise it, were you Gavras?”

“Hmm.” If that was so, much might be explained, from Thorisin’s curious indifference to his mistress’ tale of rape to her remaining mistress instead of queen. “You’re getting a feel for the politics hereabouts,” Marcus told the senior centurion.

“Oh, horseturds. When they’re thick on the ground as olives at harvest time, you don’t need to feel ’em. The smell gives them away.”

In the westlands Drax kept making gains. When his dispatches arrived, Thorisin would read them out to his assembled officers. The great count wrote like an educated Videssian, a feat that roused only contempt in his fellow islander Utprand.

“Would you listen to that, now?” the mercenary captain said after one session. “ ‘Goals achieved, objectives being met.’ Vere’s Onomagoulos’ army and w’y hasn’t Drax smashed it up? T’at’s what needs telling.”

“Aye, you’re right,” Soteric echoed vehemently. “Drax greases his tongue when he talks and his pen when he sets ink to parchment.”

Marcus put some of their complaint down to jealousy at Drax’ holding a greater command than theirs. From cold experience, he also knew how much such complaints accomplished. He said, “Of course the two of you are but plain, blunt soldiers of fortune. That you were ready to set Videssos on its ear last summer has nothing to do with intrigue.”

Utprand had the grace to look shamefaced, but Soteric retorted, “If the effete imperials can’t hold us back, whose fault is that? Ours? By the Wager, they don’t merit this Empire of theirs.”

There were times when Scaurus found the islanders’ insistence on their own virtues and the decadence of Videssos more than he could stomach. He said sharply, “If you’re speaking of effeteness, then betrayal should stand with it, not so?”

“Certainly,” Soteric answered; Utprand, more wary than his lieutenant, asked, “W’at do you mean, betrayal?”

“Just this,” Marcus replied. “Gavras knows we met at the end of the siege, and what befell. By your Phos, gentlemen, no Roman told him. Leaving Helvis out of the bargain, only four ever learned what was planned, and it never went beyond them. Some one of your men should have his tongue trimmed, lest he trip on it as it flaps beneath his feet.”

“Impossible!” Soteric exclaimed with the confidence of youth. “We are an honorable folk. Why would we stoop to such double-dealing?” He glared at his brother-in-law, ready to take it farther than words.

Utprand spoke to him in the island dialect. Marcus caught the drift: secrets yielded accidentally could hurt as much as those given away on purpose. Soteric’s mouth was still thin with anger, but he gave a grudging nod.

The tribune was grateful to the older Namdalener. Unlike Soteric, Utprand had seen enough to know how few things were certain. Backing what the officer had pointed out, Marcus said, “I didn’t mean to suggest deliberate treachery, only that you islanders fall as short of perfection as any other men.”

“You have a rude way with a suggestion.” Soteric had a point, Scaurus realized, but he could not make himself regret pricking his brother-in-law’s self-importance.

*   *   *

“A priest to see me?” the tribune asked the Roman sentry. “Is it Nepos from the Academy?”

“No, sir, just some blue-robe.”

Curious, Marcus followed the legionary to the barracks-hall door. The priest, a nondescript man save for his shaved pate, bowed and handed him a small roll of parchment sealed with the patriarch’s sky-blue wax. He said, “A special liturgy of rejoicing will be celebrated in the High Temple at the eighth hour this afternoon. You are bidden to attend. The parchment here is your token of entrance. I also have one for your chief lieutenant.”

“Me?” Gaius Philippus’ head jerked up. “I have better things to do with my time, thank you.”

“You would decline the patriarchal summons?” the priest said, shocked.

“Your precious patriarch doesn’t know my name,” Gaius Philippus retorted. His eyes narrowed. “So why would he invite me? Hmm—did the Emperor put him up to it?”

The priest spread his hands helplessly. Marcus said, “Gavras thinks well of you.”

“Soldiers know soldiers,” Gaius Philippus shrugged. He tucked the parchment roll into his belt-pouch. “Maybe I’d better go.”

Putting his own invitation away, Scaurus asked the priest, “A liturgy of rejoicing? In aid of what?”

“Of Phos’ mercy on us all,” the man replied, taking him literally. “Now forgive me, I pray; I have others yet to find.” He was gone before Marcus could reframe his question.

The tribune muttered a mild curse, then glanced around to gauge the shadows. It could not be later than noon, he decided; at least two hours until the service began. That gave him time to bathe and then put on his dress cape and helmet, sweltering though they were. He ran a hand over his cheek, then sighed. A shave would not be amiss, either. Sighing as well, Gaius Philippus joined him at his ablutions.

Rubbing freshly scraped faces, the Romans handed their tokens of admission to a priest at the top of the High Temple’s stairs and made their way into the building. The High Temple dominated Videssos’ skyline, but its heavy form and plain stuccoed exterior, as always, failed to impress Scaurus, whose tastes were formed in a different school. As he did not worship
Phos, he seldom entered the Temple and sometimes forgot how glorious it was inside. Whenever he did go in, he felt transported to another, purer, world.

Like all of Phos’ shrines, the High Temple was built round a circular worship area surmounted by a dome, with rows of benches north, south, east, and west. But here, genius and limitless resources had refined the simple, basic plan. All the separate richnesses—benches of highly polished hardwoods, moss-agate columns, endless gold and silver foil to reflect light into every corner, walls that imitated Phos’ sky in facings of semiprecious stones—somehow failed to compete with one another, but were blended by the artisans’ skill into a unified and magnificent whole.

And all that magnificence served to lead the eye upward to contemplate the Temple’s great central dome, which itself seemed more a product of wizardry than architecture. Liberated by pendentives from the support of columns, it looked to be upheld only by the shafts of sunlight piercing its many-windowed base. Even to Marcus the stubborn non-believer, it seemed a bit of Phos’ heaven suspended above the earth.

“Now here is a home fit for a god,” Gaius Philippus muttered under his breath. He had never been in the High Temple before; hardened as he was, he could not keep awe from his voice.

Phos himself looked down on his worshipers from the interior of the dome; gold-backed glass tesserae sparkled now here, now there in an ever-shifting play of light. Stern in judgment, the Videssian god’s eyes seemed to see into the furthest recesses of the Temple—and into the soul of every man within. From that gaze, from the verdict inscribed in the book the god held, there could be no appeal. Nowhere had Scaurus seen such an uncomprising image of harsh, righteous purpose.

No Videssian, no matter how cynical, sat easy under that Phos’ eyes. To an outlander seeing them for the first time, they could be overwhelming. Utprand Dagober’s son stiffened to attention and began a salute, as to any great leader, before he stopped in confusion. “Don’t blame him a bit,” Gaius Philippus said. Marcus nodded. No one tittered at the Namdalener; here the proud imperials, too, were humble.

Fair face crimsoning, Utprand found a seat. His foxskin jacket and snug trousers set him apart from the Videssians
around him. Their flowing robes of multicolored silks, their high-knotted brocaded fabrics, their velvets and snowy linens served to complement the High Temple’s splendor. Jewels and gold and silver threadwork gleamed as they moved.

“Exaltation!” A choir of boys in robes of blue samite came down the aisles and grouped themselves round the central altar. “Exaltation!” Their pure, unbroken voices filled the space under the great dome with joyous music. “Exaltation! Exaltation!” Even Phos’ awesome image seemed to take on a more benign aspect as his young votaries sang his praises. “Exaltation!”

Censer-swinging priests followed the chorus toward the worship area; the sweet fragrances of balsam, frankincense, cedar oil, myrrh, and storax filled the air. Behind the priests came Balsamon. The congregation rose to honor the patriarch. And behind Balsamon was Thorisin Gavras in full imperial regalia. Along with everyone else, Marcus and Gaius Philippus bowed to the Avtokrator. The tribune tried to keep the surprise from his face; on his previous visits to the High Temple, the Emperor had taken no part in its services, but watched from a small private room set high in the building’s eastern wall.

Balsamon steadied himself, resting a hand on the back of the patriarchal throne. Its ivory panels, cut in delicate reliefs, must have delighted the connoisseur in him. After resting for a moment, he lifted his hands to the Phos in the dome, offering his god the Videssians’ creed: “We bless thee, Phos, Lord with the right and good mind, by thy grace our protector, watchful beforehand that the great test of life may be decided in our favor.”

The congregation followed him in the prayer, then chorused its “Amens.” Marcus heard Utprand, Soteric, and a few other Namdalener officers append the extra clause they added to the creed: “On this we stake our very souls.”

As always, some Videssians frowned at the addition, but Balsamon gave them no chance to ponder it. “We are met today in gladness and celebration!” he shouted. “Sing, and let the good god hear your rejoicing!” His quavery tenor launched into a hymn; the choir followed him an instant later. They swept the worshippers along with them. Taron leimmokheir’s tuneless bass rose loud above the rest; the devout admiral, his eyes closed, rocked from side to side in his seat as he sang.

The liturgy of rejoicing was not commonly held. The Videssian notables, civil and military alike, threw themselves into the ceremony with such gusto that the interior of the High Temple took on a festival air. Their enthusiasm was contagious; Scaurus stood and clapped with his neighbors and followed their songs as best he could. Most, though, were in the archaic dialect preserved only in ritual, which he still did not understand well.

He caught a quick stir of motion through the filigreed screening that shielded the imperial niche from mundane eyes and wondered whether it was Komitta Rhangawe or Alypia Gavra. Both of them, he thought, would be there. He hoped it was Alypia.

Her uncle the Emperor stood to the right of the patriarchal throne. Though he did no more than pray with the rest of the worshipers, his presence among them was enough to rivet their attention on him.

Balsamon used his hands to mute the congregation’s singing. The voices of the choir rang out in all their perfect clarity, then they, too, died away, leaving a silence as speaking as words. The patriarch let it draw itself out to just the right length before he transformed its nature by taking the few steps from his ivory throne to the altar at the very center of the worship area. His audience leaned forward expectantly to listen to what he would say.

His eyes twinkled; he plainly enjoyed making them wait. He drummed his stubby fingers on the sheet silver of the altartop, looking this way and that. At last he said, “You really don’t need to hear me at all today.” He beckoned Gavras to his side. “This is the man who asked me to celebrate the liturgy of rejoicing; let him explain his reasons.”

Thorisin ignored the irreverence toward his person; from Balsamon it was not disrespectful. The Emperor began almost before his introduction was through. “Word arrived this morning of battle just east of Gavras. Forces loyal to us—” Even Gavras’s bluntness balked at calling mercenaries by their right name. “—decisively defeated their opponents. The chief rebel and traitor, Baanes Onomagoulos, was killed in the fighting.”

The three short sentences, bald as any military communique, touched off pandemonium in the High Temple. Bureaucrats’ cheers mingled with those of Thorisin’s officers; if the present Avtokrator was not the pen-pushers’ choice, he was a
paragon next to Onomagoulos. For once, Gavras had all his government’s unruly factions behind him.

Master of his own house at last, he basked in the applause like a sunbather on a warm beach. “Now we will deal with the Yezda as they deserve!” he cried. The cheering got louder.

Marcus nodded in sober satisfaction; Gaius Philippus’ fist rose and slowly came down on his knee. They looked at each other with complete understanding. “Our turn to go west next,” the senior centurion predicted. “Still some work to do to get ready.”

Marcus nodded again. “It’s as Thorisin said, though—at least we’ll be fighting the right foe this time.”

Harry Turtledove
was born in Los Angeles in 1949. After flunking out of Caltech, he earned a Ph.D. in Byzantine history from UCLA. He has taught ancient and medieval history at UCLA, Cal State Fu Merton, and Cal State L.A., and he has published a translation of a ninth-century Byzantine chronicle, as well as several scholarly articles. He is also a Hugo Award-winning and critically acclaimed full-time writer of science fiction and fantasy. He is married to fellow novelist Laura Frankos. They have three daughters: Alison, Rachel, and Rebecca.