The Legion of Videssos (21 page)

“Is that bad? Why would the Videssians hire mercenaries, if they had no one to fight?” Pakhymer was looking at him strangely, the same look, he realized, he had seen several times on Helvis.

He sighed. Without meaning to, the Khatrisher had fingered the essential difference between himself and Scaurus. To Laon Pakhymer, the Empire was a paymaster and nothing more; its fate meant nothing to him, save as it affected his own interests. But Marcus found Videssos, despite its flaws, worth preserving for its own sake. It was doing—had done for centuries—what Rome aspired to: letting the folk within its borders build their lives free from fear. The chaos and destruction that would follow a collapse filled him with dread.

How to explain that to Pakhymer, who, for the sake of a temporary triumph, would have two packs of wolves fight over the body of the state he thought he was serving? Marcus sighed again; he saw no way. Here was his quarrel with Helvis, come to frightening life. The Khatrisher would make a desert and call it peace.

His gloom lifted somewhat as the council shifted focus. Pakhymer intended bringing all his countrymen south of the Arandos; that would give the Romans the scouts and raiders they badly needed. If Thorisin could piece together some kind of force to keep Drax at play in the north, perhaps the legionaries would not be outnumbered to the point of uselessness. And if Gaius Philippus could do with these half-trained Videssians what Sertorius had with the Spaniards, they might yet make nuisances of themselves. If, if, if …

He was so caught up in his worries that, when the officers’ meeting broke up, he walked past Styppes as if the healer was not there. “I like that,” the fat priest said. “Do a favor and see the thanks you get for it.”

“Huh?” Scaurus brightened. “It’s done, then?” he asked,
glad to have something to think about beside Namdaleni on the march.

“Aye, so it is. Now you notice me, eh?” Marcus held his peace under the reproach; whatever he said to the healer-priest was generally wrong. Styppes grumbled something into his beard, then said, “Well, come along, come along.”

When the tribune had the icon in his hands, his praise was as unstinting as it was sincere. Styppes was ill-tempered and overfond of wine, but his hands held more gifts than healing alone. Unmoved by Scaurus’ compliments, he began, “Why I waste my talent for a heathen’s heretic tart—” but Scaurus retreated before he was at full spate.

He found Helvis sitting under a peach tree outside the camp, mending a tunic. She looked up as he came toward her. When she saw he was going to sit by her, she jabbed her needle into the shirt, one of Malric’s—and put it aside. “Hello,” she said coolly; she did not try to hide her anger over the tribune’s refusal to take her countrymen’s side against Videssos. He was tired of the way policy kept getting between the two of them.

“Hello. I have something for you.” The words seemed flat and awkward as soon as they were out of his mouth. With a sudden stab of shame, he realized he had too little practice saying such things, had been taking Helvis too much for granted except when they fought.

“What is it?” Her tone was still neutral; probably, Marcus guessed unhappily, she thinks I have underwear for her to darn.

“Here, see for yourself,” he said, embarrassment making his voice gruff as he handed her the icon.

The way her eyes grew wide made him sure his guess had been all too close to the mark. “Is it for me? Truly? Where did you get it?” She did not really want an answer; her surprise was speaking. “Thank you so much!” She hugged him one-armed, not wanting to lay the image down, then made Phos’ sun-sign at her breast.

Her joy made Scaurus glad and contrite at the same time. While happy to have pleased her, he knew in his heart he should have thought to do so long ago. He had ill repaid her love and loyalty—for why else would she stay with him despite their many differences? Nor did he think of her as only a
bed warmer, a pleasure for his nights; love, he thought with profound unoriginality, is very strange.

“Who is it?” Helvis demanded, breaking his reverie. Then in the same breath she went on, “No, you don’t tell me, let me work it out for myself.” Her lips moved as she sounded out Styppes’ golden letters one by one; in less than three years Marcus, already literate in two other tongues, had gained a grasp of written Videssian far better than hers. “Nes-to-ri-os,” she read, and, putting the pieces together, “Nestorios! The island saint! However did you remember him?”

The tribune shrugged, not wanting to admit Styppes had provided the name. He felt no guilt over that; in a faith he did not share, it was enough he had recalled the holy man’s existence. “Because I knew you cared for him,” he said, and from the touch of her hand he knew he had the answer right.

Sentries escorted a pair of Namdaleni into Scaurus’ presence. “They’ve come under truce-sign, sir,” a Roman explained. “Gave themselves up to our pickets at the oak woods, they did.” The men of the Duchy favored the tribune with crisp salutes, although one looked distinctly unhappy. And no wonder, Marcus thought; it was the islander he had sent to Drax with his exchange offer.

“Hello, Dardel,” he said. “I didn’t expect to see you again.”

“Nor I you,” Dardel answered mournfully.

The other Namdalener saluted again. Scaurus had seen that handsome, snub-nosed face before, too, on the right wing of Drax’ army at the Sangarios. Now the officer looked elegant in silk surcoat and gold-inlaid ceremonial helm. “Bailli of Ecrisi, at your service,” he said smoothly, his Videssian almost without trace of island accent. “Allow me to explain. As my suzerain the great count and protector Drax must decline your gracious proposal, he deemed it only just to return to you the person of your prisoner.”

So Drax had a new title, did he? Well, no matter, thought Marcus; he could call himself whatever he chose. “That is most honorable of him,” the tribune said. He bowed to Bailli. Not to be outdone in generosity by Drax, he added, “Of course Dardel will be free to return with you when you leave here.”

Bailli and Dardel both bowed, the latter in delight. Scaurus said, “Why does the great count reject my offer? We are not rich here, but if he wants ransom for Zigabenos as well as his men free, we will do what we can.”

“You misunderstand the great count and protector’s reasons, sir,” Bailli said. Marcus suddenly distrusted his smile; it said too plainly he knew something the tribune did not. The Namdalener went on, still smiling, “Chief among them is the fact that, being a loyal lieutenant to my lord Zigabenos, he cannot compel him to accept an exchange he does not wish.”

“What?” Marcus blurted, astonished out of suaveness. “What farce is this?”

Bailli reached under his surcoat. His guards growled in warning, but all he produced was a sealed roll of parchment. “This will explain matters better than I could,” he said, handing it to Scaurus. The tribune examined the seals. One he knew—the sun in golden wax, the mark of the Empire of Videssos. The other seal was green, its symbol a pair of dice in a wine cup. That would have to be Drax’ mark. Scaurus broke the seals and unrolled the parchment.

The great count’s man had been eyeing his exotic gear. He said, “I don’t know, sir, if you read Videssian. If not, I’d be happy to—”

“I read it,” Marcus said curtly, and proceeded to do so. He recognized Drax’ style at once; the great count wrote the imperial tongue as ornately as any Videssian official. That was part of what made him such a deadly foe; he aped the Empire’s ways too well, including, Scaurus saw as he read on, its gift for underhanded politics.

The document was not long, nor did it need be. In four convoluted sentences it proclaimed Mertikes Zigabenos rightful Avtokrator of the Videssians, named the great count Drax his “respected commander-in-chief and Protector of the Realm,” urged all citizens and “soldiery whether Videssian or foreign” to support the newly declared regime, and threatened outlawry and destruction for any who resisted. Drax’ signature, in fancy script with a great flourish underneath, completed the proclamation; Zigabenos’ was conspicuously absent.

Marcus read it all through again, damning the great count at every word. The man had to be a genius at intrigue, to do so
much damage in so little space. By working through a Videssian puppet, he took away the stigma of being an invader and permanently compromised Zigabenos in Thorisin Gavras’ eyes. The rightful Emperor could not be sure Zigabenos was not willingly cooperating with Drax. And Zigabenos, no mean machinator himself, would see that for himself—and might really help the great count from fear of what would happen to him if Drax’ revolt failed. The tribune’s head started to ache. The more he thought, the worse things looked.

He rolled up the parchment to hand it back to Bailli. The two pieces of Drax’ seal fit neatly together, edge to edge. In his choice of emblem, at least, Scaurus thought, he was a Namdalener; the men of the Duchy loved to gamble.

Bailli sniggered when he remarked on that. “Look again.”

The tribune did, then swore and threw the parchment to the floor, for what were dice in a wine cup but loaded dice?

“T
ELL ME,”
V
ARATESH SAID TO
V
IRIDOVIX AS HE HELPED HIS
prisoner dismount after another long day of travel, “why did you dye your hair and mustache that hideous shade? And why have you grown the mustache but no beard? By the spirits, you stand out more among plainsmen this way than as you were.”

“Will you give over havering anent my looks? It’s no beauty y’are your own self.” He tried to smooth his long mustachioes, sadly draggled by days of steady rain. With a rawhide strap binding his wrists, he made a clumsy job of it.

“Do not toy with me,” Varatesh said, mild-voiced as usual. “I will only ask my question once more.” The outlaw chief made no threats, as his riders would have. His cruelty was subtler, letting the Gaul find his own terrors to imagine.

“A pox take you, man. My own face this is on the front o’ my head, and nought but.” Viridovix glared at the Khamorth, afraid and exasperated at the same time. “What is it I’m supposed to look like, anyway?” he demanded.

“As Avshar set you forth,” Varatesh said, and Viridovix felt a chill at the wizard-prince’s name. Every day the roughgaited
steppe pony he unwillingly rode brought him closer to a meeting he did not want.

“Well, how is that, you kern? I’m not likely to be reading the villain’s mind, nor wanting to, either.”

Kubad snarled at the insults and fingered his knife in its sheath. What Videssian he understood was mostly vile, just as Viridovix could curse in the plains speech. But Varatesh waved his rider to silence. When he was on the trail of something, such trifles were like false scents to a hunting hound, distractions to be screened out. “As you wish,” he said to the Celt. “Your height matches Avshar’s picture of you, but he makes your hair out to be dark yellow, not this roan of yours, and calls you clean shaven, though that, I know, means not much. Nor do you look like any imperial I’ve seen, and he said you might be a Videssian but for fair hair and light eyes.”

“Sure and I’d never be that, Varatesh dear,” Viridovix said, and then laughed in the Khamorth’s face.

“What do you find so funny?” The outlaw chief’s tone was dangerous; like most men habitually unsure of themselves, he could not stand being mocked.

“Only that your puir soft-noodled wizard sent you off chasing fish, fur, or virgin’s milk. I ken the man you mean, and he’s no friend of Avshar, Scaurus isn’t, nor a bad wight for all he’s a Roman.” The alien names meant nothing to Varatesh, who waited with angry impatience. Enjoying himself for the first time since he was taken, the Gaul went on, “If it’s the Scaurus you’re after, lad, you’ve a farther ride than the one you took to nab me, for he’s still back in the Empire, indeed and he is.”

“What?” Varatesh barked. He did not doubt his prisoner’s word; the relish Viridovix took in making him look a fool was too obvious. His men were shouting questions at him. With poor grace, he translated what the Celt had said. That his own men lost respect for him was worse than Viridovix’ glee; who cared what an enemy thought?

“Avshar won’t be pleased,” Kubad said, a remark that hung in the air like the smell of lightning.

It was Denizli’s turn to half draw his dagger. He smiled evilly. “If this son of a spotted mare’s no one Avshar wants, we can have our sport with him here and now.” He did pull the knife free, held it under Viridovix’ eyes.

“Loose my hands and do that, hero,” the Celt growled.

“What does he say?” Denizli said. When Varatesh told him, his smile grew wider. “Tell him I will loose his hands for him—one finger at a time.” He stepped toward Viridovix again.

Varatesh nearly let him have his way, but a sudden thought made him cry, “No! Wait!” and knock his rider’s blade to one side. Twice now in days he had robbed Denizli of the pleasure of the kill. The renegade sprang at him with an oath, dagger slashing out. But it bit only empty air; Varatesh, who seemed impossible to surprise, had already danced aside. His own knife leaped into his hand. The other Khamorth—Kubad and his comrades Khuraz, Akes, and Bikni—made no move to interfere. In their brutal world, strength alone gave the right to lead.

Varatesh took a cut arm, but a moment later Denizli was writhing in the mud, shrieking as he clutched his hands to his gashed belly. Varatesh stooped over him and cut his throat, as a merciful man would.

Viridovix caught his eye. “Well fought,” he said. “I wish it had been me to do it.” He meant the compliment; he took fighting too seriously for idle flattery. Varatesh was fast and supple as a striking snake.

The Khamorth shrugged. “Bury this garbage,” he said to the four remaining riders. Obeying with no back answers, they stripped the corpse and started to dig; the sodden ground made the work easy. Varatesh turned back to the Gaul. “Riddle me this: if you are not the man my comrade Avshar seeks, how did his magic lead me to you? How did his sleeping-charm not fell you? And how is it you bear a sword like the one this—what was his name?—Scaurus carries?” His Khamorth accent made it sound like “Skrush.”