The Legion of Videssos (25 page)

One of the sentries licked his horn spoon clean and glanced up at Valash’s group. He pointed at Viridovix, asked something in the Khamorth tongue. They went back and forth for a few seconds. The Celt caught the name “Targitaus” repeated several times; he gathered it belonged to the chief. Then the sentry surprised him by saying in accented Videssian, “You wait. Targitaus, I tell him you here.”

As the plainsman started to duck inside the tent, Viridovix called after him, “Your honor, is himself after having the Empire’s speech?”

“Oh, yes. He go Prista many times—trade. Raid once, but long time gone.” The sentry disappeared. Viridovix sighed in
relief; at least he would not have explain himself through an interpreter. Trying to use an interpreter for vigorous speech was like trying to yell underwater—noise came through, but not much sense.

The sentry came out. He spoke to the Khamorth, then to Viridovix: “You go in now. You see Targitaus, you bow, yes?”

“I will that,” the Celt promised. He dismounted, as did the plainsmen. The second sentry took charge of their horses while the first one held the tent flap open; it faced west, away from the wind. Sensible, Viridovix thought, but the idea of passing a steppe winter in a tent made the red-gold hairs on his arms stand up as if he were a squirrel puffing out its fur against bad weather.

He dipped his head to pass through the entranceway, which was low even for the stocky Khamorth. When he raised his eyes again he whistled in admiration. The Romans, he discovered, were tyros when it came to tents. This one was big as any four legionary tents, a good dozen paces across. White fabric lined the inside, making in seem larger still by reflecting the light of the fire in the very center and butter-burning lamps all around the edge. Leather bags along the northern side held more of Targitaus’ goods; the men of his household had hung their bows and swords above them. Cooking utensils, spindles, and other women’s tools went along the southern edge of the tent. Between them, opposite the entrance, was a great bed of fleeces and felt-covered cushions. Not an inch of space was wasted, but the tent did not seem cramped.

That was a small miracle, for it was full of people, men on the northern side, women to the south. There was a low couch—the only bit of real furniture in the tent—between the cookfire and piled-up bedding. Remembering what the sentry had told him, Viridovix bowed to the man reclining on it, surely Targitaus himself.

“So. You take long enough to notice me,” the nomad chief said to the Gaul; Valash and the rest of the Khamorth had already made their bows. Targitaus’ Videssian was much more fluent than his sentry’s but not as good as Varatesh’s. He did not seem much angered. The Celt studied the man who would decide his fate. Targitaus was middle-aged and far from handsome—paunchy, scarred, with a big, hooked nose that had been well broken a long time ago and now pointed toward
the right corner of his mouth. His full gray beard and the uncut hair under his fur cap gave him something of the look of a gone-to-seed dandelion. But in their nest of wrinkles, his brown eyes were disconcertingly keen. A noble himself in Gaul, Viridovix knew a leader when he saw one.

“You look like an ’Alugh,” Targitaus remarked; with his guttural accent it took the Gaul a moment to recognize “Haloga.” The Khamorth went on, “Come round the fire so I get a better see at you.” Accompanied by Rambehisht, Yaramna, and the others, Viridovix picked his way through the men’s side of the tent. Nomads sitting on pillows or round cloths leaned aside to let them pass.

“Big man,” Targitaus said when the Celt stood before him. “Why you so big? You wear out any horse you ride.”

“Aye, well, so long as it’s not the lassies complaining,” Viridovix murmured. Targitaus blinked, then chuckled. The Gaul smiled to himself; he had gauged his man aright.

The men on the ground to the right of the chief’s couch translated his words and the Celt’s so the plainsmen could understand. He was the first smooth-faced Khamorth Viridovix had seen; his cheeks were pink and shiny in the firelight. His voice was between tenor and contralto. He wore a robe that his corpulent frame stretched tight.

Seeing the Celt’s glance, Targitaus said, “This Lipoxais. He is
enaree
of clan.”

“ ‘Shaman,’ you would say in Videssian,” Lipoxais added, his command of the imperial speech near perfect. The melting look he gave Viridovix made the Gaul wonder whether the
enaree
was a eunuch, as he had first thought, or simply effeminate.

“Shaman, yes,” Targitaus nodded impatiently. “Not to talk of words now.” He measured Viridovix up and down, his eyes flicking to the longsword at the Celt’s hip. “You tell me your story, hey, then we see what words need saying.”

“That I will,” Viridovix said, and began at the point of his kidnaping.

The chief stopped him. “No, wait. What you doing Pardraya in first place? You no Empire man, no Khamorth, no Arshaum either—that plain enough, by wind spirits!” His laugh had a wheeze in it.

With a sinking feeling, Viridovix told the truth. As Lipoxais
translated, an angry muttering rose from the plainsmen round the fire. “You go to lead Arshaum through Pardraya and you want my thanks and help?” Targitaus growled. He touched his saber, as if to remind himself where it was.

“And why not? I deserve the both of ’em.” Targitaus stared; Lipoxais raised a plucked eyebrow. Outface the lot of them, Viridovix told himself; if they see you yielding so much as a digit, it’s all up. He stood straighter, looking down his long nose at the Khamorth chief. “The more o’ the Arshaum are after fighting in Videssos, the fewer to tangle with you. Is it not so?”

Targitaus scratched his chin. Lipoxais’ smooth, high voice finished rendering the Gaul’s words into the plains tongue. Viridovix did not dare look around to see how the nomads were taking what he said, but the hostile rumbling died away. “All right. You go on,” Targitaus said at last.

The hurdle leaped, Viridovix warmed to his tale and won his listeners to him when they understood he and Varatesh were foes. “The brother-slayer, eh?” Targitaus said, and spat in the dirt in front of his couch. “Few years gone by, he try to join clan. His story even worse than yours—he not just leave things out, he tell lies, too.” He looked Viridovix full in the face, and the Celt could not help flushing. “Go on,” Targitaus said. “What next?”

Viridovix started to warn the nomads of Avshar, but they did not know the wizard-prince’s name and so did not fear him. The gods grant they don’t find out, the Gaul thought, and went on to tell of his escape from Varatesh. That brought shouts from the plainsmen as it was interpreted, and a “Not bad,” from Targitaus. Viridovix grinned; he suspected the Khamorth was short with praise.

“In the dark and all I rode east instead of west and came on your lads here,” the Celt finished. “Belike you’d sooner have the tale o’ that from them.”

Interrupting each other from time to time, the nomads told their side of the meeting with Viridovix. Early on, Targitaus’ jaw fell. “Naked?” he said to the Gaul.

“It’s a way my people have betimes.”

“Could be painful,” was all the chief said. His men went on to describe the fight with Rambehisht. Targitaus snapped a
question at the stern-featured nomad. “What do you have to say for yourself, losing to a naked man?” Lipoxais translated.

The Gaul tensed. Rambehisht was fairly important in the clan; if he shouted denunciations now, it might not be pleasant. But he answered his chief with a shrug and a short phrase. “He beat me,” Lipoxais rendered tersely. Rambehisht added another, slightly longer, sentence: “My head still hurts—what more can I say?”

“So.” After that single syllable, Targitaus was quiet for a long time. At last the Khamorth chief turned to Viridovix. “Well, outlander, you are a fighter if nothing else. You have gall, to meet a man like that.”

“Have gall? Indeed and I am one.”

“So,” the plainsman repeated, scratching his head. “What next?”

“If I were after asking you for an escort to the Arshaum country, you’d have my head for fair, I’ll wager,” Viridovix said. He did not need the nomads’ growls as Lipoxais translated; he had put out the idea to let it be knocked down and make his real proposal the more attractive. “How’s this, then, your honor? It’s a nasty neighbor you have in this kern of a Varatesh, the which ye can hardly say nay to. Now you’ve a grudge against him, and I’ve one, too, the gods know—” No Videssians were here to shout “Heresy!” at that. “—and like enough some o’ your other clans hereabouts, too. Would it not be a fine thing to put the boot to him once for all, aye, and the mangy curs as run with him?” And Avshar, too, he thought, but did not name him again.

Guttural mumbles round the fire as the listening nomads considered. “Grudge?” Targitaus said softly. “Oh my yes, grudge.” He leaped to his feet, shouted something in the plains speech. “Does it please you, brothers?” Lipoxais gave the words to Viridovix. The roar that came back could only be “Aye!” A meat-eater’s smile on his face, Valash slapped the Gaul on the back.

But Targitaus, as leader, had learned caution.
“Enaree!”
he said, and Lipoxais stood beside him. “Take your omens, say if this will be good or bad for clan.”

Lipoxais bowed his head and put both hands over his face in token of obedience. Then he turned to Viridovix, saying quietly, “Come round here behind me and put your hands on
my shoulders.” The
enaree’
s flesh was very warm and almost as soft as a feather cushion.

From inside his robe Lipoxais drew a piece of smooth white bark two fingers wide and about as long as his arm. He cut it into three equal lengths, wrapped it loosely round his hands. Viridovix felt him suddenly go rigid; his head snapped back, as a man’s will in the throes of lockjaw. The Celt could look down at the
enaree’
s face. His mouth was clenched shut, his eyes open and staring, but they did not see Viridovix. Lipoxais’ hands moved as if they had a will of their own, twisting and untwisting the lengths of bark round his fingers.

The mantic fit went on and on. Viridovix had no idea how long it should last, but saw from the worry growing in Targitaus’ eyes that this was not normal. He wondered whether he should shake Lipoxais out of his trance, but hesitated, afraid to interfere with a magic he did not understand.

The
enaree
returned to himself about when Viridovix was making up his mind to shake him whether it ruined the charm or not. Sweat dripped from his face; his robe was wet under the Gaul’s hands. He staggered, righted himself with the air of someone getting his land legs after a long time at sea. This time no longing was on his face when he looked at Viridovix, only awe and a little fear. “There is strong magic around you,” he said, “your own and others.” He shook his head, as if to clear it.

Targitaus barked something at Lipoxais, who answered at some length before turning back to Celt. “I could see little,” he explained, “through so much sorcery, and that little was blurred: fifty eyes, a doorway in the mountains, and two swords. Whether these are signs of goods or ill I do not know.”

Plainly unhappy at not learning more, Targitaus reflected, his chin in his hand. At last he straightened, stepping forward to clasp Viridovix’ hand. “As much chance for good as for bad,” he said, “and Varatesh’s ears need trimming—down to the neck, I think.” He sounded jovial, but the Gaul thought he would not be a good enemy to have.

“So,” the Khamorth chieftain went on; he seemed to use the word as a pause to gather his thoughts. “You swear oath with us, yes?”

“Whatever pleases your honor,” Viridovix said at once.

“Good.” Targitaus switched to the plains tongue. A young man who had his eyes and his prominent nose—the later unkinked—brought a large earthenware bowl and a full skin of kavass. No ordinary nomad brew was this, but dark, strong, and heady, with a rich aroma like ale’s. “Karakavass—black kavass,” Targitaus said, pouring it into the bowl. “The lords’ drink.”

But he did not drink of it yet; instead, he pulled a couple of arrows from a quiver and put them point-down in the bowl, then followed them with his shamshir. “Your sword, too,” he said to Viridovix. The Celt drew it and put as much of the blade as would fit—a bit more than half—into the bowl. Targitaus nodded, then unsheathed his dagger and took Viridovix’ hand. “Do not flinch,” he warned, and made a small cut on the Celt’s forefinger. Viridovix’ blood dripped into the bowl. “Now you me,” Targitaus said, giving him the knife. He might have been carved from stone as the Gaul cut him. Their bloods mingled now—a strong magic, Viridovix thought approvingly.

Lipoxais began a chanted prayer; the gutturals of the Khamorth language sounded strange in his high voice. From time to time Targitaus spoke in response. As the
enaree
prayed on, Targitaus said to Viridovix, “Swear by your powers to act always as a brother to this clan and never to betray it or any man of it.”

The Gaul paused only a moment, to think which of his gods would best hear his oath. “By Epona and Teutates I swear it,” he said loudly. Horse-goddess and war-god—what better powers to call on with the nomads? As he spoke their names, the druids’ marks on his enchanted blade glowed golden. Lipoxais’ eyes were closed, but Targitaus saw.

“Magics of your own, yes,” he muttered, staring at his new-sworn ally.

When Lipoxais’ chant was done, the Khamorth chief took his weapons from the bowl. Viridovix did the same, drying his sword on his shirttail before putting it back in its sheath. Targitaus stooped, carefully lifted the bowl to his lips. He drank, then handed it to the Celt. “We share blood, we share fate,” he said, with the air of one translating a proverb. Viridovix drank, too; the karakavass was mouth-filling, smooth on his tongue as fine wine, warm and comforting in his belly.

Once the Gaul’s drinking sealed him to them, Targitaus’ lieutenants rose from their sitting-cloths and came up to share the bowl. Servants rolled the cloths into tight cylinders so not a crumb of precious food would be spilled.

“You are one with us now,” Targitaus said, punctuating the remark with a belch. “More kavass!” he called, and new skins were broached: not the dark, earthy brew in the ceremonial bowl, but strong enough. Viridovix drank deep, passed the skin to Valash next to him. Another came his way a moment later, then another. His ears began to buzz.