Videssos Cycle, Volume 2 (33 page)

The standard-bearer could move after all; he spun on his heel and called out to that blank forbidding curtain. Gorgidas caught the phrase “embassy from Videssos”; he had heard it often enough since crossing the Shaum.

There was a moment in which he wondered whether anyone was behind the curtain, but then it was pulled aside, the pause plainly a dramatic effect. Black felt lined the interior of the yurt, to make the figure of Arghun himself, seated on a high-backed chair covered with shining gold leaf, all the more imposing.

Arghun was a more weatherbeaten version of his son Arigh, who stood at the right hand of the throne and smiled in greeting as the Videssians came up. The khagan’s hair and straggling chin whiskers were iron-gray rather than black and his face carried deeper lines than his
son’s, but it was easy to see what the years would do to Arigh. Arghun wore the same furs and fringed hides as the rest of his people, of fine cut but not extraordinarily so. The only sign of his rank Gorgidas could see on his person was the gray horsetail of his clan that he wore at his belt.

To the khagan’s left stood a tall, lithe young man of perhaps eighteen, who bore a family resemblance to him and Arigh both, but was far handsomer than either. He was very much aware of it, too; his eye was disdainful as he surveyed the approaching diplomats. With high cheekbones, clear golden skin, and nostrils that arched like gullwings from his slim nose, his presence struck Gorgidas like a blow. Nor did his raiment detract from it: he wore a golden belt, tunic and trousers almost as elaborately fringed as a shaman’s, and fine leather shoes embroidered with silver thread.

Goudeles, as head of the mission, stepped forward and went to one knee before the khagan; not the full proskynesis the Avtokrator of the Videssians would receive, but only a step away from it. He bowed low to Arigh and the unknown prince at Arghun’s left. Skylitzes, who would serve as translator, followed suit.

“Your majesty Arghun, mighty khagan, your highness prince Arigh—” the titles rolled smoothly off Goudeles’ tongue. Then he hesitated in urbane embarrassment. “Your highness prince, ah—”

Arigh spoke across the throne. The young man favored Goudeles with a smile, half-charming, half-scornful. He answered with a single short sentence; his voice was tenor, sweet and self-assured. “His name is Dizabul; he is Arghun’s son,” Skylitzes interpreted.

“
Younger
son,” Arigh emended pointedly, eyeing Dizabul with scant liking. With the sublime arrogance perfect beauty can give, his brother pretended he did not exist.

Ignoring the byplay—or seeming to; the pen-pusher missed very little—Goudeles presented the members of his embassy to Arghun and his sons. Gorgidas surprised himself with the depth of the bow he gave Dizabul; to look at, truly the most striking youth he had seen in years, if rather petulant.

While the khagan greeted the ambassadors, the rest of the clan of the Gray Horse watched from their yurts, which had been drawn discreetly away from their ruler’s. More heads appeared at tent flaps and wicker-barred
windows when Skylitzes rendered Goudeles’ next words into the Arshaum tongue: “His Imperial Majesty Thorisin Gavras has sent the khagan gifts.”

Several of Agathias Psoes’ troopers stepped forward to present the Emperor’s gifts; the underofficer had impressed the solemnity of the occasion on them with a profane bluntness that reminded Gorgidas of Gaius Philippus. Now they played their roles perfectly, advancing one by one to set their presents in front of Arghun’s yurt, then withdrawing once more.

“His Imperial Majesty offers gold in token of our future friendship.” A small but heavy sack of leather clinked musically as a soldier laid it on the thick, low grass.

Arigh spoke to his father. Skylitzes’ mouth twitched in an almost-smile as he translated, “All old coins; I saw to it myself.” Arigh was canny enough to insist on best value; the turmoil in Videssos’ recent decades had forced the Empire to cheapen its goldpieces with lesser metals. Arghun’s smile said he knew that, too. Dizabul looked elaborately bored.

Goudeles was thrown off stride for a moment, but recovered smoothly. “Silver for the khagan!” Prevalis Haravash’s son brought up a larger sack to set beside the first. The jingle was higher-pitched than that of gold, but still sweet.

“Jewels for the khagan’s treasury, or for his ladies: rubies, topazes, opals like fire, pearls like moonlight!” When the next trooper set his gift down, Goudeles opened the sack and displayed a glowing pearl in the palm of his hand. Gorgidas gave him high marks for shrewdness; living so far from the sea, Arghun might never have seen a pearl. The khagan leaned forward to examine it, nodded, sat back once more.

“Fine vestments for your majesty.” Some of the robes were cloth-of-gold, others of samite or snowy linen, heavily brocaded, bejeweled, and shot through with gold and silver thread. Here at last was stuff to rouse Dizabul’s interest, but his father seemed indifferent in the finery.

“Last, as a mark of honor, the Avtokrator presents you with boots striped in the imperial scarlet.” Only the Videssian Emperor wore footgear all of scarlet; for him to share the color even in this way was a signal act of deference. Duke Tomond of Namdalen did not presume to wear red boots.

Speaking through Arigh, Arghun said, “These are fine gifts. Are there words to go with them?”

“Will a cock crow? Will a crow caw?” Skylitzes murmured in Videssian as Goudeles visibly gathered himself for a flight of rhetoric. Arigh snickered but, being pro-Videssian, did not explain the ridicule to his father.

Goudeles himself could only glower at his comrade out of the corner of his eye. He began the opening address he had been toying with for days: “O valiant Arghun, our great Emperor—” He had a bureaucrat’s revenge on Skylitzes there, loading that “great” with so much stress as to make the word a travesty. “—using me as his messenger, indicates that fortune should always be auspicious for you, as you take pleasure in treating with the Empire of Videssos, and also as you show kindness to us its legates. May you always conquer your enemies and despoil your foes. May there be no malice between us, as far as is possible; such exists only to cleave asunder the establishment of friendship.”

“Slow down, curse you,” Skylitzes whispered frantically. “If I don’t know what you’re talking about, how do you expect them to?”

“They don’t need to, really,” Goudeles answered under cover of a dramatic gesture. “I’m saying what has to be said at a time like this, that’s all.” He bowed once more to Arghun, and finished, “The people of the clan of the Gray Horse and however many subjects they may have are dear to us; may you not hold our affairs otherwise.” He stepped back a pace to show the oration was done.

“Very pretty,” Arigh said; his years in Videssos let him appreciate Goudeles’ performance more readily than his father or brother could. “I—” The khagan interrupted him. He nodded, abashed; in Arghun’s presence he was no hotspur, but an obedient son. He said, “My father would like to reply through me. No offense to you, Lankinos, you speak very well, but—”

“Of course,” Skylitzes said quickly.

“We are honored to hear the khagan’s remarks,” Goudeles added.

Gorgidas braced himself for another high-flown speech. Instead, Arghun fell silent after two sentences. His son translated: “My thanks for the presents. As for your embassy, I will decide what to do when I have also heard the man from Yezd.”

Goudeles frankly gaped. “That’s all?” he squeaked, surprised out of elaborate syntax. He looked as if he had been stabbed, then slowly led the Videssian party to one side. “ ‘My thanks for the presents,’ ” he muttered. “Bah!” He swore with unbureaucratic imagination.

“You spoke well, but the nomads’ style is different from yours,” Gorgidas told him. “They admire Videssian rhetoric, though—remember Olbiop? And Arghun strikes me as a prudent leader. Would you expect him to say yes or no without listening to both sides?”

Slightly consoled, Goudeles shook his head. “I wish he would,” Skylitzes said. But Bogoraz of Yezd was already coming up to the khagan’s yurt. Skylitzes’ stare was as intense as if they were meeting on the battlefield.

The Yezda envoy, like Goudeles, went to one knee before Arghun; the dignity of his salute was marred when the black felt skullcap he wore fell to the ground as he dipped his head. But he quickly regained the advantage when he spoke to the khagan in the Arshaum tongue.

“A plague!” Gorgidas and Goudeles said together. The Greek went on, “That can’t help influencing Arghun, whether he realizes it or not.”

“Hush!” said Skylitzes, and after listening for a moment, “Less than you’d think. The scoundrel has a mushy Khamorth accent, good for making any Arshaum look down his flat nose.”

“What’s he saying?” Goudeles asked; he had no more of Arghun’s language than did Gorgidas.

“Same garbage you were putting out, Pikridios. No, wait, here’s something new. He says Wulghash—Skotos freeze him!—knows what a great warrior Arghun is, and sends him presents fit for a warrior.”

At Bogoraz’s imperious wave, one of his guardsmen laid a scabbard of enamel-decorated polished bronze before the khagan. With a placating glance at the Arshaum bowmen, the ambassador drew the curved sword to display it to Arghun. It was a rich and perfect product of the swordsmith’s art, from hilt wrapped in gold wire to gleaming blade. After a ceremonial flourish, Bogoraz sheathed it again and presented it to the khagan.

Arghun drew it himself to test the balance, smiled with genuine pleasure, and buckled it to his belt. Smiling, too, Bogoraz gave similar blades to his sons; they differed only in that their hilts were wrapped
with silver rather than gold. Dizabul fairly licked his lips as he took his weapon from the Yezda; even Arigh unhesitatingly wore his.

For the moment all but forgotten, the Videssian party watched their reaction in dismay. Skylitzes ground his teeth. “We should have thought of that.”

“Aye,” Goudeles agreed mournfully. “These plains barbarians are fierce folk; they take more kindly to edged metal than robes of state, where our own people, I think, would esteem them equally.”

Trying as he usually did to find general rules from the examples life offered him, Gorgidas said, “It’s wrong to judge others by one’s own standards. We Greeks burn our dead, while the Indians—” He stopped, reddening, as the others turned to stare; India—Greece, too!—meant nothing here.

Bogoraz’s parade of costly weaponry continued: daggers with hunting scenes picked out on their blades with gold leaf; double-curved bows reinforced with horn, buffed and waxed till they sparkled; arrows of fragrant cedar fletched with iridescent peacock plumes, in quivers of snake-skin; spiked helmets ornamented with jewels.

Dizabul chose to wear every item the Yezda gave him; by the time Bogoraz was done, he looked like a walking armory. Caressing the hilt of the new sword, he turned and spoke to his father. His voice carried; plainly he meant it to. Bogoraz gave the Videssian embassy a satisfied smirk.

Skylitzes, on the other hand, worked his jaws harder than ever. He grated, “The pup is all for throwing us out now, or filling us full of holes with his new toys. He’s calling us ‘the worthless hucksters Arigh brought.’ ”

Arghun’s elder son bristled at that and began a hot response. The khagan snarled at him and Dizabul both. Dizabul started to say something more, but subsided when Arghun half rose from his throne.

Collecting himself, Arghun turned back to Bogoraz, who had affected to notice nothing. But some of the Yezda’s top-loftiness fell away when Arghun dismissed him as abruptly as he had Goudeles. “The gifts are splendid, he says,” Skylitzes reported, “but any alliance needs more thought.” The Videssian officer seemed almost unbelieving.

“He
is
a clever leader,” Gorgidas said.

“Indeed he is; he milks both sides impartially,” Goudeles said. He sounded as relieved as Skylitzes. “Well, good for him. The game’s still even.”

Viridovix dismounted without grace, but with a great groan of relief. Three hard days in the saddle had left him sore and stiff to the point of anguish. As he had before, he marveled at the endurance of the plainsmen; once mounted, they seemed made into—what was the Greek word for beings half man, half horse? Unable to remember, he mumbled a curse.

The air did not lend itself to such musings; it was thick with the sickly-sweet stench of death. And Targitaus was watching, grim-faced, as the Gaul paced about trying to stomp blood back into his calves and feet. “Another ride like that and I’ll be as bowlegged as you Khamorth laddies.” Not knowing the word for “bowlegged,” he illustrated with gestures.

He failed to amuse the nomad chieftain, who said, “Save your jokes for the women. Nothing to laugh at here.” Viridovix flushed. Targitaus did not notice; he had already turned back to the carnage spread before him.

It must have been worse a week before, when his herders found it, still fresh. Yet even after the scavengers had feasted, what was left was quite bad enough. Half a hundred cattle had been lured away from the herd, and then—what? “Slaughtered” was too gentle a word for the massacre here.

The ground was still dark from the blood that had soaked into it when the cows’ throats were cut. The killing alone would have been enough to make this no ordinary raid. Cattle were for herding and for stealing, not liquidation. The steppe was too harsh to let a tradition of wanton killing grow; even in war, winners simply took herds and flocks from their defeated foes—herds and flocks were war’s object, not its target.

But not here, not now. These beasts sprawled in death were more pitiful than warriors fallen on a battlefield; beasts have no choice in their fate and no chance to avert it. And that fate had been cruel, viciously so.
Great cuts had been made in the carcasses, and filth smeared into them to spoil the meat. The hides were not only gashed, but also rubbed with some potent caustic that made them worthless, too. Targitaus’ clan could have salvaged nothing from the animals even if they had been discovered the hour after they died.

The chief’s son Batbaian paced from one mutilated cow to the next, shaking his head and tugging at his beard as he tried without success to understand what he saw. He turned helplessly to his father. “They must be mad, as dogs are, to do this!” he burst out.