Videssos Cycle, Volume 2 (37 page)

Gaius Philippus was trying not to smile. “What is it with that one? Does he always have to growl a while before he goes to work?”

“You’re a fine one to talk. The gods help any legionary in your way after something goes wrong,” Scaurus said. The veteran did grin then, acknowledging the hit.

It was drawing toward evening when the legionaries and their captives reached Garsavra. Scaurus led them past the Namdalener-held fortress once more, an implied threat that the men of the Duchy in his hands might become hostages for the castle’s surrender. The ploy worked less well than he had hoped. The haler prisoners raised a cheer to see the motte-and-bailey still holding out, a cheer the knights on its rampart echoed.

Soteric gave Marcus a look filled with ironic triumph.

Nettled, the tribune paraded his army and the captured Namdaleni down Garsavra’s chief street to the town marketplace as a spectacle for the people. That was not quite a success, either. The Garsavrans were less fond of such shows than their jaded cousins in the capital. The verge of the roadway was embarrassingly empty as the legionaries tramped between the baths and the local prelate’s residence, a domed building of yellow stucco every bit as large and important as the governor’s hall. The clatter of hobnailed
caligae
on cobblestones all but drowned the spatters of applause the few spectators did dole out. Most of the townsfolk ignored the parade, preferring to go about their business.

But that did not mean the Garsavrans paid no attention to the arrival of the Namdalener prisoners. The town began to heave like a man after a stiff dose of hellebore, and street fights broke out fresh. One faction wanted to lynch the islanders out of hand. To his dismay, Scaurus found this group including not only those who hated the Namdaleni, but also some who had collaborated with them while they held Garsavra and now wanted to make sure details of their collusion never came forth.

“They’d be as glad to work for Yavlak,” he said, disgusted.

“Aye, well, it’s for us to see they never have the chance,” Gaius Philippus answered calmly, too cynical to be much upset by another proof of man’s capacity for meanness.

But for every man ready to roast the islanders over a slow fire, another wanted to free them and start the rebellion all over again. Marcus began to wish he had settled down to besiege the men of the Duchy in their motte-and-bailey, however wasteful of troops and time that was. He was sure they slipped into town from time to time; with Garsavra wall-less, it was impossible to keep them out. And their presence was a constant reminder to the Garsavrans of their brief rule. Every third housefront, it seemed, had “Drax the Protector” scrawled on it in charcoal or whitewash.

The tribune did his best to get his captives fit for travel east, thinking that once the bulk of them were out of Garsavra the turmoil would die down. He also wanted to show the townsfolk that the islanders themselves had to recognize the Empire’s superiority. The ceremony he worked out borrowed from both Roman and Videssian practices.

In the center of the marketplace he drove two
pila
butt-first into the ground, then lashed a third across them, a little below head height; he set a portrait of Thorisin Gavras atop the crosspiece. Then he gathered the Namdalener prisoners—all save Drax, his leading officers, and the luckless Martikes Zigabenos—in front of his creation in groups of ten. Legionaries with bared swords and Khatrisher archers stood between them and the watching Garsavrans.

“As you bend your necks to pass under this yoke,” Scaurus said to the prisoners—and to the crowd, “so do you yield yourselves up to the rightful Avtokrator of the Videssians, Thorisin Gavras.”

Group by group, the islanders subjugated themselves, stooping beneath the Roman spear and the image of the Videssian Emperor. As they emerged on the far side, Styppes swore each group to a frightful oath calling down curses on themselves, their families, and their clans if ever they warred against the Empire, or even sat silent while others spoke of such war. And group by group the Namdaleni swore, “On this we stake our very souls.” The healer-priest glowered at the form their oath took, but Marcus was well pleased. The men of the Duchy were more likely to obey an oath that followed their own usage than one imposed on them by the imperials.

The ritual of surrender went perfectly through about two-thirds of the Namdaleni. Then Styppes, in the middle of swearing yet another group to loyalty, swayed and collapsed. As he had been gulping from a large wineskin all through the ceremony, Marcus was more annoyed than concerned. There was a brief delay as a couple of Romans dragged him to one side and another pair hurried off to fetch the prelate of Garsavra, a white-bearded, affable man named Lavros.

Marcus rescued the written-out oath from where it had fallen by Styppes. Lavros quickly read it to himself, then nodded and started to administer it from the beginning to the waiting Namdaleni, who had been laughing and joking among themselves. Fayard, who happened to be in the group being sworn, called out, “Here now, your honor, we’ve done that bit already!”

“I doubt you’ll suffer any lasting harm from doing it again,” Lavros said, unruffled, and kept right on with the whole oath. The men of the Duchy made their pledge, and the ceremony went on.

Thirty Khatrishers accompanied the Namdalener prisoners Scaurus sent back to Videssos the city. They were as much to protect the islanders from Ras Simokattes’ irregulars as to keep them from escaping; Namdaleni who traveled through the countryside unarmed or in small parties took their lives in their hands.

Every so often the tribune worried about Bailli’s angry outburst at the edge of the southeastern hills. The men of the Duchy were beaten, but the guerillas showed no sign of shutting up shop. One problem at a time, Scaurus told himself, echoing Laon Pakhymer.

Bailli and his fellow officers were a problem in themselves. Marcus had not sent them east with the common soldiers, not caring to risk their getting away on the journey—they were too dangerous to run loose. He kept them shut up in the governor’s residence, waiting for an order from Thorisin on their fate. That solution was not ideal either, for as soon as the Garsavrans realized they were there the town broke out in new turmoil—or rather the same old one.

They had quarrels within their ranks as well; Mertikes Zigabenos sent Scaurus a request to be quartered apart from the Namdaleni who had made an unwilling Emperor of him. The tribune complied—he was much more sympathetic to Zigabenos’ plight than that of, say, Drax or Soteric. The only Namdalener marshal who roused his pity was Turgot of Sotevag, who was nearly out of his mind with worry over his mistress Mavia. Scaurus remembered her from the capital, a startlingly blonde girl less than half Turgot’s age. With the rest of the islanders’ women, she had stayed in Garsavra when they rode west against the Yezda and, Marcus thought, likely fled when news came of their defeat. That, he had seen after Maragha, was part of a mercenary’s life, too. But Turgot would not hear it, swearing she had promised to wait for him.

After a week of this, Drax’ patience wore thin. “And what’s a promise worth?” he snapped. When he heard of it, Marcus thought the remark showed more of the great count’s nature than he usually let through his self-possessed facade.

Imprisonment was not a usual Roman penalty, its place being taken
by corporal punishment, fines, or sentence of exile. Inexperienced jailers, the legionaries paid for learning the trade. One morning a shaking guardsman woke Scaurus to report Mertikes Zigabenos’ cell empty.

“A pox!” the tribune said, leaping off his sleeping-mat. Helvis murmured drowsily as he threw a mantle over his shoulders, then leaped up in alarm when he shouted for the buccinators to sound the alarm. By the time Dosti’s first frightened wail rang out, Marcus was already out in the
via principalis
setting up search teams.

Going through Garsavra house by house, he was gloomily aware, was a task that had been beaten before he began. And yet when the legionaries quickly found their fugitive, the news was no great delight. Zigabenos was on his knees at the altar of Garsavra’s main temple to Phos, which was set behind the city prelate’s home. Clinging to the holy table with hands pale-knuckled from the force of his grip, the reluctant Avtrokrator cried, “Sanctuary!” over and over, as loud as he could.

The tribune found a Roman squad standing uncertainly outside the temple doorway. A body of locals was gathering, too, plainly not willing to see Zigabenos dragged from the shrine by force. Nor did the legionaries seem eager to go in after him. Some of them had taken to Phos themselves since coming to the Empire, and temples were refuge-places in the Roman world as well.

Rubbing sleep from his eyes, Lavros the prelate arrived at the same time Marcus did. He placed himself in the entrance to block the tribune’s path. Making Phos’ sun-sign on his breast, he said loudly, “You shall not take this man away against his will. He has claimed sanctuary with the good god.” The swelling crowd shouted in support, pressing forward despite the Romans’ armor, swords, and spears.

“May I go in alone and speak with him, at least?” Scaurus asked.

His mild reply took Lavros by surprise. The senior priest considered, running the palm of his hand across his shaven skull. “Will you put aside your weapons?” he asked.

Marcus hesitated; he did not like the idea of parting with his potent Gallic blade. At last he said, “I will,” and stripped off sword and dagger. He handed them to his squad leader, a solid trooper named Aulus Florus. “Take care of these,” he said. Florus nodded.

As Lavros stood aside to let the tribune pass, he whispered, “And what’s all this in aid of?” Marcus shrugged; he heard the ghost of a laugh behind him as he stepped into the temple.

It was laid out like all of Phos’ shrines, with the altar in the middle under the dome, and seats radiating out in the four cardinal directions. The mosaic in the dome was a poor copy of the one that graced the High Temple in the capital. This Phos was stern in judgment, but not the awesome, spiritually potent figure that made any man unsure of his own worthiness.

A prickle of unease ran through the Roman as he came down the aisle. If Zigabenos had somehow armed himself … but the Videssian guards officer tightened his grasp on the altar still further and kept up his cry of, “Sanctuary! In Phos’ name, I claim sanctuary!”

“There’s but the one of me, Mertikes,” Marcus said. He spread his hands to show they were empty. “Can we talk?”

In the flickering candlelight Zigabenos’ eyes were haunted. “Shall I say aye, then, when you haul me off to the headsmen? Why should I ease your conscience for you?” A veteran of imperial politics, he knew the usual fate of failed rebels.

Marcus only waited, saying nothing. A painful sigh escaped Zigabenos. His shoulders sagged as the tribune’s silence let him realize how hopeless his position was. “Damn you, outlander,” he said at last, voice old and beaten. “What use to this farce, after all? Thirst or hunger will drive me out soon enough. Here; you have me, for what joy it brings you.” He let go the altar; Scaurus saw sweat beaded on the polished wood where his hands had been.

Seeing the clever Zigabenos succumbing thus to fate wrenched at the tribune. He blurted, “But you must have had some plan when you fled here!”

“So I did,” the Videssian said. His smile was bitter. “I would have yielded up my hair and turned monk. Even an emperor thinks three times before he sends the knives after a man sworn to Phos. But I was too quick—the shrine was dark and empty when I got here, with no priest to give my vow to. Wretched slugabeds! And now it’s you here instead. I always thought you a good soldier, Scaurus; I could wish I was wrong.”

Marcus hardly heard the compliment; he was shouting for Lavros. The prelate hurried toward him, concern overriding his usual good nature. “I hope you’ll not try to cozen me into believing this suppliant has changed his mind—”

“But I have, reverend sir,” Zigabenos began.

“No indeed,” Scaurus said. “Let it be just as he wishes. Fetch all the people in and let them see the man who was forced to play the role of Avtokrator now make amends for what he was compelled to do, by assuming the garments of your monks.”

Lavros and Mertikes Zigabenos both stared at him, the one in delight, the other in blank amazement. The priest bowed deeply to Scaurus and bustled up the aisle, calling to the crowd outside. “You’ll let me?” Zigabenos whispered, still unbelieving.

“Why not? What better way to get you out of the political life for good?”

“Thorisin won’t thank you for it.”

“Then let him look to himself. If he put Ortaias Sphrantzes in a blue robe after getting nothing but ill from him, he shouldn’t grudge you your life. You served him well until your luck tossed sixes at you.” Marcus felt an absurd pleasure at remembering the losing Videssian throw and being able to bring it out naturally.

“I threw my own ‘demons,’ trusting the Namdaleni too far.”

“So did Thorisin,” the tribune pointed out, and Zigabenos really smiled for the first time since Scaurus had reclaimed him from the Yezda.