Videssos Cycle, Volume 2 (53 page)

The taverner might have been thinking along with him. Two barmaids labored to keep the mugs of the throng round Senpat filled; two more, carrying large jugs of wine on their hips, went from table to table.

Nevrat held out her cup for a refill. Scaurus declined; his was still half full. Nevrat noticed. “You’re stinting tonight.”

“You should understand that, you and your sugarplums.”

She smiled. “Fair enough.” Then she grew serious, studying him like a theologian pondering a difficult text. She held her voice neutral as she remarked, “You have been drinking deep lately, haven’t you?”

“Too deep, maybe.”

Her face cleared. “I thought as much myself, but I doubted it was my place to say so. Although,” she added quickly, anxious that he take no offense, “no one could blame you, considering—”

“Aye, considering,” he finished for her. “Still and all, you can only look at the world from the inside of a bottle so long. After that, you just see the bottle.”

Remembering why he drank, he looked downcast enough for Nevrat’s dark brows to come together in concern. She reached out to touch his hand. “Is it still so bad?”

“I’m sorry.” He needed a deliberate effort to come back to himself. “I didn’t think it showed so much.”

“Oh, someone who passed you in the street might not notice,” she said, “but we’ve known each other some years now, you and I.”

“So we have.” Thinking about it, he realized he knew Nevrat and Senpat about as well as he did any non-Romans, knew Nevrat better than any woman in this world save Helvis—thinking of her made him grimace again, though he did not know it—and Alypia Gavra. And no imperial ceremonial hedged in Nevrat.

Before he quite realized it had, his hand tightened on hers. It was strange to feel a woman’s hand callused from the sword hilt, like his own; reins and the bow had also hardened Nevrat’s palm and fingers. She looked at him in surprise, but did not draw away.

Just then, Senpat finished his song. He scrambled down from the bar in spite of fresh shouts for more, saying, “No, no! Enough, my friends, enough!” The sound of his voice, unaccompanied by pandoura, made Marcus jerk back as if Nevrat’s hand had burst into flame.

“Well, well, how do we fare here?” Senpat said after he finally fought his way through the crush to the corner table. “What have you two been plotting while they held me hostage? Up to no good, I don’t doubt.”

The tribune was glad he still had wine in his cup. He drained it, which let him avoid answering.

After a tiny pause, Nevrat said, “No reason for you to doubt it.” She used the same noncommittal tone she had with Scaurus a few minutes before.

He winced. It must have been his conscience nipping at him, for Senpat noticed nothing amiss. He hefted his cap, which jingled with the copper and silver his audience had tossed in. “You see?” he said. “I should have been a minstrel after all.”

Nevrat’s snort told what she thought of that. “Put the money in your belt-pouch,” she said. “You’ll need your hat—the rain’s started again.”

“When does it ever stop, these days?” Senpat upended the cap; a couple of coins rolled off the table onto the floor. “Let be,” he said when Nevrat started to pick them up. “Something to make the sweepers happy.” He stowed his pandoura in a soft leather sack, then glanced at Marcus. “It’ll be dryer than you are, without a hat.”

“Dryer than any of us.” The reply sounded lame in the tribune’s ears, but it served well enough. Sometimes a laconic way had its advantages.

“Sometimes I think you take better care of your toy than you do of me,” Nevrat said, bantering much as she usually did.

“Why not?” Senpat came back. “You can take care of yourself.”

“I’m glad you think so.”

Nevrat’s answer was tart enough that Marcus half turned toward her, wondering if she might have meant it for him as well. Senpat only chuckled, saying, “Truly a viper’s tongue tonight.” He thrashed about, as
if bitten by a snake. Nevrat mimed throwing a plate at him, but she was laughing, too. Marcus’ lips twitched; Senpat was incorrigible.

He slung his pandoura over his shoulder, jammed his Vaspurakaner cap down as far as it would go on his head. He made for the door, Nevrat close behind him. Scaurus followed more slowly. He thought for a moment of staying until the rain let up, but that might take days. Besides, as he had said to Nevrat, after a while drinking grew to be for its own sake alone. He knew himself too well to pretend to be blind to that.

A Videssian tried to pull Nevrat into his arms. She swung away, plucked the wine cup from his hand, and, smiling sweetly, poured it over his head. “Never mind,” she said to Senpat, who had spun round, his hand darting to his knife. “I
can
take care of myself.”

“So I see.” He stayed wary, wondering if anyone would take it further. Marcus shouldered through the crowd to help at need.

The imperial was coughing and swearing, but the fellow next to him growled, “Stifle it, you fool. You had that coming, for fooling about with someone else’s woman.” The drenched man looked round for support and found none. With his music, Senpat was everyone’s hero tonight, even if he and his wife were outlanders.

Marcus gasped at the cold rain and briefly regretted deciding to leave. He turned up the collar of his coat to give the back of his head what protection he could, and looked down at the puddles growing between the cobblestones. That did not do much to keep the raindrops off his face.

Senpat and Nevrat splashed along beside him. Their heads were down, too. Scaurus’ eyes kept returning to Nevrat. He swore at himself under his breath and reflected that the man in the tavern who had upbraided the other Videssian might as well have been talking to him instead.

On the other hand, Nevrat had not upended a cup of wine on him, either. He dimly realized the state he was in, when so small a thing could be a reason for optimism.

The rain turned to sleet. A dripping courier brought a message to the tribune at his office in the Grand Courtroom. “Fancier digs than you had at Garsavra,” he said, handing Scaurus the parchment.

“Hmm? Oh, yes.” Marcus had not noticed it was the same man who had delivered Thorisin’s dispatch ordering him to the capital.

He broke the seal, felt mixed loneliness and pleasure at seeing angular Latin letters rather than the snaky Videssian script. As always, Gaius Philippus’ note was to the point; he found writing too hard to waste words. The scrawled message said, “The locals are paid off, them as didn’t die of shock. Now where’s
our
back wages?”

The tribune scribbled a reminder to himself. When he looked up, the courier was still there. “Yes?”

The fellow shifted his feet; water squelched. “Last time I saw you, you fed me hot wine,” he said pointedly.

“I’m sorry.” Marcus reddened. He took care of the rider, apologizing again for his discourtesy. It was not even that he resented the man for starting him on his disastrous journey; he had simply been thoughtless. In a way, that was worse.

Mollified at last, the courier gave him a salute before going off to deliver the rest of his dispatches. Scaurus, his conscience somewhat assuaged, decided not to let another chance to show good manners pass by.

“I’ve just had word you sent the Garsavrans the money the fisc owed them,” he said to Iatzoulinos. “I want to thank you for attending to it promptly.”

“Once you pointed out the urgency, I did my best to implement your request,” the bureaucrat said. What else was I going to do, with you looking over my shoulder? his eyes added silently, faint contempt in them. Marcus pursed his lips, annoyed that civility could be taken as a sign of weakness.

His voice hardened. “I trust you will also be punctual in seeing that the pay for the garrison at Garsavra—the garrison of my countrymen—does not fall into arrears.”

“Accounts for military expenditures are maintained in an entirely different ledger,” Iatzoulinos warned. “The policies of the present government have occasioned so many transfers of funds that I have difficulty being certain if this request can be expedited so readily as the last.”

The tribune’s tours in the chancery, especially this latest one, had made him understand how, to the pen-pushers who spent all their time here, ledgers became more real than the men whose deeds and needs
they recorded. Gaius Philippus would have another opinion about that, he thought.

He said, “Garsavra is important in holding the Yezda at bay. The Emperor would not care to hear of disaffection among the troops there. And, as I told you, I am one of them, and I know them. Their current commander is not a man to make an enemy of.”

“I will exert every effort,” Iatzoulinos said sulkily.

“A fine idea. If you work as hard to pay the Romans as you did for the people of Garsavra, I’m sure their wages will reach them very soon.”

Marcus gave the bureaucrat a friendly nod and returned to his desk. Iatzoulinos actually permitted a smile to touch his thin face for a moment, which let the tribune hope the warning had sunk home without stinging too much.

In spite of his gloom, he suddenly smiled himself. Iatzoulinos might think him a nuisance, but the pen-pusher would run shrieking from a meeting with Gaius Philippus.

“Three pieces of silver?” The leatherworker’s stare was scornful. “This is a fine belt, outlander. See the tooling? See the fine tanning? See how strong it is?” He tugged at it.

“It doesn’t come apart in your hands,” Scaurus observed dryly. “If it did, someone would have lynched you long since, and you would not be standing here trying to cheat me. Still, perhaps if I offered you four, you might be so ashamed at your ill-gotten gains that you would keep quiet and leave off letting the whole plaza of Palamas know what a thief you are.”

“I, a thief? Here you try to rob me without even drawing sword. Why, after the price I had to pay for the cowhide, after the hard labor I lavished on it, I would be stealing from my own children to let it go for seven.”

They eventually settled on six silver coins, a quarter of a goldpiece. Marcus was vaguely displeased; had his heart been in the haggle, likely he could have got the belt for five. He shrugged. He could not really make himself care. These days, there was not much he did care about.

At least he had the belt. The one he was wearing was old and frayed.
He unbuckled it, slid off his sword and dagger, and leaned them against his leg. Holding up his trousers with one hand, he began threading the new belt through the loops.

He was fumbling for the one behind his back when a cheery voice said, “Aye, that’s the hard one; I remember from the days when I wore breeches.”

“Nepos!” The tribune started, then had to make a quick grab to keep from losing his trousers—and his dignity. He whirled to face the priest, and his weapons fell clattering to the flagstones. His face scarlet, he stooped to retrieve them, and almost lost his pants again.

“Here, let me help you.” Nepos lifted Scaurus’ knife and sword out of the slush on the pavement. He waited until the tribune had the belt on, then handed them back to him.

“Thank you,” Marcus said stiffly. He did not want to have anything to do with Nepos, not after he had drugged him and then listened with Thorisin and Alypia as he bared his soul.

If Nepos sensed that, he did not show it. “Good to see you,” he said. “You’ve been as hard to catch as a cockroach lately. Do you just scuttle along the edges of the walls, or have you actually figured out a way to disappear into the wainscoting?”

“I haven’t had much use for people,” Marcus said lamely.

“Well, considering what you’ve been through, one could hardly blame you.” Seeing the Roman’s face freeze, Nepos realized the blunder he had made. “Oh, my dear fellow, your pardon, I pray you.”

“You will excuse me, I hope.” Voice as expressionless as his features, Scaurus turned to go.

“Wait! In Phos’ name, I beg you.”

Reluctantly, Marcus stopped. Nepos was not the sort of priest who kept his god’s name on his lips every moment of the day. When he called on Phos, he had important reason, or so he thought.

“What do you want with me?” The tribune could not contain his bitterness. “Haven’t you seen enough to glut you already?”

“My friend—if I may still call you such …” Nepos waited for some sign from Scaurus, but the tribune might have been carved from stone. Sighing, the priest went on, “Let me tell you how deeply I regret how that entire affair turned out … as does the Emperor himself, I might add.”

“Why? It didn’t hurt
him
any.”

Nepos frowned at the harsh way Marcus spoke of Thorisin, but continued earnestly, “But it did, in reducing you. His Majesty had the right to ensure you were involved in no sedition against him, but when it came to probing in such, uh, intimate detail into your private affairs …” Nepos hesitated again, casting about for some way to go on without doing more damage. Finding none, he finished, “He should have stopped his questions sooner.”

“He didn’t,” Marcus said flatly.

“No, and as I told you, he is sorry for it. But he is also stubborn—think back to the case of Taron Leimmokheir if you doubt that. And so he is slow in admitting any error, even to himself. Nevertheless, please note he has you in the same important post you held last year.”

“It’s not as important as the command at Garsavra,” the tribune said, still unwilling to believe.

“No, but fill it well, raise no further suspicions, and I daresay you will have your old rank back again come summer, when campaigning season is here again.”

“Easier for you to say than for Thorisin to do.”

Nepos sighed again. “You are a stubborn man, Scaurus—in gloom as in other things, I see. I leave you with a last bit of advice, then: judge by the event, not before it.”

Marcus blinked. Nepos’ admonition might have come from the lips of a Stoic philosopher. The priest bent his plump frame into a half-bow and departed. The wan winter sun gleamed off his naked pate.

Scaurus frowned, watching him go. Nepos might think him somber, but the priest was lighthearted himself, which probably made him double any good things Thorisin had said and halve the bad. If the Emperor really wanted him back in meaningful service, he could have restored him by now. No, the tribune thought, he was still out of favor with Thorisin—and that, as Nepos had recommended, was judging by the event.