Lord of Janissaries (87 page)

Apelles knew this and many more details of the royal wedding, down to the very undergarments the Wanaxxae would be wearing on this day. As Yanulf’s right hand, he had been set to more labors than Hercules in the matter of the wedding.

Once he had ventured to ask, “I know that the Lord Publius Caesar has no living wife and that his sister is not well enough to make such a long journey so late in the year. Yet could not much of what has fallen to me have been done as well by the Eqetassa of Chelm or the Lady Cyra?”

“Lady Tylara will be chief among the bride’s attendants at the wedding,” Yanulf had replied. “Until then, her duties as Justiciar of Drantos and mistress of the Captain General’s household will prevent her from doing as much as I am sure she would wish to do.

“As for Lady Cyra, she too has much to occupy her in the Lady Octavia’s household. Also, she knows little of Roman customs and might give offense without meaning it.”

It was then and remained now Apelles’ opinion that Lady Cyra knew a great deal about Roman customs and was utterly opposed to seeing any of them introduced into the Court of Drantos. The Chancellor’s tone of voice had spoken whole scrolls about the unwisdom of saying this aloud.

At least his labors had obtained for Apelles a good place in the hall, into which half the Realm seemed to have crowded and in which half the Realm had certainly sought places. The only people closer to the altar than the row in which Apelles stood were the attendants of the bride and groom and the guardsmen double-ranked across the hall between the altar and the guests.
A long way for a swineherd to come.

Incense rose in a cloud. So did Polycarp’s thin voice.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today in the sight of Yatar Dayfather, Christ His Son, Holy Hestia the Mother of Christ, and this noble congregation, to join this man and this woman in Holy Matrimony, which is an honorable estate—”

Apelles felt someone prodding him in the ribs. The dignity of the occasion kept him from prodding back. Instead he turned his head as far as he could, to see Eyan son of Fnor, the guardsman assigned him as a messenger. At least that was Yanulf’s tale; after seeing how many other “messengers” were scattered through the crowd, Apelles suspected they were really there to keep watch on those guests out of sight or reach of the Guards before the altar.

“What of Vothan?” Eyan muttered. “I like not this casting out of the Warlord.”

“What casting out?” said Apelles. “It is written, that when the Christ was upon Earth, he said, ‘I come to bring not peace, but a sword.’ Who else would say that, but Vothan? It is also written that he was hung upon a cross and seemed to die, yet rose again wiser than before. Is that not also said of Vothan?”

“They also call the Christ ‘Prince of Peace,’ ” said Eyan.

“Has this ever kept the Romans from fighting?” replied Apelles. “Or made them fight less fiercely when they marched against us?” Eyan shook his head with a wry grin.

“Even the starmen are Christians,” Apelles went on. “And do they not enjoy the blessings of Vothan?”

“The starmen are Christians?” Eyan frowned.

“Yes, and from his first day in our land the Lord Rick has always honored Yatar and Vothan as well as Christ.”

“That is true,” said Eyan slowly. He seemed to want to say more, but Apelles saw the looks their whispered conversation was beginning to draw. He waved the Guardsman to silence.

Very likely he had awakened as many doubts in the man as he’d laid to rest. Not just in Eyan.
I am no warrior, but it would be a harsh world indeed if brave men had no hope of guesting with One-eye Vothan after dying in battle.

Polycarp droned on. “—but reverently, discreetly, soberly, and in the fear of Yatar and Christ, duly considering the causes for which matrimony was ordained.

“First, it was ordained for the increase of mankind, according to the will of Yatar and Christ, and that children might be brought up in the fear and nurture of Them, and to the praise of Their Holy names. . . .”

* * *

Tylara shifted restlessly.

“Thirdly, it was ordained for the mutual society, help, and comfort, that the one ought to have of the other, both in prosperity and adversity.

“Into which holy estate, these two persons present come now to be joined. . . .”

If the Lady Gwen had not been standing close beside her, Tylara would have shut her eyes.
That is as it should be. As it was. And I have forfeited the love of the gods, and worse, of my husband.

I have betrayed them all. Yet what could I have done?

The thoughts raced through her head in well-worn grooves, raced endlessly. Caradoc. Loyal to Tylara and her house. Married to the faithless Gwen. And Gwen’s true husband returning from the stars, returning with a star ship and
skyfire
. With the means to lay waste all Rick had built.

What could I do?

Kill the Star Lord Les? And as he died his ship would send
skyfire
. So said Rick. And she had seen the ship. It could do all Rick said, and more.

Kill the Lady Gwen?
I owe her nothing. Yet the University is more than nothing. It may be the only inheritance I can leave my children. So say the legends of the Time. So says Rick.

But Caradoc and Les must not meet.

It had been simple enough. Coded orders to the Children of the Eighth House of Vothan. And waiting, which was worse than any battle, wait and wait and—

And comes the news, of a riot and a horse that stumbled, and her protector and rescuer—

Rescue. Sarakos had read her aright, curse him; in the end she would have broken, begging to please him if that would earn her a swifter end. . . . Until Caradoc came, and with Yanulf led her through the caves of Yatar, and away.

And now he was dead. Of an accident. And none knew. My husband probably does not even suspect; he does not think like a Tran lord.

None but me. And it will be me the gods judge. Not my instruments. Yatar forgive the Children. They acted for me. They know no better.

If anyone learns. Blood feud with those most loyal to our house. And no matter. I have brought cold and ruin to our marriage. And what right have I to “mutual society, comfort, and help,” in the eyes of the gods or anyone else?

She did not close her eyes, but she kept them fixed on the rush-strewn floor, fearful of what she might see if she looked up.

* * *

“Octavia Marselia Caesar, wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together according to the laws of Yatar and Christ in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love him, comfort him, honor, obey, and keep him, in sickness and health; and forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”

“I will.”

Publius’ frown deepened. He had been frowning ever since Yanulf began to speak. It was infuriating that a Roman archbishop should have such a pitiful excuse for a voice while a barbarian priest could thunder like a centurion drilling an entire cohort. Now this damned promise by Octavia to
obey
her husband!

The barbarians must have put that in their new marriage ceremony on purpose, to cut away his own authority over his daughter. Matters should have been left so that in any dispute between Drantos and Rome, Caesar’s house could invoke the
patria potestas
it held over Drantos’ Queen.

They would have been left that way, too, if someone among the barbarians hadn’t as good as read Publius’ mind and added that little word! Or was it someone among the barbarians?

Frugi. Yes! That contemplative smile must hide treachery; that gilded legate’s breastplate hides a heart gone over to the barbarians. Who else could it be, but the man who had allowed the Fourth Legion to hail a barbarian king as “Imperator”?

Frugi. You command here. Once in Rome it will be different.

And yet. He is loyal to my father, and he is a good general. Rome has need of generals. Flaminius the Dotard killed his best commanders—and now his bones wash down the Tiber.

And I have no heir. None but Octavia. She will have need of generals no less than I.

So. Live, Titus Frugi. And I will watch you, and send you where I have need.

Publius smiled thinly, hoping that a time would come when he could tell Lucius about this moment. His old tutor had always urged him to think before he spoke, and often doubted that he would ever learn.

* * *

“Forasmuch as Ganton son of Loron, Wanax of Drantos, and Octavia Marselia Caesar have consented together in holy wedlock, and have witnessed the same before Yatar, Christ, and this noble company, and thereto have given and pledged their troth to each other—”

Gwen Tremaine felt her eyes ready to overflow.

Stop it, you twit. Do you want Tylara to see you crying?

I always cry at weddings.

How many have you attended?

Well, there was Beth Allison’s, there’s this one, and both of my own.

You call marrying Les a wedding?

You want to argue with Yanulf? Or Les?

The voice was silent. Gwen blinked, thinking that maybe she wasn’t going to cry after all but glad that here on Tran there was no mascara to run if she did. Drantos women used no makeup, although they did use perfume. They were better off than the Roman ladies, who used cosmetics McCleve had said were mostly lead-based. A good thing Octavia seems to be adopting the Drantos custom, but then at nine Tran or fifteen Earth years old she hardly needed makeup.

Octavia and Ganton made a handsome young couple, no doubt about it. Octavia would never be beautiful. But she’s tall! With that red hair and those legs everyone notices her. And she may not be through growing! Ganton looked almost too hefty in his royal robes, but Gwen had seen him working out in the courtyard with that battle-axe of his; she knew all that bulk was iron-hard muscle.

The tears threatened again as Gwen thought of Octavia’s luck—from hostage to queen in a single year, and from a dynastic match to a love match. She’d been more or less handed to Ganton like a suckling pig on a platter, but she’d found she could love him, and now she would have him by her side every day and night.

Gwen had picked her own husband, got on board a flying saucer because she loved him, and now she was going to have him with her about a month out of every two Earth years.

Not fair, dammit! So who said the Universe is fair? Or cares?

“—I pronounce that they be man and wife together, in the name of Yatar Dayfather, Christ His Son, and the Blessed Hestia Mother of Christ. Amen.”

The tears overflowed. Gwen didn’t fight them, because she saw that Tylara was crying too.

* * *

The wedding party flowed out to the sound of drums and trumpets. A Guards captain shouted importantly.

“Gunners! Salute!”

Goddamn twenty-one-gun salute. Sure wish I had that much gunpowder at Westrook. I got a feeling I’ll need it.

The cannon drowned out the thump of the Guards’ boots and the thud of their musket butts as they formed a double line from the cathedral door to the waiting carriage.

Ben Murphy waited, hand on the hilt of his sword, until the man beside him started to move toward the aisle formed by the Guards.
Lord Enipses. I think. I sure better start learning all the names and faces and estates. Another part of good manners I never thought of. But bad manners can sure get you killed. And I always thought being a landlord was easy.

It looked as if half the high muckety-mucks in the kingdom were coming to stand between the Guards. Not just the Drantos nobles, but Romans too, Publius and Titus Frugi, to start with. Mercs. The Captain, Elliot, Art Mason, and the rest. Except for the guys with scoped rifles up in the towers.

Ganton and Octavia reached the top of the great stone stairway. Rick nodded to Elliot.

“Wedding party—draw—swords!”

Murphy drew, pulling the draw slightly to keep from ramming the sword’s point between Hilaskos’ teeth. What sounded like a whole battery of guns went off. Murphy could smell powder smoke. Then people were cheering, Ganton was lifting the veil from Octavia’s face and kissing her a lot more enthusiastically than ceremony required, and the newlyweds were marching down the stairs under the arch of swords.

Murphy kept eyes front but knew when Ganton and Octavia reached the courtyard gateway and the crowd out in the capital streets saw them. Even Elliot couldn’t have out-shouted that cheering. Then each pair in the arch in turn sheathed their swords, as Yanulf and Polycarp came down the aisle. It looked as if Yanulf were supporting the Archbishop, but both of them were smiling and looked as if they’d just married off favorite children. Murphy found himself reaching for rosary beads he hadn’t worn since he was a boy as he went through a Hail Mary he hadn’t said more than a couple of times since.

Maybe old Polycarp had really had a vision from Somebody Upstairs. Even if there wasn’t anybody upstairs to send visions, it made sense if Rome and Drantos were going to be allies.

It’s got to be better than Ulster. Lord God. Anything is.

* * *

The Roman buccinae bellowed, the drums rolled, and the Praetorian cohort just ahead of Art Mason stepped off. He looked back along his mounted Guardsmen formed up in a column of fours.
Sharp troops. Maybe not up to what the Romans can do, but sharp enough considering they were plowboys a year ago.

“Pass in review!”

The crowd cheered as the Praetorians came out onto the field. It sounded just like a football crowd back home—and come to think of it, they’d have called this real good football weather, back home. With a little imagination Mason could think he was in the grandstand, watching the Sailors take the field for the kickoff.

Make that a lot of imagination. The sky was the wrong shade of blue; the hills beyond the Edre were the wrong colors, the smell on the wind was roast meat, gunpowder, wood smoke, and unwashed people, and the music wasn’t any brass band that ever showed up at a football game.

The signal gun bellowed. Thank God they were just using a little one-pounder and weren’t firing the bombards anymore. They must have used up half the gunpowder in Drantos in salutes.