Misplaced Legion (Videssos Cycle) (20 page)

Behind the Sevastos, the patriarch, and his family, the Emperor mounted the twelve steps up onto the arena’s spine. Each compay of soldiers presented arms to him as he passed, the Khamorth and native Videssians drawing empty bows, the Halogai lifting their axes in salute, and the Namdaleni and at last the Romans holding their spears out at arm’s length before them.

Thorisin Gavras gave Marcus an eager, predatory grin as he walked by. His thoughts were easy to read—he wanted to fight Yezd, Scaurus had furnished a valid reason for fighting, and so the Roman stood high in his favor. Mavrikios was more complex. He said something to Scaurus, but the crowd’s din swept it away. Seeing he could not hope to make himself understood, the Emperor shrugged almost sheepishly and moved on.

Gavras halted for a few seconds at the base of his speaking platform while his retinue, parasols bobbing, arranged themselves around it. And when the Emperor’s foot touched its wooden step, Marcus wondered whether Nepos and his wizardly colleagues had worked a potent magic or whether his ill-used ears had given out at last. Sudden, aching silence fell, broken only by the ringing in his head and the thin shout of a fishmonger outside the arena: “Fre-esh squi-id!”

The Emperor surveyed the crowd, watching it settle back into its seats. The Roman thought it hopeless for one man to be heard by so many, but he knew nothing of the subtlety Videssian craftsmen had invested in their amphitheater. Just as the center of the spine was the focus where every sound in the arena reverberated, so words emanating from that one place were plain throughout.

“I’m not the man for fancy talk,” the Emperor began, and Marcus had to smile, remembering how, in a Gallic clearing not so long ago, he had used a disclaimer like that to start a speech.

Mavrikios went on, “I grew up a soldier, I’ve spent all my life among soldiers, and I’ve come to prize a soldier’s frankness. If it’s rhetoric you’re after, you don’t have far to look today.” He waved his hand to take in the rows of seated bureaucrats. The crowd chuckled. Turning his head, Scaurus saw Vardanes Sphrantzes’ mouth tighten in distaste.

Though unable to resist flinging his barb, the Emperor did not sink it deeply. He knew he needed such unity as he could find in his divided land and spoke next in terms all his subjects could understand.

“In the capital,” he said, “we are lucky. We are safe, we are well fed, we are warded by walls and fleets no land can match. Most of you are of families long-settled in the city and most of you have lacked for little in your lives.” Marcus thought of Phostis Apokavkos, slowly starving in Videssos’ slums. No king, he reflected, not even one so recent and atypical as Mavrikios, could hope to learn of all his country’s troubles.

The Emperor was only too aware of some of them, however. He continued, “In our western lands, across the strait, they envy you. For a man’s lifetime now, Yezd’s poisons have spilled into our lands, burning our fields, killing our farmers, sacking and starving cities and towns, and desecrating the houses of our god.

“We’ve fought the followers of Skotos whenever we could catch them laden with their plunder. But they are like so many locusts; for every one that dies, two more spring up to take his place. And now, in the person of their ambassador, they spread their canker even into Videssos itself. Avshar the Phos-forsaken, unable to withstand one soldier of the Empire in
honest combat, cast his web of deception over another and sent him like a viper in the night to murder the man he dared not face in open battle.”

The multitude he addressed growled ominously, a low, angry sound, like the rumble just before an earthquake. Mavrikios let the rumble build a moment before raising his arms for silence.

The anger in the Emperor’s voice was real, not some trick of speechmaking. “When his crime was found out, the beast of Yezd fled like the coward he is, with more of his unclean magic to cover his trail—and to once more kill for him so he need not face danger himself!” This time the crowd’s ire did not subside at once.

“Enough, I say, enough! Yezd has struck too often and taken too few blows in return. Its brigands need a lesson to learn by heart: that while we are patient with our neighbors, our memory for wrongs is also long. And the wrongs Yezd has given us are far beyond forgiveness!” His last sentence was almost drowned by the rancor of the crowd, now nearly at the boil.

Scaurus’ critical side admired the way the Emperor had built up his audience’s rage step by step, as a mason erects a building with course after course of bricks. Where the Roman had drawn on the speeches he made before becoming a soldier to hearten his troops, Gavras was using his memory of field orations to stir a civilian crowd. If the bureaucrats were the models the people of the city were used to, Mavrikios’ gruff candor made for an effective change.

“War!” the assemblage shouted. “War! War!” Like the savage tolling of an iron bell, the word echoed and re-echoed in the amphitheater. The Emperor let the outcry last as long as it would. Perhaps he was enjoying to the fullest the rare concord he had brought into being; perhaps, thought Marcus, he was trying to use this outpouring of hatred for Yezd to overawe the bureaucrats who opposed his every action.

At last the Emperor raised his hands for quiet, and slowly it came. “I thank you,” he told the throng, “for bidding me do what is right in any case. The time for half-measures is past. This year we will strike with all the strength at our command; when next you see me here, Yezd will be a trouble no more!”

The arena emptied after a last rousing cheer, people still
buzzing with excitement. Only after the last of them had gone could the guard units, too, stand down and return to their more usual duties.

“What did you think?” Scaurus asked Gaius Philippus as they marched back toward the barracks.

The senior centurion rubbed the scar on his cheek. “He’s good, there’s no doubt of that, but he’s not Caesar, either.” Marcus had to agree. Mavrikios had fired the crowd, yes, but Scaurus was sure the Emperor’s foes within the government had neither been convinced by his words nor intimidated by the passions he had roused. Such theatrics meant nothing to cold calculators like Sphrantzes.

“Besides,” Gaius Philippus unexpectedly added, “it’s foolhardy to speak of your triumphs before you have them in hand.” And to that thought, too, the tribune could take no exception.

“
T
HERE’S A
N
AMDALENER OUT FRONT WANTS TO SEE YOU,”
Phostis Apokavkos told Scaurus on the morning of the second day after the Emperor’s declaration of war. “Says he’s Soteric somebody’s son.”

The name meant nothing to Marcus. “Did he say what he wanted of me?”

“No; didn’t ask him, either. Don’t much like Namdaleni. Far as I can see, the most of them aren’t any more than so many—” and Apokavkos swore a ripe Latin oath.

The ex-farmer was fitting in among the Romans even better than Marcus could have hoped when he plucked him from his miserable life in Videssos’ thieves’ quarter. His face and frame were losing their gauntness, but that was only to be expected with regular meals.

It was, however, the least of his adaptation. Having been rejected by the nation that gave him birth, he was doing everything he could to become a full part of the one that had taken him in. Even as the Romans had learned Videssian to make life within the Empire easier, Phostis was picking up Latin to blend with his new surroundings. He was working hard with the thrusting-sword and throwing-spear, neither of them weapons he was used to.

And … Marcus’ brain finally noticed what his eyes had been telling him. “You shaved!” he exclaimed.

Apokavkos sheepishly rubbed his scraped jaw. “What of it? Felt right odd, being the only hairy-cheeks in the barracks. I’ll never be pretty, with whiskers or without. Can’t see why you
people bother, though—hurts more than it’s worth, if you ask me. But my naked chin isn’t what I came to show you. Are you going to talk to that damned Namdalener, or shall I tell him to take himself off?”

“I’ll see him, I suppose. What was it that priest said a few days ago? ‘Knowledge is never wasted.’ ” Just listen to you, he thought; anyone would think it was Gorgidas talking.

Leaning comfortably against the side of the barracks hall, the mercenary from the eastern islands did not seem much put out at having had to wait for Scaurus. He was a solidly built man of middle height, with dark brown hair, blue eyes, and the very fair skin that bespoke the northern origins of the Namdaleni. Unlike many of his countrymen, he did not shear the back of his head, but let his hair fall in long waves down to the nape of his neck. Marcus doubted he could be more than a year or two past thirty.

When he recognized the tribune, he straightened and came up to him, both hands extended for the usual Namdalener clasp. Scaurus offered his own, but had to say, “You have the better of me, I’m afraid.”

“Do I? I’m sorry; I gave your man my name. I’m Soteric Dosti’s son, from Metepont. In the Duchy, of course.”

Apokavkos had forgotten Soteric’s patronymic, but the mercenary’s name meant no more to Scaurus with it. But the Roman had heard of his native town somewhere before. “Metepont?” he groped. Then he found the memory. “Hemond’s home?”

“The same. More to the point, Helvis’ as well. She’s my sister, you see.”

And Marcus did see, once he knew of the relationship. Helvis had not mentioned her brother in his hearing, or her father’s name to let him guess the kinship, but now it was easy to pick out Soteric’s resemblance to her. That their coloring was alike was not enough; many Namdaleni had similar complexions. But Soteric had a harder version of Helvis’ ample mouth, and his face, like hers, was wide with strong cheekbones. His nose, on the other hand, was prominent enough to make any Videssian proud, where hers was short and straight.

He realized he was staring rudely. “Your pardon. Will you
come in and tell me your business over an early mug of wine?”

“Gladly.” Soteric followed the tribune into the barracks; Scaurus introduced him to the legionaries they passed. The Namdalener’s greetings were friendly, but Marcus noticed he was unobtrusively taking the measure both of the Romans and of the hall in which they lived. It did not upset the tribune—he would have done the same.

When they sat, Soteric picked a chair whose back faced no doors. With a smile, Marcus said, “Now that you’re quite sure you won’t be suddenly killed, will you risk a glass of red with me? I think it’s too sweet, but everyone hereabouts swears by it.”

Soteric’s clear skin made his flush easy to see. “Am I as easy to read as that?” the Namdalener asked, shaking his head ruefully. “I’ve been long enough among the Videssians to mistrust my own shadow, but not long enough, it seems, to keep the fact to myself. Yes, the red will do excellently, thank you.”

They sipped a while in silence. The barracks hall was almost empty, as most of the Romans were at their exercises. As soon as he saw the Namdalener come in the front way, Phostis Apokavkos had vanished out the back, wanting nothng more to do with the mercenary.

Finally Soteric put down his wine and looked at Marcus over his steepled fingertips. “You aren’t what I thought you’d be,” he said accusingly.

“Ah?” To a statement of that sort, no real answer seemed possible. The Roman lifted his glass to his lips once more. The wine, he thought, really was sticky.

“Hemond—Phos rest him—and my sister both claimed you had no patience for the poisonous subtlety the Empire so loves, but I own I didn’t believe them. You were too friendly by half with the Videssians and too quick to win the Emperor’s trust. But having met you, I see they were right after all.”

“I’m glad you think so, but in fact my subtlety is so great you take it for frankness.”

Soteric flushed again. “I had that coming.”

“You would know better than I. Don’t think too little of your own delicacy, either; it’s half an hour now, and I have no
more idea of why you’re here than when I first set eyes on you.”

“Surely you must know that—” the Namdalener began, but then he saw he was judging Marcus by the standards of his own people. “No, there’s no reason why you should,” he decided, and explained, “Our custom is to offer formal thanks to the man who brings a slain warrior’s sword back to his family. Through Helvis, I am Hemond’s closest male kin here, so the duty falls on me. Our house is in your debt.”

“You would be deeper in my debt if I hadn’t seen Hemond that morning,” Marcus said bitterly. “You owe me no debt, but rather I one to you. Thanks to that unlucky meeting, a man who was becoming my friend is dead, a fine woman widowed, and a lad I didn’t even know existed is an orphan. And you speak of debts?”

“Our house is in your debt,” Soteric repeated, and Marcus realized the obligation was real to him, whatever the circumstances. He shrugged and spread his hands, unwillingly accepting it.

Soteric nodded, his part in the Namdalener usage satisfactorily completed. Marcus thought he would now rise and take his leave, but he had other things on his mind besides his custom-assumed debt.

He poured himself a second glass of wine, settled back in his seat, and said, “I have some small rank among my countrymen, and I speak for all of us when I tell you we’ve watched your men on the practice field. You and our cousins the Halogai are the only folk we know who prefer to fight on foot. From what we’ve seen, your style of war is different from theirs, and a good deal more precise. Would you be interested in exercising your men against ours and showing us some of what you know? We’re horsemen by choice, true, but there are times and terrains where fighting has to be on foot. What say you?”

Here was a proposal to which the tribune could agree with pleasure. “We might learn something from you as well,” he said. “Your warriors, from the little I know of them, are brave, well armed, and better ordered than most of the troops I’ve seen here.”

Soteric dipped his head, acknowledging the compliment.
After a few minutes of discussion to find a time and day suitable to Romans and Namdaleni alike, they arranged to meet three days hence, three hundred men to a side. “Would you care to lay a stake on the outcome?” Soteric asked. Not for the first time, Marcus thought that the Namdaleni seemed fond of betting.