Misplaced Legion (Videssos Cycle) (24 page)

While spatharios had the literal meaing of “sword-bearer,” it was a catch-all title, often with little more real meaning than “aide.” In young Ortaias’ case, that seemed just as well; he looked as if the effort of toting a sword would be too much for him.

He was, though, nothing if not an enthusiast. “I was fascinated
to see you successfully oppose the Namdaleni on foot,” he said. “In his
Art of Generalship
Mindes Kalokyres recommends plying them with arrows from afar and strongly implies they are invincible at close quarters. It’s a great pity he is a century in his grave; I should have like to hear his comments on your refutation of his thesis.”

“That would be interesting, I’m sure, your excellency,” Scaurus agreed, wondering how much of Ortaias’ speech he was understanding. The young noble spoke very quickly; this, coupled with his affected accent and his evident love for long words, made following his meaning a trial for someone with the tribune’s imperfect grasp of Videssian.

“Kalokyres is our greatest commentator on things military,” Ortaias’ uncle explained courteously. “Do sit down, both of you,” he urged. “Scaurus—” In Videssian it sounded more like Scavros. “—take some wine if you will. It’s a fine vintage, from the western province of Raban, and rather hard to come by in these sorry times.”

The pale wine poured silkily from its elegant alabaster carafe. Marcus sipped once for politeness’ sake, then a second time with real appreciation; this was more to his liking than any wine he’d yet sampled in Videssos.

“I thought you would enjoy it,” Vardanes said, drinking with him. “It’s a touch too piquant for me to favor ordinarily, but it is a pleasant change of pace.” Scaurus gave the Sevastos his reluctant admiration. It could hardly have been easy for him to learn the Roman’s taste in wine and then to meet it. The obvious effort Sphrantzes was making to put him at his ease only made him wonder further what the real object of this meeting might be.

Whatever it was, the Sevastos was in no hurry to get around to it. He spoke with charm and wit of bits of gossip that had crossed his path in the past few days and did not spare his fellow bureaucrats. “There are those,” he remarked, “who think the mark for a thing in a ledger is the thing itself.” Raising his cup to his lips, he went on, “It takes but a taste of the wine to see how foolish they are.”

The tribune had to agree, but noted how possessively Sphrantzes’ hand curled over the polished surface of the cup.

The Sevastos’ office was more richly furnished than Mavrikios Gavras’ private chambers, with wall hangings of
silk brocade shot through with gold and silver threads and upholstered couches and chairs whose ebony arms were inlaid with ivory and semiprecious stones. Yet the dominant impression was not one of sybaritic decadence, but rather of a man who truly loved his comforts without being ruled by them.

In Rome Marcus had known men who enjoyed having fish ponds set in their villas’ gardens, but he had never seen a decoration like the one on Sphrantzes’ desk—a globular tank of clear glass with several small, brightly colored fish darting through waterplants rooted in gravel. In a strange way, it was soothing to watch. The tribune’s eyes kept coming back to it, and Sphrantzes gazed fondly at his little pets in their transparent enclosure.

He saw Scaurus looking at them. “One of my servants has the duty of catching enough gnats, flies, and suchlike creatures to keep them alive. He’s certain I’ve lost my wits, but I pay him enough that he doesn’t say so.”

By this time the Roman had decided Sphrantzes’ summons masked nothing more sinister than a social call. He was beginning to muster excuses for leaving when the Sevastos remarked, “I’m glad to see no hard feelings exist between yourselves and the Namdaleni after your recent tussle.”

“Indeed yes! That is most fortunate!” Ortaias said enthusiastically. “The tenacity of the men of the Duchy is legendary, as is their fortitude. When linked to the specialized infantry skills you Ronams—”

“Romans,” his uncle corrected him.

“Your pardon,” Ortaias said, flushing. Thrown off his stride, he finished with the simplest sentence Scaurus had heard from him. “You’ll fight really well for us!”

“I hope so, your excellence,” Marcus replied. Interested by Vardanes’ mention of the islanders, he decided to stay a bit longer. Maybe the Sevastos would be forthcoming after all.

“My nephew is right,” the elder Sphrantzes said. “It would be unfortunate if there were a lasting grudge between yourselves and the Namdaleni. They have served us well in the past, and we expect the same of you. There is already too much strife within our army, too much talk of native troops as opposed to mercenaries. Every soldier is a mercenary, but with some, paymaster and king are one and the same.”

The tribune steepled his fingers without replying. The Sevastos’ last statement, as far as he was concerned, was nonsense, and dangerous nonsense at that. Nor did he think Sphrantzes believed it any more than he did—whatever else he was, Vardanes Sphrantzes was no fool.

He also wondered how Vardanes was using his “we” and “us.” Did he speak as head of the bureaucratic faction, as prime minister of all the Empire, or with the royal first person plural? He wondered if Sphrantzes knew himself.

“It’s regrettable but true,” the Sevastos was saying, “that foreign-born troops do not have the fairest name in the Empire. One reason is that they’ve so often had to be used against rebels from the back of beyond, men who, even on the throne, find no more dignity than they did in the hayseed robbers’ nests from which they sprang.” For the first time, his disdain rang clear.

“They have no breeding!” Ortaias Sphrantzes was saying. “None! Why, Mavrikios Gavras’ great-grandfather was a goatherd, while we Sphrantzai—” The cold stare Vandanes sent his way stopped him in confusion.

“Forgive my nephew once more, I beg you,” the Sevastos said smoothly. “He speaks with youth’s usual exaggeration. His Imperial Majesty’s family has been of noble rank for nearly two centuries.” But by the irony still in his voice, he did not find that long at all.

The conversation drifted back toward triviality, this time for good. A curiously indecisive meeting, Marcus thought on his way back to the barracks. He had expected the Sevastos to show more of his mind but, on reflection, there was no reason why he should do so to a man he felt to be of the opposite side. Then too, with one slip of the tongue his nephew probably had revealed a good deal more than the senior Sphrantzes wanted known.

Two other things occurred to the tribune. The first was that Taso Vones was a lucky acquaintance. The little Khatrisher had an uncanny knowledge of Videssian affairs and was willing to share it. The second was a conclusion he reached while wondering why he still distrusted Vardanes Sphrantzes so much. It was utterly in character, he decided, for the Sevastos to delight in keeping small, helpless creatures in a transparent cage.

A
S THE WEEKS PASSED AFTER
M
AVRIKIOS GAVRAS’ RINGING
declaration of war against Yezd, Videssos began filling with warriors mustered to wage the great campaign the Emperor had planned. The gardens, orchards, and other open spaces which made the imperial capital such a delight saw tent cities spring up on them like mushrooms after a rain. Every street, it seemed, had its contingent of soldiers swaggering along, elbowing civilians to one side, on the prowl for food, drink, and women … or simply standing and gaping at the wonders Videssos offered the newcomer’s eye.

Troops flowed in day after day. The Emperor pulled men from garrisons in towns he reckoned safe, to add weight to his striking force. A hundred men came from here, four hundred more from there, another two hundred from somewhere else. Marcus heard that Imbros’ troops had arrived and wondered if Skapti Modolf’s son was among them. Even the saturnine Haloga would be hard pressed to call the city a less pleasant place than Imbros.

The Empire’s own soldiers were not the only ones to swell Videssos to the bursting point. True to his promise, Mavrikios sent his neighbors a call for mercenaries against Yezd, and the response was good. Videssian ships sailing from Prista, the Empire’s watchport on the northern coast of the Videssian Sea, brought companies of Khamorth from the plains, and their steppe-ponies with them. By special leave, other bands of nomads were permitted to cross the Astris River. They came south to the capital by land, paralleling the seacoast
and, in the latter stage of their journey, following the route the Romans had used from Imbros. Parties of Videssian outriders made sure the plainsmen did not plunder the countryside.

Khatrish, whose border marched with Videssos’ eastern frontier, sent the Empire a troop of light cavalry. In gear and appearance they were about halfway between imperials and plainsdwellers, whose bloods they shared. Most of them seemed to have the outspoken cheeriness of Taso Vones. Scaurus had a chance to get acquainted with a fair number of them at a heroic feast the Khatrisher ambassador put together. Viridovix made the night memorable by throwing a Khamorth clear through a very stout wineshop door without bothering to open it first. Vones paid the repair costs out of his own pocket, declaring, “Strength like that deserves to be honored.”

“Foosh!” the Celt protested. “The man was a natural-born damn fool, the which is proven by the hardness of his head. For no other reason did he make so fine a battering ram.”

The Namdaleni also heeded the Empire’s rallying cry. The Duchy’s lean square-riggers brought Videssos two regiments to fight the Yezda. Getting them into the capital, however, was a tricky busines. Namdalen and the Empire were foes too recent for much trust to exist on either side. Mavrikios, while glad of the manpower, was not anxious to see Namdalener warships anchored at Videssos’ quays, suspecting the islanders’ piratical instincts might get the better of their good intentions. Thus the Namdaleni transshipped at the Key and came to the city in imperial hulls. The matter-of-fact way they accepted the Emperor’s solution convinced Marcus that all Gavras’ forebodings were justified.

“How right you are,” Gaius Philippus agreed. “They don’t so much as bother pretending innocence. If they got a quarter of a chance they’d jump Mavrikios without even blinking. He knows it, and they know he knows it. And on those terms they can deal with each other.”

For the Romans, spring and early summer were a time of adjustment, a time to find and to make their place in their new homeland. Their position in the army was never in doubt, not after the win over the men of the Duchy in their mock-combat. Marcus became the oracle of infantry. Almost daily, high-ranking Videssians or mercenary officers would appear at the Roman drills to watch and question. The tribune found it
flattering and ironically amusing, as he knew he was but an amateur soldier.

When other business kept him from leading the exercises, the duty of coping with observers fell on Gaius Philippus. The senior centurion got on well with fellow professionals, but did not suffer fools gladly. After one such meeting, he asked Scaurus, “Who’s the lanky half-shaved whiffet always hanging about? You know, the fellow with the book under one arm.”

“Ortaias Sphrantzes?” Marcus asked with a sinking feeling.

“That’s the one. He wanted to know how I heartened the men before a battle; and before I could get a word out of my mouth, he started a harangue he must have written himself, the stupid puppy. To win a battle after that speech, he’d need to be leading a crew of demigods.”

“You didn’t tell him so, I hope?”

“Me? I told him he should save it for the enemy—he’d bore them to death and win without a fight. He went away.”

“Oh.” For the next few days the tribune kept expecting poison in the radishes, or at least a summons from Ortaias’ uncle. But nothing happened. Either the young Sphrantzes had not told the Sevastos of his embarrassment, or Vardanes was resigned to his nephew stubbing his toes every now and again. Marcus judged it was the former; resignation was not an expression he could easily see on Vardanes Sphrantzes’ face.

Just as the Romans changed Videssian notions of military practice, the Empire’s way of life had its effect on them. To the tribune’s surprise, many of his men began to follow Phos. While he had nothing against Videssos’ faith, it also had no appeal for him. He worried lest the legionaries’ adoption of the Empire’s god was the first step in forgetting Rome.

Gaius Philippus shared his concern. “It’s not right, hearing the lads go, ‘Phos fry you!’ when someone trips over their feet. We should order them to stop that nonsense right now.”

Looking for more disinterested advice, the tribune put the question to Gorgidas. “An order? Don’t be absurd. You can tell a man what to do, but even your iron-fisted centurion can’t tell him what to think. They’ll only disobey if he tries. And if they don’t follow the one command, who’s to say they’ll follow the next? It’s easiest to ride a horse in the direction he’s already going.”

Scaurus felt the sense of the doctor’s words; the Greek articulated the conclusion he was reaching himself. But the certainty in Gorgidas’ next remark rocked him back on his heels. “Of course we’ll forget Rome—and Greece, and Gaul.”

“What? Never!” Marcus said with unthinking rejection.

“Come now, in your head you know I’m right, say your heart what it will. Oh, I don’t mean every memory of the world we knew will disappear; that’s truly impossible. But as the years pass, Videssos will lay its hand on us all, gently, yes, but the day will come when you discover you’ve forgotten the names of half your parents’ neighbors … and it won’t really bother you.” Gorgidas’ eyes were far away.

The tribune shivered. “You see a long way ahead, don’t you?”

“Eh? No, a long way behind. I tore my life up by the roots once before, when I left Elis to ply my trade at Rome. It gives me a sense of proportion you may not have.

“Besides,” the Greek went on, “eventually we’ll have a good many Videssians in our own ranks. Apokavkos is doing well, and we’ll not find more Romans to make up the losses we’ll take.”