Misplaced Legion (Videssos Cycle) (39 page)

Scaurus sat at Gagik Bagratouni’s right, between the general and his chief aide, a man of early middle years named Mesrop Anhoghin, who was even more thickly bearded than his commander. At Bagratouni’s left, confirming Senpat Sviodo’s words, was the general’s wife Zabel, a plump, comfortable lady whose few words of Videssian were mostly an apology for not knowing more. Anhoghin’s command of the imperial tongue was not much better. As a result, Gagik Bagratouni had the tribune’s conversation almost entirely to himself, something Marcus soon began to suspect he had arranged deliberately.

The general—
nakharar
, he styled himself in his own language; it meant warrior-prince—had a hunger for knowledge of the world’s far reaches that rivaled Gorgidas’. Perhaps, thought Scaurus, it sprang from his effort to grow beyond the limits of the isolated land in which he’d come to manhood. Whatever the reason, he bombarded the Roman with questions not only touching on matters military, but also about his native land, its people, what the city of Videssos was like, even what it was like to see the ocean. “Never have I seen it,” he remarked sadly. “Rivers, yes, lakes, those yes, too, but never the sea.”

“Did I see his honor ask you about the sea?” asked Viridovix, who was a few seats away. At Marcus’ nod, the Gaul said earnestly, “Tell him it’s a fit province for lunatics, and precious little else. A boat’s no more than a prison, with the risk of drowning besides.”

“Why says he that?” Gagik asked. “On rivers and lakes I enjoy to fish in a boat.”

“He suffers from seasickness,” Scaurus answered, and then had to explain the concept to Bagratouni. The Vaspurakaner tugged his beard as he considered the Roman’s words; Marcus wondered if he thought he was being made sport of.

Dessert consisted of fruit and some interesting pastry balls, a mixture of wheat flour, ground dates, and minced almonds, covered over with powdered sugar. This last was a discovery for the Romans, for the Videssians sweetened with honey, even as they did themselves. Reaching for about his fourth, Gorgidas remarked, “It’s as well I don’t see these more often, lest I bulge with lard.”

“Bah!” Gaius Philippus said. “Why is it always the skinny ones who complain?” Only the hard life he led kept the centurion from losing the battle with his belly.

“Not only are they very good,” said Quintus Glabrio, licking his fingers, “but they look as if they’d keep well, and they’re so rich a few would feed a man for some time. They’d be good travelers’ fare.”

“So they would and so they are. You are one who sees the importance in things, then? That is good,” Bagratouni rumbled approvingly. “We of Vaspurakan often on journeys carry them.”

“The Videssians do, too,” Senpat Sviodo told him with a grin. “They call them ‘princes’ balls.’ ” The Romans and most of the Vaspurakaners snorted; Gagik Bagratouni looked blank. Senpat translated the pun into his native language. The
nakharar
blinked, then he and his wife began to laugh at the same time. When Zabel laughed it was easy to see how the lines had come to crease her features; her face was made for laughter. Gagik smiled at her fondly. She was far from beautiful, but in her own way lovely.

“Do they indeed?” her husband chuckled. “Do they indeed?”

After the dessert was finished, someone called to Senpat,
“Give us a tune, there, since you’ve brought your pandoura along.”

“Fair enough,” he said. “Who’s with me?” One of the Vaspurakaners had a flute; a quick search of the house turned up a small hand-drum for another volunteer. And with no more ado than that they struck up a song of their mountain homeland. All the Vaspurakaners seemed to know the words and clapped out the beat with their hands. Senpat’s fingers danced over the strings of his instrument; his strong clear tenor helped lead the singers. Gagik Bagratouni sang with enthusiasm and great volume, but even Marcus could tell that the
nakharar
could not carry a tune in a bucket.

The tribune felt isolated, both by his indifference toward music in general and his ignorance of this music in particular. He wondered what Helvis would make of it and had another twinge of conscience over not bringing her with him. To his untrained ear, most of the songs had a defiant air to them, as befit the resilient folk who gave them birth.

As the musicians played on, the Vaspurakaners got up from the table one by one and began to dance, either with the ladies who accompanied them or with some of Gagik Bagratouni’s servinggirls. The slates of the courtyard rang to boot heels stamping in intricate rhythms. Bodies swayed, sinuous and sinewy at the same time. The dancers were a physical expression of what they heard, Marcus thought with surprise, and began to understand the grip strong music could take, even if he failed to feel it himself.

Viridovix, now, was taken hard by it, watching and listening as if in a trance. When at length Senpat and his fellows struck up a particularly sprightly tune, the Celt could stand—or rather sit—no more. He rose to join the dancers.

He did not try to imitate their steps, dancing instead in his native Gallic style. Where their upper bodies shifted to the music, he was almost still above the waist, his arms motionless at his sides while his legs and feet twinkled in the complex figures of his dance. He leaped, spun, checked himself seemingly in midair, spun in the other direction, leaped again. His movements were utterly dissimilar to those of the dancers round him, yet strangely complementary as well.

A few at a time, the Vaspurakaners formed a circle around Viridovix, clapping him on. The musicians played faster and
faster, but the Gaul was equal to the challenge, whirling and capering like a man possessed. As the music reached a fiery pitch, he capped his dance by springing almost his own height into the air. He let out a great shout at the top of his leap and came back to earth with a final splendid flourish.

The clapping turned from time-keeping to applause, in which all those still in their seats heartily joined. “Marvelous, marvelous!” Gagik exclaimed. “That step I should like to learn, were I less stiff in knee and thick of belly. Marvelous!” he repeated.

“I thank your honor,” Viridovix panted; his exertions had deeply flushed his fair skin. He brushed sweat from his forehead. “Thirsty work it is, too. Would you be so kind as to fetch me a cup of wine, love?” he asked one of the serving-maids in the circle around him. Marcus noticed he chose a girl who had hardly been able to keep her eyes off him as he danced. The big Celt might be slipshod about some things, but where wenching was concerned he noted every detail.

“Thank you, lass,” the Gaul purred as the girl brought his drink. He slipped an arm around her in what could have passed for no more than thanks, but when she moved closer to him instead of away he gathered her in with practiced efficiency.

“Your friend is as good as his word,” Senpat Sviodo remarked to the tribune.

“I was thinking the same thing myself,” Marcus laughed.

One of Bagratouni’s retainers came trotting into the courtyard with some word for his master. He spoke in throaty Vaspurakaner, so Scaurus, sitting by the
nakharar
, could not understand what he said, but the Roman did catch the name Zemarkhos mentioned several times. Gagik Bagratouni’s black brows lowered in anger. He asked a curt question of his guardsman, who nodded.

Bagratouni’s scowl grew darker yet. He sat a moment in thought, his hands tangled in his thick beard. Then he snapped out a string of quick orders. The guard, startled, repeated the first one in a questioning voice, then broke into a toothy grin as Gagik explained. The man hurried away.

“Forgive me my rudeness, I pray you,” the
nakharar
said, turning back to Scaurus. “When rises my temper, I forget the Empire’s speech.”

“So do I,” the tribune admitted. “You’ve shown me much kindness tonight. I heard your man name the priest who hates you. Can I help you in your trouble? I think the Emperor would hear me if I asked him to make the man leave you at peace—Mavrikios is not one to sacrifice the Empire’s unity for the sake of a priest’s feelings.”

“I need no man to fight my battles for me,” was Gagik’s instant response, and Scaurus was afraid he had offended the proud
nakharar
. But Bagratouni was hesitating, embarrassment on his leonine face—an expression that did not sit well there. “But by bad luck this foul priest wants not to speak with me, but with you and yours.”

“With me? Why?” The prospect was alarming; Marcus had seen enough fanatical priests in Videssos to last him a lifetime.

“To read the mind of a cur, one must a cur be. It is better not to try. Do you wish to have words with him?”

The tribune’s first impulse was to say no at once and have done. But to do so might leave his host in the lurch. “Whatever would serve you best,” he replied at last.

“You are a good man, my friend. Let me think.” The
nakharar
rubbed his forehead, as if trying to inspire wisdom.

“It might be better if you saw him,” he decided. “Otherwise this Zemarkhos can claim I kept you from him. To me this matters not so much, for I shall Amorion be leaving with you and the Emperor. But for my people who stay behind, no end of trouble could he cause.”

“All right, then.” Marcus quickly rounded up Gaius Philippus, Quintus Glabrio, and Gorgidas, but Viridovix had contrived to disappear. Looking around, Scaurus also failed to see the serving wench the Celt had chosen as his quarry for the evening. He decided not to go chasing after Viridovix; he did not judge it likely that Zemarkhos knew the exact nature of the Roman party.

“I’d gladly trade places with the Gaul, sir,” Glabrio grinned.

“I’m senior to you, puppy,” Gaius Philippus said. “You wait your turn.”

Ignoring their byplay, Gorgidas asked Scaurus, “What does the priest want with us?”

“To tell us we’re all damned, I suppose. I’m glad you’re here tonight; you’re good at theological arguments.”

“My favorite amusement,” Gorgidas said, rolling his eyes in despair. “Oh, well, we’d best get this over with, I suppose—our host is growing impatient.” That was true enough; like a caged hunting-beast, the
nakharar
was pacing up and down the courtyard, now and again smacking fist into palm.

When he saw the Romans finally ready, Bagratouni led them out through his fragrant gardens to the front gates of his estate. On their way to the gates, they were joined by the retainer who had brought Bagratouni word of Zemarkhos’ arrival. Heavy leather gauntlets sheathed the man’s arms, which were full of what looked like canvas sheeting. His face bore an expression of anticipation.

The gates were closed, as against any enemy. At the
nakharar’s
impatient gesture, his men unbarred them and swung them wide. And, as if entering a conquered city in triumph, Zemarkhos strode onto the Vaspurakaner’s land, his hound at his side.

He caught sight of Gagik Bagratouni before noticing the Romans behind him. “So,” he said, “you dare not let these ignorant foreigners learn the truth, but seek only to enmesh them in your evil schemes?”

Bagratouni almost visibly swelled with wrath. Fists clenched, he stepped toward the priest. Zemarkhos’ dog growled in warning; the hair stood up along its back. Zemarkhos took a tighter grip on the leash. “Stay, Vaspur!” he ordered, but that command was hardly one to make him better loved by the man he confronted.

Trying to avert the explosion, Marcus hastily brought his companions up past the
nakharar
so Zemarkhos could see them. “We are here, as you asked,” he told the priest, “and at our kind host’s urging as well. What do you have to say that would be of such importance for men you never met?”

“From your strange gear and now from your speech, I see you are a foreigner and know no better than to enter into this house of iniquity. My duty to your soul and those of your men has brought me to rescue you from the clutches of the infamous heretic who lured you here.”

The tribune reluctantly admired Zemarkhos’ misplaced courage. No faintheart would speak so boldly at his foe’s very
threshold. But, as with too many clerics Scaurus had met in Videssos, the priest’s dogmas blinded him to the worth of any man who did not share them.

He answered as politely as he could. “As we did not discuss religious matters, the subject of heresy never came up.”

“Oh, he is a sly one, cunning as the fox, hungry as the jackal. The ice will take him even so.” Bagratouni’s men muttered angrily as they listened to Zemarkhos revile their overlord, but the
nakharar
stood still and silent, as if carved from stone. His face was thunderous, but he did not answer the priest.

Gorgidas spoke up. His passionate interest in everything he came across had led him to examine Videssos’ sacred writing as soon as he could read them, even if he could not accept their precepts. Now, with his facility for an apt quotation, he asked Zemarkhos, “Is it not written in the forty-eighth chapter: ‘Let fury be suppressed! Put down violence, you who would assure yourselves, through righteousness.’?”

But quoting holy scriptures to the priest was letting him fight on ground of his own choosing. His reply was quick and sure. “Aye, and it is also written in the thirty-third chapter, ‘Whoever works evil on the wicked pleases Phos and fulfills his will.’ The Emperor may think he is doing a great thing in sallying forth against the heathen of Yezd. He could do better inside Videssos itself, by purifying it of the poisonous misbelievers within our borders!”

Bagratouni shoved past the Romans. “Priest, hatred you spew like a drunk his dinner. All this on my land you have done. Give I my men leave, and they treat you as you deserve.”

Zemarkhos touched his dog’s lead. In an instant the beast was leaping at Bagratouni, only to be brought up short by the leash. It snapped viciously, a growl rumbling in its throat. The priest laughed. “Send your dogs against mine—they’ll have their tails between their legs soon enough.”

“Why did you name that beast Vaspur? Tell me this,” Bagratouni asked, tone deceptively mild.

“Why?” the priest jeered. “What better name for a dog?”

With that last insult, all Gagik Bagratouni’s patience blew away. His voice was lion’s roar indeed as he bellowed a command in his birth-tongue at the warrior who carried the roll of
canvas. Deft as a net-wielding gladiator, the man jumped forward to pop his huge bag of heavy cloth over Zemarkhos’ head. Screeching curses, the priest fell thrashing to the ground.