Misplaced Legion (Videssos Cycle) (45 page)

Reaching it, though, was like fighting through the crowds that always filled the forum of Palamas in the imperial capital. Men were on the move all through the camp, some with purposeful strides, others wandering aimlessly, using the simple fact of their motion as an anodyne against thought. Despite having a definite goal, the tribune also paid less attention to his surroundings than he might have. Gaius Philippus’ warning was too slow to keep him from bumping into a Haloga from behind.

The blond giant swung round in annoyance; he wore a leather patch over his right eye. “Watch your feet, you oafish—” He stopped short.

“Skapti!” Marcus exclaimed. “I did not think you were with the Emperor’s army. You should have visited us long ago.”

“When I saw you last, I said we’d meet again.” The commander of the Imbros garrison shrugged. To himself more than the Romans, he went on, “A man’s weird is a strange thing—if he will not come to it, it comes to him instead.”

He took Scaurus’ hand in both his own in the Haloga fashion, then shook his head, rueful amusement on his face. Giving the Romans no time to puzzle out his riddle, he turned and went on his way, tall, lonely, and proud.

Staring at his back, Gaius Philippus said, “I’ve seen men with that look to them before. Fey, Viridovix would call him.”

“Aye, and he seems to think somehow I’m part of his fate—may the gods prove him wrong.” Something else struck Scaurus. “When did you, of all people, take to borrowing words from the Celt?”

The centurion wore the same expression Skapti Modolf’s son had shown a moment before. “It does fit, though, doesn’t it?”

“That I can’t argue. Come on—let’s see if Mavrikios’ wizards have come up with a way to give us all wings and get us out of this pickle.”

No wizards were at the battle conference, with or without word of wings. Mavrikios had brought them with his force, to be sure, but more to foil enemy sorcery than to use his own as a weapon of offense—he was a man of arms by birth and
training. The fight he faced now might not be on the terms he wanted, but he did not intend to dodge it.

Indeed, he was surprisingly cheerful, saying to Ortaias Sphrantzes, “I don’t think this is the way Kalokyres would have recommended luring the enemy into battle, but it shouldn’t work out too badly. Unless I miss my guess, the nomads will be so pumped up from today’s fighting that they’ll stand against us for once. And when they do, we’ll break them. In hand-to-hand they don’t have a prayer against us.”

Marcus thought the Emperor had every chance of being right. From what he had seen of the Yezda, victory would make them reckless. They would probably be so eager to finish off the Videssians as to be easy to snare.

The Emperor’s thoughts were running along the same lines. He gave his orders to his brother and Sphrantzes accordingly, “You two on the wings will be crucial in making this work, since you have most of the light cavalry. Spread wide—funnel the Yezda down to the center. The heavy troopers there will stop them; once they’re well engaged, close the wings like this.” He brought his outstretched arms together in front of his body. “We’ll surround them on three sides or, Phos willing, all four, and that should do it.”

Thorisin quietly listened to Mavrikios’ outline, now and then nodding as the Emperor made a point. “He’s cool enough, isn’t he?” Gaius Philippus murmured to Scaurus.

“Why not? This scheme can’t be news to him. He and Mavrikios likely have been working it through since sundown.”

Ortaias Sphrantzes was hearing it all for the first time, and his eyes glowed with excitement. “A classic ploy, your Majesty,” he breathed, “and surely a trap to catch the undisciplined barbarian rabble.” Scaurus was inclined to agree with the first part of what he said, but rather resented the rest. Mavrikios’ plan reminded him of Hannibal’s at Cannae, and that trap had closed around Romans.

The Emperor was pleased by the praise. “Thank you, Ortaias,” he said graciously. “I look to you to hearten your men tomorrow with a fine rousing speech.” Mavrikios was in a confident mood indeed, thought Marcus, if he was willing to be so courteous to his rival’s nephew.

“I shall! I’ve prepared one against the day of need, nicely calculated to raise martial ferocity.”

“Excellent.”

Next to Scaurus, Gaius Philippus rolled his eyes and groaned, but so low in his throat only the tribune could hear. The senior centurion had listened to part of that speech, Marcus recalled, and was anything but impressed. It did not really matter. Scaurus had watched Nephon Khoumnos, well down in the formal order of precedence, listening to Mavrikios’ scheme, and could fairly see the old warhorse plan its execution. Everyone—save possibly Ortaias Sphrantzes—knew the left wing was really his.

Out in the darkness beyond the encircled camp, the drums paused in their discordant pounding, were silent for a moment, then began anew, this time all together:
thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump
. The two-beat phrase, repeated endlessly, maddeningly, made teeth rattle in their sockets, brought dull pain to the head. The harsh voices of the Yezda joined the drums: “Avshar! Avshar! Avshar! Avshar!”

Marcus felt his hands curl into fists when he understood the invaders’ chant. He glanced over to see Mavrikios’ reaction. The Emperor met his eye, quirked an eyebrow upward. “All the pieces are on the board,” he said. “Now we can play.”

The day dawned clear and hot, the brassy sun fairly leaping into a sky of flawless blue. The tribune’s eyes were gritty as he spooned up his breakfast porridge. The drums had not stopped throbbing all night, and what sleep he’d had was shallow and shot through with evil dreams. All through the Videssian camp, men yawned while they ate.

Quintus Glabrio scoured his empty bowl with sand, put it back in his pack. He was yawning too, but not worried about it. “Unless all the men out of Yezd are deaf, they had as much trouble sleeping as I did,” he said. Marcus nodded, appreciating his sense of proportion.

Yezda tents lay scattered over the plain like multicolored toadstools. There were more of them to the west of the Videssian camp; many were grouped around a great pavilion of jet-black felt. Without need for conscious thought, Scaurus was sure it was Avshar’s. Yezda streamed toward it. The tribune watched their battle line begin taking shape.

As he had feared, the nomads tried to keep the imperial army besieged in its camp, but Mavrikios was equal to that. Archers from behind the palisade made them keep their distance, and, when three or four dart-throwing catapults added their fire, the Yezda drew back toward their own lines. The Emperor then used his light horse as he had before, to form a curtain behind which his main force could deploy.

Sweat already beginning to make his shoulders raw under his cuirass, Scaurus led his Romans to their place in the Videssian line. They anchored the left flank of Mavrikios’ strong center; to their own left was the cavalry contingent from Khatrish, which linked the center to Ortaias Sphrantzes’ left wing.

The Khatrisher commander, a slim, pockmarked man named Laon Pakhymer, waved when he saw the tribune. Marcus waved back. Ever since his first encounter with Taso Vones, he had liked the Khatrishers. He also preferred them on his flank to their Khamorth cousins. Some of the men from the plains of Pardraya were in a sullen mood, and Scaurus could scarcely blame them after their allies had shot at them by mistake.

Viridovix looked out over the barren plain toward the gathering enemy. He scratched his nose. His fair skin suffered under the fierce Videssian sun, burning and peeling without ever really tanning. “Not much like the last shindy the two of us were in, is it now?” he said to Marcus.

“It isn’t, is it? Morning instead of night, hot instead of mild, this naked rockpile instead of your Gallic forest … why, we’re even on the same side now.”

“So we are.” Viridovix chuckled. “I hadna thought of that. It should be a fine brawl all the same.” Scaurus snorted.

Pipes whistled and drums thumped, ordering the imperial forces forward. The Romans did without such fripperies, except for their rallying horncalls, but the tribune was rather glad of the martial music surrounding his men. It made him feel less alone, less as if all the Yezda ahead were marking him as their target.

The invaders were advancing too, not in the neat articulated units of the Videssian army, but now here, now there, like a wave up an uneven beach. It was easy to recognize Avshar, even at the distance between the two forces. He chose to lead his host from the right rather than from the center like
Mavrikios. His white robes flashed brightly against the sooty coat of the huge stallion he rode. Yezd’s banner flapped lazily above his head.

“That is an evil color for a standard,” Quintus Glabrio said. “It reminds me of a bandage soaked with clotted blood.” The image was fitting, but surprising when it came from the Roman officer. It sounded more like something Gorgidas would say.

Gaius Philippus said, “It suits them, for they’ve caused enough to be soaked.”

The two forces were about half a mile apart when Mavrikios rode his own roan charger out ahead of his men to address them. Turning his head left and right, Marcus saw Ortaias Sphrantzes and Thorisin doing the same in their divisions of the army. The Yezda, too, came to a halt while Avashar and their other chieftains harangued them.

The Emperor’s speech was short and to the point. He reminded his men of the harm Yezd had inflicted on Videssos, told them their god was fighting on their side—the tribune was willing to bet Avshar was making the same claim to his warriors—and briefly outlined the tactics he had planned.

The tribune did not pay much attention to Mavrikios’ words—their draft was plain after five or six sentences. More interesting were the snatches of Ortaias Sphrantzes’ address that a fitful southerly breeze brought him.

In his thin tenor, the noble was doing his best to encourage his men with the same kind of sententious rhetoric he had used inside the Videssian camp the night before. “Fight with every limb; let no limb have no share of danger! The campaign of Yezd has justice opposed to it, for peace is a loathsome thing to them, and their love of battle is such that it honors a god of blood. Injustice is often strong, but it is also changed to ruin. I will direct the battle, and in my eagerness for combat engage the aid of all—I am ashamed to suffer not suffering …”

On and on he went. Marcus lost the thread of Sphrantzes’ speech when Mavrikios finished his own and the men of the center cheered, but when their shouts subsided Ortaias was still holding forth. The soldiers on the left listened glumly, shifting from foot to foot and muttering among themselves. What they expected and needed was a heartening fierce speech, not this grandiloquent monologue.

The Sevastos’ nephew built to his rousing conclusion. “Let no one who loves luxury’s pleasures share in the rites of war and let no one join in the battle for the sake of loot. It is the lover of danger who should seek the space between the two armies. Come now, let us at last add deeds to words and let us shift our theory into the line of battle!”

He paused expectantly, waiting for the applause the two Gavrai had already received. There were a few spatters of clapping and one or two shouts, but nothing more. “He does have the brain of a pea,” Gaius Philippus grumbled. “Imagine telling a mercenary army not to loot! I’m surprised he didn’t tell them not to drink and fornicate, while he was at it.”

Dejectedly, Sphrantzes rode back into line. Nephon Khoumnos was there to slap his armored back and try to console him—and also, Marcus knew, to protect the army from his flights of fancy.

It would not be long now. All speeches done at last, both armies were advancing again, and the forwardmost riders were already exchanging arrows. Scaurus felt a familiar tightening in his guts, suppressed it automatically. These moments just before fighting began were the worst. Once in the middle of it, there was no time to be afraid.

The Yezda came on at a trot. Marcus saw the sun flash off helmets, drawn swords, and lanceheads, saw their banners and horse-tail standards lifted high. Then he blinked and rubbed his eyes; around him, Romans cried out in amazement and alarm. The oncoming line was flickering like a candle flame in a breeze, now plain, now half-seen as if through fog, now vanished altogether. The tribune clutched his sword until knuckles whitened, but the grip brought no security. How was he to strike foes he could not see?

Though it seemed an eternity, the Yezda could not have remained out of sight more than a few heartbeats. Through the outcry of his own men, Scaurus heard counterspells shouted by the sorcerers who accompanied the imperial army. The enemy reappeared, sharp and solid as if they had never blurred away.

“Battle magic,” the tribune said shakily.

“So it was,” Gaius Philippus agreed. “It didn’t work, though, the gods be thanked.” He spoke absently, without turning to look as Scaurus. His attention was all on the Yezda,
who, their ploy failed, were riding harder now, bearing down on the Videssians. “Shields up!” the centurion shouted, as arrows arced their way toward the Romans.

Marcus had never stood up under arrow fire like this. An arrow buzzed angrily past his ear; another struck his
scutum
hard enough to drive him back a pace. The noise the shafts made as they hissed in and struck shields and corselets was like rain beating on a metal roof. Rain, though, never left men shrieking and writhing when it touched their soft, vulnerable flesh.

The Yezda thundered forward, close enough for the tribune to see their intent faces as they guided their horses toward the gaps their arrows had made.
“Pila!”
he shouted, and, a moment later, “Loose!”

Men pitched from saddles, to spin briefly through the air or be dragged to red death behind their mounts. So stirrups had drawbacks after all, Scaurus thought. Horses fell too, or ran wild when bereft of riders. They fouled those next to them and sent them crashing to the ground. Warriors behind the first wave, unable to stop their animals in time, tripped over the fallen or desperately pulled back on their reins to leap the sudden barrier ahead—and presented themselves as targets for their foes.