Misplaced Legion (Videssos Cycle) (8 page)

His good-byes to the priest were subdued. Once out in the street, he made for a tavern. He needed a cup of wine, or several, to steady his nerves. The grape worked a soothing magic of its own. And even with magic, he told himself, men were still men. An able one might go far.

He took another pull at the mug. Presently he remembered the business Apsimar had interrupted. He wondered whether he could still find the bright-eyed girl in the green gown. He laughed a little. Men were still men, he thought.

On his way out of the tavern, he wondered for a moment how venery counted in the strife between Phos and Skotos. He decided he did not care and closed the tavern door behind him.

A
FTER A LAST SERIES OF BLIZZARDS THAT TRIED TO BATTER
Imbros flat, winter sullenly left the stage to spring. Just as they had at the outset of fall, the Empire’s roads became morasses. Marcus, anxious for word from the capital, grumbled about the sense of a nation which, to protect its horses’ hooves, made those hooves all but worthless over much of the year.

The trees’ bare branches were beginning to clothe themselves in green when a mud-splattered messenger splashed his way up from the south. As Nephon Khoumnos had predicted and Marcus hoped, he bore in his leather message-pouch an order bidding the Romans come to
the
city, Videssos.

Vourtzes did not pretend to be sorry to see the last of them. Though the Romans had behaved well in Imbros—for mercenary troops, very well—it had not really been the fat governor’s town since they arrived. For the most part they followed his wishes, but he was too used to giving orders to enjoy framing requests.

To Marcus’ surprise, Skapti Modolf’s son came to bid him farewell. The tall Haloga clasped Scaurus’ hand in both his own, after his native custom. Fixing his wintry gaze on the Roman, he said, “We’ll meet again, and in a less pleasant place, I think. It would be better for me if we did not, but we will.”

Wondering what to make of that, the tribune asked him if he’d had news of the coming summer’s campaign.

Skapti snorted at such worry over details. “It will be as it
is,” he said, and stalked away toward Imbros. Staring at his back, Marcus wondered if the Halogai were as spiritually blind as Apsimar thought.

The march to Videssos was a pleasant week’s travel through gently rolling country planted in wheat, barley, olives, and grapevines. To Gorgidas the land, the crops, and the enameled blue dome of the sky were aching reminders of his native Greece. He was by turns sullen with homesickness and rhapsodic over the beauty of the scenery.

“Will you not cease your endless havering?” Viridovix asked. “In another month it’ll be too hot for a man to travel by day unless he wants the wits fried out of him. Your grapevine is a fine plant, I’ll not deny, but better in the jug than to look at, if you take my meaning. And as for the olive, if you try to eat him his pit’ll break your teeth. His oil stinks, too, and tastes no better.”

Gorgidas grew so furious working up a reply to this slander that he was his old self for the next several hours. Marcus caught Viridovix grinning behind the irascible doctor’s back. His respect for the Celt’s wits went up a couple of notches.

The road to Videssos came down by the seaside about a day’s journey north of the capital. Villages and towns, some of respectable size, sat athwart the highway at increasingly frequent intervals. After passing through one large town, Gaius Philippus commented, “If these are the suburbs, what must Videssos be like?”

The mental picture Marcus carried of the Empire’s capital was of a city like, but inferior to, Rome. In the afternoon of the eighth day out from Imbros, he was able to compare his vision with the reality, and it was the former which paled in the comparison.

Videssos owned a magnificent site. It occupied a triangle of land jutting out into a strait Tzimiskes called the Cattle-Crossing. The name was scarcely a misnomer, either—the opposite shore was barely a mile away, its suburbs plain to the eye despite sea-haze. The closest of those suburbs, the tribune had learned, was simply called “Across.”

But with Videssos at which to marvel, the strait’s far shore was lucky to get a glance. Surrounded on two sides by water, the capital’s third, landward, boundary was warded by fortifications
more nearly invulnerable than any Marcus had imagined, let alone seen.

First came a deep ditch, easily fifty feet wide; behind it stood a crenelated breastwork. Overlooking that was the first wall proper, five times the height of a tall man, with square towers strategically sited every fifty to a hundred yards. A second wall, almost twice as high and built of even larger stones, paralleled this outwork at a distance of about fifty yards. The main wall’s towers—not all of these were square; some were round, or even octagonal—were placed so that fire from them could cover what little ground those of the outwall missed.

Gaius Philippus stopped dead when he saw those incredible works. “Tell me,” he demanded of Tzimiskes, “has this city ever fallen to a siege?”

“Never to a foreign foe,” the Videssian replied, “though in our own civil wars it’s been taken twice by treachery.”

The great walls did not hide as much of the city as had Imbros’ fortifications, for Videssos, coincidentally like Rome, had seven hills. Marcus could see buildings of wood, brick, and stucco like those in the latter town, but also some splendid structures of granite and multicolored marble. Many of those were surrounded by parks and orchards, making their pale stone shine the brighter. Scores of shining gilded domes topped Phos’ temples throughout the city.

At the harbors, the beamy grainships that fed the capital shared dockspace with rakish galleys and trading vessels from every nation Videssos knew. There and elsewhere in the city, surging tides of people went about their business. Tiny in the distance, to Scaurus they seemed like so many ants, preoccupied with their own affairs and oblivious to the coming of the Romans. It was an intimidating thought. In the midst of such a multitude, how could his handful of men hope to make a difference?

He must have said that out loud. Quintus Glabrio observed, “The Videssians wouldn’t have taken us on if they didn’t think we mattered.” Grateful for Glabrio’s calm good sense, the tribune nodded.

Tzimiskes led the Romans past the first two gates that opened into the city. He explained, “An honor guard will escort us into Videssos from the Silver Gate.”

Marcus had no idea why the Silver Gate was so called. Its immense portals and spiked portcullis were of iron-faced wood; from their scars, they had seen much combat. Over each wall’s entryway hung a triumphant icon of Phos.

“Straighten up there, you shambling muttonheads!” Gaius Philippus growled to the already orderly legionaries. “This is the big city now, and I won’t have them take us for gawking yokels!”

As Tzimiskes had promised, the guard of honor was waiting, mounted, just inside the main wall. At its head was Nephon Khoumnos, who stepped up smiling to clasp Scaurus’ hand. “Good to see you again,” he said. “The march to your barracks is a couple of miles. I hope you don’t mind us making a parade of it. It’ll give the people something to talk about and get them used to the look of you as well.”

“Fine,” Marcus agreed. He had expected something like this; the Videssians were inordinately fond of pomp and ceremony. His attention was only half on Khoumnos anyhow. The rest was directed to the troops the imperial officer led.

The three contingents of the honor guard seemed more concerned over watching each other than about the Romans. Khoumnos’ personal contingent was a squadron of
akritai
—businesslike Videssians cut in the mold of Tzimiskes or Mouzalon. They wanted to give the Romans their full attention, but kept stealing quick looks to the right and left.

On their left was a band—Marcus rejected any word with a more orderly flavor than that—of nomads from the Pardrayan plains. Dark, stocky men with curly beards, they rode shaggy steppe ponies, wore breastplates of boiled leather and foxskin caps, and carried double-curved bows reinforced with horn. “Foot soldiers!” one said in accented Videssian. He spat to show his contempt. Marcus stared at him until the nomad flushed and jerked his eyes away.

The tribune had a harder time deciding the origin of the escorting party’s last group. They were big, solid men in heavy armor, mounted on horses as large as any Marcus had seen, and armed with stout lances and straight slashing swords. They had something of the look of the Halogai to them, but seemed rather less—what was the word Viridovix had used?—doomful than the northern mercenaries. Besides, about half their number had dark hair. They were the first
clean-shaven men Scaurus had seen. The only nation that might have spawned them, he decided at last, was Namdalen. There Haloga overlords mixed blood with their once-Videssian subjects, from whom they had learned much.

Their leader was a rugged warrior of about thirty, whose dark eyes and tanned skin went oddly with his mane of wheat-colored hair. He swung himself down from his high-cantled saddle to greet the Romans. “You look to have good men here,” he said to Marcus, taking the tribune’s hand between his own in a Haloga-style grip. “I’m Hemond of Metepont, out of the Duchy.” That confirmed Marcus’ guess. Hemond went on, “Once you’re settled in, look me up for a cup of wine. We can tell each other stories of our homes—yours, I hear, is a strange, distant land.”

“I’d like that,” Marcus said. The Namdalener seemed a decent sort; his curiosity was friendly enough and only natural. All sorts of rumors about the Romans must have made the rounds in Videssos during the winter.

“Come on, come on, let’s be off,” Khoumnos said. “Hemond, your men for advance guard; the Khamorth will take the rear while we ride flank.”

“Right you are.” Hemond ambled back to his horse, flipping the Videssian a lazy salute as he went. Khoumnos’ sudden urgency bothered Marcus; he had been in no hurry a moment before. Could it be he did not want the Romans friendly toward the Namdaleni? Politics already, the tribune thought, resolving caution until he learned the local rules of the game.

A single Videssian with a huge voice led the procession from the walls of the city to the barracks. Every minute or so he bellowed, “Make way for the valiant Romans, brave defenders of the Empire!” The thoroughfare down which they strode emptied in the twinkling of an eye; just as magically, crowds appeared on the sidewalks and in every intersection. Some people cheered the valiant Romans, but more seemed to wonder who these strange-looking mercenaries were, while the largest number would have turned out for any parade, just to break up the monotony of the day.

Eyes front and hands raised in salute, the legionaries marched west. They passed through two large, open squares, by a marketplace whose customers scarcely looked up to notice
them, and past monuments, columns, and statues commemorating long-past triumphs and Emperors.

The only bad moment in the procession came near its end. An emaciated monk in a tattered, filthy robe leaped into the roadway in front of the Romans’ herald, who perforce stopped. Eyes blazing, the monk screeched, “Beware Phos’ wrath, all traffickers with infidels such as these! Woe unto us, that we shelter them in the heart of Phos’ city!”

There was a mutter from the crowd, at first confused, then with the beginning of anger in it. Out of the corner of his eye Marcus saw a man bend to pick up a stone. The mutter grew louder and more hostile.

Intent on heading off a riot before it could start, the tribune elbowed his way through the halted Namdalener horsemen to confront the monk. As if he were some demon, the scrawny cleric drew back in horror, sketching his god’s sign on his breast. Someone in the crowd yelled, “Heathen!”

Hands empty before him, Scaurus bowed low to the monk, who stared at him suspiciously. Then he drew the sun-circle over his own heart, at the same time shouting, “May Phos be with you!”

The amazement on the monk’s face was comical. He ran forward to fold the Roman in a smelly embrace he would have been as glad not to have. For a horrible instant Marcus thought he was about to be kissed, but the monk, after a few quick, babbled prayers, vanished into the crowd, which was now cheering lustily.

Marcus gave himself the luxury of a sigh of relief before he went back to his men. “Quick thinking, outlander,” Hemond said as he walked by. “We could all have been in a lot of trouble there.”

“Tell me about it,” the tribune said feelingly.

“Make way for the valiant Romans!” the herald cried, and the parade advanced once more.

“I did not know you had decided to follow Phos,” Tzimiskes said.

“I said nothing at all about me,” Marcus replied.

Tzimiskes looked scandalized.

They traversed a last forum, larger than either of the previous two, and passed by a tremendous oval amphitheater before entering a district of elegant buildings set among wide
expanses of close-cropped emerald lawn and tastefully trimmed shrubs and vines.

“Another few moments and I’ll show you to your barracks,” Khoumnos said.

“Here?” Marcus asked, startled. “Surely this is much too fine.”

It was the Videssian’s turn for surprise. “Why, where else would a unit of the Imperial Guards lodge, but in the Imperial Palaces?”

The buildings devoted to the Emperors of Videssos made up a vast, sprawling complex which itself comprised one of the imperial capital’s many quarters. The Romans were billeted some distance from the Emperor’s residence proper, in four stuccoed barracks halls set among citrus trees fragrant with flowers.

“I’ve had worse,” Gaius Philippus said with a laugh as he unslung his marching kit and laid it by his fresh straw pallet.

Marcus understood the centurion’s way of speaking—he could not remember arrangements to compare with these. The barracks were airy, well lit, and roomy. There were baths nearby, and kitchens better equipped than some eateries. Only the lack of privacy made the long halls less comfortable than an inn or a hostel. If anything, they were too luxurious. “In quarters this fine, the men may lose their edge.”