The Legion of Videssos (53 page)

“He didn’t,” Marcus said flatly.

“No, and as I told you, he is sorry for it. But he is also stubborn—think back to the case of Taron Leimmokheir if you doubt that. And so he is slow in admitting any error, even to himself. Nevertheless, please note he has you in the same important post you held last year.”

“It’s not as important as the command at Garsavra,” the tribune said, still unwilling to believe.

“No, but fill it well, raise no further suspicions, and I daresay you will have your old rank back again come summer, when campaigning season is here again.”

“Easier for you to say than for Thorisin to do.”

Nepos sighed again. “You are a stubborn man, Scaurus—in gloom as in other things, I see. I leave you with a last bit of advice, then: judge by the event, not before it.”

Marcus blinked. Nepos’ admonition might have come from the lips of a Stoic philosopher. The priest bent his plump frame into a half-bow and departed. The wan winter sun gleamed off his naked pate.

Scaurus frowned, watching him go. Nepos might think him somber, but the priest was lighthearted himself, which probably made him double any good things Thorisin had said and halve the bad. If the Emperor really wanted him back in meaningful service, he could have restored him by now. No, the tribune thought, he was still out of favor with Thorisin—and that, as Nepos had recommended, was judging by the event.

He shook his head. The motion made him catch sight of another familiar face. Like Scaurus, Provhos Mourtzouphlos was taller than most imperials and so stood out from the crowd that filled the plaza of Palamas.

The handsome aristocrat was also frowning. He was—Marcus stiffened, his long-dormant soldier’s alertness suddenly waking—he was watching Nepos. The priest’s robe and shaven pate were easy to spot as he walked through the square.

Then Mourtzouphlos’ gaze swung back to the tribune. Marcus caught his eye, nodded deliberately. Mourtzouphlos grimaced, turned, and began haggling with a man who carried a brazier and a wicker basket full of shrimp.

Interesting, Scaurus thought, most interesting indeed. He started toward the palace complex. After half a minute or so, he turned back, as if he had forgotten something. Mourtzouphlos might be holding a roasted shrimp by the tail, but he was also definitely keeping an eye on the tribune. In fact, he had come a few paces after him. Seeing that Scaurus realized what he was about, he stopped in confusion and chagrin.

At first the Roman was furious, certain Thorisin Gavras had set Mourtzouphlos on him. So much for Nepos’ optimism, he thought. But then he decided the Emperor had no need to put such an inept spy on his trail. If he wanted someone to watch Scaurus secretly, the tribune would never know it.

What, then? The only thing he could think of was that Mourtzouphlos was suspicious of his influence with Thorisin, and that seeing him talking to Nepos—who certainly did have
the Emperor’s ear—had alarmed the aristocrat. But Mourtzouphlos was in Thorisin’s good graces himself. If he thought Scaurus was a rival, perhaps it was so.

Gardeners raked the last withered autumn leaves from the broad lawns that surrounded the buildings of the palace quarter. They nodded respectfully as the tribune walked past. He returned their salutes automatically. They meant nothing; the gardeners were too low in the hierachy to risk offending even someone out of favor. Mourtzouphlos’ jealousy, though, was the first good news Marcus had had in some weeks.

He spun on his heel. A bowshot behind him, Provhos Mourtzouphlos abruptly found a bare-branched tree fascinating. He did not acknowledge or seem to notice the cheerful wave Scaurus sent him.

A grin felt strange on the tribune’s face, but good.

Marcus’ pleased mood lasted through the afternoon. He lured an answering smile out of Iatzoulinos, no small accomplishment. The bureaucrat even unbent far enough to tell him a joke. He was astonished; he had not realized Iatzoulinos knew any. He did not tell it well, but the effort deserved notice.

Dinner also seemed uncommonly enjoyable. The roast lamb really was lamb, not gamy mutton; the peas and pearl onions were cooked just right; enough snow had fallen for the taverner to offer ice and sweet syrup for dessert. And so, when Scaurus went back to his chamber a little past sunset, he felt it was the best day he’d had since coming to Videssos the city.

Darkness came quickly in late fall; the tribune was not ready to sleep. He lit several lamps, rummaged about till he found Gorgidas’ history, and began to read. He wondered how the Greek and Viridovix were faring on the steppe. With a guilty start, he knew he had hardly thought about them since—his mind searched for a painless way to say it—since things went wrong.

He was trying to unravel an elaborate passage when the knock on the door came. For a moment, he did not notice it. Then it was only an unwelcome distraction, and he did his best to ignore it. He found Greek hard enough giving it his full attention.

“Must you always pretend you’re not in? I can see the light under the door.”

He sprang to his feet, rolled the book up as fast as he could. “Sorry, Nevrat, I didn’t expect you and Senpat tonight.” He hurried to the door and pulled it open. “Come in.”

“I thank you.” Nevrat stepped past him. “Always good to visit you; the pen-pushers heat their digs well.” She undid the heavy wool scarf she was wearing in place of the bright silk one she preferred, let her fleecy coat fall open.

Marcus hardly noticed her making herself comfortable; he was still eyeing the empty corridor outside his room. “Where’s Senpat?” he blurted.

“Singing—and drinking, I imagine—at the wine shop we’ve all been visiting. I chose not to go along.”

“Ah,” Scaurus said, more a polite noise than anything else. He hesitated, then asked, “Does he know you’re here?”

“No.”

The word seemed to hang in the air between them. Marcus started to shut the door, paused again. “Would you rather I left it open?”

“It’s all right; close it.” Nevrat sounded amused. She looked round the tribune’s rather bare quarters. Her eye fell on the book he had so hastily set down. She opened it, frowned at the alien script—the Greek alphabet looked nothing like Videssian or her native Vaspurakaner. Helvis had reacted the same way, Marcus recalled; he bit his lip at the unbidden memory.

To cover the stab of hurt, he waved Nevrat to the room’s only chair. “Wine?” he asked. At her nod, he pulled a bottle and cup from the top drawer of the pine chest next to his bed. He poured for her, then sat on the bed, leaning back against the wall.

She raised any eyebrow. “Aren’t you having any? You said you’d gone moderate, not teetotal.”

“Perish the thought!” he exclaimed. “But, you see, I have just the one cup.”

Her laughter filled the little room. She drank, then sat forward to pass him the cup. “We must share, then.”

His fingers brushed hers as he took it. “Thank you. I hadn’t planned to do much entertaining here.”

“So I see,” she said. “Certainly it’s not the lair a practiced seducer would have.”

“As is only fitting, because I’m not.” He filled the cup again, offered it to her.

She took it but did not drink at once, instead holding it and contemplating it with an expression so ironic that Scaurus found himself flushing. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he protested.

“I know you didn’t.” Nevrat raised the cup to her lips to prove it. She passed it to him, went on, “Marcus, I have cared for you as long as we’ve known each other.”

“And I for you, very much,” he nodded. “Aside from everything else, without you these past weeks would have been … well, even worse than they are. I owe you so much for that.”

She waved that aside. “Don’t speak foolishly. Senpat and I are happy to do whatever we can for you.”

He frowned; she had not mentioned her husband since she sat down. But as they talked on, Senpat’s name did not come up again, and the tribune found his hopes rising. He remembered the joke he had heard from Iatzoulinos. Judging by Nevrat’s laughter, he told it better than the seal-stamper had.

“Oh, a fine story,” she said. “ ‘What in Skotos’ name was that?’ ” Repeating the punch line set her chuckling again. Her black eyes glowed; her grin was wide and happy. She was, Scaurus thought, one of those uncommon women whose features grew more beautiful with animation.

A lamp went out. The tribune got up. He took out a little bottle of oil, filled the lamp, and relit the wick with one of the others. He had to pass close by Nevrat to get back to his seat on the bed. As he did, he reached out to stroke her dark, curly hair. It was coarser under his fingers than he had imagined.

She rose, too, and turned to face him. He stepped forward to embrace her.

“Marcus,” she said.

Had she spoken his name another way, he would have gone on to take her in his arms. As it was, she might have held up Medusa’s head, to turn him to stone in his tracks. He searched her face, found regret and compassion there, but not eagerness to match his own.

“It’s no good, is it?” he asked dully, already sure of the answer.

“No,” she said. “I’m sorry, but it’s not.” She started to put a hand on his shoulder, then arrested the gesture. That was worse than her words.

“I should have known.” He had to look away from her to continue. “But you were always so caring, so sympathetic, that I hoped—I thought—I let myself think …”

“Something more might be there,” she finished for him.

He nodded, still avoiding her eyes.

“I saw that,” she said. “I did not know what to do, but finally I decided we had to speak of it. Truly I do not want any man but Senpat.”

“The two of you are very lucky,” Marcus said. “I’ve thought so many times.” Holding his voice steady was rather like fighting after taking a wound.

“I know we are,” she said quietly. “And so I came tonight to say what I had to say—and instead we ended up chatting like the friends we’ve always been. That silly story of yours about the rich man who wanted to be an actor—” Thinking of it, she smiled again, but only for a moment. “I suppose I just thought I could let things go on as they had. But then—”

“Then I had to make a mess of it,” he said bitterly.

“No!” For the first time, Nevrat sounded angry. “I don’t blame you for it. How could I? After what happened to you, of course you hope to find again the happiness you once knew. But—I am as I am, and I cannot be the one to give it to you. I’m sorry, Marcus, and sorrier that now I’ve hurt you, too, when that is the last thing I ever wanted.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Scaurus said. “I brought it on myself.”

“It matters very much,” Nevrat insisted. “Can we go on now as friends?” She must have sensed his thoughts, for she said quickly, “Think now, before you say no. How do we—either of us—explain to Senpat what went wrong?”

The tribune found himself promising to keep the friendship going. To his surprise, he also found himself meaning it. Not being an outgoing sort, he had too few friendships to throw any casually away. And whatever he wished was there with Nevrat, they did genuinely like and care for each other.

“Good,” she said crisply. “Then we need not break our next meeting-day—three days from now, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll see you then. Truly, I will be glad to. Always believe that.” Nevrat smiled—a little more cautiously than she would have before, Marcus judged, but not much—and stepped out into the hallway, closing the door behind her.

Her footsteps faded. Scaurus put the wine away. It was probably for the best, he told himself. Senpat was a good man as well as a close friend. He had no business trying to put cuckold’s horns on him. Down deep, he knew that perfectly well.

He kicked the side of the cheap pine chest as hard as he could. It split. Pain shot up from his toe. He heard the jug of wine break. Swearing at fate, his damaged foot, and the wine, he used a rag to mop up the mess. By luck, the jar was almost empty, so only one tunic was ruined.

He gave a sour laugh as he blew out the lamps and crawled into bed. He should have known better than to think he was having a good day. Since Helvis left, there were no good days for him.

He was still limping as he climbed the stairs to his office two days later. His right big toe was twice its proper size and had turned purple and yellow. The day before, one of the pen-pushers had asked what happened.

“I gave the wardrobe in my room a kick.” He’d shrugged, leaving the bureaucrat to assume it was an accident. Sometimes literal truth made the best lie.

Seeing him abstracted, a middling-important scribe tried to sneak some fancy bookkeeping past him. He spotted it, picked up the offending ledger, and dropped it with a crash on the luckless seal-stamper’s desk.

“You piker,” he said contemptuously to the appalled bureaucrat. “Last winter, Pikridios Goudeles used that same trick to get himself an emerald ring with a stone big enough to choke on, and here you are, trying to steal a miserable two and a half goldpieces. You ought to be ashamed.”

“What—what will you do with me, illustrious sir?” the pen pusher quavered.

“For two and a half pieces of gold? If you need it so badly, keep it. But the next time I find even a copper out of place in your books, you’ll see how you like the prison under the government
offices on Middle Street. That goes for all of you, too,” Marcus added for the benefit of the rest of the bureaucrats, who had been listening and watching intently without seeming to.

“Thank you, oh, thank you, merciful and gracious sir,” the would-be embezzler said over and over. Marcus nodded curtly and started back to his own desk.

He remembered something as he passed Iatzoulinos. “Have you arranged to send the Romans at Garsavra their pay?” he asked.

“I would, ah, have to check my records to be certain of that,” Iatzoulinos answered warily. No, Scaurus translated without effort.

He sighed. “Iatzoulinos, I’ve been patient with you. If you make Gaius Philippus angry, I don’t think he will be. I know this man; you don’t. Take it as a warning from one who means you well.”

“I shall, of course, attend to it at once,” Iatzoulinos said.

“See that you do.” The tribune folded his arms and waited. When Iatzoulinos realized he was not going to leave, the pen-pusher set aside the project he had been working on and picked up the ledger that dealt with military expenditures in the westlands. He inked a pen and, with poor grace, began drafting a payment authorization. Satisfied for the moment, Marcus moved on.