Videssos Cycle, Volume 1 (91 page)

The great bay stallion thundered round the bend in the track. Marcus felt alarm stab into his guts—that was the Emperor’s horse! But Thorisin was not in the saddle; instead Alypia Gavra bestrode the beast, barely in control. She fought it to a halt just in front of the Romans, whose first ranks were giving back from the seeming runaway.

Not liking the check, the stallion snorted and tossed its head, eager to be given free rein once more. Alypia ignored it. She stared down the long Roman column, despair on her face. “So you’ve come to betray us, too!” she cried.

Glabrio stepped forward and seized the horse’s head. Scaurus said, “Betray you? With a training march?”

The princess and the Roman shared a long, confusion-filled look. Then Alypia exclaimed, “Oh, Phos be praised! Come at once, then—a band of assassins is attacking the private chambers!”

“What?” Marcus said foolishly, but even as he was filling his lungs to order the legionaries forward he heard Gaius Philippus below, “Battle stations! Forward at double-time!”

Scaurus envied the senior centurion’s immunity to surprise. “Shout ‘Gavras!’ as you come,” he added. “Let both sides know help’s on the way!”

The legionaries reached back over their shoulders for
pila
, tugged swords free from brass scabbards. “Gavras!” they roared. The Emperor’s horse whinnied in alarm and reared, pulling free of Quintus Glabrio’s grasp. Alypia held her seat. She could ride, as befitted a onetime provincial noble’s daughter. Though Thorisin’s frightened charger would have been a handful for anyone, she wheeled it and cantered forward at the Romans’ head.

“Get back, my lady!” Marcus called to her. When she would not, he told off half a dozen men to hold her horse and keep her out of the fighting. They ignored her protests and did as they were ordered.

Nestled in the copse of cherry trees just now beginning to come into fragrant bloom, the private imperial residence was a dwelling made for peace. But its outer doors gaped open, and before them a sentry lay unmoving in a pool of blood. “Surround the place!” Marcus snapped, maniples peeled off to right and left.

For all his hurry, he was horribly afraid he had come too late. But as he rushed toward the yawning doorway, he heard fighting within. “It’s a rescue, not revenge!” he yelled. The legionaries cheered behind him: “Gavras! Gavras!”

An archer leaped out into the doorway and let fly. Close behind Scaurus, a Roman clutched at his face, then skidded down on his belly. No time to see who had fallen, nor could the Videssian get off a second shot. He threw his bow to one side and drew saber.

He must have known it was hopeless, with hundreds of men thundering toward him. He set his feet and waited nonetheless. The tribune had a moment to admire his courage before their swords met. Then it was all automatic response: thrust, parry, slash, riposte, parry—thrust! Marcus felt his blade bite, twisted his wrist to make sure it was a killing blow. His foe groaned and slowly crumpled.

The Romans spilled down the hallway, their hobnailed
caligae
clattering on the mosaic floor. The light streaming through the alabaster ceiling panels was pale and calm, not the right sort of light at all to shine on battle. And battle there had already been aplenty: the corpses of sentries
and eunuch servants sprawled together with those of their assailants. The red tesserae of hunting mosaics were overlain by true blood’s brighter crimson; it spattered precious icons and portrait busts of Avtokrators centuries forgotten.

Marcus saw Mizizios lying dead. The eunuch had a sword in his hand and wore an ancient helmet of strange design, loot from a Videssian triumph of long ago. He had been a quick thinker to clap it on his head, but it had not saved him. A great saber cut opened his belly and spilled his entrails out on the floor.

Shouts and the pounding of axes against a barricaded door led the legionaries on. They rounded a last corner, only to be halted by a savage counterattack from the squadron of assassins. In the narrow corridor numbers were of scant advantage. Men pushed and cursed and struck, gasping when they were hit.

The assassins’ captain was a burly man of about forty in a much-battered chain-mail shirt. He carried a torch in his right hand, and shouted through the door to Thorisin, “Your bully-boys are here too late, Gavras! You’ll be roast meat before they do you any good!”

“Not so!” cried Zeprin the Red, who was fighting in the first rank of legionaries. He still blamed himself for Mavrikios Gavras’ death, and would not let a second Emperor weigh on his conscience. The thick-muscled Haloga flung his great war axe at the torch-carrier. The throw was not good; quarters were too close for that. Instead of one of the gleaming steel bits burying itself in the Videssian’s chest, it was the end of the axe handle that caught him in the pit of the stomach. Mail shirt or no, he doubled over as if kicked by a steer. The smoking torch fell to the floor and went out.

Snarling an oath, one of the trapped attackers sprang at Zeprin, who stood for a second weaponless. The Haloga did not—could not—retreat. He ducked under a furious slash, came up to seize his foe and crush him against his armored chest. The tendons stood out on his massive arms; his opponent’s hands scrabbled uselessly at his back. Scaurus heard bones crack even through the din of combat. Zeprin threw the lifeless corpse aside.

At the same moment Viridovix, with an enormous two-handed slash, sent another assassin’s head springing from his shoulders. The
tribune could feel the enemy’s spirit drain away. A quiet bit of murder was one thing, but facing these berserkers was something else again. Nor were the Romans themselves idle. Their shortswords stabbed past the Videssians’ defenses, while their large
scuta
turned blow after blow. “Gavras!” they shouted, and pushed their foes back and back.

Then the blocked door flew open, and Thorisin Gavras and his four or five surviving guards charged at the enemy’s backs, crying, “The Romans! The Romans!” It was more gallant than sensible, but Thorisin had an un-Videssian fondness for battle.

Some of the attackers spun round against him, still trying to complete their mission. Gaius Philippus cut one down from behind. “You bloody stupid bastard,” he said, jerking his
gladius
free.

Marcus swore as a saber gashed his forearm. He tightened his fingers on his sword hilt. They all answered—no tendon was cut—but blood made the sword slippery in his hand.

Thorisin killed the man he was facing. The Emperor, not one to relish having to flee even before overpowering numbers, fought now with savage ferocity to try to ease the discredit only he felt. When he had been Sevastokrator he probably would have let his fury run away with him, but the imperial office was tempering him as it had his brother. Seeing only a handful of his assailants on their feet, he cried, “Take them alive! I’ll have answers for this!”

Most of the assassins, knowing what fate held for them, battled all the harder, trying to make the legionaries kill them outright. One ran himself through. But a couple were borne to the floor and trussed up like dressed carcasses. So was their leader, who still could hardly breathe, let alone fight back.

“Very timely,” Thorisin said, looking Marcus up and down. He started to offer his hand to clasp, stopped when he saw the tribune’s wound.

Scaurus did not really feel it yet. He answered, “Thank your niece, not me. She lathered your horse for you, but I don’t think you’ll complain.”

The Emperor smiled thinly. “No, I suppose not. Took the beast, did she?” He listened as the Roman explained how he had encountered Alypia.

Thorisin’s smile grew wider. He said, “I never have cared for her scribbling away behind closed doors, but I won’t complain of that any more, either. She must have gone out the window when the barney started, and run for the stables. Fire-foot’s usually saddled by dawn.” Marcus remembered Gavras’ fondness for a morning gallop.

Thorisin prodded a dead body with his foot. “Good thing these lice were too stupid to throw a cordon round the building.” He slapped Scaurus on the back. “Enough talk—get that arm seen to. You’re losing blood.”

The tribune tore a strip of cloth from the corpse’s surcoat; Gavras helped him tie the rude dressing. His arm, numb a few minutes before, began to throb fiercely. He went looking for Gorgidas.

The doctor, Marcus thought with annoyance, did not seem to be anywhere within the rambling imperial residence. However much the legionaries outnumbered the twoscore or so assassins, they had not beaten them down without harm to themselves. Five men were dead—two of them irreplaceable Romans—and a good many more were wounded, more or less severely. Grumbling and clenching his fist against the hurt, the tribune went outside.

He saw Gorgidas kneeling over a man in the pathway—a Roman, from his armor—but had no chance to approach the physician. Alypia Gavra came rushing up to him. “Is my uncle—” she began, and then stopped, unwilling even to complete the question.

“Unscratched, thanks to you,” Scaurus told her.

“Phos be thanked,” she whispered, and then, to the tribune’s glad confusion, threw her arms round his neck and kissed him. The legionaries who had kept her from the residence whooped. At the sound she jerked away in alarm, as if just realizing what she had done.

He reached out to her, but reluctantly held back when he saw her shy away. However brief, her show of warmth pleased him more, perhaps, than he was ready to admit. He told himself it was but pleasure at seeing her wounded spirit healing, and knew he was lying.

“You’re hurt!” she exclaimed, spying the oozing bandage for the first time.

“It’s not too bad.” He opened and closed his hand to show her he could, though the proof cost him some pain. True to his Stoic training,
he tried not to let it show on his face, but the princess saw sweat spring out on his forehead.

“Get it looked at,” she said firmly, seeming relieved to be able to give advice that was sensible and impersonal at the same time. Scaurus hesitated, wishing this once for some of Viridovix’ brass. He did not have it, and the moment passed. Anything he said would too likely be wrong.

He slowly walked over to Gorgidas. The doctor did not notice him. He was still bent low over the fallen legionary, his hands pressed against the soldier’s face—the attitude, Marcus realized, of a Videssian healer-priest. The Greek’s shoulders quivered with the effort he was making. “Live, damn you, live!” he said over and over in his native tongue.

But the legionary would never live again, not with that green-feathered arrow jutting up from between the doctor’s fingers. Marcus could not tell whether Gorgidas had finally mastered the healing force, nor did it matter now; not even the Videssians could raise the dead.

At last the Greek felt Scaurus’ presence. He raised his head, and the tribune gave back a pace from the grief and self-tormenting, impotent anger on his face. “It’s no use,” Gorgidas said, more to himself than to Scaurus, “Nothing is any use.” He sagged in defeat, and his hands, red-black with blood beginning to dry, slid away from the dead man’s face.

Marcus suddenly forgot his wound. “Jupiter Best and Greatest,” he said softly, an oath he had not sworn since the days in his teens when he still believed in the gods. Quintus Glabrio lay tumbled in death. His features were already loosening into the vacant mask of the dead. The arrow stood just below his right eye and must have killed him instantly. A fly lit on the fletching, felt the perch give under its weight, and darted away.

“Let me see to that,” Gorgidas said dully. Like an automaton, the tribune held out his arm. The doctor washed the cut with a sponge soaked in vinegar. Stunned or no, Scaurus had all he could do to keep from crying out. Gorgidas pinned the gash closed, snipping off the tip of each
fibula
as he pushed it through. With his arm shrieking from the wound and the vinegar wash, Marcus hardly felt the pins go in. Tears began streaming down the Greek’s face as he dressed the cut; he had to try three times before he could close the catch on the complex
fibula
that secured the end of the bandage.

“Are there more hurt?” he asked Scaurus. “There must be.”

“Yes, a few.” The doctor turned to go; Marcus stopped him with his good arm. “I’m sorrier than I know how to tell you,” he said awkwardly. “To me he was a fine officer, a good man, and a friend, but—” He broke off, unsure how to continue.

“I’ve known you know, for all your discretion, Scaurus,” Gorgidas said tiredly. “That doesn’t matter any longer either, does it? Now let me be about my business, will you?”

Marcus still hesitated. “Can I do anything to help?”

“The gods curse you, Roman; you’re a decent blockhead, but a blockhead all the same. There he lies, all I hold dear in this worthless world, and me with all my training and skill in healing the hurt, and what good is it? What can I do with it? Feel him grow cold under my hands.”

He shook free of the tribune. “Let me go, and we’ll see what miracles of medicine I work for these other poor sods.” He walked through the open doorway of the imperial residence, a lean, lonely man wearing anguish like a cloak.

“What ails your healer?” Alypia Garva asked.

Scaurus jumped; lost in his own thoughts, he had not heard her come up. “This is his close friend,” he said shortly, nodding at Glabrio, “and mine as well.” Hearing the rebuff, the princess drew back. Marcus chose not to care; the taste of triumph was bitter in his mouth.

“Lovely, isn’t it?” Thorisin said to Marcus late that afternoon. He was speaking ironically; the little reception room in the imperial chambers had seen its share of fighting. There was a sword cut in the upholstery of the couch on which the tribune sat; horsehair stuffing leaked through it. A bloodstain marred the marble floor.

The Emperor went on, “When I set you over the cadasters, outlander, I thought you would be watching the pen-pushers, but it seems you flushed a noble instead.”

Scaurus grew alert. “So they were Onomagoulos’ men, then?” The assassins had fought in grim silence; for all the tribune knew, Ortaias Sphrantzes might have hired them.

Gavras, though, seemed to think he was being stupid. “Of course they’re Baanes’. I hardly needed to question them to find that out, did I?”