Videssos Cycle, Volume 1 (95 page)

“Don’t you just wander off,” Thorisin said to the tribune as he started to follow them out. “I have a job in mind for you.”

“Sire?”

“And spare me that innocent blue-eyed gaze,” the Emperor growled. “For all the wenches it charms, it goes for nothing with me.” Marcus saw the corner of Alypia Gavra’s mouth twitch, but she did not look at him. Her uncle went on, “You were the one who wanted that gray-bearded puritan loose, so you can keep an eye on him. If he so much as breathes hard, I expect to hear about it. D’you understand me?”

“Aye.” The Roman had half expected that order.

“Just ‘aye’?” Gavras glared at him, balked of the chance to vent his anger further. “Go on, take yourself off, then.”

As Marcus walked back to the legionaries’ barracks, Alypia Gavra caught him up. “I have to ask your pardon,” she said. “It was wrong of me to pretend I never got your requests to see me.”

“The situation was unusual,” the tribune replied. He could not speak as freely as he would have liked. The path was busy; more than one head turned at the sight of a mercenary captain, even one of the prominence Scaurus had won, walking side by side with the Avtokrator of the Videssians’ niece.

“To say the least.” Alypia raised one eyebrow. She, too, used phrases with many meanings. Marcus wondered if she had deliberately chosen to meet him in public to keep things between them as impersonal as possible.

“I hope,” he said carefully, “you don’t feel I was, ah, taking undue advantage of the situation.”

She gave him a steady look. “There are many benefits an officer with an eye for the main chance might gain; something, I might add, I am as capable of seeing as any officer of that stripe.”

“That is the main reason I hesitated so long.”

“I never believed here”—Alypia laid her hand on her left breast—“you were such a man. It is, though, something one considers.” She cocked her head, still studying him. “ ‘The main reason’? What of your young son? What of the family you’ve made since you came to Videssos? At the banquet you seemed well content with your lady.”

Scaurus bit his lip. It was chastening to hear his own thoughts come back at him from the princess’ mouth. “And you claimed to have trouble reading me!” he said, embarrassed out of indirection.

For the first time Alypia smiled. She made as if to put her hand on his arm, but stopped, remembering better than he where they were. She said quietly, “Were those thoughts not there to read, the, ah, situation”—Her mockery of the tribune’s earlier pause was gentle—“Would never have arisen.”

The path divided. “We go different ways now, I think,” she said, and turned toward the flowering cherries that concealed the imperial residence.

“Aye, for a while,” Marcus answered, but only to himself.

“Look what Gavras gives me to work with!” Taron Leimmokheir shouted. “Why didn’t he tell me to go hang myself from a yardarm while I was about it?” He answered his own question, “He thought my weight’d break it, and he was right!” He looked disgustedly about the Neorhesian harbor.

The capital’s great northern anchorage was not a part of the city Scaurus knew well. The Romans had patrolled near the harbor of Kontoskalion, on Videssos’ south-facing coast, and had also embarked on campaign against the Yezda from there. But Kontoskalion was a toy port next to the Neorhesian harbor, named for the long-dead city prefect who had supervised its building.

There were ships aplenty at the docks jutting out into the Videssian Sea, a veritable forest of masts. But all too many of them belonged to fat, sluggish trading ships and tiny fishing craft like the one Marcus had sailed on when Thorisin’s forces sneaked over the Cattle-Crossing. These, by now, rode high in the water. Their cargoes long since unloaded, they were trapped
in Videssos by Elissaios Bouraphos outside. As had been only proper—then—Bouraphos had taken the heart of the Empire’s war fleet when he sailed for Pityos and kept it when he joined Onomagoulos in rebellion.

Leimmokheir had precious little left: ten or so triremes, and perhaps a dozen smaller two-banked ships like the ones the tribune knew as Liburnians. He was outnumbered almost three to one, and Bouraphos also had the better captains and crews.

“What’s to do?” Marcus asked, worried the drungarios thought the task beyond him. After his outburst, Leimmokheir was staring out to sea, not at the choppy little waves dancing inside the breakwater, but beyond, to the vast sweep of empty horizon.

The admiral did not seem to hear him for a moment; he slowly came back to himself. “Hmm? Phos’ light, I truly don’t know, left here with the lees to drink. Wait and watch for a bit, I expect, until I understand how things have gone since I was taken off the board. I’ve come back facing a new direction, and everything looks strange.”

In the Videssian board game, captured pieces could be used against their original owners and change sides several times in the course of a game. It was, Scaurus thought, a game very much in its makers’ image.

Seeing the Roman troubled by his answer, Leimmokheir slapped him on the shoulder. “Never lose hope,” he said seriously. “The Namdaleni are heretics who imperil their souls with their belief, but they have the right of that. No matter how bad the storm looks, it has to end sometime. Skotos lays despair before men as a snare.”

He was the living proof of his own philosophy, Scaurus thought; his imprisonment had dropped from him as if it had never been. But the tribune noted he had still not answered the question.

The last clear notes of the pandoura faded inside the Roman barracks. Applause, a storm of it, followed swiftly. Senpat Sviodo laid aside his stringed instrument, a smile of pleasure on his handsome, swarthy face. He lifted a mug of wine in salute to his audience.

“That was marvelous,” Helvis said. “You made me see the mountains of Vaspurakan plain as if they stood before me. Phos gave you a great gift. Were you not a soldier, your music would soon make you rich.”

“Curious you should say that,” he answered sheepishly. “Back in my teens I thought about running off with a troupe of strummers who were playing at my father’s holding.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“He found out and stropped his belt on my backside. He had the right of it, Phos rest him. I was needed there; even then, the Yezda were thick as tax collectors round a man who’s dug up treasure. And had I gone, look what I would have missed.” He slid his arm round Nevrat beside him. The bright ribbons streaming from his three-peaked Vaspurakaner cap tickled her neck; she brushed them away as she snuggled closer to her husband.

Marcus sipped from his own wine cup. He had nearly forgotten what good company the two young westerners made, not just for Senpat’s music but for the gusto and good cheer with which he—indeed, both of them—faced life. And they were so obviously pleased with each other as to make every couple around them happier simply by their presence.

“Where is your friend with the mustaches like melted bronze?” Nevrat asked the tribune. “He has a fine voice. I was hoping to hear him sing with Senpat tonight, even if Videssian songs are the only ones they both understand.”

“ ‘Little bird with a yellow bill—’ ” Gaius Philippus began, his baritone raucous. Nevrat winced and threw a walnut at him. Ever alert, he caught it out of the air, then cracked it with the pommel of his dagger.

The distraction did not make her forget her question. She quirked an eyebrow at Scaurus. He said lamely. “There was some business or other he said he had to attend to; I don’t know just what.” But I can make a fair guess, he thought.

Nevrat’s other eyebrow went up when she saw him hesitate. Unlike most Videssian women, she did not pluck them to make them finer, but they did nothing to mar her strong-featured beauty.

In this case, Marcus was immune to such blandishments. He wished he had no part of Viridovix’ secret and would not spread it further.

Nevrat turned to Helvis. “You’re a big girl, dear. You should do more than pick at your food.”

Said in a different tone, the words could have rankled, but Nevrat
was obviously concerned. Helvis’ answering smile was a trifle wan. “There’d just be more for me to give back tomorrow morning.”

Nevrat looked blank for a moment, then hugged her. “Congratulations,” Senpat said, pumping Marcus’ hand. “What is it, the thought of going west that makes you randy? This’ll be twice now.”

“Oh, more than that,” Helvis said with a sidelong glance at the tribune.

When the laughter subsided, Senpat grew serious. “You Romans will be going west, not so?”

“I’ve heard nothing either way,” Scaurus said. “For now, no one goes anywhere much, not with Bouraphos at the Cattle-Crossing. Why should it matter to you? You’ve been detached from us for months now.”

Instead of answering directly, Senpat exchanged a few sentences in guttural Vaspurakaner with Gagik Bagratouni. The
nakharar
’s reply was almost a growl. Several of his countrymen nodded vehemently; one pounded his fist on his knee.

“I would rejoin, if you’ll have me,” the younger noble said, giving his attention back to Scaurus. “When you go west, you’ll do more than fight rebels inside the Empire. The Yezda are there, too, and I owe them a debt.” His merry eyes grew grim.

“And I,” Nevrat added. Having seen her riding alone through them after Maragha and in the press when the legionaries fought Drax’ men, Marcus knew she meant exactly what she said.

“You both know the answer is yes, whether or not we move,” the tribune said. “How could I say otherwise to seasoned warriors and bold scouts who are also my friends?” Senpat Sviodo thanked him with unwonted seriousness.

Still caught up in his own thoughts, Bagratouni said hungrily, “And also Zemarkhos there is.” His men nodded again; they had more cause to hate the fanatic priest than even the nomads. Likely their chance for revenge would come, too, if the legionaries went west. On the way to Maragha, Thorisin had mocked Zemarkhos, and so the zealot acknowledged Onomagoulos as his Avtokrator. His followers helped swell the provincial noble’s forces.

The hall grew silent for a moment. The Romans were loyal to the state for which they fought, but it was a mercenary’s loyalty, ultimately
shallow. They did not share or fully understand the decades of war and pogrom which tempered the Vaspurakaners as repeated quenchings did steel. The men who styled themselves princes rarely showed that hardness; when they did, it was enough to chill their less-committed comrades.

“Out on the darkness!” Senpat Sviodo cried, feeling the mood of the evening start to slide. “It’s Skotos’ tool, nothing else!”

He turned to Gaius Philippus. “So you Romans know the little bird, do you?” His fingers danced over the pandoura’s strings. The legionaries roared out the marching song, glad to be distracted from their own thoughts.

“Are you well, Taron?” Marcus asked. “You look as if you hadn’t slept in a week.”

“Near enough,” Leimmokheir allowed, punctuating his words with an enormous yawn. His eyes were red-tracked, his gravelly voice hoarser than usual. The flesh he had begun gaining back after his release looked slack and unhealthy. “It’s a wearing task, trying to do the impossible.” Even his once-booming laugh seemed hollow.

“Not enough ships, not enough crews, not enough money, not enough time.” He ticked them off on his fingers one by one. “Outlander, you have Gavras’ ear. Make him understand I’m no mage, to conjure up victory with a wave of my hand. And do a good job, too, or we’ll be in cells side by side.”

Scaurus took that as mere downheartedness on the admiral’s part, but Leimmokheir grew so insistent the tribune decided to try to meet with the Emperor. Exhaustion had made the drungarios of the fleet irritable and unable to see any viewpoint but his own.

As luck would have it, the tribune was admitted to the imperial presence after only a short wait. When he spoke of Leimmokheir’s complaints, Thorisin snapped, “What does he want, anchovies to go with his wine? Any fool can handle the easy jobs; it’s the hard ones that show what a man’s made of.”

A messenger came up to the throne, paused uncertainly. “Well?” Gavras said.

Recognized, the man went down in full proskynesis. When he rose, he handed the Avtokrator a folded leaf of parchment. “Your pardon, your Majesty. The runner who delivered this said it was of the utmost urgency that you read it at once.”

“All right, all right, you’ve given it to me.” The Emperor opened the sheet, softly read aloud to himself: “ ‘Come to the sea wall and learn what your trust has gained you. L., drungarios commanding.’ ”

His color deepened at every word. He tore the sheet in half, then turned on Scaurus, shouting, “Phos curse the day I heeded your poisoned tongue! Hear the braggart boasting as he turns his coat!

“Zigabenos!” Gavras bellowed, and when the guards officer appeared the Emperor profanely ordered him to send troops hotfoot to the docks to stop Leimmokheir if they could. He grated, “It’ll be too bloody late, but we have to try.”

The fury he radiated was so great Marcus stepped back when he rose from the throne, afraid Thorisin was about to attack him. Instead Gavras issued a curt command: “Come along, sirrah. If I must watch the fruit of your folly, you can be there, too.”

The Emperor swept down the aisleway, an aghast Scaurus in his wake. Everything the Roman had believed of Leimmokheir looked to be a tissue of lies. It was worse than betrayal; it spoke of a blindness on his part humiliating to contemplate.

Courtiers scurried out of Gavras’ path, none daring to remind him of business still unfinished. Swearing under his breath, he stalked through the grounds of the palace compound; he mounted the steps of the sea wall like an unjustly condemned man on his way to the executioner. He did not so much as look at Scaurus.

What he saw when he peered over the gray stone battlements ripped a fresh cry of outrage from him. “The pimp’s spawn has stolen the whole fleet!” Sails furled, the triremes and lighter, two-banked warships were rowing west from the Neorhesian harbor. Sea foam clotted whitely round their oars at every stroke. Marcus’ heart sank further. He had not known it could.

“And look!” the Emperor said, pointing to the suburban harbor on the far shore of the Cattle-Crossing. “Here comes that cow-futtering
Bouraphos, out to escort him home!” The rebel admiral’s ships grew swiftly larger as they approached. Thorisin shook his fist at them.