Videssos Cycle, Volume 1 (5 page)

He sighed. So much to learn—

At Gorgidas’ request, Scaurus detailed a squad to cut poles for litters; more than a score of Romans were too badly wounded to walk. “Fever will take some,” the Greek said, “but if they get decent food and treatment in this town, most should pull through.”

Tzimiskes rode up to the edge of the makeshift earthwork the Romans had made. Atop his horse, he was high enough off the ground to see inside. He seemed impressed by the bustle and the order of the camp.

Though canny enough not to say so, Scaurus was struck by the equipment of the Videssian’s saddle and horse. Even at a quick glance, there were ideas there the Romans had never had. For one thing, Neilos rode with his feet in irons shaped to hold them, which hung from his saddle by leather straps. For another, when his mount lifted a forefoot, the tribune saw that its hoof was shod in iron to help protect it from stones and thorns.

“Isn’t that the sneakiest thing?” Gaius Philippus said as he strolled up. “The whoreson can handle a sword or a bow—or even a spear—with both hands, and stay on with his feet. Why didn’t we ever think of that?”

“It might be a good idea not to let on that we didn’t know of such things.”

“I wasn’t born yesterday.”

“Yes, I know,” Marcus said. Not a glance had his centurion given to Tzimiskes’ gear while he spoke of it. The Videssian, looking from one of them to the other, could have had no clue to what they were talking about.

About an hour’s march west along a narrow, twisting woods-path got the Romans free of the forest and into the beginnings of settled country. His horizon widening as he moved into open land, Marcus looked about curiously. The terrain he was passing through was made up of rolling hills and valleys; to the north and northeast real mountains loomed purple against the horizon.

Farmhouses dotted the hillsides, as did flocks of sheep and goats. More than one farmer started driving his beasts away from the road as soon as he caught sight of an armed column of unfamiliar aspect. Tzimiskes
shouted reassurance at them, but most preferred to take no chances. “Looks like they’ve been through it before,” Gaius Philippus said. Marcus gave a thoughtful nod.

The weather was warmer and drier than it had been in Gaul, despite a brisk breeze from the west. The wind had a salt tang to it; a gull screeched high overhead before gliding away.

“We’ll not be having to take ship to come to this town, will we?” Viridovix asked Marcus.

“I don’t think so. Why?”

“For all I’ve lived by the ocean the whole of my life, it’s terrible seasick I get.” The Celt paled at the thought of it.

The narrow path they had been following met a broad thoroughfare running north and south. Used to the stone-paved highways the Romans built, Marcus found its dirt surface disappointing until Gaius Philippus pointed out, “This is a nation of horsemen, you know. Horses don’t care much for hard roads; I suppose that still holds true with iron soles on their feet. Our roads aren’t for animal traffic—they’re for moving infantry from one place to another in a hurry.”

The tribune was only half-convinced. Come winter, this road would be a sea of mud. Even in summer, it had disadvantages—he coughed as Tzimiskes’ horse kicked up dust.

He stepped forward to try to talk with the Videssian, pointing at things and learning their names in Tzimiskes’ tongue while teaching him the Latin equivalents. To his chagrin, Tzimiskes was much quicker at picking up his speech than he was in remembering Videssian words.

In the late afternoon they marched past a low, solidly built stone building. At the eastern edge of its otherwise flat roof, a blue-painted wooden spire leaped into the air; it was topped by a gilded ball. Blue-robed men who had shaved their pates but kept full, bushy beards worked in the gardens surrounding the structure. Both building and occupants were so unlike anything Marcus had yet seen that he looked a question to Tzimiskes.

His guide performed the same ritual he had used before he drank wine, spitting and raising his arms and head. The tribune concluded the blue-robes were priests of some sort, though tending a garden seemed an
odd way to follow one’s gods. He wondered if they did such work full time. If so, he thought, they took their religion seriously.

There was little traffic on the road. A merchant, catching sight of the marching column as he topped a rise half a mile south, promptly turned his packhorses round and fled. Gaius Philippus snorted in derision. “What does he think we can do? Run down his horses, and us afoot?”

“Dinna even think of it,” Viridovix said earnestly. “A mess o’ blisters bigger than goldpieces, my feet must be. I think you Romans were born so you couldna feel pain in your legs. My calves are on fire, too.”

To Scaurus, on the other hand, the day’s march had been an easy one. His men were slowed by the litters they bore in teams. Many were walking wounded, and all bone-weary. Four of the soldiers in the litters died that day, as Gorgidas had known they would.

Tzimiskes appeared pleased at the pace the legionaries had been able to keep. He watched fascinated, as they used the last sunshine and the purple twilight to create their square field fortifications. Marcus was proud of the skill and discipline his exhausted troops displayed.

When the sun dipped below the western horizon, Neilos went through his now-familiar series of actions, though his prayer was longer than the one he had made at wine. “That explains the golden ball back down the road,” Gorgidas said.

“It does?” Marcus’ mind had been elsewhere.

“Of course it does. These people must be sun-worshipers.”

The tribune considered it. “There are worse cults,” he said. “Reverencing the sun is a simple enough religion.” Gorgidas dipped his head in agreement, but Marcus would long remember the naïveté and ignorance behind his remark.

A thin sliver of crescent moon slid down the sky, soon leaving it to the incomprehensible stars. Marcus was glad to see there was a moon, at least, even if it was out of phase with the one he had known. A wolf bayed in the distant hills.

The day had been warm, but after sunset it grew surprisingly chilly. When added to the ripe state of the grainfields he had seen, that made Marcus guess the season to be fall, though in Gaul it had been early summer. Well, he thought, if this land’s moon doesn’t match my own, no good reason its seasons should, either. He gave it up and slept.

The town’s name was Imbros. Though three or four ball-topped blue spires thrust their way into sight, its wall was high enough to conceal nearly everything within. The fortifications seemed sturdy enough, and in good condition. But while most of the gray stonework was old and weathered, much of the northern wall looked to have been recently rebuilt. The tribune wondered how long ago the sack had taken place and who the foe had been.

He knew the local leaders would not let any large numbers of his men into the town until they were convinced the legionaries could be trusted, but he had expected Imbros would ready a market outside the walls for the Romans’ use. Where were the scurrying peasants, the bustling merchants, the approaching wagonloads of grain and other supplies? The city was not shut up against a siege, but it was not looking to the arrival of a friendly army either.

That could mean trouble. His troops were nearly through the iron rations they carried in their packs, and the fields and farms round Imbros looked fat. Not even Roman discipline would hold long in the face of hunger.

With his few words and many gestures, he tried to get that across to Tzimiskes. The Videssian, a soldier himself, understood at once; he seemed puzzled and dismayed that the messenger he had sent ahead was being ignored.

“This is good brigand country,” Gaius Philippus said. “I wonder if young Mouzalon was bushwhacked on his way here.”

Viridovix said, “Wait—is that not the youngling himself, galloping out toward us?”

Mouzalon was already talking as he rode up to Tzimiskes. The latter’s answers, short at first, grew longer, louder, and angrier. The word or name “Vourtzes” came up frequently; when at last it was mentioned once too often, Tzimiskes spat in disgust.

“He must be truly furious, to vent his rage by perverting a prayer,” Gorgidas said softly to Marcus. The tribune nodded, grateful for the Greek’s insights.

Something was happening to Imbros now. There was a stir at the
north gate, heralding the emergence of a procession. First came a fat man wearing a silver circlet on his balding head and a robe of maroon brocade. Parasol bearers flanked him on either side. They had to be for ceremony, as it was nearing dusk. Tzimiskes gave the fat man a venomous glance—was this, then, Vourtzes?

Vourtzes, if it was he, was followed by four younger, leaner men in less splendid robes. From their inkstained fingers and the nervous, nearsighted stares they sent at the Romans, Marcus guessed they were the fat man’s secretaries.

With them came a pair of shaven-headed priests. One wore a simple robe of blue; the other, a thin-faced man with a graying beard and bright, burning eyes, had a palm-wide circle of cloth-of-gold embroidered on the left breast of his garment. The plain-robed priest swung a brass thurible that gave forth clouds of sweet, spicy smoke.

On either side of the scribes and priests tramped a squad of foot soldiers: big, fair, stolid-looking men in surcoats of scarlet and silver over chain mail. They carried pikes and wicked-looking throwing axes; their rectangular shields had various devices painted on them. Mercenaries, the tribune decided—they looked like no Videssians he had yet seen.

Behind the soldiers came three trumpeters, a like number of fluteplayers, and a man even fatter than Vourtzes pushing a kettledrum on a little wheeled cart.

Vourtzes stopped half a dozen places in front of the Romans. His honor guard came to a halt with a last stomped step and a loud, wordless shout; Marcus felt his men bristling at the arrogant display. Trumpeters and flautists blew an elaborate flourish. The tubby drummer smote his instrument with such vim that Scaurus waited for it or its cart to collapse.

When the fanfare stopped, the two Videssians with the Roman army put their right hands over their hearts and bent their heads to the plump official who led the parade. Marcus gave him the Roman salute, clenched right fist held straight out before him at eye level. At Gaius Philippus’ barked command, the legionaries followed his example in smart unison.

Startled, the Videssian gave back a pace. He glared at Scaurus, who had to hide a grin. To cover his discomfiture, the official gestured his priests forward. The older one pointed a bony finger at Marcus, rattling off what sounded like a series of questions. “I’m sorry, my friend, but I do
not speak your language,” the tribune replied in Latin. The priest snapped a couple of queries at Tzimiskes.

His reply must have been barely satisfactory, for the priest let out an audible sniff. But he shrugged and gave what Marcus hoped were his blessings to the Romans, his censer-swinging comrade occasionally joining in his chanted prayer.

The benediction seemed to complete a prologue the Videssians felt necessary. When the priests had gone back to their place by the scribes, the leader of the parade stepped up to clasp Marcus’ hands. His own were plump, beringed, and sweaty; the smile he wore had little to do with his feelings, but was the genial mask any competent politician could assume at will. The tribune understood that face quite well, for he wore it himself.

With patience and Tzimiskes’ help, Scaurus learned this was indeed Rhadenos Vourtzes,
hypasteos
of the city of Imbros—governor by appointment of the Emperor of Videssos. The Emperor’s name, Marcus gathered, was Mavrikios, of the house of Gavras. The Roman got the impression Tzimiskes was loyal to Mavrikios, and that he did not think Vourtzes shared his loyalty.

Why, Marcus struggled to ask, had the
hypasteos
not begun to prepare his town for the arrival of the Romans? Vourtzes, when he understood, spread his hands regretfully. The news of their appearance had only come the day before. It was hard to believe in any case, as Vourtzes had no prior reports of any body of men crossing Videssos’ border. And finally, the
hypasteos
did not place much faith in the word of an
akrites
, a name which seemed to apply to both Mouzalon and Tzimiskes.

Young Proklos reddened with anger at that and set his hand on the hilt of his sword. But Vourtzes turned his smile to the soldier and calmed him with a couple of sentences. In this case, it seemed, he had been wrong; matters would be straightened out shortly.

Without liking the man who gave it, Marcus had to admire the performance. As for delivery on the promises, he would see.

Gorgidas plucked at the tribune’s arm. His thin face was haggard with exhaustion. “Have they physicians?” he demanded. “I need help with our wounded, or at least poppy juice to ease the pain for the ones who are going to die no matter what we do.”

“We can find out,” Scaurus said. He had no idea of the words to tell Vourtzes what he needed, but sometimes words were unnecessary. He caught the
hypasteos’
eye, led him to the litters. The official’s retinue followed.