Lord of Janissaries (98 page)

PART THREE

PROPHETS

12

It was spring at Castle Armagh. Spring meant there was no more ice. The roads were slow because of mud. In a normal year that would get better as summer came on, but Rick wasn’t betting on it.

“We can march tomorrow,” Art Mason reported. “Nobody likes it, but we can do it.”

“Then we will. Plan on an early start.” Rick inspected the field gear laid out on his work table. In addition to armor and weapons, there was elaborate sleeping gear, and a hot-draft stove that burned twigs and pine needles and could boil water for tea in minutes. “Sure a lot of stuff to carry around.”

“Only we don’t have to carry it,” Art Mason said.

“Yeah. Makes me feel a little funny. We don’t let the troopers take this much gear.”

“Rank Hath Its Privileges. Colonel, there’s not a man in the army would begrudge you a few comforts.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, sir. I’m sure.”

“Okay. Hoped you’d say that. Jesus, Art, I’m tired of campaigning.”

“So skip this one—”

“Can’t. Too many complications. Religious war. Gengrich. The Rustengo artisans. Roman allies. The religious merger. Just too many balls to juggle.”

Mason sighed. “I read it that way, too, sir. This one needs you.”

There was a knock at the door.

“Who?” Mason asked.

“Tylara.”

Rick raised an eyebrow. “Come.”

There was no one with her. She was dressed in a long gown of
garta
cloth dyed an off-red.
Doesn’t really flatter her,
Rick thought.
But it’s sure expensive.
She was also wearing a malachite necklace Rick had given her.

“My Lord Mason,” Tylara said.

“Good day, my lady. I was just leaving.” Mason ducked out and closed the door on the way.

“You come unescorted. Is that wise?”

She laughed. “It is safe enough. Who would harm us in our own castle?”

You’d know that better than me.
“What brings you—”

“You leave tomorrow.”

“Yeah.”

“There was a time when that would have been more than enough reason to see—for us to see each other.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Rick said.

“As you say.” Tylara smiled. “But my reasons are not entirely frivolous.” She took a small packet from her sleeve.

“For me?” Rick unwrapped the cloth and unrolled a long pair of woolen knitted stockings. The Chelm crest-of-arms was worked into it, and the wool was extremely fine. “Should fit, too. Thank you. This must have taken a long time.”

“I had some help.” Tylara smiled again.

Help. Right. Always there when you need it.
He felt the stockings.
Poisoned thorn in the toe? Don’t be ridiculous.
He stuffed the socks into the pouch on the leg of his coveralls. “Thanks, then.”

She frowned puzzlement. “Rick, I—”

“Dammit, where the hell did Mason go?” He brushed past her with relief to go to the hall, then stopped.
No! She came to make friends, why am I so suspicious?
But when he turned back, she was already leaving through the other door.

* * *

“Hey! Get your ass out of the saddle and lead that horse!”

Apelles drew himself upright into a dignified pose. Who—

“Hey! I’m talking to you! You in the blue bedgown! You and your servant get down and lead your horses. Nobody rides across this bridge, not Caesar himself.”

The commands had come from a Roman centurion who stood at the near end of the floating bridge across the Dnaster River. Apelles pressed his knees into his mount’s flanks. The road was muddy and he wasn’t a very good rider. The horse moved forward at a walk.

“Halt or be stopped!” The Roman raised an arm; several archers who’d been lounging on the bank rose to their feet.

“Are you mad?” Apelles halted and slid out of the saddle. There was no one to hold his horse or stirrup, and he very nearly fell. The mud was deep over the tops of his sandals.

“Centurion, I am Apelles, Priest of Yatar and Nuncio of—”

“Apelles?” said the centurion. His tone changed. “I’ll be damned!”

“I hope not, Quintus,” said Apelles, much relieved. Quintus Pollio of the Eleventh Legion had been captain of the Roman fire department at the University. His was the first familiar face Apelles had seen in days.

“That’s as Christ and St. Michael—and Vothan—will have it,” said Quintus cheerfully. “But none of them will save me if I let you or anybody else ride across the bridge. Take a good look at it, friend Apelles, and see if you don’t agree with me.”

Apelles tossed his mount’s reins to his freedman and followed Quintus down the bank to inspect the bridge. The plank roadway was less than two yards across and there were gaps a hand’s breadth wide between the planks, which rose and fell as the boats under them jerked and bobbed on their anchor cables in the swift current of the Dnaster. “Uh—friend Quintus, is it safe to cross at all?”

“Walking. If you’re careful,” Quintus said. “We only lost three parties today. The ferryman downstream picked up two. Hydras got one.”

“Hydras.”

“Actually that was yesterday. I think we got all the big ones. Bent sword points into hooks, and—”

“There’s a ferry? I’ll take it.”

“Not a chance. Wagons only. Everybody else goes by the bridge.”

“Archbishop Polycarp is expecting me by nightfall—”

“Ho. Why didn’t you say so?” Quintus said. “You walk. I’ll see your horse gets across.”

“The blessings of Yatar on you,” Apelles said with feeling.

* * *

Apelles reached the other bank ready to kneel and kiss the muddy ground. The bridge had swayed every bit as much as he’d feared. Two corpses had floated under it while he was crossing.
There can’t be any hydras left. No big ones, anyway.

Apelles’ spirits revived when he was mounted again. In his own village of Nial’s Mercy, only three men outside the household of Bheroman Rhegmur had horses.
Even on this slow-gaited dun hack, I’m the equal of a knight. Well, almost.

In fact he had far more power than any knight, and more than most bheromen. As assistant to the Chancellor of Drantos, Apelles could send warrants and writs the length of the kingdom. His pen and inkwell held life and death for mere knights.

* * *

Apelles had never seen an army in the field. He had expected the host’s camp to be one vast city of soldiers. Instead he found over a dozen smaller camps. Each squatted on its hilltop or in its valley, some completely undefended, others behind ditches or rough walls of sharpened logs. None showed the elaborate work he had heard that the Romans put into building a camp.

“Where?” his freedman asked.

“Palomas, you talk too much. I should never have set you free.”

“We are lost, then.”

It was true enough. He knew only that Polycarp’s tent lay in Caesar’s camp. Where was that?

“We should have asked the centurion,” Palomas said.

“Yes, of course, and be silent or I will billet you with the kitchen apprentices.”

“That may be better than we’ll have tonight.”

“Ask those women.”

The two women carried buckets and sacks of washing. Palomas rode forward.
He rides better than I do. He has never said how he was enslaved.

“Ho, goodwives,” Palomas said. “Can you tell us how to find Caesar’s camp?”

One of the women looked him up and down and then gave him a gap-toothed grin. “Don’t think you’ll find much pleasure there, my friend. Publius the Satyr keeps it all for himself. We can show you a better time—”

“Chara, that one’s a priest,” said the other woman.

Chara shrugged. “He’s no bishop or highpriest. Stay with us, friend. Chara of Glinz has a name—”

“There are no soldiers quartered in Vis, then,” Apelles said.

“Only officers,” Chara said. “How did you know?”

“You tempt me, fine lady that you are,” Apelles said. “But I must find the tent of Bishop Polycarp by dark. Can you direct us?” He clinked copper coins.

“Ah,” said Chara. “See that hill off to the west?” She flung out one large red hand. “Caesar’s camp is just beyond it.”

Apelles followed the gesture with his eyes. “Thank you.” He tossed her two coppers.

Her look told him he’d paid her too much.

* * *

The candles on Archbishop Polycarp’s camp table neither guttered nor smoked. Their flames seemed as steady as Polycarp’s gaze.

“The centurion refused to allow you to ride, and denied you the ferry?” Polycarp demanded.

“Yes, my lord.”

“He will regret that.”

“My lord, it is no matter—”

“You are Nuncio from the Highpriest of Yatar. You are deputy of the Chancellor of Rome’s most powerful ally. Caesar’s officers must learn respect.”

My office demands dignity. I do not. But in a moment he will give orders—
“I learned much, my lord. Do you know that the merchants of Vis had bought hydra flesh? Not merely the fishermen, who use it as bait.”

Polycarp had stood. Now he sat again. “There is famine in Vis, then.”

“It seems.”

“I will speak to Caesar’s supply officers. Vis is an important city. We cannot—you are certain of this?”

“Aye, my lord.”

Polycarp smiled. “I think my colleague of the Temple of Yatar has chosen his servants well.” The smile faded. “Or I would, had I not yesterday received a letter from the Highpriest Yanulf. He speaks of the young woman called Maev.”

How in the Name of Yatar did he learn that?
“Yes, my lord?”

“What is your relationship with this woman?”

“We—we are betrothed by handfasting, before the shrine of Hestia Christ’s Mother.”

“Ah. Your superior feared much worse.”

Hah. Maev would never have let me within a stade of her bed without—

“Are you aware that when the Instrument of Union is signed, married priests will not be eligible for the higher offices within the united faith?”

“I am.” Yanulf himself had told him Polycarp insisted on that provision. “It is not our intention to marry. At least not yet.”

“Indeed.” Polycarp turned away for a moment, and Apelles thought he heard muttered prayers. Then he turned back, and Apelles would rather have faced a hydra than the archbishop, for all that his voice was still calm.

“Apelles, you give every appearance of being guilty of what in a priest is an even worse sin than lust. You are ambitious. You wish to rise in the service of God and do your duty to Him, yet you will not do your duty to others who have claims on you. And do not insult me by saying your duty to God comes before all others. To honor Maev and the child she may bear you is also a duty set you by God.”