Videssos Cycle, Volume 1 (14 page)

Mavrikios looked at her with a mixture of exasperation and fondness. “My daughter reads history,” he said to Marcus, as if in apology.

The Roman did not think any was necessary. Alypia had spoken well and to the point. There was plainly a keen wit behind her eyes, though she kept it on a short rein of words. The tribune was also grateful for any facts he could get. The Videssos he and his men entered was a maze of interlocking factions more twisted than any Rome had known.

The princess had turned to face her father; Scaurus admired her clean profile. It was softer than Mavrikios’ both because of her sex and the influence of her mother’s looks, but she was still a distinguished young woman. A cat can look at a king, Marcus thought, but what of a king’s daughter? Well, he told himself, no one’s yet been killed for thinking, and a good thing too, or the world would be a lonely place.

“Say what you want,” the Emperor told Alypia, “about how things were a hundred years ago. Ten years ago, when Strobilos Sphrantzes had his fat fundament on the throne—”

“You’d say ‘arse’ to anyone but me,” Alypia said. “I’ve heard the word before.”

“Probably from my own mouth, I fear.” Gavras sighed. “I do try to watch my tongue, but I’ve spent too many years in the field.”

Marcus ignored the byplay. A Sphrantzes ruling Videssos just before Mavrikios forcibly took power? Then what in the name of Jove—or even Phos—was Vardanes Sphrantzes doing as the present Emperor’s chief minister?

“Where was I?” Gavras was saying. “Oh yes, that cretin Strobilos. He was a bigger booby than his precious nephew. Fifty thousand peasants on the border of Vaspurakan he converted from soldiers to serfs in one swoop, and overtaxed serfs at that. Is it any wonder half of them went over to the Yezda, foul as they are, on their next raid? There’s such a thing, Alypia, as taking too long a view.”

Damn it, thought Scaurus, there was no graceful way to ask the question that was consuming him with curiosity. He squirmed in his seat, so busy with unsuccessful tries at framing it that he did not notice Balsamon watching him.

The patriarch came to his rescue. “Your Majesty, before he bursts, will you tell the poor lad why there’s still a Sphrantzes in your service?”

“Ah, Scaurus, then there
is
something you don’t know? I’d started to wonder. Balsamon, you tell it—you were in things up to your fuzzy eyebrows.”

Balsamon assumed a comic look of injured innocence. “I? All I did was point out to a few people that Strobilos had, perhaps, not been the ideal ruler for a land in a time of trouble.”

“What that means, Roman, is that our priestly crony here broke a hole in the ranks of the bureaucrats you could throw
him
through, which is saying something. Half the pen-pushers backed me instead of the old Sphrantzes; their price was making the younger one Sevastos. Worth it, I suppose, but he wants the red boots for himself.”

“He also wants me,” Alypia said. “It is not mutual.”

“I know, dear, I know. I could solve so many problems if it were, but I’m not sure I’d give you to him even so. His wife died too conveniently last year. Poor Evphrosyne! And as soon as was decent—or before, thinking back on it—there was Vardanes, full of praises for the notion of ‘cementing our two great houses.’ I do not trust that man.”

Marcus decided he too would like to cement Vardanes Sphrantzes—by choice, into the wall of a fortress.

Something else occurred to him. Mavrikios, it seemed, was a man
who liked to speak the truth as well as hear it, so the tribune felt he could inquire, “May I ask, my lord, what became of Strobilos Sphrantzes?”

“You mean, did I chop him into chitterlings as he deserved? No, that was part of the bargain Balsamon forged. He lived out his worthless life in a monastery north of Imbros and died a couple of years ago. Also, to his credit, Vardanes swore he would not serve me if I killed his uncle, and I needed him, worse luck for me.

“Here, enough of this—I neglect my hostly duties. Have another cake.” And the Emperor of Videssos, like any good host, extended the platter to the Roman.

“With pleasure,” Scaurus said, taking one. “They’re delicious.”

“Thank you,” said Alypia. When Marcus blinked, she went on, a bit defensively: “I was not raised in the palaces, you know, with a servant to squirm at every crook of my finger. I learned womens’ skills well enough, and after all”—She smiled at her father—“no one can read history all the time.”

“Your Highness, I said they were very good cakes before I knew who made them,” Marcus pointed out. “You’ve only given me another reason to like them.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth he wished he had not said them. Where his daughter was concerned, Mavrikios could not help but be suspicious of everyone.

Though Alypia dropped her eyes, if the remark annoyed the Emperor he showed no sign of it. “A courtier indeed, Balsamon,” he chuckled. As he bowed his way from the imperial audience, Marcus concluded that any soldier of Videssos who had no turn for diplomacy would hardly last long enough to face her foes.

M
IZIZIOS THE EUNUCH LED THE
R
OMAN BACK TO THE ENTRANCEWAY
of the imperial quarters, then vanished back into the building on some business of his own. The messenger who had led the tribune hither was nowhere to be seen. The Videssians, apparently, took less care over exits than entrances.

Their sentries were also less careful than Marcus found tolerable. When he emerged into the golden sunshine of late afternoon, he found both guards sprawled out asleep in front of the doorway. Their sword belts were undone, their spears lay beside the helmets they had already shed when Scaurus first saw them.

Their sloth infuriated the tribune. With an Emperor worth protecting—and that for the first time in years—these back-country louts could do no better than doze the day away. It was more than the Roman could stand. “On your feet!” he roared. At the same time he kicked their discarded helms, making a fine clatter.

The sentries jerked and scrambled upright, fumbling for the weapons they had set aside. Marcus laughed scornfully. He cursed the startled warders with every bit of Videssian foulness he had learned. He wished Gaius Philippus were at his side; the centurion had a gift for invective. “If you were under my command, you’d be lashed with more than my tongue, I promise you that,” he finished.

Under his tirade, the Videssians went from amazement to sullenness. The older one, a stocky, much-scarred veteran, muttered to his companion, “Who does this churlish barbarian think he is?”

A moment later he was on the ground, flat as he’d been while napping. Marcus stood over him, rubbing a sore knuckle and watching the other sentry for any move he might make. Save for backing away, he made none.

Seeing the still-standing guard was safe to ignore, Marcus hauled the man he had felled to his feet. He was none too gentle about it. The sentry shook his head, trying to clear it. A bruise was already forming under his left eye.

“When do your reliefs arrive?” Scaurus snapped at the two of them.

“In about another hour, sir,” the younger, milder guard answered. He spoke very carefully, as one might to a tiger which had asked the time of day.

“Very well, then. Tell them what happened to you and let them know someone will be by to check on them sometime during their watch. And may your Phos help them and you if they get caught sleeping!”

He turned his back on the sentries and stalked off, giving them no chance to question or protest. In fact, he did not intend to send anyone to spy on the next watch. The threat alone should be enough to keep them alert.

As he walked back past the barracks hall belonging to the mercenaries from the Duchy of Namdalen, he heard his name called. Helvis was leaning out of a top-story window, holding something in her hand. The Roman was too far away to see what it was until the sun gave back the bright glint of gold—probably some trinket she’d bought with what she’d won betting on him. She smiled and waved.

Grinning himself, he waved back, his anger at the sentries forgotten for the moment. She was a friendly lass, and he had only himself to blame for thinking her unattached the night before. Hemond was a good sort, too; Marcus had liked him from their first meeting at the Silver Gate. His grin turned wry as he reflected that the two women who had interested him most in Videssos both seemed thoroughly unapproachable. It’s hardly the end of the world, you know, he told himself, seeing that you’ve been in the city less than a week.

His mood of gentle self-mockery was suddenly erased by the sight of the tall, white-robed figure of Avshar. His hand reached the hilt of his sword before he knew he had moved it. The envoy of Yezd, though, did not appear to see him in return. Avshar was some distance away in deep conversation with a squat, bowlegged man in the furs and leather of the Pardrayan nomads. The tribune had the feeling he’d seen the plainsman
before, but could not recall when or where—maybe at last night’s banquet, he thought uncertainly.

He was so intent on Avshar that he forgot to pay attention to where his feet were taking him. The first knowledge he had that he was not alone on his pathway came when he bounced off a man coming in the opposite direction. “Your pardon, I pray!” he exclaimed, taking his eye off the Yezda to see whom he’d staggered.

His victim, a short chubby man, wore the blue robes of the priesthood of Phos. His shaven head gave him a curious ageless look, but he was not old—gray had not touched his beard, and his face was hardly lined. “Quite all right, quite all right,” he said. “It’s my own fault for not noticing you were full of your own thoughts.”

“That’s good of you, but it doesn’t excuse my clumsiness.”

“Don’t trouble yourself about it. Am I not right in recognizing you as the leader of the new company of outland mercenaries?”

Marcus admitted it.

“Then I’ve been wanting to meet you for some time.” The priest’s eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled. “Though not so abruptly as this, perhaps.”

“You have the advantage of me,” the tribune observed.

“Hmm? Oh, so I do—no reason you should know me, is there? I’m called Nepos. I wish I could claim my interest in you was entirely unselfish, but I fear I can’t. You see, I hold one of the chairs in sorcery at the Videssian Academy.”

Scaurus nodded his understanding. In a land where wizardry held so strong a place, what could be more logical than its taking its place alongside other intellectual disciplines such as philosophy and mathematics? And since the Romans were widely known to have come to Videssos by no natural means, the Empire’s sorcerers must be burning with curiosity about their arrival. For that matter, so was he—Nepos might be able to make him better understand the terrifying moment that had whisked him to this world.

He gauged the setting sun. “It should be about time for my men to sit down to supper. Would you care to join us? After we’ve eaten, you can ask questions to your heart’s content.”

“Nothing would please me more,” Nepos answered, beaming at him. “Lead on, and I’ll follow as best I can—your legs are longer than mine, I’m afraid.”

Despite his round build, the little priest had no trouble keeping up with the Roman. His sandaled feet twinkled over the ground, and as he walked, he talked. An endless stream of questions bubbled from him, queries not only about the religious and magical practices of Rome and Gaul, but about matters social and political as well.

“I think,” the Roman said, wondering at the relevance of some of the things Nepos was asking, “your faith plays a larger part in everything you do than is true in my world.”

“I’d begun to reach that conclusion myself,” the priest agreed. “In Videssos you cannot buy a cup of wine without being told Phos will triumph in the end, or deal with a jeweler from Khatrish without hearing that the battle between good and evil is evenly matched. Everyone in the city fancies himself a theologian.” He shook his head in mock annoyance.

At the Roman barracks Marcus found the sentries alert and vertical. He would have been astounded had it been otherwise.

Far less dangerous for a legionary to face an oncoming foe than Gaius Philippus’ wrath, which fell unerringly on shirkers.

Inside the hall, most of the legionaries were already spooning down their evening meal, a thick stew of barley, boiled beef and marrowbones, peas, carrots, onions, and various herbs. It was better food than they would have had in Caesar’s barracks, but of similar kind. Nepos accepted his bowl and spoon with a word of thanks.

Marcus introduced the priest to Gaius Philippus, Viridovix, Gorgidas, Quintus Glabrio, Adiatun, the scout Junius Blaesus, and several other Romans. They found a quiet corner and talked while they ate. How many times now, the tribune wondered, had he told some Videssian his tale? Unlike almost all the others, Nepos was no passive audience. His questions were good-natured but probing, his constant effort aimed toward piecing together a consistent account from the recollections of his table companions.

Why was it, he asked, that Gaius Philippus and Adiatun both remembered seeing Scaurus and Viridovix still trading swordstrokes inside
the dome of light, yet neither the tribune nor the Gaul had any such memory? Why had it been hard for Gorgidas to breathe, but for no one else? Why had Junius Blaesus felt piercing cold, but Adiatun broken into a sweat?

Gaius Philippus answered Nepos patiently for a time, but before long his streak of hard Roman practicality emerged. “What good does it do you, anyway, to learn that Publius Flaccus farted while we were in flight?”

“None whatever, very possibly,” Nepos smiled, taking no offense. “Did he?”

Amid general laughter, the centurion said, “You’d have to ask him, not me.”

“The only way to understand anything in the past,” Nepos went on in a more serious vein, “is to find out as much as one can about it. Often people have no idea how much they can remember or, indeed, how much of what they think they know is false. Only patient inquiry and comparing many accounts can bring us near the truth.”

“You talk like a historian, not a priest or a wizard,” Gorgidas said.