Videssos Cycle, Volume 1 (33 page)

Mavrikios waited to let the sudden excited buzz travel the length of the tables. Marcus had the same eager stirring the Emperor’s other officers felt—a departure date at last, and a near one, too! The tribune did not think Gavras would have to make good on his threat.

“For those of you who don’t know,” the Emperor resumed, “our western frontier against the Yezda is about five hundred miles west of the city. With an army as large as the one we’ve mustered here, we should be through Vaspurakan and into Yezd in about forty days.” At a pinch, Scaurus thought his Romans could halve that time, but the Emperor was probably right. No army could move faster than its slowest members, and with a force of this size, the problem of keeping it supplied would slow it further.

Gavras paused for a moment to pick up a wooden pointer, which he
used to draw a line southwest from Videssos to the joining of two rivers. “We’ll make the journey in four stages,” he said. “The first one will be short and easy, from here to Garsavra, where the Eriza flows into the Arandos. We’ll meet Baanes Onomagoulos there; he’ll join us with his troops from the southern mountains. He would be bringing more, but the fornicating pen-pushers have taxed too many of them into serfdom.”

The map Ortaias Sphrantzes was holding did not let Scaurus see his face. That was a pity; he would have given a good deal to learn how the young aristocrat was reacting to the ridicule heaped on his family’s policy. That map was beginning to quiver, too—it could not be comfortable for Ortaias, the tribune realized, sitting there with his arms out at full length before him. Sure enough, the Emperor was finding ways to put him in his place.

“From Garsavra we’ll head west along the Arandos to Amorion, up in the plateau country. That’s a longer stage than the first one, but it should be no harder.” Marcus saw one of Alypia’s eyebrows quirk upward, but the princess made no move to contradict her father. She scribbled again on her piece of parchment.

“There will be supply caches all along the line of march,” Gavras went on, “and I’ll not have anyone plundering the peasants in the countryside—or robbing them for the sport of it, either.” He stared down the twin lengths of officers before him, especially pausing to catch the eyes of the Khamorth chieftains newly come from the plains. Not all of them spoke Videssian; those who did murmured translations of the Emperor’s words for their fellow nomads.

One of the men from the Pardrayan steppe looked a question back at Mavrikios, who acknowledged him with a nod. “What is it?”

“I am Firdosi Horse-breaker,” the nomad leader said in labored Videssian. “I and mine took your gold to fight, not to play the robber. Slaying farmers is woman’s work—are we not men, to be trusted to fight as men?” Other Khamorth up and down the tables bowed their heads to their chests in their native gesture of agreement.

“That is well said,” the Emperor declared. Without troops at his back, Marcus would not have trusted Firdosi or any of the other steppe-dwellers and was sure Mavrikios felt the same. But, he thought, this was hardly the time to stir up trouble.

Then Thorisin Gavras added lazily, “Of course, what my brother said should not be taken to apply only to our allies from the north; all foreign troops should bear it in mind.” And he looked, not at the Khamorth, but at the Namdaleni.

They returned his mocking glance with stony silence, which filled the hall for a long moment. Mavrikios’ nostrils dilated in an anger he could not release before his watching officers. As they had at Soteric’s gambling party, men looked here and there to try to cover their discomfiture. Only Alypia seemed indifferent to it all, watching her father and uncle with what looked to Scaurus like amused detachment.

Making a visible effort, Mavrikios brought his attention back to the map Ortaias was still holding. He took a deep breath before carrying on. “At Amorion another detachment will meet us, this one headed by Gagik Bagratouni. From there we will move northwest to Soli on the Rhamnos River, just east of the mountain country of Vaspurakan, the land of princes—or so they claim,” he added sardonically.

“That may be a hungry march. The Yezda are loose there, and I need not tell anyone here what they do in farming country, Phos blight them for it. If the earth does not produce its fruits, everyone—peasant, artisan, and noble alike—must perish.”

Marcus saw two of the nomads exchange disdain-filled glances. With their vast herds and flocks, they had no need for the products of agriculture and felt the same hostility toward farmers as did their Yezda cousins. Firdosi had said it plainly—to the plainsmen, peasants were beneath contempt, and even to be killed by a true man was too good for them.

“After Soli we’ll push into Vaspurakan itself,” the Emperor said. “The Yezda will be easier to trap in the passes than on the plain, and the loot they’ll be carrying will slow them further. The Vaspurakaners will help us, too; the princes may have little love for the Empire, but the Yezda have raped their land time and again.

“And a solid win or two against Avshar’s irregulars will make Wulghash himself come out from Mashiz with his real army; either that, or have the wild men turn on him instead.” Anticipation lit Mavrikios’ face. “Smash that army, and Yezd lies open for cleansing. And smash it we shall. It’s been centuries since Videssos sent out a force to match the one
we have here today. How can any Skotos-loving bandit lord hope to stand against us?”

More with his soldiers than with the crowd in the amphitheater, Mavrikios succeeded in firing imaginations—made his officers truly see Yezd prostrate at their feet. The prospect pleased them all, for whatever reason, political gain, religious purification, or simply finding any booty in plenty.

When Ortaias Sphrantzes understood the Emperor was through at last, he put the map down with relief.

Marcus shared the officers’ enthusiasm. Mavrikios’ plan was in keeping with what the Roman had come to expect of Videssian designs—ponderous, but probably effective. He seemed to be leaving little to chance. That was as it should be, with so much soldiering in his past. All that remained was to convert plan to action.

As with everything else within the Empire, ceremony surrounded the great army’s preparations for departure. The people of Videssos, who not long before had done their best to tear that army apart, now sent heavenward countless prayers for its success. A solemn liturgy was scheduled in the High Temple on the night before the troops were to leave.

Scaurus, as commander of the Romans, received the stamped roll of heavy parchment entitling him to a pair of coveted seats at the ritual. “Whom do you suppose I can give these to?” he asked Helvis. “Do you have any friends who might want them?”

“If that’s meant as a joke, I don’t find it funny,” she replied. “We’ll go ourselves, of course. Even though I don’t fully share the Videssian creed, it would be wrong to start so important an undertaking without asking Phos’ blessing on it.”

Marcus sighed. When he asked Helvis to share his life, he had not anticipated how she would try to shape it into a pattern she found comfortable. He did not oppose the worship of Phos but, when pushed in a direction he did not want to take, his natural reaction was to dig in his heels.

Nor was he used to considering anyone else’s wishes when planning his own actions. Since reaching the age of manhood he had steered his
own course and ignored advice he had not sought. But Helvis was used to having her opinions taken into account; Scaurus remembered how angry she had been when he was close-mouthed over what the council of war decided. He sighed again. Nothing, he told himself, was as simple as it looked to be at its beginnings.

He held firm in his plans to avoid the service at the High Temple until he saw Neilos Tzimiskes’ horror when he offered the Videssian the chance to go in his place. “Thank you for the honor,” the borderer stammered, “but it would look ill indeed if you did not attend. All the great captains will be there—even the Khamorth will come, though they have scant use for Phos.”

“I suppose so,” Scaurus grumbled. But put in those terms, he could see the need for appearing; no less than Balsamon’s unsuccessful sermon had been, this was an occasion for a public display of unity. And, he thought, it would certainly help the unity of his new household. There, at least, he was not mistaken.

That was as well; preparations for the coming campaign were leaving him exhausted and short-tempered at the end of every day. Roman discipline and order were still intact, so having his men ready was no problem. They could have left the day after Mavrikios’ council—or the day before. But Videssian armies marched in greater luxury than a Caesar would have tolerated. As was true in the oriental monarchies Rome had known, great flocks of noncombatants accompanied the soldiers, including their women. And trying to get them in any sort of traveling order was a task that made Marcus understand the doom ordained for Sisyphos.

By the night of the liturgy, the tribune was actually looking forward to it and wondering how Balsamon would manage to astound his listeners this time. When he entered the High Temple, Helvis clinging proudly to his arm, he found she and Tzimiskes had been right—he could not have afforded to miss the gathering. The Temple was packed with the high officers and functionaries of every state allied against Yezd and with their ladies. It was hard to say which sex made a more gorgeous display, the men in their burnished steel and bronze, wolfskin and leather, or the women showing off their gowns of linen and clinging silk and their own soft, powdered flesh.

Men and women alike rose as the patriarch of Videssos made his way to his ivory throne. When he and his flock offered Phos their fundamental prayer, tonight there were many Namdaleni to finish the creed with their own addition: “On this we stake our very lives.” At Marcus’ side Helvis did so with firm devotion and looked about defiantly to see who might object. Few Videssians seemed offended; on this night, with all kinds of heretics and outright unbelievers in the Temple, they were willing to overlook outlanders’ barbarous practices.

When the service was done, Balsamon offered his own prayer for the success of the enterprise Videssos was undertaking and spoke at some length of the conflict’s importance and the need for singleness of purpose in the face of the western foe. Everything he said was true and needed saying, but Marcus was still disappointed at his sermon. There was little of Balsamon’s usual dry wit, nor did his delivery have its normal zest. The patriarch seemed very tired and halfhearted about his sermon. It puzzled Scaurus and concerned him, too.

But Balsamon grew more animated as his talk progressed and ended strongly. ‘A man’s only guide is his conscience—it is his shield when he does well and a blade to wound him if he falters. Now take up the shield of right and turn back evil’s sword—bow not to wickedness’ will, and that sword can never harm you!”

As his listeners applauded his words and calls of “Well said!” came from throughout the Temple, above them rose the massed voices of the choir in a triumphant hymn to Phos, and with them the bell players whose music had intrigued Scaurus before. Now he was sitting at an angle that let him watch them work, and his fascination with them was enough to wipe away a good part of the letdown at Balsamon’s pedestrian address.

The twoscore players stood behind a long, padded table. Each had before him some half dozen polished bells of various sizes and tones. Along with their robes, the players wore kidskin gloves to avoid smudging the bright bell metal. They followed the direction of their bellmaster with marvelous speed and dexterity, changing and chiming their bells in perfect unison. It was, Marcus found, as entrancing to watch as to hear.

The bellmaster was a show in himself. A dapper little man, he led his
charges with slightly exaggerated, theatrical gestures, his body swaying to the hymn he was conducting. His face wore a look of exaltation, and his eyes never opened. It was several minutes before Scaurus realized he was blind; he hardly seemed to need to see, for his ears told him more than most men’s eyes ever would.

If the music of the bells impressed the unmusical tribune, it delighted Helvis, who said, “I’ve heard the Temple’s bell players praised many times, but never had the chance to listen to them before. They were another reason I wanted to be here tonight.” She looked at Marcus quizzically. “If I’d known you liked them, I would have used them as an argument for coming.”

He had to smile. “Probably just as well you didn’t.” He found it hard to imagine being persuaded to go anywhere by the promise of music. Still, there was no doubt the bell players added spice to what otherwise would have been an unsatisfying evening.

The Emperor ordered criers through the streets to warn the people of Videssos to spend the following day at home. The major thoroughfares were packed tight with soldiers in full kit, with nervous horses and braying donkeys, wagons carrying the warriors’ families and personal goods, other wagons driven by sutlers, and still others loaded with every imaginable sort of military hardware. Tempers shortened more quickly than the long files of men, animals, and wains inching toward the quays where ships and boats waited to take them over the Cattle-Crossing to the Empire’s westlands.

The Romans, as part of Mavrikios’ Imperial Guard, had little waiting before they crossed. Everything went smoothly as could be, except for Viridovix. The luckless Celt spent the entire journey—fortunately for him, one of less than half an hour—leaning over the galley’s rail, retching helplessly.

“Every time I’m on the water it happens to me,” he moaned between spasms. The usual ruddiness had faded from his features, leaving him fishbelly pale.

“Eat hard-baked bread crumbled in wine,” Gorgidas recommended,
“or, if you like, I have a decoction of opium that will help, though it will leave you drowsy for a day.”

“Eat—” The very word was enough to send the Gaul lurching toward the rail. When he was through he turned back to Gorgidas. Tears of misery stood in his eyes. “I thank your honor for the advice and all, but it’d be too late to do me the good I need. Dry dirt, bless it, under my feet will serve me better than any nostrum ever you made.” He cringed as another wavelet gently lifted the ship’s bow.