THE MISPLACED LEGION

    Harry Turtledove
          1987
       Contents
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
                          I

      THE SUN OF NORTHERN GAUL WAS
PALE, NOTHING LIKE THE hot, lusty torch that
flamed over Italy. In the dim stillness beneath the
trees, its light came wan, green, and shifting, almost
as if undersea. The Romans pushing their way down
the narrow forest track took their mood from their
surroundings. They moved quietly; no trumpets or
bawdy marching songs announced their coming.
The daunting woods ignored them.
      Peering into the forest, Marcus Aemilius
Scaurus wished he had more men. Caesar and the
main Roman army were a hundred miles to the
southwest, moving against the Veneti on the
Atlantic coast. Scaurus' three cohorts - "a
reconaissance in force," his superior had called them
- were more than enough to attract the attention of
the Gauls, but might be unable to deal with it, once
attracted.
      "Only too right," Gaius Philippus answered
when the tribune said that aloud. The senior
centurion, hair going gray and face tanned and lined
by a lifetime on campaign, had long ago lost
optimism with the other illusions of his youth.
Though Scaurus' birth gave him higher rank, he had
the sense to rely on his vastly experienced aide.
      Gaius Philippus cast a critical eye on the
Roman column. "Close it up, there!" he rasped,
startlingly loud in the quiet. His gnarled vine-staff
badge of office thwacked against his greave to
punctuate the order. He quirked an eyebrow at
Scaurus. "You've nothing to worry about anyway,
sir. One look and the Gauls will think you're one of
theirs on a masquerade."
      The military tribune gave a wry nod. His
family sprang from Mediolanum in northern Italy.
He was tall and blond as any Celt and used to the
twitting his countrymen dished out. Seeing he'd
failed to hit a nerve, Gaius Philippus took another
tack. "It's not just your looks, you know - that
damned sword gives you away, too."
      That hit home. Marcus was proud of his blade,
a three-foot Gallic longsword he had taken from a
slain Druid a year ago. It was fine steel and better
suited to his height and reach than the stubby
Roman gladii. "You know full well I had an armorer
give it a decent point," he said. "When I use a
sword, I'm not such a fool as to slash with it."
      "A good thing, too. It's the point, not the edge,
that brings a man down. Hello, what's this about?"
Gaius Philippus added as four of the small army's
scouts dashed into the woods, weapons in hand.
They came out a few moments later, three of them
forcibly escorting a short, scrawny Gaul while the
fourth carried the spear he had borne.
      As they dragged their captive up to Scaurus,
their leader, an underofficer named Junius Blaesus,
said, "I'd thought someone was keeping an eye on us
this past half hour and more, sir. This fellow finally
showed himself."
      Scaurus looked the Celt over. Apart from the
bloody nose and puffed eye the Romans had given
him, he could have been any of a thousand Gallic
farmers: baggy woolen trousers, checked tunic - torn
now - long, fair hair, indifferently shaven face. "Do
you speak Latin?" the military tribune asked him.
      The only answer he got was a one-eyed glare
and a head-shake. He shrugged. "Liscus!" he called,
and the unit's interpreter trotted up. He was from the
Aedui, a clan of south central Gaul long friendly to
Rome, and wore a legionary's crested helm over
bright curls cut short in the Roman fashion. The
prisoner gave him an even blacker stare than the one
he had bestowed on Scaurus. "Ask him what he was
doing shadowing us."
      "I will that, sir," Liscus said, and put the
question into the musical Celtic speech. The captive
hesitated, then answered in single short sentence.
"Hunting boar, he says he was," Liscus reported.
      "By himself? No one would be such a fool,"
Marcus said.
      "And this is no boarspear, either," Gaius
Philippus said, grabbing it from a scout. "Where's
the crosspiece below the head? Without one, a boar
will run right up your shaft and rip your guts out."
      Marcus turned to Liscus. "The truth this time,
tell him. We'll have it from him, one way or another.
The choice is his: he can give it or we can wring it
from him." Marcus doubted he could torture a man
in cold blood, but there was no reason to let the Celt
know that.
      But Liscus was only starting to speak when the
prisoner, with a lithe twist and a kick, jerked free of
the men holding him. His hand flashed to a leaf-
shaped dagger cunningly slung below his left
shoulder. Before the startled Romans could stop
him, he thrust the point between his ribs and into his
heart. As he toppled, he said, "To the crows with
you," in perfect Latin.
      Knowing it would do no good, Scaurus shouted
for a physician; the Celt was dead before the man
arrived. The doctor, a sharp-tongued Greek named
Gorgidas, glanced at the protruding knife hilt and
snapped, "You ask too much of me, you know. I'll
close his eyes for him if you like."
      "Never mind. Even while I called, I knew there
was nothing you could do." The tribune turned to
Junius Blaesus. "You and your men did well to find
the spy and bring him in - not so well in not
searching him carefully and keeping a lax hold on
him. The Gauls must have something in the wind,
though we've lost the chance to find out what.
Double your patrols and keep them well out in front
- the more warning of trouble we have, the better."
Blaesus saluted and hurried off, thankful to get away
with no harsher reprimand.
      "Full battle readiness, sir?" Gaius Philippus
asked.
      "Yes." Marcus cocked an eye at the westering
sun. "I hope we can find a clearing before dusk for
an encampment. I'd feel safer behind earthworks."
      "And I. I'd feel safer still with a couple of
legions at my back." The centurion went off to make
the needful changes in the Romans' marching order,
bringing his spear-throwers forward and tightening
up the distance between each maniple and its
neighbor. An excited hum ran through the ranks.
Here a man hastily sharpened his sword, there
another cut short a leather sandal strap that might
trip him in action, still another took a last swig of
sour wine.
      Shouts came from up ahead, out of sight
beyond a bend in the path. A minute or so later a
scout jogged back to the main body of troops. "We
spied another skulker in the bushes, sir. I'm afraid
this one got away."
      Marcus whistled tunelessly between his teeth.
He dismissed the scout with a word of thanks, then
looked to Gaius Philippus, sure the centurion felt the
same certainty of trouble he did himself. Gaius
Philippus nodded at his unspoken thought. "Aye,
we're for it, right enough."
      But when another of the advance guards came
back to report the path opening out into a sizable
clearing, the military tribune began to breathe more
easily. Even the small force he led - not quite a third
of a legion - could quickly build field fortifications
strong enough to hold off many times its number of
barbarians.
      The clearing was large, several hundred yards
of meadow set in the midst of the deep wood. The
evening mist was already beginning to gather above
the grass. A stream trickled through the center of the
clearing; half a dozen startled teal leaped into the air
as the Romans began emerging. "Very good
indeed," Scaurus said. "Perfect, in fact."
      "Not quite, I'm afraid," Gaius Philippus said.
He pointed to the far edge of the clearing, where the
Celtic army was coming out.
      Marcus wasted a moment cursing; another hour
and his men would have been safe. No help for it
now. "Trumpets and cornets together!" he ordered
the buccinators.
      As the call to action rang out, Gaius Philippus'
voice rang with it. The senior centurion was in his
element, readying his troops. "Deploy as you
debouch!" he shouted. "Three lines - you know the
drill! Skirmishers up ahead, then you front-rankers
with your pila, then the heavy infantry, then
reserves! Come on, move - yes, you there, you
worthless whoreson!" His vine-stave thudded down
on the slow legionary's corseleted back. Junior
centurions and underofficers echoed and amplified
his commands, yelling and prodding their men into
place.
      The deployment took only minutes. Beyond
posting an extra squad of slingers and some
protecting spearmen on the slightly higher ground to
his right, Scaurus kept a symmetrical front as he
waited to see how many enemies he faced.
      "Is there no end to them?" Gaius Philippus
muttered by his side. File after file of Gauls moved
into the clearing, slowly going into line of battle.
Well-armored and powerfully armed nobles shouted
and waved as they tried to position their bands of
retainers but, as always among the Celts, discipline
was tenuous. Most of the men the nobles led had
gear far poorer than theirs: a spear or slashing
sword, perhaps a large oblong shield of wood
painted in bright spirals. Except for the nobles, few
wore more armor than a leather jerkin, or at most a
helmet. Of the cuirasses to be seen, most were
Roman work, the spoil of earlier battles.
      "What do you make of them? About three
thousand?" Marcus asked when the Celtic flood at
last stopped flowing.
      "Aye, about two for our one. It could be worse.
Of course," Gaius Philippus went on, "it could be a
damned sight better, too."
      On the far side of the clearing the Gauls'
commander, splendid in armor of black and gold
and a cape of crimson-dyed skins, harangued his
men, whipping them up into a fighting frenzy. He
was too far away for the Romans to make out his
words, but the fierce yells of his listeners and the
deep thudding of spearshafts on shields told of the
fury he was rousing.
      Heads turned Scaurus' way as he strode out in
front of his own troops. He paused for a moment,
gathering his thoughts and waiting for the full
attention of his men. Though he had never given a
pre-combat oration, he was used to public speaking,
having twice run for a magistracy in his home town
- the second time successfully. The technique, if not
the occasion, seemed similar.
      "We've all of us heard Caesar," he began, and
at the mention of their beloved marshal of
legionaries they shouted approval as he had hoped.
He went on, "We all know I can't talk that well, and
I don't intend to try." He quieted the small laugh
from the men with an upraised hand. "No need,
anyhow - things are very simple. Caesar is five days'
march from here at most. We've beaten the Gauls
time and again. One more win here, now, and there's
not the chance of a frog at a snake symposium that
they'll be able to put anything in our way before we
can link up with him again."
      The Romans cheered. The Gauls shouted back,
shaking their fists, waving their spears, and yelling
bloodthirsty threats in their own language.
      "I've heard worse," Gaius Philippus said of the
speech. From him it was high praise, but Scaurus
only half heard him. Most of his attention was on
the Celts, who, behind their tall leader, were trotting
at the Romans. He would have liked to meet them at
the streamlet in mid-clearing, but to do so he would
have had to pull his line away from the woods
which anchored its flanks.
      Only skirmishers contested the crossing.
Slingers sent leaden bullets whizzing into the ranks
of the Gauls, to bang off shields or slap into flesh.
Archers added their fire, drawing back to the breast
and emptying quivers as fast as they could. Here and
there along the barbarians' line a man stumbled and
fell, but the damage was only a pinprick to the
onrushing mass.
      The Celts raised a cheer as one of their archers
transfixed a Roman slinger as he was letting fly. The
bullet he had been about to loose flew harmlessly
into the air.
      The Celts drew nearer, splashing through the
ankle-deep water of the rivulet. The Roman
skirmishers fired a last few shots, then scampered
for the protection of their line.
      The long Gallic sword felt feather light in
Marcus' hands. The druids' marks stamped down the
length of the blade seemed to glow with a life of
their own in the red sunlight of late afternoon. An
arrow buried itself in the ground beside the tribune's
feet. Almost without thinking, he shuffled a couple
of steps to one side.
      The barbarians were so near he could see the
scowls darkening their mustachioed faces, could tell
their leader bore a sword twin to his own, could all
but count the spokes of the bronze wheel cresting
that leader's high-crowned helm. The beat of the
Gauls' feet against the grass was a growing thunder.
      "At my command!" Marcus shouted to his first
line, raising his blade high over his head. They
hefted their pila and waited, quiet and grimly
capable. Already, with wild whoops, the Celts were
starting to fling their spears, most falling short of the
Roman line.
      The tribune studied the oncoming mass. A
moment more. "Loose!" he cried, sword-arm flailing
down. Half a thousand arms flung their deadly
burdens against the Gauls as one.
      The enemy line staggered. Men screamed as
they were pierced. Others, luckier, blocked the
Romans' casts with their shields. Yet their luck was
mixed, for the soft iron shanks of the pila bent as
their points bit, making the weapons useless for a
return throw and fouling the shields so they, too, had
to be discarded.
      "Loose!" Scaurus shouted again. Another
volley leaped forth. But the Gauls, brave as they
were unruly, kept coming. Their spears were flying
too, many of them, even if not in tight volleys. Next
to Marcus a man pitched backwards, his throat
spurting blood around the javelin that had found its
way over his shield. The legionaries pulled
stabbing-swords from their scabbards and surged
forward as the fighting turned hand-to-hand.
      A cry of triumph rose from the Gauls as,
spearheaded by two huge blond-maned warriors,
they hewed their way through the first Roman rank.
Even as the buccinators' horns trumpeted a warning,
a maniple of the second line was moving into the
gap. Their short swords flickered now forward, now
back, fast and sure as striking snakes; their tall,
semi-cylindrical scuta turned the strokes of the foe.
The Celtic champions died in moments, each beset
by half a dozen men. Surrounded on three sides,
most of their followers fell with them. The Romans,
in their turn, raised the victory shout.
      Marcus sent another maniple to the left flank to
deal with a breakthrough. They contained it, but that
part of the line still sagged. The Celtic chieftain was
there, fighting like a demon. Red light flashed from
his sword as he lopped off a legionary's hand, then
killed the man as he stood stupidly staring at the
spouting stump.
      A Gaul charged Scaurus, swinging his sword
over his head in great circles as if it were a sling. As
the tribune ducked under his wild slash, he caught
the reek of ale from the man. He whirled for an
answering blow, only to see Gaius Philippus tugging
his blade from the Gaul's body.
      The centurion spat contemptuously. "They're
fools. Fighting is far too serious a business to take
on drunk." He looked about. "But there's so damned
many of them."
      Scaurus could only nod. The Roman center
was holding, but both flanks bent now. In close
fighting the slingers on the right were more liability
than asset, for their covering spearmen had to do
double duty to keep the Celts off them. Worse yet,
bands of Celts were slipping into the woods. Marcus
did not think they were running. He was afraid they
were working their way round to attack the Roman
rear.
      Gorgidas the doctor slipped by him to drag a
wounded legionary from the line and bandage his
gashed thigh. Catching the tribune's eye, he said,
"I'd have been as happy without this chance to ply
my trade, you know." In the heat of the moment he
spoke his native Greek.
      "I know," Marcus answered in the same
tongue. Then another Celt was on him - a noble, by
his bronze breastplate. He feinted low with his
spear, thrust high. Scaurus turned the stab with his
shield. The spearpoint slid past him off the scutum's
rounded surface; he stepped in close. The Gaul
backpedaled for his life, eyes wide and fearfully
intent on the motion of the tribune's sword.
      Marcus lunged at the opening under the arm of
his corselet. His aim was not quite true, but the
thrust punched through his foe's armor and into his
vitals. The barbarian swayed. Bright blood frothed
from his nose and mouth as he fell.
      "Well struck!" Gaius Philippus shouted.
      His sword-arm was red almost to the elbow.
Marcus shrugged, not thinking his blow had carried
that much force. More likely some smith had jobbed
the Gaul, though most Celtic metalworkers took
pride in their products.
      It was growing dark fast now. Marcus set some
men not yet fighting to make torches and passing
them forward. His soldiers used them for more than
light - a Celt fled shrieking, his long, greasy locks
ablaze.
      Liscus went down, fighting against the
countrymen he had abandoned for Rome. Scaurus
felt a stab of remorse. The interpreter had been
bright, jolly, and recklessly brave - but then, of how
many on both sides might that have been said? Now
he was merely dead.
      The Gauls pushed forward on either wing,
slashing, stabbing, and chopping. Outnumbered, the
Romans had to give ground, their line bending away
from the covering forest. As he watched them driven
back upon themselves, the growing knowledge of
defeat pressed its icy weight on Scaurus' shoulders.
He fought on, rushing now here, now there,
wherever the fighting was fiercest, shouting orders
and encouragement to his men all the while.
      In his learning days he had studied under
scholars of the Stoic school. Their teachings served
him well now. He did not give way to fright or
despair, but kept on doing his best, though he knew
it might not be enough. Failure, in itself, was not
blameworthy. Lack of effort surely was.
      Gaius Philippus, who had seen more bumbling
young officers than he could remember, watched
this one with growing admiration. The fight was not
going well, but with numbers so badly against the
Romans it was hard to see how it could have gone
much better.
      The buccinators' horns blew in high alarm. The
woods were screen no more; leaping, yelling Celts
burst forward, storming at the Roman rear. Tasting
the cup of doom in earnest, Marcus wheeled his last
reserves to face them, shouting, "Form circle! Form
circle!"
      His makeshift rear defense held somehow,
beating back the ragged Celtic charge until the
Roman circle could take shape. But the trap was
sprung. Surrounded deep within the land of their
foes, the legionaries could expect but one fate. The
night was alive with the Celts' exultant cries as they
flowed round the Roman ring like the sea round a
pillar of hard black stone it would soon engulf.
      Druids' marks on his blade flashing in the
torchlight, the Gallic chieftain leaped like a wolf
against the Roman line. He hewed his way through
three ranks of men, then spun and fought his way
back to his own men and safety.
      "There's a warrior I'd sooner not come against,"
Gaius Philippus said, somberly eyeing the twisted
bodies and shattered weapons the Gaul had left
behind him.
      Marcus gave tribute where it was due. "He is a
mighty one."
      The battle slowed, men from both sides leaning
on spear or shield as they tried to catch their breath.
The moans of the wounded floated up into the night.
Somewhere close by, a cricket chirped.
      Marcus realized how exhausted he was. His
breath came in panting sobs, his legs were leaden,
and his cuirass a burden heavier than Atlas had
borne. He itched everywhere; dried, crusted sweat
cracked whenever he moved. He had long since
stopped noticing its salt taste in his mouth or its
sting in his eyes.
      His hand had been clenched round his sword
hilt for so long he had to will it open to reach for the
canteen at his side. The warm, sour wine stung his
throat as he swallowed.
      The moon rose, a couple of days past full and
red as if reflecting the light of this grim field.
      As if that had been a signal, the Celtic chieftain
came up once more. The Romans tensed to receive
his onslaught, but he stopped out of weapon range.
He put down his sword, raised his bare right hand
above his head. "It's well you've fought," he called
to the Romans in fair Latin. "Will you not yield
yourselves to me now and ha' done with this foolish
slaughter? Your lives you'll save, you know."
      The military tribune gave surrender a few
seconds' honest thought. For some reason he was
inclined to trust the Gaul's good intentions, but
doubted the barbarian would be able to control his
followers after they had the Romans in their power.
He remembered all too well the Gallic custom of
burning thieves and robbers alive in wickerwork
images and knew it would be easy for the Romans,
once captive, to be judged such.
      One legionary's comment to his linemate rang
loud in the silence: "Bugger the bastard! If he wants
us, let him come winkle us out and pay the bill for
it!"
      After that, Marcus did not feel the need for any
direct reply. The Celt understood. "On your heads it
will be, then," he warned.
      He turned to his own troops, shouting orders.
Men who had chosen to sit for a moment heaved
themselves up off their haunches, tightened their
grips on spears, swords, clubs. They tramped
forward, and the insane smithy's din of combat
began again.
      The Roman ring shrank, but would not break.
The still bodies of the slain and thrashing forms of
the wounded impeded the Gauls' advance; more
than one stumbled to his death trying to climb over
them. They came on.
      "Give yourselves up, fools, while there's the
most of you alive!" their chieftain yelled to his foes.
      "When we said 'no' the first time, did you not
believe us?" Marcus shouted back.
      The Gaul swung up his sword in challenge.
"Maybe after the killing of you, the Roman next in
line to your honor will have more sense!"
      "Not bloody likely!" Gaius Philippus snarled,
but the big Celt was already moving. He cut down
one Roman and kicked two more aside. He ducked
under a broken spear swung club-fashion, lashing
out with his blade to hamstring the swinger. Then he
was inside the Roman line and loping at Marcus,
longsword at the ready.
      A score of legionaries, first among them Gaius
Philippus, moved to intercept him, but the tribune
waved them back. Fighting died away as, by
unspoken common consent, both armies grounded
their weapons to watch their leaders duel.
      A smile lit the Celt's face when he saw Marcus
agree to single combat. He raised his sword in salute
and said, "A brave man you are, Roman dear. I'd
know your name or ever I slay you."
      "I am called Marcus Aemilius Scaurus," the
tribune replied. He felt more desperate than brave.
The Celt lived for war, where he himself had only
played at it, more to further his political ambitions
than from love of fighting.
      He thought of his family in Mediolanum, of the
family name that would fail if he fell here. His
parents still lived, but were past the age of
childbearing, and after him had three daughters but
no son.
      More briefly, he thought of Valerius Corvus
and how, almost three hundred years before, he had
driven a Celtic army from central Italy by killing its
leader in a duel. He did not really believe these
Gauls would flee even if he won. But he might delay
and confuse them, maybe enough to let his army
live.
      All this sped through his mind as he raised his
blade to match the Gaul's courtesy. "Will you give
me your name as well?" he asked, feeling the
ceremony of the moment.
      "That I will. It's Viridovix son of Drappes I am,
a chief of the Lexovii." The formalities done,
Marcus braced for Viridovix's attack, but the Celt
was staring in surprise at his sword.
      "How is it," he asked, "that a Roman comes by
the blade of a druid?"
      "The druid who bore it tried to stand against
me and found he could not," Marcus replied,
annoyed that his enemies, too, found it odd for him
to carry a Celtic sword.
       "It came of its own free will, did it?" Viridovix
murmured, more surprised now. "Well, indeed and
it's a brave blade you have, but you'll find mine no
weaker." He drifted forward in a fencer's crouch.
       Celtic nonsense, the tribune thought; a sword
was a tool, with no more will of its own than a
broom. But as he brought his weapon to the guard
position, he suddenly felt unsure. No trick of the
setting sun now made the druids' marks stamped
down the length of the blade flicker and shine. They
glowed with a hot golden light of their own, a light
that grew stronger and more vital with every
approaching step Viridovix took.
       The Gaul's sword was flaring, too. It quivered
in his hand like a live thing, straining to reach the
blade the Roman held. Marcus' was also twisting in
his hand, struggling to break free.
       Awe and dread chased each other down
Viridovix's long face, harshly plain in the hellish
light of the swords. Marcus knew his own features
bore a similar cast.
      Men in both armies groaned and covered their
eyes, caught in something past their comprehension.
      The two blades met with a roar louder than
thunder. The charms the druids had set on them,
spells crafted to keep the land of the Gauls ever free
of foreign rule, were released at their meeting. That
one sword was in an invader's hands only powered
the unleashing further.
      The Celts outside the embattled circle of
Romans saw a dome of red-gold light spring from
the crossed blades to surround the legionaries. One
Gaul, braver or more foolish than his fellows,
rushed forward to touch the dome. He snatched his
seared hand back with a howl. When the dome of
light faded away, the space within was empty.

      Talking in low voices over the prodigy they
had witnessed, the Celts buried their dead, then
stripped the Roman corpses and buried them in a
separate grave. They drifted back to their villages
and farms by ones and twos. Few spoke of what
they had seen, and fewer were believed.
      Later that year Caesar came to the land of the
Lexovii, and from him not even miracles could save
the Gauls. The only magic he acknowledged was
that of empire; for him it was enough. When he
wrote his commentaries, the presumed massacre of a
scouting column did not seem worth mentioning.
      Inside the golden dome, the ground faded away
beneath the Romans' feet, leaving them suspended
in nothingness. There was a queasy feeling of
motion and imbalance, though no wind of passage
buffeted their faces. Men cursed, screamed, and
called on their gods, to no avail.
      Then, suddenly, they stood on dirt again;
Marcus had the odd impression it had rushed up to
meet his sandals. The dome of light winked out. The
Romans found themselves once more in a forest
clearing, one smaller and darker than that which
they had so unexpectedly left. It was dark night.
Though Scaurus knew the moon had risen not long
before, there was no moon here. There were no
massed Celts, either. For that he gave heartfelt
thanks.
      He realized he was still sword-to-sword with
Viridovix. He stepped back and lowered his blade.
At his motion, Viridovix cautiously did the same.
      "A truce?" Marcus said. The Gaul was part and
parcel of the magic that had fetched them to this
place. Killing him out of hand would be foolish.
      "Aye, the now," Viridovix said absently. He
seemed more interested in looking around at
wherever this was than in fighting. He also seemed
utterly indifferent to the danger he was in,
surrounded by his foes. Marcus wondered whether
the bravado was real or assumed. In the midst of
Gauls, he would have been too terrified to posture.
      He glanced from his sword to Viridovix'.
Neither, now, seemed more than a length of edged
steel.
      The Romans milled about, wandering through
the open space. To the tribune's surprise, none came
rushing up to demand putting Viridovix to death.
Maybe, like Scaurus, they were too stunned at what
happened to dare harm him, or maybe that confident
attitude was paying dividends.
      Junius Blaesus came up to Marcus. Ignoring
Viridovix altogether, the scout gave his commander
a smart salute, as if by clinging to legionary routine
he could better cope with the terrifying unknown
into which he had fallen. "I don't believe this is Gaul
at all, sir," he said. "I walked to the edge of the
clearing, and the trees seem more like the ones in
Greece, or some place like Cilicia.
      "It's not a bad spot, though," he went on.
"There's a pond over there, with a creek running into
it. For a while I thought we'd end up in Tartarus, and
nowhere else but."
      "You weren't the only one," Marcus said
feelingly. Then he blinked. It had not occurred to
him that whatever had happened might have left him
and his troops still within land under Roman
control.
      The scout's salute and his speculation gave the
tribune an idea. He ordered his men to form a camp
by the pond Blaesus had found, knowing that the
routine labor - a task they had done hundreds of
times before - would help take the strangeness from
this place.
      He wondered how he would explain his arrival
to whatever Roman authorities might be here. He
could almost hear the skeptical proconsul: "A dome
of light, you say? Ye-ss, of course. Tell me, what
fare did it charge for your passage... ?"
     Earthworks rose in a square; inside them,
eight-man tents sprang up in neat rows. Without
being told, the legionaries left a sizeable space in
which Gorgidas could work. Not far from where
Marcus stood, the Greek was probing an arrow
wound with an extracting-spoon. The injured
legionary bit his lips to keep from crying out, then
sighed in relief as Gorgidas drew out the barbed
point.
     Gaius Philippus, who had been supervising the
erection of the camp, strolled over to Scaurus' side.
"You had a good idea there," he said. "It keeps their
minds off things."
     So it did, but only in part. Marcus and
Gorgidas were educated men, Gaius Philippus
toughened by a hard life so he could take almost
anything in stride. Most legionaries, though, were
young, from farms or tiny villages, and had neither
education nor experience to fall back on. The
prodigy that had swept them away was too great for
the daily grind to hold off for long.
     The Romans murmured as they dug, muttered
as they carried, whispered to one another as they
pounded tentpegs. They made the two-fingered sign
against the evil eye, clutching the phallic amulets
they wore round their necks to guard themselves
from it.
     And more and more, they looked toward
Viridovix. Like the anodyne of routine, his
immunity slowly wore away. The mutters turned
hostile. Hands started going to swords and spears.
Viridovix' face turned grim. He freed his own long
blade in its scabbard, though even with his might he
could not have lasted long against a Roman rush.
     But the legionaries, it seemed, wanted
something more formal and awesome than a
lynching. A delegation approached Scaurus, at its
head a trooper named Lucilius. He said, "Sir, what
say we cut the Gaul's throat, to take away the anger
of whatever god did this to us?" The men behind
him nodded.
     The tribune glanced at Viridovix, who looked
back, still unafraid. Had he cringed, Marcus might
have let his men have their way, but he was a man
who deserved better than being sacrificed for
superstition's sake.
     Scaurus said so, adding, "He could have stood
by while his men slew us all, but instead he chose to
meet me face to face. And the gods have done the
same thing to him they did to all of us. Maybe they
had their reasons."
      Some legionaries nodded, but most were still
unsatisfied. Lucilius said, "Sir, maybe they left him
with us just so we could offer him up, and they'll be
angry if we don't."
      But the more he thought about it, the more
Marcus hated the idea of deliberate human sacrifice.
As a Stoic, he did not believe it would do any good,
and as a Roman he thought it archaic. Not since the
desperate days a hundred fifty years ago, after
Hannibal crushed the Romans at Carthage, had they
resorted to it. In even more ancient days, they
sacrificed old men to relieve famine, but for
centuries they had been throwing puppets made of
rushes into the Tiber instead.
      "That's it!" he said out loud. Both Viridovix
and his own men eyed him, the one warily, the
others expectantly. Remembering his fear of what
the Gauls would do to his men if they surrendered,
he went on, "I won't make us into the savage image
of the barbarians we were fighting."
      He left everyone unhappy. Viridovix let out an
angry snort; Lucilius protested, "The gods should
have an offering."
      "They will," the tribune promised. "In place of
Viridovix here, we'll sacrifice an image of him, as
the priests do to mark festivals where the victim
used to be a man. If the gods take those offerings,
they'll accept this one as well - and in this
wilderness, wherever it is, we may need the Gaul's
might to fight with us now, not against us."
      Lucilius was still inclined to argue, but the
practicality of Scaurus' argument won over most of
the men. Without backing, Lucilius gave up. To
keep from having a disaffected soldier in the ranks,
Marcus detailed him to gather cloth and, from the
edges of the pond, rushes to make the effigy. Self-
importance touched, Lucilius bustled away.
      "I thank your honor," Viridovix said.
      "He didn't do it for your sake," said Gaius
Philippus. The senior centurion had stayed in the
background, quiet but ready to back Marcus at need.
"He did it to hold his leadership over the troops."
      That was not altogether true, but Marcus knew
better than to dilute Gaius Philippus' authority by
contradicting him. He kept quiet. Why the Gaul
thought he had saved him did not matter; the result
did.
      Viridovix looked down his nose at the short,
stocky centurion. "And what would you have had
him do with me, now? Chop me into dogmeat? The
dogs'll feed on more than me if you try that - a deal
more, if himself sends runts like you against me."
      Scaurus expected Gaius Philippus to fly into a
killing rage, but instead he threw back his head and
laughed. "Well said, you great hulk!"
      "Hulk, is it?" Viridovix swore in Gaulish, but
he was grinning too.
      "What then?" Marcus said. "Do you aim to join
us, at least till we find out where we ate? The gods
know, you're a warrior born."
      "Och, the shame of it, a Roman asking for my
comradeship and me saying aye. But these woods
are a solitary place for a puir lone Celt, and you
Romans are men yourselves, for all that you're dull."
      Gaius Philippus snorted.
      "There's another score," Viridovix said. "Will
your men have me, after my sending more than one
of them to the next world?"
      "They'd better," the senior centurion said,
smacking his vine-stave into a callused palm.
      "Dull," Viridovix repeated. "Never the chance
to tell your officer be damned to him - and the day
you try ordering me about you'll remember forever.
Nay, it's always march in line, camp in line, fight in
line. Tell me, do you futter in line as well?"
      Having done so more than once, the centurion
maintained a discreet silence.
      The more they snipe, Marcus thought, the
sooner they'll grow used to each other. He slapped at
a mosquito. He must have missed, because he heard
it buzz away.
      Lucilius hurried up, carrying in his arms a
bundle of rushes tied here and there with linen
strips. It did not look much like a man, but again
Scaurus had no intention of criticizing. If it satisfied
Lucilius, that was good enough.
      "What will you do with it, sir?" the trooper
asked. "Throw it into the water the way the priests
in Rome fling the puppets off the Sublician Bridge
into the Tiber?"
      Marcus rubbed his chin, thinking briefly. He
shook his head. "In view of the color of the dome of
light we were in, I think I ought to cast it into the
flames instead."
      Lucilius nodded, impressed by the tribune's
reasoning. "Here, sir." He handed Scaurus the
effigy, falling in behind him to make the beginning
of a procession. More men joined it as Scaurus
walked slowly and ceremoniously toward one of the
campfires.
      He paused in front of it so more of the
legionaries could gather. Others looked up from
their tasks to watch. Then he raised the crude rush-
puppet high over his head, proclaiming loudly,
"Whatsoever god or goddess is responsible for the
wonder that has overtaken us, by whatever name or
names you wish to be called, accept this offering in
propitiation!" He hurled the image into the fire.
      The flames leaped as they burned the effigy.
"See how the god receives the sacrifice!" Lucilius
cried. Marcus hid a smile; it was as if the legionary
himself had thought of substituting the puppet for
the man.
      Yet the tribune wondered for a moment if
Lucilius saw something he was missing. An effigy
of damp rushes should have burned slowly instead
of being consumed like so much tinder.
      Marcus scowled, suppressing his superstitious
maunderings. One miracle in an evening, he told
himself firmly, is enough. He turned his back on the
fire and went over to see how Gorgidas was doing
with the wounded.
      "How does it look like I'm doing?" Gorgidas
snarled at him.
      "Not well," Scaurus admitted, Gorgidas was
rushing from one injured man to the next, bandaging
here, suturing there, tossing his head in despair at a
head wound he had no hope of treating. The tribune
asked, "What help can I give you?"
      The Greek looked up, as if just realizing
Marcus was there. "Hmm? Let me think.... If you
order a couple of troopers to work with me, that
might help a little. They'd be clumsy, but better than
nothing - and sometimes, whether he wants to or
not, a man writhes so much he needs to be held."
      "I'll take care of it," the tribune said. "What
happened to Attilius and Publius Curtianus?"
      "My assistants? What do you suppose
happened to them?"
      His face hot, Marcus beat a hasty retreat. He
almost forgot to send the legionaries over to
Gorgidas.
      Gaius Philippus and Viridovix were still
arguing, away from most of the men. The senior
centurion drew his sword. Scaurus dashed over to
break up the fight. He found none to break up; Gaius
Philippus was showing the Gaul the thrusting-
stroke.
      "All well and good, Roman dear," Viridovix
said, "but why then are you spoiling it by using so
short a blade?"
      The veteran shrugged. "Most of us aren't big
enough to handle the kind of pigsticker you swing.
Besides, a thrust, even with a gladius, leaves a man
farther from his foe than a cut from a longsword."
      The two lifelong warriors might have been a
couple of bakers talking about how to make bread
rise highest. Marcus smiled at the way a common
passion could make even deadly foes forget their
enmity.
      One of the junior centurions, a slim youngster
named Quintus Glabrio, came up to him and said,
"Begging your pardon, sir, could you tell me where
this is so I can pass the word along to the men and
quiet them down? The talk is getting wild."
      "I'm not sure, precisely. From the terrain and
the trees, one of the scouts thinks this may be Cilicia
or Greece. Come morning we'll send out a detail,
track down some peasants, and find out what we
need to know."
      Glabrio gaped at him. Even in the starlight
Marcus could see the fear on his face, fear intense
enough to make him forget the pain of a slashed
forearm. "Cilicia, sir? Greece? Have you - ?" Words
failed him. He pointed to the sky.
      Puzzled, Marcus looked up. It was a fine, clear
night. Let's see, he thought, scanning the heavens,
north should be... where? Cold fingers walked his
spine as he stared at the meaningless patterns the
stars scrawled across the sky. Where was the Great
Bear that pointed to the pole? Where were the stars
of summer, the Scorpion, the Eagle, the Lyre?
Where were the autumn groupings that followed
them through the night, Andromeda, Pegasus?
Where even were the stars of winter, or the strange
constellations that peeped above the southern
horizon in tropic lands like Africa or Cyrenaica?
      Gaius Philippus and Viridovix stared with him,
shared his will to disbelieve. The Gaul cursed in his
native speech, not as he had at Gaius Philippus, but
softly, as if in prayer. "Gods on Olympus," the
senior centurion murmured, and Marcus had to fight
hysterical laughter. This place was beyond the
Olympians' realm. And his own as well; his vision
of an angry proconsul blew away in the wind of the
unknown.
      Few Romans slept much that night. They sat
outside their tents, watching the illegible heavens
wheel and trying, as men will, to tame the unknown
by drawing patterns on it and naming them: the
Target, the Ballista, the Locust, the Pederasts.
      The naming went on through the night as new
stars rose to replace their setting fellows. The east
grew pale, then pink. The forest ceased to be a
single dark shape, becoming trees, bushes, and
shrubs no more remarkable than the ones of Gaul, if
not quite the same. The sun rose, and was simply the
sun.
      And an arrow flashed out of the woods,
followed an instant later by a challenge in an
unknown tongue.
                          II

      FROM THE WAY THEIR CHALLENGER
BRUSHED THE BUSHES aside and strode toward
the Romans, Marcus was sure he was no skulking
woods-bandit, but a man who felt the full power of
his country behind him. It showed in the set of his
shoulders, in the watchful suspicion on his face, in
the very fact that he dared come out, alone, to defy
twelve hundred men.
      "You're right enough," Gaius Philippus agreed
when the tribune put his thought into words. "He's
not quite alone, though - or if I were in his boots, I'd
not be so lackwitted as to leave my bow behind.
He'll have friends covering him from the woods, I'd
wager."
      So it seemed, for the warrior stopped well
within arrow range of the trees from which he'd
come and waited, arms folded across his chest.
"Let's see what he has to say," Marcus said. "Gaius,
you'll come with me, and you, Viridovix - maybe he
understands Celtic. Gorgidas!"
      The doctor finished a last neat knot on the
bandage he was tying before he looked up. "What
do you need me for?"
      "If you'd rather I relied on my own Greek - "
      "I'm coming, I'm coining."
      The tribune also picked Adiatun, an officer of
the slingers. Like his men, he was from the Balearic
Islands off the coast of Spain and had their strange
tongue as his birthspeech. One of the legionaries
who had served in the east had picked up a bit of
Syrian and Armenian. That would have to do,
Marcus decided. Any more and the waiting soldier
would think them an attack, not a parley.
      As it was, he drew back a pace when he saw
half a dozen men approaching from the Roman
camp. But Marcus and his companions moved
slowly, right hands extended before them at eye
level, palms out to show their emptiness. After a
moment's hesitation, he returned the gesture and
advanced. He stopped about ten feet from them,
saying something that had to mean, "This is close
enough." He studied the newcomers with frank
curiosity.
      Marcus returned it. The native was a lean man
of middle height, perhaps in his mid-thirties. Save
for a proud nose, his features were small and fine
under a wide forehead, giving his face a triangular
look. His olive skin was sun-darkened and
weathered; he carried a long scar on his left cheek
and another above his left eye. His jaw was outlined
by a thin fringe of beard, mostly dark, but streaked
with silver on either side of his mouth.
      But for that unstylish beard, Marcus thought,
by his looks he could have been a Roman, or more
likely a Greek. He wore a shirt of mail reaching
halfway down his thighs. Unlike the Romans', it had
sleeves. Over it was a forest-green surcoat of light
material. His helm was a businesslike iron pot; an
apron of mail was riveted to it to cover his neck, and
a bar nasal protected his face. The spurs on the heels
of his calf-length leather boots said he was a
horseman, as did the saber at his belt and the small
round shield slung on his back.
      The soldier asked something, probably, Marcus
thought, "Who are you people, and what are you
doing here?" The tribune looked to his group of
would-be interpreters. They all shook their heads.
He answered in Latin, "We have no more idea
where we are than you do who we are."
      The native spread his hands and shrugged, then
tried what sounded like a different language. He had
no better luck. The Romans used every tongue at
their command, and the soldier seemed to speak five
or six himself, but they held none in common.
      The warrior finally grimaced in annoyance. He
patted the ground, waved his hand to encompass
everything the eye could see. "Videssos," he said.
He pointed at Marcus, then at the camp from which
he had come, and raised his eyebrows questioningly.
      "Romans," the tribune answered.
      "Are you after including me in that?" Viridovix
asked. "The shame of it!"
      "Yes, we all feel it," Gaius Philippus told him.
      "Enough, you two," Gorgidas said. "I'm no
more Roman than you, my mustachioed friend, but
we need to keep things as simple as we can."
      "Thank you," Marcus said. "Romans," he
repeated.
      The Videssian had watched the byplay with
interest. Now he pointed at himself. "Neilos
Tzimiskes."
      After echoing him, Scaurus and his
companions gave their names. Viridovix grumbled,
"A man could choke to death or ever he said
'Tzimiskes,'" but Neilos had no easier time with
"Viridovix son of Drappes."
      Tzimiskes unbuckled his swordbelt and laid it
at his feet. There was a cry of alarm from the woods,
but he silenced it with a couple of shouted
sentences. He pointed to the sword, to himself, and
to Marcus, and made a gesture of repugnance.
      "We have no quarrel with you," Scaurus
agreed, knowing his words would not be understood
but hoping his tone would. He reached into his pack
for a ration biscuit, offering it and his canteen, still
half-full of wine, to Tzimiskes.
      The Videssian nodded and grinned, shedding
years as he did so. "Not so happy will he be when he
eats what you give him," Adiatun said. "The
bucellum tastes all too much like sawdust."
      But Tzimiskes bit into the hard-baked biscuit
without complaint, drank a long swallow of wine
with the air of a man who has had worse. He patted
himself apologetically, then shouted into the forest
again. A few moments later another, younger,
Videssian emerged. His equipment was much like
that of Tzimiskes, though his surcoat was brown
rather than green. He carried a short bow in his left
hand and bore a leather sack over his right shoulder.
      The young Videssian's name was Proklos
Mouzalon. From his sack he brought out dried
apples and figs, olives, smoked and salted pork, a
hard yellow cheese, onions, and journey-bread
differing from the Romans' only in that it was
square, not round - all normal fare for soldiers on
the move. He also produced a small flask of thick,
sweet wine. Marcus found it cloying, as he was used
to the drier vintage the Roman army drank.
      Before they raised the flask to their lips, the
Videssians each spat angrily on the ground, then
lifted their arms and eyes to the sky, at the same
time murmuring a prayer. Marcus had been about to
pour a small libation, but decided instead to follow
the custom of the country in which he found
himself. Tzimiskes and Mouzalon nodded their
approval as he did so, though of course his words
were gibberish to them.
      By signs, Neilos made it clear there was a town
a couple of days' travel to the south, a convenient
place to establish a market to feed the Roman
soldiers and lodge them for the time being. He sent
Mouzalon ahead to prepare the town for their
arrival; the clop of hoofbeats down a forest path
confirmed the Videssians as horsemen.
      While Tzimiskes was walking back to his own
tethered mount, Marcus briefed his men on what had
been arranged. "I think we'll be able to stay
together," he said. "As far as I could understand all
the finger-waving, these people hire mercenaries,
and they're used to dealing with bodies of foreign
troops. The problem was that Tzimiskes had never
seen our sort before, and wasn't sure if we were
invaders, a free company for hire, or men from the
far side of the moon."
      He stopped abruptly, mentally cursing his
clumsy tongue; he was afraid the Romans were
farther from home than that.
      Gaius Philippus came to his rescue, growling,
"Another thing, you wolves. On march, we treat this
as friendly country - no stealing a farmer's mule or
his daughter just because they take your fancy. By
Vulcan's left nut, you'll see a cross if you bugger
that one up. Till we know we have a place here, we
walk soft."
      "Dull, dull, dull," Viridovix said. The centurion
ignored him.
      "Are you going to sell our swords to these
barbarians?" someone called.
      Gaius Philippus glared as he tried to spot the
man who had spoken, but Scaurus said,"It's a fair
question. Let me answer this way: our swords are all
we have to sell. Unless you know the way back to
Rome, we're a bit outnumbered." It was a feeble
jest, but so plainly true the legionaries nodded to
themselves as they began breaking camp.
      Marcus was not eager to take up the
mercenary's trade, but an armed force at his back
lent him bargaining power with the Videssians he
would not have had otherwise. It also gave him the
perfect excuse for keeping the Romans together. In
this strange new land, they had only themselves to
rely on.
      The tribune also wondered about Videssos'
reasons for hiring foreign troops. To his way of
thinking, that was for decadent kingdoms like
Ptolemaic Egypt, not for healthy states. But
Tzimiskes and Mouzalon were soldiers and were
also plainly natives.
      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
naivete 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 flute-players, 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.
      At the sight of the injured legionaries, Vourtzes
made a choked sound of dismay. In spite of the
soldiers with him, Marcus thought, he did not know
much of war.
      To the tribune's surprise, the lean priest who
had prayed at the Romans stooped beside a litter.
"What's he mucking about for?" Gorgidas said
indignantly. "I want another doctor, not spells and
flummeries."
      "You may as well let him do what he wants,"
Gaius Philippus said. "Sextus Minucius won't care."
      Looking at the moaning legionary, Marcus
thought the senior centurion was right. A bandage
soaked with blood and pus was wrapped over a
spear wound in Minucius' belly. From the scent of
ordure, Scaurus knew his gut had been pierced. That
sort of wound was always fatal.
      Gorgidas must have reached the same
conclusion. He touched Minucius' forehead and
clicked his tongue between his teeth. "A fever you
could cook meat over. Aye, let's see what the
charlatan does for him. Poor bastard can't even keep
water down, so poppy juice won't do him any good
either. With the dark bile he's been puking up, at
most he only has a couple of bad days left."
      The wounded soldier turned his head toward
the sound of the Greek's voice. He was a big,
strapping man, but his features bore the fearful,
dazed look Marcus had come to recognize, the look
of a man who knew he was going to die.
      As far as the Videssian priest was concerned,
all the Romans but Minucius might have
disappeared. The priest dug under the stinking
bandages, set his hands on the legionary's torn belly,
one on either side of the wound. Scaurus expected
Minucius to shriek at the sudden pressure, but the
legionary stayed quiet. Indeed, he stopped his
anguished thrashing and lay still in the litter. His
eyes slid shut.
     "That's something, anyhow," Marcus said. "He
-"
     "Hush," Gorgidas broke in. He had been
watching the priest's face, saw the intense
concentration build on it.
     "Watch your mouth with the tribune," Gaius
Philippus warned, but halfheartedly - not being in
the chain of command, Gorgidas had more liberty
than a simple solider.
     "It's all right - " Scaurus began. Then he
stopped of his own accord, the skin on his arms
prickling into gooseflesh. He had the same sense of
stumbling into the unknown that he'd felt when his
blade met Viridovix'. That thought made him half
draw his sword. Sure enough, the druids' marks
were glowing, not brilliantly as they had then, but
with a soft, yellow light.
     Thinking about it later, he put that down to the
magic's being smaller than the one that had swept
him to Videssos, and to his being on the edge of it
rather than at the heart. All the same, he could feel
the energy passing from the priest to Minucius.
Gaius Philippus' soft whistle said he perceived it
too.
      "A flow of healing," Gorgidas whispered. He
was talking to himself, but his words gave a better
name to what the priest was doing than anything
Marcus could have come up with. As with the
strange stars here, though, it was only a label to put
on the incomprehensible.
      The Videssian lifted his hands. His face was
pale; sweat ran down into his beard. Minucius' eyes
opened. "I'm hungry," he said in a matter-of-fact
voice.
      Gorgidas leaped at him like a wolf on a calf.
He tore open the bandages the priest had disturbed.
What they saw left him speechless, and made
Scaurus and Gaius Philippus gasp. The great scar to
the left of Minucius' navel was white and puckered,
as if it had been there five years.
      "I'm hungry," the legionary repeated.
      "Oh, shut up," Gorgidas said. He sounded
angry, not at Minucius but at the world. What he
had just witnessed smashed the rational, cynical
approach he tried to take to everything. To have
magic succeed where his best efforts had been sure
failures left him baffled, furious, and full of an awe
he would not admit even to himself.
      But he had been around Romans long enough
to have learned not to quarrel with results. He
grabbed the priest by the arm and frogmarched him
to the next most desperately hurt man - this one had
a sucking wound that had collapsed a lung.
      The Videssian pressed his hands to the
legionary's chest. Again Marcus, along with his
comrades, sensed the healing current pass from
priest to Roman, though this time the contact lasted
much longer before the priest pulled away. As he
did, the soldier stirred and tried to stand. When
Gorgidas examined his wound, it was like
Minucius': a terrible scar, but one apparently long
healed.
      Gorgidas hopped from foot to foot in
anguished frustration. "By Asklepios, I have to learn
the language to find out how he does that!" He
looked as though he wanted to wring the answer
from the priest, with hot irons if he had to.
      Instead, he seized the Videssian and hauled
him off to another injured legionary. This time the
priest tried to pull away. "He's dying, curse you!"
Gorgidas shouted. The cry was in his native Greek,
but when Gorgidas pointed at the soldier, the priest
had to take his meaning.
      He sighed, shrugged, and stooped. But when he
thrust his hands under the Roman's bandages, he
began to shake, as with an ague. Marcus thought he
felt the healing magic begin, but before he could be
sure, the priest toppled in a faint.
      "Oh, plague!" Gorgidas howled. He ran after
another blue-robe and, ignoring the fellow's protests,
dragged him over to the line of wounded soldiers.
But this priest only shrugged and regretfully spread
his hands. At last Gorgidas understood he was no
healer. He swore and drew back his foot as if to boot
the unconscious priest awake.
      Gaius Philippus grabbed him. "Have you lost
your wits?
      He's given you back two you never thought to
save. Be grateful for what you have - look at the
poor wretch, too. There's no more help left in him
than wine in an empty jar."
      "Two?" Gorgidas struggled without success
against the veteran's powerful grip. "I want to heal
them all!"
      "So do I," Gaius Philippus said. "So do I.
They're good lads, and they deserve better than the
nasty ways of dying they've found for themselves.
But you'll kill that priest if you push him any more,
and then he won't be able to fix 'em at all. As is,
maybe he can come back tomorrow."
      "Some will have died by then," Gorgidas said,
but less heatedly - as usual, the senior centurion
made hard, practical sense.
      Gaius Philippus went off to start the
legionaries setting up camp for the night. Marcus
and Gorgidas stood by the priest until, some minutes
later, he came to himself and shakily got to his feet.
      The tribune bowed lower to him than he had to
Vourtzes. That was only fitting. So far, the priest
had done more for the Romans.
      That evening, Scaurus called together some of
his officers to hash out what the legionaries should
do next. As an afterthought, he added Gorgidas to
Gaius Philippus, Quintus Glabrio, Junius Blaesus,
and Adiatun the Iberian. When Viridovix ambled
into the tent, he did not chase the Gaul away either -
he was after as many different viewpoints as he
could find.
     Back in Gaul, with the full authority of Rome
behind him, he would have made the decision
himself and passed it on to his men. He wondered if
he was diluting his authority by discussing things
with them now. No, he thought - this situation was
too far removed from ordinary military routine to be
handled conventionally. The Romans were a
republican people; more voices counted than the
leader's.
     Blaesus raised that point at once. "It grates on
me, sir, it does, to have to hire on to a barbarian
king. What are we, so many Parthians?"
     Gaius Philippus muttered agreement. So did
Viridovix; to him, even the Romans followed their
leaders too blindly. He and the senior centurion
looked at each other in surprise. Neither seemed
pleased at thinking along with the other. Marcus
smiled.
     "Did you see the way the local bigwig was
eyeing us?" Quintus Glabrio put in. 'To him, we
were the barbarians."
     "I saw that too," Scaurus said. "I didn't like it."
     "They may be right." That was Gorgidas.
"Sextus Minucius would tell you so. I saw him in
front of his tent, sitting there mending his tunic.
Whatever these Videssians are, they know things we
don't."
      "Gaius Philippus and I already noticed that,"
Marcus said, and mentioned the iron riding-aids and
horseshoes on Tzimiskes' mount. Glabrio nodded;
he had spotted them too. So had Viridovix, who paid
close attention to anything related to war. Blaesus
and Adiatun looked surprised.
      "The other problem, of course, is what happens
to us if we don't join the Videssians," Glabrio said.
The junior centurion had a gift for going to the heart
of things, Scaurus thought.
      "We couldn't stay under arms, not in the
middle of their country," Gaius Philippus said with a
reluctant nod. "I'm too old to enjoy life as a brigand,
and that's the best we could hope for, setting up on
our own. There aren't enough of us to go conquering
here."
      "And if we disarm, they can deal with us
piecemeal, turn us into slaves or whatever they do to
foreigners," Marcus said. "Together we have power,
but none as individuals."
      Ever since they'd met Tzimiskes, he had been
looking for a more palatable answer than mercenary
service and failing to find one. He'd hoped the
others would see something he had missed, but the
choice looked inescapable.
      "Lucky we are they buy soldiers," Adiatun
said. "Otherwise they would be hunting us down
now." As a foreign auxiliary, he was already
practically a mercenary; he would not earn Roman
citizenship till his discharge. He did not seem much
upset at the prospect of becoming a Videssian
instead.
      "All bets are off if we find out where Rome is,
though," Gaius Philippus said. Everyone nodded,
but with less hope and eagerness than Scaurus
would have thought possible a few days before.
Seeing alien stars in the sky night after night
painfully reminded him how far from home the
legionaries were. The Videssian priest's healing
magic was an even stronger jolt; like Gorgidas, the
tribune knew no Greek or Roman could have
matched it.
      Gaius Philippus was the last one to leave
Scaurus' tent. He threw the tribune a salute straight
from the drillfield. "You'd best start planning to live
up to it," he said, chuckling at Marcus' bemused
expression. "After all, you're Caesar now."
      Startled, Marcus burst out laughing, but as he
crawled into his bedroll he realized the senior
centurion was right. Indeed, Gaius Philippus had
understated things. Not even Caesar had ever
commanded all the Romans there were. The thought
was daunting enough to keep him awake half the
night.
      The market outside Imbros was established
over the next couple of days. The quality of goods
and food the locals offered was high, the prices
reasonable. That relieved Marcus, for his men had
left much of their wealth behind with the legionary
bankers before setting out on their last, fateful
mission.
      Nor were the Romans yet in the official service
of Videssos. Vourtzes said he would fix that as soon
as he couid. He sent a messenger south to the capital
with word of their arrival. Scaurus noticed that
Proklos Mouzalon disappeared about the same time.
He carefully did not remark on it to Tzimiskes, who
stayed with the Romans as an informal liaison
despite Vourtzes' disapproval. Faction against
faction...
      Mouzalon's mission must have succeeded, for
the imperial commissioner who came to Imbros ten
days later to inspect the strange troops was not a
man to gladden Vourtzes' heart. No bureaucrat he,
but a veteran warrior whose matter-of-fact
competence and impatience with any kind of
formality reminded Marcus of Gaius Philippus.
      The commissioner, whose name was Nephon
Khoumnos, walked through the semipermanent
camp the Romans had set up outside Imbros' walls.
He had nothing but admiration for its good order,
neatness, and sensible sanitation. When his
inspection was done, he said to Marcus, "Hell's ice,
man, where did you people spring from? You may
know the tricks of the soldier's trade better than we
do, you're no folk we've set eyes on before, and you
appear inside the Empire without seeming to have
crossed the border. How does this happen?"
      Scaurus and his officers had been spending
every free moment studying Videssian - with
Tzimiskes, with Vourtzes' scribes, and with the
priests, who seemed surprised the tribune wanted to
learn to read and at how quickly he picked up the
written language. After working with both the
Roman and Greek alphabets, another script held no
terrors for him. He found following a conversation
much harder. Still, he was beginning to understand.
      But he had little hope of putting across how he
had been swept here, and less of being believed. Yet
he liked Khoumnos and did not want to lie to him.
With Tzimiskes' help, he explained as best he could
and waited for the officer's disbelief.
      It did not come. Khoumnos drew the sun-sign
on his breast. "Phos!" he muttered, naming his
people's god. "That is a strong magic, friend Roman;
you must be a nation of mighty sorcerers."
      Surprised he was not being laughed at, Marcus
had to disagree. Khoumnos gave him a
conspiratorial wink. "Then let it be your secret. That
fat slug of a Vourtzes will treat you better if he
thinks you may turn him into a newt if he crosses
you."
      He went on, "I think, outlander, the Imperial
Guards could have use for such as you. Maybe you
can teach the Halogai - " he named the blond
northerners who made up Vourtzes' honor guard,
and evidently much of the Emperor's as well, " - that
there's more to soldiering than a wild charge at
anything you don't happen to like. And I tell you
straight out, with the accursed Yezda - may Skotos
take them to hell! - sucking the blood from our
westlands, we need men."
      Khoumnos cocked an eye to the north. Dirty
gray clouds were gathering there, harbingers of
winter storms to come. He rubbed his chin. "Would
it suit you to wait until spring before you come to
the city?" he asked Marcus. By the slight emphasis
he laid on "the," Scaurus knew he meant the town of
Videssos itself. "That will give us time to be fully
ready for you..."
      Time to lay the political groundwork, Marcus
understood him to mean. But Khoumnos' proposal
suited him, and he said so. A peaceful winter at
Imbros would allow his men a full refit and
recovery, and let them learn their new land's ways
and tongue without the pressure they would face in
the capital. When Khoumnos departed, they were on
the best of terms.
      Rhadenos Vourtzes, Marcus noted, was very
polite and helpful the next few days. He was also
rather anxious and spent much of the time he was
near the Roman looking back over his shoulder.
Scaurus liked Nephon Khoumnos even more.
      The autumn rains began only a few days after
the last of the harvest was gathered in. One storm
after another came blustering down from the north,
lashing the last leaves from the trees, turning every
road and path into an impassable trough of mud, and
pointing out all the failures of the Romans' hasty
carpentry. The legionaries cursed, dripped, and
patched. They scoured the ever-encroaching rust
from armor, tools, and weapons.
      When the real cold came, the muddy ground
froze rock-hard, only to be covered by a blanket of
snow that lay in drifts taller than a man. Marcus
began to see why, in a climate like this, robes were
garments of ceremony but trousers the everyday
garb. He started wearing them himself.
      In such freezing weather, exercises were not a
duty to be avoided, but something avidly sought to
put warmth in a man's bones. The Romans trained
whenever they could. Gaius Philippus worked them
hard. Except when the blizzards were at their worst,
they went on a twenty-mile march every week. The
senior centurion was one of the oldest men among
them, but he fought his way through the snow like a
youngster.
      He also kept the Romans busy in camp. Once
he'd learned enough Videssian to get what he
needed, he had the locals make double-weight
wicker shields and wooden swords for the
legionaries to practice with. He set up pells, against
which they continually drilled in the thrusting
stroke. Trying to keep the men fresh and interested,
he even detailed Adiatun to teach them the fine
points of slinging.
      The only traditional legionary exercise from
which he excused the men was swimming. Even his
hardiness quailed at subjecting his men to the
freezing water under the ice that covered streams
and ponds.
      The legionaries did stage mock fights, with the
points on their swords and spears covered. At first,
they only worked against one another. Later, they
matched themselves against the two hundred or so
Halogai who made up Imbros' usual garrison.
      The tall northerners were skilled soldiers, as
befitted their mercenary calling. But, like the Gauls,
they fought as individuals and by clans, not in
ordered ranks. If their first charge broke the Roman
line they were irresistible but, more often than not,
the legionaries' large shields and jabbing spears held
them at bay until they tired and the Romans could
take the offensive.
       In the drills Marcus was careful never to cross
blades with Viridovix, fearful lest they and all
around them be swept away again by the sorcery
locked in their swords. His own weapon seemed
utterly ordinary when he practiced with his fellow
Romans. But when he was working against the
garrison troops he left behind such a trail of
shattered shields and riven chain mail that he gained
a reputation for superhuman strength. The same, he
noticed, was true of Viridovix.
       The garrison commander was a one-eyed giant
of a man named Skapti Modolf's son. The Haloga
was not young, but his hair was so fair it was hard to
tell silver crept through the gold. He was friendly
enough and, like any good fighting man, interested
in the newcomers' ways of doing things, but he
never failed to make Scaurus nervous. With his
long, dour features, rumbling voice, and
singleminded concentration on the art of war, he
reminded the Roman all too much of a wolf.
      Viridovix, though, took to the Halogai. "It's a
somber lot they are," he admitted, "and more
doomful than I'm fond of, but they fight as men do,
and they perk up considerable wi' a drop of wine in
'em, indeed and they do."
      That, Marcus found a few days later, was an
understatement. After a day and most of a night of
drinking, the Gaul and half a dozen northern
mercenaries staged a glorious brawl that wrecked
the tavern where it happened and most of the
participants.
      One aftermath of the fight was a visit from
Vourtzes to the Roman camp. Marcus had not seen
much of him lately and would have forgone this
occasion, too, when he learned the hypasteos wanted
him to pay for all the damage the grogshop had
taken. Annoyed, he pointed out that it was scarcely
just for him to be saddled with all the charges when
only one of his men was involved, as opposed to six
or seven under the hypasteos' jurisdiction. Vourtzes
let the matter drop, but Marcus knew he was
unhappy.
      "Maybe you should have compromised and
saved trouble," Gorgidas said. "If I know our Celtic
friend, he raised more than his share of the ruction."
      "I shouldn't be a bit surprised. But Vourtzes is
the sort to bleed you to death a drop at a time if you
let him. I wonder," Marcus mused, "how he'd look
as a newt."
      Like the rest of the Empire of Videssos, Imbros
celebrated the passing of the winter solstice and the
turning of the sun to the north once more. Special
prayers winged their way heavenward from the
temples. Bonfires blazed on street corners; the
townsfolk jumped over them for luck. There was a
huge, disorderly hockey match on the surface of a
frozen pond. Falling and sliding on the ice seemed
as much a part of the game as trying to drive the ball
through the goal.
      A troupe of mimes performed at Imbros'
central theater. Marcus saw he was far from the only
Roman there. Such entertainments were much like
those his men had known in Italy, and the fact that
they had no dialogue made them easier for the
newcomers to understand.
      Venders climbed up and down the aisles,
crying their wares: good-luck charms, small roasted
birds, cups of hot spiced wine, balls of snow
sweetened with syrups, and many other things.
      The skits were fast-paced and topical; a couple
in particular stuck in Scaurus' mind. One showed an
impressive-looking man in a cloth-of-gold robe - the
Emperor Mavrikios, the tribune soon realized - as a
farmer trying to keep a slouching nomad from
running off with his sheep. The farmer-Emperor's
task would have been much easier had he not had a
cowardly son clinging to his arm and hindering his
every move, a fat son in a robe of red brocade ...
      The other sketch was even less subtle. It
involved the devastation of Imbros itself, as carried
out in a totally inadvertent and unmalicious fashion
by a tall, skinny fellow who wore a red wig and had
a huge fiery mustache glued over his upper lip.
      Viridovix was in the audience. "'Twas not like
that at all, at all!" he shouted to the mummer on
stage, but he was laughing as hard as anyone around
him.
      Venders of food and drink were not the only
purveyors to circulate through the crowd. Though
exposed flesh would have invited frostbite, women
of easy virtue were not hard to spot. Paint,
demeanor, and carriage made their calling clear.
Marcus caught the eye of a dark-haired beauty in a
sheepskin jacket and clinging green gown. She
smiled back and pushed her way toward him
through the crowd, squeezing between a couple of
plump bakers.
      She was only a few feet from Scaurus when
she abruptly turned about and walked in another
direction. Confused, he was about to follow when he
felt a hand on his arm. It was the angular prelate
who had blessed and healed the Romans when they
first came to Imbros.
      "A fine amusement," he said. Scaurus was
thinking of a better one, but did not mention it. This
priest was a powerful figure in the city. The man
continued, "I do not believe I have seen you or
many of your men at our shrines. You have come
from afar and must be unfamiliar with our faith.
Now that you have learned something of our
language and our ways, would it please you to
discuss this matter with me?"
       "Of course," Marcus lied. He had a pair of
problems as he walked with the hierarch through the
frosty, winding streets of Imbros toward its chief
temple. First, he was anything but anxious for a
theological debate. Like many Romans, he gave lip
service to the veneration of the gods, but wasted
little serious belief on them. The Videssians were
much more earnest about their cult and harsh with
those who did not share it.
       Even more immediate was his other dilemma;
for the life of him, he could not recall his
companion's name. He kept evading the use of it all
the way to the doorway of Phos' sanctuary,
meanwhile flogging his memory without success.
       The sweet savor of incense and a choir's clear
tones greeted them at the entrance. Scaurus was so
bemused he hardly noticed the cleric who bowed as
his ecclesiastical superior came in. Then the young
priest murmured, "Phos with you, elder Apsimar,
and you as well, outland friend." The warmth and
gratitude Marcus put into his handclasp left the little
shaven-headed man blinking in puzzlement.
       A colonnade surrounded the circular worship
area, at whose brightly lit center priests served the
altar of Phos and led the faithful in their prayers.
Apsimar stayed in the semi-darkness outside the
colonnade. He led Marcus around a third of the
circle, stopping at an elaborately carved door of
dark, close-grained wood. Extracting a finger-long
iron key from the pouch at his belt, he clicked the
door open and stood aside to let the Roman precede
him.
      The small chamber was almost pitch-dark until
Apsimar lit a candle. Then Marcus saw the clutter of
volumes everywhere, most of them not the long
scrolls he was used to, but books after the Videssian
fashion, with small, square pages bound together in
covers of wood, metal, or leather to form a whole.
He wondered how Apsimar could read by
candlelight and have any sight left at his age, though
the priest had given no sign of failing vision.
      The room's walls were as crowded with
religious images as its shelves were with books. The
dominant theme was one of struggle: here a warrior
in armor that gleamed with gold leaf felled his foe,
whose mail was black as midnight; there, the same
gold-clad figure drove its spear through the heart of
a snarling black panther; elsewhere, the disc of the
sun blazed through a roiling, sooty bank of fog.
      Apsimar sat in a hard, straight chair behind his
overloaded desk, waving Scaurus to a more
comfortable one in front of it. The priest leaned
forward. He said, "Tell me, then, somewhat of your
beliefs."
      Unsure where to begin, the Roman named
some of the gods his people followed and their
attributes: Jupiter the king of heaven, his consort
Juno, his brother Neptune who ruled the seas,
Vulcan the smith, the war god Mars, Ceres the
goddess of fertility and agriculture...
      At each name and description Apsimar's thin
face grew longer. Finally he slammed both hands
down on the desk. Startled, Marcus stopped talking.
      Apsimar shook his head in dismay. "Another
puerile pantheon," he exclaimed, "no better than the
incredible set of miscegenating godlets the Halogai
reverence! I had thought better of you, Roman; you
and yours seemed like civilized men, not barbarians
whose sole joy in life is slaughter."
      Marcus did not understand all of that, but
plainly Apsimar thought little of his religious
persuasions. He thought for a moment. To his way
of looking at things, Stoicism was a philosophy, not
a religion, but maybe its tenets would please
Apsimar more than those of the Olympian cult. He
explained its moral elements: an insistence on
virtue, fortitude, and self-control, and a rejection of
the storms of passion to which all men were liable.
      He went on to describe how the Stoics believed
that Mind, which among the known elements could
best be equated with Fire, both created and
comprised the universe in its varying aspects.
      Apsimar nodded. "Both in its values and in its
ideas, this is a better creed, and a closer approach to
the truth. I will tell you the truth now."
      The tribune braced himself for a quick course
on the glory of the divine sun, kicking himself for
not mentioning Apollo. But the "truth," as Apsimar
saw it, was not tied up in heliolatry.
      The Videssians, Marcus learned, viewed the
universe and everything in it as a conflict between
two deities: Phos, whose nature was inherently
good, and the evil Skotos. Light and darkness were
their respective manifestations. "Thus the globe of
the sun which tops our temples," Apsimar said, "for
the sun is the most powerful source of light. Yet it is
but a symbol, for Phos transcends its radiance as
much as it outshines the candle between us."
      Phos and Skotos warred not only in the
sensible world, but within the soul of every man.
Each individual had to choose which he would
serve, and on this choice rested his fate in the next
world. Those who followed the good would gain an
afterlife of bliss, while the wicked would fall into
Skotos' clutches, to be tormented forever in his
unending ice.
      Yet even the eternal happiness of the souls of
the deserving might be threatened, should Skotos
vanquish Phos in this world. Opinions over the
possibility of this differed. Within the Empire of
Videssos, it was orthodox to believe Phos would
emerge victorious in the ultimate confrontation.
Other sects, however, were less certain.
      "I know you will be traveling to the city,"
Apsimar said. "You will be meeting many men of
the east there; fall not into their misbelief." He went
on to explain that, some eight hundred years before,
nomadic barbarians known as the Khamorth flooded
into what had been the eastern provinces of the
Empire. After decades of warfare, devastation, and
murder, two fairly stable Khamorth states, Khatrish
and Thatagush, had emerged from the chaos, while
to their north the Kingdom of Agder was still ruled
by a house of Videssian stock.
      The shock of the invasions, though, had caused
all these lands to slip into what Videssos called
heresy. Their theologians, remembering the long
night of destruction their lands had undergone, no
longer saw Phos' victory as inevitable, but
concluded that the struggle between good and evil
was in perfect balance. "They claim this doctrine
gives more scope to the freedom of the will."
Apsimar sniffed. "In reality, it but makes Skotos as
acceptable a lord as Phos. Is this a worthwhile
goal?"
      He gave Marcus no chance to reply, going on
to describe the more subtle religious aberration
which had arisen on the island Duchy of Namdalen
in the past couple of centuries. Namdalen had
escaped domination by the Khamorth, but fell
instead, much later, to pirates from the Haloga
country, who envied and aped the Videssian style of
life even as they wrested away Videssian land.
      "The fools were seeking a compromise
between our views and the noxious notions which
prevail in the east. They refuse to accept Phos'
triumph as a certainty, yet maintain all men should
act as if they felt it assured. This, a theology? Call it,
rather, hypocrisy in religious garb!"
      It followed with a certain grim logic that, as
any error in belief gave strength to Skotos, those
who deviated from the true faith - whatever that
happened to be in any given area - could and should
be brought into line, by force if necessary.
Accustomed to the general tolerance and indeed
disregard for various creeds he had known in Rome,
Marcus found the notion of a militant religion
disturbing.
      Having covered the main variants of his own
faith, Apsimar spoke briefly and slightingly of
others the Videssians knew. Of the beliefs of the
Khamorth nomads still on the plains of Pardraya, the
less said the better - they followed shamans and
were little more than demon-worshipers. And their
cousins who lived in Yezd were worse yet; Skotos
was reverenced openly there, with horrid rites.
      All in all, the Halogai were probably the best
of the heathen. Even if incorrect, their beliefs
inclined them to the side of Phos by fostering
courage and justice. "Those they have in
abundance," Apsimar allowed, "but at the cost of the
light of the spirit, which comes only to those who
follow Phos."
      The barrage of strange names, places, and
ideas left Marcus' head spinning. To get time to
regain his balance, he asked Apsimar, "Do you have
a map, so I may see where all these people you
mention live?"
      "Of course," the priest said. As with his
theological discussion, he gave Scaurus more than
the tribune had bargained for. Apsimar gestured
toward one of the crowded bookshelves. Like a
called puppy, a volume wriggled out from between
its neighbors and floated through the air until it
landed gently on his desk. He bent over it to find the
page he wanted.
      The tribune needed those few seconds to try to
pull his face straight. Never in Mediolanum, never
in Rome, never in Gaul, he knew, would he have
seen anything to match that casual flick of the hand
and what came after it. Its very effortlessness
impressed him in a way even the healing magic had
not.
      To Apsimar it was nothing. He turned the book
toward Marcus. "We are here," he said, pointing.
Putting his face close to the map, the tribune made
out the word "Imbros" beside a dot.
      "My apologies," Apsimar said courteously.
"Reading by candlelight can be difficult." He
murmured a prayer, held his left hand over the map,
and pearly light sprang from it, illuminating the
parchment as well as a cloudy day.
      This time, Scaurus had all he could do not to
flee. No wonder, his mind gibbered, eyestrain did
not trouble Apsimar. The priest was his own reading
lamp.
      As the first shock of amazement and fear
faded, a deeper one sank into the tribune's bones.
The map was very detailed: better, by the looks of it,
then the few Marcus had seen in Rome. And the
lands it showed were utterly unfamiliar. Where was
Italy? No matter how crude the map, the shape of
the boot was unmistakable. He could not find it, or
any of the other countries he knew.
      Seeing the curious outlines of the Empire of
Videssos and its neighbors, reading the strange
names of the seas - the Sailors' Sea, the Northern
Sea, the almost landlocked Videssian Sea, and the
rest - drove home to the tribune what he had feared
since the two swords swept him and his legionaries
here, had suspected since Apsimar's first sorcery.
This was a different world from Rome's, one from
which he could never go back.
      His good-byes to the priest were subdued.
Once out in the street, he made for a tavern. He
needed a cup of wine, or several, to steady his
nerves. The grape worked a soothing magic of its
own. And even with magic, he told himself, men
were still men. An able one might go far.
      He took another pull at the mug. Presently he
remembered the business Apsimar had interrupted.
He wondered whether he could still find the bright-
eyed girl in the green gown. He laughed a little.
Men were still men, he thought.
      On his way out of the tavern, he wondered for
a moment how venery counted in the strife between
Phos and Skotos. He decided he did not care and
closed the tavern door behind him.
                        III

      AFTER A LAST SERIES OF BLIZZARDS
THAT TRIED TO BATTER Imbros flat, winter,
sullenly left the stage to spring. Just as they had at
the outset of fall, the Empire's roads became
morasses. Marcus, anxious for word from the
capital, grumbled about the sense of a nation which,
to protect its horses' hooves, made those hooves all
but worthless over much of the year.
      The trees' bare branches were beginning to
clothe themselves in green when a mud-splattered
messenger splashed his way up from the south. As
Nephon Khoumnos had predicted and Marcus
hoped, he bore in his leather message-pouch an
order bidding the Romans come to the city,
Videssos.
      Vourtzes did not pretend to be sorry to see the
last of them. Though the Romans had behaved well
in Imbros - for mercenary troops, very well - it had
not really been the fat governor's town since they
arrived. For the most part they followed his wishes,
but he was too used to giving orders to enjoy
framing requests.
      To Marcus' surprise, Skapti Modolf's son came
to bid him farewell. The tall Haloga clasped
Scaurus' hand in both his own, after his native
custom. Fixing his wintry gaze on the Roman, he
said, "We'll meet again, and in a less pleasant place,
I think. It would be better for me if we did not, but
we will."
      Wondering what to make of that, the tribune
asked him if he'd had news of the coming summer's
campaign.
      Skapti snorted at such worry over details. "It
will be as it is," he said, and stalked away toward
Imbros. Staring at his back, Marcus wondered if the
Halogai were as spiritually blind as Apsimar
thought.
      The march to Videssos was a pleasant week's
travel through gently rolling country planted in
wheat, barley, olives, and grapevines. To Gorgidas
the land, the crops, and the enameled blue dome of
the sky were aching reminders of his native Greece.
He was by turns sullen with homesickness and
rhapsodic over the beauty of the scenery.
      "Will you not cease your endless havering?"
Viridovix asked. "In another month it'll be too hot
for a man to travel by day unless he wants the wits
fried out of him. Your grapevine is a fine plant, I'll
not deny, but better in the jug than to look at, if you
take my meaning. And as for the olive, if you try to
eat him his pit'll break your teeth. His oil stinks, too,
and tastes no better."
      Gorgidas grew so furious working up a reply to
this slander that he was his old self for the next
several hours. Marcus caught Viridovix grinning
behind the irascible doctor's back. His respect for
the Celt's wits went up a couple of notches.
      The road to Videssos came down by the
seaside about a day's journey north of the capital.
Villages and towns, some of respectable size, sat
athwart the highway at increasingly frequent
intervals. After passing through one large town,
Gaius Philippus commented, "If these are the
suburbs, what must Videssos be like?"
      The mental picture Marcus carried of the
Empire's capital was of a city like, but inferior to,
Rome. In the afternoon of the eighth day out from
Imbros, he was able to compare his vision with the
reality, and it was the former which paled in the
comparison.
      Videssos owned a magnificent site. It occupied
a triangle of land jutting out into a strait Tzimiskes
called the Cattle-Crossing. The name was scarcely a
misnomer, either - the opposite shore was barely a
mile away, its suburbs plain to the eye despite sea-
haze. The closest of those suburbs, the tribune had
learned, was simply called "Across."
      But with Videssos at which to marvel, the
strait's far shore was lucky to get a glance.
Surrounded on two sides by water, the capital's
third, landward, boundary was warded by
fortifications more nearly invulnerable than any
Marcus had imagined, let alone seen.
      First came a deep ditch, easily fifty feet wide;
behind it stood a crenelated breastwork.
Overlooking that was the first wall proper, five
times the height of a tall man, with square towers
strategically sited every fifty to a hundred yards. A
second wall, almost twice as high and built of even
larger stones, paralleled this outwork at a distance of
about fifty yards. The main wall's towers - not all of
these were square; some were round, or even
octagonal - were placed so that fire from them could
cover what little ground those of the outwall missed.
     Gaius Philippus stopped dead when he saw
those incredible works. "Tell me," he demanded of
Tzimiskes, "has this city ever fallen to a siege?"
     "Never to a foreign foe," the Videssian replied,
"though in our own civil wars it's been taken twice
by treachery."
     The great walls did not hide as much of the city
as had Imbros' fortifications, for Videssos,
coincidentally like Rome, had seven hills. Marcus
could see buildings of wood, brick, and stucco like
those in the latter town, but also some splendid
structures of granite and multicolored marble. Many
of those were surrounded by parks and orchards,
making their pale stone shine the brighter. Scores of
shining gilded domes topped Phos' temples
throughout the city.
     At the harbors, the beamy grainships that fed
the capital shared dockspace with rakish galleys and
trading vessels from every nation Videssos knew.
There and elsewhere in the city, surging tides of
people went about their business. Tiny in the
distance, to Scaurus they seemed like so many ants,
preoccupied with their own affairs and oblivious to
the coming of the Romans. It was an intimidating
thought. In the midst of such a multitude, how could
his handful of men hope to make a difference?
      He must have said that out loud. Quintus
Glabrio observed, "The Videssians wouldn't have
taken us on if they didn't think we mattered."
Grateful for Glabrio's calm good sense, the tribune
nodded.
      Tzimiskes led the Romans past the first two
gates that opened into the city. He explained, "An
honor guard will escort us into Videssos from the
Silver Gate."
      Marcus had no idea why the Silver Gate was so
called. Its immense portals and spiked portcullis
were of iron-faced wood; from their scars, they had
seen much combat. Over each wall's entry way hung
a triumphant icon of Phos.
      "Straighten up there, you shambling
muttonheads!" Gaius Philippus growled to the
already orderly legionaries. "This is the big city
now, and I won't have them take us for gawking
yokels!"
      As Tzimiskes had promised, the guard of honor
was waiting, mounted, just inside the main wall. At
its head was Nephon Khoumnos, who stepped up
smiling to clasp Scaurus' hand. "Good to see you
again," he said. "The march to your barracks is a
couple of miles. I hope you don't mind us making a
parade of it. It'll give the people something to talk
about and get them used to the look of you as well."
      "Fine," Marcus agreed. He had expected
something like this; the Videssians were
inordinately fond of pomp and ceremony. His
attention was only half on Khoumnos anyhow. The
rest was directed to the troops the imperial officer
led.
      The three contingents of the honor guard
seemed more concerned over watching each other
than about the Romans. Khoumnos' personal
contingent was a squadron of akritai - businesslike
Videssians cut in the mold of Tzimiskes or
Mouzalon. They wanted to give the Romans their
full attention, but kept stealing quick looks to the
right and left.
      On their left was a band - Marcus rejected any
word with a more orderly flavor than that - of
nomads from the Pardrayan plains. Dark, stocky
men with curly beards, they rode shaggy steppe
ponies, wore breastplates of boiled leather and
foxskin caps, and carried double-curved bows
reinforced with horn. "Foot soldiers!" one said in
accented Videssian. He spat to show his contempt.
Marcus stared at him until the nomad flushed and
jerked his eyes away.
      The tribune had a harder time deciding the
origin of the escorting party's last group. They were
big, solid men in heavy armor, mounted on horses as
large as any Marcus had seen, and armed with stout
lances and straight slashing swords. They had
something of the look of the Halogai to them, but
seemed rather less - what was the word Viridovix
had used? - doomful than the northern mercenaries.
Besides, about half their number had dark hair. They
were the first clean-shaven men Scaurus had seen.
The only nation that might have spawned them, he
decided at last, was Namdalen. There Haloga
overlords mixed blood with their once-Videssian
subjects, from whom they had learned much.
      Their leader was a rugged warrior of about
thirty, whose dark eyes and tanned skin went oddly
with his mane of wheat-colored hair. He swung
himself down from his high-cantled saddle to greet
the Romans. "You look to have good men here," he
said to Marcus, taking the tribune's hand between
his own in a Haloga-style grip. "I'm Hemond of
Metepont, out of the Duchy." That confirmed
Marcus' guess. Hemond went on, "Once you're
settled in, look me up for a cup of wine. We can tell
each other stories of our homes - yours, I hear, is a
strange, distant land."
      "I'd like that," Marcus said. The Namdalener
seemed a decent sort; his curiosity was friendly
enough and only natural. All sorts of rumors about
the Romans must have made the rounds in Videssos
during the winter.
      "Come on, come on, let's be off," Khoumnos
said. "Hemond, your men for advance guard; the
Khamorth will take the rear while we ride flank."
      "Right you are." Hemond ambled back to his
horse, flipping the Videssian a lazy salute as he
went. Khoumnos' sudden urgency bothered Marcus;
he had been in no hurry a moment before. Could it
be he did not want the Romans friendly toward the
Namdaleni? Politics already, the tribune thought,
resolving caution until he learned the local rules of
the game.
      A single Videssian with a huge voice led the
procession from the walls of the city to the barracks.
Every minute or so he bellowed, "Make way for the
valiant Romans, brave defenders of the Empire!"
The thoroughfare down which they strode emptied
in the twinkling of an eye; just as magically, crowds
appeared on the sidewalks and in every intersection.
Some people cheered the valiant Romans, but more
seemed to wonder who these strange-looking
mercenaries were, while the largest number would
have turned out for any parade, just to break up the
monotony of the day.
      Eyes front and hands raised in salute, the
legionaries marched west. They passed through two
large, open squares, by a marketplace whose
customers scarcely looked up to notice them, and
past monuments, columns, and statues
commemorating long-past triumphs and Emperors.
      The only bad moment in the procession came
near its end. An emaciated monk in a tattered, filthy
robe leaped into the roadway in front of the Romans'
herald, who perforce stopped. Eyes blazing, the
monk screeched, "Beware Phos' wrath, all
traffickers with infidels such as these! Woe unto us,
that we shelter them in the heart of Phos' city!"
      There was a mutter from the crowd, at first
confused, then with the beginning of anger in it. Out
of the corner of his eye Marcus saw a man bend to
pick up a stone. The mutter grew louder and more
hostile.
      Intent on heading off a riot before it could start,
the tribune elbowed his way through the halted
Namdalener horsemen to confront the monk. As if
he were some demon, the scrawny cleric drew back
in horror, sketching his god's sign on his breast.
Someone in the crowd yelled, "Heathen!"
      Hands empty before him, Scaurus bowed low
to the monk, who stared at him suspiciously. Then
he drew the sun-circle over his own heart, at the
same time shouting, "May Phos be with you!"
      The amazement on the monk's face was
comical. He ran forward to fold the Roman in a
smelly embrace he would have been as glad not to
have. For a horrible instant Marcus thought he was
about to be kissed, but the monk, after a few quick,
babbled prayers, vanished into the crowd, which
was now cheering lustily.
      Marcus gave himself the luxury of a sigh of
relief before he went back to his men. "Quick
thinking, outlander," Hemond said as he walked by.
"We could all have been in a lot of trouble there."
      "Tell me about it," the tribune said feelingly.
      "Make way for the valiant Romans!" the herald
cried, and the parade advanced once more.
      "I did not know you had decided to follow
Phos," Tzimiskes said.
      "I said nothing at all about me," Marcus
replied.
      Tzimiskes looked scandalized.
      They traversed a last forum, larger than either
of the previous two, and passed by a tremendous
oval amphitheater before entering a district of
elegant buildings set among wide expanses of close-
cropped emerald lawn and tastefully trimmed shrubs
and vines.
      "Another few moments and I'll show you to
your barracks," Khoumnos said.
      "Here?" Marcus asked, startled. "Surely this is
much too fine."
      It was the Videssian's turn for surprise. "Why,
where else would a unit of the Imperial Guards
lodge, but in the Imperial Palaces?"
      The buildings devoted to the Emperors of
Videssos made up a vast, sprawling complex which
itself comprised one of the imperial capital's many
quarters. The Romans were billeted some distance
from the Emperor's residence proper, in four
stuccoed barracks halls set among citrus trees
fragrant with flowers.
      "I've had worse," Gaius Philippus said with a
laugh as he unslung his marching kit and laid it by
his fresh straw pallet.
      Marcus understood the centurion's way of
speaking - he could not remember arrangements to
compare with these. The barracks were airy, well lit,
and roomy. There were baths nearby, and kitchens
better equipped than some eateries. Only the lack of
privacy made the long halls less comfortable than an
inn or a hostel. If anything, they were too luxurious.
"In quarters this fine, the men may lose their edge."
      Gaius Philippus gave a wolfish grin. "I'll see to
that, never fear." Scaurus nodded, but wondered
how well-drilled the rest of the Imperial Guards
were.
      He had some of his answer within minutes, for
cornets blared while the Romans were still stowing
their possessions. A plump functionary appeared in
the doorway and bawled, "His Highness the
Sevastos Vardanes Sphrantzes! His Majesty the
Sevastokrator Thorisin Gavras! All abase
themselves for his Imperial Majesty, the Avtokrator
of the Videssians, Mavrikios Gavras!"
      The cornets rang out again. Over them Gaius
Philippus yelled, "Whatever you've got, drop it!"
The Romans, used to snap inspections, sprang to
attention.
      Preceded by a dozen Halogai, the rulers of the
Empire came into the barracks hall to examine their
new warriors. Before they set foot in it, Marcus stole
a glance at their guardsmen and was favorably
impressed. For all the gilding on their cuirasses, for
all the delicate inlay work ornamenting their axes,
these were fighting men. Their eyes, cold as the ice
of their northern home, raked the barracks for
anything untoward. Only when he was satisfied did
their leader signal his charges it was safe to enter.
       As they did so, Tzimiskes went to his knees
and then to his belly in the proskynesis all
Videssians granted their sovereign. Marcus, and his
men after his example, held to their stiff brace. It did
not occur to him to do otherwise. If the Videssians
chose to prostrate themselves before their lord, it
was their privilege, but not one the Romans, a
republican people for four and a half centuries,
could easily follow.
       The Haloga captain stared at Scaurus, his face
full of winter. But now the tribune had no time to try
to face him down, for his attention was focused on
the triumvirate in the doorway.
       First through it, if they were coming in the
order announced, was Vardanes Sphrantzes, whose
title of Sevastos was about that of prime minister.
Heavy set rather than fat, he wore his gem-encrusted
robes of office with a dandy's elegance. A thin line
of beard framed his round, ruddy face. His eyes did
not widen, but narrowed in surprise when he saw the
Romans still on their feet.
       He turned to say something to the Emperor, but
was brushed aside by Mavrikios' younger brother,
the Sevastokrator Thorisin Gavras. In his late
thirties, the Sevastokrator looked as if he would be
more at home in mail than the silks and cloth-of-
gold he had on. His hair and beard were carelessly
trimmed; the sword at his side was no ceremonial
weapon, but a much-used saber in a sheath of plain
leather.
      His reaction to the sight of the standing
Romans was outrage, not surprise. His bellowed,
"Who in Phos' holy name do these baseborn outland
whoresons think they are?" cut across Sphrantzes'
more measured protest: "Your Majesty, these
foreigners fail to observe proper solemnity..."
      Both men stopped in confusion; Scaurus had
the impression they had not agreed on anything in
years. From behind them he heard the Emperor's
voice for the first time: "If the two of you will get
out of my way, I'll see these monsters for myself."
And with that mild comment the Avtokrator of the
Videssians came in to survey his newest troop of
mercenaries.
      He was plainly Thorisin's brother; they shared
the same long face, the same strong-arched nose,
even the same brown hair that thinned at the
temples. But at first glance Marcus would have
guessed Mavrikios Gavras fifteen years older than
his brother. Lines bracketed his forceful mouth and
creased his forehead; his eyes were those of a man
who slept very little.
      A second look told the Roman much of the
apparent difference in age between the two Gavrai
was illusion. Like the massy golden diadem he wore
on his head, Mavrikios bore responsibility's heavy
weight, and it had left its mark on him. He might
once have shared Thorisin's quick temper and
headlong dash, but in him they were tempered by a
knowledge of the cost of error.
      As the Emperor approached, Tzimiskes rose to
stand beside Marcus, ready to help interpret. But
Mavrikios' question was direct enough for Scaurus
to understand: "Why did you not make your
obeisance before me?"
      Had Sphrantzes asked that, Marcus might have
talked round the answer, but this, he felt
instinctively, was a man to whom one gave truth. He
said, "It is not the custom in my land to bend the
knee before any man."
      The Avtokrator's eye roved over the Romans as
he considered Scaurus' reply. His gaze stopped on a
battered shield; on the stiff peasant face of a young
legionary; on Viridovix, who stood out because of
his inches and his Celtic panoply.
      At last he turned to the waiting Sevastos and
Sevastokrator, saying quietly, "These are soldiers."
To Thorisin Gavras that seemed to explain
everything. He relaxed at once, as did the Haloga
guardsmen. If their overlord was willing to let these
outlanders keep their rude habits, that was enough
for them.
      Sphrantzes, on the other hand, opened his
mouth for further protest before he realized it would
do no good. His eyes locked resentfully with the
tribune's, and Marcus knew he had made an enemy.
Sphrantzes was a man who could not stand to be
wrong or, more to the point, to be seen to be wrong.
If he made a mistake, he would bury it... and maybe
its witnesses, too.
      He covered his slip adroitly, though, nodding
to Marcus in a friendly way and saying, "At sunset
tomorrow evening we have tentatively scheduled a
banquet in the Hall of the Nineteen Couches, in
honor of your arrival. Would it be convenient for
you and a small party of your officers to join us
then?"
      "Certainly," Marcus nodded back. The
Sevastos' smile made him wish he could bring, not
his officers, but a food-taster instead.
      The Hall of the Nineteen Couches was a square
building of green-veined marble not far from the
actual living quarters of the imperial family. There
had been no couches in it for generations, Marcus
learned, but it kept its name regardless. It was the
largest and most often used of the palace
compound's several reception halls.
      When Scaurus and his companions - Gaius
Philippus, Quintus Glabrio, Gorgidas, Viridovix,
and Adiatun, the captain of slingers, along with
Tzimiskes - came to the Hall's double doors of
polished bronze and announced themselves, a
servitor bowed and flung the doors wide, crying,
"Ladies and gentlemen, the Ronams!"
      There was a polite spatter of applause from the
guests already present. Scaurus suppressed an urge
to kick the bungling fool and resigned himself to
being called a Ronam for the next year.
      The Videssian custom was to talk, nibble, and
drink for a time before settling down to serious
eating. Marcus took a chilled cup of wine from the
bed of snow on which it rested, accepted a small
salted fish from a silver tray proffered by the most
bored-looking servant he had ever seen, and began
to circulate through the crowd.
      He soon became aware that four distinct
groups were present, each largely - and sometimes
pointedly - ignoring the other three.
      In the corner by the kitchens, civil servants,
gorgeous in their bright robes and colorful tunics,
munched hors d'oeuvres as they discussed the fine
art of government by guile.
      They sent supercilious glances toward the
crowd of army officers who held the center of the
hall like a city they had stormed. Though these
sprang from several nations, they, too, had a
common craft. Their shoptalk was louder and more
pungent than that of the bureaucrats, whose sneers
they returned. "Plague-taken pen-pushers," Marcus
heard a young Videssian mutter to a Haloga
clutching a mug of mead almost as big as his head.
Already half-drunk, the northerner nodded
solemnly.
      Over half the Roman party vanished into this
group. Gaius Philippus and Nephon Khoumnos
were talking about drill fields and training
techniques. Glabrio, gesturing as he spoke,
explained Roman infantry tactics to a mixed
audience of Videssians, Namdaleni, and Halogai.
And Adiatun was trying to persuade a buckskin-clad
Khamorth that the sling was a better weapon than
the bow. The nomad, a better archer than any
Adiatun had imagined, was obviously convinced
he'd lost his mind.
      If the councilors were peacocks and the
soldiers hawks, then the ambassadors and envoys of
foreign lands who made up the third contingent
were birds of various feathers. Squat, bushy-bearded
Khamorth wore the wolfskin jackets and leather
trousers of the plains and mingled with a couple of
other, more distant, plainsmen whose like Marcus
had not seen before: slim, swarthy, flat-faced men
with draggling mustaches and thin, wispy beards.
The tribune learned they were known as Arshaum.
     Marcus recognized desert nomads from the
southwest, and more from the distant lands across
the Sailors' Sea. There were several envoys in
strange costumes from the valleys of Erzerum, north
and west from Videssos' western borders. There
were Haloga princelings, and one man the tribune
would have guessed a Videssian but for his northern
clothing and the perpetually grim expression
Scaurus had come to associate with the Halogai.
     A giant in the swirling robes of the desert was
so swathed even his face was obscured. He sipped
wine through a straw and moved in a circle of
silence, for even his fellow ambassadors gave him a
wide berth. Marcus understood when he found out
the man was an emissary out of Mashiz, the capital
of Videssos' deadly western foe, Yezd.
     With his insatiable curiosity, Gorgidas had
naturally gravitated toward the ambassadors. He was
in earnest conversation with a rabbity little man who
would have made a perfect Videssian ribbon clerk
had he not affected the unkempt facial foliage of the
Khamorth.
     That takes care of just about all my men,
Marcus thought, and when he turned his head at a
burst of laughter to his left he found Viridovix was
rapidly making himself popular with the last group
at the banquet: its women. Looking quite dashing
with his cape of scarlet skins flung back over his
wide shoulders, the big Gaul had just finished an
uproariously improper tale his brogue only made
funnier. A pretty girl was clinging to each arm; three
or four more clustered round him. He caught
Scaurus' eye over the tops of their heads and threw
him a happy tomcat's smile.
      The tribune returned it, but did not feel like
emulating the Celt. Nor did the other groups attract
him any more. The bureaucrats snubbed soldiers on
principle, but Scaurus himself was not enough of a
professional warrior to delight in discussing the fine
points of honing a broadsword. And unlike
Gorgidas, he could not turn his inquisitiveness to
distant lands when he was still so ignorant of
Videssos. Thus, while he spent a minute here and
two more there in polite small talk, he was bored
before the evening was very old.
      Feeling like the spare wheel on a wagon, he
drifted over to get more wine. He had just taken it
when a voice behind him asked, "The music tonight
is very fine, don't you think?"
      "Hmm?" He wheeled so fast the wine slopped
in its cup. "Yes, my lady, it's very fine indeed." In
fact he had no ear for music and had ignored the
small tinkling orchestra, but a "no" would have
ended the conversation, and that he suddenly did not
want at all.
      She was as tall as many of the men there. She
wore her straight black hair bobbed just above the
shoulder, a far simpler style than the elaborate piles
of curls most of the women preferred, but one that
suited her. Her eyes were very blue. Her gown was a
darker shade of the same color, with a bodice of
white lace and wide, fur-trimmed sleeves. A fine-
looking woman, Marcus thought.
      "You Romans - " He noticed she said the name
correctly, despite the botched announcement at the
door. " - are from quite far away, it's said. Tell me,
is your homeland's music much like what's played
here?"
      Wishing she would find another topic, Scaurus
considered the question. "Not a great deal, my lady -
?"
      "Oh, I crave your pardon," she said, smiling.
"My name is Helvis. You are called Marcus, is that
right?"
      Marcus admitted it. "From Namdalen, are you
not?" he asked. It was a reasonable guess. Her
features were less aquiline than the Videssian norm,
and she certainly did not bear a Videssian name.
      She nodded and smiled again; her mouth was
wide and generous. "You've learned a good deal
about this part of the world," she said, but then, as
the tribune had feared, she returned to her original
thought. "In what ways do your music and ours
differ?"
      Scaurus grimaced. He knew little of Roman
music and less of the local variety. Worse, his
vocabulary, while adequate for the barracks, had
huge holes when it came to matters musical.
      At last he said, "We play - " He pantomimed a
flute.
      Helvis named it for him. "We have instruments
of that kind, too. What else?"
      "We pluck our stringed instruments instead of
playing them with the thing your musicians use."
      "A bow," Helvis supplied.
      "And I've never seen anything like the tall box
that fellow is pounding."
      Her eyebrows lifted. "You don't know the
clavichord? How strange!"
      "He's two days in the city, darling, and you're
tormenting him about the clavichord?" The guards'
officer Hemond came up to put his arm round
Helvis' waist with a casual familiarity that said they
had been together for years.
      "I wasn't being tormented," Scaurus said, but
Hemond dismissed his protest with a snort.
      "Don't tell me that, my friend. If you let this
one carry on about music, you'll never get your ears
back. Come on, love," he said to Helvis, "you have
to try the fried prawns. Incredible!" He was licking
his lips as they walked off together.
      Marcus finished his wine in one long gulp. He
was bitter and resentful, the more so because he
knew his feelings had no justifiable basis. If Helvis
and Hemond were a pair, then they were, and no
point worrying about it. It was only that she had
seemed so friendly and open and not at all
attached... and she really was beautiful.
      Many Namdalener men, Hemond among them,
shaved their scalps from the ears back so their heads
would fit their helmets better. It was a remarkably
ugly custom, the tribune decided, and felt a little
better.
      Sphrantzes the Sevastos came in a few minutes
later. As if his arrival was a signal - and it probably
was - servants leaped forward to remove the tables
of hors d'oeuvres and wine, substituting long dining
tables and gilded straight-backed chairs.
      They worked with practiced efficiency and had
just finished putting out the last place setting when
the doorman cried, "His Majesty the Sevastokrator
Thorisin Gavras and his lady, Komitta Rhangavve!
Her Majesty the Princess Alypia Gavra!" Then, in
the place his rank deserved, "His Imperial Majesty,
Avtokrator of the Videssians, Mavrikios Gavras!"
      Marcus expected the entire room to drop to the
floor and braced himself to shock everyone in it. But
as the occasion was social rather than formal, the
men in the hall merely bowed from the waist - the
Romans among them - while the women dropped
curtsies to the Emperor.
      Thorisin Gavras' companion was an olive-
skinned beauty with flashing black eyes, well
matched to the hot-blooded Sevastokrator. She quite
outshone the Princess Alypia, Mavrikios' only
surviving child by a long-dead wife. Her lineage
was likely the reason Alypia was still unwed - she
was a political card too valuable to play at once. She
was not unattractive, with an oval face and eyes of
clear green, rare among the Videssians. But her
attention appeared directed inward, and she walked
through the dining hall scarcely seeming to notice
the feasters in it.
      Not so her father. "The lot of you have been
standing around munching while I've had to work,"
he boomed, "and I'm hungry!"
      Scaurus had thought he and his men would be
seated with the other mercenary captains, well down
the ladder of precedence. A eunuch steward
disabused him of the notion. "This festivity was
convened in your honor, and it would be less than
appropriate were you to take your place elsewhere
than at the imperial table."
      As his knowledge of elegant Videssian
manners was small, the tribune would willingly
have forgone the distinction, but, of course, the
gently irresistible steward had his way. Instead of
soldiers, the tribune found himself keeping company
with the leading nobles and foreign envoys in
Videssos' court. The straight-backed chairs were as
hard as they looked. Marcus found himself between
the skinny little fellow with whom Gorgidas had
been talking and the tall dour man who looked like a
Videssian in Haloga clothing. The latter introduced
himself as Katakolon Kekaumenos. Going by the
name, the tribune asked, "You are of Videssos,
then?"
     "Nay, 'tis not so," Kekaumenos replied in his
archaic accent. "I am his Majesty King Sirelios of
Agder's embassy to Videssos; in good sooth, his
blood is higher than most in this mongrel city." The
man of Agder looked round to see if anyone would
challenge his statement. The smaller fragment of the
Empire of old had learned more from its Haloga
neighbors than wearing snow-leopard jackets: its
ambassador spoke with a bluntness rare in the city.
He was also taciturn as any northerner, subsiding
into moody silence after speaking his piece.
      Marcus' other seatmate nudged him in the ribs.
"You'd think old Katakolon had a poker up his arse,
wouldn't you?" he stage-whispered, grinning slyly.
"Ah, you don't know who I am, do you, to get away
with such talk? Taso Vones is my name, envoy of
Khagan Vologes of Khatrish, and so I have a
diplomat's privilege. Besides, Kekaumenos has
reckoned me daft for years - isn't that right, you old
scoundrel?"
      "As well for you I do," Kekaumenos rumbled,
but his stern features could not hide a smile.
Evidently he was used to making allowances for
Vones.
      The fast-talking ambassador gave his attention
back to Scaurus. "I saw you admiring my beard a
few minutes ago."
      That was not the emotion Marcus had felt for
the untidy growth. "Yes, I - "
      "Horrible, isn't it? My master Vologes thinks it
makes me look a proper Khamorth, instead of some
effete Videssian. As if I could look like that!" He
pointed across the table at the emissary of the
Khaganate of Thatagush. "Ha, Gawtruz, you
butterball, are you drunk yet?"
      "Not yet I am," Gawtruz replied, looking rather
like a bearded boulder. His Videssian was heavily
accented. "But will I be? Haw, yes, to be sure!"
      "He's a pig," Taso remarked, "but a pleasant
sort of pig, and a sharp man in the bargain. He can
also speak perfectly good Videssian when he wants
to, which isn't often."
      A trifle overwhelmed by the voluble little
Khatrisher, Marcus was glad to see the food brought
in. The accent was on fish, not surprising in a
coastal town like Videssos. There were baked cod,
fried shark, lobsters and drawn butter, a tangy stew
of clams, crab, and shrimp, as well as divers other
delicacies, among them oysters on the half-shell.
      Viridovix, a few chairs down from the tribune,
took one of these from the crushed ice on which it
reposed. After a long, dubious look he gulped it
down, but seemed less than pleased he'd done so.
With a glance at the girl by his side, he said to
Marcus, "If you're fain to be eating something with
that feel to it, it's better warm."
      Scaurus, sans oyster, gulped himself. He was
wondering why the Celt had not stopped
conversation in its tracks all along the table when
the Princess Alypia, who was sitting almost directly
across from him, asked, "What does your comrade
think of the shellfish?" and he realized Viridovix
had spoken Latin.
      Well, fool, he said to himself, you thought
music a poor topic. How do you propose to cope
with this! His answer unhesitatingly sacrificed the
spirit to the letter: "He said he would prefer it
heated, your Highness."
      "Odd, such an innocent comment making you
start so," she said, but to his relief she did not press
him further.
      A gray-haired servant tapped the Roman on the
shoulder. Setting a small enamelware dish before
Marcus, he murmured, "Herrings in wine sauce, my
lord, courtesy of his Highness the Sevastos. They
are excellent, he says."
      Recalling only too vividly his idle thought of
the day before, Marcus looked down the table to
Vardanes Sphrantzes. The Sevastos raised his glass
in genial salute. Scaurus knew he had to take the
dainty and yet could not forget the veiled look of
menace he had seen in Sphrantzes' eyes.
      He sighed and ate. The herrings were delicious.
      Alypia noticed his hesitation. "Anyone
watching you would say you thought that your final
meal," she said.
      Damn the observant woman! he thought,
flushing. Would he never be able to tell her any
truth? It certainly would not do here. "Your Majesty,
I could not refuse the Sevastos' gift, but I fear
herring and my innards do not blend well. That was
why I paused." The tribune discovered he had only
told half a lie. The spicy fish were making his
stomach chum.
      The princess blinked at his seeming frankness,
then burst into laughter. If the Roman had seen the
slit-eyed look Sphrantzes sent his way, he would
have regretted the herrings all over again. That it
might be dangerous for a mercenary captain to make
a princess of the blood laugh had not yet occurred to
him.
      Although the Sevastokrator Thorisin stayed to
roister on, the Emperor and his daughter, having
arrived late, left the banquet early. After their
departure things grew livelier.
      Two of the desert nomads, relegated to a far
table by the insignificance of their tribes, found
nothing better to do than quarrel with each other.
One of them, a ferret-faced man with waxed
mustaches, screamed a magnificent guttural oath
and broke his winecup over his rival's head. Others
at the table pulled them apart before they could go
for their knives.
      "Disgraceful," Taso Vones said. "Why can't
they leave their blood-feuds at home?"
      Snatches of drunken song floated up
throughout the Hall of the Nineteen Couches.
Viridovix began wailing away in Gaulish, loud
enough to make the crockery shiver. "If you can't hit
the damned notes, at least scare them as they go by,"
Gaius Philippus growled. The Celt pretended not to
hear him.
      Several Khamorth were singing in the plains
speech. Lifting his face from his cup, Gawtruz of
Thatagush looked up owlishly and joined them.
      "Disgraceful," Taso said again; he, too,
understood the plainsmen's tongue. "You can't have
Khamorth at a feast without them getting sozzled
and calling on all sorts of demons. Most of them
follow Skotos in their hearts, you know; cleaving to
the good is too dull to be tolerable."
      The wine was starting to go to the Roman's
head; he was losing track of how many times he had
filled his goblet from the silver decanter in front of
him. On his left, Katakolon Kekaumenos had left
some time ago. Marcus did not miss him. The strait-
laced northerner's disapproving gaze could chill any
gathering.
      Viridovix was also gone, but not by himself.
Scaurus could not remember if he'd left with the
talkative brunette who'd sat beside him or the
statuesque serving maid who had hovered over him
all evening long. A bit jealous, the Roman took a
long pull at his wine. His own contacts with women
tonight had been less than successful, from any
point of view.
      He climbed slowly to his feet, filling his glass
one last time to keep him warm on the ten-minute
walk back to the barracks. Vones stood too. "Let me
accompany you," he said. "I'd like to hear more
about your leader - Kizar, was it? A fascinating
man, from what you've told me."
      Marcus hardly remembered what he'd been
saying, but Vones was good company. They made
their way down toward the end of the imperial table.
There someone had spilled something greasy on the
mosaic floor; the tribune slipped, his arms waving
wildly for balance. He kept his feet, but the wine he
was carrying splattered the white robes of Yezd's
ambassador.
     "I beg your pardon, my lord - " he began, then
stopped, confused. "Your pardon twice - I do not
know your name."
     "Do you not?" A fury the more terrible for
being cold rode the Yezda's words. He rose in one
smooth motion, to tower over even the Roman's
inches. So thick was his veiling that his eyes were
invisible, but Scaurus knew he was seen; the weight
of that hidden gaze was like a blow. "Do you not,
indeed? Then you may call me Avshahin."
     Taso Vones broke in with a nervous chuckle.
"My lord Avshar is pleased to make a pun, calling
himself 'king' in Videssos' language and his own.
Surely he will understand my friend meant no
offense, but has seen the bottom of his winecup
perhaps more often than he should - "
     Avshar turned his unseen stare on the
Khatrisher. "Little man, this does not concern you.
Unless you would have it so... ?" His voice was still
smooth, but there was menace there, like freezing
water under thin ice. Vones, pale, flinched and
shook his head.
      "Good." The Yezda dealt Marcus a tremendous
roundhouse buffet, sending him lurching back with
blood starting from the corner of his mouth. "Dog!
Swine! Vile, crawling insect! Is it not enough I must
dwell in this city of my foes? Must I also be subject
to the insults of Videssos' slaves? Jackal of a
mercenary, it shall be your privilege to choose the
weapon that will be your death."
      The feasting, hall grew still. All eyes were on
the Roman, who abruptly understood Avshar's
challenge. In an odd way he was thankful the Yezda
had struck him; the blow and the rage that followed
were burning the wine from his blood. He was
surprised at the steadiness of his voice as he
answered, "You know as well as I, I spilled my wine
on you by accident. But if you must take it further,
sword and shield will do well enough."
      Avshar threw back his head and laughed, a
sound colder and more cruel than any of the winter
blizzards that had howled down on Imbros. "So be it
- your doom from your own mouth you have
spoken. Mebod!" he shouted, and a frightened-
looking Yezda servant appeared at his side. "Fetch
my gear from my chambers." He gave the Roman a
mocking bow. "The Videssians, you see, would not
take it kindly if one who bears them no love were to
come armed to a function where their precious
Emperor was present."
      Taso Vones was plucking at Scaurus' arm.
"Have you lost your wits? That is the deadliest
swordsman I have ever seen, the winner in a score
of duels, and a sorcerer besides. Crave his
forgiveness now, before he cuts a second mouth in
your throat!"
      "I asked his pardon once, but he hardly seems
in a forgiving mood. Besides," Marcus said,
thinking of the potent blade at his side, "I may know
something he doesn't."
      Gaius Philippus was so drunk he could hardly
stand, but he still saw with a fighting man's
knowledge. "The big son of a pimp will likely try to
use his reach to chop you to bits from farther out
than you can fight back. Get inside and let the air
out of him."
      Marcus nodded; he had been thinking along
those lines himself. "Send someone after my shield,
will you?"
      "Adiatun is already on his way."
      "Fine."
      While everyone waited for the fighters' gear to
be fetched, a double handful of high-ranking
officers, like so many servants, shoved tables
around, clearing a space for combat.
      Wagers flew thick and fast. From the shouts,
Marcus knew he was the underdog. He was pleased,
though, when he heard Helvis' clear contralto
announce, "Three pieces of gold on the Roman!"
Gawtruz of Thatagush covered her bet.
      The Sevastokrator Thorisin Gavras called to
Vardanes Sphrantzes, "Whom do you like, seal-
stamper?"
      The dislike on the Sevastos' face covered
Gavras, Avshar, and Scaurus impartially. He rubbed
his neatly bearded chin. "Though it grieves me to
say so, I think it all too likely the Yezda will win."
      "Are you a hundred goldpieces sure?"
      Sphrantzes hesitated again, then nodded.
"Done!" Thorisin exclaimed. Marcus was glad to
have the Sevastokrator's backing, but knew the
Emperor's brother would have been as quick to
favor Avshar if Sphrantzes had chosen him.
      A cry rang out when the Yezda ambassador's
servant returned with his master's arms. Marcus was
surprised that Avshar favored a long, straight sword,
not the usual scimitar of the westerners. His shield
was round, with a spiked boss. The emblem of
Yezd, a leaping panther, was painted on a
background the color of dried blood.
      Moments later, Adiatun was back with the
tribune's scutum. "Cut him into crowbait," he said,
slapping Scaurus on the shouder.
      The Roman was drawing his blade when
something else occurred to him. He asked Taso
Vones, "Will Avshar not want me to shed my
cuirass?"
      Vones shook his head. "It's common
knowledge he wears mail himself, under those
robes. He's not the envoy of a friendly country, you
know."
      Marcus spent a last second wishing he had not
drunk so much. He wondered how much wine was
in Avshar. Then it was too late for such worries.
There was only a circle of eager, watching faces,
with him and the Yezda in the middle of it - and
then he forgot the watchers, too, as Avshar leaped
forward to cut him down.
      For a man so tall, he was devilishly quick, and
strong in the bargain. Marcus caught the first slash
on his shield and staggered under it, wondering if
his arm was broken. He thrust up at Avshar's unseen
face. The Yezda danced back, then came on again
with another overhand cut.
      He seemed to have as many arms as a spider
and a sword in every hand. Within moments Marcus
had a cut high up on his sword arm and another,
luckily not deep, just above the top of his right
greave. His shield was notched and hacked. Avshar
wielded his heavy blade like a switch.
      Fighting down desperation, Marcus struck
back. Avshar turned the blow with his shield. It did
not burst as the Roman had hoped, but at the contact
Avshar gave back two startled paces. He swung his
blade up in derisive salute. "You have a strong
blade, runagate, but there are spells of proof against
such."
      Yet he fought more cautiously after that and, as
the hard work of combat helped banish the wine
from Scaurus' system, the Roman grew surer and
more confident of himself. He began to press
forward, blade flicking out now high, now low, with
Avshar yielding ground step by stubborn step.
      The Yezda, who had kept silent while all
around him voices rose in song, began to chant. He
sang in some dark language, strong, harsh, and
freezing, worse even than his laugh. The torchlight
dimmed and almost died in a web of darkness
spinning up before Marcus' eyes.
      But along the length of the Roman's blade, the
druids' marks flared hot and gold, turning aside the
spell the wizard had hurled. Scaurus parried a stroke
at his face.
      The episode could only have taken an instant,
for even as he was evading the blow, a woman in
the crowd - he thought it was Helvis - called out,
"No ensorcelments!"
      "Bah! None are needed against such a worm as
this!" Avshar snarled, but he chanted no further.
And now the tribune had his measure. One of his
cuts sheared away the tip of Avshar's shield-boss.
The Yezda envoy's robes grew tattered, and red with
more than wine.
      Screaming in frustrated rage, Avshar threw
himself at the Roman in a last bid to overpower his
enemy by brute force. It was like standing up under
a whirlwind of steel, but in his wrath the Yezda
grew careless, and Marcus saw his moment come at
last.
      He feinted against Avshar's face, then thrust
quickly at his belly. The Yezda brought his blade
down to cover, only to see, too late, that this too was
a feint. The Roman's sword hurtled at his temple.
The parry he began was far too slow, but in avoiding
it, Scaurus had to turn his wrist slightly. Thus the
flat of his blade, not the edge, slammed into the side
of Avshar's head.
      The Yezda tottered like a lightning-struck tree,
then toppled, his sword falling beside him. Scaurus
took a step forward to finish him, then shook his
head. "Killing a stunned man is butcher's work," he
said. "The quarrel was his with me, not mine with
him." He slid his blade back into its scabbard.
      In his exhaustion afterwards, he only
remembered a few pieces of flotsam from the flood
of congratulations that washed over him. Gaius
Philippus' comment was, as usual, short and to the
point. "That is a bad one," he said as Avshar,
leaning on his servant, staggered from the hall, "and
you should have nailed him when you had the
chance."
      Her winnings ringing in her hand, Helvis
squeezed and kissed the tribune while Hemond
pounded his back and shouted drunkenly in his ear.
      And Taso Vones, though glad to see Avshar
humbled, also had a word of warning. "I suppose,"
the mousy little man from Khatrish grumbled, "now
you think you could storm Mashiz singlehanded and
have all the maidens from here to there fall into your
arms."
      Marcus' mind turned briefly to Helvis, but
Vones was still talking. "Don't you believe it!" he
said. "A few years ago Avshar was leading a
raiding-party along the western marches of
Videssos, and a noble named Mourtzouphlos
handled him very roughly indeed. The next spring,
the biggest snake anyone in those parts had ever
seen swallowed Mourtzouphlos down."
      "Happenstance," Marcus said uneasily.
     "Well, maybe so, but the Yezda's arm is long.
A word to the wise, let us say." And he was off,
brushing a bit of lint from the sleeve of his brown
robe as if amazed anyone could think there was a
connection between himself and this out-lander rash
enough to best Avshar.
                         IV

      WHEN HE RETURNED FOR MARCUS'
SHIELD, ADIATUN MUST have wakened the
Romans in their barracks. Torches were blazing
through the windows, everyone was up and stirring,
and by the time Marcus got back to his quarters a
good score of legionaries were fully armed and
ready to avenge him.
      "You don't show much confidence in your
commander," he told them, trying to hide how
pleased he was. They gave him a rousing cheer, then
crowded close, asking for details of the duel. He told
the story as best he could, peeling off his belt,
corselet, and greaves while he talked. Finally he
could not keep his sagging eyelids open any longer.
      Gaius Philippus stepped into the breach.
"That's the nub of it. The rest you can all hear in the
morning - early in the morning," he half threatened.
"There's been nothing but shirking the past couple
of days while we've got settled, but don't get the
notion you can make a habit of it."
      As the centurion had known it would, his
announcement roused a chorus of boos and groans,
but it also freed Scaurus from further questions.
Torches hissed as they were quenched. The tribune,
crawling under a thick woolen blanket, was as glad
of sleep as ever he had been in his life.
      It seemed only seconds later when he was
shaken awake, but the apricot light of dawn
streamed through the windows. Eyes still blurred
with sleep, he saw Viridovix, looking angry,
crouched above him. "Bad cess to you, southron
without a heart!" the Gaul exclaimed.
      Marcus raised himself onto one elbow. "What
have I done to you?" he croaked. Someone, he noted
with clinical detachment, had raced a herd of goats
through his mouth.
      "What have you done, man? Are you daft? The
prettiest bit of fighting since we came here, and me
not there to see it! Why did you no send a body after
me so I could watch the shindy my own self and not
hear about it second hand?"
      Scaurus sat up gingerly. While he had made no
real plans for the morning, he had not intended to
spend the time pacifying an irate Celt. "In the first
place," he pointed out, "I had no notion where you
were. You had left some little while before I fell
foul of Avshar. Besides, unless I misremember, you
didn't leave alone."
      "Och, she was a cold and clumsy wench, for all
her fine chest." It had been the servingmaid, then.
"But that's not the point at all, at all. There's always
lassies to be found, but a good fight, now, is
something else again."
      Marcus stared at him, realizing Viridovix was
serious. He shook his head in bewilderment. He
could not understand the Celt's attitude. True, some
Romans had a taste for blood, but to most of them -
himself included - fighting was something to be
done when necessary and finished as quickly as
possible. "You're a strange man, Viridovix," he said
at last.
      "If you were looking through my eyes, sure
and you'd find yourself a mite funny-looking. There
was a Greek once passed through my lands, a few
years before you Romans - to whom it doesn't
belong at all - decided to take it away. He was mad
to see the way things worked, was this Greek. He
had a clockwork with him, a marvelous thing with
gears and pullies and I don't know what all, and he
was always tinkering with it to make it work just so.
You're a bit like that yourself sometimes, only you
do it with people. If you don't understand them, why
then you think it's them that's wrong, not you, and
won't have a bit to do with them."
      "Hmm." Marcus considered that and decided
there was probably some justice to it. "What
happened to your Greek?"
      "I was hoping you'd ask that," Viridovix said
with a grin. "He was sitting under an old dead tree,
playing with his clockwork peaceful as you please,
when a branch he'd been ignoring came down on his
puir foolish head and squashed him so flat we had to
bury the corp of him between two doors, poor lad.
Have a care the same doesn't befall you."
      "A plague take you! If you're going to tell
stories with morals in them, you can start wearing a
blue robe. A bloodthirsty Celt I'll tolerate, but the
gods deliver me from a preaching one!"
      After his work of the previous night, the
tribune told himself he was entitled to leave the
morning drills to Gaius Philippus. The brief glimpse
of Videssos the city he'd had a few days before had
whetted his appetite for more. This was a bigger,
livelier, more brawling town even than Rome. He
wanted to taste its life, instead of seeing it frozen as
he tramped by on parade.
      Seabirds whirled and mewed overhead as he
left the elegant quiet of the imperial quarter for the
hurly-burly of the forum of Palamas, the great
square named for an Emperor nine centuries dead.
At its center stood the Milestone, a column of red
granite from which distances throughout the Empire
were reckoned. At the column's base two heads,
nearly fleshless from the passage of time and the
attentions of scavengers, were displayed on pikes.
Plaques beneath them set forth the crimes they had
plotted while alive. Marcus' knowledge of Videssos'
written language was still imperfect, but after some
puzzling he gathered the miscreants had been
rebellious generals with the further effrontery to
seek aid for their revolt from Yezd. Their present
perches, he decided, were nothing less than they
deserved.
      The people of Videssos ignored the gruesome
display. They had seen heads go up on pikes before
and expected these would not be the last.
      Scaurus, on the other hand, was anything but
ignored. He had thought he would be only one
among a thousand foreigners, but the mysterious
network that passes news in any great city had
singled him out as the man who beat the dreaded
Avshar. People crowded forward to pump his hand,
to slap his back, or simply to touch him and then
draw back in awe. From their reaction to him, he
began to realize how great an object of fear the
Yezda was.
      It was next to impossible to get away. At every
stall he passed, merchants and hucksters pressed
samples of their wares on him: fried sparrows
stuffed with sesame seeds; candied almonds; a
bronze scalpel; amulets against heartburn,
dysentery, or possession by a ghost; wines and ales
from every comer of the Empire and beyond; a book
of erotic verse, unfortunately addressed to a boy. No
one would hear him say no and no one would take a
copper in payment.
      "It is my honor, my privilege, to serve the
Ronam," declared a ruddy-faced baker with
sweeping black mustachioes as he handed the
tribune a spiced bun still steaming from his ovens.
      Trying to escape his own notoriety, Marcus
fled the forum of Palamas for the back streets and
alleyways of the city. In such a maze it was easy to
lose oneself, and the tribune soon did. His
wandering feet led him into a quarter full of small,
grimy taverns, homes once fine but now shabby
from neglect or crowding, and shops crammed with
oddments either suspiciously cheap or
preposterously expensive. Young men in the
brightly dyed tights and baggy tunics of street
toughs slouched along in groups of three and four. It
was the sort of neighborhood where even the dogs
traveled in pairs.
      This was a more rancid taste of Videssos than
the tribune had intended. He was looking for a way
back toward some part where he could feel safe
without a maniple at his back when he felt furtive
fingers fasten themselves to his belt. As he was half
expecting such attention, it was easy to spin round
and seize the awkward thief's wrist in an
unbreakable grip.
      He thought he would be holding one of the
sneering youths who prowled here, but his captive
was a man of about his own age, dressed in
threadbare homespun. The would-be fingersmith did
not struggle in his grasp. Instead he went limp, body
and face alike expressing utter despair. "All right,
you damned hired sword, you've got me, but there's
precious little you can do to me," he said. "I'd have
starved in a few days anyways."
      He was thin. His shirt and breeches flapped on
his frame and his skin stretched tight across his
cheekbones. But his shoulders were wide, and his
hands strong-looking - both his carriage and his
twanging speech said he was more used to walking
behind a plow than skulking down this alley. He had
borne arms, too; Marcus had seen the look in his
eyes before, on soldiers acknowledging defeat at the
hands of overwhelming force.
      "If you'd asked me for money, I would gladly
have given it to you," he said, releasing his
prisoner's arm.
      "Don't want nobody's charity, least of all a
poxy mercenary's," the other snapped. "Weren't for
you mercenaries, I wouldn't be here today, and I
wish to Phos I wasn't." He hesitated. "Aren't you
going to give me to the eparch?"
      The city governor's justice was apt to be swift,
sure, and drastic. Had Scaurus caught one of the
street-rats, he would have turned him over without a
second thought. But what was this misplaced farmer
doing in a Videssian slum, reduced to petty thievery
for survival? And why did he blame mercenaries for
his plight? He was no more a thief than Marcus was
a woodcutter.
      The tribune came to a decision. "What I'm
going to do is buy you a meal and a jug of wine.
Wait, now - you'll earn it." He saw the other's hand
already starting to rise in rejection. "In exchange,
you'll answer my questions and tell me why you
mislike mercenaries. Do we have a bargain?"
      The rustic's larynx bobbed in his scrawny neck.
"My pride says no, but my belly says yes, and I
haven't had much chance to listen to it lately. You're
an odd one, you know - I've never seen gear like
yours, you talk funny, and you're the first hired
trooper I've ever seen who'd feed a hungry man
instead of booting him in his empty gut. Phostis
Apokavkos is my name, and much obliged to you."
      Scaurus named himself in return. The eatery
Phostis led them to was a hovel whose owner fried
nameless bits of meat in stale oil and served them on
husk-filled barley bread. It was better not to think of
what went into the wine. That Apokavkos could not
afford even this dive was a measure of his want.
     For a goodly time he was too busy chewing
and swallowing to have much to say, but at last he
slowed, belched enormously, and patted his
stomach. "I'm so used to empty, I near forgot how
good full could feel. So you want to hear my story,
do you?"
     "More now than I did before. I've never seen a
man eat so much."
     "If the hole is big, it takes a deal to fill it." He
took a pull at his wine. "This is foul, isn't it? I was
too peckish to notice before. I grew better grapes
than this my own self, back on my farm -
     "That's a good place to start, I guess. I had a
steading in the province of Raban, not far from the
border with Yezd - do you know the country I
mean?"
     "Not really," Marcus admitted. "I'm new to
Videssos."
     "Thought you were. Well, then, it's on the far
side of the Cattle-Crossing, about a month's foot-
travel from here. I should know - I did the hike, fool
that I was. Anyway, that farm had been in my
family for longer than we could remember any
more. We weren't just peasants, either - we'd always
been part of the provincial militia. We had to send a
man to war if the militia got called and to keep up a
horse and gear ready to fight any time, but in
exchange we got out of paying taxes. We even got
paid sometimes, when the government could afford
it.
      "That's how my grandfather told it, anyhow. It
sounds too good to be real, if you ask me. It was in
granddad's day the Mankaphas family bought out
about every farm in the village, us included. So we
served the Mankaphai instead of the government,
but things still weren't bad - they kept the tax
collectors off our backs well enough."
      Marcus thought of how it was in Rome, with
retiring soldiers depending not on the Senate but on
their generals for land allotments on mustering out.
All too familiar with the turmoil his own land had
endured, he could guess Apokavkos' next sentence
before it was spoken.
      "Of course, the pen-pushers weren't happy over
losing our taxes, and the Mankaphai were even less
happy about paying in our place now that they
owned the land. Five years ago Phostis Mankaphas -
I'm named for him - rebelled along with a fair pile
of other nobles. That was the year before Mavrikios
Gavras raised a ruction big enough to work, and we
were swamped," Apokavkos said bleakly; the
tribune noted how he took his patron's side without
hesitation. He also learned for the first time that the
reigning Emperor held his throne thanks to a
successful rebellion.
      "The pen-pushers broke up the Mankaphas
estates and said things would be like they were in
granddad's time. Hah! They couldn't trust us for
militia no more - we'd fought for the nobles. So in
came the taxmen, wanting everything due since the
days when Phostis' great-grandfather bought our
plot in the first place. I stuck it out as long as I
could, but once the bloodsuckers were through, I
couldn't keep the dirt under my feet, let alone
anything growing on it.
      "I knew it was hopeless there and I thought it
might not be here, so a year ago I left. Fat lot of
good it did me. I'm not much for lying or cheating;
all I know is fighting and farming. I commenced to
starve just as soon as I got here and I've been at it
ever since. I was getting right good at it, too, till you
came along."
      Scaurus had let Apokavkos spin his tale
without interruption. Now that he was through, the
Roman found he'd raised as many questions as he'd
answered. "Your lord's lands were on the border
with Yezd?"
      "Near enough, anyway."
      "And he rebelled against the Emperor. Did he
have backing from the west?"
      "From those dung-eaters? No, we fought them
at the same time we took on the seal-stampers.
That's one of the reasons we lost."
      Marcus blinked; the strategy implied was not
of the finest. Something else troubled him. "You -
and I suppose a good many like you - made up a
militia, you said?"
      "That's what I told you, all right."
      "But when you revolted, the militia was broken
up?"
      "Say, you did listen, didn't you?"
     "But - you're at war with Yezd, or as close as
makes no difference," the tribune protested. "How
could you disband troops at a time like that? Who
took their place?"
     Apokavkos gave him an odd look. "You ought
to know."
     A great many things suddenly became clear to
Scaurus. No wonder the Empire was in trouble! Its
rulers had seen its own warriors used by power-
hungry nobles against the central government and
decided native troops were too disloyal to trust. But
the Empire still had foreign foes and had to quell
revolts as well. So the bureaucrats of Videssos hired
mercenaries to do their fighting for them, a cure the
tribune was certain would prove worse than the
disease.
     Mercenary troops were fine - as long as they
got paid regularly and as long as their captains did
not grow greedy for power rather than money. If
either of those things happened ... the mercenaries
had been hired to check the local soldiery, but who
would put them down in turn?
      He shook his head in dismay. "What a mess!
Oh, what a lovely mess!" And we Romans in the
middle of it, he thought, disquieted.
      "You are the most peculiar excuse for a
mercenary I ever did see," Apokavkos observed.
"Any of them other buggers would be scheming like
all get out to see what he could squeeze out of this
for him and his, but from the noises you're making,
you're trying to figure out what's best for the
Empire. I do confess to not understanding."
      Marcus thought that over for a minute or two
and decided Apokavkos was right. How to explain
it, though? "I'm a soldier, yes, but not a mercenary
by trade. I never really planned to make a career of
war. My men and I are from farther away than you -
or I, for that matter - can imagine. Videssos took us
in, when we could have been slain out of hand. As
much as we have one, the Empire has to be our
home. If it goes under, we go under with it."
      "Most of that I could follow and I like the
sound of it. What do you mean, though, when you're
talking of how far you're from? I already said you
were a new one on me."
       So now for perhaps the twentieth time the
tribune told of how the Romans - and a
cantankerous Gaul - had come to Videssos. By the
time he was through, Apokavkos was staring at him.
"You must be telling the truth; no one would make
up a yarn like that and figure to be believed. Phos
above, there's thousands could tell my story or one
about like it, but in all my bom days I never heard
any to come close to yours." His hand sketched the
sun-disc over his breast.
       "That's as may be," Scaurus shrugged. "There
still remains the problem of what to do with you."
He had taken to this strangely met acquaintance,
appreciating his matter-of-fact-ness in the face of
trouble. Even if he knew it would not be good
enough, Apokavkos would give his best. In that,
Marcus mused, he's like most of my own men.
       The thought gave him his answer; he snapped
his fingers in satisfaction. The few seconds of his
deliberation had been bad ones for Apokavkos, with
new-found hope struggling against the visions of
misfortune he had learned to expect.
       "I'm sorry," Scaurus said, for all this was
painfully clear on the Videssian's face. "I didn't
mean for you to worry. Tell me, how would you like
to become a Roman?"
       "Now I know I don't follow you."
       "That's what you will do - follow me. I'll take
you back to our barracks, get you some gear, and
quarter you with my men. You've soldiered before;
the life won't come hard for you. Besides, you
haven't done any too well as a Videssian, so what do
you have to lose?"
       "I'd be a liar if I said I'd be much worse off,"
Apokavkos admitted. His unhappy stay in the
capital had given him a share of big-city cynicism,
for his next question was, "What do you get out of
the deal?"
       Scaurus grinned. "For one thing, a good
fighting man - I am a mercenary, remember? There's
more to it than that, though. Your scales have got
weighted on the wrong side, and it hasn't been your
fault. Somehow it seems only fair to even them a
little if lean."
       The displaced farmer clasped Marcus' hands in
a grip that still held the promise of considerable
strength. "I'm your man," he said, eyes shining. "All
I ever wanted was an even chance and I never came
close to one till now. Who would have thought it'd
be a foreigner to give it to me?"
       After the Roman paid the taverner's score - an
outrageous one, for food and drink so vile - he let
Apokavkos lead him from the unsavory maze into
which he'd wandered. They were not long out of it
before the Videssian said, "It's your turn now. That
rat's nest is the only part of the city I really know. I
never had the money to see the rest."
       With some fumbling and the help of passers-
by, they made their way back to Palamas' forum.
There, to his annoyance, Marcus was promptly
recognized again. Apokavkos' mouth fell open when
he found his companion had bested the fearsome
Avshar with swords. "I saw the son of a snake in
action once or twice, leading part of King
Wulghash's army against us. He's worth half an
army all by his lonesome, 'cause he's as strong as he
is sly, which is saying a lump. He beat the boots off
us."
       The gardens, grounds, and buildings of the
palace quarter awed the rustic even more. His
comment was, "Now I know what to look forward
to, if I'm kindly judged when I die."
      Another thoughtstruck him. "Phos' light! I'll be
bedded down right in the middle of it all! Can you
imagine that? Can you?" Marcus was sure he was
talking to himself.
      When they reached the Roman barracks, they
found Tzimiskes and Viridovix outside, a game
board between them. Many of the Romans - and the
Gaul as well - had become fond of the battle game
the Videssians played. Unlike the ones they had
known before, it involved no luck, only the skill of
the player.
      "Glad I am to see you," Viridovix said,
sweeping the pieces from the board. "Now I can tell
our friend here 'I would have got you in the end' and
there's no way for him to make a liar of me."
      The tribune had seen how few of his own
pieces the Celt had removed, and how many of
Tzimiskes'. The Videssian had the game firmly
controlled, and all three of them knew it - no, all
four, if Apokavkos' raised eyebrows meant
anything.
      Tzimiskes started to say something, but
Viridovix interrupted him. "Where did you come by
this scarecrow?" he asked, pointing at Apokavkos.
      "There's a bit of a story to that." The Roman
turned to Tzimiskes. "Neilos, I'm glad I found you. I
want you to take charge of this fellow," he named
Apokavkos and introduced him to the other two,
"feed him as much as he'll hold, get him weapons -
and clothes, too, for that matter. He's our first
honorary Roman. He - what is it? You look like
you're about to explode."
      "Scaurus, I'll do everything you say, and you
can tell me the wherefores later. The Emperor has
been sending messengers here every hour on the
hour since early this morning. Something to do with
last night's activities, I gather."
      "Oh." That put a different light on matters.
Whether or not he was a hero in the city, he realized
the Emperor might have to take a dim view of one
of his soldiers brawling with a neighboring land's
ambassador. "I wonder how much trouble I'm in.
Phostis, go with Tzimiskes here. If I have to see the
Emperor, I'd best get shaved - " He was still refusing
to grow his beard. " - cleaned, and changed."
      ***
      The next imperial messenger arrived while
Marcus was scraping the last whiskers from under
his chin. He waited with ill-concealed impatience
while the Roman bathed and donned a fresh mantle.
"It's about time," he said when Marcus emerged,
though he and the tribune both knew how quick the
ablutions had been.
       He led Scaurus past the Hall of the Nineteen
Couches, past the looming Grand Courtroom with
its incredible bronzework doors, past a two-story
barracks complex - Namdaleni were wandering
about here, and Marcus looked for but did not see
Hemond - and through a grove of cherry trees thick
with sweet, pink blossoms to a secluded building
deep within it - the private chambers of the imperial
family, Marcus realized.
       His worries lessened slightly. If Mavrikios was
ging to take strong action against him, he would do
it publicly, so Yezd's honor could be seen to be
satisfied.
       A pair of lazy-looking sentries, both
Videssians, lounged by the entranceway of the
private chambers. They had doffed their helmets so
they could soak up the sun; the Videssians deemed a
tanned, weathered look a mark of masculine, though
not of feminine, beauty.
      Scaurus' guide must have been well-known to
the guards, who did not offer even a token challenge
as he led the tribune inside. It was not his job,
though, to conduct Scaurus all the way to the
Emperor. Just inside the threshold he was met by a
fat chamberlain in a maroon linen robe with a
pattern of golden cranes. The chamberlain looked
inquiringly at the Roman.
      "He's the one, all right," the messenger said.
"Took long enough to find, didn't he?" Without
waiting for an answer, he was off on his next
mission.
      "Come with me, if you please," the
chamberlain said to Scaurus. His voice was more
contralto than tenor, and his cheeks were beardless.
Like many of the Videssian court functionaries, he
was a eunuch. Marcus presumed this was for the
same reason eunuchs were common in the oriental
monarchies of his own world; being ineligible for
the throne because of their castration, they were
thought to be more trustworthy in close contact with
the person of the ruler.
      Like all such rules, the tribune knew, that one
had its dreadful exceptions.
      The long corridor down which the chamberlain
led him was lit by translucent panes of alabaster set
into the ceiling. The milky light dimmed and grew
bright as clouds chased across the sun. It was,
Marcus thought, a bit like seeing underwater.
      And there was much to see. As was only
natural, many of the finest gauds of a thousand years
and more of empire were displayed for the pleasure
of the Emperors themselves. The passageway was
crowded with marble and bronze statuary, pottery
breathtakingly graceful and painted with elegant
precision, busts and portraits of men Scaurus
guessed to be bygone Emperors, religious images
lavish with gold leaf and polished gems, a rearing
stallion as big as Marcus' hand that had to have been
carved from a single emerald, and other marvels he
did not really see because he had too much pride to
swivel his head this way and that like a goatherd on
holiday in the city. Even the floor was a bright
mosaic of hunting and farming scenes.
      In that company, the rusted, dented helmet on a
pedestal of its own seemed jarringly out of place.
"Why is this here?" he asked.
      "That is the helmet of King Rishtaspa of
Makuran - we would say 'Yezd' now - taken from
his corpse by the Emperor Laskaris when he sacked
Mashiz seven hundred and - let me think a moment -
thirty-nine years ago. A most valiant warrior,
Laskaris. The portrait above the helmet is his."
      The painting showed a stern-faced, iron-
bearded man in late middle life. He wore gilded
scale-mail, the imperial diadem, and the scarlet
boots that marked the Emperors of Videssos, but for
all that he looked more like a senior centurion than a
ruler. His left hand was on the hilt of his sword; in
his right was a lance. The spear carried a pennant of
sky-blue, with Phos' sun-symbol large on its field.
      The chamberlain continued, "Laskaris forcibly
converted all the heathen of Makuran to the true
faith but, as Videssos proved unable to establish
lasting rule over their land, they have relapsed into
error."
      Marcus thought that over and liked none of his
thoughts. War for the sake of religion was a notion
that had not crossed his mind before. If the people of
Makuran were as resolute about their faith as
Videssians were for the worship of Phos, such a
struggle would be uncommonly grim.
     The eunuch was ushering him into a small,
surprisingly spare chamber. It held a couch, a desk,
a couple of chairs but, save for an image of Phos,
was bare of the artwork crowding the hallway. The
papers on the desk had been shoved to one side to
make room for a plain earthen jug of wine and a
plate of cakes.
     Seated on the couch were the Emperor, his
daughter Alypia, and a big-bellied man of about
sixty whom Marcus had seen but not met the night
before.
     "If you will give me your sword, sir - " the
chamberlain began, but Mavrikios interrupted him.
     "Oh, run along, Mizizios. He's not out for my
head, not yet, anyway - he doesn't know me well
enough. And you needn't stand there waiting for him
to prostrate himself. It's against his religion, or some
such silly thing. Go on, out with you."
     Looking faintly scandalized, Mizizios
disappeared.
     Once he was gone, the Emperor waved a
bemused Scaurus in. "I'm in private now, so I can
ignore ceremony if I please - and I do please,"
Gavras said. This was Thorisin's brother after all;
though Thorisin's fiery impetuosity was banked in
him, it did not fail to burn.
     "You might tell him who I am," the aging
stranger suggested. He had an engagingly homely
face; his beard was snow streaked with coal and
reached nearly to his paunch. He looked like a
scholar or a healer, but from his robes only one
office could be his; he wore gem-strewn cloth-of-
gold, with a large circle of blue silk on his left
breast.
     "So I might," the Emperor agreed, taking no
offense at his aggrieved tone. Here, plainly, were
two men who had known and liked each other for
years. "Outlander, this tub of lard is called
Balsamon. When I took the throne I found him
Patriarch of Videssos and I was fool enough to leave
him on his seat."
     "Father!" Alypia said, but there was no heat in
her complaint.
     As he bowed, Marcus studied the patriarch's
features, looking for the fanaticism he had seen in
Apsimar. He did not find it. Wisdom and mirth
dominated Balsamon's face; despite his years, the
prelate's brown eyes were still keen and among the
shrewdest the tribune could recall.
      "Bless you, my heathen friend," he said. In his
clear tenor the words were a friendly greeting with
no trace of condescension. "And do sit down. I'm
harmless, I assure you."
      Quite out of his depth, Marcus sank into a
chair. "To business, then," Gavras said, visibly
reassuming part of his imperial dignity. He pointed
an accusing finger at the Roman. "You are to know
you are reprimanded for assaulting the ambassador
of the Khagan of Yezd and offering him gross
insult. You are fined a week's pay. My daughter and
the patriarch Balsamon are witnesses to this
sentence."
      The tribune nodded, expressionless; this was
what he had expected. The Emperor's finger
dropped and a grin spread across his face. "Having
said that, I'll say something else - good for you! My
brother came storming in here to wake me out of a
sound sleep and show me every thrust and parry.
Wulghash sent Avshar here as a calculated insult,
and I'm not sorry to see his joke turn and bite him."
      He grew sober once more. "Yezd is a disease,
not a nation, and I intend to wipe it from the face of
the earth. Videssos and what was once Makuran
have always fought - they to gain access to the
Videssian Sea or the Sailors' Sea, we to take their
rich river valleys, and both sides to control the
passes, the mines, and the fine fighting men of
Vaspurakan between us. Over the centuries, I'd say,
honors were evenly divided."
      Scaurus chewed on a cake as he listened. It was
excellent, full of nuts and raisins and dusted over
with cinammon, and went very well with the spiced
wine in the jug. The tribune tried to forget the stale
slop he'd drunk before, in the Videssian slums.
      "Forty years ago, though," the Emperor went
on, "The Yezda from the steppe of Shaumkhiil
sacked Mashiz, seized all of Makuran, and rammed
their way through Vaspurakan into the Empire.
They kill for the sport of it, steal what they can
carry, and wreck what they can't. And because they
are nomads, they gleefully lay waste all the
farmland they come across. Our peasants, from
whom the Empire gets most of its taxes, are
murdered or driven into destitution, and our western
cities starve because no peasants are left to feed
them."
      "Worse yet, the Yezda follow Skotos,"
Balsamon said. When Marcus made no reply, the
patriarch cocked a bushy gray eyebrow at him in
sardonic amusement. "You think, perhaps, this is
something I would be likely to say of anyone who
does not share my creed? You must have seen
enough of our priests to know most of them do not
take kindly to unbelievers."
      Marcus shrugged, unwilling to commit
himself. He had an uneasy feeling the patriarch was
playing a game with him and an even more
uncomfortable certainty that Balsamon was much
the smarter.
      The patriarch laughed at his noncommital
response. He had a good laugh, inviting everyone
within earshot to share the joke. "Mavrikios, it is a
courtier, not a solider!"
      His eyes still twinkling, he gave his attention
back to the Roman. "I am not a typical priest, I fear.
Time was when the Makurani gave reverence to
their Four Prophets, whose names I forget. I think
their faith was wrong, I think it was foolish, but I do
not think it damned them or made them impossible
to treat with. The Yezda, though, worship their gods
with disemboweled victims writhing on their altars
and summon demons to glut themselves on the
remains. They are a wicked folk and must be
suppressed." If anything convinced Marcus of the
truth in Balsamon's words, it was the real regret his
voice bore... that, and the memory of Avshar's chill
voice, incanting as they fought.
      "And suppress them I shall," Mavrikios Gavras
took up the discussion. In his vehemence he
pounded right fist into left palm. "The first two
years I held the throne, I fought them to a standstill
on our borders. Last year, for one reason and
another - " He did not elaborate and looked so grim
that Marcus dared not ask for details. " - I could not
campaign against them. We suffered for it, in raids
and stings and torments. This year, Phos willing, I
will be able to hire enough mercenaries to crush
Yezd once and for all. I read your arrival here as a
good omen for that, my proud friend from another
world."
      He paused, awaiting the Roman's reply.
Scaurus recalled his first impression of this man,
that giving him the truth served best. "I think," he
said carefully, "you would do better to restore the
peasant militias you once had than to spend your
coin on foreign troops."
      The Emperor stared, jaw dropping. Sneaking a
glance at Balsamon, Marcus had the satisfaction of
knowing he'd managed to startle the patriarch as
well. The princess Alypia, on the other hand, who so
far had held herself aloof from the conversation,
looked at the tribune in appraisal and, he thought,
growing approval.
      The patriarch recovered before his sovereign.
"Be glad this one is on your side, Gavras. He sees
things clearly."
      Mavrikios was still shaking his head in
wonder. He spoke not to Scaurus, but to Balsamon.
"What is he? Two days in the city? Three? There are
men who have been in the palaces longer than he's
been alive who cannot see that far. Tell me, Marcus
Aemilius Scaurus - " It pleased but did not surprise
the tribune that Gavras knew his full name. " - how
did you learn so much about our woes so quickly?"
      Marcus explained how he had met Phostis
Apokavkos. He did not mention the peasant-
soldier's name or what he had done about him.
      By the time the Roman was done, the Emperor
was angry. "May Phos fry all pen-pushers! Until I
took the throne, the damned bureaucrats ruled the
Empire for all but two years of the last fifty, in spite
of everything the nobles in the provinces could do
against them. They had the money to hire
mercenaries and they held the capital, and that
proved enough for the puppet-Emperors they raised
to keep their seats. And to ruin their rivals in the
power struggle, they turned our militiamen into serfs
and taxed them to death so they couldn't fight for
their patrons. A plague on every one of them, from
Vardanes Sphrantzes on down!"
      "It's not as simple as that, Father, and you
know it very well," Alypia said. "A hundred years
ago the peasantry was really free, not bound to our
nobles. When magnates began buying up peasant
land and making the farmers their dependents, it
cost the central government dear. Would any
Emperor, no matter how simple, want private armies
raised against him, or want to see the taxes
rightfully his siphoned into the hands of men who
dream of the throne themselves?"
      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 Strobiles 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 Strobiles. 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 Strobiles 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 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
rum for diplomacy would hardly last long enough to
face her foes.
                         V

     MlZIZIOS THE EUNUCH LED THE
ROMAN 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 comers 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.
      Nepos shrugged, as puzzled by the Greek
doctor's comment as Gorgidas was by him. He
answered, "I talk like myself and nothing else. There
are priests so struck by the glory of Phos' divinity
that they contemplate the divine essence to the
exclusion of all worldly concerns, and reject the
world as a snare Skotos laid for their temptation. Is
that what you mean?"
      "Not exactly." Priest and physician viewed
things from such different perspectives as to make
communication all but impossible, but each had a
thirst for knowledge that drove him to persist.
      "To my mind," Nepos continued, "the world
and everything in it reflects Phos' splendor, and
deserves the study of men who would approach
more nearly an understanding of Phos' plan for the
Empire and all mankind."
      To that Gorgidas could make no reply at all. To
his way of thinking, the world and everything in it
was worth studying for its own sake, and ultimate
meanings, if any, were likely unknowable. Yet he
had to recognize Nepos' sincerity and his goodness.
"'Countless are the world's wonders, but none more
wonderful than man,'" he murmured, and sat back
with his wine, soothed as always by Sophokles'
verse.
      "Being a wizard, what have you learned from
us?" Quintus Glabrio asked Nepos; until then he'd
sat largely silent.
      "Less than I'd have liked, I must admit. All I
can tell you is the obvious truth that the two blades,
Scaurus' and yours, Viridovix, brought you hither. If
there is a greater purpose behind your coming, I do
not think it has unfolded yet."
      "Now I know you're no ordinary priest,"
Gorgidas exclaimed. "In my world, I never saw one
admit to ignorance."
      "How arrogant your priests must be! What
greater wickedness than claiming to know
everything, arrogating to yourself the privileges of
godhood?" Nepos shook his head. "Thanks be to
Phos, I am not so vain. I have so very much to learn!
Among other things, my friends, I would like to see,
even to hold, the fabled swords to which we owe
your presence here."
      Marcus and Viridovix exchanged glances filled
with the same reluctance. Neither had put his
weapon in another's hands since coming to
Videssos. There seemed no way, though, to decline
such a reasonable request. Both men slowly drew
their blades from their scabbards; each began to
hand his to Nepos. "Wait!" Marcus said, holding out
a warning hand to Viridovix. "I don't think it would
be wise for our swords to touch, no matter what the
circumstance."
      "Right you are," the Gaul agreed, sheathing his
blade for the moment. "One such mischance cools
the appetite for another, indeed and it does."
      Nepos took the Roman's sword, holding it up
to a clay lamp to examine it closely. "It seems
altogether plain," he said to Marcus, some
perplexity in his voice. "I feel no surge of strength,
nor am I impelled to travel elsewhere - for which I
have no complaint, you understand. Save for the
strange characters cut into the blade, it is but another
longsword, a bit cruder than most. Is the spell in
those letters? What do they say?"
      "I have no idea," Scaurus replied. "It's a Celtic
sword, made by Viridovix's people. I took it as
battle spoil and kept it because it fits my size better
than the shortswords most Romans use."
      "Ah, I see. Viridovix, would you read the
inscription for me and tell me what it means?"
      The Gaul tugged at his fiery mustache in some
embarrassment. "Nay, I canna, I fear. With my folk
letters are no common thing, as they are with the
Romans - and with you too, I should guess. Only the
druids - priests, you would say - have the skill of
them, and never a druid I was, nor am I sorry for it. I
will tell you, my own blade is marked as well. Look,
if you will."
      But when his sword came free of its scabbard
the runes set in it were gleaming gold, and those on
the other blade sprang to glowing life with them.
"Sheathe it!" Marcus shouted in alarm. He snatched
his own sword from Nepos' hand and crammed it
back into its sheath. There was a bad moment when
he thought it was fighting against his grip, but then
it was securely back in place. Tension leaked from
the air.
      Sudden sweat beaded Nepos' forehead. He said
to Gorgidas, "Of such a thing as that I was indeed
ignorant, nor, to quote your red-haired friend, am I
sorry for it." His laugh was shaky and rang loud in
the awed and fearful hush that had fallen over the
barracks. He soon found an excuse to make an early
departure, disappearing after a few quick good-byes.
      "There goes a fellow who set his nets for rabbit
and found a bear sitting in them," Gaius Philippus
said, but even his chuckle sounded forced.
      Almost all the Romans, and Marcus with them,
sought their pallets early that night. He snuggled
beneath his blanket and slowly drifted toward sleep.
The coarse wool made him itch, but his last waking
thought was one of relief that he still had a blanket -
and a barracks, for that matter - over him.
      The tribune woke early the next morning to the
sound of an argument outside the barracks hall. He
flung on a mantle, belted his sword round his
middle, and, still rubbing sleep from his eyes, went
out to see what the trouble was.
      "No, sir, I'm sorry," a Roman guard was
saying, "but you cannot see my commander until he
wakes." He and his mate held their spears
horizontally across their bodies to keep their
unwanted guest from entering.
      "Phos fry you, I tell you this is urgent!"
Nephon Khoumnos shouted. "Must I - oh, there you
are, Scaurus. I have to talk to you at once, and your
thickskulled sentries would not give me leave."
       "You cannot blame them for following their
standard orders. Don't worry about it, Gnaeus,
Manlius - you did right." He returned his attention to
Khoumnos. "If you wanted to see me, here I am.
Shall we stroll along the path and give my men a
chance to go back to sleep?"
       Still fuming, Khoumnos agreed. The Roman
sentries stepped back to let their commander by. The
path's paving stones were cool on his bare feet. He
gratefully sucked in the early morning air. It was
sweet after the close, smoky atmosphere inside the
hall.
       A gold-throated thrush in a nearby tree greeted
the sun with a burst of sparkling notes. Even as
unmusical a soul as Scaurus found it lovely.
       The Roman did not try to begin the
conversation. He ambled along, admiring now the
delicate flush the early light gave to marble, now the
geometric precision of a dew-spangled spiderweb. If
Khoumnos had so pressing a problem, let him bring
it up.
      He did, rising to the bait of Marcus' silence.
"Scaurus, where in Phos' holy name do you get the
authority to lay your hands on my men?"
      The Roman stopped, hardly believing he'd
heard correctly. "Do you mean the guards outside
the Emperor's dwelling yesterday?"
      "Who else could I possibly mean?" Khoumnos
snapped. "We take it very ill in Videssos when a
mercenary assaults native-born soldiers. It was not
for that I arranged to have you come to the city;
when I saw you and your men in Imbros, you struck
me as being out of the common run of barbarians."
      "You take it ill, you say, when a mercenary
strikes a native Videssian soldier?"
      Nephon Khoumnos gave an impatient nod.
      Marcus knew Khoumnos was an important
man in Videssos, but he was too furious to care.
"Well, how do you take it when your fine Videssian
soldiers are snoozing the afternoon away in front of
the very chambers they're supposed to guard?"
      "What?"
      "Whoever was telling you tales out of school,"
the tribune said, "should have gone through the
whole story, not just his half of it." He explained
how he had found both sentries napping in the sun
as he left his audience with the Emperor. "What
reason would I have for setting upon them? Did they
give you one?"
      "No," Khoumnos admitted. "They said they
were attacked from behind without warning."
      "From above would be more like it." Marcus
snorted. "They can count themselves lucky they
were your troops, not mine; stripes are the least they
could have hoped for in Roman service."
      Khoumnos was not yet convinced. "Their
stories hang together very well."
      "What would you expect, that two shirkers
would give each other the lie? Khoumnos, I don't
much care whether you believe me or not. You
ruined my sleep, and, from the way my guts are
churning right now, I'd wager you've ruined my
breakfast as well. But I'll tell you this - if those
guards were the best men Videssos can offer, no
wonder you need mercenaries."
      Thinking of Tzimiskes, Mouzalon, Apokavkos
- yes, and Khoumnos himself - Scaurus knew how
unfair he was being, but he was too nettled to watch
his tongue. The incredible gall the sentries had
shown - not merely to hide their guilt, but to try to
put it on him! He shook his head in wonder.
      Anger cloaked by expressionless features,
Khoumnos bowed stiffly from the waist. "I will look
into what you've told me, I promise you that," he
said. He bowed again and strode away.
      Watching his rigid back, Marcus wondered if
he had made another enemy. Sphrantzes, Avshar,
now Khoumnos - for a man who'd aspired to
politics, he told himself, you have a gift for the right
word at the wrong time. And if Sphrantzes and
Khoumnos are both your foes, where in Videssos
will you find a friend?
      The tribune sighed. As always, it was too late
to unsay anything. All he could do now was live
with the consequences of what he'd already done.
And in that context, he thought, breakfast did not
seem such a bad idea after all. He walked back
toward the barracks.
      Despite his Stoic training, despite his efforts to
take things as they came, the rest of that morning
and early afternoon were hard for him to wait
through. To try to drown his worries in work, he
threw himself into the Romans' daily drill with such
nervous energy that he flattened everyone who stood
against him. At any other time he would have been
proud. Now he barked at his men for lying down
against their commander. "Sir," one of the
legionaries said, "if I was going to lie down against
you, I would have done it sooner." The man was
rubbing a bruised shoulder as he limped away.
      Scaurus tried to unburden himself to Viridovix,
but the big Celt was scant help. "I know it's a bad
thing," he said, "but what can you do? Give 'em half
a chance and the men'd sooner sleep nor work. I
would myself, if there's no fighting or women to be
had."
      Gaius Philippus had come up during the last
part of this speech and listened to it with obvious
disagreement. "If your troops won't obey orders you
have a mob, not an army. That's why we Romans
were conquering Gaul, you know. Man for man, the
Celts are as brave as any I've seen, but you can't
work together worth a turtle turd."
      "Aye, it's not to be denied we're a fractious lot.
But you're a bigger fool or ever I thought, Gaius
Philippus, if you think your puny Romans could be
holding the whole of Gaul in despite of its people."
      "Fool, is it?" As with a terrier, there was no
room for retreat in the senior centurion. "Watch
what you say."
      Viridovix bristled back. "Have a care with your
own mouth, or I'll cut you a new one, the which
you'd not like at all."
      Before his touchy comrades heated further,
Marcus quickly stepped between them. "The two of
you are like the dog in the fable, snapping after the
reflection of a bone. None of us here will ever know
whether Caesar or the Gauls prevailed. There's not
much room for enmity among us, you know - we
have enough foes outside our ranks. Besides, I tell
you now that before you can go for each other,
you'll go through me first."
      The tribune carefully did not see the measuring
stares both his friends gave him. But he had eased
the friction; centurion and Celt, after a last, half-
friendly snarl, went about their own affairs.
      It occurred to Scaurus that Viridovix had to
feel far more lost and alone in ther new land than the
Romans felt. There were more than a thousand of
them to but a solitary Gaul; not a soul in this land
even spoke his tongue. No wonder his temper
slipped from time to time - the wonder was the Celt
keeping up his spirits as well as he did.
      At about the time when the Emperor had
summoned him to audience the day before,
Tzimiskes sought out the tribune to tell him that
Khoumnos begged leave to speak with him. There
was wonder on the dour Videssian's face as he
conveyed the message. "'Begged leave,' he said. I
don't think I've heard of Nephon Khoumnos begging
leave of anyone. 'Begged leave,'" Tzimiskes
repeated, still not believing it.
      Khoumnos stood outside the barracks, one
square hand scratching his iron-bearded chin. When
Marcus walked up to him, he jerked the hand away
as if caught doing something shameful. His mouth
worked a couple of times before words came out.
"Damn you," he said at last. "I owe you an apology.
For what it's worth, you have it."
      "I accept it gladly," Marcus replied - just how
glad he was, he did not want to show the Videssian.
"I would have hoped, though, that you'd know I had
better things to do than breaking your guardsmen's
heads."
      "I'd be a liar if I said I wasn't surprised when
Blemmydes and Kourkouas came to me with their
tale. But you don't go disbelieving your men without
some good reason - you know how it is."
      Scaurus could only nod; he did know how it
was. An officer who refused to back up his troops
was useless. Once his men lost confidence in him,
he could not rely on their reports, which only made
them less confident... That road was a downward
spiral which had to be stopped before it could start.
"What made you change your mind?" he asked.
      "After the pleasant little talk I had with you
this morning, I went back and gave those two
scoundrels separate grillings. Kourkouasa cracked,
finally."
      "The younger one?"
      "That's right. Interesting you should guess -
you notice things, don't you? Yes, Lexos
Blemmydes kept playing the innocent wronged up
until the last minute, Skotos chill his lying heart."
      "What do you plan to do with the two of
them?"
      "I've already done it. I may have made a
mistake before, but I fixed it. As soon as I knew
what the truth was, I had their corselets off their
backs and shipped them over the Cattle-Crossing on
the first ferry. Between brigands and Yezda, the
west country should be lively enough to keep them
away. Good riddance, say I, and I'm only sorry such
wastrels made me speak hastily to you."
      "Don't let it trouble you," Marcus answered,
convinced Khoumnos' apology came from mind and
heart both. He also realized he had let his anger put
him in the wrong with that vicious gibe about
Videssian troops. "You weren't the only one who
said things he regrets now, you know."
      "Fair enough." Khoumnos extended his hand,
and the tribune took it. The Videssian's palm was
even harder than his own, callused not only from
weapon work but also by years of holding the reins.
Khoumnos slapped him on the back and went about
his business. Marcus suspected it would be a good
long while before the next set of sentries dropped
off to sleep before the Emperor's quarters.
      His own sleep that night, after tension well
relieved, was deep and untroubled for several hours.
Ordinary barracks chatter and the noise of men
rising to make water or find a snack never bothered
his rest. That was as well; if they had, sleep would
have been impossible to come by.
      The noise that woke him now was no louder
than the usual run of nightly sounds. But it was one
which did not belong - the soft slide of a booted foot
across the flooring. Romans were either barefoot
and silent or wore clattering nail-soled sandals. The
sound of a footfall neither one nor the other pierced
Marcus' slumber and pried his eyelids apart.
      Only a couple of torches burned in the hall,
giving just enough light to keep the Romans from
stumbling over each other in the night. But the
crouched figure sneaking between the sleeping
soliders was no legionary. The squat silhouette and
bushy beard could only belong to a Khamorth;
Marcus felt cold fear as he recognized the nomad
who had been talking to Avshar the night before. He
was coming toward the tribune, a dagger in his
hand.
      The nomad shook his head, muttering
something under his breath. He saw Scaurus as the
Roman flung back his blanket and grabbed for his
sword. The Khamorth roared and charged.
      Naked as a worm, Marcus scrambled to his
feet. There was no time to pull his blade from its
sheath. He used it as a club to knock aside the
Khamorth's first stab, then closed with the shorter
man, seizing his assailant's knife-wrist with his left
hand.
      He caught a glimpse of his foe's face. The
nomad's dark eyes were wide with a consuming
madness and something more, something the tribune
would not identify until some time later as stark
terror.
      They rolled to the floor, still holding tightly to
each other.
      There were shouts all through the barracks now
- the Khamorth's bellow and the sound of struggle
routed the men from their mattresses. It took a few
seconds, though, for the sleep-fuzzed soldiers to
grasp where the hubbub came from.
      Marcus held his grip with all his strength,
meanwhile using the pommel of his sword to try to
batter the nomad into submission. But his enemy
seemed to have a skull hard as rock. For all the
blows he took, he still writhed and twisted, trying to
plant his knife in the tribune's flesh.
      Then a second strong hand joined Marcus' on
the nomad's wrist. Viridovix, as naked as Scaurus,
squeezed down on the Khamorth's tendons, forcing
his fingers to open. The knife dropped to the floor.
      Viridovix shook the Khamorth like a great rat.
"Why would he be after having a grudge against
you, Roman dear?" he asked. Then, to his prisoner,
"Don't wriggle, now!" He shook him again. The
Khamorth, eyes riveted on the fallen dagger, ignored
him.
      "I don't know," Marcus answered. "I think he
must be in Avshar's pay, though. I saw them
walking together yesterday."
      "Avshar, is it? The why of that omadhaun's
misliking for you everyone knows, but what of this
kern? Is he a hired knife, or did you do something to
raise his dander, too?"
      Some of the Romans gathered round grumbled
at the Gaul's tone of voice, but Marcus waved them
to silence. He was about to say he had only seen the
Khamorth that once with Avshar, but there was still
a nagging familiarity about him, about the way he
kept his gaze fixed on the knife he no longer held.
       Scaurus snapped his fingers. "Remember the
plainsman at the Silver Gate who tried to stare me
down when we came into Videssos?"
       "I do that," Viridovix said. "You mean - ? Hold
still, blast your hide!" he snapped at the prisoner,
who was still struggling to break free.
       "There's no need to hold him all night," Gaius
Philippus said. The senior centurion had found a
length of stout rope. "Titus, Sextus, Paulus, give me
a hand. Let's go get our bird trussed."
       It took all four Romans and the big Gaul to
bind the Khamorth. He fought the rope with more
fury than he had shown against Scaurus himself,
shrieking and cursing in his harsh native tongue. So
frenziedly did he kick, scratch, and bite that none of
his captors was left unmarked, but in the end to no
avail. Even after the ropes were tight around him, he
still thrashed against their unyielding grip.
       No wonder, the tribune thought, Avshar had
chosen to use this man against him. The nomad's
already-existing contempt for infantry of any sort
must have become a personal hatred when Scaurus
won their battle of wills at the city gate. As
Viridovix had said, the Khamorth had a reason for
furthering the schemes of the envoy of Yezd.
      But still - at the Silver Gate the plainsman had
been in full control of his faculties, while now he
acted for all the world like a madman. Had Avshar
given him a drug to heighten his fury? There might
be a way to find out. "Gorgidas!" he called.
      "What is it?" the Greek answered from the
fringes of the crowd around the tied-up Khamorth.
      Marcus explained his idea to the doctor,
adding, "Can you examine him and find out why his
nature has changed so greatly since the last time we
saw him?"
      "What do you think I've been trying to do? But
all these gawkers here are too tightly packed to let
me through." The physician was too slight to have
much luck elbowing his way into a crowd.
      "Let him by. Make way, there," the tribune
ordered, moving his men out of the way so Gorgidas
could reach the nomad, who lay across Scaurus' own
pallet. The physician knelt beside him, touching his
forehead, peering into his eyes, and listening to his
breathing.
      When he stood, his face was troubled. "You
were right, sir," he said. Marcus knew how
concerned he was when he used the title of respect;
Gorgidas was a man with no time for formality.
"The poor devil is at the point of death, from some
toxic potion, I would say."
      "At the point of death?" Scaurus said, startled.
"He was lively enough a few minutes ago."
      Gorgidas made an impatient gesture. "I don't
mean he's liable to die in the next hour, maybe even
not in the next day. But die he will - his eyes are
sunk in his head, and one pupil is twice the other's
size. He breathes like a delirious man, deep and
slow. And between his bellows you can hear him
grinding his teeth fit to break them. As anyone who
has read the writings of Hippokrates will tell you,
those are fatal signs.
      "Yet he has no fever," the doctor continued,
"and I see no sores or pustules to indicate some
disease has him in its clutches. Therefore, I must
conclude he has been drugged - poisoned would be a
better word."
      "Can you cure him, do you think?" Marcus
asked.
       Gorgidas tossed his head in an imperious
Greek negative. "I've told you before, I am a doctor,
not a worker of miracles. Without knowing what
hell-brew is in him, I wouldn't know where to start,
and, if I did, it would probably still be useless."
       "'Worker of miracles,' your honor said?"
Viridovix put in. "Could it be the priests of Phos
might save him, where you canna?"
       "Don't be ridi - " Gorgidas began, and then
stopped in confusion. Marcus had to admire the way
he faced up to an idea he did not like. He reluctantly
admitted, "That might not be foolish after all. Some
of them can do what I'd not have believed - isn't that
right, Minucius?"
       The legionary a priest had saved outside of
Imbros was a stalwart young man whose stubbly
whiskers were black almost to blueness. "So you
keep telling me," he answered. "I don't recall a bit of
it - the fever must have made my wits wander."
       "That Nepos fellow you brought over last night
seemed a man of sense," Gorgidas suggested to
Marcus.
       "I think you're right. Nephon Khoumnos will
have to know of this, too, though I wouldn't blame
him for thinking I'm trying to tear down Videssos'
army from the inside out."
      "If this sort of garbage goes on, I'd say the
Videssian army could use some tearing down,"
Gaius Philippus said. Privately, his superior officer
was beginning to agree with him, but Scaurus had
already found that was not something he could tell
the Videssians.
      The tribune bent to pick up the dagger forced
from the Khamorth. He misliked the blade even
before he touched it. The pommel was carved into a
leering, evil cat's-face, while the hilt was covered by
a green, velvety leather that must have come from
the skin of a serpent. The blade itself was badly
discolored, as if it had been tempered too long or too
often.
      No sooner had Marcus' fingers folded round
the hilt than he dropped the weapon with a cry of
alarm. The discolored blade had begun to gleam, not
an honest red-gold like the Druids' marks on his
sword and Viridovix', but a wavering yellowish
green. The tribune was reminded of some foul
fungus shining with the sickly light of decay. He
sniffed. .. no, it was not his imagination. A faint
corrupt reek rose from the dagger.
      He thanked every god he knew that the baneful
weapon had not pierced his flesh; the death it would
have dealt would not have been clean.
      "Nepos must see this at once," Gorgidas said.
"Magic is his province."
      Marcus agreed, but could not nerve himself to
pick up the wicked blade again. Magic was no
province of his.
      "It came to life when you touched it," Gorgidas
said. "Was it glowing when the nomad assailed
you?"
      "Truth to tell, I have no idea. I had other things
on my mind at the moment."
      Gorgidas sniffed. "Well, I suppose you can't be
blamed," he said, but his tone belied his words. The
Greek was a man who, if it befell him to lose his
head, would notice the color of the headsman's eyes
behind his mask.
      Now he stooped down to take the vicious
dagger gingerly by the handle. The blade flickered
uncertainly, like a half-asleep beast of prey. The
doctor tore a strip of cloth from a solider's mantle
and wrapped it several times round the dagger's hilt,
tying it with an elegant knot he usually used to
finish a bandage on an arm or leg.
      Only when the knot was done did he touch the
hilt with his bare hand. He grunted in satisfaction as
the blade remained dark. "That should keep it safe
enough," he said, carefully handing the weapon to
Scaurus, who took it with equal caution.
      Holding the knife well away from his body,
Scaurus started for the door, only to be stopped by a
guffaw from Viridovix. "Would your honor not
think it a good idea to put on a cloak, ere he
scandalize some early-rising lass?"
      The tribune blinked; he had had too much else
to worry about in the Commotion to think of
clothes. Not sorry to be rid of it, he put the dagger
down for a moment to wrap himself in a mantle and
strap on his sandals. Then he picked it up again with
a sigh and stepped out into the crisp sunrise
coolness.
      As soon as he reached the door, he discovered
how the nomad had been able to get into the
barracks without the Roman sentries stopping him
or raising the alarm. Both of them were lying in
front of the entrance, fast asleep. Amazed and
furious, Marcus prodded one none too gently with
his foot. The man murmured faintly but would not
wake, even after another, harsher, prod. Nor could
his fellow guard be roused. Neither seemed harmed
in any way, but they could not be brought to
consciousness.
      When Marcus summoned Gorgidas, the Greek
physician was also unable to make the guards stir.
"What's happened to them, do you think?" the
tribune asked.
      "How in blazes do I know?" Gorgidas sounded
thoroughly harried. "In this bloody country you have
to be a he-witch as well as a doctor, and it puts me
at a disadvantage. Go on, go on, fetch Napos -
they're breathing well and their pulses are strong.
They won't die while you're gone."
      The sun's first rays were just greeting the tops
of the city's taller buildings when the tribune began
his walk to the Vides-sian Academy, which was on
the northern edge of the palace complex. He did not
know whether he would find Nepos there so early,
but could think of no better place to start looking for
the priest.
      As he walked, he watched the sun creep down
the walls of the structures he passed by, watched it
caress the flowering trees in the palace gardens and
orchards, watched their blossoms begin to unfold
under its light. And as he walked out from behind
the long blue shadow of a granite colonnade, the sun
reached him as well.
      The dagger he carried was suddenly hot in his
hand. At the sun's first touch the blade began to
burn, giving off clouds of acrid yellow smoke. The
Roman threw it to the ground and backed away,
coughing and gasping for breath - the smoke felt
like live coals in his lungs.
      He thought he heard the metal wail as if in
agony and resolved to clamp down on a runaway
imagination.
      The fire was so furious it soon burned itself
out. After the breeze had dispersed the noxious
fumes, Marcus warily approached the sorcerous
weapon. He expected to see only a lump of twisted,
fused metal, but found to his dismay that hilt,
pommel, and even Gorgidas' wrappings were still
intact, as was a thin rod of steel extending the length
of what had been the blade.
      A cautious touch revealed the dagger to be cool
enough to handle. Fighting back a shudder, the
tribune picked it up and hurried on to the Academy.
      A four-story building of gray sandstone housed
the Videssian center of learning. Though both
secular and religious knowledge were taught there, a
spire and golden sphere surmounted the structure;
here as elsewhere in the Empire, its faith had the last
word.
      The doorman, half-asleep over his breakfast of
bread and hot wine, was surprised his first guest
should be a mercenary captain, but polite enough to
try to hide it. "Brother Nepos?" he said. "Yes, he's
here - he's always an early riser. You'll probably
find him in the refectory, straight down this hall, the
third door on your right."
      This early in the day, the Academy hallway
was almost deserted. A young blue-robe looked
intrigued as the Roman strode past him but, like the
doorman, offered no comment.
      Sunlight streamed through the tall, many-paned
windows of the refectory and onto its battered tables
and comfortably dilapidated chairs. But somehow,
instead of accenting their shabbiness, the warm light
gave the old furniture the effect of being freshly
varnished and newly reupholstered.
      Except for the fat, unshaven cook sweating
behind his pots, Nepos was alone in the room as
Marcus stepped in. The priest stopped with a
steaming spoonful of porridge halfway to his mouth.
"You look like grim death," he told the tribune.
"What has brought you here so early?"
      By way of answer, Scaurus dropped what was
left of the Khamorth's dagger with a clank onto the
priest's table. Nepos' reaction could not have been
more emphatic had it been a fat viper in front of
him. Forgetting the spoon in his hand, he shoved his
chair back as fast as he could. Porridge splattered in
all directions. The priest went first red, then pale, to
the crown of his shaven head. "Where did you come
by this?" he demanded; the sternness his light voice
could assume was amazing.
      His round face grew more and more grave as
the Roman told his tale. When at last Marcus was
done, Nepos sat silent for a full minute, his chin
cupped in the palms of his hands. Then he bounced
to his feet, crying, "Skotos is among us!" with such
fervor that the startled cook dropped his spoon into a
pot and had to fish for it with a long-handled fork.
      "Now that you've been informed," Marcus
began, "I should also pass my news on to Nephon
Khoumnos so he can question - "
      "Khoumnos question?" Nepos interrupted.
"No! We need subtlety here, not force. I will put the
question to your nomad myself. Come!" he snapped,
scooping up the dagger and moving for the door so
quickly Marcus had to half trot to catch him up.
      "Where are you going, your excellency?" the
Academy doorman asked the priest as he hurried by.
"Your lecture is to begin in less than an hour, and - "
      Nepos did not turn his head. "Cancel it!" Then,
to Marcus, "Hurry, man! All the freezing furies of
hell are at your back, though you know it not!"
      When they got back to the barracks, the bound
Khamorth screamed in despair as he saw the
consumed weapon Nepos carried. The prisoner
shrank in upon himself, drawing his knees up
against his belly and tucking his head down into the
hollow of his shoulder.
      Gaius Philippus, a firm believer in the saving
value of routine, had already sent most of the
Romans out to the drill field. Now Nepos cleared
the barracks of everyone save himself, the nomad,
the two unconscious Roman sentries, and Gorgidas,
allowing the doctor to act as his assistant.
      "Go on, go on," he said, shooing them out
before him. "You can do nothing to help me, and a
word at the wrong moment could do great harm."
      "Sure and he's just like a druid," Viridovix
grumbled, "always thinking he knows twice as much
as anyone else."
      "I notice you're out here with the rest of us,"
Gaius Philippus said.
      "That I am," the Celt admitted. "All too often,
your'druid is right. It's a rare chancy thing, going
against one."
      Only a few minutes passed before the sentries
came out of the barracks hall. They seemed none the
worse for what they had undergone, but had no
memory of how their unwilled sleep had begun. As
far as they knew, one moment they were on guard,
while in the next Nepos was bending over them in
prayer. Both of them were angry and embarrassed at
failing in their duty.
      "Don't trouble yourselves about it," Marcus
told them. "You can't be blamed for falling victim to
wizardry." He sent them on to exercise with their
comrades, then settled back to wait for Nepos to
emerge.
      And wait he did; the fat little priest did not
come forth for another two hours and more. When
he appeared at last, Scaurus bit back a shocked
exclamation. Nepos' gait was that of a man in the
last throes of exhaustion; he clutched Gorgidas'
elbow as a shipwreck victim clings to a plank. His
robe was soaked with sweat, his eyes black-circled.
Blinking at the bright sunlight, he sank gratefully
onto a bench. There he sat for several minutes,
gathering his strength before he began to speak.
      "You, my friend," he told Marcus wearily,
"have no notion of how lucky you were to wake,
and how much luckier still not to be touched by that
accursed knife. Had it pierced you, had it even
pricked you, it would have drawn the soul from your
body into the deepest pits of hell, there to lie
tormented for all eternity. A demon was bound in
that blade, a demon to be set free by the taste of
blood - or destroyed by Phos' sun, as in fact befell."
      In his own world, the tribune would have taken
all that as a metaphor for poison. Here he was not so
sure . .. and suddenly more than half believed, as he
remembered how the dagger had shrieked when
struck by sunlight.
      The priest continued, "You were right in
blaming Avshar for setting upon you the poor,
damned nomad inside your hall. Poor lost soul - the
wizard linked his life to that of the demon he bore,
and when it failed, he began to gutter out, like a
candle in air unable to sustain a flame. But the
destruction of the demon severed the hold Avshar
had on him, and I learned much before his flame fell
into nothingness."
      "Is your honor saying he's dead?" Viridovix
said. "Hardly hurt, he was, in the taking of him."
      "He's dead," Gorgidas said. "His soul, his will
to live - call it what you like - there was none in
him, and he died."
      Marcus recalled the doom-filled cry on the
Khamorth's lips when he saw the ruin of the weapon
he had carried, recalled how he had crumpled in on
himself. "Can you trust the knowledge you get from
a dying man who was your foe's tool?" he asked
Nepos.
       "A good question," the priest nodded. Little by
little, as he sat, his voice and manner were losing
their haggard edge. "The chains the Yezda put on
him were strong - I would curse him, but he has
cursed himself beyond my power to damn.
Nonetheless, Phos has granted those who follow
him a means of cutting through such chains - "
       "A decoction of henbane is what we used,"
Gorgidas put in, impatient at Nepos' elliptical
phrasing. "I've used it before, Phos notwithstanding.
It dulls pain and frees the guard on a man's tongue.
You have to be careful, though - too high a dose,
and you've put your patient out of pain forever."
       The priest plainly did not care for Gorgidas'
casual revelation of a secret of his magical craft.
But, impelled by larger concerns, he kept his
temper, saying, "It is enough that we know two
things: Avshar loosed this treacherous assault on
you; and he is a sorcerer more powerful in his
wickedness than any we have met for years
uncounted. Yet by the first action I named, he
forfeited the protections all envoys, no matter how
evil, enjoy."
      A smile of anticipation flitted across Nepos'
face as he went on, "So, my outland friends, the
fiend has delivered himself into our hands! Now we
send for Nephon Khoumnos!"
                        VI

     THE THOUGHT OF AVSHAR'S HEAD
GOING UP ON THE MILEstone had so ferocious
an appeal to Marcus that he charged away from the
barracks hall before he realized he was not sure
where to find Khoumnos. Neither was Nepos, who
puffed along gamely beside him. "I know of the
man, you understand," he said to the Roman, "but I
do not know him personally."
     Scaurus was not overly worried at his
ignorance. He felt sure any soldier in Videssos for
longer than a week could give him the directions he
needed. The first group he saw was a squad of
Namdaleni returning from the practice field. At their
head was Hemond of Metepont, his conical helm
tucked under his arm. He had seen the tribune, too -
he waved his men to a halt and sauntered over to
Scaurus.
     "For a newly come mercenary, you make the
oddest set of acquaintances," he observed with a
smile. "It's a long road to travel from the wizard-
envoy of Yezd to a priest of the Academy."
      Nepos' robes were no different from those of
any other priest of similar rank; Hemond, Marcus
thought, was uncommonly well informed.
      The Namdalener acknowledged his
introduction of Nepos with a friendly nod.
"Actually," Scaurus continued, "you can do us a
favor, if you will."
      "Name it," Hemond said expansively.
      "We need to see Nephon Khoumnos as quickly
as we can, and neither of us is sure where he might
be."
      "Ho-ho!" Hemond laid a finger alongside his
nose and winked. "Going to twist his beard some
more over his sleepy sentries, are you?"
      Uncommonly well informed indeed, Marcus
thought, but this time not quite well enough. He
considered for a moment. Remembering that
Hemond and Helvis had backed him against Avshar,
he decided he could tell the Namdalener his story.
"It's not that - " he began.
      When he was done, Hemond rubbed the shaven
back of his head and swore in the broad dialect of
his homeland. "The snake has really overreached
himself this time," he said, more to himself than to
Marcus or Nepos. His face suddenly was that of a
hunter about to bag his prey. "Bors! Fayard!" he
snapped, and two of his men stiffened to attention.
"Get back to quarters and let the men know the rest
of us will be delayed." As the soldiers hurried away,
their captain turned back to the Roman. "I'd have
given a year's pay to drag that losel down, and here
you offer me a free chance!"
      He grabbed Scaurus' hand in his double clasp,
barked to his troopers, "First for Khoumnos and
some help, then we peg out Avshar the wizard over
a slow fire!" Their full-throated shout of approval
made Marcus see again how widely the Yezda was
detested.
      Hemond may have preferred to fight on
horseback, but there was nothing wrong with his
legs. He set a pace Marcus was hard pressed to
match, one that had Nepos in an awkward half-trot
to keep up.
      Ten minutes and three expostulating sentries
later, they were in Khoumnos' office, a well-lit room
attached to the Grand Courtroom of the palace
complex. The Videssian looked up from the
paperwork he had been fighting. His heavy brows
lowered to see Scaurus and Nepos with Hemond and
his squad. "You keep odd company," he said to the
tribune, unconsciously paraphrasing the easterner he
mistrusted.
      "That's as may be," the Roman shrugged.
"They helped me find you, though, when I needed
to." And he told Khoumnos the same tale he had
spun out to Hemond shortly before.
      Long before he was through, the same
predatory eagerness that gripped him and Hemond
had communicated itself to the Videssian. A
triumphant grin spread over his face; he slammed
his fist down onto his desk. Ink slopped out of its
pot to mar the sheets over which he had been
working.'He did not care.
      "Zigabenos!" he shouted, and his aide appeared
from another room. "If there's not a squad here
double-quick, you'll find out if you remember which
end of a plow you stand behind."
      Zigabenos blinked, saluted, and vanished.
      "My men and I want a piece of the wizard,"
Hemond warned.
      "You'll have it," the Videssian officer agreed.
Marcus had expected Khoumnos to argue, but if the
Videssian was unsure of the Namdaleni's loyalty to
the Empire, he had no doubt they hated Avshar
more.
      Khoumnos was still buckling on his swordbelt
when a sweating Zigabenos led a squad of akritai
into his superior's office. Their arrival filled it
almost to overflowing. The native Videssian troops
sent suspicious looks at Hemond's mercenaries.
      But Khoumnos was master of the situation. He
knew he had a cause bigger than any rivalry within
the imperial army. A single sentence was enough to
electrify his men: "What we and the islanders are
going to do, boys, is march over to the Hall of the
Ambassadors, winkle our dear friend Avshar the
Yezda out of his hole, and clap him in irons."
      After a second's disbelieving silence, the
Videssians burst into cheers. Hemond and his
Namdaleni, although they had already cheered once,
were more than willing to do so again. In the
confined space, the noise was deafening. All
dissension forgotten, the double squad - and Nepos
and Marcus with it - rushed for the Hall of the
Ambassadors like hounds upon a leopard's den.
      The Hall, as was only natural, lay close by the
Grand Courtroom, so foreign envoys could attend
the Emperor at their mutual convenience. Above it
flapped, fluttered, or simply hung the emblems of
twoscore nations, tribes, factions, and other political
entities less easily defined; among them was the
leaping panther of Yezd.
      The diplomatic calm ambassadors cultivate
was not altogether proof against two dozen armed
men swarming toward Avshar's dwelling-place.
Taso Vones of Khatrish was on the Hall's steps
discussing trade in spices and furs with a nomad
from the far western plains of Shaumkhiil when he
heard the troopers clattering toward him. He looked
up, saw the source of the pother, murmured to the
Arshaum, "You will excuse me, I hope," and ran for
his life.
      The nomad ran, too - for the bow he kept in his
chamber, to sell himself as dearly as he could.
      But the warriors ignored him, just as they
ignored the shouts of alarm that rang out in the
Hall's lobby as they rushed through it behind
Nephon Khoumnos. The Videssian led them up the
wide stairway of polished marble at the lobby's
back. As they climbed, he panted, "The whoreson's
suite is on the second story. More than once I've
been here to ransom prisoners - this is a job I'd
rather do!" The men with him yelled their
agreement.
       Gawtruz of Thatagush was carrying a silver
tray loaded with fried meats and candied fruits back
to his own suite of rooms when the stairs erupted
soldiers behind him. Though fat and past fifty, he
still had a warrior's reflexes. He hurled his tray, food
and all, at what he thought were his attackers.
       Hemond knocked the spinning tray aside with
his shield. A man or two cried out as they were hit
by hot meat. Another tripped over the trail of grease
a skidding fowl had left behind and went sprawling.
       "Phos!" Khoumnos muttered. He cried to
Gawtruz, "Mercy, valiant lord! We have no quarrel
with you - it's Avshar we seek."
       At his words, Gawtruz lowered the knife he
had drawn from his belt. His eyes widened. "The
man of Yezd? He and you are enemies, yes, but he
is an embassy and cannot be assailed." Marcus
noted Taso Vones had been correct at the ill-fated
banquet a few days before - at need, Gawtruz'
Videssian was perfect, polished, and unaccented.
      "Ambassadors who live within the law of
nations enjoy its protections," Khoumnos returned.
"Sorcerers who hire knives in the night do not." His
men and Hemond's were already gathered before a
stout door on which stood Yezd's panther.
Khoumnos ordered, "Rap gently once. I would not
have it said we invaded the suite without giving
warning."
      The warning rap was scarcely gentle; a dozen
heavy fists slammed into the door. There was no
response. "Break it down!" Khoumnos snapped. But
the portal so staunchly resisted shoulders and booted
feet that Scaurus wondered whether it was merely a
strong bar or magic which held it closed.
      "Enough of this foolery! Out of my way!" One
of the Namdaleni, a dark-haired giant with
tremendous forearms, preferred the axe of his
Haloga cousins. Men scurried back to give him
room to swing. Chips flew and boards split as his
axe buried itself helve-deep.
      Within a dozen strokes, the door sagged back
in defeat. The troopers stepped into their enemy's
chambers, weapons at the ready. Khoumnos stood
outside the door, repeatedly explaining to the
startled, frightened, or angry diplomats who threw
questions at him why the Videssians had come.
      Marcus' first thought was that, while Avshar's
lusts for power and destruction were boundless, he
had no corresponding desire for personal luxury.
Except for a Videssian desk, the embassy of Yezd
was furnished nomad-style. Pillows took the place
of chairs, and tables were low enough for men
sitting on the ground to use. Cushions and tables
alike were black, the walls of the room a smoky
gray.
      The door between Yezd's public offices and
Avshar's private quarters was locked, but a few
strokes of the axe dealt with that. But Avshar was no
more to be found in his chambers than in the
embassy portion of Yezd's suite. Marcus was not
surprised; the rooms had a dead feel, a feel of
something discarded and forgotten. The Videssians
had come too late.
      The Yezda's room was as sparely equipped as
the office: more black-lacquered low tables, pillows,
and a sleeping mat of felt stuffed with horsehair.
Above the mat hung the image of a fierce-faced
warrior dressed all in black and hurling a livid blue
thunderbolt. He strode against the fleeing sun over a
pile of naked, bloody victims. "Skotos!" the
Videssian soldiers murmured to themselves; their
fingers moved in signs against evil.
      On one of the tables stood a small brazier and
another icon of the dark god Yezd followed. Beside
the icon lay the pitiful figure of a white dove with its
neck wrung. The brazier was full of ashes; Avshar
had left not intending to return and burned those
papers he did not wish his foes to see.
      Neither Videssians nor Namdaleni would go
near that table, but when Marcus walked around it
he saw on the floor a scrap of parchment scorched at
one edge; it must have fallen from the brazier before
the fire could sieze it. He bent to pick it up and
shouted in sudden excitement: it was a sketch-map
of the city and its walls, with a spidery red line
leading from the Hall of the Ambassadors to a tower
by the sea.
      His companions crowded round him at his yell,
peering over his shoulder and asking what he'd
found. Their letdown at not trapping Avshar in his
lair disappeared when they understood what the
Roman was holding. They shook his hand and
slapped his back in congratulations. "A second
chance!" Hemond whooped. "Phos is truly with us
today!"
      "There's still no time to lose," Nepos said. "We
should celebrate after we catch the Yezda, not
before."
      "Well said, priest," Hemond agreed. Leaving a
couple of his men and a like number of Videssians
to search the embassy quarters further, he led the
rest out past Nephon Khoumnos, who was still
justifying the soldiers' presence to the diplomats
crowding around him.
      Marcus stuck the fragment of parchment under
his nose. Khoumnos' eyes crossed as he snatched it
from the Roman's hands and tried to focus on it.
"The game is still in play, then!" he exclaimed. He
bowed to the envoys and their aides, saying,
"Gentles, further explanations must wait on events."
He pushed his way through the crowd, shouting to
his men, "Wait, fools, I have the map!"
      The tower Avshar's sketch had shown was at
Videssos' northwest corner, where the city jutted
furthest into the strait called the Cattle-Crossing. It
was about half a mile north and slightly west of the
Hall of the Ambassadors, through the palace
complex and the streets of the town, and it seemed
mostly uphill.
      The tribune felt his heart race and the sweat
spring from his brow as he trotted through the city.
The troopers with him suffered far more than he, for
he was in mantle and sandals while they loped along
fully armored. One Namdalener could not stand the
pace and fell back, his face flushed lobster-red.
      As he ran, Scaurus was spurred on by the
knowledge that so cold-blooded a calculator as
Avshar could blunder - and blunder badly. Not only
had his attempt at assassination gone for nought, but
when he set about destroying his papers the most
crucial one of all, the route of his escape, failed to
burn and gave his pursuers another chance at him. If
only he knew, Marcus thought - he'd gnash his teeth
behind those veils of his.
      The path turned down, bringing the sea wall of
Videssos into sight. "That one!" Khoumnos panted,
pointed at the square tower straight ahead. But when
he sucked in wind, the middle-aged officer had
enough breath to shout, "Ho the tower guards! Any
sign of Avshar the Yezda?"
      No answering shout came. When the soldiers
wove their way through the last of the buildings
between themselves and the wall, they saw the four-
man watch contingent lying motionless in front of
the guard tower's open gate. Khoumnos swore
horribly. To Marcus he said, "The past five years I
can recall no dozing sentries. Now I find them twice
in two days, and you as witness both times. In Phos'
holy name, I stand ashamed before you."
      But the sprawled-out guards suggested only
one thing to the tribune - the magic Avshar's nomad
tool had used to get into the Roman barracks. He
explained quickly, adding, "I don't think they are
asleep through any fault of their own; it's some spell
the westerner knows. His map did not lie - there
may still be time to catch him before he can get
down the seaward side of the wall."
      Nephon Khoumnos reached out to press his
arm. "Outlander, you are a man of honor."
      "Thank you," Marcus said, surprised and
touched.
      "Come on, the two of you!" Hemond
exclaimed, tugging his straight sword free of its
scabbard. "Time enough for pretty speeches later!"
He charged toward and through the gate, the rest of
the warriors close behind. Nepos fell behind for a
moment to revive the guardsmen Avshar had
entranced.
      Marcus was almost blind for a few seconds in
the sudden gloom of the tower's interior. He
stumbled up the tight spiral staircase; the only light
in the stairwell came from small arrow slits let into
the wall.
      "Hold up!" Hemond called from above him.
Men cursed as they bumped and tripped trying to
stop quickly.
      "What is it?" asked Khoumnos, who was
several men below the Namdalener.
      "I'm at the mouth of a corridor," Hemond
replied. "It must lead to a weapons store, or
something like that - and, square in the strip of sun
from a firing slit, there's a scrap of white wool, just
what might get torn from a nomad's robes if he ran
past something stickery. We have the bastard
hooked!" He laughed aloud in sheer exultation.
      An excited hum ran up and down the spiral line
of hunters. More swords slid from their scabbards.
One by one, the men stepped into the passage
Hemond had found.
      The narrow corridor within the wall ran about
fifty feet before ending in a single doorway.
Clutching his sword hilt, Marcus moved forward
with the rest of the warriors. He no longer saw
Avshar as the dreaded evil mage Nepos had
depicted, but as a wicked, frightened fool who had
slipped at every turn in his escape attempt and, at
the end, managed to close himself in a chamber with
but one entrance. He could nearly pity the trapped
Yezda on the other side of the door.
      Hemond gave that door a tentative push. It
swung open easily. The mercenary had been right in
his guess at the chamber's function; it was indeed an
armory. Through the doorway Marcus could see
neat sheaves of arrows, piled spears, rows of maces
and swords, and, as he came nearer and gained a
wider view, the tip of an outstretched foot upon the
floor.
      Along with the rest of the soldiers, Scaurus
pushed into the storeroom to see better. Unlike most
of them, he recognized the dead man lying by the
back wall - it was Mebod, Avshar's ever-frightened
body servant. His head was twisted at an impossible
angle, his neck broken like that of the dove on
Skotos' altar in the Yezda's private chamber.
      The senselessness and wanton cruelty of
slaying this inoffensive little man bewildered the
tribune. So did something else - Avshar had surely
been here, but was no longer. There was no place to
hide among the glittering weapons. Where, then,
was the fugitive emissary of Yezd?
      At nearly the same moment that thought
crossed his mind, the door slammed shut behind
them. Though it had opened invitingly to Hemond's
lightest touch, now it would not yield to the frantic
tugging of all the warriors caught behind it.
Suddenly trapped instead of trapper, Marcus felt
dread course through his veins.
      "Ah, how pleasant. My guests have arrived."
At the sound of that deep voice, full of chilly hate,
the soldiers' hands fell from the bronze doorlatch.
They turned as one, in disbelief and terror. Head still
lolling on its right shoulder, eyes blind and staring,
the corpse of Mebod was on its feet, but through its
dead lips came Avshar's voice.
      "You were so kind - and so clever - to answer
the invitations I left for you," the wizard went on,
bending his servant to his will in death as in life,
"that I thought I should prepare fitting hospitality for
you." With the jerky grace of a stringed puppet,
what had been Mebod threw its hands wide. At their
motion the weapons of the armory came alive,
flying against the stunned men who, minutes before,
had thought themselves about to seize Yezd's
wizard-envoy.
      One of the Videssians fell at once, a spear
driven through chain mail and flesh alike. An instant
later a Namdalener was on the ground beside him,
his neck pierced from behind by a dagger. Another
screamed in fear and pain as a mace laid open his
arm.
      Never had Marcus imagined - never had he
wanted to imagine - a fight like that one, men
against spears and swords that hovered in the air and
struck like giant angry wasps. It did no good to
strike back against them; there was no wielder to lay
low. Worse, there was no shuffle of foot, no telltale
shift of eye, to give a clue where the next blow
would fall. The warriors were reduced to a purely
defensive fight and, thus constrained in their very
thoughts, suffered wounds from strokes they would
have turned with ease had a body been behind them.
      With his usual quickness of thought, Hemond
slashed at Mebod's animate lich, but his blow did no
good - the weapons still came on.
      At first clash of enchanted steel, the druids'
marks on Scaurus' blade flamed into fiery life. The
sword his brand had met clattered to the floor and
did not rise again. The same things happened again
and yet again. So many blades were hovering for a
chance to bite, though, that the unarmored Roman
had all he could do to stay alive. He gave the best
protection he could to his mates, but when he tried
to follow Hemond's lead and strike down Mebod
with his potent sword, the disembodied weapons
kept him at bay and drove him back, bleeding from
several cuts.
       Someone was pounding on the door from the
outside. Marcus shouted a warning to whoever it
was, but his shout was drowned by a bellow of
anguish from Hemond. A sword stood hilt-deep in
the Namdalener's chest. His hands grabbed at the
hilt, then fell limply to his side as he went down.
       From the other side of the door came a cry
louder even than Hemond's. "Open, in Phos' holy
name!" Nepos roared, and the portal sprang back as
if kicked. The priest-mage bounded into the
weapons store, his arms upraised. He was a short
man, but the power crackling from his rotund frame
seemed to give him inches he did not possess.
       Recognizing the danger in Nepos, Avshar's
swooping armory abandoned the mere men-at-arms
to dart at this new foe. But the priest was equal to
them. He moved his hands in three swift passes,
shouting a fraction of prayer or spell with each.
Before the blades could touch him, they fell, inert,
to the floor. As they did so, Mebod's body sank with
them, to become again nothing more than a corpse.
       It was like waking from a nightmare. The
soldiers still on their feet held their guard for several
seconds, hardly daring to believe the air empty and
quiet. But quiet as it was, the weapons strewn like
jackstraws and the bodies on the ground showed it
had been no dream.
      As the dazed survivors of the sorcerous assault
bent to the fallen, they learned four were dead: the
Videssian killed in the first instant of attack and
three Namdaleni, Hemond among them. The
mercenary officer had died as rescue stood outside
the door. Marcus shook his head as he closed
Hemond's set eyes. Had he not happened on the
Namdalener in his search for Nephon Khoumnos, a
good soldier who was becoming a good friend
would still be alive.
      Still looking down at Hemond's body, the
tribune flinched when someone touched his arm. It
was Nepos, his chubby features haggard and drawn.
"Let me tie those up for you," he said.
      "Hmm? Oh, yes, go ahead." Lost in his
thoughts, Scaurus had almost forgotten his own
wounds. Nepos bandaged them with the same
dexterity Gorgidas might have shown.
      As the priest worked, he talked, and Marcus
learned he was not the only one carrying a burden of
self-blame. Nepos could have been talking to
anyone or no one; as it happened, the Roman heard
his struggle to understand the why of what had taken
place.
      "Had I not paused to end a small enchantment,"
the priest said bitterly, "I could have checked this far
more wicked one. Phos knows his own ways, but it
is an untasty thing to rouse four men from sleep
only to see four others die."
      "You did what was in your nature, to help
wherever you first saw it needed," Marcus told him.
"You could not be what you are and have done
otherwise. What happened afterwards could not be
helped."
      Nepos did not agree. "You feel as do the
Halogai, that there is a fate no man can hope to
escape. But we who follow Phos know it is our god
who shapes our lives and we seek to make out his
purposes. There are times, though, when those are
hard, hard to understand."
      Moving slowly, as if still caught up in the bad
dream from which they had just escaped, the
warriors bound one another's wounds. Almost in
silence, they lifted their fallen comrades' bodies -
and that of Mebod as well - and awkwardly brought
them down the watchtower's spiral stair and out into
the sunlight once more.
      The sentries Nepos had awakened met them
there. One of the watchmen, alarm on his face, said
to Marcus, "Please do not blame us for failing, sir.
One moment we were all standing to arms, and the
next this priest was bending over us, undoing the
magic that laid us low. We didn't doze by choice."
      At any other time the Roman would have been
gladdened by the way his reputation had shot
through the Videssian army. As it was, he could
only say tiredly, "I know. The wizard who tricked
you gulled us all. He got clean away, and I don't
doubt many throughout the Empire will have cause
to regret it."
      "The son of nobody's not safe yet," Nephon
Khoumnos declared. "Though he's crossed the strait,
he has five hundred miles of travel through our
western provinces before he reaches his accused
borders. Our fire-beacons can flash word to seal the
frontiers long before even a wizard could reach
them. I'll go have the beacons fired now; we'll see
what kind of welcome our akritai ready for that
fornicating sorcerer!" And Khoumnos was off,
shoulders hunched forward like a determined man
walking into a gale.
      Scaurus could only admire his tenacity, but did
not think much would come of it. If Avshar could
get free of the most strongly fortified city this world
knew, the Roman did not believe Videssos' border
troops, no matter how skilled, would keep him from
slipping across the frontier into his own dark land.
      He turned to the Namdaleni. Though he shrank
from it, there was something he felt he had to do,
something for which he needed the good will of
these men. He said, "It was an unlucky chance that
led me to you this morning. Now three of you have
died, thanks to that unlucky chance. I had not known
him long, but I was happy to call Hemond my
friend. If it is not against your customs, it seems
only right for me to be one of those who carries
news of his loss to his lady. I bear the blame for it."
      "A man lives as long as he lives and not a day
more," said one of the men of the Duchy. Whether
or not he followed the cult of Phos, some of the
ways of his Haloga ancestors still lived in him. The
Namdalener went on, "You were doing the best you
could for the state that bought your sword. So were
we. Service honorably done may cause hurt, but it is
no matter for blame."
      He paused for a moment to read his
countrymen's eyes. Satisfied by what he saw, he
said, "There is nothing in our usages to keep you
from being the man who brings Hemond's sword to
Helvis." Seeing Scaurus' lack of understanding, he
explained, "That is our way of saying without word
what words are too painful to carry. No blame rests
with you," the mercenary repeated, "but were it
there, what you are doing now would erase it. I am
called Embriac Rengari's son and I am honored to
know you."
      The other six Namdaleni nodded soberly; one
by one, they spoke their names and gave the tribune
the two-handed clasp all men of northern descent
seemed to share. That brief formality over, they
lifted their burdens once more and began the somber
journey back to their quarters.
      News of what had happened spread like
windblown fire, as always in Videssos. Before the
soldiers had finished half their short course, the first
cries of "Death to Yezd!" began ringing through the
city. Scaurus saw a band of men armed with clubs
and daggers dash down an alley after some foreigner
or other - whether a Yezda or not, he never knew.
      As he trudged toward the palace complex, the
dead weight of Hemond's body made the tribune's
shoulders ache, though he shared it with a
Namdalener. He and his companions were all
wounded. They slowly made their way to the
mercenaries' barracks, pausing more than once to
lay down the bodies of the dead and rest for a
moment. Their load seemed heavier after each halt.
      Marcus kept turning over in his mind why he
had taken on himself the task of telling Hemond's
woman of his death. What he had said to the
Namdalener was true, but he was uneasily aware it
was not the entire truth. He remembered how
attractive he had found Helvis before he knew she
was attached and had a guilty suspicion he was
letting that attraction influence his behavior.
      Stop it, lackwit, he told himself, you're only
doing what has to be done. But... she was very
beautiful.
      The barracks of the Namdaleni were an island
of ironic peace in the ferment rising in Videssos.
Because they were outlanders and heretics, the men
of the Duchy had few connections with the city's
ever-grinding rumor mill and had no notion of the
snare Avshar had sprung on their countrymen. A
couple of men were wrestling outside the barracks.
A large crowd cheered them on, shouting
encouragements and bets. Two other soldiers
practiced at swords, their blades clanging off one
another. From a nearby smithy, Marcus heard the
deeper ring of a hammer on hot steel. Several
islanders were on their knees or haunches shooting
dice. It occurred to Marcus that he had seen dicing
soldiers whenever he passed their barracks, and they
were quick to bet on almost anything. Gambling
appealed to them, it appeared.
      Someone in the back of the crowd looked up
from the half-naked wrestlers and saw the
approaching warriors and their grim burden. His
startled oath lifted more eyes; one of the fencers
whipped his head around and dropped his sword in
surprise and shock. His opponent's blade was
beginning its victory stroke when its owner, too,
caught sight of the bodies the returning troopers
bore. The stroke went undelivered.
      The Namdaleni rushed up, crying out questions
in the broad island patois they spoke among
themselves. Marcus could hardly make out their
dialect at the best of times; now he was too full of
his own misery to make the effort. He and the
mercenary who had helped him carry Hemond put
down their burden for the last time. The Roman
freed Hemond's sword and scabbard from his belt
and made his way through the Namdaleni toward
their barracks.
      Most of the mercenaries stood back to let him
pass when they saw what he bore, but one came up
and grasped his arm, shouting something in his own
speech. Scaurus could not catch more than a word or
two, but Embriac replied, "He took it on himself,
and his claim to it is good." He spoke in clear
Videssian so his countryman and the tribune could
both understand him. The islander nodded and let
Marcus go.
      The barracks of the Namdaleni were, if
anything, even more comfortable than the Romans'
quarters. Part of the difference, of course, was that
there had been a Namdalener contingent in the
Videssian army for many years, and over those
years the men of the Duchy had lavished much labor
on making their dwelling as homelike as they could.
By contrast, the Romans had not yet made their hall
their own.
      Because many of the mercenaries spent a large
portion of their lives in Videssian service, it was not
surprising that they formed families in the capital,
either with women of the Empire or with wives or
sweethearts who had accompanied them from
Namdalen. Their barracks reflected this. Only the
bottom floor was a common hall like that of the
Romans, a hall in which dwelt warriors who had
formed no household. The upper story was divided
into apartments of varying size.
      Remembering Helvis waving to him from a
window above - was it only a couple of days
before? - Marcus climbed the stairway, a wide,
straight flight of steps nothing like the spiral stair
that had led to Avshar's trap. He felt more
misgivings now than he had on the wizard's trail;
Hemond's sword in his hand was heavy as lead.
      Thanks to his memory of Helvis displaying for
him the jewelry she'd brought with her winnings, the
tribune knew about which turns to take through the
upper story's corridors. From an open doorway
ahead, he heard a clear contralto he knew. "Now
stay there for a few minutes," Helvis was saying
firmly. "I want to find out what the commotion
down below is all about."
       He and she came into the doorway at the same
moment. Helvis drew back a pace, laughing in
surprise. "Hello, Marcus!" she said. "Are you
looking for Hemond? I don't know where he is - he
should have been back from the drill-field some
time ago. And what's going on outside? My window
won't let me see."
       She came to a halt, really seeing him for the
first time. "Why so grim? Is anything the..." Her
voice faltered as she finally recognized the sheathed
blade he carried. "No," she said. "No." The color
faded from her face; her knuckles whitened as her
hand clutched at the doorlatch, seeking a support it
could not give her.
       "Who is this man, Mama?" A naked boy of
about three came up to peer at Scaurus from behind
Helvis' skirts. He had her blue eyes and Hemond's
shock of blond hair. Marcus had not imagined he
could be more wretched, but then he had not known
Hemond had a son. "Aren't you going downstairs?"
the tot asked his mother.
      "Yes. No. In a minute." Helvis searched the
tribune's features, her eyes pleading with him to
give her some other, any other explanation than the
one she feared for Hemond's sword in his hands. He
bit his lip until the pain made him blink, but nothing
he could say or do would erase his mute message of
loss.
      "Aren't you going downstairs, mama?" the
child asked again.
      "Hush, Malric," Helvis said absently. "Go back
inside." She stepped into the hall, closing the door
behind her. "It's true, then?" she said, more wonder
in her voice than anything else. Though she said the
words, it was plain she did not believe them.
      Marcus could only nod. "It's true," he answered
as gently as he could.
      Not looking at the tribune, moving in a slow,
dreamlike fashion, she took Hemond's sword from
his hands into her own. She caressed the blade's
worn, rawhide-wrapped hilt. Her hand, Marcus
noticed in one of those irrelevant flashes he knew he
would remember forever, though large for a
woman's, was much too small for the grip.
      Her head still bent, she leaned the sword
against the wall by the closed door of her rooms.
When at last she looked at the tribune, tears were
running down her cheeks, though he had not heard
her start to weep. "Take me to him," she said. As
they walked down the hall, she clasped his arm like
a drowning man seizing a spar to keep himself afloat
a few minutes longer.
      She was still looking for small things she did
not understand to keep from facing the great
incomprehensibility that lay, cold and stiffening,
outside the barracks. "Why did you bring me his
sword?" she asked the tribune. "I mean no harm, no
insult, but you are not of our people or our ways.
Why you?"
      Scaurus heard the question with a sinking
feeling. He would have given a great deal for a
plausible lie but had none ready; in any case, such
false kindness was worse than none. "It seemed only
right I should," he said, "because it is all too much
my fault he fell."
      She stopped as short as if he had struck her; her
nails were suddenly claws digging into his flesh.
Only by degrees did the misery on the Roman's face
and in his voice reach her. Her face lost the savage
look it had assumed. Her hand relaxed; Marcus felt
blood trickle down his arm from where her nails had
bitten him.
      "Tell me," she said, and as they walked down
the stairs he did so, hesitantly at first but with
growing fluency as the tale went on.
      "The end was very quick, my lady," he finished
lamely, trying to find such consolation as he could.
"He could hardly have had time to feel much pain. I
- " The upwelling futility of any apology or
condolence he might make silenced him effectively
as a gag.
      Helvis' touch on his arm was as gentle as it had
been fierce a minute before. "You must not torment
yourself for doing what was only your duty," she
said. "Had your roles been reversed, Hemond would
have asked the same of you. It was his way," she
added softly, and began to cry again as the truth of
his death started forcing its way past the defenses
she had flung up.
      That she could try to comfort him in her own
anguish amazed Marcus and made him feel worse at
the same time.
      Such a woman did not deserve to have her life
turned upside down by a chance meeting and a
wizard's scheme. Another score against Avshar, he
decided, as if more were needed.
      After the dimness of the interior of the
barracks, the bright sun outside dazzled the Roman.
Seeing the crowd still ringing the bodies of Hemond
and his squadmates, Helvis dropped Scaurus' arm
and ran toward them. Suddenly alone among
strangers, the tribune felt another burst of empathy
for Viridovix' plight. As quickly as he could, he
found an excuse to get away and, wishing he had
this day back to live over in some other way, went
back to the Roman barracks.

     As he stood sweating in his full regalia on the
elevated central spine of Videssos' amphitheater,
Scaurus decided he had never seen such a sea of
people gathered together in one place. Fifty
thousand, seventy thousand, a hundred twenty
thousand - he had no way to guess their numbers.
For three days criers ran through the city to proclaim
the Emperor would speak this noon; the great arena
had begun to fill at dawn and now, a few minutes
before midday, almost every inch of it was packed
with humanity.
      The only clear spaces in all that crush were a
lane leading from the Emperor's Gate at the western
end of the amphitheater's long oval to its spine and
that spine itself. And the clearing of that latter was
only relative. Along with statues of marble, bronze,
and gold, along with a needle of gilded granite
reaching for the sky, the spine held scores of
Videssian functionaries in their gaudy robes of state,
priests of various ranks in blue regalia, and
contingents of troops from every people who
soldiered for the Empire. Among them, Scaurus and
the maniple he led had pride of place this day, for
they stood just below the elevated rostrum from
which Mavrikios Gavras would soon address the
throng.
      To either side of the Romans were squadrons
of tall Haloai, unmoving as the statuary they
fronted. All the discipline in the world, though,
could not keep resentment from their faces. The
place of honor the Romans were usurping was at
most times theirs, and they were not happy to be
displaced by these newcomers, men who would not
even show proper respect for the Emperor they
served.
      But today that central place was rightfully the
Romans'; they, indeed, were the reason this
assemblage had been called. News of Avshar's
sorcerous assault on Scaurus and the deadly snare he
had set to make good this escape had raced through
the city like fire through parched woodlands. The
mob Marcus saw chasing a fleeing foreigner was but
the start of troubles. Many Videssians concluded
that, if Yezd could reach into their capital to assail
them, it was their Phos-given right to take
vengeance on anyone they imagined a Yezda - or, at
a pinch, on any other foreigners they could find.
      Nearly all the folk from what was now Yezd
who lived in Videssos were of trading houses that
had been in the capital since the days when the
Empire's western neighbor was still called Makuran.
They hated their ancestral homeland's nomadic
conquerors more bitterly than did the people of the
Empire. Their hatred, however, was of no avail
when the Videssian rabble came roaring up to loot
and burn their stores. "Death to the Yezda!" was the
mob's cry, and it did not ask questions of its victims.
      It had taken troops to quell the riots and douse
the flames - native Videssian troops. Knowing his
people, the Emperor had known the sight of
outlanders trying to quell them would only inflame
them further. And so the Romans, the Halogai, the
Khamorth, and the Namdaleni kept to their barracks
while Khoumnos used his akritai to restore order to
the city. Marcus gave him credit for a good,
professional job. "Well, why not?" Gaius Philippus
had said. "He's probably had enough practice at it."
      Those three days had not been altogether idle.
An imperial scribe came to record depositions from
all the Romans who had been a part of subduing
Avshar's luckless pawn of a plainsman. Another,
higher-ranking scribe questioned Marcus minutely
over every tiny detail he could recall about the
nomad, about Avshar himself, and about the spell
the Yezda had unleashed in the sea-wall armory.
When the tribune asked what point the questions
had, the scribe shrugged, blandly said, "Knowledge
is never wasted," and returned to the interrogation.
      The gabble in the amphitheater rose suddenly
as a pair of parasol-carriers stepped from the
shadows behind the Emperor's Gate into the sight of
the crowd. Another pair emerged, and another, and
another, until twelve silk flowers of varied hues
bloomed in the narrow passage which twin lines of
akritai kept open. Rhadenos Vourtzes had been
proud of the two sunshades to which his provincial
governor's rank entitled him; the imperial retinue
was more splendid by sixfold.
      The cheering which had begun at first glimpse
of the parasol bearers rose to a crescendo of
shouting, clapping, and stamping as the Emperor's
party proper came into view. Marcus felt the arena's
spine quiver beneath his feet; the noise the crowd
put forth transcended hearing. It could only be felt,
stunning the ears and the mind.
      First behind the escort was Vardanes
Sphrantzes. It might have been Marcus' imagination,
but he did not think many of the cheers went to the
Sevastos. Far more beloved by the people was their
patriarch Balsamon. In matters of ceremony he
outranked even the prime minister, and thus had his
place between Sphrantzes and the imperial family
itself.
      The fat old priest flowered in adulation like a
lilac in the sun. His shrewd eyes crinkled into a
mischievous grin; he beamed out at the crowd, his
hands raised in blessing. When people reached
between the tight ranks of guardsmen to touch his
robes, more than once he stopped to take hold of
their hands for a moment before moving on.
      Thorisin Gavras, too, was popular in the city.
He was everyone's younger brother, with all the
amused toleration that went with that status. Had the
Emperor brawled in a tavern or tumbled a serving
wench, he would have forfeited all respect due his
office. The Sevastokrator, without his brother's
burdens, could - and did - enjoy himself to the
fullest. Now he strode along briskly, with the air of
a man fulfilling an important task he nonetheless
found boring and wanted to finish quickly.
      His niece, Mavrikios' daughter Alypia, came
just before her father. From her demeanor, the
amphitheater might as well have been still and
empty, not packed to its rearmost benches with
screaming citizens. The same air of preoccupation
she had shown entering the banquet held her now.
Marcus wondered if shyness was at its root rather
than indifference; she had been far less reserved in
the closer setting of the banquet table and in the
imperial chambers.
      Several times now the tribune had thought the
tumult in the arena could not grow greater, and
several times was wrong. And with the entrance of
the Emperor, he found himself mistaken once more.
The noise was a real and urgent pain, as if someone
were driving dull rods through his ears and into his
brain.
      Mavrikios Gavras was not, perhaps, the ideal
Emperor for a land in turmoil. No long generations
strengthened his family's right to the throne; he was
but a usurping general more successful than his
predecessors. Even as he ruled, his government was
divided against him, with his highest civil ministers
standing to profit most from his fall and doing their
best to stifle any reforms which might weaken their
own positions.
      But ideal or not, Mavrikios was what Videssos
had, and in the hour of crisis its people rallied to
him. With every step he took, the crescendo of noise
rose. Everyone in the amphitheater was standing and
screaming. A group of trumpeters followed the
Emperor, but in the bedlam they must have been
inaudible even to themselves.
      Behind the Sevastos, the patriarch, and his
family, the Emperor mounted the twelve steps up
onto the arena's spine. Each compay of soldiers
presented arms to him as he passed, the Khamorth
and native Videssians drawing empty bows, the
Halogai lifting their axes in salute, and the
Namdaleni and at last the Romans holding their
spears out at arm's length before them.
      Thorisin Gavras gave Marcus an eager,
predatory grin as he walked by. His thoughts were
easy to read - he wanted to fight Yezd, Scaurus had
furnished a valid reason for fighting, and so the
Roman stood high in his favor. Mavrikios was more
complex. He said something to Scaurus, but the
crowd's din swept it away. Seeing he could not hope
to make himself understood, the Emperor shrugged
almost sheepishly and moved on.
      Gavras halted for a few seconds at the base of
his speaking platform while his retinue, parasols
bobbing, arranged themselves around it. And when
the Emperor's foot touched its wooden step, Marcus
wondered whether Nepos and his wi-zardly
colleagues had worked a potent magic or whether
his ill-used ears had given out at last. Sudden,
aching silence fell, broken only by the ringing in his
head and the thin shout of a fishmonger outside the
arena: "Fre-esh squi-id!"
      The Emperor surveyed the crowd, watching it
settle back into its seats. The Roman thought it
hopeless for one man to be heard by so many, but he
knew nothing of the subtlety Videssian craftsmen
had invested in their amphitheater. Just as the center
of the spine was the focus where every sound in the
arena reverberated, so words emanating from that
one place were plain throughout.
      "I'm not the man for fancy talk," the Emperor
began, and Marcus had to smile, remembering how,
in a Gallic clearing not so long ago, he had used a
disclaimer like that to start a speech.
      Mavrikios went on, "I grew up a soldier, I've
spent all my life among soldiers, and I've come to
prize a soldier's frankness. If it's rhetoric you're
after, you don't have far to look today." He waved
his hand to take in the rows of seated bureaucrats.
The crowd chuckled. Turning his head, Scaurus saw
Vardanes Sphrantzes' mouth tighten in distaste.
      Though unable to resist flinging his barb, the
Emperor did not sink it deeply. He knew he needed
such unity as he could find in his divided land and
spoke next in terms all his subjects could
understand.
      "In the capital," he said, "we are lucky. We are
safe, we are well fed, we are warded by walls and
fleets no land can match. Most of you are of families
long-settled in the city and most of you have lacked
for little in your lives." Marcus thought of Phostis
Apokavkos, slowly starving in Videssos' slums. No
king, he reflected, not even one so recent and
atypical as Mavrikios, could hope to learn of all his
country's troubles.
      The Emperor was only too aware of some of
them, however. He continued, "In our western lands,
across the strait, they envy you. For a man's lifetime
now, Yezd's poisons have spilled into our lands,
burning our fields, killing our farmers, sacking and
starving cities and towns, and desecrating the houses
of our god.
      "We've fought the followers of Skotos
whenever we could catch them laden with their
plunder. But they are like so many locusts; for every
one that dies, two more spring up to take his place.
And now, in the person of their ambassador, they
spread their canker even into Videssos itself. Avshar
the Phos-forsaken, unable to withstand one soldier
of the Empire in honest combat, cast his web of
deception over another and sent him like a viper in
the night to murder the man he dared not face in
open battle."
      The multitude he addressed growled
ominously, a low, angry sound, like the rumble just
before an earthquake. Mavrikios let the rumble build
a moment before raising his arms for silence.
      The anger in the Emperor's voice was real, not
some trick of speechmaking. "When his crime was
found out, the beast of Yezd fled like the coward he
is, with more of his unclean magic to cover his trail
- and to once more kill for him so he need not face
danger himself!" This time the crowd's ire did not
subside at once.
      "Enough, I say, enough! Yezd has struck too
often and taken too few blows in return. Its brigands
need a lesson to learn by heart: that while we are
patient with our neighbors, our memory for wrongs
is also long. And the wrongs Yezd has given us are
far beyond forgiveness!" His last sentence was
almost drowned by the rancor of the crowd, now
nearly at the boil.
      Scaurus' critical side admired the way the
Emperor had built up his audience's rage step by
step, as a mason erects a building with course after
course of bricks. Where the Roman had drawn on
the speeches he made before becoming a soldier to
hearten his troops, Gavras was using his memory of
field orations to stir a civilian crowd. If the
bureaucrats were the models the people of the city
were used to, Mavrikios' gruff candor made for an
effective change.
      "War!" the assemblage shouted. "War! War!"
Like the savage tolling of an iron bell, the word
echoed and re-echoed in the amphitheater. The
Emperor let the outcry last as long as it would.
Perhaps he was enjoying to the fullest the rare
concord he had brought into being; perhaps, thought
Marcus, he was trying to use this outpouring of
hatred for Yezd to overawe the bureaucrats who
opposed his every action.
      At last the Emperor raised his hands for quiet,
and slowly it came. "I thank you," he told the
throng, "for bidding me do what is right in any case.
The time for half-measures is past. This year we will
strike with all the strength at our command; when
next you see me here, Yezd will be a trouble no
more!"
      The arena emptied after a last rousing cheer,
people still buzzing with excitement. Only after the
last of them had gone could the guard units, too,
stand down and return to their more usual duties.
      "What did you think?" Scaurus asked Gaius
Philippus as they marched back toward the barracks.
      The senior centurion rubbed the scar on his
cheek. "He's good, there's no doubt of that, but he's
not Caesar, either." Marcus had to agree. Mavrikios
had fired the crowd, yes, but Scaurus was sure the
Emperor's foes within the government had neither
been convinced by his words nor intimidated by the
passions he had roused. Such theatrics meant
nothing to cold calculators like Sphrantzes.
      "Besides," Gaius Philippus unexpectedly
added, "it's foolhardy to speak of your triumphs
before you have them in hand." And to that thought,
too, the tribune could take no exception.
                       VII

      "THERE'S A NAMDALENER OUT FRONT
WANTS TO SEE YOU," Phostis Apokavkos told
Scaurus on the morning of the second day after the
Emperor's declaration of war. "Says he's Soteric
somebody's son."
      The name meant nothing to Marcus. "Did he
say what he wanted of me?"
      "No; didn't ask him, either. Don't much like
Namdaleni. Far as I can see, the most of them aren't
any more than so many - " and Apokavkos swore a
ripe Latin oath.
      The ex-farmer was fitting in among the
Romans even better than Marcus could have hoped
when he plucked him from his miserable life in
Videssos' thieves' quarter. His face and frame were
losing their gauntness, but that was only to be
expected with regular meals.
      It was, however, the least of his adaptation.
Having been rejected by the nation that gave him
birth, he was doing everything he could to become a
full part of the one that had taken him in. Even as
the Romans had learned Videssian to make life
within the Empire easier, Phostis was picking up
Latin to blend with his new surroundings. He was
working hard with the thrusting-sword and
throwing-spear, neither of them weapons he was
used to.
      And. . . Marcus' brain finally noticed what his
eyes had been telling him. "You shaved!" he
exclaimed.
      Apokavkos sheepishly rubbed his scraped jaw.
"What of it? Felt right odd, being the only hairy-
cheeks in the barracks. I'll never be pretty, with
whiskers or without. Can't see why you people
bother, though - hurts more than it's worth, if you
ask me. But my naked chin isn't what I came to
show you. Are you going to talk to that damned
Namdalener, or shall I tell him to take himself off?"
      "I'll see him, I suppose. What was it that priest
said a few days ago? 'Knowledge is never wasted.'"
Just listen to you, he thought; anyone would think it
was Gorgidas talking.
      Leaning comfortably against the side of the
barracks hall, the mercenary from the eastern islands
did not seem much put out at having had to wait for
Scaurus. He was a solidly built man of middle
height, with dark brown hair, blue eyes, and the very
fair skin that bespoke the northern origins of the
Namdaleni. Unlike many of his countrymen, he did
not shear the back of his head, but let his hair fall in
long waves down to the nape of his neck. Marcus
doubted he could be more than a year or two past
thirty.
      When he recognized the tribune, he
straightened and came up to him, both hands
extended for the usual Namdalener clasp. Scaurus
offered his own, but had to say, "You have the better
of me, I'm afraid."
      "Do I? I'm sorry; I gave your man my name.
I'm Soteric Dosti's son, from Metepont. In the
Duchy, of course."
      Apokavkos had forgotten Soteric's patronymic,
but the mercenary's name meant no more to Scaurus
with it. But the Roman had heard of his native town
somewhere before. "Metepont?" he groped. Then he
found the memory. "Hemond's home?"
      "The same. More to the point, Helvis' as well.
She's my sister, you see."
      And Marcus did see, once he knew of the
relationship. Helvis had not mentioned her brother
in his hearing, or her father's name to let him guess
the kinship, but now it was easy to pick out Soteric's
resemblance to her. That their coloring was alike
was not enough; many Namdaleni had similar
complexions. But Soteric had a harder version of
Helvis' ample mouth, and his face, like hers, was
wide with strong cheekbones. His nose, on the other
hand, was prominent enough to make any Videssian
proud, where hers was short and straight.
      He realized he was staring rudely. "Your
pardon. Will you come in and tell me your business
over an early mug of wine?"
      "Gladly." Soteric followed the tribune into the
barracks; Scaurus introduced him to the legionaries
they passed. The Namdalener's greetings were
friendly, but Marcus noticed he was unobtrusively
taking the measure both of the Romans and of the
hall in which they lived. It did not upset the tribune -
he would have done the same.
      When they sat, Soteric picked a chair whose
back faced no doors. With a smile, Marcus said,
"Now that you're quite sure you won't be suddenly
killed, will you risk a glass of red with me? I think
it's too sweet, but everyone hereabouts swears by
it."
       Soteric's clear skin made his flush easy to see.
"Am I as easy to read as that?" the Namdalener
asked, shaking his head ruefully. "I've been long
enough among the Videssians to mistrust my own
shadow, but not long enough, it seems, to keep the
fact to myself. Yes, the red will do excellently,
thank you."
       They sipped a while in silence. The barracks
hall was almost empty, as most of the Romans were
at their exercises. As soon as he saw the
Namdalener come in the front way, Phostis
Apokavkos had vanished out the back, wanting
nothing more to do with the mercenary.
       Finally Soteric put down his wine and looked
at Marcus over his steepled fingertips. "You aren't
what I thought you'd be," he said accusingly.
       "Ah?" To a statement of that sort, no real
answer seemed possible. The Roman lifted his glass
to his lips once more. The wine, he thought, really
was sticky.
       "Hemond - Phos rest him - and my sister both
claimed you had no patience for the poisonous
subtlety the Empire so loves, but I own I didn't
believe them. You were too friendly by half with the
Videssians and too quick to win the Emperor's trust.
But having met you, I see they were right after all."
       "I'm glad you think so, but in fact my subtlety
is so great you take it for frankness."
       Soteric flushed again. "I had that coming."
       "You would know better than I. Don't think too
little of your own delicacy, either; it's half an hour
now, and I have no more idea of why you're here
than when I first set eyes on you."
       "Surely you must know that - " the Namdalener
began, but then he saw he was judging Marcus by
the standards of his own people. "No, there's no
reason why you should," he decided, and explained,
"Our custom is to offer formal thanks to the man
who brings a slain warrior's sword back to his
family. Through Helvis, I am Hemond's closest
male-kin here, so the duty falls on me. Our house is
in your debt."
       "You would be deeper in my debt if I hadn't
seen Hemond that morning," Marcus said bitterly.
"You owe me no debt, but rather I one to you.
Thanks to that unlucky meeting, a man who was
becoming my friend is dead, a fine woman
widowed, and a lad I didn't even know existed is an
orphan. And you speak of debts?"
      "Our house is in your debt," Soteric repeated,
and Marcus realized the obligation was real to him,
whatever the circumstances. He shrugged and
spread his hands, unwillingly accepting it.
      Soteric nodded, his part in the Namdalener
usage satisfactorily completed. Marcus thought he
would now rise and take his leave, but he had other
things on his mind besides his custom-assumed
debt.
      He poured himself a second glass of wine,
settled back in his seat, and said, "I have some small
rank among my countrymen, and I speak for all of
us when I tell you we've watched your men on the
practice field. You and our cousins the Halogai are
the only folk we know who prefer to fight on foot.
From what we've seen, your style of war is different
from theirs, and a good deal more precise. Would
you be interested in exercising your men against
ours and showing us some of what you know? We're
horsemen by choice, true, but there are times and
terrains where fighting has to be on foot. What say
you?"
       Here was a proposal to which the tribune could
agree with pleasure. "We might learn something
from you as well," he said. "Your warriors, from the
little I know of them, are brave, well armed, and
better ordered than most of the troops I've seen
here."
       Soteric dipped his head, acknowledging the
compliment.
       After a few minutes of discussion to find a
time and day suitable to Romans and Namdaleni
alike, they arranged to meet three days hence, three
hundred men to a side. "Would you care to lay a
stake on the outcome?" Soteric asked. Not for the
first time, Marcus thought that the Namdaleni
seemed fond of betting.
       "Best keep it a small one, lest tempers in the
skirmish flare higher than they should," he said. He
thought briefly. "What do you say to this: let the
losing side treat the winners to a feast at their
barracks - food and drink both. Does that sound
fair?"
      "Outstandingly so," Soteric grinned. "It's better
than a money bet, because it should cure any ill
feelings left from the fight instead of letting them
fester. By Phos' Wager, Roman, I like you."
      The oath puzzled Marcus for a moment. Then
he remembered Apsimar's slighting reference to the
Namdalener belief that, though the battle between
good and evil was of unsure result, men should act
as though they felt good would win. With a theology
of that sort, the tribune thought, no wonder the men
of the Duchy enjoyed gambling.
      Soteric emptied his glass and started to rise,
then seemed to think better of it. "There is one other
message I bear," he said slowly.
      He was quiet so long Marcus asked, "Do you
intend to give it to me?"
      The islander surprised him by saying, "When I
was coming here, I did not. But, as I said before,
you Romans - and you yourself - are not what I'd
pictured you to be, and so I can pass it on. It comes
from Helvis, you see."
      That was enough to gain Scaurus' complete
attention. With no idea what to expect, he did his
best to keep everything but polite interest from his
face. Soteric went on, "She asked me, if I thought it
suitable, to tell you that she bears no grudge against
you for what befell, and that she feels the sword-
bringer's debt extends to her as well as to me."
      "She is gracious, and I'm grateful," Marcus
replied sincerely. It would have been all too easy,
after a few days of bitter reflection, for Helvis to
grow to hate him for his part in Hemond's death.
      ***
      At drill, the Romans proved as eager to
scrimmage with the Namdaleni as Scaurus had
thought they would. They did their best to catch an
officer's eye for inclusion in the select three
hundred, working harder than they had in weeks.
Marcus' wager touched their pride; in their
skirmishes at Imbros they had become convinced
they were better soldiers than any other infantry the
Empire had. They were keen to prove it again at the
capital.
      "You'd not be leaving me out of the shindy for
misliking fighting in line, now would you?"
Viridovix asked anxiously as they trudged back
through the city from the field.
       "I wouldn't think of it," Scaurus assured him.
"If I tried to, you'd come after me with that sword of
yours. Better you should use it on the Namdaleni."
       "All right, then."
       "Why this passion for carving up your fellow
man?" Gorgidas asked the Celt. "What satisfaction
do you take from it?"
       "For all your bark, my Greek friend, you're a
cold-blooded man, I ween. Fighting is wine and
women and gold all rolled up into one. Never do
you feel more alive than after beating your foe and
seeing him drop before you."
       "And never more dead than when he beats
you," Gorgidas retorted. "It would open your eyes to
see war from a doctor's view - the filth, the wounds,
the pus, the arms and legs that will never be sound
again, the face of a man dying over days with a stab
in his belly."
       "The glory!" Viridovix cried.
       "Tell it to a bloodsoaked boy who's just lost a
hand. Don't speak to me of glory; I patch the bodies
you build it on." The physician stamped off in
disgust.
      "If you'd lift your face from the muck you'd see
more!" Viridovix called after him.
      "Were you not strewing corpses through it, the
muck and I would never meet."
      "He hasn't the proper spirit at all, at all,"
Viridovix sadly told Scaurus.
      The tribune's thoughts kept slipping back to
Hemond. "Hasn't he? I wonder." The Gaul stared at
him, then moved away as if afraid he might have
something catching.
      Nepos was waiting for them back at the
barracks. The fat priest's face was too jowly to grow
truly long, but he was not a happy man. After polite
greetings, his voice became beseeching as he asked
Marcus, "Tell me, have you recalled anything of any
relevance whatever to Avshar in the time since the
Emperor's investigators questioned you? Anything
at all?"
      "I don't think I'll ever recall any more of
Avshar than they pulled out of me," Marcus said,
remembering the interrogation he had undergone.
"They couldn't have wrung more from me with
pincers and red-hot irons."
      Nepos' shoulders slumped. "I feared you would
say as much. Then we are stymied, and the accursed
Yezda - may Phos turn his countenance from him -
has won another round. Like a weasel, he slips
through the tiniest holes."
      The Roman had thought that, once Avshar
reached the western shore of the Cattle-Crossing,
any chance of laying hold of him was gone. He put
no faith in Khoumnos' fire-beacons to the frontier;
the border was too long, too weakly held, and too
often punctured by raiders - and even armies - out of
Yezd. But from Nepos' disappointment, it seemed
the priest had held real hopes of locating the wizard,
hopes now dashed. When Scaurus asked him about
this, he got a dispirited nod as answer.
      "Oh, indeed. There should have been nothing
easier than to trace him. When he fled the Hall of
the Ambassadors, he had to leave nearly all his gear
behind, not least the smoking altar to his dark god.
What was once his, of course, retains its affinity for
him, and through the possessions, our mages have
the skill to find their owner. Or so they should, at
any rate. But there was only a great emptiness
awaiting their search, a void as wide as the land
where Avshar could be hiding. He has baffled seven
of our most potent wizards, your servant among
them. His sorcery keeps to none of the scruples that
those who follow good needs must observe, and the
fiend is strong, strong."
     Nepos looked so gloomy Marcus wanted to
cheer him in some way, but he could find nothing
cheerful to say. Like a giant pursued by pygmies,
Avshar had shaken loose of those who would check
him and was free to unleash whatever blows against
the Empire his foully fertile mind could devise.
     "In the days before the Yezda swallowed them
down," Nepos said, "the folk of Makuran had a
favorite curse: 'May you live in interesting times.'
Until you and yours came to Videssos, my friend
from far away, it never struck me what a potent
curse that could be."
     The field where Videssos' soldiers trained for
war was just outside the southern end of the great
city wall. Looking southeast, it was easy to see the
island the Videssians called the Key, a purple mass
on the gray horizon. Lying between the Empire's
eastern and western dominions, it also commanded
the approach to the capital from the Sailors' Sea. It
was, Marcus knew, second only to the city itself as
center for the imperial fleets.
      But the tribune's thoughts were not really on
the distant Key, not when more urgent matters were
so much closer. His handpicked band of three
hundred legionaries was eyeing the Namdaleni
limbering themselves up at the far end of the drill-
field. Gorgidas had wanted to call the troop "the
Spartans," for their numbers were the same as those
of the gallant company which had faced Xerxes'
Persians at Thermopylae.
      Scaurus demurred, saying, "I know they are
part and parcel of your Greek pride, but we need a
name of better omen - as I recall, none of those men
survived."
      "No, two did live, it's said. One made up for it
with a brave fight at Plataia the next year; the other
hanged himself for shame. Still, I take your point."
      As he watched the Namdaleni stretch and twist,
the tribune thought, not for the first time, how
physically impressive they were. At least as much
taller than the Romans as were the Celts, their
height was made still more intimidating by the
conical helms they preferred. They were wider in
the shoulder and thicker in the chest than the Gauls,
too, and wore heavier armor. That, though, was
partly because they liked to fight from horseback;
afoot, so much mail might tire them quickly.
      Between the Namdaleni and Romans paced a
score of umpires, Videssians and Halogai of known
integrity. They bore whistles made of tin and white
wands. It was easy for the combatants to carry
spears without points, but swordplay, even in sport,
could grow bloody unless controlled.
      Marcus was getting used to the way rumors of
all sorts flashed through Videssos, but he was still
surprised by the crowd round the drill field's edge.
There were Romans and Namdaleni in plenty, of
course, and officers and men from Videssos' native
soldiery as well. But how had the colorfully dressed
civil servants and the large numbers of ordinary city
folk learned of the impending match? And the last
time Scaurus had seen the skinny envoy of the
Arshaum, he was running for his bow at the Hall of
the Ambassadors. How had he heard of this
meeting?
      The tribune had his answer to that, at least,
within moments. The nomad shouted something in
the Romans' direction and Viridovix replied with a
wave. The tall, fair Gaul and swarthy little
plainsman were odd to think of as a pair, but they
had plainly come to know and like each other.
      The chief umpire, a Haloga commander called
Zeprin the Red, beckoned the two leaders to the
center of the field. The burly Haloga took his name
not from his hair, which was blond, but from his
complexion. Atop a thick neck, his face was almost
the color of poached salmon. Gorgidas would have
called him a good candidate for apoplexy, but he
was not a man to argue with.
      Marcus was pleased to see Soteric as his
opposite number. There were higher-ranking
Namdaleni, true, but Dosti's son had the privilege of
heading the men of the Duchy because he had
arranged their meeting with the Romans.
      Zeprin looked sternly from one leader to the
other. His slow, drawling Haloga accent lent his
words gravity. "This frolic is for pride and for sport.
You know that, and your men know it - now. See
they remember it after they take a spear-shaft in the
ribs. We want no riots here." He flicked his eyes
about to see if any of his Videssian colleagues were
close enough to hear. Satisfied, he lowered his voice
to resume, "I've no real fears - there's not a city man
among you. Have fun - I only wish I had a sword in
my hand to join you, not this puny wand."
      Scaurus and Soteric trotted back to their troops.
The Romans were aligned in three maniples, two
side by side at the fore and the third in reserve
behind them. Their opponents formed in a single
deep column with a forward fence of spears. Soteric
was in the center of the first rank.
      When he was sure both sides were ready,
Zeprin swung his wand in a circle over his head. His
fellow umpires scrambled out of the way as the
Romans and Namdaleni bore down on each other.
      Just as the chief umpire had said, it was hard to
remember this was not real combat. The faces of the
Namdaleni were set and grim under their bar nasals.
The forward thrust of their bodies, their white-
knuckled hands tight on their long spears - poles,
the tribune reminded himself - their yells to terrify
their foes - only the cold glint of steel from their
spearheads was missing.
      Closer and closer they came. "Loose!" the
tribune shouted, and his front rank flung their
dummy pila. Most bounced harmlessly from the
shields of the Namdaleni. That was not as it should
be; with their points and soft-iron shanks, real pila
would have fouled the islanders' bucklers and forced
the mercenaries to discard them.
      Here and there a spear thudded home against
mail or flesh. Umpires tooted frantically and waved
their wands, ordering "killed" warriors to the
sidelines. One islander, who felt his armor would
safely have turned the spear, screamed abuse at the
referee who had declared him dead. The umpire was
a Haloga half a head taller than the incensed man of
the Duchy. He listened for a few moments, then
planted a huge hand on the Namdalener's chest and
shoved. His attention was back to the skirmish
before the mercenary hit the ground.
      The Namdaleni did not use their pikes as
throwing weapons. Standing up under the Roman
volleys, they accepted their mock casualties until
they could close with the legionaries. The weight of
their phalanx and the length of their thrusting-spears
began to tell then. Unable to get close enough to
their foes to use their swords with any effect, the
Romans saw their line begin to sag in the middle.
More and more now, the whistles and the waving,
tapping wands of the umpires ushered Scaurus' men
from the field.
      The men of the Duchy shouted in anticipated
victory. Gaius Philippus was beset by two
Namdaleni at once. His sword darted like an adder's
tongue as he desperately held them off. Then
Viridovix came rampaging up behind the easterners.
One he flattened with a brawny fist; he traded sword
strokes with the other for a few hot seconds, then,
delicate as a surgeon, barely touched the islander's
neck with the edge of his blade. Ashen-faced, the
Namdalener staggered away. He heard the umpire's
whistle with nothing but relief. The Romans - and
some of the Namdaleni as well - yelled applause for
the Celt's swordplay.
      More than one man had really fallen; even
without their points, the spearshafts both sides used
were effective weapons. Here a man staggered away
clutching a broken arm, there another was stretched
full length on the ground, stunned or worse by a
blow to the side of the head. A couple on each side
had real sword wounds, too. The men were doing
their best to use the flats of their blades instead of
edges or points, but accidents had to happen.
      Marcus paid scant heed to the casualties. He
was too busy trying to keep the Namdaleni from
splitting his wider battle line and beating the
Romans in detail. Also, thanks to his high-crested
helm and red cape of rank, he was a primary target
for the islanders. Some fought shy of his already
fabled sword, but to the bravest of the brave it was
challenge, not deterrent.
      Soteric had leaped for him at the outset, high
glee on his face. The Roman ducked the lunge of his
spear. Before he could reply with his own shorter
weapon, the swirl of fighting swept them apart.
Another Namdalener clouted him with a broken
spearshaft. The tribune saw stars and waited for
wand or whistle to take him out of action, but none
of the referees spotted the stroke.
      Scaurus fought his way through the press to his
senior centurion, who had just sent an islander from
the fray by slipping past his thrust and thumping
him on the chest with his sword. The tribune
bellowed his plan at the top of his lungs. Some of
the Namdaleni must have heard him, but he did not
care - where in this world would they have learned
Latin?
      When he was through, Gaius Philippus raised a
startled eyebrow. "You're sure?"
      "I'm sure. They're certain to beat us if we keep
fighting on their terms."
      "All right." The centurion brushed the sweat
from his forehead with his sword arm. "This puts it
all on one throw, doesn't it? But I think you're right -
we've got nothing to lose. The bastards are just too
big to deal with, straight up. You want me to lead it,
I hope?"
      "No one else. Take the Gaul along, too, if you
find him."
      Gaius Philippus grinned wolfishly. "Aye, if it
works he'd be just the man I want. Wish me luck."
He slipped back through the Roman ranks, shouting
orders as he went.
      The third, rearmost, maniple had not yet been
entirely committed to the fighting, despite the
pressure at the front. Gaius Philippus pulled about
thirty men from the last couple of ranks and led
them at a fast trot round the left side of the Romans'
line. As he ran, he caught Viridovix's eye and waved
for him to join them.
      "Good-bye to you, now," the Celt told the man
he was fighting; he checked his slash inches from
the flinching Namdalener's face. Before a nearby
umpire could tap his victim, Viridovix was free of
the crush and loping after the centurion and his
flanking party.
      The next minute or two would tell the story,
Marcus knew. If the Namdaleni could break through
his suddenly thinned line before Gaius Philippus
took them in flank, it would be all over. If not,
though, he would have built himself a miniature
Kynoskephalai. Just as Flaminius had against King
Philip of Macedon's phalanx one-hundred-forty
years before, he was using his troops' ability to
maneuver and fight in small units to overcome a
more heavily-armed, less wieldy foe.
      Learning Greek was good for something after
all, he thought irrelevantly. If it hadn't been for
Polybios, I might never have thought of this.
      It was going to be very close, though. The
Roman center was stretched almost to the breaking
point. There in the very heart of the fire stood the
legionary Minucius like a stone wall. His helmet
was jammed down over one ear by some blow he
had taken and his shield was almost beaten to bits,
but he was holding the Namdaleni at bay. Other
Romans, driven back by the men of the Duchy,
rallied to him and kept the line intact.
      Then the pressure on them suddenly eased as
Gaius Philippus and his little band crashed against
the easterners' flank. The pikes which had given the
Romans so much trouble now proved the bane of the
islanders. Hampered by their long shafts, the
Namdaleni could not spin to meet the new threat
without fouling each other and throwing their lines
into chaos. Yelling their own victory paean, the
Romans slid into the gaps thus exposed and worked
what would have been a ghastly slaughter. Behind
them came sweating, panting referees to reckon up
their victims.
      In this sort of fight, with all order fallen by the
wayside, Viridovix was at his best. Like some
runaway engine of destruction, he howled through
the disintegrating Namdalener ranks, smashing
pikeshafts to kindling and caving in shields with
blows of his mighty sword. His long red locks
streamed from under his helmet, a private battle
banner.
      As the Namdaleni faltered, the Romans' main
line surged forward too, completing the work the
flanking column had begun. The demoralized
islanders could not stand against them. Soon those
whose dooms the umpires had not decreed were a
small, struggling knot almost surrounded by their
conquerors.
      Soteric was still there, fighting with the best of
them. When he saw Marcus prowling round the
Namdaleni looking for an opening, he cried with a
laugh, "Vile foe, you'll not take me alive!" He
rushed at the tribune, sword held high over his head.
Grinning in return, Scaurus stepped up to meet him.
      Helvis' brother was quick and strong and as
skillful a user of the slashing style as any Marcus
had faced. The Roman had all he could do to keep
himself untouched, parrying with his own blade and
blocking Soteric's cuts with his shield. He was
panting at once, as was the islander - mock-fighting,
it seemed, was about as tiring as the real thing.
      A legionary ran up to help his commander.
Distracted by the new threat, Soteric left himself
unguarded for an instant, and Marcus' blade snaked
past his shield to ring off his breastplate. Zeprin the
Red tooted his whistle and pointed at the
Namdalener with his wand.
      Soteric threw both hands in the air. "Beset by
two at once, your valiant leader falls," he shouted to
his men. "The time has come to ask the enemy for
mercy." Quite realistically, he tumbled to the
ground. The few easterners still in the fray doffed
their helmets in token of surrender.
      "A cheer for our enemies in this fight, our
friends in the next!" Marcus called, and the Romans
responded with a will. The Namdaleni gave back the
compliment. The two groups left the field as one.
Marcus saw a man of the Duchy help a hobbling
Roman along, watched one of his legionaries
demonstrating the thrusting stroke to a pair of
easterners, and decided the morning's work had been
a great success.
      Miraculously risen from the slain, Soteric
caught up with the tribune. "Congratulations," he
said, taking the Roman's hand. "I have to ask your
indulgence in putting off payment of our stake for a
day or two. I felt so sure we would win, I fear I laid
in no supplies for a feast I didn't think we'd have to
give."
      "No hurry," Marcus said. "Your men fought
very well." He meant it; the Namdaleni, not natural
foot soldiers, had given the Romans all they wanted.
      "Thank you. I thought we were going to push
straight through you until you sprang that flanking
maneuver on us. That was quick thinking."
      "The idea wasn't altogether mine, I'm afraid."
He explained how he had borrowed Flaminius'
solution to a similar tactical problem.
      Soteric nodded thoughtfully. "Interesting," he
commented. "You're drawing on knowledge of war
no one here can match. That could be precious one
day."
      It was the Roman's turn to nod; the same
thought had crossed his mind. And because his
nature was one to grapple with all sides of a
question, he also wondered what the Videssians and
their neighbors knew of war that Rome had never
learned... and what price he would have to pay for
instruction.
      Torches, lamps, and fat beeswax candles kept
the courtyard in front of the Namdalener barracks
bright as day, though by now the sun was a couple
of hours gone. The courtyard, most of the time a
pleasant open place, was full of splintery benches
and tables hastily made by throwing boards over
trestles. The benches were full of feasters and the
tables piled high with food.
      Except for an unlucky handful who had drawn
sentry duty, all the Romans were there to collect the
prize they'd won from the Namdaleni. They and the
easterners seemed to have nothing but respect for
each other. Seating arrangements intermingled the
two groups, and those on both sides who had been in
the bout three days before swapped stories and
proudly displayed their bandages to their admiring
comrades.
      Roast pork, beef, mutton, and goat were the
main courses, eked out with fowl and the fish and
other seafood so easily available in the city. To the
dismay of the Namdaleni, most of the Romans gave
everything a liberal dousing with the spicy sauce of
fermented fish the Videssians loved. The men of the
Duchy kept the puritan palates of their northern
ancestors, but to the Romans liquamen was a
condiment known and loved for many years.
      "I suppose you like garlic, too," Soteric said
with a shudder.
      "Don't you?" Marcus replied, amazed anyone
could not.
      Wine, ale, and mead flowed like water. Thanks
to the sweetness of the local wines, the tribune
found he was developing a real taste for the thick,
dark ale the Videssians brewed. But when he said
that to Soteric, it was the islander's turn for surprise.
"This bilgewater?" he exclaimed. "You should come
to the Duchy, my friend, where you drink your ale
with a fork."
      Viridovix, an earthenware mug in his hand,
said, "Why anyone would drink ale - with a fork or
no, mind you - when there's the blood of the grape
to be had is past my understanding. In the land
where I was born, ale was a peasant's drink. For the
chiefs, now, it was wine, when we could get it and
when we could afford it. A dear thing it was, too,
that I'll tell you."
      Some fine wines came from Narbonese Gaul,
with its warm Mediterranean climate, but Marcus
realized he had seen no vines in Viridovix's northern
homeland. Like most Romans, the tribune had drunk
wine from childhood and took it very much for
granted. For the first time, it occurred to him how
precious it could be when hard to come by.
      At the Celt's right hand sat his nomad friend
from the far northwest; the Arshaum had given his
name as Arigh, son of Arghun. The night was mild,
but he wore a wolfskin jacket and a hat of red fox.
His hard, lean frame and the lithe, controlled
intensity of his movements reminded Scaurus of a
hunting hawk. Until now he had been too busy with
heroic eating to say much, but the talk of drink
gained his interest.
      "Ale, mead, wine - what difference does it
make?" he said. He spoke Videssian fairly well,
with a clipped, quick accent in perfect accord with
the way he carried himself. "Kavass, now, is a man's
drink, made from his horses' milk and with a kick as
strong."
      The stuff sounded ghastly, Marcus thought. He
also noticed that Arigh's derisive comment about the
drinks before him was not keeping him from
downing quite a lot of them.
      At the rate food was vanishing, it was no easy
task to keep the tables loaded. Almost as if they
were a bucket brigade battling a fire, the
Namdalener women made never-ending trips from
the kitchens with full platters and pitchers and back
to them with empties. Marcus was surprised to see
that Helvis was one of them. When he remarked on
it, Soteric said with a shrug, "She told me she would
sooner distract herself than sit alone and ache. What
could I say to that?"
      The servers were, most of them, much like the
soldiers' women Scaurus had known in Rome's
dominions. They thought nothing of trading bawdry
with the men they were attending; pats and pinches
brought as many laughs as squeaks of outrage.
Through all that Helvis passed unaffronted; she
wore her mourning like invisible armor. Her look of
quiet sorrow and her air of remoteness, even when
bending over a man's shoulder to fill his winecup,
were enough to deter the most callous wencher.
      More and more drink was fetched as time went
by, and less and less food. Never sedate to begin
with, the feast grew increasingly boisterous.
Romans and Namdaleni learned each other's curses,
tried to sing each other's songs, and clumsily
essayed each other's dances. A couple of fights
broke out, but they were instantly quelled by the
squabblers' neighbors - good feelings ran too high
tonight to give way to quarrels.
      More than a few people wandered into the
courtyard to see what the racket was about, and
most of them liked what they found. Scaurus saw
Taso Vones several tables away, a mug of wine in
one hand and a partridge leg in the other. He waved
to the ambassador of Khatrish, who made his way
through the crowd and squeezed in beside him.
      "You're kind to want anything to do with me,"
he said to the tribune, "especially if you recall that
the last time I set eyes on you, I did nothing but
flee."
      Marcus had drunk enough wine and ale to
make him brush aside such trifles. "Think nothing of
it," he said grandly. "It was Avshar we were after,
not you." That, though, served to remind him of the
pursuit and its grievous outcome. He subsided,
feeling like a blockhead.
      Vones cocked his head to the side and watched
the Roman out of one eye, for all the world like
some bright-eyed little sparrow. "How curious," he
said. "You of all people are the last I'd expect to find
hobnobbing with the Namdaleni."
      "Why don't you shut up, Taso?" Soteric said,
but from his resigned tone he felt it would do no
good. Evidently he knew the Khatrisher and, like so
many, was used to giving him leeway. "I think you
talk for the sake of hearing yourself."
      "What better reason?" Vones returned with a
smile.
      He would have said more, but Marcus, his
curiosity fired by Vones' comment, interrupted him.
"What's wrong with these folk?" he asked, waving
to encompass the courtyard and everyone in it. "We
get on well with them. Is something amiss in that?"
      "Easy, easy." The ambassador laid a warning
hand on his arm, and he realized how loudly he'd
spoken. "Why don't we take an evening stroll? The
night-blooming jasmine is particularly sweet this
time of year, don't you think?" He turned to Soteric.
"Don't worry, my island friend. I shan't pick his
pocket - I can guess what you have planned for
later."
      Soteric shrugged; he had gotten involved in a
conversation with the Namdalener on his left, who
was making a point about hunting dogs. "I don't like
the hook-nosed breed," the man was saying. "It
makes their mouths too small to hold the hare. And
if they have gray eyes, too, so much the worse - they
can't see to grab the beast in the first place."
      "About that I'm not so sure," Soteric said,
swigging. The more he drank, the more his island
drawl came to the fore; his last word had sounded
like "shoo-ah." He went on, "Gray-eyed hounds
have keen noses, they say."
      With scant interest in hunting dogs, gray-eyed
or otherwise, Marcus was willing to follow Taso
Vones as he sauntered out toward the darkness
beyond the courtyard. The emissary kept up a
nonstop chatter about nightflowers and other matters
of small consequence until they had cleared the
press. When he was satisfied no one could overhear,
his manner changed. Giving the Roman more of that
one-eyed study, he said, "I have yet to decide if you
are the cleverest man or the greatest fool I've met
lately."
      "Do you always speak in riddles?" Marcus
asked.
      "Most of the time, actually; it's good practice
for a diplomat. But forget me for the moment and
look at yourself. When you met Avshar with
swords, I felt sure our acquaintance would be short.
But you won, and it seemed you knew what you
were all about after all. And now this!"
      "Now what?" the tribune wondered, thoroughly
bewildered.
      "You and your men beat the Namdaleni in your
exercise. Well and good. You must have made
Nephon Khoumnos proud and likely brightened the
Emperor's day as well. The men of the Duchy are
very good troops; Mavrikios will be glad to know he
has loyal men who can stand against them at need."
      He shot an accusing finger at Scaurus. "Or are
you loyal? Having beaten them, what do you do?
Boast of it? Hardly. You crack a bottle with them as
if you and they were the best of friends. Are you
trying to make the Emperor nervous? Or do you
think the Sevastos will like you better now? After
those herrings, I doubt it - yes, I saw you pause, and
your stomach seems sound enough to me."
      "What has Sphrantzes to do with - " Scaurus
began. His mouth snapped shut before the question
was done, for he knew the answer. The Namdaleni
were mercenaries, of course, but what that meant
had not struck him until now. It was not the present
Emperor or his backers who employed foreign
troops. That had been the policy of the bureaucrats
of the capital, who used their hired swords to keep
Gavras and his ilk in check while they ran the
Empire for their own benefit. . . . And at their head
was Vardanes Sphrantzes.
      He swore, first in Videssian for Taso Vones'
benefit, then in Latin to relieve his own feelings. "I
see you understand me now," Vones said.
      "This is nothing more than settling up a bet,"
Scaurus protested. Taso Vones lifted an eloquent
eyebrow. No other comment was needed. The
Roman knew how easy it was to judge a man by the
company he kept. Caesar himself, in his younger
days, had fallen into danger through his association
with Marius' defeated faction.
      Besides, there was no denying he did like the
Namdaleni. They had a workmanlike approach to
life, one rather like the Romans'. They did not show
the Videssians' touchy pride and deviousness, nor
yet the dour fatalism of the Halogai. The men of the
Duchy did the best with what they had, an attitude
that marched well with the tribune's Stoic
background. There are other reasons, too, he
whispered deep inside himself.
      He remarked, "It's rather too late to worry
about it now, wouldn't you say?" Then he asked,
"Why bother warning me? We hardly know each
other."
      Vones laughed out loud; like the patriarch
Balsamon's, his laugh had real merriment in it. He
said, "I've held my post in the city eight years now
and I'm scarcely the oldest hand here - Gawtruz has
been an ambassador for twice that long and more. I
know everyone, and everyone knows me. We know
the games we play, the tricks we try, the bargains
we drive - and most of us, I think, are bloody bored.
I know I am, sometimes.
      "You, though, you and your Ronams - " He
watched Marcus flinch, " - are a new pair of dice in
the box, and loaded dice at that. It's whether you
throw ones or sixes that remains to be seen." He
scratched his fuzzy-bearded chin. "Which reminds
me, we probably should be wandering back. Soteric
won't talk about hook-nosed hounds forever, I
promise you that."
      When the tribune pressed him to explain
himself, he refused, saying, "You'll see soon
enough, I suspect." He headed toward the courtyard,
leaving Scaurus the choice of staying behind by
himself or following. He followed.
      Taso Vones grunted in satisfaction when they
rounded the last corner. "A little early," he said, "but
not bad. Too early is better than too late, else we'd
not find room at the games we favor - not for stakes
we can afford, at any rate." Gold and silver clinked
as he dug in his pouch for coins.
      As he stared at the scene before him, Marcus
wondered about his earlier analysis of Namdalener
character. Were they fond of gambling because they
believed in Phos' Wager, or had their theologians
concocted the Wager because they were gamblers
born? At the moment, he would have bet on the
latter - and likely found an islander to cover his
stake.
      Most of the tables and benches had
disappeared. In their places were circles chalked on
the ground for dice-throwing, wheels of fortune,
boards for tossing darts, others for hurling knives, a
wide cleared space with a metal basin set in its
center for throwing the dregs from winecups - as he
expected, Scaurus saw Gorgidas there; the Greek
was a dab hand at kottabos - and other games of
skill or chance the tribune did not immediately
recognize.
      He rummaged in his own pouch to see what
money he had. It was about as he had thought -
some bronze pieces of irregular size and weight,
some rather better silver, and half a dozen
goldpieces, each about the size of his thumbnail.
The older, more worn coins were fine gold, but the
newer ones were made pale by an admixture of
silver or blushed red with copper. With its revenues
falling, the government, as governments will, had
resorted to cheapening the currency. All its gold
coinage, of whatever age, was nominally of equal
value, but in the markets and shops the old pieces
took a man further.
      Videssian rules at dice, he had learned during
the long winter at Imbros, were different from those
at Rome. They used two dice here, not three, and
Venus - a triple six, the best throw in the game he
knew - would only have brought a hoot of derision
even with a third dice allowed. A pair of ones -
"Phos' little suns," they called them - was the local
goal. You kept the dice until you threw their
opposite - "the demons," a double six - in which
case you lost. There were side bets on which you
would roll first, how many throws you would keep
the dice, and anything else an ingenious gambler
could find to bet on.
      The first time the dice came his way, Scaurus
threw the suns three times before the demons turned
up to send the little bone cubes on to the
Namdalener at his left. That gave him a bigger stake
to play with, one he promptly lost in his next turn
with the bones - on his very first cast, twin sixes
stared balefully up at him.
      Shouts and applause came from the circle
round the kottabos basin. Marcus looked up from his
own play for a moment, to find it was just as he'd
thought; with that deadly wristflick of his, Gorgidas
was making the basin ring like a bell, flicking in the
lees from farther and farther away. If he didn't get
too drunk to stand, he'd own half the Namdaleni
before the night was through.
       Scaurus' own luck was mixed; he would win a
little before dropping it again, get behind and make
it up. His area of attention shrank to the chalked
circle before him - the money in it, the dice spinning
through, the men's hands reaching in to pick up the
cubes, gather in their winnings, or lay new bets.
       Then, suddenly, the hand that took the dice was
not masculine at all, but a smooth, slim-wristed
lady's hand with painted nails and an emerald ring
on the forefinger. Startled, Marcus looked up to see
Komitta Rhangavve, with Thorisin Gavras beside
her. The Sevastokrator wore ordinary trousers and
tunic and could have been in the game an hour ago,
for all Scaurus had noticed.
       Komitta slightly misinterpreted his surprise.
Smiling prettily at him, she said, "I know it's against
custom, but I so love to play myself. Do you mind?"
Her tone warned that he had better not.
       That he really did not care made it easier.
"Certainly not, my lady." On the other hand, even if
he had minded, he could scarcely say so, not to the
Sevastokrator's woman.
       She won twice in quick succession, letting her
stake ride each time. When her third series of rolls
ended by wiping her out, she angrily hurled the dice
away and cursed with unladylike fluency. The
gamblers snickered. Someone found a new pair of
dice and from that moment she was an accepted
member of the circle.
      With his landed wealth, Thorisin could easily
have run the other dicers from the game by betting
more than they could afford to cover. Remembering
his hundred goldpiece bet with Vardanes
Sphrantzes, Marcus knew the Sevastokrator was not
averse to playing for high stakes. But, matched
against men of limited means, he was content to risk
now a goldpiece, now two, or sometimes a handful
of silver. He took his wins and losses as seriously as
if he were playing for provinces - whatever he did,
he liked to do well. He was a canny gambler, too;
before long, a good-sized pile of gold and silver lay
before him.
      "Did you get that at swordpoint, or are they
losing on purpose to curry favor with you?"
someone asked the Sevastokrator, and Marcus was
amazed to see Mavrikios Gavras standing over his
brother. The Emperor was no more regally dressed
than the Sevastokrator and attended only by a pair of
Haloga bodyguards.
      "You don't know skill when you see it,"
Thorisin retorted.
      "Hah!" He raked in another stake as the
Namdalener across from him rolled the demons.
      "Move over and let your elder show you how
it's done. I've been listening to accountants since this
morning and I've had a gutful of, 'I'm most sorry,
your Imperial Majesty, but I cannot advise that at
the present time.' Bah! Sometimes I think court
ceremonial is a slow poison the bureaucrats invented
to bore usurpers to death so they can sneak back into
power themselves." He grinned at Marcus. "My
daughter insists it's otherwise, but I don't believe her
anymore."
      With a murmured, "Thank you, sweetheart," he
took a cup from a passing girl. The lass whirled in
surprise as she realized whom she'd served.
Mavrikios might not trust the Namdaleni where his
Empire was concerned, Scaurus thought, but he
certainly had no fears for his own person among
them.
      The Gavrai, naturally, were on opposite sides
of every bet. As he'd been doing most of the
evening, Thorisin won several times in a row after
his brother sat down. "Go back to your pen-pushers
and leave dicing to people who understand it," he
said. "You'll get a fart from a dead man before you
collect a copper from me."
      Mavrikios snorted. "Even a blind hog stumbles
across an acorn now and then. There we go!" he
exclaimed. Marcus had just thrown suns, and
Thorisin had bet against him. The Emperor turned to
his brother, palm out. With a shrug, Thorisin passed
the stake to him.
      Marcus soon decided these were two men who
should not gamble against each other. Both were
such intense competitors that they took losing
personally, and the good humor in their banter
quickly disappeared. They were tight-lipped with
concentration on the dice; their bets against each
other were far greater than any others round the
circle. Thorisin's earlier winnings vanished. When
Mavrikios rolled the suns yet another time, his
brother had to reach into his pouch to pay.
      Mavrikios stared at the coins he produced.
"What's this?" he said, flinging half of them to the
ground. "You'd pay me with money from Yezd?"
      Thorisin shrugged once more. "They look like
gold to me, and finer than what we mint these days,
for that matter." He scooped them up and tossed
them far into the crowd. Glad cries said they were
not lost for long. Seeing his brother's expression,
Thorisin said, "If it won't pay my scot, what good is
money to me?" Mavrikios slowly turned a dull red.
      Everyone who saw or heard the exchange
between the two brothers did his best to pretend he
had not. Nevertheless, the camaraderie the dicing
circle had enjoyed was shattered, and Marcus was
not sorry to see the game break up a few minutes
later. It could only bode ill for Videssos when the
Emperor's brother showed him up in public, and he
knew the story would do nothing but grow in the
telling.

     Climbing a stairway in the great building that
housed the Grand Courtroom - the opposite side of
the building from Nephon Khoumnos' workplace -
Marcus wondered how much the story had grown in
the past few days. Ahead of him on the stair was the
thin clerk who had brought the tribune the invitation
to this meeting, and ahead of him was a destination
to which Scaurus had never thought to be bidden -
the offices of Vardones Sphrantzes.
      "This way, if you please," the clerk said,
turning to his left as he reached the top of the stairs.
He led the Roman past a series of large rooms,
through whose open doors Scaurus could see whole
maniples of men busy with stylus and waxed tablet,
pen, ink, and parchment, and the trays of reckoning
beads with which skilled Videssians could calculate
magically fast. The tribune was far more at home
with the power of the barracks hall, but, watching
the bureaucrats at work in this nerve center of
Empire, he could not deny that power dwelt here
too.
      A pair of stocky nomads from the plains of
Pardraya stood sentry at the door the clerk was
approaching. Their faces, blank with boredom
before, turned alert when they spied him and stormy
when they recognized the Roman behind him.
Scaurus had neither wanted nor had much to do with
the Khamorth since coming to Videssos, but it was
plain they felt he had brought disgrace down on
them by exposing one of their number as Avshar's
tool.
      From the black looks they were giving him,
Marcus got the notion they would have much
preferred it if their countryman had succeeded in
driving his demon-haunted blade hilt-deep in the
Roman.
      "The boss wants to see this?" one of them
asked the tribune's guide, jerking his thumb at
Scaurus in a deliberately offensive way. "You're
sure?"
      "Of course I'm sure," the clerk snapped. "Now
stand aside, will you? You'll win no thanks for
interfering in his business."
      Insolently slow, the Khamorth gave way. As
Scaurus stepped past them, one made a ghastly
gurgle, like the dying gasp of a man with a slit
throat. It was so horribly authentic the tribune
whipped his head around before he could stop
himself. The plainsman grinned nastily.
      Furious at losing face before the barbarian,
Scaurus cranked his defenses to the highest pitch of
readiness as he walked into the Sevastos' office.
When the functionary who led him announced his
name, he bowed with the same punctiliousness he
would have shown the Emperor - not by any act of
omission would he give Sphrantzes a moral
advantage over him.
      "Come in, come in, you are most welcome,"
the Sevastos said. As always, his smooth, deep voice
revealed nothing but what he wanted in it; at the
moment, a cultured affability.
      Before Marcus could fully focus his suspicions
on the Sevastos, the office's other occupant, a
gangling, scraggly-bearded fellow in his early
twenties, bounced up from his seat to shake the
tribune's hand. "A brilliant martial display, truly
brilliant!" he exclaimed, adding, "I saw you beat the
Namdaleni. Had it been crimson-handed war and
not mere sport, the ground would have been a thirsty
sponge to drink their blood. Brilliant!" he said again.
      "Er - yes, of course," Scaurus muttered, at a
loss to reconcile this unwarlike-seeming youth with
his gore-filled talk.
      Vardanes Sphrantzes coughed drily. "One of
the reasons I asked you here, my outland friend, was
to present you to my nephew, the spatharios Ortaias
Sphrantzes. Since your victory over the easterners,
he's done nothing but pester me to arrange the
meeting."
       While spatharios had the literal meaing of
"sword-bearer," it was a catch-all title, often with
little more real meaning than "aide." In young
Ortaias' case, that seemed just as well; he looked as
if the effort of toting a sword would be too much for
him.
       He was, though, nothing if not an enthusiast. "I
was fascinated to see you successfully oppose the
Namdaleni on foot," he said. "In his Art of
Generalship Mindes Kalokyres recommends plying
them with arrows from afar and strongly implies
they are invincible at close quarters. It's a great pity
he is a century in his grave; I should have like to
hear his comments on your refutation of his thesis."
       "That would be interesting, I'm sure, your
excellency," Scaurus agreed, wondering how much
of Ortaias' speech he was understanding. The young
noble spoke very quickly; this, coupled with his
affected accent and his evident love for long words,
made following his meaning a trial for someone
with the tribune's imperfect grasp of Videssian.
      "Kalokyres is our greatest commentator on
things military," Ortaias' uncle explained
courteously. "Do sit down, both of you," he urged.
"Scaurus - " In Videssian it sounded more like
Scavros. " - take some wine if you will. It's a fine
vintage, from the western province of Raban, and
rather hard to come by in these sorry times."
      The pale wine poured silkily from its elegant
alabaster carafe. Marcus sipped once for politeness'
sake, then a second time with real appreciation; this
was more to his liking than any wine he'd yet
sampled in Videssos.
      "I thought you would enjoy it," Vardanes said,
drinking with him. "It's a touch too piquant for me
to favor ordinarily, but it is a pleasant change of
pace." Scaurus gave the Sevastos his reluctant
admiration. It could hardly have been easy for him
to learn the Roman's taste in wine and then to meet
it. The obvious effort Sphrantzes was making to put
him at his ease only made him wonder further what
the real object of this meeting might be.
      Whatever it was, the Sevastos was in no hurry
to get around to it. He spoke with charm and wit of
bits of gossip that had crossed his path in the past
few days and did not spare his fellow bureaucrats.
"There are those," he remarked, "who think the
mark for a thing in a ledger is the thing itself."
Raising his cup to his lips, he went on, "It takes but
a taste of the wine to see how foolish they are."
      The tribune had to agree, but noted how
possessively Sphrantzes' hand curled over the
polished surface of the cup.
      The Sevastos' office was more richly furnished
than Mavrikios Gavras' private chambers, with wall
hangings of silk brocade shot through with gold and
silver threads and upholstered couches and chairs
whose ebony arms were inlaid with ivory and
semiprecious stones. Yet the dominant impression
was not one of sybaritic decadence, but rather of a
man who truly loved his comforts without being
ruled by them.
      In Rome Marcus had known men who enjoyed
having fish ponds set in their villas' gardens, but he
had never seen a decoration like the one on
Sphrantzes' desk - a globular tank of clear glass with
several small, brightly colored fish darting through
waterplants rooted in gravel. In a strange way, it was
soothing to watch. The tribune's eyes kept coming
back to it, and Sphrantzes gazed fondly at his little
pets in their transparent enclosure.
      He saw Scaurus looking at them. "One of my
servants has the duty of catching enough gnats, flies,
and suchlike creatures to keep them alive. He's
certain I've lost my wits, but I pay him enough that
he doesn't say so."
      By this time the Roman had decided
Sphrantzes' summons masked nothing more sinister
than a social call. He was beginning to muster
excuses for leaving when the Sevastos remarked,
"I'm glad to see no hard feelings exist between
yourselves and the Namdaleni after your recent
tussle."
      "Indeed yes! That is most fortunate!" Ortaias
said enthusiastically. "The tenacity of the men of the
Duchy is legendary, as is their fortitude. When
linked to the specialized infantry skills you Ronams
-"
      "Romans," his uncle corrected him.
      "Your pardon," Ortaias said, flushing. Thrown
off his stride, he finished with the simplest sentence
Scaurus had heard from him. "You'll fight really
well for us!"
      "I hope so, your excellence," Marcus replied.
Interested by Vardanes' mention of the islanders, he
decided to stay a bit longer. Maybe the Sevastos
would be forthcoming after all.
      "My nephew is right," the elder Sphrantzes
said. "It would be unfortunate if there were a lasting
grudge between yourselves and the Namdaleni.
They have served us well in the past, and we expect
the same of you. There is already too much strife
within our army, too much talk of native troops as
opposed to mercenaries. Every soldier is a
mercenary, but with some, paymaster and king are
one and the same."
      The tribune steepled his fingers without
replying. The Sevastos' last statement, as far as he
was concerned, was nonsense, and dangerous
nonsense at that. Nor did he think Sphrantzes
believed it any more than he did - whatever else he
was, Vardanes Sphrantzes was no fool.
      He also wondered how Vardanes was using his
"we" and "us." Did he speak as head of the
bureaucratic faction, as prime minister of all the
Empire, or with the royal first person plural? He
wondered if Sphrantzes knew himself.
      "It's regrettable but true," the Sevastos was
saying, "that foreign-born troops do not have the
fairest name in the Empire. One reason is that
they've so often had to be used against rebels from
the back of beyond, men who, even on the throne,
find no more dignity than they did in the hayseed
robbers' nests from which they sprang." For the first
time, his disdain rang clear.
      "They have no breeding!" Ortaias Sphrantzes
was saying. "None! Why, Mavrikios Gavras' great-
grandfather was a goatherd, while we Sphrantzai - "
The cold stare Vandanes sent his way stopped him
in confusion.
      "Forgive my nephew once more, I beg you,"
the Sevastos said smoothly. "He speaks with youth's
usual exaggeration. His Imperial Majesty's family
has been of noble rank for nearly two centuries."
But by the irony still in his voice, he did not find
that long at all.
      The conversation drifted back toward triviality,
this time for good. A curiously indecisive meeting,
Marcus thought on his way back to the barracks. He
had expected the Sevastos to show more of his mind
but, on reflection, there was no reason why he
should do so to a man he felt to be of the opposite
side. Then too, with one slip of the tongue his
nephew probably had revealed a good deal more
than the senior Sphrantzes wanted known.
      Two other things occurred to the tribune. The
first was that Taso Vones was a lucky acquaintance.
The little Khatrisher had an uncanny knowledge of
Videssian affairs and was willing to share it. The
second was a conclusion he reached while
wondering why he still distrusted Vardanes
Sphrantzes so much. It was utterly in character, he
decided, for the Sevastos to delight in keeping
small, helpless creatures in a transparent cage.
                       VIII

      AS THE WEEKS PASSED AFTER
MAVRIKIOS GAVRAS' RINGING declaration of
war against Yezd, Videssos began filling with
warriors mustered to wage the great campaign the
Emperor had planned. The gardens, orchards, and
other open spaces which made the imperial capital
such a delight saw tent cities spring up on them like
mushrooms after a rain. Every street, it seemed, had
its contingent of soldiers swaggering along,
elbowing civilians to one side, on the prowl for
food, drink, and women... or simply standing and
gaping at the wonders Videssos offered the
newcomer's eye.
      Troops flowed in day after day. The Emperor
pulled men from garrisons in towns he reckoned
safe, to add weight to his striking force. A hundred
men came from here, four hundred more from there,
another two hundred from somewhere else. Marcus
heard that Imbros' troops had arrived and wondered
if Skapti Modolf's son was among them. Even the
saturnine Haloga would be hard pressed to call the
city a less pleasant place than Imbros.
      The Empire's own soldiers were not the only
ones to swell Videssos to the bursting point. True to
his promise, Mavrikios sent his neighbors a call for
mercenaries against Yezd, and the response was
good. Videssian ships sailing from Prista, the
Empire's watchport on the northern coast of the
Videssian Sea, brought companies of Khamorth
from the plains, and their steppe-ponies with them.
By special leave, other bands of nomads were
permitted to cross the Astris River. They came south
to the capital by land, paralleling the seacoast and,
in the latter stage of their journey, following the
route the Romans had used from Imbros. Parties of
Videssian outriders made sure the plainsmen did not
plunder the countryside.
      Khatrish, whose border marched with
Videssos' eastern frontier, sent the Empire a troop of
light cavalry. In gear and appearance they were
about halfway between imperials and
plainsdwellers, whose bloods they shared. Most of
them seemed to have the outspoken cheeriness of
Taso Vones. Scaurus had a chance to get acquainted
with a fair number of them at a heroic feast the
Khatrisher ambassador put together. Viridovix made
the night memorable by throwing a Khamorth clear
through a very stout wineshop door without
bothering to open it first. Vones paid the repair costs
out of his own pocket, declaring, "Strength like that
deserves to be honored."
      "Foosh!" the Celt protested. "The man was a
natural-born damn fool, the which is proven by the
hardness of his head. For no other reason did he
make so fine a battering ram."
      The Namdaleni also heeded the Empire's
rallying cry. The Duchy's lean square-riggers
brought Videssos two regiments to fight the Yezda.
Getting them into the capital, however, was a tricky
busines. Namdalen and the Empire were foes too
recent for much trust to exist on either side.
Mavrikios, while glad of the manpower, was not
anxious to see Namdalener warships anchored at
Videssos' quays, suspecting the islanders' piratical
instincts might get the better of their good
intentions. Thus the Namdaleni transshipped at the
Key and came to the city in imperial hulls. The
matter-of-fact way they accepted the Emperor's
solution convinced Marcus that all Gavras'
forebodings were justified.
      "How right you are," Gaius Philippus agreed.
"They don't so much as bother pretending
innocence. If they got a quarter of a chance they'd
jump Mavrikios without even blinking. He knows it,
and they know he knows it. And on those terms they
can deal with each other."
      For the Romans, spring and early summer were
a time of adjustment, a time to find and to make
their place in their new homeland. Their position in
the army was never in doubt, not after the win over
the men of the Duchy in their mock-combat. Marcus
became the oracle of infantry. Almost daily, high-
ranking Videssians or mercenary officers would
appear at the Roman drills to watch and question.
The tribune found it flattering and ironically
amusing, as he knew he was but an amateur soldier.
      When other business kept him from leading the
exercises, the duty of coping with observers fell on
Gaius Philippus. The senior centurion got on well
with fellow professionals, but did not suffer fools
gladly. After one such meeting, he asked Scaurus,
"Who's the lanky half-shaved whiffet always
hanging about? You know, the fellow with the book
under one arm."
      "Ortaias Sphrantzes?" Marcus asked with a
sinking feeling.
      "That's the one. He wanted to know how I
heartened the men before a battle; and before I could
get a word out of my mouth, he started a harangue
he must have written himself, the stupid puppy. To
win a battle after that speech, he'd need to be
leading a crew of demigods."
      "You didn't tell him so, I hope?"
      "Me? I told him he should save it for the
enemy - he'd bore them to death and win without a
fight. He went away."
      "Oh." For the next few days the tribune kept
expecting poison in the radishes, or at least a
summons from Ortaias' uncle. But nothing
happened. Either the young Sphrantzes had not told
the Sevastos of his embarrassment, or Vardanes was
resigned to his nephew stubbing his toes every now
and again. Marcus judged it was the former;
resignation was not an expression he could easily
see on Vardanes Sphrantzes' face.
      Just as the Romans changed Videssian notions
of military practice, the Empire's way of life had its
effect on them. To the tribune's surprise, many of
his men began to follow Phos. While he had nothing
against Videssos' faith, it also had no appeal for
him. He worried lest the legionaries' adoption of the
Empire's god was the first step in forgetting Rome.
      Gaius Philippus shared his concern. "It's not
right, hearing the lads go, 'Phos fry you!' when
someone trips over their feet. We should order them
to stop that nonsense right now."
      Looking for more disinterested advice, the
tribune put the question to Gorgidas. "An order?
Don't be absurd. You can tell a man what to do, but
even your iron-fisted centurion can't tell him what to
think. They'll only disobey if he tries. And if they
don't follow the one command, who's to say they'll
follow the next? It's easiest to ride a horse in the
direction he's already going."
      Scaurus felt the sense of the doctor's words; the
Greek articulated the conclusion he was reaching
himself. But the certainty in Gorgidas' next remark
rocked him back on his heels. "Of course we'll
forget Rome - and Greece, and Gaul."
      "What? Never!" Marcus said with unthinking
rejection.
      "Come now, in your head you know I'm right,
say your heart what it will. Oh, I don't mean every
memory of the world we knew will disappear; that's
truly impossible. But as the years pass, Videssos
will lay its hand on us all, gently, yes, but the day
will come when you discover you've forgotten the
names of half your parents' neighbors... and it won't
really bother you." Gorgidas' eyes were far away.
      The tribune shivered. "You see a long way
ahead, don't you?"
      "Eh? No, a long way behind. I tore my life up
by the roots once before, when I left Elis to ply my
trade at Rome. It gives me a sense of proportion you
may not have.
      "Besides," the Greek went on, "eventually we'll
have a good many Videssians in our own ranks.
Apokavkos is doing well, and we'll not find more
Romans to make up the losses we'll take."
      Scaurus did not reply; Gorgidas had a gift for
bringing up things he would rather not think about.
He did resolve to fix his every memory so firmly it
could never escape. Even as he made the resolution,
he felt the cold wind of futility at his back. Well,
then, the best you can, he told himself, and was
satisfied. Failure was no disgrace; indifference was.
      Videssian usages also began to change what
Marcus had thought a fundamental part of Roman
military thinking - its attitude toward women. The
army of Rome was so often on campaign that
marriage during legionary service was forbidden as
being bad for discipline. Neither the Videssians nor
their mercenary soldiers followed that rule. They
spent much of their time in garrison duty, which
gave them the chance to form long-lasting
relationships that could not have existed in a more
active army.
      As with the worship of the Empire's god, the
tribune knew he could not keep his men from
uniting with Videssos' women. He would have faced
mutiny had he tried, the more so as the local soldiers
enjoyed the privilege the legionaries were seeking.
First one and then a second of the four barracks
halls the Romans used was transformed by hastily
erected partitions of wood and cloth into quarters
where privacy could be had. Nor was it long before
the first proud Romans could boast that they would
be the fathers of fine sons - or so they hoped - to
take their places.
      Gaius Philippus grumbled more than ever. "I
can see us in a few years' time - brats squalling
underfoot, troopers brawling because their queans
had a spat. Mars above, what are we coming to?" To
forestall the evil day, he worked the legionaries
harder than before.
      Scaurus had reservations too, but he noted that
while most of the Namdaleni had women, it did not
seem to blunt their edge. In a way, he could even see
it as an advantage - with such an intimate stake in
Videssos' survival, the legionaries might fight
harder for the Empire.
      Yet he also realized that acquiring mates was
another tap on the wedge Videssos was driving into
the souls of his men, another step in their absorption
into the Empire. Every time the tribune saw a
Roman walk by with his attention solely on the
woman whose waist his arm encircled, he felt again
the inevitability of Gorgidas' words. The Romans
were a drop of ink fallen into a vast lake; their color
had to fade with time.
      Of all the peoples they came to know in the
capital, the legionaries seemed to blend best with the
Namdaleni. It embarrassed Scaurus, who reserved
his loyalty for the Emperor and knew the men of the
Duchy would cheerfully gut Videssos if ever they
saw their chance. But there was no getting around it
- Roman and Namdalener took to one another like
long-separated relatives.
      Maybe the skirmish and feast they had shared
made friendship easier; maybe it was simply that the
Namdaleni were less reserved than Videssians and
more willing to meet the Romans halfway.
Whatever the reason, legionaries were always
welcome in taverns that catered to the easterners,
and constant traffic flowed between the islanders'
barracks and those housing the Romans.
      When Marcus worried his soldiers' fondness
for the men of the Duchy would undermine the
friendships he'd built up with the Videssians, Gaius
Philippus put an arm round his shoulder. "You want
friends everywhere," he said, speaking like a much
older brother. "It's your age, I suppose; everyone in
his thirties thinks he needs friends. Once you reach
your forties, you find they won't save you any more
than love did." "To the crows with you!" Marcus
exclaimed, appalled. "You're worse than Gorgidas."
      One morning, Soteric Dosti's son came to
invite several of the Roman officers to that day's
Namdalener drill. "Aye, you bettered us afoot," he
said, "but now you'll see us at our best."
      Marcus had watched the Namedaleni work
before and had a healthy respect for their hard-
hitting cavalry. He also approved of their style of
practice. Like the Romans, they made their training
as much like battle as they could, so no one would
be surprised on the true field of combat. But from
the smug grin Soteric was trying to hide, this
invitation was to something special.
      A few Khamorth were practicing archery at the
drillfield's edge. Their short, double-curved bows
sent arrow after arrow whacking into the straw-
stuffed hides they had set up as targets. They and the
party Marcus led were the only non-Namdaleni on
the field that day.
      At one end stood a long row of hay bales, at
the other, almost equally still, a line of mounted
islanders. The men of the Duchy were in full
caparison. Streamers of bright ribbon fluttered from
their helms, their lances, and their big horses'
trappings. Each wore over his chain mail shirt a
surcoat of a color to match his streamers. A hundred
lances went up in salute as one when the easterners
caught sight of the Romans.
      "Och, what a brave show," Viridovix said
admiringly. Scaurus thought the Gaul had found the
perfect word; this was a show, something prepared
specially for his benefit. He resolved to judge it on
that basis if he could.
      The commander of the Namdaleni barked an
order. Their lances swung down, again in unison. A
hundred glittering leaf-shaped points of steel, each
tipping a lance twice the length of a man, leveled at
the bales of hay a furlong from them. Their leader
left them thus for a long dramatic moment, then
shouted the command that sent them hurtling
forward.
      Like an avalanche thundering down an Alpine
pass, they started slowly. The heavy horses they
rode were not quick to build momentum, what with
their own bulk and the heavily armored men atop
them. But they gained a trifle at every bound and
were at full stride before halfway to their goal. The
earth rolled like a kettledrum under their thuttering
hooves; their iron-shod feet sent great clods of dirt
and grass flying skywards.
       Marcus tried to imagine himself standing in a
hay bale's place, watching the horses thunder down
on him until he could see their nostrils flaring
crimson, staring at the steel that would tear his life
away. The skin on his belly crawled at the thought
of it. He wondered how any men could nerve
themselves to oppose such a charge.
       When lances, horses, and riders smashed
through them, the bales simply ceased to be. Hay
was trampled underfoot, flung in all directions, and
thrown high into the air. The Namdaleni brought
their horses to a halt; they began picking hay wisps
from their mounts' manes and coats and from their
own surcoats and hair.
       Soteric looked expectantly to Scaurus. "Most
impressive," the tribune said, and meant it. "Both as
spectacle and as a show of fighting power, I don't
think I've seen the like."
       "Sure and it's a cruel hard folk you Namdaleni
are," Viridovix said, "to beat poor hay bales all to
bits, and them having done you no harm."
      Gaius Philippus added, "If that was your way
of challenging us to a return engagement on
horseback, you can bloody well think again. I'm
content to rest on my laurels, thank you very
kindly." The veteran's praise made Soteric glow
with pride, and the day, the islanders agreed, was a
great success.
      But the centurion was in fact less overawed
than he let the Namdaleni think. "They're rugged,
don't misunderstand me," he told Scaurus as they
returned to their own quarters after sharing a midday
meal with the easterners. "Good steady foot, though,
could give them all they want. The key is keeping
their charge from flattening you at the start."
      "Do you think so?" Marcus asked. He'd paid
Gaius Philippus' words less heed than he should. It
must have shown, for Viridovix looked at him with
mischief in his eye.
      "You're wasting your breath if you speak to the
lad of war, I'm thinking," he said to the centurion.
"There's nothing in his head at all but a couple of
fine blue eyes, sure and there's not. She's a rare
beauty lass, Roman; I wish you luck with her."
      "Helvis?" Marcus said, alarmed his feelings
were so obvious. He covered himself as best he
could. "What makes you think that? She wasn't even
at table today."
      "Aye, that's true - and weren't you the
disappointed one now?" Viridovix did his best to
assume the air of a man giving serious advice,
something of a wasted effort on his naturally merry
face. "You're about it the right way, I'll say that. Too
hard and too soon would do nothing but drive her
from you. But those honied plums you found for her
boy, now - you're a sly one. If the imp cares for you,
how could the mother not? And giving them to
Soteric to pass along will make him think the better
of you too, the which canna hurt your chances."
      "Oh, hold your peace, can't you? With Helvis
not there, who could I give the sweets to but her
brother?" But quibble as he would over details, in
broad outline he knew the Celt was right. He was
powerfully drawn to Helvis, but that was
complicated by his guilt over his role, accidental
though it was, in Hemond's death. Still, in the few
times he had seen her since that day, she bore out
her claim that she had no ill will toward him. And
Soteric, for his part, would have had to be blind not
to have noticed the attention Scaurus paid his sister,
yet he raised no objections - a promising sign.
      But that his feelings should be common
knowledge, maybe - no, certainly - the subject of
gossip through Videssos' community of soldiers,
could only dismay the tribune, who did not much
care to reveal himself to any but his friends.
      He was relieved when Gaius Philippus returned
to the conversation's original subject. "Stiffen your
line with pikemen and give them a good volley of
pila as soon as they come into range, and your fine
Namdalener horsemen will have themselves a very
warm time indeed. Horses know better than to run
up against anything sharp."
      Viridovix gave the centurion an exasperated
glance. "You are the damnedest man for holding
onto a worthless idea I ever did see. Here we could
be making himself squirm like a worm in a mug of
ale, and you go maundering on about nags, Epona
preserve them." He named the Gallic horse-goddess.
      "One day, maybe, it'll be you in the alepot,"
Gaius Philippus said, looking him in the eye. "Then
we'll see if you're glad to have me change the
subject."
      While Mavrikios readied his stroke to put an
end to Yezd once for all, the Empire's western
enemy did not stand idle. As always, there was a
flow of wild nomads down off the steppe, over the
Yegird River, and into the northwest of what had
been the land of Makuran. Thus had the Yezda
entered that land half a century before. Khagan
Wulghash, Marcus thought, was no one's fool.
Instead of letting the newcomers settle and disrupt
his state, he shunted them eastward against
Videssos, urging them on with promises of fighting,
loot, and the backing of the Yezda army.
      The nomads, more mobile than the foe they
faced, slid through Vaspurakan's mountain valleys
and roared into the fertile plains beyond them,
spreading atrocity, mayhem, and rapine. The raiders
were like so much water; if checked at one spot,
they flowed someplace else, always probing for
weak spots and all too often finding them. "
      And at their head was Avshar. Marcus cursed
and Nephon Khoumnos swore the first reports of
him were lies, but soon enough they had to admit
the truth. Too many refugees, straggling into
Videssos with no more than they could carry, told a
tale that left no room for doubt. Yezd's wizard-
chieftain did not try to hide his presence. On the
contrary, he flaunted it, the better to terrify his foes.
      With the white robes he always wore, he chose
to ride a great black charger, half again the size of
his followers' plains-ponies. His sword hewed down
the few bold enough to stand against him, and his
mighty bow sent shafts of death winging farther
than any normal man, any human man, could shoot.
It was said that any man those arrows pierced would
die, be the wound ever so tiny. It was also said no
spear or arrow would bite on him, and that the mere
sight of him unstrung even a hero's courage.
Remembering the spell his good Gallic blade had
turned aside, Marcus could well believe the last.
      High summer approached and still the Emperor
gathered his forces. Local levies in the west fought
the Yezda without support from the host building in
the capital. None of the Romans could understand
why Mavrikios, certainly a man of action, did not
move. When Scaurus put the question to Neilos
Tzimiskes, the borderer replied, "Too soon can be
worse than too late, you know."
      "Six weeks ago - even three weeks ago - I
would have said aye to that. But if matters aren't
taken in hand soon, there won't be much of an
Empire left to save."
      "Believe me, my friend, things aren't as simple
as they seem." But when Marcus tried to get more
from Tzimiskes than that, Neilos retreated into
vague promises that matters would turn out for the
best. It was not long before the Roman decided he
knew more than he was willing to say.
      The next day, Scaurus kicked himself for not
seeking what he needed to know from Phostis
Apokavkos. The truth was, the former peasant had
blended so well into the Roman ranks that the
tribune often forgot he had not been with the
legionaries in the forests of Gaul. His new
allegiance, Marcus reasoned, might make him more
garrulous than Tzimiskes.
      "Do I know why we're not out on campaign?
You mean to tell me you don't?" Apokavkos stared
at the tribune. He plucked the air where his beard
had been, then laughed at himself. "Still can't get
used to this shaving. Answer to your question's a
simple thing: Mavrikios isn't about to leave the city
until he's sure he'll still be Emperor when he gets
home."
      Marcus thumped his forehead with the heel of
his hand. "A pox on faction politics! The whole
Empire is the stake, not who sits the throne."
      "You'd think a mite different if it was your
backside on it."
      Scaurus started to protest, then thought back on
the last decades of Rome's history. It was only too
true that the wars against King Mithridates of
Pontus had dragged on long after that monarch
should have been crushed, simply because the
legions opposing him were sometimes of Sulla's
faction, sometimes of the Marians'. Not only was
cooperation between the two groups poor; both kept
going back to Italy from Asia Minor to fight another
round of civil war. The Videssians were men like
any others. It was probably too much to ask of them
not to be fools like any others.
      "You're getting the idea, all right," Apokavkos
said, seeing Marcus' grudging agreement. "Besides,
if you doubt me, how do you explain Mavrikios
staying in the city last year and not going out to
fight the Yezda? Things were even tighter then than
they are now; he plain didn't dare leave."
      The adopted Roman's comment made clear
something Scaurus had puzzled over for some time.
No wonder Mavrikios looked so bleak when he
admitted his earlier inability to move against Yezd!
The past year had seen the Empire's power vastly
increase and, in the face of the Yezda threat, its
unity as well. The tribune better understood
Mavrikios' pouched, red-veined eyes; it was strange
he dared sleep at all.
      Yet power and unity still did not walk hand in
hand in Videssos, as Marcus discovered a few
mornings later. The tribune had urged Apokavkos to
keep the street connections he'd made in the city.
Marcus saw how the Namdaleni were excluded from
the news and rumors always seething, and did not
want his Romans similarly deprived. The report
Phostis brought made him thankful for his
forethought.
      "If it didn't have us in it, too, I likely wouldn't
tell you this," Apokavkos said, "but I think it'd be
smart for us to walk small the next few days. There's
trouble brewing against the damned easterners, and
too many in town put us and them in the same
wagon."
      "Against the Namdaleni?" Marcus asked. At
Phostis' nod, he said, "But why? They've quarreled
with the Empire, true, but every one of them in the
city now is here to fight Yezd."
      "There's too many of 'em here, and they're too
proud of themselves, the swaggering rubes." Phostis'
conversion to Roman tastes did not stretch to the
men of the Duchy. "Not only that, they've taken
over half a dozen shrines for their own services, the
damned heretics. Next thing you know, they'll start
trying to convert decent folk to their ways. That
won't do."
      Marcus suppressed a strong impulse to scream.
Would no one in this god-ridden world forget
religion long enough to do anything needful? If the
followers of Phos as sure victor over evil fought
those who believed in Phos' Wager, then the only
winners would be Skotos-worshippers. But when
the Roman suggested that to Apokavkos, his answer
was, "I don't know but what I'd sooner see
Wulghash ruling in Videssos than Duke Tomond of
Namdalen."
      Throwing his hands in the air, Scaurus went off
to pass the warning to Soteric. The islander was not
in his usual billet on the ground floor of the
barracks. "He's with his sister, I think. You can
probably find him there," offered one of the men
whose bed was nearby.
      "Thanks," the tribune said, heading for the
stairway. As usual, the prospect of seeing Helvis
made him skittish and eager at the same time. He
was aware that more than once he'd invented
excuses to visit Soteric in the hope of encountering
his sister. This time, though, he reminded himself,
his business with the Namdalener was real and
urgent.
      "By the Wager!" Soteric exclaimed when he
saw who was knocking on Helvis' door. "Talk about
someone and just see if he doesn't show up." That
was an opening to take Scaurus clean out of play,
especially since the Namdalener declined to follow
it up and left Marcus guessing.
      "Would you care for some wine, or some bread
and cheese?" Helvis asked when the Roman was
comfortable. She was still far from the vibrant lady
who had caught his fancy a few weeks before, but
time, as it always does, was beginning its healing
work. The pinched look of pain that sat so wrongly
on her lively features was not so pronounced now;
there were times again when her smile would reach
her eyes.
      Malric darted into the livingroom from the
bedchamber beyond. He was carrying a tiny wooden
sword. "Kill a Yezda!" he announced, swinging his
toy blade with three-year-old ferocity.
      Helvis caught up her son and swung him into
the air. He squealed in glee, dropping his play
weapon. "Again!" he said. "Again!" Instead, his
mother squeezed him to her with fierce intensity,
remembering Hemond in him.
      "Run along, son," Soteric said when his
nephew was on his feet again. Grabbing up his
sword, the boy dashed away at the same breakneck
speed he'd used to come in. Recalling his own
younger sisters growing up, Scaurus knew all small
children were either going at full tilt or asleep, with
next to nothing in between.
      Once Malric was gone, the tribune told Soteric
the story he had heard from Phostis Apokavkos. The
islander's first reaction was not the alarm Marcus
had felt, but rather smoldering eagerness. "Let the
rabble come!" he said, smacking fist into palm for
emphasis. "We'll clean the bastards out, and it'll give
us the excuse we need for war on the Empire.
Namdalen will inherit Videssos' mantle soon enough
- why not now?"
      Scaurus gaped at him, flabbergasted. He knew
the men of the Duchy coveted the city and the whole
Empire, but Soteric's arrogance struck him as being
past sanity. Helvis was staring at her brother, too.
As softly as he could, Marcus tried to nudge him
back toward sense. "You'll take and hold the capital
with six thousand men?" he asked politely.
      "Eight thousand! And some of the Khamorth
will surely join us - their sport is plunder."
      "Quite true, I'm sure. And once you've
disposed of the rest of the plainsmen, the Emperor's
Haloga guards, and the forty thousand or so
Videssian warriors in the city, why then all you need
do is keep down the whole town. They'd hate you
doubly - for being heretics and conquerors both. I
wish you good fortune, for you'll need it."
      The Namdalener officer looked at him as
Malric would if he'd snapped the boy's toy sword
over his knee. "Then you didn't come to offer your
men as allies in the fight?"
      "Allies in the fight?" If it came to a fight such
as Soteric envisioned, Scaurus hoped the Romans
would be on the other side, but he guessed the
islander would be more furious man chastened to
hear that. The tribune was still marveling at Soteric's
incredible ... there was no word in Latin for it. He
had to think in Greek to find the notion he wanted:
hubris. What tragedian had written, "Whom the
gods would destroy, they first make mad"?
      Gorgidas would know, he thought.
      Some of the ravening glitter in Soteric's eye
faded as he saw Marcus' rejection. He looked to his
sister for support, but Helvis would not meet his
glance. She was as ardent a Namdalener as her
brother, but too firmly rooted in reality to be swept
away by a vision of conquest, no matter how
glowing.
      "I came to stop a riot, not start a war," Marcus
said into the silence. He looked for some reason he
could use to draw Soteric from his dangerous course
without making him lose face. Luckily, one was
close at hand. "With Yezd to be dealt with, neither
you nor the Empire can afford secondary fights."
      There was more than enough truth in that to
make Soteric stop and think. The smile on his face
had nothing to do with amusement; it was more like
a stifled snarl. "What would you have us do?" he
asked at last. "Hide our beliefs? Skulk like cowards
to keep from firing the rabble? The Videssians have
no shame over throwing their creed in our faces. I'd
sooner fight than kowtow to the street mob, and
damn the consequences, say I!" But mixed with the
warrior's pride in his speech was the frustrated
realization that the outcome of such a fight likely
would not be what he wished.
      Marcus tried to capitalize on the islander's
slowly emerging good sense. "No one would expect
you to knuckle under," he said. "But a little restraint
now could stop endless trouble later."
      "Let the bloody Cocksures show restraint,"
Soteric snapped, using the Duchy's nickname for the
orthodox of Videssos.
      Continued contact with the Namdalener's hot
temper was beginning to fray Scaurus' own. "There's
the very thing I'm talking about," he said. "Call
someone a 'Cocksure' once too often and you can be
sure you'll have a scramble on your hands."
      Up to this time Helvis had listened to her
brother and the Roman argue without taking much
part. Now she said, "It seems to me the two of you
are only touching one part of the problem. The city
people may like us better if we're less open about
some things they don't care for, but what we do can
only go so far. If Videssos needs our service, the
Emperor - or someone - should make the people
know we're important to them and should not be
abused."
      "Should, should, should," Soteric said
mockingly. "Who would put his neck on the block
for a miserable band of mercenaries?"
      It was plain he did not think his sister would
have a good answer for him. Thinking of the
government leaders he knew, Marcus did not find it
likely either. Mavrikios or Thorisin Gavras would
sacrifice the men of the Duchy without a qualm if
they interfered with the great campaign against
Yezd. Nephon Khoumnos might sacrifice them
anyway, on general principles. True, the Namdaleni
were part of the power Vardanes Sphrantzes wielded
against the Gavrai, but the Sevastos, Scaurus was
sure, was too unpopular in the city to make his
words, even if given, worth much.
      But Helvis did have a reply, and one so apt
Marcus felt like a blockhead for not finding it
himself. "What of Balsamon?" she asked. "He
strikes me as a good man, and one the Videssians
listen to."
      "The Cocksures' patriarch?" Soteric said
incredulously.
      "Any Videssian blue-robe would send us all to
the eternal ice before he'd lift a finger for us."
      "Of most of them I would say that's true, but
Balsamon has a different feel to him. He's never
harassed us, you know," Helvis said.
      "Your sister's right, I think," Marcus said to
Soteric. He told him of the startling tolerance the
prelate of Videssos had shown in the Emperor's
chambers.
      "Hmm," Soteric said. "It's easy enough to be
tolerant in private. Will he do it when it counts?
There's the rub." He rose to his feet. "Well, what are
the two of you waiting for?
      We'd best find out - myself, I'll believe it when
I hear it."
      The ruthless energy Soteric had wanted to turn
on Videssos now was bent against his sister and the
tribune. Helvis paused only to pick up her son -
"Come on, Malric, we're going to see someone." -
and Marcus not at all, but they were not quick
enough to suit Soteric. Scoffing at Helvis' idea at the
same time as he pushed it forward, her brother had
her and Scaurus out of the Namdalener barracks, out
of the palace complex, and into the hurly-burly of
the city almost before the Roman could blink.
      The patriarchal residence was in the northern
central part of Videssos, on the grounds of Phos'
High Temple. The Roman had not cared to visit that,
but some of his men who had taken to Phos
marveled at its splendor. The High Temple's spires,
topped with their gilded domes, were visible
throughout the city; the only problem in reaching
them was picking the proper path through Videssos'
maze of roads, lanes, and alleys. Soteric led the way
with assurance.
      More by what did not happen than by what did,
Marcus got the feel of how unwelcome foreigners
had become in the capital. It was as if the city
dwellers were trying to pretend they did not exist.
No merchant came rushing out of his shop to
importune them, no peddler approached to ply his
wares, no small boy came up to offer to lead them to
his father's hostel. The tribune wryly remembered
how annoyed he had been at not achieving
anonymity after his fight with Avshar. Now he had
it, and found he did not want it.
      Malric was entranced by the colors, sounds,
and smells of the city, so different from and so much
more exciting than the barracks he was used to. Half
the time he walked along among Helvis, Soteric,
and Marcus, doing his short-legged best to keep up;
they carried him the rest of the way, passing him
from one to the next. His three constant demands
were, "Put me down," "Pick me up," and, most of
all, "What's that?" Everything drew the last query: a
piebald horse, a painter's scaffold, a prostitute of
dubious gender.
       "Good question," Soteric chuckled as the quean
sauntered past. His nephew was not listening - a
scrawny black puppy with floopy ears had stolen his
interest.
       The High Temple of Phos sat in lordly solitude
at the center of a large enclosed courtyard. Like the
arena by the palace complex, it was one of the city's
main gathering points. At need, lesser priests would
speak to the masses assembled outside the Temple
while the prelate addressed the smaller, more select
audience within.
       The residence of the patriarchs of Videssos
stood just outside the courtyard. It was a
surprisingly unassuming structure; many moderately
wealthy traders had larger, more palatial quarters.
But the modest building had a feeling of perpetuity
to it that the houses of the newly wealthy could not
hope to imitate. The very pine trees set round it were
gnarled and twisted with age, yet still green and
growing.
       Coming from young Rome, whose history was
little more than legend even three centuries before
his own time, Marcus had never quite gotten over
the awe Videssos' long past raised in him. To him,
the ancient but vigorous trees were a good metaphor
for the Empire as a whole.
      When he said that aloud, Soteric laughed
mirthlessly, saying, "So they are, for they look as if
the first good storm would tear them out by the
roots."
      "They've weathered a few to come this far,"
Marcus said. Soteric brushed the comment away
with a wave of his hand.
      The door opened before them; a high-ranking
ecclesiastic was ushering out a Videssian noble in
white linen trousers and a tunic of lime-green silk. "I
trust his Sanctity was able to help you, my lord
Dragatzes?" the priest asked courteously.
      "Yes, I think so," Dragatzes replied, but his
black-browed scowl was not encouraging. He strode
past Marcus, Helvis, and Soteric without seeming to
notice them.
      Nor did the priest pay them any heed until his
gaze, which was following Dragatzes' retreating
back, happened to fall on them. "Is there something
I can do to help you?" he said. His tone was
doubtful; Helvis and her brother were easy to
recognize as Namdaleni, while Marcus himself
looked more like a man of the Duchy than a
Videssian. There was no obvious reason for folk
such as them to visit the head of a faith they did not
share.
      And even after Marcus asked to speak with
Balsamon, the priest at the door made no move to
step aside. "As you must know, his Sanctity's
calendar is crowded. Tomorrow would be better, or
perhaps the next day..." Go away and don't bother
coming back, Marcus translated.
      "Who is it, Gennadios?" the patriarch's voice
came from inside the residence. A moment later he
appeared beside the other priest, clad not in his
gorgeous patriarchal regalia but in a none too clean
monk's robe of simple blue wool. Catching sight of
the four outside his door, he let loose his rich
chuckle. "Well, well, what have we here? A heathen
and some heretics, to see me? Most honored, I am
sure. Come in, I beg of you." He swept past the
spluttering Gennadios to wave them forward.
      "But, your Sanctity, in a quarter hour's time
you are to see - " Gennadios protested, but the
patriarch cut him off.
      "Whoever it is, he'll wait. This is a fascinating
riddle, don't you think, Gennadios? Why should
unbelievers care to see me? Perhaps they wish to
convert to our usages. That would be a great gain for
Phos' true faith, don't you think? Or perhaps they'll
convert me—and wouldn't that be a scandal, now?"
      Gennadios gave his superior a sour look,
clearly finding his humor in questionable taste.
Soteric was staring at the patriarch in disbelief,
Helvis in delight. Marcus had to smile, too;
remembering his last meeting with Balsamon, he
knew how much the prelate relished being
outrageous.
      Malric was in his mother's arms. As she
walked by Balsamon, her son reached out for two
good handsful of the patriarchal beard. Helvis
stopped instantly, as much in alarm at what
Balsamon might do as to keep him from being
rugged with her.
      Her fright must have shown, for the patriarch
laughed out loud. "You know, my dear, I don't eat
children - at least not lately." He gently detached
Malric's hands from their hold. "You thought I was
an old billy goat, didn't you?" he said, poking the
boy in the ribs. "Didn't you?" Malric nodded,
laughing in delight.
      "What's your name, son?" the patriarch asked.
"Malric Hemond's son," Malric answered clearly.
"Hemond's son?" The smile slipped from
Balsamon's face. "That was a bad business, a very
bad business indeed. You must be Helvis, then," he
said to Malric's mother. As she nodded, Marcus was
impressed - not for the first time - with the
patriarch's knowledge and memory of detail.
Balsamon turned to Helvis' brother. "I don't think I
know you, sir."
      "No reason you should," Soteric agreed. "I'm
Soteric Dosti's son; Helvis is my sister."
      "Very good," Balsamon nodded. "Come with
me, all of you. Gennadios, do tell my next visitor I'll
be somewhat delayed, won't you?"
      "But - " Realizing the uselessness of any
protest he might make, Gennadios gave a sharp,
short nod.
      "My watchdog," Balsamon sighed as he led his
visitors to his chambers. "Strobilos set him on me
years ago, to keep an eye on me. I suppose
Mavrikios would take him away if I asked, but
somehow I've never bothered."
      "It must amuse you to bait the ill-humored
fool, besides," Soteric said. Marcus had thought the
same thing, but not in the cruel way the Namdalener
said it.
      Helvis laid her hand on her brother's arm, but
Balsamon did not seem disturbed. "He's right, you
know," the patriarch told her. He looked musingly at
Soteric, murmuring, "Such a pretty boy, to have
such sharp teeth." Soteric flushed; Marcus was
reminded that the patriarch could care for himself in
any battle of wits.
      Balsamon's audience room was even more
crowded with books than Apsimar's had been back
at Imbros, and far less orderly in the bargain.
Volumes leaned drunkenly against the shabby chairs
that looked like castoffs from the Academy's
refectory. Others jammed shelves, swallowed tables,
and did their best to make couches unusable for
mere human beings.
      Peeping out from the few spaces parchment did
not cover was a swarm of ivories, some no bigger
than a fingernail, others the size of a big man's arm.
They were comical, ribald, stately, furious, what
have you, and all carved with a rococo extravagance
of line alien to the Videssian art Scaurus had come
to know.
      "You've spied my vice, I fear," Balsamon said,
seeing the tribune's eye roam from one figurine to
the next, "and another, I admit unjust, cause for my
resentment against Yezd. These are all the work of
the Kingdom of Makuran that was; under its new
masters, the craft does not flourish. Not much does,
save only hatred.
      "But you didn't come to hear me speak of
ivories," the patriarch said, clearing things enough
for them to sit. "Or if you did, I may indeed become
a Gambler, from sheer gratitude." As usual, what
would have been a provoking name in another's
mouth came without offense from his. His hands
spread in a gesture of invitation. "What do you think
I can do for you?"
      Helvis, Soteric, and Marcus looked at each
other, none of them anxious to begin. After a few
seconds of silence, Soteric took the plunge, blunt as
always. "We've had reports the people of Videssos
are thinking of violence against us because of our
faith."
       "That would be unfortunate, particularly for
you," Balsamon agreed. "What am I to do about it?
And why ask me to do anything, for that matter?
Why should I? After all, I am hardly of your faith."
He pointed at the patriarchal robe draped untidily
over a chair.
       Soteric drew in a breath to damn the prelate for
being the stiff-necked fool he'd thought him, but
Helvis caught the gleam of amusement in
Balsamon's eye her brother missed. She, too, waved
at the crumpled regalia. "Surely your flock respects
the office you hold, if nothing else," she said
sweetly. Balsamon threw back his head and laughed
till the tears came, clutching his big belly with both
hands until his wheezes subsided. "One forgets what
a sharp blade irony has - until stuck with it, that is,"
he said, still chuckling. "Yes, of course I'll pour
water on the hotheads; I'll give them ecumenism
enough to choke on. For your presumption, if
nothing else, you deserve that much. We have worse
enemies than those who could be our friends."
      The patriarch turned his sharp black stare on
Marcus. "What are you, the silent partner in this
cabal?"
      "If you like." Unlike either of the Namdaleni,
Scaurus had no intention of being drawn into a
verbal duel with Balsamon, knowing it could only
have one outcome.
      Helvis thought he had little to say out of
modesty, not policy, and came to his defense.
"Marcus brought us word of trouble brewing," she
said.
      "You have good sources, my quiet friend,"
Balsamon told the Roman, "but then I already know
that, don't I? I thought that was your role here - it's
too soon for extems like the islanders to have caught
the smell of riot. I haven't been working on this
sermon more than a day or two myself."
      "What?" Marcus shouted, jolted from the calm
he'd resolved to maintain. Soteric and Helvis simply
gaped. Maric had been almost asleep in his mother's
arms; startled by the sudden noise, he began to cry.
Helvis calmed him automatically, but most of her
attention was still on Balsamon.
      "Give me some credit for wits, my young
friends." The patriarch smiled. "It's a poor excuse
for a priest who doesn't know what his people are
thinking. More than a few have called me a poor
excuse for a priest, but that was never why."
      He rose, escorting his astounded guests to a
door different from the one they'd used to enter. "It
would be best if you left this way," he said.
"Gennadios was right, as he all too often is - I do
have another visitor coming soon, one who might
blink at the company some of you keep."
      Thick hedges screened the side door from the
front of the patriarchal residence. Peering through
the greenery, Marcus saw Gennadios bowing to
Thorisin Gavras. Balsamon was right - the
Sevastokrator would not be pleased to see the
tribune with two Namdaleni.
      "Right?" Soteric exclaimed when Scaurus
remarked on it. The islander was still shaking his
head in wonder. "Is he ever wrong?"
      ***
      The tribune elbowed his way through the thick-
packed crowd surrounding Phos' High Temple. In
his hand was a small roll of parchment entitling him
to one of the coveted seats within the Temple itself
to hear the patriarch Balsamon's address. A priest
had delivered it to the Roman barracks the day
before; it was sealed with the sky-blue wax that was
the prerogative of the patriarch alone.
      In his outland gear, Marcus drew some hard
looks from the Videssians he pushed by. A
disproportionate number of them seemed to be city
toughs of the sort Scaurus had seen on the day he
first met Phostis Apokavkos. They did not take
kindly to foreigners at the best of times, but the sight
of the Roman's blue-sealed pass was evidence
enough for them that he stood high in the regard of
their well-loved prelate, and he had no real trouble
making headway.
      Videssian soldiers at the bottom of the broad
stairways leading up the Temple kept the mob from
crowding rightful seatholders out of their pews.
They were nonplussed to find a mercenary captain
with a token of admisison, but stood aside to let him
pass. At the top of the stairs a priest relieved him of
his parchment and lined through his name on a roll
of expected attenders. "May the words of our
patriarch enlighten you," the priest said.
      "He enlightens me every time I hear him,"
Marcus replied. The priest looked at him sharply,
suspecting derision from this manifest unbeliever,
but the Roman meant what he said. Seeing that, the
priest gave a curt nod and waved him into the High
Temple.
      From the outside, Marcus had found the
Temple rather ugly, impressive for no other reason
than sheer size. He was used to the clean, spare
architecture the Romans had borrowed from Greece
and found the Temple's heavy projecting buttresses
clumsy, cluttered, and ponderous. Inside, though, its
architects had worked a miracle, and the tribune
stood spellbound, wondering if he had been
suddenly whisked to the heaven Phos' followers
looked to in the life to come.
      The structure's basic plan was like that of Phos'
main temple in Imbros: at its heart was a circular
worship-area, surmounted by a dome, with rows of
benches projecting off in each of the cardinal
directions. But Imbros' shrine was the work of a not
very gifted child when compared to this great jewel
of a building.
      First and most obvious, the craftsmen of the
imperial capital had the advantage of far greater
resources to lavish on their creation. The High
Temple's benches were not of serviceable ash but
sun-blond oak, waxed and polished to glowing
perfection and inset with ebony, fragrant red
sandalwood, thin layers of semi-precious stones, and
whole sheets of shimmering mother of pearl. Gold
leaf and silver foil ran riot through the Temple,
reflecting soft sheets of light into its furthest
recesses. Before the central altar stood the
patriarch's throne. For Balsamon that throne alone
should have made the High Temple a place of
delight, for its tall back was made up of a score of
relief-carved ivory panels. Scaurus was too far away
to see their detail but sure only the best was
tolerated in this place.
      He tried to calculate what sum the erection of
this incredible edifice must have consumed. His
mind, however, dazzled by this Pelion on Ossa of
wonders, could make no coherent guess, but only
continue to marvel at the prodigies his eyes
reported.
     Dozens of columns, sheathed in glistening
moss agate, lined the Temple's four outthrusting
wings. Their acanthus capitals, while more florid
than the ones Marcus was familiar with, were in
keeping with the extravagance of the Temple as a
whole. Its interior walls were of purest white
marble, turquoise, and, at east and west, pale rose
quartz and orange-red sard, reproducing the colors
of Phos' sky.
     Halfway up the eastern wall was a niche
reserved for the imperial family. A screen of
elaborate filigreework drawn around the enclosure
allowed Emperors and their kin to see without being
seen themselves.
     For all the treasure lavished on the Temple, it
was its splendid design that emerged triumphant.
Columns, walls, arches, ancillary semidomes - all
smoothly led the eye up to the great dome, and that
was a miracle in itself.
     It seemed to float in midair, separated from the
real world echoingly far below by flashing beams of
sunlight streaming in through the many windows
which pierced its base. So bulky from the outside, it
was light, soaring, graceful - almost disembodied -
when seen from within. It took a distinct effort of
will to think of the tremendous weight that
freestanding dome represented, and of the massive
vaults and piers on which it rested. Easier by far to
believe it light as a soap-bubble, and so delicately
attached to the rest of the Temple that the faintest
breeze might send it drifting away and leave Phos'
shrine open to the air.
      The play of light off the dome's myriad
tesserae of gold-backed glass further served to
disembody it, and further emphasized the
transcendence of Phos' image at its very zenith. The
Videssians named their god in many ways: kind
creator, warrior against the darkness, bright youth,
or, as here, severe almighty judge. This Phos
watched over his congregation with a solemn yet
noble face and eyes so all-seeing they seemed to
follow Scaurus as he moved beneath them.
Videssos' god held his right hand upraised in
blessing, but in his left was the book wherein all
good and evil were recorded. Justice he would
surely mete out, but mercy? The tribune could not
find it in those awesome eyes.
      More than a trifle daunted, he took a seat. He
could not help sneaking glances toward the stern
omnipotence high above and noted hard-faced
Videssian nobles, who must have seen that Phos
hundreds of times, doing the same thing. It was,
quite simply, too powerful to ignore.
      The Temple filled steadily; latecomers
grumbled as they slid into seats far from the central
altar. Yet the floor sloped almost imperceptibly
down toward the center, and no one was denied a
view.
      Soteric strode in, wearing his dignity as
proudly as the wolfskin cape and tight breeches that
marked him for a Namdalener. Catching Scaurus'
eye, he sketched a salute. But even his sangfroid
showed signs of cracking when he locked eyes with
the god in the dome. Under the weight of that gaze
his shoulders' proud set lowered a touch, and he sat
with evident relief. Marcus did not think less of him
for it; he would have been beyond humanity's pale
to remain unmoved by first sight of that omniscient,
commanding frown.
      The low mutter of conversation in the Temple
died away as a choir of blue-robed monks filed in to
range themselves round the altar. Joined by their
audience and the pure tones of handbells from
behind the tribune, they sang a hymn in praise of
Phos.
      Marcus had to content himself with listening,
as he did not know the words. Nor did listening
profit him much, for the canticle was in so archaic a
dialect of Videssian that he could understand only a
word here and there. A trifle bored, he wanted to
crane his neck rudely to watch the bell players
perform; he forbore only with reluctance. They were
wonderfully skilled, their music clean and simple
enough to appeal even to the tribune.
      The High Temple's thick walls had muffled the
noise of the crowd outside. As the hymn's last sweet
notes faded, the throng's clamor swelled, growing
like the roar of the surf when the tide walked up the
beach. All questions as to the reason for the
increasing uproar disappeared when Balsamon,
preceded by a pair of censer-swinging acolytes,
came into the Temple. His face was wreathed in
smiles as he made his way toward the altar.
      Everyone rose at first sight of the patriarch.
Out of the corner of his eye Marcus caught a flicker
of motion from behind the screen guarding the
imperial family's box. Even the Emperor paid
homage to Phos' representative, at least here in the
Temple, the heart of Phos' domain on earth.
      The tribune would have sworn Balsamon
winked at him as he walked past. He doubted
himself a second later; with every step the patriarch
took toward his throne, he assumed a heavier
mantling of distinction. He did not contradict the
figure he cut in private, but there was more to him
than his private self.
      He sank into the patriarchal throne with a silent
sigh. Marcus had to remind himself that Balsamon
was not a young man. The patriarch's mind and
spirit were so vital it was hard to remember his body
might not always answer.
      Balsamon pushed himself up out of the throne
in less than a minute; the packed Temple had
remained on its feet for him. He raised his hands to
the mighty image of his god on high and, joined by
his entire congregation, intoned the prayer Marcus
had first heard from the lips of Neilos Tzimiskes
northeast of Imbros, though of course he had not
understood it then: "We bless thee, Phos, Lord with
the right and good mind, by thy grace our protector,
watchful beforehand that the great test of life may
be decided in our favor."
      Through the murmured Amens that followed,
Scaurus heard Soteric firmly add, "On this we stake
our very souls." Glares flashed at the Namdalener
from throughout the Temple, but he stared back in
defiance - that the men of the Empire chose to leave
their creed incomplete was no reason for him to do
likewise.
      Balsamon lowered his arms; the worshippers
took their seats once more, though necks still turned
to catch sight of the bold heretic in their midst.
Marcus expected the patriarch, no matter how
forbearant his personal beliefs were, to take some
public notice of Soteric's audacity.
      And so, indeed, he did, but hardly in the way
the Roman had looked for. Balsamon looked to the
Namdalener almost in gratitude. "'On this we stake
our very souls,'" he repeated quietly. His eyes darted
this way and that, taking the measure of those who
had stared hardest at Soteric. "He's right, you know.
We do."
      The patriarch tapped gently on the top of his
throne's ivory back; his smile was ironic. "No, I am
not speaking heresy. In its most literal sense, the
Namdalener's addition to our creed is true. We have
all staked our souls on the notion that, in the end,
good shall triumph over evil. Were that not so, we
would be as one with the Yezda, and this Temple
would not be a place of quiet worship, but a enamel
house where blood would flow as does our wine
and, instead of incense, the stinking smoke of
scorched flesh would rise to heaven."
      He looked about him, defying anyone to deny
his words. Some of his listeners shifted in their
seats, but no one spoke. "I know what you are
thinking but will not say," the patriarch continued:
"'That's not what the cursed barbarian means by it!'"
He brought his voice down to a gruff baritone, a
parody of half the Videssian officers in the
audience.
      "And you're right." His tones were his own
again. "But the question still remains: When we and
the men of the Duchy quarrel at theology, when we
damn each other and fling anathemas across the sea
like stones, who gains? The Phos we all revere? Or
does Skotos, down there in his frozen hell, laugh to
see his enemies at strife with one another?
      "The saddest part of the disagreement between
us is that our beliefs are no further apart than two
women in the streets. For is it not true that, while
orthodoxy is indeed my doxy, heterodoxy is no
more than my neighbor's doxy?" Balsamon's
listeners gaped in horror or awestruck admiration,
each according to his own temperament.
      The patriarch became serious once more. "I do
not hold to the Wager of Phos, as do the islanders -
you all know that, even those who like me none too
well. I find the notion childish and crude. But by our
standards, the Namdaleni are childish and crude. Is
it any wonder they have a doctrine to fit their
character? Merely because I think them mistaken,
must I find them guilty of unpardonable crimes?"
      His voice was pleading as he looked from one
face to the next. The noise of the crowd outside the
Temple had died away; Marcus could hear a great-
voiced priest reading the patriarch's words to the
multitude.
      Balsamon resumed, "If the men of the Duchy
have their faith founded on true piety - and that, no
reasonable man could doubt - and if they grant us
our customs in our own land, what cause have we to
worry? Would you argue with your brother while a
thief was at the door, especially if he'd come to help
hold that thief at bay? Skotos is welcome to the man
who'd answer yes.
      "Nor are we Videssians without blame in this
senseless squabble over the nature of our god. Our
centuries of culture have given us, I fear, conceit to
match our brilliance. We are splendid logic-
choppers and fault-finders when we think we need
to criticize our neighbors, but oh! how we bawl like
branded calves when they dare return the favor.
      "My friends, my brothers, my children, if we
stretch out our arms in charity, even so little charity
as would hardly damage the soul of a tax-collector -
" No matter how solemn the moment, Balsamon
would have his joke, and the sudden, startled
laughter from outside when the reader reached it
showed it had struck its intended audience. " - surely
we can overlook disagreements and build goodwill.
The seeds are there - were it otherwise, why would
the men of Namdalen sail from overseas to aid us
against our foe? They deserve our grateful thanks,
not tumult readied against them."
      The patriarch looked about one last time,
begging, willing his listeners to reach for something
bigger than themselves. There was a moment of
stony silence before the applause began. And when
at last it came, it was not the torrent Balsamon - and
Scaurus - would have wished for. Here a man
clapped, there another, off to one side several more.
Some looked sour even as they applauded, honoring
the patriarch but at best tolerating the message for
the sake of the man.
      Mavrikios was not one of those. He had risen
and pushed aside the ornamental grill work, loudly
acclaiming Balsamon. At his side, also clapping,
was his daughter Alypia. Thorisin Gavras was
nowhere to be seen.
      Marcus found a moment to worry over the
Sevastokrator's absence. He could not recall seeing
the two Gavrai together since their unfortunate
meeting at dice. One more thing to plague the
Emperor, he thought. It was a dreadful time for
Mavrikios to be at odds with his peppery brother.
      And not even the Emperor's open approval
could make the notables in the High Temple warm
to Balsamon's sermon. The same confused,
halfhearted applause came from the larger audience
outside. Marcus remembered what Gorgidas had
said; even the patriarch had trouble turning the city
from the direction it had chosen.
      He did win some measure of success. When
Soteric emerged from the High Temple, no one
snarled at him. Indeed, a couple of people seemed to
have taken Balsamon's words to heart, for they
shouted "Death to the Yezda!" at the mercenary.
Soteric grinned savagely and waved his sword in the
air, which won him a few real cheers.
      Such lukewarm victory left him dissatisfied.
He turned to Scaurus, grumbling, "I thought that
when the patriarch spoke, everyone leaped to do as
he said. And by what right does he call the men of
the Duchy children? One fine day, we'll show him
the sort of children we are."
      Marcus soothed his ruffled feathers. Having
expected no improvement in the situation, the
tribune was pleased with whatever he got.
      Back at the Roman barracks that night, Scaurus
did some hard thinking about Soteric. Helvis'
brother could be alarming. He was, if anything,
more headstrong than Thorisin Gavras - and that
was saying something. Worse, he lacked the
Sevastokrator's easy charm. Soteric was always in
deadly earnest. Yet there was no denying his
courage, his energy, his military skill, or even his
wit. The tribune sighed. People were as they were,
not as he wished they'd be, and it was stupid -
especially for someone who thought himself a Stoic
- to expect them to be different.
      Nevertheless, he recalled the adage he'd
mentally applied to Soteric when the islander
proposed seizing Videssos in despite of the whole
imperial army. He sought Gorgidas. "Who was it,"
he asked the Greek, "who said, 'Whom the gods
would destroy, they first make mad'? Sophokles?"
      "Merciful Zeus, no!" Gorgidas exclaimed.
"That could only be Euripides, though I forget the
play. When Sophokles speaks of human nature, he's
so noble you wish his words were true. Where
Euripides finds truth, you wish he hadn't."
      The tribune wondered whose play he'd watched
that afternoon.
                        IX

      THE FELLOW-FEELING BALSAMON
LABORED SO VALIANTLY TO create crumbled,
as things would have it, under the fury of an
outraged section of his own clergy - the monks. All
too few had Nepos' compassion or learning; most
were arrogant in their bigotry. From their
monasteries they swarmed forth like angry bees to
denounce their patriarch's call for calm and to rouse
Videssos once more to hatred.
      Marcus was leading a couple of Roman
maniples back from the practice field when he found
his way blocked by a large crowd avidly taking in
one such monk's harangue. The monastic, a tall thin
man with a pocked face and fiery eyes, stood on an
upended crate in front of a cheese merchant's shop
and screamed out his hatred of heresy to everyone
who would listen.
      "Whoever tampers with the canons of the faith
sells - no, gives! - his soul to the ice below! It is
Phos' own holy words the foul foreigners pervert
with their talk of wagers. They seek to seduce us
from the way of truth into Skotos' frigid embrace,
and our great patriarch - " In his rage, he fairly spat
the word " - abets them and helps the demon spread
his couch.
      "For I tell you, my friends, there is, there can
be, no compromise with evil. Corrupters of the faith
lead others to the doom they have chosen for
themselves, as surely as one rotten pear will spoil
the cask. Balsamon prates of toleration - will he next
tolerate a temple to Skotos?" The monk made
"tolerate" into an obscenity.
      His voice grew shriller yet. "If the eastern
barbarians will not confess the truth of our faith,
drive them from the city, I say! They are as much to
be feared as the Yezda - more, for they wear virtue's
mask to hide their misbelief!"
      The audience he had built up shouted its
agreement. Fists waved in the air; there were cries
of "Dirty barbarians!" and "The pox take
Namdalen!"
      "We may be having to break their heads to get
through, if himself pushes the fire up any more,"
Viridovix said to Marcus.
      "If we do, we'll set the whole city ablaze," the
tribune answered. But he could see his men
loosening swords in their scabbards and taking a
firmer grip on the staves they were carrying in lieu
of spears.
      Just then the monk looked over the heads of
the throng before him and caught sight of the
Romans' unfamiliar gear. He probably would not
have recognized a true Namdalener had he seen one,
but in his passion any foreigner would serve. He
stretched out a long bony finger at the legionaries,
crying, "See! It is the men of the Duchy, come to cut
me down before my truth can spread!"
      "No, indeed!" Marcus shouted as the crowd
whirled to face the Romans. Behind him he heard
Gaius Philippus warning, "Whether the mob does or
not, I'll have the head of the first man who moves
without orders!"
      "What then?" the monk asked Scaurus
suspiciously. The crowd was spreading out and
edging forward, readying itself for a rush.
      "Can't you tell by looking? We're the surveying
party for that temple to Skotos you were talking
about - do you know where it's supposed to go?"
      The monk's eyes bulged like a freshly boated
bream's. The members of the would-be mob stopped
where they stood, gawping at the Roman's
insolence. Scaurus watched them closely - would
they see the joke or try to tear the Romans to pieces
for blasphemy?
      First one, then another, then three more in the
crowd burst into guffaws. In an instant the whole
fickle gathering was shrieking with laughter and
running forward, not to attack the legionaries, but to
praise their leader's wit. Suddenly deserted by his
audience, the monk, with a last malice-filled glance
at Scaurus, clambered down from his makeshift
podium and disappeared - to spread his hatred
elsewhere, Marcus was sure.
      That, though, left his former throng
discontented. The monastic had entertained them,
and they expected the same from Scaurus. The
silence stretched embarrassingly; with the tribune's
one quip gone, his mind seemed blank.
      Viridovix filled the breach in magnificent
style, bursting into a borderer's song about fighting
the cattle-thieves from Yezd. Only Marcus'
thorough lack of interest in music had kept him from
noticing what a fine voice Viridovix owned. Even
his Gallic accent brought song to his speech.
Someone in the crowd had a set of pipes; the Celt,
the Videssians, and those Romans who knew the
tune's words sang it through at the top of their lungs.
      When it was done, one of the city men began
another ditty, a ribald drinking song everyone in the
crowd seemed to know. More legionaries could sing
along with this one; Marcus himself had spent
enough time in taverns to learn the chorus: "The
wine gets drunk, but you get drunker!"
      After two or three more songs it seemed as if
the Romans and Videssians had been friends
forever. They mingled easily, swapping names and
stories. Marcus had no trouble continuing back to
the barracks. A couple of dozen Videssians walked
most of the way with the legionaries; every few
blocks someone would think of a new song, and
they would stop to sing it.
      Once inside their hall at last, four of Scaurus'
men discovered their belt pouches had been slit. But
even Gaius Philippus, who under most conditions
would have gone charging back into the city after
the thieves, took the loss philosophically. "It's a
small enough price to pay for dousing a riot," he
said.
      "Small enough for you, maybe," one of the
robbed legionaries muttered, but so softly the
centurion could not tell which. He snorted and gave
them all an impartial glare.
      "Sure and that was quick of you, to stop the
shindy or ever it started," Viridovix said to Scaurus.
"Was your honor not afraid it might set the
spalpeens off altogether?"
      "Yes," Marcus admitted, "but I didn't think we
would be much worse off if it did. There wasn't time
to reason with them, or much hope of it, for that
matter - not with that madman of a monk egging
them on. I thought I had to shock them, or make
them laugh - by luck, I managed to do both at once.
You helped a bit yourself, you know; you sing very
well."
      "Don't I, now?" the Celt agreed complacently.
"Aye, there's nothing like a good tune to make a
man forget the why of his ire. There's some fine
songs in this Videssian tongue, too. That first one I
sang reminds me of a ditty I knew at home - kine-
stealing's almost a game with us, for pride and
honor's sake, and we're fond of singing over it.
      "Or we were," he added bleakly. For a rare
moment, he let Marcus see the loneliness he usually
hid so well.
      Touched, the tribune reached out to clasp his
shoulder. "You're among friends, you know," he
said. It was true - there was not a Roman who had
anything but liking for their former foe.
      Viridovix knew that, too. "Aye," he said,
tugging at his long mustaches, "and glad I am of it,
but there's times when it's scarce enough." He said
something in his own tongue, then shook his head.
"Even in my ears the Celtic speech grows strange."
      The riots against Namdalen began in earnest
the next day, incited, as Marcus had feared, by the
monks. The day was one sacred to Phos.
Processions of worshippers marched through the
streets carrying torches and gilded spheres and discs
of wood as they hymned their god. As the tribune
learned much later, one such parade was wending its
way down Videssos' chief thoroughfare - the locals,
with their liking for simple names, called it Middle
Street - when it happened to pass a small temple
where the Namdaleni were celebrating the holiday
with their own rites.
      Seeing a party of islanders enter the schismatic
chapel infuriated the monks heading the procession.
"Root out the heretics!" they cried. This time no
jests or soft words distracted their followers. Phos'
torches torched Phos' temple; believer slew believer,
believing him benighted. And when the Namdaleni
sallied forth from their smoke, as brave men would,
Videssian blood, too, crimsoned the cobbles of
Middle Street.
      The mob, made brave only by numbers, was
rabid when a few from among those numbers fell.
"Revenge!" they screamed, ignoring their own guilt,
and went ravening through the city for Namdaleni to
destroy. As riots will, this one quickly grew past its
prime purpose. Burning, looting, and rape were
sports too delightful to be reserved for the islanders
alone; before long, the swelling mob extended their
benefits to natives of the city as well. Nevertheless,
the men of the Duchy remained chief targets of the
rioters' attention.
      The mob's distant baying and the black pillars
of smoke shooting into the sky brought news of the
tumult to the Romans. Scaurus was always thankful
the city did not erupt until noon, Phos' most
auspicious hour. The early-rising legionaries had
already finished their drill and returned to the palace
complex before the storm broke. It could have gone
hard for them, trapped in a labyrinth the Videssian
rioters knew far better than they.
      At first Scaurus thought the outbreak minor, on
the order of the one that had followed his own
encounter with Avshar's necromancy. A few
battalions of native soldiers had sufficed to put
down that disturbance. The tribune watched the
Videssians tramping into action, armed for riot duty
with clubs and blunt-headed spears. Within two
hours they were streaming back in disarray,
dragging dead and wounded behind them. Their
smoke-blackened faces showed stunned disbelief.
Beyond the palace complex, Videssos was in the
hands of the mob.
      Sending inadequate force against the rioters
proved worse than sending none. The howling pack,
buoyed up by the cheap victory, grew bolder yet.
Marcus had gone up onto the roof of the Roman
barracks to see what he could of the city and its
strife; now he watched knots of ill-armed men
pushing through the lush gardens of the palace
quarter itself, on the prowl for robbery or murder.
      Still far away but terribly clear, he could hear
the mob's battle cry: "Dig up the bones of the
Namdaleni!" The call was a bit of lower-class city
slang; when Videssos' thieves and pimps were
displeased with someone, they wished him an
unquiet grave. If the Roman needed further telling,
that rallying-cry showed him who the rioters were.
      Scaurus put a maniple of battle-ready
legionaries around his soldier's barracks. Whether
the bared steel they carried deterred the mob or the
Videssians simply had no quarrel with the Roman
force, no rioters tested them.
      Sunset was lurid; it seemed grimly appropriate
for Phos' symbol to be reduced to a ball of blood
disappearing through thick smoke.
      Like dragons' tongues, flames licked into the
night sky. In their island of calm the Romans passed
the hours of darkness at full combat alert. Marcus
did not think the Videssians would use his men
against the rioters, judging from their past practice,
but he was not nearly so sure the mob would keep
giving immunity to the legionaries.
      The tribune stayed on his feet most of the
night. It was long after midnight before he decided
the barracks probably would not be attacked. He
sought his pallet for a few hours of uneasy sleep.
      One of his troopers roused him well before
dawn. "What is it?" he asked blearily, only half-
awake. Then he jerked upright as full memory
returned. "Are we under assault?"
      "No, sir. It's almost too quiet, what with the
ruction all around us, but there's no trouble here.
Nephon Khoumnos says he needs to speak with you;
my officer thinks it sounds important enough for me
to get you up. If you like, though, I'll send him
away."
      "Who's out there? Glabrio?"
      "Yes, sir."
      Marcus trusted that quiet young centurion's
judgment and discretion. "I'll see Khoumnos," he
said, "but if you can, hold him up for a couple of
minutes to let me get my wits together."
      "I'll take care of it," the legionary promised and
hurried away. Scaurus splashed water on his face
from the ewer by his bed, ran a comb through his
sleep-snarled hair, and tried to shake a few of the
wrinkles from his cloak before putting it on.
     He could have omitted his preparations,
sketchy as they were. When the Roman guardsman
led Nephon Khoumnos into the barracks hall, a
glance was enough to show that the Videssian
officer was a man in the last stages of exhaustion.
His usual crisp stride had decayed into a rolling,
almost drunken gait; he seemed to be holding his
eyes open by main force. With a great sigh, he
collapsed into the chair the Romans offered him.
     "No, no wine, thank you. If I drink I'll fall
asleep, and I can't yet." He yawned tremendously,
knuckling his red-tracked eyes at the same time.
"Phos, what a night!" he muttered.
     When he sat without elaborating, Marcus
prompted him, "How are things out there?"
     "How do you think? They're bad, very bad. I'd
sooner be naked in a wood full of wolves than an
honest man on the streets tonight. Being robbed is
the best you could hope for; it gets worse from
there."
      Gaius Philippus came up in time to hear him.
Blunt as always, he said, "What have you been
waiting for? It's only a mob running wild, not an
army. You have the men to squash it flat in an hour's
time."
      Khoumnos twisted inside his shirt of mail, as if
suddenly finding its weight intolerable. "I wish
things were as simple as you make them."
      "I'd better turn around," Gaius Philippus said,
"because I think you're about to bugger me."
      "Right now I couldn't raise a stand for the
fanciest whore in the city, let alone an ugly old ape
like you." Khoumnos drew a bark of laughter from
the senior centurion, but was abruptly sober again.
"No more could I turn the army loose in the city. For
one thing, too many of the men won't try very hard
to keep the mob from the Namdaleni - they have no
use for the islanders themselves."
      "It's a sour note when one part of your
fornicating army won't help the next," Gaius
Philippus said.
      "That's as may be, but it doesn't make it any
less true. It cuts both ways, though: the men of the
Duchy don't trust Videssian soldiers much further
than they do any other Videssians."
       Scaurus felt like turning around himself; he
had caught Nephon Khoumnos' drift, and did not
like it. The imperial officer confirmed the tribune's
fears with his next words. "In the whole capital there
are only two bodies of troops who have the respect
of city-folk and Namdaleni alike: the Halogai, and
your men. I want to use you as a screen to separate
the mob and the easterners, while Videssian troops
bring the city as a whole under control. With you
and the Halogai keeping the main infection
cordoned off, the riot should lose force quickly."
       The tribune was anything but eager to use his
troops in the street-fighting that wrecked Videssos.
He had already learned the mercenary commander's
first lesson: his men were his capital, and not to be
spent lightly or thrown away piecemeal in tiny,
meaningless brawls down the city's back alleys.
Unfortunately, what Khoumnos was proposing
made sense. Without the excitement of heretic-
hunting, riot for the sake of riot would lose much of
its appeal. "Are you ordering us into action, then?"
he demanded.
      Had Nephon Khoumnos given him an
imperious yes, he probably would have refused him
outright - in the city's confusion, Khoumnos could
not have enforced the order. But the Videssian was a
soldier of many years' standing and knew the ways
of mercenaries better than Scaurus himself. He had
also come to know the tribune accurately.
      "Ordering you?" he said. "No. Had I intended
to give you orders, I could have sent them through a
spatharios. I came to ask a favor, for the Empire's
sake. Balsamon put it better than I could - the fight
against Yezd makes everything else trivial beside it.
No matter what the idiot monks say, that's true. That
fight can't go forward without peace here. Will you
help bring it?"
      "Damn you," Scaurus said tiredly, touched on
the weak spot of his sense of duty. There were
times, he thought, when a bit of simple selfishness
would be much sweeter than the responsibility his
training had drilled into him. He considered how
much of his limited resources he could afford to
risk.
      "Four hundred men," he decided. "Twenty
squads of twenty. No units smaller than that, unless
my officers order it - I won't have a solitary trooper
on every corner for the young bucks to try their luck
with."
      "Done," Khoumnos said at once, "and thank
you."
      "If I said you were welcome, I'd be a liar."
Shifting into Latin, Scaurus turned to Gaius
Philippus. "Help me find the men I'll need. Keep
things tightly buttoned here while we're gone and in
the name of the gods don't throw good men after bad
if we come to grief. Even if we should, you'd still
have better than a cohort left; that's a force to reckon
with, in this world of useless infantry."
      "Hold up, there. What's this talk about you not
coming back, and what I'd have if you didn't?" the
centurion said. "I'm going out there myself."
      Marcus shook his head. "Not this time, my
friend. I have to go - it's by my orders we're heading
into this, and I will not send men into such a stew
without sharing it with them. Too many officers will
be out in the city as is; someone here has to be able
to pick up the pieces if a few of us don't come back.
That's you, I fear. Curse it, don't make this harder
than it is; I don't dare risk both of us at once."
      On Gaius Philippus' face discipline struggled
with desire and finally threw it to the mat. "Aye,
sir," he said, but his toneless voice accented instead
of concealed his hurt. "Let's get the men picked
out."
      The colloquy between Khoumnos, the tribune,
and Gaius Philippus had been low-voiced, but once
men were chosen to go out into Videssos and they
began to arm themselves, all hope for quiet
vanished. As Scaurus had feared, Viridovix woke up
wildly eager to go into the city and fight.
      The tribune had to tell him no. "They want us
to stop the riot, not heat it further. You know your
temper, Viridovix. Tell me truly, is that the task you
relish?"
      Marcus had to give the big Gaul credit; he
really did examine himself, chewing on his
mustaches as he thought. "A plague on you for a
cruel, hard man, Marcus Aemilius Scaurus, and
another for being right. What a cold world it is,
where a man knows himself too hot-blooded to be
trusted with the breaking of heads."
      "You can stay here and wrangle with me,"
Gaius Philippus said. "I'm not going either."
      "What? You?" Viridovix stared at him. "Foosh,
man, it'd be the perfect job for you - for a good
soldier, you're the flattest man ever I've met."
      "Son of a goat," the centurion growled, and
their long-running feud was on again. Scaurus
smiled inside himself to hear them; each, he knew,
would take out some of his disappointment on the
other.
      When the selection was done, and while the
legionaries chosen were readying themselves for
action, the tribune asked Khoumnos, "Where are
you sending us?"
      The Videssian officer considered. "There's a lot
of newly come Namdaleni in the southern harbor
district, especially round the small harbor; you
know, the harbor of Kontoskalion. My reports say
the fighting has been vicious there - city people
murdering islanders, and islanders murdering right
back when the odds are in their favor. It's a running
sore that needs closing."
      "That's what we'll be there for, isn't it?" Marcus
said. He made no effort to pretend an enthusiasm he
did not feel. "The harbor district, you say? Southeast
of here, isn't it?"
      "That's right," Khoumnos agreed. He started to
say more, but the tribune cut him off.
      "Enough talk. All I want is to get this worthless
job over. Soonest begun, soonest done. Let's be at
it." He strode out of the barracks into the predawn
twilight.
      As the legionaries came to attention, he walked
to the head of their column. There were a couple of
warnings he felt he had to give his men before he
led them into action. "Remember, this is riot duty,
not combat - I hope. We want the least force needed
to bring order, not the most, lest the riot turn on us.
Don't spear someone for throwing a rotten cabbage
at you.
      "That's one side of things. Here's the other: if
your life is on the line, don't spend it; if the choice is
between you and a rioter, you count ten thousand
times as much, so don't take any stupid chances.
We're all the Romans there are here and all the
Romans who ever will be here. Do your job, do
what you have to do, but use your your heads."
      He knew as he gave it the advice was
equivocal, but it accurately reflected his mixed
feelings over the mission Khoumnos had given him.
As the sun rose red through the city's smoke, he
said, "Let's be off," and marched his men away from
their barracks, out of the palace complex, and into
the strife-torn heart of the city.
      Most times he savored Videssos' early
mornings, but not today. Smoke stung his eyes and
stank in his nostrils. Instead of the calls of gulls and
songbirds, the dominant sounds in the city were
looters' cries, the crack of glass and splintering of
boards as houses and shops were plundered, and the
occasional sliding rumble of a fire-gutted building
crashing down.
      The legionaries stayed in a single body on their
way to the harbor of Kontoskalion. Scaurus did not
intend to risk his men before he had to and reckoned
the sight of four hundred armored, shielded warriors
tramping past would be enough to make any mob
think twice.
      So it proved; aside from curses and a few
thrown stones, no one interfered with the Romans as
they marched. But theirs was a tiny, moving bubble
of order drifting through chaos. Videssos, it seemed,
had abandoned law's constraints for an older, more
primitive rule: to the strong, the quick, the clever go
the spoils.
      Where there were few Namdaleni to hunt, the
riot lost part of its savagery and became something
of a bizarre carnival. Three youths pulled velvet-
covered pillows from a shop and tossed them into
the arms of a waiting, cheering crowd. Marcus saw a
middle-aged man and woman dragging a heavy
couch down a sidestreet, presumably toward their
home.
      A younger pair, using their clothes for padding,
made love atop a heap of rubble; they, too, were
cheered on by a rapt audience. The Romans passing
by stared and shouted with as much enthusiasm as
any Videssians. They clattered their shields against
their greaves to show their enjoyment. When the
couple finished, they sprang to their feet and
scampered away, leaving their clothes behind.
      In madness' midst, the occasional island of
normality was strange in itself. Marcus bought a
pork sausage on a bun from a vender plying his
trade as if all were peaceful as could be. "Haven't
you had any trouble?" the tribune asked as he
handed the man a copper.
      "Trouble? Why should I? Everyone knows me,
they do. Biggest problem I've had is making change
for all the gold I've got today. A thing like this is
good for the city now and again, says I - it stirs
things up, a tonic, like." And he was off, loudly
crying his wares.
      Two streets further south, the Romans came
upon a double handful of corpses sprawled on the
cobbles. From what could be seen through the
blackened, congealed blood that covered them,
some were Namdeleni while others had been city
men. They were covered in little more than their
blood; all the bodies, alien and citizen alike, had
been stripped during the night.
      Soon the sound of active combat came to the
Romans' ears. "At a trot!" Scaurus called. His men
loped forward. They rounded a corner to find four
Namdaleni, two of them armed only with knives,
trying to hold off what must have been three times
their number of attackers. Another easterner was on
the ground beside them, as were two shabbily
dressed Videssians.
      Their losses made the rioters less than
enthusiastic about the fight they had picked. While
the ones to the rear yelled, "Forward!" those at the
fore hung back, suddenly leery of facing
professional soldiers with weapons to hand.
      The Videssians cried out in terror when they
saw and heard the Romans bearing down on them.
They turned to flee, throwing away their weapons to
run the faster.
      The men of the Duchy joyfully greeted their
unexpected rescuers. Their leader introduced
himself as Utprand Dagober's son. He was not a
man Marcus had seen before; the tribune guessed he
must be one of the newly come Namda-lener
mercenaries. His island accent was so thick he
sounded almost like a Haloga. But if the tribune had
trouble with his shades of meaning, there was no
mistaking what Utprand wanted.
      "Are you not after the devilings?" he
demanded. "T'ree of my stout lads they kill already -
we had the misfortune to be near their High Temple
when they set on us and we've crawled through
stinking alleys since, trying to reach our mates. Do
for them, I say!" The other islanders still on their
feet snarled agreement.
      After some of the things he had seen in
Videssos, Marcus was tempted to turn his men loose
like so many wolves. Though it would do no good -
and in the long run endless harm - it would be so
satisfying. In this outburst the city folk had forfeited
a great part of the respect he had come to feel for
their state. He could also see the legionaries
trembling to be unleashed.
      He shook his head with regret, but firmly. "We
were sent here to make matters better, not worse,
and to form a cordon between you and the
Videssians to let the riot burn itself out. It has to be
so, you know," he said, giving Utprand the same
argument he had used against Soteric. "If the
imperial army moves against you with the mob,
you're doomed, do what you will. Would you have
us incite them to it?"
      Utprand measured him, eyes pale in a gaunt,
smoke-blackened face. "I never thought I could
want to hate a clear-thinking man. Curse you for
being right - it gripes my belly like a green apple
that you are."
      He and two of his men took up their fallen
comrade and the dagger he had used in vain to
defend himself. Marcus wondered where the dead
man's sword might be and who would take the
dagger to his kin. The three started toward their
camp by the harbor. The fourth islander, Grasulf
Gisulf's son, stayed behind with the Romans to point
out the best places to seal off the harbor of
Kontoskalion from the rest of the city.
      The tribune posted his double squads where
Grasulf recommended; most of them were stationed
along major streets leading north and south. Scaurus
had no reason to complain of Grasulf's choices. The
Namdalener had an eye for a defensible position.
      As he'd known he might have to, Marcus gave
his under-officers leave to split their commands in
half to cover more ground. "But I want no fewer
than ten men together," he warned them, "and if you
do divide your forces, stay in earshot of each other
so you can rejoin quickly at need."
      The Romans worked their way steadily west.
They passed from a district of small shops, taverns,
and cramped, untidy houses into a quarter inhabited
by merchants who had made their fortunes at
Videssos' harbors and still dwelt nearby. Their
splendid homes were set off from the winding
streets by lawns and gardens and warded further
with tall fences or hedges of thorn. These had not
always saved them from the mob's fury. Several
were burned, looted wrecks. Others, though still
standing, had hardly a pane of glass left in their
windows. Many had an unmistakable air of
desertion about them. Their owners, knowing how
easily rioters' anger could turn from the foreign to
the merely wealthy, had taken no chances and left
for safety in the suburbs or on the western shore of
the Cattle-Crossing.
      By the time he had penetrated most of the way
into this section of the city, Marcus had only a
couple of units of legionaries still with him. He
placed one between a temple of Phos built solidly
enough to double as a fortress and a mansion's
outreaching wall. Along with Grasulf and his last
twenty men, he pressed on to find a good spot to
complete the cordon. The sound of the sea, never
absent in Videssos, was sharp in his ears; a final
good position should seal Videssians and Namdaleni
from each other.
      A spot quickly offered itself. Sometime during
the night, the rioters had battered a rich man's wall
to rubble and swarmed in to plunder his villa. The
prickly hedge on the other side of the street still
stood, unchallenged. "We can throw up a barricade
here," the tribune said, "and stand off troubles from
either side."
      His men fell to work with the usual Roman
thoroughness; a breastwork of broken brick and
stone soon stretched across the roadway. Marcus
surveyed it with considerable pride. Fighting behind
it, he thought, the legionaries could stop many times
their numbers.
      That thought loosed another. The position the
Romans had just made was so strong it did not
really need twenty men to hold it. He could leave
ten behind and push closer yet to the sea. It would
be safe enough, he thought. This part of the city,
unlike the turbulent portion he'd gone through
before, seemed to be a no man's land of sorts. Most
of the property owners had already fled, and, after
the storm of looting passed by, neither the men of
the city nor those of the Duchy were making much
use of these ways to reach each other.
      Taking heart in that observation, Marcus
divided his small force in two. "I know just the
place for you," Grasulf told him. He led the Romans
to a crossroads between four mansions, each of them
with strong outwalls at the edge of the street. The
sea was very close now; along with its constant
boom against the seawall, the tribune could hear
individual waves slapslapping against ships and
pilings in the harbor of Kontoskalion.
      The city was still troubled. New smokes rose
into the noonday sky, and from afar came the sound
of fighting. Scaurus wondered if the mob was
battling Namdaleni, the Videssian army, or itself.
He also wondered how long and how much it would
take before Nephon Khoumnos - or, by rights, the
Emperor himself - decided to teach the city's
explosive populace a lesson it would remember.
      In this momentary backwater it was easy to
forget such things. The Romans stood to arms for
the first couple of hours at their post, but when
nothing more frightening came by than a stray dog
and a ragpicker with a great bag of scraps slung over
his back, the tribune did not see anything amiss in
letting them relax a bit. While three men took rums
on alert, the others sat in the narrow shade of the
southern wall. They shared food and wine with
Grasulf. The Namdalener puckered his lips at their
drink's bite, though to Scaurus it was still too sweet.
      Shadows were beginning to lengthen when the
distant commotion elsewhere in Videssos grew
suddenly louder. It did not take Marcus long to
decide the new outbreak was due east of his position
- and, from its swelling volume, heading west at an
uncomfortable clip.
      His men climbed to their feet at his command,
grumbling over leaving their shadows for the
sunshine's heat. As any good soldiers would, they
quickly checked their gear, making sure their short
swords were free in their scabbards and their shield
straps were not so frayed as to give in action.
      Videssos' twisting, narrow streets distorted
sound in odd ways. The mob's roar grew ever closer,
but until it was all but on him Scaurus did not think
he was standing in its path. He was ready to rush his
men to another Roman party's aid when the first
rioters turned the corner less than a hundred yards
away and spotted his little detachment blocking their
path.
      They stopped in confusion. Unlike the monk a
few days before, they knew the warriors in front of
them were not Namdaleni and had to decide whether
they were foes.
      Taking advantage of their indecision, Marcus
took a few steps forward. "Go back to your homes!"
he shouted. "We will not harm you if you leave in
peace!" He knew how colossal the bluff was, but
with any luck the mob would not.
      For a heady second he thought he had them. A
couple of men at the head of the throng, plump
middle-class types who looked badly out of place
among the rioters, turned as if to retreat. But then a
fellow behind them, a greasy little weasel of a man,
recognized Grasulf for what he was. "An islander!"
he yelled shrilly. "They're trying to keep him from
us!" The rioters rushed forward in a ragged battle
line, brandishing a motley collection of makeshift or
stolen weapons.
      "Oh, bugger," one of the legionaries beside
Marcus muttered as he drew his sword. The tribune
had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. More
and more Videssians kept rounding that cursed
corner. The Romans were professional soldiers, true,
but as a professional Scaurus knew enough to
mislike odds of seven or eight to one against him.
      "To me, to me!" he shouted, wondering how
many Romans he could draw to his aid and whether
they would come too late and be swallowed up band
after band by the mob.
      Grasulf touched his arm. "Bring my sword
home, if you can," he said. And with a wild cry the
Namdalener charged forward against the mob. His
blade swung in two glittering arcs; a pair of heads
bounced from rioters' shoulders to the ground. Had
his success gone on, he might have singlehandedly
cowed his foes. But the same little sneakthief who
had first spied him now darted up to plunge his
dagger through the Namdalener's mail shirt and into
his back. Grasulf fell; howling in triumph as they
trampled his corpse, the mob stormed into the
Romans.
      The legionaries were well trained and heavily
armed. They wore chain mail and greaves and
carried their metal-faced semicylindrical shields.
But their foes had such weight of numbers pushing
them on that the Roman line, which by the nature of
things could only be three men deep here, cracked
almost at once. Then the fighting turned into a series
of savage combats, in each of which one or two
Romans were pitted against far too many opponents.
      In his place at the legionaries' fore, Marcus had
three men slam into him at once. One was dead as
he hit, the tribune's sword twisting in his guts to
make sure of the kill. But his momentum and that of
his two living comrades bowled Scaurus to the
ground. He pulled his shield over him and saved
himself from the worst of the trampling as the mob
passed over him, but it was only luck that no one
aimed anything more deadly at him than a glancing
blow from a club.
      Striking out desperately in all directions with
his sword, he managed to scramble to his feet after
less than a minute on the cobblestones, to find
himself alone in the midst of the mob. He slashed
his way toward a wall that would cover his back. To
judge from the noise and the flow of the action, the
other Romans yet on their feet were doing the same.
      A Videssian armed with a short hunting spear
lunged at the tribune. His thrust was wide; its
impetus propelled him into the Roman's shield.
Marcus shoved as hard as he could. Taken off
balance, the rioter stumbled backwards to trip up
another of his fellows. Scaurus' sword made them
both pay for the one's clumsiness.
      Not all the rioters, luckily, were staying to fight
the Romans. Some kept pressing west, in the hopes
of finding Namdaleni to slaughter. Before long, only
the mob's tail was still assailing the tribune. As the
pressure against him eased, he began to hope he
would live.
      Through the din of fighting he heard the shouts
and clatter of more Romans charging to the aid of
the beleaguered squad. The rioters, without the
discipline of real warriors, could not stand against
their rush. Marcus started to call out to his men, but
at that moment a stone rang off the side of his
helmet, filling his head with a shower of silver
sparks. As he staggered, his sword slipped from his
hand. A rioter bent, snatched it up, and fled; newly
armed or not, he had seen enough combat for this
day.
      Panic's chill wind blew through Marcus' brain.
Had it been an ordinary Roman shortsword, he
would have been glad enough to let the thief keep
his booty. But this was the blade whose magic had
brought him to this very world, the blade that stood
against Avshar and all his sorceries, the blade that
lent him strength. He threw his shield aside, drew
his long-unused dagger, and gave chase.
       He thanked his gods the fighting had almost
passed him by. His hurled scutum decked one
Videssian, a slash on his arm sent another reeling
back. Then Scaurus was free of the crush and
pounding after the sword-thief.
       His pulse thudded in his ears as he ran; he
would gladly have foregone the weight of his armor
and his heavy boots. But his long strides were still
closing the gap. The man bouncing along ahead of
him was a short, fat fellow who seemed too
prosperous to need to riot. Hearing himself pursued,
he looked back over his shoulder and almost ran full
tilt into a wall. He saved himself at the last instant
and scurried down an alleyway, Marcus ten yards
behind.
       Strain as he would, the tribune could get no
closer. Nor could his quarry shake free, though his
zigzagging dash through backstreets and by-roads
lost Scaurus in Videssos' maze.
       The thief's knowledge of the city's ways was
no more perfect than Marcus'. He darted halfway
down an alley without realizing it was blind. Before
he could mend his error, the tribune came panting
up to cork the entrance.
      Wiping the sweat from his face, the rotund
thief brought his stolen sword up to the guard
position. The awkward set of his feet and his
tentative passes with the blade said he was no
swordsman. Scaurus approached with caution
anyhow. His opponent, after all, had three times his
length of blade, clumsy or not.
      He took another pace forward, saying, "I don't
want to have to fight you. Lay my sword down and
you can go, for all of me."
      Scaurus never learned whether the other
thought he spoke from cowardice and was thus
emboldened, or whether he simply was afraid to be
weaponless before the Roman. He leaped at Marcus,
swinging the tribune's sword with a stroke that
confirmed his ineptness. But even as Marcus' mind
realized he was facing a tyro, his body responded
with the motions long hours on the practice field had
drilled into it. He ducked under the amateurish slash
and stepped forward to drive his knife into his foe's
belly.
      The plump thief's mouth shaped a voiceless
"Oh." He dropped the Roman's blade to clutch his
wound with both hands. His eyes went wide, then
suddenly showed only white as he sagged to the
ground.
      Marcus stooped to recover his sword. He felt
no pride in his victory, rather self-disgust at having
killed an opponent so little a match for him. He
looked reproachfully down at the crumpled corpse at
his feet. Why hadn't the fat fool had enough sense to
bar his door and stay behind it, instead of playing at
what he knew nothing about?
      The tribune thought he could let his ears lead
him back to the brawl between his man and the
rioters, but retracing his path was not so simple. The
winding streets kept leading himaway from the
direction in which he needed to go, and that
direction itself seemed to shift as he moved. The
homes he walked by offered few clues to guide him.
Their outer walls and hedges were so much alike
that only a longtime resident of the neighborhood
could have steered by them.
      He was passing another not much different
from the rest when he heard a scuffle from the far
side of the wall. Scuffles today were a copper a
handful; worrying about finding his way back to the
Romans, Scaurus was on the point of ignoring this
one until it was suddenly punctuated by a woman's
scream.
      The sound of a blow cut across it. "Quiet,
bitch!" a rough male voice roared.
      "Let her bleat," another replied, coldly callous.
"Who's to hear, anyway?"
      The wall was too high to see over and too high
for a man encumbered by armor to hope to climb.
Marcus' eye flashed to its gate. He ran at it, crashing
into it with an iron-clad shoulder. It flew open,
sending the tribune stumbling inside onto a wide
expanse of close-trimmed grass.
      The two men holding a woman pinned to that
grass looked up in amazement as their sport was
interrupted. One had hold of her bare shoulders; a
ripped tunic lay nearby. The other was between her
thrashing white legs, hiking her heavy skirt up over
her waist.
      The second man died as he was scrambling to
his feet, Marcus' blade through his throat. The
tribune had a moment's regret at giving him so easy
an end, but then he was facing the dead man's
comrade, who was made of sterner stuff. Though he
looked a street ruffian, he carried a short sword
instead of a dagger, and from his first cut Scaurus
saw he knew how to use it.
      After that first slash failed to fell the Roman,
his enemy chose a purely defensive fight and
seemed to be looking for a chance to break and run.
But when he tried to flee, the woman he had been
holding down snaked out a wrist to trip him. Marcus
ran the falling man through. Where he had regretted
killing the miserable little fellow who ran off with
his sword, now he felt nothing but satisfaction at
ridding the world of this piece of human offal.
      He knelt to wipe his blade on the dead man's
shirt, then turned, saying, "Thank you, lass, the
whoreson might have got away if you - " His mouth
stayed open, but no more words emerged. The
woman sitting up was Helvis.
      She was staring at him, too, seeing for the first
time who her rescuer was. "Marcus?" she said, as if
in doubt. Then, sobbing wildly in reaction to the
terror of a moment before, she ran to him. Of
themselves, his arms tightened around her. The flesh
of her back was very smooth and still cool from the
touch of the grass to which she had been forced. She
trembled under his hands.
      "Thank you, oh, thank you," she kept
repeating, her head pressed against his corseleted
shoulder. A moment later she added, "There's so
much metal about you - must you imprison me in an
armory?"
      Scaurus realized how tightly he was holding
her to his armored front. He eased his grip a bit; she
did not pull away, but still clung to him as well. "In
the name of your Phos, what are you doing here?"
the tribune demanded roughly. The stress of the
moment made his concern sound angry. "I thought
you safely back at your people's barracks by the
palaces."
      It was precisely because of Phos, he learned,
that she was not at the Namdalener barracks. She
had chosen to celebrate her god's holiday - was it
only yesterday? Marcus wondered; that seemed
impossible - by praying not at the temple near the
barracks, but at another one here in the southern part
of Videssos. It was a shrine popular with the
Namdaleni, for it was dedicated to a holy man who
had lived and worked on the island of Namdalen,
though he was three hundred years dead before the
northerners wrested his native land from the Empire.
      Helvis continued, "When the riots started and
the crowds were screaming, 'Dig up the Gamblers'
bones!' I had no hope of getting back to my home
through the streets. I knew my countrymen had an
encampment by the harbor and decided to make for
that. Last night I spent in a deserted house. When I
heard the mob screaming down toward the harbor, I
thought I should hide again.
      "The far gate over there was open," she said,
pointing. She ruefully went on, "I found out why all
too soon. Those - " No word sufficed; she shuddered
instead " - were ransacking the place, and I was just
another lucky bit of loot."
      "It's all right now," Scaurus said, stroking her
tangled hair with the same easy motion he would
have used to gentle a frightened horse. She sighed
and snuggled closer. For the first time, he was
actually aware of her half-clothed state and that their
embrace was changing from one sort of thing to
another altogether.
      He bent his head to kiss the top of hers. Her
hands stroked the back of his neck as he tilted her
face up to his. He kissed her lips, her ear; his mouth
trailed down her neck toward her uncovered breasts.
Her skirt rustled as it slid over her hips and fell to
the ground. His own coverings were more
complicated, but he was free of them soon enough.
He had a brief second of worry for his embattled
men, but this once not all his discipline could have
stopped him from sinking to the grass beside the
woman waiting for him there.
      There is almost always a feeling among first-
time lovers, no matter how much they please each
other, that their love will grow better as they come
to know each other more. So it was here; there was
fumbling, some awkwardness, as between any two
people unsure of one another's likes. Despite that,
though, for the tribune it was far sweeter than he had
known before, and he was so close to his own time
of joy he nearly did not notice the name Helvis cried
as her nails dug into his back was not his own.
      Afterward he would have liked nothing better
than to lie beside her forever, wholly at peace with
the world. But now the tuggings of his conscience
were too strong to ignore. Already he felt guilt's first
stir over the time he had spent pleasuring himself
while his troopers fought. He tried to drown it with
Helvis' lips but, as is ever the way, only watered it
instead.
      His armor had never felt more confining than
when he re-donned it now. He handed Helvis her
slain attacker's short-sword, saying, "Wait for me,
love. You'll be safer here, I think, even alone, than
on the streets. I won't be long, I promise."
      Another woman might have protested being
left behind, but Helvis had seen combat and knew
what Marcus was going to. She rose, ran her finger
down his cheek to the corner of his mouth. "Yes,"
she said. "Oh, yes. Come back for me."
      Like a man recovering from a debilitating
fever, Videssos slowly came back to its usual self.
The riots, as Khoumnos had predicted, died away
after the Romans and Halogai succeeded in
cordoning off the Namdaleni who were their focus.
By the time a week had gone by, the city was nearly
normal once more, save for the uncleared piles of
rubble that showed where the mob had struck.
Small, stubborn columns of smoke still rose from
some of these, but the danger of great conflagrations
was past.
      Where the city was almost itself again,
Scaurus' life changed tremendously in the couple of
weeks following the riots. He and a party of his men
had taken Helvis first to the Namdaleni based by the
harbor of Kontoskalion and then, as Videssos began
to calm, she was able to return to the islanders'
barracks in the palace complex.
      She did not stay there long, however. Their
first unexpected union did not slake, but whetted,
her appetite and the tribune's. It was only days
before she and Marcus - and Maine - took quarters
in one of the two halls the Romans reserved for
partnered men.
      While he was more eager to share her company
than he had ever been for anyone else's, a few
concerns still gave him pause. First and foremost in
his mind was the attitude Soteric would take. The
tribune had seen more than once how prickly Helvis'
brother could be when he thought his honor touched.
How would he react to the Roman's first taking his
sister and then taking her away?
      When he raised the question to Helvis, she
disposed of it with a woman's practicality. "Don't
trouble yourself over it. If anything needs saying, I'll
say it; I doubt it will. You hardly seduced a blushing
virgin, you know, and had you not been there, the
dogs who had me likely would have slit my throat
when they were too worn to have any other use for
me. Dearest, your saving me will count for more
with Soteric than anything else - and so it should."
      "But - " Helvis stopped his protest with a kiss,
but could not quiet his fretting so easily. Still, events
proved her right. Her brother's gratitude for her
rescue carried over to the rescuer as well. He treated
Marcus like a member of his family, and his
example carried over to the rest of the Namdaleni.
They knew what the Romans had done for them in
Videssos' turmoil; when the legionaries' commander
fell in love with one of their women, it was yet
another reason to treat him as one of themselves.
      That problem solved, Marcus waited for the
reaction of his own men to the new situation. There
was some good-natured chaffing, for the Romans
knew his acquiescence to their taking companions
had been grudging, and here he was with one
himself.
      "Pay them no mind," Gaius Philippus said. "No
one will care if you're bedding a woman, a boy, or a
purple sheep, so long as you think with your head
and not with your crotch." And after that bit of
pungent but cogent advice the centurion went off to
hone his troops once more.
      It was, Scaurus found, a suggestion easier to
give than to follow. He found himself wallowing in
sensuality in a way unlike any he had known.
Before, he was always moderate in venery - in
vanished Mediolanum, in Caesar's army, and since
his arrival in Videssos. When he needed release he
would buy it, and he did not often seek the same
woman twice. Now, with Helvis, he found himself
making up for long denial and growing greedier of
her with every night that passed.
      She, too, took ever-increasing delight from
their love. Hers was a simple, fierce desire; though
she had looked at no man since Hemond's death, her
body nonetheless craved what it had become
accustomed to and reacted blissfully to its return.
Marcus found he was sleeping more soundly than he
had since he was a boy. It was lucky, he thought
once, that Avshar's Khamorth had not come seeking
him after he found Helvis. He surely would never
have wakened at the nomad's approach.
       Scaurus had wondered how Malric would
adjust to the change in his life, but Helvis' son was
still young enough to take almost anything in his
stride. Before long he was calling the tribune "Papa"
as often as "Marcus," which gave the Roman an odd
feeling, half pride, half sorrow it was not so. The lad
instantly became the legionaries' pet. There were
few children around the barracks, and the soldiers
spoiled them all. Malric picked up Latin with the
incredible ease small children have.
       There were days when the tribune almost
forgot he was in a city arming for war. He wished
there could be more of them; he had never been
happier in his life.
                          X

      IT'S BLOODY WELL TIME," GAIUS
PHILIPPUS SAID WHEN THE summons to the
imperial council of war came. "The campaign
should have started two months ago and more."
      "Politics," Marcus answered. He added, "The
riots didn't help, either. But for them, I think we'd be
under way by now." With faint irony, he heard
himself justifying the delays he had complained
about not long before. He was much less anxious to
begin than he had been then and knew why only too
acutely. At the moment, it was as well such matters
were not under his control.
      The tribune had not been in the Hall of the
Nineteen Couches since the night of his duel with
Avshar. As always, the reception hall was
couchless. A series of tables was joined end-to-end
to form a line down its center. Atop the tables were
maps of the Videssian army's proposed line of
march; along them sat the leaders from every troop
contingent in that army: Videssians, Khatrishers,
nomadic Khamorth chieftains, Namdalener officers,
and now the Romans too.
      Mavrikios Gavras, as was his prerogative, sat
at the head of the tables. Marcus was glad to see
Thorisin at his brother's right hand. He hoped it
meant their rift was healing. But the other two
people by the Emperor made Scaurus want to rub
his eyes to make sure they were not tricking him.
      At Mavrikios' left sat Ortaias Sphrantzes. For
all the young aristocrat's book-learning about war,
Marcus would not have thought he had either the
knowledge or the mettle to be part of this council,
even if he was a member of the Emperor's faction
instead of the nephew of Gavras' greatest rival. Yet
here he was, using the point of his ornately hilled
dagger to trace a river's course. He nodded and
waved when he spied the entering Romans. Marcus
nodded back, while Gaius Philippus, muttering
something unpleasant under his breath, pretended
not to see him.
      The Emperor's daughter was on Thorisin
Gavras' right, between him and Nephon Khoumnos.
Alypia was the only woman at the gathering and, as
was usually her way, doing more listening than
talking. She was jotting something on a scrap of
parchment when the Romans came into the Hall of
the Nineteen Couches and did not look up until a
servant had taken them to their assigned place,
which was gratifyingly close to the table's head. Her
glance toward Scaurus was cool, measuring, and
more distant than the tribune had expected; he
suddenly wondered if she knew of his joining with
Helvis. Her face was unreadable, a perfect mask to
hide her thoughts.
      Marcus took his seat with some relief. He bent
his head to study the map before him. If he read the
spidery Videssian writing aright, it represented the
mountains of Vaspurakan, the border land whose
passes offered tempting pathways between the
Empire and Yezd.
      As had Apsimar's, the map looked marvelously
precise, far more so than any the Romans made.
Peaks, rivers, lakes, towns - all were portrayed in
meticulous detail. Nevertheless, Scaurus wondered
how trustworthy a chart it was. He knew how even
well-intentioned and usually accurate men could go
wrong. In the third book of his history, Polybius, as
careful an investigator as was ever born, had the
Rhodanus River going from east to west before it
flowed south through Narbonese Gaul and into the
Mediterranean. Having tramped along almost its
entire length, the Roman was wearily certain it ran
north and south throughout.
      Mavrikios did not formally begin the council
until an hour after the Romans arrived. Only when
the last latecomers - Khamorth, most of them - were
seated did he break his quiet conversation with his
brother and raise his voice for the entire room to
hear.
      "Thank you for joining us this morning," he
said. The hum of talk running along the tables as the
gathered soldiers discussed their trade died away.
He waited until it was quite gone before continuing,
"For those who have marched and fought in the
westlands before, much of what you'll hear today
will be stale news, but there are so many newcomers
I thought this council would be worthwhile for their
sakes alone."
      "Fewer new men are here than should be,
thanks to your cursed monks," someone called, and
Marcus recognized Utprand son of Dagober. The
Namdalener still wore the same look of cold fury
he'd had when the tribune rescued him from the
riots; here, Scaurus judged, was a man not to be
easily deflected from his purposes. Growls of
agreement came from other easterners. Marcus saw
Soteric well down at the junior end of the tables,
nodding vehemently.
      Ortaias Sphrantzes and Thorisin Gavras looked
equally offended at Utprand's forthrightness. Their
reasons, though, were totally different. "Blame not
our holy men for the fruit of your heresy," Ortaias
exclaimed, while the Sevastokrator snapped, "Show
his Imperial Majesty the respect he deserves, you!"
Up and down the tables, Videssians assented to one
or the other - or both - of those sentiments.
      The Namdaleni stared back in defiance. "What
respect did we get when your holy men were
murdering us?" Utprand demanded, answering both
critics in the same breath. The temperature in the
Hall of the Nineteen Couches shot toward the
boiling point. Like jackals prowling round the edge
of a fight, the Khamorth shifted in their seats, ready
to leap on the battler they thought weaker.
      Marcus felt the same growing despair he had
known many times before in Videssos. He was calm
both by training and temperament, and found
maddening the quarrels of all the touchy, excitable
people the Empire and its neighbors bred.
      Mavrikios, it seemed, was cast from a similar
mold. He laid one hand on his brother's shoulder,
the other on that of Ortaias Sphrantzes. Both
subsided, though Thorisin moved restively. The
Emperor looked down the tables to Utprand, his
brown eyes locking with the Namdalener's wolf-
gray ones. "Fewer of you are here than should be,"
he admitted, "nor is the fault yours." Now it was
Sphrantzes' turn to squirm.
      The Emperor ignored him, keeping all his
attention on Utprand. "Do you remember why you
are here at all?" he asked. His voice held the same
urgency Balsamon's had carried in the Great Temple
when he requested of Videssos a unity it would not
grant him.
      As Marcus had already seen, Utprand
recognized truth when he heard it. The Namdalener
thought for a moment, then gave a reluctant nod.
"You're right," he said. For him that was enough to
settle the matter. He leaned forward, ready to take
part in the council once more. When a few
hotheaded young Namdaleners wanted to carry the
argument further, the ice in his eyes quelled them
faster than anything the Videssians might have
done.
      "There is one hard case," Gaius Philippus
whispered admiringly.
      "Isn't he, though? I thought the same when I
met him during the riots," Scaurus said.
      "He's the one you talked of, then? I can see
what you meant by - " The centurion broke off in
mid-sentence, for the Emperor was speaking.
      Calm as if nothing untoward had happened,
Mavrikios said to Ortaias Sphrantzes, "Hold up that
map of the westlands, would you?" The spatharios
obediently lifted the parchment so everyone could
see it.
      On the chart, Videssos' western dominions
were a long, gnarled thumb of land stretching
toward the imperial capital and separating the
almost landlocked Videssian Sea in the north from
the great Sailors' Sea to the south.
      The Emperor waited while a couple of
nearsighted officers traded seats with colleagues
near the map, then began abruptly, "I want to leave
within the week. Have your troops ready to go over
the Cattle-Crossing within that length of time, or be
left behind." He suddenly grinned a most unpleasant
grin. "Anyone who claims he cannot be ready by
then will find himself ordered to the hottest, most
Phos-forsaken garrison I can think of - he'll wish he
were fighting the Yezda, I promise you that."
      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 rum on him instead." Anticipation lit
Mavrikios's 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 fighting 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 Namadaleni 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 disapointed 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
triumhant 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
hs 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.
      With their small harbors, Videssos' suburbs on
the western shore of the Cattle-Crossing could not
hope to handle the avalanche of shipping descending
on them. The capital was the Empire's chief port
and, jealous of its status, made sure no other town
nearby could siphon business from it.
      Nevertheless, the armada of sharp-beaked slim
galleys, merchantmen, fishing boats, barges, and
various motley small craft did not have to stand
offshore to disembark its host. Videssian ships, like
the ones the Romans built, were even at their
biggest small and light enough to stand beaching
without damage. For several miles up and down the
coast, oars drove ships ashore so men and beasts
could splash through the surf to land. Sailors and
soldiers cursed together as they labored to empty
hulls of supplies. That also lightened the beached
craft and made them easier to refloat.
      Viridovix was so eager to reach land that he
vaulted over the rail before the ship was quite
aground and came down with a splash neck-deep in
the sea. Cursing in Gaulish, he floundered onto the
beach, where he lay at full length just beyond the
reach of the waves. He hugged the golden sand as he
would a lover. Less miserable and thus more patient,
the Romans followed him.
      The imperial galley came ashore not far from
where they were disembarking. First out of it were
Mavrikios' ever-present Haloga guardsmen. Like the
Romans, they left their vessel by scrambling down
rope ladders and nets cast over the side. Then,
watchful as always, they hurried to take up positions
to ward off any sudden treachery.
       For an Emperor, however, even one who set as
little store in ceremony as Mavrikios Gavras,
clambering down a rope would not do. As soon as
his guards were in place, a gangplank of gilded
wood was laid from ship to beach. But when the
Emperor was about to step onto the sand, his booted
foot came down on the hem of his long purple robe.
He tripped and went to all fours on the beach.
       Romans, Halogai, and Videssian seamen alike
stared in consternation. What omen could be worse
for a campaign than to have its leader fall before it
began? Someone made a sign to avert evil.
       But Mavrikios was equal to the occasion.
Rising to his knees, he held aloft two fistsful of sand
and said loudly, "Videssos, I have tight hold of
you!" He got to his feet and went about his business
as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
       And, after a moment or two, so did the men
who had witnessed the mishap. The Emperor's quick
wits had succeeded in turning a bad omen into a
good one. Discussing it that evening, Gaius
Philippus gave Mavrikios his ultimate accolade.
"Caesar," he declared, "couldn't have done it better."
      Like a multitude of little streams running
together to form a great river, the Videssian army
gathered itself on the western shore of the Cattle-
Crossing. The transfer from the capital had been far
easier than Marcus had expected. There were, it
seemed, some advantages after all to the minute
organization that was such a part of life in the
Empire.
      That organization showed its virtue again as
the march to Garsavra began. Scaurus doubted if
Rome could have kept so huge a host fed without its
pillaging the countryside and gave his men stern
orders against foraging. But plundering for supplies
never came close to being necessary. No Yezda had
yet come so far east, and the local officials had no
trouble providing the army and its hangers-on with
markets adequate for their needs. Grain came by
oxcart and rivercraft, along with herds of cattle and
sheep for meat.
      Hunters added to the meat bag with deer and
wild boar. In the case of the latter, there were times
when Scaurus was not sure the pig was truly wild.
Videssian hogs shared with their bearish cousins a
lean, rangy build, a strip of bristly hair down their
backs, and a savage disposition. Stealing one of
them could give a hunting party as lively a time as
going after a wild boar. The tribune enjoyed
gnawing the fat-rich, savory meat from its bones too
much to worry over its source for long.
      The first leg of the march from the city was a
time of shaking down, a time for troops too long in
soft billets to begin to remember how they earned
their pay. For all the drills and mock fights Gaius
Philippus had put the Romans through, they were
not quite the same hard-bitten, hungry band who had
fought in Gaul. Their belts had gone out a notch or
two and, most of all, they were not used to a full
day's march, even one at the slow pace of the army
they accompanied.
      At the end of each of the first few days out of
the capital, the legionaries were glad to collapse and
try to rub some life back into their aching calves and
thighs. Gorgidas and the other medics were busy
treating blisters, laying on a thick ointment of lard
mixed with resin and covering the sores with
bandages of soft, fluffy wool well sprinkled with oil
and wine. The troopers cursed the medicine's
astringent bite, but it served them well until their
feet began to harden once more.
      Marcus had expected all that sort of thing and
was not put out when it happened. He had not really
anticipated, however, how resentful his Romans
would be when called on to create a regular
legionary camp every night. Throwing up daily
earthworks did not appeal to them after their
comfortable months in the permanent barracks of
Videssos.
      Gaius Philippus browbeat the troops into
obedience the first three nights on march, but an
ever more sullen, halfhearted obedience. By the
third night he was hoarse, furious, and growing
desperate. On the next day a deputation of
legionaries came to see Scaurus with their
grievances. Had they been shirkers or men of little
quality, he would have dealt with the matter
summarily, punishing them and not listening for an
instant. But among the nine nervous soldiers - one
from each maniple - were some of his finest men,
including the stalwart Minucius. He decided to hear
them out.
      For one thing, they said, none of the other
contingents of the imperial army made such a
production of their nightly stopping places. They
knew they were deep in Videssian territory and
altogether safe, and their tents went up in a cheerful,
casual disarray wherever their officers happened to
feel like pitching them. Worse yet, in a proper
Roman camp there was no place for women, and
many of the legionaries wanted to spend their nights
with the partners they had found in Videssos.
      The tribune could find no sympathy with the
first of these points. He said, "What the rest of the
army does is its own concern. It's too simple to go
slack when things are easy and then never bother to
tighten up again - until it costs you, and then it's too
late. The lot of you are veterans; you know what I'm
saying is true."
      They had to nod. Minucius, his booming voice
and open manner subdued by the irregular situation
in which he'd put himself, said timidly, "It's not the
work we mind so much, sir. It's just that well... once
camp is made, it's like a jail, with no escape. My
woman's pregnant, and I worry about her." His
comrades muttered agreement; looking from one of
them to another, Marcus saw they were almost all
coupled men.
      He understood how they felt. He had slept
restlessly the past couple of nights, knowing Helvis
was only a few hundred yards away but not wanting
to give his troopers a bad example by breaking
discipline for his private gratification.
      He thought for a few seconds; less than a third
of the Romans had women with them. If a party of
about a hundred got leave each night, each soldier
could see his lover twice a week or so. The
improvement in morale would probably be worth
more than the slightly loosened control would cost.
      He gave the legionaries his decision, adding,
"Leave will only be granted after all required duties
are complete, of course."
      "Yes, sir! Thank you sir!" they said, grinning
in relief that he had not ordered them clapped in
irons.
      He knew they must not be allowed to think
they could violate the proper chain of command on
every whim. He coughed dryly, and watched the
grins fade. "The lot of you are fined two weeks' pay
for bringing this up without your officers'
permission," he said. "See that it doesn't happen
again."
      They took the fine without a murmur, still
afraid he might condemn them to far worse. Under
the law of the legions he could confiscate their
goods, have them flogged, or give them over to the
fustuarium - order them clubbed, beaten, and stoned
to death by their fellow soldiers. When he snapped,
"Get out!" they fell over themselves scrambling
from his tent. In some ways, Roman discipline still
held.
      The order duly went out, and the grumbling in
the ranks vanished or was transmuted into the
ordinary grousing that has existed in every army
since time began. "I suppose you had to do it,"
Gaius Philippus said, "but I still don't like it. You
may gain in the short run, but over the long haul
anything that cuts into discipline is bad."
      "I thought about that," Scaurus admitted, "but
there's discipline and discipline. To keep the vital
parts, you have to bend the ones that aren't. The men
have to keep thinking of themselves as Romans and
want to think that way, or they - and we - are lost. If
they decide they'd rather slip off and be peasants in
the countryside, what can we do? Where can we
find the legions, the generals, the Senate to back up
our Roman discipline? Do you think the Videssians
give a damn about our ways? I can't order us to feel
like Romans; it has to come from within."
      Gaius Philippus looked at him like a Videssian
suddenly confronted with heresy. The centurion had
kept himself - and, to a large measure, the rest of the
legionaries, too - going by ignoring, as far as he
could, the fact that Rome was gone forever. It
rocked his world for Scaurus to speak openly of
what he tried not even to think about. Shaking his
head, he left the tribune's tent. A few minutes later
Marcus heard him blistering some luckless soldier
over a speck of rust on his greave. Scaurus made a
wry face. He wished he could work off his own
concerns so easily.
      Letting the Romans out of camp at night
proved to have one advantage the tribune had not
thought of when he decided to allow it. It put them
back in the mainstream of army gossip, as much a
constant as that of the capital. The women heard
everything, true or not, and so did the legionaries
while with them. Thus it was that Scaurus learned
Ortaias Sphrantzes was still with the army. He found
it almost impossible to believe, knowing the mutual
loathing the Gavrai and Sphrantzai had for one
another; but on his way to see Helvis a night later he
proved its accuracy by almost bumping into the
spatharios.
       "Your pardon, I beg," the young Sphrantzes
said, stepping out of his way. As he had when Gaius
Philippus rated him while he watched the Romans
drill, he had a fat volume under his arm. "Yes, it's
Kalokyres on generalship again," he said. "I have so
much to learn and so little time to learn it."
       The idea of Ortaias Sphrantzes as a general
was enough to silence the tribune. He must have
raised an eyebrow, though, for Ortaias said, "My
only regret, my Roman - " He pronounced the word
carefully. " - friend, is that I'll not have your
formidable infantry under my command."
       "Ah? What command is that, my lord?"
Marcus asked, thinking Mavrikios might have given
the youth a few hundred Khamorth to play with. The
answer he got shook him to his toes.
       "I am to lead the left wing," Sphrantzes replied
proudly, "while the Emperor commands the center
and his brother the right. We shall make mincemeat
of the foe! Mincemeat! Now you must forgive me; I
am studying the proper way to maneuver heavy
cavalry in the face of the enemy." And the newly
minted field marshal vanished into the warm
twilight, paging through his book to the place he
needed.
      That night, Helvis complained Scaurus' mind
was somewhere else.
      The next morning the tribune told Gaius
Philippus the ghastly news. The senior centurion
held his head in his hands. "Congratulations," he
said. "You just ruined my breakfast."
      "He seems to mean well," Marcus said, trying
to find a bright side to things.
      "So does a doctor treating somebody with the
plague. The poor bastard'll die all the same."
      "That's not a good comparison," Gorgidas
protested. "True, the plague is past my power to
treat, but at least I'm skilled in my profession. After
reading one book of medicine, I wouldn't have
trusted myself to treat a sour stomach."
      "Neither would anyone else with sense," Gaius
Philippus said. "I thought Mavrikios had too much
sense to give the puppy a third of his army." He
pushed his barley porridge aside, saying to the
Greek doctor, "Can you fix my sour stomach? The
gods know I've got one."
     Gorgidas grew serious. "Barley after you're
used to wheat will give you distress, or so says
Hippokrates."
     "It never did before," Gaius Philippus said.
"I'm disgusted, that's all. That bungling twit!"
     The "twit" himself appeared later that day,
apparently reminded of the Romans' existence by
his encounter with Marcus. Sphrantzes looked
dashing as he rode up to the marching legionaries;
his horse had the mincing gait of a Videssian
thoroughbred. His breastplate and helm were gilded
to show his rank, while a deep-blue cape streamed
out behind him. The only flaw in his image of
martial vigor was the book he still carried clamped
under his left arm.
     Sphrantzes reined his horse in to a walking
pace at the head of the Roman column. He kept
looking back, as if studying it. Gaius Philippus'
hostile curiosity soon got the better of him. He
asked, "What can we do for you today, sir?" His
tone belied the title of respect he'd granted
Sphrantzes.
      "Eh?" Ortaias blinked. "Oh, yes - tell me, if
you would, are those the standards under which you
fight?" He pointed at the nine tall manipular signa
the standard-bearers proudly carried. Each was
crowned by an open hand ringed by a wreath,
representing faithfulness to duty.
      "So they are. What of it?" Gaius Philippus
answered shortly.
      Marcus understood why the subject was a sore
one. He explained to Sphrantzes, "We were only a
detachment of a larger unit, whose symbol is the
eagle. We have no eagle here, and the men miss it
dearly."
      That was an understatement, but no Videssian
could hope to understand the feeling each legion had
for its eagle, the sacred symbol of its very being.
During the winter at Imbros there had been some
talk of making a new eagle, but the soldiers' hearts
were not in it. Their aquila was in Gaul and lost to
them forever, but they wanted no other. The lesser
signa would have to do.
      "Most interesting," Ortaias said. His concern
with the Romans' standards, however, was for a
different reason. "Is your custom always to group
like numbers of soldiers under each ensign?"
      "Of course," Scaurus replied, puzzled.
      "And why not?" his centurion added.
      "Excuse me a moment," Sphrantzes said. He
pulled out of the Roman line of march so he could
stop his horse and use both hands to go through his
tactical volume. When he found what he wanted, he
sent the beast trotting back up to the Romans.
      "I quote from Kalokyres," he said: "The first
book, chapter four, part six: 'It is necessary to take
care not to make all companies exactly equal in
number, lest the enemy, counting one's standards,
form an exact idea of one's numbers. Take heed in
this matter: as we said, the companies should not be
more than four hundred men, nor less than two
hundred.' Of course, your units are smaller than the
ones Kalokyres uses, but the principle, I should say,
remains the same. Good day to you, gentlemen." He
rode away, leaving the Romans speechless behind
him.
       "Do you know," Gaius Philippus said, "that's
not a bad notion?"
       "So it isn't," Marcus said. "In fact, it's a very
good one. How in the world did Ortaias Sphrantzes
ever come up with it?"
       "It's not as if he thought of it himself," the
centurion said, looking for a way out of his
discomfiture. "This Kalo-what's-his-name must have
had his wits about him. Yes." He tried to console
himself with that thought, but still looked rattled.
       Viridovix had watched the entire exchange
with high glee. "Sure and there he is, the man who
sucked in soldiering with his mother's milk - a
centurion she was herself, I have no doubt - all
tossed in a heap by the biggest booby ever hatched.
It all goes to prove the Celtic way of fighting is the
best - get in there and do it, for the more you think,
the more trouble you're in."
       Gaius Philippus was too graveled even to
argue. "Oh, shut up," he muttered. "Where'd
Gorgidas get to? My stomach's hurting again."
       The coastal plain between the suburbs across
from Videssos and the city of Garsavra was some of
the most fertile land the Romans had ever seen. The
soil was a soft black loam that crumbled easily in
the hand and smelled rich, almost meaty, in its
promise of growth. Scores of rivers and lesser
streams ran down from the central plateau so that
the soil could fulfill its promise. The warm rain
fetched by the constant breeze off the Sailors' Sea
watered those few stretches flowing water did not
touch.
      Viridovix' dire predictions about the weather,
made months before, came true with a vengeance. It
was so hot and humid the ground steamed each
morning when the sun came up. The pale Halogai,
used to the cool, cloudy summers of their northern
home, suffered worse than most; day after day, they
fainted in their armor and had to be revived with
hel-metsful of water.
      "Red as a boiled crayfish, he was," Viridovix
said of one sunstruck northerner.
      Gorgidas cocked an eye at him. "You don't
look any too good yourself," he said. "Try wearing a
soft hat instead of your helmet on march."
      "Go on with you," the Celt said. "It takes more
than a bit of sun to lay me low." But Scaurus noticed
he followed the physician's advice.
      With fine soil, abundant water, and hot sun, no
wonder the breadbasket of the Empire lay here. The
land was clothed with the various greens of growing
plants. There were fields of wheat, millet, oats; and
barley, and others growing flax and cotton, which
Gorgidas insisted on calling "plant wool." Orchards
grew figs, peaches, plums, and exotic citrus fruits.
As none of these last had been common in the
western Mediterranean, Marcus had trouble telling
one from the next - until the first time he bit into a
lemon, thinking it an orange. After that he learned.
      Vineyards were rare here; the soil was too
good, and water too plentiful. Nor did Scaurus see
many olive trees until the land began to rise toward
the plateau a day or so outside of Garsavra.
      The folk who farmed the fertile plain were as
much a revelation to the tribune as their land. They
were quiet, steady, and as industrious as any people
he had seen. He was used to the tempestuous
populace of Videssos the city, with their noisy,
headlong pace, their arrogant assumption of
superiority over all the rest of mankind, and their
fickle swings of mood. He'd wondered more than
once how the Empire had managed to prosper for so
many centuries with such truculent material on
which to build.
      Gorgidas laughed at him for saying that one
night. The Greek physician was always a part of the
unending talk round the Roman watchfires. He
seldom left camp after dusk had fallen. Scaurus
knew he had no sweetheart, but used the company
of men to hold loneliness at bay.
      Now he commented, "You might as well judge
Italy by the hangers-on at the lawcourts in Rome.
For as long as Videssos has had its empire, the
Emperors have spoiled the people of the capital to
win their favor. You can hardly blame them, you
know - reckoning by the riots a few weeks ago, their
necks would answer if they didn't keep them happy.
Don't forget, the Empire has lasted a long time; the
city people think luxury their rightful due."
      The tribune remembered Cato's complaint of
over a century before his own time, that a pretty boy
could cost more than a plot of land, and a jar of
imported liquamen more than a plowman. Rome had
not become less fond of pleasure in the intervening
years. What was the joke about Caesar? - every
woman's husband and every man's wife. Scaurus
shook his head, wondering what his native capital
would be like after hundreds of years as an imperial
capital.
      Garsavra, which the army reached on the ninth
day out of Videssos, was a long way from imperial
status. The town was, in fact, smaller than Imbros.
Thanks to its river-junction site, it was a trade center
for a good part of the westlands. Nevertheless, when
the expeditionary force camped round the city, it
more than doubled Garsavra's population.
      There was something wrong with the town's
outline as the Romans came up to it, but Marcus
could not put his finger on its oddness. Gaius
Philippus had never a doubt. "I will be damned," he
said. "The bloody place is without a wall!"
      He was right; Garsavra's houses, shops, and
public buildings were open to the surrounding
world, unprotected from any attack. More than
anything else he had seen in the Empire, that
brought home to Marcus Videssos' accomplishment.
Imbros, even the capital itself, had to ward off
barbarians from the north, but the land they shielded
had known peace so long it had forgotten even
fortcraft.
      With his predator's mind, Viridovix was quick
to see the other side of the coin. "Wouldn't the
Yezda have a lovely time now, swooping down on a
town so naked and all? They'd fair break their poor
horses' backs with the booty they'd haul off." The
thought of Avshar's wolves laying waste this
peaceful, fertile land was nearly enough to make
Scaurus physically sick. Like vicious children loose
in a pottery, they could wreck in minutes what had
taken years to create and take only delight in the
wrecking.
      "That's why they pay us," Gaius Philippus said,
"to do the dying so they can stay happy and fat."
      Marcus found that notion little more appetizing
than Viridovix'. It was not strictly fair, either;
Videssians made up much the greatest part of
Mavrikios' army, and several thousand more native
troops were already here awaiting the Emperor's
arrival.
      There was, however, a grain of truth behind the
centurion's cynical words. The men Baanes
Onomagoulos had called up from the soldier-
peasants of the countryside were all too plainly less
soldier than peasant. Their mounts were a collection
of crowbait, their gear old and scanty, and their drill
next to nonexistent.
      Their commander was something else again, a
general out of the same school from which
Mavrikios Gavras had come. Scaurus got a good
look at him during the review the Emperor called to
welcome the new contingent into his forces.
Onomagoulos rode past the Romans on his way to
Mavrikios; now and again he touched his spurs to
his horse's flank to make the beast rear. He was not
a very big man, but the way he sat his horse and the
set of his hawk-nosed face proclaimed him a
seasoned warrior nevertheless. He was well past
forty; the years had swept most of the hair from his
crown, but neither its remnants nor his pointed beard
were frosted with gray.
      Protocol demanded that he rein in, dismount,
and perform a proskynesis before addressing the
Emperor. Instead, he rode straight up to Mavrikios,
who was also mounted, and cried, "Gavras, you old
bastard, how have you been?"
      Marcus waited for the world to fall to ruins, or
at least for the Halogai at the Emperor's side to tear
the offender limb from limb. Some of the younger
guardsmen reached for their swords, but Zeprin the
Red was watching Mavrikios. Seeing the Emperor
was not angry, the mercenary officer made a quick
hand signal, and his men relaxed.
      Gavras smiled thinly. "I manage to keep busy -
too busy, usually. Maybe you should have had the
job after all." He brought his horse forward and
slapped Onomagoulos on the back. Onomagoulos
threw a lazy phantom punch at the Emperor, who
ducked, his smile wider now.
      The tribune suddenly understood a great deal.
For Baanes Onomagoulos, Mavrikios Gavras was no
distant omnipotent sovereign, but a fortunate equal,
like a man who was lucky in love - and Scaurus
thought of Helvis with a brief, warm glow. He
wondered how long these two leaders had known
each other and what they had seen together, for their
friendship to survive the challenge of Mavrikios'
imperial rank.
      Baanes looked to Thorisin, asking, "And how
are you, pup?"
      "Well enough," the Sevastokrator answered.
His tone was not as warm as his brother's. Marcus
noted he made no move to join Baanes and
Mavrikios.
      "'Pup,' is it?" Viridovix breathed into Scaurus'
ear. "Sure and it's a rare bold man to be calling
Thorisin Gavaras a name like that, with himself so
feisty and all."
      "Onomagoulos has likely known him since
before he could walk," the Roman whispered back.
      "All the more reason for the name to rankle
now. You have no older kin, I'm thinking?"
      "No," Scaurus admitted.
      "There's no one worse than your elder brother's
friends. The first they see of you is a wee pulling
lad, and they never forget it, not when you're taller
than the lot of them." There was an edge to the
Celt's voice Marcus had seldom heard; when he
looked round, Viridovix was thoroughly grim, as if
chewing on a memory whose taste he did not like.
      The Arandos river bounced down from the
plateau into the flatlands over a series of cataracts,
past which the army marched as it made its way
westward. Churning down over the great boulders in
the streambed, the Arandos hurled rainbow-catching
spray hundreds of feet to either side of the
riverbanks. The fine droplets drying on the faces of
the soldiers slogging west were almost the only
relief they got from the burning heat.
      The central highlands were a very different
place from the lush coastal plain. The land was
baked a dirty gray-brown by the sun and
crisscrossed by gullies, dry nine parts of the year but
rampaging torrents the tenth. Wheat grew here too,
but only with reluctance when compared to the riot
of fertility to the east.
      Long stretches of land were too poor for
agriculture of any sort, supporting only a thin cover
"of grass and spikey shrubs. Herdsmen drove vast
flocks of sheep, cattle, and goats across the rugged
terrain, their way of life more akin to that of the
nomadic Khamorth than to that practiced elsewhere
in the Empire.
      For the first time, the supply problems Marcus
had feared began showing up. Bread from the
lowlands still followed the army up the Arandos,
portaged past the rapids. It helped, for local
deliveries of flour and grain were spotty and small.
Some of the shortfall was made up from the herds,
which gave the Romans something new to gripe
about. On campaign they preferred a largely
vegetarian diet, feeling that eating too much meat
made them hot, heavy, and slow.
      Most of the Videssians, used to a climate like
Italy's, had similar frugal tastes. The Halogai and
their Namdalener cousins, on the other hand, gorged
themselves on roast mutton and beef - and, as
always, suffered more from the heat than did the rest
of the army.
      The Khamorth ate everything edible and did
not complain. Marcus grew more thankful for the
Arandos with every day that passed. Without it and
its occasional tributaries, the plateau would have
been a desert in which nothing could survive. Its
water was blood-warm and sometimes muddy, but
never failed or slackened. The tribune found nothing
more exquisite on a scorching afternoon than
dipping up a helmetful and pouring it over his head.
So thirsty was the air for moisture, though, that half
an hour later he would have to do it again.
      By the middle of the third week of the march,
the army was beginning to become a real unit, not
the motley collection of forces that had set out from
Videssos. Mavrikios sped the process with a series
of drills, rushing the men from column formation
into line of battle, now ordering them to defend
against the front, now the right, and again the left.
      The maneuvers were exhausting when carried
out in that heat, but the men started to know each
other and to know what they could expect in battle
from their comrades: the iron courage of the
Halogai, the Romans' steadiness, the overwhelming
charges of the Namdaleni, the dash of the little
company of light horse from Khatrish, the
Khamorth bands' speed and ferocity, and the all-
around competence of most of the Videssian
majority - though not so specialized in their
techniques as their allies, the Videssians were more
versatile than any other troops.
      The army's left wing seemed no slower to
deploy than the right or the center and no clumsier
in its evolutions. Marcus began to think he had done
Ortaias Sphrantzes an injustice. Then one day he
heard Nephon Khoumnos' bull voice roaring out on
the left, overriding Sphrantzes' reedy tones but
careful to preface each command with, "Come, on,
you lugs, you heard the general. Now - " and he
would shout out whatever was needed.
      Gaius Philippus heard him too, and said,
"There's a relief. At least now we know things won't
fall apart on our flank."
      "True enough," Scaurus agreed. His solid
respect for Mavrikios' wits increased once more.
The Emperor had managed to give the young scion
of the rival faction a position that seemed powerful,
but no authority to go with his rank. Sometimes
Videssian subtlety was not to be despised.
      As he and his men were slowly making their
way to the Roman position in column after an
exercise, the tribune caught sight of a familiar
plump figure atop a donkey. "Nepos!" he called. "I
didn't know you were with us."
      The fat little priest steered his mount over to
the Romans. A conical straw hat protected his
shaven pate from the sun's wrath. "There are times
I'd sooner be lecturing at the Academy," he
admitted. "My fundament was not designed for days
on end in the saddle - oh, a horrid pun there. I crave
pardon - it was unintentional." He shifted ruefully,
continuing, "Still, I was asked to come and so here I
am."
       "I would have thought the Emperor could find
enough priests to take omens, hearten the men, and
suchlike without pulling you away from your
research," Gorgidas said.
       "And so there are," Nepos said, puzzled at the
physician's slowness. "I do such things, to be sure,
but they are hardly my reason for being here."
       "What then, your honor?" Viridovix asked with
a sly grin. "Magic?"
       "Why, of course," Nepos replied, still surprised
anyone needed to put the question to him. Then his
brow cleared as he remembered. "That's right - in
your world, magic is more often talked of than seen,
is it not? Well, my friends, answer me this - if not
for magic, how and why would you be marching
through some of the least lovely land in the Empire
of Videssos? How would you be talking with me
now?"
       Viridovix, Gorgidas, and the Romans in
earshot looked uncomfortable. Nepos nodded at
them. "You begin to understand, I see."
       While his mates were still wrestling with
Nepos' words, Gaius Philippus drove to the heart of
the problem. "If you use magic in your fighting,
what can we poor mortals expect? Hordes of
demons shrieking out of the sky? Man-sized
fireballs shot from miles away? Gods above, will the
very earth crack under our feet?"
      Nepos frowned at the centurion's oath, but saw
from his listeners' faces how alarming the prospect
of the unknown was. He did his best to reassure
them. "Nothing so dramatic, I promise you. Battle
magic is a very chancy thing - with men's minds and
emotions at the pitch of combat, even the most
ordinary spells often will not bite. For that matter,
sorcerers are often too busy saving their own skins
to have the leisure they need for magecraft.
      "And you must bear in mind," the priest went
on, "that both sides will have magicians with them.
The usual result is that they cancel each other's work
and leave the result to you armored ruffians. In
short, you have little to fear. I think my colleagues
of the Academy and I should be able to keep our
sorcerous friend Avshar quite well checked and
perhaps give him more than he bargained for."
      Nepos sounded confident. Yet for all the
priest's assurances of wizardry's small use in battle,
Marcus could not help remembering the talking
corpse in the armory of Videssos' seawall, could not
stop himself from recalling the black rumors
swirling round Avshar's name in the fighting thus
far. His hand slid to the hilt of his good Gallic
sword. There, at least, was something to be counted
on to hold dire sorceries at bay.
                        XI

      THE FIRST SIGNS VIDESSOS WAS A
LAND UNDER ATTACK showed themselves
several days' march east of Amorion. A string of
plundered, burned-out villages said more clearly
than words that Yezda raiders had passed this way.
So did abandoned farms and a gutted monastery
with its ravaged fields. Some of the destruction was
very fresh; a pair of starving hounds still prowled
round the monastery, waiting for masters who
would not return.
      The damage the nomads had done elsewhere
was not much worse than any land could expect in
wartime. For the Empire's god, though, the Yezda
reserved a special fury. The small chapel by the
monks' living quarters was viciously desecrated.
The images on its walls were ripped to bits, and the
altar chopped up and used for stovewood. As a final
act of insult, the bandits had stabled their horses
there.
      If the Yezda thought to strike terror into their
enemies by such tactics, they failed. The Videssians
already had good cause to hate their western
neighbors. Now the same hatred was inculcated in
the mercenaries who followed Phos, for Mavrikios
made sure all his soldiers looked inside the profaned
chapel. The Emperor made no comment about what
they saw. None was needed.
      The devastation upset Marcus for another
reason. He had long since decided Yezd was a foe
worth fighting. Any land that placed one such as
Avshar high in its councils was not one with which
decent men could hope to live at peace.
      What the tribune had not realized was how
strong Yezd was. The imperial army was not much
more than halfway to Videssos' western frontier, yet
already the land bore the marks of the strokes the
nomads were hurling at the Empire. And what they
were seeing today was but the weakest, furthest
touch of the Yezda. What would the land be like
five days further west, or ten? Would anything grow
at all?
      That night there were no complaints over
setting up the usual Roman field fortifications, with
ditch, earth breastwork, and palisade of stakes. Not a
Yezda had been seen, but the entire imperial force
made camp as if in hostile country.
      Scaurus was glad it was the turn of his group of
legionaries to visit their women. As he and his men
strolled from their camp to that of the women, he
looked askance at local notions of what a fortified
camp should be. He always did.
      True, the women's tents were surrounded by a
palisade of sorts, but it was no better than other
Videssian productions. There were too many large,
haphazardly trimmed tree trunks - as soon as two or
three foes could combine to pull one away from its
fellows, the palisade was breached. The Romans, on
the other hand, each carried several stakes, which
they set up each night with their branches
intertwining. They were hard to uproot, and even if
one was torn free, it did not leave a gap big enough
for a man to enter. He'd mentioned the matter to the
Videssians several times; they always sounded
interested, but did nothing.
      Nervous sentries challenged the Romans half a
dozen times in the five-minute walk. "Use your wits,
fool!" Marcus snapped to the last of the challengers.
"Don't you know the Yezda fight on horseback?"
      "Of course, sir," the sentry answered in injured
tones. Scaurus hesitated, then apologized. Any sort
of ruse was possible, and the last thing he should do
was mock a man's alertness. He was more on edge
than he'd thought; tonight he badly needed the peace
Helvis could bring him.
      Yet it was not easy for him to find that peace,
though Helvis sent Malric to sleep with some
friends he had made on the march. Scaurus was so
long out of the habit of unburdening himself to
anyone - and perhaps especially to a woman - that
he spoke not of his concerns, but merely of the day's
march and other matters of little importance. Not
surprisingly, Helvis sensed something was wrong,
but the tribune's shield was up so firmly she could
not tell what it was.
      Even their love that night could not give the
Roman the relief he sought. He was too much within
himself to be able to give much, and what passed for
lovemaking had a hesitance and an incompleteness
it had not known before. Feeling all the worse
because he had hoped to feel better, the tribune
slipped into uneasy sleep.
       The next he knew, he was in a Gallic clearing
he remembered only too well, in the midst of his
little band of legionaries as the Celts began their
massacre. He stared wildly about him. Where was
Videssos, the Emperor, the baking plain he and the
survivors of this very night had been crossing? Or
were there any survivors? Was the Empire but a
fantasy of a man driven from his wits by fear?
       Here came Viridovix, swinging the long blade
that was twin to Scaurus' own. The tribune raised his
sword to parry, or so he thought, but the hand he
brought up over his head was empty. The Celt's
blade hurtled down -
       "What is it, darling?" The touch on his cheek
was not the bite of a blade, but Helvis' hand. "Your
thrashing woke me, and then you cried out loud
enough to rouse half the camp."
       Marcus lay on his back for several seconds
without answering. The night was nearly as hot as
the day had been, but there was cold sweat on his
chest and shoulders. He looked up to the ceiling of
the tent, his mind still seeing torchlight glittering off
a Celtic sword.
      "It was a dream," he said, more to himself than
to Helvis.
      "Of course it was," she answered, caressing his
face again. "Just a bad dream."
      "By the gods, how real it felt! I was in a bad
dream inside a nightmare, dreaming Videssos was
but a dream, and me about to die in Gaul - as I
should have, by any sane man's rules.
      "How real it was!" he said again. "Was that the
dream, or is this? What am I doing here, in this land
I never imagined, speaking its tongue, fighting its
wars? Is Videssos real? Will it - oh, the dear gods,
will you - vanish, too, one day, like a soap-bubble
when a needle pricks it? And am I doomed to
soldier on, then, for whatever new king I find, and
learn his ways as well?"
      He shuddered; in the hours when one day was
long dead and the next far from born, the vision had
a terrifying feel of probability to it.
      Helvis pressed her warm naked length against
him. "The nightmare is gone when you wake. This
is real," she said positively. "You see it, you feel it,
you taste it - what more could there be? I am no
one's dream but my own - though it gives me joy
you share it." In the darkness her eyes were
enormous.
     "How tight you are," she said, her fingers
exploring his chest, the side of his neck. "Roll
over!" she ordered, and Scaurus turned obediently
on his belly. She straddled his middle; he grunted in
pleasure as her strong hands began to knead the
tension from his back. Her massage always made
him want to purr like a kitten, never more so than
now.
     After a few minutes he rolled to his back once
more, careful not to dislodge her from atop him.
"What are you doing?" she asked, but she knew the
answer. He raised himself on his elbows to kiss her
more easily. A strand of her hair was between them;
she brushed it aside with a laugh. Her breath sighed
out as she lowered herself onto him.
     "This is real, too," she whispered as she began
to move. The tribune could not argue, nor did he
want to.
     Three days later the army saw its first live
Yezda, a small band of raiders silhouetted against
the sky to the west. The Emperor gave chase with a
squadron of Videssian horse, but the nomads on
their steppe ponies eluded the hunters.
      Ortaias Sphrantzes was intemperate in his
criticism of Mavrikios' choice. He told everyone
who would listen, "Ka-lokyres plainly states that
only nomads should be employed in the pursuit of
other nomads since, being accustomed to the saddle
from infancy, they are superior horsemen. Why have
we Khamorth with us, if not for such a purpose as
this?"
      "If himself doesna cease his havering anent his
precious book, the Gavras will be after making him
eat it one fine day," Viridovix said. Marcus thought
the same, but if the Emperor was displeased he gave
no immediate sign.
      The morning after the Yezda were spotted,
Scaurus was returning to the Roman camp from the
women's quarters when someone called his name.
He turned to find Thorisin Gavras behind him. The
Sevastokrator was swaying slightly; he looked to
have had quite a night of it.
      "Good morning, your Highness," Scaurus said.
      Thorisin raised a mocking eyebrow. "Good
morning, your highness,'" he mimicked. "Well, it's
good to see you can still be polite to the hand that
feeds you, even if you do sleep with an island
wench."
      Marcus felt his face grow hot; the flush was all
too noticeable with his fair skin. Catching sight of it,
Thorisin said, "Nothing to be ashamed about. The
lass is far from homely, I give you that. She's no
fool, either, from what I've heard, whether or not her
brother eats nails every morning."
      "That sounds like Soteric." Marcus had to
smile, struck by the aptness of Thorisin's
description.
      Gavras shrugged. "Never trust a Namdalener.
Deal with them, yes, but trust? Never," he repeated.
He walked slowly up to Scaurus and then around
him, studying the bemused Roman as he might a
horse he was thinking of buying. Marcus could
smell the wine on the Sevastokrator's breath.
Thorisin considered silently as he walked, then burst
out, "So what's wrong with you?"
      "Sir?" When faced with a superior in an
unpredictable mood, least said was best. The tribune
knew that lesson as well as the lowliest of his
troopers.
      "What's wrong with you?" It seemed Thorisin
could only keep track of his thoughts by saying
them over again. "You damned Romans keep
company with the islanders by choice; Skotos'
frozen beard, you take to them like flies to dead
meat." Despite the unflattering simile, there was no
rancor in the Sevastokrator's voice, only
puzzlement. "By rights, then, you should be
bubbling with seditions, rebellions, and plots to put
one Scaurus on my brother's throne, with his skull
for a drinking goblet."
      Now genuinely alarmed, the Roman started to
protest his loyalty. "Shut up," Thorisin said, with the
flat authority power and drink can sometimes
combine to put in a voice. "You come with me," he
added, and started back to his own tent, not looking
to see whether the tribune was following.
      Marcus wondered if he should disappear and
hope the Sevastokrator would forget their meeting
once sober. He could not take the chance, he
decided; Thorisin was too experienced a drinker to
go blank that way. Feeling nothing but trepidation,
he trailed along after Mavrikios' brother.
      Gavras' tent was of blue silk, but not a great
deal larger than the canvas and wool shelters of the
Videssian army's common soldiers. The
Sevastokrator was too much a warrior to care for
extravagance in the field. Only the pair of Haloga
bodyguards in front of the opening gave any real
indication of his rank. They snapped to attention
when they caught sight of their master. "Sir," said
one, "the Lady Komitta has been asking for you for
the past - "
      Komitta Rhangavve herself chose that moment
to poke her head out of the tent. Her lustrous black
hair was pulled back from her face, accenting her
aquiline features. She looked, in fact, like a barely
tamed angry falcon, and the tirade she loosed at
Thorisin did nothing to lessen the resemblance.
      "Where have you been, you worthless rutting
tinpot?" she shrilled. "Out swilling again, from the
look of you, with the mountain men and the
goatherds, and tumbling their women - or their
goats! I am of noble kin - how dare you subject me
to this humiliation, you - " and she swore with the
same aptness Scaurus had heard from her when she
gambled with the Namdaleni.
      "Phos' little suns," Thorisin muttered, giving
back a pace under the blast. "I don't need this,
whether she's right or not. My head hurts already."
      The two guards stood rigid, their blank faces
caricatures of unhearingness. The Roman's efforts
along the same line were not so successful, but then,
he thought, the poor guards likely got more practice.
      He had to admire the way the Sevastokrator
pulled himself together and returned his irascible
mistress' barrage. "Don't bite the thumb at me,
slattern!" he roared, his baritone pounding through
her soprano curses. "Give me peace, or I'll warm
your noble backside!"
      Komitta kept on at full bore for another few
seconds, but when Thorisin Gavras stalked toward
the tent with the evident intention of carrying out his
threat, she turned and ducked back inside, only to
emerge a moment later. Proud as a cat, she strode
stiff-backed past Thorisin. "I shall be with my
cousins," she informed him with icy hauteur.
      "Good enough," he replied amicably; Marcus
thought his anger mostly assumed. Gavras suddenly
seemed to remember the Roman standing by his
side. "True love is a wonderful thing, is it not?" he
remarked with a sour grin. A few seconds later he
added, "If you pray to Phos, outlander, tack on a
prayer that he deliver you from a taste for excitable
women. They're great fun, but they wear. .. oh, they
wear."
      The Sevastokrator sounded very tired, but he
was brisk again when he said to one of his
bodyguards, "Ljot, fetch my brother for me, will
you? We have a few things to discuss with this lad
here." He stabbed a thumb at Marcus. Ljot, who
proved to be the guard on the right, hurried away.
      Thorisin pulled the tent flap back for the
Roman to precede him. "Go on," he said, returning
to the ironic tone with which he'd begun the
encounter. "If not the Avtokrator's throne, will the
Sevastokrator's mats please your excellency?"
      Scaurus stooped to enter the tent; the air inside
was still musky with Komitta's perfume. He sank to
the silk-lined mat flooring, waiting for the
Sevastokrator to follow. Thorisin's gamesome
mood, his half-threats and sardonic compliments,
only served to make the tribune jittery. As he had in
the Emperor's chambers, he felt caught up in an
elaborate contest whose rules he did not understand,
but where the penalty for a misplay could be
disastrous.
      The Sevastokrator and the Roman had waited
only a couple of minutes when the guardsman Ljot
returned. "His Majesty asked me to tell you he will
be delayed," the Haloga reported. "He is at breakfast
with Baanes Onomagoulos and will join you when
they are through."
      If Thorisin Gavras had put on anger to match
Komitta's, there was mistaking his real wrath now.
"So I'm less important than that bald-headed son of
a smith, am I?" he growled. "Ljot, you take your
arse back to Mavrikios and tell him he and his
breakfast can both climb right up it."
      The Emperor's own head appeared inside the
tent, a wide grin on his face. "Little brother, if you're
going to commit lese majesty, never do it by
messenger. I'd have to execute him too, and it's
wasteful."
      Thorisin stared, then started to laugh. "You are
a bastard," he said. "Come on, set that stringy old
carcass of yours down here." Mavrikios did so; the
tent was a bit cramped for three but, thanks to its
thin silk walls, not unbearably stuffy.
      Opening a battered pine chest no finer than any
private soldier might have owned, Thorisin
produced an earthenware jug of wine, from which
he swigged noisily. "Ahh, that's good. Phos willing,
it will make my headache go away." He drank
again. "Seriously, brother, you shouldn't use Baanes
to twit me - I remember too well how jealous of him
I was when I was small."
      "I know, but the chance to listen to you fume
was too good to pass up." Mavrikios sounded half-
contrite, half-amused at his practical joke's success.
      "Bastard," Thorisin said again, this time with
no heat.
      Marcus looked from one of the brothers Gavras
to the other; though he'd had nothing to drink, he
could feel the world starting to spin. Much of what
he'd thought he understood of Videssian politics had
just fallen to pieces before his eyes. Where was the
feud that had the Gavrai so at odds with each other
they rarely spoke?
     "Oh dear," Mavrikios said, spying the
bewilderment Scaurus was doing his best to hide.
"I'm afraid we've managed to confuse your guest."
     "Have we, now? Well, I'm damned if I'll
apologize to any Namdalener-loving barbarian."
Thorisin's words were fierce enough to make the
tribune start up in fright, but he accompanied them
with an unmistakable wink. Marcus sagged back to
his haunches, altogether muddled.
     '"Only right he should be confused," the
Sevastokrator went on, warming to his theme. "He
and his whole crew like the easterners so bloody
well this whole camp should be buzzing with talk
they're ganging together to kill us all. Phos knows
we've paid enough good gold to sniff out the
rumors."
     "We didn't find any, either," Mavrikios said
accusingly. "Which leads to one of two conclusions:
either you're clever beyond compare, or else you
may be loyal in spite of your perverse choice of
friends."
     "I don't think he looks all that bright,
Mavrikios," Thorisin said.
     "You don't look any too well yourself, little
brother," the Emperor retorted, but again the tone of
the badinage was what would be expected from two
brothers who liked each other well.
     With the persistence too much wine can bring,
Thorisin said, "If he's hot so smart as to be able to
fool us all, he's most likely loyal. Who would have
thought it, from a friend of the Namdaleni?" He
shook his head in amazement, then belched softly.
     "The gods be thanked," Marcus murmured to
himself. When both Gavrai eyed him questioningly,
he realized he'd spoken Latin. "I'm sorry you had
any reason to doubt me," he told them, returning to
Videssian, "and very glad you don't any longer."
     His relief was so great all of his defenses slid
down at once, along with the guards on his tongue.
"Then the two of you aren't quarreling with each
other?" he blurted, then stopped in worse confusion
than before.
     The brothers Gavras suddenly looked like
small boys whose secret has been discovered.
Mavrikios plucked a hair from his beard, looked at it
musingly, and tossed it aside. "Thorisin, he may be
smarter than he seems."
      "Eh?" Thorisin said blurrily. "I should hope
so." He was sprawled out on his side and fighting a
losing battle with sleep.
      "Lazy good-for-nothing," Mavrikios smiled.
He turned back to Scaurus. "You're quite right,
outlander. We are having a little play, and to a
fascinated audience, I might add."
      "But I was there when you first quarreled,
gambling against each other," the tribune protested.
"That couldn't have been contrived."
      The Emperor's smile slipped a notch. He
looked at his brother, but Thorisin was beginning to
snore. "No, it was real enough," he admitted.
"Thorisin's tongue has always been more hasty than
is good for him, and I own he made me spleenish
that night. But next morning we made it up - we
always do."
      Mavrikios' smile broadened again. "This time,
though, my contrary brother chose to make a donkey
of himself in front of a hundred people. It was less
than no time before the vultures started gathering
over the corpse of our love." He cocked an eyebrow
at the Roman. "Some of them flapped near you, I've
heard."
     "So they did," Scaurus agreed, remembering
the odd meeting he'd had with Vardanes Sphrantzes.
     "You know what I mean, then," Mavrikios
nodded. "You were far from the only one sounded,
by the way. It occurred to Thorisin and me that if we
lay very still and let the vultures land, thinking they
were about to pick our bones, why then we might
have the makings of a fine buzzard stew for
ourselves."
     "I can follow all that," Marcus allowed. "But
why, having laid your trap, did you give Ortaias
Sphrantzes the left wing of your army, even with
Khoumnos to keep him in check?"
     "He is an imbecile, isn't he?" the Emperor
chuckled. "Nephon has his eye on him, though, so
have no fear on that score."
     "I've noticed that. But why is he here at all?
Without his precious book he know less about
soldiering than his horse does, and with it he's
almost more dangerous, because he thinks he knows
things he doesn't."
     "He's here for the same reason he has his
worthless command: Vardanes asked them of me."
      Marcus was silent while he tried to digest that.
At last he shook his head; the crosscurrents of
intrigue that could make the Sevastos request such a
thing and the Emperor grant it were too complex for
him to penetrate.
      Mavrikios Gavras watched him struggle and
give up. "It's good to find there are still some things
you don't understand," he said. "You have more skill
at politics than most mercenary soldiers I know."
      Thinking of the ruling Roman triumvirate of
Caesar, Crassus, and Pompey - each of whom gladly
would have torn the hearts from the other two could
he have done so without plunging his country into
civil war - Scaurus said, "I know something of
faction politics, but yours, I think, are worse." He
waited to see if Mavrikios would solve the riddle for
him.
      The Emperor did, with the air of a professor
giving a demonstration for an inexperienced student
who might have talent. "Think it through. With
Ortaias here, Vardanes gets an eye in the army - not
the best of eyes, perhaps, because I know it's there,
but an eye just the same. And who knows? Even
though Khoumnos has the real power on the left,
Ortaias may eventually learn something of war and
become more useful to his uncle in that way. Clear
so far?"
       "Clear enough, anyway."
       "All right. If I'd said no to Vardanes, he
wouldn't have stopped plotting against me - he could
no more do that than stop breathing. I thought it
safer to have Ortaias here where I could keep an eye
on him than involved in Phos knows what mischief
back in the city."
       "I follow the logic well enough. From what
little I've seen of Vardanes Sphrantzes, I'd say it was
sound, but you know him far better than I."
       "He's a serpent," Mavrikios said flatly. His
voice grew grim. "There's one other reason to let
Ortaias come along. If worse comes to worse, he's
worth something as a hostage. Likely not much,
when I recall how conveniently Evphrosyne died,
but something." Still in the role of instructor, he
spread his hands, palms out, as if he had just proven
two lines in a complex figure parallel after all.
       His, though, were not the pale soft hands of a
sheltered don. Spear, sword, and bow had scarred
and callused them, and sun and wind turned them
brown and rough. They were the hands of a warrior,
yes, but a warrior who also showed his skill in
another arena, one where the weapons were the
more deadly for being invisible.
     The Emperor saw Scaurus' admiration, dipped
his head in acknowledgment of it. "Time the both of
us got back to work," he said. "Look angry when
you come out. I've dressed you down, and Thorisin
and I have been snapping at each other again. It
would never do for people to think we like each
other."

     "Are you odd-looking people, uh, Romans?"
The speaker was a smilingly handsome, swarthy
young man on a stocky, fast-looking horse. A girl of
about his own age, her silver-braceleted arms round
his middle, rode behind him.
     Both were in typical Videssian horseman's
gear, a light, long-sleeved tunic over baggy woolen
trousers tucked into boots. Each of them wore a
sheathed saber; he had a bow and a felt quiver slung
over his back.
     They led a packhorse loaded with gear,
prominent among it a wickerwork helmet, a bundle
of javelins, and a fine pandoura, its soundbox
decorated with elaborate scrollwork and inlays of
mother of pearl.
      The young fellow's Videssian had a slight
guttural accent. He wore a leather cap with three
rounded projections toward the front, a broad
neckflap and several streamers of bright ribbon
trailing off behind. Marcus had seen a good many
Vas-purakaners with such headgear - quite a few of
them had settled in these lands not far from their
ancestral home. On most of them the cap seemed
queer and lumpy, but the stranger somehow gave it
a jaunty air.
      His flashing smile and breezy way of speech
were wasted on Gaius Philippus, who frowned up at
him. "You don't look any too good yourself," he
growled, unconsciously echoing Mavrikios speaking
to Thorisin. "If we are Romans, what do you want
with us?"
      The centurion's sour greeting did not put off
the horseman. He answered easily, "You may as
well get used to me. I am to be your guide through
the passes of my lovely homeland. I am Prince
Senpat Sviodo of Vaspurakan." He drew himself up
in the saddle.
      Marcus was pleased he'd guessed the young
man's people, but more alarmed than anything else
at the prospect of having to deal with a new and
unfamiliar royalty. "Your Highness - " he began,
only to stop, nonplused, when Senpat Sviodo and
his companion burst into gales of laughter.
      "You are from a far land, mercenary," he said.
"Have you never heard Vaspurakan called the
princes' land?"
      Thinking back, the tribune did recall some
slighting reference of Mavrikios' during the briefing
before the imperial army left Videssos. Of its
significance, however, he had no idea, and said so.
      "Every Vaspurakaner is a prince," Sviodo
explained. "How could it be otherwise, since we are
all descendants of Vaspur, the first and most noble
of the creations of Phos?"
      Scaurus was instantly sure the Videssians did
not take kindly to that theology. He had little time to
ponder it, though, for the girl was nudging Senpat,
saying, "Half-truths, and men's half-truths at that.
Without the princesses of Vaspurakan, there would
be no princes."
      "A distinct point," Senpat Sviodo said fondly.
He turned back to the Romans. "Gentlemen," he
said, looking at Gaius Philippus as if giving him the
benefit of the doubt, "my wife Nevrat. She knows
Vaspurakan and its pathways at least as well as I
do."
      "Well, to the crows with you, then," someone
called from about the third rank of Romans. "I'd
follow her anywhere!"
      The legionaries who heard him whooped
agreement. Marcus was relieved to see Senpat
Sviodo laugh with them, and Nevrat too. She was a
comely lass, with strong sculptured features, a dark
complexion like her husband's, and flashing white
teeth. Instead of Senpat's distinctive Vaspurakaner
cap, she wore a flower-patterned silk scarf over her
black, wavy hair.
      Lest the next gibe have a less fortunate
outcome, the tribune made haste to introduce some
of his leading men to the Vaspurakaners. Then he
asked, "How is it you are in Videssos' service?"
      Senpat Sviodo told his story as they traveled
west; it was not much different from what Scaurus
had expected. The young man was of a noble house
- his fine horse, his elegant pandoura, and the silver
Nevrat wore had already made the tribune sure he
was no common soldier.
      "Being a noble in Vaspurakan these past few
years was not an unmixed blessing," he said. "When
the Yezda came sweeping through, our peasants
could flee, having little to lose by taking shelter here
inside the Empire. But my family's estates had rich
fields, wealth besides from a small copper mine, and
a keep as strong as any. We chose to fight to hold
them."
      "And well, too," Nevrat added. "More than
once we drove the raiders off our lands licking their
wounds." Her slim hand touched the hilt of her saber
in a way that told Marcus she meant "we" in the
most literal sense.
      "So we did," Senpat agreed with a smile. But
that smile faded as he thought of the grinding fight
he had waged - and lost. "We never drove them far
enough, though, or hard enough. Season by season,
year by year, they wore us down. We couldn't farm,
we couldn't mine, we couldn't go more than a
bowshot from the keep without being attacked. Two
years ago a Videssian regiment passed by our
holding chasing Yezda, and Senpat Sviodo, prince
of Vaspurakan, became Senpat Sviodo, imperial
scout. There are worse fates." He shrugged.
      He tugged at the rope by which he led his
packhorse. When the beast came forward, he
plucked the pandoura from its back and struck a
fiery chord. "Worse fates indeed!" he shouted, half
singing. "Wolves of the west, beware! I come to
take back what is mine!" Nevrat hugged him tightly,
her face shining with pride.
      The Romans thought well of his display of
spirit, but it had a special purport for Gorgidas.
Familiar with the strife-torn politics of Greek cities,
he said, "That one and his wife will do well. It's so
very easy for an exile to leave hope behind along
with his home. The ones who somehow bring it with
them are a special breed."
      As the army halted for the night, Senpat
Sviodo and his wife, like so many before them in the
Empire of Videssos, walked up to observe with
unfeigned admiration as the Romans created their
camp. "What a good notion!" he exclaimed. "With
fieldworks like these, it would be easy to stand off
attackers."
      "That's the idea behind them," Scaurus agreed,
watching his men toss the dry, reddish-brown
plateau soil up from the ditch they were digging to
form the camp's breastwork. "You'll have officer's
status among us, so your tent will be one of those in
front of mine, along the via principalis - " At
Senpat's blank expression, he realized he'd used the
Latin name and hastily translated: "The main road, I
should say."
      "Well enough, then," the Vaspurakaner said.
Lifting the three-peaked cap from his head, he used
a tunic sleeve to wipe caked sweat and dust from his
forehead. "I could use a good night's sleep - my
behind isn't sorry to be out of the saddle."
      "Yours?" Nevrat said. "At least you had a
saddle to be out of - I've been astride a horse's
bumpy backbone all day, and my stern is petrified."
She gave her husband a look full of meaning. "I
hope you don't plan on being out of the saddle the
whole night long."
      "Dear, there are saddles, and then there are
saddles," Senpat grinned. His arm slid round her
waist; she nestled happily against him.
      Seeing their longing for each other, Scaurus
muttered a Latin curse - Videssian was too new in
his mouth for comfortable swearing. Until that
moment he had forgotten the rule he'd imposed
against women in the camp. If it stood for his own
men, he could hardly break it for these newcomers.
As gently as he could, he explained his edict to the
Vaspurakaners.
      They listened in disbelief, too amazed to be
really angry.
      Finally Senpar said, "Watching your soldiers
building this camp convinced me you were men of
no common discipline. But to enforce that kind of
order and have it obeyed - " He shook his head. "If
your Romans are fools enough to put up with it,
that's their affair and yours. But I'm damned if we
will. Come on, love," he said to Nevrat. And their
tent went up, not within the Roman stockade, but
just outside it, for they preferred each other's
company to the safety of trench, earthwork, and
palisade. Alone inside his tent later that evening,
Marcus decided he could not blame them.
      His own sleep came slowly. It occurred to him
that Phostis Apokavkos might well be able to tell
him much more than he already knew about the
strong-willed folk who came out of Vaspurakan.
Apokavkos was from the far west and presumably
had dealt with Vaspurakaners before.
      The adopted Roman was not sleeping either,
but throwing knucklebones with a double handful of
men from his maniple. "You looking for me, sir?"
he asked when he saw Marcus. "Won't be sorry if
you are - I've got no luck tonight."
      "If you're after an excuse to get out of the
game, your luck just turned," the tribune said. He
spoke in his own language, and Apokavkos had no
trouble understanding him; when the onetime
peasant-soldier tried to speak Latin, though, his
lisping Videssian accent still made him hard to
follow. But he stuck with it doggedly, and his
progress was easy to see.
      Scaurus took him back to his own tent and
asked him, "Tell me what you know of Vaspurakan
and its people." Recalling Apokavkos' dislike of the
Namdaleni for their heterodox beliefs, he made
himself ready to discount as prejudiced some of
what the other would reply."
       "The 'princes'?" Phostis said. "About their land
I can't tell you that much - where I grew up, it was
no more than mountains on the northern horizon.
Beastly cold in winter, I've heard. They raise good
horses there, but everybody knows that."
       Even Scaurus had heard good things about
Vaspurakaner horseflesh, and he had the traditional
Roman attitude toward the equestrian art - that it
was a fine skill, for other people. He was
intellectually aware that the use of stirrups made
horsemanship a very different thing from the one he
knew, but still found it hard to take the idea
seriously.
       Apokavkos proceeded to surprise him, for he
spoke of the Vaspurakaners themselves, not with
suspicion, but with genuine and obvious respect.
"It's said three 'princes' working together could sell
ice to Skotos, and I believe it, for work together they
would. I don't know where they learned it, unless
being stuck between countries bigger'n they are
taught it to them, but they take care of their own,
always. They'll fight among themselves, aye, but let
an outsider meddle in their affairs and they're tight
as trap jaws against him."
      To Marcus that seemed such plain good sense
as hardly to be worth comment, but Phostis
Apokavkos' voice was full of wistful admiration.
"You - we, I mean - Romans are like that too, but
there's plenty of Videssians who'd hire on Skotos
himself, if it meant paying their enemies back one."
      The tribune's thoughts went to the decayed
heads he had seen at the foot of the Milestone in
Videssos, generals who rebelled with Yezda
backing, both of them. He also thought, uneasily, of
Vardanes Sphrantzes. Apokavkos had a point.
      Trying to shake the worrisome pictures from
his mind, Scaurus decided to tease Phostis a bit, to
see what he would do. "How can you speak so well
of heretics?" he asked.
      "Because they're good people, religion or no,"
Apokavkos said at once. "They aren't like your
precious islanders - begging your pardon, sir -
always chipping away at other people's ideas and
changing their own whenever the wind shifts. The
'princes' believe what they believe and they don't
care a horseturd whether you do or not. I don't
know," he went on uncomfortably, "I suppose
they're all damned - but if they are, old Skotos had
better watch himself, because enough
Vaspurakaners in his hell and they might end up
taking it away from him."
      The first raid on the imperial army came two
days before it got to Amorion. It was a pinprick,
nothing more - a handful of Yezda waylaying a
Videssian scout. When he was missed, his comrades
searches until they found his body. The Yezda, of
course, had plundered it and stolen his horse.
      There was a slightly larger encounter the next
day, when a small band of Khamorth traded arrows
with the Yezda until reinforcements drove the
enemy away. Trivial stuff, really, Marcus thought,
until he remembered the Emperor promising the
journey from Garsavra to Amorion would be as easy
as that from the capital to Garsavra. More invaders
were loose in the Empire than Mavrikios had
thought.
      And Amorion, when the army reached it,
proved to have suffered badly. Lying on the
northern bank of the Ithome, a tributary of the
Arandos River, Amorion, like most towns in
Videssos' westlands, had long ago torn down its
walls for their building stone. Yezda raiders took
full advantage of the city's helplessness, ravaging its
suburbs and penetrating almost to the river bank in
several places. As the army approached, the
plundered areas were barren and rubble-strewn, in
stark contrast to the fertility the river brought
neighboring districts.
      The contingent Gagik Bagratouni had gathered
to reinforce Mavrikios was not as large as the one
under Baanes Onomagoulos, but it was, Marcus
soon decided, made up of better men. Most were
Vaspurakaners like their commander - dark, curly-
haired men with bushy beards, usually heavier of
build than the Videssians they lived among. They
wore scale-armor; many had helmets of wicker like
Senpat Sviodo's, often ornamented with plaited
horns or wings. Almost all of them looked like
veterans.
      "So we should," Senpat Sviodo said when
Marcus remarked on this. "At least as much as the
Empire's akritai, we have stood in Yezd's way these
past years and been Videssos' shield. Believe me, it
was not what we wanted, but being set where Phos
chose to place his princes in this world, we had no
choice."
      He shrugged, then went on, "My people tell a
fable about a little lark who heard the sky was about
to fall. She turned on her back with her legs in the
air to catch it. 'Have you become a tree, then?' all
the other animals asked. 'No,' she answered, 'but still
I must do all I can.' So did she, and so do we."
      Just as it had for Onomagoulos, the army
arranged itself in review to honor Gagik Bagratouni.
As the general rode up on a roan stallion, Scaurus
found himself impressed by the man's sheer physical
presence. If Caesar had been a bird of prey, a human
expression of Rome's eagle, Gagik Bagratouni was a
lion.
      His tawny skin, his mane of coal-black hair,
and the thick dark beard that covered his wide, high-
cheekboned face almost to the eyes were enough in
themselves to create that impression. The steady
gaze from those eyes, a hunter's look, added to the
image, as did the thrust of his nose - it was thicker
and fleshier than the typical Videssian beak, but no
less imperious. He even sat his horse strikingly, as if
posing for an equestrian statue or, more likely,
conscious that many eyes were on him.
      Bagratouni held that impassive seat as he
walked his horse past unit after unit. The only
acknowledgment the troops got that he was so much
as aware of their presence was a flick of his eyes
across their ranks, the slightest dip of his head as he
passed by each commander. Mavrikios himself was
not nearly so imperial of demeanor, yet it was plain
Gagik Bagratouni meant no slight to the Emperor,
but was merely acting as he always did.
      When he came to the Romans, drawn up next
to the Emperor's Haloga guard, Bagratouni's thick
brows rose - these were men whose like he had not
seen. He looked them over appraisingly, studying
their equipment, their stance, their faces. Whatever
his judgment was, he did not show it. But when he
saw Senpat and Nevrat Sviodo standing with the
Romans' officers, his heavy features lit in the first
smile Scaurus had seen from him.
      He shouted something in his own tongue. His
voice was in keeping with the rest of him, a bass
roar. Senpat answered in the same speech; though
altogether ignorant of it, Marcus heard the name
"Sviodo" several times. Gagik Bagratouni cried out
again, then jumped down from his horse and folded
Senpat Sviodo in a bearhug, kissing him on each
cheek. He did the same to Nevrat, with a different
kind of gusto.
      "Sahak Sviodo's son!" he said in thickly
accented Videssian, switching languages out of
courtesy to the Romans around him, "and with such
a lovely bride, too! Lucky you are, both of you!
Sahak was a great one for pulling Yezd's beard, yes,
and the Emperor's too, when in our affairs he stuck
it. You have the very look of home - I knew him
well."
      "I wish I could say the same," Senpat
answered. "He died before my beard sprouted."
      "So I heard, and a great pity it was,"
Bagratouni said. "Now you must tell me - who are
these strange men you travel with?"
      "Have you noticed, Scaurus darling," Viridovix
said, "that every one of these Vaspurakaner
omadhauns who sets eyes on you and yours is after
calling you funny-looking? Right rude it is, I'm
thinking."
      "Likely they saw you first," Gaius Philippus
put in, drawing a glare from Viridovix.
      "Enough, you two," Marcus said. Perhaps
luckily, the Gaul and the centurion preferred Latin
as a language for bickering, and the Vaspurakaners
could not understand them. Scaurus named his men
for Bagratouni, introduced some of his officers and,
as he had done so often by now, briefly explained
how they had come to Videssos.
      "That is most marvelous," Gagik Bagratouni
said. "You - all of you - " His expansive gesture
took in everyone the tribune had presented to him. "
- must to my home come this evening for a meal,
and more of your tale to tell me. I would have it
now, but things are piling up behind me."
      He spoke the truth there; the procession he
headed, which was made up of his contingent's
officers and some of the leading officials and
citizens of Amorion, had halted in confusion when
he dismounted. Its members were variously standing
about or sitting on horseback while waiting for him
to continue. One of them in particular, a tall harsh-
faced priest who had a fierce hound on a lead of
stout iron chain, was staring venomously at
Bagratouni. The Vaspurakaner affected not to
notice, but Scaurus stood near enough to hear him
mutter, "Plague take you, Zemarkhos, you shave-
pated buzzard."
      Bagratouni remounted, and the army of
functionaries moved on toward the Emperor. When
the priest started forward once more, his dog balked,
setting itself on its haunches. He jerked at its chain.
"Come on, Vaspur!" he snapped, and the beast,
choked by its collar, yelped and followed him.
      Marcus was not sure he believed his ears.
Clearly, not all Videssians shared the liking Phostis
Apokavkos had for the folk of Vaspurakan - not
when a priest would name his dog for the
Vaspurakaners' eponymous ancestor. Senpat Sviodo
stood tight-lipped beside Scaurus, plainly feeling the
insult's sting. The Roman wondered how Gagik
Bagratouni put up with such calculated insolence.
      Unlike Baanes Onomagoulos at Garsavra,
Bagratouni dismounted and performed a full
proskynesis before the Emperor, followed by
everyone accompanying him. Even in the formal act
of submission to his overlord he was still a
commanding figure, going to his knees and then to
his belly with feline dignity and grace. Scaurus
noted with amusement that, by comparison, the
churlish priest Zemarkhos looked a poorly built
stick man.
      After Mavrikios' brief speech of thanks for the
men Bagratouni had collected, the Vaspurakaner
general and his party performed the proskynesis
once more, then retired from the imperial presence.
He held up their withdrawal for a moment to give
Senpat Sviodo and Scaurus directions to his
dwelling. Zemarkhos had never seen Romans
before, but, from the look he gave them, their
willingness to be a Vaspurakaner's guests was
enough to brand them agents of Skotos.
      When Senpat Sviodo and his wife met the
Romans who were going with them to Bagratouni's,
they had exchanged their traveling garb for more
elegant attire. He wore a spotless white tunic
coming almost to his knees, baggy trousers of
reddish-brown wool, and sandals with golden
clasps. On his head was the familiar Vaspurakaner
cap; his pandora was slung across his back.
      Nevrat was in a long gown of light blue linen,
its cut subtly different from Videssian designs. The
dress set off her dark skin magnificently, as did her
massy silver bracelets, necklace, and earrings.
     Senpat stared at the Romans in amazement.
"What matter of men have I fallen in with?" he
cried. "Do you satisfy each other? Where are your
women, in Phos' sacred name?"
     "It's not our usual custom to bring them,
unbidden, to a feast," Marcus answered, but he
shared an apprehensive look with Quintus Glabrio.
The junior centurion was partnered to a fiery-
tempered Videssian girl named Damaris. She and
Helvis would not be pleased to learn they had been
excluded from a function which they could have
attended.
     The rest of the Roman party was more
sanguine about being by themselves. "Sure and
there'll be a lass or three fair famished for the sight
of a Celtic gentleman," Viridovix said. "It's not as if
I'm thinking to return alone."
     Gaius Philippus was in most ways an
admirable man but, as Marcus knew, women were
of no use to him out of bed.
      He looked back at Senpat Sviodo with as much
incomprehension as the Vaspurakaner directed
toward him.
      "Are you looking at me?" Gorgidas asked
Senpat. "I hold with the idea of Diogenes, a wise
man of my people. When he was asked the right
time for marriage, he said, 'For a young man, not
yet; for an old man, never.'"
      "What of you, though?" Senpat asked. "You're
neither one nor the other."
      "I manage," Gorgidas said shortly. "Right now,
I manage to be hungry. Come on, shall we?"
      Gagik Bagratouni's home was half villa, half
fortress. Its grounds were spacious and well kept,
with little groves of citruses, figs, and date palms
placed artfully among flowerbeds full of bright
blooms. But the main house was a thick-walled
stronghold seemingly transplanted from
Vaspurakan's hills, set behind outworks that would
have delighted the commander of any border keep.
      As he greeted his guests by the massive, metal-
clad gate, Bagratouni noticed the tribune taking the
measure of the place and Gaius Philippus' frank
stare of professional appraisal. "This is not what I
would want," he said, waving at the forbidding gray
stone walls. "But I fear too many in Amorion delight
not in seeing prosper the princes. But prosper I do,
and I am able for myself to care."
      That, if anything, was an understatement, for
Gagik Bagratouni did not rely on walls alone for
protection. His personal guard manned them, a
picked group of young Vaspurakaners as formidable
as any band of warriors Scaurus had seen.
      "Do not worry about such things," the general
said. "Come into my courtyard; eat, drink, talk,
laugh."
      Bagratouni's house was laid out in a basic style
Marcus knew well, for it was popular among the
wealthy in Italy. Instead of facing out onto the
world, the home's focus was directed inward to a
central court. But the structure was more a bastion
than any Roman home Marcus knew. Only a few
windowslits were directed outward, and those as
much for arrow-fire as for view. The gates that led
from the outer grounds into the courtyard were
almost as stoutly made as those protecting the estate
as a whole.
      Lanterns hung from trees inside the courtyard.
Their glass panes were of many colors; as twilight
deepened, beams of gold and red, blue and green
danced in the foliage. The main tables in the
courtyard's center, though, were brightly lit, to call
attention to the feast they bore.
      Vaspurakaner cookery was nothing like
Videssian cuisine, which emphasized seafood and
sauces of fermented fish. The main course was a
roasted kid, spiced with a glaze of tarragon, mint,
and lemon, and garnished with shreds of sharp
yellow cheese. There was also a stew of ground
lamb and hard-boiled eggs, made flavorful with
onion, coriander, and cinnamon, and extended with
chickpeas. Both dishes made the eyes water along
with the mouth, but both were delicious.
      "Whoo!" Viridovix said, fanning his face with
his hand. "There's a lot going on in there." To quell
the flames, he downed his winecup and reached for
the decanter before him. Of all Bagratouni's guests,
the big Celt probably felt the food's tang the most.
Beyond vinegar, honey, and a few pale-flavored
herbs, northern Gaul had little to offer in the way of
spices.
      Scaurus sat at Gagik Bagratouni's right,
between the general and his chief aide, a man of
early middle years named Mesrop Anhoghin, who
was even more thickly bearded than his commander.
At Bagratouni's left, confirming Senpat Sviodo's
words, was the general's wife Zabel, a plump,
comfortable lady whose few words of Videssian
were mostly an apology for not knowing more.
Anhoghin's command of the imperial tongue was
not much better. As a result, Gagik Bagratouni had
the tribune's conversation almost entirely to himself,
something Marcus soon began to suspect he had
arranged deliberately.
      The general - nakharar, he styled himself in his
own language; it meant warrior-prince - had a
hunger for knowledge of the world's far reaches that
rivaled Gorgidas'. Perhaps, thought Scaurus, it
sprang from his effort to grow beyond the limits of
the isolated land in which he'd come to manhood.
Whatever the reason, he bombarded the Roman with
questions not only touching on matters military, but
also about his native land, its people, what the city
of Videssos was like, even what it was like to see
the ocean. "Never have I seen it," he remarked
sadly. "Rivers, yes, lakes, those yes, too, but never
the sea."
      "Did I see -his honor ask you about the sea?"
asked Viridovix, who was a few seats away. At
Marcus' nod, the Gaul said earnestly, "Tell him it's a
fit province for lunatics, and precious little else. A
boat's no more than a prison, with the risk of
drowning besides."
      "Why says he that?" Gagik asked. "On rivers
and lakes I enjoy to fish in a boat."
      "He suffers from seasickness," Scaurus
answered, and then had to explain the concept to
Bagratouni. The Vaspurakaner tugged his beard as
he considered the Roman's words; Marcus wondered
if he thought he was being made sport of.
      Dessert consisted of fruit and some interesting
pastry balls, a mixture of wheat flour, ground dates,
and minced almonds, covered over with powdered
sugar. This last was a discovery for the Romans, for
the Videssians sweetened with honey, even as they
did themselves. Reaching for about his fourth,
Gorgidas remarked, "It's as well I don't see these
more often, lest I bulge with lard."
      "Bah!" Gaius Philippus said. "Why is it always
the skinny ones who complain?" Only the hard life
he led kept the centurion from losing the battle with
his belly.
      "Not only are they very good," said Quintus
Glabrio, licking his fingers, "but they look as if
they'd keep well, and they're so rich a few would
feed a man for some time. They'd be good travelers'
fare."
      "So they would and so they are. You are one
who sees the importance in things, then? That is
good," Bagratouni rumbled approvingly. "We of
Vaspurakan often on journeys carry them."
      "The Videssians do, too," Senpat Sviodo told
him with a grin. "They call them 'princes' balls.'"
The Romans and most of the Vaspurakaners
snorted; Gagik Bagratouni looked blank. Senpat
translated the pun into his native language. The
nakharar blinked, then he and his wife began to
laugh at the same time. When Zabel laughed it was
easy to see how the lines had come to crease her
features; her face was made for laughter. Gagik
smiled at her fondly. She was far from beautiful, but
in her own way lovely.
      "Do they indeed?" her husband chuckled. "Do
they indeed?"
      After the dessert was finished, someone called
to Senpat, "Give us a tune, there, since you've
brought your pandoura along."
      "Fair enough," he said. "Who's with me?" One
of the Vaspurakaners had a flute; a quick search of
the house turned up a small hand-drum for another
volunteer. And with no more ado than that they
struck up a song of their mountain homeland. All
the Vaspurakaners seemed to know the words and
clapped out the beat with their hands. Senpat's
fingers danced over the strings of his instrument; his
strong clear tenor helped lead the singers. Gagik
Bagratouni sang with enthusiasm and great volume,
but even Marcus could tell that the nakharar could
not carry a tune in a bucket.
      The tribune felt isolated, both by his
indifference toward music in general and his
ignorance of this music in particular. He wondered
what Helvis would make of it and had another
twinge of conscience over not bringing her with
him. To his untrained ear, most of the songs had a
defiant air to them, as befit the resilient folk who
gave them birth.
     As the musicians played on, the Vaspurakaners
got up from the table one by one and began to
dance, either with the ladies who accompanied them
or with some of Gagik Bagratouni's servinggirls.
The slates of the courtyard rang to boot heels
stamping in intricate rhythms. Bodies swayed,
sinuous and sinewy at the same time. The dancers
were a physical expression of what they heard,
Marcus thought with surprise, and began to
understand the grip strong music could take, even if
he failed to feel it himself.
     Viridovix, now, was taken hard by it, watching
and listening as if in a trance. When at length Senpat
and his fellows struck up a particularly sprightly
tune, the Celt could stand - or rather sit - no more.
He rose to join the dancers.
     He did not try to imitate their steps, dancing
instead in his native Gallic style. Where their upper
bodies shifted to the music, he was almost still
above the waist, his arms motionless at his sides
while his legs and feet twinkled in the complex
figures of his dance. He leaped, spun, checked
himself seemingly in midair, spun in the other
direction, leaped again. His movements were utterly
dissimilar to those of the dancers round him, yet
strangely complementary as well.
      A few at a time, the Vaspurakaners formed a
circle around Viridovix, clapping him on. The
musicians played faster and faster, but the Gaul was
equal to the challenge, whirling and capering like a
man possessed. As the music reached a fiery pitch,
he capped his dance by springing almost his own
height into the air. He let out a great shout at the top
of his leap and came back to earth with a final
splendid flourish.
      The clapping turned from time-keeping to
applause, in which all those still in their seats
heartily joined. "Marvelous, marvelous!" Gagik
exclaimed. "That step I should like to learn, were I
less stiff in knee and thick of belly. Marvelous!" he
repeated.
      "I thank your honor," Viridovix panted; his
exertions had deeply flushed his fair skin. He
brushed sweat from his forehead. "Thirsty work it is,
too. Would you be so kind as to fetch me a cup of
wine, love?" he asked one of the serving-maids in
the circle around him. Marcus noticed he chose a
girl who had hardly been able to keep her eyes off
him as he danced. The big Celt might be slipshod
about some things, but where wenching was
concerned he noted every detail.
      "Thank you, lass," the Gaul purred as the girl
brought his drink. He slipped an arm around her in
what could have passed for no more than thanks, but
when she moved closer to him instead of away he
gathered her in with practiced efficiency.
      "Your friend is as good as his word," Senpat
Sviodo remarked to the tribune.
      "I was thinking the same thing myself,"
Marcus laughed.
      One of Bagratouni's retainers came trotting into
the courtyard with some word for his master. He
spoke in throaty Vas-purakaner, so Scaurus, sitting
by the nakharar, could not understand what he said,
but the Roman did catch the name Zemarkhos
mentioned several times. Gagik Bagratouni's black
brows lowered in anger. He asked a curt question of
his guardsman, who nodded.
      Bagratouni's scowl grew darker yet. He sat a
moment in thought, his hands tangled in his thick
beard. Then he snapped out a string of quick orders.
The guard, startled, repeated the first one in a
questioning voice, then broke into a toothy grin as
Gagik explained. The man hurried away.
      "Forgive me my rudeness, I pray you," the
nakharar said, turning back to Scaurus. "When rises
my temper, I forget the Empire's speech."
      "So do I," the tribune admitted. "You've shown
me much kindness tonight. I heard your man name
the priest who hates you. Can I help you in your
trouble? I think the Emperor would hear me if I
asked him to make the man leave you at peace -
Mavrikios is not one to sacrifice the Empire's unity
for the sake of a priest's feelings."
      "I need no man to fight my battles for me," was
Gagik's instant response, and Scaurus was afraid he
had offended the proud nakharar. But Bagratouni
was hesitating, embarrassment on his leonine face -
an expression that did not sit well there. "But by bad
luck this foul priest wants not to speak with me, but
with you and yours."
      "With me? Why?" The prospect was alarming;
Marcus had seen enough fanatical priests in
Videssos to last him a lifetime.
       "To read the mind of a cur, one must a cur be.
It is better not to try. Do you wish to have words
with him?"
       The tribune's first impulse was to say no at
once and have done. But to do so might leave his
host in the lurch. "Whatever would serve you best,"
he replied at last.
       "You are a good man, my friend. Let me
think." The nakharar rubbed his forehead, as if
trying to inspire wisdom.
       "It might be better if you saw him," he decided.
"Otherwise this Zemarkhos can claim I kept you
from him. To me this matters not so much, for I
shall Amorion be leaving with you and the Emperor.
But for my people who stay behind, no end of
trouble could he cause."
       "All right, then." Marcus quickly rounded up
Gaius Philippus, Quintus Glabrio, and Gorgidas, but
Viridovix had contrived to disappear. Looking
around, Scaurus also failed to see the serving wench
the Celt had chosen as his quarry for the evening.
He decided not to go chasing after Viridovix; he did
not judge it likely that Zemarkhos knew the exact
nature of the Roman party.
      "I'd gladly trade places with the Gaul, sir,"
Glabrio grinned.
      "I'm senior to you, puppy," Gaius Philippus
said. "You wait your turn."
      Ignoring their byplay, Gorgidas asked Scaurus,
"What does the priest want with us?"
      "To tell us-we're all damned, I suppose. I'm
glad you're here tonight; you're good at theological
arguments."
      "My favorite amusement," Gorgidas said,
rolling his eyes in despair. "Oh, well, we'd best get
this over with, I suppose - our host is growing
impatient." That was true enough; like a caged
hunting-beast, the nakharar was pacing up and down
the courtyard, now and again smacking fist into
palm.
      When he saw the Romans finally ready,
Bagratouni led them out through his fragrant
gardens to the front gates of his estate. On their way
to the gates, they were joined by the retainer who
had brought Bagratouni word of Zemarkhos' arrival.
Heavy leather gauntlets sheathed the man's arms,
which were full of what looked like canvas sheeting.
His face bore an expression of anticipation.
      The gates were closed, as against any enemy.
At the nakharar's impatient gesture, his men
unbarred them and swung them wide. And, as if
entering a conquered city in triumph, Zemarkhos
strode onto the Vaspurakaner's land, his hound at his
side.
      He caught sight of Gagik Bagratouni before
noticing the Romans behind him. "So," he said,
"you dare not let these ignorant foreigners learn the
truth, but seek only to enmesh them in your evil
schemes?"
      Bagratouni almost visibly swelled with wrath.
Fists clenched, he stepped toward the priest.
Zemarkhos' dog growled in warning; the hair stood
up along its back. Zemarkhos took a tighter grip on
the leash. "Stay, Vaspur!" he ordered, but that
command was hardly one to make him better loved
by the man he confronted.
      Trying to avert the explosion, Marcus hastily
brought his companions up past the nakharar so
Zemarkhos could see them. "We are here, as you
asked," he told the priest, "and at our kind host's
urging as well. What do you have to say that would
be of such importance for men you never met?"
     "From your strange gear and now from your
speech, I see you are a foreigner and know no better
than to enter into this house of iniquity. My duty to
your soul and those of your men has brought me to
rescue you from the clutches of the infamous heretic
who lured you here."
     The tribune reluctantly admired Zemarkhos'
misplaced courage. No faintheart would speak so
boldly at his foe's very threshold. But, as with too
many clerics Scaurus had met in Videssos, the
priest's dogmas blinded him to the worth of any man
who did not share them.
     He answered as politely as he could. "As we
did not discuss religious matters, the subject of
heresy never came up."
     "Oh, he is a sly one, cunning as the fox, hungry
as the jackal. The ice will take him even so."
Bagratouni's men muttered angrily as they listened
to Zemarkhos revile their overlord, but the nakharar
stood still and silent, as if carved from stone. His
face was thunderous, but he did not answer the
priest.
     Gorgidas spoke up. His passionate interest in
everything he came across had led him to examine
Videssos' sacred writing as soon as he could read
them, even if he could not accept their precepts.
Now, with his facility for an apt quotation, he asked
Zemarkhos, "Is it not written in the forty-eighth
chapter: 'Let fury be suppressed! Put down violence,
you who would assure yourselves, through
righteousness.'?"
      But quoting holy scriptures to the priest was
letting him fight on ground of his own choosing. His
reply was quick and sure. "Aye, and it is also written
in the thirty-third chapter, 'Whoever works evil on
the wicked pleases Phos and fulfills his will.' The
Emperor may think he is doing a great thing in
sallying forth against the heathen of Yezd. He could
do better inside Videssos itself, by purifying it of the
poisonous misbelievers within our borders!"
      Bagratouni shoved past the Romans. "Priest,
hatred you spew like a drunk his dinner. All this on
my land you have done. Give I my men leave, and
they treat you as you deserve."
      Zemarkhos touched his dog's lead. In an instant
the beast was leaping at Bagratouni, only to be
brought up short by the leash. It snapped viciously, a
growl rumbling in its throat. The priest laughed.
"Send your dogs against mine - they'll have their
tails between their legs soon enough."
      "Why did you name that beast Vaspur? Tell me
this," Bagratouni asked, tone deceptively mild.
      "Why?" the priest jeered. "What better name
for a dog?"
      With that last insult, all Gagik Bagratouni's
patience blew away. His voice was lion's roar
indeed as he bellowed a command in his birth-
tongue at the warrior who carried the roll of canvas.
Deft as a net-wielding gladiator, the man jumped
forward to pop his huge bag of heavy cloth over
Zemarkhos' head. Screeching curses, the priest fell
thrashing to the ground.
      The hound Vaspur sprang snarling to protect
its master. But Bagratouni's retainer was ready for
the dog. Though tumbled about by its charge, he
lodged one gauntleted arm between its gaping jaws
while hugging the beast to his armored chest with
the other. The snarl turned to a half-throttled whine.
      The Vaspurakaner stooped to lift up the open
end of the sack, which was now, of course, around
Zemarkhos' flailing feet. Dodging a fusillade of
kicks, he pushed the dog into the bag with its owner,
then dropped the flap once more.
      Zemarkhos' shrieks took on a sudden,
desperate urgency as Vaspur, crazed with fear,
began snapping wildly at everything near it - which,
at the moment, consisted almost entirely of the
priest. Great satisfaction on his face, Bagratouni
came up to deliver a couple of sharp kicks to the
bag. The dog yelped, the priest cried out even louder
than before, and the gyrations within the flopping
canvas were astonishing to behold.
      Vaspurakeners came up to enjoy the spectacle
of their enemy thus entrapped and to add a kick or
two of their own. "What was it you said, priest?"
Bagratouni shouted. "'Whoever works evil on the
wicked pleases Phos'? Phos tonight is mightily
pleased."
      From the noises inside the sack, it sounded as
if Zemarkhos was being torn to pieces. Scaurus had
no love for the fanatic priest, but did not think he
deserved so bitter a death. "Let him go," he urged
Bagratouni. "Alive, he could not hate you and yours
more than he already does, but slain he would be a
martyr and a symbol for vengeance for years to
come."
      The nakharar looked uncomprehendingly at the
Roman, almost like a man interrupted in the act of
love. His eyes filled with reluctant understanding.
"In that young head an old mind you have," he said
slowly. "Very well. It shall be as you ask."
      His men moved with the same unwillingness
their overlord displayed, but move they did, cutting
the bag apart so its occupants could free themselves.
The moment the hole they made was wide enough to
let out the dog Vaspur, it darted through. The
Vapurakaners jumped back in alarm, but there was
no fight left in the terrified beast. It streaked away
into the night, its chain clattering behind it.
      When Zemarkhos at last got loose from the
swaddling canvas, he was a sight to glut even an
appetite starved for revenge. There were deep bites
on his arms and legs, and half of one ear was
chewed away. Only luck had saved his face and
belly from his animal's fangs.
      Gorgidas leaped to his side at the sight of those
wounds, saying, "Fetch me strips of cloth and a full
winejug. We may be satisfied the dog was not mad,
but the bites must be cleaned, lest they fester."
When no Vaspurakaner stirred, the physician
speared one with his eyes and snapped, "You!
Move!" The man hurried back toward Bagratouni's
house.
      But Zemarkhos, lurching to his feet, would not
let Gorgidas treat his injuries. "No heathen will lay
hands on me," he said, and limped out through the
gate of Bagratouni's estate. His priestly robe, torn by
his dog's teeth, hung in flapping tatters around him.
The nakharar's men hooted in delight as the
darkness swallowed up their chastised foe.
      Viridovix came loping up to the gate with the
Vaspurakaner Gorgidas had sent back for bandages.
"What's all the rumpus in aid of? This omadhaun is
after understanding my Videssian, but not a word of
his can I make out."
      When the Gaul learned of the stir he'd missed,
he kicked at the ground in frustration. If he enjoyed
anything more than his venery, it was combat. "Isn't
that just the way of it? Another good shindy wasted
because I was off friking in the bushes! It scarce
seems fair."
      "It's your own fault, you know. You could have
been here with us if you hadn't gone skirt-chasing,"
Gaius Philippus said unkindly.
      And Gorgidas demanded, "Is that all this would
have been to you? Entertainment? Only a cruel man
could take pleasure in watching the outcome of
others' hatreds."
      "Oh, get on with you," the Celt retorted.
"You're only angry the now because that rascally
priest ran off without letting you do the patching of
him." There was just enough truth in that slander to
reduce Gorgidas to sputtering fury.
      Quintus Glabrio said quietly, "You needn't feel
you lost out on a chance to take a risk, Viridovix. Or
can you truly tell me you think loving any less
dangerous than fighting?"
      The Celt stared blankly, but Gordigas' eyes
narrowed in thought, as if he were seeing the young
centurion for the first time. And when Gagik
Bagratouni had the exchange translated - for most of
it had been in Latin - he put his arm round Glabrio's
shoulder, saying, "Clever I knew you were. Many
men are clever, but now I see as well you are wise.
This is a rarer and more precious thing. Scaurus, of
this one you must take good care."
      "Up to now he's been pretty well able to take
care of himself, which is as it should be," Marcus
answered. Thinking back, he realized just how true
that was. Glabrio was so silently competent that
days would sometimes go by with the tribune hardly
noticing him, but the maniple he led was always
perfectly drilled and, now that Scaurus was putting
his mind to it, it seemed his men had fewer
disciplinary problems than the other Romans. A
good man to have around, Marcus thought, a very
good man indeed.
                       XII

     IN A WAY, THE TRIBUNE WAS
DISAPPOINTED WHEN NEITHER Helvis nor
Amorion flared up as he had expected. His lady was
so caught up by his account of Gagik Bagratouni's
revenge on Zemarkhos that she forgot to be angry at
not having been there. That the priest was of the
orthodox Videssian faith only made his fall sweeter
to her.
     "More of them should be treated thus," she
declared. "It would take their conceit down a peg."
     "Is it not as wrong for you to rejoice in their
downfall as it is for them to oppress your fellow
believers?" Marcus asked, but her only reply was a
look as blank as the one Viridovix had given
Quintus Glabrio. He gave up - she was too
convinced of her beliefs' truth to make argument
worthwhile.
     Amorion would have risen against its
Vaspurakaners with the slightest word of
encouragement from the Emperor, but that was not
forthcoming. When Zemarkhos appeared at
Mavrikios Gavras' tent to lay charges against
Bagratouni, Gavras already had the accounts of the
nakharar and the Romans. He sent the cleric away
unhappy, saying, "Priest or no, you were unwelcome
on the man's land and incited him by gross insult.
He is not blameworthy for taking action against you,
nor should he and his be liable to any private
venture of vengeance."
      More direct, his brother Thorisin added, "As
far as I can see, you got what you deserved for
meddling where you didn't belong." That was the
feeling of most of the army, which appreciated the
rough wit of Gagik's device. A chorus of barks and
howls accompanied Zemarkhos as he limped out of
the camp. His every glance was filled with hate, but
the Emperor's threat restrained him while the army
resupplied at Amorion.
      Scaurus had the distinct feeling Mavrikios
begrudged every minute he spent in the plateau
town. The conflict between Zemarkhos and Gagik
Bagratouni, serious under most circumstances, was
now but an unwelcome distraction to him. He had
been like a horse with the bit between its teeth since
the first skirmish with the Yezda and seemed on fire
to join the great battle he had planned.
      Yet it was as well that his host paused to refit
before pushing northwest toward Soli. The journey,
shorter than either of the first two stages, was worse
than both of them rolled together. Whatever caches
of food the local Videssian authorities managed to
store up for the army had fallen instead to the
invaders. The Yezda did their best to turn the land to
desert, torching fields and destroying the canals that
shared out what little water there was.
      The nomads Yezd was funneling into the
Empire were perfectly at home in such a desert.
Trained to the harsh school of the steppe, they lived
with ease where the Videssian army would have
starved without the supplies it carried. More and
more of them shadowed the imperial forces. When
they thought the odds were in their favor they would
nip in to raid, then vanish once more like smoke in a
breeze.
      Their forays grew bolder as time passed. About
midway between Amorion and Soli, one band of
about fifty broke through the army's screen of
Khamorth outriders and dashed across the front of
the marching column, spraying arrows into it as they
rode.
      Marcus saw the cloud of dust come rolling out
of the west, but did not think much of it. Maybe, he
thought, the scouts had spotted a good-sized Yezda
party and were sending messengers back for aid.
      Gaius Philippus disagreed. "There's too many
there for that." His face went suddenly grim. "I don't
think those are our men at all."
      "What? Don't be absurd. They'd have to have -
" Whatever argument the tribune was about to make
died unspoken when one of the legionaries cried in
pain and alarm as an arrow pierced his arm. The
range was ungodly long, but quickly closed as the
nomads, riding their light horses for all they were
worth, zipped past the column's head, emptying
their quivers as fast as they could. At their heels was
a troop of Khamorth in imperial service.
      "All maniples halt!" Gaius Philippus'
battlefield roar rang out. "Shields up!" The Romans
unslung their scuta and raised them to cover their
faces.
      There was nothing else they could do; the
Yezda were racing by, far out of pilum-range.
Adiatun and his slingers let fly with a few hasty
bullets, but they fell short. What the Khamorth had
thought all along, then, was true - the nomads' bows
easily outranged any weapons the Romans had.
Scaurus filed the fact for future worry.
      The raiders broke up into groups of four and
five and scattered in all directions. They had done
nothing that could be called damage, but had
managed to throw an army a thousand times their
number into confusion.
      Videssos' mercenary cavalry were still after the
Yezda. More and more raced up to join the chase.
Marcus was hard-pressed to tell friend from foe. In
the swirling dust ahead, the nomads who fought
under Yezd's banner looked little different from the
Empire's hirelings. Perhaps the Khamorth
themselves had the same problem, for not a handful
of Yezda were brought down before the rest made
good their escape.
      The officers' meeting the Emperor called that
night was not happy. The raiders' bravado stung
Mavrikios, who was further infuriated by its going
all but unpunished. "Phos' suns!" the Emperor burst
out. "Half a day's march wasted on account of a few
scraggly, unwashed barbarians! You, sirrah!" he
barked at Ortaias Shprantzes.
      "Your Majesty?"
      "What was that twaddle you were spouting?
Something about the only people to catch nomads
are other nomads?" The Emperor waited ominously,
but Sphrantzes, with better sense than Scaurus had
thought he owned - or was it simply terror? - kept
silent.
      Prudent though it was, his silence did not save
him. "Those were your bloody nomads the Yezda
rode through, boy. If they do it again, you can forget
your precious left wing - you'll be back at the rear,
in charge of horsedung pickup." When angry,
Mavrikios was plainly Thorisin's brother. The
Sevastokrator himself was saying no more than
Ortaias Sphrantzes, but from his grin he was
enjoying every bit of Mavrikios' tirade.
      When the Emperor was through, Ortaias rose,
bowed jerkily, and, muttering, "I'll certainly try to
do better," made an undignified exit from the
imperial tent.
      His departure only partly pacified Mavrikios.
He rounded on Sphrantzes' nominal subordinate
Nephon Khoumnos: "You'll be right there with him,
you know. I put the two of you together so your way
of doing things would rub of on him, not the other
way around."
      "Anything can go wrong once," Khoumnos
said stolidly. As was his style, he shouldered the
blame without complaint. "They burst out of a wash
and caught us napping. If it happens again, I deserve
to be shoveling horseballs, by Phos."
      "We'll leave it at that, then," the Emperor
nodded, somewhat mollified.
      Khoumnos was as good as his word, too; his
cavalry pickets foiled ambush after ambush the rest
of the way to Soli. The march slowed nonetheless.
Skirmishes with the invaders were constant now,
skirmishes that in a lesser campaign would have
been reckoned full-scale battles. Time after time the
army had to push the Yezda aside before it could
press on.
      The country through which it passed grew ever
more barren, devastated. Save for the Videssian host
and its foes, the land was nearly uninhabited, its
farmers and hersdmen either dead or fled. The only
substantial remaining population was in walled
towns. There were not many of these after the long
years of peace, nor were all of them unscathed.
Where field and farm could not be worked, towns
withered on the vine.
     The army passed more than one empty shell of
what had been a city but now housed only carrion
birds - or, worse, Yezda who based themselves in
abandoned buildings and fought like cornered rats
when attacked.
     Here as elsewhere, the invaders reserved their
worst savagery for Phos' temples. Their other
barbarities paled next to the fiendish ingenuity they
devoted to such desecrations. Not all altars were so
lucky as to be hacked to kindling; the bloody rites
and sacrifices celebrated on others made mere
desecration seem nothing more than a childish
prank. As seasoned a veteran as Nephon Khoumnos
puked up his supper after emerging from one
ravaged shrine. Where before the Emperor had
encouraged his troops to view their enemies'
handiwork, now he began ordering the polluted
fanes sealed so as not to dishearten them further.
      "Such foulness points to Avshar, sure as a
lodestone draws nails," Gorgidas said. "We must be
getting near him."
      "Good!" Gaius Philippus said emphatically. He
had commanded the Roman party ordered to guard a
sealed temple and used the privilege of his rank to
break the seals and go inside. He came bursting out
through the door an instant later, face pale beneath
his deep tan and sweat beading on his forehead.
"The sooner such filth is cleaned from the world, the
better for all in it - aye, including the poor damned
whoresons who follow him."
      Marcus did not think he had heard his senior
centurion ever speak thus of a foe. War was Gaius
Philippus' trade, as carpentry might be another
man's, and he accorded his opponents the respect
their skills merited. Curious, the tribune wondered
aloud, "What was it you saw in that temple?"
      Gaius Philippus' face froze, as if suddenly
turned to stone. Through clenched teeth he said, "If
it please you, sir, never ask me that again. The gods
willing, I may forget before I die."
      The imperial army reached Soli a joyless force.
What they found there did nothing to raise their
spirits. The new town, wall-less in the fashion of so
many Videssian cities, had snuggled against the
Rhamnos River's turbid yellow waters, the better to
lure trade. Old Soli on the hills above, a garrison
against Makuran for hundreds of years, was all but
deserted ... until the Yezda came.
      Then the new city fell in fire and death -
sacked repeatedly, in fact, over the years, until
nothing was left to loot. And Old Soli, far down the
road to extinction, had a modest rebirth as survivors
from the riverbank town patched its dilapidated
walls and began to repair the tumbledown buildings
from which their six-times-great-grandsires had
sprung.
      Heedless of the omens his men might draw,
Mavrikios made camp amidst the ruins of the dead
city by the Rhamnos. An army the size of his needed
more water than Old Soli's wells and cisterns could
provide, and the river was the logical place to get it.
It made perfect military sense, but also made the
soldiers edgy.
      "Sure and there's bound to be angry ghosts
about," Viridovix said, "all crying out for revenge
on them that slew 'em. There!" he exclaimed. "Do
you hear the keening of them?" Sure enough, a
series of mournful cries came from the darkness
outside the Roman camp.
      "That's an owl, you great booby," Gaius
Philippus said.
      "Och, aye, it sounds like an owl." But the Gaul
was anything but convinced.
      Marcus shifted uneasily in his seat by the fire.
He told himself he did not believe in ghosts and was
able to convince the front part of his mind that he
spoke the truth. Deeper down, he was not so sure.
And if there were ghosts, they would surely live in
such a place as this.
      Most of the buildings of murdered Soli had
perished either at the hands of the Yezda or through
time's decay, but here and there a tower or a jagged
section of some well-made building still stood,
deeper blacknesses against the night sky. It was
from these the owls' plaintive notes and the whirring
call of the nightjar emanated - if that was what the
noises were. No one seemed anxious to investigate,
nor was the tribune inclined to ask for volunteers.
      As if the place was not eerie enough, a thin
mist crept up from the Rhamnos as the night wore
on, half shrouding the imperial camp. Now it was
Gaius Philippus' turn to fret. "I don't like this a bit,"
he declared as the fog swallowed one watehfire after
another. "Belike it's some sending of Avshar's, to
veil his attack till it's on us." He peered out into the
rolling mist, trying to penetrate it by will alone.
Inevitably he failed, which only increased his
unease.
      But Marcus had grown up in Mediolanum,
hard by the Padus River's tributary the Dionna. He
had to shake his head. "Mist often rises from a river
at night - it's nothing to worry over."
      "Quite so," Gorgidas agreed. "Nature has
provided that particles go up into the air from
oceans and streams. This fog is but the forerunner of
a cloud. When the vapor rises to meet opposite
emanations coming down from the ether which
holds the stars, it will condense into a true cloud."
      The Epicurean account of cloud formation did
nothing to reassure the centurion. Viridovix tried to
tease him back to good humor. "You didna trouble
yoursel' when you saw the very land steam or ever
we came to Garsavra. Of course," he added
cunningly, "a good deal further from the Yezda we
were then."
      Not even the imputation of cowardice could
get much response from Gaius Philippus. He shook
his head, muttering, "It's this bloody place, that's all;
even without fogs it's like camping in a tomb. We
couldn't leave too soon to suit me."
      But for all the senior centurion's wholehearted
desire to be gone, the imperial army did not set forth
at once. Scouts spying out the ways through
Vaspurakan reported that the land west of Soli was a
desolation stripped bare of almost every living
thing.
      Senpat Sviodo and his wife were among the
riders who went into Vaspurakan. "There will be a
reckoning for this, if it takes a thousand years," he
said. What he had seen in his birthland had burned
some of his youth away forever. The cold fury in his
voice and on his face seemed better suited to a man
of twice his years.
      "Our poor people survive only in the mountain
forests and in a few fastnesses," Nevrat said. She
sounded weary beyond belief; her eyes were full of
sorrow too bitter for tears. "The meadows, the
farmlands - nothing moves there but Yezda and
other beasts."
      "I had hoped to bring a band of princes back
with me, to fight under the Emperor's banner against
the invaders," Senpat continued, "but no one was
left to bring." His hands shook in impotent fury.
      Marcus studied the harsh lines newly etched on
either side of Senpat's mouth. The jolly youngster
he'd met a few short days before would be a long
time reappearing, and the tribune was not sure he
cared for this grim almost-stranger who had taken
his place. Nevrat clasped her husband's hands in her
own, trying to draw the pain from him, but he sat
staring straight ahead, only the vision of his ravaged
homeland before him.
      In such territory the army could not hope to
live off the land; it would have to carry its own
provisions through the wasteland. Mavrikios gave
orders for grain to be brought up the Rhamnos from
the coastal plain to the north, and then had to wait
with his men until the boats arrived.
      The onerous delay in such dismal surroundings
strained the Emperor's disposition to the breaking
point. He had been short-tempered since the handful
of Yezda raiders disrupted the army's march. Now,
stymied again, frustration ate at him when each day
failed to see the coming of the needed supplies. Men
walked warily around him, fearful lest his pent-up
rage lash out against them.
      The abcess burst on the fifth day at Soli.
Scaurus happened to be close by. He wanted to
borrow a map of Vaspurakan from the collection
Mavrikios kept in his tent, the better to follow
Senpat Sviodo's description of the land through
which they would be passing if the supply ships ever
came.
      Two Halogai of the Imperial Guard pushed
through the tentflaps, dragging a scrawny Videssian
soldier between them. Three more Videssians
nervously followed the northerners.
      "What's this?" the Emperor demanded.
      One of the guardemen answered, "This
worthless piece of offal has been filching coppers
from his mates." He shook his prisoner hard enough
to make the teeth snap in his head.
      "Has he now?" The Emperor looked up at the
Videssian soldiers behind the Halogai. "You three
are witnesses, I suppose?"
      "Your Majesty, sir?" said one of them. All
three had been gaping at the luxurious interior of the
tent, its soft bed and cleverly designed light
furnishings - Mavrikios was of less spartan taste
than Thorisin.
      "Witnesses, are you?" the Emperor repeated.
By his tone, his patience was very short.
      Between them, they got the story out. The
prisoner, whose name was Doukitzes, had been
caught emptying a coin pouch when his three
fellows unexpectedly returned to the tent the four of
them shared. "We thought a few stripes would make
him keep his fingers off what don't belong to him,"
one of the soldiers said, "and these fellows," he
pointed to the Halogai, "happened to be coming by,
so - "
      "Stripes?" Gavras interrupted. He gestured
contemptuously. "A thief forgets stripes before
they're done healing. We'll give him something he'll
remember the rest of his days." He turned back to
the Halogai and snapped, "Take his hand off at the
wrist."
      "No! Phos have mercy, no!" Doukitzes
shrieked, twisting free of his captors to fall at
Mavrikios' feet. He seized the Emperor's knees and
kissed the hem of his robe, babbling, "I'll never do it
again! By Phos I swear it! Never, never! Mercy, my
lord, I beg, mercy!"
      The luckless thief's tentmates looked at the
Emperor in horror - they'd wanted their light-
fingered comrade chastised, yes, but not mutilated.
      Marcus was equally appalled at Gavras'
Draconian judgment. In theory, thievery in the
Roman army could be punished by death, but hardly
over the trifling sum at issue here. He stood up from
the mapcase through which he'd been searching.
"Your Majesty, is this justice?" he asked through
Doukitzes' wails.
      Save only the prisoner, everyone in the
imperial tent - Mavrikios, the Haloga guards, the
Videssian soldiers, and the Emperor's ubiquitous
servants - turned to stare at the Roman, amazed
anyone would dare call the sovereign to account.
      The Emperor was chilly as the eternal snow
topping the peaks of Vaspurakan. "Captain of
mercenaries, you forgot yourself. You have our
leave to go." Never before had Mavrikios used the
imperial "we" to the tribune; it was a manifest note
of warning.
      But Scaurus' ways were those of a land that
knew no king, nor was he trained from birth to
accept any one man as the embodiment of authority
and law. Still, he was glad to hear the steadiness in
his voice as he replied, "No, sir. I recall myself
better than you. In your worry over great affairs, you
are letting rancor get the better of you in small ones.
To take a man's hand for a few coppers is not
justice."
      The tent grew very still. The imperial servitors
flinched away from Scaurus, as if not wanting to be
contaminated by his blasphemous practice of
speaking the truth as he saw it. The Halogai might
have been carved from wood; the Videssian
common soldiers, even Doukitzes, faded from the
tribune's perception as he waited to see if Mavrikios
would doom him too.
      The Emperor slowly said, "Do you know what
I could do to you for your insolence?"
      "No worse than Avshar could, I'm sure."
      A chamberlain gasped, somewhere to Scaurus'
left. He did not turn his head, keeping his attention
only on the Emperor. Gavras was studying him as
intently. Without removing his eyes from the
tribune, Mavrikios said to the Halogai, "Take this
grizzling fool - " He stirred Doukitzes with his foot.
" - outside and give him five lashes, well laid on,
then let his mates take him back."
      Doukitzes scuttled across the floor to Marcus.
"Thank you, great lord, oh thank you!" He offered
no resistance as the Halogai led him away.
      "Does that satisfy you, then?" Mavrikios asked.
      "Yes, your Majesty, completely."
      "First man I've ever seen go happy to a
whipping," the Emperor remarked, raising an ironic
eyebrow. He was still watching Scaurus closely. "It
wasn't just pride, then, was it, that made you refuse
me the proskynesis back in Videssos all those
months ago?"
      "Pride?" That had never occurred to the
Roman. "No, sir."
      "I didn't think so, even then," Mavrikios said
with something like respect. "If I had, you'd've
regretted it soon enough." He laughed mirthlessly.
      "Now get out of here," he went on, "before I
decide I should have you killed after all." Scaurus
left quickly, only half-sure he was joking.
      "You were very brave, and even more foolish,"
Helvis said that night. Lazy after love, they lay side
by side in her tent, his hand still curled over her
breast. Her heartbeat filled his palm.
      "Was I? I didn't really think about being either
at the time. It didn't seem right, though, to have all
Mavrikios' wrath come down on that poor wretch.
His worst fault wasn't stealing a few pennies, it was
being in the Emperor's way at the wrong time."
      "His anger could have condemned you as
easily as that worthless Videssian." Helvis sounded
thoroughly afraid. She might come from a folk freer
than the Empire's, Marcus thought, but she took the
Avtokrator's absolute power as much for granted as
any of Videssos' citizens.
      Her fear, though, did not spring from any such
abstract reason, but a far more basic concern. Her
hand took his, guided it down the smooth softness of
her belly. "You were a featherbrain," she said.
"Would you want your child to grow up fatherless?"
      "My.. . ?" The tribune sat up on the soft
sleeping-mat, looked down at Helvis, who still held
his hand against her. She smiled up at him. "You're
sure?" he asked foolishly.
      Her warm rich laughter filled the small tent.
"Of course I am, simpleton. There is a way of
knowing such things, you know." She sat up, too,
and kissed him.
      He returned the embrace eagerly, not from the
lust but sheer gladness. Then something struck him
funny. "How could I know this morning that I might
be making my child an orphan, when I didn't know
there was a child?"
      Helvis poked him in the ribs. "Don't you go
chopping logic with me, like some priest. I knew,
and that's enough."
      And so perhaps it was. Good omens had been
scarce lately, but what could be better before a battle
than the creation of new life?
      The next morning, the patrols Mavrikios sent
riding north finally met the supply barges toiling
their way upstream. The squat, ugly vessels reached
Soli late that afternoon. Their journey had not been
easy; marauding Yezda along both banks of the
Rhamnos had made it impossible to use horses to
tow the boats, and their arrows made life hellish for
the barges' rowers.
      One had lost so many men it could no longer
make headway against the stream and drifted
aground in the shallows by the riverbank. The rest
of the fleet picked up its surviving crew, but the
Yezda gleefully burnt the stricken craft to the
waterline.
      That night there was no time for worry over
haunted surroundings. Men labored till dawn,
hurling sacks of grain into hundreds of wagons.
When the sun rose, the army rumbled over the great
stone bridge spanning the Rhamnos and pushed its
way into Vaspurakan.
      Marcus soon saw what had moved Senpat
Sviodo to such bitter hatred. The Yezda had done
their worst in Videssos, but the destruction they
wrought there was but the work of a few seasons.
Vaspurakan had felt the invaders' hand far longer
and far more heavily; in some frequently ravaged
passes, fair-sized second growth was already
springing up to shroud the ruins of what, in happier
times, were farm and villages.
      The raiders had come so often to the princes'
land, they were beginning to think of it as their
proper home. Just as he had outside Imbros, the
tribune watched herdsmen drive their flocks up into
the mountains at the first sight of the army. But
these were not Videssians afoot with their herd
dogs; they were nomad archers mounted on shaggy
steppe ponies, looking uncomfortably like the
Khamorth with the imperial forces.
      In Vaspurakan even walled cities were under
Yezda control, either stormed or, more often, simply
starved into submission. Mavrikios' host came to the
first of these two days out of Soli - a town called
Khliat, whose shadow in the afternoon sun ran long
down the valley through which the army was
traveling.
      The Yezda commander refused surrender with
a brusque message eerily close to Scaurus' retort to
the Emperor: "If you conquer, you could do me no
worse harm than my lords would, should I yield."
      Gavras did not waste time in further
negotiations. Using what light remained, he
surrounded Khliat, quickly driving the Yezda
skirmishers back inside the city's walls. Once the
encirclement was complete, he rode round the town
just out of bowshot, deciding where it was most
vulnerable to siege engines.
      Again the night was furiously busy, this time
with soldiers unloading the precut timbers and other
specialized gear of the siege train. At the officers'
council that night, the Emperor declared, "Our
assault party tomorrow will be made up of Romans
and Namdaleni. As the most heavily armed troops
we have, they are best suited to forcing their way
through breached walls."
      Marcus gulped. Mavrikios' reasoning was
probably sound, but the attacking force's casualties
could well be hideous. The Namdaleni would fill
their ranks with new recruits from the Duchy, but
where was he to find new Romans?
      "May your Majesty it please," Gagik
Bagratouni spoke up, "but I the privilege of leading
this assault would beg for my men. It is their homes
they are freeing. Their armors may be lighter, but
their hearts shall be so too."
      Mavrikios rubbed his chin. "Be it so, then," he
decided. "Spirit has raised more than one victory
where it had no right to grow."
      "Well, well, the gods do look out for us after
all," Gaius Philippus whispered behind his hand to
Scaurus.
      "You've been in this wizards' land so long
you've taken up mindreading," Marcus whispered
back. The centurion bared his teeth in a silent
chuckle.
      After the meeting broke up, Soteric fell into
step beside the tribune. "How interesting," he said
sardonically, "and how lucky for you, to be chosen
to share the butcher's bill with us. The Emperor is
glad of our help, aye, and glad to bleed us white,
too."
      "Weren't you listening? The Vaspurakaners are
going in our stead."
      Soteric gestured in disgust. "Only because
Bagratouni has more honor than sense. True, we're
spared, but not forgotten, I promise you. Everyone
knows what Mavrikios thinks of the men of the
Duchy, and you did yourself no good when you
stood up to him yesterday. You'll pay - wait and
see."
      "You've been talking to your sister again,"
Marcus said.
      "Helvis? No, I haven't seen her today." Soteric
eyed the tribune curiously. "By the Wager, man,
don't you know? Every blasted Videssian is buzzing
over how you saved twelve men from having their
heads chopped off."
      Scaurus exchanged a consternation-filled
glance with Gaius Philippus. No matter how much
he tried to evade the role, it seemed he was being
cast as the Emperor's opponent. That notwith-
standing, though, he thought Soteric was wrong.
Mavrikios Gavras might be devious in his dealings
with his foes, but there was never any doubt who
those foes were.
      When he said as much to the Namdalener,
Soteric laughed at his naivete. "Wait and see," he
repeated and, still shaking his head over what he
saw as the Roman's gullibility, went off about his
business.
      Gaius Philippus gave thoughtful study to the
islander's retreating back. He waited until Soteric
was too far away to hear him before delivering his
verdict. "That one will always see the worst in
things, whether or not it's there." Coming from the
centurion, a pessimist born, the statement was
startling.
      Gaius Philippus glanced warily at Scaurus;
after all, the man he was- dispraising was the
brother of the tribune's woman. Even so, Marcus
had to nod. The characterization was too apt to
gainsay.
      Matching their commander's defiance, the
Yezda inside Khliat roared their war cries at the
Videssian army from the city's walls. The rising sun
glinted bloodily off their sabers. It was a brave
show, but not one to frighten the professionals in the
audience. "This will be easy," Gaius Philippus said.
"There aren't enough of them by half to give us
trouble."
      Events quickly proved him right. The imperial
army's bolt-throwing engines and the strong bows of
the Khamorth sent such floods of darts against
Khliat's defenders that the latter could not stop
Videssian rams from reaching the wall in three
separate places. The ground shook as each stroke
did its pulverizing work.
      One ram was put out of action for a time when
the Yezda managed to tear some skins from its
covering shed and dropped red-hot sand on the men
who worked it, but new troops rushed forward to
take the place of those who fell. The sheds' green
hides were proof against the burning oil and
firebrands the nomads flung down on them, and
many defenders bold enough to expose themselves
in such efforts paid for their courage with their lives.
      The wall crumbled before one ram, then, only
minutes later, before a second. Yezda on the
battlements shrieked in terror and anguish as they
slid through crashing stones to the ground below.
Others, cleverly stationed behind the masonry the
rams were battering, sent withering volleys into the
siege engines' crews.
      Then the Vaspurakaners were rushing toward
the riven wall, Gagik Bagratouni at their head. Their
battlecries held a savage joy, a fierce satisfaction in
striking back at the invaders who had worked such
ruin on their homeland.
      A Yezda wizard, an angular figure in flapping
blood-colored robes, clambered onto shattered
masonry in one of the breaches to hurl a thunderbolt
at the onstorming foe. But Marcus learned what
Nepos had meant when he spoke of battle magic's
unreliability. Though lightning glowed from the
mage's fingertips, it flickered and died less than an
arm's length from his body. At his failure, one of his
own soldiers sabered him down in disgust.
      The fight at the breaches was sharp but short.
The Yezda were not natural foot soldiers, nor was
there any place for their usual darting cavalry tactics
in the defense of a fortified town. More heavily
armored than their opponents, the Vaspurakaners
hammered their way through the nomads' resistance
and into Khliat.
      When he saw the enemy forces heavily
committed against the "princes," Mavrikios gave the
order for a general assault. Like a sudden bare-
branched forest, ladders leaped upward at Khliat's
walls. Here and there still-resolute defenders sent
them toppling over with a crash, but soon the
imperial forces gained a lodgement on the wall and
began dropping down into the city itself.
      The Romans were involved in little that
deserved the name of fighting. The very heaviness
of their panoplies, an advantage in close combat,
made them slow and awkward on scaling ladders.
The Emperor wisely did not use them thus until
most danger was past. Khliat was largely in imperial
hands by the time they entered it, a fact which
brought advantages and disadvantages both. Their
only casualty was a broken foot suffered when a
legionary tripped and fell down a flight of stairs, but
they found little loot, and some grumbled.
       "Men are fools to complain over such things,"
Gorgidas remarked, bandaging the injured soldier's
foot. "Think how much more booty there would be
if the Yezda had killed everyone who got into the
city before us, and how sorry we should be to have
it."
       Gaius Philippus said, "For a man who's
followed the army a while, you're trusting as a child.
Most of these lads'd cheerfully sell their mothers if
they thought the old gals would fetch more than two
coppers apiece."
       "You may be right," Gorgidas sighed, "though
I still like to think otherwise." Turning back to the
Roman with the fracture, he said, "If you can, stay
off that foot for three weeks. If you put your weight
on it before it's healed, it may pain you for years. I'll
change the dressings day after tomorrow."
      "I thank you kindly," the legionary said. "I feel
like a twit, falling over my own feet like that."
      Gorgidas checked to make sure the bandage
was not tight enough to risk necrosis in the Roman's
foot. "Enjoy your rest while you can get it - you'll be
back at your trade too soon to suit you, I promise
you that."
      The bravado of the Yezda cracked when it
became plain they could not hold Khliat. They
began surrendering, first one by one and then in
groups, and were herded together like cattle in the
city's marketplace. Some of the Videssians
crowding round wanted to massacre the lot of them,
but Mavrikios would hear none of it. In the glow of
victory he was prepared to be merciful.
      He threw a cordon of Halogai and Romans
around the prisoners, then ordered the defeated
enemy's common soldiers disarmed and sent back to
Soli under guard. There they could await disposition
until he had finished beating their countrymen. Most
of them fought for Yezd instead of Videssos only
because their wanderings first brought them to that
land.
      The chieftains were another matter. They knew
full well the master they served and did so with
open eyes. Yet their choice of overlord did not make
the Yezda officers any less dauntless. Mavrikios
came up to their commander, who was sitting
dejectedly on the ground not far from where Marcus
stood.
      That captain and a handful of men had holed
up in a house and would not yield until the
Videssians threatened to burn it over their heads.
Looking at him now, Scaurus did not think him
wholly of the steppe blood, as were most of the
warriors he led. He was more slimly built and finer
of feature than they, with large liquid eyes; perhaps
there were native Makur-aners in his ancestry.
      Thorisin Gavras was at his brother's side. "Rise
for the Emperor, you!" he barked.
      The Yezda did not move. "Were our positions
reversed, I do not think he would rise for me," he
said. His Videssian was fluent and almost without
accent.
      "Why, you impudent - " The Sevastokrator was
furious, but Mavrikios checked him with a gesture.
Not for the first time, Marcus saw the respect the
Emperor gave forthrightness.
      Mavrikios looked down at his captive. "Were
our places reversed, what would you do with me?"
      The Yezda stared back unflinchingly. He
thought for a moment, then said, "I believe I would
have you whipped to death."
      "Keep a civil tongue in your head, filth!" said
Zeprin the Red, hefting his axe. The Haloga officer
tolerated the Romans treating Mavrikios with less
than due ceremony; they were, after all, allies. This
insolence from a prisoner he would not stomach.
      The Emperor was unperturbed. He told the
Yezda commander, "I will not be as harsh as you.
You are a brave man - will you not renounce the
evil you followed and join us in rooting it out?"
      Something flickered in the Yezda's expressive
eyes. Perhaps it was temptation. Whatever it was, it
was gone before Marcus was sure he'd seen it. "I can
no more foreswear myself than you could, were you
sitting in this dust," the officer said, and won
grudging nods of approval from both Thorisin
Gavras and Zeprin the Red.
      "As you wish," Mavrikios said. The quality of
the man he faced made the Emperor eager to win
him to his side. "I will not cast you in prison, though
I will ship you to an island for safekeeping until I've
beaten your khagan and his sorcerous minister.
Then, maybe, your mind will change."
      Scaurus thought the Yezda was, if anything,
being treated too leniently, but the man only
shrugged. "What you do to me does not matter.
Avshar will dispose of me as he pleases."
      The Emperor grew irritated for the first time.
"You are under my control now, not your wizard-
prince's." The Yezda shrugged again. Mavrikios
spun angrily on his heel and strode away.
      The next morning he sent men to take charge
of the officer and ship him east. They found him
dead, his lips burned from the poison he had
swallowed. His stiff fist still clutched a tiny glass
vial.
      The news raised an unpleasant question in
Marcus' mind. Had the Yezda killed himself for fear
of the vengeance he thought Avshar would take on
him, or was his suicide itself that vengeance? The
implications were distasteful in either case.
      *    *     *
      Despite the questionable omen, the next two
weeks went well for the imperial forces. Using
Khliat as a base of operations, Mavrikios captured
several other Yezda-held towns: Ganolzak and
Shamkanor to the north, Baberd in the southeast,
and Phanaskert due south of Khliat.
      None of them put up a prolonged or difficult
resistance. The Yezda were far more formidable on
horseback than confined inside city walls, and the
Videssian siege train proved its worth time and
again. Moreover, the Vaspurakaners inside the
towns hated their nomadic oppressors and betrayed
them to the imperial forces at every opportunity.
Large numbers of prisoners went trudging unhappily
into the east; Videssian garrisons took their place.
      Marcus noticed that Mavrikios Gavros was
using troops of doubtful worth or loyalty to hold the
newly captured cities, and appointing as garrison
commanders officers whose allegiance he suspected.
Gaius Philippus saw the same thing. He said, "He's
stripping us down for the real action, right enough.
Better to put the fainthearts where they might be
useful than have them turn tail and run when he
really needs them."
      "I suppose so," Marcus agreed. Still, he could
not help recalling the grief he'd come to by dividing
his Romans on riot duty in Videssos.
      Phanaskert was a good-sized city, though badly
depopulated by the raids of the Yezda and their
occupation. When Mavrikios took the rest of his
forces back to Khliat, he left more than half his
Namdaleni behind to hold the town's long circuit of
walls against possible counterattack from the west.
      Soteric was one of the islanders ordered to
garrison duty. He invited his sister and Scaurus to
share an evening meal with him before the bulk of
the Videssian army returned to its base. Over
captured Vaspurakaner wine - even thicker and
sweeter than Videssian vintages - the Namdalener
said to Marcus, "You see now what I meant outside
the Emperor's tent. By one trick or another,
Mavrikios finds ways to be rid of us."
      Pretending not to take his meaning, the tribune
answered, "Are you unhappy with your assignment?
Holding a town from the inside strikes me as softer
duty than fighting your way into one."
      Soteric exhaled in exasperation at the Roman's
dullness, but Helvis was coming to know him well
enough to realize when he was dissembling. She
said, "Must you always speak the Emperor fair?
You have to see that the only reason he has for using
the men of the Duchy so is his fear for our
faithfulness."
      Marcus usually dismissed Soteric's complaints
over the Emperor's policies as the products of a
slightly obsessed mind, but the more he thought
about this one, the more likely it seemed. He knew
Mavrikios thought along the lines Soteric was
sketching; the Emperor had said as much himself,
when talking of Ortaias Sphrantzes.
      The tribune suddenly laughed out loud. Even
people who always thought themselves persecuted
could be right sometimes.
      The joke fell flat when he made the mistake of
trying to explain it.
      Scaurus was drilling his men outside the walls
of Khliat when he spied a horseman approaching the
town from out of the west. "A nomad he is, from the
look of him," Viridovix said, shading his eyes
against the afternoon sun. "Now, will he be one of
ours, or a puir lone Yezda struck from his wits by
the heat and out to kill the lot of us at once?"
      The rider was not hostile. He had ridden long
and hard; his horse was lathered and blowing, and
caked sweat and dust begrimed his clothes. Even so,
he was so urgent to deliver his news that he reined
in as he came up to the exercising Romans. He gave
Marcus a tired wave that was evidently meant as a
salute.
      "Artapan son of Pradtak I am, a scout of Baan
Onomag's army," he said, clipping the general's
name in plainsman fashion. "I am not of the west -
our watchword is 'Phos' light.'"
      Onomagoulos had pushed west ten days before
with a quarter of Mavrikios' remaining troops to
seize the city of Maragha, which sat athwart the
army's way into Yezd. "What word do you bring?"
the tribune asked.
      "Water first, I beg. This past half-day I rode
with dry canteen," Artapan said, showing Marcus
the empty waterskin at his belt. He swallowed the
warm stale water from Scaurus' canteen as if it were
chilled wine of ancient vintage, then wiped his
mouth. "May the spirits be kind to you for that. Now
you must take me into the city - Onomag is attacked,
is pinned down less than a day's march from
Maragha. We cannot go forward; no more can we
go back. Without more men, we perish."
       "Awfully bloody eager, isn't he?" Gaius
Philippus said suspiciously. "If I were setting a trap,
he's sprouting the very story I'd use to send an army
running pell-mell into it."
       Marcus considered. The Yezda might well
have had the chance to pick off an outrider and
torture the password from him. Still - "There must
be men inside Khliat who know this fellow, if he is
in imperial service. He'd be a fool to think he
wouldn't have his story checked. And if it's true - if
it's true," the tribune said slowly, "then Mavrikios
has done just what he hoped he would, and made the
Yezda stand and fight."
       In some excitement, he turned back to Artapan,
but the nomad was no longer there. Impatient with
the colloquy in a language he did not understand -
for both the centurion and Scaurus had spoken Latin
- he had booted his horse into a worn-out trot for the
city.
      "Out of our hands now," Gaius Philippus said,
not altogether displeased at being relieved of the
responsibility of choice. "Still, it's as you say -
Mavrikios is too canny by half to sit down without
looking first to see whether he's plunking his tail
onto an anthill."
      That the Emperor took Artapan's message
seriously soon became clear. Marcus had been back
from drills less than an hour when an orderly
summoned him to an urgent officer's council.
      "The Khamorth is genuine, then, sir," Quintus
Glabrio guessed. The same enthusiasm that had
gripped the tribune before was now beginning to run
through his men.
      Doing his best to present the calm front
befitting a senior officer, Scaurus shrugged, saying
merely, "We'll know soon enough, either way."
      For all his efforts at impassiveness, he could
not help feeling a tingle of excitement when he saw
Artapan Pradtak's son seated close by the Emperor
in what had been the main hall of Khliat's hypasteos
or city governor. Another nomad, this one with a
bandaged shoulder, was next to Artapan.
      Scaurus and Gaius Philippus slid into chairs.
Their curiosity, fired by the earlier meeting with the
Khamorth scout, made them among the firstcomers.
Their seats were the light folding type of canvas and
wood, obviously from the imperial camp, not part of
the hall's original furnishing.
      The table at which they sat was something else
again, being massively built from some heavy dark
wood and looking as if it had held its place for
centuries. It had the stamp of a Vaspurakaner
product, calling to mind Gagik Bagratouni's fortress
of a dwelling back in Amorion. The "princes" had
become so used to life at bay that their very arts
reflected their constant search for protection and
strength.
      The Yezda must have used the hypasteos'
office as their headquarters before the Videssians
drove them from Khliat, for the table was scarred
with swordcuts and crude carvings. One symbol
recurred constantly: twin three-pronged lightning
bolts. Marcus thought nothing of them until Nephon
Khoumnos sat down beside him and cursed when he
saw them. "Filthy swine," he said, "putting Skotos'
brand everywhere they go." The tribune
remembered the dark icon in Avshar's suite at the
capital and nodded in understanding.
      Mavrikios brusquely called the meeting to
order by slamming his palm down on the table. The
low-voiced buzz of conversation disappeared.
Without further preamble, the Emperor declared,
"Baanes Onomagoulos has run into a nestful of
Yezda a bit this side of Maragha. Without help, he
says, he doesn't think he'll be able to hold out for
long."
      Heads jerked up in surprise - the Emperor had
not announced the purpose of the meeting he was
calling. Marcus felt smug at not being caught
unawares.
      "How did you learn that?" someone asked.
      Gavras pointed to the nomad scouts. "You can
thank these two - they slipped through the invaders
to bring word. Spatakar - " That was the bandaged
Khamorth. " - came in just now with a written report
of situation from Onomagoulos. The seals it bears
have been checked - they're genuine. Not only that,
both Spatakar and his fellow Artapan here are well
known to their clansmen here in Khliat. This has
also been checked. In short, gentlemen, this is what
we've waited for."
      Gaius Philippus touched Marcus' arm and
whispered, "You were right." He need not have been
so discreet. The whole room was in an uproar, with
everyone talking at once, some exclaiming to their
neighbors, others shouting questions at the Emperor.
      The voice of Thorisin Gavras cut through the
uproar. "Or, at any rate, it may be what we've waited
for. As for me, I'm inclined to wait a trifle longer."
      "Oh, Phos, here we go again," Nephon
Khoumnos groaned.
      Scaurus scratched his head at the sudden
reversal of roles the two Gavrai were displaying.
Thorisin was ever the impetuous one, with
Mavrikios more inclined to wait on events. Yet now
the Emperor was all for pushing ahead, while the
Sevastokrator spoke out for caution. The tribune
could make no sense of it.
      Thorisin, having gained the council's attention,
went on, "I would think three times before I set our
whole army thundering to Baanes Onomagoulos'
rescue because of his first reports of trouble. He
may be a very able officer, but he is regrettably
inclined to caution."
      Baanes is a coward, Marcus translated. The
Roman did not know Onomagoulos well, but did not
think the Sevastokrator's thinly veiled charge was
true. He grew surer he was right when he
remembered Thorisin's longstanding jealousy of his
older brother's comrade. Yes, things were clearer
now. Nephon Khoumnos, who knew the Gavrai,
must have seen all this from the moment Thorisin
opened his mouth.
      So, of course, did Mavrikios. He snapped,
"Were it Khoumnos or Bagratouni out there,
Thorisin, instead of Baanes, would you be
counseling prudence?"
      "No," his brother said at once. "And were it our
good friend Ortaias here - " He did not bother hiding
his contempt for young Sphrantzes. " - would you
go pounding after him?"
      Mavrikios ground his teeth in frustration. "That
is a low blow, Thorisin, and well you know it."
      "Do I? We'll see." The Sevastokrator shot
questions at Onomagoulos' Khamorth, and, indeed,
their answers seemed to show his forces were not in
such grim straits as it first appeared. His
interrogation, though, reminded Marcus of nothing
so much as a skilled lawyer at work, eliciting from
witnesses only the facts he was after. But whether
that was so or not, Thorisin succeeded in raising
enough doubts in the council that it retired without
taking any action at all.
      "Grudges," Gaius Philippus said as he and
Scaurus made their way to the Roman encampment.
He put such a wealth of feeling in the word that it
came out fouler than any swearing.
      "You talk as if Rome were immune to them,"
the tribune answered. "Remember when Sulla and
Gaius Flavius Fimbria each fought Mithridates
without taking the other into account? When they
joined forces, so many of Fimbria's men went over
to Sulla that Fimbria killed himself from the sheer
disgrace of it."
      "And good riddance to him, too," Gaius
Philippus said promptly. "He incited a mutiny
against his commander to take charge of that army
in the first place, the swine. He - " The centurion
broke off abruptly, made a gesture full of disgust.
"All right, I see your point. I still don't like it."
      "I never said I did."
      The next morning passed in anticipation, with
the imperial forces in Khliat wondering whether
Baanes Onomagoulos had managed to wriggle free
of the Yezda trap... and if the trap was there at all.
Around noon Scaurus got the summons to another
council of war.
      This time Onomagoulos' messenger was no
Khamorth, but a Videssian officer of middle rank.
His face was pinched with exhaustion and, but for
the area his helm's nasal had covered, badly sun-
blistered. Mavrikios introduced him to the
assembled commanders as Sisinnios Mousele, then
let him speak for himself.
      "I thought all our riders must have been caught
before they reached you," he said between swallows
of wine; as was true of Artapan Pradtak's son, his
journey had left him dry as the baking land round
Khliat. "But when I made my way here, I learned
two Khamorth were a day ahead of me.
      "Why are you not on the move," he demanded,
"when my news preceded me? Aye, we're holding
our little valley against the Yezda, but for how long?
The stream that carved it is only a muddy trickle in
summer - we have almost no water and not much
food. And the barbarians are thick as locusts in a
wheatfield - I'd not thought there were so many
Yezda in all the world. We could break out, perhaps,
but they'd tear us to pieces before we got far. In
Phos' holy name, brothers, without aid all of us will
die, and die for nothing."
      While Mousele was speaking, Mavrikios
looked stonily at his brother. He made no public
recrimination, though, over the day the army had
lost to Thorisin's envious suspicion of
Onomagoulos. In a way, Marcus thought, that was
encouraging - in the face of real crisis, the pretended
feud between the Gavrai fell away.
      Thorisin bore that out, asking the counsil, "Is
there anyone now who feels we should not march? I
own I was wrong yesterday; with your help and your
men's, perhaps we can make good my mistake."
      After Sisinnios Mousele's plea, there was
almost no debate among the officers. The only
question was how soon the army could start moving.
"Don't worry, Sisinnios, we'll get your boys out!" a
Videssian captain called.
      Only when Mousele made no reply did all eyes
turn toward him. He was asleep where he sat; his
message delivered, nothing would have kept him
awake another minute.
                       XIII

      AFTERNOON WAS LIKE A BEEHIVE
POKED WITH A stick. To speed the army's
departure, Mavrikios promised 3 goldpiece to each
soldier of the contingent first ready to leave. Men
frantically dashed here and there, dragging their
comrades from taverns and whorehouses.
      There were also hurried farewells by the score,
for the Emperor had no intention of delaying his
advance with sutlers, women, children, and other
noncombatants. Not a man complained; if they lost,
better to have their loved ones safe behind Khliat's
walls than in a battlefield camp at the mercy of an
onstorming foe.
      Helvis was a warrior's brother and a warrior's
widow. She had sent men into battle before and
knew better than to burden Scaurus with her fears.
All she said was, "Phos keep you safe till I see you
again."
      "Bring me back a Yezda's head, Papa?" Malric
asked.
      "Bloodthirsty, aren't you?" Marcus said,
hugging Helvis' son. "What would you do with it if
you had it?"
      "I'd bum it all up," the boy declared. "They're
worse than Videssian heretics, Mama says. Bum it
all up!"
      The tribune looked quizzically at Helvis. "I
won't say she's wrong. If I bring my own head back,
though, that will be about enough for me."
      The Romans won the Emperor's prize, as
Marcus had been sure they would - fighting the
Yezda was a less fearful prospect than facing Gaius
Philippus after losing. But the rest of the army was
close behind them, galvanized by the thought of
rescuing their fellows from the Yezda. To the
tribune's amazement, Khliat's gates swung wide an
hour before sunset, and the last soldier was out of it
before twilight left the sky.
      In his urgency, Mavrikios kept the army
moving through the early hours of the night. The
endless drumbeat of marching feet, the clatter of
iron-shod hooves, and the squeaks and rattles of
hundreds of wagons filled with supplies and
munitions were so pervasive the ear soon refused to
hear them. Only the curses and thumps that followed
missteps in the darkness really registered, in the
same way that a skipped heartbeat demands
attention while a steady pulse can be ignored.
       Marcus was impressed by the amount of
ground the imperial forces were able to make in that
first, partial, day's march, despite the unfamiliar
ground and the darkness. "You've forgotten what it's
like, being with an army that's ready to fight," Gaius
Philippus said. "I only hope Mavrikios doesn't wear
us down by going too fast too soon."
       "Och, the gods forfend!" said Viridovix. "I'm
near as worn the now as ever I was when first we set
out from Videssos all that while ago."
       "You'd be in better shape if you hadn't said
good-bye so thoroughly," the centurion pointed out.
"You could hardly walk when you saw fit to come
back to us."
       "And can you think of a better way to pass a
summer's afternoon?"
       "No, damn you," Gaius Philippus said, and the
patent envy in his voice drew laughter from around
the Roman campfire.
      The hot fire of enthusiasm kept the army
surging westward the next day, and the next.
Resistance was light. Onoma-goulos' force had
largely cleared the Yezda from the imperial line of
march, and the small bands re-entering the territory
between Khliat and Maragha were no match for
Mavrikios' grand expedition. Most chose flight over
combat.
      In those first two heady days of travel, the host
covered more than half the distance to
Onomagoulos' embattled troops. But then, as Gaius
Philippus had feared, the drive began to slow. The
soldiers, pushed past their limits by nonstop
marching, had to slow down. Their officers urged
them to greater efforts, but they were as exhausted
as their men. Marcus lived in a hot gray world, his
thoughts reaching no further than his next footsore
stride, his cuirass chafing his shoulders, his sword
bumping the outside of his thigh with every step he
took. He found brief moments to be thankful the
Romans marched at the imperial column's head;
they kicked up dust for others to breathe instead of
breathing it themselves.
      When the army paused at night, he fell
instantly into a slumber as deep as Sisinnios
Mousele's. He woke dull and slow, as if he had been
drugged.
      In midmorning of the fourth day out from
Khliat, Khamorth scouts rode in from the west to
report a dustcloud, as of many marching men,
approaching the Videssian force. Mavrikios took no
chances, ordering his men to deploy from marching
column into line of battle. Marcus felt a weary
exultation when the command reached the Romans.
One way or another, he thought, his ordeal would be
over before long. He was so tired he hardly cared
what the outcome would be.
      Soon the Videssian army's main body could
see the tan smudges of dust on the western horizon.
Men looked to their weapons. Here and there a
soldier spoke earnestly to his line-mate, giving last
instructions should he not survive the fight.
      The dustclouds hid whoever stirred them up.
The Emperor dispatched a couple of hundred
Kharmorth to learn what was ahead. Scaurus
watched them shrink to black dots and vanish into
the dust. The few minutes that passed before they
came racing back seemed far longer.
      As they galloped toward the imperial army, it
was easy to see their excitement. They were
wheeling and rearing their horses, and waving their
fur caps - never abandoned, no matter what the
weather - above their heads. They were shouting
something, too, over and over. At last they were
close enough for Marcus to understand it: "Onomag!
Onomag!"
      The tribune was worn out, but still felt a thrill
course through him. Xenophon, he thought, must
have known that same thrill when, from the rear of
his battered Greek army, he heard men ahead
crying, "Thalassa! Thalassa! The sea! The sea!"
      Not only Onomagoulos' warriors were out
ahead; Yezda were there too, harrying their retreat.
Mavrikios flung cavalry against them - Videssians,
Khamorth, Khatrishers, and finally Namdaleni. The
islanders' powerful charge sent the lighter-armed
enemy scattering in dismay and let the survivors of
Baanes' division rejoin their comrades.
      The army's joy at the meeting was short-lived;
the first glimpse of the men staggering back through
their lines dispelled it. The groans and cries of the
wounded, and the sight of their distress, brought
home all too vividly the dangers Mavrikios' force
had yet to taste.
       Onomagoulos himself was brought to safety in
a litter, a great gash in his thigh bound up in the rags
of his cloak.
       "You will excuse me," Gorgidas said to
Scaurus. "These poor devils need help." Without
waiting for the tribune's leave, he hurried off to give
the injured what aid he could.
       Marcus' eyes, though, were on the warriors
whose bodies had taken no blows. He liked none of
what he saw. If ever any were, these were beaten
troops. It showed in their eyes, in the haggard, numb
bewilderment on their faces, in their slumped
shoulders and dragging weapons. They had the look
of men who tried in vain to stand against an
avalanche.
       Two words were on their lips. One was
"Water!" Whenever a canteen was offered, it was
tilted, drained, and, with gasped thanks, given back
empty.
      The other word was spoken softly. The
defeated did not make it a warning to spread alarm
through their rescuers. Marcus thought they would
sooner have left it unsaid. But as often as little bands
of them stumbled past his legionaries, he heard their
voices drop and grow fearful. Because it was
whispered, it took him a few minutes to catch the
name of Avshar. After that, he understood.
      Marcus saw his men's marching order thrown
into disarray by Onomagoulos' fugitives. The sun
was nearing the western horizon; rather than push
forward under such unpromising circumstances, the
Emperor ordered camp made so he could safely
advance come morning.
      His main body of troops fell to with a will.
Marcus had to admit they did better work under the
threat of imminent attack. Palisades and rough
earthen barricades were built with a speed even the
Romans could not fault, while the cavalry who had
earlier driven the Yezda from Onomagoulos' men
now screened them from the campsite.
      They did not have an easy time of it. The iron
charge of the Namdaleni had knocked the Yezda
back on their heels, but not out of the fight.
Constantly joined by more horsemen from the west,
they made a battle of it, with all the confusion usual
in big cavalry engagements. Squads of horsemen
dashed back and forth, arrows flew in clouds, and
sabers gleamed as they rose and fell.
      "It's a good thing our works are going up fast,"
Gaius Philippus said, peering through the dusty haze
to the west. "I don't think our horse is doing any too
well out there. Those bloody bastards can ride - and
how many of them are there, anyway?"
      To that Scaurus could offer no reply. The dust
and distance made numbers impossible to judge.
Moreover, both the Yezda and their Khamorth
cousins who fought under the Emperor's banner had
strings of horses for each man, assuring them of a
fresh mount each day and also making them seem
far more numerous than they really were.
      Numbers aside, the centurion was grimly
correct. The Namdaleni might be the masters of the
Yezda at close quarters, and the Khamorth their
equals in speed. But the Videssians who formed the
bulk of the imperial cavalry could neither crush
them in close nor stay with them in a running fight.
Slowly at first, Mavrikios' cavalry began drawing
back toward and then into the field fortifications
their comrades were still completing.
      Marcus could hear horse shouts of triumph as
the Yezda gave chase. Too many for all to enter at
once, the Videssians and their mercenaries jammed
together at the six gates of the imperial camp. Their
foes, whooping with glee, sent flight after flight of
arrows into those tempting targets. Men toppled in
slow motion from their saddles; horses screamed as
they were hit. The wounded beasts bolted in all
directions, adding to the chaos round the gates.
      Worse yet, in the turmoil and the fading light
there was no way for the army to tell Khamorth
friends from Yezda foes. More than a few invaders
got into the camp in the guise of allies, then went on
killing rampages until shot from their horses.
Scaurus watched in horrified admiration as a Yezda
sabered down three Videssian footsoldiers in quick
succession, then leaped his horse over the breast-
high palisade and into dusk's safety.
      Khamorth were killed too, mistaken for
enemies by panicky Videssians. Once or twice their
clan-brothers, seeing comrades die before their eyes,
took summary revenge. War within the Emperor's
army was suddenly as real a threat as the enemy
outside.
      Much later, Marcus would hear Phostis
Apokavkos retell the story of that dreadful night and
say, "I'd sooner be dead than live through another
time like that." From the proud, confident host that
had set out from Videssos, the army was reduced in
the early hours of that evening to little more than a
terror-stricken mob, huddling behind the flimsy
barricades that were all that kept it from the clutches
of its foes.
      If the Yezda had mounted an assault then and
there, Marcus thought the Videssian force would
have broken before them like so many dry sticks.
But the nomads were leery of attacking a fortified
camp, and perhaps the constant motion inside - in
reality as meaningless as the scurrying of ants when
their hill is disturbed - looked from outside like the
preparations of battle-ready troops. The onslaught
did not come, and little by little the Emperor began
to get his men in hand once more.
      He seemed everywhere at once, not in robes of
state now but gilded armor above the crimson
imperial boots. He dragged skulkers to the palisade
from the false security of their tents. His army's
position was hardly enviable, but he was far too
much a soldier to quit without a fight.
      When he came to the Roman section of the
camp, weary approval lit his face. "Very neat," he
complimented Scaurus. "Ditch, rampart, stakes -
aye, and water too, I see - just like a drill. Are your
men's spirits holding up?"
      "Well enough, your Majesty," the tribune
replied.
      "There's no need to fret over that," Viridovix
put in. "The lot of these Romans are too thick-
skinned to be afraid."
      Gaius Philippus bristled instinctively, but the
Emperor waved him to silence. "Easy, there. On a
night like this, you'd be better off if that were so.
Phos knows, I wish I could say it." Not even the
ruddy campfires could bring much color to his face;
in their flickering light he looked wan and old.
Shoulders bent as if under a heavy load, he turned
and went his way.
      His brother the Sevastokrator was rallying the
staggered army too, in his own more direct fashion.
"Phos' left hairy nut!" Marcus heard him shouting
not far away. "Give me that bow, you worthless
crock of dung!" A bowstring thrummed; Thorisin
cursed heartily at a miss. He shot again. Somewhere
in the gloom a horse gave a contralto shriek of
agony. "There!" the Sevastokrator said. "That's how
it's done!"
      Strangely enough, Ortaias Sphrantzes also
helped pull the Videssian army back together. He
went wandering through the camp declaiming such
pedantries as, "Wisdom-loving men - for I name you
philosophers rather than soldiers - should show the
barbarians that their eagerness is deathless," and,
"The souls of the Yezda are not double, nor are their
bodies made of adamant. They, too, are initiated into
the mysteries of death."
      The performance should have been ludicrous,
and indeed it was. Men smiled to hear the young
noble mouthing his platitudes, but in that place
smiles were hard to come by. Moreover, however
long-winded Sphrantzes was, he also spoke the
truth, and those who took the time to listen were not
worse for it.
      Priests circulated, praying with the soldiers and
re-swearing them to loyalty to the Empire. No one
seemed to care this night if a Namdalener added a
clause to the creed Videssos followed, or if a man of
Vaspurakan styled himself a son of Phos' firstborn.
In the face of peril, everyone was for once united.
      When asked, the pagan Khamorth, too, took
fresh oaths of allegiance. No priests would hear
them, but before some of Mavrikios' scribes they
swore by their swords to hold faith with the
Emperor. Their very reluctance after the mishaps at
the gates convinced Scaurus their word was good.
Had they intended betrayal, he thought, they would
have made their vows more readily, the better to
deceive.
      "Hello, hello." That was Nepos, who had been
standing at the tribune's elbow for a couple of
minutes without managing to be noticed. The little
priest looked as somber as his plump, merry features
would allow. He said diffidently, "Might I ask you
and yours to join the rest of this army in pledging
your loyalty to Videssos? I hold no suspicions and
mean no offense, but this seems a time for renewing
faith."
      "Of course," Scaurus nodded. Had the Romans
been singled out for such treatment he would have
taken it ill, but, as the priest said, every man in the
camp was reaffirming his loyalty. "What oath would
satisfy you, though? Most of us do not follow your
ways."
      "Hmm." Nepos scratched his shaven head. "A
poser - have you any suggestions?"
      Marcus thought for a moment, then said, "It is
our custom, when taking service in a legion, for one
man to take the oath, and everyone swear to follow
his example. If I swear that oath again, this time by
my gods and your own, would it suffice?"
      "I fail to see how I could ask for anything
more."
      "All right." At the tribune's command, the
buccinators sounded their horns to gain the
legionaries' attention. The clear trumpet notes cut
through the tumult; Romans snapped their heads
around to see what the matter was.
      When Marcus saw they were all watching him,
he asked if there was any man unwilling to give the
promise Nepos asked. No one spoke. "Very well,
then," he told them. "By the gods we brought from
Rome and by the god we met here, I pledge myself
to obey the Emperor and do his bidding as best I
can. Do you now swear to do the same as I?"
      "Iuramus!" they cried in the same Latin they
had used when first joining their legions. "We swear
it!" Nepos might not understand the word, but its
meaning was unmistakable. He bowed his thanks to
Marcus and hurried away to confirm some other
unit's allegiance.
      The din outside the camp was unbelievable.
Not quite bold enough to storm its ramparts, the
Yezda did everything they could to bring terror to
the men within. Some rode up close to scream
threats in broken Videssian, while others contented
themselves with wordless shrieks of hate.
      Worse still, Marcus thought, were the great
drums that boomed around every Yezda campfire
like the irregular heartbeats of a dying, demented
god. The vibration came through the ground as
much as through the air and seemed to echo and re-
echo inside a man's bones.
      To sleep in such circumstances was a forlorn
hope, even for the phlegmatic Scaurus. He
welcomed the messenger announcing Mavrikios'
nightly council with enough eagerness to send the
man off shaking his head in confusion. There was
no need for directions to the Emperor's tent. Not
only was it bigger than any other, it also stood on
the highest ground in the campsite, to let Mavrikios
have as good a view as he could of the surrounding
terrain.
      Reaching it, though, was like fighting through
the crowds that always filled the forum of Palamas
in the imperial capital. Men were on the move all
through the camp, some with purposeful strides,
others wandering aimlessly, using the simple fact of
their motion as an anodyne against thought. Despite
having a definite goal, the tribune also paid less
attention to his surroundings than he might have.
Gaius Philippus' warning was too slow to keep him
from bumping into a Haloga from behind.
      The blond giant swung round in annoyance; he
wore a leather patch over his right eye. "Watch your
feet, you oafish - " He stopped short.
      "Skapti!" Marcus exclaimed. "I did not think
you were with the Emperor's army. You should have
visited us long ago."
      "When I saw you last, I said we'd meet again."
The commander of the Imbros garrison shrugged.
To himself more than the Romans, he went on, "A
man's weird is a strange thing - if he will not come
to it, it comes to him instead."
       He took Scaurus' hand in both his own in the
Haloga fashion, then shook his head, rueful
amusement on his face. Giving the Romans no time
to puzzle out his riddle, he turned and went on his
way, tall, lonely, and proud.
       Staring at his back, Gaius Philippus said, "I've
seen men with that look to them before. Fey,
Viridovix would call him."
       "Aye, and he seems to think somehow I'm part
of his fate - may the gods prove him wrong."
Something else struck Scaurus. "When did you, of
all people, take to borrowing words from the Celt?"
       The centurion wore the same expression Skapti
Modolf's son had shown a moment before. "It does
fit, though, doesn't it?"
       "That I can't argue. Come on - let's see if
Mavrikios' wizards have come up with a way to give
us all wings and get us out of this pickle."
       No wizards were at the battle conference, with
or without word of wings. Mavrikios had brought
them with his force, to be sure, but more to foil
enemy sorcery than to use his own as a weapon of
offense - he was a man of arms by birth and
training. The fight he faced now might not be on the
terms he wanted, but he did not intend to dodge it.
      Indeed, he was surprisingly cheerful, saying to
Ortaias Sphrantzes, "I don't think this is the way
Kalokyres would have recommended luring the
enemy into battle, but it shouldn't work out too
badly. Unless I miss my guess, the nomads will be
so pumped up from today's fighting that they'll stand
against us for once. And when they do, we'll break
them. In hand-to-hand they don't have a prayer
against us.
      Marcus thought the Emperor had every chance
of being right. From what he had seen of the Yezda,
victory would make them reckless. They would
probably be so eager to finish off the Videssians as
to be easy to snare.
      The Emperor's thoughts were running along the
same lines. He gave his orders to his brother and
Sphrantzes accordingly, "You two on the wings will
be crucial in making this work, since you have most
of the light cavalry. Spread wide - funnel the Yezda
down to the center. The heavy troopers there will
stop them; once they're well engaged, close the
wings like this." He brought his outstretched arms
together in front of his body. "We'll surround them
on three sides or, Phos willing, all four, and that
should do it."
       Thorisin quietly listened to Mavrikios' outline,
now and then nodding as the Emperor made a point.
"He's cool enough, isn't he?" Gaius Philippus
murmured to Scaurus.
       "Why not? This scheme can't be news to him.
He and Mavrikios likely have been working it
through since sundown."
       Ortaias Sphrantzes was hearing it all for the
first time, and his eyes glowed with excitement. "A
classic ploy, your Majesty," he breathed, "and surely
a trap to catch the undisciplined barbarian rabble."
Scaurus was inclined to agree with the first part of
what he said, but rather resented the rest. Mavrikios'
plan reminded him of Hannibal's at Cannae, and that
trap had closed around Romans.
       The Emperor was pleased by the praise.
"Thank you, Ortaias," he said graciously. "I look to
you to hearten your men tomorrow with a fine
rousing speech." Mavrikios was in a confident mood
indeed, thought Marcus, if he was willing to be so
courteous to his rival's nephew.
      "I shall! I've prepared one against the day of
need, nicely calculated to raise martial ferocity."
      "Excellent."
      Next to Scaurus, Gaius Philippus rolled his
eyes and groaned, but so low in his throat only the
tribune could hear. The senior centurion had listened
to part of that speech, Marcus recalled, and was
anything but impressed. It did not really matter.
Scaurus had watched Nephon Khoumnos, well
down in the formal order of precedence, listening to
Mavrikios' scheme, and could fairly see the old
warhorse plan its execution. Everyone - save
possibly Ortaias Sphrantzes - knew the left wing
was really his.
      Out in the darkness beyond the encircled camp,
the drums paused in their discordant pounding, were
silent for a moment, then began anew, this time all
together: thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-
thump. The two-beat phrase, repeated endlessly,
maddeningly, made teeth rattle in their sockets,
brought dull pain to the head. The harsh voices of
the Yezda joined the drums: "Avshar! Avshar!
Avshar! Avshar!"
      Marcus felt his hands curl into fists when he
understood the invaders' chant. He glanced over to
see Mavrikios' reaction. The Emperor met his eye,
quirked an eyebrow upward. "All the pieces are on
the board," he said. "Now we can play."
      The day dawned clear and hot, the brassy sun
fairly leaping into a sky of flawless blue. The
tribune's eyes were gritty as he spooned up his
breakfast porridge. The drums had not stopped
throbbing all night, and what sleep he'd had was
shallow and shot through with evil dreams. All
through the Videssian camp, men yawned while
they ate.
      Quintus Glabrio scoured his empty bowl with
sand, put it back in his pack. He was yawning too,
but not worried about it. "Unless all the men out of
Yezd are deaf, they had as much trouble sleeping as
I did," he said. Marcus nodded, appreciating his
sense of proportion.
      Yezda tents lay scattered over the plain like
multicolored toadstools. There were more of them to
the west of the Videssian camp; many were grouped
around a great pavilion of jet-black felt. Without
need for conscious thought, Scaurus was sure it was
Avshar's. Yezda streamed toward it. The tribune
watched their battle line begin taking shape.
       As he had- feared, the nomads tried to keep the
imperial army besieged in its camp, but Mavrikios
was equal to that. Archers from behind the palisade
made them keep their distance, and, when three or
four dart-throwing catapults added their fire, the
Yezda drew back toward their own lines. The
Emperor then used his light horse as he had before,
to form a curtain behind which his main force could
deploy.
       Sweat already beginning to make his shoulders
raw under his cuirass, Scaurus led his Romans to
their place in the Vi-dessian line. They anchored the
left flank of Mavrikios' strong center; to their own
left was the cavalry contingent from Khatrish, which
linked the center to Ortaias Sphrantzes' left wing.
       The Khatrisher commander, a slim,
pockmarked man named Laon Pakhymer, waved
when he saw the tribune. Marcus waved back. Ever
since his first encounter with Taso Vones, he had
liked the Khatrishers. He also preferred them on his
flank to their Khamorth cousins. Some of the men
from the plains of Pardraya were in a sullen mood,
and Scaurus could scarcely blame them after their
allies had shot at them by mistake.
       Viridovix looked out over the barren plain
toward the gathering enemy. He scratched his nose.
His fair skin suffered under the fierce Videssian sun,
burning and peeling without ever really tanning.
"Not much like the last shindy the two of us were in,
is it now?" he said to Marcus.
       "It isn't, is it? Morning instead of night, hot
instead of mild, this naked rockpile instead of your
Gallic forest... why, we're even on the same side
now."
       "So we are." Viridovix chuckled. "I hadna
thought of that. It should be a fine brawl all the
same." Scaurus snorted.
       Pipes whistled and drums thumped, ordering
the imperial forces forward. The Romans did
without such fripperies, except for their rallying
horncalls, but the tribune was rather glad of the
martial music surrounding his men. It made him feel
less alone, less as if all the Yezda ahead were
marking him as their target.
      The invaders were advancing too, not in the
neat articulated units of the Videssian army, but now
here, now there, like a wave up an uneven beach. It
was easy to recognize Avshar, even at the distance
between the two forces. He chose to lead his host
from the right rather than from the center like
Mavrikios. His white robes flashed brightly against
the sooty coat of the huge stallion he rode. Yezd's
banner flapped lazily above his head.
      "That is an evil color for a standard," Quintus
Glabrio said. "It reminds me of a bandage soaked
with clotted blood." The image was fitting, but
surprising when it came from the Roman officer. It
sounded more like something Gorgidas would say.
      Gaius Philippus said, "It suits them, for they've
caused enough to be soaked."
      The two forces were about half a mile apart
when Mavrikios rode his own roan charger out
ahead of his men to address them. Turning his head
left and right, Marcus saw Ortaias Sphrantzes and
Thorisin doing the same in their divisions of the
army. The Yezda, too, came to a halt while Avashar
and their other chieftains harangued them.
      The Emperor's speech was short and to the
point. He reminded his men of the harm Yezd had
inflicted on Videssos, told them their god was
fighting on their side - the tribune was willing to bet
Avshar was making the same claim to his warriors -
and briefly outlined the tactics he had planned.
      The tribune did not pay much attention to
Mavrikios' words - their draft was plain after five or
six sentences. More interesting were the snatches of
Ortaias Sphrantzes' address that a fitful southerly
breeze brought him.
      In his thin tenor, the noble was doing his best
to encourage his men with the same kind of
sententious rhetoric he had used inside the Videssian
camp the night before. "Fight with every limb; let no
limb have no share of danger! The campaign of
Yezd has justice opposed to it, for peace is a
loathsome thing to them, and their love of battle is
such that it honors a god of blood. Injustice is often
strong, but it is also changed to ruin. I will direct the
battle, and in my eagerness for combat engage the
aid of all - I am ashamed to suffer not suffering..."
      On and on he went. Marcus lost the thread of
Sphrantzes' speech when Mavrikios finished his
own and the men of the center cheered, but when
their shouts subsided Ortaias was still holding forth.
The soldiers on the left listened glumly, shifting
from foot to foot and muttering among themselves.
What they expected and needed was a heartening
fierce speech, not this grandiloquent monologue.
       The Sevastos' nephew built to his rousing
conclusion. "Let no one who loves luxury's
pleasures share in the rites of war and let no one join
in the battle for the sake of loot. It is the lover of
danger who should seek the space between the two
armies. Come now, let us at last add deeds to words
and let us shift our theory into the line of battle!"
       He paused expectantly, waiting for the
applause the two Gavrai had already received. There
were a few spatters of clapping and one or two
shouts, but nothing more. "He does have the brain of
a pea," Gaius Philippus grumbled. "Imagine telling a
mercenary army not to loot! I'm surprised he didn't
tell them not to drink and fornicate, while he was at
it."
       Dejectedly, Sphrantzes rode back into line.
Nephon Khoumnos was there to slap his armored
back and try to console him - and also, Marcus
knew, to protect the army from his flights of fancy.
      It would not be long now. All speeches done at
last, both armies were advancing again, and the
forwardmost riders were already exchanging arrows.
Scaurus felt a familiar tightening in his guts,
suppressed it automatically. These moments just
before fighting began were the worst. Once in the
middle of it, there was no time to be afraid.
      The Yezda came on at a trot. Marcus saw the
sun flash off helmets, drawn swords, and
lanceheads, saw their banners and horse-tail
standards lifted high. Then he blinked and rubbed
his eyes; around him, Romans cried out in
amazement and alarm. The oncoming line was
flickering like a candle flame in a breeze, now plain,
now half-seen as if through fog, now vanished
altogether. The tribune clutched his sword until
knuckles whitened, but the grip brought no security.
How was he to strike foes he could not see?
      Though it seemed an eternity, the Yezda could
not have remained out of sight more than a few
heartbeats. Through the outcry of his own men,
Scaurus heard counterspells shouted by the sorcerers
who accompanied the imperial army. The enemy
reappeared, sharp and solid as if they had never
blurred away.
      "Battle magic," the tribune said shakily.
      "So it was," Gaius Philippus agreed. "It didn't
work, though, the gods be thanked." He spoke
absently, without turning to look as Scaurus. His
attention was all on the Yezda, who, their ploy
failed, were riding harder now, bearing down on the
Videssians. "Shields up!" the centurion shouted, as
arrows arced their way toward the Romans.
      Marcus had never stood up under arrow fire
like this. An arrow buzzed angrily past his ear;
another struck his scutum hard enough to drive him
back a pace. The noise the shafts made as they
hissed in and struck shields and corselets was like
rain beating on a metal roof. Rain, though, never left
men shrieking and writhing when it touched their
soft, vulnerable flesh.
      The Yezda thundered forward, close enough
for the tribune to see their intent faces as they
guided their horses toward the gaps their arrows had
made. "Pila.!" he shouted, and, a moment later,
"Loose!"
      Men pitched from saddles, to spin briefly
through the air or be dragged to red death behind
their mounts. So stirrups had drawbacks after all,
Scaurus thought. Horses fell too, or ran wild when
bereft of riders. They fouled those next to them and
sent them crashing to the ground. Warriors behind
the first wave, unable to stop their animals in time,
tripped over the fallen or desperately pulled back on
their reins to leap the sudden barrier ahead - and
presented themselves as targets for their foes.
      The Roman volley shook the terrifying
momentum of the Yezda charge, but did not, could
not, stop it altogether. Yelling like men possessed,
the nomads collided with the soldiers who would
bar their way. A bushy-bearded warrior slashed
down at the tribune from horseback. He took the
blow on his shield while he cut at the nomad's leg,
laying open his thigh and wounding his horse as
well.
      Rider and beast cried out in pain together. The
luckless animal reared, blood dripping down its
barrel. An arrow thudded into its belly. It slewed
sideways and fell, pinning its rider beneath it. The
saber bounced from his loosening grip as he struck.
      A few hundred yards to his right, Marcus heard
deep-voiced cries as the Namdaleni hurled
themselves forward at the Yezda before them. They
worked a fearful slaughter for a short time, striking
with swords and lances and bowling the enemy over
with the sheer weight of their charge. Like snapping
wolves against a bear, the nomads gave way before
them, but even in retreat their deadly archery took
its toll.
      Again the Yezda tried to rush the Romans, and
again the legionaries' well-disciplined volley of
throwing spears broke the charge before it could
smash them. "I wish we had more heavy spearmen,"
Gaius Philippus panted. "There'd be nothing like a
line of hastati to keep these buggers off of us." The
hasta, though, was becoming obsolete in Rome's
armies, and few were the legionaries trained in its
use.
      "Wish for the moon, while you're at it," Marcus
said, putting to flight a nomad who, fallen from
horse, chose to fight on foot. The Yezda scuttled
away before the tribune could finish him.
      Viridovix, as always an army in himself,
leaped out from the Roman line and, sidestepping an
invader's hacking sword-stroke, cut off the head of
the nomad's horse with a single slash of his great
blade. The Romans cried out in triumph, the Yezda
in dismay, at the mighty blow.
      The rider threw himself clear as his beast
foundered, but the tall Celt was on him like a cat
after a lizard. Against Viridovix's reach and strength
he could do nothing, and his own head spun from
his shoulders an instant later. Snatching up the gory
trophy, the Gaul returned to the Roman ranks.
      "I know it's not your custom to be taking
heads," he told Scaurus, "but a fine reminder he'll be
of the fight."
      "You can have him for breakfast, for all I
care," the tribune shouted back. His usual
equanimity frayed badly in the stress of battle.
      The legionaries' unyielding defense and the
exploit of the Celt, as savage as any of their own,
dissuaded the Yezda from further direct assaults.
Instead, they drew back out of spear-range and plied
the Romans with arrows. Marcus would have like
nothing better than to let his men charge the
nomads, but he had already seen what happened
when a Vaspurakaner company, similarly assailed,
ran pell-mell at the Yezda. They were cut off and
cut to pieces in the twinkling of an eye.
      Still, there was no reason for the Romans to
endure such punishment without striking back.
Scaurus sent a runner over to Laon Pakhymer. The
Khatrisher acknowledged his request with a flourish
of his helmet over his head. He sent a couple of
squadrons of his countryman forward, just enough
to drive the Yezda out of bowshot. As the nomads
retreated, Marcus moved his own line up to help
cover the allies who had protected him.
      He wondered how the fight was going. His
own little piece of it was doing fairly well, but this
was too big a battle to see all at once. The numbers
on both sides, the length of the battle line, and the
ever-present smothering dust made that hopeless.
      But by the way the front was bending,
Mavrikios' plan seemed to be working. The Yezda,
squeezed on both flanks, were being forced to hurl
themselves at the Videssian line's center. Deprived
of the mobility that gave them their advantage, they
were easy meat for the heavy troops the Emperor
had concentrated there. The great axes of his Haloga
guardsmen rose and fell, rose and fell, shearing
through the nomad's light small shields and boiled-
leather cuirasses. The northerners sang as they
fought, their slow, deep battle chant sounding
steadily through the clamor around them.
      Avshar growled, deep in his throat, a sound of
thwarted fury. The Videssian center was even
stronger than he had expected, though he had known
it held his foes' best troops. And among them, he
suddenly recalled, was the outlander who had bested
him at swords. He seldom lost at anything; revenge
would be sweet.
      Three times he fired his deadly bow at Scaurus.
Twice he missed; despite terrified rumor, the
weapon was not infallible. His third shot was true,
but a luckless nomad rode into the arrow's path. He
fell, never knowing his own chieftain had slain him.
      The wizard cursed to see that perfect shot
ruined. "A different way, then," he rumbled to
himself. He had intended to use the spell against
another, but it would serve here as well.
      He handed his bow to an officer by his side,
calmed his horse with his knees till it stood still - the
spell required passes with both hands at once. As he
began to chant, even the Yezda holding the bow
flinched from him, so frigid and terrible were his
words.
      Marcus' sword flared dazzlingly bright for an
instant. It chilled him, but many magics were loose
on the field today.
      He waved to the buccinators to call a lagging
maniple into position.
      Avshar cursed again, feeling his sorcery
deflected. His fists clenched, but even he had to bow
to necessity - back to the first plan, then. Yezda
scouts had watched the imperial host drill a score of
times and brought him word of what they had seen.
Of all the men in that host, one was the key - and
Avshar's spell would not go awry twice.
      "There you go! There you go! Drive the
whoresons back!" Nephon Khoumnos shouted. He
was hoarse and tired, but increasingly happy over
the battle's course. Ortaias, Phos be praised, was not
getting in his way too badly, and the troops were
performing better than he'd dared hope. He
wondered if Thorisin was having as much success
on the right. If he was, soon the Yezda would be
surrounded by a ring of steel.
      The general sneezed, blinked in annoyance,
sneezed again. Despite the sweltering heat, he was
suddenly cold; the sweat turned clammy on his
body. He shivered inside his armor - there were
knives of ice stabbing at his bones. Agony shot
through his joints at every move. His eyes bulged.
He opened his mouth to cry out, but no words
emerged. His last conscious thought was that
freezing was not the numb, painless death it was
supposed to be.
      "They appear to be stepping up the pressure,"
Ortaias Sphrantzes said. "What do you think,
Khoumnos? Should we commit another brigade to
throw them back?" Getting no reply, he turned to
glance at the older man. Khoumnos was staring
fixedly ahead and did not seem to be giving any
heed to his surroundings.
      "Are you all right?" Sphrantzes asked. He laid
a hand on the general's bare arm, then jerked it back
in horror, leaving skin behind. Touching Khoumnos
was like brushing against an ice-glazed wall in dead
of winter, but worse, for this was a cold that burned
like fire.
      Startled at the sudden motion, the general's
horse shied. Its rider swayed, then toppled stiffly; it
was as if a frozen statue bestrode the beast. A
hundred throats echoed Sphrantzes' cry of terror, for
Khoumnos' body, like a statue carved from brittle
ice, shattered into a thousand frozen shards when it
struck the ground.
      "A pox!" Gaius Philippus exclaimed.
"Something's gone wrong on the left!" Sensitive to
battle's changing tides as a deer to the shifting
breeze, the centurion felt the Yezda swing to the
offensive almost before they delivered their attack.
      Pakhymer caught the scent of trouble, too, and
sent one of his riders galloping south behind the line
to find out what it was. He listened as his man
reported back, then shouted to the Romans,
"Khoumnos is down!"
      "Oh, bloody hell," Marcus muttered. Gaius
Philippus clapped his hand to his forehead and
swore. Here was a chance the Emperor had left
unreckoned - responsibility for a third of the
Videssian army had just landed squarely on Ortaias
Sphrantzes' skinny shoulders.
      The Khatrisher who brought the news was still
talking. Laon Pakhymer heard him out, then spoke
so sharply the Romans could hear part of what he
said: " - mouth shut, do you under - " The horseman
nodded, gave him an untidy salute, and rode back
into line."Sure and I wonder what all that was
about," Viridovix said.
      Gaius Philippus said, "Nothing good, I'll
warrant."
      "You're a rare gloomy soul, Roman dear, but
I'm afraid you have the right of it this time."
      When his left wing faltered, Mavrikios guessed
why. He sent Zeprin the Red south as fast as he
could to rescue the situation, but the Haloga marshal
found himself caught up in confused and bitter
fighting that broke out when a band of Yezda
cracked the imperial line and rampaged through the
Videssian rear. The northerner's two-handed axe
sent more than one of them to his death, but
meanwhile Ortaias Sphrantzes kept command.
      Like a ship slowly going down on an even
keel, the left's plight grew worse. The various
contingents' officers led them as best they could, but
with Nephon Khoumnos gone their overall guiding
force disappeared. Ortaias, in his inexperience,
frantically rushed men here and there to counter
feints, while failing to answer real assaults.
      The left was also a liability in another way.
Despite PaRhymer's silencing his messenger,
rumors of how Khoumnos died soon ran through the
whole Videssian army. They were confused and
sometimes wildly wrong, but Avshar's name was
writ large in all of them. Men in every section of the
line looked south in apprehension, awaiting they
knew not what.
      The Emperor, seeing the failure of his scheme
and the way the Yezda were everywhere pressing
his disheartened soldiers back, ordered a withdrawal
back to the camp he had left so full of hope. Using
their superior mobility and the confusion on the left,
the Yezda were beginning to slip small parties round
the imperial army's flank. If enough got round to cut
the Videssians off from their base, what was now
nearly a draw could quickly become disaster.
      Mavrikios did not intend to give up the fight.
The Videssians could regroup behind their field
fortifications and return to the struggle the next
morning.
      For a moment Marcus did not recognize the
new call the drummers and pipers were playing.
"Retreat," for obvious reasons, was not an often-
practiced exercise. When he did realize what the
command was, he read Mavrikios' intentions
accurately. "We'll have another go at them
tomorrow," he predicted to Gaius Philippus.
      "No doubt, no doubt," the centurion agreed.
"Hurry up, you fools!" he shouted to the legionaries.
"Defensive front - get out there, you spearmen!
Hold the losels off us." His fury came more from
habit than need; the Romans were smoothly moving
into their covering formation.
      "Is it running away we are?" Viridovix
demanded. "There's no sense of it. Aye, we've not
beaten the spalpeens, but there's no one would say
they've beaten us either. Let's stay at it and have this
thing out." He brandished his sword at the Yezda.
      Gaius Philippus sighed, wiped sweat from his
face, rubbed absently at a cut on his left cheek. He
was as combative as the Celt, but had a firmer grip
on the sometimes painful realities of the field.
"We're not beaten, no," he said. "But there's
wavering all up and down the line, and the gods
know what's going on over there." He waved his left
arm. "Better we move back under our own control
than fall apart trying to hold."
       "It's a cold-blooded style of fighting, sure and
it is. Still and all, there's a bright side to everything -
now I'll have a chance to salt this lovely down
properly." He gave a fond pat to the Yezda head tied
to his belt. That was too much even for the hard-
bitten centurion, who spat in disgust.
       A deliberate fighting retreat is probably the
most difficult maneuver to bring off on a battlefield.
Soldiers equate withdrawal with defeat, and only the
strongest discipline holds panic at bay. The
Videssians and their mercenary allies performed
better than Marcus would have expected from such
a heterogeneous force. Warded by a bristling fence
of spears, they began to disengage, dropping back a
step here, two more there, gathering up the wounded
as they went, always keeping a solid fighting front
toward their foes.
       "Steady, there!" Marcus grabbed the bridle of
Senpat Sviodo's horse. The young Vaspurakaner
was about to charge a Yezda insolently sitting his
horse not thirty yards away.
      "Turn me loose, damn you!"
      "We'll get this one tomorrow - you've done
your share for today." That was nothing less than the
truth; Sviodo's fine wickerwork helm was broken
and hanging loosely over one ear, while his right
calf bore a rude bandage that showed the fighting
had not all gone his way.
      He was still eager for more, touching spurs to
his mount to make it rear free of the tribune's grip.
      Scaurus held firm. "If he hasn't the stomach to
close with us, let him go now. All we have to do is
keep them off us, and we'll be fine."
      He glared up at the mutinous Vaspurakaner. To
his legionaries he could simply give orders, but
Senpat Sviodo was a long way from their obedience
- and, to give him his due, he had better reason to
hate that grinning Yezda than did the Romans. "I
know how happy it would make you to spill his guts
out on the dirt, but what if you get in trouble? To
say nothing of your grieving your wife, we'd have to
rescue you and risk getting cut off while the rest of
the army pulled back."
      "Leave Nevrat out of this!" Senpat said hotly.
"Were she here, we'd fight that swine together. And
as for the rest of it, I don't need your help and I don't
want it. I don't care about the lot of you!"
     "But want it or not, you'd have it, because we
care about you, lad." Marcus released his hold on
the bridle. "Do what you bloody well please - but
even Viridovix is with us, you'll notice."
     There was a pause. "Is he, now?" Senpat
Sviodo's chuckle was not the blithe one he'd had
before the army entered ruined Vaspurakan, but
Marcus knew he'd won his point. Sviodo wheeled
his horse and trotted it back to the Roman line,
which had moved on another score of paces while
he and Scaurus argued.
     The tribune followed more slowly, studying as
best he could how well the army was holding
together. It really was going better than he'd dared
hope; even the left seemed pretty firm. "You know,"
he said, catching up to the Vaspurakaner, "I do
believe this is going to work."
     Avshar watched Ortaias Sphrantzes canter
down the Videssian left wing toward the center.
Behind the robes that masked him, he might have
smiled.
      "Dress your lines! Keep good order!"
Sphrantzes called, waving energetically to his men.
This business of war was as exciting as he'd thought
it would be, if more difficult. Decisions had to come
at once, and situations did not easily fit into the neat
categories Mindes Kalokyres outlined. When they
did, they changed so quickly that orders were often
worthless as soon as they were given.
      The noble knew he had been outmaneuvered
several times and lost troops as a result. It pained
him; these were not symbols drawn on parchment or
pieces to be taken cleanly from a board, but men
who fought and bled and died so he could learn his
trade.
      Still, on the whole he did not think he had done
badly. There had been breakthroughs, yes, but never
a serious one - he did not know he still held
command because of one of those breakthroughs.
His mere presence, he thought, went a long way
toward heartening his men. He knew what a fine
warlike picture he made with his gilded helmet and
armor, his burnished rapier with its jeweled hilt, and
his military cape floating behind him in the breeze.
      True, there had been that terrible moment when
Avshar's sorcery reached out to slay Nephon
Khoumnos. But even the white-shrouded villain was
according him the respect he deserved, always
shadowing him as he rode up and down the line.
      He had done everything, in short, that a general
could reasonably be expected to do... except fight.
      Horns blared in the enemy ranks. Sphrantzes'
lip-curled at the discords they raised. Then the
disdain vanished from his face, to be replaced by
dread. A thousand Yezda were spurring straight at
him, and at their head was Avshar.
      "Ortaias!" the wizard-prince cried, voice
spectrally clear through the thunder of hoofbeats. "I
have a gift for thee, Ortaias!" He lifted a mailed fist.
The blade therein was no bejeweled toy, but a great
murdering broadsword, red-black with the dried
blood of victims beyond number.
      First among all the Videssians, Ortaias
Sphrantzes in his mind's eye penetrated Avshar's
swaddling veils to see his face, and the name of that
face was fear. His bowels turned to water, his heart
to ice.
      "Phos have mercy on us! We are undone!" he
squealed. He wheeled his horse, jabbed his heels
into its flanks. Hunched low to ride the faster, he
spurred his way back through his startled soldiers -
just as Avshar, taking his measure, had foreseen.
"All's lost! All's lost!" he wailed. Then he was past
the last of his men, galloping east as fast as his high-
bred mount would run.
      A moment later the Videssian line behind him,
stunned by its general's defection, smashed into ruin
under the wizard's hammer-stroke.
      Take a pitcher of water outside on a cold
winter's day. If the water is very pure and you do not
disturb it; it may stay liquid long after you would
expect it to freeze. But let a snowflake settle on the
surface of this supercooled water, and it will be ice
clear through in less time than it takes to tell.
      So it was with the Videssian army, for Ortaias
Sphrantzes' flight was the snowflake that congealed
retreat into panic. And with a gaping hole torn in its
ranks, and Yezda gushing through to take the army
in flank and rear, terror was far from
unwarranted."Well, that's done it!" Gaius Philippus
said, angry beyond profanity. "Form square!" he
shouted, then explained to Marcus, "The better order
we show, the less likely the sods are to come down
on us. The gods know they'll have easier pickings
elsewhere."
      The tribune nodded in bitter agreement. The
amputated left wing of the army was already
breaking up in flight. Here and there knots of brave
or stubborn men still struggled against the nomads
who were enveloping them on all sides, but more
and more rode east as fast as they could go,
throwing away shields, helms, even swords to flee
more quickly. Whooping gleefully, the Yezda
pursued them like boys after rabbits.
      But Avshar kept enough control over the
unruly host he led to swing most of it back for the
killing stroke against the Videssian center. Assailed
simultaneously from front and rear, many units
simply ceased to be. They lacked the Romans' long-
drilled flexibility and tore their ranks to pieces
trying to redeploy. Even proud squadrons of Halogai
splintered beyond repair. The Yezda surged into the
gaps confusion created and spread slaughter with
bow and saber. Survivors scattered all over the field.
      Under the ferocious onslaught, the motley
nature of the Videssian army became the curse
Marcus had feared. Each contingent strove to save
itself, with little thought for the army as a whole.
"Rally to me!" Mavrikios' pipers signaled
desperately, but it was too late for that. In the chaos,
many regiments never understood the order, and
those that did could not obey because of the ever-
present, ever-pressing hordes of Yezda.
      Some units held firm. The Namdaleni beat
back charge after charge, until the Yezda gave them
up as a bad job. Fighting with a fury born of despair,
Gagik Bagratouni's Vaspurkaners also stopped the
invaders cold. But neither group could
counterattack.
      As Gaius Philippus had predicted, the good
order the Romans still kept let them push on
relatively unscathed. Indeed, they attracted
stragglers - sometimes by squads and platoons - to
themselves, men seeking a safe island in a sea of
disaster. Marcus welcomed them if they still showed
fight. Every sword, every spear was an asset.
      The additions came none too soon. One of the
Yezda captains was wise enough to see that any
organized force remained a potential danger. He
shouted a word of command, wheeled his men
toward the Romans.
      Drumming hooves, felt through the soles as
much as heard ... "They come, aye, they come!"
Viridovix yelled. Ruin all around him, he still
reveled in fighting. He leaped out against the
onrushing Yezda, ignoring arrows, evading
swordstrokes that flashed by like striking snakes.
The nomad captain cut at him. He jerked his head
away, replied with a two-handed stroke of his own
that sheared through boiled-leather cuirass and ribs
alike, hurling his foe from his saddle to the dust
below.
      The Romans cheered his prowess, those not
busy fighting for their own lives. Pila were few now,
and the Yezda charge struck home almost
unblunted. For all their discipline, the legionaries
staggered under the blow. The front edge of the
square sagged, began to crumple.
      Marcus, at the fore, killed two Yezda in quick
succession, only to have two more ride past on
either side of him and hurl themselves against the
battered line.
      A mounted nomad struck him on the side of
the head with a spearshaft swung club-fashion. It
was a glancing blow, but his vision misted, and he
slipped to one knee. Another Yezda, this one on
foot, darted forward, saber upraised. The tribune
lifted his shield to parry, sickly aware he would be
too slow.
      From the corner of his eye he saw a tall shape
loom up beside him. an axe bit with a meaty
chunnk; the Yezda was dead before his dying cry
passed his lips. Skapti Modolf's son put a booted
foot on the corpse, braced, and pulled the weapon
free.
      "Where are your men?" Scaurus shouted.
      The Haloga shrugged. "Dead or scattered. They
gave the ravens more bones to pick than their own."
Skapti seemed more a wolf than ever, an old wolf,
last survivor of his pack.
      He opened his mouth to speak again, then
suddenly stiffened. Marcus saw the nomad arrow
sprout from his chest. His one good eye held the
Roman. "This place is less pleasant than Imbros," he
said distinctly. His fierce blue stared dimmed as he
slumped to the ground.
       Scaurus recalled the fate the Haloga had half
foretold when the Romans left his town. He had
little time to marvel. Legionaries were falling faster
than replacements could fill the holes in their ranks.
Soon they would be an effective fighting force no
more, but a broken mob of fugitives for the invaders'
sport.
       The tribune saw Gaius Philippus' head
whipping from side to side, searching vainly for new
men to throw into the fight. The centurion looked
more harassed than beaten, annoyed over failing at
something he should do with ease.
       Then the Yezda shouted in surprise and alarm
as they in turn were hit from behind. The killing
pressure eased. The nomads streamed away in all
directions, like a glob of quicksilver mashed by a
falling fist.
       Laon Pakhymer rode up to Marcus, a tired grin
peeking through his tangled beard. "Horse and foot
together do better than either by itself, don't you
think?" he said.
       Scaurus reached up to clasp his hand.
"Pakhymer, you could tell me I was a little blue
lizard and I'd say you aye right now. Never was any
face so welcome as yours."
       "There's flattery indeed," the Khatrisher said
dryly, scratching a pockmarked cheek. He was
quickly serious again. "Shall we stay together now?
My riders can screen your troops, and you give us a
base to fall back on at need."
       "Agreed," Scaurus said at once. Even in the
world he'd known, cavalry was the Romans' weakest
arm, always eked out with allies or mercenaries.
Here the stirrup and the incredible horsemanship it
allowed made such auxiliaries all the more
important.
       While the Romans struggled for survival on the
left center, a larger drama was building on the
Videssian right wing. Of all the army, the right had
suffered least. Now Thorisin Gavras, shouting
encouragement to his men and fighting in the first
rank, tried to lead it back to rescue his brother and
the beaten center. "We're coming! We're coming!"
the Sevas-tokrator's men cried. Those contingents
still intact in the center yelled back with desperate
intensity and tried to fight their way north.
      It was not to be. The charge Thorisin led was
doomed before it truly began. With Yezda on either
side of them, the Sevastokrator's warriors had to run
the crudest kind of gauntlet to return to their stricken
comrades. Arrows tore at them like blinding sleet.
Their foes struck again and again, ruthless blows
from the flank that had to be parried at any cost -
and the cost was the thrust of the attack.
      Thorisin and Thorisin alone kept his men
moving forward against all odds. Then his mount
staggered and fell, shot from under him by one of
the black shafts Avshar's bow could send so far. The
Sevastokrator was a fine horseman; he rolled free
from the foundering beast and sprang to his feet,
shouting for a new horse.
      But once slowed, even for the moment he
needed to remount, his men could advance no
further. Against his will, one of his lieutenants
literally dragging his mount's bridle, the younger
Gavras was compelled to fall back.
      A great groan of despair rose from the
Videssians as they realized the relieving attack had
failed. All around them, the Yezda shouted in hoarse
triumph. Mavrikios, seeing before him the ruin of all
his hopes, saw also that the last service he could
give his state would be to take the author of his
defeat down with him.
      He shouted orders to the surviving Halogai of
the Imperial Guard. Over all the din of battle
Marcus clearly heard their answering, "Aye!" Their
axes gleamed crimson in the sunset as they lifted
them high in a final salute. Spearheaded by the
Emperor, they hurled themselves against the Yezda.
      "Avshar!" Mavrikios cried. "Face to face now,
proud filthy knave!" The wizard-prince spurred
toward him, followed by a swarm of nomads. They
closed round the Halogai and swallowed them up.
All over the field men paused, panting, to watch the
last duel.
      The Imperial Guard, steady in the face of the
doom they saw ahead, fought with the recklessness
of men who knew they had nothing left to lose. One
by one they fell; the Yezda were no cowards and
they, too, fought under their overlord's eyes. At last
only a small knot of Halogai still stood, to the end
protecting the Emperor with their bodies. The
wizard-prince and his followers rode over them,
swords chopping like cleavers, and there were only
Yezda in that part of the field.
      Whatever faint hopes the Videssian army had
for survival died with Mavrikios. Men thought no
further than saving themselves at any price and
abandoned their fellows if it meant making good
their own escape. Fragments of the right were still
intact under Thorisin Gavras, but so mauled they
could do nothing but withdraw to the north in some
semblance of order. Over most of the battleground,
terror - and the Yezda - ruled supreme.
      More than anyone else, Gaius Philippus saved
the Romans during that grinding retreat. The veteran
had seen victory and defeat both in his long career
and held the battered band together. "Come on!" he
said. "Show your pride, damn you! Keep your ranks
steady and your swords out! Look like you want
some more of these bastards!"
      "All I want is to get away from here alive!" a
panicky soldier yelled. "I don't care how fast I have
to run!" Other voices took up the cry; the Roman
ranks wavered, though the Yezda were not pressing
them.
      "Fools!" The centurion waved his arm to
encompass the whole field, the sprawled corpses,
the Yezda ranging far and wide to cut down
fugitives. "Look around you - those poor devils
thought they could run away too, and see what it got
them. We've lost, aye, but we're still men. Let the
Yezda know we're ready to fight and they'll have to
earn it to take us, and odds are they won't. But if we
throw away our shields and flap around like
headless chickens, every man for himself, not a one
of us will ever see home again."
      "You couldn't be more right," Gorgidas said.
The Greek physician's face was haggard with
exhaustion and hurt. Too often he had watched men
die from wounds beyond his skill to cure. He was in
physical pain as well. His left arm was bandaged,
and the bloodstains on his torn mantle showed
where a Yezda saber had slid along a rib. Yet he still
tried to give credit where it was due, to keep the
heart in others when almost without it himself.
      "Thanks," Gaius Philippus muttered. He was
studying his troops closely, wondering if he had
steadied them or if stronger measures would be
needed.
      Gorgidas persisted, "This is the way men come
off safe in a retreat, by showing the enemy how
ready they are to defend themselves. Whether you
know it or not, you're following Socrates' example
at the battle of Delium, when he made his way back
to Athens and brought his comrades out with him."
      Gaius Philippus threw his hands in the air.
"Just what I need now, being told I'm like some
smockfaced philosopher. Tend to your wounded,
doctor, and let me mind the lads on their feet."
Ignoring Gorgidas' injured look, he surveyed the
Romans once more, shook his head in
dissatisfaction.
      "Pakhymer!" he shouted. The Khatrisher
waved to show he'd heard. "Have your riders shoot
the first man who bolts." The officer's eyes widened
in surprise. Gaius Philippus said, "Better by far to
lose a few at our hands than see a stampede that
risks us all."
      Pakhymer considered, nodded, and threw the
centurion the sharpest salute Marcus had seen from
the easygoing Khatrishers. He gave his men the
order. Talk of flight abruptly ceased.
     "Pay Gaius Philippus no mind," Quintus
Glabrio told Gorgidas. "He means less than he
says."
     "I wasn't going to lose any sleep over it, my
friend," the physician answered shortly, but there
was gratitude in his voice.
     "The soft-spoken lad has the right of it,"
Viridovix said. "When he talks, that one - " He
stabbed a thumb toward Gaius Philippus. " - is like a
fellow who can't keep his woman happy - things
spurt out before he's ready."
     The senior centurion snorted, saying, "I will be
damned. This is the first time you've been on the
same side of an argument as the Greek, I'll wager."
     Viridovix tugged at his mustache as he
thought. "Belike it is, at that," he admitted.
     "And so he should be," Marcus said to Gaius
Philippus. "You had no reason to turn on Gorgidas,
especially since he was giving you the highest praise
he could."
     "Enough, the lot of you!" Gaius Philippus
exclaimed in exasperation. "Gorgidas, if you want
my apology, you have it. The gods know you're one
of the few doctors I've seen worth the food you
gobble. You jogged my elbow when I was in
harness, and I kicked out at you without thinking."
      "It's all right. You just paid me a finer
compliment than the one I gave you," Gorgidas said.
Not far away, a legionary cursed as an arrow pierced
his hand. The physician sighed and hurried off to
clean and bandage the wound.
      He had fewer injuries to treat now. With their
battle won, the Yezda slipped beyond even Avshar's
control. Some still hunted Videssian stragglers, but
more were looting the bodies of the dead or
beginning to make camp among them; sunset was
already past and darkness coming on. Sated, glutted
with combat, the nomads were no longer eager to
assail those few companies of their foes who still
put up a bold front.
      Somewhere in the twilight, a man screamed as
the Yezda caught up with him at last. Scaurus
shivered, thinking how close the Romans had come
to suffering the same fate. He said to Gaius
Philippus, "Gorgidas had the right of it. Without you
we'd be running for cover one by one, like so many
spooked cattle. You held us together when we
needed it most."
      The veteran shrugged, more nervous over
praise than he had been when the fighting was
hottest. "I know how to run a retreat, that's all. I
bloody well ought to - I've been in enough of them
over the years. You signed on with Caesar for the
Gallic campaign, didn't you?"
      Marcus nodded, remembering how he'd
planned a short stay in the army to further his
political hopes. Those days seemed as dim as if they
had happened to someone else.
      "Thought as much," Gaius Philippus said.
"You've done pretty well yourself, you know, in
Gaul and here as well. Most of the time I forget you
didn't intent to make a life of this - you handle
yourself like a soldier."
      "I thank you," Scaurus replied sincerely,
knowing that was as fulsome a compliment from the
centurion as talk of Socrates was from Gorgidas.
"You've helped me more than I can say; if I am any
kind of soldier, it's because of what you've shown
me."
      "Hmp. All I ever did was do my job," Gaius
Philippus said, more uncomfortable than ever.
"Enough of this useless chitchat." He peered out into
the dusk. "I think we've put enough distance
between us and the worst of it to camp for the
night."
      "Good enough. The Khatrishers can hold off
whatever raiders we draw while we're digging in."
Scaurus spoke to the buccinators, who trumpeted
out the order to halt.
      "Of course," Pakhymer said when the tribune
asked him for a covering force. "You'll need
protection to throw up your fieldworks, and they
will shelter all of us tonight." He cocked his head at
the Roman in a gesture that reminded Scaurus of
Taso Vones, though the two Khatrishers looked
nothing like each other. "One of the reasons I joined
my men to yours was to take advantage of your
camp, if we saw today end with breath still in us.
We have no skill at fortcraft."
      "Maybe not, but you ride like devils loosed.
Put me on a horse and I'd break my backside, or
more likely my neck." The feeble jest aside, Marcus
looked approvingly at the Khatrisher. It had taken a
cool head to see ahead till nightfall in the chaos of
the afternoon.
     It was as well the Yezda did not press an attack
while the camp was building. The Romans, dazed
with fatigue, moved like sleepwalkers. They dug
and lifted with slow, dogged persistence, knowing
sleep would claim them if they halted for an instant.
The stragglers who had joined them helped as best
they could, hampered not only by exhaustion but
also by inexperience at this sort of work.
     Most of the non-Romans were merely faces to
Scaurus as he walked through the camp, but some
he knew. He was surprised to see Doukitzes busily
fixing stakes atop the earthen breastwork the
legionaries had thrown up. He would not have
thought the skinny little Videssian whose hand he'd
saved likely to last twenty minutes on the battlefield.
Yet here he was, hale and whole, with countless tall
strapping men no more than stiffening corpses...
Tzimiskes, Adiatun, Mouzalon, how many more?
Spying Marcus, Doukitzes waved shyly before
returning to his task.
     Zeprin the Red was here too. The burly Haloga
was not working; he sat in the dust with his head in
his hands, a picture of misery. Scaurus stooped
beside him. Zeprin caught the motion out of the
corner of his eye and looked up to see who had
come to disturb his wretchedness. "Ah, it's you,
Roman," he said, his voice a dull parody of his usual
bull roar. A great bruise purpled his left temple and
cheekbone.
       "Are you in much pain?" the tribune asked. "I'll
send our physician to see to you."
       The northerner shook his head. "I need no
leech, unless he know the trick of cutting out a
wounded recall. Mavrikios lies dead, and me not
there to ward him." He covered his face once more.
       "Surely you cannot blame yourself for that,
when it had to be the Emperor himself who sent you
from him?"
       "Sent me from him, aye," Zeprin echoed
bitterly. "Sent me to stiffen the left after Khoumnos
fell, the gods save a spot by their hearthfire for him.
But the fighting was good along the way, and I was
ever fonder of handstrokes than the bloodless
business of orders. Mavrikios used to twit me for it.
And so I was slower than I should have been, and
Ortaias the bold - " He made the name a curse. " -
kept charge."
      Anger roughened his voice, an anger cold and
black as the stormclouds of his wintry home. "I
knew he was a dolt, but took him not for coward.
When the horseturd fled, I wasn't yet nearby to stem
the rout before it passed all checking. Had I paid
more heed to my duty and less to the feel of my axe
in my hands, it might be the Yezda who were
skulking fugitives this night."
      Marcus could only nod and listen; there was
enough truth in Zeprin's self-blame to make
consolation hard. With bleak quickness, the Haloga
finished his tale: "I was fighting my way back to the
Emperor when I got this." He touched his swollen
face. "Next I knew, I was staggering along with one
arm draped over your little doctor's shoulder." The
tribune did not recall noticing Gorgidas supporting
the massive northerner, but then the Greek would
not have been easy to see under Zeprin's bulk.
      "Not even a warrior's death could I give
Mavrikios," the Haloga mourned.
      At that, Scaurus' patience ran out. "Too many
died today," he snapped. "The gods - yours, mine,
the Empire's, I don't much care which - be thanked
some of us are left alive to save what we can."
       "Aye, there will be a reckoning," Zeprin said
grimly, "and I know where it must start." The chill
promise in his eyes would have set Ortaias
Sphrantzes running again, were he there to see it.
       The Roman camp was not so far from the
battlefield as to leave behind the moans of the
wounded. So many lay hurt that the sound of their
suffering traveled far. No single voice stood out, nor
single nation; at any moment, the listeners could not
tell if the anguish they heard came from the throat of
a Vides-sian grandee slowly bleeding to death or a
Yezda writhing around an arrow in his belly.
       "There's a lesson for us all, not that we have
the wit to heed it," Gorgidas remarked as he
snatched a moment's rest before moving on to the
next wounded man.
       "And what might that be?" Viridovix asked
with a mock-patient sigh.
       "In pain, all men are brothers. Would there
were an easier way to make them so." He glared at
the Celt, daring him to argue. Viridovix was the first
to look away; he stretched, scratched his leg, and
changed the subject.
      Scaurus found sleep at last, a restless sleep full
of nasty dreams. No sooner had he closed his eyes,
it seemed, than a legionary was shaking him awake.
"Begging your pardon, sir," the soldier said, "but
you're needed at the palisade."
      "What? Why?" the tribune mumbled, rubbing
at sticky eyes and wishing the Roman would go
away and let him rest.
      The answer he got banished sleep as rudely as
a bucket of cold water. "Avshar would have speech
with you, sir."
      "What?" Without his willing it, Marcus' hand
was tight round his swordhilt. "All right. I'll come."
He threw on full armor as quickly as he could - no
telling what trickery Yezd's wizard-prince might
intend. Then, blade naked in his hand, he followed
the legionary through the fitfully slumbering camp.
      Two Khatrisher sentries peered out into the
darkness beyond the watchfires' reach. Each carried
a nocked arrow in his bow. "He rode in like a guest
invited to a garden party, your honor, he did, and
asked for you by name," one of them told Scaurus.
With the usual bantam courage of his folk, he was
more indignant over Avshar's unwelcome arrival
than awed by the sorcerer's power.
      Not so his comrade, who said, "We fired, sir,
the both of us, several times. He was so close we
could not have missed, but none of our shafts would
bite." His eyes were wide with fear.
      "We drove the whoreson back out of range,
though," the first Khatrisher said stoutly.
      The druids' marks graven into Marcus' Gallic
blade glowed yellow, not fiercely as they had when
Avshar tried spells against him, but still warning of
sorcery. Fearless as a tiger toying with mice, the
wizard-prince emerged from the darkness that was
his own, sitting statue-still atop his great sable
horse. "Worms! You could not drive a maggot
across a turd!"
      The bolder-tongued Khatrisher barked an oath
and drew back his bow to shoot. Scaurus checked
him, saying, "You'd waste your dart again, I think -
he has a protecting glamour wrapped round
himself."
      "Astutely reasoned, prince of insects," Avshar
said, granting the tribune a scornful dip of his head.
"But this is a poor welcome you grant me, when I
have but come to give back something of yours I
found on the field today."
      Even if Marcus had not already known the
quality of the enemy he faced, the sly, evil humor
lurking in that cruel voice would have told him the
wizard's gift was one to delight the giver, not him
who received it. Yet he had no choice but to play
Avshar's game out to the end. "What price do you
put on it?" he asked.
      "Price. None at all. As I said, it is yours. Take
it, and welcome." The wizard-prince reached down
to something hanging by his right boot, tossed it
underhanded toward the tribune. It was still in the
air when he wheeled his stallion and rode away.
      Marcus and his companions skipped aside,
afraid of some last treachery. But the wizard's gift
landed harmlessly inside the palisade, rolling until it
came to rest at the tribune's feet. Then Avshar's jest
was clear in all its horror, for staring sightlessly up
at Scaurus, its features stiffened into a grimace of
agony, was Mavrikios Gavras' head.
      The sentries did shoot after the wizard-prince
then, blindly, hopelessly. His fell laugh floated back
to tell them how little their arrows were worth.
       With his gift for scenting trouble, Gaius
Philippus hurried up to the rampart. He wore only
military kilt and helmet, and carried his gladius
naked in his hand. He almost stumbled over
Avshar's gift; his face hardened as he recognized it
for what it was. "How did it come here?" was all he
said.
       Marcus told him, or tried to. The thread of the
story kept breaking whenever he looked down into
the dead Emperor's eyes.
       The senior centurion heard him out, then
growled, "Let the damned wizard have his boast.
It'll cost him in the end, you wait and see. This - "
He gave Mavrikios a last Roman salute. " - doesn't
show us anything we didn't already know. Instead of
wasting time with it, Avshar could have been
finishing Thorisin. But he let him get away - and
with a decent part of army, too, once they start
pulling themselves together."
       Scaurus nodded, heartened. Gaius Philippus
had the right of it. As long as Thorisin Gavras
survived, Videssos had a leader - and after this
disaster, the Empire would need all the troops it
could find.
      The tribune's mind went to the morning, to
getting free of the field of Maragha. The legionaries'
discipline would surely pay again, as it had this
afternoon; overwhelming triumph left the Yezda
almost as disordered as defeat did their foes. Now
he had the Khatrisher horse, too, so he could hope to
meet the nomads on their own terms. One way or
another, he told himself, he would manage.
      He stared a challenge in the direction Avshar
had gone, said quietly, "No, the game's not over yet.
Far from it."
     ABOUT THE AUTHOR

      HARRY TURTLEDOVE is that rarity, a
lifelong southern Californian. He is married and has
a young daughter. After flunking out of Cal Tech, he
earned a degree in Byzantine history and has taught
at UCLA and Cal State Fullerton. Academic jobs
being few and precarious, however, his primary
work since leaving school has been as a technical
writer. Writing mostly under the name of Eric G.
Iverson, he has had fantasy and science fiction
published in Isaac Asimov's, Amazing, Analog, and
Fantasy Book. His hobbies include baseball, chess,
and beer.