Misplaced Legion (Videssos Cycle) (12 page)

“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 born 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-factness 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 I can.”

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 thought struck 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.”