Misplaced Legion (Videssos Cycle) (15 page)

“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 weaponwork 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.