Misplaced Legion (Videssos Cycle) (21 page)

“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 drillfield. 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 spearshaft 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?