Misplaced Legion (Videssos Cycle) (32 page)

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.

“I
T’S BLOODY WELL TIME,”
G
AIUS
P
HILIPPUS 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 hilted 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 turn 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.