Videssos Cycle, Volume 2 (73 page)

His sweeping wave almost upset his wife’s cup of wine. Nevrat Sviodo rescued it with a quick grab. “Tell us more, cousin,” she urged. She brushed her thick, black, curly hair back from her face.

“Not much to tell,” Artavasdos replied. His eyes flicked this way and that. The three Vaspurakaners were sitting at a corner table in an uncrowded tavern and speaking their own language, but he still looked nervous. Nevrat did not blame him. His news was too inflammatory to be easy with.

“Well, how did you get to be one of the ones who took them?” Senpat asked. He played with the pointed end of his beard, close-trimmed in the imperial fashion to accent his swarthy good looks.

“About the way you’d expect,” Artavasdos said. “Mourtzouphlos came to the barracks and ordered my squad out—he said he had a job for us. With his rank, no one argued. He didn’t tell us who we were after until we were almost at the inn where they were.”

“The princess, though.” Senpat was still shaking his head.

“Mourtzouphlos said they’d been at it for a couple of months he was sure of, and maybe longer than that. The way they acted when we broke in on them makes me believe it. They seemed more worried about each other than themselves, if you know what I mean.”

“That sounds like Marcus,” Nevrat said.

“I knew you and your husband were friends of his, cousin, so I thought you’d better know.” Artavasdos hesitated. “Being friends with him might not be a good idea right now. Maybe you should get out of the city for a while.”

“So bad as that, Artavasdos?” Nevrat said, alarmed.

The soldier considered. “Well, maybe not. Thorisin is too shrewd to massacre people who know people who’ve fallen foul of him, I think.”

“I hope so,” Nevrat said, “or with his temper there’d not be many folk for him to rule.” She was not really worried about herself or Senpat;
she thought her cousin had gauged the Emperor’s common sense well. But that would not help Scaurus. He was guilty in fact, not by association.

“I can’t believe it,” Senpat said again.

Nevrat had trouble, too, but for reasons different from her husband’s. Senpat did not know that Marcus, in his desperation after Helvis left him, had made a tentative approach to her this past fall. She saw no reason ever to mention it; the tribune had understood she meant the no she gave him.

But now this! She wondered how long the attraction had grown between Scaurus and Alypia Gavra. And, despite wanting no one but Senpat herself, she felt a tiny touch of pique that Marcus should have found someone else so soon after she turned him down.

“What are you laughing at, dear?” Senpat asked her.

She felt herself flushing. She was glad she was as dark as her husband; in the dim tavern, no one could tell. “Me,” she said, and did not explain.

The barred door at the far end of the corridor opened with the groan of a rusty hinge. Two guards pushed a creaking handcart through. Another flanked them on either side, with arrows nocked in their bows. All four men looked bored.

“Up, you lags!” one of the archers called unnecessarily. The prisoners were already crowding to the front of their cells; feeding time marked the high point of their day.

Marcus hurried forward with the rest, his belly growling in anticipation. Out of reach on the wall above his head, a torch sputtered and almost went out. He coughed on noxious smoke. Torches gave the prison such light as it had; it was underground, a basement level of the sprawling imperial offices on Middle Street.

A hidden ventilation system carried off enough smoke to keep the air breathable, but only just. Along with the torches, the gaol reeked of moldering straw, unwashed humanity, and full chamber pots. When Mourtzouphlos’ troopers had thrown Scaurus into one of the little cells, the stench all but drove him mad. Now, after what he thought was four or five days, he took it for granted.

The cart squeaked down the long, narrow passageway, stopping in front of the cells on either side. One of the guards pushing it handed an earthen jug of water to the prisoner on the left, while the other gave the prisoner on the right a small loaf and a bowl of thin stew. Then they traded sides and pushed the handcart down another few feet.

The tribune passed yesterday’s empty jug and bowl back to the guard and took his rations in exchange. The water tasted stale; the bread, of barley and oats, was full of husks and of grit from the millstone. The bits of fish in the stew might have been fresh once, but not any time recently. He spooned it up with a bit of crust, then licked the bowl. There was never enough to satisfy. He paid little attention to his belly’s constant grumbling. He was not a good enough Stoic to keep a tight rein on his emotions, but mere bodily discomfort did not matter to him.

After the guards had finished their rounds, there was nothing to do but talk. Marcus did not contribute much; he had got howls of derision when he answered, “Treason,” to the fellow who asked him why he had been jailed. The ordinary criminals who made up most of the prison population sneered at “politicals,” as they called his kind. Besides, he had nothing new to teach them.

A thief was holding forth on ways to beat locks. “If you have plenty of time, you can work sand down into the bolt hole a few grains at a time until the pin comes up high enough for you to lift it out. It’s quiet, but slow. Or, if the lock is in a dark place, you can make a net of fine mesh and attach it to a bit of thread, then push it down into the bolt hole. When the pin gets dropped in, all you have to do is lift and you’re home free.

“For quick work, though, a pincer’s the thing. Cut a groove in one half and leave the other flat, so you can get a good grip on the pin—it’s a cylinder, you see, dropped down into its hole so that half of it’s in the doorjamb and ther other half in the bar. Look at the cells across from you, you dips. It’s the very same setup they use here, but they’re canny enough to keep the locks too far away for us to reach. By Skotos, I’d be out of here in a minute if that weren’t so.”

Scaurus believed him; he had the matter-of-fact confidence of a man who knew his trade. When he was through, a pompous voice a long way down the corridor began explaining how to color glass paste to counterfeit
fine gems. “Ha!” someone else called. “If you’re so good, what’re you doing here?” His only answer was injured silence.

After that the talk turned to women, the other subject on which the prisoners would go on all through the day. The tribune had a story that would have astonished them—and no intention of telling it.

He slept two or three more times, waking up after each one with new bites. Lice and fleas had a paradise in the filthy straw bedding; he lost count of how many roaches he killed as they skittered across the brick floor. Some of the convicts ate them. He was not hungry enough for that.

His belly told him it was not long before feeding time when a squad of Videssian regular troops came clattering down into the gaol. Their leader showed his pass to the guard captain, who walked along the row of cells until he came to the one that held the tribune. “This him?”

“Let me look,” the soldier said. “Aye, that’s the fellow.”

“He’s yours then.” The guard produced a key, drew up the bolt, and slid out the bar that held Scaurus’ door closed. “Come on, you,” he snapped at the Roman.

Marcus stumbled out, then pulled himself to attention as he faced the squad leader. As well go down with the eagle high, his legionary training said, as yield it and go down regardless. “Where are you taking me?” he asked crisply.

“To the Emperor,” the Videssian replied. If Scaurus’ bearing impressed him, he did a good job of hiding it. He made a sour face. “No—to the bathhouse first. You stink.” His men grabbed the tribune by the elbows and hustled him away.

In fresh clothes, even ones that did not fit him well, with his still-damp hair slicked back from his eyes, Marcus felt a new man. The soldiers had finally had to drag him out of the warm pool at the bathhouse. He had soaped twice and scraped himself with a strigil till his skin turned red. He still wore the red-gold beginnings of a beard; razors were hard to come by in Videssos. The whiskers itched and made him look scruffy, constantly reminding him of his time in prison.

He felt a small flicker of relief when his captors took him, not to the Grand Courtroom, but to the Emperor’s residence. Whatever lay ahead
did not include one of the formal public condemnations the Videssians staged with such pomp and ceremony.

He knew he could not expect to see Alypia with her uncle, but her absence forcibly brought his predicament back to him. Thorisin Gavras wore full imperial regalia, a bad sign; he only donned the red boots, the gem-encrusted purple robe, and the domed crown to emphasize the power of his office. But for the guards, the only soul with Scaurus and the Emperor in the little audience chamber was one of the imperial stewards—Konon, it was—with a scribe’s waxed tablet and stylus.

Gavras inspected the Roman. “Are you ready to hear my judgment?” he asked sternly.

“Have I a choice?”

The scribbling steward looked shocked; the Emperor gave a grunt of laughter. “No,” he said, and turned forbidding again. “Know that you are convicted of treachery against the imperial house.”

Marcus stood mute, hoping the ice he felt in his belly did not show on his face. His sentence rolled down on him like an avalanche: “As traitor, you are dismissed from your post as
epoptes
in the imperial chancery.” Though that office had been a plum for Scaurus, whose hopes ran beyond the army life, losing it did not cast him into despair.

But Thorisin was continuing: “Having forfeited our trust, you are also stripped of your command over your Romans and shall be prevented from any intercourse with them, the better to prevent future acts of sedition or rebellion. Your lieutenant Gaius Philippus assumes your rank and its perquisites, effective at once.”

Permanent exile from all that was left of his own people, his own world … the tribune hung his head; his nails bit into his palms. Low-voiced, he said, “He’s a fine soldier. Have you told him of this yet?”

“I shall, but we are not finished here, you and I,” the Emperor said. “There is only one standard penalty for treason, as well you know. In addition to such trivia as loss of ranks and titles, you also stand liable to the headman’s axe.”

After the prospect of exile, the axe seemed a small terror; at least it was quickly done. Marcus blurted, “If you plan on killing me, why did you bother with the rest of that rigmarole?”

Gavras did not answer him directly. Instead he said, “That will do,
Konon.” The fat beardless chamberlain bowed and left. Then the Emperor turned back to the Roman, a sour smile on his face. “You would be flattered to know there are people who would sooner I did not execute the sentence—to say nothing of you.”

“Are there?” Scaurus echoed.

“Oh, indeed, and a bloody noisy flock they are, too. Alypia, of course, though if you were as innocent as she makes you out, you’d still be a virgin and not in your mess at all. She almost makes me believe it—but not quite.

“And there’s Leimmokheir the drungarios of the fleet, a fine, upstanding sort if ever there was one.” Gavras cocked an eyebrow at the admiral’s unflinching rectitude. “But then, he owes you one. If it weren’t for your stubbornness he’d still be jailed, or short a head himself for treason. So how much is his advice worth?”

“You are the only judge of that,” Marcus said, but he was warmed to learn Leimmokheir had not forgotten him.

“Those, and a couple more like them, are pleas I can understand.” Thorisin looked him up and down. “But how in Phos’ name did Iatzoulinos come to send me a good word for you?”

“Did he?” the tribune said, amazed. Then he squelched a laugh; one taste of Gaius Philippus had probably made the pen-pusher hope Scaurus would live forever.

“Aye, he did.” Gavras’ mouth twisted. “Mistake me not, outlander. There’s no doubt of your guilt. But I admit I am forced to wonder just a hair at your motives, and so I will give you a hairsbreadth chance to redeem yourself.”

Marcus started to lean forward, but the clutch of the guards brought him up short. “What would you, then?”

“This: put an end to Zemarkhos’ rebellion in Amorion. His lying anathemas raise trouble for me all through the Empire, from narrow-minded priests and over-religious laymen alike. Bring that off, and I’d say you’d earned yourself a pardon. More, in fact—if you can do it, I’ll make you a noble, and not one with small estates, either. That I pledge to you. I will take oath on it at the High Temple to any priest you name save Balsamon—nay, even to him—if you doubt me.”

“No need. I agree,” Marcus said at once. Thorisin was short-tempered
and suspicious, but the tribune knew he kept his promises. His mind began to buzz with schemes: straight-out conquest, bribery … “What force will I have at my disposal?”

“I can spare you a good cavalry horse,” the Emperor said. Scaurus started to smile, then checked himself; Thorisin’s face was hard, his eyes deadly serious. “Aye, I mean it, Roman. Win your own salvation, if you can. You get no help from me.”

One man, against the zealots with whom the fanatic priest had even held the Yezda at bay since Maragha? “It salves your conscience, does it, to send me off to suicide instead of killing me yourself?” The tribune nodded bitterly, no longer caring what he said.

“You are a proved traitor, and mine to do with as I wish,” Gavras reminded him. He folded his arms across his chest. “Call it what you will, Scaurus. I need not argue with you.”

“As you say. Give me back my sword, then. If I’m to ‘win my own salvation,’ ” Marcus made that a taunt, “let me do it with what is mine.”

Thorisin considered. “That is a fair request.” He found a scrap of parchment, inked a reed pen, wrote furiously. “Here, Spektas,” he said, handing the note to one of Scaurus’ guards, “take this to Nepos. When he gives you the blade, bring it back here. The Roman can carry it to his ship.”

“Ship?” the tribune said as Spektas hurried away.

“Yes, ship. Did you expect me to send you by road, and maybe find you going off to your Romans and stirring up who knows how much mischief? Thank you, no. Moreover,” and the Emperor unbent very slightly, “sea travel’s faster than land. If you put in at Nakoleia on the coast north of Amorion, you’ll only have a short run inland through Yezda-held territory. And you should get into town in time for the
panegyris
—the trade-fair—dedicated to the holy Moikheios. It draws merchants and customers from far and wide, and should be your best chance to slip in without being spotted.”