Videssos Cycle, Volume 2 (8 page)

The trooper passed it to him. Next to the long yew bows the Celts favored, it was small and light, but Viridovix grunted in surprise as he tugged on the sinew bowstring. His arm muscles bunched before the bow began to bend. “Not a bit of a toy, is it?” he said, handing it back.

Pleased at his reaction, the soldier smiled slyly. “Your shield, give him here,” he said, his Videssian as accented as the Celt’s. Viridovix, who wore it slung over his back when combat was not near, undid its strap and gave it to the horseman. It was a typical Gallic noble’s shield: oblong, bronze-faced, with raised spirals of metal emphasized by enameling in bright red and green. Viridovix kept it in good repair; he was fastidious about his arms and armor.

“Pretty,” the trooper remarked, propping it upright against a bush. He walked his horse back until he was perhaps a hundred yards from it. With a savage yell he spurred the animal forward, let fly at point-blank range. The shield went spinning, but when Viridovix recovered it there was no shaft stuck in it.

“Sure and the beast kicked it ov—” the Celt began. He stopped in amazement. High in the upper right-hand corner of the shield, a neat hole punched through bronze and wood alike. “By my enemies’ heads,” he said softly, shaking his own.

The guardsman picked up his arrow, which had flown another ten or twelve feet after piercing the shield. He put it back in his quiver, saying, “A good buckler you have. Through mine it would farther have gone.” His own shield was a small round target of wood and leather, good for knocking a sword aside, but not much more.

Viridovix said, “And I was after thinking the plainsmen were light-armored on account of the scrawny little cobs they rode, the which couldna carry the weight o’ metal.”

“Why else?” Gorgidas said.

“Use your eyes, clodpoll of a Greek,” the Celt replied, waving his shield in Gorgidas’ face. “Wi’ sic bows you’re a pincushion with or without ironmongery, so where’s the good in muffling up?”

To Viridovix’ irritated surprise, Gorgidas burst out laughing. “Where’s the jape?”

“Your pardon,” the Greek said, jotting a note. “The idea of a weapon so strong as to make defense unprofitable never occurred to me. This steppe bow isn’t one, you know; in their mail and plate the Namdaleni stood up to it quite well. But the abstract concept is fascinating.”

Trying to poke his little finger through the arrowhole, Viridovix muttered, “The pox take your abstract concepts.”

The moving brown smudge in the distance slowly resolved itself into a herd of cattle, their horns pricking up like bare branches from a winter forest. With them were their herders, perhaps a score of Khamorth. Most of them abandoned the herd and came riding up when they spied the approaching envoys.

Their leader shouted several phrases in his own tongue, then, seeing imperials among the newcomers, added in horrible Videssian, “Who you? What here you do?”

He did not wait for an answer. His swarthy face darkened with anger when he noticed Arigh. “Arshaum!” he cried, and his men snarled and grabbed for swords and bows. “What you do with Arshaum?” he asked Goudeles, choosing the bureaucrat perhaps because he was most splendidly dressed. “Arshaum make all Khamorth clans—how you say?—suffer.
Your Emperor eat pig guts to deal with them. I, Olbiop son of Vorishtan, say this and I true speak.”

“We kill!” one of Olbiop’s men cried. The guardsmen were reaching for their weapons, too, and Arigh had an arrow ready to nock. Viridovix and Lankinos Skylitzes both sat warily, each with hand on sword hilt. Gorgidas’ Roman blade was still buried in his gear; he waited for whatever fortune might bring.

It was then that Pikridios Goudeles showed his worth. “Stop, O noble Olbiop Vorishtan’s son, lest you fall unwittingly into error!” he said dramatically, his voice booming forth with a rhetor’s well-trained intonations. Gorgidas doubted if the nomad caught more than his own name, but that was enough to make his head swivel to Goudeles.

“Translate for me, old man, that’s a good fellow,” the bureaucrat whispered to Skylitzes beside him.

At the soldier’s nod he struck a pose and launched into florid Videssian oratory: “O leader of the Khamorth, our being slain by you would be a matter more difficult, grievous, and deadly than death itself. Its—”

“I couldn’t repeat that, let alone translate it,” Skylitzes said, eyes widening.

“Shut up,” Goudeles hissed, and then resumed with a gesture no less graceful for being made atop a scruffy horse rather than in a chamber of the imperial palace. Skylitzes followed gamely as the rhetoric poured out.

“Its defamation would live on to remain among all men; this thing has never been done, but will have been invented by you. There will be clear testimony to your deed, that you killed men on an embassy; and the report’s fearfulness will be shown still more fearful by the deed.”

The translation was plainly a poor copy of the original, without its sudden reversals, its alliteration, its twisting tenses. It did not matter; Goudeles had the nomads under his spell whether or not they understood him. Like most unlettered folk, they set great stock in oratory, and the seal-stamper was a master in an older school than theirs.

He went on, “I pray I might know my end by your swords today, now that I have heard my Avtokrator greeted with false words. Let me persist, though, in entreating you, first, to look upon us more gently and to slacken your anger and soften your quick choler with charity; and, second,
to be persuaded by the common custom of ambassadors. For we are the shapers of peace and have been established as the dispensers of its holy calm.

“Therefore remember that until the present our relations have been incorruptibly tranquil—surely we shall continue to enjoy the same kindness. I know well that your affairs would not otherwise be secure. For understanding most properly offered to those who are near—understanding, of course, which does not turn aside from that which is suitable—will not be evilly influenced by the yet-unrevealed exchange of fortune.”

He bowed to the Khamorth. They nodded back, dazed by his eloquence. “What was all o’ that meaning?” Viridovix asked Gorgidas.

“Don’t kill us.”

“Ah,” the Celt said, satisfied. “I thought that’s what the omadhaun said, but I wasna sure.”

“Don’t trouble yourself. Neither were the nomads.” The turgid Videssian oratory, awash in rhetorical tricks, never failed to oppress Gorgidas. He was used to a cleaner, sparer style. The height of Videssian eloquence was to say nothing and take hours doing it. Still, Goudeles’ harangue had served its purpose; the Khamorth lapped up every gaudy phrase.

“Ha, Silvertongue!” Olbiop was saying to Goudeles. “You come to village with us, eat, spend night, be happy.” He leaned forward and planted a kiss on the Videssian’s cheek. Goudeles accepted it without change of expression, but, when Olbiop turned to bawl orders to his followers, the pen-pusher gave his comrades a stricken look.

“There are exigencies in the diplomat’s art I never anticipated,” he murmured plaintively. “Do they never bathe on the plains?” He surreptitiously rubbed at the spot, then wiped his hand on his robe over and over again.

Most of the Khamorth rode back to their herd. A handful stayed with Olbiop to escort the embassy. “Come with me you,” the leader said. Agathias Psoes looked a question at Skylitzes, who nodded.

“How do the barbarians come by villages?” Gorgidas asked, Olbiop being safely out of earshot. “I thought they were all nomads, forever following their flocks.”

Skylitzes shrugged. “Once Videssos held more of the steppe than Prista alone, and planted colonies of farmers on it. Some linger, as serfs to the plainsmen. In time, I suppose, they will die out or become wanderers themselves. Already most of them have forgotten Phos.”

They reached the farming village not long before sunset. Olbiop led them straight through its unkempt fields, trampling the green young wheatstalks with lordly indifference. Gorgidas saw other similar swathes and wondered how the villagers raised enough of their crop to live.

Yapping dogs met the incomers at the edge of the village. Already they had passed crumbling buildings which said it had once been larger. One of the Khamorth shot an arrow at a particularly noisy hound. He grazed it in the leg. It fled, yelping shrilly, while the plainsman’s comrades shouted at him. “They mock him for nearly missing,” Skylitzes explained, anticipating Gorgidas’ question.

“Headman!” Olbiop bellowed in Videssian as he rode down the grass-filled central street. He followed it with a stream of abuse in his own language.

An elderly man in rough, colorless homespun emerged from one of the dilapidated houses. The rest of the villagers stayed out of sight, from long experience with their overlords. The headman went down to his belly on the ground before Olbiop, as a citizen of the Empire might to Thorisin Gavras. Skylitzes’ mouth tightened at such homage rendered a barbarian of no high rank, but he said nothing.

“We need food, sleep-place, how you say—comfort against cold,” Olbiop ordered, ticking off the points on his fingers. A colloquy in the nomads’ tongue followed. At length the Khamorth asked a question of Psoes, who nodded easily. Gorgidas resolved to learn the plains speech; he missed too much by depending on his companions to interpret.

Psoes was still chuckling. “As if the boys’d rust, spending another night in the open. You toffs enjoy yourselves, now.” The underofficer spoke briefly to his men, who began to make camp in the village square. At their leader’s word, Olbiop’s followers joined them. The chieftain stayed with the legates.

The headman bowed to the Videssian party. “An it please you, this way,” he said. His accent was plains-roughened, his phrasing archaic; the village was long sundered from living currents of speech in the Empire.

The building he led them to had been a temple once. A wooden spire still topped its roof, though Phos’ golden globe had fallen from it. The roof itself was patched with thatch; hunks of sod chinked the walls, which were of rudely cut local stone. There was no door—a leather curtain hung in the entranceway.

“Well, ’tis the guesting house. Climb you down and go in,” the village headman said, not understanding the hesitation of some of his visitors. “Your beasts will be seen to. Make free with the fire—there’s plenty to burn. I go to ready your victuals and other, ah, comforts. How many be ye?” He counted them twice. “Six, is it? Aye, well,” he sighed.

“For your hospitality you have our heartfelt gratitude,” Goudeles said courteously, dismounting with obvious relief. “Should we need some trifling assistance, how may we address you?”

The headman gave him a wary glance. Bluster and threats he was used to; what danger lurked behind these honeyed words? Finding none, he grudgingly answered, “I’m called Plinthas.”

“Splendid, good Plinthas. Again, we thank you.” More suspicious than ever, the villager led their horses away. “Phos, what an ugly name,” Goudeles exclaimed as soon as he was gone. The seal-stamper went on, “Let’s see what we have here.” He sounded as if he expected the worst.

The one-time temple had a musty smell; guests seemed few and far between. The benches that had once surrounded the central worship area were long gone—on the plains, wood was too precious to sit idle in an unused building. Nor had it known an altar for many years; in place of that centerpiece was a fire pit. Skylitzes was right, Gorgidas thought. Not even a memory of Phos remained here.

The Videssian officer drew flint and steel from his pouch and deftly lit the central fire. The envoys stretched out at full length on the hard-packed dirt floor. Goudeles sighed with bliss. As the party’s poorest horseman, he was the most saddlesore. His soft hands were no longer merely chafed, but blistered. “Have you a salve for these?” he asked Gorgidas, displaying them.

“I fear I packed few medicines,” the Greek replied, not caring to explain to Goudeles his reasons for abandoning the physician’s art. Seeing the Videssian’s pain though, he added, “A salve of grease and honey would soothe you, I think—you could ask this Plinthas for them.”

“Thanks; I’ll do that when he comes back.”

The fire suddenly flared as a fresh bundle of tight-packed straw caught. Gorgidas glimpsed a hand-sized splotch of blue paint high up on one wall. He walked over for a closer look. It was the last remnant of a religious fresco that probably once covered all the walls of the temple. Neglect, mold, soot, and time had allied to efface the rest—like the nameless village itself, the shabby ruin of a brighter dream.

The leather curtain twitched aside; Goudeles opened his mouth to make his request of Plinthas. But it was not the headman who entered the shrine-turned-serai. Half a dozen young women came in, some carrying food, others cooking tools and soft sleeping mats, the last almost staggering under the weight of several skins of what Gorgidas was sure would be either kavass or beer.

Olbiop gave a roar of approval. He leaped to his feet and grabbed at one of the women, kissing her noisily and folding her into a bear hug. She barely had time to pass the skillet and saucepan she bore to a companion before his hands were greedy on her, squeezing her rump and reaching inside her loose tunic.

“The Khamorth is a pig, aye, but no need for such horror on your face,” Skylitzes said softly to Gorgidas. “Giving guests women is a plains courtesy; the unforgivable rudeness is to decline.”

The Greek was still dismayed, but for a reason different from the one Skylitzes might have guessed. He could not remember how many years it had been since he last coupled with a woman—fifteen at least, and that final time had been anything but a success. Now it seemed he had no choice—refusal, the Videssian had made clear, was impossible. He tried not to think about the price failure would cost him in the eyes of his fellows.

Viridovix, on the other hand, shouted gleefully when he overheard Skylitzes. He swung one of the girls into his arms; choosier than Olbiop, he picked the prettiest of the six. She was short and slim, with wavy brown hair and large eyes. Unlike the rest, she wore a brooch of polished jet near the neck of her blouse. “And what might your name be now, my fine colleen?” the Celt asked, smiling down at her; he was almost a foot taller than she.