Videssos Cycle, Volume 1

by Harry Turtledove

  It was, however, the least of his adaptation. Having been rejected by the nation that gave him birth, he was doing everything he could to become a full part of the one that had taken him in. Even as the Romans had learned Videssian to make life within the Empire easier, Phostis was picking up Latin to blend with his new surroundings. He was working hard with the thrusting-sword and throwing-spear, neither of them weapons he was used to.

  And … Marcus’ brain finally noticed what his eyes had been telling him. “You shaved!” he exclaimed.

  Apokavkos sheepishly rubbed his scraped jaw. “What of it? Felt right odd, being the only hairy-cheeks in the barracks. I’ll never be pretty, with whiskers or without. Can’t see why you people bother, though—hurts more than it’s worth, if you ask me. But my naked chin isn’t what I came to show you. Are you going to talk to that damned Namdalener, or shall I tell him to take himself off?”

  “I’ll see him, I suppose. What was it that priest said a few days ago? ‘Knowledge is never wasted.’ ” Just listen to you, he thought; anyone would think it was Gorgidas talking.

  Leaning comfortably against the side of the barracks hall, the mercenary from the eastern islands did not seem much put out at having had to wait for Scaurus. He was a solidly built man of middle height, with dark brown hair, blue eyes, and the very fair skin that bespoke the northern origins of the Namdaleni. Unlike many of his countrymen, he did not shear the back of his head, but let his hair fall in long waves down to the nape of his neck. Marcus doubted he could be more than a year or two past thirty.

  When he recognized the tribune, he straightened and came up to him, both hands extended for the usual Namdalener clasp. Scaurus offered his own, but had to say, “You have the better of me, I’m afraid.”

  “Do I? I’m sorry; I gave your man my name. I’m Soteric Dosti’s son, from Metepont. In the Duchy, of course.”

  Apokavkos had forgotten Soteric’s patronymic, but the mercenary’s name meant no more to Scaurus with it. But the Roman had heard of his native town somewhere before. “Metepont?” he groped. Then he found the memory. “Hemond’s home?”

  “The same. More to the point, Helvis’ as well. She’s my sister, you see.”

  And Marcus did see, once he knew of the relationship. Helvis had not mentioned her brother in his hearing, or her father’s name to let him guess the kinship, but now it was easy to pick out Soteric’s resemblance to her. That their coloring was alike was not enough; many Namdaleni had similar complexions. But Soteric had a harder version of Helvis’ ample mouth, and his face, like hers, was wide with strong cheekbones. His nose, on the other hand, was prominent enough to make any Videssian proud, where hers was short and straight.

  He realized he was staring rudely. “Your pardon. Will you come in and tell me your business over an early mug of wine?”

  “Gladly.” Soteric followed the tribune into the barracks; Scaurus introduced him to the legionaries they passed. The Namdalener’s greetings were friendly, but Marcus noticed he was unobtrusively taking the measure both of the Romans and of the hall in which they lived. It did not upset the tribune—he would have done the same.

  When they sat, Soteric picked a chair whose back faced no doors. With a smile, Marcus said, “Now that you’re quite sure you won’t be suddenly killed, will you risk a glass of red with me? I think it’s too sweet, but everyone hereabouts swears by it.”

  Soteric’s clear skin made his flush easy to see. “Am I as easy to read as that?” the Namdalener asked, shaking his head ruefully. “I’ve been long enough among the Videssians to mistrust my own shadow, but not long enough, it seems, to keep the fact to myself. Yes, the red will do excellently, thank you.”

  They sipped awhile in silence. The barracks hall was almost empty, as most of the Romans were at their exercises. As soon as he saw the Namdalener come in the front way, Phostis Apokavkos had vanished out the back, wanting nothing more to do with the mercenary.

  Finally Soteric put down his wine and looked at Marcus over his steepled fingertips. “You aren’t what I thought you’d be,” he said accusingly.

  “Ah?” To a statement of that sort, no real answer seemed possible. The Roman lifted his glass to his lips once more. The wine, he thought, really was sticky.

  “Hemond—Phos rest him—and my sister both claimed you had no patience for the poisonous subtlety the Empire so loves, but I own I didn’t believe them. You were too friendly by half with the Videssians and too quick to win the Emperor’s trust. But having met you, I see they were right after all.”

  “I’m glad you think so, but in fact my subtlety is so great you take it for frankness.”

  Soteric flushed again. “I had that coming.”

  “You would know better than I. Don’t think too little of your own delicacy, either; it’s half an hour now, and I have no more idea of why you’re here than when I first set eyes on you.”

  “Surely you must know that—” the Namdalener began, but then he saw he was judging Marcus by the standards of his own people. “No, there’s no reason why you should,” he decided, and explained, “Our custom is to offer formal thanks to the man who brings a slain warrior’s sword back to his family. Through Helvis, I am Hemond’s closest male kin here, so the duty falls on me. Our house is in your debt.”

  “You would be deeper in my debt if I hadn’t seen Hemond that morning,” Marcus said bitterly. “You owe me no debt, but rather I one to you. Thanks to that unlucky meeting, a man who was becoming my friend is dead, a fine woman widowed, and a lad I didn’t even know existed is an orphan. And you speak of debts?”

  “Our house is in your debt,” Soteric repeated, and Marcus realized the obligation was real to him, whatever the circumstances. He shrugged and spread his hands, unwillingly accepting it.

  Soteric nodded, his part in the Namdalener usage satisfactorily completed. Marcus thought he would now rise and take his leave, but he had other things on his mind besides his custom-assumed debt.

  He poured himself a second glass of wine, settled back in his seat, and said, “I have some small rank among my countrymen, and I speak for all of us when I tell you we’ve watched your men on the practice field. You and our cousins the Halogai are the only folk we know who prefer to fight on foot. From what we’ve seen, your style of war is different from theirs, and a good deal more precise. Would you be interested in exercising your men against ours and showing us some of what you know? We’re horsemen by choice, true, but there are times and terrains where fighting has to be on foot. What say you?”

  Here was a proposal to which the tribune could agree with pleasure. “We might learn something from you as well,” he said. “Your warriors, from the little I know of them, are brave, well armed, and better ordered than most of the troops I’ve seen here.”

  Soteric dipped his head, acknowledging the compliment. After a few minutes of discussion to find a time and day suitable to Romans and Namdaleni alike, they arranged to meet three days hence, three hundred men to a side. “Would you care to lay a stake on the outcome?” Soteric asked. Not for the first time, Marcus thought that the Namdaleni seemed fond of betting.

  “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 o
ne 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.