Videssos Cycle, Volume 1

by Harry Turtledove

  Thorisin, having gained the council’s attention, went on, “I would think three times before I set our whole army thundering to Baanes Onomagoulos’ rescue because of his first reports of trouble. He may be a very able officer, but he is regrettably inclined to caution.”

  Baanes is a coward, Marcus translated. The Roman did not know Onomagoulos well, but did not think the Sevastokrator’s thinly veiled charge was true. He grew surer he was right when he remembered Thorisin’s longstanding jealousy of his older brother’s comrade. Yes, things were clearer now. Nephon Khoumnos, who knew the Gavrai, must have seen all this from the moment Thorisin opened his mouth.

  So, of course, did Mavrikios. He snapped, “Were it Khoumnos or Bagratouni out there, Thorisin, instead of Baanes, would you be counseling prudence?”

  “No,” his brother said at once. “And were it our good friend Ortaias here”—He did not bother hiding his contempt for young Sphrantzes—“would you go pounding after him?”

  Mavrikios ground his teeth in frustration. “That is a low blow, Thorisin, and well you know it.”

  “Do I? We’ll see.” The Sevastokrator shot questions at Onomagoulos’ Khamorth, and, indeed, their answers seemed to show his forces were not in such grim straits as it first appeared. His interrogation, though, reminded Marcus of nothing so much as a skilled lawyer at work, eliciting from witnesses only the facts he was after. But whether that was so or not, Thorisin succeeded in raising enough doubts in the council that it retired without taking any action at all.

  “Grudges,” Gaius Philippus said as he and Scaurus made their way to the Roman encampment. He put such a wealth of feeling in the word that it came out fouler than any swearing.

  “You talk as if Rome were immune to them,” the tribune answered. “Remember when Sulla and Gaius Flavius Fimbria each fought Mithridates without taking the other into account? When they joined forces, so many of Fimbria’s men went over to Sulla that Fimbria killed himself from the sheer disgrace of it.”

  “And good riddance to him, too,” Gaius Philippus said promptly. “He incited a mutiny against his commander to take charge of that army in the first place, the swine. He—” The centurion broke off abruptly, made a gesture full of disgust. “All right, I see your point. I still don’t like it.”

  “I never said I did.”

  The next morning passed in anticipation, with the imperial forces in Khliat wondering whether Baanes Onomagoulos had managed to wriggle free of the Yezda trap … and if the trap was there at all. Around noon Scaurus got the summons to another council of war.

  This time Onomagoulos’ messenger was no Khamorth, but a Videssian officer of middle rank. His face was pinched with exhaustion and, but for the area his helm’s nasal had covered, badly sun-blistered. Mavrikios introduced him to the assembled commanders as Sisinnios Mousele, then let him speak for himself.

  “I thought all our riders must have been caught before they reached you,” he said between swallows of wine; as was true of Artapan Pradtak’s son, his journey had left him dry as the baking land round Khliat. “But when I made my way here, I learned two Khamorth were a day ahead of me.

  “Why are you not on the move,” he demanded, “when my news preceded me? Aye, we’re holding our little valley against the Yezda, but for how long? The stream that carved it is only a muddy trickle in summer—we have almost no water and not much food. And the barbarians are thick as locusts in a wheatfield—I’d not thought there were so many Yezda in all the world. We could break out, perhaps, but they’d tear us to pieces before we got far. In Phos’ holy name, brothers, without aid all of us will die, and die for nothing.”

  While Mousele was speaking, Mavrikios looked stonily at his brother. He made no public recrimination, though, over the day the army had lost to Thorisin’s envious suspicion of Onomagoulos. In a way, Marcus thought, that was encouraging—in the face of real crisis, the pretended feud between the Gavrai fell away.

  Thorisin bore that out, asking the council, “Is there anyone now who feels we should not march? I own I was wrong yesterday; with your help and your men’s, perhaps we can make good my mistake.”

  After Sisinnios Mousele’s plea, there was almost no debate among the officers. The only question was how soon the army could start moving. “Don’t worry, Sisinnios, we’ll get your boys out!” a Videssian captain called.

  Only when Mousele made no reply did all eyes turn toward him. He was asleep where he sat; his message delivered, nothing would have kept him awake another minute.

  XIII

  KHLIAT THAT AFTERNOON WAS LIKE A BEEHIVE POKED WITH A STICK. To speed the army’s departure, Mavrikios promised a goldpiece to each soldier of the contingent first ready to leave. Men frantically dashed here and there, dragging their comrades from taverns and whorehouses.

  There were also hurried farewells by the score, for the Emperor had no intention of delaying his advance with sutlers, women, children, and other noncombatants. Not a man complained; if they lost, better to have their loved ones safe behind Khliat’s walls than in a battlefield camp at the mercy of an onstorming foe.

  Helvis was a warrior’s sister and a warrior’s widow. She had sent men into battle before and knew better than to burden Scaurus with her fears. All she said was, “Phos keep you safe till I see you again.”

  “Bring me back a Yezda’s head, Papa?” Malric asked.

  “Bloodthirsty, aren’t you?” Marcus said, hugging Helvis’ son. “What would you do with it if you had it?”

  “I’d burn it all up,” the boy declared. “They’re worse than Videssian heretics, Mama says. Burn it all up!”

  The tribune looked quizzically at Helvis. “I won’t say she’s wrong. If I bring my own head back, though, that will be about enough for me.”

  The Romans won the Emperor’s prize, as Marcus had been sure they would—fighting the Yezda was a less fearful prospect than facing Gaius Philippus after losing. But the rest of the army was close behind them, galvanized by the thought of rescuing their fellows from the Yezda. To the tribune’s amazement, Khliat’s gates swung wide an hour before sunset, and the last soldier was out of it before twilight left the sky.

  In his urgency, Mavrikios kept the army moving through the early hours of the night. The endless drumbeat of marching feet, the clatter of iron-shod hooves, and the squeaks and rattles of hundreds of wagons filled with supplies and munitions were so pervasive the ear soon refused to hear them. Only the curses and thumps that followed missteps in the darkness really registered, in the same way that a skipped heartbeat demands attention while a steady pulse can be ignored.

  Marcus was impressed by the amount of ground the imperial forces were able to make in that first, partial, day’s march, despite the unfamiliar ground and the darkness. “You’ve forgotten what it’s like, being with an army that’s ready to fight,” Gaius Philippus said. “I only hope Mavrikios doesn’t wear us down by going too fast too soon.”

  “Och, the gods forfend!” said Viridovix. “I’m near as worn the now as ever I was when first we set out from Videssos all that while ago.”

  “You’d be in better shape if you hadn’t said good-bye so thoroughly,” the centurion pointed out. “You could hardly walk when you saw fit to come back to us.”

  “And can you think of a better way to pass a summer’s afternoon?”

  “No, damn you,” Gaius Philippus said, and the patent envy in his voice drew laughter from around the Roman campfire.

  The hot fire of enthusiasm kept the army surging westward the next day, and the next. Resistance was light. Onomagoulos’ force had largely cleared the Yezda from the imperial line of march, and the small bands re-entering the territory between Khliat and Maragha were no match for Mavrikios’ grand expedition. Most chose flight over combat.

  In those first two heady days of travel, the host covered more than half the distance to Onomagoulos’ embattled troops. But then, as Gaius Philippus had feared, the drive began to slow. The soldiers, pushed past their limi
ts by nonstop marching, had to slow down. Their officers urged them to greater efforts, but they were as exhausted as their men.

  Marcus lived in a hot gray world, his thoughts reaching no further than his next footsore stride, his cuirass chafing his shoulders, his sword bumping the outside of his thigh with every step he took. He found brief moments to be thankful the Romans marched at the imperial column’s head; they kicked up dust for others to breathe instead of breathing it themselves.

  When the army paused at night, he fell instantly into a slumber as deep as Sisinnios Mousele’s. He woke dull and slow, as if he had been drugged.

  In midmorning of the fourth day out from Khliat, Khamorth scouts rode in from the west to report a dustcloud, as of many marching men, approaching the Videssian force. Mavrikios took no chances, ordering his men to deploy from marching column into line of battle. Marcus felt a weary exultation when the command reached the Romans. One way or another, he thought, his ordeal would be over before long. He was so tired he hardly cared what the outcome would be.

  Soon the Videssian army’s main body could see the tan smudges of dust on the western horizon. Men looked to their weapons. Here and there a soldier spoke earnestly to his linemate, giving last instructions should he not survive the fight.

  The dustclouds hid whoever stirred them up. The Emperor dispatched a couple of hundred Khamorth to learn what was ahead. Scaurus watched them shrink to black dots and vanish into the dust. The few minutes that passed before they came racing back seemed far longer.

  As they galloped toward the imperial army, it was easy to see their excitement. They were wheeling and rearing their horses, and waving their fur caps—never abandoned, no matter what the weather—above their heads. They were shouting something, too, over and over. At last they were close enough for Marcus to understand it: “Onomag! Onomag!”

  The tribune was worn out, but still felt a thrill course through him. Xenophon, he thought, must have known that same thrill when, from the rear of his battered Greek army, he heard men ahead crying, “Thalassa! Thalassa! The sea! The sea!”

  Not only Onomagoulos’ warriors were out ahead; Yezda were there too, harrying their retreat. Mavrikios flung cavalry against them—Videssians, Khamorth, Khatrishers, and finally Namdaleni. The islanders’ powerful charge sent the lighter-armed enemy scattering in dismay and let the survivors of Baanes’ division rejoin their comrades.

  The army’s joy at the meeting was short-lived; the first glimpse of the men staggering back through their lines dispelled it. The groans and cries of the wounded, and the sight of their distress, brought home all too vividly the dangers Mavrikios’ force had yet to taste.

  Onomagoulos himself was brought to safety in a litter, a great gash in his thigh bound up in the rags of his cloak.

  “You will excuse me,” Gorgidas said to Scaurus. “These poor devils need help.” Without waiting for the tribune’s leave, he hurried off to give the injured what aid he could.

  Marcus’ eyes, though, were on the warriors whose bodies had taken no blows. He liked none of what he saw. If ever any were, these were beaten troops. It showed in their eyes, in the haggard, numb bewilderment on their faces, in their slumped shoulders and dragging weapons. They had the look of men who tried in vain to stand against an avalanche.

  Two words were on their lips. One was “Water!” Whenever a canteen was offered, it was tilted, drained, and, with gasped thanks, given back empty.

  The other word was spoken softly. The defeated did not make it a warning to spread alarm through their rescuers. Marcus thought they would sooner have left it unsaid. But as often as little bands of them stumbled past his legionaries, he heard their voices drop and grow fearful. Because it was whispered, it took him a few minutes to catch the name of Avshar. After that, he understood.

  Marcus saw his men’s marching order thrown into disarray by Onomagoulos’ fugitives. The sun was nearing the western horizon; rather than push forward under such unpromising circumstances, the Emperor ordered camp made so he could safely advance come morning.

  His main body of troops fell to with a will. Marcus had to admit they did better work under the threat of imminent attack. Palisades and rough earthen barricades were built with a speed even the Romans could not fault, while the cavalry who had earlier driven the Yezda from Onomagoulos’ men now screened them from the campsite.

  They did not have an easy time of it. The iron charge of the Namdaleni had knocked the Yezda back on their heels, but not out of the fight. Constantly joined by more horsemen from the west, they made a battle of it, with all the confusion usual in big cavalry engagements. Squads of horsemen dashed back and forth, arrows flew in clouds, and sabers gleamed as they rose and fell.

  “It’s a good thing our works are going up fast,” Gaius Philippus said, peering through the dusty haze to the west. “I don’t think our horse is doing any too well out there. Those bloody bastards can ride—and how many of them are there, anyway?”

  To that Scaurus could offer no reply. The dust and distance made numbers impossible to judge. Moreover, both the Yezda and their Khamorth cousins who fought under the Emperor’s banner had strings of horses for each man, assuring them of a fresh mount each day and also making them seem far more numerous than they really were.

  Numbers aside, the centurion was grimly correct. The Namdaleni might be the masters of the Yezda at close quarters, and the Khamorth their equals in speed. But the Videssians who formed the bulk of the imperial cavalry could neither crush them in close nor stay with them in a running fight. Slowly at first, Mavrikios’ cavalry began drawing back toward and then into the field fortifications their comrades were still completing.

  Marcus could hear horse shouts of triumph as the Yezda gave chase. Too many for all to enter at once, the Videssians and their mercenaries jammed together at the six gates of the imperial camp. Their foes, whooping with glee, sent flight after flight of arrows into those tempting targets. Men toppled in slow motion from their saddles; horses screamed as they were hit. The wounded beasts bolted in all directions, adding to the chaos round the gates.

  Worse yet, in the turmoil and the fading light there was no way for the army to tell Khamorth friends from Yezda foes. More than a few invaders got into the camp in the guise of allies, then went on killing rampages until shot from their horses. Scaurus watched in horrified admiration as a Yezda sabered down three Videssian footsoldiers in quick succession, then leaped his horse over the breast-high palisade and into dusk’s safety.

  Khamorth were killed too, mistaken for enemies by panicky Videssians. Once or twice their clan-brothers, seeing comrades die before their eyes, took summary revenge. War within the Emperor’s army was suddenly as real a threat as the enemy outside.

  Much later, Marcus would hear Phostis Apokavkos retell the story of that dreadful night and say, “I’d sooner be dead than live through another time like that.” From the proud, confident host that had set out from Videssos, the army was reduced in the early hours of that evening to little more than a terror-stricken mob, huddling behind the flimsy barricades that were all that kept it from the clutches of its foes.

  If the Yezda had mounted an assault then and there, Marcus thought the Videssian force would have broken before them like so many dry sticks. But the nomads were leery of attacking a fortified camp, and perhaps the constant motion inside—in reality as meaningless as the scurrying of ants when their hill is disturbed—looked from outside like the preparations of battle-ready troops. The onslaught did not come, and little by little the Emperor began to get his men in hand once more.

  He seemed everywhere at once, not in robes of state now but gilded armor above the crimson imperial boots. He dragged skulkers to the palisade from the false security of their tents. His army’s position was hardly enviable, but he was far too much a soldier to quit without a fight.

  When he came to the Roman section of the camp, weary approval lit his face. “Very neat,” he complimented Scaurus. “Ditch, rampart, sta
kes—aye, and water too, I see—just like a drill. Are your men’s spirits holding up?”

  “Well enough, your Majesty,” the tribune replied.

  “There’s no need to fret over that,” Viridovix put in. “The lot of these Romans are too thick-skinned to be afraid.”

  Gaius Philippus bristled instinctively, but the Emperor waved him to silence. “Easy, there. On a night like this, you’d be better off if that were so. Phos knows, I wish I could say it.” Not even the ruddy campfires could bring much color to his face; in their flickering light he looked wan and old. Shoulders bent as if under a heavy load, he turned and went his way.

  His brother the Sevastokrator was rallying the staggered army too, in his own more direct fashion. “Phos’ left hairy nut!” Marcus heard him shouting not far away. “Give me that bow, you worthless crock of dung!” A bowstring thrummed; Thorisin cursed heartily at a miss. He shot again. Somewhere in the gloom a horse gave a contralto shriek of agony. “There!” the Sevastokrator said. “That’s how it’s done!”

  Strangely enough, Ortaias Sphrantzes also helped pull the Videssian army back together. He went wandering through the camp declaiming such pedantries as, “Wisdom-loving men—for I name you philosophers rather than soldiers—should show the barbarians that their eagerness is deathless,” and, “The souls of the Yezda are not double, nor are their bodies made of adamant. They, too, are initiated into the mysteries of death.”

  The performance should have been ludicrous, and indeed it was. Men smiled to hear the young noble mouthing his platitudes, but in that place smiles were hard to come by. Moreover, however long-winded Sphrantzes was, he also spoke the truth, and those who took the time to listen were not worse for it.

  Priests circulated, praying with the soldiers and re-swearing them to loyalty to the Empire. No one seemed to care this night if a Namdalener added a clause to the creed Videssos followed, or if a man of Vaspurakan styled himself a son of Phos’ firstborn. In the face of peril, everyone was for once united.