The courier shrugged. “As may be. I have my loyalty, too, and the Emperor will need to hear the news I bring.”
“Go, then,” Minucius said, waving a hand in recognition of Akrounos’ courage. “I am not your enemy, or Thorisin’s either.”
“Ha!” Akrounos turned his horse sharply and trotted east. Minucius marched double time in the opposite direction to catch up to the head of his column. He did not look back.
The legionaries marched northwest along the Ithome River after it joined the Arandos. Amorion was only about three days away. Anticipation grew among the troopers, in the Romans for the chance to rescue their tribune and in the Vaspurakaners for that reason and at the prospect of striking a blow at the hated persecutor of their people.
Just when Nevrat began to hope Zemarkhos was too busy with his theological rantings to bother about such mundane details as frontier guards, a Khatrisher scout rode back to the army bearing a helmet, saber, and bow as trophies.
“A pair of the buggers tried to jump me,” he reported to Minucius. “I shot the one this junk used to belong to, but the other whoreson got away. They were imperials, not Yezda.”
The Roman commander sighed. “I wish you’d picked off both of them, but you did well to get the one.” The scout grinned at the praise.
“So much for surprise,” Laon Pakhymer observed. “If I were you, Sextus, I’d expect attack later today.”
“Even Yavlak waited to gather some of his forces,” Minucius protested.
“Yavlak seeks only loot and blood,” Bagratouni said. “Myself, I think Pakhymer is right. The foul, lying cur of a Zemarkhos has his men deluded into thinking Phos will lift them straight to heaven if they die doing the madman’s will.”
Minucius shook his head in wonder. “What idiocy.” Again he reminded Nevrat of Scaurus, to whom the sectarian quarrels among Phos’ worshipers meant nothing. As for herself, she had grown up with the Vaspurakaner version of the faith and never thought of changing. Some Vaspurakaners in the Empire did, to rise more quickly. Their countrymen had a word for them—traitor.
“I can’t believe any soldier would be so stupid,” Minucius insisted. Pakhymer and Bagratouni argued, but could not change his mind. The louder they shouted, the more he set his strong chin and looked stubborn.
Nevrat thought they were right. She wondered what would have made Marcus see reason. She caught Minucius’ eye and said, “Don’t let your not sharing a belief blind you into thinking it isn’t real. Remember how Bagratouni and his men joined yours.”
The Roman pursed his lips. Pakhymer was sharp enough to stay quiet and let him think, and to kick Bagratouni in the ankle when he would have kept on wrangling. Finally Minucius said, “We’ll march with maniples abreast. That way we can shift quickly into line if we have to.”
He shouted orders, at the same time swearing under his breath at the delay they would cause. Pakhymer winked at Nevrat, then startled her by saying in fair Vaspurakaner, “You have more than logic behind your words.”
Minucius looked up sharply. Nevrat had not thought he knew any of her language either.
“Can’t trust anyone any more,” Senpat chuckled when he rode up from patrol a few minutes later. But the amusement rode lightly on his voice, and on his face. He and Nevrat had not had to flee Zemarkhos’ pogrom, but they had seen the fanatic priest’s venom at Bagratouni’s vanished home in Amorion before the battle of Maragha.
This time the outriders gave only brief warning. “Curse you, how many?” Minucius shouted when a Khatrisher came galloping in to cry that horsemen were chasing him.
“Didn’t stop to count ’em,” the scout retorted. He ignored Minucius’ glare. Nevrat giggled. The freewheeling Khatrishers had a talent for getting under the Romans’ skins.
“Form line!” Minucius commanded. He nodded to Laon Pakhymer. “You were right, it seems. Can your men buy us some time to deploy?”
“Hurry,” Pakhymer said, waving to the rapidly approaching cloud of dust to the west. Smooth as on a parade ground, the legionaries were already moving into position. That seemed to annoy Pakhymer as much as his own soldiers’ cheerful rowdiness irritated Minucius.
“Come on, come on!” Pakhymer bawled to his men. “Don’t you know what a rare privilege it is to die for an officer who’ll admit he was wrong?” He sent Senpat and Nevrat a languid wave better suited to some great lord. “Would you care to join the ball? The dancing will begin shortly.”
Bowstrings had begun to thrum. The cavalry troop trading arrows with the Khatrishers seemed hardly more orderly than so many Yezda; they knew nothing of the intricate maneuvers Videssian military manuals taught. But they knew nothing of retreat either, though Nevrat saw how few they were compared to their foes.
“Zemarkhos!” they shouted. “Phos bless Zemarkhos!”
That war cry infuriated Gagik Bagratouni’s men. They sent it back with obscene embellishments. The leader of Zemarkhos’ men whipped his head around. Even fighting Roman-fashion, Bagratouni’s followers were recognizable for what they were by their stocky builds and thick black beards.
“Vaspurs!” the leader howled. He swung his sword toward them.
Laon Pakhymer was a cool professional. He had his horsemen sidling out to flank Zemarkhos’ irregulars, threatening them with encirclement if they did not withdraw. Neither he nor anyone else who thought only in military terms would have expected them to hurl themselves straight for the legionary line.
Because the charge was such a surprise, it succeeded better than it should have. Nevrat shot at an onrushing Videssian at point-blank range and, to her mortified disgust, missed. She ducked low, grinding her face into the coarse hair of her horse’s mane. She heard his blade hiss bare inches above her head. Then he was past, still yelling Zemarkhos’ name.
Once through the cavalry screen, the Videssians spurred straight for Bagratouni’s men. The rest of the army did not seem to exist to them, save as an obstacle between them and their chosen prey. The volly of pila they took slowed them, but they came on regardless. A dying horse bowled over three Vaspurakaners and gave Zemarkhos’ men a breach to pour into. They stabbed and slashed at the targets of their hatred. The Vaspurakaners fought back as savagely.
But the battle did not stay private long. The Roman maniples by Bagratouni’s moved up and swung in on the sides of Zemarkhos’ troop. And behind them, the Khatrisher cavalry swiftly re-formed to close off escape.
“The cork’s in the bottle now!” Senpat shouted. He yelled a challenge to one of the harried band in front of him: “Here, scum, what about me? I am a prince of Vaspurakan, too!” All the Vaspurakaners styled themselves princes, for they claimed descent from the first man Phos created.
Senpat’s foe fought with desperation and fanaticism. That helped even the fight, since Senpat was a better swordsman. But the Videssian never saw Nevrat, a few paces away, draw her bow. This time her aim was true. The man crumpled.
“Did you doubt me?” Senpat demanded.
“I’ve learned from the Romans, too. I take no chances.”
“Good enough. I won’t complain over unspilled blood, especially when it’s mine.” Senpat urged his horse ahead. Nevrat followed. She had saved arrows and she used them now to wicked effect.
At last even fanaticism could not maintain Zemarkhos’ men. A remnant of them disengaged and tried to fight their way clear. A few did; more died in the attempt. The whole sharp little fight had lasted only minutes.
Minucius came up to Gagik Bagratouni. The Roman commander’s walk was wobbly; a fresh dent in his helmet showed why. His wits still worked, though. “Well fought, Gagik. Let’s talk to some of the prisoners, to see what’s ahead for us.”
The Vaspurakaner spread large hands. “Prisoners? What a pity—there don’t seem to be any.” His eyes dared Minucius to make something of it.
“Ah, well, we’ll find out soon enough,” Minucius said. He looked round for Pakhymer, who, predictably, was not far away. “Can you send your scouts out
a bit further, Laon? It wouldn’t do to get hit by a big band of those madmen without warning.”
“I’ll see to it.” The cavalry leader sounded more serious than usual as he gave his orders. The rough handling Zemarkhos’ irregulars gave his men in that first charge did not sit well with him, even if the Khatrishers had gained a measure of revenge.
The trumpets blared advance. The army moved ahead. Senpat finished bandaging a small cut on the side of his horse’s neck. “We’ve done all this,” he said, “and we don’t even know if Scaurus ever made it to Amorion.”
“I know,” Nevrat said. “I keep wondering how he’d fare if he ran into some of Zemarkhos’ zealots.”
“He’s not a Vaspurakaner,” her husband pointed out.
“So he isn’t. I hadn’t thought of that. But even if he’s got to the city, what can he hope to do?” Nevrat dug her heels into her horse’s ribs. “As Minucius said, we’ll find out soon enough.”
VI
A CATAPULT THUMPED. A STONE BALL BIGGER THAN A MAN’S head hissed through the air, almost too fast for the eye to follow. It buried itself in the soft ground at the edge of the steppe. The wind blew away the puff of dust it raised.
Viridovix shook his fist at the fortress, which lay like a beast of tawny stone in the mouth of the pass that led south into Erzerum. Like fleas on the back of the beast, men scurried along the battlements. “Come out and fight, you caitiff kerns!” the Gaul shouted.
“That was a warning shot,” Lankinos Skylitzes said. “At this range they could hit us if they cared to.”
Pikridios Goudeles sighed. “We built too well, it seems, we and the Makuraners, the one time we managed to work together.”
Gorgidas touched his saddlebag. He had written that tale down a few days before, when Goudeles told it at camp. Centuries ago the two great empires saw it was in their joint interest to keep the steppe nomads from penetrating Erzerum and erupting into their own lands. The northern passes were beyond the permanent power of either of them, but Makuran had provided the original construction money to fortify them, with Videssos contributing skilled architects and an annual subsidy to the local princelings to keep the strong points garrisoned. Now Makuran was no more and the Videssian subsidy had ceased when the Empire fell on hard times these past fifty years, but the Erzrumi still manned the forts; they warded Erzerum as well as the lands farther south.
“Show parley,” Arigh ordered, and a white-painted shield went up on a lance. Trying to force one of the narrow passes would have been suicidal, and the great mountains of Erzerum, some in the distance still snow-covered though it was nearly summer, offered no other entranceways.
A postern gate opened; a horseman carrying a like truce sign and riding a big, rawboned mountain beast came toward the Arshaum. Arigh quickly chose a party to meet him: himself, Goudeles and Skylitzes—the one for his diplomatic talent, the other for his command of the Khamorth tongue, which anyone at the edge of Pardraya should know—and Tolui. At Goudeles’ suggestion, he added one of Agathias Psoes’ troopers who knew some Vaspurakaner; the “princes” had dealt with their northwestern neighbors before Videssos’ influence reached so far, and affected some of them greatly.
“May I come, too?” Gorgidas asked.
“Always looking to find things out,” Arigh said, half amused, half scornful. “Well, why not?” Viridovix asked no one’s leave, but rode forward with the rest, cheerfully pretending not to see Arigh’s frown.
The Erzrumi waved them to a halt at a safe distance. He looked much like a Vaspurakaner—stocky, swarthy, square-faced, and hook-nosed—but he trained his curly beard into two points. His gilded cuirass, plumed bronze helmet, and clinging trousers of fine silk proclaimed him an officer. He was within five years either way of forty.
He waved again, this time in peremptory dismissal. “Go back,” he said in the plains speech; he had a queer, hissing accent. “Go back. We will crush you if you come further. I, Vakhtang, second chief of the castle of Gunib, tell you this. Are we simpletons, to open our country to murderous barbarians? No, I say. Go back, and be thankful we do not slay you all.”
Arigh bridled. Goudeles said hastily, “He means less than he says. He has a Videssian style to him, though a debased one.”
“Videssian, eh? There’s a thought.” The Arshaum’s years at the imperial capital had given him a good grasp of the language. He used it now: “Why the high horse, fellow? We have no quarrel with you or yours. It’s Avshar we’re after, curse him.”
Vakhtang’s eyebrows rose to his hairline. “I know what that speech is, though I do not use it.” He seemed to take a first good look at the group in front of him. In their furs and leathers, Gorgidas, Goudeles, Skylitzes, and Psoes’ soldier—his name was Narbas Kios—might have been Khamorth, if odd ones. But Arigh and Tolui were something else again. And Viridovix, with his drooping mustaches, red hair spilling from under his fur cap, and pale freckled skin, was unlike any man the Erzrumi captain had seen. His careful composure deserted him. “Who are you people, anyway?” he blurted.
Goudeles nudged Narbas the trooper, who rode forward a couple of paces. “Make sure he understands you,” the pen-pusher said. Vakhtang showed fresh surprise when Narbas spoke hesitantly in the Vaspurakaner tongue, but stifled it. He gave a regal nod.
“Good,” Goudeles said. He paused; Gorgidas could see him discarding the florid phrases of Videssian rhetoric to stick with ideas Kios could put across. “Tell him Skylitzes and I are envoys of the Avtokrator of the Videssians. Tell him where the Arshaum are from, and tell him they’ve come all this way as our allies against Yezd. We only ask a safe-conduct through Erzerum so we can attack the Yezda in their own land. Here, give him our bona-fides, if he’ll take them.”
He produced the letter of authority Thorisin had given him, a bit travel-worn but still gorgeous with ink of gold and red and the sky-blue sunburst seal of the Videssian Emperors. Skylitzes found his letter as well. Holding one in each hand so he could draw no weapon, Narbas offered them to Vakhtang. The officer made a show of studying them. If he spoke no Videssian, Gorgidas was sure he could not read it, but he recognized the seals. Few men in this world would not have.
The Erzrumi gravely handed the letters back. He spoke again, this time in the throaty Vaspurakaner language. Narbas Kios translated: “Even this far north, he says, they know of Yezd, and know nothing good. They have never yet let a nomad army past their forts, but he will take what you said to the lord of Gunib.”
“Tell him we thank him for his courtesy,” Arigh said, and bowed from the waist in the saddle. Viridovix watched his friend with surprised respect; a roisterer in Videssos, the Arshaum was learning to be a prince.
Vakhtang returned Arigh’s compliment and turned to go back to the fortress. Before he got far, Tolui rode out of the parley group and caught him up. Vakhtang spun in alarm and started to reach for his sword, but stopped after a glance at the shaman; though not in his regalia, Tolui still had a formidable presence. He put his hand on the captain’s arm and spoke to him in the few words of Khamorth he had learned from Batbaian: “Not—fight you. Not—hurt you. Go through, is all. Oath.”
His broken speech seemed to have as much effect on Vakhtang as Goudeles’ arguments and letters both. Gorgidas saw the self-important bureaucrat redden as the officer gave Tolui what was plainly a salute, putting both clenched fists to his forehead. Then he clasped the shaman’s hand before releasing it and urging his horse into a trot. The postern gate swung open to readmit him.
“Now what?” Gorgidas asked.
“We wait,” Arigh said. Gorgidas and the Videssian fidgeted, but with nomad’s patience Arigh sat his horse quietly, ready to wait there all day if need be. After a while the main gate of the fortress of Gunib opened a little. “They trust us—some, at least,” Arigh said. “Now we do business.”
Flanked by a small bodyguard of lancers in scaled mail came Vakhtang and another, older man whose gear was even richer than his. Age spots freckled the backs
of his hands, Gorgidas saw as he drew close, but there was strength in him. He had the eyes of a warrior, permanently drawn tight at the corners and tracked with red. He inspected the newcomers with a thoroughness Gauis Philippus might have used.
At last he said, “I am Gashvili, Gunib’s lord. Convince me, if you can, that I should give you leave to pass.” His voice was dry, his heavy features unreadable.
He heard the tale they had given Vakhtang, but in more detail. He kept interrupting with questions, always searching ones. His knowledge of Pardrayan affairs was deep, but not perfect; he knew of Varatesh’s rise to power and the magical aid Avshar had given him, but thought the latter a Khamorth sorcerer. When Arigh told how the wizard-prince had fled southward, Gashvili rammed fist into open palm and growled something sulfurous in his own language.
“Day before yesterday we let one through who answered to your account of him,” he said when he had control of a speech the men from the plains could follow. “He claimed he was a merchant beset by bandits on the steppe. As there was just the one of him and he was no Khamorth, we had no reason to disbelieve him.”
Suddenly all of Arigh’s party was shouting at once. For all their hopes, for all their anticipation, they had not run Avshar to earth. He must have had some magic to make his stallion run night and day, far past the normal endurance of any horse. The beast had gained steadily on the Arshaum, tireless in the saddle though they were. Then a rainstorm covered its tracks, and they lost the trail.
“Well, whatever is your honor waiting for?” Viridovix cried. “Why are you not after calling yourself’s men out to be riding with us to take the spalpeen, the which’d be worth a million years o’ this sitting on the doorstoop o’ nowhere.” The Gaul wanted to leap down from his pony and shake sense into Gashvili.
The noble’s mouth twitched in amusement. “Perhaps I shall.” He turned to Arigh. “You ask me to take a heavy burden on myself. What guarantees would I have from you that it shall be as you say, and that your army will not plunder our fair valleys once you get past me here? Will you give hostages on it, to be held in Gunib as pledge against bad faith?”
Swords of the Legion (Videssos) Page 17