An Emperor for the Legion

by Harry Turtledove

  Scaurus realized his arms were still tight around Alypia Gavra; her skin was warm through the thin negligee. “Your pardon, my lady,” he said. “Here.” He wrapped her in his scarlet cape of rank.

  “Thank you,” she said, stepping free of him to draw it around her. Her green eyes carried gratitude, but only as a thin crust over pain. “I’ve known worse than the touch of a friend,” she added quietly.

  Before Marcus could find a suitable reply, Zeprin shouted in triumph as the door’s boards and bolts gave up the unequal struggle. Axe held high, he shouldered his way past the riven timbers, followed close by Scaurus and Viridovix, each with his strong blade at the ready. Gaius Philippus and more Romans pushed in after them.

  The tribune had not got much of a glimpse beyond the shattered door when Vardanes opened it, nor again when Avshar took refuge behind it. He stared now in amazement. It was a chamber straight from an expensive brothel: the ceiling mirror of polished bronze, the obscene but beautifully executed wall frescoes, the scattered bright silks that were donned only to be taken off, the soft, wide bed with its coverlets pulled down in invitation.

  And he stared for another reason, the same which brought Zeprin’s rush to a stumbling, confused halt a couple of paces into the room—save for the invaders, it was empty. The Haloga’s knuckles were white round the haft of his axe. Primed to kill, he found himself without a target. His breath came in sobbing gasps as he fought to bring his body back under the control of his will.

  Marcus’ eyes flicked to the windows, tall, narrow slits through which a cat could not have crawled, let alone a man. Viridovix rammed his sword into its scabbard, a gesture eloquent in its disgust. “The cullion’s gone and magicked us again,” he said, and swore in Gaulish.

  For all the sinking feeling in his stomach, the tribune would not yet let himself believe that. He ordered the soldiers behind him, “Turn this place inside out. For all we know, Avshar’s hiding under the bed or lurking in that closet there.” They stepped past him; one suspicious legionary jabbed his gladius into the mattress again and again, thinking Avshar might somehow have got inside it.

  “Nay, it’s magic sure enough,” Viridovix said dolorously as the search went on without success.

  “Shut up,” Marcus said, but he was not paying much attention to the Celt. He had just noticed the gilded manacles set into the bedposts and reflected that Vardanes Sphrantzes’ death, perhaps, had been too easy.

  “There’s magic and magic,” Gaius Philippus said. “Remember the whole Yezda battle line winked out for a second until the Videssian wizards matched their spell? Maybe that’s the trick the whoreson’s using here.”

  That had not occurred to the tribune. Though he had scant hope in it, he sent runners through the palace complex and others to Phos’ High Temple, all seeking Nepos the mage. He also posted legionaries shoulder to shoulder in the broken doorway, saying, “If Avshar can make himself impalpable as well as invisible, he deserves to get away.”

  “No he doesn’t,” Gaius Philippus growled.

  The sound of more fighting pierced the slit windows. Scaurus went over for a look, but their field of view was too narrow to show him anything but a brief glimpse of running men. They were Videssians, but whether Thorisin’s troops advancing or followers of the Sphrantzai counterattacking, he could not tell.

  Worried, he decided to go downstairs to make sure the legionaries were in position to defend the Grand Courtroom at need. Their discipline should have been enough to make such precautions automatic, but better safe; what with Avshar’s magic and the fight up the stairs, usual patterns could slip.

  He left the doorway full of guards and put others in front of the stairwell. Their eyes told him they thought their posts absurd, but they did not question him; like Fayard the Namdalener, they carried out their orders without complaint.

  Alypia Gavra accompanied the tribune down the spiral stair. “So now you have seen my shame,” she said, still outwardly as self-possessed as ever. But Marcus saw how tightly she held his cape closed round her neck, how she tugged at its hem with her other hand, trying to make it cover more of her.

  He knew she meant more than the wisp of yellow silk beneath that cape. He spoke slowly, choosing his words with care, “What does not corrupt a man’s heart cannot corrupt his life, or do him any lasting harm.”

  In Rome it would have been a Stoic commonplace; but to the Videssians, deeds spoke louder than intentions, as suited a folk who saw the universe as a war between good and evil. Thus Alypia searched Marcus’ face in the gloom of the stair well, suspecting mockery. Finding none, she said at last, very low, “If I can ever come to believe that, you will have given me back myself. No thanks could be enough.”

  She stared straight ahead the rest of the way down the steps. Scaurus studied the stair well’s rough stonework, giving her what privacy he could.

  Alypia gasped in dismay as they came down into the throne room. It no longer had the semblance of the Empire’s solemn ceremonial heart, but only of any battlefield after the fighting is done. Bodies and debris littered the polished floor, which was further marred by drying pools of blood. Wounded men cursed, groaned, or lay silent, according to how badly they were hurt. Gorgidas went from one to the next, giving the aid he could.

  A glance told Marcus there would be no trouble at the Grand Gates. Unobtrusively effective as always, Quintus Glabrio had a double squad of legionaries ready to hold off an attack. But they were standing at ease now, their pila grounded and swords sheathed. The junior centurion waved to his commander. “Everything under control,” he said, and Scaurus nodded.

  Avshar’s accursed kettle still steamed in the center of the hall, though the fire under it had gone out. The tribune tried to lead Alypia by as quickly as he could, but she stopped dead at the sight of the pathetic mutilated corpse beside it.

  “Oh, my poor, dear Kalline,” she whispered, making Phos’ circular sun-sign over her breast. “I feared it was so when I heard your cry. So this is your reward for loyalty to your mistress?”

  She somehow kept her features impassive, but two tears slid down her cheeks. Then her eyes rolled up in her head, and she crumpled to the floor, her strong spirit at last overwhelmed by the day’s series of shocks. The borrowed cape came open as she fell, leaving her almost bare.

  “One of Vardanes’ trollops, is she?” a Roman asked the tribune, leering down at her. “I’ve seen prettier faces, maybe, but by Venus’ cleft there’d be a lively time with those long smooth legs wrapped around me.”

  “She’s Alypia Gavra, Thorisin’s niece, so shut your filth-filled mouth,” Scaurus grated. The legionary fell back a pace in fright, then darted off to find something, anything, to do somewhere else. Marcus watched him go, surprised at his own fury. The trooper had jumped to a natural enough conclusion.

  At the tribune’s call, Gorgidas hurried over to see to Alypia. He put her in as comfortable a position as he could, then folded Scaurus’ cape around her again. That finished, he stood and started to go to the next injured legionary. “Aren’t you going to do anything more?” Marcus demanded.

  “What do you recommend?” Gorgidas said. “I could probably rouse her, but it wouldn’t be doing her any favor. As far as I can see, the poor lass has had enough jolts to last any six people a lifetime—can you blame her for fainting? I say let her, if that’s what she needs. Rest is the best medicine the body knows, and I’m damned if I’ll tamper with it.”

  “Well, all right,” Scaurus said mildly, reminding himself for the hundredth time how touchy the Greek was when anyone interfered with his medical judgment.

  Alypia was stirring and muttering to herself when Nepos came bustling in behind one of Marcus’ runners. Despite a remorseful cluck at the damage the Grand Gates had taken, the fat priest was in high good spirits as he entered the throne room. He scattered blessings on everyone around him. Most Romans ignored him, but some of the legionaries had come to worship Phos; they and the Videssians who had taken service
with them bowed as Nepos went past.

  He saw Scaurus and bobbed his head in greeting, smiling broadly as he approached. But he was less than halfway to the tribune when he staggered, as at some physical blow. “Phos have mercy!” he whispered. “What has been done here?” He moved forward again, but slowly; Marcus thought of a man pushing his way into a heavy gale.

  He looked into the cauldron with a cry of disgust, a deeper loathing even than Scaurus’ own. The tribune saw the torture’s wanton viciousness; but as priest and mage, Nepos understood the malignance of the sorcery it powered and recoiled in horror from his understanding.

  “You did right to summon me,” he said, visibly gathering himself. “That the Sphrantzai opposed us is one thing, but this—this—” At a loss for words, he paused. “I never imagined they could fall to these depths. Ortaias Sphrantzes, from all I know of him, is but a silly young man, while Vardanes—”

  “Is lying dead upstairs,” Scaurus finished for him. Nepos gaped at the tribune, who went on, “The wizardry we dealt with, but the wizard, now—” In a few quick sentences he set out what had passed. “We may have him besieged up there,” he finished.

  “Avshar trapped? Trapped?” Nepos burst out when he was through. “Why are you wasting my time with talk?”

  “He may be,” Marcus repeated, but Nepos was no longer listening. The priest turned and ran for the stairway, his blue robe flapping about his ankles. Marcus heard his sandals clatter on the stairs, heard him run into a descending Roman.

  “Get out of my way, you rattlebrained, slouching gowk!” Nepos shouted, his voice squeaking up into high tenor in his agitation. There were brief shuffling sounds as he and the trooper jockeyed for position, then he was past and clashing upward again.

  When the legionary emerged from the stairwell he was still shaking his head. “Who stuck a pin in him?” he asked plaintively, but got no answer.

  Alypia Gavra’s eyes came open. Nepos had hardly spared her a second glance; Avshar’s foul sorcery and Scaurus’ news that the wizard-prince might still be taken drove from his mind such trivia as the Emperor’s niece.

  She sat slowly and carefully. Marcus was ready to help support her, but she waved him away. Though she was still very pale, her mouth twisted in annoyance. “I thought better of myself than this,” she said.

  “It doesn’t matter,” the tribune answered. “The important thing is that you’re safe and the city’s in Thorisin’s hands.” Why, so it is, he thought rather dazedly. He had been too caught up in the fighting to realize this was victory at last. Excitement flooded through him.

  “Oh, yes, I’m perfectly safe.” Alypia’s voice carried a weary, cynical undertone Marcus had not heard in it before. “My uncle will no doubt welcome me with open arms—me, the wife of his rival Avtokrator and plaything of—” She broke off, unwilling to bring even the thought to light.

  “We all knew the marriage was forced,” Scaurus said stoutly. Alypia managed a wan smile, but more at his vehemence than for what he said. Some of his elation trickled away. There could be an uncomfortable amount of truth in Alypia’s worries.

  He was distracted by the sound of Nepos coming down the spiral stairway. It was easy to recognize the priest by his footfalls; his sandals slapped the stone steps instead of clicking off them as did the Romans’ hobnailed footgear. It was also easy to guess his mood, for his descending steps were slow and heavy, altogether unlike his excited dash upwards.

  The first glimpse of him confirmed the tribune’s fears; the light was gone from his eyes, while his shoulders slumped as if bearing the world’s weight. “Gone?” Marcus asked rhetorically.

  “Gone!” Nepos echoed. “The stink of magic will linger for days, but its author is escaped to torment us further. Skotos drag him straight to hell, is there no limit to his strength? A spell of apportation is known to us of the Academy, but it requires long preparation and will not let the caster carry chattels. Yet Avshar cast it in seconds and vanished, armor, sword, and all. Phos grant that in his haste he blundered and projected himself into a volcano’s heart or out over the open sea, there to sink under the weight of his iron.”

  But the priest’s forlorn tone told how likely he judged that, nor could Scaurus make himself imagine so simple an end for Avshar. The wizard-prince, he was sure, had gone where he wanted to go and nowhere else—whatever spot his malice chose as the one that would harm Videssos worst. And with that thought, what was left of the taste of triumph turned sour in the tribune’s mouth.

  IX

  VIRIDOVIX SAID, “IT ONLY GOES TO SHOW WHAT I‘VE SAID all along—there’s no trust to be put in these Videssians. The city folk stand by the Sphrantzai all through the siege and then turn on ’em after they’d gone and won it.”

  “Things are hardly as simple as that,” Marcus replied, leaning back in his chair. The Romans had returned to the barracks they occupied last year before Mavrikios set out on campaign against the Yezda. The sweet scent of orange blossoms drifted in through wide-flung shutters; fine mesh kept nocturnal pests outside.

  Gaius Philippus bit into a hard roll, part of the iron rations every legionary carried, as supplies inside the city were very short. He chewed deliberately, reached out to the low table in front of him for a mug of wine to wash the bite down. “Aye, the bloody fools brought it on themselves,” he agreed. “If Rhavas’—no, Avshar’s, I should say—brigands hadn’t been off plundering to celebrate beating us back, Zigabenos’ coup wouldn’t have had a prayer.”

  “His and Alypia Gavra’s,” Marcus corrected.

  A pail dropped with a crash and made Gaius Philippus jump. “Have a care there, you thumb-fingered oafs!” he shouted. The barracks were not in the same tidy shape the Romans had left them. During the siege they had held Khamorth and, from the smell and mess, their horses as well. Legionaries swept, scrubbed, and hauled garbage away; others made up fresh straw pallets to replace the filthy ones that had satisfied the nomads.

  Reluctantly, the senior centurion returned to the topic at hand. “Well, yes,” he said grudgingly to Scaurus, slow as usual to give a woman credit for wit and pluck.

  But here credit was due, Marcus thought. Rumors still flew through Videssos; like cheese, they had ripened through the day and now at evening some were truly bizarre. But unlike most of the city, Scaurus had talked with some of the people involved in events and he had a fair notion of what had actually gone on.

  “Lucky for us Alypia realized Thorisin would never take the city from outside,” he insisted. “The timing was hers, and it could hardly have been better.”

  The princess and Mertikes Zigabenos—who had kept his post as an officer of the Imperial Guard—were plotting against the Sphrantzai before Thorisin’s siege even began. Alypia’s handmaiden Kalline made the perfect go-between; her pregnancy protected her from suspicion and, as it had resulted from a rape by one of Rhavas’ roughs, bound her to the plotters’ cause. But as long as it seemed Thorisin might capture Videssos, the conspiracy remained one of words alone.

  After his assault failed, though, assault from inside the city suddenly became urgent. Alypia managed to get word to Zigabenos that Ortaias had closeted himself away in the isolation of the private imperial chambers to compose a victory address to his troops.

  Gaius Philippus knew that part of the story, too. His comment was, “The lady could have sat tight one day more. If there wouldn’t have been a mutiny after that speech, I don’t know soldiers.” The senior centurion had endured more than one of Ortais Sphrantzes’ orations and exaggerated only slightly.

  Most of the regiments of the Imperial Guard had been lost at Maragha. Though Mertikes Zigabenos kept his title, Outis Rhavas’ troopers actually warded the Sphrantzai. But the Romans had given them a hard tussle at the walls, and afterward most of them went on a drinking spree which quickly led to fist-fights and looting. Their victims, naturally, fought back, which brought more of them out of the palace complex to reinforce their mates—and gave Zigabenos his chance.
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  He only commanded three squads of men, but at the head of one of them he descended on Ortaias’ secluded retreat, seized the feckless Avtokrator at his desk, and spirited him away to the High Temple of Phos; Balsamon the patriarch had long been well inclined toward the Gavrai.

  The other two squads attacked the Grand Courtroom to rescue Alypia and use her as a rallying point for rebellion. Their luck did not match their commander’s. Kalline had been caught returning to her mistress. Rhavas himself questioned her; he soon tore through her protests of innocence.

  “She started to scream an hour before midnight,” Marcus remembered Alypia saying, “and when she stopped, I knew the secret was lost. I never thought Rhavas was Avshar, but I was sure he was not one to let her die under torture till it suited him.” The princess’ would-be rescuers walked into ambush. None walked out again.

  But Zigabenos was either a student of past coups or had a gift for sedition. From the High Temple he sent criers to every quarter of the city with a single message: “Come hear the patriarch!”

  Everyone who claimed to be quoting Balsamon’s speech for Scaurus gave a different version. The tribune thought that a great pity. He could all but see Balsamon on the High Temple’s steps, probably wearing the shabby monk’s robe he preferred to his patriarchal regalia. The moment’s drama would have brought out the best in the old prelate—torches held high against the night, a sea of expectant faces waiting for what he would say.

  Whatever his exact words were, they swung the city toward Thorisin Gavras in a quarter of an hour’s time. Marcus was sure the sight of Ortaias Sphrantzes trussed up and shivering at the patriarch’s feet had a good deal to do with that swing, as did Rhavas’ thieving band rampaging through the shops of Videssos’ merchants. Once given focus by Balsamon, the city mob was plenty capable of taking matters into its own hands.

  “Almost you could feel sorry for Vardanes,” Viridovix said, wiping grease from his chin with the back of his hand; from somewhere or other in the hungry city he had managed to come up with a fat roast partridge. “The puppet master found he couldn’t be doing without his puppet after all.”