An Emperor for the Legion

by Harry Turtledove

  The hall grew silent for a moment. The Romans were loyal to the state for which they fought, but it was a mercenary’s loyalty, ultimately shallow. They did not share or fully understand the decades of war and pogrom which tempered the Vaspurakaners as repeated quenchings did steel. The men who styled themselves princes rarely showed that hardness; when they did, it was enough to chill their less-committed comrades.

  “Out on the darkness!” Senpat Sviodo cried, feeling the mood of the evening start to slide. “It’s Skotos’ tool, nothing else!”

  He turned to Gaius Philippus. “So you Romans know the little bird, do you?” His fingers danced over the pandoura’s strings. The legionaries roared out the marching song, glad to be distracted from their own thoughts.

  “Are you well, Taron?” Marcus asked. “You look as if you hadn’t slept in a week.”

  “Near enough,” Leimmokheir allowed, punctuating his words with an enormous yawn. His eyes were red-tracked, his gravelly voice hoarser than usual. The flesh he had begun gaining back after his release looked slack and unhealthy. “It’s a wearing task, trying to do the impossible.” Even his once-booming laugh seemed hollow.

  “Not enough ships, not enough crews, not enough money, not enough time.” He ticked them off on his fingers one by one. “Outlander, you have Gavras’ ear. Make him understand I’m no mage, to conjure up victory with a wave of my hand. And do a good job, too, or we’ll be in cells side by side.”

  Scaurus took that as mere downheartedness on the admiral’s part, but Leimmokheir grew so insistent the tribune decided to try to meet with the Emperor. Exhaustion had made the drungarios of the fleet irritable and unable to see any viewpoint but his own.

  As luck would have it, the tribune was admitted to the imperial presence after only a short wait. When he spoke of leimmokheir’s complaints, Thorisin snapped, “What does he want, anchovies to go with his wine? Any fool can handle the easy jobs; it’s the hard ones that show what a man’s made of.”

  A messenger came up to the throne, paused uncertainly. “Well?” Gavras said.

  Recognized, the man went down in full proskynesis. When he rose, he handed the Avtokrator a folded leaf of parchment. “Your pardon, your Majesty. The runner who delivered this said it was of the utmost urgency that you read it at once.”

  “All right, all right, you’ve given it me.” The Emperor opened the sheet, softly read aloud to himself: “ ‘Come to the sea wall and learn what your trust has gained you. L., drungarios commanding.’ ”

  His color deepened at every word. He tore the sheet in half, then turned on Scaurus, shouting, “Phos curse the day I heeded your poisoned tongue! Hear the braggart boasting as he turns his coat!

  “Zigabenos!” Gavras bellowed, and when the guards officer appeared the Emperor profanely ordered him to send troops hotfoot to the docks to stop leimmokheir if they could. He grated, “It’ll be too bloody late, but we have to try.”

  The fury he radiated was so great Marcus stepped back when he rose from the throne, afraid Thorisin was about to attack him. Instead Gavras issued a curt command: “Come along, sirrah. If I must watch the fruit of your folly, you can be there, too.”

  The Emperor swept down the aisleway, an aghast Scaurus in his wake. Everything the Roman had believed of Leimmokheir looked to be a tissue of lies. It was worse than betrayal; it spoke of a blindness on his part humiliating to contemplate.

  Courtiers scurried out of Gavras’ path, none daring to remind him of business still unfinished. Swearing under his breath, he stalked through the grounds of the palace compound; he mounted the steps of the sea wall like an unjustly condemned man on his way to the executioner. He did not so much as look at Scaurus.

  What he saw when he peered over the gray stone battlements ripped a fresh cry of outrage from him. “The pimp’s spawn has stolen the whole fleet!” Sails furled, the triremes and lighter, two-banked warships were rowing west from the Neorhesian harbor. Sea foam clotted whitely round their oars at every stroke. Marcus’ heart sank further. He had not known it could.

  “And look!” the Emperor said, pointing to the suburban harbor on the far shore of the Cattle-Crossing. “Here comes that cow-futtering Bouraphos, out to escort him home!” The rebel admiral’s ships grew swiftly larger as they approached. Thorisin shook his fist at them.

  Boots rang on the stairway. A swearing trooper trotted up to the Emperor. He panted, “We were too late, your Majesty. Leimmokheir sailed.”

  “Really?” Gavras snarled. The soldier’s eyes went wide as they followed his outflung arm.

  Leimmpkheir’s ships shook themselves out into a line facing the rebels, his heavier galleys in the center with the Liburnians on either wing. Even in an element not his own, Marcus knew a tactical maneuver when he saw one. “That’s a battle formation!” he exclaimed.

  “By Phos, it is!” Thorisin said, acknowledging his presence for the first time. “What boots it, though? Treacher or zany, your precious friend will wreck me either way. Bouraphos’ll toy with him like a cat with a grasshopper. Look at the ships he has with him.”

  Whether or not Gavras thought Leimmokheir a turncoat, plainly Elissaios Bouraphos did not. His entire fleet was there to form a line of battle, its horns sweeping forward to flank the smaller force it faced. The curses Thorisin had called down on Leimmokheir’s head he now switched to Bouraphos. Zigabenos’ messenger listened admiringly.

  Marcus scarcely heard the Emperor. Watching a fight in which he could take no part was worse than combat itself, he discovered. In the hand-to-hand there was no time to reflect; now he could do nothing else. His nails bit into his palms as he watched the rowers on both sides step up the stroke. Their ships leaped at one another. The tribune wondered if Leimmokheir had in fact gone mad, if the egotism that seemed to lurk in every Videssian’s soul deluded him into thinking his powers godlike.

  The fleets were less than a furlong apart when one of Bouraphos’ two-banked craft swerved inward to ram the trireme next to it square amidships. The heavier galley, taken utterly by surprise, was ruined. Oars snapped; faint over the water, Marcus heard screams as rowers’ arms were wrenched from their sockets. Water gushed into the great hole torn in the trireme’s side. Almost with dignity, the stricken ship began to settle. The Liburnian backed oars and sought another victim.

  As if the first treacherous attack had been a signal, a score and more of the rebel admiral’s ships turned on their comrades, throwing Bouraphos’ line into confusion. No longer sure who was friend and who foe, ships still loyal lost momentum as their captains looked nervously to either side. And into the chaos drove Taron Leimmokheir.

  On the sea wall Thorisin Gavras did three steps of a jig. “See how it feels, you bastard!” he screamed to Bouraphos. “See how it feels!” Scaurus abruptly understood Leimmokheir’s sleepless nights; the drungarios had been sowing this field for many days and come to harvest it now that it was ripe.

  But for all the sowing, the sea fight was far from won. Even with his suddenly revealed recruits, Leimmokheir was still outnumbered, and Elissaios Bouraphos a resourceful commander. It was his ships, though, that were pressed back into a circle, with Leimmokheir’s prowling round them. And when he tried to strike outward, a galley of his that had bided its time drew in its starboard oars and sheared away its neighbor’s portside bank with its projecting bulkheads. The crippled ship wallowed helplessly; its conqueror joined the enemy; Bouraphos’ attacking squadron, daunted, pulled back.

  To add to the disorder, both sides flew the imperial pennant with its central sun. Tiny in the distance, Marcus saw another banner at a trireme’s bow, this one scarlet barred with gold—the emblem of the drungarios of the fleet. Bouraphos must have decided the only way out of his predicament was to kill his rival admiral, for four of his own galleys surged toward Leimmokheir’s, sinking a Liburnian as they came.

  No ships were close by to help. The drungarios’ trireme spun in the water, backing oars to port while pulling ahead on the starboard s
ide. It turned almost in its own length and sped away from the attackers. Some of Leimmokheir’s fleet might not be perfectly trained, but he tolerated no slackness on his flagship.

  The wake foamed up under the galley’s bow; it was driving almost straight back toward Scaurus, past the slowly settling hulk of the first trireme sunk when Bouraphos’ ships began changing sides. One after the others, the rebels gave chase.

  “Skotos and his demons take them, they’re gaining,” Thorisin said, his hands clutching the battlements until knuckles whitened. Where minutes before he had been ready to dip Leimmokheir an inch at a time into boiling oil, now he was in an agony of suspense lest the drungarios come to harm.

  But Leimmokheir knew what he was about. Even at a range of more than a quarter of a mile, his mane of gray-white hair made him recognizable. His arm came down to emphasize an order. Twisting like a snake, the trireme darted round the sinking galley and rammed its leading pursuer before the startled rebels could maneuver. Bouraphos’ other three ships stopped dead in the water, as if Leimmokheir had shown himself to be a dangerous wizard as well as a seaman.

  His daring put new heart into his fleet and seemed to be the blow that broke his foes. In a desperate charge across the water, about twenty of them broke through his line, but all fight was out of them. They fled toward the suburbs of the opposite shore. Another group, seeing the way the wind was blowing, went over to the winners and fell on their erstwhile comrades.

  Thorisin began to dance in earnest. Heedless of the imperial dignity, he pounded Marcus and the messenger on the back and grinned as he was pummeled in return.

  One squadron of about fifteen ships kept up the fight; Scaurus was unsurprised to spot a second drungarios’ pennant among them. Game to the end, Elissaios Bouraphos and his surviving loyal followers gave their fellows the chance to escape. They tried to be everywhere at once, whirling and dashing forward to the attack like so many dogs at bay.

  Facing so many, the battle could have had only one result, but the end came quicker than the tribune had expected. All at once the coordinated defense dissolved into a series of single-ship actions. White shields came up on poles as the last of Bouraphos’ captains began to yield.

  “Sink ’em all!” Gavras shouted, and then a moment later, reluctantly, “No, we’ll need them against Namdalen one day.” He sighed and said to Marcus, “I’ll turn forethoughtful yet, damn me if I won’t. This wretched job will see to that.” He sighed again, remembering the freedom of irresponsibility.

  By the time the Emperor reached the Neorhesian harbor he was jovial again. The space by the docks was filled with a milling crowd of civilians and soldiers. To the people of the city, Leimmokheir’s triumphal return was a spectacle to make the day pass more quickly. The soldiers knew how much more it meant. Now at last they could face Baanes Onomagoulos; the shield that had separated them was hacked to bits.

  Thorisin nodded to every captain coming ashore. He carefully made no distinction between the men who had sailed out with the drungarios and former rebels. The latter, knowing his reputation for a swift temper, approached him warily, but found their role in the victory outweighing earlier allegiance. They left the imperial presence quite relieved.

  Taron Leimmokheir’s galley was among the last to put in. It had taken damage, Marcus saw. Some oars trailed limply in the water for lack of men to pull them, and a ten-foot stretch of the port rail was smashed to stove-wood.

  Gavras’ soldiers cheered the admiral, who ignored them until the trireme was tied up at the dock. Then a single short wave sufficed him. With the agility of a much younger man, he scrambled up onto the pier. He elbowed through the press until he stood before the Emperor.

  He bowed low, saying, “I trust my message sufficed to lay your concern to rest.” Holding the bow, he tipped a wink to Scaurus with his left eye, which Thorisin could not see.

  The Emperor, coloring, inhaled ominously. But before he could blast Leimmokheir, he spied Marcus trying to swallow a grin. “Then you’re too fornicating trusting by half,” he growled, but without sincerity. “I’ve said so for years, you’ll recall.”

  “So now my task is done, it’s back to the cell, eh?” The drungarios returned Thorisin’s banter, but Scaurus heard nothing light in his tone.

  “After the scare you threw into me, you deserve a yes to that.” Gavras’ eyes swung to the flagship. “What have we here?”

  Two corseleted marines brought their prisoner before the Emperor. They had to half support him; the left side of his handsome face and head was bloody from a slingstone’s glancing blow. “You would have done better to stay at Pityos, Elissaios,” Thorisin said.

  Bouraphos glared at him, shaking his head to try to clear it. “We were nearly holding our own till that cursed rock flattened me, even with the bolters. I’d bolt ’em proper, I would.” The wordplay was feeble, but Marcus had to respect the rebel’s spirit for essaying it at all.

  “You’re not likely to have the chance,” Thorisin said.

  “I know.” Bouraphos spat at Taron Leimmokheir’s feet. “When will you fight for yourself, Gavras? You used me to counter this bag of turds, and then him against me. What sort of warrior does that make you?”

  “The master of you both,” the Emperor replied. He turned to the marines, who came to attention, expecting the order. “Take him to the Kynegion.”

  As they began to lead Bouraphos away, Gavras stopped them for a moment. “In memory of the service you once gave me, Elissaios, your lands will not stand forfeit to the fisc. You have a son, I think.”

  “Yes. That’s good of you, Thorisin.”

  “He’s never harmed me. We can keep your head off the Milestone, too.”

  Bouraphos shrugged. “Do as you like there. I’ll have no further use for it.” He eyed the marines. “Well, let’s go. I trust I don’t have to show you the road?” He walked off between them, his back straighter and stride firmer at every step.

  Unable to hold the thought to himself, Marcus said, “He dies very well.”

  “Aye, so he does,” the Emperor nodded. “He should have lived the same way.” To that the tribune had no good reply.

  The small crowd studied the ship moored at the pier. “What’s that written on its stern?” Gaius Philippus asked.

  The letters were faded, salt-stained. “Conqueror” Marcus read.

  The senior centurion pursed his lips. “It’ll never live up to that.”

  The Conqueror bobbed in the light chop. Beamier than the lean Videssian warships, it carried a wide, square-rigged sail, now furled, and a dozen oarports so the crew could maneuver in and out of harbors at need.

  Gorgidas, who knew more of ships than the Romans, seemed satisfied. “It wasn’t built yesterday or the day before, either, but it’ll get us across to Prista, and that’s what counts.” He stirred a large leather rucksack with his foot. Having helped him pack it, Marcus knew that rolls of parchment, pens, and packets of powdered ink make up a good part of its bulk.

  The tribune remarked, “The Emperor wastes no time. Less than a week since he gained the sea, and already you’re off to the Arshaum.”

  “High time, too,” Arigh Arghun’s son said. “I miss the feel of a horse’s barrel between my legs.”

  Pikridios Goudeles gave a delicate shudder. “You will, I fear, have all too much chance to grow thoroughly used to the sensation, as, worse luck, will I.” To Scaurus he said, “The upcoming campaigns, both against the usurper and against the Yezda, shall be difficult ones. Good Arigh’s men will be too late for the first of them, it seems, but surely not for the second.”

  “Of course,” Marcus said. That Thorisin had enough faith in Goudeles to send him as ambassador surprised the Roman—or was the Emperor clearing the stage of a potential danger to himself?

  Whatever Gavras’ reasons, his trust for the smoothtongued bureaucrat plainly was not absolute. Goudeles’ fellow envoy was a dark, saturnine military man named Lankinos Skylitzes. Scaurus did not know him well and
was unsure whether he was brother or cousin to the Skylitzes who had died in the night ambush the year before. In one way, at least, he was a good choice for the embassy—the Roman had heard him talking with Arigh in the nomad’s tongue.

  Perhaps knowledge of the steppe was his speciality, for he said, “There’s another reason for haste. A new set of dispatches came from Prista last night. Avshar’s on the plains. Belike he’s after soldiers, too; we’d best forestall him.”

  Marcus exclaimed in dismay, and was echoed by everyone who heard Skylitzes’ news. In his heart he had known the wizard-prince escaped Videssos when the Sphrantzai fell, but it was always possible to hope. “You’re sure?” he asked Skylitzes.

  The soldier nodded once. No garrulous imperial here, Scaurus thought with a smile.

  “May the spirits let us meet him,” Arigh said, pantomiming cut-and-thrust. Marcus admired his bravado, but not his sense. Too many had made that wish already and got no joy when it came true.

  Gaius Philippus undid the shortsword at his belt and handed it to Gorgidas. “Take it,” he said. “With that serpent’s spawn running free, you’ll need it one day.”

  The Greek was touched by the present, but tried to refuse it, saying, “I have no skill with such tools, nor any desire to learn.”

  “Take it anyway,” Gaius Philippus said, implacable. “You can stow it in the bottom of your duffel for all of me, but take it.”

  He sounded as if he were taking a legionary to task, not giving a gift, but Gorgidas heard the concern behind his insistence. He accepted the gladius with a word of thanks and proceeded to do just what the senior centurion had advised, packing it away in his kit.

  “Very moving,” Goudeles said dryly. “Here’s something with a sweeter edge to it.” He produced an alabaster flask of wine, drank, and passed it to Scaurus. It went down smooth as cream—nothing but the best for Pikridios, the tribune thought.