Misplaced Legion (Videssos Cycle)

by Turtledove, Harry

  The weather was warmer and drier than it had been in Gaul, despite a brisk breeze from the west. The wind had a salt tang to it; a gull screeched high overhead before gliding away.

  “We’ll not be having to take ship to come to this town, will we?” Viridovix asked Marcus.

  “I don’t think so. Why?”

  “For all I’ve lived by the ocean the whole of my life, it’s terrible seasick I get.” The Celt paled at the thought of it.

  The narrow path they had been following met a broad thoroughfare running north and south. Used to the stone-paved highways the Romans built, Marcus found its dirt surface disappointing until Gaius Philippus pointed out, “This is a nation of horsemen, you know. Horses don’t care much for hard roads; I suppose that still holds true with iron soles on their feet. Our roads aren’t for animal traffic—they’re for moving infantry from one place to another in a hurry.”

  The tribune was only half-convinced. Come winter, this road would be a sea of mud. Even in summer, it had disadvantages—he coughed as Tzimiskes’ horse kicked up dust.

  He stepped forward to try to talk with the Videssian, pointing at things and learning their names in Tzimiskes’ tongue while teaching him the Latin equivalents. To his chagrin, Tzimiskes was much quicker at picking up his speech than he was in remembering Videssian words.

  In the late afternoon they marched past a low, solidly built stone building. At the eastern edge of its otherwise flat roof, a blue-painted wooden spire leaped into the air; it was topped by a gilded ball. Blue-robed men who had shaved their pates but kept full, bushy beards worked in the gardens surrounding the structure. Both building and occupants were so unlike anything Marcus had yet seen that he looked a question to Tzimiskes.

  His guide performed the same ritual he had used before he drank wine, spitting and raising his arms and head. The tribune concluded the blue-robes were priests of some sort, though tending a garden seemed an odd way to follow one’s gods. He wondered if they did such work full time. If so, he thought, they took their religion seriously.

  There was little traffic on the road. A merchant, catching sight of the marching column as he topped a rise half a mile south, promptly turned his packhorses round and fled. Gaius Philippus snorted in derision. “What does he think we can do? Run down his horses, and us afoot?”

  “Dinna even think of it,” Viridovix said earnestly. “A mess o’ blisters bigger than goldpieces, my feet must be. I think you Romans were born so you couldna feel pain in your legs. My calves are on fire, too.”

  To Scaurus, on the other hand, the day’s march had been an easy one. His men were slowed by the litters they bore in teams. Many were walking wounded, and all bone-weary. Four of the soldiers in the litters died that day, as Gorgidas had known they would.

  Tzimiskes appeared pleased at the pace the legionaries had been able to keep. He watched fascinated, as they used the last sunshine and the purple twilight to create their square field fortifications. Marcus was proud of the skill and discipline his exhausted troops displayed.

  When the sun dipped below the western horizon, Neilos went through his now-familiar series of actions, though his prayer was longer than the one he had made at wine. “That explains the golden ball back down the road,” Gorgidas said.

  “It does?” Marcus’ mind had been elsewhere.

  “Of course it does. These people must be sun-worshipers.”

  The tribune considered it. “There are worse cults,” he said. “Reverencing the sun is a simple enough religion.” Gorgidas dipped his head in agreement, but Marcus would long remember the naïveté and ignorance behind his remark.

  A thin sliver of crescent moon slid down the sky, soon leaving it to the incomprehensible stars. Marcus was glad to see there was a moon, at least, even if it was out of phase with the one he had known. A wolf bayed in the distant hills.

  The day had been warm, but after sunset it grew surprisingly chilly. When added to the ripe state of the grainfields he had seen, that made Marcus guess the season to be fall, though in Gaul it had been early summer. Well, he thought, if this land’s moon doesn’t match my own, no good reason its seasons should, either. He gave it up and slept.

  The town’s name was Imbros. Though three or four ball-topped blue spires thrust their way into sight, its wall was high enough to conceal nearly everything within. The fortifications seemed sturdy enough, and in good condition. But while most of the gray stonework was old and weathered, much of the northern wall looked to have been recently rebuilt. The tribune wondered how long ago the sack had taken place and who the foe had been.

  He knew the local leaders would not let any large numbers of his men into the town until they were convinced the legionaries could be trusted, but he had expected Imbros would ready a market outside the walls for the Romans’ use. Where were the scurrying peasants, the bustling merchants, the approaching wagonloads of grain and other supplies? The city was not shut up against a siege, but it was not looking to the arrival of a friendly army either.

  That could mean trouble. His troops were nearly through the iron rations they carried in their packs, and the fields and farms round Imbros looked fat. Not even Roman discipline would hold long in the face of hunger.

  With his few words and many gestures, he tried to get that across to Tzimiskes. The Videssian, a soldier himself, understood at once; he seemed puzzled and dismayed that the messenger he had sent ahead was being ignored.

  “This is good brigand country,” Gaius Philippus said. “I wonder if young Mouzalon was bushwhacked on his way here.”

  Viridovix said, “Wait—is that not the youngling himself, galloping out toward us?”

  Mouzalon was already talking as he rode up to Tzimiskes. The latter’s answers, short at first, grew longer, louder, and angrier. The word or name “Vourtzes” came up frequently; when at last it was mentioned once too often, Tzimiskes spat in disgust.

  “He must be truly furious, to vent his rage by perverting a prayer,” Gorgidas said softly to Marcus. The tribune nodded, grateful for the Greek’s insights.

  Something was happening to Imbros now. There was a stir at the north gate, heralding the emergence of a procession. First came a fat man wearing a silver circlet on his balding head and a robe of maroon brocade. Parasol bearers flanked him on either side. They had to be for ceremony, as it was nearing dusk. Tzimiskes gave the fat man a venomous glance—was this, then, Vourtzes?

  Vourtzes, if it was he, was followed by four younger, leaner men in less splendid robes. From their inkstained fingers and the nervous, nearsighted stares they sent at the Romans, Marcus guessed they were the fat man’s secretaries.

  With them came a pair of shaven-headed priests. One wore a simple robe of blue; the other, a thin-faced man with a graying beard and bright, burning eyes, had a palm-wide circle of cloth-of-gold embroidered on the left breast of his garment. The plain-robed priest swung a brass thurible that gave forth clouds of sweet, spicy smoke.

  On either side of the scribes and priests tramped a squad of foot soldiers: big, fair, stolid-looking men in surcoats of scarlet and silver over chain mail. They carried pikes and wicked-looking throwing axes; their rectangular shields had various devices painted on them. Mercenaries, the tribune decided—they looked like no Videssians he had yet seen.

  Behind the soldiers came three trumpeters, a like number of flute-players, and a man even fatter than Vourtzes pushing a kettledrum on a little wheeled cart.

  Vourtzes stopped half a dozen places in front of the Romans. His honor-guard came to a halt with a last stomped step and a loud, wordless shout; Marcus felt his men bristling at the arrogant display. Trumpeters and flautists blew an elaborate flourish. The tubby drummer smote his instrument with such vim that Scaurus waited for it or its cart to collapse.

  When the fanfare stopped, the two Videssians with the Roman army put their right hands over their hearts and bent their heads to the plump official who led the parade. Marcus gave him the Roman salute, clenched right fi
st held straight out before him at eye level. At Gaius Philippus’ barked command, the legionaries followed his example in smart unison.

  Startled, the Videssian gave back a pace. He glared at Scaurus, who had to hide a grin. To cover his discomfiture, the official gestured his priests forward. The older one pointed a bony finger at Marcus, rattling off what sounded like a series of questions. “I’m sorry, my friend, but I do not speak your language,” the tribune replied in Latin. The priest snapped a couple of queries at Tzimiskes.

  His reply must have been barely satisfactory, for the priest let out an audible sniff. But he shrugged and gave what Marcus hoped were his blessings to the Romans, his censer-swinging comrade occasionally joining in his chanted prayer.

  The benediction seemed to complete a prologue the Videssians felt necessary. When the priests had gone back to their place by the scribes, the leader of the parade stepped up to clasp Marcus’ hands. His own were plump, beringed, and sweaty; the smile he wore had little to do with his feelings, but was the genial mask any competent politician could assume at will. The tribune understood that face quite well, for he wore it himself.

  With patience and Tzimiskes’ help, Scaurus learned this was indeed Rhadenos Vourtzes, hypasteos of the city of Imbros—governor by appointment of the Emperor of Videssos. The Emperor’s name, Marcus gathered, was Mavrikios, of the house of Gavras. The Roman got the impression Tzimiskes was loyal to Mavrikios, and that he did not think Vourtzes shared his loyalty.

  Why, Marcus struggled to ask, had the hypasteos not begun to prepare his town for the arrival of the Romans? Vourtzes, when he understood, spread his hands regretfully. The news of their appearance had only come the day before. It was hard to believe in any case, as Vourtzes had no prior reports of any body of men crossing Videssos’ border. And finally, the hypasteos did not place much faith in the word of an akrites, a name which seemed to apply to both Mouzalon and Tzimiskes.

  Young Proklos reddened with anger at that and set his hand on the hilt of his sword. But Vourtzes turned his smile to the soldier and calmed him with a couple of sentences. In this case, it seemed, he had been wrong; matters would be straightened out shortly.

  Without liking the man who gave it, Marcus had to admire the performance. As for delivery on the promises, he would see.

  Gorgidas plucked at the tribune’s arm. His thin face was haggard with exhaustion. “Have they physicians?” he demanded. “I need help with our wounded, or at least poppy juice to ease the pain for the ones who are going to die no matter what we do.”

  “We can find out,” Scaurus said. He had no idea of the words to tell Vourtzes what he needed, but sometimes words were unnecessary. He caught the hypasteos’ eye, led him to the litters. The official’s retinue followed.

  At the sight of the injured legionaries, Vourtzes made a choked sound of dismay. In spite of the soldiers with him, Marcus thought, he did not know much of war.

  To the tribune’s surprise, the lean priest who had prayed at the Romans stooped beside a litter. “What’s he mucking about for?” Gorgidas said indignantly. “I want another doctor, not spells and flummeries.”

  “You may as well let him do what he wants,” Gaius Philippus said. “Sextus Minucius won’t care.”

  Looking at the moaning legionary, Marcus thought the senior centurion was right. A bandage soaked with blood and pus was wrapped over a spear wound in Minucius’ belly. From the scent of ordure, Scaurus knew his gut had been pierced. That sort of wound was always fatal.

  Gorgidas must have reached the same conclusion. He touched Minucius’ forehead and clicked his tongue between his teeth. “A fever you could cook meat over. Aye, let’s see what the charlatan does for him. Poor bastard can’t even keep water down, so poppy juice won’t do him any good either. With the dark bile he’s been puking up, at most he only has a couple of bad days left.”

  The wounded soldier turned his head toward the sound of the Greek’s voice. He was a big, strapping man, but his features bore the fearful, dazed look Marcus had come to recognize, the look of a man who knew he was going to die.

  As far as the Videssian priest was concerned, all the Romans but Minucius might have disappeared. The priest dug under the stinking bandages, set his hands on the legionary’s torn belly, one on either side of the wound. Scaurus expected Minucius to shriek at the sudden pressure, but the legionary stayed quiet. Indeed, he stopped his anguished thrashing and lay still in the litter. His eyes slid shut.

  “That’s something, anyhow,” Marcus said. “He—”

  “Hush,” Gorgidas broke in. He had been watching the priest’s face, saw the intense concentration build on it.

  “Watch your mouth with the tribune,” Gaius Philippus warned, but halfheartedly—not being in the chain of command, Gorgidas had more liberty than a simple solider.

  “It’s all right—” Scaurus began. Then he stopped of his own accord, the skin on his arms prickling into gooseflesh. He had the same sense of stumbling into the unknown that he’d felt when his blade met Viridovix’. That thought made him half draw his sword. Sure enough, the druids’ marks were glowing, not brilliantly as they had then, but with a soft, yellow light.

  Thinking about it later, he put that down to the magic’s being smaller than the one that had swept him to Videssos, and to his being on the edge of it rather than at the heart. All the same, he could feel the energy passing from the priest to Minucius. Gaius Philippus’ soft whistle said he perceived it too.

  “A flow of healing,” Gorgidas whispered. He was talking to himself, but his words gave a better name to what the priest was doing than anything Marcus could have come up with. As with the strange stars here, though, it was only a label to put on the incomprehensible.

  The Videssian lifted his hands. His face was pale; sweat ran down into his beard. Minucius’ eyes opened. “I’m hungry,” he said in a matter-of-fact voice.

  Gorgidas leaped at him like a wolf on a calf. He tore open the bandages the priest had disturbed. What they saw left him speechless, and made Scaurus and Gaius Philippus gasp. The great scar to the left of Minucius’ navel was white and puckered, as if it had been there five years.

  “I’m hungry,” the legionary repeated.

  “Oh, shut up,” Gorgidas said. He sounded angry, not at Minucius but at the world. What he had just witnessed smashed the rational, cynical approach he tried to take to everything. To have magic succeed where his best efforts had been sure failures left him baffled, furious, and full of an awe he would not admit even to himself.

  But he had been around Romans long enough to have learned not to quarrel with results. He grabbed the priest by the arm and frogmarched him to the next most desperately hurt man—this one had a sucking wound that had collapsed a lung.

  The Videssian pressed his hands to the legionary’s chest. Again Marcus, along with his comrades, sensed the healing current pass from priest to Roman, though this time the contact lasted much longer before the priest pulled away. As he did, the soldier stirred and tried to stand. When Gorgidas examined his wound, it was like Minucius’: a terrible scar, but one apparently long healed.

  Gorgidas hopped from foot to foot in anguished frustration. “By Asklepios, I have to learn the language to find out how he does that!” He looked as though he wanted to wring the answer from the priest, with hot irons if he had to.

  Instead, he seized the Videssian and hauled him off to another injured legionary. This time the priest tried to pull away. “He’s dying, curse you!” Gorgidas shouted. The cry was in his native Greek, but when Gorgidas pointed at the soldier, the priest had to take his meaning.

  He sighed, shrugged, and stooped. But when he thrust his hands under the Roman’s bandages, he began to shake, as with an ague. Marcus thought he felt the healing magic begin, but before he could be sure, the priest toppled in a faint.

  “Oh, plague!” Gorgidas howled. He ran after another blue-robe and, ignoring the fellow’s protests, dragged him over to the line of wounded soldiers
. But this priest only shrugged and regretfully spread his hands. At last Gorgidas understood he was no healer. He swore and drew back his foot as if to boot the unconscious priest awake.

  Gaius Philippus grabbed him. “Have you lost your wits? He’s given you back two you never thought to save. Be grateful for what you have—look at the poor wretch, too. There’s no more help left in him than wine in an empty jar.”

  “Two?” Gorgidas struggled without success against the veteran’s powerful grip. “I want to heal them all!”

  “So do I,” Gaius Philippus said. “So do I. They’re good lads, and they deserve better than the nasty ways of dying they’ve found for themselves. But you’ll kill that priest if you push him any more, and then he won’t be able to fix ’em at all. As is, maybe he can come back tomorrow.”

  “Some will have died by then,” Gorgidas said, but less heatedly—as usual, the senior centurion made hard, practical sense.

  Gaius Philippus went off to start the legionaries setting up camp for the night. Marcus and Gorgidas stood by the priest until, some minutes later, he came to himself and shakily got to his feet.

  The tribune bowed lower to him than he had to Vourtzes. That was only fitting. So far, the priest had done more for the Romans.

  That evening, Scaurus called together some of his officers to hash out what the legionaries should do next. As an afterthought, he added Gorgidas to Gaius Philippus, Quintus Glabrio, Junius Blaesus, and Adiatun the Iberian. When Viridovix ambled into the tent, he did not chase the Gaul away either—he was after as many different viewpoints as he could find.

  Back in Gaul, with the full authority of Rome behind him, he would have made the decision himself and passed it on to his men. He wondered if he was diluting his authority by discussing things with them now. No, he thought—this situation was too far removed from ordinary military routine to be handled conventionally. The Romans were a republican people; more voices counted than the leader’s.