Misplaced Legion (Videssos Cycle)

by Turtledove, Harry

  Marcus was pleased to see Soteric as his opposite number. There were higher-ranking Namdaleni, true, but Dosti’s son had the privilege of heading the men of the Duchy because he had arranged their meeting with the Romans.

  Zeprin looked sternly from one leader to the other. His slow, drawling Haloga accent lent his words gravity. “This frolic is for pride and for sport. You know that, and your men know it—now. See they remember it after they take a spearshaft in the ribs. We want no riots here.” He flicked his eyes about to see if any of his Videssian colleagues were close enough to hear. Satisfied, he lowered his voice to resume, “I’ve no real fears—there’s not a city man among you. Have fun—I only wish I had a sword in my hand to join you, not this puny wand.”

  Scaurus and Soteric trotted back to their troops. The Romans were aligned in three maniples, two side by side at the fore and the third in reserve behind them. Their opponents formed in a single deep column with a forward fence of spears. Soteric was in the center of the first rank.

  When he was sure both sides were ready, Zeprin swung his wand in a circle over his head. His fellow umpires scrambled out of the way as the Romans and Namdaleni bore down on each other.

  Just as the chief umpire had said, it was hard to remember this was not real combat. The faces of the Namdaleni were set and grim under their bar nasals. The forward thrust of their bodies, their white-knuckled hands tight on their long spears—poles, the tribune reminded himself—their yells to terrify their foes—only the cold glint of steel from their spearheads was missing.

  Closer and closer they came. “Loose!” the tribune shouted, and his front rank flung their dummy pila. Most bounced harmlessly from the shields of the Namdaleni. That was not as it should be; with their points and soft-iron shanks, real pila would have fouled the islanders’ bucklers and forced the mercenaries to discard them.

  Here and there a spear thudded home against mail or flesh. Umpires tooted frantically and waved their wands, ordering “killed” warriors to the sidelines. One islander, who felt his armor would safely have turned the spear, screamed abuse at the referee who had declared him dead. The umpire was a Haloga half a head taller than the incensed man of the Duchy. He listened for a few moments, then planted a huge hand on the Namdalener’s chest and shoved. His attention was back to the skirmish before the mercenary hit the ground.

  The Namdaleni did not use their pikes as throwing weapons. Standing up under the Roman volleys, they accepted their mock casualties until they could close with the legionaries. The weight of their phalanx and the length of their thrusting-spears began to tell then. Unable to get close enough to their foes to use their swords with any effect, the Romans saw their line begin to sag in the middle. More and more now, the whistles and the waving, tapping wands of the umpires ushered Scaurus’ men from the field.

  The men of the Duchy shouted in anticipated victory. Gaius Philippus was beset by two Namdaleni at once. His sword darted like an adder’s tongue as he desperately held them off. Then Viridovix came rampaging up behind the easterners. One he flattened with a brawny fist; he traded sword strokes with the other for a few hot seconds, then, delicate as a surgeon, barely touched the islander’s neck with the edge of his blade. Ashen-faced, the Namdalener staggered away. He heard the umpire’s whistle with nothing but relief. The Romans—and some of the Namdaleni as well—yelled applause for the Celt’s swordplay.

  More than one man had really fallen; even without their points, the spearshafts both sides used were effective weapons. Here a man staggered away clutching a broken arm, there another was stretched full length on the ground, stunned or worse by a blow to the side of the head. A couple on each side had real sword wounds, too. The men were doing their best to use the flats of their blades instead of edges or points, but accidents had to happen.

  Marcus paid scant heed to the casualties. He was too busy trying to keep the Namdaleni from splitting his wider battle line and beating the Romans in detail. Also, thanks to his high-crested helm and red cape of rank, he was a primary target for the islanders. Some fought shy of his already fabled sword, but to the bravest of the brave it was challenge, not deterrent.

  Soteric had leaped for him at the outset, high glee on his face. The Roman ducked the lunge of his spear. Before he could reply with his own shorter weapon, the swirl of fighting swept them apart. Another Namdalener clouted him with a broken spearshaft. The tribune saw stars and waited for wand or whistle to take him out of action, but none of the referees spotted the stroke.

  Scaurus fought his way through the press to his senior centurion, who had just sent an islander from the fray by slipping past his thrust and thumping him on the chest with his sword. The tribune bellowed his plan at the top of his lungs. Some of the Namdaleni must have heard him, but he did not care—where in this world would they have learned Latin?

  When he was through, Gaius Philippus raised a startled eyebrow. “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure. They’re certain to beat us if we keep fighting on their terms.”

  “All right.” The centurion brushed the sweat from his forehead with his sword arm. “This puts it all on one throw, doesn’t it? But I think you’re right—we’ve got nothing to lose. The bastards are just too big to deal with, straight up. You want me to lead it, I hope?”

  “No one else. Take the Gaul along, too, if you find him.”

  Gaius Philippus grinned wolfishly. “Aye, if it works he’d be just the man I want. Wish me luck.” He slipped back through the Roman ranks, shouting orders as he went.

  The third, rearmost, maniple had not yet been entirely committed to the fighting, despite the pressure at the front. Gaius Philippus pulled about thirty men from the last couple of ranks and led them at a fast trot round the left side of the Romans’ line. As he ran, he caught Viridovix’s eye and waved for him to join them.

  “Good-bye to you, now,” the Celt told the man he was fighting; he checked his slash inches from the flinching Namdalener’s face. Before a nearby umpire could tap his victim, Viridovix was free of the crush and loping after the centurion and his flanking party.

  The next minute or two would tell the story, Marcus knew. If the Namdaleni could break through his suddenly thinned line before Gaius Philippus took them in flank, it would be all over. If not, though, he would have built himself a miniature Kynoskephalai. Just as Flaminius had against King Philip of Macedon’s phalanx one-hundred-forty years before, he was using his troops’ ability to maneuver and fight in small units to overcome a more heavily-armed, less wieldy foe.

  Learning Greek was good for something after all, he thought irrelevantly. If it hadn’t been for Polybios, I might never have thought of this.

  It was going to be very close, though. The Roman center was stretched almost to the breaking point. There in the very heart of the fire stood the legionary Minucius like a stone wall. His helmet was jammed down over one ear by some blow he had taken and his shield was almost beaten to bits, but he was holding the Namdaleni at bay. Other Romans, driven back by the men of the Duchy, rallied to him and kept the line intact.

  Then the pressure on them suddenly eased as Gaius Philippus and his little band crashed against the easterners’ flank. The pikes which had given the Romans so much trouble now proved the bane of the islanders. Hampered by their long shafts, the Namdaleni could not spin to meet the new threat without fouling each other and throwing their lines into chaos. Yelling their own victory paean, the Romans slid into the gaps thus exposed and worked what would have been a ghastly slaughter. Behind them came sweating, panting referees to reckon up their victims.

  In this sort of fight, with all order fallen by the wayside, Viridovix was at his best. Like some runaway engine of destruction, he howled through the disintegrating Namdalener ranks, smashing pikeshafts to kindling and caving in shields with blows of his mighty sword. His long red locks streamed from under his helmet, a private battle banner.

  As the Namdaleni faltered, the Romans’ main line surged forward t
oo, completing the work the flanking column had begun. The demoralized islanders could not stand against them. Soon those whose dooms the umpires had not decreed were a small, struggling knot almost surrounded by their conquerors.

  Soteric was still there, fighting with the best of them. When he saw Marcus prowling round the Namdaleni looking for an opening, he cried with a laugh, “Vile foe, you’ll not take me alive!” He rushed at the tribune, sword held high over his head. Grinning in return, Scaurus stepped up to meet him.

  Helvis’ brother was quick and strong and as skillful a user of the slashing style as any Marcus had faced. The Roman had all he could do to keep himself untouched, parrying with his own blade and blocking Soteric’s cuts with his shield. He was panting at once, as was the islander—mock-fighting, it seemed, was about as tiring as the real thing.

  A legionary ran up to help his commander. Distracted by the new threat, Soteric left himself unguarded for an instant, and Marcus’ blade snaked past his shield to ring off his breastplate. Zeprin the Red tooted his whistle and pointed at the Namdalener with his wand.

  Soteric threw both hands in the air. “Beset by two at once, your valiant leader falls,” he shouted to his men. “The time has come to ask the enemy for mercy.” Quite realistically, he tumbled to the ground. The few easterners still in the fray doffed their helmets in token of surrender.

  “A cheer for our enemies in this fight, our friends in the next!” Marcus called, and the Romans responded with a will. The Namdaleni gave back the compliment. The two groups left the field as one. Marcus saw a man of the Duchy help a hobbling Roman along, watched one of his legionaries demonstrating the thrusting stroke to a pair of easterners, and decided the morning’s work had been a great success.

  Miraculously risen from the slain, Soteric caught up with the tribune. “Congratulations,” he said, taking the Roman’s hand. “I have to ask your indulgence in putting off payment of our stake for a day or two. I felt so sure we would win, I fear I laid in no supplies for a feast I didn’t think we’d have to give.”

  “No hurry,” Marcus said. “Your men fought very well.” He meant it; the Namdaleni, not natural foot soldiers, had given the Romans all they wanted.

  “Thank you. I thought we were going to push straight through you until you sprang that flanking maneuver on us. That was quick thinking.”

  “The idea wasn’t altogether mine, I’m afraid.” He explained how he had borrowed Flaminius’ solution to a similar tactical problem.

  Soteric nodded thoughtfully. “Interesting,” he commented. “You’re drawing on knowledge of war no one here can match. That could be precious one day.”

  It was the Roman’s turn to nod; the same thought had crossed his mind. And because his nature was one to grapple with all sides of a question, he also wondered what the Videssians and their neighbors knew of war that Rome had never learned … and what price he would have to pay for instruction.

  Torches, lamps, and fat beeswax candles kept the courtyard in front of the Namdalener barracks bright as day, though by now the sun was a couple of hours gone. The courtyard, most of the time a pleasant open place, was full of splintery benches and tables hastily made by throwing boards over trestles. The benches were full of feasters and the tables piled high with food.

  Except for an unlucky handful who had drawn sentry duty, all the Romans were there to collect the prize they’d won from the Namdaleni. They and the easterners seemed to have nothing but respect for each other. Seating arrangements intermingled the two groups, and those on both sides who had been in the bout three days before swapped stories and proudly displayed their bandages to their admiring comrades.

  Roast pork, beef, mutton, and goat were the main courses, eked out with fowl and the fish and other seafood so easily available in the city. To the dismay of the Namdaleni, most of the Romans gave everything a liberal dousing with the spicy sauce of fermented fish the Videssians loved. The men of the Duchy kept the puritan palates of their northern ancestors, but to the Romans liquamen was a condiment known and loved for many years.

  “I suppose you like garlic, too,” Soteric said with a shudder.

  “Don’t you?” Marcus replied, amazed anyone could not.

  Wine, ale, and mead flowed like water. Thanks to the sweetness of the local wines, the tribune found he was developing a real taste for the thick, dark ale the Videssians brewed. But when he said that to Soteric, it was the islander’s turn for surprise. “This bilgewater?” he exclaimed. “You should come to the Duchy, my friend, where you drink your ale with a fork.”

  Viridovix, an earthenware mug in his hand, said, “Why anyone would drink ale—with a fork or no, mind you—when there’s the blood of the grape to be had is past my understanding. In the land where I was born, ale was a peasant’s drink. For the chiefs, now, it was wine, when we could get it and when we could afford it. A dear thing it was, too, that I’ll tell you.”

  Some fine wines came from Narbonese Gaul, with its warm Mediterranean climate, but Marcus realized he had seen no vines in Viridovix’s northern homeland. Like most Romans, the tribune had drunk wine from childhood and took it very much for granted. For the first time, it occurred to him how precious it could be when hard to come by.

  At the Celt’s right hand sat his nomad friend from the far northwest; the Arshaum had given his name as Arigh, son of Arghun. The night was mild, but he wore a wolfskin jacket and a hat of red fox. His hard, lean frame and the lithe, controlled intensity of his movements reminded Scaurus of a hunting hawk. Until now he had been too busy with heroic eating to say much, but the talk of drink gained his interest.

  “Ale, mead, wine—what difference does it make?” he said. He spoke Videssian fairly well, with a clipped, quick accent in perfect accord with the way he carried himself. “Kavass, now, is a man’s drink, made from his horses’ milk and with a kick as strong.”

  The stuff sounded ghastly, Marcus thought. He also noticed that Arigh’s derisive comment about the drinks before him was not keeping him from downing quite a lot of them.

  At the rate food was vanishing, it was no easy task to keep the tables loaded. Almost as if they were a bucket brigade battling a fire, the Namdalener women made never-ending trips from the kitchens with full platters and pitchers and back to them with empties. Marcus was surprised to see that Helvis was one of them. When he remarked on it, Soteric said with a shrug, “She told me she would sooner distract herself than sit alone and ache. What could I say to that?”

  The servers were, most of them, much like the soldiers’ women Scaurus had known in Rome’s dominions. They thought nothing of trading bawdry with the men they were attending; pats and pinches brought as many laughs as squeaks of outrage. Through all that Helvis passed unaffronted; she wore her mourning like invisible armor. Her look of quiet sorrow and her air of remoteness, even when bending over a man’s shoulder to fill his winecup, were enough to deter the most callous wencher.

  More and more drink was fetched as time went by, and less and less food. Never sedate to begin with, the feast grew increasingly boisterous. Romans and Namdaleni learned each other’s curses, tried to sing each other’s songs, and clumsily essayed each other’s dances. A couple of fights broke out, but they were instantly quelled by the squabblers’ neighbors—good feelings ran too high tonight to give way to quarrels.

  More than a few people wandered into the courtyard to see what the racket was about, and most of them liked what they found. Scaurus saw Taso Vones several tables away, a mug of wine in one hand and a partridge leg in the other. He waved to the ambassador of Khatrish, who made his way through the crowd and squeezed in beside him.

  “You’re kind to want anything to do with me,” he said to the tribune, “especially if you recall that the last time I set eyes on you, I did nothing but flee.”

  Marcus had drunk enough wine and ale to make him brush aside such trifles. “Think nothing of it,” he said grandly. “It was Avshar we were after, not you.” That, though, served to
remind him of the pursuit and its grievous outcome. He subsided, feeling like a blockhead.

  Vones cocked his head to the side and watched the Roman out of one eye, for all the world like some bright-eyed little sparrow. “How curious,” he said. “You of all people are the last I’d expect to find hobnobbing with the Namdaleni.”

  “Why don’t you shut up, Taso?” Soteric said, but from his resigned tone he felt it would do no good. Evidently he knew the Khatrisher and, like so many, was used to giving him leeway. “I think you talk for the sake of hearing yourself.”

  “What better reason?” Vones returned with a smile.

  He would have said more, but Marcus, his curiosity fired by Vones’ comment, interrupted him. “What’s wrong with these folk?” he asked, waving to encompass the courtyard and everyone in it. “We get on well with them. Is something amiss in that?”

  “Easy, easy.” The ambassador laid a warning hand on his arm, and he realized how loudly he’d spoken. “Why don’t we take an evening stroll? The night-blooming jasmine is particularly sweet this time of year, don’t you think?” He turned to Soteric. “Don’t worry, my island friend. I shan’t pick his pocket—I can guess what you have planned for later.”

  Soteric shrugged; he had gotten involved in a conversation with the Namdalener on his left, who was making a point about hunting dogs. “I don’t like the hook-nosed breed,” the man was saying. “It makes their mouths too small to hold the hare. And if they have gray eyes, too, so much the worse—they can’t see to grab the beast in the first place.”

  “About that I’m not so sure,” Soteric said, swigging. The more he drank, the more his island drawl came to the fore; his last word had sounded like “shoo-ah.” He went on, “Gray-eyed hounds have keen noses, they say.”