He shrugged, then went on, “My people tell a fable about a little lark who heard the sky was about to fall. She turned on her back with her legs in the air to catch it. ‘Have you become a tree, then?’ all the other animals asked. ‘No,’ she answered, ‘but still I must do all I can.’ So did she, and so do we.”
Just as it had for Onomagoulos, the army arranged itself in review to honor Gagik Bagratouni. As the general rode up on a roan stallion, Scaurus found himself impressed by the man’s sheer physical presence. If Caesar had been a bird of prey, a human expression of Rome’s eagle, Gagik Bagratouni was a lion.
His tawny skin, his mane of coal-black hair, and the thick dark beard that covered his wide, high-cheekboned face almost to the eyes were enough in themselves to create that impression. The steady gaze from those eyes, a hunter’s look, added to the image, as did the thrust of his nose—it was thicker and fleshier than the typical Videssian beak, but no less imperious. He even sat his horse strikingly, as if posing for an equestrian statue or, more likely, conscious that many eyes were on him.
Bagratouni held that impassive seat as he walked his horse past unit after unit. The only acknowledgment the troops got that he was so much as aware of their presence was a flick of his eyes across their ranks, the slightest dip of his head as he passed by each commander. Mavrikios himself was not nearly so imperial of demeanor, yet it was plain Gagik Bagratouni meant no slight to the Emperor, but was merely acting as he always did.
When he came to the Romans, drawn up next to the Emperor’s Haloga guard, Bagratouni’s thick brows rose—these were men whose like he had not seen. He looked them over appraisingly, studying their equipment, their stance, their faces. Whatever his judgment was, he did not show it. But when he saw Senpat and Nevrat Sviodo standing with the Romans’ officers, his heavy features lit in the first smile Scaurus had seen from him.
He shouted something in his own tongue. His voice was in keeping with the rest of him, a bass roar. Senpat answered in the same speech; though altogether ignorant of it, Marcus heard the name “Sviodo” several times. Gagik Bagratouni cried out again, then jumped down from his horse and folded Senpat Sviodo in a bearhug, kissing him on each cheek. He did the same to Nevrat, with a different kind of gusto.
“Sahak Sviodo’s son!” he said in thickly accented Videssian, switching languages out of courtesy to the Romans around him, “and with such a lovely bride, too! Lucky you are, both of you! Sahak was a great one for pulling Yezd’s beard, yes, and the Emperor’s too, when in our affairs he stuck it. You have the very look of home—I knew him well.”
“I wish I could say the same,” Senpat answered. “He died before my beard sprouted.”
“So I heard, and a great pity it was,” Bagratouni said. “Now you must tell me—who are these strange men you travel with?”
“Have you noticed, Scaurus darling,” Viridovix said, “that every one of these Vaspurakaner omadhauns who sets eyes on you and yours is after calling you funny-looking? Right rude it is, I’m thinking.”
“Likely they saw you first,” Gaius Philippus put in, drawing a glare from Viridovix.
“Enough, you two,” Marcus said. Perhaps luckily, the Gaul and the centurion preferred Latin as a language for bickering, and the Vaspurakaners could not understand them. Scaurus named his men for Bagratouni, introduced some of his officers and, as he had done so often by now, briefly explained how they had come to Videssos.
“That is most marvelous,” Gagik Bagratouni said. “You—all of you—” His expansive gesture took in everyone the tribune had presented to him. “—must to my home come this evening for a meal, and more of your tale to tell me. I would have it now, but things are piling up behind me.”
He spoke the truth there; the procession he headed, which was made up of his contingent’s officers and some of the leading officials and citizens of Amorion, had halted in confusion when he dismounted. Its members were variously standing about or sitting on horseback while waiting for him to continue. One of them in particular, a tall harsh-faced priest who had a fierce hound on a lead of stout iron chain, was staring venomously at Bagratouni. The Vaspurakaner affected not to notice, but Scaurus stood near enough to hear him mutter, “Plague take you, Zemarkhos, you shave-pated buzzard.”
Bagratouni remounted, and the army of functionaries moved on toward the Emperor. When the priest started forward once more, his dog balked, setting itself on its haunches. He jerked at its chain. “Come on, Vaspur!” he snapped, and the beast, choked by its collar, yelped and followed him.
Marcus was not sure he believed his ears. Clearly, not all Videssians shared the liking Phostis Apokavkos had for the folk of Vaspurakan—not when a priest would name his dog for the Vaspurakaners’ eponymous ancestor. Senpat Sviodo stood tight-lipped beside Scaurus, plainly feeling the insult’s sting. The Roman wondered how Gagik Bagratouni put up with such calculated insolence.
Unlike Baanes Onomagoulos at Garsavra, Bagratouni dismounted and performed a full proskynesis before the Emperor, followed by everyone accompanying him. Even in the formal act of submission to his overlord he was still a commanding figure, going to his knees and then to his belly with feline dignity and grace. Scaurus noted with amusement that, by comparison, the churlish priest Zemarkhos looked a poorly built stick man.
After Mavrikios’ brief speech of thanks for the men Bagratouni had collected, the Vaspurakaner general and his party performed the proskynesis once more, then retired from the imperial presence. He held up their withdrawal for a moment to give Senpat Sviodo and Scaurus directions to his dwelling. Zemarkhos had never seen Romans before, but, from the look he gave them, their willingness to be a Vaspurakaner’s guests was enough to brand them agents of Skotos.
When Senpat Sviodo and his wife met the Romans who were going with them to Bagratouni’s, they had exchanged their traveling garb for more elegant attire. He wore a spotless white tunic coming almost to his knees, baggy trousers of reddish-brown wool, and sandals with golden clasps. On his head was the familiar Vaspurakaner cap; his pandora was slung across his back.
Nevrat was in a long gown of light blue linen, its cut subtly different from Videssian designs. The dress set off her dark skin magnificently, as did her massy silver bracelets, necklace, and earrings.
Senpat stared at the Romans in amazement. “What matter of men have I fallen in with?” he cried. “Do you satisfy each other? Where are your women, in Phos’ sacred name?”
“It’s not our usual custom to bring them, unbidden, to a feast,” Marcus answered, but he shared an apprehensive look with Quintus Glabrio. The junior centurion was partnered to a fiery-tempered Videssian girl named Damaris. She and Helvis would not be pleased to learn they had been excluded from a function which they could have attended.
The rest of the Roman party was more sanguine about being by themselves. “Sure and there’ll be a lass or three fair famished for the sight of a Celtic gentleman,” Viridovix said. “It’s not as if I’m thinking to return alone.”
Gaius Philippus was in most ways an admirable man but, as Marcus knew, women were of no use to him out of bed. He looked back at Senpat Sviodo with as much incomprehension as the Vaspurakaner directed toward him.
“Are you looking at me?” Gorgidas asked Senpat. “I hold with the idea of Diogenes, a wise man of my people. When he was asked the right time for marriage, he said, ‘For a young man, not yet; for an old man, never.’ ”
“What of you, though?” Senpat asked. “You’re neither one nor the other.”
“I manage,” Gorgidas said shortly. “Right now, I manage to be hungry. Come on, shall we?”
Gagik Bagratouni’s home was half villa, half fortress. Its grounds were spacious and well kept, with little groves of citruses, figs, and date palms placed artfully among flowerbeds full of bright blooms. But the main house was a thick-walled stronghold seemingly transplanted from Vaspurakan’s hills, set behind outworks that would have delighted the commander of any border keep.
&nbs
p; As he greeted his guests by the massive, metal-clad gate, Bagratouni noticed the tribune taking the measure of the place and Gaius Philippus’ frank stare of professional appraisal. “This is not what I would want,” he said, waving at the forbidding gray stone walls. “But I fear too many in Amorion delight not in seeing prosper the princes. But prosper I do, and I am able for myself to care.”
That, if anything, was an understatement, for Gagik Bagratouni did not rely on walls alone for protection. His personal guard manned them, a picked group of young Vaspurakaners as formidable as any band of warriors Scaurus had seen.
“Do not worry about such things,” the general said. “Come into my courtyard; eat, drink, talk, laugh.”
Bagratouni’s house was laid out in a basic style Marcus knew well, for it was popular among the wealthy in Italy. Instead of facing out onto the world, the home’s focus was directed inward to a central court. But the structure was more a bastion than any Roman home Marcus knew. Only a few windowslits were directed outward, and those as much for arrow-fire as for view. The gates that led from the outer grounds into the courtyard were almost as stoutly made as those protecting the estate as a whole.
Lanterns hung from trees inside the courtyard. Their glass panes were of many colors; as twilight deepened, beams of gold and red, blue and green danced in the foliage. The main tables in the courtyard’s center, though, were brightly lit, to call attention to the feast they bore.
Vaspurakaner cookery was nothing like Videssian cuisine, which emphasized seafood and sauces of fermented fish. The main course was a roasted kid, spiced with a glaze of tarragon, mint, and lemon, and garnished with shreds of sharp yellow cheese. There was also a stew of ground lamb and hard-boiled eggs, made flavorful with onion, coriander, and cinnamon, and extended with chickpeas. Both dishes made the eyes water along with the mouth, but both were delicious.
“Whoo!” Viridovix said, fanning his face with his hand. “There’s a lot going on in there.” To quell the flames, he downed his winecup and reached for the decanter before him. Of all Bagratouni’s guests, the big Celt probably felt the food’s tang the most. Beyond vinegar, honey, and a few pale-flavored herbs, northern Gaul had little to offer in the way of spices.
Scaurus sat at Gagik Bagratouni’s right, between the general and his chief aide, a man of early middle years named Mesrop Anhoghin, who was even more thickly bearded than his commander. At Bagratouni’s left, confirming Senpat Sviodo’s words, was the general’s wife Zabel, a plump, comfortable lady whose few words of Videssian were mostly an apology for not knowing more. Anhoghin’s command of the imperial tongue was not much better. As a result, Gagik Bagratouni had the tribune’s conversation almost entirely to himself, something Marcus soon began to suspect he had arranged deliberately.
The general—nakharar, he styled himself in his own language; it meant warrior-prince—had a hunger for knowledge of the world’s far reaches that rivaled Gorgidas’. Perhaps, thought Scaurus, it sprang from his effort to grow beyond the limits of the isolated land in which he’d come to manhood. Whatever the reason, he bombarded the Roman with questions not only touching on matters military, but also about his native land, its people, what the city of Videssos was like, even what it was like to see the ocean. “Never have I seen it,” he remarked sadly. “Rivers, yes, lakes, those yes, too, but never the sea.”
“Did I see his honor ask you about the sea?” asked Viridovix, who was a few seats away. At Marcus’ nod, the Gaul said earnestly, “Tell him it’s a fit province for lunatics, and precious little else. A boat’s no more than a prison, with the risk of drowning besides.”
“Why says he that?” Gagik asked. “On rivers and lakes I enjoy to fish in a boat.”
“He suffers from seasickness,” Scaurus answered, and then had to explain the concept to Bagratouni. The Vaspurakaner tugged his beard as he considered the Roman’s words; Marcus wondered if he thought he was being made sport of.
Dessert consisted of fruit and some interesting pastry balls, a mixture of wheat flour, ground dates, and minced almonds, covered over with powdered sugar. This last was a discovery for the Romans, for the Videssians sweetened with honey, even as they did themselves. Reaching for about his fourth, Gorgidas remarked, “It’s as well I don’t see these more often, lest I bulge with lard.”
“Bah!” Gaius Philippus said. “Why is it always the skinny ones who complain?” Only the hard life he led kept the centurion from losing the battle with his belly.
“Not only are they very good,” said Quintus Glabrio, licking his fingers, “but they look as if they’d keep well, and they’re so rich a few would feed a man for some time. They’d be good travelers’ fare.”
“So they would and so they are. You are one who sees the importance in things, then? That is good,” Bagratouni rumbled approvingly. “We of Vaspurakan often on journeys carry them.”
“The Videssians do, too,” Senpat Sviodo told him with a grin. “They call them ‘princes’ balls.’ ” The Romans and most of the Vaspurakaners snorted; Gagik Bagratouni looked blank. Senpat translated the pun into his native language. The nakharar blinked, then he and his wife began to laugh at the same time. When Zabel laughed it was easy to see how the lines had come to crease her features; her face was made for laughter. Gagik smiled at her fondly. She was far from beautiful, but in her own way lovely.
“Do they indeed?” her husband chuckled. “Do they indeed?”
After the dessert was finished, someone called to Senpat, “Give us a tune, there, since you’ve brought your pandoura along.”
“Fair enough,” he said. “Who’s with me?” One of the Vaspurakaners had a flute; a quick search of the house turned up a small hand-drum for another volunteer. And with no more ado than that they struck up a song of their mountain homeland. All the Vaspurakaners seemed to know the words and clapped out the beat with their hands. Senpat’s fingers danced over the strings of his instrument; his strong clear tenor helped lead the singers. Gagik Bagratouni sang with enthusiasm and great volume, but even Marcus could tell that the nakharar could not carry a tune in a bucket.
The tribune felt isolated, both by his indifference toward music in general and his ignorance of this music in particular. He wondered what Helvis would make of it and had another twinge of conscience over not bringing her with him. To his untrained ear, most of the songs had a defiant air to them, as befit the resilient folk who gave them birth.
As the musicians played on, the Vaspurakaners got up from the table one by one and began to dance, either with the ladies who accompanied them or with some of Gagik Bagratouni’s servinggirls. The slates of the courtyard rang to boot heels stamping in intricate rhythms. Bodies swayed, sinuous and sinewy at the same time. The dancers were a physical expression of what they heard, Marcus thought with surprise, and began to understand the grip strong music could take, even if he failed to feel it himself.
Viridovix, now, was taken hard by it, watching and listening as if in a trance. When at length Senpat and his fellows struck up a particularly sprightly tune, the Celt could stand—or rather sit—no more. He rose to join the dancers.
He did not try to imitate their steps, dancing instead in his native Gallic style. Where their upper bodies shifted to the music, he was almost still above the waist, his arms motionless at his sides while his legs and feet twinkled in the complex figures of his dance. He leaped, spun, checked himself seemingly in midair, spun in the other direction, leaped again. His movements were utterly dissimilar to those of the dancers round him, yet strangely complementary as well.
A few at a time, the Vaspurakaners formed a circle around Viridovix, clapping him on. The musicians played faster and faster, but the Gaul was equal to the challenge, whirling and capering like a man possessed. As the music reached a fiery pitch, he capped his dance by springing almost his own height into the air. He let out a great shout at the top of his leap and came back to earth with a final splendid flourish.
The clapping turned from time-k
eeping to applause, in which all those still in their seats heartily joined. “Marvelous, marvelous!” Gagik exclaimed. “That step I should like to learn, were I less stiff in knee and thick of belly. Marvelous!” he repeated.
“I thank your honor,” Viridovix panted; his exertions had deeply flushed his fair skin. He brushed sweat from his forehead. “Thirsty work it is, too. Would you be so kind as to fetch me a cup of wine, love?” he asked one of the serving-maids in the circle around him. Marcus noticed he chose a girl who had hardly been able to keep her eyes off him as he danced. The big Celt might be slipshod about some things, but where wenching was concerned he noted every detail.
“Thank you, lass,” the Gaul purred as the girl brought his drink. He slipped an arm around her in what could have passed for no more than thanks, but when she moved closer to him instead of away he gathered her in with practiced efficiency.
“Your friend is as good as his word,” Senpat Sviodo remarked to the tribune.
“I was thinking the same thing myself,” Marcus laughed.
One of Bagratouni’s retainers came trotting into the courtyard with some word for his master. He spoke in throaty Vaspurakaner, so Scaurus, sitting by the nakharar, could not understand what he said, but the Roman did catch the name Zemarkhos mentioned several times. Gagik Bagratouni’s black brows lowered in anger. He asked a curt question of his guardsman, who nodded.
Bagratouni’s scowl grew darker yet. He sat a moment in thought, his hands tangled in his thick beard. Then he snapped out a string of quick orders. The guard, startled, repeated the first one in a questioning voice, then broke into a toothy grin as Gagik explained. The man hurried away.
“Forgive me my rudeness, I pray you,” the nakharar said, turning back to Scaurus. “When rises my temper, I forget the Empire’s speech.”
“So do I,” the tribune admitted. “You’ve shown me much kindness tonight. I heard your man name the priest who hates you. Can I help you in your trouble? I think the Emperor would hear me if I asked him to make the man leave you at peace—Mavrikios is not one to sacrifice the Empire’s unity for the sake of a priest’s feelings.”
Misplaced Legion (Videssos Cycle) Page 30