by Dave Duncan
His close friends and aides would roll to the top of the heap at once. His personal signifer would be in line for heady promotions, even a consulship, perhaps. That long-lost political career was back on the table again. In feet it was shining brighter than it had ever done.
Sudden caution warned Ylo that politics had turned out to be more dangerous for his family than soldiering ever had. What he wanted now was a little security in his life. Yet…
Revenge? To serve this man would be a betrayal of his ancestors, his parents, his brothers…
Or would it be a sweeter revenge? And the opportunities for murder would be unlimited, day and night.
Confused, he muttered, “You couldn’t trust me!”
The prince had probably read every thought in that hesitation.
“You have the legion’s standard; you have earned it, and no one can question your loyalty to the Impire. For the rest, I will accept your word.”
Ylo stuttered and then blurted out, “Why?”—which was almost a capital offense in the army.
The legate frowned. “I was in Guwush when it happened, Signifer. I disapproved. It was a bloody, inexcusable massacre! I tried to stop it. Can you accept my word on that?”
Such words would be treason on any other lips. And he had no need to lie. He did not seem to be lying.
To Ylo’s astonishment his own voice said, “Yes, sir. I believe you.”
“And I would like to make what small recompense I can. Can you believe that?”
Ylo must have nodded, because the legate rose, and Ylo reeled to his feet, also. He laid down his goblet and lurched forward to accept the cape being offered. Surely the Gods had gone crazy?
“I appoint you my signifer, Ylo of the Yllipos!” the legate said solemnly. He pulled a face. “My grandfather will have a litter of piglets!”
There was no safe reply to that remark. Ylo was incapable of saying anything anyway. What had he fallen into? And how?
A curious gleam shone in the prince’s eye. “I hate being devious. You must be the senior surviving male in your family? If you want to claim the name and style yourself Yllipo, then now is the time to do it!”
That would be a direct slap at the imperor’s face. That would be a spit in his eye. It might even be illegal, or treasonous. That was much too dangerous!
Fortunately Ylo had a good excuse to hand. He found his voice. “I may have an aged uncle still alive somewhere, sir, I think.” An outlaw, of course, attaindered and penniless.
“He is not likely to dispute your claim, though?”
“No, sir… but I would hate him to hear of it.”
The prince nodded gravely. “The sentiment does you honor! Ylo it is then. Your duty is always to the imperor, then to me, then to the legion, in that order. But you will never find those loyalties in conflict.”
He was very sure of his own motives, Ylo thought. He himself was not. In fact he was a lot less sure of them than he’d been ten minutes ago. Why had he accepted? And Yllipo? Why should the prince imperial suggest a bravado like that?
What had Ylo won this day? A consulship, or revenge? If he played his hand right…
For a moment longer the legate studied his new aide—was he having doubts? But then he held out a hand to shake. Unable to believe this was happening, Ylo took it.
“I mourn my cousin deeply,” the prince said, “but I welcome you in his stead. I think it was not only the God of Battle who was with us out there today, Signifer. I think the God of Justice was busy, also.”
Tears sprang suddenly into Ylo’s eyes.
He wondered if he had just given away his soul.
5
The terrible day was not over—indeed, it had barely started.
Ylo staggered out of the legate’s tent into blinding heat, although the hour was shy of noon. The army did not consider a major battle any reason to slacken discipline. The camp lay spread out around him, rows of tents straight as javelins in all directions. On the outskirts, exhausted legionary grunts were digging the encircling vallation. The centurions’ screamed threats drifted in faintly. Well, there was the first blessing…
“You have your own duties to attend to.” Shandie had dismissed him with those words, but what in the Name of Evil did they mean?
The massive centurion accosted Ylo again and saluted. He had replaced the missing sandal.
Bewildered, Ylo returned the salute and only then realized that he was holding the slain signifer’s cape. That had been what this leather-faced thug had been saluting.
“Hardgraa,” the monolith growled. “Chief of his bodyguard.”
“Ylo,” Ylo said. “Personal signifer.”
That felt curiously satisfying.
Not believable, just satisfying.
“Thought you might need these,” Hardgraa remarked. He held out a wad of rags and a rolled red cloth.
Of course a signifer’s first duty would be to tend his standard—clean it, replace the bunting. That was what the legate had meant. Ylo took the offering with shaky hands. “Thanks.” He forced his aching feet to move.
The centurion paced beside him until they reached the standard. The easiest way to dispose of the cape was to put it on. It did keep the sun off, and the hood was certainly more comfortable than the massive, dented helmet. As Ylo was about to start work, the centurion muttered, “A moment, Signifer,” and straightened the hood for him. Bug-eyed perfectionist!
Ylo began polishing the lowest of the emblems. He would need a stool to reach the star, for he must never lay the pole on the ground. He tried to ignore the watching Hardgraa.
“See that civilian over there, the one who looks like a retired priest?”
Ylo forced his eyes to focus and grunted.
“Sir Acopulo—his chief political advisor. And the butterball just going into the tent? Lord Umpily, chief of protocol. And me. Anything you need to know, any help you want… just ask. Ask any of us, but one of those three especially.”
Ylo grunted again, squinting against the incandescent desert sun reflecting in his eyes. “Thanks more.”
“Anything concerning security or his safety—anything at all, no matter how trivial—tell me with your next breath.”
Ylo nodded and decided not to mention his own ambitions for a sharp blade between the royal ribs. He went back to work.
The centurion rubbed the bark on his chin. “You did say personal signifer, Signifer?”
“Yes.”
“Curious. An Yllipo? He must be making some sort of political statement.”
Ylo clenched his teeth and went on polishing.
“Important job. Sure to screw it up, of course. Maybe that’s it.”
Still Ylo held his temper. His skin was streaming sweat under his chain mail and felt rubbed raw in places, as if the links had worn right through his tunic. Every joint ached, every muscle trembled with fatigue.
Hardgraa scratched his cheek. “And I’ve never known Shandie to go for a pretty face before. Tribune of the Vth Cohort, now—he’s a rogue. Vets all the young recruits… but not Shandie.”
Ylo spun around, staggered, steadied himself with a hand on the accursed pole. He scowled at the crude, weatherbeaten veteran. A rock-eater, this one. He’d met some tough centurions in his time, but this looked like the original, the prototype. “I understood that his personal signifer was his chief of staff. Centurion?”
“Correct.”
“Then… I… you…” He was too muddled to find me right words.
“You don’t give me orders, Signifer. You pass on his orders. If he hasn’t given any, you tell me what you think his orders would be. I obey those orders.”
Oh, Gods—responsibility!
“We’re a team!” The older man chuckled dryly. “You think we’ll try to pull you down? You’re expecting a rat pack, maybe?”
Dumbly Ylo nodded. He was an outsider. He had been thrown into this close-knit coterie with his fur still wet and his fangs not grown. His loyalties were as questionabl
e as his abilities, and they must all know that.
The centurion shook his head. “If Shandie wants you, then he gets you. Trust us! You’re in, understand? One of us. And the sooner you can be useful to him, the happier we’ll all be. You can’t do my job, and I can’t do yours, because I’m not gentle born. We each sing our own songs, understand? A team. And if you ever let him down, in any way at all, I shall personally rearrange that pretty face until you look like a retired gladiator with a bad case of —“
“What’re you telling me. Centurion?”
“The council of war’s in half an hour.”
Ylo threw down the rag.
“Why the Evil didn’t you say so? I want two of the maniple signifers here soonest. If any other legion’s standard outshines the XIIth’s at the council, I will personally roast their balls on a stick. I need a shave, a wash, and clean kit—right now!”
Hardgraa grinned, showing a ragged assortment of amber teeth. “Yessir!” he said, and took off at the double.
An hour later Ylo found himself still awake, attending the council of war. At least, he thought he was still awake. Who would ever suggest that a man wear a wolfskin cape—with a hood, yet—over full armor in a tropical desert? But to attend a council of war, standing on shaking legs in back of the prince imperial, facing a proconsul… No, he had to be awake; no dream could ever be this unlikely. If the Gods weren’t insane then he was.
Under the furnace glare of the sun, the circle of legates huddled within the circle of their signifers. Ylo was not close enough to hear what was said, but he had already heard Shandie tell his advisors what he expected to be said, and what ought to be said, and the conversation would not veer much from that path.
Technically Shandie was Iggipolo’s subordinate, but everyone knew that this state of affairs might terminate at any minute with a courier on a steaming horse bringing word of the imperor’s death. Furthermore, it had been Shandie who had brought up the XIIth in time to turn Karthin from utter disaster to slim victory. Thus the proconsul would be very considerate of that particular legate’s opinion. Shandie’s opinion was that the caliph had been taught a lesson, but the Impire would need to field more resources before it could apply any further education. There had been no formal declaration of war, there would be no formal treaty. The status quo had been restored and the issues must wait for another day.
No one was very happy about that. There were too many dead imps being dug out of the mud. Even a battle-shattered tyro like Ylo could yearn for the caliph’s head on a pole at short notice—preferably after someone else had collected it—but to argue with reality was crazy. The Impire had held the field and could do nothing with it, a useless victory.
When everyone agreed to that, the council dispersed, and the army turned to its own affairs: tending the wounded, burying the dead, thanking the Gods… prisoners and fodder and victuals and transport and sanitation and replacements and all the concerns of a mobile city. The cowards were strung up and flogged before the assembled legion—four died, and the rest were crippled. Shandie had confirmed the sentences; he watched impassively as they were carried out. His signifer stood at his back and watched also and remembered the hours he had lain in the swamp, playing dead.
Rumor said that the VIIth Cohort of the XXXth had run from the field and was going to be formally decimated.
In the Imperial Army, a tribune might command a cohort or a troop of cavalry or an administrative department or even the legion itself at times—or nothing at all. The distinctions were subtle and deathly important. The legate of the XIIth had about a score of assorted tribunes at his call. Being a prince as well as commander of the crack XIIth, he also maintained a civilian staff, a court in waiting, and it comprised a dozen or so advisors and flunkies. Ylo was now expected to coordinate all these people and oversee every matter, military or civil, large or small.
Lists and reports, dozens of reports—reports above all. Every one of them involved the legate and his signifer. Signifers had duties of their own, also. Standards did not, without assistance, signal commands or carry themselves at parades or honor the Gods. The legionary signifer had command of all the lesser signifers; Shandie’s signifer had charge of the coding sticks and all his secret correspondence.
Ylo should have gone stark raving crazy during the next few hours, but he just did not have the time. What had he gotten himself into? Looking beautiful while holding up a stupid pole was a job he thought he could handle. He had not wanted all this. The aftermath of battle was no time to be breaking in a new man, but obviously Shandie was going to do it anyway. Ylo wondered more than once if he was just being worked to death to get rid of him. In one moment of particular despair, he even suggested that to Hardgraa.
“Not Shandie,” the monolith growled. “His grandfather would, certainly. Not a scruple in his head, that one. But not Shandie. It’s always like this around him.”
Out of uniform, the prince imperial was nothing much to look at. Even in his bathtub he went on working, listening to reports, so Ylo knew exactly what he looked like, and he wasn’t a patch on Ylo himself for looks. Like any imp, he was dark-haired and swarthy; his complexion was poor. He was slighter and bonier than most, with hardly a hint of his grandfather’s aquiline arrogance. His eyes, though… his eyes gave him away.
He was eerily impassive, never wasting a move, and yet he had more energy than a hurricane. Oh, he was quiet. He was patient. He would explain in detail—but Ylo dared not give him cause to explain twice.
He dictated to four pairs of secretaries at the same time—a burst of short sentences to each, then on to the next, and by the time they had written down his words he would be around with another burst. He rarely needed to ask for a read-back.
Ylo was supposed to organize all that, making sure both versions of each letter were the same, coding those that were especially secret. It went on without respite until dark was falling and insects batted and fizzed around the lamp. He could not remember when he had last slept, and his head was stuffed with rocks.
Accepting a bundle of letters to be sealed, he swayed on his feet. Shandie reached out and steadied him. Ylo peered blearily at that now-familiar black stare. He began to mutter an apology and was cut off.
“Can you last another twenty minutes?”
“I think so, sir.” Liar!
“Good. Now, who else wants to see me tonight?”
Ylo turned to the door, struggling to remember names and faces.
Perhaps it was only twenty minutes. It felt like an hour before taps was sounded and Shandie suddenly called a halt. The secretaries clutched up their writing cases and hurried away.
Ylo stepped outside and ordered a military escort to see them back to the auxiliaries’ quarters. The moon was up. Distant peaks in the Progistes glimmered like pearls. He shivered—he had never known a place to cool off as fast as this one, and he had never known a man could be so weary and still live. He returned to the tent that seemed to have become his prison. He removed the benches the secretaries had used. He straightened up the chests and rugs; he tidied up odds and ends.
Shandie was sitting on the chair, studying a sheet of vellum in the wavering light of an oil lamp above him. He seemed unconscious of the flies and moths wheeling around him.
He was nothing much to look at, but he could twist a man like a string. Ylo hated him, didn’t he? Hated him for the way his grandfather had slaughtered the clan? Hated him for the torment of overwork? Hated him just for being Shandie? Didn’t he?
Maybe he was just too tired to hate, and his hatred would come back in the morning. Maybe he wasn’t the hating type.
Ylo tucked a few stray blades of grass back under the edge of a rug. The prince’s bedding must be in one of the chests, but he did not know which. It would be his job to find it and set it up. He did not know where he himself was supposed to sleep, but any flint quarry would do nicely, thank you.
Shandie was watching him.
“Bedding, sir?”
/>
“It’s in that one, I think. But we shan’t need it, I hope. Pass me my helmet.”
No more, no more! Gods let it end!
Ylo fetched the helmet. He knew the drill now—they stood face to face; he inspected the prince, adjusting his plume, rubbing smears off his cuirass. At the same time, Shandie inspected him, straightening the wolfskin hood so the ears stood up evenly, checking his chain mail and even making sure he had no ink-stains on his fingers.
Shandie must be just as exhausted as Ylo, but he didn’t look it. He had as much reason to be exhausted. He had marched all the previous night at the head of his legion—Shandie never rode into battle, which was one reason the men all loved him so. He had fought as hard as Ylo, certainly, and driven himself as hard ever since. Yet the bastard wasn’t showing it.
Those imperial eyes were on his face…
“You’re doing very well, Signifer.”
Gulp. “Thank you, sir.”
“Extremely well. I appreciate what this is costing you. Now, we’re probably going to have another visitor.” The prince lowered his voice. “I can’t guarantee it, but he does like to watch battles. Close the door.”
Ylo went. The night air outside was perfumed with some plant he didn’t know, and sweet as wine, now that it was cooling off. The camp was dark. The inside of the tent stank of oil. The flaps fell, shutting out the desert night, shutting in the two men and the dance of lamplight.
Shandie was standing at one side, waiting like a boulder. Maybe the man was crazy. Ylo limped over and stood behind him, the two of them facing the entrance. The single chair sat in the center, empty. The water clock dripped monotonously. Superstitious tinglings stroked Ylo’s scalp. This was madness.
Then the flap on one side flicked up momentarily, and a man entered—except that Ylo had the curious delusion that he’d seen the darkness of the opening uninterrupted until the flap was falling again, and in that case… Man?
He was very big. His armor shone in gold, with jewels on his breastplate and greaves. His helmet lacked cheek pieces or nose-guard, so that the handsome young face could be clearly seen.