“I thank you.” Nevrat stepped past him. “Always good to visit you; the pen-pushers heat their digs well.” She undid the heavy wool scarf she was wearing in place of the bright silk one she preferred, let her fleecy coat fall open.
Marcus hardly noticed her making herself comfortable; he was still eyeing the empty corridor outside his room. “Where’s Senpat?” he blurted.
“Singing—and drinking, I imagine—at the wine shop we’ve all been visiting. I chose not to go along.”
“Ah,” Scaurus said, more a polite noise than anything else. He hesitated, then asked, “Does he know you’re here?”
“No.”
The word seemed to hang in the air between them. Marcus started to shut the door, paused again. “Would you rather I left it open?”
“It’s all right; close it.” Nevrat sounded amused. She looked round the tribune’s rather bare quarters. Her eye fell on the book he had so hastily set down. She opened it, frowned at the alien script—the Greek alphabet looked nothing like Videssian or her native Vaspurakaner. Helvis had reacted the same way, Marcus recalled; he bit his lip at the unbidden memory.
To cover the stab of hurt, he waved Nevrat to the room’s only chair. “Wine?” he asked. At her nod, he pulled a bottle and cup from the top drawer of the pine chest next to his bed. He poured for her, then sat on the bed, leaning back against the wall.
She raised any eyebrow. “Aren’t you having any? You said you’d gone moderate, not teetotal.”
“Perish the thought!” he exclaimed. “But, you see, I have just the one cup.”
Her laughter filled the little room. She drank, then sat forward to pass him the cup. “We must share, then.”
His fingers brushed hers as he took it. “Thank you. I hadn’t planned to do much entertaining here.”
“So I see,” she said. “Certainly it’s not the lair a practiced seducer would have.”
“As is only fitting, because I’m not.” He filled the cup again, offered it to her.
She took it but did not drink at once, instead holding it and contemplating it with an expression so ironic that Scaurus found himself flushing. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he protested.
“I know you didn’t.” Nevrat raised the cup to her lips to prove it. She passed it to him, went on, “Marcus, I have cared for you as long as we’ve known each other.”
“And I for you, very much,” he nodded. “Aside from everything else, without you these past weeks would have been … well, even worse than they are. I owe you so much for that.”
She waved that aside. “Don’t speak foolishly. Senpat and I are happy to do whatever we can for you.”
He frowned; she had not mentioned her husband since she sat down. But as they talked on, Senpat’s name did not come up again, and the tribune found his hopes rising. He remembered the joke he had heard from Iatzoulinos. Judging by Nevrat’s laughter, he told it better than the seal-stamper had.
“Oh, a fine story,” she said. “ ‘What in Skotos’ name was that?’ ” Repeating the punch line set her chuckling again. Her black eyes glowed; her grin was wide and happy. She was, Scaurus thought, one of those uncommon women whose features grew more beautiful with animation.
A lamp went out. The tribune got up. He took out a little bottle of oil, filled the lamp, and relit the wick with one of the others. He had to pass close by Nevrat to get back to his seat on the bed. As he did, he reached out to stroke her dark, curly hair. It was coarser under his fingers than he had imagined.
She rose, too, and turned to face him. He stepped forward to embrace her.
“Marcus,” she said.
Had she spoken his name another way, he would have gone on to take her in his arms. As it was, she might have held up Medusa’s head, to turn him to stone in his tracks. He searched her face, found regret and compassion there, but not eagerness to match his own.
“It’s no good, is it?” he asked dully, already sure of the answer.
“No,” she said. “I’m sorry, but it’s not.” She started to put a hand on his shoulder, then arrested the gesture. That was worse than her words.
“I should have known.” He had to look away from her to continue. “But you were always so caring, so sympathetic, that I hoped—I thought—I let myself think …”
“Something more might be there,” she finished for him.
He nodded, still avoiding her eyes.
“I saw that,” she said. “I did not know what to do, but finally I decided we had to speak of it. Truly I do not want any man but Senpat.”
“The two of you are very lucky,” Marcus said. “I’ve thought so many times.” Holding his voice steady was rather like fighting after taking a wound.
“I know we are,” she said quietly. “And so I came tonight to say what I had to say—and instead we ended up chatting like the friends we’ve always been. That silly story of yours about the rich man who wanted to be an actor—” Thinking of it, she smiled again, but only for a moment. “I suppose I just thought I could let things go on as they had. But then—”
“Then I had to make a mess of it,” he said bitterly.
“No!” For the first time, Nevrat sounded angry. “I don’t blame you for it. How could I? After what happened to you, of course you hope to find again the happiness you once knew. But—I am as I am, and I cannot be the one to give it to you. I’m sorry, Marcus, and sorrier that now I’ve hurt you, too, when that is the last thing I ever wanted.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Scaurus said. “I brought it on myself.”
“It matters very much,” Nevrat insisted. “Can we go on now as friends?” She must have sensed his thoughts, for she said quickly, “Think now, before you say no. How do we—either of us—explain to Senpat what went wrong?”
The tribune found himself promising to keep the friendship going. To his surprise, he also found himself meaning it. Not being an outgoing sort, he had too few friendships to throw any casually away. And whatever he wished was there with Nevrat, they did genuinely like and care for each other.
“Good,” she said crisply. “Then we need not break our next meeting-day—three days from now, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll see you then. Truly, I will be glad to. Always believe that.” Nevrat smiled—a little more cautiously than she would have before, Marcus judged, but not much—and stepped out into the hallway, closing the door behind her.
Her footsteps faded. Scaurus put the wine away. It was probably for the best, he told himself. Senpat was a good man as well as a close friend. He had no business trying to put cuckold’s horns on him. Down deep, he knew that perfectly well.
He kicked the side of the cheap pine chest as hard as he could. It split. Pain shot up from his toe. He heard the jug of wine break. Swearing at fate, his damaged foot, and the wine, he used a rag to mop up the mess. By luck, the jar was almost empty, so only one tunic was ruined.
He gave a sour laugh as he blew out the lamps and crawled into bed. He should have known better than to think he was having a good day. Since Helvis left, there were no good days for him.
He was still limping as he climbed the stairs to his office two days later. His right big toe was twice its proper size and had turned purple and yellow. The day before, one of the pen-pushers had asked what happened.
“I gave the wardrobe in my room a kick.” He’d shrugged, leaving the bureaucrat to assume it was an accident. Sometimes literal truth made the best lie.
Seeing him abstracted, a middling-important scribe tried to sneak some fancy bookkeeping past him. He spotted it, picked up the offending ledger, and dropped it with a crash on the luckless seal-stamper’s desk.
“You piker,” he said contemptuously to the appalled bureaucrat. “Last winter, Pikridios Goudeles used that same trick to get himself an emerald ring with a stone big enough to choke on, and here you are, trying to steal a miserable two and a half goldpieces. You ought to be ashamed.”
“What—what will
you do with me, illustrious sir?” the pen pusher quavered.
“For two and a half pieces of gold? If you need it so badly, keep it. But the next time I find even a copper out of place in your books, you’ll see how you like the prison under the government offices on Middle Street. That goes for all of you, too,” Marcus added for the benefit of the rest of the bureaucrats, who had been listening and watching intently without seeming to.
“Thank you, oh, thank you, merciful and gracious sir,” the would-be embezzler said over and over. Marcus nodded curtly and started back to his own desk.
He remembered something as he passed Iatzoulinos. “Have you arranged to send the Romans at Garsavra their pay?” he asked.
“I would, ah, have to check my records to be certain of that,” Iatzoulinos answered warily. No, Scaurus translated without effort.
He sighed. “Iatzoulinos, I’ve been patient with you. If you make Gaius Philippus angry, I don’t think he will be. I know this man; you don’t. Take it as a warning from one who means you well.”
“I shall, of course, attend to it at once,” Iatzoulinos said.
“See that you do.” The tribune folded his arms and waited. When Iatzoulinos realized he was not going to leave, the pen-pusher set aside the project he had been working on and picked up the ledger that dealt with military expenditures in the westlands. He inked a pen and, with poor grace, began drafting a payment authorization. Satisfied for the moment, Marcus moved on.
He jumped as a hailstone rattled off the window. His sore foot made him regret it. Winter would be here in earnest soon, he thought; the storm that blew in yesterday had already covered the lawns of the palace complex with a snowy blanket. The tribune hoped the weather would stay bad awhile. Despite his promises to Nevrat, he was not ready to face her and Senpat together quite so soon as tomorrow. Maybe the snow would force them to put things off.
His office and his room were both pleasantly warm. He was glad the bureaucrats heated their wing of the Grand Courtrooms so lavishly. Then he thought of his friends on the steppe and was even gladder.
XIV
THE WIND HOWLED AND MOANED LIKE A DEEP-VOICED HOUND gone mad, driving snow into Batbaian’s face and frosting Viridovix’ ruddy mustaches. A thick, short beard hid his cheeks and chin; he had not shaved in weeks and did not know when he would have the chance again. He swore when a gust sneaked under his heavy fur greatcoat and chilled his back. The coat did not fit him very well. It had been made for one of Varatesh’s riders, but the fellow had no use for it now.
The Gaul gave a gusty sigh. His breath puffed out white. He sighed again, remembering the felt tent and how breathing smoke had bemused him. His face hardened. Targitaus’ tent was smoke now, and the tents of all his clan, and the clansmen with them.
Timing pitilessly exact, Varatesh had given the Wolves three days to thrash with caring for nearly a thousand blinded men who could do nothing to help themselves—and with the torment their coming brought. Then he struck, and shattered the clan.
Viridovix and Batbaian were herding an outlying flock of sheep when the blow fell, or they would have perished with the rest. As it was, when evening came they rode into camp and found massacre waiting for them. In his way, Varatesh was a gifted leader, to instill order into his cutthroats: they had descended on their foes, killed, raped, looted, and gone, probably all in two hours’ time.
Gaul and nomad rode together through silence so thick it echoed; even the yapping little dogs that had run scavenging from tent to tent were slain. For Viridovix, shock piled on shock left an eerie calm; Batbaian’s face was twisted in agony too deep for words. Every so often one of them would nod to the other when he came across the body of someone he cared for. There was dour Rambehisht, with three dead outlaws around him and an arrow in his back. If he had planned vengeance on Viridovix, he would never have it now. And Lipoxais, yellow enaree’s robe soaked with blood. And Azarmi the serving wench, her skirt on the ground beside her. She still wore a blood-soaked blouse; the outlaws had not bothered tearing it off before their sport, only stabbed through it when they were done.
Filled with the same dreadful surmise, Batbaian and Viridovix leaped from their horses and ran for what had been Targitaus’ tent. It leaned drunkenly to one side, half its framework broken. And inside their worst fears were realized. Borane’s dead fist clutched a dagger. The blade was stained—she had fought before she died. But she was fat and getting old; Varatesh’s men had merely slaughtered her. By all the signs, Seirem had not been so lucky.
Viridovix cursed himself for memory; the anguish flared in him, red and agonizing as when he had first seen Seirem’s corpse. He wished for the thousandth time that he had never known his few short weeks of love, or that he had died with the one who gave it to him.
“And what’s a wish worth?” he said to himself. “Damn all anyway.” A bitter tear ran down his cheek.
Batbaian turned at the sound of his voice. “That does no good,” he said stonily. “It will only freeze to your skin.” The dead khagan’s son was no more the near-boy he had been till summer; he seemed to have aged ten years in as many weeks. His face was thinner, with lines of suffering carved into his forehead and at the corners of his mouth.
He had been the one who suggested firing the camp. “It will warn off any other herders who might still be alive,” he had said, “and might lure Varatesh’s riders back.” A cold, hungry light kindled in his eye then, and he patted his bow-case. He and Viridovix found an ambush point; it would not do to give their lives away without as rich a revenge as they could take.
But the renegades had not returned, no doubt thinking the smoke came from an overturned lamp or smoldering torch that had set the encampment ablaze. When it was clear they would not, Batbaian took the patch from his ruined eye and threw it to the ground. “When I kill them, let them know what I am,” he said.
His score stood at four now, one ahead of the Gaul’s.
They lived as outlaws, one of the many reversals since the war against Varatesh went so disastrously awry. Now the bandit chief and his brigands lorded it over the steppe and hunted its one-time leaders like vermin. But as Varatesh himself had shown, running them to earth was no easy task. A goat here, a sentry there, two horses stolen somewhere else—the blowing winter snow covered tracks. It was the hardest life Viridovix had ever known, but it could be lived.
Hands clumsy inside thick gloves, they fought their tent into place as evening fell. Despite the windbreak of snow they piled in front of it, the raw north wind still found its way through the felt. They huddled in blankets next to the bonfire, roasting chunks of mutton over it. No problem keeping meat fresh in winter, Viridovix thought—the trick was thawing it again.
He rubbed grease from his chin and licked his fingers clean. Let the Romans try to live in this cold with their journeybread and porridges, he thought. Red meat was all that kept up a man’s strength here.
Instead of wiping it away, Batbaian smeared the mutton fat over his cheeks, nose, and forehead. “Helps against frostbite,” he said. He spoke seldom, these days, and always to the point.
“Next time, lad,” Viridovix nodded. He drew his sword, examined it for rust. In the cold and constant wet it spread all too easily. He scoured away a tiny fleck of red, rust or dried blood. “Wouldna hurt to rub the blade wi’ fat, either.”
A wolf howled in the distance, a bay chill as the night. One of the horses snorted nervously.
“North again come morning?” Viridovix said.
“Oh yes.” Batbaian’s lips opened in a humorless smile. “Where better than down their throats? Richer pickings, too—more flocks. More men.” His one eye gleamed in the sputtering firelight. The other socket was a ghastly shadow.
The Gaul nodded again, but through a smothering sense of futility. Not even killing could bring back what he had lost. “Is it any use at all, at all?” he cried. “We skulk about pretending it’s some good we’re about, slaying the spalpeens by ones and twos, but I swear by g
ods it’s nobbut a sop to our prides. It no more hurts ’em than the grain a pair o’ wee mice steal’ll make the farmers starve.”
“So what will you do? Fold up and die?” A nomad’s harsh contempt rode Batbaian’s voice for the comparison and for the despair as well. “We’re not the only men in Pardraya who’d tie Varatesh in a rope of his own guts.”
“Are we not, though? Too near it, I’m thinking. Them as’d try it did, and see what we got for it. And as for the rest, there’s no more will in ’em than your sheep; they’ll follow whoever leads ’em. Precious few have the ballocks to go after a winner.”
“Leave if you like, then. I’ll go on alone,” Batbaian said. “At least I’ll die as a man, doing as I should. And I say again, even without you I won’t be alone forever. Pardraya is a wide land.”
“Not wide enough,” Viridovix came back, stung by the plainsman’s dismissal and wanting to wound him in return. Then he hesitated. “Not wide enough,” he repeated softly. His eyes went wide. “Tell me at once, Khamorth dear, would you ride away from Varatesh the now—och, and from Avshar, too—for a greater vengeance later, and mayhap one you might live through in the bargain?”
Batbaian’s glare seized him, as if to drag his meaning out by force of will. “What does dying soon or late mean to me? But make me believe in a greater vengeance, and I will follow you off the edge of Pardraya.”
“Good, for you’ll need to,” the Celt replied.
“A pox!” Gorgidas said, clutching too late at the top of his head. The freezing wind tore his otter-fur cap free and sent it spinning over the snowy ground. He ran cursing after it, his naked ears tingling in the cold.
The nearby Arshaum laughed and shouted bad advice. “Kill it!” “Shoot it!” “Quick, it’s getting away! Stab it with that thrusting-sword of yours!”
Recapturing the flyaway headgear, the Greek whacked it against his trousers to get the snow off—and to work off his own annoyance. Then he jammed it back in place, and swore again as a last, freezing clump came loose and horrified the back of his neck.
Legion of Videssos Page 42