The Legion of Videssos (13 page)

When evening came the rebels did not camp near Zigabenos’ army, but trotted purposefully southwest. Watching them go, Gaius Philippus scratched at the scar on his cheek. “We’re for it tomorrow, I expect. That troop’s not on their own; they’re a detachment off a big bunch and act like it.”

He pulled out his sword, tested the edge with his middle finger. “Have to do, I suppose. I don’t like fighting these bloody islanders. They’re big as Gauls and twice as smart.”

After full darkness Marcus saw a faint orange glow on the southwestern horizon. He did not remember any good-sized town just ahead of them, which left only Drax’ men. His mouth tightened. If they were so close, it would indeed be battle tomorrow.

A messenger came to the Roman camp with orders from Mertikes Zigabenos: “We’ll march in extended line tomorrow, not in column.” The Videssian general expected it, too, then. His aide continued: “You foot soldiers will be on the left, with the Khatrishers covering you. My lord will take the center, with Utprand’s Namdaleni on the right.”

“Thanks, spatharios,” the tribune said. “Care for a mug of wine?”

“Kind of you, sir,” the Videssian said with a grin, looking years younger as his official duty fell away. He took a pull,
screwed up his face in surprise. “Rather dry, isn’t it?” His second sip was more cautious.

“As dry as we could find,” Marcus answered; almost all Videssian wine was too sugary for the Romans’ taste. Making conversation, he asked, “Why are the islanders on the right?” If Zigabenos was wary of them, better to put them in the center, where they could be watched—and checked—from either wing.

But the spatharios had an answer that showed his commander had also been thinking, though not along Scaurus’ lines: “The right’s their place of honor, sir.” The tribune nodded thoughtfully; with proud Utprand, an appeal to honor was never wasted. The Videssian finished his wine and hurried away to pass the word to Laon Pakhymer.

Marcus wished the battle had developed sooner; as it was, Helvis and most of the other legionaries’ women were here, instead of in a camp of their own farther from the upcoming fight. When he said as much to Gaius Philippus, the senior centurion answered, “They’re likely safer here, sir. The imperials take no pains with their fieldworks.”

“That’s so,” the tribune said, consoled. “Still, we’ll leave half a maniple behind when we move out tomorrow. Under Minucius, I think.”

“Minucius? He’ll feel shamed at being left out of the fighting, sir. He’s young.” The senior centurion spoke as though the word covered a host of faults.

“It’s an important job nonetheless, and he’s a sensible lad.” Marcus’ eyes grew crafty. “When you give him the order, explain to him how he’ll be protecting his Erene.”

Gaius Philippus whistled in admiration. “The very thing. He dotes on the wench.” Was that derision or envy in his voice? Scaurus could not tell.

The morning dawned clear and surprisingly cool, with a brisk sea breeze blowing the humidity away. “A fine day,” Marcus heard one of the Romans say as they broke camp.

“A fine day to be hamstrung on, beef-head, if you don’t tighten that strap on your greave,” Gaius Philippus snarled. The soldier checked it; it was quite tight enough. The senior centurion was already rasping away at someone else.

Khamorth irregulars came galloping, waving their fur caps
over their heads and shouting, “Big horses! Lots of big horses!” A ripple of excitement ran through the imperial army. Soon, now.

They topped a slight rise and came down into the almost flat valley of the Sangarios, one of the Arandos’ minor tributaries. A wooden bridge spanned the muddy little stream. The rebels’ camp was visible on the far side of the river, but their commander had chosen to draw them up in front of the bridge.

“Drax! Drax! The great count Drax!” the Namdaleni shouted as their foes came into sight. The call was deep and steady as the beat of a drum.

“Utprand!” “Videssos!” “Gavras!” The answering battle cries were various but loud.

“I credited this precious Drax with more sense,” Gaius Philippus said. “Aye, the land doesn’t slope enough to matter, but if we once push them back they’ll go into the river, and that’ll be the end of ’em.”

Marcus remembered something Nephon Khoumnos used to say: “If ifs and buts were candied nuts, then everyone would be fat.” If that was an omen, he misliked it; the dour Videssian general was long dead, slain by Avshar’s wizardry.

Zigabenos, who had once been Khoumnos’ aide, knew better than to exhaust his troops by charging too soon. He kept them well in hand as they advanced. The Namdaleni moved slowly forward to meet them. Drax’ men wore sea-green surcoats and had green streamers fluttering from their lances.

Where was Drax’ banner? If the right was the islanders’ place of honor, Scaurus had expected to see it bearing down on him. But it was nowhere to be found—until the tribune spied it at the opposite end of the Namdalener line. Suspicion flared in him. What was Drax scheming?

Like an armored thunderbolt, Utprand hurled himself at that taunting banner, breaking the steady line the imperial army had maintained. By squads and platoons his men followed, until half a thousand knights bore down on the rebel count.

“Traitor! Robber!” Their war cries rang over the pounding of their horses’ hooves.

“Drax! Drax! The great count Drax!” Shouting, too, Drax’ horsemen swung lances down and dug spurs into their mounts to meet them. They had another cry as well, and a premonitory
shiver went down Scaurus’ spine: “Namdalen! Namdalen! Namdalen!”

“Go on! Go on! Back him, you milk-livered, cheese-faced dogturds!” That was Gaius Philippus shouting, profanely praying for some miracle to take his voice across the field and make Soteric’s men, and Clozart’s, and Turgot’s, join Utprand and his loyal retainers in their charge.

A few did, but a trickle, ones, twos, and fives. Most sat their horses, waiting. If Utprand could cast Drax down, perhaps they would advance … but Utprand and his followers were alone on the field, and Drax had more than half a thousand knights to throw against them.

Lances shattered. Horses fell, screaming worse than men. Riders flew from saddles to be trampled under iron-shod hooves. The sun sparkled off steel as swords were bared. Utprand’s wedge of men, fighting all the more grimly for knowing themselves betrayed, still surged toward their enemy’s standard.

Scaurus cheered them on, but not for long, for Drax’ right bore down on him, every lance, it seemed, aimed straight at his chest. The Khatrishers were still skirmishing with the onrushing Namdaleni, peppering them with arrows. A knight here, another there, sagged in their saddles as they were hit. But the light horse in front of them could not really stop their charge. One Khatrisher, bolder than his friends, rode in close to slash at an islander with his saber. The Namdalener swerved his horse so it struck his foe’s pony shoulder to shoulder. The smaller mount stumbled and went down. An islander speared its rider as if he were a chunk of meat to be impaled on a belt-knife. The sea-green wave rolled over the corpse.

“Stand firm now, you
hastati
! The horses don’t want to spear themselves,” Gaius Philippus was shouting.

“
Pila
at the ready …” Marcus called. He waited, dry-mouthed, as Drax’ men neared with frightening speed. “At the ready … loose!” He swung his arm down; the buccinators’ horns echoed his command.

Hundreds of javelins darted forth as one, followed by another volley and another. Horses and riders went sprawling, killed or wounded; knights behind lost their footing in turn. Some of the horsemen reacted quickly enough to catch the
pila
on their shields—which were shaped, Scaurus thought in one of those strange, clear moments he knew he would remember forever, like the kites Videssian boys flew. It did them less good than they might have hoped. The long, soft-iron shanks of the
pila
bent on impact, making them doubly useless: not only did they foul the shields, but the Namdaleni could not throw them back.

But Drax’ men were already fearfully close when the rain of javelins began. Their charge was blunted, slowed. It could not be stopped. A few of their horses drew up rather than running onto the
hastae
; more, spurred on by their riders, crashed through the line of heavy spears. “Drax! Drax! The great count Drax!” Their shout never faltered.

Had it not been for the flexibility of the Romans’ maniples, the system that let them fight in small units and shift eight-man squads to meet trouble wherever it occurred, the Namdalener charge would have smashed them to ruin in minutes. Scaurus, Gaius Philippus, Junius Blaesus, Bagratouni—all of them screamed orders, directing legionaries to where they were needed most.

A lancehead, its steel discolored with rust but still deadly, jabbed past the tribune’s shoulder. Behind him a Roman grunted, more in surprise than pain. The lance, now dipped in red, ripped free. The legionary’s scream drowned in up-bubbling blood.

A hurled stone smashed off the nasal of the lancer’s conical helm. He swore in island patois, shook his head groggily. Marcus sprang forward. Sudden fear on his face, the Namdalener tried to beat his thrust aside with the shaft of his lance. The tool was too clumsy, the man too slow. Scaurus’ point punched through his chain gorget and into his neck. The lance slipped from his hand. He would have fallen, but in the press he could not for some minutes.

Another Namdalener, also on horseback, slashed down at the tribune, who caught the blow on his shield. The knight grunted and cut, again and again, his sword striking sparks from the bronze facing of Marcus’
scutum
. He was a clever warrior; each cut came from a different, newly dangerous angle. The Roman’s shield arm started to ache.

He pivoted on his left foot, thrusting at the rider’s jack-booted leg. With a veteran’s instinct, the Namdalener twitched
it out of the way, but for a horseman that was not enough. His mount took the stab in the barrel. Its eyes wide with pain it could not understand, it reared and then foundered, pinning the islander beneath it before he could kick free of the stirrups. His cry of pain was cut short as another horse trampled him.

Someone pounded the tribune’s shoulder. His head whipped round; it was Senpat Sviodo, who waved a scolding finger under his nose. “That was not sporting,” the Vaspurakaner said.

“Too bloody bad,” Marcus growled, for all the world like Gaius Philippus.

Senpat’s mobile features curdled into a frown. “The Romans are a very
serious
people,” he declared, and winked at the tribune.

“To the crows with you,” Scaurus said, laughing. And one worry, at least, he thought, had come to nothing at all, for Gagik Bagratouni’s band of refugee Vaspurakaners was fighting as fiercely as any of Scaurus’ troops. The thick-shouldered
nakharar
himself dragged a Namdalener from the saddle, to be finished by his men. Mesrop Anhoghin outdueled another; the Roman thrusting-stroke he had learned let him use his long arms to best advantage.

“This Drax is no great shakes as a general,” Senpat yelled in Marcus’ ear. “He should have learned from last year’s battle that his knights can’t break our line. They pay the price for trying, too.” That was so. With their charge stalled, the Namdaleni grew vulnerable not only to the legionaries but also to the Khatrishers, who plied them with arrows and began to stretch wide to turn their flank.

But if Drax’ tactical skills left something to be desired, the great count was a clever, insightful strategist. Sudden commotion broke out on the imperials’ right wing. Scaurus glanced in that direction, but saw nothing—too many horses and riders in the way. He grimaced in annoyance; in most fights his inches gave him a good view of the field, but not today.

All too soon, he had no need to see; the rising tide of battlecries from the right told him all he had to know: “Namdalen! Namdalen! Namdalen!” The shout swelled and swelled, far beyond the noise Drax’ men alone could make. Cries of
fury and fear came from the Videssian center; the island mercenaries had turned their coats.

There was a lull in the assault on the legionaries. The commander of Drax’ right wing, a snub-nosed Namdalener who had to be older than he looked, held up his shield on his lance. It was not painted white, but Marcus guessed he meant it as a sign of truce. “What do you want?” he called to the officer.

“Join us!” the islander shouted back, his accent nearly as thick as that of Utprand, who was surely dead by now. “Why t’row your lives away for not’ing? Up Namdalen and away wit’ old Videssos! The future belongs to us!”

The legionaries answered that for themselves, an overwhelming roar of rejection. “Up Namdalen with a hoe handle!” “It’d be us you turned treacher on next!” That one hit home; if the Romans sometimes got on better with the men of the Duchy than they did with the imperials, it was for the islanders’ plain speech and straightforwardness. Utprand, although ruthless as a wolf, had been an utterly honest man, while Drax outdid the Videssians in double-dealing. Gaius Philippus’ jeer spoke for many: “Why should we give you what you’re not men enough to take?”

A slow flush of anger ran up the Namdalener’s face. He lowered the upraised shield, settled his helm’s bar nasal more firmly on his short nose. “On your heads be it,” he said. The islanders surged forward once more.

Their second charge, though, was not half so fierce as the first had been. That puzzled Scaurus, but after a moment he understood. All Drax’ knights needed to do here was to keep the legionaries in play. As long as they could not go to the aid of Zigabenos’ Videssians in the center, that was enough.

Laon Pakhymer saw that, too, and with bantam courage flung his Khatrishers at the solid Namdalener ranks. The light horsemen’s spirit was equal to anything, but man for man, horse for horse, they were grossly overmatched in close combat. “Gutty little bastards, aren’t they?” Gaius Philippus said with nothing but respect in his voice. He watched the doomed attack; there was nothing else he could do.

At last flesh and blood could take no more. The Khatrishers broke, riding wildly in all directions, for the time being wrecked as a fighting force. Pakhymer galloped after
them, still shouting and trying to bring them back for one more charge, but they would not heed him.