The Legion of Videssos (37 page)

They had quarrels within their ranks as well; Mertikes Zigabenos sent Scaurus a request to be quartered apart from the
Namdaleni who had made an unwilling Emperor of him. The tribune complied—he was much more sympathetic to Zigabenos’ plight than that of, say, Drax or Soteric. The only Namdalener marshal who roused his pity was Turgot of Sotevag, who was nearly out of his mind with worry over his mistress Mavia. Scaurus remembered her from the capital, a startlingly blonde girl less than half Turgot’s age. With the rest of the islanders’ women, she had stayed in Garsavra when they rode west against the Yezda and, Marcus thought, likely fled when news came of their defeat. That, he had seen after Maragha, was part of a mercenary’s life, too. But Turgot would not hear it, swearing she had promised to wait for him.

After a week of this, Drax’ patience wore thin. “And what’s a promise worth?” he snapped. When he heard of it, Marcus thought the remark showed more of the great count’s nature than he usually let through his self-possessed facade.

Imprisonment was not a usual Roman penalty, its place being taken by corporal punishment, fines, or sentence of exile. Inexperienced jailers, the legionaries paid for learning the trade. One morning a shaking guardsman woke Scaurus to report Mertikes Zigabenos’ cell empty.

“A pox!” the tribune said, leaping off his sleeping-mat. Helvis murmured drowsily as he threw a mantle over his shoulders, then leaped up in alarm when he shouted for the buccinators to sound the alarm. By the time Dosti’s first frightened wail rang out, Marcus was already out in the
via principalis
setting up search teams.

Going through Garsavra house by house, he was gloomily aware, was a task that had been beaten before he began. And yet when the legionaries quickly found their fugitive, the news was no great delight. Zigabenos was on his knees at the altar of Garsavra’s main temple to Phos, which was set behind the city prelate’s home. Clinging to the holy table with hands pale-knuckled from the force of his grip, the reluctant Avtrokrator cried, “Sanctuary!” over and over, as loud as he could.

The tribune found a Roman squad standing uncertainly outside the temple doorway. A body of locals was gathering, too, plainly not willing to see Zigabenos dragged from the shrine by force. Nor did the legionaries seem eager to go in after him. Some of them had taken to Phos themselves since
coming to the Empire, and temples were refuge-places in the Roman world as well.

Rubbing sleep from his eyes, Lavros the prelate arrived at the same time Marcus did. He placed himself in the entrance to block the tribune’s path. Making Phos’ sun-sign on his breast, he said loudly, “You shall not take this man away against his will. He has claimed sanctuary with the good god.” The swelling crowd shouted in support, pressing forward despite the Romans’ armor, swords, and spears.

“May I go in alone and speak with him, at least?” Scaurus asked.

His mild reply took Lavros by surprise. The senior priest considered, running the palm of his hand across his shaven skull. “Will you put aside your weapons?” he asked.

Marcus hesitated; he did not like the idea of parting with his potent Gallic blade. At last he said, “I will,” and stripped off sword and dagger. He handed them to his squad leader, a solid trooper named Aulus Florus. “Take care of these,” he said. Florus nodded.

As Lavros stood aside to let the tribune pass, he whispered, “And what’s all this in aid of?” Marcus shrugged; he heard the ghost of a laugh behind him as he stepped into the temple.

It was laid out like all of Phos’ shrines, with the altar in the middle under the dome, and seats radiating out in the four cardinal directions. The mosaic in the dome was a poor copy of the one that graced the High Temple in the capital. This Phos was stern in judgment, but not the awesome, spiritually potent figure that made any man unsure of his own worthiness.

A prickle of unease ran through the Roman as he came down the aisle. If Zigabenos had somehow armed himself … but the Videssian guards officer tightened his grasp on the altar still further and kept up his cry of, “Sanctuary! In Phos’ name, I claim sanctuary!”

“There’s but the one of me, Mertikes,” Marcus said. He spread his hands to show they were empty. “Can we talk?”

In the flickering candlelight Zigabenos’ eyes were haunted. “Shall I say aye, then, when you haul me off to the headsmen? Why should I ease your conscience for you?” A veteran of imperial politics, he knew the usual fate of failed rebels.

Marcus only waited, saying nothing. A painful sigh
escaped Zigabenos. His shoulders sagged as the tribune’s silence let him realize how hopeless his position was. “Damn you, outlander,” he said at last, voice old and beaten. “What use to this farce, after all? Thirst or hunger will drive me out soon enough. Here; you have me, for what joy it brings you.” He let go the altar; Scaurus saw sweat beaded on the polished wood where his hands had been.

Seeing the clever Zigabenos succumbing thus to fate wrenched at the tribune. He blurted, “But you must have had some plan when you fled here!”

“So I did,” the Videssian said. His smile was bitter. “I would have yielded up my hair and turned monk. Even an emperor thinks three times before he sends the knives after a man sworn to Phos. But I was too quick—the shrine was dark and empty when I got here, with no priest to give my vow to. Wretched slugabeds! And now it’s you here instead. I always thought you a good soldier, Scaurus; I could wish I was wrong.”

Marcus hardly heard the compliment; he was shouting for Lavros. The prelate hurried toward him, concern overriding his usual good nature. “I hope you’ll not try to cozen me into believing this suppliant has changed his mind—”

“But I have, reverend sir,” Zigabenos began.

“No indeed,” Scaurus said. “Let it be just as he wishes. Fetch all the people in and let them see the man who was forced to play the role of Avtokrator now make amends for what he was compelled to do, by assuming the garments of your monks.”

Lavros and Mertikes Zigabenos both stared at him, the one in delight, the other in blank amazement. The priest bowed deeply to Scaurus and bustled up the aisle, calling to the crowd outside. “You’ll let me?” Zigabenos whispered, still unbelieving.

“Why not? What better way to get you out of the political life for good?”

“Thorisin won’t thank you for it.”

“Then let him look to himself. If he put Ortaias Sphrantzes in a blue robe after getting nothing but ill from him, he shouldn’t grudge you your life. You served him well until your luck tossed sixes at you.” Marcus felt an absurd pleasure
at remembering the losing Videssian throw and being able to bring it out naturally.

“I threw my own ‘demons,’ trusting the Namdaleni too far.”

“So did Thorisin,” the tribune pointed out, and Zigabenos really smiled for the first time since Scaurus had reclaimed him from the Yezda.

They had little more chance for talk; the temple was filling fast with chattering Garsavrans. Scaurus took a seat in the first row of benches, leaving Zigabenos alone by the altar. In his shabby cloak, he was a poor match for its silver-plated magnificence.

Lavros had disappeared for a few minutes. He returned bearing a large pair of scissors and a razor with a glittering edge. A second priest followed him, a swarthy, stocky man who carried an unadorned blue robe and bore a copy of Phos’ sacred writings, bound in rich red leather, under his arm. The townsfolk grew quiet as they strode toward the holy table in the center of the shrine.

Zigabenos lowered his head toward Lavros. The scissors snipped, shearing away his thick black hair. Once there was only stubble on his pate, Lavros wielded the razor. Zigabenos’ scalp gleamed pale, and seemed all the whiter when compared to his sun-weathered face.

The short, swarthy priest held out the leather-bound volume to the officer, saying formally, “Behold the law under which you shall live if you choose. If in your heart you feel you can observe it, enter the monastic life; if not, speak now.”

Head still bent, Zigabenos murmured, “I will observe it.” The priest asked him twice more; his voice gained strength with each affirmation. After the last repetition, the priest bowed in turn to Zigabenos, handed his book to Lavros, and invested the new monk with his monastic garb. Again following ritual, he said, “As the garment of Phos’ blue covers your naked body, so may his righteousness enfold your heart and preserve it from all evil.”

“So may it be,” Zigabenos whispered; the Garsavrans echoed his words.

Lavros prayed silently for a few moments, then said, “Brother Mertikes, would it please you to lead this gathering in Phos’ creed?”

“May I?” said Zigabenos—no, Mertikes, Scaurus thought, for Videssian monks yielded up their surnames. His voice was truly grateful; the tribune had yet to meet a Videssian who took his faith lightly. Mertikes was a strange sight, standing by the rich altar in his severely plain robe, a little trickle of blood on the side of his newly shaved head where the razor had cut too close. But even Scaurus the unbeliever was oddly moved as he led the worshipers in the splendid archaic language of their creed, “We bless thee, Phos, Lord with the great and good mind, by thy grace our protector, watchful beforehand that the great test of life may be decided in our favor.”

“Amen,” the Garsavrans finished, and Marcus found himself repeating it with them. Lavros said, “This service is completed.” The crowd began to stream away. Mertikes came up to squeeze Scaurus’ hand with his own strong clasp. Then Lavros said gently, “Come with me, brother, and I will take you to the monastery and introduce you to your fellow servants of Phos.” Head up now, not looking back, the new monk followed him.

That crisis solved itself neatly, but was only peripheral to the greater problem of the captive Namdalener lords. A week after Zigabenos became Brother Mertikes, a mob tried to storm the provincial governor’s hall and free Drax and his comrades. The legionaries had to use steel to drive the rioters back, leaving a score of them dead and many more wounded. They lost two of their own as well, and after that the Romans could only walk Garsavra’s streets by squads. Three nights later the townsmen tried again. This time Marcus was ready for them. Khatrisher archers on the roof of the hall broke the mob’s charge before it was well begun, and none of the tribune’s men was hurt.

He knew, though, that he did not have the troops to hold down sedition forever, not and watch Yavlak, too. And so he met with the Namdaleni in their confinement. Soteric gave a sardonic bow. “You honor us, brother-in-law. I’ve seen my sister a few times, but you never deigned visit before.”

And Bailli sneered. “Still sweating, are you? I hope they wring all the water from your carcass.” Drax’ lieutenant was far from forgetting the peasant irregulars.

The great count himself sat quiet, along with Turgot.
Marcus guessed that Turgot did not care what he was about to say; Drax’ silence was likelier from policy.

The tribune nodded to Bailli. “Yes, I’m still sweating. I don’t fancy going through another night like the couple just past and I don’t intend to, either. And so, gentlemen—” He looked from one islander to the next. “—something will have to be done about you. Easiest would be to strike off your heads and put them on pikes in the marketplace.”

“Whoreson,” Soteric said.

Drax leaned forward, alert now. “You’d not say that if it was your plan.”

“I’ll do it if I have to,” Marcus answered, but he admired the great count’s quickness all the same. “Truly, I’d sooner not—it’s Thorisin’s place to judge what you deserve. But I won’t chance the townsfolk freeing you. You’re too dangerous to the Empire for that.” Drax bowed slightly, as if acknowledging praise.

“What do you leave us with, then?” Soteric demanded scornfully.

“Your bare lives, if you want them. Do you?” The tribune waited. As the Namdaleni saw he meant the question, they slowly nodded, Turgot last of all. “Very well, then …”

“You’re getting good at these spectacles,” Gaius Philippus said out of the corner of his mouth. “The locals’ll think twice before they get gay.” A hollow square of legionaries in full battle dress stood at attention in the center of the Garsavran marketplace,
pila
grounded, staring stolidly out at the hostile Videssians around them. A raw northerly breeze whipped their cloaks back from their shoulders.

“I’m glad the weather’s holding off,” Marcus said. When the wind came from the north, rain and then snow were bound to follow. The tribune was happy to be next to the small fire in the center of the Romans’ square—until a blown spark stung his calf behind his greave. He cursed and rubbed.

The buccinators’ horns brayed; heads turned toward the maniple tramping into the marketplace, its swords drawn and menacing. Taller than their Roman captors, Drax and Bailli, Soteric and Turgot were easy to recognize in the center of the column.

Marcus glanced toward Ansfrit, the captain of the Namdalener
castle, to whom he had granted a safe-conduct to his drama. Ansfrit looked as though he wanted to try a rescue on the spot, but the fearsome aspect of Scaurus’ troopers was enough to intimidate the Garsavrans.

The maniple merged with the hollow square. Legionaries frog-marched their prisoners up to the tribune, two to each islander. In front of them strode Zeprin the Red. The enormous Haloga cut an awesome figure in the gleaming gilded cuirass of Imperial Guards—freshly regilded for the occasion, in fact. He saluted Scaurus Roman-style, shooting right fist out and up. “Behold the traitors!” he cried, bass thundering through the open market.

Barefoot, shivering in the wind in thin gray linen tunics, fists clenched tight with tension, the men of the Duchy awaited judgment. The silence stretched. Then the crowd of Garsavrans around the square of the legionaries parted as if fearing disease, to let a single figure through. Like Spartan hoplites of the world Scaurus had known, Videssian executioners wore red to make the stains of their calling less evident. Only the man’s black buskins were not the color of blood.

There were Yezda in the crowd; the tribune saw them staring admiringly at the tall, angular, masked shape of the executioner. Here was pomp and ceremony to suit them, he thought with distaste.