An Emperor for the Legion (29 page)

A strange silence fell, broken only by the legionaries’ panting and the moans of the injured. Without turning, Avshar rapped on the door behind him. His iron-knuckled hand made it jump on its hinges. Only silence answered him. He hit it again, saying, “Come out, fool, lest I stand aside and let them have you.”

There was another pause, but as Avshar began to slide away from the door, Vardanes Sphrantzes drew it open. The Sevastos clutched a dagger in his right hand. His left cruelly prisoned the wrist of a young girl; she wore only a short shift of transparent golden silk that served but to accent her nakedness beneath.

For all its paint, her face was not a palace tart’s; the knowledge on it was of a different kind. But not until her calm greeting, “Well met, Marcus Aemilius Scaurus,” did the tribune know her for Alypia Gavra.

Caught by surprise, he took an involuntary step forward. Sphrantzes’ dagger leaped for her throat. Light glinted off the mirror-bright sliver of steel. The stiletto was only a noble’s jewel-encrusted toy, but it could let her life river out before any man could stop it. Alypia stood motionless under its cold caress.

Scaurus also froze, two paces away. “Let her go, Vardanes,” he urged, watching Sphrantzes closely. Vardanes’ plump face was unnaturally pale, save for two spots of red
that marked the impact of Avshar’s hand. A thin trickle of blood ran from his left nostril into his beard. His pearl-bedecked Sevastos’ coronet sat awry on his head—for the dandy Sphrantzes was, a telling sign of disintegration. His eyes were wide and staring, trapped eyes.

“Let her go,” Marcus repeated softly. “She won’t buy your escape—you know that.” The Sevastos shook his head, but the dagger fell—not much, but an inch or two.

Avshar chuckled, his mirth more terrible than a shriek of hate. “Aye, let her go, Vardanes,” he said. “Let her go, just as you let Videssos go when it was in your hands. You took your pleasure from it as from her, and then watched with drool dribbling down your chin as it slipped through your fingers. Of course, let her go. What better way to end your bungling life? Even as a puppet you were worthless.”

Marcus never knew whether Avshar’s contempt was more than the Sevastos could endure or whether, in some last calculation of his own, Vardanes decided—and perhaps rightly—the wizard-prince’s death might be the one coin to buy his safety from Thorisin Gavras. Whatever his reasons, he suddenly shoved Alypia forward, sending her stumbling into the tribune’s arms, then whirled and drove his dagger into Avshar’s armored breast.

The thin steel needle was the perfect weapon to pierce a cuirass, and Sphrantzes’ desperate stab was backed by all the power his well-fed frame could give. Scaurus had always thought there was muscle under that fat. Now he knew it, for when Vardanes’ hand came away, the stiletto was driven home hilt-deep.

But Avshar did not crumple. “Ah, Vardanes,” he said, laughing a laugh jagged as broken glass. “Futile to the very end. My magics proofed you against cold iron’s bite. Did you think they would do less for me, their maker? See now, it should be done this way.”

Swift as a serpent’s strike, he seized the Sevastos, lifted him off his feet, and flung him against the wall. Marcus heard his skull shatter—the exact sound, he thought, of a dropped crock of porridge. Blood sprayed over the painted waves; Vardanes was dead before he slid to the floor.

Avshar drew the dagger from his chest, tucked it into his belt. “A very good day to you all,” he said with a last mocking bow, and darted into the farther chamber.

His flight freed the Romans from the paralysis with which they had watched the past minutes’ drama. They rushed to the door; but though the locks were on the outside, they would not open. The Romans attacked the door with swords and their armored shoulders, but the apartment over the throne room was, among other things, a redoubt, and the portal did not yield.

Through the noise of their pounding came Avshar’s voice, loudly chanting in some harsh tongue that was not Videssian. More magic, Marcus thought with a twist of fear in his guts. “Zeprin!” he shouted, and then cursed the confused pushing and shoving that followed as the Haloga bulled his way up the crowded spiral stair.

He burst puffing out of the stair well; the climb had left his normally ruddy features almost purple. His head swiveled till he spied Scaurus’ tall horsehair plume. The tribune stabbed his thumb at the door. “Avshar’s on the other side. He—”

Marcus had been about to warn the Haloga that Avshar was brewing sorcery, but found himself ignored. Zeprin the Red had nursed his hatred and lust for vengeance since Mavrikios fell at Maragha; now they exploded. He hurled himself at the doorway, roaring, “Where will you run now, wizard?”

Legionaries scattered as his great axe came down. It was as well they did; in his berserk fury the Haloga paid them no heed. Timbers split under his hammerstrokes—no wood, no matter how thick or seasoned, could stand up to such an assault for long.

Scaurus realized his arms were still tight around Alypia Gavra; her skin was warm through the thin negligee. “Your pardon, my lady,” he said. “Here.” He wrapped her in his scarlet cape of rank.

“Thank you,” she said, stepping free of him to draw it around her. Her green eyes carried gratitude, but only as a thin crust over pain. “I’ve known worse than the touch of a friend,” she added quietly.

Before Marcus could find a suitable reply, Zeprin shouted in triumph as the door’s boards and bolts gave up the unequal struggle. Axe held high, he shouldered his way past the riven timbers, followed close by Scaurus and Viridovix, each with his strong blade at the ready. Gaius Philippus and more Romans pushed in after them.

The tribune had not got much of a glimpse beyond the
shattered door when Vardanes opened it, nor again when Avshar took refuge behind it. He stared now in amazement. It was a chamber straight from an expensive brothel: the ceiling mirror of polished bronze, the obscene but beautifully executed wall frescoes, the scattered bright silks that were donned only to be taken off, the soft, wide bed with its coverlets pulled down in invitation.

And he stared for another reason, the same which brought Zeprin’s rush to a stumbling, confused halt a couple of paces into the room—save for the invaders, it was empty. The Haloga’s knuckles were white round the haft of his axe. Primed to kill, he found himself without a target. His breath came in sobbing gasps as he fought to bring his body back under the control of his will.

Marcus’ eyes flicked to the windows, tall, narrow slits through which a cat could not have crawled, let alone a man. Viridovix rammed his sword into its scabbard, a gesture eloquent in its disgust. “The cullion’s gone and magicked us again,” he said, and swore in Gaulish.

For all the sinking feeling in his stomach, the tribune would not yet let himself believe that. He ordered the soldiers behind him, “Turn this place inside out. For all we know, Avshar’s hiding under the bed or lurking in that closet there.” They stepped past him; one suspicious legionary jabbed his
gladius
into the mattress again and again, thinking Avshar might somehow have got inside it.

“Nay, it’s magic sure enough,” Viridovix said dolorously as the search went on without success.

“Shut up,” Marcus said, but he was not paying much attention to the Celt. He had just noticed the gilded manacles set into the bedposts and reflected that Vardanes Sphrantzes’ death, perhaps, had been too easy.

“There’s magic and magic,” Gaius Philippus said. “Remember the whole Yezda battle line winked out for a second until the Videssian wizards matched their spell? Maybe that’s the trick the whoreson’s using here.”

That had not occurred to the tribune. Though he had scant hope in it, he sent runners through the palace complex and others to Phos’ High Temple, all seeking Nepos the mage. He also posted legionaries shoulder to shoulder in the broken doorway, saying, “If Avshar can make himself impalpable as well as invisible, he deserves to get away.”

“No he doesn’t,” Gaius Philippus growled.

The sound of more fighting pierced the slit windows. Scaurus went over for a look, but their field of view was too narrow to show him anything but a brief glimpse of running men. They were Videssians, but whether Thorisin’s troops advancing or followers of the Sphrantzai counterattacking, he could not tell.

Worried, he decided to go downstairs to make sure the legionaries were in position to defend the Grand Courtroom at need. Their discipline should have been enough to make such precautions automatic, but better safe; what with Avshar’s magic and the fight up the stairs, usual patterns could slip.

He left the doorway full of guards and put others in front of the stairwell. Their eyes told him they thought their posts absurd, but they did not question him; like Fayard the Namdalener, they carried out their orders without complaint.

Alypia Gavra accompanied the tribune down the spiral stair. “So now you have seen my shame,” she said, still outwardly as self-possessed as ever. But Marcus saw how tightly she held his cape closed round her neck, how she tugged at its hem with her other hand, trying to make it cover more of her.

He knew she meant more than the wisp of yellow silk beneath that cape. He spoke slowly, choosing his words with care, “What does not corrupt a man’s heart cannot corrupt his life, or do him any lasting harm.”

In Rome it would have been a Stoic commonplace; but to the Videssians, deeds spoke louder than intentions, as suited a folk who saw the universe as a war between good and evil. Thus Alypia searched Marcus’ face in the gloom of the stair well, suspecting mockery. Finding none, she said at last, very low, “If I can ever come to believe that, you will have given me back myself. No thanks could be enough.”

She stared straight ahead the rest of the way down the steps. Scaurus studied the stair well’s rough stonework, giving her what privacy he could.

Alypia gasped in dismay as they came down into the throne room. It no longer had the semblance of the Empire’s solemn ceremonial heart, but only of any battlefield after the fighting is done. Bodies and debris littered the polished floor, which was further marred by drying pools of blood. Wounded men cursed, groaned, or lay silent, according to how badly they
were hurt. Gorgidas went from one to the next, giving the aid he could.

A glance told Marcus there would be no trouble at the Grand Gates. Unobtrusively effective as always, Quintus Glabrio had a double squad of legionaries ready to hold off an attack. But they were standing at ease now, their
pila
grounded and swords sheathed. The junior centurion waved to his commander. “Everything under control,” he said, and Scaurus nodded.

Avshar’s accursed kettle still steamed in the center of the hall, though the fire under it had gone out. The tribune tried to lead Alypia by as quickly as he could, but she stopped dead at the sight of the pathetic mutilated corpse beside it.

“Oh, my poor, dear Kalline,” she whispered, making Phos’ circular sun-sign over her breast. “I feared it was so when I heard your cry. So this is your reward for loyalty to your mistress?”

She somehow kept her features impassive, but two tears slid down her cheeks. Then her eyes rolled up in her head, and she crumpled to the floor, her strong spirit at last overwhelmed by the day’s series of shocks. The borrowed cape came open as she fell, leaving her almost bare.

“One of Vardanes’ trollops, is she?” a Roman asked the tribune, leering down at her. “I’ve seen prettier faces, maybe, but by Venus’ cleft there’d be a lively time with those long smooth legs wrapped around me.”

“She’s Alypia Gavra, Thorisin’s niece, so shut your filth-filled mouth,” Scaurus grated. The legionary fell back a pace in fright, then darted off to find something, anything, to do somewhere else. Marcus watched him go, surprised at his own fury. The trooper had jumped to a natural enough conclusion.

At the tribune’s call, Gorgidas hurried over to see to Alypia. He put her in as comfortable a position as he could, then folded Scaurus’ cape around her again. That finished, he stood and started to go to the next injured legionary. “Aren’t you going to do anything more?” Marcus demanded.

“What do you recommend?” Gorgidas said. “I could probably rouse her, but it wouldn’t be doing her any favor. As far as I can see, the poor lass has had enough jolts to last any six people a lifetime—can you blame her for fainting? I say let her, if that’s what she needs. Rest is the best medicine the body knows, and I’m damned if I’ll tamper with it.”

“Well, all right,” Scaurus said mildly, reminding himself for the hundredth time how touchy the Greek was when anyone interfered with his medical judgment.

Alypia was stirring and muttering to herself when Nepos came bustling in behind one of Marcus’ runners. Despite a remorseful cluck at the damage the Grand Gates had taken, the fat priest was in high good spirits as he entered the throne room. He scattered blessings on everyone around him. Most Romans ignored him, but some of the legionaries had come to worship Phos; they and the Videssians who had taken service with them bowed as Nepos went past.

He saw Scaurus and bobbed his head in greeting, smiling broadly as he approached. But he was less than halfway to the tribune when he staggered, as at some physical blow. “Phos have mercy!” he whispered. “What has been done here?” He moved forward again, but slowly; Marcus thought of a man pushing his way into a heavy gale.

He looked into the cauldron with a cry of disgust, a deeper loathing even than Scaurus’ own. The tribune saw the torture’s wanton viciousness; but as priest and mage, Nepos understood the malignance of the sorcery it powered and recoiled in horror from his understanding.

“You did right to summon me,” he said, visibly gathering himself. “That the Sphrantzai opposed us is one thing, but this—this—” At a loss for words, he paused. “I never imagined they could fall to these depths. Ortaias Sphrantzes, from all I know of him, is but a silly young man, while Vardanes—”

“Is lying dead upstairs,” Scaurus finished for him. Nepos gaped at the tribune, who went on, “The wizardry we dealt with, but the wizard, now—” In a few quick sentences he set out what had passed. “We may have him besieged up there,” he finished.