the Empire without seeming to have crossed the border. How does this happen?”
Scaurus and his officers had been spending every free moment studying Videssian—with Tzimiskes, with Vourtzes’ scribes, and with the priests, who seemed surprised the tribune wanted to learn to read and at how quickly he picked up the written language. After working with both the Roman and Greek alphabets, another script held no terrors for him. He found following a conversation much harder. Still, he was beginning to understand.
But he had little hope of putting across how he had been swept here, and less of being believed. Yet he liked Khoumnos and did not want to lie to him. With Tzimiskes’ help, he explained as best he could and waited for the officer’s disbelief.
It did not come. Khoumnos drew the sun-sign on his breast. “Phos!” he muttered, naming his people’s god. “That is a strong magic, friend Roman; you must be a nation of mighty sorcerers.”
Surprised he was not being laughed at, Marcus had to disagree. Khoumnos gave him a conspiratorial wink. “Then let it be your secret. That fat slug of a Vourtzes will treat you better if he thinks you may turn him into a newt if he crosses you.”
He went on, “I think, outlander, the Imperial Guards could have use for such as you. Maybe you can teach the Halogai”—he named the blond northerners who made up Vourtzes’ honor guard, and evidently much of the Emperor’s as well,—“that there’s more to soldiering than a wild charge at anything you don’t happen to like. And I tell you straight out, with the accursed Yezda—may Skotos take them to hell!—sucking the blood from our westlands, we need men.”
Khoumnos cocked an eye to the north. Dirty gray clouds were gathering there, harbingers of winter storms to come. He rubbed his chin. “Would it suit you to wait until spring before you come to the city?” he asked Marcus. By the slight emphasis he laid on “the,” Scaurus knew he meant the town of Videssos itself. “That will give us time to be fully ready for you …”
Time to lay the political groundwork, Marcus understood him to mean. But Khoumnos’ proposal suited him, and he said so. A peaceful winter at Imbros would allow his men a full refit and recovery, and let them learn their new land’s ways and tongue without the pressure they would face in the capital. When Khoumnos departed, they were on the best of terms.
Rhadenos Vourtzes, Marcus noted, was very polite and helpful the next few days. He was also rather anxious and spent much of the time he was near the Roman looking back over his shoulder. Scaurus liked Nephon Khoumnos even more.
The autumn rains began only a few days after the last of the harvest was gathered in. One storm after another came blustering down from the north, lashing the last leaves from the trees, turning every road and path into an impassable trough of mud, and pointing out all the failures of the Romans’ hasty carpentry. The legionaries cursed, dripped, and patched. They scoured the ever-encroaching rust from armor, tools, and weapons.
When the real cold came, the muddy ground froze rock-hard, only to be covered by a blanket of snow that lay in drifts taller than a man. Marcus began to see why, in a climate like this, robes were garments of ceremony but trousers the everyday garb. He started wearing them himself.
In such freezing weather, exercises were not a duty to be avoided, but something avidly sought to put warmth in a man’s bones. The Romans trained whenever they could. Gaius Philippus worked them hard. Except when the blizzards were at their worst, they went on a twenty-mile march every week. The senior centurion was one of the oldest men among them, but he fought his way through the snow like a youngster.
He also kept the Romans busy in camp. Once he’d learned enough Videssian to get what he needed, he had the locals make double-weight wicker shields and wooden swords for the legionaries to practice
Scaurus and his officers had been spending every free moment studying Videssian—with Tzimiskes, with Vourtzes’ scribes, and with the priests, who seemed surprised the tribune wanted to learn to read and at how quickly he picked up the written language. After working with both the Roman and Greek alphabets, another script held no terrors for him. He found following a conversation much harder. Still, he was beginning to understand.
But he had little hope of putting across how he had been swept here, and less of being believed. Yet he liked Khoumnos and did not want to lie to him. With Tzimiskes’ help, he explained as best he could and waited for the officer’s disbelief.
It did not come. Khoumnos drew the sun-sign on his breast. “Phos!” he muttered, naming his people’s god. “That is a strong magic, friend Roman; you must be a nation of mighty sorcerers.”
Surprised he was not being laughed at, Marcus had to disagree. Khoumnos gave him a conspiratorial wink. “Then let it be your secret. That fat slug of a Vourtzes will treat you better if he thinks you may turn him into a newt if he crosses you.”
He went on, “I think, outlander, the Imperial Guards could have use for such as you. Maybe you can teach the Halogai”—he named the blond northerners who made up Vourtzes’ honor guard, and evidently much of the Emperor’s as well,—“that there’s more to soldiering than a wild charge at anything you don’t happen to like. And I tell you straight out, with the accursed Yezda—may Skotos take them to hell!—sucking the blood from our westlands, we need men.”
Khoumnos cocked an eye to the north. Dirty gray clouds were gathering there, harbingers of winter storms to come. He rubbed his chin. “Would it suit you to wait until spring before you come to the city?” he asked Marcus. By the slight emphasis he laid on “the,” Scaurus knew he meant the town of Videssos itself. “That will give us time to be fully ready for you …”
Time to lay the political groundwork, Marcus understood him to mean. But Khoumnos’ proposal suited him, and he said so. A peaceful winter at Imbros would allow his men a full refit and recovery, and let them learn their new land’s ways and tongue without the pressure they would face in the capital. When Khoumnos departed, they were on the best of terms.
Rhadenos Vourtzes, Marcus noted, was very polite and helpful the next few days. He was also rather anxious and spent much of the time he was near the Roman looking back over his shoulder. Scaurus liked Nephon Khoumnos even more.
The autumn rains began only a few days after the last of the harvest was gathered in. One storm after another came blustering down from the north, lashing the last leaves from the trees, turning every road and path into an impassable trough of mud, and pointing out all the failures of the Romans’ hasty carpentry. The legionaries cursed, dripped, and patched. They scoured the ever-encroaching rust from armor, tools, and weapons.
When the real cold came, the muddy ground froze rock-hard, only to be covered by a blanket of snow that lay in drifts taller than a man. Marcus began to see why, in a climate like this, robes were garments of ceremony but trousers the everyday garb. He started wearing them himself.
In such freezing weather, exercises were not a duty to be avoided, but something avidly sought to put warmth in a man’s bones. The Romans trained whenever they could. Gaius Philippus worked them hard. Except when the blizzards were at their worst, they went on a twenty-mile march every week. The senior centurion was one of the oldest men among them, but he fought his way through the snow like a youngster.
He also kept the Romans busy in camp. Once he’d learned enough Videssian to get what he needed, he had the locals make double-weight wicker shields and wooden swords for the legionaries to practice
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