with. He set up pells, against which they continually drilled in the thrusting stroke. Trying to keep the men fresh and interested, he even detailed Adiatun to teach them the fine points of slinging.
The only traditional legionary exercise from which he excused the men was swimming. Even his hardiness quailed at subjecting his men to the freezing water under the ice that covered streams and ponds.
The legionaries did stage mock fights, with the points on their swords and spears covered. At first, they only worked against one another. Later, they matched themselves against the two hundred or so Halogai who made up Imbros’ usual garrison.
The tall northerners were skilled soldiers, as befitted their mercenary calling. But, like the Gauls, they fought as individuals and by clans, not in ordered ranks. If their first charge broke the Roman line they were irresistible but, more often than not, the legionaries’ large shields and jabbing spears held them at bay until they tired and the Romans could take the offensive.
In the drills Marcus was careful never to cross blades with Viridovix, fearful lest they and all around them be swept away again by the sorcery locked in their swords. His own weapon seemed utterly ordinary when he practiced with his fellow Romans. But when he was working against the garrison troops he left behind such a trail of shattered shields and riven chain mail that he gained a reputation for superhuman strength. The same, he noticed, was true of Viridovix.
The garrison commander was a one-eyed giant of a man named Skapti Modolf’s son. The Haloga was not young, but his hair was so fair it was hard to tell silver crept through the gold. He was friendly enough and, like any good fighting man, interested in the newcomers’ ways of doing things, but he never failed to make Scaurus nervous. With his long, dour features, rumbling voice, and singleminded concentration on the art of war, he reminded the Roman all too much of a wolf.
Viridovix, though, took to the Halogai. “It’s a somber lot they are,” he admitted, “and more doomful than I’m fond of, but they fight as men do, and they perk up considerable wi’ a drop of wine in ’em, indeed and they do.”
That, Marcus found a few days later, was an understatement. After a day and most of a night of drinking, the Gaul and half a dozen northern mercenaries staged a glorious brawl that wrecked the tavern where it happened and most of the participants.
One aftermath of the fight was a visit from Vourtzes to the Roman camp. Marcus had not seen much of him lately and would have forgone this occasion, too, when he learned the
hypasteos
wanted him to pay for all the damage the grogshop had taken. Annoyed, he pointed out that it was scarcely just for him to be saddled with all the charges when only one of his men was involved, as opposed to six or seven under the
hypasteos’
jurisdiction. Vourtzes let the matter drop, but Marcus knew he was unhappy.
“Maybe you should have compromised and saved trouble,” Gorgidas said. “If I know our Celtic friend, he raised more than his share of the ruction.”
“I shouldn’t be a bit surprised. But Vourtzes is the sort to bleed you to death a drop at a time if you let him. I wonder,” Marcus mused, “how he’d look as a newt.”
Like the rest of the Empire of Videssos, Imbros celebrated the passing of the winter solstice and the turning of the sun to the north once more. Special prayers winged their way heavenward from the temples. Bonfiresblazed on street corners; the townsfolk jumped over them for luck. There was a huge, disorderly hockey match on the surface of a frozen pond. Falling and sliding on the ice seemed as much a part of the game as trying to drive the ball through the goal.
A troupe of mimes performed at Imbros’ central theater. Marcus saw he was far from the only Roman there. Such entertainments were much like those his men had known in Italy, and the fact that they had no dialogue
The only traditional legionary exercise from which he excused the men was swimming. Even his hardiness quailed at subjecting his men to the freezing water under the ice that covered streams and ponds.
The legionaries did stage mock fights, with the points on their swords and spears covered. At first, they only worked against one another. Later, they matched themselves against the two hundred or so Halogai who made up Imbros’ usual garrison.
The tall northerners were skilled soldiers, as befitted their mercenary calling. But, like the Gauls, they fought as individuals and by clans, not in ordered ranks. If their first charge broke the Roman line they were irresistible but, more often than not, the legionaries’ large shields and jabbing spears held them at bay until they tired and the Romans could take the offensive.
In the drills Marcus was careful never to cross blades with Viridovix, fearful lest they and all around them be swept away again by the sorcery locked in their swords. His own weapon seemed utterly ordinary when he practiced with his fellow Romans. But when he was working against the garrison troops he left behind such a trail of shattered shields and riven chain mail that he gained a reputation for superhuman strength. The same, he noticed, was true of Viridovix.
The garrison commander was a one-eyed giant of a man named Skapti Modolf’s son. The Haloga was not young, but his hair was so fair it was hard to tell silver crept through the gold. He was friendly enough and, like any good fighting man, interested in the newcomers’ ways of doing things, but he never failed to make Scaurus nervous. With his long, dour features, rumbling voice, and singleminded concentration on the art of war, he reminded the Roman all too much of a wolf.
Viridovix, though, took to the Halogai. “It’s a somber lot they are,” he admitted, “and more doomful than I’m fond of, but they fight as men do, and they perk up considerable wi’ a drop of wine in ’em, indeed and they do.”
That, Marcus found a few days later, was an understatement. After a day and most of a night of drinking, the Gaul and half a dozen northern mercenaries staged a glorious brawl that wrecked the tavern where it happened and most of the participants.
One aftermath of the fight was a visit from Vourtzes to the Roman camp. Marcus had not seen much of him lately and would have forgone this occasion, too, when he learned the
hypasteos
wanted him to pay for all the damage the grogshop had taken. Annoyed, he pointed out that it was scarcely just for him to be saddled with all the charges when only one of his men was involved, as opposed to six or seven under the
hypasteos’
jurisdiction. Vourtzes let the matter drop, but Marcus knew he was unhappy.
“Maybe you should have compromised and saved trouble,” Gorgidas said. “If I know our Celtic friend, he raised more than his share of the ruction.”
“I shouldn’t be a bit surprised. But Vourtzes is the sort to bleed you to death a drop at a time if you let him. I wonder,” Marcus mused, “how he’d look as a newt.”
Like the rest of the Empire of Videssos, Imbros celebrated the passing of the winter solstice and the turning of the sun to the north once more. Special prayers winged their way heavenward from the temples. Bonfiresblazed on street corners; the townsfolk jumped over them for luck. There was a huge, disorderly hockey match on the surface of a frozen pond. Falling and sliding on the ice seemed as much a part of the game as trying to drive the ball through the goal.
A troupe of mimes performed at Imbros’ central theater. Marcus saw he was far from the only Roman there. Such entertainments were much like those his men had known in Italy, and the fact that they had no dialogue
Similar Books
