LAST NIGHT’S RAIN STILL DRIPPED FROM OVERHANGING EAVES and trickled out of drainpipes, but the storm had finally blown through the capital. The day was clear and brisk, more like early spring than autumn.
“About time,” Marcus said, eyeing the bright sunshine and crisp-edged shadows with relief. “If we’d had to put things off again, I think I would have screamed.”
Taso Vones reached up to pat him on the shoulder. “Now, now,” he said. “The people are entitled to their spectacle. A wedding procession isn’t nearly as much fun if you have to get wet to watch it.”
Nepos the priest shook a finger at the Khatrisher diplomat. “You have a cynical view of the world, friend Taso.” He did his best to sound reproachful but his plump face was made for mirth, and he could not help smiling.
“I, cynical? Not at all, sir; merely realistic.” Vones drew himself up, the caricature of affronted dignity. “If you want cynicism, look to this one.” He pointed Scaurus’ way. “Why else would he have chosen you for a groomsman, if not to get at least one Videssian into the party?”
“Oh, go howl, Taso,” Marcus said, nettled. “I chose him because he’s a friend. Besides, there’s Goudeles over there, and Lemmokheir. And Skylitzes would be here, too, if he were up to it.” Among other battle wounds, the dour imperial officer had suffered a broken thigh when his horse was killed and crushed him beneath it. He was mending, but could hardly hobble yet, even with two canes.
Still, as it did more often than not, Vones’ sly needling held a germ of truth. Almost all the men gathered together in the little antechamber off the Grand Courtroom were not Videssians. Their various versions of finery gave them a curiously mismatched look.
Gaius Philippus was in full military gear, from hobnailed caligae to crested helm; his scarlet cape of rank hung from his shoulders. Marcus wished he could remember everything the veteran had called some officious chamberlain who tried to persuade him to don Videssian ceremonial raiment.
Viridovix wore a burnished corselet. Below it, a pair of baggy Videssian trousers made a fair substitute for the tighter breeches his own nation favored. His head was bare, the better to display his ruddy locks, which he had washed with lime-water until they stood up stiff as a lion’s mane. “Gi’ the lassies summat to look at,” he was saying to Gorgidas.
For the occasion, the Greek had chosen his own people’s garb, a knee-length chiton of white wool. Scaurus suspected the simple garment had originally been a blanket.
“Better than my skinny shanks, at least,” Gorgidas said to Viridovix. He sighed. “You don’t have to worry about drafts, either.”
“You’d never get away with that thin sheet on the steppe,” Arigh said. “Everything would freeze off at the first blizzard, and you’d sing soprano like any other eunuch.” The Arshaum chief wore rawhide boots, leather trousers, a shirt of fine soft suede, and a wolfskin jacket. Marcus was gladder to have him in the wedding party than Arigh was to be there. He had hoped to sail for Prista with his men to start back to Shaumkhiil, but the onset of the stormy season had stooped shipping across the Videssian Sea until spring.
Senpat Sviodo was telling Gagik Bagratouni a joke in their own language. The nakharar threw back his head and bellowed laughter at the punch line. His wicker helmet, a traditional Vaspurakaner headgear, fell to the floor. He stooped to retrieve it, hardly favoring his injured leg. Senpat, as usual, preferred the three-crowned tasseled cap that looked dumpy on most of his countrymen.
Nepos, of course, was in the blue robe of the Videssian priesthood. Beside him stood Laon Pakhymer. The cavalry commander wore Videssian-style clothes, but not of a sort to gladden a protocol officer’s heart. For reasons only he knew, he had chosen to dress like a street ruffian, with tights of a brilliant, bilious green surmounted by a linen shirt with enormous puffed sleeves tied tight at the wrists.
That left only Goudeles, Leimmokheir, and Taso Vones among the groomsmen in formal robes that reached to their ankles. And no one would have mistaken Taso for an imperial, not with his vast, bushy beard. Taron Leimmokheir was shaggy, too, but the admiral’s thick gray hair and somber countenance were well-known in the city.
A eunuch steward stuck his head into the room. “Take your places, my lords, if you would be so kind. We are about to begin.”
Marcus started to go to the head of the line that was forming and almost fell over. His own ceremonial robes were no lighter than Gaius Philippus’ armor, and harder to move in. Gold and silver threads shot all through the maroon samite only added to its weight, as did the pearls and precious stones at the collar, over his breast, and running down along his sleeves. His wide gold belt, ornamented with more rubies, sapphires, amethysts, and delicate enamelwork, weighed more than the sword belt he was used to.
The steward sniffed at his slowness and paused to make sure everyone was in proper position. Turning his back, he said, “This way. Just as we rehearsed it,” he added reassuringly.
No Videssian courtier in his right mind left anything to chance at an imperial function; the tribune had the plan of the procession down almost as thoroughly as Roman infantry drill. The thick, pleated silk of his robe rustled as he followed the eunuch.
He was glad of the weight of the material as soon as he stepped outside. The breeze had a raw edge to it. Behind him he heard teeth chattering, Arigh’s chuckle, and Gorgidas’ hissed retort: “Go ahead, amuse yourself. I hope you get heatstroke in the High Temple.” Arigh laughed louder.
“Och, I ken this courtyard,” Viridovix said. “We fought here to put Gavras on the throne and cast what-was-his-name, the young Sphrantzes, off it.”
And rescued Alypia from Ortaias’ uncle Vardanes, Marcus remembered, and drove Avshar out of the city. Had it really been more than two years ago? It seemed yesterday.
The bronze doors of the Grand Courtroom, which were covered with a profusion of magnificent reliefs, opened noiselessly. They had taken damage when the legionaries forced them that day, but the skilled Videssian artisans’ repairs were all but unnoticeable.
First through the doors was another eunuch to direct traffic. Behind him came a dozen parasol bearers, markers of the presence of the Emperor. Thorisin Gavras wore a robe even more gorgeous than Scaurus’; only the toes of his red boots peeped from under its bejeweled hem. The imperial crown, a low dome encrusted with still more precious stones, gleamed golden on his head. Only the sword at the Emperor’s belt detracted from his splendor; it was the much-battered saber he always carried.
A platoon of Videssian nobles followed Gavras, bureaucrats and soldiers together for once. Marcus spotted Provhos Mourtzouphlos, who looked as though he had an extraordinarily bad taste in his mouth. His robe was of a green that managed to outdo Pakhymer’s tights.
The eye kept coming back to it, in disbelief and horrid fascination. Marcus heard Gaius Philippus mutter, “Now I know what color a hangover is.” He wondered if Mourtzouphlos had chosen the dreadful thing as a silent protest against the wedding. If he was reduced to such petty gestures, his enmity was safe to ignore.
Under the watchful gaze of its chamberlain, the imperial party took its place some yards ahead of Scaurus and his comrades. He promptly forgot about it, for still another steward was leading Alypia Gavra and her attendant ladies into place between the two groups.
Her gown was of soft white silk, with silver threads running through it and snowy lace at the cuffs; it seemed spun from moonlight. A silver circlet confined her sleek brown hair.
She smiled and touched her throat as she walked by Marcus. The necklace she wore, of gold, emeralds, and mother-of-pearl, was not of a piece with the rest of her costume, but neither of them would have exchanged it for one that was.
He smiled back, wishing he could say something to her. Since returning to the city, he had only seen her once or twice, under the most formal circumstances. It had been easier when they were surreptitious lovers than properly affianced. But Thorisin had warned, “No more scandal,” and they thought it wiser to obey. There was not much waiting left.
“Straighten your collar, will you, Pikridios!” shrilled Goudeles’ wife, Tribonia. She was a tall, angular, sallow woman whose deep blue dress suited neither her figure nor her complexion. As the bureaucrat fumbled to fix the imaginary flaw, she complained to anyone who would listen, “Do you see how he takes no pains with himself? The most lazy, slovenly man …” The tribune, who knew Goudeles to be a fastidious dandy, wondered whether he had married her for money or position. It could hardly have been love.
Irrepressible, Nevrat Sviodo made a comic shrug behind Tribonia’s back, then grinned triumphantly at Marcus. He nodded back, very glad his mistaken advances the year before had not cost him a friend, or rather, two.
Nevrat was the only non-Videssian in Alypia’s party. Senpat said, “Some of the highborn ladies were scandalized when the princess chose her.”
“I notice no one has withdrawn,” Scaurus said.
An honor guard of Halogai and Romans fell in at the procession’s head; another company took its place to the rear. Palace servitors formed a line on either side. Seeing everything ready at last, Thorisin’s steward blew a sharp note on a pitch pipe. He strutted forward to set the pace, as if the day had been planned to celebrate him alone.
The wide pathways through the gardens of the palace compound had few spectators along them: a gardener, a cook, a mason and his wife and children, a squad of soldiers. As soon as the procession reached the forum of Palamas, all that changed. If twin sets of streamers had not kept the chosen path open, there would have been no pushing through the sea of humanity jamming the square.
Thorisin’s iron-lunged herald cried out, “Rejoice in the wedding of the Princess Alypia Gavra and the Yposevastos Scaurus! Rejoice! Rejoice!” The herald’s accent made the tribune’s name come out as “Skavros,” which did not sound too very alien to the ears of the city populace. The imposing title the Emperor had conferred on him—its significance, more or less, was “second minister,” which could mean anything or nothing—also made him less obviously foreign.
One of the servants pressed a small but heavy sack into his hands. As he had been instructed, he tossed goldpieces into the crowd, now right, now left. Up ahead, the Emperor was doing the same. So were the servitors, but their sacks were filled with silver.
The sidewalks of Middle Street were also packed tight with cheering onlookers. Marcus did not flatter himself that the hurrahs were for him. The city folk, fickle and restless, applauded any spectacle, and this one was doubly delightful because of the prospect of largesse.
“Rejoice! Rejoice!” At slow march, the procession passed the three-story red granite government office building. Marcus looked at it fondly, large and ugly though it was. Had he not happened to meet Alypia coming out of it last Midwinter’s Day, he would not be here now.
“Rejoice!” The herald turned north about a quarter mile past the government offices. Once off Middle Street, the crowds were thinner. With every step, Phos’ High Temple dominated more of the skyline; soon it was the skyline. The gilded globes topping its four spires shone bright as the sun they symbolized.
The walled courtyard around the High Temple was as crowded as the plaza of Palamas had been. The palace servitors threw out great handfuls of money; tradition required them to empty their sacks. The canny Videssians knew that perfectly well and thronged to where the pickings were best.
The honor guard deployed at the foot of the broad stairway leading up to the High Temple. Already waiting on the stairs were all the surviving Romans hale enough to stand. Their arms shot up in salute as Marcus approached.
The nobles and officials in Thorisin’s party peeled away from the Avtokrator to take their places on the steps, forming an aisleway through which he, the bride, the groom, and their attendants could pass. “Step smartly now!” urged the chamberlain in charge of Scaurus and his companions. The tribune hurried forward. Alypia, her ladies, and Thorisin were waiting for him and the groomsmen to catch up. The Emperor between them, he and Alypia started up the stairs. Behind them, pair by pair, came the groomsmen with the princess’ attendants on their arms.
At the top of the stairs, flanked by lesser priests on either side, stood the new patriarch of Videssos, his hands raised in benediction. Scaurus felt a small shock every time he saw the tall, middle-aged man wearing the robe of cloth-of-gold and blue. “It seems wrong, not having Balsamon up there,” he said.
Alypia nodded. “He was as much a part of the city as the Silver Gate.”
“This Sebeos will make a sound patriarch,” Thorisin said, a trifle irritably; the choice of Balsamon’s successor had been in essence his. As custom demanded, he had submitted three names to a synod of high-ranking clerics, who selected the former prelate of Kypas, a port city in the westlands.
“Of course he’s able,” Alypia said at once. “He’ll have trouble, though, making himself as loved as Balsamon—he was like a favorite uncle for all Videssos. And—” She stopped abruptly. To say what Balsamon had meant to her would only remind Thorisin of complications now past. She had too much sense for that.
They spoke in low voices, for they were approaching the High Temple. As they drew near, Marcus saw that Sebeos looked decidedly anxious himself. So he might, the tribune thought—hardly in place a month, he was conducting his first great ceremony under the Emperor’s eye. Not all patriarchs reigned as long as Balsamon.
When Sebeos stayed frozen a few seconds longer than he should, one of his attendant priests leaned over to whisper in his ear. “Saborios knows his job,” Scaurus murmured to Thorisin, who smiled. His clerical watchdog slid smoothly back into place.
Cued, Sebeos stepped forward to meet the wedding party, saying, “May the good god send his blessings down on this union, as his sun gives the whole world light and warmth.” He had a mellow baritone, far more impressive than Balsamon’s scratchy tenor—and far less interesting.
With Alypia, and Thorisin, Marcus followed the patriarch in sketching Phos’ sun-sign. The ritual gesture still felt unnatural, but he performed it perfectly; he had practiced.
Sebeos bowed, turned, and led the way into the High Temple. The outside of the great building had a heavy impressiveness to it, with its walls of unadorned stucco, small windows, and massive buttresses to support the weight of the central dome and the smaller half-domes around it. For the interior Scaurus had his memories, as well as more recent ones of the shrine at Garsavra, which aped its greater model. He discovered how little they were worth the moment he set foot inside.
He could have overlooked the luxury of the seats that ranged out from the altar under the dome in each of the cardinal directions, their polished oak and sandalwood and ebony and glistening mother-of-pearl, the more easily because they were filled by notables not important enough to join the wedding party. The colonnades faced with moss agate were lovely, but the Grand Courtroom had their match in multicolored marble.
The interior walls reproduced the heavens, east and west mimicking sunrise and sunset with sheets of bloodstone, rose quartz, and rhodochrosite rising to meet the white marble and turquoise that covered the northern and southern walls down to their bases. They had their own splendor, but they also served to lead the eye up to the central dome; and before that all comparison failed.
The soft beams of light coming through the arched windows that pierced its base seemed to disembody it, to leave it floating above the High Temple. They reflected from gold and silver foil like shining milk and butter.
They also played off the golden tesserae in the dome mosaic itself; the sparkle shifted at every step Scaurus took. And that shifting field of gold was only the surround of the great image of Phos that looked down from on high on his worshipers, his long, bearded face stern in judgment. Beneath that awesome countenance, with its omniscient eyes that seemed to bore into his soul, the tribune could not help feeling the power of the Videssian faith and could only hope to be recorded as acceptable in the sealed book Phos bore in his left hand. The god depicted in the dome would give him justice, but no mercy.
He must have missed a step without noticing, for Alypia whispered, “It affects everyone so.” That, he saw, was true. Even the imperials who worshipped in the High Temple daily kept glancing up at the dome, as if to reassure themselves that the Phos there was not singling them out for their sins.
A choir in a vestibule behind the northern seats burst into song, hymning Phos’ praises in the archaic liturgical language Marcus still could only half follow. He thought how different Videssian marriage customs were from those of Rome. In Rome, while ceremonies, of course, usually accompanied a marriage, what made it valid was the intent of its partners to be married; the ceremonies themselves were not necessary. To the Videssians, the religious rites were the marriage.
As Scaurus, Alypia, and Thorisin passed the inmost row of seats, the Empress Alania stood and joined her husband. Because of her pregnancy, she had not walked in the wedding procession, but come ahead in a sedan chair. The Avtokrator would not risk her health, though in her flowing formal robes the child she was carrying did not show. She had olive skin and jet-black hair like Komitta Rhangavve’s, but her face was round and kindly; her eyes, her best feature, were dark, calm pools. Thorisin, Marcus thought, had chosen wisely.
Then the tribune had no time for such trivial ruminations, for the wedding party had reached the holy table in front of the ivory patriarchal throne. The Emperor and Empress stepped back a pace. As he had been drilled, Marcus took Alypia’s right hand in his left and laid them on the altartop; the polished silver was cool beneath his fingertips. Smiling, Alypia squeezed his hand. He gently returned the pressure.
From the other side of the holy table, Sebeos said softly, “Look at me.” Marcus saw the patriarch take a deep breath. Until that moment he had held his own nerves under tight control, but suddenly he heard everything through the pounding of his heart.
The choir fell silent. Sebeos intoned the creed with which the Videssians began every religious service: “We bless thee, Phos, Lord with the right and good mind, by thy grace our protector, watchful beforehand that the great test of life may be decided in our favor.”
Marcus and Alypia echoed the prayer together. He did not stumble. Having decided at last to acknowledge Phos’ faith, he was determined to do so properly.
The High Temple filled with murmurs as the faithful also repeated the creed. A couple of high Namdalener officers ended it with their own nation’s addition: “On this we stake our very souls.” Their neighbors frowned at the heresy.
Sebeos also frowned, but carried on after a glance at the Emperor told him Thorisin did not want to make an issue of it. Again the prayers were in the old-fashioned liturgical tongue, as were Scaurus’ memorized responses. He knew in a general way that he was asking Phos’ blessing for himself, for his wife to be, and for the family they were founding.
He gave all the correct replies, though sometimes so quietly that only those closest to him could hear. Alypia squeezed his fingers again, encouraging him. Her own responses rang out firmly. Usually she was more outgoing in private than in large gatherings, but she was determined to make this day an exception.
Finishing the prayers, Sebeos returned to contemporary Videssian. He launched into a homily on the virtues that went into a successful marriage which was so perfectly conventional that Marcus found himself anticipating what the patriarch would say three sentences before it came. Respect, trust, affection, forbearance—everything was in its place, correct, orderly, and unmemorable.
In Latin, Viridovix whispered loudly, “Och, there’s a man could make sex dull.”
Marcus had all he could do not to explode. He wished for Balsamon, who would have taken the same theme and turned it into something worth hearing.
Eventually, Sebeos noticed the Emperor tapping his foot on the marble floor. He finished in haste: “These virtues, if diligently adhered to, are sure to guarantee domestic felicity.”
Then, his manner changing, he asked Alypia and Scaurus, “Are the two of you prepared to cleave to these virtues together, and to each other, so long as you both may live?”
Marcus made his voice carry: “Yes.”
This time Alypia’s answer came soft: “Oh, yes.”
As they spoke the binding words, Thorisin stepped forward to place a wreath of myrtle and roses on the tribune’s head, while Alania did the same for Alypia.
“Behold them decked in the crowns of marriage!” Sebeos cried. “It is accomplished!”
While the spectators burst into applause, Scaurus slipped a ring onto the index finger of Alypia’s left hand. That again followed the Videssian way; the Romans preferred the third finger of the same hand, believing a nerve connected it directly to the heart. The ring, however, was of his own choosing—gold, with an emerald set in a circle of mother-of-pearl. Alypia had not seen it before. She threw her arms around his neck.
“Kiss her, tha twit!” Viridovix whooped.
That had not been part of the ceremony as rehearsed; the tribune glanced at Thorisin to see if it fell within the bounds of custom. The Emperor was grinning. Marcus took that for permission. The cheers got louder. There were bawdy shouts of advice, of the same sort he had heard—and called—at weddings back in Mediolanum. Human nature did not change, and a good thing, too, he thought.
He felt Alypia tense slightly; some of the shouts must have touched memories she would sooner have left buried. Shaking her head in annoyance, she made a brave face of it. “This is us, as it should be,” she said when he tried to comfort her. “It’s all right now.”
The crowds had thinned when the wedding party emerged from the High Temple for the return procession to the feast laid out in the Hall of the Nineteen Couches. The palace servitors bore freshly filled bags, bigger than the ones from which they had thrown coins on the way to the High Temple, but the city folk were much less interested in these; they held only nuts and figs, symbols of fertility.
Full circle, Marcus thought as he walked through the smoothly polished bronze doors of the Hall of the Nineteen Couches. He had met Alypia here the Romans’ first evening in Videssos the city, along with so many others. He was lucky Avshar had not killed him that very night.
As tradition decreed, he and Alypia shared a single cup of wine; a serving maid hovered near them with a silver ewer to make sure it never emptied. Others were quite able to take care of such matters on their own—Gawtruz, the fat, bald ambassador from Thatagush, had somehow managed to filch an ewer for himself. “Haw! Congratulations I you give!” he shouted in broken Videssian. He found it useful to play the drunken barbarian, but in fact he was no one’s fool and could use the imperial tongue without accent and with great polish when he chose.
A fried prawn in one hand, Thorisin Gavras used the other to pound on a tabletop until he had everyone’s attention. He pointed to another table, in a corner close to the kitchen doors, which was piled high with gifts. “My turn to add to those,” he said.
There was a polite spatter of applause and a few raucous cheers from celebrants already tipsy. Gavras waited for quiet to return. “I’ve already honored the groom with the rank of yposevastos, but you can’t eat rank, though I sometimes think that in the city we breathe it.” Inevitably, a joke from the Emperor won laughter.
Thorisin went on, “To live on, I grant him the estates in the westlands forfeited to the crown by the traitor and rebel Baanes Onomagoulos and grant him leave to settle on those estates the men of his command, so he and they may have the means to defend Videssos in the future as they have in the past.”
In the near future, Marcus thought; Onomagoulos’ lands were near Garsavra, on the edge of Yezda-infested territory. A rich gift but a dangerous one—Thorisin’s style through and through. And the Emperor had also granted him what every Roman general sought, land for his troops.
Filled with pride, he bowed nearly double. He whispered to Alypia, “You put him up to that last part.” Having studied Videssos’ past, she had seen that the Empire’s troubles began when it weakened the population of farmer-soldiers settled on the countryside.
She shook her head. “My uncle makes his own decisions, always.” Her eyes sparkled. “I think this was a very good one.”
So, apparently, did most of the Videssians, who crowded up to Scaurus to congratulate him all over again—and perhaps to reappraise one grown suddenly powerful among them. If they thought less of him because he was not of their blood, they were careful not to show it.
But Provhos Mourtzouphlos was bold enough to shout, “This accursed foreigner doesn’t deserve the honors you’re giving him!”
Thorisin’s voice grew cold. “When your services match his, Provhos, you may question me. Until then, hold your tongue.” The hotheaded young noble, true to his own principles, stamped out of the Hall.
That was the only incident marring the day’s festivities, though Marcus had an anxious moment when Thorisin steered him over to the gifts table and said, “I suppose you can explain this.”
“This” was an exquisite ivory statuette of a standing warrior, perhaps a foot tall, carved in the ebullient, rococo style of Makuran. The sword the warrior brandished was of gold; his eyes were twin sapphires. “It’s from Wulghash,” the tribune said lamely.
“I know that. First damned wedding present ever delivered behind shield of truce, I’d wager.” The Emperor seemed more amused than anything else; Scaurus relaxed.
“Here’s fine silk,” Gavras said, running an appreciative hand along a bolt of the smooth lustrous fabric, which was dyed a deep purple-red. “A rich gift. May I ask who it came from?”
“Tahmasp,” Marcus said.
Thorisin raised an eyebrow at the exotic name, then placed it. “Oh, that caravaneer you traveled with. How did he find out you were getting harnessed?”
“No idea,” the tribune said, but nothing Tahmasp did could surprise him any more. The surprise was the throwing knife next to the silk. That was from Kamytzes, and Marcus had thought the caravan guard captain utterly without sentiment.
After the Emperor let him go, Marcus returned to Alypia’s side. A clavier on a little raised platform tinkled away, accompanied by flutes and a couple of men sawing away at viols of different sizes. The music was soft and innocuous; the tribune, who cared little for such things, hardly noticed it.
It mightily annoyed Senpat Sviodo, though. He slipped a servant a few coppers and gave him the password to the legionary barracks so the sentries would not take him for a thief. The man trotted away, coming back shortly with the Vaspurakaner’s pandoura. “Ha! Well done,” Senpat said, and tipped him again.
He sprang onto the platform. Startled, the musicians came to a ragged halt. “Enough of this pap!” Senpat cried. “My lords and ladies, here’s a tune to suit a celebration!” His fingers struck a ringing chord. Heads turned, as if drawn by a lodestone. He sang in a clear, strong tenor, stamping out the rhythm with a booted foot.
Not many could follow the song, which was in the Vaspurakaner tongue, but no one could stand still with that wild music ringing through the Hall. Before long, the feasters were spinning in several concentric rings, one going one way, the next the other. They raised their hands to clap out the beat with Senpat.
Alpia’s foot was tapping. “Come on,” she said, touching Marcus’ sleeve. He hung back, having no taste or skill for dancing. But he yielded to her disappointed look and let himself be steered into the outer ring.
“You don’t get away that easy!” Gaius Philippus said. The treacherous senior centurion was in the next ring in; when he whirled past the tribune, he reached out and tugged him and Alypia toward the center.
Other dancers, laughing and clapping, pulled them further in, at last shoving them into the open space in the center of the rings, where Viridovix had been dancing alone. “Sure and it’s yours,” the Gaul said, easing back into the inner ring.
Scaurus felt like a man condemned to speak after Balsamon. Viridovix’ Celtic dance, performed with gusto, had drawn every man’s—and woman’s—eye. It was nothing like the dances of the Empire, for he held his upper body motionless and kept his hands always on his hips. But his steps and leaps were at the same time so intricate and so athletic that they vividly displayed his skill.
The tribune kicked and capered, sometimes with the tune but more often not. Even with Alypia slim and graceful beside him, he knew he was cutting a sorry figure. But he soon realized it did not matter. As the bridegroom, he was supposed to be in the center. Past that, no one cared.
Senpat Sviodo finished with a virtuoso flourish, shouted “Hai!” and leaped off the platform to a storm of applause, his pandoura high over his head. Panting a little, Marcus made his escape.
Senpat’s talent and his striking good looks drew a flock of admiring ladies to him. He flirted outrageously with all his new conquests and went no further with any; Scaurus saw him tip his wife a wink. Nevrat stood back easily, watching him enjoy himself.
Viridovix, Marcus thought, should also be getting some attention after his exhibition. The Gaul, though, was nowhere to be seen.
He came back through a side door a few minutes later, followed not quite discreetly enough by a noblewoman adjusting her gown. The tribune frowned; come to think of it, this was not the first time Viridovix had disappeared.
The Gaul must have caught Scaurus’ expression from across the Hall. He weaved toward him. “Sure and you’re right,” he said in Latin as he drew near. “I’m a pig, no mistake.” Only then did Marcus notice how drunk he was.
Viridovix’ eyes filled with tears. “Here my sweet Seirem is dead, and me rutting like a stoat wi’ Evdoxia and—och, the shame of it, I never found out t’other one’s name!”
“Easy, there.” Marcus set his hand on the Gaul’s shoulder.
“Aye, tha can speak so, having a fine lass to wife and all. Me, I ken how lucky y’are. This hole-and-corner friking is a cruel mock, but what other way is there o’ finding again what I lost?”
“What troubles him?” Alypia asked. She had not been able to follow the conversation, but the Celt’s woe was plain without words. At Viridovix’ nod, Scaurus quickly explained.
She considered the problem seriously, as if it were some historical dilemma. Finally she said, “The trouble, I think, is the confusion between what’s called lovemaking and actual love. There’s no faster road to a woman’s heart than the one that starts between her legs, but many surer ones.”
“Summat o’ wisdom in that,” Viridovix said after owlish pondering. He turned to Marcus, drunkenly serious. “A treasure she is. Do be caring for her.”
“Shall I put him to bed, Scaurus?” Gorgidas appeared at the tribune’s elbow, as usual where he was needed.
“Aye, I’ll go with ye.” Viridovix spoke for himself, then bowed to Alypia with great dignity. “My lady, I’ll take myself off the now, and bad cess to me for being such an oaf as to put a gloom on your wedding day.”
“Nonsense,” she said crisply. “Lightening sorrows should always be in season, and too seldom is. I remember.” Her voice went soft, her eyes far away. Marcus slipped an arm around her.
She shivered and came back to herself. “Don’t fret over me. I’m fine, truly.” She spoke quietly, but with something of the same briskness she had used toward Viridovix. When Scaurus still hesitated, she went on, “If you must have it, one proof we’re right for each other is that you noticed I was low. And here’s another.” She kissed him, which brought a huzza from the feasters. “There. Do you believe me now?”
The best answer he could find was kissing her back. It seemed to be the right one.
Some wedding guests were still singing raucously in the darkness outside the secluded palace building the imperial family used as its own. No one followed Marcus and Alypia in, though, but Thorisin and Alania, and they went off to their own rooms at once.
The tribune swung open the door to the suite he and Alypia would live in until they left the city to take up the estate the Emperor had granted him. Servants had already come and gone, only minutes before; a sweating silver wine jar rested in a basin of crushed ice, with the customary one cup beside it. The bedcovers, silken sheets and soft furs, were turned down. A single lamp burned on the table by the bed.
Alypia suddenly let out a squeak. “What are you doing? Put me down!”
Marcus did, inside the chamber. Grinning, he said, “I’ve followed Videssian ways all through this wedding. No complaints—it’s only fitting. But that was one of mine. A bride should be carried across the threshold.”
“Oh. Well, all right. You might have warned me.”
“Sorry.” He looked and sounded so contrite that Alypia burst out laughing.
Relieved, Marcus shut and barred the door. He started to laugh, too. “What is it, husband?” Alypia asked. She used the word with the proud possessiveness new brides have. “Or should I say, proved husband?” she asked mischievously, pantomiming him lifting her.
“Not proved by that,” he answered. “I was just thinking, though, that that was the first time I’ve locked a door behind us without worrying that someone was going to kick it down.”
“For which Phos be praised,” Alypia said at once. Her laugh was a little nervous. “It’s also, you will note, a stouter door.”
“So it is, though I hadn’t planned to talk about it all night.”
“Nor I.” She glanced at the ewer of wine. “Do you want much more of that? It’s a kindly notion, but I think another cup would only put me to sleep.”
“Can’t have that,” Marcus agreed gravely. “I drank enough at the feast, too, I think.”
He took off the fragrant wedding-wreath and started to toss it to one side. “Don’t do that!” Alypia exclaimed. “They go on the headposts of the bed, for luck.” She took his marriage-crown from him and hung it on the nearer post, then removed hers and climbed onto the bed to set it on the other.
The tribune stepped forward and joined her. She hugged him fiercely, whispering, “Oh, Marcus, we came through everything! I love you.”
He had time to say, “And I you,” before their lips met.
The thick ceremonial robes hampered their embrace nearly as much as armor would have, but the fastenings were easier for Scaurus to undo. “Hurry,” Alypia said as he began to pay attention to his own robe. “It’s chilly here alone.”
But she frowned when he shrugged the robe back from his shoulders. “That one is new,” she said, running her finger down the long scar on his chest.
“It’s the one I took in Mashiz. It would be worse, but Gorgidas healed it.”
“Yes, I remember your saying so. It’s in front, like any honorable wound. But it surprised me, and I want to get used to you again.”
“There’ll be years for that now.” He gathered her in.
She held him tightly. “Yes. Oh, yes.”
He blew out the lamp.
Gaius Philippus splashed through a puddle in the forum of Palamas. “Getting on toward spring. These last three storms only dropped rain, no new snow for a while now.”
Marcus nodded. He bought a little fried squid, ate it, and licked his fingers clean. “I wish I could talk you into going to the westlands.”
“How many times have we been through that?” the senior centurion said patiently. “You want to go live on a farm, fine, go’ ahead. Me, I was raised on one—and I got out just as fast as I could.”
“It wouldn’t be like that,” Scaurus protested. “You’d have the land to do what you want with, not some tiny plot you couldn’t help starving on.”
“So I’d bore myself to death instead. Is that better? No, I’m happy with the slot Gavras offered me. At least as infantry drillmaster I’ll know what I’m doing. Don’t worry over me; I won’t forget my Latin. A good solid Roman cadre’ll be staying in the city with me.” That was true; while most of the legionaries eagerly accepted farms on the estate the Emperor had granted Marcus, a couple of dozen preferred more active duty. Thorisin was glad to keep them on so they could train Videssian foot soldiers up to their standard.
“The job counts for something,” Gaius Philippus insisted. “The lot of you will lose your edge out there, too busy with the crops and the beasts and the brats to bother with drill. You won’t hand it down to your sons, and it’ll be lost for good unless the imperials remember—and with me teaching, they will. I’m no scribbler like Gorgidas; what better monument can I leave behind?”
“Anyone who lives through your exercises remembers them forever,” Marcus assured him. He grunted, mostly in pleasure. The tribune went on, “All right, you’ve argued me down again. But we won’t stop being soldiers ourselves, either, not with the Yezda for neighbors. Still, the main thing is that I’m selfish. I’ll miss having you at my right hand—and plain miss you, come to that.”
“Well, by the gods—” The veteran had no truck with Phos—“it’s not as if we’ll never see each other again. Come trouble, first thing Thorisin’ll do is call up the Romans. And if the Yezda give you trouble, we’ll come down from the capital to hold the line or push Yavlak further up the plateau.
“Besides, not wanting to farm doesn’t mean I won’t visit. I’ll be by every so often, guzzling your wine and pinching your wenches for as long as you can stand me. And who knows? One of these days I may get over to Aptos again, and you’d be the perfect jumping-off point for that.”
“Of course.” Over the winter, Gaius Philippus had talked repeatedly of courting Nerse Phorkaina. Scaurus did not believe he would ever get around to it on his own. He frowned a little. From the friendly reception she had given the veteran the previous fall, he thought she might be interested. Maybe a message telling her to make a discreet first move might help. He filed the idea away, to act on when he found the time.
Here and there green leaf buds were appearing on the trees in the palace compound. The first hopeful new grass had begun to poke through the dead, muddy, yellow-brown growth of the previous year.
Gaius Philippus left to argue with an armorer over the proper balance of a dagger. Marcus went on to the imperial family’s private residence. The cherry trees surrounding the brick building were still bare-branched; soon they would be full of fragrant pink blossoms.
Rather absently, Scaurus returned the salute of the guardsmen at the door. His eyes were on the crates and boxes and bundles piled outside: furnishings and household goods ready to ship to his new home when the dirt roads in the westlands dried enough. Years of army life had got him used to making do with very little; the thought of owning so much was daunting.
The hallway smelled faintly of sour milk. The midwives had ushered Pharos Gavras into the world a month early, but he was strong and healthy, even if he did look like a bald, pink, wizened monkey. Marcus cringed, remembering the hangover he’d had after Thorisin celebrated the birth of his heir.
Alypia’s voice was raised in exasperation. “What exactly do you mean by that, then?” she demanded.
“Not what you’re reading into it, that’s certain!” The reply was equally bad-tempered.
The tribune looked in at the open study door. Like the rest of the suite, the room was sparsely furnished; bare, in fact, but for a couch and a writing table in front of it. The rest had already been packed.
“Softly, softly. The two of you will have the eunuchs running for cover, or more likely the sentries running this way to pry you from each other’s throats.”
Alypia and Gorgidas looked simultaneously shamefaced and defiant. The secretary sitting between them looked harassed. Scaurus saw he had written only a few lines, and scratched out several of those. Gorgidas said, “Now I understand the myth of Sisyphos. The rock he had to push up the hill was a translation, and I’m surprised it didn’t crush him when it fell back.”
Then the Greek had to explain Sisyphos to Alypia, who scribbled a note that might appear one day in her own history. “Though who can tell when that will be done?” she said to Marcus. “Another reason for coming back to Videssos often—how am I to write without the documents to check, the people to ask questions of?”
Before he could answer, she had turned back to Gorgidas. Scaurus was used to that; the long labor of turning the Greek’s work into something a Videssian audience might want to read had left them thick as thieves. Alypia sighed. “It’s a fine line we walk. If we’re too literal, what you’ve written makes no sense in my language, but when we stray too far the other way, we lose the essence of what you’ve said. Eis kórakas,” she added: “To the crows with it,” a Greek curse that made both the tribune and Gorgidas laugh in surprise.
The physician’s irritability collapsed. “What business do I have grumbling? When I started writing, I thought I would be the only one ever to read this mess, save maybe Marcus. Who else could? To have it published—”
“It deserves to be,” Alypia said firmly. “First as an eyewitness account, and second because it’s history as history should be done—you see past events to the causes behind them.”
“I try,” Gorgidas said. “The part we’re fighting through now, you understand, I didn’t see for myself; I have it from Viridovix. Here, Scaurus, be useful.” He thrust a parchment at the Roman. “How would you render this bit into Videssian?”
“Me?” Marcus said, alarmed; most of his efforts in that direction had not been well received. “Which part?” Gorgidas showed him the disputed passage. Hoping he remembered what a couple of Greek verbs meant, he said, “How about, ‘Some clans backed Varatesh because they hated Targitaus, more because they feared Avshar’?”
“That’s not bad,” Gorgidas said. “It keeps the contrast I was drawing.” Alypia pursed her lips judiciously and nodded.
“Let me have it again, please,” the secretary said, and wrote it down.
Gorgidas and Alypia combined to tear Scaurus’ next suggestion to pieces.
A little later, after more wrangling, Gorgidas said, “Enough for now. Maybe it’ll go better, looked at fresh.” His nod to Alypia was close to a seated bow. He told her, “If you like, I’d count it a privilege to search out the manuscripts you need and send them on to you at your new home. That can’t take the place of your own inquiries, of course, but it might help some.”
“A bargain,” she said with the same quick decisiveness Thorisin might have shown. A warm smile and a word of thanks softened the resemblance.
The Greek rose to take his leave. “You’ll be busy, doing your research, and some for Alypia, and healing, too,” Marcus remarked as he walked to the entranceway with him.
“Physicians are supposed to be busy. As for running down the odd book for your wife, that’s the least I can do, wouldn’t you say? Not only for the favor she’s shown me, but also because I’ve learned a great deal from her.”
Scaurus thought the Greek could give no greater praise, but Gorgidas amazed him by murmuring, “Pity she has no sister.” He barked laughter at the tribune’s expression. “Not everything that happened on the steppe got written down. I can manage, after a fashion, and I’d like a son one day.” As if on cue, a thin cry floated down the hall from the nursery.
One of the sentries outside must have told a dirty story. Scaurus heard chuckles, and then Viridovix saying, “Get on wi’ your bragging, now. You’re after reminding me o’ the flea that humped the she-wolf and told her, ‘Sure and I hope I’ve not hurt you, my dear.’ ”
More laughter; beside the tribune, Gorgidas let out a strangled snort. The guardsman said, “Did you come here to insult me, or do you have some honest reason?”
“Och, I like that,” the Gaul exclaimed, as if cut to the quick. “But aye, I’m for Scaurus, if he’s to home.”
“I’m here.” Marcus stepped out of the hallway into the watery sunshine.
“It’s himself himself,” Viridovix cried. He waved at the piled boxes and chests. “Sure and you must’ve emptied out all the palaces, and the High Temple, too. Me, I could carry what I’ll bring with me on my back.”
“Remember, though, mules carry an uncommon lot,” Gorgidas said. “And if Thorisin hadn’t set you up on your own estate, half the nobles in town would have clubbed together to buy you one and get you away from their wives.”
The Gaul shrugged. “T’other half married ugly lasses, puir spalpeens.” Gorgidas threw his hands in the air, defeated. The guards laughed so hard they had to hold each other up. Viridovix had not been able to take Alypia’s advice to heart; his philanderings were notorious all over the city. But he was so good-natured through them that he had somehow kept from making any mortal enemies, male or female.
Marcus said, “Did you come here to insult me, or do you have some honest reason?”
“What an unco wicked man y’are, t’stand in there and spy on me. But you’re right, I do.” To the sentries’ disappointment, he dropped into Latin. “Now we’re for it and about to be going and all, I’d fain thank you for talking the Gavras into granting me land for my own self, and not just a chunk I’d have from you.”
“Oh, that,” Marcus said in the same tongue. “Forget it; the other way embarrassed me as much as it did you. Thorisin just sees all of us as one band and, since he’s mostly dealt with me, he didn’t think to do otherwise this time. Not,” he added, “that you ever took orders from me.”
“Forbye, you never tried to give ’em, and I’ll thank you for that, too.” Viridovix drew himself up with lonely pride. “Still and all, I’m not sorry to be on my own. I wouldna have Gaius Philippus say he was right all along, and the only Celt here a Roman gillie.”
“Are you still fighting that idiot war?” Gorgidas said in disgust. “Haven’t you found enough new ways here to satisfy your barbarian craving for gore?”
“Let him be,” Marcus said. “We all remember, as best we can. It helps us hang together.”
“Aye,” Viridovix said. “You Romans now, you’re the lucky ones, wi’ sic a mort o’ ye here. Belike even your grandsons’ll recall a word or two o’ Latin. And the Greek has his histories for keepsake. So I’ll remember, too, and a pox on anyone for saying I shouldna bother.” He looked pointedly at Gorgidas.
“Oh, very well,” the physician said with bad grace. He fumed for a few seconds, then smiled lopsidedly. “I’m always annoyed when you outargue me. Those droopy red whiskers make me forget the brain behind them.” Shaking his head, he strode off.
“Here, wait!” Viridovix shouted. “We’ll hash it out further over a stoup o’ the grape.” He trotted after Gorgidas.
The guardsmen might not have been able to follow the conversation, but they recognized the tone. “Remind me of my dog and cat, they do,” one said to Scaurus.
“You have it,” the tribune said.
He went back into the imperial residence, walking past the portrait of the ancient Emperor Laskaris, whose harsh peasant face gave him more the look of a veteran underofficer than a ruler. The bloodstain marring the lower part of the picture was one of the few reminders of the desperate fighting against Onomagoulos’ assassins two years before. Most of the damage had been made good, but Laskaris’ image was impossible to clean and too precious to throw away.
The secretary came out of Scaurus’ doorway. Alypia’s voice pursued him: “I’d like a fair copy of that tomorrow, Artanas, if you can have it by then.”
Artanas’ shoulders heaved in a silent sigh. “I’ll do my best, your Highness.” He sighed again, bowed to the tribune, and hurried off, tucking his case of pens into his tunic.
“I shouldn’t drive him so hard,” Alypia said when Marcus joined her inside. “But I want to do as much as I can before we leave for the westlands.” She gave a rueful laugh. “Not that I can accomplish much, with three quarters of my things stowed away where I can’t get at them.”
The tribune had learned she complained only over minor upsets; she did not let frets get in the way of dealing with real problems. Knowing that, he should have changed the subject. Because he was still adjusting to her, though, he said anxiously, “I hope it won’t be too strange for you, away from Videssos the city.”
She looked at him with mixed fondness and exasperation. “Strange? It’ll be more like going home. Have you forgotten I grew up on a country holding not very far from the one we’re taking? I never thought I’d see the city until my father led the revolt that cast out Strobilos Sphrantzes. No, you needn’t fear for me on that score.”
Flustered because he had forgotten, Marcus said, “All right,” so unconvincingly that Alypia could not help laughing.
“It really is all right,” she assured him. “This is the happy ending the romances write about, the one we all know doesn’t happen in real life. But we have it, you and I—the villain overthrown, you with the acclaim you deserve, and the two of us together, as we should be. Is any of that bad?”
He laughed himself. “No,” he said, “especially the last,” and kissed her. He was telling the truth; his previous experience reminded him how lucky he was. One sign was the absence of the grinding fights that had punctuated his time with Helvis. But that was only the most obvious mark of a greater tranquility. Not the least reason for it, he knew, was his learning from earlier mistakes.
Yet there was no denying the part Alypia played in their contentment together. By not trying to make him over, he thought, she left him free to change for himself instead of being frozen behind a defensive shell.
The proof of her success—and perhaps of his own—was that they cared for each other more as time went by, where before happiness had steadily leaked away once passion cooled.
That was not to say he and Alypia did not have differences. She had just shown one, with her talk of happy endings. He thought the imperial religion, with its emphasis on the battles between good and evil, had much to do with that.
Scaurus had come to terms with Phos himself, but he still felt the influence of his Stoic upbringing. Endings were for romances, which did not have to worry about what came after them. In the real world trouble followed trouble without cease; there was only one ending, and that predetermined.
But many roads led toward it. “Call this a good beginning,” he said, and Alypia did not argue.
(1967)
1979–1983
(1985)