An Emperor for the Legion Read Free

professional soldier to the roots of his iron-gray hair, he asked, “On your way hither, what did you see of the Yezda—aye, and of our fellows, in the bargain?”
    “Too many Yezda. They’re thicker further east, but there’s no order to them at all—they’re like frogs after flies, striking at anything that moves. The only thing that brought them together was the imperial army. Now they’ve crushed it and they’re breaking up again, looking for new land to push into … and all Videssos this side of the Cattle-Crossing lies open to them.”
    Marcus thought of Videssos’ western lands laid waste by the nomads, the rich, peaceful fields put to the torch, cities so long at peace they had no walls now the playthings of invading barbarians, smoking altars heaped high with butchered victims for Yezd’s dark god Skotos. Searching for any straw to contradict that horrid picture, he repeated the second half of Gaius Philippus’ question: “What of the Empire’s troops?”
    “Most are as badly beaten as Ortaias. I watched three Yezda chasing a whole squad of horsemen, laughing themselves sick as they rode. One broke off to follow me, but I lost him in rocky ground.” Nevrat dismissed two hours of terror in a sentence.
    She went on, “I did see what’s left of the Namdalener regiment still in good order, most of a day’s ride ahead of you. The nomads were giving them a wide berth.”
    “That would be the way of it,” Viridovix agreed. “Tough as nails, they are.” The Romans concurred in that judgment. The warriors from the island Duchy of Namdalen were heretics in Videssos’ eyes and as ambitious for themselves as any other mercenary soldiers, but they fought so well the Empire was glad to hire them.
    “Did you see anything of Thorisin Gavras?” Scaurus asked. Again he thought of linking with Thorisin’s forces.
    “The Sevastokrator? No, nor heard anything, either. Is it true the Emperor’s dead? Ortaias claimed he was.”
    “It’s true.” Marcus did not elaborate and did not mention his grisly proof of Mavrikios’ passing.
    Gorgidas caught something the tribune missed. The physician said, “How could Sphrantzes know? He was long fled when the Emperor fell.” The Romans growled as they took in the implications of that.
    “Perhaps he wished it true so badly, he never thought to doubt it,” Quintus Glabrio suggested. “Men often believe what they most want.”
    It was like Glabrio to put as charitable a light as possible on the young noble’s action. Marcus, who had been active in politics in his native Mediolanum, found another, more ominous interpretation. Ortaias Sphrantzes was of a house which had held the imperium itself; his uncle, the Sevastos—or prime minister—Vardanes Sphrantzes, was Mavrikios’ chief rival.
    Gaius Philippus broke into Scaurus’ chain of thought. He demanded, “Have we chattered long enough? The sooner we’re to Khliat, the sooner we can do something more than beating our gums over all this.”
    “Give a body a bit of a blow, will you now?” Viridovix said, wiping his sweaty, sunburned forehead with the back of his hand. “You’re after forgetting not everyone’s like that sleepless bronze giant I once heard a Greek tell of …”
    He looked questioningly at Gorgidas, who gave him the name: “Talos.”
    “That’s it,” the Celt agreed happily. He was excitable, energetic, in short bursts of strength well-nigh unmatchable, but the senior centurion—indeed, many Romans—surpassed him in endurance.
    Despite Viridovix’ groans, Marcus decided Gaius Philippus was right. Progress was too slow to suit him anyway; there were many walking wounded, and others who had to be carried in litters. If Khliat still stood, the Romans had to get there as fast as they could, before the Yezda mounted an assault to overwhelm its feeble and no doubt demoralized garrison.
    That thought led to another. “One last question before wemarch,” he said to Nevrat: “Is there