Videssos Cycle, Volume 2 Read Free

arm—then spun smartly on his heel and hurried back to the doorway. The hobnails in the soles of his
caligae
clicked on the slate floor.
    “Took you long enough,” Scaurus heard the man grumbling as Fostulus led him back to the little table in the rear corner of the barracks hall that the tribune used as a makeshift office. Marcus rose to greet him as he approached.
    Fostulus had been right; the priest was nearly of a height with Scaurus, whose northern blood gave him more inches than most Romans or Videssians enjoyed. And when they clasped hands, the fellow’s firm, dry grip showed considerable strength. “You can go now, Fostulus,” the tribune said. With another salute, the sentry returned to his station.
    The priest flung himself into a chair, which creaked under his weight. Sweat darkened the armpits of his blue robe and sprayed from his shaved pate; Marcus was glad he had closed the account roll. “Phos’ light, standing there in the sun is hot work,” the Videssian said accusingly, his voice a rumbling bass. “D’you have any wine for a thirsty man?”
    “Well, yes,” the tribune said, disconcerted by such brusqueness; most Videssians were smoother spoken. He found a jug and a couple of earthenware cups, poured, handed one cup to the priest, and raised the other in salute. “Your health, ah—” he paused, not knowing the man’s name.
    “Styppes,” the priest said curtly; like all Videssian clerics, he had abandoned his surname, a symbol of his dedication to Phos alone.
    Before he tasted the wine, he raised both hands to the sky, murmuring his faith’s basic creed: “We bless thee, Phos, Lord with the great and good mind, by thy grace our protector, watchful beforehand that the great test of life may be decided in our favor.” Then he spat on the floor in rejection of Skotos, Phos’ evil opponent in the Empire’s dualistic religion.
    He waited for a moment for the Roman to join him in the ritual, butScaurus, although he respected Videssos’ customs, did not ape the ones he failed to share. Styppes gave him a disdainful glance. “Heathen,” he muttered. Marcus saw what Fostulus had meant about his mouth; its narrow, bloodless lips barely covered strong yellow teeth.
    Then Styppes drank, and the tribune had to fight to keep contempt from his face in turn. The Videssian drained his cup at a draught, filled it without asking Scaurus’ leave, emptied it once more, refilled, and swallowed a third while Marcus’ lips were hardly wet. Styppes started to pour again, but the jug gave out with his cup half-empty. He snorted in annoyance and tossed it off.
    “Will the wine do you, or was there something else you wanted?” Scaurus asked sharply. He was immediately ashamed of himself; had Stoicism not taught him to accept each man as he was, good and bad together? If this Styppes loved the grape too well, despising him for it would hardly change him.
    Marcus tried again, this time without sarcasm. “How can I, or perhaps my men, help you?”
    “I doubt it would be possible,” Styppes answered, raising the tribune’s hackles afresh. “But I have been told to help you.” His sour expression did not speak well for his pleasure at the undertaking.
    The priest was a veteran drinker. His speech did not slur, and he moved with perfect assurance. Only a slight flush to what had been a rather pallid complexion betrayed the wine he had on board.
    Sipping from his own cup, Scaurus took hold of his temper with both hands. “Ah? Told by whom?” he asked, making a game stab at sounding interested. The sooner this sponge in a blue robe left, the better. He wondered whether his priestly friend Nepos or Balsamon the patriarch had sent him and, if so, what they had against the Romans.
    But Styppes surprised him, saying, “Mertikes Zigabenos informs me you have lost your healer.”
    “That’s so,” Scaurus admitted; he wondered how Gorgidas was faring on the Pardrayan steppe. Zigabenos was commander of the