Videssos Cycle, Volume 2 Read Free Page A

imperial bodyguard, and a very competent young man indeed. If this priest had his favor, perhaps there was something to him after all. “What of it?”
    “He suggested I offer you my services. I have been trained in Phos’ healing arts, and it is not right for any unit of his Majesty’s army to bewithout such aid—even one full of pagans, as is yours,” Styppes ended disparagingly.
    Marcus ignored that. “You’re a healer-priest? And assigned to us?” It was all he could do to keep from shouting with glee. Using themselves as channels of Phos’ energies, some priests could work cures on men Gorgidas had given up for dead; as much as anything, his failure to learn their methods had driven him to the plains. Nepos had healed his share, even though he was no specialist in the art. To have a man who was could prove more precious than rubies, Scaurus thought. “Assigned to us?” he repeated, wanting to hear Styppes say it again.
    “Aye.” The priest still seemed far from overjoyed; as he was familiar with it, his talent was much less wonderful to him than to the Roman. He looked at the bedrolls neatly checkering the barracks floor. “You’ll have quarters for me here, then?”
    “Certainly; whatever you like.”
    “What I’d like is more wine.”
    Not wanting to antagonize him or seem mean, Marcus struck the seal from another jug and handed it to him. “Care for any?” Styppes asked. When the tribune shook his head, the priest, disdaining his cup, drank the jar dry. Scaurus’ worries returned.
    “Ahhh,” Styppes said when he was done, a long exhalation of pleasure. He rose—and lurched somewhat; so much neat wine downed so fast would have sozzled a demigod. “Be back,” he said, and now the drink was in his speech, too. “Got to get m’gear from the mon’stery, fetch it here.” Moving with the carefully steady strides of a man used to walking wine-soaked, he started toward the doorway.
    He had only taken a couple of steps when he turned back to Marcus. He studied him with owlish intensity for nearly a minute, then left just as Scaurus was about to ask him what was on his mind. Frustrated, the Roman went back to his paysheets.
    That evening, Helvis asked him, “So, how do you like this Styppes?”
    “Like him? That has nothing to do with anything—what choice have I? Any healer is better than none.” Wondering how frank he should be with her, Marcus leaned back against a thin wood partition; two of thefour barracks halls the legionaries used were divided up to give partnered soldiers and their women and children some privacy.
    She frowned, sensing his hesitation, but before she could frame her question, her five-year-old son Malric threw aside the wooden cart he had been playing with and started to sing a bawdy Videssian marching song at the top of his lungs: “Little bird with a yellow bill—”
    She rolled her eyes, blue like those of many Namdaleni. “Enough of that, young man. Time for bed.” He ignored her, singing on until she grabbed his ankles and lifted him. He hung upside down, shrieking laughter. His tunic fell down over his head; he thrashed his way out of it. Helvis caught Marcus’ eye. “There’s half the battle won.”
    The tribune smiled, watching as she peeled his stepson’s trousers off. Even in such inelegant activity, she was a pleasure to look at. Her skin was fairer and her features less aquiline than the Videssian norm, but strong cheekbones and a generous mouth gave her face a beauty of its own. And her figure was opulent, its rich curves filling her long skirt and lace-bodiced blouse of maroon linen in a way that caught any man’s eye. As yet her early pregnancy had not begun to swell her belly.
    She swatted Malric lightly on his bare bottom. “Go on, kiss Marcus goodnight, use the pot, and go to sleep.” Her voice was a smooth contralto.
    Malric complained and fussed to see if she was serious; the next swat had more authority behind it. “All right, Mama, I’m