Viridovix jumped, grumbling crossly, “Talk a language a man can understand, not your fool Greek.”

  “Sorry.” Words poured from the physician, a torrent of them. He forgot himself again once or twice and had to backtrack so the Gaul could follow him. As Viridovix listened, his eyes went wide.

  “Aren’t you the trickiest one, now,” he breathed. He let out a great war whoop, then fell back on his wolfskin sleeping blanket, choking with laughter. “Puddocks!” he got out between wheezes. “Puddocks!” He dissolved all over again.

  Gorgidas paid no attention to him. He was already sticking his head out the tent flap. “Tolui!” he yelled.

  III

  “THAT’S THE ONE,” MARCUS SAID, POINTING, “HIS NAME’S IATZOULINOS.”

  “Third from the back on the left, is it?” Gaius Philippus growled. The tribune nodded, then regretted it. There was a dull, pounding ache in his head, from too much wine and not enough sleep. The senior centurion strode forward, saying, “His name doesn’t matter a fart to me and it’ll be so much dog dung to him, too, when I’m through with him.”

  He stamped down the narrow aisleway between the rows of desks. His high-crested helm nearly brushed the ceiling; his scarlet cloak of rank billowed about his shoulders; his shirt of mail clanked at every step. Scaurus leaned against the doorpost, watching bureaucrats look up in horror from their tax rolls, memoranda, and counting boards at the warlike apparition loosed in their midst.

  Intently bent over his book of accounts, Iatzoulinos did not notice the Roman’s approach even when Gaius Philippus loomed over his desk like a thundercloud. The secretary kept transferring numbers from one column to another, checking each entry twice. Though hardly past thirty, he had an older man’s pallor and fussy precision.

  Gaius Philippus scowled at him for a few seconds, but he remained oblivious. The senior centurion rasped his gladius free. Marcus sprang toward him—he had not brought him here to see murder done.

  But Gaius Philippus brought the flat of the blade crashing down on Iatzoulinos’ desk. The bureaucrat’s ink pot leaped into the air and overturned; beads flew from his counting board.

  He leaped himself, staring about wildly like a man waking to a nightmare. With a cry of dismay, he snatched his ledger away from the spreading puddle of ink. “What is the meaning of this madness?” he exclaimed, voice cracking in alarm.

  “You shut your sniveling gob, you worthless sack of moldy tripes.” Gaius Philippus’ bass roar, trained to be heard through battlefield din, was fearsome in an enclosed space. “And sit down!” he added, slamming the pen-pusher back into his chair when he tried to scuttle away. “You’re bloody well going to listen to me.”

  He spat into the ink spot. Iatzoulinos shriveled under his glare. No shame there, Marcus thought. That glower was made for turning hard-bitten legionaries to mush. “So you’re the fornicating cabbagehead’s been screwing over my men, eh?” the senior centurion barked, curling his lip in contempt.

  Iatzoulinos actually blushed; the red was easy to see on his thin, sallow features. “It may possibly be the case that, due to some, ah unfortunate, ah, oversight, disbursement has experienced, ah, a few purely temporary delays—”

  “Cut the garbage,” Gaius Philippus ordered. Likely he had not understood half the pen-pusher’s jargon. He noticed he was still holding his sword and sheathed it so he could poke a grimy-nailed finger in Iatzoulinos’ face. The bureaucrat’s eyes crossed as he regarded it fearfully.

  “Now you listen and you listen good, understand me?” the veteran said. Iatzoulinos nodded, still watching the finger as though he did not dare look at the man behind it. Gaius Philippus went on, “It was you god-despised seal-stampers first took to hiring mercenaries because you decided you couldn’t trust your own troops anymore, ’cause they liked their local nobles better than you. Right?” He shook the secretary.

  “Right?”

  “I, ah, believe something of that sort may have been the case, though this policy was, ah, implemented prior to the commencement of my tenure here.”

  “Mars’ prick, you talk that way all the time!” The Roman clapped his hand to his forehead. He took a few seconds to pick up his chain of thought. “For my money, you were thinking with your heads up your backsides when you came up with that one, but forget that for now. Listen, you mud-brained bastard son of an illegitimate bepoxed she-goat, if you have to have troops that fight for money, what in the name of a baldarsed bureaucrat do you think they’ll do if there’s no bloody money?” His voice rose another couple of notches, something Scaurus would not have guessed possible. “If they weren’t kind and gentle like me, they’d tear your fornicating head off and piss in the hole, that’s what! You’d probably remember better that way anyhow.”

  Iatzoulinos looked about ready to faint. Deciding things had gone far enough, Marcus called, “Since you are kind and gentle, Gaius, what will you do instead?”

  “Eh? Oh. Hrrm.” The centurion was thrown off stride for a second, but recovered brilliantly. Shoving his face within a couple of inches of the pen-pusher’s, he hissed, “I give you four days to round up every goldpiece we’re owed—and in old coin, too, none of this debased trash from Ortaias’ mint—or I start saving up piss. Understand me?”

  It took three tries, but Iatzoulinos got a “Yes” out.

  “Good.” Gaius Philippus glared round the room. “Well, why aren’t the rest of you lazy sods working?” he snarled, and tramped out.

  “A very good day to you all, gentlemen,” Marcus said to the stunned bureaucrats, and followed him. He had an afterthought and stuck his head back in. “Don’t you wish you were dealing with the nobles again?”

  Alypia Gavra laughed when the tribune told her the story. “And did he get the pay for your soldiers?” she asked.

  “Every bit of it. It went off to Garsavra by courier, let me see, ten days ago. He’s staying in the city until the receipt comes back from Minucius. If it’s not here pretty soon, or if it’s even a copper short, I would not care to be wearing Iatzoulinos’ sandals.”

  “Rocking the bureaucrats every so often is not a bad thing,” Alypia said seriously. “They’re needed to keep the Empire running on an even keel, but they are trained in the city and they serve here and begin to think that everything comes down to entries in a ledger. Bumping up against reality has to be healthy for them.”

  Marcus chuckled. “I think Gaius Philippus was rather realer than Iatzoulinos cared for.”

  “From what I’ve seen of him, I’d say you’re right.” Alypia got out of bed. It was only a few steps to the jug of wine on the table against the far wall. She poured for both of them. The wine was the best this inn offered, but none too good. Compared even to Aetios’ tavern, the place was dingy and cramped. The din of hammers on copperware of every sort came unceasingly through the narrow window.

  When the tribune put down his cup—yellow-brown unglazed clay, ugly but functional—he caught Alypia watching him curiously. He arched his eyebrows. She hesitated, then asked, “Have you told him about us?”

  “No,” Scaurus said at once. “The fewer who know, the better.”

  She nodded. “That’s so. Yet surely, if half what you and my uncle have said of him is true, he would never violate your trust. And I know the two of you are close; it shows in the way you work together.” She looked the question at him.

  “You’re right, he’d never betray us,” the tribune said. “But telling him would not make me easier and would just make him nervous. He’d see only the risk, and never understand that for you it was worth taking.”

  “Never say you were not born a courtier, dear Marcus,” she murmured, her eyes glowing. He hugged her close; her skin was like warm satin against his.

  “Gangway there!” The rough shout came through the window, accompanied by the clatter of iron-shod hooves on paving-stones. With Alypia in his arms, the tribune did not pay the noise much attention, but it registered. The coppersmiths’ district was a poor quarter of the city, with horses few and far between.

  A few minutes later the inn’s whole second floor shook as several men in heavy boots pounded up the wooden stairs. Marcus frowned. “What nonsense is this?” he muttered, more annoyed than alarmed. Better safe, he decided. He climbed to his feet, slid his sword free of its sheath, and wrapped his tunic round his arm for a makeshift shield.

  The door came crashing in. Alypia screamed. Scaurus started to spring forward, then froze in his tracks. Four armored archers were in the hallway, bows drawn and aimed at his belly. Half a dozen spearmen crowded after them. And Provhos Mourtzouphlos, a wide smile of invitation on his face, said, “Take another step, outlander, why don’t you?”

  Wits numb in disaster, the tribune lowered his blade. “No?” Mourtzouphlos said, seeing he would not charge. “Too bad.” His voice cracked like a whip. “Then back off!”

  The Roman obeyed. “Jove,” he said. “Jove, Jove, Jove.” It was neither prayer nor curse, simply the first noise he happened to make.

  The Videssian bowmen followed. Three kept arrows trained on him while the fourth turned his weapon toward Alypia, who was sitting rigidly upright in bed, the coverlet drawn to her chin to hide her nakedness. Her eyes were wide and staring, like those of a trapped animal.

  “No need to aim at her,” Marcus said softly. The archer, a young man with a hooked nose and liquid brown eyes that told of Vaspurakaner blood, nodded and lowered his bow.

  “You be silent,” Mortzouphlos said from the doorway. He suddenly seemed to notice the tribune was still holding his sword. “Drop it!” he ordered, then snapped at the last bowman, “Gather that up, Artavasdos, if you have nothing better to do.”

  Mourtzouphlos looked Scaurus’ unclad frame up and down. “Damned foreign foolishness, scraping your face every day,” he said, stroking his own whiskers. His grin grew most unpleasant. “When Thorisin’s done with you, you’ll likely be able to keep your cheeks smooth without needing to shave.” His voice went falsetto; he grabbed at his crotch in an unmistakable gesture.

  Marcus’ blood ran cold; of themselves, his hands made a protective cup. One of the troopers behind Mourtzouphlos laughed. Alypia came out of her terrified paralysis. “No!” she cried in horror. “Blame me, not him!”

  “No one asked your advice, slut,” Mourtzouphlos said coldly. “A fine one you make to talk, whoring with the Sphrantzai and then spreading yourself for this barbarian.”

  Alypia went white. “Shut your foul mouth, Mourtzouphlos,” Scaurus said. “You’ll pay for that, I promise.”

  “What are your promises worth?” The Videssian cavalry officer stepped up and slapped him in the face.

  Ears ringing, Marcus shook his head to clear it. “Do what you like with me, but have a care how you treat her Majesty the Princess. You’ll get no thanks from Thorisin for tormenting her.”

  “Will I not?” Mourtzouphlos retorted, but with a touch of doubt; his men, reminded of Alypia’s title, looked at each other for a moment. Mourtzouphlos pulled himself together. “As for doing what I’d like with you—there’s no time for that now, worse luck. Get your trousers on, Roman,” he barked. Scaurus had to swallow a startled laugh; if he began, he did not think he would be able to stop.

  Mourtzouphlos rounded on Alypia. “And you, my lady,” he said, speaking the honorific like a curse. “Come on, out of there. D’you think I’ll leave you to wait for your next customer?” His men leered in anticipation.

  “Damn you, Provhos,” Scaurus said. Alypia stayed motionless beneath the blanket, dread on her face. After her treatment at the hands of Vardanes Sphrantzes, Marcus knew the humiliation Mourtzouphlos was piling on her might break her forever. When the cavalryman reached out to tear the cover away, he shouted, “Wait!”

  “And why should I?”

  “Because she is still the Emperor’s niece and last living relative. No matter what he may do to me, do you think he’ll thank you for making his scandal worse?” That was a keen shot; the Roman could see calculation start behind Mourtzouphlos’ eyes. He pressed his tiny advantage: “Give her leave to dress in peace; where will she go?”

  Mourtzouphlos rubbed his chin as he thought. At last he jerked a thumb at Scaurus. “Take him out into the hall.” As the archers obeyed, he said to Alypia, “I’m warning you, be quick.”

  “Thank you,” she said, to him and Marcus both.

  “Bah!” Mourtzouphlos slammed the door. He growled at his troopers, “Well, what are you standing around for? Tie this whoreson up.” One of the spearmen jerked the tribune’s hands behind him, while a second lashed his wrists together with rawhide thongs.

  Before the last knot was tied, Alypia emerged from the cubicle, still tugging at the sleeves of her dark-gold linen dress. She wore her usual dispassionate air like a shield against enemies, but Marcus saw how her hand trembled when she shut the door behind her. Her voice, though, was steady if toneless as she said to Mourtzouphlos, “Do what you must.”

  “Move, then,” he said brusquely. Scaurus stumbled on the stairs; he would have fallen had the archer carrying his sword not grabbed his shoulder. The drinkers in the taproom below stared as the soldiers led their prisoners out. In high spirits once more, Mourtzouphlos tossed a couple of silverpieces to the innkeeper. “This for the custom I may have scared off.” The taverner, a lean-faced bald fellow who looked to have no use for on-duty troopers in his place, made the coins disappear.

  Two more spearmen were outside keeping an eye on the squad’s horses. “Mount up,” Mourtzouphlos said. He bowed mockingly to Scaurus. “Here’s a gelding for you to ride, instead of your filly. Think on that, outlander.”

  “You knew!” Marcus blurted in dismay.

  “So I did,” Mourtzouphlos said smugly. “Saborios has sharp ears, and making sure he was right was worth the time I spent in those cheap, scratchy clothes.”

  “Saborios!” Scaurus and Alypia said together, exchanging an appalled glance. The princess burst out, “Phos, what will my uncle do to Balsamon?”

  “Not a damned thing,” Mourtzouphlos answered in disgust. “It would cost him riots, more’s the pity.” He turned that nasty grin on the tribune again. “The same doesn’t apply to you, of course. I only wish I could rout every other greedy mercenary from Videssos so easily. Now ride!”

  One of the cavalryman’s soldiers had to help Scaurus into the saddle; no horseman, he could not mount without his hands. His mind was whirling as Mourtzouphlos tied a lead to his horse’s reins. In principle, ironically, he agreed with the imperial—Videssos would have done better with all native troops.

  But Alypia said, “So you would free the Empire of mercenaries, would you, Mourtzouphlos? Tell me, then, you’ve never made peasants on your estates into personal retainers. Tell me you’ve never held back tax monies from the fisc.” Her voice dripped scorn. Cat-graceful, she swung herself up onto the horse by Scaurus’.

  The aristocrat flushed, but he came back, “Why should I give the cursed pen-pushers the gold to spend on more hired troops?” With the provincial nobles converting the Empire’s freeholders to private armies and the bureaucrats taxing them into serfdom, no wonder Videssos was short of soldiers. Its manpower pool had been drying up for more than a hundred years.

  “Ride!” Mourtzouphlos repeated. He dug spurs into his mount’s flank. It bounded forward, and so, perforce, did Marcus’ animal. He almost went over its tail; only a quick clutch with his knees saved him. He did not think Mourtzouphlos would mind if he got trampled.

  “Make way, in the Emperor’s name!” the Videssian officer shouted again and again, trying to hurry through the city’s crowded streets. Some of the traffic did move aside to let his troopers pass, but as many riders and folk afoot stopped and turned to gape at him. He would have made better progress keeping quiet, but he crowed out his victory like a rooster.

  Marcus endured the journey, distracted from the full mortification of it by his struggle to hold his seat. That so occupied him that he had little chance to turn his head Alypia’s way. She rode steadily on, eyes set straight ahead, as if neither the crowd nor her guards had any meaning to her. Once, though, her glance met Scaurus’, and she sent him a quick, frightened smile. His horse missed a step, jouncing him in the saddle before he could return it.

  After the hurly-burly and close-pressing swarm of humanity in the plaza of Palamas, the palace compound’s wide uncrowded lanes were a relief to the tribune, or would have been had not Mourtzouphlos stepped up his squadron’s pace to nearly a gallop. A fat eunuch carrying a silver tray scurried onto the edge of the grass as the horsemen thundered by. His head whipped round, and he dropped his platter with a clang when he recognized their prisoners.

  They pounded through a grove of cherry trees just beginning to come into fragrant pink blossom and pulled to a halt before a singlestory building of stucco trimmed with gleaming marble that was the imperial family’s private quarters. Sentries sprang to attention on seeing Mourtzouphlos—or was it for Alypia Gavra? Another eunuch, a steward in a robe of dark red silk embroidered with golden birds, appeared in the entranceway. Mourtzouphlos called, “His Majesty expects us.”

  “Bide a moment.” The chamberlain vanished inside. Mourtzouphlos and his men dismounted, as did Alypia and Scaurus; the tribune managed to slide off his horse without stumbling. Some of the sentries knew him and exclaimed in surprise to see him bound. But before he could answer, the steward returned and beckoned Mourtzouphlos and his unwilling companions forward. “Bring two or three of your guards,” he said, indicating the cavalrymen, “but leave the rest here. His Imperial Majesty does not feel they will be required.”

  Marcus paid no attention to the splendid antiquities he was hurried past, relics of a millenium and a half of Videssian history. The guards frogmarched him along; they did not quite dare mete out the same treatment to Alypia, who walked beside him free of restraint. Prisoner she might be, but, as the tribune had reminded them, she was also the Emperor’s niece.