But Thorisin was continuing: “Having forfeited our trust, you are also stripped of your command over your Romans and shall be prevented from any intercourse with them, the better to prevent future acts of sedition or rebellion. Your lieutenant Gaius Philippus assumes your rank and its perquisites, effective at once.”

  Permanent exile from all that was left of his own people, his own world … the tribune hung his head; his nails bit into his palms. Low-voiced, he said, “He’s a fine soldier. Have you told him of this yet?”

  “I shall, but we are not finished here, you and I,” the Emperor said. “There is only one standard penalty for treason, as well you know. In addition to such trivia as loss of ranks and titles, you also stand liable to the headman’s axe.”

  After the prospect of exile, the axe seemed a small terror; at least it was quickly done. Marcus blurted, “If you plan on killing me, why did you bother with the rest of that rigmarole?”

  Gavras did not answer him directly. Instead he said, “That will do, Konon.” The fat beardless chamberlain bowed and left. Then the Emperor turned back to the Roman, a sour smile on his face. “You would be flattered to know there are people who would sooner I did not execute the sentence—to say nothing of you.”

  “Are there?” Scaurus echoed.

  “Oh, indeed, and a bloody noisy flock they are, too. Alypia, of course, though if you were as innocent as she makes you out, you’d still be a virgin and not in your mess at all. She almost makes me believe it—but not quite.

  “And there’s Leimmokheir the drungarios of the fleet, a fine, upstanding sort if ever there was one.” Gavras cocked an eyebrow at the admiral’s unflinching rectitude. “But then, he owes you one. If it weren’t for your stubbornness he’d still be jailed, or short a head himself for treason. So how much is his advice worth?”

  “You are the only judge of that,” Marcus said, but he was warmed to learn Leimmokheir had not forgotten him.

  “Those, and a couple more like them, are pleas I can understand.” Thorisin looked him up and down. “But how in Phos’ name did Iatzoulinos come to send me a good word for you?”

  “Did he?” the tribune said, amazed. Then he squelched a laugh; one taste of Gaius Philippus had probably made the pen-pusher hope Scaurus would live forever.

  “Aye, he did.” Gavras’ mouth twisted. “Mistake me not, outlander. There’s no doubt of your guilt. But I admit I am forced to wonder just a hair at your motives, and so I will give you a hairsbreadth chance to redeem yourself.”

  Marcus started to lean forward, but the clutch of the guards brought him up short. “What would you, then?”

  “This: put an end to Zemarkhos’ rebellion in Amorion. His lying anathemas raise trouble for me all through the Empire, from narrow-minded priests and over-religious laymen alike. Bring that off, and I’d say you’d earned yourself a pardon. More, in fact—if you can do it, I’ll make you a noble, and not one with small estates, either. That I pledge to you. I will take oath on it at the High Temple to any priest you name save Balsamon—nay, even to him—if you doubt me.”

  “No need. I agree,” Marcus said at once. Thorisin was short-tempered and suspicious, but the tribune knew he kept his promises. His mind began to buzz with schemes: straight-out conquest, bribery … “What force will I have at my disposal?”

  “I can spare you a good cavalry horse,” the Emperor said. Scaurus started to smile, then checked himself; Thorisin’s face was hard, his eyes deadly serious. “Aye, I mean it, Roman. Win your own salvation, if you can. You get no help from me.”

  One man, against the zealots with whom the fanatic priest had even held the Yezda at bay since Maragha? “It salves your conscience, does it, to send me off to suicide instead of killing me yourself?” The tribune nodded bitterly, no longer caring what he said.

  “You are a proved traitor, and mine to do with as I wish,” Gavras reminded him. He folded his arms across his chest. “Call it what you will, Scaurus. I need not argue with you.”

  “As you say. Give me back my sword, then. If I’m to ‘win my own salvation,’ ” Marcus made that a taunt, “let me do it with what is mine.”

  Thorisin considered. “That is a fair request.” He found a scrap of parchment, inked a reed pen, wrote furiously. “Here, Spektas,” he said, handing the note to one of Scaurus’ guards, “take this to Nepos. When he gives you the blade, bring it back here. The Roman can carry it to his ship.”

  “Ship?” the tribune said as Spektas hurried away.

  “Yes, ship. Did you expect me to send you by road, and maybe find you going off to your Romans and stirring up who knows how much mischief? Thank you, no. Moreover,” and the Emperor unbent very slightly, “sea travel’s faster than land. If you put in at Nakoleia on the coast north of Amorion, you’ll only have a short run inland through Yezda-held territory. And you should get into town in time for the panegyris—the trade-fair—dedicated to the holy Moikheios. It draws merchants and customers from far and wide, and should be your best chance to slip in without being spotted.”

  Scaurus grudged him a nod. Whether Gavras saw it so or not, that was help of a sort. “One more thing,” he said to the Emperor.

  “What now?” Thorisin growled. “You are in no position to bargain, sirrah.”

  With the freedom perfect weakness brings, Marcus retorted, “Why not? The worst you can do is take my head, and you can do that anyhow.”

  The Emperor blinked, then grinned crookedly. “True enough. Say on.”

  “If I bring Zemarkhos down, you will make a noble of me?”

  “I said so once. What of it?”

  Scaurus took a deep breath, more than half expecting to die in the next minute. “Should I somehow come back from Amorion, I think I will have shown my loyalty well enough to suit even you. Give me a noble’s privilege, then. If I come back, give me leave to court your niece openly, as any noble might hope to do.”

  “Why, you insolent son of a whore! You dare ask me that, hied here for treason?” Gavras seemed to grow taller in his regalia. One of the guardsmen cursed. Marcus felt the grip on him tighten, heard a sword slide out of its scabbard. He nodded, though he felt fresh sweat prickle at his armpits.

  “To the ice with you!” the Emperor exclaimed, and Scaurus thought it was the end. But Thorisin was glaring at him with reluctant respect. “Skotos chill you, I owe Alypia half a hundred goldpieces. She told me you would say that. I didn’t think there could be so much brass in any man.”

  “Well?” Marcus said, but his knees sagged with relief. Had the answer been no, it would have been over already.

  “If you return, I will not kill you out of hand for it,” the Emperor ground out, word by word. He turned to the guards’ squad leader, gestured imperiously. “Take him away!”

  “My sword is not here yet,” Marcus reminded him.

  “Are you trying to find out how close to the edge you can walk, Roman?” Gavras slammed his fist down on the tabletop. “I begin to see why your folk has no kings—who would want the job?” To the guards again: “Let him have whatever gear he wants, but get him out of my sight—wait for his cursed sword outside.” And finally to Scaurus once more, it being the Emperor’s prerogative to have the last word: “Shall I wish you success, or not?”

  The Seafoam was a naval auxiliary, an oared cargo-carrier about seventy feet long, with sharp bows and a full stern. She had ten oarports on either side of her hull, as well as a single broad, square-rigged sail, brailed up now that she was in harbor.

  Staggering a little under the weight of the heavy kit he carried, Marcus paused at the top of the gangplank. The squad of imperial guards watched him from the dock.

  “Permission to come aboard?” he called, recognizing an officer by the knee-length tunic he wore and the shortsword on his hip. Most of his sailors were naked or nearly so, with perhaps a loincloth or leather belt on which to sling a knife.

  “Keep at it,” the man told his crew, who were stowing pointed wine jars and rounder ones full of pickled fish, along with bales of raw wool and woolen cloth, in the hold. Then he gave his attention to the tribune. “You’re our special passenger, eh? Aye, drop down and join us. Give him a hand with his pack, there, Ousiakos!”

  The sailor helped ease it to the deck. Rather awkwardly, Scaurus came after it; a true Roman, he was not used to ships. The officer walked up to shake his hand. “I’m Stylianos Zautzes, master of this wallowing tub.” The Videssian was in his early forties, whipcord lean, with a grizzled beard, thick bushy eyebrows that met about his nose, and a skin turned to dark leather by years in the sun. When he shed his black, low-crowned cap to scratch his head, the tribune saw he was nearly bald.

  Taron Leimmokheir jumped down beside Marcus. The men on deck stiffened to attention, giving him the Videssian salute with right fists over their hearts. “As you were,” he said in his raspy bass. The drungarios of the fleet turned to Zautzes. “You take care of this one, Styl,” he told the Seafoam’s captain, putting an arm round the tribune. “He’s a good fellow, for all he’s fallen foul of his Majesty. That’s not hard to do, as I should know.” He flicked his head back to get his mane of silver hair out of his eyes; he had left it long after Thorisin released him from prison.

  Zautzes saluted again. “I would anyway, for my own pride’s sake. But wasn’t he to have a horse? It’s not shown up.”

  “Landsmen!” Leimmokheir said contemptuously. On board ship, things had to be on time and right the first time; there was no room for sloppiness. “I should be able to waste so much time. As is, I can’t even stay; I’m off to finish fitting out a squadron for coast patrol. Phos with you, outlander.” He squeezed Scaurus’ shoulder, pounded Zautzes on the back, and then took a tall step up onto the gangplank and hurried away.

  The loading of the Seafoam went on. Marcus watched bales of hay tossed into the hold as fodder for his horse. Of the horse itself there was no sign. He shouted a question to the Videssian guardsmen still standing about on the pier. Their leader spread his hands and shrugged.

  Zautzes said, “Sorry, Scaurus, but if the beast doesn’t turn up by mid-afternoon we’ll have to sail without it. I have dispatches to carry that won’t keep. Maybe you’ll be able to find some sort of animal in Nakoleia.”

  “Maybe,” the tribune said dubiously. The minutes dragged on. He kept one eye on the pier, the other on the sailors to see how close they were to finishing loading.

  Two of them dropped a wine jar. Zautzes swore as they swabbed the sticky stuff from the deck and threw the jar’s fragments over the rail into the sea. One cut his foot on a shard and limped over to bandage it. Zautzes rolled his eyes in disgust. “You belong behind a plow, Ailouros.” The luckless seaman’s crewmates promptly took to calling him “Farmer.”

  Watching the mishap, Marcus forgot about the pier. He jumped at a shout from the gangplank: “Ahoy, or whatever it is you sailor bastards say! Can I get on your bloody boat?”

  The tribune whirled. “Gaius! What are you doing here?”

  “You know this lubber?” Zautzes demanded, bristling at hearing his beloved Seafoam called a boat. When Marcus had explained, the Videssian captain grudgingly called to Gaius Philippus, “Aye, board if you will.”

  The senior centurion did, grunting as he landed on the deck. He stumbled when he hit, being in full armor—transverse-crested helm, mail shirt, metal-studded leather kilt, and greaves, all polished till they gleamed—with a heavy pack slung on his back. Marcus caught his elbow and steadied him. “Thanks.”

  “It’s nothing.” The tribune studied him curiously. “Are you here to see me off? You’re overdressed, I’d say.”

  “To Hades with seeing you off.” Gaius Philippus hawked phlegm, but under Zautzes’ warning eye spat over the rail. “I’m with you.”

  “What?” Scenting betrayal from the Emperor, Scaurus reached for his sword hilt. “Thorisin promised you’d take my place once I was gone.”

  “Oh, he offered it to me. I told him to put it where a catamite would enjoy it.” Zautzes’ jaw fell; no one spoke thus to the Avtokrator of the Videssians. Gaius Philippus flicked a glance his way and dropped into Latin. “You can nail me on a cross, sir,” he said to the tribune, “before I take a post from the man who robbed you of yours.”

  “He had his reasons,” Scaurus said, also in Latin, and clumsily told the senior centurion what they were. He finished, “So if you want to change your mind, Gavras will likely give you the command no matter what you said to him. He thinks well of you; he’s told me so, many times.”

  Hearing of the tribune’s involvement with Alypia for the first time, Gaius Philippus reacted as Marcus had been sure he would. “You must’ve been balmy, playing with fire like that.” He gave his own verdict: “Women bring more trouble than they’re worth. I’ve said it before, and more than once, too.”

  Not having a good answer, Marcus kept quiet.

  “But treason?” the senior centurion went on. “Not a chance. What would you want to throw over Gavras for? Whoever came next’d only be worse.”

  “So I thought, exactly.”

  “Of course—you’re no thickhead. And I’ll not go back, either. I’d sooner be your man than his suspicious Majesty’s.” He chuckled. “I’ve finally turned true mercenary, haven’t I, when commander counts for more than country?”

  “I’m glad,” Marcus said simply, adding, “Not that you have much to look forward to, coming with me.”

  “Zemarkhos, you mean? But there’s two of us now, and that doubles our chances, or maybe better. Aye,” the veteran said to Scaurus’ unspoken question, “Gavras told me where he was sending you.” He scratched his head. “Far as I can see, you’re lucky. With his temper up, I’m surprised he didn’t just kill you and have done.”

  “Truth to tell, so was I, though I wasn’t about to tell him that,” Marcus said. “But while I was gathering my gear I thought it over. If Zemarkhos nails me, Thorisin’s no worse off than if he’d shortened me himself. If I deal with him in Amorion, well, Thorisin’s still stuck with me, but he’s rid of his madman priest, who’s more dangerous to him than I’d ever be, whether he admits it or not. And if we somehow do each other in, why then Gavras has two hares in the same net.”

  Gaius Philippus pursed his lips. “Hangs together,” he admitted. “It’s a good piece of Videssian double-dealing, right enough. They’re slicker than Greeks, I swear. Three setups, and he wins them all” He cocked an eyebrow at the tribune. “Only trouble is, in two of ’em you—or rather, we—don’t.”

  If the prevailing winds held, Nakoleia was about a week’s sail from Videssos. As long as they did, Zautzes let his crew rest easy at the oars and traveled under sailpower alone. The blue-dyed sheet would flutter and flap as the breeze shifted. Scaurus’ horse, which had finally arrived, was tethered to the stempost. It twitched its ears nervously at the strange noises behind it for the first few hours out of port, then decided they were harmless and ignored them.

  Knowing he would never master the big roan gelding by equestrian skill alone, the tribune did his best to get it used to him and, if he could, well-disposed, too. He curried its glossy coat, stroked its muzzle, and fed it dried apricots and apples begged from the Seafoam’s cook. The beast, which had an admirably even disposition, accepted his attentions with an air of deserving no less.

  Scaurus proved a good sailor and easily adapted to shipboard routine, stripping down to light tunic and sword belt in the mild spring air. Gaius Philippus had a sound enough stomach, but stayed in trousers and kept on wearing his nail-soled caligae. “Give me something with some bite to it,” he said, eyeing the tribune’s bare feet with disapproval.

  “Whatever suits you,” Marcus answered mildly. “I thought it best to follow the sailors’ lead. They know more about this business than I do.”

  “If they were all that smart, they’d stay on land.” Gaius Philippus drew his gladius, tested the edge with his thumb. “Care for some work?” he asked. “No doubt you could use it, after a winter of seal-stamping.”

  “You’re right there,” the tribune said. He started to unsheath his own sword, stopped in surprise. A long sheet of parchment was wrapped several times round the blade, held in place with a dab of gum.

  “What do you have there?” Gaius Philippus said, seeing him pause.

  “I don’t know, yet.” Scaurus freed his sword from its brass scabbard. He worked the parchment loose, slid it down over the point, and scraped the gum off his blade with his thumbnail.

  He unrolled the note. “What does it say? Who sent it?” Gaius Philippus demanded as he came up to peer at the curlicues of Videssian script. Unlike the tribune, he had never learned to read or write the Empire’s language, having enough trouble with Latin.

  “It’s from Nepos,” Marcus said. He did not read it aloud, but went through it quickly so he could give Gaius Philippus the gist in Latin.

  “Phos prosper you, outlander,” the tubby priest and mage had written. “I am glad to have had at last the opportunity to examine this remarkable weapon of yours and only regret the circumstances which made my examination possible. This brief scrawl will summarize what I have learned; the iron-clad ruffian who will return your blade to you is clumping about outside my door even as I write.”

  Marcus had to smile; he could see Nepos scribbling frantically while Spektas glowered in at him from the corridor. He was sure the guardsman had not managed to hurry Nepos very much.

  The tribune read on: “The spells with which your sword is wrapped are of a potency I confess I have not seen. I attribute this to the extremely weak and uncertain nature of magic in your native world, upon which you and your comrades have often remarked. Only charms of extravagant force, it is my guess, would function there at all. Here, however, it is easier to unleash enchantments. As a result, those on your blade, made for harsher circumstances, become wonderfully powerful indeed.

  “They are, in fact, so strong I have had great difficulty in evaluating their nature. Testing-spells are subtle things, and the crude strength of your sword’s enchantments is too much for them, just as one would not measure the ocean with a spoon. But forgive me; you want what I do know.