Bagratouni’s beard swallowed most of his dark flush of anger, but not all. “Who are you to tell me what to do? I am a nakharar, a lord of Vaspurakan, and I act with my retainers as I will.”

  “You are not in Vaspurakan,” Minucius said, “and you have taken Roman service as commander of a maniple. Do you remember that, or not?”

  Nevrat leaned forward, afraid Bagratouni would throw himself at the Roman. “With Zemarkhos in front of me, I remember nothing,” the nakharar ground out. “How do you propose to stop me from slaying him, as is less than he deserves?”

  “With my men, if I have to,” Minucius said evenly. “There are more Romans than Vaspurakaner legionaries in Garsavra. Look at me, Gagik. Do you doubt I would use them if you disobey my orders? I value your counsel; you know that. But I will have your obedience and I will do what I must to get it.”

  Bagratouni studied the younger man. The silence stretched. “You would,” the Vaspurakaner said wonderingly. “Very well, then, what are your orders?” He spat the last word at Minucius.

  “Why, to go after Scaurus, of course,” the Roman said at once. He was not as calm as he wished to seem; sweat beaded on his forehead.

  “Why this game, if we want the same thing?” Bagratouni exclaimed.

  “I know how you feel about the Yezda, and about Zemarkhos. I don’t blame you, Gagik, but I need you to remember you go as part of my forces, not have you haring off on your own.”

  Laon Pakhymer spoke up. “How will the Emperor feel when you go haring off on your own? No different from you about Gagik, I expect.”

  Suddenly and disarmingly, Minucius grinned. It made him look very young indeed. “Probably not. But there are more Romans than Videssian troops in Garsavra, too, so what is he going to do about it?”

  “Not bloody much, except pitch a fit.” Pakhymer grinned, too, his teeth white in a scraggly beard that rode high on his cheeks to cover pockmarks. He looked delighted at the prospect.

  “If you take back Amorion for him, Thorisin won’t care about the wherefores,” Nevrat said to Minucius.

  “She’s right.” Pakhymer turned his impudent smile her way. She suspected he approved of her person more than of her idea, but having men look at her did not bother her. Rather the reverse, unless they went further than looking, and Pakhymer knew better than that.

  “If the Yezda kill all of us along the way, of course, we won’t care what Thorisin thinks,” Minucius said. “I’m glad we gave Yavlak something to think about when he raided last winter—his clans won’t want any part of us.”

  “You leave Yavlak to me,” Pakhymer said. “I bought an attack on the Namdaleni from him when we needed it; I expect a little gold will get him not to mind us marching through his land.”

  “Videssos’ land,” Minucius said, frowning.

  “Yavlak’s there, the Emperor’s not. Do you really want to risk having to fight your way through and wasting Phos knows how much time?”

  Minucius bit his lip. Nevrat saw Pakhymer had found the magic word to tempt him, despite his abhorrence for dealing with the Yezda in any way but at sword’s point. He drummed his fingers, muttered again in Latin. Nevrat heard a familiar word, but could not follow the phrase.

  But in the end, the Roman said, “No. If we move fast, Yavlak won’t dare try troubling us.”

  Unlike Bagratouni, Pakhymer knew determination when he heard it. “You’re the boss,” he said with the casual wave he used for a salute. “Not much point to more talk, then, is there? Let’s get ready to go.” He got up and left. Bagratouni followed a moment later.

  Minucius rose, too. “The Khatrisher is right. Time to get moving.”

  “May I ask you something first?” Nevrat said. Minucius paused. She went on, “I thought I heard you say Marcus’ name, but I didn’t know what the rest of that meant.”

  The Roman looked, of all things, embarrassed. “That’ll teach me to talk to myself. Do you really want to know?” He waited till she nodded, then said sheepishly, “I was just asking myself what Scaurus would do in this spot. Now I’m off. One thing he wouldn’t do is waste time.”

  Senpat Sviodo strummed the strings of his pandoura as he rode; he guided his horse with his knees. His song and the splashing of the Arandos River were the only music to accompany the column marching west. The Roman army, unlike its Videssian equivalent, mostly traveled in silence.

  Nevrat, along with everyone else, was glad for the Arandos. The westlands’ central plateau was nothing like the lush coastal lowlands. Away from running water, the sun baked the land to dust.

  Her husband’s song jangled to a stop. Two Khatrishers from Pakhymer’s cavalry screen were riding back toward the main body of foot soldiers with a third man between them. “Yezda,” Senpat said unnecessarily. The fellow was dressed in nomad leathers and carried a small round shield daubed here and there with whitewash—a truce sign.

  At Minucius’ signal, the buccinators trumpeted the legionaries to a halt; when they needed it, the Romans did not despise music. The Yezda rode up to him and said in loud, bad Videssian, “What you doing on land belong to mighty Yavlak?”

  “Marching on it, not that it is Yavlak’s,” the Roman commander said. He ignored the Yezda’s effort to stare him down; having outfaced Gagik Bagratouni, he was more than equal to this smaller challenge. “And if Yavlak doesn’t care for it, let him recall what happened when he tried visiting Garsavra.”

  “He stack up your corpses like firewood,” the Yezda herald blustered.

  “Let him try. But tell him this—for now I have no quarrel with him. If I have to turn aside to deal with him, the only land he will claim is enough to bury him in. Now get out. I’ve wasted enough time on you.”

  Minucius nodded to the buccinators. They blew advance. The army tramped forward. The Yezda had to swing his horse into a sidestep to keep from being ground into the dirt. Scowling, he wheeled and trotted away.

  “Trouble,” Nevrat said, watching his angry back.

  Senpat answered, “Mm, maybe not. Yavlak’s no fool and he is still smarting from last winter. Besides, it will take some time for him to gather enough men to fight, even if he wants to. By the time he does, we may be past the stretch of country he holds.” But as he spoke, he stowed his precious pandoura in its soft leather cover and began checking the fletching on the arrows in his quiver. Nevrat did the same.

  Despite such forebodings, no trouble came that day. One reason, Nevrat was sure, was the speed with which the legionaries moved. As they were traveling along a river, they needed to carry only iron rations; no cumbersome wagons impeded their march. Dash might have been a better word—they fairly flung themselves up the Arandos.

  At the end of the first grueling day, when the legionaries were building their familiar fortified camp, Nevrat asked Minucius, “How do you go so fast? I’ve seen cavalry armies that would have trouble matching your pace.”

  “We Romans train for it from the minute we join the legions,” he answered. No doubt he was tired; his face was red and wet, his voice hoarse. But he was ready for more, managing a worn grin as he went on, “We call ourselves ‘mules,’ you know, for all the marching we do in full kit. And by now, all these Vaspurakaners and imperials have been with us long enough to keep up.”

  “If I had to bet, I’d say Yavlak will lead his horsemen to where we were early this afternoon.”

  “I hope he stays away. But if not, let’s hope you’re right.” Minucius looked around, as he did every minute or so. “No, you idiot!” he bellowed at a Khatrisher. “Water your damned horses downstream from camp, not up! The fornicating Arandos is muddy enough already, without them stirring up more muck for us to drink.”

  Despite being the only woman in camp, Nevrat shared a tent with her husband unconcerned and would have worried no more had she been among the legionaries without him. It was not just that she was as handy with weapons as most men. After all the dangers she had shared with the Romans, none of them would have annoyed her, any more than he would a sister.

  The next day, she saw a few Yezda. The nomads fled at the sight of the legionaries and looked back over their shoulders in disbelief at seeing troops loyal to Videssos pushing through country they had come to think of as theirs. Never were they in numbers enough to offer combat.

  Later that afternoon, a Khatrisher rear guard came galloping up to warn that a real force of nomads was approaching from behind the Romans. Minucius gave Nevrat a Roman salute, holding his clenched fist out at arm’s length in front of him. She waved her hat in reply.

  Horns brayed. “Form lines to the rear!” Minucius shouted. With the smoothness of endless drill, the legionaries performed the maneuver.

  “Where do you want us?” Laon Pakhymer asked.

  “Out front, to foul up their archery.” Minucius studied the ground. “And put a few squads over there, in that little copse. The gods willing, the Yezda will be too busy with us to study it much. If your men pop out at the right time, they’ll count for a lot more than their numbers.” Pakhymer nodded and bawled orders in the lisping Khatrisher dialect.

  As soon as he was finished, Senpat called, “Shall we ride with you?”

  “I’d sooner your lady asked that,” Pakhymer said, and waited for Nevrat’s snort before continuing, “but aye, come ahead. Another couple of good bows won’t do us any harm.”

  “You have a care, mistress,” one of the horsemen said as Nevrat passed him. “Get in trouble, and we’ll all try and save you—and we might mess ourselves up to do it.” He spoke with the half-joking tone Khatrishers often used, but Nevrat knew he meant what he said.

  She was warmed and irritated at the same time. “I thank you,” she said “I expect I’ll manage.” The Khatrisher nodded and waved.

  The Yezda were not far behind the scout who brought news of them. Already Nevrat saw them emerging from the dust their ponies kicked up and heard the thunder of the horses’ hooves.

  “You’ve done this before, lads,” Pakhymer told his men, calm as if he were discussing carting home a sack of beans. “Pick your targets while you’re shooting and help your mates when the sabers come out.”

  A horse’s skull on a pole—Yavlak’s emblem-advanced. Closer, closer … Nevrat drew her bow back to her ear, let fly. The string lashed across the leather bracer on her wrist. She did not wait to see if her arrow hit; she was reaching for another while the first was still descending.

  Here a horse stumbled, there another shrieked like a woman in labor when it was struck. Men were shouting, too, both from wounds and to terrify their foes. Icy fear shot through Nevrat when she saw blood on her husband’s face. “A graze,” Senpat reassured her when she cried out. “I’ll let my beard get a little fuller to hide the scar, if it bothers you.”

  “Don’t be an idiot.” In itself, that kind of minor wound was nothing. But it reminded Nevrat how easy it was to find worse, and how little anyone could do to evade the death flying through the air.

  The arrow duel, though, did not last as long as in the usual nomad engagement. Yavlak seemed intent on forcing the issue. His riders bulled through the Khatrishers, who, outnumbered, were forced aside. Nevrat understood why when she yeard Yavlak yelling toward the Roman standards: “With muds and snows you us once beat! Not we gets revenge!”

  Senpat’s face wore a grim smile. “Does he really think so? He hasn’t brought near enough men, looks like to me.”

  Nevrat never heard him. She was hotly embroiled with a Yezda whose arms seemed as long as an ape’s. She could parry his sword strokes, but her counters did not reach him.

  Then the fellow suddenly grinned and moved in to fight at closer quarters. Nevrat recognized the new light in his eyes. It was not battle fury, but simple lust; he had realized he was facing a woman. His tongue flicked over his lips in slow, deliberate obscenity.

  But he was no great swordsman, not when Nevrat could get at him at last. Her saber bit between his neck and shoulder. He howled a curse as he reeled away. Nevrat never knew whether her blow finished him—battle was often like that. She had to throw up her sword just in time to turn another nomad’s slash and lost track of the first.

  The heat of combat lessened, at least for the Khatrishers. Yavlak flung his horsemen at the legionaries. Senpat clapped a hand to his forehead in disbelief. “He’s an idiot,” he shouted. “He thinks they’ll break and run.”

  “Probably the only foot soldiers he’s faced since Maragha are herders with bows and axes trying to keep his men from running off their sheep.” Nevrat’s hand clamped down hard on her sword hilt in delighted anticipation of the shock the nomad chief was about to get.

  Watching from the flank, she saw at once that Senpat had been right; Yavlak did not have enough men to take on the legionaries. He tried, regardless. Shouting and brandishing their swords, the Yezda spurred toward the waiting lines of shields. If they could force a breach, numbers would not matter.

  The horns cried out, echoing Minucius’ dropped arm. With a single great cry that cut cleanly through the random yells of their foes, the Romans cast their heavy javelins at the Yezda. An instant later, another wave of spears flew. The legionaries drew their stubby thrusting swords and surged forward, peering over the tops of their semicylindrical scuta.

  The first ranks of the Yezda were in hideous confusion. The volleys of pila had blunted the momentum of their charge, emptying saddles and felling horses. Yet they could not turn tail and flee, the usual nomad tactic when pressed, because their comrades behind them were still trying to push up and get in the fight. The result was a few minutes of slaughter.

  Watching the legionaries swarm over the Yezda, Nevrat thought of ants. Usually the Romans operated at a disadvantage in numbers and gave better than they got. With an edge, they were terrifying. A hamstrung horse screamed. Even before it fell, two soldiers beset its rider, one from either side. He did not last long. Another Roman turned a nomad’s slash with the edge of his big, heavy shield, then used its weight to push the Yezda off balance. Another legionary stabbed him in the back; boiled leather could not keep out steel.

  The Yezda could not even seek to outflank their opponents. The Arandos anchored the Romans’ right wing, while Pakhymer’s Khatrishers covered the left. And at close quarters, even mounted the nomads were no match for the disciplined, armored veterans Minucius led. Remembering ravaged fields and burned keeps in Vaspurakan, Nevrat found only fierce delight in their predicament.

  But an army of infantry cannot wreck horsemen unless they stay to fight. The Yezda the legionary advance had not caught began pulling away, first by ones and twos, then in larger groups. Then the concealed Khatrisher squadron came galloping out of ambush, emptying their quivers as fast as they could into the Yezda flank. Retreat turned to rout.

  “Ride over to Minucius,” Pakhymer bawled in Nevrat’s ear. She started; she had not noticed him come up. “Find out how far he wants us to chase the buggers.”

  The Roman’s answer came promptly: “Only far enough to be sure they’re in no shape to re-form. I want to get moving again. This mess has cost us close to half a day.”

  “Not much else, though.” Hardly any of the men on the ground were legionaries.

  The young man inside Minucius peeped out for a moment from behind the stern commander’s mask. “It did work well, didn’t it? Yavlak got what anyone too eager gets.” His eyes flicked to Bagratouni’s men, who were grimly making certain all the downed Yezda were corpses.

  “On my way back to Pakhymer, shall I stop and thank Gagik for you, for not breaking ranks in his own eagerness to get at the nomads?”

  “Thank him for obeying orders?” Minucius’ astonishment was perfectly real. “By the gods, no! He does what he does because I command it, not as a favor to me.”

  “He’s right,” Senpat said in their tent that night when Nevrat told him of the exchange. They were lying side by side on the bedroll, too tired after the fight for anything more, but too keyed up to sleep.

  “Of course he’s right.” Nevrat brushed back a wet lock of hair from her cheek—washing the grime and sweat from it was the only pleasure for which she’d had the energy after the legionaries made camp. She went on, “But how did he make Bagratouni see that, after all he’s suffered from the Yezda? What happened back in Garsavra means nothing now—the Romans would never turn on Gagik’s men here, not in the middle of enemy-held country.”

  “I suppose not,” Senpat half agreed, “though I wonder what would happen if Minucius gave the order. I’m glad we don’t have to find out. Still, you’re right; that’s not what held Gagik back.”

  “What, then?”

  “Do you really want to know what I think? I think over the last couple of years, without ever quite knowing it, Bagratouni has gone from being a nakharar to a—what do they call it?—a centurion, that’s right. This Roman discipline digs deep into a man. I’m just glad it hasn’t set its hooks too deep in us.”

  Nevrat thought about that. Imagining Gagik Bagratouni as a clean-shaven Roman made her smile, but she decided her husband had a point. The nakharar had snarled at Minucius, but in the end he obeyed. The Bagratouni she had known of old, affronted so, might well have made the legionary commander carry out his threat.

  After a while, she said, “If the Romans have no hold on us, why are we here by the Arandos instead of back in the capital following the Avtokrator’s orders?”

  Only a snore answered her. She rolled over. A few minutes later she was asleep herself.

  Yavlak had fought the Romans once before they began their drive to the west, but had learned little from his earlier defeat. The nomad chieftains further into the interior of the central plateau knew nothing of the newcomers and were foolish enough to believe they could run them off with whatever forces they scraped together on the spur of the moment.

  A couple of stinging defeats taught them otherwise. Word spread quickly from one clan to the next. After that, the Yezda left them alone. In fact, the nomads fled before them, flocks and all.