The hound paused, growling, as it padded past the Romans. The hair stood up along its back. It had been close to three years, and the beast had only taken their scent for a few minutes; could it remember? For that matter, would Zemarkhos know them again if he saw them? Scaurus suddenly wished he were a short brunet, to be less conspicuous in the crowd.

  But the dog walked on, and Zemarkhos with it. The tribune let out a soft sigh of relief. The priest had been dangerous before, but now he carried an aura of brooding power that made Marcus wish he could raise his hackles like Vaspur. He did not think mere temporal authority had put that look on Zemarkhos’ ruined features; something stranger and darker dwelt there. By luck, it was directed inward now, growing, feeding on the priest’s fierce hate.

  Still shouting, “Phos watch over the Defender,” the crowd fell in behind Zemarkhos as he made his way into Amorion’s central forum. They swept Scaurus and Gaius Philippus with them. More Videssians filled the edges of the square; the newcomers pushed and shoved to find places.

  The spear-carrying guards forced their Vaspurakaner captives into the middle of the forum. They released the ends of the chains they held. One took a short-handled sledge from his belt and secured each prisoner by staking those free ends to the ground. A couple of the Vaspurakaners tugged at their bonds, but most simply stood, apathetic or apprehensive.

  The guards moved away from them in some haste.

  Zemarkhos limped toward the prisoners. Beside him, Vaspur barked and snarled, showing gleaming fangs. “Is he going to set the hound on them?” Gaius Philippus muttered in disgust. “What did they do to him?”

  Marcus expected the dog to go for the prisoners in vengeance for Bagratouni’s treatment of Zemarkhos. That made a twisted kind of sense. But at the priest’s command it sat next to him. Zemarkhos’ profile was predatory as a hunting hawk’s as he focused his will on the Vaspurakaners.

  He extended a long, clawlike finger in their direction. The crowd quieted. The priest quivered; Scaurus could fairly see him channeling the force that boiled within him. In a way, he thought, it was an obscene parody of the ritual healer-priests used to gather their concentration before they set to work.

  But Zemarkhos did not intend to heal. “Accursed, damned, and lost be the Vaspurakaner race!” he cried, his shrill voice searing as red-hot iron. “Deceitful, evil, mad, capricious, with wickedness twice compounded! Malignant, treacherous, beastly, and obstinate in their foul heresy! Accursed, accursed, accursed!”

  At every repetition, he stabbed his finger toward the captives. And at every repetition, the crowd bayed in bloodthirsty excitement, for the Vaspurakaners writhed in torment, as if lashed by barbed whips. Two or three of them screamed, but the noise was drowned in the roar of the crowd.

  “Accursed be the debased creatures of Skotos!” Zemarkhos screeched, and the prisoners fell to their knees, biting their lips against anguish. “Accursed be their every rite, their every mystery, abominable and hateful to Phos! Accursed be their vile mouths, which speak in blasphemies!” And blood dripped down into the Vaspurakaners’ beards.

  “Accursed be these wild dogs, these serpents, these scorpions! I curse them all, to death and uttermost destruction!” With as much force as if he cast a spear, he shot his finger forward again. Their faces contorted in terror and agony, their eyes starting from their heads, the Vaspurakaners flopped about on the ground like boated fish, then subsided to twitching and finally stillness.

  Only then did Zemarkhos, unwholesome triumph blazing in his eyes, stalk up to them and spurn their bodies with his foot. The crowd, fired to the religious enthusiasm that came all too readily to Videssians, shouted its approval. “Phos guard the Defender of the Faithful!” “Thus to all heretics!” “The true faith conquers!” One loud-voiced woman even cried out the imperial salutation: “Thou conquerest, Zemarkhos!”

  The priest gave no sign the acclaim moved him. Urging Vaspur to his feet, he limped off toward his residence. He fixed his unblinking stare on the crowd and said harshly, “See to it you fall not into error, nor suffer your neighbor to do so.”

  His people, though, were used to his unbending sternness and cheered him as though he had granted them a benediction. They streamed out of the plaza, well pleased with the night’s spectacle.

  As they were making their way back to their meager lodgings, Gaius Philippus turned to Marcus and asked, “Are you sure you want to go through with what you planned?”

  “Frankly, no.” The strength of Zemarkhos’ wizardry, fueled with a fanatic’s zeal and a tyrant’s rage, daunted the tribune. He walked some paces in silence. At last he said, “What other choice do I have, though? Would you sooner be an assassin, sneaking through the night?”

  “I would,” Gaius Philippus answered at once, “if I didn’t think they’d catch us afterward. Or, more likely, before. But I’m glad I’m no big part of your scheme.”

  Marcus shrugged. “The Videssians are a subtle folk. What better to confound them with than the obvious?”

  “Especially when it isn’t,” the veteran said.

  Dawn the next day gave promise of the ferocious heat of the Videssian central plateau, the kind of heat that would quickly kill a man away from water. The horse trough in which Scaurus washed his head and arms was blood-warm.

  He had no appetite for the loaf he bought from the innkeeper. Gaius Philippus finished what was left after polishing off his own. It was not, Marcus knew, that the other felt easier because he was sure of his safety. Had their roles been reversed, the unshakable centurion would not have eaten a bite less.

  They stayed in the shade of the stable until early afternoon, drawing curious glances from the horseboys and the guests who came in to take their beasts.

  When the shadows started to grow longer again, Marcus unpacked his full Roman military kit and donned it all—greaves, iron-studded kilt, mail shirt, helmet with high horsehair crest, scarlet cape of rank. Even in the shadows, he began to sweat at once.

  Gaius Philippus, still in cloth, clambered aboard his spavined gray. He led the tribune’s saddled horse after him as he emerged from the stable and leaned down to clasp hands with Scaurus. “I’ll be ready at my end, not that it’ll make any difference if things go wrong. The gods with you, you great bloody fool.”

  A good enough epitaph, Marcus thought as the senior centurion clopped away. His own progress was as leisurely as he could make it; in armor under that blazing sun he understood, not for the first time, how a lobster must feel boiled in its shell.

  He collected a crowd of small boys before he got to Amorion’s chief street. The youngsters had grown used to soldiers, but not ones so resplendent as he. He gave out coppers with a free hand; he wanted to attract all the notice he could. He asked, “Is Zemarkhos preaching today?”

  Some of the lads perked up at mention of the priest, while others watched the tribune with blank faces; not through love alone did Zemarkhos rule Amorion. One of the boys who had smiled said, “Aye, so he is, sir. He talks in the plaza every day, he do.”

  “Thanks.” Scaurus gave him another coin.

  “Thank you, sir. Are you going to go listen to him? I can see, sir, you’ve come from far away, maybe even just to hear him? Isn’t he a marvel? Have you ever run across his like?”

  “That I haven’t, son,” the Roman said truthfully. “Yes, I’m going to listen to him. I may,” he went on, “even speak with him.”

  The corpses of the Vaspurakaners still lay in their agonized postures in the center of the square. They did nothing to slow the furious buying and selling of the panegyris, which went on all around them. Two rug sellers had set up stalls across from each other, and loudly sneered at one another’s merchandise. A swordsmith worked a creaking grindstone with a foot pedal as he sharpened customers’ knives. A plump matron examined herself in a merchant’s bronze mirror, looking for flaws in the speculum and in her makeup. She put it down with a reluctant nod; the haggling began in earnest.

  Sellers of wine, nuts, roasted fowls, ale, fruit juice, figs, little spiced cakes, and a hundred other delicacies wandered through the eager crowd, crying their wares. So did strongmen sweating under the great stones they had heaved over their heads, strolling musicians, acrobats—including one who walked on his hands and had a beggar’s tin cup tied to his leg—trainers with their performing dogs or talking ravens, puppeteers, and a host of other mountebanks.

  And so, for all Zemarkhos’ ascetic prudery, did prostitutes, drawn with the other merchants to the panegyris’ concentration of wealth. Marcus spied Gaius Philippus, well posted at the edge of the square, talking with a tall, dark-haired woman, attractive in a stern-faced way. Perhaps she reminded him of Nerse Phorkaina, the tribune thought. She slid her dress off one shoulder for a moment to show the centurion her breasts. Startled, Marcus laughed—perhaps she didn’t, too.

  As the street lad promised, Zemarkhos was exhorting a good-sized gathering. Flanked by several spear-carrying guardsmen, he stood, Vaspur at his side, behind a portable rostrum. He emphasized his points by pounding it with his fists. Scaurus did not need to have heard the first part of the harangue to know what it was about.

  “They are Skotos’ spawn,” Zemarkhos was shouting, “seeking to corrupt Phos’ untarnished faith through the vile mockery of it they practice in their heretical rites. Only by their destruction may right doctrine be preserved without blemish. Aye, and by the destruction of those deluded heresy-lovers in the capital, whose mercy on the disbelievers’ bodies will be justly requited with torment to their souls!”

  The audience cheered him on, crying, “Death to the heretics! Zemarkhos’ curse take the hypocrites! Praise the wisdom of Zemarkhos the Defender, scourge of the wicked Vaspurakaners!”

  Flicking his crimson cape round him, Marcus worked his way toward Zemarkhos’ podium. He cut an impressive figure; people who turned to grumble as he pushed past them muttered apologies and stepped back to let him by. Soon he stood in the second or third row, close enough to see the veins bulging at Zemarkhos’ throat and on his forehead as he ranted against his chosen victims.

  “Anathema to those who spring from Vaspurakan, the root-stock of every impurity!” he screamed. “May they be cast into Skotos’ outer darkness for their wicked inspirer to devour! They are the worst of all mankind, howling like wild dogs against our correct faith—hardhearted, stiff-necked, vain, and insane!”

  Marcus pushed his way to the very front of the audience. “Rubbish!” he shouted, as loud as he could.

  He heard gasps all around him. Zemarkhos’ mouth was open for his next pronouncement. It hung foolishly for a moment as the priest gaped; it had been years since anyone opposed him. Then he waved to his guards. “Kill me this blasphemous oaf.” Grinning, they stepped forward to obey.

  “Yes, send your dogs to do your work,” the Roman jeered. “Too stupid to learn, are you? Look what happened to you when you tried that with your precious Vaspur. You’re a scrawny, murderous fraud and you deserve every scar you have.”

  Several people near Scaurus scrambled away, afraid they might somehow be tainted by his sacrilege. Vaspur snarled. The guards, no longer grinning, hefted their spears in anger. The tribune set his hand to the hilt of his sword, but kept his eyes riveted on Zemarkhos. Confident in his own power, the priest gestured to his men again. They growled, but gave way.

  “Very well, madman, let it be as you wish; you are as fit a subject as my other for the proof of Phos’ power within me.” Zemarkhos’ eyes glittered with consuming hunger. As he measured Scaurus, his stare reminded the tribune of that of an old eagle, ready to stoop.

  Then the zealot priest’s eyebrows twitched, surprise returning humanity to his expression. “I know you,” he rasped. “You are one of the barbarians who preferred the company of Vaspurakaners to my exposition of the truth. Your repentance will come late, but none the less certain for that.”

  “Of course I’d sooner have guested with them than with you. They’re whole men, not twisted, venomous fanatics, ‘hardhearted, stiff-necked, vain, and insane!’ ” Marcus quoted with insulting relish. The crowd gasped again; Zemarkhos jerked as if stung.

  “ ‘Whole men,’ is it?” he returned. His stabbing finger darted at the Vaspurakaners he had slain. “There they lie, a mort of them, given over to death by Phos’ just judgment.”

  “Horseshit. Any evil wizard could work the same, without taking Phos’ mantle for himself in the bargain.” The tribune sneered. “Phos’ power! What nonsense! If you weren’t so damned cruel, Zemarkhos, you’d be a joke, and a lame one at that. Go on, show everyone here Phos’ power—if it comes through you, strike me dead with it.”

  “No need to beg,” Zemarkhos said, his voice an eager whisper. “I will give you what you want.” He did not move, but seemed nonetheless to grow taller behind the podium. Marcus could all but see the power he was summoning to himself. His eyes were two leaping back flames; his whole body quivered as he aimed his dart of malice.

  His arm shot toward the tribune. Scaurus stumbled under the immaterial blow and wished for his scutum to hold up against it. His ears roared; his sight grew dark; agony filled his mind like the kiss of molten lead. He bit his lip till he tasted blood. Dimly he heard Zemarkhos’ cackle of cruel, vaunting laughter.

  But he held on to his sword, though he kept it in its sheath. Zemarkhos’ fanatic zeal powered his magic to a strength to match any Marcus had seen since he came to Videssos, but the druids’ charms were equal to it. “You’ll have to do better than that,” he called to Zemarkhos, and stood straight once more.

  The hatred on the priest’s face was frightening, making him into something hardly human. He gathered all his might within him and loosed it in a single blast of will. This time, though, the Gallic blade’s ward spells were already alive and easily turned aside the thrust. Scaurus barely flinched.

  The tribune stretched his mouth into a grin. “I don’t think Phos is paying much attention to you,” he said. “Try again—maybe he’s doing something important instead.”

  The crowd muttered at his effrontery, but also at Zemarkhos’ failure. The priest readied another curse, but Marcus saw in his eyes the beginning of doubt, sorcery’s fatal foe. The third attack was the weakest; the tribune felt vague discomfort, but did not show it.

  “There—do you see?” he shouted to the folk around him. “This old vulture tells lies with every breath he takes!” He forbore to mention that he would have been lying dead in the dirt without his sword’s unseen protection.

  “You have sold your soul to Skotos and stand under his shield!” Zemarkhos shrieked, his voice cracking. His harsh features were greasy with sweat; he panted like a soldier after an all-day battle.

  That was a cry to get Scaurus mobbed, but he was ready for it. “Hear the desperate liar, grabbing at straws! Do you not teach, Zemarkhos, that Phos will beat Skotos in the end? Or are you a Balancer all of a sudden, one of those Khatrisher heretics who do not profess that good is stronger than evil?”

  At another time, the expression the priest wore might have been funny. He had thrown charges of heresy past counting, but never expected to catch one, or to see his very piety discredited. “Kill him!” he started to scream to his guardsmen, but a cabbage flew out of the crowd and caught him in the side of the head, sending him sprawling off the podium. Not all of Amorion had enjoyed living under his religious tyranny.

  Nor had all hated it, either; the cabbage-flinger went down with a shriek as the man in front of him whirled and stabbed him in the side. He kicked savagely at the man he had knifed, then fell himself as the woman beside him smashed a clay water jug over his head.

  “Dig up Zemarkhos’ bones!” she screamed—the Videssian cry for riot. A hundred voices took up the call. A hundred more rose in horror, shouting, “Blasphemers! Heretic lovers!”

  Zemarkhos scrambled to his feet. Two men rushed him, one swinging a chunk of firewood, the other barehanded. Growling horribly, Vaspur leaped for the first man’s throat. He threw up his arms to protect himself. Vaspur tore them to the bone; the man dropped his club and fled, dripping blood. One of the priest’s guards speared the unarmed man. He stared in amazement at the point in his belly, crumpled, and fell.

  “Murderer! See the murderer!” that same woman cried. Her voice was loud and coarse as a donkey’s bray and rang through the square. Before the guard could pull his pike free, she led the charge at him. He went down and did not get up. “Dig up Zemar—” Her cry was abruptly cut off as another guard reversed his spear and clubbed her with it. A moment later an uprooted paving stone dashed out his brains.

  “Death to those who mock the Defender!” a wild-eyed youth shouted, and was fool enough to punch Marcus in his ironclad ribs. The tribune heard knuckles break. The young man howled. The tribune kicked him in the stomach before he could think of something worse to do; the youth folded up like a fan.

  Armed, armored, and well-trained in the midst of rioting civilians, Scaurus enjoyed a tremendous edge. He swung his sword in great arcs, not so much to strike as to keep a little space around him. The sight of a yard of edged steel in the hands of someone who knew how to use it made even the most fiery zealot think twice. The tribune began slipping through the mob toward Gaius Philippus.

  His worst worry was Zemarkhos’ guardsmen, but the three or four of them still standing had all they could do holding the rioters back from their master. His curses now rained on the crowd that had followed him so long. But in civil strife as in battle, uproused passion went far to protect against magic. And as one intended victim after another did not drop, the priest’s assurance failed him. He turned and fled, robe flapping about his shanks as he forced them into a hobbling run.

  A fusillade of stones and rubbish followed him. Several missiles landed; he staggered and went to one knee. More struck the dog Vaspur. It howled and leaped as far as the chain Zemarkhos still held would let it. When the chain went taut the dog fell heavily, half-throttled.