Its snarl sent everyone close by scrambling back. The closest target for its fury was its master. Zemarkhos screamed “No!” as Vaspur sprang for him. The dog’s teeth tore at his throat. The scream rose higher and shriller for a moment, then bubbled away to silence.

  Zemarkhos’ backers cried out in horror, but his foes raised a great hurrah. His death did nothing to end the riot. By then, everyone in the square had been hit from behind at least once and struck back blindly, keeping fights going and starting new ones. Some went through the crowd with more purpose, looking for old enemies to pay back.

  The mob also began to realize no one would keep them from plundering whatever traders whose goods took their fancy. The first merchant’s stall went over with a crash. Friends and foes of Zemarkhos forgot their quarrel and looted it together.

  “Phos and no quarter!” bellowed a squat, brawny man in a butcher’s leather apron. He rampaged through the crowd, heavy fists churning. Marcus wondered whose side he was on, and wondered if he knew himself.

  Someone bludgeoned the tribune. His helmet took the worst of the blow, but he still staggered. He whirled by reflex and felt his sword bite. His attacker groaned, fell, and was trampled. He never did see the fellow.

  Across the plaza, a disappointed looter cursed because all of a ring seller’s best opals had already been stolen before he got a chance at them. “It’s not fair!” he yelled, paying no attention to the jeweler who lay unconscious on the ground a few feet away, a thin stream of blood trickling down the side of his face.

  “Cheer up,” another man said. “There’s bound to be better stuff in the merchants’ tent city outside of town.”

  “You’re right!” the first rioter exclaimed. “And most of those buggers are heretics or out-and-out heathens, so they must be fair game.” He had been howling against Zemarkhos, but only because his brother-in-law had fallen victim to the priest. Now he filled his lungs and shouted, “Let’s clean out those rich whoresons who come here just to cheat us every year!”

  The cheers were like the baying of wolves. Brandishing torches and makeshift weapons, the mob streamed north through Amorion’s streets, hot for loot. Most houses were slammed tight against the riot, but the tide of excitement swept more than a few men from them.

  Marcus fought his way across the current toward Gaius Philippus. The veteran’s gladius was in his scarred fist; his feet dangled outside the stirrups. Just before the tribune made it to him, a rioter tried to steal the roan he was leading. Disdaining the sword, the centurion raked out with his left foot. The nailed soles of his caligae shredded the Videssian’s back. The man howled like a whipped dog; when he turned to run, Gaius Philippus sped him along with a well-aimed toe to the fundament.

  As Scaurus mounted, the senior centurion scowled at him. He grumbled, “You could have waited a bit before you started the brawl. I might have had time for a quick one against the wall with that tart, but as soon as the ruction got going she ran off to lift whatever wasn’t nailed down. Easier than friking, I suppose.”

  “Go howl.” Marcus booted his horse forward. He took off his crested helmet and threw away his cape, trying to look as little like the man who had set Amorion aboil as he could.

  It helped, but not as much as he wanted. “Pawn of Skotos!” an old bald man yelled, rushing at him with looted dagger in hand. But the tribune’s horse was a trained war-beast from the imperial stables. It reared and struck out with iron-shod hooves. The man toppled, his knife flying through the air.

  “This wretched slug I’m on would kill itself if it tried that,” Gaius Philippus said envyingly. The gray was not at risk; one display was enough to make the rioters keep their distance. Undisturbed for the moment, the Romans rode the mob’s current north.

  “What now?” the senior centurion asked, shouting to be heard.

  “Back to Nakoleia?”

  “I suppose so,” Marcus said, but he still hesitated. “I do wish, though, I had a token to prove Zemarkhos dead.”

  “What are you going to do, go back and take his head so you can toss it at Thorisin’s feet the way Avshar gave you Mavrikios’?” When Scaurus did not answer at once, Gaius Philippus turned astonished eyes on him. “By the gods, you’re thinking of it!”

  “Yes, I’m thinking of it,” the tribune said heavily. “After all this, I’m damned if I’ll leave Gavras any excuse for cheating me. I have to be sure he can’t.”

  “He can if he wants to, anyway—that’s what being Emperor is all about. All going back’ll do is get you killed to no purpose.” Gaius Philippus paused a moment. “Now you listen to me and see if I don’t argue like some fool Greek sophist—shame Gorgidas isn’t here to give me the horselaugh.”

  “Go on.”

  “All right, then. Without Zemarkhos, do you think this town can hold off the Yezda long? What’ll they be doing? Sitting back with their thumbs up their arses? Not bloody likely. And even Thorisin can’t help noticing them being here instead of that maniac in a blue robe.”

  “You’re not wrong,” Marcus had to admit. “Gavras won’t thank us for giving them Amorion, though.”

  “Then why didn’t he give you an army, to keep them out of it? You know the answer to that as well as I do.” Gaius Philippus drew the edge of his hand across his throat. “You’ve done what he told you to; he can’t complain over what happens next.”

  “Of course he can; you just showed me that yourself.” But Marcus realized Gaius Philippus was right. Zemarkhos was done, and without troops the tribune could not help Amorion. “Very well, you have me. Let’s get out while we can.”

  “Now you’re talking.” Gaius Philppus bullied a resentful lope out of his horse and slapped its bony flank when it tried to slack off. “Not this time, you don’t.” Soon he and Marcus were near the front of the mob. The centurion grinned maliciously at the rioters around them. “They’d best enjoy their loot while they can. The Yezda’ll swarm down on ’em like flies on rotten meat.”

  “So they will.” Marcus swore in sudden consternation. “And one of the ways they’ll come swarming is out of the north, straight down the path we need to use.”

  “A pox! I hadn’t thought of that. We were lucky when we got here, not seeing more than a few scattered bands.” Gaius Philippus rubbed his scarred cheek. “And they’ll be hot for plunder, too, when they come across us. Bad.”

  “Yes.” Buildings were beginning to thin out as they got near the edge of town; like most cities in the once-secure Videssian westlands, Amorion had no wall. Ahead, Marcus could see the tents of wool, linen, and silk, the merchants’ assembly that rose like mushrooms after a rain, only to disappear once the panegyris was over. “I have it!” he exclaimed, wits jogged by them. “Let’s take that Tahmasp up on turning guardsman. There’s booty in his caravan, aye, but only the biggest band of raiders would dare have a go at him. He’d bloody any smaller bunch.”

  “You’ve thrown a triple six!” Gaius Philippus said. “The very thing!” He bunched the thick muscles in his upper arms. “We may get to have another whack at these jackals around us, too. I wouldn’t mind that one bit.” Like most veteran soldiers, he loathed mobs, as much for their disorder as for their looting habits.

  The tent city was already in an uproar when the Romans reached it. The first wave of rioters had come just ahead of them; they were running from one vendor to the next, snatching what they could. The buyers already there were catching the fever, too, and joining the mob. Several bodies, most of them locals, lay bleeding in the dirt.

  But the mob’s onset was not the only thing sowing confusion. Merchants were frantically shutting up displays, taking down tents, and loading everything onto their horses, donkeys, and camels. Some were nearly done; they must have started at first light, long before Scaurus touched off the scramble at Amorion.

  “Now where was Tahmasp lurking?” Gaius Philippus growled. The Romans had counted on finding him by his main tent, which was an eye-searing saffron that had glowed even in the twilight of the night before. But it was already down.

  “There, that way, I think,” Marcus said pointing. “I remember that blue-and-white striped one wasn’t far from him.”

  They rode forward. “Right you are,” Gaius Philippus said, spotting the yellow canvas baled up on horseback. There was no sign of the caravan master, though traders who traveled with him were still dashing about finishing their packing.

  Despite the chaos, the mob left Tahmasp’s caravan alone. A good forty armored guardsmen, most of them mounted, formed a perimeter to daunt the most foolhardy rioters. Some had drawn bows, others carried spears or held sabers at the ready. They had the mongrel look of any such company, with no matching gear and men who ranged from a blond Haloga through Videssians and Makuraners to robed desert nomads and even a couple of Yezda. They were all scarred, several missing fingers or an ear, and probably four-fifths of them outlaws, but they looked like they could fight.

  They bristled as the Romans approached. “Where’s Tahmasp?” Marcus shouted to the man he figured for their leader, a short, dark, hatchet-faced Videssian who wore his wealth—his hands glittered with gold rings, his arms with heavy bracelets. His sword belt and scabbard were crusted with jewels, and the torque round his neck would have raised the envy of Viridovix or any Gallic chieftain. Baubles aside, he looked quick and dangerous.

  “He’s bloody well busy,” he snapped. “What’s it to you?”

  Gaius Philippus spoke up, in piping falsetto: “Oh, the wicked fellow! He’s got me in trouble, and my daddy’s coming after him with an axe!” The guard chief’s jaw dropped; several of his men doubled over in laughter. In normal tones, the centurion rasped, “Who are you, dung-heel, to keep people from him?”

  The other purpled. Marcus said hastily, “He said for us to come see him if we were looking for spots in your troop. We are.”

  That got them a different kind of appraisal from Tahmasp’s rough crew. Suddenly the gaudy little troop leader was all business. His darting black eyes inspected the puckered scar on the tribune’s right forearm, his sleeveless mail shirt. “Funny gear,” he muttered. He gave Gaius Philippus a hard once-over. “Well, maybe,” he said. He called to the Haloga, “Go on, Njal, fetch the boss.”

  “What idiocy is this?” Tahmasp boomed as he came up at a heavy run. He glared at his guard chief. “This had better be good, Kamytzes. These boneheads with me this trip couldn’t figure out how to put a prick where it goes, let alone—” He broke off, recognizing the Romans. “Ha! Done with your precious ‘business,’ are you?”

  Somewhere behind Marcus, a rioter yelled as a merchant slammed a box closed on his hand. “You might say so,” the tribune said.

  Tahmasp’s eyes glinted, but he rolled his shoulders in a massive shrug. “The fewer questions I ask, the fewer lies I get back. So you two want to join me, eh?” Receiving nods, he went on, “You’ve soldiered before—no, don’t tell me about it; I’d sooner not know. That makes things easier. You know what orders are. Pay and all I told you about already. Steal, and we’ll stomp you the first time; stomp you again, harder, and kick you out naked the next. Try and run out on us, and we’ll kill you if we can. We don’t like bandits planting spies.”

  “Fair enough,” Marcus said. Gaius Philippus echoed him.

  “Good.” The caravaneer’s bushy eyebrows went down as he frowned. “I forgot to ask—what do I call you?”

  They gave their praenomens. “Never heard those before,” Tahmasp said. “No matter. You, Markhos, from now on you are in Kamytzes’ band. Once we are on the move, that is right flank guard. And you, Gheyus—” His Makuraner accent made the veteran’s name a grunt. “—you belong to Muzaffar and left flank patrol.” He pointed to a countryman of his, a tall, thin man with coal-black hair going gray at the temples and an aristocratic cast of features marred by a broken nose.

  Tahmasp saw the Romans look at each other. He laughed until his big belly shook—not like so much jelly, as Balsamon’s did, but like a boulder bouncing up and down. “I don’t know you bastards,” he pointed out. “Think I’ll let you stay together and maybe plot who knows what? Not frigging likely.”

  He might not be a Videssian, Marcus thought, but his mind worked the same way. No help for it; taking precautions kept Tahmasp alive.

  Gaius Philippus asked the caravaneer, “What’s all your hurly-burly about? Seems you were going to get out even before the riot started—and ’most everybody else up here with you.” As if to punctuate his words, another merchant company pulled away, the traders lashing their animals ahead. The lash fell on looters, too, driving them away with curses and yelps.

  “I’d have to have my head stuffed up my backside to stay. A rider came in this morning with news of a thundering big army pushing east up the Ithome toward us. That says Yezda to me, and I’m not blockhead enough to sit still and wait for ’em.”

  “You called it,” Scaurus said to Gaius Philippus. The approaching force had to be the nomads, he thought. Thorisin had hardly begun mobilizing when Marcus was expelled from the city; he doubted whether an imperial force could even have reached Garsavra.

  “Enough of this jibber-jabber,” Tahmasp declared. “We’ve got to get out of here fast, and standing around chinning don’t help. Some of the stupid sods with me would hang around to sell a Yezda the sword he’d take their heads with the next second. Kamytzes, Muzaffar, these two are your headache now. If they give trouble, scrag ’em; we got on without ’em before, and I’ll bet we can again.” He turned and clumped away, shouting, “Isn’t that bleeding tent down yet? Move it, you daft buggers!”

  Kamytzes ordered Marcus forward with a brusque gesture. Muzaffar smiled at Gaius Philippus, his teeth white against swarthy skin. When he spoke, his voice was soft and musical: “Tell me, what do you call that steed of yours?”

  “This maundering old wreck? The worst I can think of.”

  “A man of discernment, I see. That would seem none too good.” He beckoned to the veteran to join him. “If you are one of us, you are facing the wrong way.”

  Tahmasp’s caravan pulled out less than an hour after the Romans took service with him. Forty guards seemed an impressive force when the caravan was gathered together, but, even eked out by merchants, grooms, and servants, they were pitifully few once it stretched itself along the road. Divided into three-man squads, Kamytzes’ troop patrolled its side of the long row of wagons, carts, and beasts of burden, while Muzaffar’s took the other.

  Marcus looked for Gaius Philippus, but could not see him.

  What might have been a bad moment came just outside Amorion, when the rioters were still thick as fleas on a dog. A double handful of them attacked Scaurus and the squadmates he had been assigned, Njal the Haloga and a lean, sun-baked desert nomad who spoke no Videssian at all. The tribune heard his name was Wathiq.

  Some of the looters tried to keep the guards in play while the rest went for the donkeys behind them. Against their own kind, the simple plan would have worked. But Njal, wielding his axe with a surgeon’s precision, sliced off one rioter’s ear and sent him running away shrieking and spurting blood. Marcus cut down another before the fellow could jump in to hamstring his horse. Wathiq turned in the saddle and shot one of the men who had run past them in the back. The rioters gave it up as a bad job and fled, while the three professionals grinned at each other.

  Njal and Wathiq could talk to each other after a fashion in broken Makuraner. Through the Haloga, the tribune learned Wathiq had backed the wrong prince in a tribal feud and had to flee. Njal himself was exiled for being too poor to pay blood-price over a man he had killed. Scaurus gave out that he was a wandering mercenary down on his luck, a story the other two accepted without comment. He had no idea whether they believed him.

  The Roman thought nothing of it when Tahmasp led his charges west; with enemies coming from the opposite direction, he would have gone the same way to get maneuvering room.

  They camped by the Ithome. With summer’s heat drawing near, the river was already low in its bed, but it would flow the year around. On the parched central plateau, that made it more precious than rubies.

  Each squad of guards shared a tent; Marcus gave up the idea of any private planning with Gaius Philippus. Still, he thought, with Latin between them, their talk would be safe enough from prying ears. But when he went looking for the centurion at the cookfires, he discovered his comrade’s squad had picket duty the first watch of the night. Kamytzes had given him, Wathiq, and Njal the mid-watch. From what he had seen of Tahmasp’s methods, he suspected that was no accident.

  The blocky caravaneer hired the best, though. His cook somehow managed a savory stew out of travelers’ fare of smoked meats, shelled grain, chick-peas, and onions. The very smell of it had more substance than the thin, sorry stuff Thorisin Gavras’ jailers had dished out.

  The tribune settled down by a fire to enjoy the stew, but before he got the spoon to his lips, one of the other guardsmen stumbled over him. Marcus’ bowl went flying. The trooper was a Videssian, thicker through the shoulders than most imperials, with a gold hoop dangling piratically from his left ear. “Sorry,” he said, but his mocking grin made him out a liar.

  “You clumsy—” Marcus began, but then he saw the rest of the guards watching him expectantly and understood. Any new recruit could look forward to a hazing before veterans would accept him.

  His tormentor loomed over him, fists bunched in anticipation. Without standing up, the tribune hooked his foot back of the other’s ankle. The Videssian went down with a roar of rage; Scaurus sprang on top of him.

  “No knives!” Kamytzes shouted. “Draw one, and it’s the last thing you’ll do!”

  The two fighters rolled in the dirt, pummeling each other. The Videssian rammed a knee at Marcus’ groin. He twisted aside just enough to take it on the point of the hip. He grabbed his opponent’s beard and pulled his face down into the dust. When the other tried for a like hold on him, his hand slipped off the tribune’s bare chin.