An Emperor for the Legion by Harry Turtledove Page B

through to hint that the thatch-roofed hut was occupied.
    The tribune stood in front of the door, his hand upraised to knock. He bethought himself of the Sacred Band of Thebes, of the hundred fifty pairs of lovers who had fought to their deaths at Chaeronea against Macedón’s Philip and Alexander. His hand did not fall. These were not Thebans he led.
    But he hesitated still, unable to bring his fist forward. Through the thin walls of the cabin, he heard the junior centurion and the physician talking. Though their words were muffled, they sounded altogether at ease with each other. Gorgidas said something short and sharp, and Glabrio laughed at him.
    As Marcus stood in indecision, the image of Gaius Philippusrose unbidden to his mind. The senior centurion was talking to him just after he brought Helvis back to the barracks: “No one will care if you bed a woman, a boy, or a purple sheep, so long as you think with your head and not with your crotch.”
    Where dead Greek heroes had not stayed his hand, a Roman’s homely advice did. If ever two men lived up to Gaius Philippus’ standard, they were the two inside. Scaurus slowly walked back to his own hut, at peace with himself at last.
    He heard a door open behind him, heard Quintus Glabrio call softly, “Is someone there?” By then the tribune was around the corner. The door closed again.
    On his return, Scaurus took the scolding he got as one who deserves it, which only seemed to irk Helvis more; sometimes acceptance of blame is the last thing anger wants. But if ab-sentminded, the tribune’s apologies were genuine, and after a while Helvis subsided.
    Malric took his undeserved punishment in stride, Marcus was thankful to see; he played with his adopted son until the boy grew drowsy.
    The tribune was almost asleep himself when he happened to recall something he was sure he had forgotten: the name of the founder of Thebes’ Sacred Band. It was Gorgidas.
    During the winter, Aptos’ sheltered valley learned but slowly what passed in the world outside. News of Amorion came, of all things, from a fugitive band of Yezda. The nomads, after a quick reconaissance, had decided the town was a tempting target. It had no wall, was empty of imperial troops, and should make easy meat.
    The Yezda suffered a rude awakening. Zemarkhos’ irregulars, blooded in the Vaspurakaner pogrom, sent the invaders reeling off in defeat—and what they did to the men they caught made it hard to choose between their savagery and the Yezda’s.
    After listening to the tale spun by the handful of half-frozen nomads, Gagik Bagratouni rumbled low in his throat, “Here is something in my life new: to tenderness feel toward Yezda. I would much give, to see Amorion burn, and Zemarkhos in it.” His great, scarred hands gripped empty air; thebrooding glow in his eyes gave him the aspect of a lion denied its prey.
    Scaurus understood his vengefulness and took it as a good sign; time was beginning to heal the Vaspurakaner lord. Yet the tribune did not altogether agree with Bagratouni. In this winter of imperial weakness, any obstacle against the Yezda was worth something. Zemarkhos and his fanatics were a nasty boil on the body of Videssos, but the invaders were the plague.
    Near midwinter day, an armed party of merchants made its way northwest from Amorion to Aptos, braving weather and the risk of attack in hope of reaping higher profits in a town where their kind seldom came. So it proved. Their stocks of spices, perfumes, fine brocades, and elaborately chased brass-work vessels from the capital sold at prices better than they could have realized in a city on a more traveled route.
    Their leader, a muscular, craggy-faced fellow who looked more soldier than trader, contented himself with remarking, “Aye, we’ve done worse.” Even with his double handful of guardsmen close by, he would not say more. Too many mercenary companies made a sport of robbing merchants.
    He and his comrades were more forthcoming