sails actually helps them, for less air slips through their fabric.”
His seeming expertise impressed Senpat, but Helvis, froma nation of true seafarers, laughed out loud. “If that were so, dear, this would be the fastest ship afloat right now. It’s like salt in cooking: a little is fine, but too much is worse than none.”
Ropes hissed across the wet deck as the sailors wound them into snaky coils. A donkey brayed a few ships away. Two mates and the captain cursed—not half so spendidly as Thorisin and Komitta had—because the big square sail bore Helvis out by hanging from the yardarm like a limp, clinging sheet on a clothesline.
At last a fresh gust filled it; it came away from the mast with a wet sigh. The captain swore again, this time at the man on the steering oar for being slow—whether with reason, Scaurus could not tell. The ship slid away from the dock.
Soteric Dosti’s son rode up alongside the marching column of legionaries. Troopers in the front ranks grumbled at the dust his horse kicked up; those further back were already eating their comrades’ dust. The Namdalener reined in beside Marcus and shed his conical helmet with a groan of relief. Sweat ran in little clean rills through the dirt on his face. “Whew!” he said. “Hot work, this.”
“No argument there,” the tribune answered, doubting that his brother-in-law had ridden over to complain about the weather.
Whatever his point was, he seemed in no hurry to make it. “Fine country we’re passing through.”
Again Scaurus had to agree. The lowlands of the Empire’s western provinces were as fertile as any he had known. The rich black soil bore abundantly; the entire countryside seemed clothed in vibrant shades of green. Farmers went out each morning from their villages to the fields and orchards surrounding them to tend their wheat and barley and beans and peas, their vines, their olives, mulberries, peaches, and figs, their nut-trees, and sweet-smelling citruses. A few of the peasants cheered as the army tramped past them to fight the Namdalener heretics. More did their best to give soldiers on any side a wide berth.
The western plain was the breadbasket for Videssos the city, shipping its produce on the barges that constantly pliedthe rivers running eastward to the sea. It also fed the army as it marched southwest from the suburbs across the strait from the capital. This close to the Cattle-Crossing, the Empire’s governors still held the land; with the bureaucratic efficiency Videssos was capable of at its best, they had markets ready to resupply the imperial forces. Marcus wondered how long it would be before the first of Drax’—what was it Soteric had called them?—motte-and-bailey castles would stand by the roadside to block their way. Not long now, he thought.
“Fine country,” Soteric repeated. “Too muggy in summer to be perfect, but the land’s fruitful enough to grow feathers on an egg. I can see what was in Drax’ mind when he decided to take it for his own.” He paused a moment, ran his fingers through his light-brown hair, almost the same color as Helvis’. Unlike many of his countrymen, he had a full head; he did not crop the back of his skull. “By the Wager, I wouldn’t mind settling here myself one day.”
He looked down at Scaurus from horseback, studying him. His eyes might be the same blue as his sister’s, the tribune thought, but they had none of her warmth. His high-arched nose put an imperious cast on all his features.
“No?” the Roman said, watching his brother-in-law as closely as he was being watched. Picking his words with care, he went on, “You don’t want to go back to the Duchy? Would you sooner take a farm here when your time with the Empire is done?”
“Aye, when my time is done,” Soteric said, chuckling silently. He kept scanning the tribune’s face. “That may not be so long now.”
Marcus did his best to hold a mask of bland innocence. “Really? I thought you’d
His seeming expertise impressed Senpat, but Helvis, froma nation of true seafarers, laughed out loud. “If that were so, dear, this would be the fastest ship afloat right now. It’s like salt in cooking: a little is fine, but too much is worse than none.”
Ropes hissed across the wet deck as the sailors wound them into snaky coils. A donkey brayed a few ships away. Two mates and the captain cursed—not half so spendidly as Thorisin and Komitta had—because the big square sail bore Helvis out by hanging from the yardarm like a limp, clinging sheet on a clothesline.
At last a fresh gust filled it; it came away from the mast with a wet sigh. The captain swore again, this time at the man on the steering oar for being slow—whether with reason, Scaurus could not tell. The ship slid away from the dock.
Soteric Dosti’s son rode up alongside the marching column of legionaries. Troopers in the front ranks grumbled at the dust his horse kicked up; those further back were already eating their comrades’ dust. The Namdalener reined in beside Marcus and shed his conical helmet with a groan of relief. Sweat ran in little clean rills through the dirt on his face. “Whew!” he said. “Hot work, this.”
“No argument there,” the tribune answered, doubting that his brother-in-law had ridden over to complain about the weather.
Whatever his point was, he seemed in no hurry to make it. “Fine country we’re passing through.”
Again Scaurus had to agree. The lowlands of the Empire’s western provinces were as fertile as any he had known. The rich black soil bore abundantly; the entire countryside seemed clothed in vibrant shades of green. Farmers went out each morning from their villages to the fields and orchards surrounding them to tend their wheat and barley and beans and peas, their vines, their olives, mulberries, peaches, and figs, their nut-trees, and sweet-smelling citruses. A few of the peasants cheered as the army tramped past them to fight the Namdalener heretics. More did their best to give soldiers on any side a wide berth.
The western plain was the breadbasket for Videssos the city, shipping its produce on the barges that constantly pliedthe rivers running eastward to the sea. It also fed the army as it marched southwest from the suburbs across the strait from the capital. This close to the Cattle-Crossing, the Empire’s governors still held the land; with the bureaucratic efficiency Videssos was capable of at its best, they had markets ready to resupply the imperial forces. Marcus wondered how long it would be before the first of Drax’—what was it Soteric had called them?—motte-and-bailey castles would stand by the roadside to block their way. Not long now, he thought.
“Fine country,” Soteric repeated. “Too muggy in summer to be perfect, but the land’s fruitful enough to grow feathers on an egg. I can see what was in Drax’ mind when he decided to take it for his own.” He paused a moment, ran his fingers through his light-brown hair, almost the same color as Helvis’. Unlike many of his countrymen, he had a full head; he did not crop the back of his skull. “By the Wager, I wouldn’t mind settling here myself one day.”
He looked down at Scaurus from horseback, studying him. His eyes might be the same blue as his sister’s, the tribune thought, but they had none of her warmth. His high-arched nose put an imperious cast on all his features.
“No?” the Roman said, watching his brother-in-law as closely as he was being watched. Picking his words with care, he went on, “You don’t want to go back to the Duchy? Would you sooner take a farm here when your time with the Empire is done?”
“Aye, when my time is done,” Soteric said, chuckling silently. He kept scanning the tribune’s face. “That may not be so long now.”
Marcus did his best to hold a mask of bland innocence. “Really? I thought you’d
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