Free Misplaced Legion (Videssos Cycle) by Harry Turtledove Page B

large, open squares, by a marketplace whose customers scarcely looked up to noticethem, and past monuments, columns, and statues commemorating long-past triumphs and Emperors.
    The only bad moment in the procession came near its end. An emaciated monk in a tattered, filthy robe leaped into the roadway in front of the Romans’ herald, who perforce stopped. Eyes blazing, the monk screeched, “Beware Phos’ wrath, all traffickers with infidels such as these! Woe unto us, that we shelter them in the heart of Phos’ city!”
    There was a mutter from the crowd, at first confused, then with the beginning of anger in it. Out of the corner of his eye Marcus saw a man bend to pick up a stone. The mutter grew louder and more hostile.
    Intent on heading off a riot before it could start, the tribune elbowed his way through the halted Namdalener horsemen to confront the monk. As if he were some demon, the scrawny cleric drew back in horror, sketching his god’s sign on his breast. Someone in the crowd yelled, “Heathen!”
    Hands empty before him, Scaurus bowed low to the monk, who stared at him suspiciously. Then he drew the sun-circle over his own heart, at the same time shouting, “May Phos be with you!”
    The amazement on the monk’s face was comical. He ran forward to fold the Roman in a smelly embrace he would have been as glad not to have. For a horrible instant Marcus thought he was about to be kissed, but the monk, after a few quick, babbled prayers, vanished into the crowd, which was now cheering lustily.
    Marcus gave himself the luxury of a sigh of relief before he went back to his men. “Quick thinking, outlander,” Hemond said as he walked by. “We could all have been in a lot of trouble there.”
    “Tell me about it,” the tribune said feelingly.
    “Make way for the valiant Romans!” the herald cried, and the parade advanced once more.
    “I did not know you had decided to follow Phos,” Tzimiskes said.
    “I said nothing at all about me,” Marcus replied.
    Tzimiskes looked scandalized.
    They traversed a last forum, larger than either of the previous two, and passed by a tremendous oval amphitheater before entering a district of elegant buildings set among wideexpanses of close-cropped emerald lawn and tastefully trimmed shrubs and vines.
    “Another few moments and I’ll show you to your barracks,” Khoumnos said.
    “Here?” Marcus asked, startled. “Surely this is much too fine.”
    It was the Videssian’s turn for surprise. “Why, where else would a unit of the Imperial Guards lodge, but in the Imperial Palaces?”
    The buildings devoted to the Emperors of Videssos made up a vast, sprawling complex which itself comprised one of the imperial capital’s many quarters. The Romans were billeted some distance from the Emperor’s residence proper, in four stuccoed barracks halls set among citrus trees fragrant with flowers.
    “I’ve had worse,” Gaius Philippus said with a laugh as he unslung his marching kit and laid it by his fresh straw pallet.
    Marcus understood the centurion’s way of speaking—he could not remember arrangements to compare with these. The barracks were airy, well lit, and roomy. There were baths nearby, and kitchens better equipped than some eateries. Only the lack of privacy made the long halls less comfortable than an inn or a hostel. If anything, they were too luxurious. “In quarters this fine, the men may lose their edge.”
    Gaius Philippus gave a wolfish grin. “I’ll see to that, never fear.” Scaurus nodded, but wondered how well-drilled the rest of the Imperial Guards were.
    He had some of his answer within minutes, for cornets blared while the Romans were still stowing their possessions. A plump functionary appeared in the doorway and bawled, “His Highness the Sevastos Vardanes Sphrantzes! His Majesty the Sevastokrator Thorisin Gavras! All abase themselves for his Imperial Majesty, the Avtokrator of the Videssians, Mavrikios Gavras!”
    The cornets rang out