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Viridovix' lemans. Marcus wondered again how the Celt kept them from
catfights. Probably the happy-go-lucky Gaul's own lack of jealousy, he
thought. Viridovix seemed altogether unconcerned when they exploded into
laughter at the end of Arigh's tale.
Quintus Glabrio said something low-voiced to Gorgidas, who smiled and nodded.
Next to them, Katakolon Kekaumenos of Agder stirred impatiently. "Are we then
assembled?" he asked. "An it be so, let's to the revels." His accent was
almost as archaic as the sacred liturgy; Agder, though once part of the
Empire, had been severed from Videssos' more quickly changing currents of
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speech for many years. Kekaumenos himself was a solidly built, saturnine man
whose jacket of creamy snow-leopard pelts was worth a small fortune in the
capital.
Marcus also thought him something of a prig; as the party trooped out of the
barracks hall, he asked Taso Vones, "Who invited the dog in the manger?"
Aesop meant nothing to the Khatrisher, as Scaurus should have known. He
sighed. There were times, most often brought on by such trivial things, when
he was sure he would never fit this world. He explained himself sans metaphor.
"As a matter of fact, _I_ invited him," Vones said. The Roman's embarrassment
seemed to amuse him; he shared with Balsamon a fondness for discomfiting
people. "I have my reasons. Agder's a far northern land, you know, and the
turn of the sun at midwinter means more to them than to the Videssians or
me they're always half afraid it won't come back. When they see it start north
again they wassail hard, believe me."
Videssos might not have feared for the sun's return, but it celebrated all the
same. The two midwinter fests Marcus had seen before were in provincial towns.
The captial's holiday was perhaps less boisterous than their uninhibited
rejoicing, but made up for it with more polish. And the city's sheer size let
the tribune imagine himself in the middle of a world bent solely on pleasure.
Winter's early night was falling fast, but torches and candles everywhere gave
plenty of light. Bonfires blazed on many street comers; it was reckoned lucky
to jump through them.
Helvis slid free of Marcus' arm round her waist. She ran for one of the fires,
jumped. Her hair flew out around her head like a dark halo; despite the hand
she kept by her side, her skirt billowed away from her legs. Someone on the
far side of the fire cheered. The tribune's pulse quickened, too. She came
back to him flushed from the run and the cold, her eyes bright. When he put
his arm around her again, she pressed his hand tight against the top of her
hip.
Nothing escaped Taso Vones' birdlike gaze. With a smile up at his own
lady whose name, Scaurus learned, was Plakidia Teletze he said, "Better than
crawling through codices, isn't it?"
"You'd best believe it," the tribune answered, and tipped Helvis' chin up for
a quick kiss. Her lips were warm and alive against his.
"It's a public disgrace you'll make of yourselves," Viridovix complained. To
show how serious he was, he planted good, thorough kisses on all his lady
friends. They seemed perfectly content with his gallant impartiality. From
long practice, it had almost a polish to it, like a conjuror plucking his
ten-thousandth gold ring out of the air.
Waves of laughter came rolling out of the Amphitheater, a sound like a god's
mirth. Videssos' mime troupes, naturally, were the best the Empire could
offer. Eyeing the failing day, Gorgidas said, "It's probably too dark for them
to squeeze in another show. What say we find an eatery now, before the crowd
coming out fills them all to overflowing?"
"Always is a good idea, food," Gawtruz said in the heavy Khamorth-flavored
accent he affected most of the time. The envoy from Thatagush slapped his
thick belly. His appetite was real, but Scaurus knew the boorishness was an
act to lull the unwary. A clever diplomat hid beneath that piggish exterior.
Gorgidas' good sense got his comrades into an inn a few blocks off the plaza
of Palamas while the establishment was still only half full. The proprietor
and a serving girl shoved two tables together for them. Before they had
finished their first round of wine Soteric, Fayard, and Katakolon Kekaumenos
chose ale the room was packed. The owner hauled a couple of battered tables
from the kitchens out into the street to serve a few more customers, planting
fat candles on them to give his guests light. "I wish I'd bought that bigger
place," Marcus heard him say to himself as he bustled back and forth.
Delicious odors wafted out of the kitchen. Scaurus and his friends nibbled on
sweetmeats and drank, waiting for their dinner to cook. At last a servingmaid,
staggering a little under its weight, fetched a fat, roast goose to the table.
Steel flashed in the torchlight as she expertly carved the bird.
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The tribune liked most Videssian cooking, and when the eatery's owner
proclaimed goose "our specialty" he had gone along without a qualm. His first
bite gave him second thoughts. The goose was smothered in a sauce of cinnamon
and sharp cheese, a combination piquant enough to bring tears to his eyes.
There were times when the Empire's sophisticated striving for pleasure through
contrasting tastes went beyond what his palate could tolerate.
Gaius Philippus seemed similarly nonplussed, but the rest ate with every sign
of enjoyment. Stifling a sigh, the tribune took a handful of shelled almonds
from a dish by the half-demolished goose. They were sprinkled with garlic
powder. The sigh became a groan; why hadn't the garlic gone on the meat
instead?
"You're not eating much," Hevis said.
"No." Perhaps it was just as well. Being chairbound day in and day out had
made him gain weight. And, he thought, raising his cup to his lips, he had
more room for wine.
"Here, pretty one, would you care to sit by me?" That was Gauis Philippus,
greeting a courtesan in a clinging dress of thin yellow stuffs. He stole a
chair from a nearby table; its owner had gotten up to go to the jakes. The
fellow's companions glowered at the senior centurion. He stared them down;
long years of command gave him a presence none of the city men could match.
The woman saw that, too. There was real interest on her face as she sat, not
just a whore's counterfeit passion. She helped herself to food and drink. A
pretty thing, Marcus thought, and was glad for Gaius Philippus, whose luck in
such matters was usually poor.
The shade of yellow she wore reminded the tribune of the diaphanous silk gown
Vardanes Sphrantzes had forced on Alypia Gavra, and of her slim body [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]