An Emperor for the Legion by Harry Turtledove Read Free Book Online Page B

no mistake,” Viridovix said after one such small victory. The Celt sprawled in front of a campfire. A mug of beer was in his right hand, a little mountain of well-gnawed pork ribs at his feet. He took a long pull at the mug, belched, and went on, “You know, we could do a sight worse than kinging it here for the rest of our days. Who’d be caring enough to say us nay?”
    “I, for one,” Gaius Philippus answered promptly. “This place is yokeldom’s motherland. Even the whores are clumsy.”
    “There’s more to life than your prick, you know,” the Celt said. His righteous tone drew howls from everyone who heardhim; Gaius Philippus mutely held out a hand with three upraised fingers. With the ruddy firelight and his permanently sunburned skin, it was impossible to tell if Viridovix blushed, but he did tug at his sweeping mustaches in chagrin.
    “But still,” he persisted, “doesn’t all this—” He reached out a foot and toppled the pile of bones. “—make munching marching rations a thought worth puking on? Dusty porridge, stale bread, smoked meat with the taste of a herd of butchered shoes—a day of that would gag a buzzard, and we eat it week after week.”
    Gorgidas said, “You know, my Gallic friend, there are times you’re naïve as a child. How often do you think this miserable valley can supply feasts like this?” He waved out into the dark, reminding his listeners of the poor, small, rocky fields they’d come through, fields that sometimes seemed to go straight up a mountainside.
    “I grew up in country like this,” the doctor went on. “The folk here will eat poorer this winter for feasting us tonight. If they did it two weeks running, some would starve before spring—and so would some of us, should we stay.”
    Viridovix stared at him without comprehension. He was used to the lush fertility of his northern Gallic homeland, with its cool summers, mild winters, and long, gentle rains. Cut firewood sprouted green shoots there; here in the Videssian uplands, rooted trees withered in the ground.
    “There are more reasons than Gorgidas’ for going on,” Marcus said, disturbed that the idea Viridovix put forward half jokingly was getting serious attention. “However much we’d like to forget the world, I fear it won’t forget us. Either the Yezda will flatten the Empire—which looks all too likely right now—or Videssos will somehow drive them back. Whoever wins will stretch their rule all through this land. Do you think we could stand against them?”
    “They’d have to find us first.” Senpat Sviodo gave Viridovix unexpected support. “To judge from the run of guides we’ve had, even the locals don’t know the land three valleys over.”
    There were rumbles of agreement to that from around the campfire. Gaius Philippus muttered, “To judge from the run of guides we’ve had, the locals don’t know enough to squat when they crap.”
    No one could dispute that, either. Glad to see the argumentdiverted, Scaurus said, “This last one is better,” and the centurion had to nod. The Romans’ latest guide was a solidly built middle-aged man with a soldier’s scars; his name was Lexos Blemmydes. He carried himself like a veteran, too, and his Videssian had lost some of its original hill-country accent. Marcus had a nagging feeling he’d seen Blemmydes before, but the guide’s face did not seem familiar to any of his men.
    The tribune wondered if Blemmydes was one of the refugees from Videssos’ shattered army. The man had attached himself to the Romans a few days before, coming up to their camp one evening and asking if they needed a guide. Whoever he was, he certainly knew his way through this rocky maze. His descriptions of upcoming terrain, villages, and even village leaders ahead were unfailingly accurate.
    He was, in fact, so much superior to earlier escorts that Scaurus looked from one campfire to the next until he spotted Blemmydes shooting dice with a couple of