Read Online The Legion of Videssos by Harry Turtledove - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Harry Turtledove
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mightily tired of them in short order. Well, he thought, with such fare you need hardly fear a flux of the bowels—more likely the opposite. The climate spoke for that, too—folk in lands with harsh winters and a prevailing north wind tended to constipation, or so Hippokrates taught.
His medical musings annoyed him—that should be over and done. To set his conscience at ease, he jotted a note on the soldier’s cooking methods.
Viridovix had been unusually quiet on the first day’s journey out of Prista. He was again as the embassy left camp behind. He rode near the rear of the company and kept looking about in all directions, now left, now right, now back over his shoulder. “There’s nothing there,” Gorgidas said, thinking he was worried they were being followed.
“How right you are, and what a great whacking lot of nothing it is, too!” the Celt exclaimed. “I’m feeling like a wee bug on a plate, the which is no pleasure at all. In the forests of Gaul it was easy to see where the world stopped, if you take my meaning. But here there’s no end to it; on and on it goes forever.”
The Greek dipped his head, feeling some of the same unhappiness; he, too, had come to manhood in a narrow land. The plains showed a man his insignificance in the world.
Arigh thought them both daft. “I only feel alive on thesteppe,” he said, repeating his words back in Prista. “When I first came to Videssos I hardly dared walk down the street for fear the buildings would fall on me. How folk cramp themselves in cities all their lives is past me.”
“As Pindar says, convention rules all,” Gorgidas said. “Give us time, Arigh, and we’ll grow used to your endless spaces.”
“Aye, I suppose we will,” Viridovix said, “but I’m hanged if I’ll like ’em.” The Arshaum’s shrug showed his indifference.
In one way the broad horizon worked to the traveler’s advantage: game was visible at an extraordinary distance. Frightened by the horses, a flock of gray partridges leaped into the air. They flew fast and low, coasting, flapping frantically, coasting again. Several troopers nocked arrows and spurred their mounts after the fleeing birds. Their double-curved bows, strengthened with horn, sent arrows darting faster than any hawk.
“We should have nets,” Skylitzes said as he watched three shafts in quick succession miss one dodging bird, but the horsemen were archers trained from childhood, and not every shot went wide. They bagged eight partridges; Gorgidas’ mouth watered at the thought of the dark, tender meat.
“Good shooting,” Viridovix said to one of Agathias Psoes’ men. The soldier, from his looks almost pure Khamorth, held two birds by the feet. He grinned at the Celt. Viridovix went on, “It’s a fine flat path your shafts have, too. What’s the pull on your bow?”
The trooper passed it to him. Next to the long yew bows the Celts favored, it was small and light, but Viridovix grunted in surprise as he tugged on the sinew bowstring. His arm muscles bunched before the bow began to bend. “Not a bit of a toy, is it?” he said, handing it back.
Pleased at his reaction, the soldier smiled slyly. “Your shield, give him here,” he said, his Videssian as accented as the Celt’s. Viridovix, who wore it slung over his back when combat was not near, undid its strap and gave it to the horseman. It was a typical Gallic noble’s shield: oblong, bronze-faced, with raised spirals of metal emphasized by enameling in bright red and green. Viridovix kept it in good repair; he was fastidious about his arms and armor.
“Pretty,” the trooper remarked, propping it upright against a bush. He walked his horse back until he was perhaps a hundred yards from it. With a savage yell he spurred the animal forward, let fly at point-blank range. The shield went spinning, but when Viridovix recovered it there was no shaft stuck in it.
“Sure and the beast kicked it ov—” the Celt began. He stopped in
His medical musings annoyed him—that should be over and done. To set his conscience at ease, he jotted a note on the soldier’s cooking methods.
Viridovix had been unusually quiet on the first day’s journey out of Prista. He was again as the embassy left camp behind. He rode near the rear of the company and kept looking about in all directions, now left, now right, now back over his shoulder. “There’s nothing there,” Gorgidas said, thinking he was worried they were being followed.
“How right you are, and what a great whacking lot of nothing it is, too!” the Celt exclaimed. “I’m feeling like a wee bug on a plate, the which is no pleasure at all. In the forests of Gaul it was easy to see where the world stopped, if you take my meaning. But here there’s no end to it; on and on it goes forever.”
The Greek dipped his head, feeling some of the same unhappiness; he, too, had come to manhood in a narrow land. The plains showed a man his insignificance in the world.
Arigh thought them both daft. “I only feel alive on thesteppe,” he said, repeating his words back in Prista. “When I first came to Videssos I hardly dared walk down the street for fear the buildings would fall on me. How folk cramp themselves in cities all their lives is past me.”
“As Pindar says, convention rules all,” Gorgidas said. “Give us time, Arigh, and we’ll grow used to your endless spaces.”
“Aye, I suppose we will,” Viridovix said, “but I’m hanged if I’ll like ’em.” The Arshaum’s shrug showed his indifference.
In one way the broad horizon worked to the traveler’s advantage: game was visible at an extraordinary distance. Frightened by the horses, a flock of gray partridges leaped into the air. They flew fast and low, coasting, flapping frantically, coasting again. Several troopers nocked arrows and spurred their mounts after the fleeing birds. Their double-curved bows, strengthened with horn, sent arrows darting faster than any hawk.
“We should have nets,” Skylitzes said as he watched three shafts in quick succession miss one dodging bird, but the horsemen were archers trained from childhood, and not every shot went wide. They bagged eight partridges; Gorgidas’ mouth watered at the thought of the dark, tender meat.
“Good shooting,” Viridovix said to one of Agathias Psoes’ men. The soldier, from his looks almost pure Khamorth, held two birds by the feet. He grinned at the Celt. Viridovix went on, “It’s a fine flat path your shafts have, too. What’s the pull on your bow?”
The trooper passed it to him. Next to the long yew bows the Celts favored, it was small and light, but Viridovix grunted in surprise as he tugged on the sinew bowstring. His arm muscles bunched before the bow began to bend. “Not a bit of a toy, is it?” he said, handing it back.
Pleased at his reaction, the soldier smiled slyly. “Your shield, give him here,” he said, his Videssian as accented as the Celt’s. Viridovix, who wore it slung over his back when combat was not near, undid its strap and gave it to the horseman. It was a typical Gallic noble’s shield: oblong, bronze-faced, with raised spirals of metal emphasized by enameling in bright red and green. Viridovix kept it in good repair; he was fastidious about his arms and armor.
“Pretty,” the trooper remarked, propping it upright against a bush. He walked his horse back until he was perhaps a hundred yards from it. With a savage yell he spurred the animal forward, let fly at point-blank range. The shield went spinning, but when Viridovix recovered it there was no shaft stuck in it.
“Sure and the beast kicked it ov—” the Celt began. He stopped in
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