Guy Gavriel Kay – Lord of Emperors (страница 26)

‘Leontes,’ said the Senator softly to Rustem. ‘The Strategos.’

It was a courtesy. Rustem could not have known this man, though for years he had heard of him—and feared him, as did everyone in Bassania. There was a glow cast by renown, Rustem thought, something almost tangible. It was Leontes the Golden (and the origin of the name became clearer now) who had comprehensively beaten the last fully mustered northern army east of Asen, almost capturing the Bassanid general, forcing a humiliating peace. The general had been invited to kill himself when he returned to Kabadh, and had done so.

It was Leontes who had also won lands (and productive, taxable citizens) for Valerius in the great spaces stretching all the way west and south to the fabled Majriti deserts, who had brutally quelled incursions from Moskav and Karch, who had been honoured—they’d heard of it even in Kerakek—with the most elaborate Triumph an Emperor had ever granted a returning Strategos since Saranios had founded this city.

And who had been given the tall, ice-elegant woman beside him as a further prize. They knew of the Daleinoi in Bassania, as well—even in Kerakek, which was on the southern trade routes, after all. The family’s wealth had begun with a spice monopoly, and the eastern spices usually came through Bassania, north or south. Ten or fifteen years ago, Flavius Daleinus had been killed in some appalling fashion at a time of Imperial succession. A fire of some kind, Rustem recalled. His elder sons had been killed or crippled in the same attack, and the daughter was . . . here in this room, brilliant and golden as a prize of war.

The Strategos gestured briefly and the dark-haired serving girl hurried over with wine for him, her cheeks flushed with excitement. His wife also accepted a cup, but stayed behind as her husband stepped forward so that he appeared alone now, as if an actor on a stage. Rustem saw Styliane Daleina glancing around slowly, registering, he was certain, presences and alignments utterly invisible to him. Her expression was as unrevealing as that of the Senator’s wife, but the impression given by the two women was in no other way the same. Where the wife of Plautus Bonosus was reserved and detached, the aristocratic spouse of the most powerful soldier in the Empire was cold and brilliant and even a little frightening. Awesome wealth and great power and violent death were in her lineage. Rustem managed to look away from her just as the Strategos began to speak.

‘Lysurgos Matanios once said that it is a finer thing to see a friend well wed than to sip from even the rarest wine,’ Leontes said, lifting his cup. ‘It is a pleasure to enjoy both today,’ he added, pausing to drink. There was laughter: well-bred from the courtiers, more obviously excited from the theatre and army people.

‘He always uses that line,’ murmured Bonosus to Rustem, drily. ‘I wish I knew why he was here, though.’

As if answering, the Strategos went on. ‘It seemed proper to stop and lift a cup in honour of the marriage of the only man in the army who could talk so much and so well and so much and . . . so much, that he extracted the arrears of payment for the soldiers from the Precinct coffers. I do not urge anyone ever to put themselves in the position of being persuaded by the tribune of the Fourth Sauradian to do anything . . . unless they have a great deal of time to spare.’

Laughter again. The man was smooth as a courtier but his manner was direct and unassuming, the teasing rough and easy as a soldier’s. Rustem watched the military men in the room as they gazed at the speaker. There was adoration written in their features. The wife, motionless as a statue now, seemed vaguely bored.

‘And I fear,’ Leontes was saying, ‘that we do not have a great deal of time today, so the Lady Styliane and I are not able to join you in sampling the delights prepared by Strumosus of the Blues in a Green household. I do commend the factions for this rare conjunction and hope it bodes well for a peaceful racing season.’ He paused, an eyebrow raised for emphasis: this was an authority figure, after all. ‘We came that we might salute the groom and his bride in Jad’s most holy name, and to convey a piece of information that may add in some small way to the felicity of the day.’

He paused again, sipped his wine. ‘I addressed the bridegroom as tribune of the Fourth Sauradian just now. I was behind the tidings, as it happens. It seems that some Supreme Strategos or other, anxious to put a certain mellifluous voice far away from his overburdened ears, rashly signed papers this morning affirming the promotion of the tribune Carullus of Trakesia to his new rank and appointment . . . as chiliarch of the Second Calysian, such position to be assumed in thirty days . . . which will allow the new chiliarch time here with his bride, and a chance to lose some of his increased pay at the Hippodrome.’

There was a shout of pleasure and laughter, nearly drowning out the last words. The bridegroom came quickly forward, his face flushed, and knelt before the Strategos.

‘My lord!’ he said, looking up, ‘I am . . . I am speechless!’

Which elicited its own burst of laughter from those who knew the man. ‘However,’ added Carullus, lifting a hand, ‘I do have a question I must ask.’

‘Speechlessly?’ said Styliane Daleina, from behind her husband. Her first comment, softly spoken, but everyone heard it. Some people did not need to raise their voices to be heard.

‘I lack that skill, my lady. I must use my tongue, though with far less skill than my betters. I only wish to ask if I may decline the promotion.’

Silence fell. Leontes blinked.

‘This is a surprise,’ he said. ‘I would have thought . . .’ He let the sentence trail off.

‘My great lord, my commander . . . if you wish to reward an unworthy soldier, it will be by allowing him, at any rank at all, to fight at your side in the next campaign. I do not believe I am saying anything untoward if I suggest that Calysium, with the Everlasting Peace signed in the east, will be no such place. Is there nowhere in . . . in the west where I might serve with you, my Strategos?’

At the reference to Bassania, Rustem heard the Senator beside him shift a little, uneasily, and clear his throat softly. But nothing of note had been said. Yet.

The Strategos smiled a little now, his composure regained. He reached down, and in a gesture almost fatherly, ruffled the hair of the soldier kneeling before him. His men loved him, it was said, the way they loved their god.

Leontes said, ‘There is no campaign declared anywhere, chiliarch. Nor is it my practice to send newly married officers to a war front when there are alternatives, as there always are.’

‘Then I can be attached to you, since there is no war front,’ said Carullus, and he smiled innocently. Rustem snorted; the man had audacity.

‘Shut up, you idiot!’ The entire room heard the redhaired mosaicist. The laughter that followed affirmed as much. It had been intended, of course. Rustem was quickly coming to realize how much of what was being said and done was carefully planned or cleverly improvised theatre. Sarantium, he decided, was a stage for performances. No wonder an actress could command so much power here, induce such prominent people to grace her home—or become Empress, if it came to that. Unthinkable in Bassania, of course. Utterly unthinkable.

The Strategos was smiling again, a man at ease, sure of his god—and of himself, Rustem thought. A righteous man. Leontes glanced across at the mosaicist and lifted his cup to him.

‘It is good advice, soldier,’ he said to Carullus, still kneeling before him. ‘You will know the pay difference between legate and chiliarch. You have a bride now, and should have strong children to raise soon enough, in Jad’s holy service and to honour his name.’

He hesitated. ‘If there is a campaign this year—and let me make it clear that the Emperor has offered no indications yet—it might be in the name of the poor, wronged queen of the Antae, which means Batiara, and I will not have a newly married man beside me there. The east is where I want you for now, soldier, so speak of this no more.’ The words were blunt, the manner almost paternal—though he wouldn’t be older than the soldier before him, Rustem thought. ‘Rise up, rise up, bring us your bride that we may salute her before we go.’

‘I can just see Styliane doing that,’ the Senator beside Rustem murmured under his breath.

‘Hush,’ said his wife, suddenly. ‘And look again.’

Rustem saw it too.

Someone had now come forward, past Styliane Daleina, though pausing gracefully beside her for an instant, so that Rustem was to carry a memory for a long time of the two of them next to each other, golden and golden.

‘Might the poor, wronged queen of the Antae have any voice at all in this? In whether war is brought to her own country in her name,’ said this new arrival. Her voice—speaking Sarantine but with a western accent— was clear as a bell, bright anger in it, and it cut into the room like a knife through silk.