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sovereign. His little black eyes, still sharp in their folds of flesh,
measured the Roman. "And well you know it, too. Why keep flogging a dead
mule?"
"I made a promise," Marcus said slowly, unable to find a better answer.
Before Balsamon could reply, the ceremonies master was crying out, "Her
Majesty the Princess Alypia Gavra! The lady Komitta Rhangavve! His Imperial
Majesty, the Avtokrator of the Videssians, Thorisin Gavras!"
Men bowed low to show their respect for the Emperor; as the occasion was
social rather than ceremonial, no proskynesis was required. Women dropped
curtsies. Thorisin bobbed his head amiably, then called, "Where are the guests
of honor?" Servitors rounded up the Romans and their ladies and brought them
to the Emperor, who presented them to the crowd for fresh applause.
Komitta Rhangavve's eyes narrowed dangerously as they flicked from one of
Viridovix' lemans to the next. She looked very beautiful in a clinging skirt
of flower-printed linen;
Marcus would sooner have taken a poisonous snake to bed. Viridovix did not
seem to notice her glare, but the Celt was not happy, either. "Is something
wrong?" the tribune asked as they walked toward the dining tables.
"Aye, summat. Arigh tells me the Videssians will be sending an embassy to his
clan. They're fain to hire mercenaries, and the lad himself will be going with
them to help persuade his folk to take service with the Empire. A half-year's
journey and more it is, and him the bonniest wight to drink with I've found in
the city. I'll miss the little omadhaun, beshrew me if I won't."
Stewards seated the legionaries in accordance with their prominence of the
evening. Marcus found himself at the right hand of the imperial party, next to
the Princess Alypia. The Emperor sat between her and Komitta Rhangavve, who
was on his left. Had she been his wife rather than mistress, her place and the
princess' would have been reversed. As it was, she was next to Viridovix, an
arrangement Scaurus thought ill-omened. Unaware of anything amiss, the Gaul's
three longtime companions chattered among themselves, excited by their
high-ranking company.
The first course was a soup of onions and pork, its broth delightfully
delicate in flavor. Marcus spooned it down almost without tasting it, waiting
for the explosion on his left. But Komitta seemed to be practicing tact, a
virtue he had not associated with her. He relaxed and enjoyed the last few
spoonfuls of soup and and was sorry when a servant took the empty bowl away.
His goblet of wine, now, never disappeared. Whenever it was empty, a steward
would be there to fill it again from a shining silver carafe. Even if it was
sticky-sweet Videssian wine, it dulled the ache in his arm.
Little roasted partridge hens appeared, stuffed with sauteed mushrooms.
Balsamon, who sat next to Helvis at the tribune's right, demolished his with
an appetite that would have done credit to a man half his age. He patted his
ample belly, saying to Scaurus, "You can see I've gained it honestly."
Alypia Garva leaned toward the patriarch, saying, "You would not be yourself
without it, as you know full well." She spoke affectionately, as to a favorite
old uncle or grandfather. Balsamon rolled his eyes and winced, pantomiming
being cut to the quick.
"Respect is hard for a plump old fool like me to get, you'll note," he said to
Helvis. "I should be mighty in my outrage like the patriarchs of old and be a
prelate to terrify the heretic. You are terrified, I hope?" he added, winking
at her.
"Not in the least," she answered promptly. "No more than you convince anyone
when you play the buffoon."
Balsamon's eyes were still amused in a way, but no longer merry. "You have
some of your brother's terrible honesty in you," he said, and Scaurus did not
think it was altogether a compliment.
Courses came and went: lobster tails in drawn butter and capers; rich pastries
baked to resemble peahens' eggs; raisins, figs, and sweet dates; mild and
sharp cheeses; peppery ground lamb wrapped in grape leaves; roast
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goose sniffing the familiar cheese and cinnamon sauce, Marcus declined cabbage
soup; stewed pigeons with sausage and onions... with, of course, appropriate
wines for each. Scaurus' arm seemed far away. He felt the tip of his nose grow
numb, a sure sign he was getting drunk.
Nor was he the only one. The great count Drax, who wore Videssian-style robes,
unlike Soteric and Utprand, was singing one of the fifty-two scurrilous verses
of the imperial army's marching song, loudly accompanied by Zeprin the Red and
Mertikes Zigabenos. And Viridovix had just broken up the left side of the
imperial table with a story about Marcus dug a finger in his ear, trying not
to believe he was hearing the Celt's effrontery a man with four wives.
Thorisin roared out laughter with the rest, stopping only to wipe his eyes. "I
thank your honor," Viridovix said. Komitta Rhangavve was not laughing. Her
long, slim fingers, nails painted the color of blood, looked uncommonly like
claws.
Dessert was fetched in, a light one after the great feast: crushed ice from
the imperial cold cellars, flavored with sweet syrups. A favorite winter
treat, it was hard to come by in the warmer seasons.
The Emperor rose, a signal for everyone else to do the same. Servants began
clearing away the mountains of dirty dishes and bowls. But even if the food
was gone, wine and talk still flowed freely perhaps, indeed, more so than
before dinner.
Balsamon took Thorisin Gavras to one side and began speaking urgently. Marcus
could not hear what the patriarch was saying, but Thorisin's growled answer
was loud enough to turn heads. "Not you, too? No, I've said a hundred times
now it's a hundred and one!" Rather muzzily, the tribune wished he could
disappear. It did not look as though Taron Leimmokheir would see the outside
of his dungeon any time soon.
As the guests decided no further trouble was coming on the heels of Gavras'
outburst, the level of conversation picked up again. Soteric came over to tell
Helvis some news of Namdalen he'd got from one of Drax' aides. "What? Bedard
Woodtooth, become count of Nustad on the mainland? I don't believe it," she
said. "Excuse me, darling, I have to hear this with my own ears." And she was
gone with her brother, exclaiming excitedly in the island dialect.
Left to his own devices, the tribune took another drink. After enough rounds,
he decided, Videssian wine tasted fine. The interior of the Hall of the
Nineteen Couches, though, wanted to spin whenever he moved his head.
"Piss-pot!" That was Komitta Rhangavve's wildcat screech, aimed at Viridovix.
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