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A measure of his fancy for her was that he passed up the obvious bawdy
comeback to her words. Between them there was no need for such artificial
warmers; they were pleased enough with each other as they were.
She hugged him. "You be after comin' back, hear?" she said, mimicking his
brogue so perfectly they both laughed.
"Mount up, you lazy groundling!" came Targitaus' gruff bellow. "You think we
have time to waste on your mooning about?" But the khagan was fighting a
smile, and next to him Batbaian grinned openly.
"Och, the corbies take you," Viridovix said, but after a last squeeze he let
Seirem go and swung up into the saddle. As it often did, his steppe pony
snorted a complaint; he was heavier than most
Khamorth.
Targitaus looked over to Lipoxais. "You promised ten days of decent weather,"
he said, half-
threateningly. It was no small matter. The first autumn rains had already
fallen, and war among the nomads depended on clear skies. Wet bowstrings made
a mockery of their chief fighting skill.
The enaree shrugged, flesh hobbling inside his yellow wool robe. "1 saw what I
saw."
"I wish you'd seen who would win," Targitaus grumbled, but not in real
complaint. The passion that surrounded battle clouded foretelling. "We'll have
to find out, then," the chieftain said. He raised his voice to a shout. "We
ride!" Batbaian raised the wolf standard of the clan, and the Khamorth clucked
their horses into motion. Scouts trotted ahead, with flank guards out to
either side.
"You, too, wretched beast," Viridovix said, snapping the reins and digging his
boots into the pony's sides. He turned to wave a last good-bye to Seirem and
was almost pitched off the horses's back when it shied at a blowing scrap of
cloth. He clutched its mane, feeling a fool.
Perhaps over the last few years he had grown more used to Roman discipline
than he suspected, for the army Targitaus led seemed a very disorderly thing.
Indeed, he could be said to lead it only because more plainsmen rode round his
standard than any other. But no one could make the other clan-chiefs follow
his orders if they did not care to. They fought Varatesh for their own
reasons, not his.
A dozen separate bands of nomads, then, rode north and west against the
outlaws. They ranged in size from the double handful in white fox caps who
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followed Oitoshyr to the several hundred with
Anakhar of the Spotted Cats, a contingent second in size only to Targitaus'.
Anakhar's wavering had abruptly stopped when he discovered that Krobyz, his
hated neighbor on the steppe, favored
Varatesh. "If that goat's arse is for him, there's reason enough to smack him
down," he had declared, and joined Targitaus forthwith.
Beyond finding Varatesh and then fighting him, they had no plan of action.
When Viridovix suggested working one out, Targitaus and the rest of the clan
leaders looked at him as if he had fallen from the moon. The Celt had to laugh
when he thought of it. "As if I'd have listened to a
Roman spouting such balderdash," he said to himself. Even so, he worried a
little.
"One thing," Batbaian said, "the rains have laid the dust to rest."
"They have that, and not sorry I am for it," Viridovix agreed. Going to fight
without choking on the grit his comrades kicked up was a pleasure he had not
known since Gaul. Clouds covered the sun every few minutes, sending shadows
racing over the plains. The day was cool, the air crisp and clean. Sometimes,
tramping across Videssos' dry plateau, he'd thought the whole country made of
dust.
After a moment, he said, "But outen the dust, how are the scouts to be
spotting the kerns we're
after?" Batbaian blinked; he had not thought of that. Viridovix worked up a
fair-sized anger was nothing without its drawbacks?
Targitaus stretched his mouth in what was not quite a smile. "For one thing,
they have the same problem with us. For another, scouts who don't pay
attention to what's ahead of them end up dead, and that keeps 'em lively."
"Well, you have the right of it there," the Gaul allowed.
The nomad army seemed larger than it was, thanks to the string of remounts
behind each plainsman.
The rumble of hooves on damp ground reminded Viridovix of the constant murmur
of the sea. "But it doesna make me want to gi' back my breakfast," he said
happily.
He thought of Arigh's jibe about horsesickness and was glad there was nothing
to it. Though he still could not stomach the half-raw beef the Khamorth used
for iron rations, he munched on wheatcakes and curded cheese, washed them down
with kavass. He wished for something sweet, wine or fruit or berries. When [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]