An Emperor for the Legion by Harry Turtledove

automatically ready to disagree with the veteran.
    “Not if properly thawed,” Laon Pakhymer demurred. As soldiers will, they argued it all the way back to the soggy Roman camp.
    The tribune was inside it before he realized that Nerse’s threat had in fact been made. It was merely that she had not crudely put it into words, but let him make it himself in his own mind. He wondered if she knew the Videssian boardgame that, unlike its Roman counterparts, depended only on a player’s skill. If so, he decided, he did not want to play against her.
    Wintering at Aptos, Marcus thought, was like crawling into a hole and then pulling it in after himself. He and his men had been at the center of events since spring; he had hobnobbed with Videssos’ imperial family, sparred with the chief minister of the Empire, made a personal foe of the wizard-prince who led its foes, fought in a great battle that would change Videssos’ course for years to come … and here he was in a country town, wondering if its store of barley meal would hold out until spring. It was deflating, but gave him back a sense of proportion he had been in danger of losing.
    Aptos was lonely enough at the best of times. News of the disaster before Maragha had reached it, aye; the distant kingdoms of Thatagush and Agder would know of that by now. But the Romans brought word of Ortaias Sphrantzes’ assumption of the throne, and Aptos had been equally ignorant of the persecution of the Vaspurakaners not five days’ march away.
    The tribune was unwilling to leave some news to chance. He talked with Laon Pakhymer outside his tent one morning not long after rain turned to snow. “I’d like to send a couple of your riders west,” he said.
    “West, eh?” The Katrisher raised an eyebrow. “Want to find out what’s become of the younger Gavras, do you?”
    “Yes. If all we have is a choice between Yezd and Ortaias, well, suddenly the life of a robber chief looks better than it had.”
    “I know what you mean. I’ll get the lads for you.” Pakhymer clicked his tongue between his teeth. “Hate to send them out with so little hope of making it back, but what can you do?”
    “Making it back from where?” Senpat Sviodo’s breath puffed out in a steaming cloud as he asked the question—he was just done with practice at swords and still breathing hard.
    When Marcus explained, the handsome young Vaspurakaner threw his hands in the air. “This is foolishness! Would you throw birds in a river when you have fish handy? Who better to go to Vaspurakan than a pair of ‘princes’? Nevrat and I will leave within the hour.”
    “The Khatrishers will be able to get in and out faster thanyou could. They have the nomad way of traveling light,” Marcus said. Beside him, Pakhymer nodded reluctantly.
    But Senpat laughed. “They’ll be able to get killed faster, you mean, likely mistaken for Yezda. Nevrat and I are of the country and will be welcome wherever our people live. We’ve gone in before and come back whole. We can again.”
    He sounded so certain that Scaurus looked a question at Pakhymer. The Khatrisher said, “Let him go, if he wants to so badly. But he should leave Nevrat behind—the woman is too well favored to waste so.”
    “You’re right,” Senpat said, which surprised the tribune until he went on, “I tell her so myself. But she will not have us separated, and who am I to complain of that?” He turned serious. “She can care for herself, you know.”
    After her long journey west from Khliat, Marcus could not argue that. “Go, then,” he said, giving up. “Make the best time you can.”
    “That we will,” Senpat promised. “Of course, we may do a little hunting along the way.” Hunting Yezda, Marcus knew he meant. He wanted to forbid it, but knew better than to give an order he could not enforce. The Vaspurakaners owed Yezd even more than Videssos did.
    The tribune had his own troubles settling into semi-permanent quarters. Campaign and