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No help for that he was bound to go on with what he had devised. "Hear me,
people of Garsavra," he said; Styppes had been glad to help with this speech.
"As traitors and rebels against his Imperial Majesty Thorisin Gavras,
Avtokrator of the Videssians, these wretches deserve no less than death. Only
my mercy spares them that." But as his listeners began to brighten, he went on
inexorably, "Yet as a mark of the outrage they have worked on the Empire, and
as fit warning to any others who might be mad enough to contemplate revolt,
let the sight of their eyes be extinguished and let them know Skotos' darkness
forevermore!" By Videssian reckoning, that constituted mercy, for it avoided
capital punishment.
But a moan rose from the crowd, overtopped by Ansfrit's bellow of anguish. The
Garsavrans started to surge forward, but Roman pila snapped out in bristling
hedgehog array to hold them off.
Inside the hollow square, the four Namdaleni jerked as if stung. "Blinded?"
Drax howled. "I'd sooner die!" The islanders wrenched against their captors'
grip and, with panic strength, managed to tear free for an instant. But for
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all their struggles, the legionaries wrestled them to the ground and held them
there, pulling away the hands with which they vainly tried to shield their
eyes.
Tunelessly humming a hymn to Phos, the executioner put the tip of a thin
pointed iron in the fire. He lifted it every so often to gauge its color; his
thick gloves of crimson leather protected him from the heat. Finally he
grunted in satisfaction and turned to Scaurus. "Which of 'em first?"
"As you wish."
"You, then." Bailli happened to be closest to the executioner, who went on,
not unkindly, "Try to hold as steady as you can; 'twill be easier for you so."
"Easier," Bailli mocked through clenched teeth; sweat poured down his face.
Then the iron came down, once, twice. Tight-jawed no longer, the snub-nosed
Namdalener screamed and screamed. The scent of charring meat filled the air.
Pausing between victims to reheat his iron, the executioner moved on to Turgot
and Drax, and then at last to Soteric. Helvis' brother's cries were all curses
aimed Marcus' way. He stood unmoved over the fallen Namdaleni and answered
only, "You brought this upon yourselves." The burned-meat smell was very
strong now, as if someone had forgotten a roasting joint of pork.
The legionaries helped their groaning, sobbing prisoners sit, pulling thick
black veils over their eyes to hide the hot iron's work. "Show them to the
people," Scaurus commanded. "Let them see what they earn by defying their
rightful sovereign." The troopers who formed the hollow square opened lanes to
let the crowd look on the Namdaleni.
"Now take them away," the tribune said. No one raised a hand to stop the
islanders from being guided back to their captivity in the governor's hall.
They stumbled against each other as they staggered between their Roman guards.
"Ansfrit," Marcus called. The Namdalener captain approached, fear and rage
struggling on his pale face. Scaurus gave him no time to compose himself:
"Surrender your castle to me within the day, or when we take it and you know
we can everyone of your men will suffer the same fate as these turncoats.
Yield now, and I guarantee their safety."
"I thought you above these Videssian butcheries, but it seems the dog apes his
master."
"That's as may be," the tribune shrugged, implacable. "Will you yield, or
shall I have this fellow " He jerked his head toward the red-clad executioner.
" keep his irons hot?" Under his shiny leather mask, the man's mouth shaped a
smile at Ansfrit.
The Namdalener flinched, recovered, glared helplessly at Scaurus. "Aye, damn
you, aye," he choked out, and spun on his heel, almost running back toward the
motte-and-bailey. Behind his retreating back, Gaius Philippus nodded
knowingly. Marcus smiled himself. Another pair of troubles solved, he thought.
The druids' marks on his blade flared into golden life, scenting wizardry, but
it was scabbarded, and he did not see.
Far to the north, Avshar laid aside the black-armored image of Skotos he used
to focus his scrying powers. A greater seer than any enaree, he cast forth his
vision to overleap steppe and sea, as a man might cast a fishing line into a
stream. The power in Scaurus' sword was his guide; if it warded the hated
outlander from his spells, it also proclaimed the Roman's whereabouts and let
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