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Empire ruled all the way to the Haloga country and Skotos' evil seemed far
away. But you Videssians were sinners, and Skotos gained the chance to show
his power. That is how the barbarians came to wrest Khatrish and Thatagush
from you, aye, and Kubrat that was. For Skotos inspired the wild Khamorth from
the steppe and corrupted you so you could not resist. And it grew plain
Skotos' power is all too real, all too strong. Who knows whether Phos will
prevail in the end? It could turn out otherwise."
Now Styppes was white, not red. "A Balancer!" he exclaimed, and the crowd
growled menacingly. To the imperials, Khatrish's belief in the evenness of the
struggle between good and evil was a worse heresy than the one the Namdaleni
professed.
"Not so, if you give me leave to finish," Gerungus returned steadily. "Neither
you nor I will be here to see the last battle between Phos and Skotos. How can
we know the outcome? But we must act as if we were sure good will triumph, or
face the eternal ice. I take the gamble proudly 'on this I stake my very
soul.'" He stared round, defying the crowd. Marcus looked, too, and saw the
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Videssians unwontedly quiet. Gerungus' oratory was not as florid as Styppes',
but effective all the same.
The tribune saw Nevrat Sviodo standing behind Gerungus, her thick black hair
curling down over her shoulders. She smiled when their eyes met. She made a
slight motion of her hand to indicate the intent crowd, then pointed toward
Scaurus and nodded, as if including the two of them but no one else. He nodded
back, understanding perfectly. As a Vaspurakaner, she had her own version of
Phos' faith, while the Roman stood outside it altogether. Neither could grow
heated over this debate.
Styppes was blowing and puffing like a beached whale, gathering his wits for
the next sally. "Very pretty," he grunted, "but Phos does not throw dice with
Skotos over the universe the twin ones of 'the suns' for peace and order
against the double six of 'the demons' for famine and strife. That would put
chaos at Phos' heart, which cannot be.
"No, my friend," the healer-priest went on, "it is not so simple; there is
more knowledge in Phos' plan than that. Nor does Skotos have need of dice to
work his ends, with such as you to lead men toward falsehood from the truth.
The dark god's demons record each sin of yours in their ledgers, aye, and the
day and hour it was committed, and the witnesses to it. Only true repentance
and genuine belief in Phos' true faith can rub out such an entry. Each
blasphemy you utter sets you one step closer to the ice!"
Styppes' passion was unmistakable, though Scaurus thought his logic poor. As
the healer-priest and his Namdalener counterpart argued on, the tribune's
attention wandered. It stuck him that, with a few words changed, Styppes'
account of the demons in hell and their sin ledgers could have been a
description of the imperial tax agents' account books. He did not think the
resemblance coincidental and wondered whether the Videssians had noticed it
for themselves.
A wisp of stale, stinking smoke made the tribune cough as he trod up the steps
of the Garsavran provincial governor's hall, a red brick building with columns
of white marble flanking the entrance way. Heavily armed squads of legionaries
stood prominently in the marketplace and prowled the town's main streets,
making sure riot would not break out afresh. Had the one just quelled erupted
a few days earlier, he would have blamed it on tension from the theological
debate. As it was, he suspected the rich merchants and local nobles waiting
for him inside, the men who would have to pay to help buy Drax and his
comrades from the Yezda. If they could drive the Romans out of Garsavra, their
purses would be safe and too many of them were pro-Namdalener to begin with.
He was glad of his own officers at his back. They all wore their most imposing
gear, with crested helms, short capes of rank, and mail shirts burnished
bright, the better to overawe the Garsavrans. A buccinator followed, carrying
his horn as he might a sword.
Scaurus ran memorized phrases from his address over and over in his mind.
Styppes, grumbling as usual, had helped him work on it. His own Videssian was
fine for casual conversation, but in formal settings the imperials demanded
formal oratory, which was nearly a different language from the ordinary
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