The misplaced legion epub

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Learn more about possible network issues or contact support for more help. Read Online Download. Great book, The Misplaced Legion pdf is enough to raise the goose bumps alone. Add a review Your Rating: Your Comment:. An Emperor for the Legion by Harry Turtledove. The Misplaced Battleship by Harry Harrison.

Legion by Brandon Sanderson. End of the Beginning by Harry Turtledove. They'd be clumsy, but better than nothing and sometimes, whether he wants to or not, a man writhes so much he needs to be held.

What do you suppose happened to them? He almost forgot to send the legionaries over to Gorgidas. Gaius Philippus and Viridovix were still arguing, away from most of the men. The senior centurion drew his sword. Scaurus dashed over to break up the fight. He found none to break up; Gaius Philippus was showing the Gaul the thrusting-stroke. Besides, a thrust, even with a gladius, leaves a man farther from his foe than a cut from a longsword.

Marcus smiled at the way a common passion could make even deadly foes forget their enmity. One of the junior centurions, a slim youngster named Quintus Glabrio, came up to him and said, "Begging your pardon, sir, could you tell me where this is so I can pass the word along to the men and quiet them down? The talk is getting wild. From the terrain and the trees, one of the scouts thinks this may be Cilicia or Greece.

Come morning we'll send out a detail, track down some peasants, and find out what we need to know. Even in the starlight Marcus could see the fear on his face, fear intense enough to make him forget the pain of a slashed forearm. Have you -? He pointed to the sky. Puzzled, Marcus looked up. It was a fine, clear night. Let's see, he thought, scanning the heavens, north should be Cold fingers walked his spine as he stared at the meaningless patterns the stars scrawled across the sky.

Where was the Great Bear that pointed to the pole? Where were the stars of summer, the Scorpion, the Eagle, the Lyre? Where were the autumn groupings that followed them through the night, Andromeda, Pegasus? Where even were the stars of winter, or the strange constellations that peeped above the southern horizon in tropic lands like Africa or Cyrenaica?

Gaius Philippus and Viridovix stared with him, shared his will to disbelieve. The Gaul cursed in his native speech, not as he had at Gaius Philippus, but softly, as if in prayer. This place was beyond the Olympians' realm.

And his own as well; his vision of an angry proconsul blew away in the wind of the unknown. Few Romans slept much that night.

They sat outside their tents, watching the illegible heavens wheel and trying, as men will, to tame the unknown by drawing patterns on it and naming them: the Target, the Ballista, the Locust, the Pederasts. The naming went on through the night as new stars rose to replace their setting fellows.

The east grew pale, then pink. The forest ceased to be a single dark shape, becoming trees, bushes, and shrubs no more remarkable than the ones of Gaul, if not quite the same. The sun rose, and was simply the sun. And an arrow flashed out of the woods, followed an instant later by a challenge in an unknown tongue.

It showed in the set of his shoulders, in the watchful suspicion on his face, in the very fact that he dared come out, alone, to defy twelve hundred men. He'll have friends covering him from the woods, I'd wager. Like his men, he was from the Balearic Islands off the coast of Spain and had their strange tongue as his birthspeech. One of the legionaries who had served in the east had picked up a bit of Syrian and Armenian. That would have to do, Marcus decided.

Any more and the waiting soldier would think them an attack, not a parley. As it was, he drew back a pace when he saw half a dozen men approaching from the Roman camp. But Marcus and his companions moved slowly, right hands extended before them at eye level, palms out to show their emptiness. After a moment's hesitation, he returned the gesture and advanced. He stopped about ten feet from them, saying something that had to mean, "This is close enough. Marcus returned it. The native was a lean man of middle height, perhaps in his mid-thirties.

Save for a proud nose, his features were small and fine under a wide forehead, giving his face a triangular look. His olive skin was sun-darkened and weathered; he carried a long scar on his left cheek and another above his left eye. His jaw was outlined by a thin fringe of beard, mostly dark, but streaked with silver on either side of his mouth. But for that unstylish beard, Marcus thought, by his looks he could have been a Roman, or more likely a Greek.

He wore a shirt of mail reaching halfway down his thighs. Unlike the Romans', it had sleeves. Over it was a forest-green surcoat of light material. His helm was a businesslike iron pot; an apron of mail was riveted to it to cover his neck, and a bar nasal protected his face. The spurs on the heels of his calf-length leather boots said he was a horseman, as did the saber at his belt and the small round shield slung on his back. Page 14 The soldier asked something, probably, Marcus thought, "Who are you people, and what are you doing here?

They all shook their heads. He answered in Latin, "We have no more idea where we are than you do who we are. He had no better luck. The Romans used every tongue at their command, and the soldier seemed to speak five or six himself, but they held none in common.

The warrior finally grimaced in annoyance. He patted the ground, waved his hand to encompass everything the eye could see. He pointed at Marcus, then at the camp from which he had come, and raised his eyebrows questioningly.

The Videssian had watched the byplay with interest. Now he pointed at himself. Viridovix grumbled, "A man could choke to death or ever he said 'Tzimiskes,'" but Neilos had no easier time with "Viridovix son of Drappes. There was a cry of alarm from the woods, but he silenced it with a couple of shouted sentences. He pointed to the sword, to himself, and to Marcus, and made a gesture of repugnance.

He reached into his pack for a ration biscuit, offering it and his canteen, still half-full of wine, to Tzimiskes. The Videssian nodded and grinned, shedding years as he did so.

He patted himself apologetically, then shouted into the forest again. A few moments later another, younger, Videssian emerged. His equipment was much like that of Tzimiskes, though his surcoat was brown rather than green. He carried a short bow in his left hand and bore a leather sack over his right shoulder.

The young Videssian's name was Proklos Mouzalon. From his sack he brought out dried apples and figs, olives, smoked and salted pork, a hard yellow cheese, onions, and journey-bread differing from the Romans' only in that it was square, not round - all normal fare for soldiers on the move.

He also produced a small flask of thick, sweet wine. Marcus found it cloying, as he was used to the drier vintage Page 15 the Roman army drank. Before they raised the flask to their lips, the Videssians each spat angrily on the ground, then lifted their arms and eyes to the sky, at the same time murmuring a prayer. Marcus had been about to pour a small libation, but decided instead to follow the custom of the country in which he found himself.

Tzimiskes and Mouzalon nodded their approval as he did so, though of course his words were gibberish to them. By signs, Neilos made it clear there was a town a couple of days' travel to the south, a convenient place to establish a market to feed the Roman soldiers and lodge them for the time being. He sent Mouzalon ahead to prepare the town for their arrival; the clop of hoofbeats down a forest path confirmed the Videssians as horsemen.

While Tzimiskes was walking back to his own tethered mount, Marcus briefed his men on what had been arranged. The problem was that Tzimiskes had never seen our sort before, and wasn't sure if we were invaders, a free company for hire, or men from the far side of the moon.

Gaius Philippus came to his rescue, growling, "Another thing, you wolves. On march, we treat this as friendly country - no stealing a farmer's mule or his daughter just because they take your fancy.

By Vulcan's left nut, you'll see a cross if you bugger that one up. Till we know we have a place here, we walk soft. The centurion ignored him. Gaius Philippus glared as he tried to spot the man who had spoken, but Scaurus said,"It's a fair question. Let me answer this way: our swords are all we have to sell. Unless you know the way back to Rome, we're a bit outnumbered. Marcus was not eager to take up the mercenary's trade, but an armed force at his back lent him bargaining power with the Videssians he would not have had otherwise.

It also gave him the perfect excuse for keeping the Romans together. In this strange new land, they had only themselves to rely on. The tribune also wondered about Videssos' reasons for hiring foreign troops. To his way of thinking, that was for decadent kingdoms like Ptolemaic Egypt, not for healthy states. But Tzimiskes and Mouzalon were soldiers and were also plainly natives.

He sighed. So much to learn At Gorgidas' request, Scaurus detailed a squad to cut poles for litters; more than a score of Romans were too badly wounded to walk. Atop his horse, he was high enough off the ground to see inside. He seemed impressed by the bustle and the order of the Page 16 camp. Though canny enough not to say so, Scaurus was struck by the equipment of the Videssian's saddle and horse. Even at a quick glance, there were ideas there the Romans had never had.

For one thing, Neilos rode with his feet in irons shaped to hold them, which hung from his saddle by leather straps. For another, when his mount lifted a forefoot, the tribune saw that its hoof was shod in iron to help protect it from stones and thorns. Why didn't we ever think of that? Not a glance had his centurion given to Tzimiskes' gear while he spoke of it.

The Videssian, looking from one of them to the other, could have had no clue to what they were talking about.

About an hour's march west along a narrow, twisting woods-path got the Romans free of the forest and into the beginnings of settled country. His horizon widening as he moved into open land, Marcus looked about curiously. The terrain he was passing through was made up of rolling hills and valleys; to the north and northeast real mountains loomed purple against the horizon.

Farmhouses dotted the hillsides, as did flocks of sheep and goats. More than one farmer started driving his beasts away from the road as soon as he caught sight of an armed column of unfamiliar aspect. Tzimiskes shouted reassurance at them, but most preferred to take no chances. Marcus gave a thoughtful nod. The weather was warmer and drier than it had been in Gaul, despite a brisk breeze from the west.

The wind had a salt tang to it; a gull screeched high overhead before gliding away. The narrow path they had been following met a broad thoroughfare running north and south. Used to the stone-paved highways the Romans built, Marcus found its dirt surface disappointing until Gaius Philippus pointed out, 'This is a nation of horsemen, you know. Horses don't care much for hard roads; I suppose that still holds true with iron soles on their feet.

Our roads aren't for animal traffic - they're for moving infantry from one place to another in a hurry. Come winter, this road would be a sea of mud. Even in summer, it had disadvantages - he coughed as Tzimiskes' horse kicked up dust. He stepped forward to try to talk with the Videssian, pointing at things and learning their names in Tzimiskes' tongue while teaching him the Latin equivalents. To his chagrin, Tzimiskes was much quicker Page 17 at picking up his speech than he was in remembering Videssian words.

In the late afternoon they marched past a low, solidly built stone building. At the eastern edge of its otherwise flat roof, a blue-painted wooden spire leaped into the air; it was topped by a gilded ball. Blue-robed men who had shaved their pates but kept full, bushy beards worked in the gardens surrounding the structure. Both building and occupants were so unlike anything Marcus had yet seen that he looked a question to Tzimiskes.

His guide performed the same ritual he had used before he drank wine, spitting and raising his arms and head. The tribune concluded the blue-robes were priests of some sort, though tending a garden seemed an odd way to follow one's gods. He wondered if they did such work full time. If so, he thought, they took their religion seriously. There was little traffic on the road. A merchant, catching sight of the marching column as he topped a rise half a mile south, promptly turned his packhorses round and fled.

Gaius Philippus snorted in derision. Run down his horses, and us afoot? I think you Romans were born so you couldna feel pain in your legs. My calves are on fire, too. His men were slowed by the litters they bore in teams. Many were walking wounded, and all bone-weary. Four of the soldiers in the litters died that day, as Gorgidas had known they would.

Tzimiskes appeared pleased at the pace the legionaries had been able to keep. He watched fascinated, as they used the last sunshine and the purple twilight to create their square field fortifications.

Marcus was proud of the skill and discipline his exhausted troops displayed. When the sun dipped below the western horizon, Neilos went through his now-familiar series of actions, though his prayer was longer than the one he had made at wine.

These people must be sun-worshipers. A thin sliver of crescent moon slid down the sky, soon leaving it to the incomprehensible stars. Marcus was glad to see there was a moon, at least, even if it was out of phase with the one he had known. A wolf bayed in the distant hills. The day had been warm, but after sunset it grew surprisingly chilly. When added to the ripe state of the grainfields he had seen, that made Marcus guess the season to be fall, though in Gaul it had been early summer.

Well, he thought, if this land's moon doesn't match my own, no good reason its seasons should, either. He gave it up and slept. The town's name was Imbros. Though three or four ball-topped blue spires thrust their way into sight, its Page 18 wall was high enough to conceal nearly everything within. The fortifications seemed sturdy enough, and in good condition. But while most of the gray stonework was old and weathered, much of the northern wall looked to have been recently rebuilt.

The tribune wondered how long ago the sack had taken place and who the foe had been. He knew the local leaders would not let any large numbers of his men into the town until they were convinced the legionaries could be trusted, but he had expected Imbros would ready a market outside the walls for the Romans' use.

Where were the scurrying peasants, the bustling merchants, the approaching wagonloads of grain and other supplies? The city was not shut up against a siege, but it was not looking to the arrival of a friendly army either. That could mean trouble. His troops were nearly through the iron rations they carried in their packs, and the fields and farms round Imbros looked fat. Not even Roman discipline would hold long in the face of hunger.

With his few words and many gestures, he tried to get that across to Tzimiskes. The Videssian, a soldier himself, understood at once; he seemed puzzled and dismayed that the messenger he had sent ahead was being ignored. The latter's answers, short at first, grew longer, louder, and angrier.

The word or name "Vourtzes" came up frequently; when at last it was mentioned once too often, Tzimiskes spat in disgust. The tribune nodded, grateful for the Greek's insights.

Something was happening to Imbros now. There was a stir at the north gate, heralding the emergence of a procession. First came a fat man wearing a silver circlet on his balding head and a robe of maroon brocade. Parasol bearers flanked him on either side. They had to be for ceremony, as it was nearing dusk.

Tzimiskes gave the fat man a venomous glance - was this, then, Vourtzes? Vourtzes, if it was he, was followed by four younger, leaner men in less splendid robes. From their inkstained fingers and the nervous, nearsighted stares they sent at the Romans, Marcus guessed they were the fat man's secretaries.

With them came a pair of shaven-headed priests. One wore a simple robe of blue; the other, a thin-faced man with a graying beard and bright, burning eyes, had a palm-wide circle of cloth-of-gold embroidered on the left breast of his garment. The plain-robed priest swung a brass thurible that gave forth clouds of sweet, spicy smoke. On either side of the scribes and priests tramped a squad of foot soldiers: big, fair, stolid-looking men in surcoats of scarlet and silver over chain mail. They carried pikes and wicked-looking throwing axes; their rectangular shields had various devices painted on them.

Mercenaries, the tribune decided - they looked like no Videssians he had yet seen. Behind the soldiers came three trumpeters, a like number of flute-players, and a man even fatter than Page 19 Vourtzes pushing a kettledrum on a little wheeled cart. Vourtzes stopped half a dozen places in front of the Romans.

His honor-guard came to a halt with a last stomped step and a loud, wordless shout; Marcus felt his men bristling at the arrogant display. Trumpeters and flautists blew an elaborate flourish.

The tubby drummer smote his instrument with such vim that Scaurus waited for it or its cart to collapse. When the fanfare stopped, the two Videssians with the Roman army put their right hands over their hearts and bent their heads to the plump official who led the parade. Marcus gave him the Roman salute, clenched right fist held straight out before him at eye level.

At Gaius Philippus' barked command, the legionaries followed his example in smart unison. Startled, the Videssian gave back a pace. He glared at Scaurus, who had to hide a grin. To cover his discomfiture, the official gestured his priests forward. The older one pointed a bony finger at Marcus, rattling off what sounded like a series of questions. The priest snapped a couple of queries at Tzimiskes. His reply must have been barely satisfactory, for the priest let out an audible sniff.

But he shrugged and gave what Marcus hoped were his blessings to the Romans, his censer-swinging comrade occasionally joining in his chanted prayer. The benediction seemed to complete a prologue the Videssians felt necessary. When the priests had gone back to their place by the scribes, the leader of the parade stepped up to clasp Marcus' hands. His own were plump, beringed, and sweaty; the smile he wore had little to do with his feelings, but was the genial mask any competent politician could assume at will.

The tribune understood that face quite well, for he wore it himself. With patience and Tzimiskes' help, Scaurus learned this was indeed Rhadenos Vourtzes, hypasteos of the city of Imbros - governor by appointment of the Emperor of Videssos. The Emperor's name, Marcus gathered, was Mavrikios, of the house of Gavras. The Roman got the impression Tzimiskes was loyal to Mavrikios, and that he did not think Vourtzes shared his loyalty. Why, Marcus struggled to ask, had the hypasteos not begun to prepare his town for the arrival of the Romans?

Vourtzes, when he understood, spread his hands regretfully. The news of their appearance had only come the day before. It was hard to believe in any case, as Vourtzes had no prior reports of any body of men crossing Videssos' border. And finally, the hypasteos did not place much faith in the word of an akrites, a name which. Young Proklos reddened with anger at that and set his hand on the hilt of his sword.

But Vourtzes turned his smile to the soldier and calmed him with a couple of sentences. In this case, it seemed, he had been wrong; matters would be straightened out shortly. Without liking the man who gave it, Marcus had to admire the performance.

As for delivery on the promises, he would see. Gorgidas plucked at the tribune's arm. His thin face was haggard with exhaustion. He had no idea of the words to tell Vourtzes what he needed, but sometimes words were unnecessary. He caught the hypasteos' eye, led him to the litters. The official's Page 20 retinue followed. At the sight of the injured legionaries, Vourtzes made a choked sound of dismay. In spite of the soldiers with him, Marcus thought, he did not know much of war.

To the tribune's surprise, the lean priest who had prayed at the Romans stooped beside a litter. A bandage soaked with blood and pus was wrapped over a spear wound in Minucius' belly. From the scent of ordure, Scaurus knew his gut had been pierced. That sort of wound was always fatal. Gorgidas must have reached the same conclusion. He touched Minucius' forehead and clicked his tongue between his teeth. Aye, let's see what the charlatan does for him. Poor bastard can't even keep water down, so poppy juice won't do him any good either.

With the dark bile he's been puking up, at most he only has a couple of bad days left. He was a big, strapping man, but his features bore the fearful, dazed look Marcus had come to recognize, the look of a man who knew he was going to die. As far as the Videssian priest was concerned, all the Romans but Minucius might have disappeared. The priest dug under the stinking bandages, set his hands on the legionary's torn belly, one on either side of the wound.

Scaurus expected Minucius to shriek at the sudden pressure, but the legionary stayed quiet. Indeed, he stopped his anguished thrashing and lay still in the litter. His eyes slid shut. He had been watching the priest's face, saw the intense concentration build on it. Then he stopped of his own accord, the skin on his arms prickling into gooseflesh. He had the same sense of stumbling into the unknown that he'd felt when his blade met Viridovix'.

That thought made him half draw his sword. Sure enough, the druids' marks were glowing, not brilliantly as they had then, but with a soft, yellow light. Thinking about it later, he put that down to the magic's being smaller than the one that had swept him to Videssos, and to his being on the edge of it rather than at the heart. All the same, he could feel the energy passing from the priest to Minucius. Gaius Philippus' soft whistle said he perceived it too.

He was talking to himself, but his words gave a better name to what the priest was doing than anything Marcus could have come up with. As with the strange stars here, though, it was only a label to put on the incomprehensible. The Videssian lifted his hands. His face was pale; sweat ran down into his beard. Minucius' eyes opened. Page 21 Gorgidas leaped at him like a wolf on a calf.

He tore open the bandages the priest had disturbed. What they saw left him speechless, and made Scaurus and Gaius Philippus gasp. The great scar to the left of Minucius' navel was white and puckered, as if it had been there five years. He sounded angry, not at Minucius but at the world. What he had just witnessed smashed the rational, cynical approach he tried to take to everything. To have magic succeed where his best efforts had been sure failures left him baffled, furious, and full of an awe he would not admit even to himself.

But he had been around Romans long enough to have learned not to quarrel with results. He grabbed the priest by the arm and frogmarched him to the next most desperately hurt man - this one had a sucking wound that had collapsed a lung.

The Videssian pressed his hands to the legionary's chest. Again Marcus, along with his comrades, sensed the healing current pass from priest to Roman, though this time the contact lasted much longer before the priest pulled away. As he did, the soldier stirred and tried to stand. When Gorgidas examined his wound, it was like Minucius': a terrible scar, but one apparently long healed. Gorgidas hopped from foot to foot in anguished frustration. Instead, he seized the Videssian and hauled him off to another injured legionary.

This time the priest tried to pull away. The cry was in his native Greek, but when Gorgidas pointed at the soldier, the priest had to take his meaning. He sighed, shrugged, and stooped. But when he thrust his hands under the Roman's bandages, he began to shake, as with an ague. Marcus thought he felt the healing magic begin, but before he could be sure, the priest toppled in a faint. He ran after another blue-robe and, ignoring the fellow's protests, dragged him over to the line of wounded soldiers.

But this priest only shrugged and regretfully spread his hands. At last Gorgidas understood he was no healer. He swore and drew back his foot as if to boot the unconscious priest awake.

Gaius Philippus grabbed him. He's given you back two you never thought to save. Be grateful for what you have - look at the poor wretch, too.

There's no more help left in him than wine in an empty jar. They're good lads, and they deserve better than the nasty ways of dying they've found for themselves.

But you'll kill that priest if you push him any more, and then he won't be able to fix 'em at all. As is, maybe he can come back tomorrow.

Page 22 Gaius Philippus went off to start the legionaries setting up camp for the night. Marcus and Gorgidas stood by the priest until, some minutes later, he came to himself and shakily got to his feet. The tribune bowed lower to him than he had to Vourtzes. That was only fitting. So far, the priest had done more for the Romans. That evening, Scaurus called together some of his officers to hash out what the legionaries should do next.

When Viridovix ambled into the tent, he did not chase the Gaul away either - he was after as many different viewpoints as he could find.

Back in Gaul, with the full authority of Rome behind him, he would have made the decision himself and passed it on to his men. He wondered if he was diluting his authority by discussing things with them now. No, he thought - this situation was too far removed from ordinary military routine to be handled conventionally.

The Romans were a republican people; more voices counted than the leader's. Blaesus raised that point at once. What are we, so many Parthians? So did Viridovix; to him, even the Romans followed their leaders too blindly.

He and the senior centurion looked at each other in surprise. Neither seemed pleased at thinking along with the other. Marcus smiled. I saw him in front of his tent, sitting there mending his tunic. Whatever these Videssians are, they know things we don't. Glabrio nodded; he had spotted them too.

So had Viridovix, who paid close attention to anything related to war. Blaesus and Adiatun looked surprised. The junior centurion had a gift for going to the heart of things, Scaurus thought. There aren't enough of us to go conquering here.

He'd hoped the others would see something he had missed, but the choice looked inescapable. He did not seem much upset at the prospect of becoming a Videssian instead. Everyone nodded, but with less hope and eagerness than Scaurus would have thought possible a few days before. Seeing alien stars in the sky night after night painfully reminded him how far from home the legionaries were. The Videssian priest's healing magic was an even stronger jolt; like Gorgidas, the tribune knew no Greek or Roman could have matched it.

Gaius Philippus was the last one to leave Scaurus' tent. He threw the tribune a salute straight from the drillfield. Indeed, Gaius Philippus had understated things. Not even Caesar had ever commanded all the Romans there were.

The thought was daunting enough to keep him awake half the night. The market outside Imbros was established over the next couple of days.

The quality of goods and food the locals offered was high, the prices reasonable. That relieved Marcus, for his men had left much of their wealth behind with the legionary bankers before setting out on their last, fateful mission. Nor were the Romans yet in the official service of Videssos. Vourtzes said he would fix that as soon as he couid. He sent a messenger south to the capital with word of their arrival.

Scaurus noticed that Proklos Mouzalon disappeared about the same time. He carefully did not remark on it to Tzimiskes, who stayed with the Romans as an informal liaison despite Vourtzes' disapproval. Faction against faction Mouzalon's mission must have succeeded, for the imperial commissioner who came to Imbros ten days later to inspect the strange troops was not a man to gladden Vourtzes' heart.

No bureaucrat he, but a veteran warrior whose matter-of-fact competence and impatience with any kind of formality reminded Marcus of Gaius Philippus. The commissioner, whose name was Nephon Khoumnos, walked through the semipermanent camp the Romans had set up outside Imbros' walls. He had nothing but admiration for its good order, neatness, and sensible sanitation. When his inspection was done, he said to Marcus, "Hell's ice, man, where did you people spring from?