Misplaced Legion (Videssos Cycle) by Harry Turtledove

again. Over them Gaius Philippus yelled, “Whatever you’ve got, drop it!” The Romans, used to snap inspections, sprang to attention.
    Preceded by a dozen Halogai, the rulers of the Empire came into the barracks hall to examine their new warriors. Before they set foot in it, Marcus stole a glance at theirguardsmen and was favorably impressed. For all the gilding on their cuirasses, for all the delicate inlaywork ornamenting their axes, these were fighting men. Their eyes, cold as the ice of their northern home, raked the barracks for anything untoward. Only when he was satisfied did their leader signal his charges it was safe to enter.
    As they did so, Tzimiskes went to his knees and then to his belly in the proskynesis all Videssians granted their sovereign. Marcus, and his men after his example, held to their stiff brace. It did not occur to him to do otherwise. If the Videssians chose to prostrate themselves before their lord, it was their privilege, but not one the Romans, a republican people for four and a half centuries, could easily follow.
    The Haloga captain stared at Scaurus, his face full of winter. But now the tribune had no time to try to face him down, for his attention was focused on the triumvirate in the doorway.
    First through it, if they were coming in the order announced, was Vardanes Sphrantzes, whose title of Sevastos was about that of prime minister. Heavyset rather than fat, he wore his gem-encrusted robes of office with a dandy’s elegance. A thin line of beard framed his round, ruddy face. His eyes did not widen, but narrowed in surprise when he saw the Romans still on their feet.
    He turned to say something to the Emperor, but was brushed aside by Mavrikios’ younger brother, the Sevastokrator Thorisin Gavras. In his late thirties, the Sevastokrator looked as if he would be more at home in mail than the silks and cloth-of-gold he had on. His hair and beard were carelessly trimmed; the sword at his side was no ceremonial weapon, but a much-used saber in a sheath of plain leather.
    His reaction to the sight of the standing Romans was outrage, not surprise. His bellowed, “Who in Phos’ holy name do these baseborn outland whoresons think they are?” cut across Sphrantzes’ more measured protest: “Your Majesty, these foreigners fail to observe proper solemnity …”
    Both men stopped in confusion; Scaurus had the impression they had not agreed on anything in years. From behind them he heard the Emperor’s voice for the first time: “If the two of you will get out of my way, I’ll see these monsters formyself.” And with that mild comment the Avtokrator of the Videssians came in to survey his newest troop of mercenaries.
    He was plainly Thorisin’s brother; they shared the same long face, the same strong-arched nose, even the same brown hair that thinned at the temples. But at first glance Marcus would have guessed Mavrikios Gavras fifteen years older than his brother. Lines bracketed his forceful mouth and creased his forehead; his eyes were those of a man who slept very little.
    A second look told the Roman much of the apparent difference in age between the two Gavrai was illusion. Like the massy golden diadem he wore on his head, Mavrikios bore responsibility’s heavy weight, and it had left its mark on him. He might once have shared Thorisin’s quick temper and headlong dash, but in him they were tempered by a knowledge of the cost of error.
    As the Emperor approached, Tzimiskes rose to stand beside Marcus, ready to help interpret. But Mavrikios’ question was direct enough for Scaurus to understand: “Why did you not make your obeisance before me?”
    Had Sphrantzes asked that, Marcus might have talked round the answer, but this, he felt instinctively, was a man to whom one gave truth. He said, “It is not the custom in my land to bend the knee before any man.”
    The Avtokrator’s eye roved over the Romans as he considered Scaurus’ reply. His gaze stopped on a battered