Videssos Cycle, Volume 2 Read Online Free PDF Page B

came round the corner. He filled his lungs for an angry shout.
    But Styppes, who was comfortable under the shadow of one of the citrus trees that surrounded the Romans’ quarters, anticipated him. “What are you doing breaking your poses, miserable barbarians? Come back this instant—my sketches are hardly begun!”
    Scaurus had not noticed the priest in the shade. He rounded on Styppes, ignoring the two legionaries. “Who, sirrah, gave you the authority to take my men away from the duties I assigned them?”
    Styppes squinted as he stepped into the sunshine, several sheets of parchment and a charcoal stick in his hand. “Which has the greater weight,” he demanded, “the trivial concerns of this existence or Phos’ undying glory, which endures forever?”
    “This existence is the only one I know,” the tribune retorted. Styppes gave back a place in horror, as if confronted by a wild beast. He made the sun-sign of his god on his breast, gabbling out a quick prayer against Marcus’ blasphemy. Scaurus realized he had gone too far; in theology-crazed Videssos, an answer like his could launch a riot. He backtracked. “Neither of these soldiers follows Phos, to my knowledge.” He glanced at Vorenus and Pullo, who nodded nervously, caught between Styppes and their commander. Marcus turned back to the priest. “What is your concern with them, then?”
    “A proper question,” Styppes said grudgingly, though he eyed the tribune with scant liking. “While Skotos will doubtless drag their heathen souls down to the eternal ice below, still in body they are images worth commemorating. I sought their likenesses for icons of Phos’ holy men Akakios and Gourias, both of whom are to be depicted as young beardless men.”
    “You paint icons?” Marcus said, hoping he was keeping the skepticism out of his voice. Next, he thought, the fat tosspot would claim he could lay eggs.
    Styppes, though, seemed to be taking him seriously. “Aye,” he said,offering his parchment scraps to the Roman. “You will understand these are but rough sketches, and poor ones at that. The charcoal is wrong, too; the fools at the monastery use hazelwood, but myrtle gives a finer line and smudges less.”
    The tribune hardly heard the priest’s complaints. He shuffled rapidly through the pieces of parchment, his eyes growing larger at every one. Styppes was an artist, whatever else he was. In a few deft strokes his charcoal picked out the two Romans’ salient features: Pullo’s strong nose and angular cheekbones, Vorenus’ thoughtful mouth beneath heavy eyebrows, the scar that creased his chin.
    Pullo was scarred, too, but Styppes’ drawing did not show his battle marks. Used to Roman portraiture, which could be brutally realistic, Marcus asked, “Why have you shown one man’s wounds, but not the other’s?”
    “The holy Gourias was a soldier who suffered martyrdom defending an altar of Phos against the Khamorth pagans, and is to be portrayed with a warrior’s tokens. Akakios Klimakos, though, gained fame for his charity and had no experience of war.”
    “But Pullo here is scarred,” the tribune protested.
    “What of it? I care nothing for your barbarians for their own sakes; why should I? But as representatives of those who were found worthy of Phos, they gain some small importance. Where their features fail to conform to the ideal, am I to betray the ideal for them? My interest is in the holy Klimakos and Gourias, not your Pullus and Voreno, or whatever their names may be.” Styppes laughed at the idea.
    His theory of art was opposed to everything Scaurus took for granted, but the tribune was too nettled by his scorn to care about that. “You will, in that case, do me the favor of not distracting my men from the tasks assigned them.
My
interest is in seeing those carried out.”
    Styppes’ nostrils flared. “Impudent pagan!”
    “Not at all,” the tribune said, wary of making him an open enemy. “But just as you have your