Corvus

TWENTY-THREE

The foraging party was two hundred strong, strung out along two pasangs of track, its column broken up by lumbering waggons and the braying stubbornness of a mule train. At its head a knot of horsemen rode with their cloaks pulled up over their heads, and the tall Niseians plodded below them in gaunt doggedness, their coats staring and as muddy as the harness of their masters.

“Old Urush here is near the end of his rope,” one of them said in Kefren, patting the corded neck of his mount. “It’s been nothing but yellow grass and parched oats for him these three weeks past.”

“The Macht eat horses,” another said. “They think nothing of it. How can a race pretend to civilization when they will eat a horse?”

“You might be glad of a taste of it ere we’re done,” a third said, a grin splitting the golden skin of his long face. “Ardashir, what say you?”

Their leader reined in and held up one long-fingered hand. “Shoron, you have good eyes – look south to where the track goes round the spur of the hill, maybe seven pasangs.”

“I can’t see a thing. The rain is like a cloud in this country.”

“Wait a moment, it will shift – there. You see?”

The Kefren called Shoron dug his knees into the withers of his horse and raised himself up off the saddle. He shaded his eyes as though it were a summer day.

“Mot’s blight, that’s infantry, a column marching this way. I count… blast the rain. Maybe five thousand – the column’s at least a pasang long. Could be more.”

“Bless your sight, Shoron,” Ardashir said. He looked back at the long train of horsemen and waggons and mules behind him. His mount picked up his mood and began to lumber impatiently. He hissed at it. “Easy, Moros, you great fool.” He shook his head.

“It’s no good. We must leave the waggons – even infantry can outmarch the damn things. Bring the mules along. We must pick up the pace and get back to the city. Arkamosh, head back down the column and tell the rest. Break off back the way we came. Make all speed.”

“I thought we had all the Macht beaten or penned up in the city,” Shoron said.

“They are a stubborn people,” Ardashir replied. “Defeat does not come easy to them.”

The men at the head of the infantry column saw a fistful of horsemen in the distance, half hidden by the rain; they disappeared over the crest of a hill and were gone. The rain turned icy, and the day closed in on them. Steam rose from the men tramping along in their armour. Their shields bore the alfos sigil of Avensis, and further back in the column, the piros sigil of Pontis. They marched in their stubborn thousands, their faces set towards the north, and the siege-lines of Machran.

“Empty your pockets, gentlemen. Let’s see what we’ve all brought to the pot,” Sertorius said.

The gang about the battered table muttered and did as they were told, like hulking children obeying a schoolmaster. Onto the burn-scarred wood fell scraps of root vegetables, a rind of salted meat, cheese blue with mould and some crusts of flatbread, hard as the wood of the table itself. A pause, and Sertorius ran his eyes over them one by one. A second shower of scraps followed, much like the first.

“Now the other. Don’t hold back, brothers – we are all in this together now.”

There was a clinking little waterfall of coin. Bronze obols for the most part, but there were threads of silver in it, and at the end Bosca grinned yellow in his beard and set a single gold obol atop the pile. There was a silence as the other men about the table looked at it.

“Bosca, how in the world?” Sertorius began.

“I ventured up Kerusiad Hill last night, boss, and a fine-looking lady gave me this to escort her home.”

“You fuck her?” Adurnos asked. A professional enquiry, nothing more.

“She was older than my mother, and hardly a tooth in her head.”

“He did, then,” Sertorius said, and the table broke into laughter.

People walking by the group of men at the crossroads stopped and stared a moment at the mirth, then walked on hurriedly.

They were gathered together under a tattered cloth awning in the front of what had been a wineshop. But the shop had been looted and burnt out weeks ago, and was now little more than a shell, a fitting base of operations for Sertorius’s new venture in Machran.

He had seven men under him now, a tight-knit gang who had all been strangers to the city until the siege. Apart from Adurnos and Bosca, there were a pair of brothers from Arkadios, and three Avennan soldiers who had pawned their armour for food long ago and were now intent only on avoiding starvation, as the siege drew near its end.

Food, or the procurement of it, was what obsessed them all, as it did every person still alive within the walls. The grain-dole had been halved, and was barely enough to keep a child standing, let alone a full grown man. Antimone was hovering over the city now, waiting for the end. There were wild-eyed prophets who haunted the shanty-towns and swore that they had seen her gliding on black wings around the dome of the Empirion at night.

There was no longer any wood to be spared for burning the dead, and the corpses were tossed over the walls each morning by details of men who were paid in bread. Women were selling themselves for a crust, offering their children to strangers for some morsel that would keep the life in them another day.

Lurid rumours of cannibalism ran through the Mithannon, but Sertorius for one did not put much stock by them. There were still rats to be had, two obols apiece, and enterprising archers had started to shoot down the crows and ravens that circled the city as though it were one vast carrion pit. They were not such good eating, but they kept the life in a man.

Sertorius lifted up the gold obol, and clapped Bosca on the shoulder. “You see this, boys? Right now we would pay this for a boiled chicken, or a half skin of wine. But this here means something. We get clear of this shithole, and this piece of gold is worth a horse, or some cattle, or a slave. We got to remember that, if we’re to come out of this smiling.”

“I’d rather have the chicken,” one of the Arkadians said.

“Right now we all would. But think on it, lads -there’s houses up on the Kerusiad that are stuffed with these. When the whole thing turns to ratshit, we all have to stick together, and think of the future. One day very soon, that Corvus is going to come in over the walls, and when that happens, we’ll be ready. There will be a shower of gold for those who keep their heads, and maybe other things too.” His face hardened. “I hear tell that Phaestus, the old bastard, is still alive, and living in comfort in a house not far from Karnos’s.”

“Fucker,” Adurnos said with feeling.

“And we know where Karnos’s house is, don’t we? He’s the richest bastard in the city – think what he has stowed away up there.”

“That little black-haired bitch,” Bosca said, running his hand through his matted beard. “By Phobos, boss, I’d die a happy man if I could get a cock in her before I go.”

Sertorius brought a fist down on the table. “There you are, then. We wait this out, boys, steer clear of the other crossroads-gangs and keep our heads down. Then, when the big show begins, we make our way up to the Kerusiad, settle some old scores, and fill our pockets. We play this right and the whole thing can end happy. Are you with me?”

Around the table, the men growled in agreement.

There was hunger on the other side of the walls also. The supply waggons trundled in ceaselessly from the east, but there was never enough to go round, and the men in the various camps of Corvus’s army grew restless.

Desertions had begun, conscript spearmen who had had enough and were sick of the tented lines, the huddled campfires, and the persistent hunger. This was not how they had imagined war.

Corvus toured the camps with an escort of Dogsheads, and Ardashir’s Companions patrolled the stockade-lines ceaselessly to deter those who had had enough from putting their discontent into action, but despite the arrival of fresh levies from some of the eastern cities, there was a growing disquiet in the army, a feeling that their general might have miscalculated.

Rumours flew abroad like crows – Maronen had rebelled, and the uprising had been put down by its garrison only after a bloody battle that had seen the streets run red. Hal Goshen and Afteni were simmering with discontent, and reinforcements meant for the army surrounding Machran had been diverted to reinforce their garrisons.

Most unsettling of all, there were scattered reports that the Avennan League had recovered from its mauling of the year before, and was now assembling an army for the relief of Machran. It was already on the march, camp gossip said. Soon Corvus would be caught between two fires, and the besieger would find himself outnumbered and surrounded.

“There is truth in some rumours,” Corvus said. He stood in front of the map table with his father’s black cuirass gleaming dark and menacing on its stand behind him. In front of the table stood all the senior officers of the army, except one.

“I have had word from Ardashir this evening. He’s in the hills twenty pasangs to the south of our lines, a foraging trip with two hundred of the Companions and a train of waggons.” Corvus let his strange bright eyes range over the silent men standing before him. Rictus was there, hollow-cheeked and lean as a winter wolf. Beside him stood Fornyx, and then Teresian, one-eyed Demetrius, dark Druze, and Parmenios, not so plump as he had been, and wearing armour now like the rest.

“It would seem our friends in the League have used the winter months to some advantage. They have taken heart, and rebuilt an army of sorts. That army is even now marching to the relief of Machran.”

The men he faced said nothing, but stared at him. There was no speculation; there were no questions. They had been at their trade too long for that. Corvus smiled at them, his white face shining like a bone.

“It will be here in the morning.”

Now they did stir. Frowning, Rictus spoke up. “How many?”

“Ardashir reckons on some seven thousand, all spears.”

“The defenders will sally out, when they get wind of this,” Demetrius grunted. “Even if they’re half-dead with hunger, they will come out.”

“Yes, they will,” Corvus said. “And therein lies our hope.” He leaned over the map table. Once, it had been covered with maps of the entire eastern Harukush, with cities dotted over it like cherries, blobs of red wax with ancient names. Now there was one large sheet of paper, the corners held down with empty winecups, and drawn across it were the outlines of Machran’s walls.

It has all come down to this, Rictus thought, looking down on the map. One lone city, and tomorrow: one single day. Like the point of a spearhead.

Corvus met his eyes, and grinned. He seemed to be thrumming with barely suppressed energy; there was almost a gaiety about him. Always, he seemed happiest when on the cusp of great events, be they good or bad.

“Take a look at our lines, gentlemen. We’re spread thin, to contain the city. That job is done. After tomorrow it will not matter any more, one way or the other. So I intend to consolidate the army once more, but only to make a fresh division of it.”

They raised their heads and looked at him, puzzled. His hand skittered over the map.

“Druze, you will abandon your camp on the Mithos, and bring your command back here, to the main body. Teresian, you will take your morai south, to join with Demetrius. Ardashir will concentrate the Companions on you as well. Rictus, you will take your Dogsheads -” he raised his head. “How many have you trained up now?”

“Six hundred.”

Demetrius’s face darkened. “That’s why Teresian and I have understrength morai – we’ve been leaking our best men to Rictus and Fornyx for weeks. Every bastard wants to get himself one of those red cloaks.”

“I want the Dogsheads opposite the South Prime Gate,” Corvus said, cutting short any further exchange. “When Karnos sallies out, it will be from there, to meet up with the army marching north. Rictus, you will meet him, and drive him back into the city. That is your job. Demetrius, Teresian, you will each detach a full mora to Rictus’s command.”

Both marshals straightened at that. “Corvus,” Teresian began.

Corvus held up a hand. “We do not vote on these things, brother. Those are my orders.” He turned to Druze.

“You, my friend, will also detach a thousand of your Igranians to help Rictus. You will then take command of the reminder, plus the other two morai we have here in this camp, and you will work with Parmenios and his machines.”

Druze looked thoughtfully at the little man who was Corvus’s secretary, now clad in a linen cuirass reinforced with bronze scales. It was ill-fitting, made for a taller man. But Druze only nodded. “I am with child to finally see these things you’ve made in action, Parmenios. Will you join me on the wall?”

Parmenios met Druze’s black eyes. “I will be supervising the advance of my command from the rear. I am not a soldier.”

“Well, we’re agreed on something then,” Druze said, and winked at him.

“I will be with Demetrius and Teresian and the Companions, south of Rictus’s positions,” Corvus said. “I will meet the relief army and defeat it, and then turn around and help Rictus’s command force an entry to the city.” He watched the men about the table. They were all staring at the outline of Machran on the map as though picturing to themselves the blood and chaos of the morrow.

“If you have questions, brothers, I’ll listen to them.”

“Not a question, but a fact,” Fornyx said. He stared at Corvus with undisguised hostility. “If you are defeated by the relief army, then Rictus’s command will be utterly destroyed – it cannot retreat.”

“I’d best not be defeated then,” Corvus said.

That night the army abandoned its camps to the west and north of the city, the men leaving their tents standing and the campfires burning behind them. They marched in quiet columns through the darkness, following the lines of the stockades that ringed the city. They carried only the arms and armour they would be needing in the morning, skins of water, a few dry flatbreads to gnaw on before the sun came up.

The position of the army and Corvus’s plans for it had been disseminated to all centurions, and it filtered down to the men in the long files in whispers as they marched. Slowly, the knowledge seeped through the army that this was the end. In the morning they would either take Machran, or they would face utter defeat. But one way or another the long siege would be over.

“The rumours are true, then?” Kassia demanded. She clasped her hands together, knuckles as white as her face.

“They are true.” Karnos kissed her. “Parnon must have the oratory of Gestrakos. A boy from his column made it through the lines yesterday. The League army will be before the walls in a few hours. When the sun comes up, we will open the gates and go out to meet it. Corvus will be caught between us like a nut for cracking.”

The light in her eyes faded. “You’re going out with them? I thought Kassander -”

“I will be with those men, Kassia. I would have it no other way.”

She leaned against him and buried her head in his chest. “There is no need for it – what is one more man?”

“I have been hiding in a box-chair for weeks now, afraid to walk the streets of my own city, Karnos, the Speaker of Machran. But I am also a citizen of this place. I am entitled to carry a spear in its defence.”

Kassander appeared in the doorway. “Karnos!” he stopped short at the sight of his sister in Karnos’s arms.

“Kassia, for God’s sake leave him alone – you can kiss him all you want after you’re married. Karnos, we must go. The morai are assembling down at South Prime.”

“You go on, Kassander. I have one or two things to clear up here.”

“Well, make it quick – it’s two hours until sunrise.” He disappeared from the doorway, and was back again two seconds later. He clanked into the room, already in full armour with his helm in the crook of his arm. He bent over Kassia and kissed her on her forehead. “You be safe, sister.”

“Look after him for me, Kassander.”

Kassander snorted. “He’s big and ugly enough to do that for himself. Karnos, hurry!” He was gone again.

“You might have wished your brother well too, you know,” Karnos said with a smile.

“He knows me, and all that I wish him, Karnos.”

“Come with me.” He took her by the hand. “I want your help with something.”

The long room, with the cabinet of Framnos at one end. Every lamp in the house had been lit, and the household were all up and about though it was still the middle of the night. Polio was there, and all the household slaves. In a corner Rian stood with Ona at her side, and by them was Philemos. He wore a soldier’s cuirass.

The cabinet door was open, and the Curse of God that had belonged to Katullos stood within like some icon of shadow. Karnos lifted it from its place and held it out to Kassia.

“Help me put it on.”

She was reluctant to touch it, but as he settled it over his shoulders, she clicked shut the black clasps that held the halves of it together, and pulled down the wings that settled snug into place over his collarbones.

Karnos exhaled. The cuirass seemed to settle on him. He was no longer fat, and the black stuff of the armour closed in against his torso and gelled there, a black hide matching the contours of his chest perfectly.

“Now you are a Cursebearer at last,” Kassia said. There were tears in her eyes.

He gripped her arm a moment, and stepped forward to the table upon which the rest of his panoply lay. A plain bronze helm, a shield emblazoned with the sigil of Machran, a spear, and a curved drepana in a belted scabbard. But he did not touch these, taking up instead a small iron key.

He walked over to Polio, and set the key in the old man’s slave-collar. With a click, he loosened it, and carefully took it from his neck.

“You are free, my friend. I am only sorry I did not do it sooner.”

Polio rubbed his throat. He looked down on Karnos like a stern father. There was a gleam in his eye, though his face never changed.

“I was never a slave in this house,” he said.

Karnos gave him the key. “Free them all, Polio -they can come or go as they please. I will own no more slaves.”

Something like a smile crossed Polio’s face. “You have grown, Karnos.”

Karnos tapped the side of his black cuirass. “I thought I had shrunk.”

The two men stood looking at one another. Now that Karnos had become thin and gaunt they could almost have passed for father and son.

“I shall be here when you return,” Polio said. “This is where I belong.”

Karnos nodded.

He turned to Philemos and the children of Rictus. “Stay here. The streets will not be safe – better to stay behind stout walls tomorrow, whatever happens.”

“I’m coming with you,” Philemos said, and Rian clutched at his arm.

“You are needed here,” Karnos told him. “Stay in my house, and look after those you love. You will do more good here than in a spearline.” He half-smiled. “That is my order, as Speaker of Machran.”

Then he went back to the table, and set the bronze helm on his head.

The sun began to rise, and with the dawn a stillness fell across the city. The walls were lined with spearmen of Machran and Arkadios and Avennos, and gathered together in the square within the South Prime Gate a mass of spearmen, thousands strong, had formed up and stood silently, looking at the grey lightening of the sky.

On the blasted plain before the walls, the army of Corvus formed up, massing to the east and south of the city. They stood in ordered ranks, waiting like their foes within.

And over the hills to the south a third army came into view. It shook out from column into line of battle, and as the sun cleared the Gosthere Mountains to the east, so the men who marched in its ranks took up the Paean, the death hymn of the Macht, and the sound of it rolled over the plain and filled the air like the thunder of an approaching storm.