Kings of Morning

TWENTY-ONE

It was just past midsummer when the Macht army left Carchanis for what most assumed would be the final stage of the expedition.

By that time, eight thousand replacements had arrived from the west, large-eyed boys in their fathers’ armour who had been on the road from Sinon for the better part of two months. To begin with, they were folded into Demetrius’s command, whilst he transferred several morai of his conscripts — veterans now — to Teresian. Thus was the Macht spearline brought back up to strength.

There were other changes also. Marcan, son of Proxanon, the Juthan king, now led five thousand of his own people as an integral part of the army, and the Juthan prince was named a marshal, part of the regular high command. The move caused surprisingly little upset within the ranks of the Macht, though the Juthan camped separately from the rest of the infantry and there was as yet little mixing between the two races.

King Proxanon led the rest of his army back the way they had come, having signed a formal treaty of alliance with the Macht. He had finally secured his kingdom, which had been at war with the empire almost continually over the last thirty years.

The other cities of the Middle Empire varied in their response to Gaugamesh. Many sent representatives to Corvus at Carchanis, pledging allegiance. These were sent back to their homes with lavish gifts, and each was accompanied by a half-mora of Macht spearmen under a veteran centurion.

Some did not respond at all, and a few sent letters of open defiance. In the end, Corvus had to leave some six thousand men behind in Carchanish under Demetrius, an independent all-arms command which the one-eyed marshal was tasked with using to bring all of the rest of the Middle Empire to heel. He accepted readily, since in effect Corvus was making him de facto ruler of a vast swathe of the Asurian Empire.

The night after the appointment the old soldier finally married his camp-wife, a sour-faced little woman who had been following him from battlefield to battlefield for a quarter of a century. She bloomed overnight into a well-dressed lady and took to riding in a sedan chair borne by four brawny hufsan slaves. There were those who said that Demetrius would have been better off if he had stayed with the army.

That army was similar in size to the one which Corvus had brought over the Machtic Sea the year before, but there were many changes within it. The Dogsheads were gone, but Corvus now rewarded those who had excelled themselves on the field of battle by presenting them with silver-faced shields. In truth, they were made of highly polished steel, but the name stuck, and these men, many of them cursebearers, formed an elite within the infantry. They were commanded by a young centurion named Arsenios, who was a lion in the battle-line but whose principal prowess was in the field of wine-drinking. Most nights during the army’s stay in Carchanis, he would throw a drinking party at which the guest of honour was invariably the King.

Day by day, something built up around Corvus which had not been there before. Inevitably, there were more demands on his time than there had been even in Machran, and the bald-headed stocky little engineer, Parmenios, performed many of the duties of a chamberlain for him, which was no great leap since he had been the King’s chief scribe before his genius for invention had come to the fore. This meant that there was an extra layer to get through before a solitary soldier with a grievance could see his king in person. In the past, any member of the army might call upon the King’s tent at any time, sure that, given a moment, Corvus would always get around to seeing him. But not any more. There were too many people clamouring for an audience with the conqueror of Gaugamesh. The soldiers were referred back to their officers, and they watched as an unending procession of Kufr dignitaries from all over the western empire were conducted into the King’s presence without delay.

Part of this was city living, part of it was sheer administrative necessity, and part of it was down to changes in Corvus himself. He was less patient than he had been, more autocratic. Where once he would have won round his officers with at least the appearance of debate, now he simply issued orders, or better yet, had Parmenios’s secretaries write them down and then sent his pages out to deliver them. It was as though the nature of his achievements had finally begun to sink home.

The army itself was only part of his concerns. His rule now lay over many thousands of pasangs of a foreign world, and he was ruler of places he had not yet seen. Cities he had never visited were erecting statues of him in an effort to curry favour, and his lenient treatment of those who surrendered to him willingly meant that not a day went by without an embassy from some obscure imperial province wishing to secure its place in the new order of things.

‘It’s a relief to be going at last,’ Ardashir said. He stood over Rictus, as stately as a sunlit stork. ‘This time in the city has brought it all home to him. He’s at his best when on the move, nothing but that damned tent over his head.’

Rictus smiled. ‘He can’t be on the move forever, Ardashir. One day he will sit down and realise he can go no further. On that day, I will be glad to be elsewhere.’

‘On that day he will need you more than he ever has before.’

‘No. My time is past. I’m too broken and old now to ever stand in a spearline again. I am no further use to him.’

‘My, you’re a stiff necked bastard — as bad as he is.’

‘Keep an eye on him for me.’

‘Will you be coming east, Rictus, or will you stay here? You know that wherever you stay, Corvus will set you up like a king.’

‘I’ve no desire to be one. I am not Demetrius — I don’t have a wife whispering ambitious noises in my ear.’

‘Then you will come east — good — that relieves my mind.’

‘I didn’t say that,’ Rictus snapped. And then, ‘Yes, I suppose so. I’m to bring Roshana to him anyway, once Ashur falls.’

‘Does she know what her fate is to be?’

‘I don’t speak Kufr — I haven’t asked. It would not surprise me, though. She’s not stupid.’

‘If it happens, then Ashurnan’s grandson may one day be Great King. The more things change — ’

‘The more they stay the same.’ Rictus smiled up at the tall Kefre. ‘You be careful, Ardashir. You and Druze are the only people left with the army he still listens to.’

‘I’ll be careful — it’s in my nature. I leave the heroic gestures to you Macht. The Kefren are a more pragmatic people.’

‘I have learned that. I am glad that I have one to call a friend.’

Ardashir bent and embraced Rictus in his chair. ‘Stay alive, brother,’ he said. ‘If Bel is merciful, the next time we meet it will be in Ashur itself.’

‘Perhaps.’ Rictus rose to his feet as Ardashir bowed to him. Kurun propped him up on one side and on the other he leaned upon a thornwood stick, a black, gnarled length of iron-hard wood polished to a high ebony shine. A parting gift from Corvus, one of many.

‘Ardashir.’ Rictus called the Kefre back as he was turning to leave.

‘Come with me a moment. There is something I want you to see.’

He limped into the antechamber, where his gear had been stowed. His armour, his weapons, the curios and equipment he had hauled halfway across the world. They half-filled the room, hung from the walls and assembled on shelves. It seemed like quite a collection, but it was not much to show for a life.

At the far wall were two black cuirasses, Antimone’s Gift, polished and shining in the lamplight. Sometimes they reflected the flames, and sometimes they did not. It was one of the mysteries about them. The two cuirasses were exactly the same; neither had so much as a scratch upon them, though they had both seen hard service. There was no way to guess their age; they were as changeless as the waves of the sea.

‘They brought me Fornyx’s armour, after they found his body,’ Rictus said. ‘His is the one on the right, though they can’t really be told apart. I’ve been thinking on it, and it seems to me you should have it. Fornyx would have had it so. After Gaugamesh they policed up a dozen of these from the dead, and I know Druze and Teresian and Demetrius were given them by Corvus. But he never gave one to you, his best friend.’

‘Because I am Kufr,’ Ardashir breathed. ‘Rictus, I am honoured by the thought, I truly am. But I cannot take this thing. It would not be right.’

‘Bullshit. If Corvus can wear one, then I’m damned sure you can. You’re a marshal of the army — you should be a cursebearer no matter what blood runs through you. Kurun — go get it.’

The boy left Rictus’s side and put his hands out to lift the right-hand cuirass off its stand. Then he shrank away. ‘I cannot,’ he said to Rictus. ‘It frightens me.’

Rictus grunted and limped forward himself. He took the cuirass by its wing and lifted it easily with one hand, then tossed it to Ardashir.

The Kefren marshal caught it with an expression of outright fear blazed across his face, as if he expected the touch of it to burn him. He held the armour away from his body in both hands, as one might hold a baby which had soiled itself.

‘It won’t bite, you damned fool,’ Rictus growled. ‘Put it on. Kurun — help him, and stop being such a girl about it.’

The snap of the clasps was loud in the room, along with the heavy breathing of the two Kufr. Rictus leaned on his stick and watched while Ardashir clicked down the wings over his shoulders and stood, shocked, as the armour moulded to his shape, extending to fit his long torso.

‘Bel’s blood — it is alive!’

‘No — it’s just a piece of craft we don’t understand. Men made these things once, but then forgot how.’

‘I thought your goddess gifted them to the Macht.’

Rictus shrugged. ‘Call me cynical.’

They stood looking at one another. ‘What will your people say when they see a Kufr wearing the Curse of God?’ Ardashir asked.

‘They will get used to it. Times are changing, Ardashir. The army is made up of all three races now. And every man who was at Gaugamesh and the Haneikos knows you have earned the right to wear that armour.’

Ardashir embraced him. ‘You have come a long way, my friend,’ he said.

‘So have we all.’

The army marched out of its camps two days later, on a bright summer morning in the month the Kufr called Osh-Nabal, the time of the high sun. Rictus watched the endless columns filing across the Bekai bridge, Druze and his Igranians already fanning out towards the foothills of the Magron beyond. The shimmering haze of the river-plain blurred the bright sun-caught flashes of bronze and iron on the marching men. A contingent of hufsan spearmen marched with them, volunteers who had joined the great adventure to see where it might lead. The army was no longer truly Macht. The empire was no longer entirely Kufr. He wondered if it was for the best, or if it really made any difference at all to the farmers and peasants of the fertile lowlands. They still paid their taxes and saw their sons go off to war as they always had. The more things change…

‘Will we follow them?’ Kurun asked beside him. The boy was staring at the marching columns with a kind of hunger, the endless curiosity of the young.

‘We’ll follow them,’ Rictus said. ‘How could we not?’ He set a hand on the boy’s shoulder and bent his head to hide the sudden dazzle in his eyes.