Kings of Morning

TWENTY-SIX

The long hot zenith of the year was past, and the first of the autumn rains were sweeping across the city like scentless smoke. They soaked the tented pavilions which had been erected in every public space, and the wind tugged down the flower-chains decorating the length of the Sacred Way.

Orsana placed a black diadem on Corvus’s head, and the high priest of Bel anointed him with water from the Huruma, and gave him of it to drink. Another priest then placed in his hand a compound bow of ancient make, its string long withered, the grain of the wood replaced by minutely engraved ebony. In his other had was set a horse’s rein.

The horse, the bow, the truth. The trinity of the Asurian Kings.

Corvus stood wrapped in the purple and gold robes of royalty and acknowledged the cheers of the Macht thousands with a grave nod. His marshals stood all about him, mingled with high officers of the Honai and representatives from all over the empire. He took his place on the ancient throne with the cheers still echoing from the high walls of the audience-chamber.

In that moment, he looked wholly like some high-born Kefre of the ancient nobility, and it seemed that there was nothing of the Macht left about him at all.

Roshana was led to him moments later, on the arm of Rictus. As she passed Orsana the two women glanced at one another with a brief, intense gleam of enmity.

She squeezed Rictus’s arm as he brought her to the Great King, and in perfect Machtic, she said ‘ Thank you ’ to him. He nodded, and moved away. Kurun joined him, setting the thornwood stick in his hand to lean upon. The boy had eyes only for Roshana, but she never looked at him once.

The high priest thumbed scented oil across their foreheads, and then Corvus undid Roshana’s komis, letting the white silk fall from her mouth. He kissed her, and a murmur of approval rippled down the hall.

The Empire had a Great King once more, and a Queen of Asurian blood as his consort.

T HE BANQUETING HALL seated five hundred, and it was overflowing, bright with lamplight, hot and close with the heat of the crowds and the flames. From the kitchens below, endless courses were transported up on the serving platforms, and the purple-striped slaves of the lower city were everywhere, two for every guest. Macht and Kufr ate and drank side by side, talking in their own languages and making an effort at each other’s. The palace had not seen such an animated throng since the days of Anurman.

Rictus stood by the wall, watching, wiping the sweat from his face. Corvus and his new bride were talking away to each other, oblivious to the rest of the room. The Great King was holding his Queen’s hand. He looked flushed and eager as a boy.

Three seats down, Orsana sat like a graven statue, only her eyes moving. Her wine was untouched, and as Rictus watched, one of the slaves bent and whispered in her ear.

Oh, Fornyx, Rictus thought, you would so have enjoyed this.

He thought their departure from the hall went unnoticed, but Ardashir and Druze ambushed him as he and Kurun were making their way down the passageway beyond.

‘Would you leave without a farewell, brother?’ Ardashir asked, and there were vine-leaves in his hair and a sadness in his smile.

‘There is no need for soldiers to say goodbye,’ Rictus told him. ‘In the end, we will all meet again in the same place.’

‘Hell,’ Druze said with his dark grin. The Igranian had a wine-jar by the neck and a wedding-garland was hanging from one ear.

‘He wants you to stay — he’s as much as begged you to,’ Ardashir said gravely.

‘I am of no further use to man nor beast, Ardashir. I will not stay here to sit and drool in front of a fire, to be wheeled out on great occasions. And besides, the climate does not suit me.’

The three laughed together while Kurun looked on, eyes wide and solemn.

‘Is this a protege?’ Druze asked Rictus. ‘Or is he just along to keep you warm at night?’

‘He’s free to come and go as he chooses,’ Rictus said. ‘For the moment, his road leads with me.’

‘And what is that road, Rictus?’ Ardashir asked. ‘Where are you going to?’

Rictus tilted his head to one side and closed one eye.

‘I have a yearning to see my own mountains again, brothers. It seems to me that a man near the end of his life often feels most comfortable where he started it. I have family in the Harukush. I shall be less worried about drooling before them; that is what grandfathers do.’

The humour faded from Ardashir and Druze’s faces. They knew Rictus’s family history.

‘Corvus would give you a kingdom to rule, if you but asked him,’ Druze said. ‘Of us all, you deserve it most.’

‘I am not made of the stuff of kings, brother. Once upon a time, a long while ago, I led the Ten Thousand. To have done that is enough, for any man’s life.’

‘Parmenios is writing a history,’ Ardashir said. ‘He begins with the sack of Isca. He says that the seeds of a new world were sown that day.’

Rictus thought back on it. He had been eighteen years old, a boy waiting to die by the shores of a grey sea.

‘Good luck to him,’ he said with a smile. ‘I hope he remembers it better than I do. Come, Kurun; let’s be on our way before more of these bastards chance across us.’

Druze held up the jar. ‘A last drink, Rictus. To see you out the door. Come, brother.’

They drank from the jar one after another, even Kurun. When they were done only a trickle remained. Rictus poured it out onto the floor.

‘For absent friends,’ he said. And he tossed the empty jar back to Druze with a smile.

Then he turned and limped away down the passageway, leaning now on the stick, now on the slender frame of the boy beside him. Ardashir and Druze watched him go, the stick clicking on the marble floor, his shadow passing along the walls until he was round the corner and out of sight.