by Paul Kearney
Kassander looked into his wine. There was a silence in the room, broken only by the cracking of the fire. Olive wood was burning upon it, and the subtle blue fragrance of it stole about them in the quiet.
“You got me this post,” Kassander said. “You made me polemarch, so I am tied to you. I owe you for it.”
“This is not about calling in favours -” Karnos cried. Kassander raised his head, smiling. That slow, broad smile of the honest man.
“I know that. We have been friends a long time, Karnos. If I do this it will be for two reasons. Because it is the right course of action to preserve this city, and because you are my friend.”
“The only real friend I have,” Karnos said, with feeling. “After this the rest will desert me like rats running from a burning house.”
“Look on the bright side; you’ll still have your slaves to fuck.”
MACHRAN WAS SIX pasangs from west to east, and three parts asleep. Even up in the Mithannon Quarter, the wineshops and brothels shut their doors for a few hours at this time of night. It was remarkable, then, how fast news could travel the narrow streets, how it lit up at window after window.
Kassander started it, storming into the dormitory of the city criers with Karnos’s seal affixed to a Kerusiad edict and shouting them awake. Brass-voiced men with fast feet, the criers took to the streets within minutes, shouting the news at every crossroads they came to. Hal Goshen had fallen. The army was being called out. Every able-bodied man of the first and second property classes was to arm and make his way to the Marshalling Yards on the Mithos River.
By the time Karnos was mounted and riding to the Empirion, the streets were wide awake and teeming as though it were festival time. Men shouted at him as they thronged the wide avenue to the Amphion Quarter, many bearing shields and spears. He tugged his black cloak about him and rode on with a practised look of remote authority on his face, feeling as though he had just opened the gate on a fractious bull.
The Empirion was a vast domed amphitheatre which could house five thousand with ease. Nominally a theatre, it was also used for public meetings in inclement weather. Karnos had chosen it quite deliberately. He wanted a certain amount of chaos, a massed crowd to speak to. He was always best when addressing a mob. It was how he had become Speaker of Machran, though his father had been nothing more than a stallholder of the third class, unable even to afford a spearman’s panoply.
The other members of the Kerusia, all scions of the oldest families in Machran, regarded Karnos with at best a certain patronising indulgence, and at worst with outright loathing. He was a man who got things done, who took on all the dirty jobs and accomplished them not only with relish but with a certain vulgar flair.
He was uncouth, foul-mouthed and ostentatious, but when he spoke, men listened. He could cajole a crowd, flirt with it, make people laugh and set them alight with outrage. Those who thought him ill-educated and uncultured had never seen his personal library, or heard him hold forth on drama or philosophy after dinner. He was careful to keep it that way. He was everyman. That was his charm.
Kassander had done his work well. Crowded though the streets were, there was a definite current of movement to the north and the Mithannon Gate. The levies were gathering, trusting that the machinery of the city was working with legal correctness. Hundreds of men were bowed down under the weight of their wargear, and every street was bristling with spears.
Karnos dismounted in front of the Empirion. One of the marvels of the Macht world, the dome was the height of fifty men, all in blazing white marble now tinted pink by the light of dawn, hewn block by block out of the vast stone quarries around Gan Cras and brought south on ox-drawn wagons with iron wheels. It was old as the city itself, though it did not look it. The white marble was inviolate, austere and dignified. Everything that Karnos was not.
They had lit the great flambeaux inside and the place was a shadow-textured stage humming with voices, row upon row of people lining the stone step-benches, those at the back some eighty feet above the performer’s circle below. When Karnos walked in, a roar went up, a wordless chorus of interrogation, greeting, and cat-calling.
The middle-men of the city were on their way to the Mithannon. Those who were present here comprised the two extremes of Machran society. Small tradesmen, freed slaves, and ne’er do wells. And also the highest ranking families of the city: the Alcmoi, the Terentians, the Goscrins and half a dozen more. The menfolk of these families were not subject to the levy. They would don their armour when it suited them, and provide the officers of the phalanx. That was their privilege. Whether or not they had the ability to lead men in battle was irrelevant.
And waiting for Karnos in the circle, three of the more dangerous members of the Kerusia. Katullos, Dion, and Eurymedon. These three might have been Polio’s brothers, all grey-bearded and stern, the folds of their himations draped over one forearm in the classic style. They dripped anger; it shone out of their faces.
Karnos smiled. He opened his arms, halted short of the other Kerusia members, and breathed in deep the energy of the crowd.
Gestrakos had lectured on this very spot, postulating the existence of other worlds. Ondimion had staged his tragedies upon these stones. And here Naevios himself had plucked his harp, singing the songs that were now buried deep in the souls of the Macht, even the Paean they sang at the moment of death itself.
Some men made music, some built in stone. Some led armies.
Karnos - he knew how to work a crowd. It was the reason he had been put upon the world. This was his moment.
“Brothers,” he said. And such were the superb acoustics of the Empirion that he reached the farthermost ranks of the crowd while barely raising his voice.
But he did raise it, along with his arms, outspread as though he would embrace them all if he could.
“Brothers! You know me - you know my name. I am Karnos of Machran, Speaker of the Kerusia. You put me here today by voting openly in the assembly of all free men at the Amphion of Machran, the first time in a generation that a Speaker has been so chosen. My brothers, you have honoured me beyond my deserts...”
He watched the crowd closely, alert to their postures, his ears pricked for the start of muttered conversations.
It was like reeling in a fish too heavy for the line. The mood had to be taken, massaged, guided and caressed to where he wanted it to go. A man could not storm the crowd - Katullos, the last Speaker, had tried it, and failed miserably.
“I have no family of note,” Karnos went on. “My father hammered out metal at a stall in the Mithannon - I was born there, and I know those alleys like they were the veins in my arm. He put me to work cross-legged in the street, tapping out dints in people’s pots for an obol a day before I was ten years old -”
A growl of appreciation from the crowd. They loved this stuff, the lower orders. Who needed rhetoric, when one could work on their sentimentality, the fellow-feeling of the urban poor?
“But he saw what was in me, and hired a slave for an hour every night to teach me to read and write, for he had no wish to see me back-bent and bowed and coughing up soot for the rest of my life.”
The slave had been Polio, a dark-haired, lanky young man who had found that teaching the bright, eager son of the street-smith was one way to dull the pain of his own servitude.
“When my father died, I sold his stall and his tools, and bought a single illiterate highland boy. I educated him in his turn, sold him at a profit, and never looked back.”
That had been about the same time that the Ten Thousand had returned from their failed expedition to the Empire. Karnos remembered it well. A few centons of them had marched through Machran, invited by Dominian, Speaker at the time. The famous Rictus had not been there, but all the same, the streets were clogged five deep to see the heroes of the east in their scarlet cloaks.
Karnos still remembered the lean and hungry look on their faces, their eyes still fixed on some invisible horizon.
It was the
first time he had seen the mob of Machran in full voice on the streets, and he had never forgotten it. What would it be like, to have that adulation thrown at him - or to have those thousands hang on his words? It had been the beginning of the slow fire of ambition that had burned in his gut ever since.
“But I will not bore you with my life story - you’ve heard it all before. Brothers, it is enough for me to say that I came from where you are.”
His gaze swept the curved ranks of the amphitheatre. He let the statement hold the air a moment, saw a stir of restlessness, and plunged on.
“I am an ambitious man, that is true - were I not I would still be hammering pots in the Mithannon. But I am a man of Machran - this is my city. My life has been and always will be within her walls. I would never - never - do anything that would harm this place. I would rather die first.” Now the richly clad men near the bottom of the circle stirred. He saw some smirk.
“And brothers, know this: I have never lied to you. You know I am no hypocrite. I like wine, women, and as much amusement as I can pack into my life -this I have never tried to hide -” Now the common folk were smirking, and a few laughed out loud. “Aye, we know that all right!” someone cackled, and there was a buzz of laughter.
He had to grip them again, quickly. “So I am here today with no pretences, no defences. I come to you with the truth in my hands, to give to you. It is your privilege to do with it what you will.”
The baleful stares of the other Kerusia members present could almost be felt on his back. An irrational part of him twitched at the thought of a knife plunging into him, unseen, unexpected. The Empirion had seen it happen before.
He took a few steps forward, closer to the rising slope of the crowd, until he could smell the perfumes and scented soaps of those near the floor, and the unwashed miasma of those higher up in the dome.
“I hereby formally convene this gathering as an emergency assembly, gathered in time of war, to vote upon extraordinary measures taken this day by myself and the polemarch of the host, Kassander of Arienus.” Phobos - now he had their attention all right. In the next few minutes he would either have saved his career or would be feeling that knife in his back for real.
“You have all heard of the capitulation of Hal Goshen, after an eight-day defence by its people and the leader of the Kerusia, Phaestus. The enemy of us all, Corvus the warmonger, is on the march as I speak, barely a fortnight from our own walls.
“Brothers, on my own authority, I called out the levies this morning; they are gathering now at the Mithos River. I did this with the full support of our polemarch, but without the consultation of my fellow Kerusia members. Hence, I acted illegally.”
There it was. He had admitted it publicly.
“I hereby ask now for a vote on my actions. I did what I did for the good of the city and of us all, with no thought of my own position or ambitions - this I swear to you by Antimone’s Veil. I ask now that you vote to retrospectively legalise the call-out, so that we can go on to organise an effective defence of this city against he who would destroy your freedoms forever.
“According to Tynon’s constitution, in time of war, extraordinary assemblies may be called to pass laws by popular acclaim. Brothers, I need to hear your voices now. Forgive me for my infraction of our codes, and let it be written that I did so only in the city’s interest - in your interest.
“Brothers, will you now formally legalise my actions of last night, the calling out of the army, and the convening of this assembly? Let us hear what you say. All in favour, say aye.”
The dome roared.
Karnos struggled to be heard. “Those against -”
He could see the mouths of the well-dressed men at the floor of the circle opening, but whatever noise they made was drowned out by the thunderous wave of ayes that was still shaking the Empirion. He raised his arms.
“I declare the motion passed!”
The crowd kept roaring. Gobbets of food were thrown down from the topmost circles of the amphitheatre to land on the lower benches.
Men stood up. He heard his name called out by thousands, arms lifted to him. He stood and raised his own arm in salute.
I have you, he thought. I have you.
One of the other Kerusia members crossed the floor to stand at his side. It was Katullos, the bull-necked, grey-bearded patriarch of the Alcmoi family who had been Speaker himself at one time. He leaned close to be heard and said to Karnos:
“That was nicely done.”
“Thank you.”
“You are safe for now, my friend, with the mob shouting your name. Let us see how long it lasts.” He set a massive hand on Karnos’s shoulder in what looked like a friendly gesture. But Karnos could feel the fury in the grip of the older man’s fingers.
“One day they will cheer the news of your fall, Karnos. And I swear I will be there to see it.”
Karnos smiled at him with perfect affability.
“You must count on living a long time, Katullos.”
EIGHT
THE OBJECT LESSON
DRUZE HALTED, PANTING, and held up a hand. He made the hand into a fist. At once the column behind him bifurcated, splitting to left and right of the road in a movement reminiscent of a shoal of fish. The men formed a line, caught their breath, and began weighing the heft of the javelins in their hands.
“Some stubborn bastard has decided to make a stand,” he said.
The man to his right, a gangling thatch-haired youth with eyes the colour of cobweb, tossed his javelin up in the air and caught it again, out of sheer lightness of heart, it seemed.
“I hope so, chief. Antimone’s tits, I hope so. The last good fight I had was with a whore in Maronen.”
Druze grinned. He clapped the youth on the shoulder. “That’s right, brother - and I hear she won.”
A crackle of laughter ran along the ranks. The Igranians stood easily, tightening their belts, retying sandals, fingering the cruel iron points of their javelins. Each man carried a bundle of them, and these they now untied, checking the shafts for warp, stabbing them into the ground to clean the blades. They wore the felt tunics of the inner mountains for the most part, and rough wool chlamys whose folds they now tied up under their left armpits to leave their throwing arms free.
A pasang away on the road their path was blocked by a body of spearmen. These had formed up in four ranks and extended four to five hundred paces. At least sixteen hundred men, Druze thought, measuring them with his bright black eyes.
“They’ll be out of Goron, that city on the crag to the west,” he said. All humour left his face. He watched the enemy phalanx closely, noting their intervals, they way they stood, how they held their spears. These small details meant something. If spearmen kept their shields on their shoulders long before battle was joined, it meant they were nervous. If they left the ranks to piss or shit instead of doing it where they stood, it meant they were not well-drilled.
“These lads are not bad,” he said, noting the stillness in the enemy formation, and the fact that slaves to their rear were passing water-skins up the files.
The flanks of the phalanx were protected by woods, half a bowshot on either side of the road. Hazel woods, stark with winter but with enough brush remaining to act as a concealer. There might be more men in those trees, hunkered down on the cold ground with the snow numbing their bellies.
“Send back word to Corvus,” Druze said. “We’ll hold here for now. Gabinius, take a couple of fists down to the treeline and see if there’s anything more than rabbits in there. I want no surprises.”
“You got it, chief.” The thatch-haired youth sped off at a run, calling out to the men nearest him. Eight of them peeled out of the line and followed him down the roadside at an easy lope, black against the snow-covered ground. Druze blew on his hands.
“A cold day to die,” he said.
DOWN THE VAST column, Rictus strode along with the tireless pace of the old campaigner. As far as the eye could see the road was choked w
ith marching men in both directions, and from their labouring bodies a steam rose in the chill air so that they were marching in a fog of their own making. There was little to see except the backs of the men in front.
They were two day’s march out of Hal Goshen, and Corvus was pushing the pace hard. The men’s armour was piled in the baggage wagons and they carried only what they had to on their backs, using their spears as staffs. The Dogsheads were an unmistakable scarlet vertebra in the backbone of the army.
Horses cantering past on either side of the trudging infantry, like ghosts from a swifter world. A knot of them reined in, the snow flying from their hooves, the animals snorting and white-streaked with sweat. Huge horses, larger than any the Macht countries ever bred. Atop one, a gaudily cloaked figure raised a hand. The Kufr, Ardashir.
“Rictus! Corvus wants you and the Dogsheads at the front of the column at once. Get your gear from the wagons and arm up - we have work to do!”
The Kufr’s long, shining face broke out in a grin, and as he sped off again his long black hair flew out behind him like his horse’s mane.
Fornyx grimaced. “I was just getting ready to piss.”
“Piss in your own time,” Rictus told him. “Valerian, Kesero - break ranks, off the road. Time to earn our pay, brothers.”
THE LINE OF the army’s march had mushroomed out, formations wheeling left and right of the road and taking up position in extended ranks, out to the trees. This was the old Imperial road of Machran, which had come all the way from Idrios, and the cities along its length kept it maintained and cut back the brush and woodland on either side of it to foil the designs of brigands and goatmen. Rictus led his centons off the road and marched them smartly past the waiting files of the army, aware of the hundreds of eyes watching his red-cloaked men.
“Tighten it up, you plodding fucks,” Fornyx quipped in an undertone. “Let’s make it look good for the crowd.”
