Sixteen Ways to Defend a Walled City

by K. J. Parker

  A second or so later, fifty-odd Blues were swarming all over the ram, making ropes fast to beams and throwing the ends down. The ram itself sheltered them from the archers behind the pavises, and we still had enough manpower to haul on the ropes and topple the ram; which we did. For a moment I thought the padding would keep it from breaking up when it fell, but the leverage was too good. The thing was twice as tall as it was wide; its own weight tore the tenons out of the mortices, and it came apart like a stack of firewood. Victory, in the face of insuperable odds, and I hadn’t been captured. Don’t you hate it when that happens.

  Time was running out. I looked round for some way of separating myself from the rampantly triumphant Blues without being obvious about it or getting shot, but I couldn’t see anything. The Blues were drenching the trashed woodwork with oil; someone yelled at me, “Time to go”. He was grinning happily. This is ridiculous, I thought. Then the pavises in front of me slid aside, and out came a half-company of heavy infantry, running straight at me.

  I heard the Blues shouting; then something dashed past me and knocked me off my feet. By the time I’d scrambled to my knees, Lysimachus had hurled himself at the locked shields of the advancing heavies. He leapt into the air, kicking hard with his left foot and battering down a couple of shields; then he was through, the line was broken. The snatch squad surged on past him as though he didn’t matter. Then he broke through them from behind, scattered their line, stumbled, fell forward onto his face. A spear stuck up between his shoulders like the mast of a ship.

  Someone grabbed me and pulled me up. I took no notice. I was staring at Lysimachus, dead on the ground, being trodden on. They dragged me towards him, over him, my foot on his head; I think I turned my ankle on it. Loads of yelling behind me, fighting noises; two men were frogmarching me toward the pavises, we passed them, they slid together behind us. There was a single riderless horse; they helped me up onto it. Nobody spoke. Someone gave the horse a slap, and it started forward. I nearly fell off but hands pushed me upright in the saddle. Then it was off at a brisk canter, with a man either side of me, running flat out, hanging onto the stirrup leathers. One of the men looked up at me, grinning. He said: “That was close. Who was that lunatic?”

  I didn’t answer. I hate people who can talk and run at the same time.

  The first time I visited Ogus’s tent, it was magnificent. Since then, he’d smartened the place up a bit. I don’t know anything about art, so I couldn’t say for sure, but I think the stunning altarpiece he’d set up behind his favourite chair was the Chrysostoma Transfiguration, which I seem to remember being the pride and joy of the abbots of Shasida, up in the frozen north-east. The three-quarter-size ivory figure of Our Lady in her aspect of the New Moon was definitely the one that used to stand in the atrium of the governor’s mansion at Molan, because I saw it there ten years ago. The tapestries looked remarkably like the set I once saw on the walls of the Marshal’s court at Spendone, way down south on the border. My guess is, they were trophies, like stags’ heads. I don’t think Ogus had them there because he liked looking at them.

  “Hello, Orhan,” he said.

  I wanted to laugh. He was wearing the full outfit: the purple floor-length robe that only the emperor can wear, the crisscross gold-embroidered sash, heavy as armour and to my mind unspeakably vulgar, the ermine cape and a really very good replica of the Triple Crown, except that the egg-sized uncut ruby in the middle of the central fleuret was, if anything, a mite too big. “Aren’t you hot in all that lot?” I said.

  He grinned. “A bit,” he replied. “Beats me how your man can spend all day in this get-up. It’s an hour’s work to take a pee.” He moved his fingers very slightly, communicating perfectly that I was allowed to sit. Never seen it done better, to tell you the truth. I stayed put.

  “You promised,” I said. “When we’re done here, I can go back.”

  “Fuck you, Orhan.” He scowled at me. “What, d’you think I’d break my word?”

  I shrugged. “I did.”

  “Yes, well. Oh, sit down, for God’s sake. Please?”

  I sat down. The chair was four elephant tusks, with a seat of gold wire. Not, however, very comfortable. “Would you like me to say I’m sorry?” I said.

  “Yes, but you aren’t. Are you?”

  “Actually, I am,” I said. “I’m sorry because instead of just saying no, I’m not interested, I tricked you into sacrificing your best sappers and doing a job I needed doing that I couldn’t do. That was dishonest.”

  “You’re dishonest. I knew that.”

  “Did you think I’d betray you?”

  He shrugged. “It was a distinct possibility,” he said. “Let’s say it didn’t come as a total surprise.”

  “But you sent all those men to their deaths—”

  “It was worth the risk,” he said, and his face didn’t move. “I knew I was asking a lot of you. I thought maybe what I’d said was enough to win you over. For that, I apologise. I should’ve known, you’re too smart to be taken in by fine words.”

  “They weren’t bad,” I said. “Most of them I agree with.”

  He smiled. “I cheated,” he said. “I hired a lawyer—well, half a dozen of them, actually, from Sozamen, you have no idea how much those vultures charge. I told them to prepare the case, then put it into my own words. You don’t mind that, do you?”

  “Why should I?”

  “It struck me as a bit—well, you know. Getting other people to polish up my arguments for me. Making me look cleverer than I am.”

  “Did you use much of what they gave you?”

  “Some of it. Didn’t work, though, did it?”

  I shook my head. “I’m not a court of law,” I said. “I’m not bound to do what’s just, or what’s right, or what’s in the interests of the human race. If I was, you’d be warming your hands by a nice big fire right now. But I’m not. And I reserve the right to be wrong, if I choose to be.”

  He laughed. “When this is over,” he said, “I want us to be together again. You can be joint emperor. You can rule the east, and I’ll have the west.”

  “You mean, after you’ve burned down the City and killed all the Robur.”

  “That’s right. By then you’ll have made your point and I’ll have made mine. I’d really like that.”

  “This is after I’ve opened the gates, like I promised you the last time.”

  “No.” He waggled one fingertip, meaning serve the wine. But for me it was my favourite tea. “I can see now, I was wrong. Stupid of me. I should’ve known, I can’t make you do what you don’t want to. I shouldn’t have tried. It wasn’t the act of a friend. No, you crack on, make the best defence you can, I know how much it means to you to do your very best.” They poured the tea. Just the smell of it was heaven. “On the way here, we passed that bridge you built, about eight years ago, over Hoar Water. I didn’t know at the time it was one of yours, but soon as I saw it, I knew, Orhan built that. It was like meeting an old friend.”

  I couldn’t remember which one he meant. I’ve bridged Hoar Water at least four times, but the bloody thing keeps flooding. “That’s what I do,” I said.

  “Of course it is,” said Ogus. “Well, there’s ever such a lot of rivers in the world, needing bridges. Or cities. Ever fancied building one?”

  “You’re doing it again,” I said.

  “Sorry. But seriously, have you? I’ll be needing a city, when all this is over. Will you build me one? Anywhere you like.”

  “Here?”

  He looked at me. “If you insist.”

  “I’ll think about it,” I said. “What did you want to see me about?”

  He sighed. “Just to tell you no hard feelings, I guess. It’s been on my mind. Please build me a city. I’ve destroyed so many lately, it’d be nice to put something back.”

  “No hard feelings? Are you serious?”

  “Of course. You’re my oldest friend.” He said it as though it didn’t need saying. “The people in tha
t city aren’t your friends, Orhan. Which reminds me, did you sort out those bastards who were going to kill you?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “They weren’t your friends, Orhan. But what the hell. I know you, you hate it when someone lets you win. It was always like that when we were kids, you’d sulk and be miserable all day. You need to know you actually won, or it’s all spoilt for you.”

  Perfectly true. Of course, I never beat Ogus at anything, unless I cheated. Which I did, whenever I could. I figure, winning is winning. Cheating is just one of many ways of prevailing; just happens to be the way I’m best at.

  “Like I said,” he went on, “give it your best shot. Do it the hard way. Only, please don’t get yourself killed. There’s only so much I can do to protect you. And I will, of course. But don’t make that hard for me, too.”

  “I won’t, trust me,” I said. “I’m a coward.”

  He laughed. “You’re sensible. Not the same thing at all. Anyhow, the hell with this. How about a game of checkers with your old pal?”

  We used to play checkers, with a set we’d made ourselves. I carved the pieces out of wood and bone. There had been times when I’d won. Guess how. “I should be getting back,” I said.

  “Don’t be stupid. You’ve got to stay here a while. No, really, otherwise it’s going to look pretty odd.”

  True. “How am I getting out of here, by the way?”

  “Ah. You escape, naturally.”

  I scowled at him. “Talk sense.”

  “No, honest. Well, you’re rescued.”

  “You what?”

  He smiled at me. “By that pet ape of yours, Lysimachus.”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Oh no he isn’t. Strong as a bull. And that glued-cloth breastplate saved him. Never seen anything like it. Your idea, naturally.”

  Something I’d read in an old book. “Yes,” I said.

  “Brilliant. Anyway, we pulled him out and patched him up, he’ll be a bit sore for a while but nothing serious. He’s being guarded by a bunch of drunks who carelessly leave weapons lying about, and who happened to mention where you’re being held. I think we can leave the rest to him, don’t you? I mean, what’s the point of having a hero if you don’t make use of him?”

  Lysimachus was alive, at any rate. “He nearly died.”

  “He’ll be a hero, he’ll like that. The girls’ll be all over him.”

  “He doesn’t like girls.”

  “Robur,” he said, and clicked his tongue. “Ah well. Anyway, it’s going to take him a while to get loose, so in the meantime we can stop talking business and act like human beings for a change. For a start, I’d really like you to meet someone.”

  I like to think I know what the person I’m talking to is going to say next. Not this time. “Who?”

  “My wife.”

  Some things you just don’t see coming. “Wife?”

  “Yes, you idiot, my wife. My better half, the love of my life,” he grinned. “I’m not exaggerating. I can’t wait for you to meet her. She’s gorgeous.”

  Other people’s wives. The wife, for example, of my good, dear friend Aichmalotus, who died in the arena. I can’t wait for you to meet her, he said.

  I remember, all too clearly. She seemed like a nice woman; short, younger than he was, rather quiet and serious. We talked awkwardly for a while and then Aichmalotus was called away and there was one of those fraught silences. You feel uncomfortable alone with your best friend’s wife, You want to be friendly, but you’re on your guard; a man doesn’t know what to say to a woman under those circumstances. Some men are like the good dog, that knows its job is to chase sheep but not these sheep, for some reason. I’m not a great chaser at the best of times. This is hardly surprising. I’ve spent most of my life as a milkface among Robur. First, it’s illegal. Second, it’s highly unlikely. Robur are taller, stronger, more muscular, finely built and toned. Even Faustinus is stronger than me. I’m used to thinking of myself as ugly, comical, misshapen, appropriate for other purposes but not that. Hard to get out of that way of thinking, even with a half-milkface woman who’s shorter than me.

  Anyway, after a while we had to start talking, before the silence set harder than mortar. We talked about being milkfaces in the City, about where we were from originally, about Aichmalotus—turned out she didn’t actually like him very much (she didn’t say that), but she’d married him because it was so much better than the alternative; why he was crazy about her she really had no idea, but he was, and so that was all right; most women, Robur women who’d had choices in their lives, at least at some stage, are put up with rather than loved; being loved, she said, made things easier, it was one of those irrational advantages, like being born rich or pretty, it meant life wasn’t quite such a struggle, all the damned time. I wouldn’t know, I said, then wished I hadn’t. She looked at me, then said; no, I suppose not. Count yourself lucky, she said.

  I wasn’t quite sure what to make of that. You just said yourself, I said, it makes things easier.

  True, she conceded, it does. But it’s such a responsibility.

  I confessed I’d never thought of it in that light. Like I said, she replied, you’re lucky. By being loved, you’re under an obligation. You’ve undertaken to still be there, tomorrow and the next day. When things get to the point where it’s just plain stupid to carry on, you can’t simply drink hemlock or open a vein. You’re stuck. The ship’s sailed away without you on it.

  Strange conversation, I thought. I’ve never considered not carrying on, I told her.

  You’re very lucky, then, aren’t you, she rebuked me, gently but firmly. Of course, you’re a man, you get so many more choices and options than a woman does. You need to be a woman to understand the true meaning of being totally and hopelessly stuck. The closest you’d ever come would be if you got locked up in a cell for forty years.

  I nodded slowly. And being loved is the gaoler, I said.

  Probably just as well that Aichmalotus came back at that point. He was cheerful and smiling, having just been paid some money he’d never expected to see. I remember he brought her an apple.

  So Ogus introduced me to his wife.

  You’ve heard about trophy wives. She was more a triumphal arch; a monument, I guess, to how far Ogus had come and how far he still intended to go. Beautiful isn’t the word. A few centuries back, when it was time for the emperor to choose a wife, they sent emissaries all through the empire rounding up girls, by the thousand, by the tens of thousands. These were sent on to regional centres, who weeded out the dross and referred the cream to Area Command, who sent up the top ten per cent to the provincial governor, who chose the best ten, who went on to Division headquarters; eventually, about five hundred made the trip to the City, where a House committee pared them down to two hundred, who were passed on to Special Commissioners, who selected seventy-five for the consideration of the Chamberlain’s office, who picked out forty for the emperor to choose from. Ogus’s wife would have sailed through to at least the Special Commission, unsightly skin condition nothwithstanding, and quite probably the Chamberlain.

  I can’t say I care much for beautiful people. I think I resent them. Beauty rather more so than other kinds of outrageous privilege. I’ve known a number of very rich men, and nine out of ten of them were bastards, but some of them had earned their wealth, which is supposed to make it better, and all of them could’ve lost it in a matter of hours. I’ve known rather more rich men’s sons, and they’re harder to take—but Nico’s all right and so’s Artavasdus, and when you get to know them you can learn to ignore the differences and focus on the things you have in common. Outrageously clever people are worse, but quite a few of them mean well, and often they tend to have disadvantages (of appearance, manner, social skill) that allow you to forgive them. Beautiful people, though, I struggle with. Unless you keep your eyes shut or look the other way, you can’t help but have the awful fact ground into you, like the wheel of a heavy wagon running over
your neck, that here is someone divided from you by a vast, unbridgeable gap, and they’ve done absolutely nothing to deserve it. Ogus’s wife—her name was Sichelgaita—was that level of beauty. I won’t even try to describe her, because they don’t make words that could take the strain. You felt ashamed to look at her.

  “So you’re Orhan,” she said. “I’ve heard ever such a lot about you.”

  Aichmalotus was a good friend to me. He passed the word along; this man may wear a uniform, but he’s not one of them, he’s one of us. Suddenly my life got easier. Things stopped disappearing from my stores. Civilian contractors finished early and under budget. I met interesting peeople at Aichmalotus’s place, the sort of people who helped me turn government gold into useful and plentiful silver, who could get me stuff I couldn’t get elsewhere, at a price I could afford. Suddenly, there were people in the City who didn’t seem to mind the fact that I didn’t look right. As a direct result, I was able to get things done; getting things done got me promoted; I became the colonel of the regiment. I spent a lot of time at Aichmalotus’s place. Whenever I was in the City, he insisted I stayed with him, wouldn’t hear of me lodging at an inn or guest quarters at the barracks. His work called him away, and I was left at home with his wife. She was a pleasant enough woman and I think she liked to have company.

  Sometimes, she told me, I have this dream. I’m watching him fight in the Hippodrome. And then suddenly I’m down there and I’m the one fighting him. And I try and explain, I’m not a gladiator, I’m a woman, women don’t fight, but I’m wearing this helmet that muffles my voice and nobody can hear me. So I try and tell him, it’s me in here, it’s me, but he can’t hear me either. And he keeps stabbing and slashing at me, and somehow I manage to block him but I know it’s only a matter of time. And also I’m up in the stands, cheering him on. I want him to win, even though I know perfectly well who’s under that helmet. And then he drops his guard for a split second and I can see a gap, and I draw back my hand to stab him, even though I know that if he dies, I die, too.