by Chris Bunch
“When you think it’s dark, or thick enough, or whatever way you’d describe something like that, then summon the army. All the army.”
“But that’ll provide one great, easy target,” Kutulu objected. I knew very well the risk, but this was something that must be done.
“Yes, sir,” Kutulu said after a momentary pause. “I’ll not question your orders again.”
“Yes, you will,” I said. “For I’m mortal, which means I’m an easy fool and need to be reminded of that every now and again. That’s what led the emperor into the mire — no one, or hardly anyone, ever asked if he was certain he was doing the right thing or told him he was full of shit. Not that he would have changed his mind or course if they had,” I said, a touch of bitterness in my voice.
“So I’m yours,” I said. “I’ll make my staff appointments as time goes on. But the first two are these — Kutulu, you’re to become my adjutant, although I don’t want you to waste time worrying about supplies or soldiery. But I want you to have instant access to me with any news of Tenedos, Bairan, or the Grand Councilors.”
“Yes, sir.” Kutulu’s face glowed, I swear, and he drew himself to attention and saluted, as if he were a soldier in uniform. I remembered his dream was to one day be named tribune, and he’d made the mistake of asking that boon of the emperor, which set Tenedos’s hand against him, for the emperor believed spies could never be honored like soldiers.
I wouldn’t make that mistake. A carved length of wood, or a sash, or a bit of metal … all have only the value the giver and the taker place on them. If they bonded a man to me, to my commands, I’d give him anything.
“You, Sinait, are to be Kutulu’s equivalent for sorcery. Either of you can make necessary decisions, without having to wait on my approval.
“Just try not to do something that’ll lose the war without giving me a couple of minutes’ warning.”
Sinait chuckled, and Kutulu tried a smile on for size, decided he liked it.
“Now, let’s begin this probably hopeless task.”
• • •
It took three weeks for my soldiers to reach my headquarters, a smallish town named Paestum, which I’d chosen because five major roads — at least major for a poor state like Amur — met there. Also, someone had built a huge inn on the outskirts in the grandiose and false notion that Paestum was about to become a great market town.
The abandoned inn was perfect for my headquarters. I wouldn’t have to requisition anyone’s dwelling or business and make yet another set of enemies nor be piously miserable in tents pitched in some field.
The soldiers marched, or rather straggled in, their bedding a blanket and piece of canvas to wrap themselves in rolled across their backs, carrying their cookware and, often as not, a chicken grabbed in some village they’d passed through. Few had any uniform, only half were armed, and that half with a huge array of weaponry from modern to antique to improvised. They bivouacked in fields around Paestum and thanked various gods the weather remained dry.
I’d had a high wooden stand built in the center of a bare heath, and on a certain day the soldiers were assembled around it, covering the low hills around me.
I clambered up its steps, hoping I wouldn’t slip and begin my command with an ill-omened fall on my ass. I reached the platform, and a roar echoed around the hills. That was why I’d assembled my army, so my soldiers would see not a handful of fellows huddled in some byre, but a great host, and let these numbers give them strength, give them the courage of numbers.
I prayed to Isa of war and my monkey god Vachan for guidance and support while Sinait and three other magicians readied two spells. The first would amplify my voice, the second would subtly make anyone staring at me think they were closer than they were, able to make out the smallest change of expression on my face, yet not make me a giant.
“I am Damastes á Cimabue,” I began. “Some know me, some of you’ve served with me.
“Now I call you once more to my standard. Numantia needs warriors like you more than ever before in its history.
“This time, the battle is for freedom, and for our very souls.
“The man who was once our emperor, the man many of us served willingly, the man I served for many years, is now our worst enemy.
“You all know how he’s dedicated his service to a goddess I shall not name.”
Murmurs came from the ranks, and a few brave or unwary soldiers muttered “Saionji.”
“But by serving her, he has become a demon himself, serving only himself and death. He cares nothing for Numantia, nothing for you, his greatest servants, and will willingly sacrifice your lives, your souls, for one instant of the power he once held and the greater power he lusts for.
“The man who calls himself Laish Tenedos, the false emperor, must be brought down, and we shall be the ones to do it!”
The masses cheered again, but a bit tentatively, and faces in the crowd peered about, as if expecting demons to come out of the skies or ground.
“You sound fearful,” I said. “And you are right to be watchful, for Tenedos is a mighty foe. “But he is doomed!
“He serves evil, and evil cannot triumph, at least not for long. Umar did not create this world for evil, although priests say he may have withdrawn in sorrow, after seeing the great wickedness his creations wreaked, leaving Irisu to rule.
“Irisu is a mighty god, as are his manifestations and the other gods who serve him, and whom we serve.
“He will triumph, just as we will triumph.
“Numantia must be rid of Tenedos. That will be a beginning. Once we stand together as one, and all Numantia, from Khoh to Dara to Kallio to farthest Ossetia is united, then our sun shall be brighter than it ever was.
“And this will be a new sun of peace, from border to border, and with no enemies beyond to endanger us.
“We are climbing a great mountain, and the first step is the hardest.
“The first step is the destruction of the mad half-demon who calls himself Laish Tenedos.
“The task will not be easy. We must work hard, train hard, harder than you dream possible.
“But I promise you, the warriors you will become can stand against anything, cold steel or fiery demon, and seize victory!
“Numantia had a great army once, greater than the world has ever known.
“But you shall be greater, for your cause is that of good!
“Look about! Remember the faces around you, for all of you will be ennobled by your task. This day is the beginning, the beginning of a new time. A time of peace, a time of prosperity, a time of greatness.
“Reach out, my brothers. Reach out for this time. Fight hard. Fight as one!”
I let my voice build into a great roar: “For Numantia and our gods!”
The roar swept over me like a tempest, and I could feel the strength, the will in their cries.
Next I would have to change it from empty wind to harsh reality.
• • •
I thought I’d built an army before, when Mercia Petre, the emperor, and I had shaken the Rule of Ten’s bloated, slothful organization into a new fighting formation. But even then we had something to build from.
Now I had nothing but half a million eager civilians, only a scatter of trained soldiers.
That eagerness could be a virtue, for my recruits would be willing to put up with far more ineptness and error than any conscript. But my grace period would only last for a time, and the mood of the volunteers could change, and they’d trickle away just as rapidly as they’d come to Paestum.
A civilian might think the hardest part was finding officers and warrants, but there’s always enough men who love being able to shout their fellows around, even to their deaths, and wear baubles to proclaim that privilege. There’d be problems later, when we went into combat, and those with the pretty sashes and authority would find an army rewards its warriors for their willingness to die.
It’s an old and true saw that the biggest blusterer
is frequently the first to break and run or, worse, send others to a pointless, stupid death.
But there’s no way of testing how men will behave in battle except battle itself, so I put that concern away for the time.
There was a scattering of men who’d served before, and I promoted them as high as I dared, and one level further, knowing many a sergeant wanted no rank higher and wouldn’t be competent to hold it, either. I daily mourned the leaders I remembered, men whose bones were forgotten in the Maisirian suebi.
One gift from the past was Sendraka, once of Yonge’s skirmishers, who, as a captain, had brought Marán and me from her estates to Nicias and I began my odyssey to Jarrah. I hadn’t thought any skirmisher survived, since they were always the first to fight and gladly sacrificed by the emperor to build his blood spells. But there were a few. Sendraka had served through the Maisirian campaign, then been lanced in the upper thigh during the retreat through Urey. The scouts were seldom taken prisoners, since they were hated by the Maisirians, particularly by their outriding cavalry, the Negaret. Sendraka had gone to ground and let the armies pass while he painfully recuperated. It had been a year before he could walk, a year and a half before he could mount, and by that time the war was long over.
I asked why he hadn’t been promoted higher than captain of the upper half. “There wasn’t much rank in the skirmishers, but a lot of death, the way the emperor misused us,” he said. That’s a problem in any elite formation. There’s envy and dislike for them in the regular branches, and so rewards come but seldom.
“Besides,” he said wryly, “I’ve never been one to keep my mouth shut if a man insists on playing the fool and then asking my opinion.”
I grinned, told him that was now a recommended policy, promoted him to domina, and put him in charge of forming a corps of skirmishers. I didn’t know how good he was in combat, but managing to elude the Negaret with a gaping hole in his leg suggested he might be properly devious.
I thought longingly of Yonge of the Hills, the sly fox I really needed, but there was no way to summon him from his murderously gained throne in Sayana.
Another officer came, Thanet, who’d been a young legate with my own formation, the Seventeenth Ureyan Lancers. He had been invalided home at the beginning of the war with a lung disorder and still broke into uncontrollable coughing from time to time.
Again, I asked the question — why do you wish to join my army?
“Because,” he said evenly, “I’m three generations a warrior and think the emperor misled us into Maisir and, given the chance, would destroy us … and Numantia … once again.” He half smiled. “I’ll say this, but you’ll think I’m browning you off, sir, even though it’s the truth. I’d rather serve under a Seventeenth veteran than Isa himself.”
Him, too, I made domina and set him to forming a new regiment of cavalry I privately vowed to rename after the Seventeenth if they proved worthy of the honor.
These, as I said, weren’t the greatest of my problems.
Bigger problems were the ones that don’t appear in the romances. It’s possible to find a man who’s a good horse trader. But what about one who can buy remounts for an army without either getting stung or deciding to tuck away a few gold coins for himself here and there? The same caution must apply to paymasters and quartermasters.
Or uniforms. I needed half as many seamstresses as I did soldiers, at least for a while. The solution here was to put anyone in Amur who could use a needle to work, and that included quite a few old men and children. For the moment, my army’s uniform would be a simple sleeveless vest in green. As time went on, I’d try to provide complete garb, but the vest might help a man distinguish friend from foe in the frenzy of battle.
Or something that appears simpler — many men, more than are willing to admit it, are adequate cooks. From that group, find me one who can decide the victuals for half a million men and train others to cook them.
I’d wanted to set up central messes, which is far more efficient then the old system of squads messing by themselves, and also avoids a great plague I’d foolishly suggested to Tenedos — that the army become its own quartermaster and resupply itself on the march.
In Maisir, that’d meant every man was a looter, and each time he stole something from a Maisirian peasant, he made an enemy for Numantia out of someone who might’ve stayed guardedly neutral or even become an ally. Also, if all soldiers, not just officers, were given their meals, hopefully warm, morning and night, they’d be stronger and fight harder — and spend more time soldiering instead of scrounging.
But this wasn’t possible, at least not yet, and so the old system continued.
We would be fighting in our own land, and there’d be inevitable thefts and crimes against our people. But I swore there’d be as few as possible, and those would be severely dealt with. Therefore, I sought me a bastard. I could have used Kutulu, but his ability to pry out the enemy’s secrets was too important to waste him becoming a uniformed warder once again.
I finally found a man who’d been one of the magistrates dealing with the Tovieti after the rising was quelled, a harsh man who valued only the law and held no gods or men above it. He could oversee my provosts and the resulting courts-martial, and I could temper his austerity with mercy if I chose. In the meantime, the troops would curse him, and not me.
The largest problem was one I thankfully didn’t have to worry about, because there was little I could do, and that was money. To put it simply — we had none. Or almost none. We paid our soldiers little, and that was in scrip we printed on the Paestum broadsheet’s press, redeemable for gold within a year. If, a year from now, we were still fighting and hadn’t been able to take any cities and loot their treasuries … well, if we were still in the field a year from now, that meant Tenedos had won, and we’d be dead.
The cavalry we sent out foraging also paid in scrip, and the farmers grumbled, as they have since the beginning of time. My response was short: sacrifice for your country and take the paper money, or we’ll just requisition what we need.
Little by little and day by day, the army grew, amid dusty, square-bashing, shrieking warrants, galloping officers.
• • •
Sinait and Kutulu came up with a clever device. She ensorcelled a scrap of polished copper that’d been immersed in the mercury pool of a Seeing Bowl; then a spy slipped through the lines and hid it for two days outside Tenedos’s headquarters.
The copper had been spell-commanded to reflect only one man.
Sinait swore there was no possible danger in using the copper after it’d been retrieved, but I was hesitant.
Sinait said the words, and the bowl came to life, and I jerked, seeing Tenedos walk toward me, deep in conversation with a robed man. I frowned, then remembered the other. It was Gojjam, a sometime member of the Chare Brethren, then the emperor’s direct agent.
“I’ve found a man,” Kutulu said, “who has the talent of reading lips, and he says Tenedos is instructing Gojjam on particulars about his new Corps of Wizards, evidently something like the Chare Brethren or the Maisirian War Magicians, which Gojjam is to head.
“I have the conversation transcribed, if you wish to see it, but I can assure you there’s nothing you need notice, save the existence of this corps.”
I nodded absently, paying less attention to his words than in looking at Tenedos. Gods, but he’d aged. His hair was beginning to thin, and he looked soft, as if he hadn’t taken exercise in a while. Once he looked up, gaze crossing the copper, and I flinched. His eyes, too, had changed. Always hypnotic, now they had the glare of a driven soul, completely fixed on a single purpose, and that purpose beyond the ken of humans.
If anything, he was more frightening than before.
I asked if there was more to be gleaned from the copper and was told there wasn’t. I ordered it destroyed, for I wanted nothing that’d been in contact with Tenedos to be close to me or my officers.
I returned to my quarters, very thoughtful, cons
idering how the yeas had worn at the demon king.
Then I caught sight of myself in a pier glass and smiled wryly. I, too, looked far older than my years, older and a trace haggard. But I refused to admit the hard look in my eyes was anything other than determination and fatigue.
• • •
A number of already-skilled craftsmen came to the army, no doubt wanting to be given sword and buckler. But they were too valuable for that, which I’m sure irked some of them, even though becoming such a specialist vastly increased the chances of surviving the war.
One such was an armorer, and I took shameful advantage of my rank and gave him Yonge’s tarnished and worn dagger and asked him, as a favor, what could be done with it.
A few days later, the man returned. The knife was as new, even its varied woods replaced where chipped, its silver workings like mirrors, its blade gleaming, sharper than when it’d been first given me. Along with it came a tooled leather sheath, whose details matched the engravings on the knife’s blade.
I tried to pay him, but he refused, so I rewarded him in a the traditional way the army has, without his ever knowing it, by making sure his superior promoted him as rapidly as possible.
In idle moments, I got into the habit of taking the knife out and polishing it with a bit of leather, thinking about the work it had done in the past.
And dreaming of the work it’d be given in the future.
• • •
Half a time later, I was on a square, watching Domina Thanet attempt to teach a line of budding cavalrymen walk-trot-charge, trying to be complimentary at how far these peasants and merchants’ sons had come, since none fell off the plowhorses, carriage pullers, and merchants’ pets we were trying to convince ourselves would be war mounts. Seer Sinait rode up, brown robes rucked in her belt, excitement coloring her face.
I handed her my waterbag and told her to drink. It was hot out, and heat stroke wouldn’t significantly improve her ability to communicate. She drank deeply, lowered the bag, and stared at the horsemen.
