Savages

by K. J. Parker

  Two days left. A huge column of ox-drawn carts appeared on the skyline. When they came a little closer, the watchmen on the wall were able to make out the distinctive shapes of heavy artillery; the long necks of catapults and mangonels, the swaying blocks of siege towers. The viewing areas were immediately closed to the public.

  “Siege towers,” Ermanaric said happily. “Wooden structures covered in leather hides, hollow inside. What we in the trade call chimneys.”

  Aimeric let that pass. “What’s the accuracy going to be like?” he asked.

  “Oh, we’ll be fine,” Ermanaric said. “We’ve been working on it like mad, compiling windage charts. Aiming artillery is now a science rather than a branch of the dark arts. I can more or less guarantee we can hit a siege tower at three hundred yards.”

  There was something else he needed to talk about. The Cosseilhatz were starting to pull their wagons back, to clear the plain in front of the City so that the soldiers could manoeuvre. Once they’d done that, the women and children would be out of range. “How soon can you be ready?” he asked. “I mean, what sort of notice do you need?”

  Ermanaric shrugged. “Half an hour,” he said. “As long as it’d take for my trained engineers to walk from here to the Wall.”

  Aimeric hesitated. In half an hour, he could fill the sky and the plain with fire. The best possible target was wandering away. All he had to do was say the word. “That’s fine,” he said. “Keep your people standing by, just in case they decide to attack before the truce is over.”

  What would Calojan have done, he asked himself, as he walked away. Well, the right thing, naturally. Probably not this; he wouldn’t have let the best chance of saving the City and ending the war slip away, doing nothing about it, standing idly by. He wouldn’t have allowed himself the indulgence of mercy; he wasn’t a coward, who was too scared of nightmares and guilt and looking at his face in the mirror to do what had to be done. Calojan would’ve taken the evil upon himself, put it on like the lorus and the divitision; swallowed it whole; taken away the sins of the world, like the Invincible Sun.

  Just as well I’m not him.

  They retrieved the tent the night before the truce expired. They wouldn’t be needing it for further negotiations, since the Coalition had said quite categorically that there weren’t going to be any. So; if the City survived, it’d be there for the next time they staged an open-air ceremony. If the City didn’t survive, well.

  The truce was set to end at dawn, but Semplan was up and about well before then, supervising the setting up of the artillery, which he had no idea how to use. The ground was soft and churned up by the wheels of the civilian wagons, which had finished pulling out the previous morning; the enormously wide iron tires that Hunza had insisted they fit to the wheels of the catapult limbers coped with the mud and the ruts up to a point, but when eventually they got stuck, they got very stuck. At one point, Semplan had half the army out pushing or hauling on ropes. It was broad daylight by the time the engines were lined up and ready to go. There were five hundred and six of them, nearly twice as many as the total strength of the imperial artillery at the height of the Sashan war, and ten times as many as were facing them on the City wall. They’d cut down a forest to build them, and Raffen had brought in twenty thousand of his people to do the carpentry. They’d dismantled an entire town to get stone blocks to use as ammunition; an interesting thought, Raffen had observed, using one Imperial city to smash down another.

  “Well,” Joiauz said quietly, “here we all are. We might as well get on with it.”

  He nodded to Semplan, who yelled the order to loose in a high, shrill voice. The catapult ropes creaked, like tall trees in a high wind, and then the ground bumped under their feet as the catapult arms swung through the air and slammed against the padded stops. The stones sailed up—they were slower in flight than Chauzida had anticipated, almost gliding, like birds about to pitch—and drew perfect hooped arcs through the sky, and fell short, about fifty yards from the wall.

  Dead silence; then Semplan started to swear. “Can you crank them up a bit more?” Joiauz asked, but Semplan shook his head. “That’s as tight as they’ll go without pulling themselves apart,” he said. “Nothing for it, we’ll have to move them forward some more.”

  They all knew what that meant. Fifty yards further forward would bring them within range of the imperial engines on the wall. Hunza had promised faithfully that the Sashan pattern of catapult had seventy-five yards, easily, on the imperial model. Apparently not.

  “Bring up the big shields,” Semplan ordered. The proper name was pavise, according to Hunza, but nobody else would know what that meant. The shields were eight feet tall and five wide, woven from riven hazel. In theory, they could stop arrows. There weren’t anything like enough of them.

  “Where’s that idiot Hunza?” Joiauz was yelling. “Get him here, right now. I want him to explain why his stupid machines are building the enemy a spare wall instead of knocking down the City.”

  Hunza was duly produced. “Simple,” he said. “Your workers didn’t follow the specifications I provided for them. If they had, the volley wouldn’t have fallen short. I can’t be blamed for your allies’ incompetence.”

  “He’s probably right,” Autet said quietly. “The Selbst reckon they can do anything, but they’ve never built catapults before.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Chauzida said. “We’ve got plenty of time and plenty of rocks.”

  “Yes, but we’re going to have to move our machines within range of theirs,” Joiauz said bitterly. “Which the Great King here assured me wasn’t going to be necessary. There’ll be people killed because of his mistake.”

  Chauzida looked at him. “Uncle,” he said. “An awful lot of people are going to get killed because of all our mistakes today. I don’t think shouting at each other’s going to make it better.”

  “They aren’t shooting at us,” Autet said.

  They all turned and looked. The catapults were lumbering painfully forward, with great clouds and swarms of men in front of them, hauling on ropes. They had to be well within range by now, but the imperial artillery hadn’t loosed a single stone. “What are they waiting for?” Joiauz asked.

  “No,” Aimeric said. “Not yet.”

  The artillery commander rolled his eyes but said nothing. He’d already made his views quite clear. There was absolutely no case to be made against them, and Aimeric hadn’t even tried. Of course they should have loosed their first shots much earlier, as soon as the enemy engines crossed the five hundred yard line, estimated maximum range for the wine-jar missiles. Having passed up that opportunity, of course they should have dropped firepots in among the crowded masses of Cosseilhatz and Selbst as they dragged the machines forward after their first failed volley. Now the hauling teams had done their job and scampered back to what they fondly imagined was a safe distance, and only the artillerymen remained. So, Aimeric thought, do it now, why not? If it’s the thought of killing more people than you absolutely have to that’s holding you back, then this would be a good time; there’s only five or six men to each engine, you can burn wood instead of flesh and still make a war-stopping impression. Now would be the best possible time; except that—

  “They’re about to shoot,” the guard captain said loudly. “You might want to get your head down, sir. Rock splinters can carry a long way.”

  “I’m fine here, thanks,” Aimeric heard himself say; which was ridiculous, because a flying shard could break his head off his neck, and only a lunatic would take the risk. But he couldn’t move, because he had to stay here where he could see; because it was all up to him now, and he had to see it for himself. The captain nodded briefly and dived into the open doorway of the guard tower. A few yards away, Aimeric could see a plain, unglazed pottery jar sitting in the padded spoon of the catapult arm, while an artilleryman stood by motionless, holding a burning torch. I can’t do this, he thought. They have to shoot first.

  “What the hel
l,” he heard somebody say, “is that?”

  He looked up, but he couldn’t see anything. “What?” he shouted, but whoever it was must’ve assumed he was talking to someone else. “What can you see?” he yelled. “Answer me.”

  No reply; but none needed, he could see it for himself. A large body of horsemen had appeared over the crest of the ridge, from the direction of the Cosseilhatz camp. Aimeric frowned, because it made no sense. Why were the enemy deploying their cavalry for an assault against a fortified position? Was it some brilliant piece of strategy, or were they simply too lazy to walk?

  The Cosseilhatz hadn’t shot. The realisation hit him like a smack to the head, administered by an exasperated teacher. They were ready, their catapults were wound up and aimed, but the crews were running away. Why would they run at the sight of their own cavalry?

  “The king,” Joiauz was screaming. “Protect the king.”

  Admirable sentiment; nobody was listening. The problem was that nobody had any weapons; they’d left their bows and spears behind, assuming they wouldn’t need them. As a result, there was no question of fighting back, even if anyone had found the suicidal courage to try. Instead, they were running, heading back to the camp. But they couldn’t run nearly as fast as the lancers’ horses.

  From the wall, it looked like the moment when a dam breaks and the floodwater surges in, sweeping up everything in its path and turning it into flotsam, floating on the unstoppable water. The tide of lancers swept down on both sides of the line of catapults, engulfing the scattering crews, who simply disappeared, surging together at the end of the line to turn and flood the pitiful redoubt that had formed up around the Coalition commanders.

  “Stop,” someone called out. “That’s enough.”

  Chauzida looked up, above the dead bodies and the hedge of spears. He couldn’t see who’d shouted, but it seemed to have worked. The horsemen stopped and backed away. He couldn’t see, because Joiauz was standing right in front of him, to protect him with his body, since he had nothing else. Gently, he pushed his uncle aside. “It’s all right,” he said.

  Autet was dead; he’d seen him crushed under the horses’ hooves. Raffen had been knocked down, but he hadn’t actually seen him die. He had no idea where Semplan was; he’d been with the engines. He walked forward until he could go no further without climbing over the dead. “I’m Chauzida,” he said. “I’m the king. Who’s in charge, please?”

  The solid forest of horses’ legs and steel greaves parted, and a man approached, on foot, holding his helmet tucked under his arm. Chauzida recognised him. He was supposed to be dead.

  “My men have surrounded your camp,” he said, in a loud, calm voice. “I’ve got three thousand horse-archers drawn up round the tents and wagons. You will come with me and give your soldiers the order to stand down, or I’ll have my trumpeters blow the signal and we’ll shoot your families.”

  Chauzida looked at him. “We thought you were dead.”

  “Of course you did. And now you’re coming with me.” Calojan held out his arm. “You’ll be quite safe,” he said, “if I wanted you dead, you would be.”

  Naturally. “It’s all right,” Chauzida said, as Joiauz started to lunge forward. “Please stay here, all of you. I’ll be quite all right.”

  “I’m coming with you,” Joiauz said. He took a long stride forward, and a lancer clubbed the back of his head with the butt of his spear. He dropped to his knees. “Leave him,” Calojan said. “Come on, I’m in a hurry.”

  Calojan wasn’t bluffing. From the top of the ridge, Chauzida could see the cordon of horse-archers, one at the top of each lane of the lower half of the camp. They’d brought the women, the children and the old men out of the wagons and crowded them together in bunches, for ease of execution. He tried to work out how long it would take the soldiers, drawn up in battle formation three hundred yards away, to get there and kill the imperials; four, five, possibly even six volleys, if the imperials stood their ground. At that range, against targets packed so closely together, it was hard to see how they could miss.

  They were walking towards the Cosseilhatz line. A few yards behind them rode a dozen lancers, no more (but eleven more than it’d take to kill me, Chauzida thought). He could feel the anger rising from his people as they watched the imperials watching their families, but he knew they wouldn’t dare try anything. In other words, checkmate.

  “Who’s in command of your army?” Calojan said.

  “His name’s Semplan.”

  “He’s an idiot.” Calojan shook his head. “The most basic rule, you don’t leave your camp exposed and unguarded. If I were you, I’d pull his neck.”

  “He’s probably dead already,” Chauzida said. “He was over by the catapults.”

  “If he isn’t, he deserves to be. I was expecting to have to cut my way through to the siege engines, and I was able to ride straight up to your wagons without anyone lifting a finger. The main body of your army was half a mile off, and looking the other way. There were no pickets, no sentries, no scouts, nothing.”

  “We didn’t think we’d need them. We thought you were dead.”

  Calojan pulled a face. “The first thing they tell you at the academy,” he said. “The worst words a general can ever utter are, I never expected that. Was this Semplan in the war? I don’t remember him.”

  “He’s new at the job.”

  “Get rid of him. What happened to your uncle, Joiauz? He was pretty competent, as I remember.”

  “There were problems,” Chauzida said. “Political stuff.”

  “Ah.” Calojan nodded sympathetically. “Soldiers should keep out of politics, the way sensible men stay out of burning houses. Well, I say that. I guess I’m not very sensible.”

  They walked on in silence; then Chauzida said, “Are you going to let us go?”

  “I hope so,” Calojan said.

  They were close to the line now; much closer, and the Cosseilhatz would be able to hear them talking. “What have I got to do?” Chauzida asked.

  “Agree with me. It’s all I ever ask of anyone.”

  A lancer dismounted, stuck his spear in the ground, drew his sword and stood directly behind Chauzida, so close he could smell his sweat. Presumably the man was nervous, so close to the enemy, charged with the task of killing their king, should it come to that. Calojan didn’t seem nervous at all. He advanced to within ten yards of the line, tucked his helmet firmly under his arm, and said, “Some of you know me, I’m Calojan. As you can see, I’m not dead. I have your civilians herded up where my archers can’t miss. I also have your king. I think we can safely say I’ve won this round.”

  A man slid off his horse and walked forward; Garsio, Luzir’s son. Chauzida couldn’t remember what rank he’d been given, but it didn’t seem to matter. “What do you want?”

  “All right,” Calojan said, “here’s the deal. You pull back at least two miles and stay there until we’ve finished dragging your beautiful new catapults inside the City. When we’ve done that, we’ll go inside and let the king go. That’s all. By the way, this isn’t a negotiation. I’m giving you your orders. Understood?”

  “How can we be sure—?”

  “Because I say so. And because the fewer of your people I kill today, the easier it’ll be for us all to get along nicely for the next thousand years. Now please go away, before something goes wrong and we have a massacre on our hands.”

  Garsio looked at him, as if wondering if he was real. “You’re supposed to be dead,” he said. “They stuck your head on a pole.”

  Calojan grinned. “Didn’t anyone tell you? I’m immortal. Which means I’m going to carry on beating the shit out of you people for ever and ever. I suggest you get used to it.”

  On the way back, Chauzida asked, “Is that true?”

  “What?”

  “That you’re immortal.”

  Calojan laughed. It was a curiously friendly sound. “God, I hope not. I don’t know, I might be. We’ll have to wait and see.�
��

  “But you were dead. I saw it myself, your head on a spear.”

  Calojan shrugged. “Actually,” he said, “that wasn’t me. That was a quartermaster sergeant of the Seventeenth who had the misfortune to look a lot like me. I found him doing rude impersonations of me, at twenty trachy a time. So I had him cut his hair like mine and shave his beard, even faked the scar behind my ear. It’s something we’re very good at in the empire these days, fakes and forgeries.”

  “I’m sorry,” Chauzida said. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Good,” Calojan said.

  When they told the chamberlain they’d be needing the big tent again, he was not amused. He didn’t say anything, of course, but the look on his face said it all.