by K. J. Parker
Still no reaction.
“The bastions serve another purpose,” Valens continued grimly. “As I’m sure you know, our best bet isn’t storming the city walls with ladders and siege towers, or even getting sappers to the foot of the wall to dig it away. The most promising approach will be to dig tunnels twenty feet or so under the foundations of the wall and collapse them; the resulting subsidence should then make the wall fall in under its own weight. The bastions mean that if we want to do this, we’re going to have to dig much longer tunnels than anticipated to reach the walls. If they detect our mining operations – which isn’t difficult: you just fill bowls with water and put them on the ground; if someone’s digging twenty feet directly under one of these basins, the vibrations ripple the surface of the water – all they’ve got to do is dig straight down and break through the wooden props of the tunnel. The tunnel roof collapses, earth from the bastion pours in, the tunnel’s blocked, the miners working forwards of the breach are trapped. Simple and effective.”
His throat was dry from all this lecturing. He looked round for a jug of water, but there wasn’t one.
“Storming the bastions,” he said, “wouldn’t be easy. Apart from their sheer height, by the time we get there they’ll be fringed all round with a palisade of sharpened stakes. If we get over that and go hand-to-hand with them on the flat top of the bastion, we’ll find ourselves facing another ditch, with a palisaded bank on the far side of it, not forgetting constant artillery fire from the scorpions on the City wall. Trying to knock the bastions down with artillery would be a waste of time. Masonry shatters when you pound it with rocks, but a great big mound of dirt is soft and absorbs the shot. Tunnelling under the bastions won’t be easy, as we’ve already seen.
“Behind the bastions, there’s the wall itself. We know the wall’s twenty feet thick at the top, thirty feet thick at the bottom. There are artillery towers at fifty-yard intervals, as well as a range of ingenious devices to guard against ladders, siege towers, rams and all the other usual stuff. The city has four main gates, which ought to be the weak spots in the defences. Not so. Each gateway is flanked with massive square towers and topped by a gatehouse. The gates themselves are eighteen inches thick, made of six layers of three-inch oak ply, each layer running crosswise to stop it splitting. Behind the gate is a hardened steel portcullis. Each gatehouse is fitted with an unpleasant device called a wolf; basically, a very large iron frame like a harrow, fitted with lots of long spikes, hinged, so all you’ve got to do is release a catch and it swings down, crushes or impales anybody standing in front of the gate, trashes battering rams, siege drills and so forth; then it’s hauled back up again with chains and winches ready for the next wave of attackers. As well as the wolf, there’s other machinery for dropping rocks or boiling water, there’s cranes and hooks that pick up rams and pavises, haul them up in the air and then drop them, other things like that. Even if our artillery manages to smash the gatehouse into rubble and we succeed in bringing up rams, by the time we’ve bashed through the gate and portcullis, they’ll have had plenty of time to build a stone block wall across the inside of the gateway, dig trenches, raise barricades, and anything else their ingenious minds can think of. All in all, I believe the gates are probably the hardest points to crack, and I propose leaving them well alone.”
Some reaction, at last. A certain amount of muttering at the back, restlessness at the front. Valens leaned forward on the table and waited. As he’d anticipated, a man in the back row stood up.
“With all due respect” (a tall, thin man with a bald head, very plainly dressed; Valens was sure he ought to recognise him, but didn’t), “your information is admirably detailed and thorough, and your scouts are to be commended. By ascertaining the scale and nature of the defences, they have undoubtedly saved many hundreds of lives. I feel, however, that I might be forgiven for forming the impression that you are trying to persuade us to abandon the attempt on Mezentia by stressing the difficulties and dangers. I would like to remind you that the logical approach, starving the City into submission, is not available to us, thanks to your delay in cutting the Lonazep road and allowing them to lay in supplies for a long siege. This, I feel sure, you would not have done without a reason, but I confess I am unable to guess what that reason might be. Perhaps you would be kind enough to explain it.”
Valens hid most of his smile. “Starving them out was never an option,” he replied. “Our supply lines are tenuous, and even if they held, there simply isn’t enough food and fodder to be had to supply our forces for that length of time. Put simply, if we’d tried that game, we’d have been the ones who starved first, even if I had cut the road as quickly as I possibly could. Which brings me, in fact, to my next point. Whatever we do, we’ve got to do it quickly. At the moment, I can’t tell you precisely how long we can keep the army in front of the City. It depends on too many factors. Even if everything goes as well as possible, though, I can tell you for certain it won’t be any longer than three months.”
“Three months,” the thin man said. “That’s not very long. Why three months?”
Valens shrugged. “It’s an educated guess.”
“Perhaps you’d care to share your reasoning.”
Valens paused. He could hear the patter of rain on the pavilion canopy. Somewhere outside, someone was hammering steel on an anvil, a flat, harsh sound like the warning cry of a bird. He looked at his allies, with whom he had so little in common, apart from a number of deaths. “The country on our side of the desert is quite different to what you’re used to,” he said. “As I understand it, your country is big and empty. You drive your cattle in a wide circuit across broad plains, going where there’s grass for them to graze. On this side, we’ve got little fields and meadows in among the mountains. Over the years we’ve reached a balance, a certain number of people living on land that can just about feed that number. True, a lot of people have died in the war and don’t need feeding any more; by the same token, there’s fewer people to sow and reap corn and cut hay. You brought close on a million more people across the desert, and over a million head of cattle. There’s only so much grain and hay on our side, even in peacetime. We can’t ship food in from overseas as the Mezentines do. A maximum of three months, after which we either crack open the city and feed our people from their stores, or we starve. I left the Lonazep road open because the Mezentines can accumulate food faster than we can, and they’ve got sources of supply we can’t access. Gentlemen, we’ve reached the point where taking the City isn’t a matter of avenging the death of your princess or my late wife. It’s not even about stopping Mezentine aggression against the Vadani or liberating Eremia, or finding a new homeland for the Aram Chantat. We have to beat them and break into their city because either we steal their food or we die. You don’t know about winter in the mountains. Possibly you could feed your people till the spring by slaughtering your cattle, but that’d just make the problem worse; we can’t grow enough grain to feed all of you, and without cattle you have no livelihood. If we’d taken the city a month ago, we’d have signed our own death warrants. Three months, gentlemen; if we haven’t captured the City granaries intact by then, we won’t survive the winter. Really, it’s as simple as that. To be honest with you, compared with seeing to it that your people and mine have enough to eat, breaking open the City is a trivial problem, the sort of thing I’d normally delegate to someone else who’s not got as much on his mind as me. Which, in fact, is what I’ve done.” He smiled, straightened up a little, took a deep breath. “Allow me to outline for you the plan of campaign drawn up for us by our expert engineer, Ziani Vaatzes.”
The hammering Duke Valens had heard came from an anvil under a big, splay-limbed beech tree on the northern edge of the camp. There, a farrier was shaping shoes for a rather fine chestnut gelding, assigned to the new commanding officer of the fourth Eremian light cavalry division, Major Miel Ducas. Having nothing else to do, the major sat and watched, while an armourer finished the alter
ations to his issue mailshirt. The major was taller and more slightly built than the notional average soldier for whom the shirt had been tailored; the rings cut out of the waist would more or less provide the necessary extra length. Meanwhile the woman generally referred to as the major’s wife, at least in his hearing, was weaving straw to pad out his helmet.
“They’re always too big,” she said, as she paused to flex her sore fingers. “When we were scavenging on battlefields, we saw it time and again. You’d find a man with his head smashed in, and his helmet lying next to him without a scratch on it. They make them a big standard size so you can pad it to fit, but I guess they don’t explain that properly when they hand them out. Silly, really. You should talk to the duke about it, it’d save a lot of people from getting killed.”
Miel snuggled his back against the trunk of the tree he was sitting under. “Not my place to bother the duke with operational details,” he said drowsily. “The chain of command says I should report something like that to the quartermaster general’s department, through my immediate superior.”
“Oh,” she said. “Who’s that?”
“Ersani Phocas,” Miel replied, yawning. “But he’s too embarrassed to talk to me, because before the war he was a third cousin of a minor collateral branch of the Phocas, and I was the head of the Ducas, so strictly speaking I shouldn’t even be able to see him on a sunny day, let alone take orders from him. Also, the Ducas and the Phocas hate each other, except when we intermarry. All that’s gone now, of course, but Ersani Phocas is an old man, set in his ways. These orders he’s given me read more like a dinner invitation I’m expected to be too high and mighty to accept. All very charming and nostalgic, but it means I’m still not sure exactly what it is I’m supposed to be doing.”
“Well, then,” she said, tucking one end of the plaited straw under the leather rim of the liner. “It’s like my father used to say. The aristocracy’s just a waste of space.”
He frowned, watching a bird on a branch overhead. “We ran Eremia fairly well, all things considered. Not perfectly, but as well as anybody could. Most people had enough to eat, and we kept the roads safe from robbers.”
“Very true,” she said placidly. “You did a marvellous job, and you never got any thanks for it.”
He nodded. “And we spent your rents on tableware and cushions and falcons and parade armour, mostly imported. We ate too much and made our wives and sisters waste their lives embroidering samplers, we fought our rival families like lunatics and we let Orsea lead us into a war that finished us. But I think the worst of it was, we never enjoyed what we had.”
“Of course,” she said. “Everything else pales into insignificance in comparison.”
He smiled. “I think so, yes,” he said. “We had so much; we had everything. I owned huge areas of land I’d never even seen. I could’ve snapped my fingers and said, Bring me a lifesize gold statue of a horse, and they’d have apologised for the week’s delay. Instead—”
“What good would that have been?” she asked pleasantly. “It’d take up a lot of room, and what could you use it for?”
“Instead,” he went on, “I spent my whole life worrying. I shouldn’t have had a care in the world, but I worried every day of my adult life; because I might’ve done something inappropriate, or someone else was sneaking past me in the advancement stakes, or I wasn’t giving the right advice in council. I worried because I hadn’t got married like I was expected to, and then I felt guilty because I couldn’t face the prospect of being lumbered with any of the small number of dreadful women who were suitable for me. We used to have the most amazing dinners, but I can’t remember what we ate because I was worried about everything going right, not offending the guests. We used to hunt at least once a week in the season, but I was worried about making sure my guests got more of the action than I did. I worried like hell I wouldn’t get to be chief adviser to the duke; then, after I got the job, I never got another good night’s sleep. I worried myself to death about the war. Then we lost, and suddenly I didn’t have to be the Ducas any more, I could actually choose for myself for the first time; and now look at me, getting ready to go off to fight, which is the one thing I hate above everything else.”
“Fine,” she said, looking away. “Don’t go, then.”
He sighed. “I’ve got to,” he said. “I won’t make any difference, nobody really cares if I don’t, my superior officer hates the fact that he’s got to order me around and would far rather I just went away somewhere. For the first time,” he added, his voice suddenly flat, “I’m scared I’ll get killed, because of what might happen to you and…”
“That,” she said. “That’s what you were going to say, isn’t it? You and that.”
He nodded. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“Don’t be. I understand.”
He shut his eyes and scowled. “But I’ve got to go,” he said. “I’ve got to go and be a small, unimportant part of a war that doesn’t really concern me. I don’t even know who I’ll be fighting – could be the Mezentines or the Cure Doce or some other ally they may have kidded into joining them. You’d think that if you’ve got to kill someone, if they’re that important to you, at least you’d know who they are. Killing strangers without even knowing why is really rather ridiculous, don’t you think?”
She frowned at the inside of the helmet, then pulled the plaited straw out and twisted it a little tighter. “Not so long ago you were killing men for their boots,” she said.
“Yes.” He nodded, staring straight ahead. “In comparison, that was practically honourable. We needed to kill to stay alive. There’s far worse things in the world than honest predators.”
“So,” she said. “Don’t go. We can go back to hunting soldiers for a living. Better still, you could get the duke to make you an ambassador or something: Eremian diplomatic representative to some country they haven’t discovered yet. Then we could stay home all day and not do anything.”
“I could,” he replied.
“But you won’t.”
“No.”
“Well, there you are, then.” She stood up and held the helmet out. “All done,” she said. “Try it on, see if it fits better now.”
He tried it. Still a little too big. “That’s fine,” he said.
“No it isn’t. Give it here.”
She sat down again and pulled the straw out. He looked at her but couldn’t see her face.
“Fine,” he said. “So what do you think I should do?”
“Not up to me.” Her hair, usually stretched tightly back and stabbed with a comb, was coming loose, like stuffing from a frayed cushion. “I’m not even your wife. And that doesn’t really change things so much, does it? I mean, the Ducas must have left little souvenirs right the way across Eremia.”
He scowled. He could tell her it wasn’t true, but she’d choose not to believe him. “I don’t suppose the apple wants to fall from the tree,” he said. “But it has no choice.”
“Bullshit.” She looked up at him and smiled; a bleak, angry smile that hit hard and deep. “You’re going because you want to. You’re an aristocrat, all your noble ancestors fought in every war there’s ever been, so you’re going. Simple as that.”
He nodded. “That’s right,” he said. “Like I said. No choice.”
She sighed. “Well,” she said, “at least when you get bashed on the head, your helmet shouldn’t fall off. Don’t suppose any of those blue-blooded suitable cows you ought to have married would’ve known how to line a helmet.”
“Quite true.” He took it from her and settled it on his head. Perfect fit. “Don’t worry about me,” he said. “I’ll be back soon enough. I’ve made arrangements…”
“Of course you have.” A different smile this time. “You’re the slave of duty, you told me so yourself. The farrier’s finished, look. Give me twelve quarters and I’ll go and pay him for you.”
She left him then. He waited for the armourer to finish the work on his mailshirt.
In the distance he could see Aram Chantat leaving their gaudy pavilion; the big meeting breaking up, presumably. He caught a glimpse of Valens, hanging back to talk privately with one of them. Someone walked past, blocking his view. By the time he was able to see again, Valens had disappeared.
He looked up. The man who’d walked past him was the murderer, Daurenja.
Without thinking he jumped to his feet. He knew that Daurenja was very much in favour with the duke, which meant nothing could be done about him, and he’d heard he was back from Civitas Vadanis, having ridden in with the first shipment of artillery from Vaatzes’ factory. Actually seeing him, on the other hand, was something he hadn’t expected, and he found it intensely disturbing.
But so what? He knew for a fact that some years ago Daurenja had killed a man and raped his sister; that Valens knew about it and had hidden behind some abstruse technicalities of legal jurisdiction to avoid having to take action. He was also well aware that, since the crimes had been committed on Ducas land, before the war, he was the legal authority and instrument of justice. Properly speaking, he was duty bound to chase after the man, grab him by his ridiculous ponytail and cut his throat, like a butcher killing a calf. Instead, he trotted after him and caught up with him just as he was about to disappear into one of the storage sheds.