The Ten Thousand

by Paul Kearney

  She looked down at the heavy scroll in her lap. On one side, words in her own tongue—Asurian, the language of the masses. On the other, in the same script, odd-sounding gibberish, nonsense-words that were nonetheless somehow familiar to her. She had been bred in the Magron Mountains, and the tribes there had dialects of their own, words lowlanders did not know or could only half guess at. Some of these meaningless words sounded like the tongue of her childhood, the rough speech her father’s goatherds had used.

  It was the speech of the Macht, transcribed phonetically in good Asurian script. Amasis had given her this scroll, to keep her occupied perhaps. The sister-copy had been given to the Macht general some time before. Tiryn had been learning Machtic now for many weeks, since landfall in Tanis, and the more she learned of it, the more she became convinced that it was—or had once been—the same language the mountain-people of the Empire spoke in their snowy fastnesses. Whatever the Macht were now, at some time in the distant past they, too, had lived in the highlands of the Empire, and had spoken something akin to Asurian. This knowledge Tiryn had kept to herself—for who was there to tell? Arkamenes had barely spoken to her in weeks. Tiryn was a tool, once of great use in palaces, but now mere baggage in the midst of a marching army.

  A line of men went running past the litter— Macht without armour. They were dressed in the interminable red tunics and carried leather-faced shields of wicker, javelins, and short stabbing spears. Arkamenes and his Household were at the forefront of the column for once, they being sick and tired of eating Macht dust, so these men were running up to the very forefront of the army. Tiryn eyed their passing ranks with some curiosity as they sped across her vision, sandals slapping in the muddy verges of the road. There were scores of them and they ran easily, like loping wolves.

  A different sound in the air; the muffled thunder of hooves. Horses approaching—a troop of them cantering in the wake of the Macht—and there was Arkamenes himself at their head, jewelled breastplate flashing in the sun. He wore a komis, the cowled linen head-dress of the Kefren nobility, and there was a holster of javelins at his thigh. Then he was gone, and the plodding column carried on its way, the litter swaying on the shoulders of its Juthan bearers. Tiryn’s maids squatted with downcast eyes opposite her in the perfumed compartment. Once again, the endless tramp of feet upon the earth, the army’s heartbeat. Tiryn sank back upon her cushions, the scroll sliding from her lap, forgotten. He did not so much as look my way, she thought. I am no longer useful to him now, not even as a brood mare. And from the hot glare of her eyes the tears spilled, and trickled into her veil.

  Arkamenes reined in, the high-bred Niseian prancing under him, nostrils flared. The tallest of the Macht would not reach its shoulder, and he felt that he towered over all of them. This put him in an even better humour. He set one hand on his hip and slouched in the saddle as one born to it.

  “Well, Phiron, what plan is this you’ve hatched for me now?”

  Phiron stepped out of the brisk-marching column. He wore his cuirass and carried a spear. Like all the Macht, he stored his shield and helm in the wagons while on the march. He was growing a beard; Arkamenes thought it did not suit him, but then no Kefren noble grew hair on his face. What an ugly race, he thought. So stubborn and steadfast, so small in mind, unprepossessing. They might be brothers to the Juthan, were it not for their colouring. And yet, these hairy, ugly little creatures were the stuff of Asurian legend. Deep down, Arkamenes knew full well that no Kefren army, not even the Great King’s Honai, could have come out of that river and broken the enemy line as these things had. There was an implacability about them that had to be seen to be believed. His money had been spent well.

  “I am sending forward a flying column to scout out the region to our front,” Phiron said. His eyes ranged up and down the passing files of marching men, noting everything. The Macht winked or nodded at him as they passed by, no jot of deference about them. Arkamenes, they ignored entirely, and he swallowed the anger that welled up in him.

  “I wish to send these scouts far ahead of us. They’ll be on foot, as we are not a horse-people, but they can move swiftly if they’re unarmoured. And my lord, I would like one of your staff to accompany them, someone who can speak Machtic and interpret for their officers.”

  “What is there to scout for? We have destroyed the only Imperial force in Jutha,” Arkamenes said. The sun caught the polish on his nails as he held one reasonable hand palm upwards.

  “Fast moving cavalry could cover a lot of ground. Levied in Pleninash, it could be on the Jurid River a week from now. I mean to seize the next bridge intact, my lord. I do not want my men to fight their way across another river.”

  Arkamenes was stung by the implication. Again, he found himself controlling the anger these creatures seemed to stoke in him. He affected disinterest. “Very well. But you are not in luck today, General. None among my staff speak your barbarous tongue. That is the reason Amasis had ours written down for you in Tanis—the costly labour of a dozen scholars, I might add. Your men will have to shift for themselves.”

  Phiron looked up at Arkamenes’s golden face. He seemed thoughtful and almost puzzled at the same time. Even silent, he rebukes me, Arkamenes thought. He kicked his horse’s ribs and the animal half-reared.

  “You are in my Empire now, General. Your men will have to learn my language.” The horse took off under him. He galloped away, raising a hand in mocking farewell, whilst a brightly dressed kite-tail of attendants and staff trailed after him, whipping their mounts to keep up.

  The combined army trekked onwards across, the fertile plains of southern Jutha, a moving city of some forty thousand souls. The Juthan peasants who worked the land straightened from their labour to watch as the phenomenon came and went. In the morning it would be a rumble on the air, a dust cloud at the horizon. As noon came, it would fill their world, an awe-inspiring host of hosts tramping the winter-sown barley under their feet and gathering up every hoard of grain, every herd of livestock in its path. The Macht army in the van held to its ranks and marched in disciplined companies. Behind them the Kufr troops spread out in skeins and crowds about the countryside, looting as they came, not just for food, but for anything they might carry on their backs. They rifled through the reed-thatch of the Juthan villages, poked holes in the mud-brick walls, kicked in the doors of smoke-houses, and made off with the hanging hams.

  When evening came, the storm had passed. The army was no more than a blur on the dimming horizon again, marching into the eastern darkness. In the sky above Phobos and Haukos looked down in its wake, and the Juthan set about repairing their homes and salvaging what they could out of their gutted farms, rebuilding the broken dykes of the irrigation channels and comforting their weeping wives and daughters. And when they had finished, the Juthan menfolk gathered in quiet crowds about the squares in their villages with their billhooks and axes to hand, and talked amongst one another long into the night.

  “He is crossing into Istar now, following the Great Road eastwards. It is the best route, quickest and in the richest country. He will not deviate from it. With that knowledge, we can plot his march with some accuracy.”

  Vorus stood looking up at the brilliantly lit western wall of the chamber. There, in mosaic pieces smaller than a moth’s wing, was set a map of the world—or at least, that portion of it which mattered. The map was as accurate as the Imperial surveyors could make it, and the craftsmen had laboured over it for fifteen years, or so court legend said. The room was circular, with windows set high above his head. The map curved about half the room’s circumference, and marked out in stone and tile upon it were not only the mountains and rivers and cities of the Empire, but the roads, the posting stations, the Imperial granaries, and the fortresses which nailed this immense expanse of territory together. Vorus had last stood before this map with Anurman and Proxis, planning the Carchanis campaign twenty years before. Now he turned to Ashurnan the Great King, the only person seated amid the crowd of others who
stood silent in the room, and he clicked his ivory pointer from spot to spot on the map.

  “We thought to hold him at the Jurid River by taking the bridges with cavalry before his main force had come up, but he sent ahead a body of light infantry and forestalled us. Esis has capitulated to him, the last major fortress before the Bekai River. All the Juthan cities have now declared for the traitor: Anaphesh, Halys, Dadikai—”

  “I know the cities of Jutha, General,” Ashurnan said quietly. “What of Honuran, Governor of Istar—any word?”

  There was a silence. Somewhere, a woman’s voice sang with exquisite sweetness. This chamber was near the harem—Hadarman the Great had built it here so he could be briefed on the Empire’s doings without straying too far from his wives. It had the added advantage of being far from the audience chambers of the Court, and easy to secure against prying ears and eyes. The Honai outside the door were high kin of the King himself. One turned to blood for trust, even when it was the blood one was wariest of. Honuran, Governor of Istar, was Ashurnan’s cousin. They had played together in this palace as boys.

  “There is no word from him, my lord,” old Xarnes said. He cleared his throat slightly, leaning on his staff of office as though it were a thing of practical use now, not merely ceremonial. “Our messengers sent to Istar have not yet returned.”

  “He’s equivocating, waiting. That means Istar is already lost,” Vorus said bluntly. In the knot of people about the seated king, the wide, grey face of Proxis stared back at him, yellow eyes shot with blood. Proxis shook his head slightly, one old comrade to another.

  “At least, lord, I believe it likely that—”

  “My cousin has betrayed me for my brother. I know, General. You need not be too careful of your words.” Ashurnan stood up, and approaching the wall he ran his hand along the mosaic of the map as though he thought he could gain information from its touch. “Not today, anyway. Today I must have truth in all its bitterness.” He turned away from the wall abruptly. “Berosh, how is it in the Magron Passes?”

  A high-caste Kefren with the violet eyes of the Royal house bowed deeply before responding. “My lord, the snow is still deeper than a wagon’s wheel. The Asurian Gates are closed to all but the hardiest of our couriers. There is no passage yet for the army. Spring has not yet come to the passes.”

  “So we’re caught here, whilst beyond the protection of the mountains he rapes half the Empire,” Ashurnan snarled. “General, what of our muster?”

  Proxis stumped forward, bowed as deeply as Berosh had done, though without grace, and handed Vorus a scroll. The Macht general opened it and scanned the tabulated lists that lined the parchment in the exquisite hand of the palace scribes. Even writing bald lists of numbers, their craftsmanship was a thing of beauty.

  “My lord, the levies from Arakosia and Medis are in. With the Asurian troops and your Household, that totals some hundred thousand foot and twelve thousand horse. The marshals have done well.”

  “And now we must feed them all through what remains of this winter,” Ashurnan said, rubbing his eyes.

  “My lord, this works to our advantage. He must make the passage of the Asurian Gates soon after the spring melt. His men will be marching down from a mountain-crossing, tired, their supply lines strung out. We meet him here, on the plains before Ashur itself, where our cavalry will carve him up and our numbers can be brought to bear. Our men will be rested and well-fed, and we will outnumber the foe three or four to one. My lord, the traitor will die before the walls of the Imperial City, I promise you.”

  Ashurnan smiled. He stepped across the room in three strides and set one hand on Vorus’s shoulder. The Kefren among those present stirred in shock. The Great King bent, and kissed Vorus on the cheek, the greeting of a close friend, or a kinsman. Vorus felt his face flush with blood. There were murmurings among those present.

  “You will lead this army,” Ashurnan said. He turned and looked over the high officers and courtiers of the Empire, who stood stiffly before him now, eyes downcast, heads bent.

  “Who else could I choose that would better know how to kill an army of Macht?”

  It was a bad place for a girl to be, this far into the bivouac-lines of the army. In the firelight she wore a komis pulled across her face, but there was no mistaking the curves that filled her silk robe, or the peep of her pale hand as it tugged the veil closer about her nose. She was as tall as the average strawhead from the mountains, and she was Kufr, wandering through a Macht camp at night. One of the other army’s whores, Jason supposed, though she was well dressed, and more demure than most. The Macht did not copulate with Kufr—never had, never would. That was the chosen line they all took. But at night, when the camps of the Macht and the Kufr drew close for protection, there was a certain traffic of figures flitting back and forth that had nothing to do with the daytime commerce. It was hard to know. Even Jason could not say for sure, and he had a quicker wit than most. And even he, the scroll-scratcher, was beginning to feel the lack of female company. It had been a long time since they had taken ship, and now the Kufr did not look so outlandish as once they had.

  Orsos, of all people, turned up in her path. He was middling drunk, as affable as a pig like him was likely to get. He grinned at her, shaven bristles standing up on his head, and took her by one slim arm as she tried to pass.

  “Ha! Dearie, you picked the wrong spot to splay your legs. We’re men here, not those ball-less calves you’re used to servicing.” He drew her close to his large, lumpen face, and leered happily.

  “Let’s have a look then, and see what the Kufr call a good fuck. Set aside that rag on your head.” With a twitch of his wrist, Orsos ripped the komis from the Kufr’s face. The girl cried out something in her own tongue, and twisted in his grasp. Tall though she was, her wrist was engulfed by his meaty fist. “You’ve come here, so you’re looking to get a taste of—”

  “What’s this you’ve found, brother?” Jason asked lightly, stepping up. Around him, other Macht spearmen were rising from their camp-fires with anticipation shining in their eyes. If Orsos was starting something, there would be sport to watch ere it ended. Jason snapped out at them; “Back on your arses, and keep your eyes to yourselves!” And he could not quite account for the anger which bit through his voice.

  “Centurion’s meat,” someone said with a shrug. There were a few catcalls around the farther fires, from those too far away to be identified, but in the main the centons settled down again. Orsos was about to rape something—it was not exactly news.

  The Kufr girl had darker eyes and skin than the high-caste Kefren Jason had seen, in Tanis and about Arkamenes’s tents. She was shorter too, though still a head higher than either of them.

  “She could almost be one of us,” he said to Orsos, surprised despite himself.

  Orsos was turning her face this way and that, as though studying a melon at market. The girl was silent in his grasp now, clearly terrified.

  “What do you think, Jason, is the rest of her as good-looking as her face?”

  Part of Jason wanted badly to find out, but then the girl met his eyes. There was more than fear in them; a kind of pitiful resignation. And then, in clear and perfect Machtic, she said, “Please.”

  Orsos dropped his hands from her face as though they had been burned. “Phobos! Did you hear that, Jason? It speaks our tongue. Kufr—say something else!” He was grinning, and he poked the girl with his finger.

  Her face was still now, though tears had marked tracks down it, streaking the kohl about her eyes. “Please,” she said again, “I am Arkamenes’s... woman.”

  Jason and Orsos looked at one another. “She’s well enough dressed,” Jason said. He bent and retrieved the girl’s komis. “Could be she’s a household slave.”

  “Could be she’s a liar,” Orsos said, but the humour had gone out of him now. “Get her the hell out of here, Jason. Best to be safe. That Kufr bastard doesn’t like to have anyone so much as look at his women.” Orsos stumped away.
“I’m going to find a goat to fuck.” And he cackled, weaving his way off through the campfires and shouting insults at the men upon their bedrolls.

  Jason studied the girl as she wrapped her komis back about that beautiful face. She looked so human. Then, in Asurian gleaned from his studies, he said, “I’m sorry.”

  The girl looked at him like a startled deer, and there came a flurry of Asurian too fast for Jason’s limited scholarship. He held up his hands, smiling. “Slow, slow.”

  “You speak our tongue?”

  “You speak ours?”

  She hesitated. “I am been learning. I have a scroll.”

  “I have one also. I am Jason.”

  “I am Tiryn.”

  Jason gestured to the lines of men reclining about the campfires, their eyes catching the flames as they watched the little exchange. There was a pool of silence about them as the Macht watched, and listened.

  “Why are you here?” he asked her. She shook her head, and seemed near to tears again.

  “I don’t know.”

  His head hurt from recalling the close-written phrases on his precious scroll. Eyes shut, haltingly, he said, “I take you home.”

  “Home,” she said in wonder.

  “Arkamenes.”

  “Ah. Yes. Take me to him.”

  “You are his woman?”

  “His woman, yes.”

  Jason held out his arm, but she recoiled as though he had raised a fist at her. Cursing his ignorance, he led the way and heard the soft hiss of the silk about her thighs as she followed. Through the Macht camp, hundreds of eyes following their every move as they wove in unhurried fashion about the campfires. Everywhere they went the talk was stilled, and the Macht watched them in wonder and surmise: the handsome Macht general, and behind him the tall, veiled Kufr woman with the dark eyes.

  TWELVE

  THE MELTED SNOWS