The Ten Thousand

by Paul Kearney

  “Another battle,” Jason told her. “The last, perhaps, if we do it right.”

  “I’ll take the men ahead a ways, and see what these hill-villages have in their larders,” Rictus said. He bent and picked up his pelta, slinging the light shield across his back. He nodded at Jason once and then set off at a swift jog. Further along the slope his mora awaited him, some eight hundred men scattered across the grass enjoying the cooler air, most lying on their backs asleep. As he approached they began to rise, the movement rippling out across the hillside. All of them had the iktos sigil painted across their shields, the badge of Isca.

  “He’s so young, to lead so many men,” Tiryn said.

  “He’s not so young as he once was.” Jason set a hand in the small of her back, and set it travelling upwards, feeling the flesh of her through the silk. It came to rest on her nape, slid under the fabric, and brushed the tiny hairs there, as silken as the robe she wore. Her skin goosepimpled under his fingers.

  “If you want me, why not have me?” Tiryn asked him, standing very still.

  “I will not take what is not freely given.”

  “It’s been taken before, many times.”

  “That makes no difference.” Jason slid his hand away, brought it up and grasped her chin through the thin material of the komis. “I want what is in here,” he said, shaking her head gently. “Here.” He set his hand gently on the warmth of one breast, and felt the thudding of her heart within, the heat of her. She moved infinitesimally closer, pushing her breast into his palm so that he could feel the nipple through the fine stuff of her robe.

  “You are Macht,” she said. “I am Kufr.”

  “I don’t care, Tiryn.”

  She bent her head, and after a moment’s hesitation she kissed him through the veil. “Others will.”

  “I don’t care,” he repeated.

  “Let it be so then,” she said. “For a while. Until we come to the shores of the sea.” Her hand came up and caressed his face, touching lightly on old scars.

  “Until then,” he agreed, and kissed her again.

  Within the yellow cloud to the east, Vorus rode his old mare deep in thought, his eyes narrowed against the dust. Inside the smoking fume of their passage he felt detached from the army he led, and let the mare pick her way in the wake of the vanguard with little more than a nudge of his heels every now and again to keep her on her way. The scouts told him he was three days’ march behind his quarry, and no matter how hard he pushed the troops, it seemed that gap never narrowed. He was leading a dust-caked, phantom army of trudging ghosts, chasing something even more phantasmal than themselves. Chasing an idea perhaps, a marching symbol which with every step it took, broke open new thoughts among the people it passed, among the people who had merely heard of it, and sowed garbled stories of its journey. He was chasing down a myth.

  So it seemed, every evening, when he read the letters sent at horse-killing pace by Ashurnan to plague the few moments of rest he allowed himself after the army had bedded down for the night. The Great King had kept fifty thousand soldiers as his bodyguard, hoarding the new levies which were still arriving in Pleninash and encamping them around Kaik as if the Macht could somehow still surprise him there. He had lost something: a kind of courage perhaps. Even through the long-winded flowery language of the scribes, Vorus could read it. Ashurnan wanted this thing done and over with and forgotten. He wanted to forget, perhaps, the carnage of Kunaksa. His brother’s death. Why else send the corpse of Arkamenes back to Ashur for a Royal funeral? Vorus would have fed it to the jackals.

  But there were still enough here to do the job. The column in which Vorus rode was twelve pasangs long. The van of it went into camp two hours before the rearguard every night. And he still had the Asurian cavalry, six thousand of them. Every day they rode out on the flanks and to the front, not so eager as they had been once, nor so brilliantly turned out, either. Many were now mounted on local scrub ponies, for the tall Niseians had died by the hundred at Kunaksa. But they were still the best he had.

  As for the rest, there was a remnant of the Honai, which Vorus kept as his reserve and commanded himself; the hufsan levies, still intact, though they hated the humid flatness of the lands they were trekking across; and the three Juthan Legions, twelve thousand of the squat, dour-handed warriors under Proxis. Close to fifty thousand warriors, all told. And Vorus had Kefren officers out among the plains cities day and night, conscripting more. He would need them. He would need them all.

  He left the column and kicked his unwilling horse into a canter, eating up the ground alongside the marching files. Near the head of the army he found the Juthan contingent, their grey skin tawny with dust, halberds resting on their shoulders, shields slung on their backs. He trotted along their ranks, staring into the lines of squat, dust-caked warriors, as intent as if his eyes could somehow fathom what was travelling through their heads. He almost ran into Proxis, who sat by the side of the road on his slate-coloured mule, watching the legions pass by.

  “We’re low on water,” Proxis told him.

  “Anaris is ten pasangs away, and there are wells there. We halt before the city for the night.”

  “The plains cities have been supplying the Macht with fodder and water, all of them along the road, all of them since the sack of Ab-Mirza.”

  “I know.” The knowledge had angered most of the army, and had made relations with the city-governors tetchy. Feeding one army was bad enough, but when a second, five times larger, turned up in the wake of the first, there was not much left to go around.

  “Will you punish them?” Proxis asked. “The Great King would wish it so.”

  “I will not sack our own cities, not until Ashurnan expressly orders me to do so. They are our people, Proxis.”

  “Are they now?” the Juthan said, and a grimace flitted across his broad face. “You’ve heard the rumours from Junnan?”

  “I have heard them.” Vorus sat very still in his saddle. He did not look at his old friend, but studied the marching files of Juthan as they marched past. Slave-soldiers, hoping to earn their freedom through service in war; as Proxis had done twenty years before, saving a general’s life on the battlefield. The general had been Vorus.

  “It may be that once the Macht are destroyed you will have to move on to the Juthan,” Proxis said.

  “Many things may happen,” Vorus said stiffly. “We cannot foresee all of them. We can only keep putting one foot in front of the other.” If the rumours were true, then the Juthan had risen in open rebellion, and the entire ancient province of Jutha was lost to the Empire. The slave-race had rediscovered their pride at last, and from the Gadinai Desert to the Jurid River they had expelled all Imperial garrisons, even those rebel ones Arkamenes had installed in his passage though the province. Rumours of battles, of bloodshed on a massive scale. The Empire was creaking on its foundations.

  “You have always been my friend,” Proxis said. “You made me free.”

  “You earned your freedom. You saved my life at Carchanis.”

  Proxis rubbed his mule’s ears. He seemed about to say something, then stopped. That Juthan reserve came down again. “As you say, we can only keep putting one foot in front of the other.” He swung his mule around and joined the column of Juthan troops, becoming part of that dun coloured crowd of trudging warriors. Vorus watched him go, knowing now that some decision had just been made, and there was nothing he could do about it.

  Out of the western horizon, the white-tipped peaks of the Korash Mountains rose now to stand stark against every sunset. This was the province of Hafdaran. At long last, the endless lowlands of the Middle Empire had been left behind. The land grew more broken and rugged, with knots and fists of stone thrusting up through the soil on all sides. Here, the irrigation systems of the plains came to a halt, for the earth was poorer, and the local Kufr grazed herds upon it rather than planting crops. These were hufsan folk in the main, the hill-peoples of the Empire, and they lived in unwalled towns and
sprawling villages rather than fortified cities. They herded goats, sheep, upland cattle, and scrub ponies. As the land rose, so the air grew cooler, and the Macht found themselves able to breathe a little easier. The wind came off the mountains in dry waves, flattening the upland grass and reminding them of their homeland. To the thousands of marching men, it seemed that they must be drawing closer to journey’s end, though those who had some notion of geography knew this to be wishful thinking. As the crows flew, it was still twelve hundred pasangs to Sinon.

  The fortress-city of Irunshahr rose up on a spur of outlying rock from one of the lower Korash peaks. It overlooked the Irun Gates, the only way through the mountains to the wide lands of the Outer Empire beyond. Within sight of the city the Macht halted, set up camp, and sent out foraging parties to scour the land around for anything four-footed which might be put in the pot. To their rear, Jason posted the morai of Aristos and Mynon to keep an eye on the pursuing Kufr army. They had marched over a thousand pasangs in the last five weeks, following the Imperial Road as if it had been constructed to speed their passage out of the Empire. In the lowlands it was summer now, while up here in the hills the gorse was in full blossom, and there were bees by the million crawling around the heather-strewn slopes and amid the rocks. Overhead, the great raptors of the Korash foothills circled endlessly, wide-winged sentinels of the mountains.

  “This is good ground,” Jason said. All the generals of the army were clustered about him on the hillside, leaning on their spears.

  “This is where we fight. We have two days before the enemy comes up. I want a position prepared here, where the hills break up into stone. We will place our line along these heights and let him come to us. If we break up his army here, he will take a long time to reorganise, and we will use that time to get through the mountains.” Jason paused and looked his companions up and down.

  “Any thoughts, brothers?”

  Mynon spoke up. “The city has closed its gates behind us. We’ll need to watch our rear. Irunshahr has a garrison; they may well sortie out in the middle of the battle, just to annoy us.”

  “Agreed. Aristos, your mora is to remain to the rear of the main battle line, both as a reserve, and to guard against any mischief. Rictus, your lights will be back there with him, and behind you will be the baggage train. The enemy still has a large force of cavalry. I don’t want your men engaging them, or they’ll get cut up like at Kunaksa. Leave the horse to the spears. Clear?” Rictus nodded. He and Aristos looked at one another for a second. Jason saw the hatred between them, and wondered if he were being a naive fool, making them work together. Even men who loathed each other sometimes found the unlikeliest of likings developing on the battlefield. He hoped it might be so.

  “The main body will deploy on this hill south of the road,” Jason went on. “My mora will be on the extreme left, next to the road. Mochran, you will be the right-most mora. Watch your flank; there’s nothing beyond your right but grass and stones. Every mora is to keep one full centon to the rear of its line, as a reserve. No one breaks rank without orders, not even if their entire army turns and runs. Don’t forget their cavalry. We lose formation, and they’ll hunt us down one by one. Tonight we sleep in camp, everyone eats a good meal, and we sleep like babies. In the morning we take up our positions, wait for the Kufr to come to us, and with luck they’ll soon be crying like babies.” There was a rustle of laughter, an echo of fellowship.

  “If the line breaks,” Jason went on, “then we reform it. We plug the holes, and we stand on these stones and fight until the day is won, or we are all dead. There is nowhere to run to. Any questions?”

  “Who looks after the baggage?” Rictus asked.

  “I’ve culled two centons from the front-line morai, lightly wounded, footsore, and chronic shifters. They’ll stay with the wagons.”

  “And the gold,” big Gominos said, grinning.

  They stood looking at one another, until Aristos said, roughly; “Let’s get the damn thing done then,” and the group of men broke up. Jason remained on the hilltop as they walked down the slope to their waiting morai. Even now, they separated into two distinct groups which seemed to take form around Aristos and Rictus. Once the spearheads were levelled, he prayed they would come together.

  TWENTY-TWO

  THE LAST OF THE WINE

  Mid-morning brought the army in sight of the hills before Irunshahr. On the ridge-line before the city Vorus finally found his quarry standing at bay, a line of heavy infantry over a pasang long, their ranks undulating about every outcrop of weather-beaten stone to the south of the Imperial Road. Here, then, was where it would end.

  He reined in, the placid mare chewing at the bit under him, throwing up her head as if she, too, could smell what was on the wind. He turned to Proxis. “We have them.”

  “So we have,” Proxis said. He had been drinking, but his eyes were clear. “My legions are in the van—we’ll take up the left, and then the rest can file in to our right.”

  “Very well. I’ll send the cavalry out that way, and see if we can feel round their flank. The gods go with you, Proxis.” Vorus extended his hand.

  The Juthan leaned over in the saddle and took it in the warrior-grip, fingers curled round Vorus’s wrist. “May they watch over us both,” he said.

  Noon came and went. Up on the hillside the lines of Macht infantry relaxed, eating their midday meal in shifts, barley bannock and cheese and the last of the wine. Below them the Kufr marched and counter-marched, their officers chivvying the tired troops along, the regiments fed into the line as they came up the Imperial Road. When at last they were in place it was mid-afternoon, and for a while the two armies stared at one another as in between them the bees clustered about the heather and the scrub juniper, and skylarks sang above their heads, heedless of anything but the warmth of the sun and the clear infinity of blue sky about them.

  It reminded Vorus of his youth, late spring in the hills about Machran when at long last the snows eased their grip on the northern world. It had been a long time since he had breathed upland air and smelled gorse-blossom on the breeze. As he sat his horse to the rear of the Kufr centre, he felt a moment of pure clarity, a sense of exactly how the world was turning under him. At that moment he wanted to dismiss these soldiers of his to their homes and send word to the Macht that they might march away in peace. What was it, this notion of duty, of loyalty, of Empire, that kept them standing here in their tens of thousands, that would see this lovely summer’s day soon broken up into a wilderness of bloody slaughter? What would it gain the world, the mountains, the very stones under their feet, to have these thousands shed their blood upon them?

  In the next moment he had the answer. Twenty years of duty, of loyalty, of service. Those were worth something. If a man could not keep hold of those qualities, keep them in sight through all the murderous absurdities of his condition, then he was not much of a man at all.

  Vorus turned to the banner-bearer beside him, a tall Kefre with skin of gold. “Signal the advance,” he said.

  In the Macht baggage camp the wagons were loaded and waiting, and the patient oxen stood flicking their ears at the flies. The Juthan slaves were strapping up the last packs of the mule-train watched by a small skeleton guard of Macht, older men, wounded men, and those for whom the flux had become a debilitating condition which had sucked the flesh off their bones. Tiryn sat atop her wagon and peered east, to where the land rose and the momentary glitter of the Macht spearheads could be seen at the top of the ridge-line. Kunaksa in reverse, she thought. Today, we have the high ground.

  And she caught herself, shocked, as she realised who we had become in her mind.

  Jason had given her a knife, a long, wicked iron blade with a leather-wrapped handle. It felt huge and unwieldy in her fingers, and she disliked it for the smell of someone else’s sweat in the leather, the nicks on the blade in which old blood had collected, so wedded to the metal that the iron would have to melt before it was wholly gone. When would
this thing start? When would it—

  Now—there it was. The roar of many voices from the far side of the hills. Something, at least, had begun. She fingered the edge of the knife. Whatever else happened today, she promised herself, she would be ready for it. She would bury this iron in her own heart before she was tied to another wagon-wheel.

  Restless, like a horse that smells fire, Rictus strode up and down the loose-ordered ranks of his mora. The men were shuffling from foot to foot, blowing their noses, twisting the shafts of their javelins in their palms. To stand wholly still was impossible it seemed, at least, if one were not wearing the panoply of a spearman. The men tossed skins of water to and fro, more for something to do than because they were thirsty. There was little talk. When Rictus paused in his pacing, he could hear the men breathing, those hundreds of lungs speeding up their work as the cold white loom of the battle rose through the men’s blood. At times like this a man’s heart would beat and beat until it seemed almost to be a shadow thudding in the corner of his eyes.

  To the left of Rictus’s men, a mora of heavy spearmen stood like graven images, helms on, shields resting on the ground before them, propped against their knees. To their front, Aristos was striding up and down in much the same way as Rictus. He had taken off his helm, the better to listen to that mighty surf of sound on the other side of the hill. Even through it, the bees were loud in their endless work among the stones, a peaceful industry which knew nothing of the murderous chaos to come. It was a day to take apples and cheese and wine and a sweetheart, and find a sun-warmed hollow in the shelter of the stones, there to eat and drink and make love and stare up at the hovering skylarks above, and count the passing clouds.

  Phobos, Rictus thought, I hate this.

  Up near the western crest of the hill, Gasca stood third in the file amid thousands of others. He tilted his head to left and to right, like someone striving to see a cockfight over the shoulders of a crowd. There was stone under his feet, something good and solid to bear him at last. He barely felt the weight of his panoply. This beats slogging up a muddy hill, he thought. This time, let them come up here and try and push us off these stones.