He’d barely had time to eat his first egg when his mother came in, looking excited and pleased. She picked him up and held him close. Rubin could smell perfume which made his nose itch, and soap and, more faintly, horses.
‘You must be a good boy today. This is an important day for all of us. Marcellus Vincerus is coming to visit Papa.’
‘Who is he? Can I see him?’
‘He is the First Lord of the City, and our greatest hero. You must be very good and stay with Dorcas and do as she tells you.’
‘Where’s Indaro?’ He craned his neck around.
‘She’s at her lessons. She’s being a good girl.’
All day long the boy heard whispered talk of the great lord Marcellus and, excited beyond endurance, he nagged Dorcas until the harassed girl agreed they could watch for the visitor from a first-floor balcony. They waited, as the rest of the house waited, in a state of suspended frenzy.
As night fell the sound of many hoofbeats echoed from the distance and a group of twenty or more riders broke out from the gloom. Rubin, dozing in Dorcas’ lap, threw off his tiredness and craned his neck to see past the stone balusters.
‘Which one is he?’ he asked the maid, disappointed that the newcomers looked like the family’s troopers he saw every day. They were mostly bearded, a few clean-shaven, all wearing dark riding clothes. As they dismounted they talked cheerfully, their voices ringing in the chill air.
Impatiently Rubin pushed his head between the balusters. ‘’Scuse me,’ he cried out in a loud whisper.
The closest rider looked up and grinned at the small boy. ‘Hello,’ he said.
‘Are you Marcellus?’ Rubin asked him.
The rider shook his head gravely. ‘No, lad. That is the First Lord.’ He pointed to one of the group but Rubin could not make out which.
‘Who?’ he whispered shrilly.
One man walked forward. ‘I am Marcellus,’ he said, gazing up. ‘What is your name?’
‘Rubin,’ the boy told him in a small voice, suddenly overcome with shyness.
‘Is this your house, Rubin?’
The boy thought about it. ‘No, sir, it is my papa’s house,’ he answered seriously.
‘Reeve Kerr Guillaume is your father?’
But he did not understand the question, and shook his head. The sound of the men’s laughter rose up to the balcony, and he retreated behind Dorcas’ skirts.
Marcellus had fair hair and black eyes and he was taller than most of the riders. He stood stiffly, a result, Rubin later learned, of an old back injury, and he reminded the little boy of a piece in his father’s ancient ivory and obsidian chess set. For many years after, whenever Marcellus’ name was mentioned Rubin always visualized the black king with the chipped obsidian base, surrounded by his pawns.
Rubin was awoken by loud laughter. Opening his eyes, he found the chilly tent was alive with soldiers, ebullient with success. They’d laid straw mats and rugs on the bare ground and erected tables, and were bringing in folding camp beds and chairs. The delicious smell of roasted meat wafted in on the night air. In the centre of the tent a bay stallion with plaited tail and mane munched noisily from a nosebag. Rubin thought he looked familiar.
He sat up gingerly, hoping nothing was broken.
‘Are you injured?’ a well-known voice asked.
Rubin looked around. Everyone in the tent was heavily garbed, some still in blood-boltered armour, others in furs and warm wraps. Only one man was lightly dressed in clean shirt and trousers, newly shaved, fresh as a daisy.
Rubin grunted. ‘It’s hard to tell, under all the pain,’ he answered.
Marcellus grinned at him. ‘You do turn up in some odd places, young Rubin,’ he said.
‘The Odrysians thought you were fighting in the south,’ Rubin told his lord once they were alone. He was wrapped in a warm wool blanket. He had eaten his fill of roast pig and was swigging from a cup of warmed wine. He felt a little drunk.
Marcellus had been fighting in the south. But that was back in the long summer, which saw the defeat of two enemy armies at the Lake of Two Geese. The onset of winter had slowed the campaigns and Marcellus, still eager for action, had struck camp and headed north with a century of the Thousand to join the City’s Fifth Imperial battling to take the crucial pass to the north.
‘Hmm,’ Marcellus grunted, pouring wine into his cup. ‘If they spent as much of their resources on intelligence as they do on these trinkets, we’d be in far more trouble than we are. Here.’
He held out a round silver object and Rubin took it in his palm. It was heavier than it looked. He turned it over curiously. It had a piece of glass inset into the metal. There were numbers under the glass. ‘What is it?’
‘It was found on one of their officers. It’s a timepiece.’
A shudder ran through the younger man. He said sourly, ‘The Blues accuse us of sorcery, yet they believe they can keep time imprisoned in a box.’ He handed it back gladly.
Marcellus stared at the thing with an unreadable expression. ‘Beautiful,’ he whispered, then he dropped it to the floor and crushed it under his boot-heel. He wandered over to the horse, which nickered softly as he stroked its nose. Of course, Rubin remembered, it was Caravaggio, Marcellus’ oldest and most valued mount, a prince among horses.
‘Is the enemy destroyed?’ he asked.
‘Far from it,’ his lord replied, turning back to him. ‘The main body of Blues is still unaware of our presence, as are our Imperials. But one Odrysian company is no more and Arben Busch is in our hands. Today was a good day.’
Rubin learned that Marcellus’ small force, no more than four hundred soldiers and a handful of horses, had climbed the perilous ridge called the Crags of Corenna in gathering darkness. The sounds of their approach from the east had been muffled by the thick snow and they descended on the isolated company of Odrysians like wolves in the night. Not one of the enemy was left alive except their general, who would be taken back to the City if he survived interrogation. And, of course, Rubin himself.
‘Arben Busch allowed himself to be taken?’ Rubin couldn’t help feeling a little disappointed. You can’t fight beside men for a season without some of their loyalties rubbing off.
Marcellus shrugged. ‘When I arrived he was unconscious. Caught on the head, I imagine, in the skirmish. Or stood up and hit the roof of one of those damnable caves. I have no wish to kill him. He is a valuable resource.’
‘But we already know everything he knows.’
‘But they don’t know that,’ Marcellus replied. ‘And also,’ he added, ‘we only know what you have told us. Now, has your face been seen by other than the dead?’
‘If you count Arben Busch among the dead,’ Rubin replied cheerfully. Then he realized Marcellus’ tone had hardened, and he added more seriously, ‘which of course you do, lord. Then no, I have only been with the Seventeenth.’
‘Good, then I have a new mission for you.’
CHAPTER TWO
MUCH LATER, DEEP in the night, Rubin leaned back in a canvas chair and gazed up at the roof of the command tent where large drops of water were gathering above his head. They reminded him of his years in the Halls, the sewers under the City. He opened his mouth to catch one, but the drops wobbled fatly, refusing to fall.
‘Are we not entertaining you, young Rubin?’ Marcellus asked from the head of the table.
Rubin sat up, glancing at the veteran soldiers seated around him. ‘Apologies, lord.’
This gathering of senior officers was, like all Marcellus’ meetings, brisk and tightly focused. Less than six hours remained until dawn when they had to be ready to attack.
The slaughter of the Odrysian company had been confined to the caves and Marcellus was confident the main body of the Blues’ army, encamped two or more leagues further south-west, knew nothing of his arrival. The problem now was to link up with the City’s Fifth Imperial, positioned beyond the Blues. The Imperials’ general, Dragonard, also had no inkling of Marcellu
s’ presence.
Rubin did not know why the pass named Needlewoman’s Notch was so important that Marcellus had travelled for many days through enemy-haunted territory to this northern outpost. Perhaps, eventually, someone would tell him. For now they were relying on him for information about the Blues.
He told the gathered warriors, ‘Our forces hold the other side of the valley. The Odrysians have been scrambling in and out of the caves in fear of their crossbows. They might be aware of our arrival, though they would not know its significance.’
‘They might have held it two days ago,’ argued Leona, leader of the century of the Thousand called the Warhounds, ‘but they have pulled out now, our scouts tell us.’
Rubin found it hard not to stare. He was used to women among the armed forces – after all, his sister Indaro was one. But he had not known that a woman had climbed to the top ranks of the Immortal’s armies. The consensus among grunts on both sides of the war was that generals and senior officers were all wine-soaked buffoons. But Rubin knew the officers Marcellus kept close to him were all veteran fighters, proven in battle and its strategies. He would not have this woman advising him if she were not equal to the task.
Marcellus nodded. ‘It would have been useful to us if they were still there. But I cannot fault their commander. Strung out along the ridge they were too vulnerable. He was correct to retreat.
‘So our difficulty,’ he went on, glancing at the notched candle which marked the implacable progress of time, ‘is that we have less than six hours before we attack. Once the sun rises our position will likely be betrayed and battle forced upon us. We need to attack in cooperation with the Fifth Imperial, yet they do not know we are here.’
A white-haired warrior said, ‘We have sent two messengers, lord.’
Marcellus shook his head. ‘They are making their way round the flanks of the enemy. In this weather, at night, it is doubtful if they will get to the Imperials in time. Even if they are not killed or captured.’
There was silence, then Leona asked, ‘What are your thoughts, lord?’
‘My thoughts,’ Marcellus replied, turning his eye on Rubin, ‘are that we need a third messenger.’
Rubin’s heart sank. Marcellus had told him he had a mission for him, yet he had hoped it was to be far in the future, perhaps back in the City, or at least after he had rested and enjoyed a long respite from this life of cold and fear and peril.
‘This messenger,’ his lord went on remorselessly, ‘will be disguised as an Odrysian soldier and will present himself at the enemy lines as a survivor of the battle two days ago. He will claim to have suffered a blow to the head and barely escaped death. He will not be suspected. He will be taken in and fed. He will then, still under cover of darkness, escape the enemy ranks and find his way to the Imperials and report to General Dragonard.’
‘The first part will be easy,’ Rubin said, gracefully accepting the inevitable, ‘for someone dressed as an Odrysian.’ He looked down at the grubby Odrysian uniform he still wore. ‘But he could be killed instantly once he reaches the City army.’
Marcellus leaned across the table and slid towards him the gold insignia snatched from Rubin earlier that night. ‘Unlikely. He speaks the City tongue and carries the symbol of Marcellus. He will also be carrying a letter from me to General Dragonard.’
‘Yes, lord. It will be an honour, lord.’ Looking around, Rubin’s gaze lingered on the warhorse Caravaggio, who seemed to be dozing. ‘I could ride, lord?’ he asked.
Marcellus frowned. ‘No, boy, a survivor on a horse will be instantly suspected. Besides, the terrain is too perilous. We lost two of the beasts on the way up here.’ He too turned and looked at his mount. ‘Caravaggio is sure-footed as a mountain goat, but I should not have brought him with us. This will be his last adventure.’ There was sadness in his face and the atmosphere in the tent grew sombre.
The Warhound leader Leona asked, ‘How will we coordinate our attacks? Dawn is a long drawn out event in these winter days.’
‘I will order the Imperials to attack first,’ her lord told her. ‘Even at this range and in the snow we will be able to hear the commotion then make our move. In the first light the Blues won’t know what’s hitting them.’
Rubin’s mind was idling and he stopped listening to the conversation then suddenly, rudely, interrupted his lord.
‘If we each had one of the enemy’s timepieces we could coordinate our attacks to the moment,’ he suggested.
Marcellus scowled and there was a forbidding silence in the tent. ‘I thought you feared their sorcery, boy?’
Rubin nodded. ‘I do. But there could be some benefit to it if coordinating our attacks saves soldiers’ lives.’
Marcellus grunted his disapproval. ‘This is a pointless diversion. We do not have these timepieces.’ Rubin looked at him curiously, avoiding glancing at the floor where the metal mechanism still lay, mangled and ruined. He wondered why his lord would willingly forgo using such a device to his own disadvantage.
‘You will be well rewarded for this task today,’ the First Lord told him briskly.
I’ve heard that before, Rubin thought.
Leona Farr Dulac could no longer feel her feet. As the Warhounds’ commander stomped out of the tent after the meeting she peered down at her boots to see if they were encased in blocks of ice, which is how they felt. The air in the tent had been warm enough, but a penetrating cold rose from the icy ground. Marcellus had rested his feet comfortably on the table throughout the meeting, but his officers, however senior, hadn’t dared.
As she stepped into the hectic torchlight of the busy encampment Leona was enveloped in a warm woollen cloak. She pulled it round her neck gratefully, and looked up into the long, gloomy face of her aide.
‘How did you get it so warm?’ she asked.
‘I draped it over the rump of a horse.’
Doubtfully she sniffed the wool. It did smell of horse. She wondered if Loomis was joking. He knew she hated horses.
‘Well, what’s the plan?’ he asked her.
‘We attack at dawn,’ she told him.
‘Don’t we always?’ Loomis commented.
She looked around. Warriors were everywhere, crouched round fires, standing in groups stamping their feet, milling around laughing or griping as soldiers will. She moved away towards a quieter spot and Loomis limped after. He held a platter of bread for her and she chewed on a crust as she walked.
Beyond the flickering light of the campfires she told him, ‘Marcellus is sending a messenger through the enemy lines to order the Imperials to attack.’
Loomis whistled. ‘Rather him than me. Who are they sending? Valerius?’
Valerius was a veteran scout, a legend within the Immortal’s armies, and he happened to be with Marcellus’ small force that night. He had guided them over the treacherous Crags of Corenna.
‘No. Some spy.’ Leona blew into her hands, her breath visible in the icy cold.
‘The skinny redhead?’
Leona frowned and her aide shrugged. ‘I saw him and didn’t recognize him,’ he said. ‘He’s a brave lad. Does he know what they’ll do to him if they catch him?’
She shrugged. ‘We are running out of time. It seems a desperate throw, but Marcellus knows his people and if he trusts him to get this done he’s probably right. He usually is. And the boy’s older and more experienced than he looks.
‘The scouts are out,’ she added, ‘but when they return Marcellus will want another meeting. Summon my captains. Do I have a tent?’
‘A very small one.’
‘Then we will meet here.’ They were standing in a snow-free circle of ground under a spreading pine. There was a thick layer of springy needles underfoot. ‘And bring me some wine. And another cloak.’
He nodded and headed back towards the campfires. Leona leaned against the tree-trunk and ate the rest of the bread, relishing the brief silence. She was still thirsty and cold and her back ached. It always hurt in cold weather
, the result of a spear injury years before in the attrition of the Retreat from Araz. The surgeon at the time had predicted she would be invalided out of the army but she had fought back and returned to the Thousand. She was not as strong as she had been, though, and she made up for it by thinking her way through battles in a way she had never had to before. At last she was noticed by her commander and was promoted to his second. When the man died half a year later, in bed from a heart seizure, she had wondered who would take his place. It had not crossed her mind that she would, for she hadn’t the experience or the seniority, and she wasn’t the right sex. She had spent the last few years trying to keep up with the other commanders of the Thousand while maintaining an air of cool competence.
When her captains arrived she squatted down and rolled out a blank piece of parchment Loomis had brought with him. Her soldiers were used to this now, although when she first used this briefing method there was much mutinous muttering. They resented being shown pictures, like a mother’s drawings for her children, and they dealt with it as men do, with jibes about her sex. But Marcellus himself used maps, many of them detailed and beautifully illustrated; she had persevered and now the captains accepted her ways.
‘We do not know the fine detail of the terrain yet,’ she told them. ‘The scouts are still out. But Marcellus has made initial deployments.’ With a piece of charcoal she quickly sketched in the enemy lines and their own, and the features of landscape they knew – the ridge, the valley and the treeline.
‘Here is the body of the Imperials,’ she said, drawing a circle with crosshatching, ‘and here the enemy lies – between us and them. The Imperials are being ordered to attack at dawn. Then, when we hear battle engaged, we hit the Odrysians’ rear. Marcellus is dividing our force into three. The division on the right, the Greenlegs, will hit the enemy’s flank here. This is largely diversionary. The enemy, not knowing how numerous the attackers are, surprised in darkness, will be obliged to stretch its forces—’
‘Or regroup into a defensive square. I would.’
The Immortal Throne Page 3