Gonatas could feel himself grinding his teeth. Demetrius was his father, but, by the gods, the man was mad. Demetrius went on.
"I throw these men away because my diviner," --who was back to chewing loudly, lost to the world-- "gives me bullshit when I need foresight. I throw these men away because my royal advisor," he looked down-table at a wisp of a man with hollow cheeks and a long pointed nose, "told me there would be no resistance from the garrison in Lacecia. I throw them away now because my Master of Horse," -- the thick-necked man sitting next to the oblivious diviner, glancing up and then back down again -- "assured me that I would control the countryside. Oh, that rumbling you hear? That's not thunder. That's Sethalian cavalry running rings around our position. These men climb the ladders now because my quartermaster, stupidly believing these others, laid in supplies for only a short siege and not this long drawn-out affair we're now faced with." The quartermaster looked up sheepishly and then started moving food around his plate with a fork. "So you see, Gonatas, these men in the field now must die because my council foresaw NONE OF THIS!" Demetrius slammed his open palm down hard on the table, rattling the silver, chalices and plates.
Gonatas himself had brought his father the Lacecian's answer to the Irrylian's demand for surrender. The gifted officer Bythion, an impressive, cultured man with a silver tongue, selected by Gonatas himself, had led the delegation to the city. He was the only man among the Irrylians who could speak to a foe without bluster and threats. All were certain of Lacecia's capitulation. Demetrius' army stood arrayed before the city as if on parade. Mostly for show, preparations for a siege were undertaken in high spirits, an afternoon's lark. But something had gone wrong.
Gonatas came riding into the camp carrying a small leather pouch. He found his father standing on the marble tiles outside his tent. Even before his horse had skidded to a halt, he flung the pouch onto the tiles at his father's feet.
"What on earth is this?" Demetrius asked irritably. Gonatas knew that the king's mind was already working over the issues of the treatment of the Lacecians and the distribution of the plunder. In his mind, the plum of Lacecia was already the newest province of his burgeoning Gyriecian empire. He stood looking at the little pouch, but made no move to pick it up. "What is this?" he asked again.
"Bythion's balls," Gonatas said, dismounting.
"Bythion's what?"
"Bythion's balls," Gonatas repeated. "His testicles. They were nailed to the city gate. We found Bythion's ball-less body in the road."
"Get this thing away from me!" Demetrius kicked the pouch and it went sliding across the tiles. He turned and strode inside his tent. Gonatas removed his helmet and followed.
"We shall raze the city," Demetrius cried, turning on his son. Servants rushed to his side to assist him into his chair, but he brushed them away. "We shall make slaves of the people. Anything left we will grind to dust."
"It is a Sethalian garrison inside the city," Gonatas reported. It took a moment for this to sink in.
"Then it is war," Demetrius said.
Now, the dishes still quivered as all the men sat in stiff uncomfortable silence. Demetrius glowered at each one of them in turn. The Master of Foot's empty chalice had fallen onto its side. The Master reached out and righted it, leaving behind a spot of deep burgundy on the white cloth. Those were his men being massacred on the walls.
The High Priest of Sarlon was the first to break the silence.
"Might I remind His Worship that these are but small obstacles?" Demetrius frowned. The men shot the priest frightened, warning glances. Did he dare diminish the king's distress? "Sarlon places them in his path only to reveal His Worship's greatness." When Demetrius' expression did not change, the priest added, "When His Worship overcomes them."
Gonatas had not noticed the priest sitting at the end of the table, though he was never far from the king and no less hard to miss on this day than any other. He wore the night black robe of his order, embroidered with copious stitching of silver thread in arcane patterns. His white beard hung almost to his waist, his white hair to his shoulders, puckered by an unmarked band of white gold around his head. He was no more High Priest than Gonatas himself. Pylia and her snake cult required no intermediary. Demetrius favored him because of his self-professed service to Pylia's god and nothing more. Gonatas had never known him to perform any function aside from dining at the royal table and embezzling from the temples of Irrylia. He was a kindly looking man only because he had lost much of his former guile and cunning through ease and high living.
Demetrius regarded him with interest. "Go on," he said.
"Well, sire, as you know, granted visions by the great Sarlon, Pylia has already foreseen the fall of Lacecia. Indeed, she has seen all of Sethaly falling into His Worship's hands."
Demetrius thought about it and began nodding in agreement. His council began nodding as well. If anyone could divert the king's wrath, it was the priest of Sarlon.
"So, you see," the priest went on, "the outcome is already settled, Your Worship. Only the manner is to be determined."
This brought smiles and murmurs of agreement.
Demetrius pursed his lips. "So you are saying that I might as well send my council here up the walls of Lacecia, for as much good as they do me."
"I only interpret the will of Sarlon, sire," the priest stammered. "I make no recommendations…"
Demetrius craned his neck to gaze down-table. "Engineer, do you think you could have one more ladder constructed?" The royal engineer, a bald-headed square man in an ornate bronze breastplate, a practical mathematician who fancied himself a military man, stammered in confusion, uncertain whether the king spoke in jest. He did not have long to wonder, however, for Demetrius began to laugh.
"Can you imagine this gang of buffoons waddling across that field down there carrying a ladder over their heads?" Gonatas forced a smile. "The defenders would fall off the walls laughing. That's one way to take Lacecia!" Demetrius slapped the table again, this time in mirth. The men chuckled nervously.
"No, no," Demetrius continued. "That would be a waste of a ladder. Instead, I might have half a mind to hand you all over to my loving wife to see what she could make of you."
Now, there was no longer confusion and nervousness in the council's eyes, but terror. Demetrius enjoyed it for only a moment before sitting back with a sigh. "Oh, would that I could…" he muttered in resignation. "Would that I could…" Finally, he raised a hand to the mounted messenger, waving his fingers in a dismissive gesture. At once, the messenger galloped off toward the city and, just like that, the escalade assault was canceled. Enough rations had been saved for one day.
"Are you happy now, Gonatas?"
"It is not a question of my happiness, Father…"
"Of course not," he said. "You simply urge me to countermand a decision you yourself have never had to make."
"I would not decide for slaughter."
"Steel yourself, my son, for you may have to decide for more than that in days to come," Demetrius snapped. "Though he crawls on his belly like the serpent he serves, the High Priest is correct, Gonatas. He lacks only breadth of vision. My lovely Pylia, your mother, has indeed foreseen my realm expanding, but far beyond the bounds of Sethaly. Beyond even all of Gyriece."
Gonatas was appalled. His mother! Demetrius was mad if he thought Gonatas would stand silently for that. Oh, rest assured, old man, I have decided. Long ago. And it was no hard choice, believe me. It was not just the mad king's priest that crawled on his belly. It was all of them. All in the spineless service of a lunatic.
"My mother took poison rather than share that witch's--"
"Watch your tongue, boy, I warn you. That witch, as you call her, has given us Epiria. She is giving us Sethaly, which I will take despite your squeamishness over the manner of my taking."
"Beyond Sethaly?" the High Priest of Sarlon exclaimed. "What has Our Lady foreseen, Your Worship?"
"She has foreseen bold men in the service of her king
, Priest." Demetrius paused, regarding him closely. "Does this worry you?"
By the look in his eye, Gonatas would have judged the answer 'yes.' The High Priest cleared his throat. "But what of your realm, sire? What does Pylia see?"
"She sees Xarhux's empire," Demetrius replied.
Gonatas could almost hear the stifled gasps from the king's council, though not a breath escaped their lips. To a man, they leaned forward and peered past one another toward Demetrius.
"Is that too big for you, Priest?" the king asked. The man of Sarlon shook his head. "How about you, my Master of Horse?"
The Master seemed dazed, doubtless unable to comprehend the sheer size of Xarhux's conquest. Until the Conqueror had gone into the eastern lands, no maps even existed of the places he would put to the sword. The Master had no doubt spent little time studying them since.
"It is an ambitious undertaking, sire," he said. In fact, Gonatas thought Lacecia beyond the man's scope. "Xarhux's empire…"
"…will require the service of big men," Demetrius finished for him. "Is that you, Master?" The Master of Horse stared back at him with hard eyes. Demetrius' gaze bore into him, deciding. He regarded the other faces with the same scrutiny. "Each of you must ask yourself if you are big enough for King Demetrius. Be assured, Pylia will know your answer and she will know if you answer truly. I have been to the wild eastern lands and I have fought unknown enemies such as you have never seen. Young Gonatas, you blanch at the sight of a few men falling off ladders, but I have dripped with the blood of unnatural warriors cleaved in half by Xarhux's own hand."
"The tales tell of Xarhux's madness," Gonatas said. "His birth of the gods and his descent--"
"Tales written by fearful young men like you, afraid of victory and conquest. That is what it is called today, is it not? Triumph, by small, fearful men, is called madness. Is that what you call conquest, Master? Madness?"
"Xarhux was a divine warrior…" the High Priest offered.
"He was demonspawn," Demetrius said. "Demonspawn, but not mad. His mother, who today goes by the name Pylia, had been foolish enough in her youth to believe that she consorted with gods when all the while she had been coupling with demons." Demetrius laughed at the looks of his men. "Oh, don't be so shocked," he went on. "Pylia's wisdom comes from Sarlon. Before Him, she was as foolish as the rest of you, as she herself would be the first to admit. Sarlon saw through the demonic lies and Pylia came to view the cursed twins she had birthed for the devils they were."
Gonatas was taken aback. "Xarhux? A devil?"
"And his half-wit twin, Arrhus. Pylia saw it. Xarhux had foolishly divided his lands, handing them over to petty men. As the first step in redeeming his error, she allowed me to conquer Epiria. In gratitude, I gave her Arrhus. Would you call that madness?"
By the gods, yes! Who would not? "Her own son…"
"Your tales prefer to speak of divine births and falls from grace. Beautiful stories bursting with moral lessons, but told by small and fearful men, unable to comprehend the hard choices of bold leaders. The tellers of tales might find it poetic to speak of the twilights of great men, but that is only because great men cast such great shadows…"
"Great men like Xarhux's one true successor -- Demetrius!" The High Priest exclaimed from his end of the table.
Demetrius nodded. "It is the tellers who live in the twilight. But there is no shadow where the great men tread. We live in the dawn of a new empire, gentlemen -- the dawn of Demetrius."
"Hear, hear!" the Masters, Horse and Foot, cried out in unison. All the party began banging the table with cups and the palms of hands. Which of these cheering men will still be alive to see a Demetrian Empire? Gonatas would have put his money on none of them. His ears had heard the description of a nightmare, of a darkness beyond twilight. Yet the mad king's minions sat there cheering.
The king stood. "Now, let us get down to the serious business of taking this cursed city. Engineer, if you have finished your meal, go see to the construction of my war engines." With the stiff-backed officiousness worthy of any of Demetrius' most grandiose generals, the engineer stood and bowed to his king. Sunshine glinted on his golden breastplate no less than on his denuded, sweat-slicked pate as he strode off in the direction of the construction crews. Unlike the earlier battle, Gonatas could hear the noise of the workmen's endeavors, the hammering and the sawing of great timbers. "I do nothing in a small way," Demetrius said with satisfaction as he gazed down upon the burgeoning framework of a massive siege tower. When complete, it would dwarf the walls of Lacecia. Smaller constructions of catapults--stone hurlers and massive throwers of bolt and flame-- were arrayed around its base like a litter of deadly offspring.
"Ah, General Nachtus!" Demetrius called when he saw the great general striding towards him. "You have the look of a man with grave tidings."
Gonatas stood aside as Nachtus stepped heavily onto Demetrius' marble dining floor. It was a wonder the tiles did not crack under the general's tremendous weight. He was the biggest man Gonatas had ever known, standing nine feet tall and as broad as a giant. On the training grounds of Irrylia, he towered over his soldiers, blustering at them like the Lord of Storms dispensing thunder with his booming voice. Every notable Irrylian military achievement spanning generations could be attributed to some member of the general's illustrious family, if not Nachtus himself then his father or one of his many uncles or grandfathers before them. Irrylian armies had always had a giant to lead them. General Nachtus was the one man whose competence and loyalty Demetrius would never question.
Nachtus handed the king a scroll of parchment. "The Prathians from Menleco have arrived," he said sourly. "Two thousand of them. Spearmen. Fully armored."
"Excellent," Demetrius said. He scanned the document and then tossed the scroll onto the table. "I'm sure you will put them to good use. Place them where the Lacecians can get a long look at them. Between my Prathians and my war engines, the enemy may find that he has no stomach for this fight, after all."
Nachtus had not lost his sour expression. "It is the Prathians who bring the grave tidings, sire," he said. "It is a tale of Sethalian cavalry they tell. The enemy swarms all over the countryside. The Prathians tell of fending off attacks not half a league from this very camp!"
Demetrius clenched his teeth, his jaw muscles flexing. His face grew red as he whirled on the Master of Horse.
"Get your men out in the field and engage the enemy!"
"But, sire, until we receive our reinforcements--"
"Saddle up yourself if you need more men."
"It is foolhardy to engage the Sethalians. They cannot touch us here behind our trenches. To confront them now would be suicide--"
"Then let it be suicide!" Gonatas saw the madness take hold of him. Demetrius searched wildly for a weapon, then grabbed up a fork, still dripping with the fat of the slaughtered bull. He rushed around the end of the table, making for the Master of Horse as if he were going to stab him where he sat. The Master leapt out of his chair and rushed away. "And you lead them personally, you coward," Demetrius shouted, flinging the fork after him. "From the front!" He glowered at the remaining men. "That's what we need around here, more suicide missions. I am surrounded by cowards, afraid to confront Sethalians. It is shameful."
"There is also this," Nachtus said without so much as a flinch. "From Lord Taler."
He handed the king another scroll, this one bearing the royal seal. The king began reading impatiently. His interest gradually grew.
"Clautias," he said as if to himself. He looked up at Gonatas. "It is Clautias," he repeated with an air of wonder.
Gonatas' heart leapt into his throat. He stole a glance at the giant, but the general betrayed nothing. Generations of royal service had bred a stoic non-reaction into his expression. "What is Clautias?" Gonatas managed weakly after a moment.
"The man I have sought for so long…" A smile began to creep over Demetrius' face. "He now leads the Epirians against me. It is Clautias!"
"Clautias leads the uprising?" Gonatas asked. "Pylia has Seen him?"
"The people prattle on about the return of Hurrus. The return of their king, they say. I will return Hurrus to them. I will, at last. Part of him, anyway. Now, I will have two heads to show the people." Smiling, Demetrius rubbed his hands together in pleasurable reverie. "Menleco pursues him with his Shadow Riders," he said, coming out of it. "Gonatas, I want you to find him first. Find Clautias and bring him to me. I would like to introduce him to my wife, Pylia."
Pylia Sees everything, Gonatas thought. And when her divinations are applied to Clautias…What will she See then?
"…take as many men as you need," Gonatas heard Demetrius saying. "Gonatas!" he snapped.
"Yes, Father." He would have to ride fast to reach Clautias before the Shadow Riders. But find him he must--not to capture him, but to warn him. "I will bring him to you," Gonatas said, his face as inscrutable as the giant's.
Because when Pylia finally peered into Clautias, he knew what she would See.
She would See Gonatas.
Chapter 12
The dice banged off the base of the gunwale and clattered to a halt.
"Thirteen!" Xanthippus cried. Laughing, Nydeon slapped him on the back and Xanthippus scooped the last of the deckhands' coins into his own pile. The Irrylian deckhands themselves were not laughing. The dice stood in mute testimony and they stared at them in disbelief. How many thirteens was that?
Xanthippus began dropping the coins one-by-one into his little leather pouch. When he had retrieved it from the smuggler, it had been half-empty. Now he could scarcely cinch it closed. "How does that saying go, Nydeon?" Xanthippus asked.
"'Given this life, one dreams of revenge'," Nydeon said.
"No, no, that other one," Xanthippus said. "About the dice…"
"Oh, that one, yes. Um…" Nydeon searched his memory. "'Never throw dice with Prathians'," he said quickly, once it had come to him.
"Yes, that's the one!"
The Irrylians looked on in astonishment. A couple of them tried out menacing stares, but they did not stay with it for very long.
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