Sixteen Ways to Defend a Walled City

by K. J. Parker

  Because the ash came down so damn fast, the report said, there was no time to panic. Most of the dead clearly hadn’t really understood what was going on. They found people asleep in bed, sitting on stools writing up ledgers, squatting on potties, one couple at it like knives in an alleyway, completely oblivious of everything except each other—touching, or bloody stupid; what they didn’t find was people panicking, running through the streets, kneeling before altars in prayer, writhing on the ground in agony. So quick, they never knew it was happening. Vague human shapes, no faces. You and me. Everyman.

  I mention this because that’s how the world changes. It’s either so quick that we never know what hit us, or so gradual that we don’t notice. It’s only later, when books are written and scholars decide what mattered and what didn’t, that red lines are drawn—before this point, the world was this way, after this point, everything was different. You could be there and not have a clue. You could be asleep, or looking the other way, having a quiet shit or screwing in an alley, and an unseen pen draws a line. Here the Empire ended. Here the Dark Ages began.

  I was there, as it happens. And I was awake, and taking notice; possibly the only man alive who was looking out for it, expecting it to happen. I was lying in bed, unable to sleep, going over the minutiae of trebuchet design in my head. I know Faustinus was at home, fast asleep; Nico was officer of the day, so he was in his lair at Headquarters, probably drawing up duty rosters. Aichma was playing checkers with one of the cleaners. Probably I asked Artavasdus where he was—later, of course—and presumably he told me, but if so I’ve forgotten what he said. Anyway, that’s us accounted for when the ash of History started to fall. None of us were looking up, so of course we never saw it.

  Not that there was anything much to see. A junior button-man of the Blues who was on sentry-go on the North Gate tower reckons he saw torches, about seven, eight hundred yards away. He says he wondered who was riding into the enemy camp at that time of night, made a mental note to report it when he came off shift but forgot to do so. Who knows? Maybe what he saw was the moment that changed everything, or maybe it was someone else riding into camp in the middle of the night, and when the real event happened he was looking the other way, or having a crafty piss in a dark corner.

  Like it matters. There was, of course, nothing we could have done about it, any more than the poor fools at Perennis could’ve stopped the ash.

  No, the first we knew about something having changed was when a column of soldiers appeared on top of the Hog’s Back ridge, heading down the valley on the old West Road. And, because people are idiots who will insist on hoping for the best, we honestly believed that they were our boys, Imperial troops marching to relieve the City. Suddenly everyone was up on the wall, trying to see. People with especially good eyesight were hustled to the front, and they said, whoever they are, they’re wearing red cloaks, they’ve got regulation shields, they look like our boys; and we’d all filled our lungs to start cheering when the column turned sharp left down the Toll Road—heading not for the gates but the enemy camp. Fine, we all said, they’re going to attack. But horsemen were riding out to meet them. A brief conference of leaders; then the new army marched into camp, and they lit fires to cook them breakfast.

  All morning and half the afternoon they filed in, regiment after regiment; they pitched their tents, stacked their shields and spears, unloaded their carts, lined up for beans and bacon. We put the total at about twenty thousand, give or take a few hundred. That was the first day.

  The next day, eight thousand more. Two days later, twelve thousand. The day after that, nine thousand, mostly cavalry. Five days after that, twenty-one thousand. The whole of the flat plain between Nine Springs and Old Castle was filled with their supply carts, and the meadows where the City women used to do their washing beside the river became a corral for their draught oxen.

  Seventy plus forty is a hundred and ten. A hundred and ten thousand men; almost as many outside the walls as inside.

  “You were right,” Nico said to me. “They were waiting for something. I think we can guess what it was.”

  Yes, I didn’t say, but it makes no sense. Something was missing. Or something else had happened (more important than the arrival of seventy thousand enemies), and at the time we’d been looking the other way.

  “Imperial issue stuff,” Artavasdus repeated. “Everything they’ve got is Imperial issue. They must have taken Classis.”

  I reminded him; Classis was ashes. “Well, obviously it isn’t,” he replied. “Because all the gear for the whole empire is stored and issued there. So, obviously, that’s where it’s all come from.”

  “It could be surplus,” someone suggested. “We sell off a lot of equipment.”

  “Not that much,” Artavasdus snapped. “Not current pattern.”

  “Then maybe they’re copying our stuff,” said Glycerius, a young second lieutenant I’d recently promoted. “You can’t tell if it’s genuine or copies. They’re too far away to see details.”

  “I think the supply clerks at Classis must’ve been selling stores on the quiet,” Genseric said. “They were always a bunch of crooks. Isn’t that right, Chief?”

  “Quite true,” I said. “But the scale of it. Seventy thousand sets of full kit.”

  “Drop in the ocean,” Genseric assured me. “You’ve been to Classis, you know the vast amount of stock they carried. And the stories I’ve heard, about wastage. You went into the stores with a chit for twenty Size Three bolts, they’d say, sorry, you can’t have just twenty, they come in barrels of a thousand or not at all. I imagine it was the same for breastplate scales, mail rings—”

  “It’s possible,” I said. “Not sure I’m convinced, but it could have happened. A lot of our stuff came to us that way, I know that for a fact.”

  I like to let them talk things out, but fact isn’t a democratic process; if a thing isn’t true it isn’t true, even if everybody votes that it is. I was fairly sure I knew how the enemy had come by all that equipment. But this wasn’t the time for saying that sort of thing out loud.

  Aichma, however, likes to brandish the truth in your face. “It’s obvious, isn’t it?” she said. “They got it where the first lot got their stuff from. Off dead bodies.”

  “The thought had crossed my mind,” I said.

  “Of course it did. That’s why nobody’s come to relieve us. They’re all dead.”

  “Keep your voice down.”

  Her eyes went wide, and she lowered her voice. “It explains everything. That’s what they’ve been waiting for. They didn’t want to start the assault until the rest of our armies had been accounted for.”

  She was feeling better, evidently. “I’m not sure,” I said.

  “You mean you’re deluding yourself.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “But seventy thousand is a lot of men. Where did they all come from? And it’d be more than seventy thousand,” I added quickly, before she could interrupt. “If they’ve really wiped out all the armies in the provinces, inevitably they’ll have taken heavy losses. Say fifty thousand, and that’s as low as I’m prepared to go. A hundred and twenty thousand competent fighting men, good enough to beat Imperial regulars? Where did they come from?”

  She frowned. “Search me,” she said. “Where the forty thousand who wiped out General Priscus came from, presumably. Nobody’s ever explained that, but we know it happened. The mystery just got a bit bigger, that’s all.”

  Sometimes she can be so annoying. “You can’t leave it at that,” I said. “They must have come from somewhere. They must be something. Unless someone got hold of a box of dragons’ teeth and neglected to read the warning on the lid.”

  She gave me that look. “Of course,” she said patiently. “But we don’t know and we’ve no way of finding out, unless there’s stuff you haven’t told me. Is there?”

  “No.”

  “Fine. Saloninus the philosopher reckoned he could deduce the nature and origin of the whole universe fro
m a single grain of sand. I work for a living, so I haven’t got the time or the patience. When you get some more facts, tell me and I’ll see what I can do.”

  23

  I was in a meeting with the Blue and Green bosses. Nobody had told me that, back end of last season, Arrasc and Bronellus had met in the arena, one of those mock battles the punters like so much; ten men on each side, and it’s over when there’s only one man standing. That had been Bronellus. Everyone thought Arrasc was dead, but Doctor Falx pulled him round and sewed him up and he survived; than which there’s no greater disgrace, apparently. The rule is, no grudges. More honoured in the breach, as the saying goes.

  So, it was a sticky meeting. Neither of them took their eyes off me for a second, for fear of having to look at the other man. Actually, we got a lot done, since each of them was trying to be more reasonable than the other. Still, it’s hard to feel at ease when you’re in the same room as a combined mass of nearly six hundred pounds of top-flight killer and you just know that one wrong word—

  A clerk came in, I didn’t know his name. Strict orders not to be disturbed, and the poor man looked petrified. “What?” I snapped at him, mostly because I was so nervous.

  “There’s an embassy,” he said.

  Made no sense. “Sailed into the Bay?”

  “No, sir. From the enemy. They’re flying a white flag.”

  You may recall that, when I tried to negotiate, they shot at me. “You’re kidding.”

  “No, sir.”

  I jumped up. “Gentlemen, I suggest we adjourn. Thank you for your time.” I left them sitting there—crazy thing to do, but luckily no harm came of it—and followed the poor clerk out into the courtyard, where Nico was waiting for me, looking worried.

  “They want to talk,” I said.

  “Apparently.”

  “How many?”

  “Twelve horsemen, one white flag. They’ve stopped about three-fifty yards from their lines.”

  Well within shot from the catapults, in other words. For a moment, I had my hands full just breathing.

  “Fine,” I said. “I guess we’d better go and see what they want.”

  Lysimachus came, too. I think Nico would’ve had to fight him to make him go away, and I’m not sure who’d have won. So, the three of us, on horseback, rode out of the North Gate, feeling very strange indeed. It had been so long since the gate had been opened, and since we’d any of us done something as normal as riding down a paved road. Lysimachus, by the way, was no horseman. He was clinging to the pommel of the saddle with both hands, the reins knotted on the nape of the horse’s neck, the way kids ride.

  Fifty yards between them and us, and someone called out, “That’s far enough. Leave your blue friends there and come on alone.”

  I thought about it, and came to the conclusion that if they wanted to kill me they could do it perfectly easily with or without Nico and Lysimachus. “It’s all right,” I told them, “I’ll be fine. Stay here, and don’t interfere.”

  I rode forward. So did one of the twelve; a dazzling figure head to toe in actual gold armour—not polished bronze, not even gold plate, the real deal. Nothing else shines quite like it. The clown, I thought; but he was the size of a house and he seemed to be controlling the horse by sheer willpower; bareback, no reins. I only ever knew one man who could do that, and I knew for a fact he was dead.

  Leave your blue friends. Odd way to start a negotiation.

  He stopped his horse about fifteen yards from me, slid off easily, walked towards me. I dismounted; rather a performance, as I got my foot stuck in the stirrup; grace isn’t my strong suit. My back hurt, and I was crouching like an old man.

  Golden Man was wearing one of those parade helmets, where the visor’s a mask that covers your face. His was the face of the Eternal Sun. He undid the buckle and lifted it off. I stared.

  I know him, I thought. Only—

  “Caltepec,” I said. Couldn’t stop myself. The name burst out, like the evil sheep that won’t stay in the pen.

  “Don’t be silly,” he said. “It’s me.”

  Caltepec; I’d know him anywhere. He taught me to tickle trout and flip a flat stone across a river, when I was five years old. But it couldn’t be Caltepec, because that was over forty years ago, and he’d have changed. Also, he was dead.

  He was looking at me. Overjoyed to see me, exasperated because I was being so dense. “Who are you?” I said.

  “Orhan, for crying out loud.” Caltepec, the blacksmith in our village. Tallest, strongest man in the district, also the gentlest and the kindest. The father of my best mate. The Sherden killed him. “Orhan, you halfwit, it’s me.”

  And then, just as the penny dropped and I realised, he lunged forward, threw his arms round me and gave me a hug that forced all the air out of my lungs. He never did know his own strength, my pal Ogus.

  “Let go of me,” I whispered. “I can’t breathe.”

  “Say what? Oh, sorry.” He let go and I staggered back, gasping for breath. He really did look the spit and image of his old man. “You know what, Orhan, you haven’t changed a bit. God, it’s good to see you.”

  “Ogus? What the hell are you doing here?”

  He gave me that grin; like looking straight into the sun, which you aren’t really supposed to do. “Long story,” he said. “Come on, let’s have a drink.”

  I was still short of breath. “I can’t,” I said. “They’ll think—”

  “Oh, screw them,” said Ogus cheerfully. “Tell ’em you’ll be back directly.”

  Crazy. But I turned round to face my escort. They were on foot. Nico had Lysimachus’s arms behind his back, to restrain him from charging up and pulling Ogus’s head off, for touching me. “It’s all right,” I called out to them. “I’m going to their camp, to talk. I’ll be fine, I promise.”

  The way the wind was blowing, I didn’t catch what Nico said. Didn’t need to. Are you out of your tiny mind, or words to that effect. But what the hell. It’s not every day you meet an old friend. “I’ll be fine,” I repeated. “Go back. Take the horse.” Then I turned my back on them and walked back to Ogus, my pal.

  24

  “I knew you were here, of course,” Ogus was saying, as we walked back to the enemy lines. “Counting on it, if truth be known. Of course, you being in charge of the whole shooting match is the most amazing stroke of luck. I never anticipated that.”

  His legs are so much longer than mine, so I always have to trot to keep up. All my life I’ve walked really fast, habit I got into, keeping up with Ogus when we were kids. “Ogus,” I said, “what are you talking about?”

  “This is my tent,” he said, pointing at something the size of the Capitol, only made of cloth-of-gold rather than basalt. “I managed to get some of that tea you like, the black stuff with the dried yellow flowers.” He stopped and gave me another terrifying hug. “You have no idea how good it is to see you again, my dear old friend. Tea!” he thundered. And there it suddenly was, on a silver tray.

  I lowered myself awkwardly into a sort of seething bog of cushions. Ogus wasn’t drinking tea, of course. He knocked the top off a bottle and took three enormous glugs. “How long’s it been?” he said. “Thirty years?”

  “Thirty-seven,” I said. “I thought you were dead.”

  “Me? God, no.” He was grinning. “Oh, of course, you were sold on when I was down with that nasty go of fever. Actually, that was a real stroke of luck. By the time it cleared up the buyers from Lepcis were in town. That’s where I went. Marvellous place. Been there?”

  I shook my head.

  “I was seventeen years in Lepcis,” he said. “Worked my ticket in six, set up on my own, made a go of it. Then, of course, I came back. I know all about you, of course. You’ve made a real go of it, I’ll give you that. I always knew you’d do well.”

  It was the tea I especially like. You can’t always get it, even in the City. No idea where it comes from. “Thanks,” I said. “Ogus, what are you doing here?”r />
  He gave me a blank look. “How do you mean?” he said.

  “With these—” Couldn’t think of the right word. Probably just as well.

  “What? Oh come on, Orhan, you never used to be stupid. This is my army.”

  Now I looked at him, I could see the differences. Caltepec was a bit rounder in the face. And, of course, his eyes were grey, not blue.

  “I always knew this was what I was born for,” Ogus was saying. “Ever since—well, you know. I remember sitting by that miserable fire in the rain, that day we reached the sea. I thought to myself, this is all wrong, it’s got to stop. And then it sort of came to me, out of the blue. Someone’s got to stop it, and that someone is me.”

  I waited for him to continue, but he didn’t. “Excuse me,” I said. “Stop what, exactly?”

  “The Robur, of course.” He was still beaming at me. “Wipe every single one of those bastards off the face of the earth. It’s the only way, you know that, a smart fellow like you.”

  “It was the Sherden—”

  He raised his hand, and I couldn’t have said anything even if I’d wanted to. “They don’t matter,” he said. “The Sherden only steal children because the Robur pay money for them. I don’t hold a grudge against the Sherden. Actually, they’ve been bloody useful. Well, you know that, obviously.”

  I looked at him. He’s the sort of man everybody’s eyes naturally turn to, like sunflowers. “You did all this.”

  “Took me a while,” he said. “It’s been a real game, I’m telling you. There were times when I thought, the hell with it, why me, why should I bother? And then I thought of you.”

  It could have been worse. The sky could have fallen on my head, with nail-studded clouds. “You what?”