He heard footsteps and his tent flap snapped. He didn't feel strong enough to turn his head so he waited until a face appeared above his.
'You aren't Garrelites,' he said, recognising his head surgeon: Dahnishev, the tall, stick-like Goslander miracle-worker.
'At least your eyes work,' said Dahnishev. 'Garrelites died in the battle. Don't you remember? He's dead. Same as you should be.' He placed a hand on Roberto's brow, his cheek, neck and chest in turn. 'Your fever has broken.' He smiled. 'You're a lucky man. God still requires your presence above the earth.'
'Fever,' repeated Roberto, struggling to force the pieces of his memory together. His head was pounding. 'Are we secure?'
'Calm yourself, General,' said Dahnishev. 'One step at a time.'
'Garrelites dead?' said Roberto. 'A good man. Friend.'
'Yes,' said Dahnishev. 'Now, tell me if you can, how you are feeling.'
'A little vague,' said Roberto.
‘I gathered that,' said the surgeon. 'Aches?'
'Everywhere. Worst in my head. And my stomach feels like my horse is lying on it.'
'At least you have feeling. That's a good sign. And your delirium has ceased.'
'How long?' asked Roberto.
'Eight days,' said Dahnishev.
'God-embrace-me,' breathed Roberto.
He felt faint, his heart thumping in his throat. He tried to push himself up but Dahnishev restrained him easily.
‘I don't think so,' he said. 'You do not have the strength. Tomorrow you can sit up, and the day after you can stand. Maybe.'
'I have duties. The Tsardon—'
'Are nowhere near us. Please, General . . . Roberto, listen to me.'
Roberto nodded. The sudden panic eased a little and he focused on Dahnishev. The surgeon's piercing blue eyes were hooded with an expression of fatherly concern. He felt tired and his concentration was already threatening to wander.
'Sorry. I'm sorry.'
'No need to apologise, General.' Dahnishev sat on the bed next to him. 'We've had a plague of typhus through the camp. It's on the wane now. We've rid the camp of fleas and rats, dug the trench very deep around the stockade and instituted a bite examination regime. We have it beaten but we are seriously weakened. I will bring numbers to you when you are stronger but what you must understand before you rest again is that we are not under threat. We sent messengers to General Atarkis and his legions now defend us beyond the quarantine zone.'
Roberto sank back into his pillow. 'Are riders going to Estorr?'
Dahnishev nodded. 'Yes. We have requested reinforcements. I will send Elise Kastenas to you tomorrow to brief you and take orders. But right now, you need some small sustenance and plenty of sleep. And I will tell the legions that you are going to live. It will be a massive boost to them all.'
'Good medicine,' said Roberto weakly.
'The best,' said Dahnishev. 'We have been praying for you, Roberto. You are the heartbeat of this army.' 'You're embarrassing me.'
'Deliberately. Because you need to be up and walking through the camp as soon as you can. And if you listen to what I say, you will be. Do you understand, General?'
Roberto nodded, weary. 'Never go against what the doctor says.'
'Sound advice. Food then sleep. Don't get up. You can piss into bottles.' Dahnishev rose. 'I'll look in on you later.'
'Thank you, old friend.'
'Praise God you have been spared.'
The cheers spreading around the camp accompanied him back to a peaceful sleep.
Roberto didn't know how long he slept but he awoke with a clarity of mind that was truly double-edged. He had been returned to himself from the prison of his fever and for that he was relieved. But the memories and the knowledge that came with it were unpleasant and depressing. It had begun just a few days after the victory against the poorly commanded Tsardon forces. They had returned their dead to the ground and the embrace of God, the surgeons had treated the injured, and they had celebrated for two days.
Detachments of Hawks cavalry and Blades light infantry were harrying the remnants of the Tsardon army, scattering and capturing as they went. Prisoners were being marched to the camps near the Gosland borders in their thousands. The army was set to reform fifteen days later on the far side of the mountain range into which they had chased the vanquished enemy.
The battlefield had been cleared of useful weapons and armour and the Tsardon camp similarly picked clean. In keeping with the traditions of the war, the Tsardon dead were moved into rows and left for their own people to deal with according to their bizarre religions and laws.
Spirits were high when they broke camp in the dark of early morning, five days after the victory, and set off south and east around the mountains, shadowing the legions commanded by General Atarkis. Scouts and messengers reported scattered towns and settlements in their path, all of which were searched and supplies bought for the march.
There were also reports of a new army gathering ten days from them. They were well-positioned across a mountain pass, commanding the only route to Khuran passable by an army for three hundred miles in either direction. Roberto and Atarkis would join forces to defeat this last major obstacle before securing the territory they had won. The assault on the capital would begin the following spring, assuming Gesteris from the centre and the garrulous old Goslander, Jorganesh from the south, achieved their goals.
The first infections had begun to appear three days into the march. Admittedly, the valley they travelled was part swamp, overrun by rodents and home to clouds of mosquitoes but they had camped carefully each day, with trenches dug, palisades erected and all tents pitched by late afternoon. The typhus had taken hold all the same. Fleas on the backs of rats and mice, so Dahnishev said. One flea would infect everything it bit and with ten rats to every legionary, there was a plague of the carriers before the typhus itself.
Roberto accepted disease as a hazard of campaigning. Diphtheria and dysentery were relatively common and containable with wagons to carry the sick in quarantined conditions. However, the scale of the epidemic which had engulfed his army had taken him completely by surprise. And ten days after they had begun marching, and with the southern edges of the mountain range within his grasp, he had been forced to stop.
Five days later, barely enough soldiers had been fit enough to carry out all the camp duties. The Atreskan cavalry and infantry had been ordered to stay away and to make urgent contact with Atarkis. The Del Aglios legions had been lame sitting ducks.
Roberto sat up in his cot and clutched its sides while the world swam in front of him. He was shivering again, though not from his fever. It was all too easy to recall his own rising desperation and the anxiety in his troops as the typhus began to claim lives at an alarming rate.
By the twentieth day of their enforced halt, with the weather alternately baking and soaking them, he had lost more to disease than he had to Tsardon blade and arrow. Panic and a sense of impending doom were spreading through the army and it threatened to break them. Whole maniples would lie sick and dying while others were untouched. Eight men in a tent would die while two remained fit and healthy, praising God for their fortune while they wrestled with their guilt.
Roberto was forced into increasingly severe measures to keep his army from falling apart. Along with Dahnishev he had implemented the plan to exterminate every rat, mouse and flea, a massive task in an army of sixteen thousand. He had ordered the horses picketed away from troops, to be handled only by the stable duty officers and their teams. They would carry fleas and he could not risk his allowing cavalrymen to touch them while the epidemic raged.
When the first desertions were noted, principally from the Atreskan legions, he had doubled the guard on the gates and palisades and strengthened his outer pickets. A stockade had been built just outside the main camp, near the followers, who were also suffering badly. When he was last aware, it had held seventy men and women who had felt running was their only chance of survival. He had news for them
the moment he was up and walking.
And finally, with genasfall at its height he too had succumbed. The memory of his own descent was hideous. The fever that had gripped him without warning, leaving him feeble and sweating, barely able to walk. Almost worse was the headache. An unremitting pounding as of hammer on rocks, slamming through his skull. He had heard men and women crying out for mercy and respite and had thought them weak willed. How he had craved their forgiveness when he suffered their fate. He knew he had moaned in his agony too, feeling as if his head was going to shatter, his brain rupture.
By the time the rash, raised and red, had begun to appear on his body, to smother his skin everywhere but his face, palms and soles, he had already begun to lose his senses. He knew the itching drove him to further distraction and that Dahnishev had bound his hands to stop him tearing at his flesh but it had seemed distant somehow,
And finally, on his way to blessed unconsciousness, he had been aware of his breath rushing in and out of his lungs so quickly his vision, already double from the headache, fogged and darkened. Dahnishev had tried to calm him. He remembered that. The last thing he could recall was the slow tolling of his heart, so slow that it robbed him of the last remnants of his strength.
All thought of leading an army had gone as the fever and delirium had swamped him, taking his mind and imprisoning it inside his weakening, sick body. He could recall nothing of that time. Eight days lost to him.
He shook his head and the quivering subsided. A smile touched his lips and sudden relief cooled him. The fact was, he still had an army out there. From what Dahnishev had told him, they were over the worst of it. Recovery would begin in earnest and perhaps they could march from this awful place in a few days. His smile faded. After all, how many would still be alive to march behind him?
Roberto shouted for attention and a legionary, carrying a spear and wearing full armour, polished to perfection, walked into his tent.
'Bring me Elise Kastenas. And have some food sent in too,' he paused and thought. 'But before that, help me up and dressed.'
'Yes, General.' The legionary leant his spear against the door pole. He was a young Estorean hastati, of average build and with deep brown eyes matching his hair.
'What's your name, citizen?'
'Herides, my Lord.'
'Proud of your armour and weaponry?' 'Yes, my Lord. It is all that keeps me alive.'
'Good. It shows. Consider yourself attached to my personal guard as aide replacing poor Garrelites.'
The young man smiled and blushed under his tan. 'Thank you, my Lord Del Aglios. I am truly honoured.'
'And thank you for remaining faithful through the disease. I need men like you close. Now, help me up and to my dressing table.'
If Herides felt embarrassed at the support he had to give Roberto, he didn't show it. Roberto felt incredibly weak, his legs barely held him up and he leant heavily on his new aide. Herides was efficient and smart and in a shorter time than he had anticipated, Roberto was seated at his map table, dressed in a light toga bearing the Del Aglios crest. Elise Kastenas and the food arrived together. The latter looked tempting and smelled devilishly good. Elise looked exhausted, careworn and ten years older.
'Sit, sit before you fall,' he said. 'And eat, for God's sake. You look worse than I do.'
Elise's smile was bright and warm. 'It's good to hear your voice, General,' she said, sinking into a recliner next to him. 'And you should study yourself more closely. I may be a little tired but you are just skin and bone. And you could do with a shave.'
Roberto rubbed his chin, surprised at the growth of beard.
'Didn't they keep me clean while I was sick?' he said, only half irritated.
'Garrelites wasn't there,' she said.
'No. No, indeed.' Roberto recalled the man's professional bearing and good humour. 'At least he escaped the plague. Died a hero in battle instead.'
Elise nodded, dropping her head and swallowing hard.
'It's been bad, hasn't it?' said Roberto. 'I'm sorry I wasn't there to help you. But I need you to tell me what I have left. The command team. Have they all survived?'
'No,' said Elise and there were tears in her eyes. Roberto's heart sank. 'Ben Rekeros and Tomas Engaard are both in God's embrace. The tenth legion has taken a fearful beating. And in the alae, Shakarov and Davarov are both still sick. Surgeon Dahnishev thinks either will be lucky to survive. The rest of us are all right. I have not been touched and Ellas Lennart came through it while you were fevered. I think his death would have been a terrible blow. The legions needed to know God was at least sparing His own Speaker. Elsewhere the commanders and masters are still walking.'
Roberto sighed. Amongst the citizens packed in their tents more tightly and so much more vulnerable to fleas, the story was going to be a hard one to take. Poor Rekeros. So close to retirement. God had deserted him too soon.
'My numbers then, broadly.'
Elise took a deep breath. 'The tenth has suffered by far the worst. Almost three thousand infantry have been lost.'
'Three thousand?' Roberto's breath caught in his throat and he felt physical pain. He sat back, unable to comprehend the scale for a moment.
'And in the cavalry, one hundred and forty are gone.' Elise wiped at her eyes. 'In the eighth, we have lost a thousand infantry so far but our cavalry have been largely spared. Twenty gone and another thirty still sick. The alae have fared much better. The cavalry and light infantry sent out to harry the Tsardon are complete. And in the camp, they seem to have been more resistant. The Arrows have lost three hundred infantry and forty cavalry. The Blades five hundred infantry and a hundred cavalry. The numbers will rise but not by much.'
'May God preserve those who still walk,' whispered Roberto. 'I had no idea it would be so bad.'
'Almost seven out of every ten in the camp have been sick. Dahnishev says that we have been lucky.'
'Lucky?' Roberto's laugh was short and bitter. 'I would hate to see ill-luck then.' He thought hard for a moment. 'What is the mood out there?'
'Morale is low,' said Elise. 'A hundred and thirteen stand in the stockade. The gulf in fatalities between legion and alae has led to trouble. Atreskan shrines have been set up and they are saying that it is these that spared their people and will save Shakarov and Davarov. And even some of our own speak of God abandoning us in an evil land. The tenth is a cursed legion now. So many deaths. But belief in your survival has kept the army together in the main. When you walk among them, pray God it is soon, spirits will lift.'
Roberto felt sick. The food in front of him smelled sour. He took a sip of water and forced his attentions on a piece of bread smeared with honey sauce.
'We will do what must be done,' he said. 'I'll be v/ell enough to walk tomorrow, I promise. In the meantime, prepare the papers for disbandment of the tenth legion and the burning of the standard. We must do this in the right way. All those in the legion must be released and be invited to join the eighth or the curse will continue. I am sorry for its demise. Such a proud history. The alae will stay as they are.
'Send messengers to Estorr and to the other commanders in the field of my decision and our latest numbers. When we meet Atarkis, I will assume overall command of the entire force until our reinforcements arrive. Anything else that comes to me, I will send for you again.
'Elise, this is already a disaster. It is by the efforts of you and the command team that it has not been a calamity. I will be commending you all in my papers. But more than that, I want to thank you personally. I am in your debt.'
Elise smiled. 'We do it because we believe in you. There was never a thought to the contrary.'
'Now eat, eat. And when you have written the orders, you will sleep until dawn tomorrow. That is also an order.' He looked her in the eye and saw the relief there. 'Now, let's speak of something a little more uplifting. I feel the need.'
'The Games start tomorrow.'
'Games?' Roberto bellowed a laugh. 'Games! Dear God-around-us. We die of
typhus and they celebrate our glory. My mother has done many stupid things in her time as Advocate but this surely is the crowning folly.' He paused. 'Mind you, it gives me an idea . . .
Something to raise the spirits and engender a bit of competition after sitting around and getting blunt.'
'You aren't serious?'
'Never more so, Elise. Never more so.'
Roberto was humbled by his reception when he walked through the camp the next morning. So much genuine affection, relief and joy at his survival that he had to keep focused to stop the tears forming in his eyes. Clean-shaven and in his dress uniform for the unpleasant business he had to carry out, he walked with ten of his personal guard along every street of the camp. He stopped to talk to as many as he could, took hundreds of salutes and thanked everyone he met for their solidarity through the plague.
Not unnaturally, the camp was a mess but there were signs of it being brought back to something approaching full working order. Quarantine had been lifted around the horses now the rats and fleas were gone and the cavalry was able to reacquaint itself with its animals. And that was not the only boost to morale. There was laughter around the camp for the first time since before he had succumbed to the infection. Cookfires roared in the late morning heat but a breeze kept the temperature very pleasant.
Roberto had gulped the fresh air greedily when he had first stepped out of his tent. He drew in more deep breaths now, reminding himself of the odours of the camp, both fair and foul. It was all like the scent of new life compared to the stale, herb-soaked air in his tent.
But as much as it was greeted with excitement by his legions, every pace hurt him. There was none of the cluttered bustle. The noise he was so used to was muted though the mood was light enough. And the energy he associated with his army was missing. Too many had died for that. Too many good men and women in the arms of God when they should be polishing armour and sharpening swords ready for battles to come. How fragile even the strongest were in the face of the smallest of enemies. How delicately God held them that one judder should cause so many to fall.
Cry of the Newborn Page 29