by Robert Adams
The High Lord turned to Mahrk Hailee. “Is this man trustworthy and loyal? Do you feel him to be a good commander of men?”
Hailee, though still a bit numb, had recovered to some degree. “Why . . . why, yes, my lord. Yes to both questions.”
Demetrios nodded. “In the presence of you three men,” he waved his arm to include Hailee, his adjutant, and the other civil guard, “I, hereby, declare Szamyul Thorntun elevated to the post of Governor of the Prisons and Grand Commander of the Civil Guard. As well as partaking of all the rights and privileges of that office, he is to faithfully discharge the multitudinous duties entailed. His predecessor and this other traitor,” he pointed at Teeaigos, “the lord governor is to have stripped, fitted with the heaviest available chains and manacles, and immured in the lowest, dankest, foulest cell in the prison; there, to await my pleasure.”
“Hai . . . Hailee, Kwinsee, quick,” shouted Teeaigos frightenedly, “seize him, bind him! He . . . the High Lord has finally gone mad!”
Hailee didn’t budge. “High Lord Demetrios sounds very sane to me, Lord Teeaigos. Saner, by far, than any other noble in this city.” Then he snapped to attention.
“Has the High Lord orders for me?” he questioned Demetrios.
“Yes, sir,” Demetrios answered gravely. “Though not truly orders. I have forfeited any right to order you by the disgraceful ill-treatment I’ve afforded you and your men. After the last five years, there is no understandable reason why you and your squadron should retain any trace of loyalty toward me; but, I pray that you do, for I have great need of you.
“You see, someone must replace Teeaigos, as Lord High Strahteegos of this city and, sad to say, all of his peers-in-rank are of his ilk — useless, treacherous, self-seeking, and false. I need a man who knows the city and its needs and its soldiery and their needs. I need a man of your caliber, Mahrk Hailee; but the city is doomed to fall in any case, so I cannot order you to assume the post. I can only ask you. I would consider it an undeserved, personal favor, if you would consent to become Lord High Strahteegos of Kehnooryos Atheenahs. Will you, please?”
When Teeaigos had been bereft of his finery and hustled out by the new prison governor and his deputy, bound for a whipping and a cell, Lord Mahrk spoke. “My Lord Demetrios, as to a new commander of the Squadron, I . . .”
Demetrios waved a gauntleted hand. “I defer to your judgment, of course, Lord Mahrk. I freely confess that I know nothing of military matters.” He shook his helmeted head sadly. “I don’t even know the basic elements regarding the use of the weapons I bear. This much, at least, I should like to try to remedy, before I die. Do . . . do you think that one of your troopers could find it in his heart to consent to teach me a little of sword-play? I . . . I’d not ask it, but . . . but, you see, I mean to take active part in the fight for my city and . . . and I’d not like to give too poor a showing in this, my first and last battle.”
* * *
The changes which altered Kehnooryos Atheenahs In the ensuing weeks were sweeping. Teeaigos and his cell-mate soon had company in the lower tier, a great deal of it and almost all Ehleenee nobles, Demetrios’ former cronies, one and all. In fact, such were the numbers of the new prisoners, that Lord Szamyul found it necessary to have all the former inhabitants of the lowest areas brought higher to make room for this influx of once-powerful personages. Appalled at the conditions of the starved, much-tortured, rat-chewed wretches — some of whom had not seen daylight in four and one-half years — the prison governor applied to the High Lord for permission to — insofar as was possible-restore them to health. He found Demetrios — clad in brigandine and plain helmet and weighted buskins, and gripping a double-heavy practice sword, with a huge, convex body-shield on his left arm-trading hard blows with the White Horse Squadron’s weapons-master. There was a shallow scratch across the High Lord’s right cheek and his chin-beard was stiff with dried blood, his features were uniformly red and sweat-streaked; too, he seemed to have lost a bit of weight.
When the High Lord spotted Lord Szamyul, he caught one more swipe on his shield, then stepped back and saluted the weapons-master, saying, “You must pardon me, for a moment, good friend, duty calls.” Thrusting the metal-shod wooden sword through his belt, he walked over to Lord Szamyul, smiling. The prison governor noticed, at closer range, that, though the ruler’s eyes showed weariness, both skin and eyes were amazingly clear. Demetrios looked healthier than Lord Szamyul — or anyone else for that matter — could ever remember having seen him!
Courteously, the High Lord heard his appointee out. Then he gave Lord Szamyul leave to do as he saw fit, complimented him on his recent activities and achievements and, with equal courtesy, excused himself to return to his session with the weapons-master.
The city was crowded with refugees from the countryside and their straits were desperate. When the new Demetrios was apprised of their plight, he immediately ordered the barracks, which had once housed Djeen Mai’s squadron, opened to them. As this proved insufficient, he moved his black spearmen into the palace proper, and opened their barrack, as well, to the refugees.
As the threatening army neared Kehnooryos Atheenahs, the prices of food were driven up and up, until starvation grimly stalked most quarters of the city. In their sumptuous residences, however, the nobles still feasted on hoarded delicacies. At least they did until the new Demetrios was informed of the situation. Then the feasters discovered that Demetrios-in-the-right could be just as swift and ruthless as Demetrios-in-the-wrong! Without warning, his soldiers swooped down, between midnight and dawn, on the quarter of the nobility. By right of the sword, they ransacked homes and cellars and out-buildings. Everything edible was carted back to the palace warehouses. Throughout the next day, the confiscations were carried out in all quarters and, shortly, the courtyard of the palace had become a stockyard — packed with lowing, bawling, excreting, cud-chewing, food-on-the-hoof. Then Demetrios outlined what he wanted done. Soon, notices were being tacked up for those who could read. For those who could not, brazen-throated criers ceaselessly repeated that: In future, until the threat to the city had abated, all food was become the property of the High Lord and would be evenly rationed, twice each day, to all persons, citizen or no, equally.
The palace cooks had been put to cooking for the refugees, so Demetrios began messing with the officers of the White Horse Squadron; and, now and again, the common troopers would find the High Lord — bowl and cup in hand, still garbed in his sweat-soaked brigandine — bringing up the rear of their own slop-line. (After the first of these incidents, the preparation of the food mysteriously improved!)
The High Lord took to appearing — armed and armored, but usually unaccompanied — on the walls and on the streets at all hours, day and night. He amiably chatted with noble and soldier, citizen and refugee, man or woman or child. The first question he put to any was always the same one: What could be done to improve their lot?
To all adult, male slaves, who were capable of and would swear to bear arms for the city, he granted freedom and citizenship. Of course, the nobles howled. Those who howled too loudly and too threateningly found themselves prevailed upon to partake of the High Lord’s “hospitality” which was being enjoyed by Lord Teeaigos among others.
After the incarceration of the loud-howlers, none others of the un-jailed nobles saw fit to even appear to question any of the High Lord’s actions.
As all his advisors and high-ranking civil-servants had been imprisoned — most charged with a whole plethora of offenses against individuals, the state, or both — Demetrios, to all intents and purposes, ruled alone. But it was not as difficult an undertaking as one might have thought, for — with the sole exception of the bulk of the nobles, whose numbers were too small to really matter — the inhabitants of his city were solidly behind him and, if they had not had the time to come to love him, they respected him. To the men of the White Horse Squadron, their High Lord was become one of themselves, and they adored him.
So matters stood on
the bleak, November day that saw the appearance of the vanguard of the army and allies of the outlawed Strahteegos, Lord Alexandros Pahpahs.
26
Lord Alexandros’ eyes goggled at his visitor, Lord High Strahteegos Mahrk Hailee. At last, he shouted, “Has all of the world gone suddenly mad? He wants to meet me? There must be trickery somewhere! That spineless, quivering tub of flab . . .”
“My Lord!” Strahteegos Hailee cut him off, coldly courteous. “My dread sovereign, Demetrios, High Lord of Kehnooryos Ehlas, has bid me offer you honorable combat. This combat is to be of a personal nature and is to be fought in clear sight of the opposing forces.” Hailee began to recite the rote. “Such an offer denotes courage and honor and battle-prowess, though deep respect for one’s enemy is indicated in such willingness to accept a death — if need be — at his hands.” He returned to a normal tone. “My lord realizes that he has earned your antipathy.”
Lord Alexandros snorted and, glowering, started to snarl a reply. But Hailee raised his hand. “Please, my lord, have the courtesy to allow me to finish.”
“Courtesy!” yelped Lord Alexandros. “Who are you to demand courtesy from me?”
Hailee drew himself to stiffly formal attention. “Lord Mahrk Hailee, High Strahteegos of Kehnooryos Atheenahs and, presently, War-Herald of my puissant Lord, Demetrios Treeah-Pohtahmos!”
“Oh, sweet Jesus Christ!” Lord Alexandros threw himself against the canvas back of his folding camp-chair. “The world that I knew has turned upside down and no mistake! What have we here? A barbarian is Lord High Strahteegos of an Ehleenee city. Another is commander of that city’s civil guard and governor of its prison. Three quarters of that city’s adult, male nobility are imprisoned. The fact that most of them have deserved at least that for years has no bearing upon the present issue. And ninety percent of the adult, male slaves have been declared to be free citizens of the city and are bearing arms in its defense.
“I arrive before city walls that I had expected to be all-but deserted, to find them literally bristling with spearmen. For five years, this city has been misruled, as has all of Kehooryos Ehlas, to the benefit of certain unscrupulous noble families; yet, who are the first persons who come to me begging asylum and protection from their benefactor, but representatives of these same rapacious noble families! As late as two moons agone, Demetrios was almost universally hated. He had well earned the hatred of slaves, foreigners, citizens, soldiery, all the minor nobles, and many of the greater, especially those of the older houses; but, who comprises the group which comes to me, but representatives of all these classes, warning me that they and those that they represent will fight to the death, that I will have to pull the city down, stone by stone, to unseat their well-loved High Lord! I, who came to free them from the domination of a half-mad tyrant, am given the greeting of a foreign invader!
“And now, this! To add insult to injury, a gross, loathsome creature, whose only accomplishments consist of wine-swilling and buggery, sends me a so-called war herald. A thing who is Ehleenee only by accident of birth, who doesn’t know one end of a sword from the other and who probably can’t even lift a shield, challenges me — lord Alexandros Pahpahs, the foremost strahteegos of the age — to personal combat! Pah! On those rare occasions Demetrios is not besotted, he’s so hung over that he’d have great difficulty in finding his posterior with both hands! I’ll not take part in such a farcical non-combat. It would be pure butchery and would dishonor me. Tell your piggish lord: No, I’ll not fight him!”
“My Lord,” said Lord Mahrk, “in full realization of your advanced years, with their attendant physical debility, bade me inform you that he would as willingly face any surrogate you saw fit to choose, so long as he be Ehleenee and nobly born. My lord desires that all things be equal and he would not take unfair advantage of an age-weakened, old man.”
“WHAAT?” Lord Alexandros, livid, sprang up so suddenly and violently that he sent his chair flying and all but overturned his table. “That . . . that . . . that swinish young . . . that arrogant pup! Old man, am I? Age-weakened, eh? I’ll cut him in half! I’ll split him, like a goddam mackerel, from crown to crotch! I’ll . . . I’ll. . . .”
Lord Mahrk suppressed his smile. “I take it, then, that you accept my lord’s offer.”
With an effort, Lord Alexandros regained control of himself. After a long moment, he chuckled, shook his head ruefully. “I fell directly into that one, like a panther into a pit! Tell me, did the High Lord of Perverts really frame those words, or were they your extemporaneous invention?”
“You have my word on it, Lord Alexandros,” Lord Mahrk assured him. “Each word and nuance of phrasing originated from my lord. It is what I was to repeat, should you see fit to refuse his honorable offer.”
Lord Alexandros shrugged. “Though your word means little or nothing, of course — you and all your cursed condotta are well known, up and down this seaboard, to be foresworn — nonetheless, I do believe you. Demetrios chose just the proper words and tone to obtain the reaction he desired; Basil, his father, couldn’t have done it better!”
It was decided and arranged. The combatants were to engage along the lines of a formal Ehleenee duel and were to meet and exchange the customary greetings and toasts at a spot to be one hundred paces from the city walls and one hundred paces from the lines of Lord Alexandros’ army. Each was to bear one javelin-unbarbed and not to exceed one meter in length or one kilo in weight. Each was to be dressed and armored in the style of the Old Ehleenee: tight, white, cotton shirt with short sleeves; cotton trunk-hose of any color; high-laced, leather buskins; stiff, white linen kilt; quilted canvas cap. Their armor, too, was to be of the Old Ehleenee pattern: the jazeran — knee-length, leather hauberk, to which were riveted overlapping iron scales; brass or iron rerebraces; elbow-length, leather gauntlets, lined or scaled with metal; molded greaves, with knee-cop; unlined steel helmet, with cheek-pieces, but no nasal, visor or beavor. In addition to the javelins, their armament was to consist of: a double-edged sword of the ancient Thehkahehseentah pattern — a cut-and-thrust weapon with the blade ten centimeters wide, immediately below the cross-guard and tapering to a point, along a blade sixty centimeters long; a convex-surfaced body-shield of hide-covered wood, one and one-half meters high by one meter wide (when measured around the curve of its outer surface), bossed and banded and edge-shod with iron; style and numbers of daggers, dirks and/or throwing-knives, left to the discretion of the individual combatants. Each was to be conveyed to the scene in a chariot and, in addition to the chariot driver, might bring three attendants.
These attendants might bear sidearms only and were to take no part in the contest.
The fight, it was understood, would be to the death: the victor, automatically becoming or remaining High Lord. There was quick agreement as to the fate of the city. Lord Alexandros had never intended to allow a sack or to execute reprisals against the bulk of the city’s population. Most of those Lord Alexandros had intent to avenge himself upon, Demetrios had already jailed; therefore, they would not be difficult to find. It was agreed that if Lord Alexandros should win, the civil guard and White Horse Squadron would be retained in their present positions — the sole exceptions being Lords Mahrk and Szamyul, as Lord Alexandros felt Ehleenee should fill their current posts. It was further agreed that those slaves Demetrios had freed and enfranchised should remain free citizens. Many, many smaller but no less important issues were agreed upon as well. The only request that Demetrios made, which could in any way be construed as personal, was that the tombs and remains of his parents and ancestors remain inviolate.
* * *
When Demetrios descended to the palace courtyard — fully-armed, shield slung on his back, javelin and throwing-stick in his right hand and helmet in the crook of his left arm — it was to find, not only his chariot and driver and the three horsemen who were to accompany him: Lord Mahrk, Lord Szamyul, and M’Gonda, leader of his Black Spearmen, but the entire White Horse Squadron. The
officers and men were mounted, armored, and fully armed.
Clapping on his helmet and snapping down the cheek-pieces, the High Lord strode over to where his escort sat their horses. “What means this, Lord Mahrk?”
The strahteegos dismounted and said, “My Lord, those western nomads of Lord Alexandros’ love to fight. I will ask once more, let us request that this battle be between opposing forces of equal strength? There are nearly eight hundreds of the White Horse. . . .”
“And,” interjected M’Gonda suddenly, “ten times twenty-three of my people. We are all yours. Let us fight with you.”
Choking, Demetrios grasped each man’s hand in turn. “No, I cannot. Such would be certain death for far too many of you.”
“What, my lord, do you think this madness is?” Lord Mahrk burst out. “In weeks past, you have become a middling swordsman; but Lord Alexandros is a past-master! His age means nothing; he has the muscles and wind and stamina of a man of forty. The only possible way for you to survive this, is to down him with your javelin. Barring that, you go to your death!”
“I know, Mahrk,” said Demetrios softly. “I have known from the first that Alexandros would slay me. I so planned it, for I have committed crimes which only my death can expiate. All my life, excepting the past few weeks, I have lived as a swine. I wish to die as a man.”
So saying, he walked back to and mounted the chariot. “Let us go, Agostinos,” he told the driver. “It would not do to keep your new High Lord waiting.”
Lord Alexandros was first to throw his javelin. Demetrios surprised even himself by adroitly turning the missile on his shield. Then, remembering everything that M’Gonda had told him, Demetrios hurled his own. By some fluke, the assegai pierced the hide of Lord Alexandros’ shield and sunk deeply into the wood and the older man freed it only just in time to take Demetrios’ sword-cut on the shield and, slamming its iron boss at the High Lord’s face, fend him off long enough to draw his own weapon.