Kings of Morning

by Kearney Paul

  The marshals trooped out, talking amongst themselves. Ardashir turned to Rictus and said in a low voice. ‘He has forgotten something.’

  ‘No, he hasn’t,’ Rictus replied.

  The tall Kefre looked profoundly troubled.

  ‘I mean to say it, Ardashir,’ Rictus said.

  Ardashir touched his arm, as if for reassurance, and then left in the wake of the others.

  Corvus bent over the map table like a man lost in a book. He righted a wine-cup, and smeared the red dribble it had leaked across the vellum.

  ‘All pages are to leave,’ he said in a clear voice, and the two boys at the door, who had listened agog to all that had passed, ducked out of the tent.

  The rain was a thunder on the leather canopy above their heads. Corvus did not turn around.

  ‘You did not leave with the others, Rictus.’

  ‘I have no command. Fornyx runs the Dogsheads now. I am merely –’

  ‘A mascot?’ Corvus turned, and smiled to take the sting out of the word.

  ‘I am your advisor; I am –’

  ‘Sometimes I feel you are Antimone’s shadow, always looking over my shoulder.’

  ‘You did not tell them everything, did you Corvus?’

  The King poured himself some wine, filled a second cup and left it standing on the table. Rictus did not touch it.

  ‘I told them what they wanted to hear, what the army needed to hear. And it was the truth.’

  ‘But not all of it.’

  ‘Damn it Rictus, men have shrewish wives easier to put up with than you!’

  ‘And fathers.’

  ‘You are not my father.’

  ‘But I did know him. He was my best friend, and a better man than I. He is not forgotten, and nor will you be.’

  ‘My thanks for the reassurance. Now say what you mean to say.’

  ‘Do not let your hunger for glory take these men to needless deaths, Corvus. There was no mention made just now of King Proxanon and the Juthan legions. Why is that?’

  Corvus leaned both hands on the table and stared at the stained vellum upon it, the lines and names, the inked-in mountains and rivers. A whole world, a vastness of ambition, contained upon a tabletop.

  ‘I thought it would be Fornyx who noticed first.’

  ‘Sometimes you can make even him believe. But I know you better than any of them, Corvus, save Ardashir.’

  ‘Do you? I suppose that is so. You are the only one I ever feel I have to explain myself to, Rictus.’

  He sighed, as if resigned, but Rictus did not think that was what he felt.

  ‘The Great King received word of our agreement with Proxanon. He has detached an army to attack Jutha. The legions cannot join us in time. They are already committed to battle somewhere west of the city of Hadith, three weeks away.’

  ‘Where is Marcan?’

  ‘I sent him south, to rejoin his people, and to tell his father of my plans. He may yet be able to tie in with us.’

  Rictus breathed out softly. ‘And what are the Great King’s numbers, Corvus? Do not tell me you don’t know.’

  ‘He detached a sizeable force to attack Proxanon, but the Jutha still reckon the main body at some two hundred thousand spears.’

  Now Rictus approached the table, took the wine-cup, and gulped half the contents down, baring his teeth at the sharp taste.

  ‘Even with the recent reinforcements, we can only put some thirty-five thousand into the line.’

  ‘Thirty six,’ Corvus corrected him.

  ‘And you mean to seek battle.’

  ‘I do.’

  Rictus glared at the younger man. He rapped his knuckle against the black cuirass that Corvus wore, the twin of his own. ‘This does not make you immortal, Corvus.’

  The King smiled tightly. ‘It helps.’

  ‘We cannot do this. We must wait for Proxanon to come up. We need those extra spears. Antimone’s blood, Corvus, they will double our numbers!’

  ‘We will not wait. There is no guarantee that Proxanon will prevail in the field. We may find ourselves with a victorious imperial army in our rear as well as the horde of the Great King to our front. Better to move now, and move fast. Numbers do not count for as much as surprise. And I’m hoping to give the Great King a very nasty surprise indeed, Rictus. I will announce it in the morning – we will move by forced marches from now on.’

  He was elevated, exalted even. Two spots of colour burned on that terrible pale face.

  ‘If we beat the Great King’s army on our own – on our own, Rictus – then we will have broken his hold on the empire. It will fall apart. And what is more, it will be a Macht army which has prevailed, without allies, without help from the Kufr or anyone else.’

  Exasperated, Rictus exploded. ‘For God’s sake, Corvus – you’re half Kufr yourself!’

  The winecup came up in a blur, smashing against Rictus’s cheekbone, staggering him. Wine sprayed in the air, soaked his cloak, and ran in rivulets dark as blood down his black cuirass.

  He straightened, blinking the stinging liquid out of his eyes. Twenty years earlier, even ten years, he would have launched himself at Corvus for that, king or no. But now he simply stood there with his head ringing, and a great sadness crowding his mind.

  Corvus raised both hands to his mouth like a woman. ‘Rictus – Rictus, my brother, I am so sorry!’

  Rictus turned away.

  ‘I’ve had harder blows from whores,’ he said. And then he stumbled out into the rain-lashed night, blind with the wine and the hot, growing light of his own anger.

  TWELVE

  MOT’S BLIGHT

  KOUROS STOOD LIKE a piece of statuary with the sweat sliding in worms down the small of his back. The armour he wore had been made for him a few years before, and had once fitted him like an ornate second skin, but he had lost weight in the last few weeks, and now there were angles in his bones that were not so well padded as they had been. And he had forgotten how heavy the helmet was.

  But he stood motionless beside his father’s throne, for he was part of a larger tableau here today, and all of it was on display for the baying myriads of the army, who had been assembled to witness something rare: the execution of a high-caste noble. It was not often they were able to see someone so elevated pay for a mistake, and though the assembled crowds were as silent as the Great King’s presence demanded, still there was that whispering susurration, a surreptitious chatter. No-one could silence an army completely, for in their thousands the soldiers were invulnerable, anonymous.

  But there was a hush of sorts, nonetheless, as Dyarnes strode forth upon the dais in armour so bright it pained the eye to look upon, and called for silence in a voice almost as brazen.

  ‘Bring him forth,’ he cried.

  Darios had been fettered with silver chains, as befitted his station, and he walked across the dais in a himation of blinding white linen, his hair loose, face impassive.

  The Great King sat silent and motionless on the throne as the traitor approached. His komis was drawn up around his face and only his eyes were visible, as hard to read as frosted glass.

  Darios stood and surveyed the crowd with contempt. Then he collected himself, turned, and went on his knees before the Great King. Ashurnan gave away no flicker of interest.

  The executioner stepped forward, a massive hufsan from the Magron, bearing a scimitar as long as a man’s leg. He stood waiting.

  Dyarnes spoke up again. He had a fine, ringing voice when he cared to exercise it, and he looked as tall and indomitable as some bronze-clad god in the shining sunlight.

  ‘The traitor Darios, having betrayed our army at the River Haneikos, surrendered the city of Ashdod, and then deserted his own troops, is likewise charged with entering into communications with the enemy. His fate is death, by decree of the Great King. Your eyes shall witness it, so that you may know what it is to betray your lord.’

  ‘I have something to say,’ Darios spoke up.

  Dyarnes looked quick
ly at the Great King. Upon the arm of the throne one hand moved slightly, a sideways flick of negation.

  ‘The prisoner will not speak,’ Dyarnes said, and his voice was thick and raw. ‘Executioner.’

  The scimitar caught a flash of fire from the sun as it arced through the air, and Darios’s head left his body in a clean-shorn instant. Kouros watched with close fascination, and was certain the eyes blinked in surprise before the head thumped to the timber of the dais.

  The assembled soldiers roared their approval. The execution of their own rendered them dumb, but to see a high caste Kefre lose his head was as good an afternoon’s entertainment as many had known in all their lives. They cheered even as the Great King rose from his throne.

  Ashurnan stepped forward, studied the medals and ribands of blood that lay scattered across the dais as though he could make an augury of them, and then turned without a word, the cheers still shaking the air, and disappeared into the hangings behind the throne, and the towering tent beyond.

  The executioner raised the head into the air by its topknot, and now the eyes were dead as glass.

  ‘Behold!’ he cried in common Asurian, ‘The fate of all traitors!’

  ‘Set it on a spike at the gates to the royal enclosure,’ Kouros said, studying Darios’s features, as fascinated as a boy pinning butterflies.

  ‘My prince –’ Dyarnes and Darios had been friends. For a second the commander of the Honai had raw grief carved across his face.

  ‘Those are the Great King’s orders.’ Kouros set a hand on the other man’s arm for a second, judging the gesture necessary.

  ‘Yes, my prince.’ Dyarnes retrieved the grisly relic from the executioner, and then walked off the dais with his friend’s head cradled in his arm, the blood from the severed veins and windpipe still streaming fast, darkening the bright shine of his armour.

  ONE SEGMENT OF the Great King’s tent had been lifted up to catch the breeze and let in the bright summer sun, Bel’s blessing on the world. Ashurnan stood at this gap now in a simple robe of blue silk, the diadem a black band across his forehead. Above him, the immense structure creaked and swayed in the wind like a ship at sea. It was so large that living trees were accommodated within, with lanterns hung all along their branches, and in one corner there was a stream of clean water whose banks had been walled off for two pasangs beyond the tent so no other mortal might pollute it.

  This was campaigning in style. Now that they were down from the mountains, and the worst of the march was over, with intelligence pouring in from the west and south; now the Great King could unbuckle a little, and enjoy the comforts his two hundred personal waggons had hauled all the way from Ashur.

  Now the details and suspicions which had dogged him for all those weary pasangs could be dealt with.

  Kouros doffed his helmet with a barely suppressed sigh of relief and joined his father.

  The royal enclosure was partitioned off from the rest of the immense camp by a stockade and ditch, which the Honai patrolled in their hundreds. Within that wooden wall were the stables, the harem, the cook-tents, and herds of the Great King’s own personal animals, to be slaughtered at his word alone. The round hill with its palisade was the ziggurat, replicated here in the Middle Empire on a smaller scale, but with a hierarchy as rigid as in its stone-built original.

  Beyond the stockade, the camp of the army rolled out like a sea to every horizon. At night when the campfires were lit, they rivalled the stars above, and the glow of them could be seen in the sky from fifteen pasangs away. The men camped according to geography, so that within the immense encampment were many different districts, and distinct rivalries.

  The Arakosans kept themselves apart, and as cavalry they took the best ground with easy access to pasture beyond. The hufsan of Asuria huddled together in narrow lines as though replicating the slums and alleyways of Ashur. And the small farmers and craftsmen of Pleninash slept in sprawling formless crowds, for they had only just come in, many of them, and they were still being regimented by their officers. For them, the coming of the Great King had been a cataclysm to overturn their world.

  It could almost have been an entire people on the move, a dispossessed city staining the face of Kuf with its masses, and sucking dry the fertile farmland for many pasangs around. Despite the hundreds of provision-bearing waggons that lumbered into the great camp every day, the army could not remain in one place for long, or there would be no more food to gather in. Even Pleninash had its limits, when encumbered with a horde such as this.

  ‘You know why I had Darios killed,’ Ashurnan said to his eldest son, not turning around.

  ‘He failed. He let the Macht over the Korash and –’

  ‘He was your mother’s creature. He had been for a long time.’ Ashurnan turned now, and the light behind him made of his face a black shadow with azure coins for eyes.

  ‘This is not the palace now, Kouros. We do not intrigue for trifles here. This is war. Soon you will be on a battlefield facing the Macht for the first time. There is no more time for conspiracy.’

  He glided forward. Kouros had to steel himself not to retreat before his father, so strange and fey did the older Kefre seem in that moment. It was as though he were half in another world.

  ‘You will be King, Kouros. Be satisfied with that. It may happen tomorrow, or it may happen in ten years, but you will wear the diadem. There is no-one left to challenge you. Why can you not be content with that?’

  Ashurnan’s tone was genuine, but there was anger simmering in it too. Kouros fought down a stammer as he replied.

  ‘I serve you, father. I know now I am not yet ready to sit on the throne – these last weeks have taught me that much. It is just that Rakhsar –’

  ‘Rakhsar is dead, or lost. He is gone, and Roshana with him.’ There was no mistaking the grief in the old man’s voice now. He walked away. A gold-leafed table sat upon a brilliantly woven carpet, and around it the green grass of Pleninash spread out, shorn as fine as the carpet-weaver’s work, yellowing now without the sun. Ashurnan poured himself wine, raising a hand to halt the advance of the old chamberlain, Malakeh, who stood with a pair of household slaves not ten paces away, his staff of office balanced on a stone so he could still make it ring when he chose.

  ‘Drink.’

  Kouros did so, watching his father over the rim of the cup, sweating.

  ‘Now I will drink,’ Ashurnan said, with an odd smile. Kouros passed him the cup. The Great King sipped the wine, but did not seem to enjoy it.

  ‘Your mother’s reach is long, Kouros. I do not think you know just how long. Darios was once my friend, and she turned him.’

  ‘He was still your friend –’ Kouros said earnestly.

  ‘One cannot serve two masters. You might want to tell Dyarnes that, also.’

  The sweat turned cold on Kouros’s back. ‘Dyarnes?’

  ‘He and Darios rose through the ranks of the Honai together. Their wives are cousins. But you will have known that.’

  He had not. It was a little something Orsana had chosen not to share with him.

  ‘A king must be his own man, Kouros. And if there is something my forty years on the throne have taught me, it is that he needs his friends also. I do not have a talent that way – and nor do you. Your grandfather did. He never feared an assassin in his life, and he did not scruple to drink wine no-one else had yet tasted. Because he had friends he trusted about him.’

  ‘Kings can trust no-one – you told me that once.’

  ‘I did not. I believe those are your mother’s words. There is wisdom in them, though. But your mother has not known life above the snowline like I have. She has ladies in the harem and at the court who would spill their last breath for her. For myself, if I need a friend, I buy one. You will be like me, Kouros. The throne will not make you happy.’

  Kouros was shocked. His broad, heavy face worked in genuine perplexity. His father had never before spoken to him thus.

  ‘If I could go back to the ea
rly years, before Kunaksa, then I would know what it was like to trust others. I trusted my brother – I loved him, for all that he was a self-centred, unlovable fellow. He brought the Macht into our world, and you know the result. We are still paying the price for that today. A brother’s betrayal. My forbearance.’

  Ashurnan turned away, set the chased crystal of the wine-glass on the gold table.

  ‘I killed him with my own hand, Kouros. And there is not a day in my life since I have not seen his face as my sword took the life out of it.’

  ‘It was the right thing to do,’ Kouros grunted. He had a bewildering urge to set his hand on the Great King’s shoulder, as though Ashurnan were a normal father, and he a normal son.

  ‘Of course it was. But it has never left me. We grew up together, you see, as real brothers do. It is why, when I had sons of my own, I swore to keep them as separate as I could.’

  He turned back again. He was smiling.

  ‘Do you remember – can you remember – how you and Rakhsar used to play together, and look after little Roshana, all of you naked and filthy in the gardens like three little hufsan brats? I carried all three of you in from under the trees one day, just like that, and sat on the throne with you all in my arms, and blessed God and the women who had borne you. I thought myself as lucky as any man in the world.’

  ‘I was too young. I do not remember,’ Kouros said, looking down. He did not want to remember.

  ‘I resolved to go back on my own decision, to raise you all together as a family should be raised. Perhaps I was a fool. I probably was. In any case, your mother kept me to my word. She was first wife, and Ashana was a gentle soul who bowed to her commands.’

  ‘My mother is a great woman,’ Kouros growled.