by Kearney Paul
‘Hamadan,’ she said.
They had come through the Magron, and that night they were able to look down across the sleeping black plains of Asuria and see the lights of Ashur glimmering in the far distance, like a mound of jewels abandoned in the depths of a mine.
TWENTY-FOUR
A MOTHER’S SON
KOUROS STOOD ON the high battlements of the western barbican as the sun rose behind him. The city was coming to life under it, and at this hour it almost felt like one vast living beast stirring into wakefulness. Lamps were being lit, fires kindled, and already he could hear the first clamour of the marketplaces as the stallholders set up shop. Another day in the greatest of all cities. Another morning as King of the world.
But not ruler of all he surveyed. He was staring out across the plain at a rival, a rigidly regimented encampment within which the fires were also being lit to meet the dawn. It was so close that he could see the flicker as men walked back and forth in front of the flames. A city in itself, walled in by a wooden stockade and ditch which had ruined the irrigation system for pasangs around. A tented town, harbouring thousands of men and beasts.
He could still not quite believe that it was here, less than two pasangs from where he stood. A Macht army was in Asuria, and now gazed upon the ancient ziggurats of the Asurian Kings.
He looked up and down the walls. They were manned thinly. On this side of the city he had stationed the bulk of Gemeris’s Honai, so that the enemy below might see the gleam of their armour upon the walls. Lorka’s Arakosans were further north, manning the defences that led up to the Oskus River. Thousands of men, but the endless walls swallowed them up so they were hardly seen. Ashur had never truly been made for defence; it was simply too big. Two million people lived and died within its confines, a population greater than that of many whole kingdoms. The only wars it had seen were murderous private skirmishes on the heights of the palace ziggurat, assassinations and coups fought by small groups of men intent on the deaths of a few nobles. War as the Macht fought it – it did not enter into the equation here, for the city or the people in it.
There must be a way, he thought, tapping his knuckle on the stone of the ramparts. It cannot be the end. We will hold the walls until they tire of attacking. There are not enough of them to besiege this city – they must attack.
‘They have been felling trees and building at something in that lumber-yard of theirs for three days now,’ Gemeris said beside him.
‘These walls are a hundred and fifty feet high,’ Kouros told him. ‘No-one can make a ladder that long.’
‘They’re not making ladders, my lord; that I would swear to. They have a pitchworks and a tannery set up, and half a hundred forges with smiths beating upon iron night and day. You can see the red gleam of them in the dark. The Macht have a genius with machines of war. They are at some devilment to see them over this wall, or through it, or under it.’
‘Nothing can bring down this wall, Gemeris. It has survived earthquakes.’
The Honai said nothing, and Kouros felt a rush of anger as he sensed the doubt in the man.
‘Send to me if anything changes. I am going to walk the towers and make an inspection.’
‘My lord, that is not your place.’
‘What?’
Gemeris was white-faced but insistent. ‘You are Great King. It is not for you to patrol the walls like a junior officer. Your place is not here. The people expect their king to be where he –’
‘Where he belongs?’
‘Where tradition has him. Forgive me, lord, but you should be up on the ziggurat, not down in the middle of the fight.’
Kouros simmered. There was something to that.
‘We cannot lose another king,’ Gemeris said. ‘I beg you, my lord, go back to the palace.’
‘Very well. But I want a despatch every hour, Gemeris, even if nothing so much as a mouse stirs. You will keep me informed.’
‘As you wish, my lord.’
Kouros turned away. As he walked towards the stair that led down to the city below, he realised that a fundamental thing in him had changed since Gaugamesh.
He was no longer a coward.
THE SUN ROSE, the city went about its business much as it had these past four thousand years and more. With one difference. All the western gates were closed now, and the markets on that side of the city were thinly attended. Honai had been marching through the streets these last few days, seizing any man who was young, of low-caste, and who looked fit to hold a spear. The unfortunates had been rounded up in their thousands, hastily equipped from the city arsenals, and then shunted up in droves to man the walls. They stood there now among the Honai and the Arakosans, as out of place as pigeons among a flock of vultures.
They were present to see the labours of the Macht bear fruit. On the morning of the fifth day, the enemy army began to march in thick columns out of its encampments, tens of thousands of troops emerging in bristling phalanxes to take up positions on the plain, trampling the crops and vineyards of the small farms. The trees had long since been hewn down, the irrigation ditches filled in. The fertile country west of the city had been trampled bare and brown, as though the Macht had brought some blight with them out of the west.
And in the midst of the massing enemy formations, great beetle-like shapes moved, crawling titans hauled and pushed by hundreds of the foe. They rolled on crude iron-rimmed wheels, and they were plated with bronze shields which looked from afar like a hide of bright scales. From the front of each poked the gleam of a steel-tipped ram. Two of these monstrosities were trundling to each of the three western gates of the city, and behind them, mule-trains were drawing other machines, angular crane-like contraptions, and great horizontal bows.
The horns of the city watch brayed out in warning and defiance, and the defenders began readying themselves for what was to come. The pitch-cauldrons were filled and the fires below them lit. Sheaves of arrows were heaved up to the Arakosans, and lumps of masonry were set to hand on the tops of the walls, ready to be hurled down upon the attackers.
For a few minutes, in the wake of the horn-calls, the great city came as close to silence as it ever had, and it was in something of a hush that the Honai manning the wall saw the Macht king himself ride out in his horsehair-crested helmet with a cluster of aides. Three of them broke off and galloped right up to the city gates bearing a green branch, and Gemeris stood on the heights of the barbican with Lorka beside him to hear them out.
They were Kefren riders, dressed in red; men of the enemy cavalry known as the Companions. Lorka’s face tightened as he saw them. Gemeris stood up on a merlon, a golden statue ablaze in the sun.
‘That’s far enough. Speak and be quick!’
One rode forward. To the shock of all on the ramparts, they saw that though he was a Kefre of good blood, he wore the black cursed armour of the Macht, a phenomenon never seen before.
‘I bring you an offer from my king, Corvus of the Macht, ruler of all the lands west of the Magron Mountains. Open your gates, surrender your city and lay down your arms. If you do this, he will look upon you as friends. Ashur will be spared, and not a man of you will be harmed or dispossessed, save he who calls himself Great King.
‘If you do not do this, then we will assault your walls within the hour, and once they are breached, Ashur shall be given over to sack and flame, and the lives of all those who bear arms within your walls shall be forfeit. My king awaits your answer, but be swift, and do not think of any treachery. That is all.’
He raised the green branch in salute, and the three horsemen turned and galloped back the way they had come. The smell of burning pitch drifted along the walls, borne by a hot breeze. Gemeris leapt down from the merlon. ‘Get me a good scribe, and a fast runner – quickly!’
‘I must go,’ Lorka said.
‘Do not go far. You’ll be needed here soon enough.’
‘I know my duty,’ the Arakosan snarled. ‘Do not presume to teach me it, Honai.’
THE BALCONY OF the Great King’s chambers possessed a view unmatched anywhere else in the world, and it looked west. While standing there, Kouros could survey the grid-pattern of the teeming streets below that was barely discernable when one was walking among them. He could see the grey python of the walls with their punctuating towers, and beyond that, the trampled umber plain which the Macht had made their own.
All things, they destroy, he thought. They come from a land of stone, and reduce to stone and dust everything they touch. They are a pestilence upon this world.
The fine material of the curtains moved inwards as the door to his chambers was opened, though he heard no noise.
‘Akanish?’ he called, but the chamberlain did not answer.
Kouros turned to pour himself more wine from the decanter on the table at his side, and as he turned his eyes caught a flash of blue.
It was Orsana. His mother stood motionless in a simple robe, azure silk hemmed in black. She had thrown back a komis of snow-white linen from her face, but left the material framing her head. She looked like some stern-faced priestess about to engage in an ancient rite.
‘Mother! These are my private chambers. It is not fitting that you be here.’
She was carrying a square of parchment with a broken seal. ‘News from the gates. You should read it.’
He set down the cup and snatched it out of her hand, scanning the seal first.
‘Gemeris. This should have come straight to me.’
‘Read it.’
The clear hand of a scribe, the ink spattered in his haste. Kouros’s jaw worked as he read, chewing on anger.
‘I thought I knew what arrogance was; it seems I was mistaken. The barbarian at the gates sees fit to dictate terms to me – to me!’ He tossed the parchment aside. ‘This has no relevance. But I do want to know why it came to you instead of straight to me, mother.’ The anger was still there. He chewed on it like gristle.
His mother was very calm.
‘I take it his terms are unacceptable to you.’
‘What? Of course they are. Do you think I would ever let that usurping monster into this city without a fight? I killed my own brother to wear the diadem, mother – I will not tamely hand it over. He will see how a son of Ashurnan can fight; I will make him regret the day he ever brought his rabble east of the mountains.’
‘That is what I thought you would say.’ She hung her head.
‘And now you can tell me how you came to break the seal on a despatch meant for the Great King?’
‘Kouros, my son – do you not know – have you never even suspected?’
‘That your intrigues are unending, that you will meddle in the affairs of state at every opportunity – that you see conspiracies behind every bush? I do not suspect, mother – I know. I have always known.’
‘You know nothing,’ she said to him, her voice suddenly rising, like the crack of a whip. ‘Do you think I have spent thirty years in the harem polishing my nails? You stupid young fool. I gave up counting the number of times your father tried to have me killed. But he failed. In the end, he had to let me survive, because I made myself essential to him and to the empire. Through me, he had Arakosia, and I made sure that he would have it through me only.
‘You think you can give orders to Lorka? He has been my creature since he suckled at his mother’s teat. All the high officials of the city, I chose. Marok was mine, but so was Dyarnes – did you suspect that, Great King? All across the empire I have had my ears and eyes planted since before you were born. I killed that Niseian bitch your father would have supplanted me with, but she was only one of many. When a sparrow falls to the ground in Ashur, I know about it.
‘This is my city Kouros – mine. I have controlled it for decades. Just because you tied a ribbon about your head does not mean you rule anything at all. I gave birth to you, I had you reared, and I used you to kill Rakhsar. You are my son, my instrument – do not think that you can even begin to take my place.’
She paused, collecting herself.
‘I will not see Ashur destroyed to salve your pride. The invader offers terms we must accept. Do you understand me? Your men will not fight. The Arakosans are leaving the walls as we speak. Lorka is sending them back to their homes, on my orders.’
‘Gemeris,’ Kouros whispered.
‘One of mine, ever since he returned from Hamadan. He knows which way the wind blows. Why else do you think he persuaded you to leave the walls? Your father’s men all died at Gaugamesh, Kouros. Those that are left serve me. You are alone. You are the last of your father’s line.’
‘Does that mean nothing to you?’ Kouros asked her. ‘The Asurian line –’
She drew herself up. ‘I am Arakosan,’ she said proudly. ‘I was a queen before I ever came here, from a bloodline as ancient as that of Asur.’
‘You would give it over to him, the last remnant of the empire – you would let him walk in here without raising a hand.’
‘He cannot be defeated, not by arms in battle. But that is not the only way to fight, Kouros. I will open the gates to him. I will invite him into these very chambers. I will kneel before him and smile as he dons the diadem. When that is done, I will be patient, as I have always been patient.’
‘Rakhsar was right,’ Kouros marvelled. ‘They all were. You are a poisonous bitch.’
He stepped forward, but as he did there was movement at the door. Charys, the hulking chief eunuch, padded barefoot into the chamber, his face a hairless crag of pink flesh. Behind him came two Arakosan troopers in full armour, scimitars drawn. They closed the doors with a soft boom and then stood waiting.
Kouros stared at them all in some wonder. ‘Your own son, Orsana. You would kill me?’
Orsana reached inside her robe. ‘I will not have to.’ She drew forth the iron knife that Kouros had killed his brother with, and tossed it on the table. It lay black and ugly beside the crystal decanter.
‘I said that war had made a man of you. I meant it. And you are my son. There will be no poison, no unseemliness. You will do what you must by your own hand, Kouros. If you do not, then it shall be done for you.’
He stared blindly at the knife.
‘I am your son,’ he said, and there was a quaver in his voice. He looked at her, and found not one whit of compassion in that hard, white-painted face. He might as well have been looking into the eyes of a snake.
‘You are my son, but there is no greatness in you. If this day had not come I would have ruled through you. As things stand, you are an impediment to me, and your stupidity hazards the survival of this city. I leave you an honourable end. If you have courage, you will take it.’ She swallowed, and her hands shook a little. She folded them into the bosom of her robe.
He stepped forward and grasped the knife. She retreated from him – one step, two – and the eunuch padded closer; as if the three of them were somehow connected in some absurd little dance.
‘Farewell, Kouros,’ Orsana said.
‘I pray to Mot that I shall haunt your dreams, you unnatural whore.’
She walked away. The Arakosans opened the door for her, and she did not look back before it was closed again.
Kouros looked at the knife, thinking of his brother Kuthra, of Rakhsar, Roshana. His own father, who had died as a man should. They were all gone, and now he would follow. And Orsana would live on to spin her webs and brew her poison. The shock of it brought a laugh into his throat, although it left his lips as a choking sob.
He looked at Charys. The eunuch’s eyes were gimlets in that massive, blank face. There was no humanity there.
He heard the horns of the city blowing again, and walked to the balcony to look out upon the majesty of imperial Ashur. There was a roar up by the western gates. He did not know if it was battle or celebration. It was a meaningless sound.
Meaningless.
‘I am Kouros, son of Ashurnan, of the line of Asur. I am Great King of the Asurian Empire.’
He chewed angrily on the words
. The anger was enough. It had been with him all his life. He thrust the wicked blade into his own chest, stood there wide-eyed with the cold violence he had done himself, and turned to face the men in the chamber.
‘I am – I am –’
Then he fell headlong upon the floor, upsetting the wine, his legs drawing up under him. He struggled a moment more, then was still. The knotted jaw relaxed at last.
TWENTY-FIVE
AN OLD MAN’S ADVICE
THEY MET BELOW a canopy of cyan-blue silk, erected a pasang in front of the main western gate. A file of fifty Honai marched out of the city in perfect time, their armour as bright as bronze could be, the sun glinting on their spearheads. From the camp of the Macht came forty-six scarlet-cloaked spearmen, led by a centurion in the Curse of God.
The two companies formed up opposite each other, with the canopy between them. They stood with their shields at their knees, and waited in the growing heat of the morning, looking at each other with frank curiosity. They were professional enough, all of them, to feel no real rancour for their enemy. They had last met at Gaugamesh, in the centre of that great dust-flayed cauldron of mayhem. They had that in common.
As they stood there, the walls of Ashur filled with people, and the bee-hive mumble of their talk carried clear across the plain. The streets were crowded as though for a festival, and the proceedings were relayed down to the alleyways by those lucky enough to have secured a perch on the battlements far above.
Bronze horns sounding out from the summits of the ziggurats, relayed all the way to the western walls. There was an echoing cheer which rolled out of the east as it was taken up by the crowds.