Thistle had been angry before this last retort – before the start of the conversation, before he had woken up this morning, for a very long time before that – but just then his face got so red and his eyes so beady that you’d have been forgiven for thinking he might have grabbed the aforementioned knife and buried it in Edom’s chest. Certainly Edom could have been forgiven for thinking that, though to judge by his face, as even and certain as ever, this was not a concern.
‘I think you’re a two-penny conman,’ Thistle said. ‘And I wouldn’t go to your fucking meeting if I was starving and you were handing out bread.’ He turned and started quickly back the way they had come.
‘Better than bread! I hand out truth, and I think you have already supped on it!’
Thistle did not seem to hear it, tearing his way back to the Fifth, fire in his eyes – but then again what we seem to be is not always what we are.
31
The gods came first, or at least their altars did, massive statues several times the size of a man, carved from red sandalwood and black ebony. Enkedri the Self-Formed, eyeless and unsmiling, Siraph, his consort, with her folded shawls of bejewelled silk. Terjunta the sun-born, each of his four arms holding a different weapon, loins sticky with sacrificial blood. Eloha thick with lust, Kairn the fortunate, Tolb who shepherds the lost, the entire pantheon bringing blessing to the day’s endeavour. Held aloft on ceremonial sledges decorated to resemble clouds, dragged through the main streets of the capital by a flock of pious-mad worshippers, novices and acolytes vying for the honour of staining their robes with upturned mud. In the wake of the divines came a single chariot of burnished copper and gold trim, pulled by a team of stark white horses. Riding atop it and not at all smiling was Archpriest Andronikos, now head of the embassy to Salucia. The altars would accompany him as far as the dock, though it was hoped the gods would continue on with him. As ever, the mailed fist came close behind the silken glove, and the third entrant, riding atop a chariot just a hair’s breadth less luxurious than the ambassador’s, was Protostrator Konstantinos, the Gentleman Lion, son of Phocas the Beloved. It was down to him that the Baleferic Isles were swept free of pirates, that the Salucians were desperate to make peace, that the demons quaked in their nests. Handsome and broad-shouldered, he made up for the senator’s asperity with an open and attentive smile.
And none of them, Bas thought – not general, senator or god – could claim a reception equal to that which greeted the white-haired woman who stood next to him, held upright by an ash cane and her own insurmountable pride.
The roar was deafening. It was louder than anything he had heard before. It was louder than a summer thunderstorm on the Marches, a thousand cables between you and a decent copse of trees, streaks of lightning coming so fast they made midnight seem like noon. It was louder than a battle, than the echo of metal against metal and metal against flesh, than the screams of the wounded and the dying. Bas had once been struck in the head by a slung stone, left an indentation in his helmet size of a duck’s egg, left him open-mouthed and stunned, and the crowd was louder than that also. Watching the mob of people try to push through the cordon of guards that surrounded them Bas was put in mind of nothing so much as a pack of starvelings let loose on a slaughtered pig. They had insisted he carry his sword with him during the parade, part of the legend they were ever happy to burnish, and though at first he had thought it an absurd affectation, now he found himself grateful to have a length of steel in case the crowd broke free in a moment of misguided passion.
The Domina, by contrast, seemed serene as the hanging moon, a constant and benevolent smile on her face, waving gracefully at her supporters. Of course the Domina had always been a figure of immense esteem, of almost veneration, but the month since she had survived the attempt on her life had seen her fame rise to heights that would have driven a modest man mad with hubris. What exactly they had done to Eudokia, Bas could not have said.
It had not been Bas’s idea to ride in a cart with her, nor for that matter to attend the day’s celebration at all. There was work to be done at camp, there was in fact a great deal of work to be done at camp. On the off-chance that Andronikos somehow failed to succeed at making peace with Salucia then it would be a good thing if those men tasked with waging war against her could claim some reasonable standard of competence. But Kantoleon had suggested his presence, and hinted that this suggestion could find itself an order of the Senate, if necessary, and Bas had bowed to the inevitable.
Behind him sat a light-skinned Parthan, the sort of fat that would be no impediment to killing a man, scanning the crowd with cool disinterest. Next to him Theophilus remained wide-eyed, bewildered but happy. The Parthan was there to ensure the Revered Mother’s safety. Theophilus was there because they had needed someone to balance out the Parthan. In truth Isaac deserved the spot, but to get him on the chariot would have required a direct order and still risked mutiny, and Bas thought it wiser not to chance it. Hamilcar would have been thrilled beyond measure, but even Bas was polished enough to know that it would not do to have a black man riding in the same cart as the Revered Mother.
They turned from the Way of Gold to the Way of Sail, the road growing smaller and the crowd more tightly packed, till Bas fancied he could smell the sour wine on their breath and the stink of damp flesh. Floating above the crowd were a number of effigies, straw figures of Aeleria’s enemies. One in Salucian-styled robes was having his tender portions punctured with a pointed wooden stick. Another, larger than the first, with four fingers and a duck-bill made of yellow paper, received continuous and violent attention from the surrounding crowd, raised aloft then pulled back down, the mob thrilled to distribute their cruelties on so deserving a target.
For a celebration of peace it was quite the most belligerent gathering in which Bas had ever taken part. Nor had it escaped his attention that, this recent embassy notwithstanding, there had been no slowing in the recruitment of new hoplitai, nor in his training of those who had already volunteered. Best be prepared for anything, certainly, though it had been Bas’s experience that a man carrying a hammer finds plenty of loose nails, and the Aelerian thema was a heavy hammer indeed.
They came finally to the Elon Bridge, stretching above the River Taver, which had been cleaned and garnished with cut flowers; roses and fat tulips, crushed by the previous entrants. A cordon of hoplitai held the crowd back from following them, lest by sheer weight of numbers they send the entire structure into the drink. Above the hard knot of pikemen, swaying like some obscene flag, was a representation of Phalomei, the Queen of Hyrcania. Her tits were the size of melons. ‘Whore’ was scrawled across her chest.
Bas cleared his throat of dust and dislike, spat into the river below.
Midway across the bridge conversation became possible for the first time since they had ascended the chariot. ‘The displays of the people earn the Caracal’s disapproval?’ Eudokia asked.
‘They love war, these tinkers and tradesmen.’
‘The gods suit us for different things. Some sow, some reap, some kill and some heal, some serve and some rule. Blessed is the man whose labour matches his skill! Blessed is that nation whose peasants are submissive, whose soldiers are brave, whose leaders are wise!’
‘But we are a republic,’ Theophilus cut in suddenly, ‘and the people choose their leaders.’
Eudokia smiled, turned that smile behind her and onto Theophilus. ‘A clever child – you would be of the Opos line?’
Theophilus blushed, looked aside, nodded.
‘You are correct, of course. In other lands, in Dycia that was, in benighted Salucia, a random quirk of birth is enough to bring a fool to the very apex of power. We Aelerians are far luckier. Our leaders, if they wish to remain so, must remember always that they are nothing but a conduit for the will of the people. But to say that is only to answer half the question – for what is it exactly that the people want?’
‘What they have always wanted,’ Theophilus responded, as if
he had the words memorised. ‘When the demons slew the last king and all his line at the Lamentation, the survivors chose their leaders from among those who survived. Men who had shown bravery in battle, and wisdom in counsel. Who could be relied upon to maintain their privileges, to safeguard the state, to act as a bulwark against tyranny.’
‘Those men we just rode past, who were shaming the Queen of Salucia in effigy – do you think they know the name of their consul? Do you think they concern themselves with the rights won by their ancestors, with the privileges of the common folk against the Senate, of the capital against the provinces?’
‘Likely they were slaves,’ Theophilus remarked uncomfortably.
‘You suppose them unique in their vulgarity? Unrepresentative of the nation? A reasonable enough conceit, albeit a false one. Varied when taken individually, in aggregate the underlying core of the species swiftly asserts itself. Every man and woman is distinct from every other. But every mob is the same mob, whether composed of mineworkers or monarchs.’
Following the line of the river into the distance Bas could see the docks, the grand trireme which was to carry Senator Andronikos on his mission of peace, the small fleet of warships that would escort him. Brightly coloured sails contrasted against the blue of the water and the blue of the sky. A crowd swarmed up the pier and all along the quays, part of that line of pink which they had been traversing, as if along some vast oesophageal track.
Eudokia spread her hand out towards the causeway, closed her hand as if to gather up the scattered multitudes. ‘This is what you speak of, when you speak of the people. Do not let false abstractions cloud your judgement. This is the foundation of the Commonwealth, these the pillars of the state. As you say, in Aeleria leadership flows from the will of the people. It is their wants, fears, passions that are responsible for the state of the nation.’
‘It seems no very stable a thing to build on,’ Theophilus remarked.
‘An understandable misconception. In fact, the people are as faithful as ever one might wish a lover. They cherish victory and scorn defeat. They worship strength and abhor weakness. They will forgive you malfeasance, greed, corruption and indifference. They require little from their leaders, save that they remain invincible.’
‘Not every battle is a victory,’ Bas muttered.
Eudokia seemed pleased to be addressing him directly. ‘Indisputably a fact – and yet can you blame the people for thinking otherwise? Almost thirty years since Scarlet Fields, an entire generation who have known nothing but triumph. Ought they not to have faith in the path they walk, in their leaders who guide them upon it? The Caracal’s unsheathed sword has won them victory across the Tullus Coast, has made them well fed and sleek. War has made them rich, and proud, and happy. They have done well by war.’
‘She’s a fickle bitch,’ Bas said. Eudokia remained comfortably unshocked by his profanity. ‘And invincibility is a high bar to set,’ Bas said. ‘I think it will not take much to make these cobblers turn craven, and cruel.’
‘You speak directly to the truth of it,’ Eudokia said, though despite the compliment for a long moment she stared out at the great masses waiting to meet them, as if she had forgotten Bas entirely. ‘Terrible are the risks a man runs, when he thinks to become a ruler.’
‘A man,’ Bas repeated, but Eudokia did not answer.
The end of the bridge was in sight, and with it the end of the conversation. In the interim between the passage of Konstantinos and the arrival of their own carriage the mob, overwhelmed with excitement, had swarmed the cordon separating them from the parade route. They clustered around the foot of the causeway, halting any forward passage, so desperate for the arrival of the Domina that they made their own desire impossible.
Theophilus broke the moment of silence. ‘And should the people’s will be done, Mother, should they gain their triumphs over Salucia and the demons beyond them? What shall be done when there is no one left to war against? When there is nothing more on which the people can gorge themselves?’
‘What a strange question, coming from a soldier,’ Eudokia remarked. ‘There is always someone left to war against. It is nature’s first law – eat, or become food.’
The detachment of hoplitai escorting them continued forward, unsure of themselves, and their hesitancy encouraged the crowd into a further frenzy. They began to force themselves onto the bridge and towards the chariot, irrationally, an instinctive reaction to weakness. The soldiers found themselves intermingling with the first ranks of the mob, belligerence coming swiftly on the heels of fear, faces grown vicious. A fat man in the outfit of a dockworker put a hand on one of the soldiers, not quite a shove but close enough to be taken as one by a neighbouring hoplitai, who delivered a blow with his cudgel that sent the assailant into the dust. The mob surged ahead, that spark of violence about to grow into a conflagration.
‘Stop! Stop by the order of Domina Eudokia Aurelia!’
Bas had been in charge of men for the better party of thirty years, and he could not remember having ever heard an order given more naturally, or obeyed more peremptorily. The opening strike was not repeated or returned. The pentarche, standing just behind his line of troops, hoping still to maintain some control over the situation, turned his head swiftly back towards the chariot. ‘Forgive me, Domina, they will be removed in only a moment.’
‘By Enkedri,’ Eudokia said, and though it did not seem as if she was yelling her voice could be made out well beyond the first ranks of the crowd, ‘the day has not yet come when I will call for the whip against my own children.’
If the mob did not hear the words they at least got the feel of them. And they redoubled their fervour, a hungry wailing, displays of enthusiasm that seemed indistinguishable from despair. Mouths that might have been smiling or weeping, a great beast wavering between love and violence. Bas’s knuckles pulled tight round the hilt of his sword, though if the mob turned angry it would be like setting blade against a surging river; he and the hoplitai would bring down a few in the front ranks but would be torn asunder a moment after, some lucky peasant carrying his Roost-forged blade home as a souvenir, a less fortunate one needing to make do with a bloodied swatch of clothing.
‘Jahan, if you’d be so kind as to help me alight,’ Eudokia said.
For once even the languid Parthan seemed agitated. He leaned forward and whispered a warning into the ear of his mistress. Bas added one of his own, ‘I’m not sure that’s wise, Domina.’
‘Nonsense,’ Eudokia said, as her Parthan, obedient against himself, lifted her neatly off her feat, placed her gracefully on to the bridge beneath them. ‘What have I to fear from the people of Aeleria?’ And indeed the crowd, which had been close to maddened a moment before by the heat of the day and the drink they had taken to withstand it, by the packed dust, by the thrill of the coming war that the announcement of the peace embassy had done nothing to curb, by that instinct for chaos that inevitably arises when men gather in large enough numbers to make individual punishment impossible, grew still. The hoplitai, stunned as much by the crowd’s turn as they were by Eudokia’s unexpected descent, pulled aside to allow her passage. Before moving forward, Eudokia turned back to offer one final word. ‘A conduit of their will, nothing more.’
On the Marches it had been possible for Bas to suppose himself the agent of some impersonal force, no more responsible for his actions than a bolt of lightning or a falling clump of hail. A foolish conceit, one impossible to practise any longer. It had been Bas’s sword, his army, his skill that had brought the surrounding nations into the Aelerian fold, or beneath the Aelerian boot. But he had not directed it, had not chosen where to point it. It was clear to whom that distinction must be given, for better or for worse.
Eudokia Aurelia, the Revered Mother, walked slowly into the swarming mass of her followers, into the deluge of meat and sweat and fervour, her head perfectly level, a smile benevolent and imperturbable, soothing them with her voice and very presence – and even Bas could
not help but marvel at her bravery.
32
The Aubade had taken particularly exquisite care with his wardrobe this morning, managed, after spending twice as long with his tailor as usual, to assemble a costume that rivalled the sun for grandeur and the stars for subtlety. That was the first sign Calla had that something was very wrong. The second was that they had left for the Conclave earlier than was required, mid-morning, halfway between the hours of the Starling and the Eagle; and upon arrival had remained on the steps of the edifice itself. Not for very long, though, because after a few moments the Prime showed up, early as well, and the Aubade approached her at a rapid clip. ‘I would speak with you,’ he said simply.
The Prime nodded, as if she had expected just such an occurrence. She and the Aubade walked off a distance, till they were out of earshot of anyone but their human servants. She wore a tight-fitting mantle of pale cerulean that blossomed out at the hips. Her hair was dyed sterling and pinned up like a wasp’s nest, showcasing the gem set above her forehead. ‘And what is it that my sibling wishes to discuss with me?’
‘I will make a request of the Conclave, this morning. I would ask that you support it.’
‘I can hardly promise assistance in an endeavour of which I remain ignorant.’
‘You know what I plan to ask – or at least you can guess.’
‘And you can guess my response. We are paying proper attention to the situation between the Aelerians and Salucia. To move forward at this juncture would be extreme.’
‘You remain blind to the rising tide.’
‘Is that one of the witticisms that you learned in your time among the humans? We long ago tamed the waters, or had you forgotten?’
Those Above: The Empty Throne Book 1 Page 34