Irene had known Eudokia for years, and Heraclius had known her longer still, and more intimately. Neither had ever seen the Domina angry before, or at least they had never seen her display it. It seemed at once terrifying and unnatural, though it only lasted for a moment.
‘Well,’ Eudokia said, again to all appearances still as a sunken well. ‘It’s done now, either way.’
Theodora entered, carrying with her another batch of the rice balls the cook had not quite succeeded in crafting correctly the first time round. She left the tray on the table in front of Eudokia, curtsied to her and then to Irene and Heraclius in turn. ‘Congratulations,’ she said quietly.
‘What are you talking about?’ Irene snapped at the girl, who looked flustered and backed out of the room swiftly.
‘Don’t yell at Theodora,’ Eudokia said, wagging a finger. ‘She’s only being polite. Commendation is appropriate, given the upcoming nuptials.’
‘Who’s getting married?’ Heraclius asked, even further behind the conversation than usual.
‘The two of you, obviously.’
No one said anything for a while. Eudokia kept eating, however.
‘I had very seriously considered faking your death and selling you to a dockside brothel.’ Eudokia stood then, her cane lying unused beside her, and she looked down at Irene as she spoke. ‘I had considered it very seriously indeed.’ She held her eyes on the girl for a time, watched her wither like a flower in the late summer sun. Then she smiled and continued. ‘But that’s one of the many lovely things about power – it affords you the opportunity to be charitable. And I do like the symmetry of it. You wanted him so much dear – he’s yours.’
Irene’s pert lips quivered.
‘I’ve already told your mother. She was surprised at first, never having heard you speak of the groom, but she trusted my judgement. At first she was hesitant about moving forward so swiftly, but when I conveyed to her the strength of the bond between you, the depth and passion of your love, well … what sort of a mother would she be, to think to stand between the two of you, to stifle your happiness? It was more difficult to arrange a slot at the temple of Siraph – but then again, there are advantages to being Archpriestess. Of course the reception will be held in my gardens. The leading lights of the Commonwealth will be there, all eager to wish you well in your new life together. It’s sure to be a grand affair.’ Eudokia popped another rice ball into her mouth. ‘If the cook can ever get this batter right. A quick honeymoon, and then it’ll be straight off to the Marches.’
‘Marches?’ Irene asked, almost stuttering.
‘My wedding gift to the two of you. A man of your … talents, Heraclius, deserves a position commensurate with them. After our recent successes against the March lords, the Commonwealth has need of capable men, men willing to put aside the pleasures of the capital and take up the duty of civilising the plainsfolk. You’re to be governor of the city of Faun’s Gate, your term of office to begin six weeks hence. City might be a bit strong,’ Eudokia amended. ‘Town. Settlement, at least.’
‘Faun’s Gate!’ Heraclius repeated, pale as milk-cheese.
‘Yes, it is a bit of a ways, isn’t it? Still, in time I’m sure the onward march of civilisation will leave it almost habitable. I’m told they’ve recently built a public baths.’ Eudokia paused, considering. ‘Or perhaps it’s that they’re planning on building a public baths. Yes, I think that was it. Either way, they have water. Of course, the March gets very cold in winter – but you’ll have your love to warm you.’
With a sudden cry, Heraclius dropped to his knees, having passed from torpid to hysterical without any of the usual intervening steps. ‘It’s because I love you!’ he said, his head nearly in Eudokia’s lap. ‘I didn’t care about her, or the money, or anything else – I only did it because I thought you were going to leave me.’
Eudokia helped herself to another rice ball while she looked down at him. ‘You know, I think I almost believe that.’
But Heraclius was not yet finished with his scene, staggered up from his kneeling position, his face red and hysterical. ‘I’ll kill myself!’ There was a small knife on the table, barely sharp enough to cut butter but it would do for melodrama. Heraclius snatched it up and held it against his neck.
‘I’m afraid I don’t have a half-hour to spend watching you saw through your windpipe,’ Eudokia said.
Jahan snickered.
Heraclius turned his eyes up to the Parthan, brought the knife suddenly up to face Eudokia. ‘Then I’ll kill you!’
‘I would very much suggest you not attempt something so foolish,’ Eudokia said. ‘Jahan doesn’t know you well enough to realise what an abject coward you are, might well take your threats seriously. And it would be difficult to have a wedding with the groom lacking a head.’
Jahan had stopped snickering. The walnut in his hand cracked. He let a few flakes of shell fall to the ground, then popped the meat into his mouth. Heraclius looked at him, looked at Eudokia, looked back at Jahan. Then he put the knife back on the table.
‘One thing to remember about your future husband,’ Eudokia said, turning to Irene. ‘He has a fine cock, but not much in the way of balls.’
36
Bas received word of the death of Andronikos late one afternoon while sitting in the coolest, darkest corner of the neighbourhood bar he had come to occasionally frequent these last few months. The coolest spot in the bar was also the spot furthest removed from the door, so he was ignorant of the rising tide of energy spooling through the city, carrying the citizens of the capital out into the streets, calling for justice, calling for blood – which, as far as the people seemed to be concerned, were the same thing.
A youth in worn trousers came running in an hour before nightfall, said something to the bartender, an ugly, friendly man named Anders whose chief virtue was that he didn’t know who Bas was. Anders turned to the bell that hung over the counter, rang it loud enough to get the attention of everyone in the bar. There were only about ten patrons all told, and they’d have listened even without the fanfare, but then Anders didn’t have so many opportunities for melodrama, and you couldn’t quite blame him for taking advantage of this one.
‘Senator Andronikos is dead!’ he exclaimed.
There was a long pause, the patrons having only the dimmest notion of who Senator Andronikos was, whether his death was triumph or tragedy.
‘Murdered by Salucia,’ Anders continued, ‘while trying to arrange peace for Oscan!’
The Salucians they knew though, the most hateful and licentious bunch of bastards that had ever had the misfortune to occupy territory adjacent to Aeleria. The patrons being no less fond of histrionics than the owner, there was a sudden chorus of howls, wails and one disconsonant blubber, as the assembled drunks worked through their despair at the death of a man whose existence they had been largely unaware of half a minute before.
The barkeep rang the bell vigorously in an effort to reclaim sole ownership of the stage. ‘His soul has been judged by the Self-Created, and will sit at Enkedri’s right hand.’
Everyone repeated that last bit. Everyone but Bas, though since he was in the corner, no one noticed his silence.
‘The Revered Mother has declared a day of prayer and mourning, in honour of this great man.’
The day of mourning did not, so far as Bas could see, indicate any sort of moratorium on buying drinks. In this Anders was like the rest of Aeleria – his passion for the Commonwealth stopped somewhere short of his purse.
The mood in the tavern echoed through the rest of the city, a certain portion of despair and anger, but mostly just the love of feeling for feeling’s sake, the opportunity to vent excess emotion, like a mummers’ show. The bars and hostelries and eating houses were packed, everyone in the city wanting to be near everyone else. There was no shortage of opinion, nor of people willing to listen. Every tavern had a man at the counter explaining what this meant for relations between the Commonwealth and Salucia, and e
very prediction was different. It was a great windfall for that selection of braggarts, blowhards and self-professed experts, a few hours during which the rest of the city offered its interest in their nonsensical wisdom.
It all looked half-play to Bas. He doubted very seriously that tomorrow would see any lines at the thema’s recruiting stations, and even that scattering of men whose enthusiasm outweighed their discretion wouldn’t be enrolled in time to see combat. Bas didn’t trust a man who signed up to kill anyone on account of how much he loved the flag. How long do you think that would last, getting screamed at by some officer, or marching twelve hours in the mud, or watching a volley of arrows descend on you from the sky? The best soldiers were men who could do nothing else, for whom war was a profession and not a passion.
Still, now was the time to claim something off patriotism, and Bas was quick to take his share. His landlord was happy to let him out of the lease he had signed, a service to the Caracal he could now brag of, his duty towards the Commonwealth discharged, all at the cost of a few solidus. Afterwards he insisted on buying Bas a drink, told him to kill a Salucian for him.
The camp was a festival ground, or perhaps a madhouse – everywhere was bustle, commotion, movement, dogs chasing their tails, children spinning in circles till they made themselves sick. Rumours flew like loosened shafts and facts were as hard to acquire as a two-week pass. They were to march for Oscan on the morrow; best get to sharpening pikes. No, the whole thing was a feint, they were to take ship and do an end run around the border cities, cut through Salucia’s soft underbelly like a broadsword through a stick of butter. Where was this fleet that could transport thirty thousand men a thousand cables north, and where were the warships that would protect them while they did so? Who knew, who could say? The only certainty was that things were happening and things were happening right now; you had best start swimming along with the current.
Bas managed to keep a somewhat cooler head, but then he had a better insight into the matter than your average hoplitai. It would be a few weeks before they got going, and even then they’d be spending another month or perhaps even two in one of the cities bordering Salucia, gathering men and supplies. No man here would die this week, not unless they were knifed by a fellow soldier or got drunk and drowned in a latrine. But they didn’t know that, and not knowing that they were filled with an excitement absent from civilian life.
And why not? The Salucians were a paper tiger. No, not even a paper tiger, a paper jackal. There probably wouldn’t even be any fighting, just a quick bloodying to brag about afterwards, and then they’d march into Salucia like it was a whore’s bedroom. Konstantinos, the Gentleman Lion, was in charge, the most brilliant strategist since Jon the Sanguine, everyone said, and the things people say are always true. And behind him stood the Caracal himself, there to finish what he had started so long ago, his red sword dripping with the blood of the Eternal.
It wasn’t just the neophytes either, though at least they had an excuse. Bas passed Theophilus discoursing loudly with some newly raised pentarches about the differences between Salucian cavalry and the Marchers, his time on the plains having rendered him expert. Further on, Isaac was giving out orders three at a time, checking on everything that could possibly be checked on, though he must have known as well as Bas that they wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while. Bas couldn’t quite blame him; he was happy too, or as happy as a person like Bas could ever be. It was the happiness of a tuned lute or an unsheathed blade. It was the joy of having a purpose.
Hamilcar, of course, had to serve as fly in the ointment. Bas found him sitting on an overturned pony keg, watching the hoplitai sprint around camp purposelessly. He held a cup in one hand, and Bas did not suppose it was filled with water.
‘Are you feeling swift today, Caracal? Are your claws keen, your teeth sharp?’ He raised his cup to Bas, then downed most of it. ‘It is quite the crusade your Commonwealth sends you on – the register of her fury, her right hand made manifest.’ Bas stood so that he was blocking the sunlight, Hamilcar squinting up to look at him. ‘Are you happy now, Caracal, to be bringing justice to so foul an enemy? To repay the Salucians for their relentless and unprovoked aggressions?’
Bas felt nothing for the Salucians one way or the other. He had been in Salucia for eight months near thirty years past, and most of that time had been spent staring at the outside of city walls. He must have spoken to one of her citizens at some point, a whore or a tavern keeper in one of the captured cities, some poor farmer whose goods he was ‘requisitioning’. But if so, he could not recall the details with any clarity – they were sunk in amidst a thousand other such encounters on the plains, and in the border states, and in Dycia itself.
‘Look at them.’ Hamilcar waved his hand to indicate the throng of men bustling about as fiercely as any colony of ants, albeit with less purpose. ‘How many of these idiots cheering and laughing will make their way back to their homes? How many will lie in shallow graves before the year is out, wild dogs gnawing at their shin bones?’
Bas shrugged. There was no point in guessing.
‘Was I ever so young, Caracal?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Were you?’
‘No.’
‘Of course not – you aren’t like we mortals. You’re a hero, a legend, and legends never die any more than they doubt.’ Isaac was a happy drunk, or at least a calm one, getting slower and quieter until he passed out on his stool. But Hamilcar had a seed of melancholy in him, and it grew swiftly when irrigated with liquor. Bas could remember a night years ago on the plains when he’d had to pull a knife out of the man’s hands to keep him from turning it on himself. Hamilcar had woken up the next morning with a bruise over his eye and no memory of how he had got it. Or so he had claimed at least, and Bas saw no good in disputing his ignorance.
‘Let it lie, Dycian,’ Bas said quietly.
‘The stories they tell of you, Caracal, of your victories and your accomplishments! And if some of the truth is lost, when the minstrels speak of the ash-skinned bowman who kills as he laughs, and the scarred subordinate, who walks ever beside you, what of it? We exist only to burnish your story, me and Isaac and Theophilus and everyone else in this entire damned camp. How many men have you led to death, do you think, Caracal?’
‘Stop fucking calling me that.’
‘A hit! A palpable hit!’ Hamilcar laughed and drank more. ‘I hope every one of these children finds themselves below the dirt before this war is over, Caracal. I hope their mothers weep and beat their breasts. I hope your Commonwealth crashes down on itself, leaves you all to starve among the wreckage.’ He finished off what was left in his cup, set it down in the dirt. ‘No, I don’t,’ he said, then, a moment later, ‘yes, I do.’
‘Get back to your quarters, Hamilcar,’ Bas said. ‘And sleep until you wake up feeling foolish. That’s an order.’
Hamilcar brought himself upright without stumbling, though he went slowly to make certain. Then he gave Bas a salute that was mostly mockery and walked to his tent.
Bas’s attention had been sufficiently taken up with the Dycian that he hadn’t noticed the commotion spreading through the camp, not until the cause of it dropped off her horse and beside him. Einnes had come unescorted, and his first instinct – one that surprised him, as he examined it later – was fear for her, because with the temper of the thema so high it was not at all difficult to imagine her arrival leading to violence.
They looked at each other for a moment. Having made the decision to trek all the way out here, Bas had assumed that she would speak first, but after giving her a full fifteen seconds to do so he determined it was better to take the initiative. ‘Sentinel,’ he said.
‘Strategos,’ she replied. And then she didn’t say anything for a while, just looked at him. He found himself, as he had on any number of past occasions, trying to determine the exact colour of her eyes. Were they mostly violet or mostly blue? Did they change, depending on the time of day, or
her mood? Bas had never heard of anything like that among his own species, but who could say, when it came to the Others?
‘It seems Aeleria will go to war,’ she said finally.
‘Yes.’
‘And you will lead them?’
‘I’ll be at the front,’ he said, though he well knew this was not the same thing.
‘Then we’ll be travelling together.’
Very little about Einnes surprised Bas, in part because he generally did not find himself getting surprised, and in part because he had learned enough about her at that point not to expect her to conform to any normal standards of behaviour. This proved to be enough, however. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘I am the Sentinel of the Southern Reach. My territory includes both Aeleria and Salucia, and I will accompany your forces as an observer, to ensure that the continued interests of the Roost are respected.’
‘And if they aren’t?’
‘Then the wish I expressed that first night will be granted.’
Bas wanted to say something but he did not know what it was exactly. Perhaps Einnes felt similarly, because she stared at him a long time before leaving. Or perhaps she didn’t; it was impossible to say. She was as much a mystery to him as he was to himself.
Einnes was back on her horse and out of camp in the span of no more then a few moments. Bas watched until she had disappeared along the road leading back into the city.
A hoplitai ran past him laughing, slipped a toe in the mud and bumped into him, realised what he had done, apologised so profusely that Bas almost felt bad for the boy. Was this the calibre of men in his command? Children and incompetents? What would happen when he led them to war? Hard to say – he’d have given them no sort of chance against the Marchers, but the Salucians had as little in common with the lords of the plains than perhaps any other group of humans Bas had ever come across. But still, war is not a game, even when the sides are less than evenly matched. Hamilcar’s drunken tirades aside, Bas had no illusions of his own immortality, nor that the songs the minstrels had written for him would act as shield against spear, sword or arrow.
Those Above: The Empty Throne Book 1 Page 38