The Ten Thousand (10 page)

Finally Gasca
levered himself to his feet, spurning Rictus’s hand but offering a smile. “This
is life now, I suppose. Best to get used to it.”

He looked around
himself at the squalid hut, at the crowd of profane, battle-scarred,
foul-smelling men that filled it.

“This is life,” Rictus
agreed, “and tomorrow we march out to see a little more of it.”

KUFR

The port of Sinon
was a relic. For those who had a smattering of education, an inkling of
history, it was proof positive that in some legends there were kernels of
truth. The city was as ancient as any Macht polity in the fastnesses of the
Harukush, but it lay across the sea from the Macht lands. It had been founded
on the coast of that vast, endless continent whereon lived the teeming masses
and untold races of the Kufr. Men called those places The Far Side Of The Sea,
but while to the south the Sinonian Sea opened out into the vast Tanean, here
the straits that separated the Harukush landmass from that of the Great
Continent were only thirty pasangs wide. Once, the Macht had crossed these
straits eastwards, in fleets of oared galleys, and had taken warfare and
conquest to the lands of the Kufr on the eastern shore. Gansakr and Askanon had
fallen to them, broad, hilly lands with fertile pastures and rich orchards that
made a mockery of their own stony soil. It was said the Macht hosts had pressed
even as far as the Korash Mountains, more than seven hundred pasangs to the
south and east. There, they had been confronted by armies so vast that there
was no hope of victory against them. They had been beaten back, and had
retreated to the coast of the Sinonian once more, like a tide tugged by the two
moons of Kuf. The city of Sinon had been a fortress then, built to retain a
fingerhold on the coast of the Great Continent. Exhausted by years of bloody
slaughter, Macht and Kufr had signed a treaty. The Macht had sworn never again
to cross the Straits in panoply of war, and the Kufr had conceded the
port-fortress of Sinon to them, as a gateway through which embassies and
merchants and commerce might come and go. The Kufr warleader who had signed
that treaty had been named Asur. He had founded a line of kings, had built an
empire. His descendants now ruled the world, and called themselves Great King,
King of Kings. And the Asurian Empire had endured over the centuries, until it
had become part of the fabric of Kuf itself, its greatness ordained by God, and
destined to endure forever. So said the Kufr legends.

One hundred and
seventeen ships, Phiron thought. And that’s cutting it fine. Perhaps too fine.
Perhaps I should have insisted on more. He has the whole of the Tanis treasury
to draw on now, if Artaka has truly declared for him. He could fit half the
Macht in his pocket if he chose.

Phiron turned away
from his perusal of the harbour, in which were moored his one hundred and
seventeen ships. Like a forest, their masts were so thick together that from
the quays they withheld the sunrise. There was no room for them all along the
wharves, so dozens had moored out in the shelter of the harbour moles, made
fast to bladder-buoyed ropes at bow and stern. These were the lighter ones, the
troop-carriers. Made fast to the stone of the docks were the heavy,
wide-bellied transports, with hatches in their sides so that animals might be
walked aboard, two by two.

These ships
represented the seagoing craft of several nations. Such a fleet had never been
gathered all in one port before. Even the entire war-navy of the Great King
mustered at most some two hundred vessels, and they were scattered in
deep-water bases up and down the Tanean, the greatest of these the naval yards
at Ochos and Antikauros.

It must happen
now, Phiron thought, pacing the marble chamber. Things have gone too far for
him to turn back; it is open treason. Either he takes the throne, or dies
trying.

And we alongside
him.

The room was warm
with the heat of lamps and a wide-mouthed brazier stacked with charcoal. Phiron
had been pacing up and down within it for the turn of a water-clock, the
hobnails on his sandals doing little good to the mosaic of the floor.
Periodically he broke off his wandering to stare off the balcony again, resting
his big-knuckled fists on the balustrade. They built with pale, honey-coloured
stone here. It made Sinon look warm in the flitting scraps of winter sunshine
that came and went. Sandstone, he supposed, the colour of the beach at Hal
Goshen in summer. Phiron had not seen a Macht city built out of the dark
Harukush granite for going on five years. His home had been Sinon and the Sea.
He had learned the high Kefren speech which was spoken at the Great King’s
court, and in the stews of the docklands he cursed and bragged in common
Asurian, the tongue that carried a man across the civilized world. His friends
were sea-captains and merchants and brothel-keepers and lost soldiers like
himself. He had been a man of note once, a centurion to whom his peers
deferred. Once, he had led ten centons through the hinterland of Machran, and
they had been employed by no one. He had meant to take a city for himself, no
less, and become one of the great folk of his world. That had ended in defeat
and exile.

And so here he
was; a conduit between two worlds. For once in his life, he mused, he truly had
been in the right place at the right time. And now the months of intrigue and
furtive meetings and go-betweens were over.

The tall double
doors of the room swung open on hinges of oiled brass. Two household slaves
stood there in sable and yellow robes, heads bowed so that their top-knots fell
forward. They were Juthan, as were so many of the personal slaves of the
Kefren. Grey-skinned, with yellow eyes and blue-black hair, each was broader
than the brawniest of Macht warriors, but shorter by the span of three hands.
Phiron knew the stories of the Juthan rebellions. Meek though these pair might
look, their people were among the most stubborn fighters of the Kufr, and had
risen up against the Empire again and again. After their last, abortive
uprising, half their population had been exiled to the far east of the world,
to Yue and Irgun, where they toiled in the mines of the Adranos Mountains. That
was a generation ago. He wondered if the Juthan had the heart to play at this
latest adventure.

All this passed
through his mind in a second. Phiron was a tall man, whose father had been from
the Inner Mountains of the Harukush. He had taken his father’s pale eyes, but
his mother’s dark colouring. He wore the scarlet mercenary cloak as a nobleman
ought, draped over his left arm. Beneath it, the black shadow of Antimone’s
Gift armoured his torso, giving back none of the light from the wall-sconces
and the brazier.

Two more figures
glided into the room, and behind them the Juthan attendants closed the double
doors with a soft boom. Phiron bowed deeply, speaking in Kefren as correct as
he could contrive. “My lord,” he said. “I am honoured. Lady, I hope I see you
well.” He straightened, heart beating faster despite himself. Face to face at
last.

The foremost
figure towered over Phiron, topping him by the length of a man’s forearm. It
had a large, equine face, with human features, but the shape and size and
colouring of these were like nothing any human ever possessed. The eyes were
leaf-shaped, with long, amber lashes. The iris was a pale violet with no
discernable pupil.

The nose was long,
narrow, aquiline, the mouth below it small, turning down at the corners. The
whole face seemed elongated, with an immensely high forehead from which the
rufous hair had been braided back in knots topped with gold beads. The figure’s
skin was a pale gold, enhanced by the light of the lamps. This darkened around
the eye-sockets and about the nostrils, and in the hollow of the temples became
a pale blue.

“Phiron,” the
thing said, and it had a voice of which any actor would be envious, deep as the
peal of a bronze bell. “And so we meet.”

This was
Arkamenes, High Prince of the Asurian Empire, brother to the Great King
himself. This was a Kefre, the high race of Kuf. This was one of the rulers of
the world.

Behind Arkamenes
was a smaller shape, with feminine curves emphasised by a close-fitting robe of
lapis lazuli. Slender as a willow, this creature was veiled, only the eyes to
be seen, and these were a warm brown, brown as mountain wine. The lashes about
them were black, and had been drawn out with some cosmetic.

Arkamenes saw
Phiron’s quick, interrogative glance and smiled. “The lady Tiryn is as close as
a wife to me. We may speak without fear.”

Phiron bowed
again. He was counted a handsome man, well-made and not without grace, but in
the company of these two creatures he seemed a thing made out of ungainly
leather and iron, stocky and solid, a rook in the company of swans. He was
about to speak, but Arkamenes clapped his long, gold-skinned hands, the nails
painted lilac. The doors opened again and the two Juthan bowed deep.

“Something to
sustain our spirits. And quickly now.”

With great speed
but no haste small tables were set up, and upon them were set trays of
sweetmeats and flasks of silver and glass. On a stand to one side a crystal
basin of steaming water was placed with a click, and linen towels. The Juthan
left again, the doors were shut, and the smell of the food brought water to
Phiron’s mouth. His breakfast had been army bread at the break of dawn, and a
mug of black wine.

Arkamenes opened
his arms in a gesture of inclusion. “You must forgive our squalor, but these
apartments were the best the city had to offer. And we are being discreet, I
believe. Even now, discretion is still called for. Tiryn, pour the general some
wine. We will stand at the window, and look down on our ships.”

A momentary shock,
like some frisson of life, as the female’s hand touched his, settled within his
fingers a warm, smoking glass. He met her eyes for a second; she, too, was
taller than he. The eyes were full of life, but closed off. Like a locked door
with sounds of lovemaking behind it.

Phiron sipped his
hot wine, savouring the warmth, rolling it around his tongue.

“So the fleet has
assembled,” Arkamenes said, his own cup untouched. “Are they enough? Can it be
done in one voyage?”

“Yes, barely. Some
of the baggage animals will have to be left behind, but we can make good those
losses in Tanis.”

“And what of
numbers? Tell me, General, how does my army grow?”

“The contingents
are assembling at Hal Goshen. The muster is to be complete six days from now.
One hundred centons of fully armed Macht heavy infantry. At full strength, that
would mean some ten thousand men, but most companies are somewhat below their
complement. With them are some thousands of light troops, camp-followers,
artisans and the like—”

“Slaves? We have
plenty of those this side of the sea.”

“No, lord. Free
men, for the most part at least. Many are capable warriors, but lack equipment.
Traditionally, they help protect the flanks of the phalanx, and are used for
scouting and raiding parties in rough terrain.”

Arkamenes stared
down at his general. “All very well. But mind me, Phiron. I am not paying a
great fleet to float whores across the Tanean. I trust there will be no gaggle
of soldier-families trailing behind the host. These men must move fast and
travel light.”

“No women, lord;
that was agreed, and Pasion will see that it is so.”

“Good, good. Then
it only remains for us to embark ourselves and set sail in the van of our
little expedition. I have a fast galley at the wharves. We can be on the wing
in an hour if needs be.”

“I have heard
rumours, my lord.” Phiron sipped his hot wine. It was heavily spiced, too
smooth for his liking.

“About Artaka I
suppose? Yes, the province has declared for me. One of my captains holds it.

I have Tanis in
the palm of my hand, general. When your men disembark, they need fear no
hostile welcome. All is in hand.”

“Yes, that I had
heard. But I wondered—what of your brother?”

Arkamenes’s narrow
nostrils flared open wide, like those of a winded horse. “What of him?” he
asked softly.

“Your flight is
known to him—”

“Of course. He
sent half a dozen assassins in our wake. Had it not been for my guards and old
Amasis I would be dead three times over.”

“But will he
contemplate a general levy, or take the field with the Household troops alone?
My lord, does he know what we do here?”

Arkamenes turned
away. Now he did sip his wine, as delicately as a man taking the sacrament. “It
makes little odds. Once your soldiers disembark at Tanis the news will run
through the Empire faster than the flux. It is almost three months’ march from
Tanis to Ashur—ample time to gather whatever he thinks he needs. We will raise
the provinces we march through against him. Already, I have had meetings with
the elders of the Juthan. They are with us.”

“And troops, lord?
What may we expect?”

Arkamenes smiled,
finding his humour again. “Myriads, General. I will raise thousands to march at
your side; but it is your people who will provide the core, a heart of iron.
Imagine! Ten thousand of the legendary Macht, come across the sea to war, after
all this time. That news will be worth half a dozen armies.”

Phiron bowed
slightly, dissatisfied with his answer but knowing that none other would be
forthcoming.

“So tell me,
General, how far from this port of yours to Tanis? What length of voyage are we
speaking of?”

Phiron blinked. He
had been through these details a dozen times with intermediaries.

“Twelve hundred
pasangs, my lord. The fleet captain, Myrtaios, assures me that with the wind as
it stands, the passage will take some ten days.”