Savages Page 13

  Pity the general with weak eyesight. The bright sun helped. He looked out for light flashing on steel, but the Imperials knew better than that; paint or rust. He sent out a dozen scouts. They weren’t away long. The Imperials were advancing in a straight line, infantry in the centre, cavalry on the wings, the eagle-and-thunderbolt standard just to the left of the exact middle of the line.

  He leaned forward in the saddle to ask; was the background of the standard red or purple? Purple. He nodded and took a deep breath. He could smell the flowers in the meadow below. So Sechimer was leading his troops in person. He chose a reliable scout and sent him to get as close as he possibly could.

  As planned, then; good. Atrabanes could make it up as he went along with the best of them, but he preferred not to have to. He also loved simplicity. Today, he fervently hoped, would be perfectly straightforward. Three to one, and a massive advantage in cavalry. No river this time, no adjacent woods, no dead or broken ground, no marshes, no sunken road, no deceptive open ground waterlogged by recent heavy rain. At the back of his mind he couldn’t help asking, why has the idiot allowed me to make him fight me here? But the only answer he could come up with was, because I’m smarter than him and I’ve forced him to do it. It was a dangerous answer, but sometimes the dangerous ones are true. He closed his eyes, opened them and tried to imagine he was looking at the field for the first time. Well, he thought; a plain open battlefield, no junk, no Calojan. I give up.

  The scout came back, breathless and excited. He’d got close enough to take a really good look and yes, it was Sechimer himself, at the front, in golden armour. He knew it was Sechimer because he’d seen him once, before he was famous. He’d been a junior adjutant to his father, and on one occasion there’d been a parlay, and the scout had happened to be close enough to see them both clearly, and curious to see the two celebrated six-fingered men.

  There was something wrong; Atrabanes could feel it, like a pip lodged between his teeth, but however hard he tried he couldn’t figure out what it was. Something very slight, a tiny thing; he drew in breath to order his men to fall back. No, he thought, I can’t do that. We’re here first, we outnumber them three to one, if I’d been asked to design a battlefield to my own personal specifications, this is what it’d look like. I’ve got myself worked up into a state, and I’m imagining problems where there aren’t any.

  He asked; where are the Aram Cosseilhatz? Right and left wings, extreme ends. Fine; how many? About seven thousand each side; ten squadrons, seven rows of ten men per squadron.

  So few—But there had been rumours about desertions, whole family groups simply packing up and riding away. Six thousand fewer than he’d anticipated, and really, he wasn’t bothered about the rest of the Imperial army. He stood up in his stirrups and craned his neck. They were still coming on, in good order but their lines were starting to look thin, like too little hair combed over the top of a man’s head. Time to go and greet our guests.

  It was some time later, just after he’d sent a rider to move out his centre against the Imperial heavy infantry for the hammer-blow charge on which all his plans hinged, that he realised what was wrong. Sechimer was in the front line. No commander-in-chief would put himself there, not unless he was a vainglorious idiot. A commander plants his standard where he can see everything; and from where he was, Sechimer was blind to his own wings. Sechimer wasn’t an idiot. Therefore, he wasn’t commanding the army.

  Therefore, someone else was.

  He howled for a rider to recall the advance he’d just ordered. A young staff lieutenant thundered away on a white horse, scattering men like wheels rolling through a flooded rut. Too late.

  From his vantage point on the slight rise on the far side of the meadow, Calojan saw a white horse going rather too fast towards the centre of the Sashan line. He smiled. The white horse was like a stone thrown in a pool. From where it stopped, ripples of uncertainty and confusion began to spread. He could almost see the point where they turned into panic; men hesitating, getting under each other’s feet; a conflict of orders, a clash of seniorities as junior officers yelled contradictions over the heads of their men. It was a bonus, not part of the plan, but it was beautifully opportune. He lifted his left hand level with his shoulder, counted to five and pointed to the left wing.

  “As good a time as any,” he said.

  A rider burst into motion, and Calojan stood up in his stirrups to watch him go. When he was half way, he sent the other rider to the right wing; a shorter distance. Not essential, but helpful if both riders arrived at the same time, so that both wings would make their move simultaneously. Atrabanes would waste a second or two trying to decide which way to look.

  The riders paused to deliver their messages; the Aram Cosseilhatz advanced towards the enemy cavalry at a gentle trot. The messengers sailed out past them, riding straight at the enemy, two shooting stars against a green sky. A wide parabolic trajectory around the Sashan heavy dragoons—a few outriders were despatched to cut them off, but they wouldn’t reach them in time. The riders hurtled on in to deep green space, heading directly for the Sashan mobile reserve, comprised of fifteen thousand Aram no Vei—

  Well, not quite. No Vei, Chantat, Cosseilhatz; bloody savages. They all look the same, don’t they?

  Fists rather than boots against his door this time. As it happened, Aimeric was awake, even though it was the middle of the night. Lately he hadn’t been sleeping, for some reason.

  Kettlehats; steel breastplates, so a line regiment rather than the Guards. “Aimeric de Peguilhan?”

  He nodded. He’d already put his shoes on, on the way to the door.

  Four of them. They fell in precisely around him, one behind, one on either side, one in front. “It’s all right,” he said, “I know the way.” No reply. Well.

  In through the front gate this time; up the grand stairs, in through the gold-sheathed double doors embossed with the eagle-and-thunderbolt, across the vast lobby, up the main staircase itself; left at the top landing, down an endless corridor with mosaic walls, marble floor, fresco ceiling. The doors bore no name or number and were identical. The guards stopped in front of one, and the leader knocked softly. “Yes, come in,” faintly through the closed door. The guard opened it. They went in.

  “Thank you,” Calojan said. He had his feet up on the desk. “You can leave us to it, sergeant, thanks.” The door closed. There was only one chair, and Calojan was sitting in it.

  He looked exhausted, drained, as though he’d just crossed the desert. “Thanks for coming,” he said. “Sorry, you can’t sit down. If I’ve asked for another chair once I’ve done it a dozen times, but this is the palace. Probably a chair will arrive here in a hundred years time, and nobody will remember why. You can sit on the desk, if you like.”

  Aimeric looked at him. He wanted to say something—I’m sorry, they made me do it—but he was too scared to make any noise at all.

  “First things first,” Calojan said. “The latest news is, the emperor is making good progress. The Chief Surgeon says they’ve got the arrow out—just as well it wasn’t one of yours, right?—and there’s a bit of infection there but it’s responding well. Apparently they were able to get a grip on the edge of the socket with a really good pair of forceps, and just kept on wiggling it from side to side very gently, and suddenly it just came away like that. There,” he added with a smile. “That’s wonderful news, isn’t it?”

  Aimeric nodded. He’d forgotten the emperor had been wounded. He certainly hadn’t realised the injury was serious.

  “Anyway,” Calojan went on, “while his Majesty is indisposed, there’s a sort of committee of us running the show. I got badgered into joining, so I’m rushed off my feet here, so this’ll have to be quick. I just wanted to apologize.”

  What for? For ordering my execution, presumably. Decent of him, in the circumstances.

  “The whole thing,” Calojan went on, “was a necessary charade. We knew they’d got spies somewhere right in the thick of t
hings, and everything depended on our being able to make Atrabanes believe I’d been arrested and disgraced. So I had you arrested and bullied into bearing false witness against me.” He smiled. “I knew I could count on you. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Aimeric could feel himself shaking. No surprise there; but he was intrigued to find so much anger in among the terrified relief. He opened his mouth, but no hope of getting any words to come out.

  “Anyhow,” Calojan went on, “worked like a charm. It even made it possible for us to identify who the traitor was; nice little bonus. I find that when things start going right for you, it all sort of snowballs. Look, are you sure you don’t want to sit on the desk? You look like you’re about to fall over.”

  “Thank you,” Aimeric whispered, “but I’m fine.”

  “Suit yourself. Anyway, it all went beautifully, start to finish. The bit I was worried about was making the Sashan think the Cosseilhatz we’d sent over to them were really no Vei. Can they really be that stupid, I wondered. But apparently they were. I honestly do believe, the first Atrabanes knew about it was when his so-called no Vei auxiliaries rode up behind his heavy dragoons and started shooting. Of course, all that was all thanks to you. It’d never have occurred to me to try that if you hadn’t sent me the extra million arrows; I simply wouldn’t have had the tools for the job. Oh, that reminds me. Reason I sent for you, actually. I need another two million, quick as you like. You can manage that, can’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Splendid. Truth is, we’ve only got about two shots per man left for the whole Cosseilhatz contingent, and there’s still a certain amount of mopping up to be done before we march on their capital. Remarkable, isn’t it, when you think about it. Two million arrows loosed off in just under fifteen minutes. The poor bastards just sat there in their saddles, didn’t have a clue what was going on. Eighty thousand dead.” He stopped talking, so abruptly that Aimeric looked to see if anything was wrong. Nothing to see, though. Nothing at all. Nobody home.

  Aimeric felt an urgent need to say something, just to break the silence. He cleared his throat. “So,” he said. “Two million arrows. Same terms?”

  Calojan nodded. “They’re claiming,” he said, “that it’s the second single biggest loss of human life on one day in the history of the world, and that’s including natural disasters. And the only one beating it’s the earthquake and tidal wave off Ap’ Escatoy in AUC 877, and, you know, I’m not really inclined to count that. That was ninety thousand, estimated, and I don’t think you can count an earthquake and a tidal wave as one event, because Ap’ Escatoy’s about ninety miles inland. So, properly speaking, that’s, what, thirty thousand for the city and sixty odd for the tidal wave; I mean, compared to us, that’s nothing.” He stopped again, for about three seconds. “You agree with me, don’t you? I really do feel quite strongly about this. There ought to be someone keeping proper score, someone you can write to for a definitive decision. I want it confirmed by someone that I’ve killed more people even than God. Well?”

  Aimeric looked away. I didn’t sign up to this, he was thinking; and then, Just as well nobody else is seeing him in this state. I don’t matter, of course. Lucky me.

  “Same terms?” he repeated.

  “Yes, why not? Expect some aggravation, by the way. They’re saying you made the last lot so the heads would come off and we wouldn’t be able to pick them up and use them again, therefore we’d have to buy new stock from you. Have you noticed, incidentally, that once money comes into it, people will believe the most amazing rubbish?”

  “I could glue the heads in,” Aimeric said. “Just a drop of glue. That way, the head would still come off in the wound, but not if the arrow missed or glanced off something.”

  Calojan gave him a horrible smile. Someone was home now, but not the usual tenant. “Yes, why not?” he said. “I can announce that to the Armoury Board, make them think they’ve made me do something.” He took his feet off the desk and moved the inkwell about an inch. “Well, I think that just about covers it from my end. How long for the arrows? Not such a rush this time. Ten weeks?”

  “Eight. Same terms as before.”

  “That’s fine. See you in eight weeks, then.”

  He turned round and walked out without looking back; like when he was a small boy, and if you looked back, the monster would get you. Of course, it was a bit late for that now.

  Someone coined the name, “the battle of the Field of Red and Blue Flowers”, and for some reason or other it stuck, even though it was a bit of a mouthful. The public holiday in its honour, to be celebrated in perpetuity, would be Red and Blue Flowers Day, and people would be encouraged to wear a red or a blue flower; one enterprising grower on the northern outskirts of the City immediately put down ten acres of prime land to poppies and cornflowers, so as to get an early jump on the market.

  Reports on the emperor’s health were frequent and wildly contradictory. He was gravely ill but out of danger; he was up and walking about; he had survived a horrific operation to remove an arrowhead from his left cheekbone, was weak but making exceptional progress, all things considered; he was conscious and directing the affairs of state from his bed; a regency council had been formed to manage the affairs of state until he recovered, which could be as soon as three months’ time; there was no infection; there was a slight but manageable infection; the fever had finally broken and he was expected to recover; since the emperor, although well and already taking regular exercise in the palace grounds, was too weak to supervise matters personally, the grand victory celebrations would be organised in his absence by the purely temporary Board of Control, who were not (it should be stressed) in any sense a formal regency council.

  Aimeric de Peguilhan delivered his second order of arrows, which were assessed by the Armoury Board and passed as acceptable, following a slight modification to the design specifications. No more arrows were likely to be needed for the foreseeable future, but the Board was pleased to announce a substantial contract for new livery for the palace guard; five hundred suits of the very best quality Type 7 formal and ceremonial harness, richly decorated in the latest style. De Peguilhan was therefore able to lay off his substantial workforce of casual and itinerant unskilled labour and recruit established specialists, thereby providing employment for a substantial number of refugees from Mondhem, who’d previously worked in the White Crown atelier. This was seen as an encouraging start to the regency council’s Imperial-jobs-for-Imperial-citizens initiative, a key part of the post-war economic restructuring program.

  The victory celebrations, it was announced, would be the greatest and most elaborate spectacle ever staged in the thousand-year history of the City. They would reassure the people of the Empire that, in spite of recent events, because of them, the empire had never been stronger or more secure; its values reinforced, its vigour undiminished, its ability to achieve and excel greater than ever. The victory would be portrayed as a victory over war itself, since now that the Sashan had been utterly destroyed—the Great King had been captured, disguised as a salt miner, on the Great Caravan Road leading east to the end of the world; there was no longer any place on earth where the empire’s enemies could hide—there was, quite literally, nobody left to fight; no race anywhere powerful and sophisticated enough to pose a realistic threat to the nation that had made good its assertion to be the natural leader and master of Mankind.

  The regency council met in the Old Cloister of the Golden Spire Temple to vote on the proposals for the victory celebrations. The first item on the agenda was the formal resignation of general Calojan. In a letter read out to the council, he said that his presence was required at the front for the final assault on the Sashan capital; he was confident of early success but clearly couldn’t predict a specific date; accordingly, since he would not be able to attend meetings for quite some time, he felt it would be inappropriate and counterproductive for him to retain his seat on the council. His last act as a councillor would, therefor
e, be to propose the co-option of Aimeric de Peguilhan as his replacement. In recommending Aimeric to his former colleagues, he wished to draw to their attention the six decades of unwavering loyal support shown by three generations of the Peguilhan family to the empire, culminating in Aimeric’s invaluable contribution to the victory they were preparing to celebrate. Furthermore, Aimeric had proved that he had a keen and practical mind, a talent for designing innovative solutions to apparently insoluble problems, a finger on the pulse of commerce and, most important, the best interests of the empire at heart. The chair then recognised Aimeric de Peguilhan, who confirmed that he would be willing to be co-opted, on the strict understanding that he would relinquish his seat in favour of general Calojan once the latter had completed the conquest of the Sashan and was in a position to resume his duties, should the emperor still be indisposed at that time. A vote was taken and Aimeric de Peguilhan was declared co-opted, nine votes to three; Aimeric himself, as Calojan’s proxy, abstaining.

  Next, the committee moved on, with barely disguised impatience, to the celebrations themselves. Archdeacon Vorsiger of the Lesser Studium proposed that an official victory ode, not less than one thousand and not exceeding two thousand lines of dactylic hexameters, be commissioned from the leading poet of the empire and recited to the public on the steps of the Golden Spire on three consecutive mornings. There was general agreement in principle, but some dissent over specifics. The archdeacon recommended approaching Senator Liutprand, surely the greatest living poet, and suggested a thousand solidi as a suitable fee. Commissioner Astigern dissented; Liutprand’s work was bland and derivative, he said; Bessas would be a far more exciting, modern and popular choice, and he would do the job for five hundred and be glad of the money. Representative Carloman pointed out that Bessas was Astigern’s nephew; he suggested Poliorcetes, whose Fall of Perimadeia demonstrated grandeur and pathos blended with a uniquely patriotic sensibility. Archdeacon Vorsiger objected that Poliorcetes was a Scherian, therefore not a citizen of the empire; also, his recent works demonstrated a sadly casual approach to such fundamentals as scansion and classical form, which in the archdeacon’s view offered a poor example to aspiring young poets. Chancellor Maerving expressed the view that a thousand lines was too much and a thousand solidi far too expensive. Instead, why not hold a competition for the best (short) ode, with a first prize of four hundred solidi, one hundred for second place, fifty each for two runners-up? That way, they’d get at least four times as much poetry for rather less money, and the operation of market forces would ensure that what they got was the very best stuff. Formally proposed by Chancellor Maerving, seconded by Aimeric de Peguilhan; passed, eleven votes to two.