‘No, he hasn’t,’ Rictus replied.
The tall Kefre looked profoundly troubled.
‘I mean to say it, Ardashir,’ Rictus said.
Ardashir touched his arm, as if for reassurance, and then left in the wake of the others.
Corvus bent over the map table like a man lost in a book. He righted a wine-cup, and smeared the red dribble it had leaked across the vellum.
‘All pages are to leave,’ he said in a clear voice, and the two boys at the door, who had listened agog to all that had passed, ducked out of the tent.
The rain was a thunder on the leather canopy above their heads. Corvus did not turn around.
‘You did not leave with the others, Rictus.’
‘I have no command. Fornyx runs the Dogsheads now. I am merely — ’
‘A mascot?’ Corvus turned, and smiled to take the sting out of the word.
‘I am your advisor; I am — ’
‘Sometimes I feel you are Antimone’s shadow, always looking over my shoulder.’
‘You did not tell them everything, did you Corvus?’
The King poured himself some wine, filled a second cup and left it standing on the table. Rictus did not touch it.
‘I told them what they wanted to hear, what the army needed to hear. And it was the truth.’
‘But not all of it.’
‘Damn it Rictus, men have shrewish wives easier to put up with than you!’
‘And fathers.’
‘You are not my father.’
‘But I did know him. He was my best friend, and a better man than I. He is not forgotten, and nor will you be.’
‘My thanks for the reassurance. Now say what you mean to say.’
‘Do not let your hunger for glory take these men to needless deaths, Corvus. There was no mention made just now of King Proxanon and the Juthan legions. Why is that?’
Corvus leaned both hands on the table and stared at the stained vellum upon it, the lines and names, the inked-in mountains and rivers. A whole world, a vastness of ambition, contained upon a tabletop.
‘I thought it would be Fornyx who noticed first.’
‘Sometimes you can make even him believe. But I know you better than any of them, Corvus, save Ardashir.’
‘Do you? I suppose that is so. You are the only one I ever feel I have to explain myself to, Rictus.’
He sighed, as if resigned, but Rictus did not think that was what he felt.
‘The Great King received word of our agreement with Proxanon. He has detached an army to attack Jutha. The legions cannot join us in time. They are already committed to battle somewhere west of the city of Hadith, three weeks away.’
‘Where is Marcan?’
‘I sent him south, to rejoin his people, and to tell his father of my plans. He may yet be able to tie in with us.’
Rictus breathed out softly. ‘And what are the Great King’s numbers, Corvus? Do not tell me you don’t know.’
‘He detached a sizeable force to attack Proxanon, but the Jutha still reckon the main body at some two hundred thousand spears.’
Now Rictus approached the table, took the wine-cup, and gulped half the contents down, baring his teeth at the sharp taste.
‘Even with the recent reinforcements, we can only put some thirty-five thousand into the line.’
‘Thirty six,’ Corvus corrected him.
‘And you mean to seek battle.’
‘I do.’
Rictus glared at the younger man. He rapped his knuckle against the black cuirass that Corvus wore, the twin of his own. ‘This does not make you immortal, Corvus.’
The King smiled tightly. ‘It helps.’
‘We cannot do this. We must wait for Proxanon to come up. We need those extra spears. Antimone’s blood, Corvus, they will double our numbers!’
‘We will not wait. There is no guarantee that Proxanon will prevail in the field. We may find ourselves with a victorious imperial army in our rear as well as the horde of the Great King to our front. Better to move now, and move fast. Numbers do not count for as much as surprise. And I’m hoping to give the Great King a very nasty surprise indeed, Rictus. I will announce it in the morning — we will move by forced marches from now on.’
He was elevated, exalted even. Two spots of colour burned on that terrible pale face.
‘If we beat the Great King’s army on our own — on our own, Rictus — then we will have broken his hold on the empire. It will fall apart. And what is more, it will be a Macht army which has prevailed, without allies, without help from the Kufr or anyone else.’
Exasperated, Rictus exploded. ‘For God’s sake, Corvus — you’re half Kufr yourself!’
The winecup came up in a blur, smashing against Rictus’s cheekbone, staggering him. Wine sprayed in the air, soaked his cloak, and ran in rivulets dark as blood down his black cuirass.
He straightened, blinking the stinging liquid out of his eyes. Twenty years earlier, even ten years, he would have launched himself at Corvus for that, king or no. But now he simply stood there with his head ringing, and a great sadness crowding his mind.
Corvus raised both hands to his mouth like a woman. ‘Rictus — Rictus, my brother, I am so sorry!’
Rictus turned away.
‘I’ve had harder blows from whores,’ he said. And then he stumbled out into the rain-lashed night, blind with the wine and the hot, growing light of his own anger.
TWELVE
Kouros stood like a piece of statuary with the sweat sliding in worms down the small of his back. The armour he wore had been made for him a few years before, and had once fitted him like an ornate second skin, but he had lost weight in the last few weeks, and now there were angles in his bones that were not so well padded as they had been. And he had forgotten how heavy the helmet was.
But he stood motionless beside his father’s throne, for he was part of a larger tableau here today, and all of it was on display for the baying myriads of the army, who had been assembled to witness something rare: the execution of a high-caste noble. It was not often they were able to see someone so elevated pay for a mistake, and though the assembled crowds were as silent as the Great King’s presence demanded, still there was that whispering susurration, a surreptitious chatter. No-one could silence an army completely, for in their thousands the soldiers were invulnerable, anonymous.
But there was a hush of sorts, nonetheless, as Dyarnes strode forth upon the dais in armour so bright it pained the eye to look upon, and called for silence in a voice almost as brazen.
‘Bring him forth,’ he cried.
Darios had been fettered with silver chains, as befitted his station, and he walked across the dais in a himation of blinding white linen, his hair loose, face impassive.
The Great King sat silent and motionless on the throne as the traitor approached. His komis was drawn up around his face and only his eyes were visible, as hard to read as frosted glass.
Darios stood and surveyed the crowd with contempt. Then he collected himself, turned, and went on his knees before the Great King. Ashurnan gave away no flicker of interest.
