mounted on tall Niseians, save one, an older man who rode a humble bay mare. This company picked its way slowly from the Macht camp towards the canopy of silk and its twin files of spearmen. When it was halfway there, the gates of Ashur swung slowly open again, and emerging from the shadow of the barbican there trooped a knot of horsemen escorting an ornate chariot, over which flew the purple and gold standard of Asuria.
The two groups drew together, and as if by unspoken agreement, they dismounted behind their respective spearmen. Then they joined each other under the twisting, breeze-bulged silk, standing on either side of a long table.
On the Macht side, Corvus, Ardashir, Teresian, Druze, Parmenios, and Rictus.
On the Kefren side, Gemeris, Lorka, and Orsana.
Corvus spoke first. ‘I mourn for your loss, lady. No mother should ever have to bear the death of a son.’
Only Orsana’s eyes were visible. She wore a black komis to hide her grief.
‘I thank you. It has been hard to bear, but when my son saw the odds against him, he decided to spare his people the ordeal of further war. He took his own life and died as he had lived, a brave man.’ The eyes above the folds of the komis were bright with tears.
Corvus bowed to her. ‘I regret his father’s death, and I regret his. Whatever your people might think of me, lady, I do not come to destroy, but to renew. To bring our peoples together.’
‘You brought enough of them together at Gaugamesh,’ Lorka flashed. ‘How did that work out?’
‘Peace.’ Orsana held up a hand. ‘If we speak of nothing but past offences, then we may as well go back to the gates and close them. King Corvus, I am here freely, as the last representative — the last suitable representative — of the imperial family. I come to surrender to you the city of Ashur and its environs, on the terms which you set before us six days ago, when your herald approached our gates. I thank you for your forbearance during the negotiations, and rejoice that we finally meet face to face to finalise this matter. Gemeris.’
The Honai beside her stepped forward and set a gem-studded golden box upon the table. Orsana opened it. Within lay a series of plain iron keys, massive as horseshoes, and ancient-looking.
‘These are the keys to the treasury of Ashur. They are yours. I pass my stewardship of the city to you.’
Ardashir took the box, closed it and hefted it under one arm. He bowed to Orsana.
Corvus came round the table, surprising them all. He took Orsana’s hand, startling her, and raised it to his lips.
‘Lady, know that I value you beyond price for the dignity and wisdom you have shown over the past days. I beg you to remain in the ziggurat, to retain all your wealth and offices. I will treat you as though you were my own mother, and I ask only that you continue to furnish me with your counsel as you have counselled Great Kings before me.’
Orsana collected herself. She grasped Corvus’s hand in both her own.
‘Nothing would please me more,’ she said.
The army entered the city with the Companion cavalry in the lead, decked out as if for parade, every link and rivet of their armour polished to high brilliance, the Niseians shining and stamping at the sound of the trumpets and the drums. The preparations had been set in hand for days, ever since the death of the unlamented King Kouros had been announced, and now the roadways were strewn with petals, and garlands were hung like banners at every corner. The people of Ashur were overjoyed to finally know that they were to be spared siege and sack and all the horrors of war. They cheered without prompting, and scattered flowers over the heads of Corvus’s army as if it were a homecoming and not an invasion.
Corvus took fifteen thousand men, a third of the army, into Ashur. The rest remained outside, and waggons of wine and provisions were sent out to them in endless convoys, the gift of the people of Asuria — though it was Parmenios and Gemeris, working together, who had organised that side of things.
The negotiations had been protracted not by doubts as to their eventual success, but by the protocols attending a Great King’s death. The Macht had been halted in the very act of bringing their rams to the gates by hurried riders pleading for more time. The Great King was dead, and the decencies had to be observed, but the Macht terms were broadly acceptable. Could the city not be given a little more time?
Time in which much of the contents of the treasury had been loaded onto swift carts and sent off to Arakosia. Time in which the last surviving officials who had been loyal to Ashurnan were removed from their posts and from their heads.
By the time the terms had finally been agreed, the city was officially over its mourning for a king the people had never known, and the black banners were taken down and laid aside. Preparations were almost complete for the housing of the garrison both sides had agreed was suitable for the Imperial Capital — capital of Corvus’s empire now, not of Asuria’s. And so the dazed Macht soldiers marched into the greatest city of the world to the music of bronze trumpets, the roar of approving cheers, and a shower of summer flowers. They had never known anything like it.
‘Perhaps it was worth it after all,’ Ardashir said, grinning. He caught a flower in mid flight and blew a kiss to the hufsa girl who had thrown it.
Rictus looked up at the soaring shadow of the ziggurat that lay ahead and blinked in wonder. There were indeed things in the world still worth seeing.
‘So this was your home,’ he said to Kurun, who was sat on the horse’s rump behind him, clinging to his shoulders.
‘This was my home,’ Kurun said, and he stared up in almost as much awe as the gawping Macht.
The parade continued into the heart of the city and travelled along the Huruma itself. When they came to the fountains, several of the Macht scooped up the sacred water in their helmets and doused themselves with it, and some of the horses drank there, which produced ugly little scenes on the fringes of the crowd. But for the most part the inhabitants of Ashur were as fascinated by the fabled Macht as the conquerors were by what they had conquered.
At the foot of the ziggurat the procession paused. The Honai were drawn up here, stiff as wooden soldiers, and Orsana waited with a cluster of high-born officials, most in Arakosan blue.
Corvus bowed to them from his horse, but he did not dismount. He set his Niseian at the King’s Steps and the beast began to climb them. One of the Honai broke ranks with a cry, but was restrained by his fellows. Corvus paused when he was above all their heads, the white horsehair crest of his helm catching the sun, the black Niseian prancing under him, and the Curse of God gleaming ebony on his chest. They saw him grin, happy as a boy. Then he waved at his marshals, gesturing.
They followed him up the steps on their horses. Only Rictus stood his ground, for behind him, Kurun was weeping. ‘It is not right,’ he was saying. ‘This is not right.’ The Kefren notables at the foot of the steps stood rigidly in the sun, and Orsana lowered her head in their midst.
The marshals ascended the ziggurat on their horses, and the crowds below watched them in amazed wonder, while the assembled Macht infantry cheered and clashed their spears against their shields, a brazen thunder.
‘It is not the way it is done,’ Kurun said, wiping his nose.
‘What do you care?’ Rictus asked, half irritable at the boy’s sudden switch in mood. ‘It’s not your throne.’
‘It is my country.’
Up they went. The Honai at the foot of the steps dispersed. One looked up at the disappearing Macht on the ziggurat, and broke his spear over his knee, flinging the fragments away. The Kefren officials fanned out into the Macht formations, seeking the centurions. They bore with them lists and maps, showing where each mora was to be billeted. At once, two full morai began marching off for the Slave-Gate, seeking a humbler entrance to the ziggurat. The crowds, the heat, the noise all rose to a degree which could be equalled only by the midst of battle. Suddenly Rictus wearied of it all.
‘Let’s give you a view you never had before,’ he said to Kurun, and set his own horse at the King’s Steps.
‘You cannot!’
‘Stay on the horse, Kurun. This is a new world we are in, and we’ve as much right to walk these stones as any other bastard.’
