“A fucking ambush!” Ranafast was yelling. He had lost his helm and looked almost demented with rage.
“If we get back over the hill the gunners in the fort can cover our retreat,” Corfe told him.
“We won’t make it—not as a body. It’s every man for himself. Get you on back to the river, Ensign. This is not your fight.”
Corfe bridled. “It’s mine as much as anyone else’s!”
“Then save your hide so you can fight again. There’s no shame in running away from this battle.”
They gathered up what they could of the two squadrons and fought a rearguard action back up the slope they had galloped down a few minutes before. Luckily the Merduks did not possess firearms, so the Torunnans were able to turn in the saddle and loosen off a volley from their pistols every so often to rattle the enemy and stall his pursuit. As soon as Ormann Dyke was in sight once more, they galloped in earnest for the eastern gate whilst the gunners opened up on the Merduk cavalry behind them. It had been a close thing, and Ranafast brought back scarcely a hundred men through the gate, a loss the dyke could ill afford. As soon as the Merduks saw that the Torunnan cavalry were back within the walls of the dyke they called off the pursuit and retreated out of cannon range.
Ranafast and Corfe dismounted once they had clattered across the two bridges to the Long Walls. The surviving Torunnans were subdued, made thoughtful by their narrow escape.
“Well, now we know the strength of the enemy scout force,” Ranafast growled. “Caught like a green first- campaigner, damn it. What’s your name, Ensign?”
“Corfe.”
“Part of Martellus’ staff, are you? Well, if ever you want back in the saddle, let me know. You did all right out there, and I’m short of officers.” Then the cavalry commander stumped off, leading his lathered horse. Corfe stared after him.
T HE leonine Martellus bent his knee and kissed the old man’s ring reverently.
“Your Holiness.”
Macrobius inclined his head absently. They covered his ragged and empty eyesockets with a snow-white band of linen these days, so that he looked like a venerable blind-man’s-buff player. Or a hostage. But he was dressed in robes of lustrous black, and a Saint’s symbol of silver inset with lapis lazuli hung on his breast. His ring had been Martellus’ own, a gift from the Prelate of Torunna before the general had set out for the dyke. Perhaps there had been an element of prescience in the gift, because it fitted the High Pontiff’s bony finger almost as well as it had Martellus.”
“They tell me there was a battle today,” Macrobius said.
“A skirmish merely. The Merduks managed to stage an ambush of sorts. We came off worst, it’s true, but no great damage was done. Your erstwhile bodyguard Corfe did well.”
Macrobius’ head lifted. “Ah, I am glad, but I never doubted that he would not. My other companion, Brother Ribeiro, died today, General.”
“I am sorry to hear it.”
“The infection had settled in the very bones of his face. I gave him his last absolution. He died raving, but I pray his soul will take itself swiftly to the Company of the Saints.”
“Undoubtedly,” Martellus said stoutly. “But I have something else I would discuss with you, Your Holiness.”
“My public appearances, or lack of them.”
Martellus seemed put out. “Why, yes. You must understand the situation, Holiness. The Merduks are finally closing in. Our intelligence puts their vanguard scarcely eight leagues away and, as you know, the skirmishes with their light troops go on daily. The men need something to hearten them, to raise their spirits. They know you are alive and in the fortress and that is to the good, but if you were to appear before them, preach a sermon and give them your blessing, it would be a wonderful thing for their morale. How could they not fight well, knowing they were safeguarding the representative of Ramusio on earth?”
“They knew that at Aekir,” Macrobius said harshly. “It did not help them.”
Martellus stifled his exasperation. His pale eyes flashed in the hirsute countenance.
“I command an army outnumbered by more than ten to one, yet they remain here at the dyke despite the knowledge that it would take a miracle to withstand the storm that is upon us. In less than a week we will see a host to our front whose size has not even been imagined since the days of the Religious Wars. A host with one great victory already under its belt. If I cannot give my men something to believe in, to hope for—no matter how intangible—we’d be as well to abandon Ormann Dyke here and now.”
“Do you really believe that I can provide that thing they need to believe in, my son?” Macrobius asked. “I, who played the coward at Aekir?”
“That story is almost unknown here. All they know is that by some miracle you escaped the ruin of the Holy City and are here, with them. You have evidenced no desire to go south to Torunn or west to Charibon. You have chosen to remain here. That in itself is heartening for them.”
“I could not play the coward again,” Macrobius said. “If the dyke falls, I fall with it.”
“Then help it stand! Appear before them. Give them your blessing, I beg you.”
Eyeless though he was, Macrobius seemed to be studying the earnest soldier before him.
“I am not worthy of the station any more, General,” he said softly. “Were I to give the men a Pontiff’s blessing, it would be false. In my heart my faith wavers. I am no longer fit for this high office.”
Martellus leapt up and began striding about the simply furnished apartments that were Macrobius’ quarters in the citadel.
“Old man, I’ll be blunt. I don’t give a damn about your theological haverings. I care about my men and the fate of my country. This fortress is the gateway to the west. If it falls it will take a generation to push the Merduk back to the Ostian river, if we ever can. You will get up on the speakers’ dais tomorrow and you will address my men, and you will put heart in them even if it means perjuring yourself. The greater good will be served, don’t you see? After this battle is over you can do whatever you like, if you still live; but for now you will do this thing for me.”
Macrobius smiled gently. “You are a blunt man, General. I applaud your concern for your men.”
“Then you will do as I ask?”
“No, but I will do as you demand. I cannot promise a rousing oration, an uplifting sermon. My own soul stands sadly in need of uplifting these days, but I will bless these worthy men, these soldiers of Ramusio. They deserve at least that.”
“They do,” Martellus echoed heartily. “It’s not every soldier can go into battle with the blessing of the High Pontiff upon him.”
“If you are so very sure I am yet High Pontiff, my son.”
Martellus frowned. “What do you mean?”
“It has been some weeks since my disappearance. A Synod of the Prelates will have been convened, and if they have not received word of my abrupt reappearance, they may well have chosen a new Pontiff already, as is their right and duty.”
Martellus flapped one large hand. “Messengers have been sent both to Torunn and Charibon. Rest your mind on that score, Your Holiness. The whole world should know by now that Macrobius the Third lives and is well in the fortress of Ormann Dyke.”
T HE address of the High Pontiff to the assembled troops took place the next day in the marshalling yards of the fortress. The garrison knelt as one, their ranks swelled by thousands upon thousands of refugees who had come to look upon the most important survivor of Aekir. They saw an old man with a white bandage where his eyes had been, and bowed their heads to receive his blessing. There was silence throughout the fortress for a few moments as Macrobius made the Sign of the Saint over the crowds and prayed to Ramusio and the Company of Saints for victory in the forthcoming ordeal.
Scant hours later, the lead elements of the Merduk army came into view on the hills overlooking Ormann Dyke.
Corfe was there on the parapets of the eastern barbican along with Martellus and a collection of senior officers. They saw the enemy van spread out with smooth discipline, the long lines of elephant-drawn drays in their midst and regiments of heavy cavalry—the famed
