hillside in the rain-cloud. Corfe wiped water out of his eyes, hardly able to credit what he saw.
“This can’t be it—this cannot be them!” Ebro sputtered. But Corfe was suddenly sure it was, and he realized that the joke was indeed on him.
Torunnan sentries paced the edges of the square with halberds resting on their shoulders. In the shop doorways all around arquebusiers stood yawning, keeping their weapons and powder out of the rain. As Corfe and Ebro appeared, a young ensign with a muddy cloak about his shoulders approached them, saluting as soon as he caught sight of the badge on Corfe’s absurd little breastplate.
“Good day, sir. Might you be Colonel Cear-Inaf, by any chance?”
Corfe’s heart sank. There was no mistake then.
“I am, Ensign. What is this we have here?”
The officer glanced back to the scene in the square. The open space was full of men, five hundred of them, perhaps. They were seated in crowds on the filthy cobbles as though battered down by the chill rain. They were in rags, and collectively they stank to high heaven. There were manacles about every ankle, and their faces were obscured by wild tangles of matted hair.
“Half a thousand galley slaves from the Royal fleet,” the ensign said cheerily. “Tribesmen from the Felimbri, most of them, worshippers of the Horned One. Black-hearted devils, they are. I’d mind your back, sir, when you’re near them. They tried to brain one of my men last night and we had to shoot a couple.”
A dull anger began to rise in Corfe.
“This cannot be right, sir. We must be mistaken. The King must be in jest,” Ebro was protesting.
“I don’t think so,” Corfe murmured. He stared at the packed throng of miserable humanity in the square. Many of them were staring back, glowering at him from under thatches of verminous hair. The men were brawny, well-muscled, as might be expected of galley slaves, but their skin was a sodden white, and many of them were coughing. A few had lain down on their sides, oblivious to the stone cobbles, the pouring rain.
So this was his first independent command. A crowd of mutinous slaves from the savage tribes of the interior. For a moment Corfe considered returning to the palace and refusing the command. The Queen Dowager had obtained the position for him, but clearly Lofantyr had resented her interference. He was supposed to refuse it, Corfe realized. And when he did, there would never be another. That decided him.
He stepped forward. “Are there any among you who can speak for the rest, in Normannic?”
The men muttered amongst themselves, and finally one rose and shuffled to the fore, his chains clinking.
“I speak your tongue, Torunnan.”
He was huge, with hands as wide as dinner plates and the scars of old lashings about his limbs. His tawny beard fell on to his chest but two bright blue eyes glinted out of the brutish face and met Corfe’s stare squarely.
“What’s your name?” Corfe asked him.
“I am called the Eagle in my own tongue. You would say my name was Marsch.”
“Can you speak for your fellows, Marsch?”
The slave shrugged his massive shoulders. “Perhaps.”
“Do you know why you were taken from the galleys?”
“No.”
“Then I will tell you. And you will translate what I say to your comrades, without misinterpretation. Is that clear?”
Marsch glared at him, but he was obviously curious. “All right.”
“All right,
“You are no longer slaves of the Torunnan state,” he called out. “From this moment on you are free men.” That caused a stir, when Marsch had translated it, a lifting of the apathy. But there was no lessening of the mistrust in the eyes which were fixed on him. Corfe ground on.
“But that does not yet mean that you are free to do as you please. I am Corfe. From this moment on you will obey me as you would one of your own chieftains, for it is I who have procured your freedom. You are tribesmen of the Cimbrics. You were once warriors, and now you have the chance to be so again, but only under my command.”
Marsch’s deep voice was following Corfe’s in the guttural language of the mountain tribes. His eyes never left Corfe’s face.
“I need soldiers, and you are what I have been given. You are not to fight your own peoples, but are to battle Torunnans and Merduks. I give you my word on that. Serve me faithfully, and you will have honour and employment. Betray me, and you will be killed out of hand. I do not care which God you worship or which tongue you speak as long as you fight for me. Obey my orders, and I will see that you are treated like warriors. Any who do not choose to do so can go back to the galleys.”
Marsch finished translating, and the square was filled with low talk.
“Sir,” Ebro said urgently, “no one gave you authority to free these men.”
“They are my men,” Corfe growled. “I will not be a general of slaves.”
Marsch had heard the exchange. He clinked forward until he was towering over Corfe.
“You mean what you say, Torunnan?”
“I would not have said it otherwise.”
“And you will give us our freedom, in exchange for our swords?”
“Yes.”
“Why do you choose us as your men? To your kind we are savages and unbelievers.”
“Because you are all I have got,” Corfe said truthfully. “I don’t take you because I want to, but because I have to. But if you will take service under me, then I swear I will speak for you in everything as though I were speaking for myself.”
The hulking savage considered this a moment.
“Then I am your man.” And Marsch touched his fist to his forehead in the salute of his people.
Others in the square saw the gesture. Men began to struggle to their feet and repeat it.
“If we break faith with you,” Marsch said, “then may the seas rise up and drown us, may the green hills open up and swallow us, may the stars of heaven fall on us and crush us out of life for ever.”
It was the old, wild oath of the tribes, the pagan pledge of fealty. Corfe blinked, and said:
“By the same oath, I bind myself to keep faith with you.”
The men in the square were all on their feet now, repeating Marsch’s oath in their own tongue.
Corfe heard them out. He had the oddest feeling that this was the beginning of something he could not yet grasp: something momentous that would affect the remaining course of his life.
The feeling passed, and he was facing five hundred men standing manacled in the rain.
He turned to the young ensign, who was open-mouthed. “Strike the chains from these men.”
“Sir, I—”
“
The ensign paled, saluted quickly, and ran off to get the keys. Ebro looked entirely at a loss.
“Ensign,” Corfe snapped, and his aide came to attention. “You will find a warm billet for these men. If there are no military quarters available, you will procure a private warehouse. I want them out of the rain.”
“Yes, sir.”
Corfe addressed Marsch once more. “When did you last eat?”
The giant shrugged again. “Two, three days ago. Sir.”
“Ensign Ebro, you will also procure rations for five hundred from the city stores, on my authority. If anyone questions you, refer them to—to the Queen Dowager. She will endorse my orders.”
“Yes, sir. Sir, I—”
“Go. I want no more time wasted.”
Ebro sped off without another word. Torunnan guards were already walking through the crowd of tribesmen unlocking their ankle chains. The arquebusiers had lit their match and were holding their firearms at the ready. As the tribesmen were freed, they trooped over to stand behind Marsch.
This is my command, Corfe thought.
They were starved, half naked, weaponless, without armour or equipment; and Corfe knew he could not hope
