Paul Kearney - Kings of Morning

‘You would give it over to him, the last remnant of the empire — you would let him walk in here without raising a hand.’

‘He cannot be defeated, not by arms in battle. But that is not the only way to fight, Kouros. I will open the gates to him. I will invite him into these very chambers. I will kneel before him and smile as he dons the diadem. When that is done, I will be patient, as I have always been patient.’

‘Rakhsar was right,’ Kouros marvelled. ‘They all were. You are a poisonous bitch.’

He stepped forward, but as he did there was movement at the door. Charys, the hulking chief eunuch, padded barefoot into the chamber, his face a hairless crag of pink flesh. Behind him came two Arakosan troopers in full armour, scimitars drawn. They closed the doors with a soft boom and then stood waiting.

Kouros stared at them all in some wonder. ‘Your own son, Orsana. You would kill me?’

Orsana reached inside her robe. ‘I will not have to.’ She drew forth the iron knife that Kouros had killed his brother with, and tossed it on the table. It lay black and ugly beside the crystal decanter.

‘I said that war had made a man of you. I meant it. And you are my son. There will be no poison, no unseemliness. You will do what you must by your own hand, Kouros. If you do not, then it shall be done for you.’

He stared blindly at the knife.

‘I am your son,’ he said, and there was a quaver in his voice. He looked at her, and found not one whit of compassion in that hard, white-painted face. He might as well have been looking into the eyes of a snake.

‘You are my son, but there is no greatness in you. If this day had not come I would have ruled through you. As things stand, you are an impediment to me, and your stupidity hazards the survival of this city. I leave you an honourable end. If you have courage, you will take it.’ She swallowed, and her hands shook a little. She folded them into the bosom of her robe.

He stepped forward and grasped the knife. She retreated from him — one step, two — and the eunuch padded closer; as if the three of them were somehow connected in some absurd little dance.

‘Farewell, Kouros,’ Orsana said.

‘I pray to Mot that I shall haunt your dreams, you unnatural whore.’

She walked away. The Arakosans opened the door for her, and she did not look back before it was closed again.

Kouros looked at the knife, thinking of his brother Kuthra, of Rakhsar, Roshana. His own father, who had died as a man should. They were all gone, and now he would follow. And Orsana would live on to spin her webs and brew her poison. The shock of it brought a laugh into his throat, although it left his lips as a choking sob.

He looked at Charys. The eunuch’s eyes were gimlets in that massive, blank face. There was no humanity there.

He heard the horns of the city blowing again, and walked to the balcony to look out upon the majesty of imperial Ashur. There was a roar up by the western gates. He did not know if it was battle or celebration. It was a meaningless sound.

Meaningless.

‘I am Kouros, son of Ashurnan, of the line of Asur. I am Great King of the Asurian Empire.’

He chewed angrily on the words. The anger was enough. It had been with him all his life. He thrust the wicked blade into his own chest, stood there wide-eyed with the cold violence he had done himself, and turned to face the men in the chamber.

‘I am — I am — ’

Then he fell headlong upon the floor, upsetting the wine, his legs drawing up under him. He struggled a moment more, then was still. The knotted jaw relaxed at last.

They met below a canopy of cyan-blue silk, erected a pasang in front of the main western gate. A file of fifty Honai marched out of the city in perfect time, their armour as bright as bronze could be, the sun glinting on their spearheads. From the camp of the Macht came forty-six scarlet-cloaked spearmen, led by a centurion in the Curse of God.

The two companies formed up opposite each other, with the canopy between them. They stood with their shields at their knees, and waited in the growing heat of the morning, looking at each other with frank curiosity. They were professional enough, all of them, to feel no real rancour for their enemy. They had last met at Gaugamesh, in the centre of that great dust-flayed cauldron of mayhem. They had that in common.

As they stood there, the walls of Ashur filled with people, and the bee-hive mumble of their talk carried clear across the plain. The streets were crowded as though for a festival, and the proceedings were relayed down to the alleyways by those lucky enough to have secured a perch on the battlements far above.

Bronze horns sounding out from the summits of the ziggurats, relayed all the way to the western walls. There was an echoing cheer which rolled out of the east as it was taken up by the crowds.

From the stockaded encampment of the Macht a group of riders emerged, in full armour but without spears. One bore the raven banner, black on scarlet. They were all clad in the Curse of God, and all were magnificently 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.’