Paul Kearney - Corvus

“Tiryn,” he said. “Antimone’s pity, she was your mother.”

He remembered. He remembered. Almost a quarter of a century gone by, and still he could recall the happenings of those days in gem-sharp images. This boy’s mother was a beautiful Kufr woman who had been Arkamene’s concubine, abandoned and abused after Kunaksa. Jason had fallen in love with her, and she with him – as unlikely a pairing any story ever saw. Jason had been about to retire, to forsake the red cloak and the Curse of God, and buy a farm somewhere east of the sea, to live out his days in some obscure corner of the Empire, in peace.

Rictus shook his head, baffled with the bright glittering memory of it all.

“Your father,” he said thickly, “He was like a brother to me.”

“And it was because of you he died.”

“Yes, it was. I was a stupid boy, a young fool who had no self control.”

“My mother told me. She never forgave you, Rictus.”

“I do not blame her for that. Is this why you came seeking me, Corvus? Is this some kind of -”

“Revenge?” Corvus laughed. “My friend, I have been hearing stories of you since I was of an age to speak. I hold no ill will for the death of a father I never knew. But I counted always on meeting the famous Rictus, to face the legend and see what truth there was behind the stories.”

Rictus shook his head. “You of all people should know that stories are never anything more than an echo of the truth.”

“I have met the man, and he measures up to the stories, Rictus. If he did not, he would be dead by now.”

Corvus walked away, until the darkness was near swallowing him up. “You are a man of honour, and you know what excesses an army can commit, in victory or defeat. You think as I do, Rictus – you hate the things I hate. I need men like you right now. In the times to come I will need you even more.”

He wiped his forearm across his eyes, and seemed like nothing so much as some lost boy standing in the dark.

“I have fallen between two worlds. I have had to fight to find my way with the Macht – my own people. And yet Ardashir and the Companions see me also as one of their own.”

“You are lucky in your friends, Corvus. As lucky as I once was.”

“That may be. But I still do not belong in the world as I find it, so I have decided to refashion it. The Macht are – we are – ignorant barbarians, compared to the civilization that exists on the far side of the sea. And the Empire is tired and decadent, for all its riches, its ancient culture, its diversity. I think something better can be made of both.”

Rictus blinked, the last of the wine leaving his mind. “What are you saying?”

Corvus turned round and grinned. At once, he had that unearthly look about him again, and the tortured boy had vanished utterly.

“I am thinking aloud, daydreaming in the night. Pay me no heed, Rictus.”

He advanced on the older man. “If you had command of the army, what would you do now -how would you proceed against Machran?”

Rictus rubbed his chin, collecting himself. Corvus’s eyes on him were unsettling.

“I would take the hinterland cities, first off. They’re broken up at the moment, demoralised. They should be ripe fruit. Then I would sit out the winter in them, divide up the army to garrison the major cities and prepare to attack Machran in the spring. By that time the new levies will have settled in and the men will be rested and ready for another fight. Machran will be a hard nut to crack open. We must prepare ourselves for it.”

“I agree on that. But if we wait until spring, the untaken League cities, and Machran itself, will have time to recover from the shock of their defeat. In all likelihood, we would have our work to do all over again. Given time, Karnos will reconstitute the League – he is a resourceful man.”

“Then what would you do?”

Corvus smiled. “Were I Rictus, I would do what you suggest. It is the sensible thing. But I am Corvus.

“We will move on Machran with all we have, at once, invest the city through the winter if we have to. I want the thing over and done with by the spring. We have them on the run right now – let us keep them that way.”

Rictus shook his head. “We don’t have enough men.”

“Numbers aren’t everything, if an army is all motivated by one spirit, one idea. There is a thing I have found about the Macht since I began leading them and fighting them; something that is different from the peoples of the Empire. They will fight for an idea, an abstraction – if that idea is powerful enough. It is what makes them a great people.”

“It will take more than an idea to scale the walls of Machran.”

“Oh, I know. Parmenios is working on it. For a fat little man with inky fingers, he has some ideas that would startle you.” Corvus turned to walk away.

“Best continue with my rounds. I have not yet spoken to Ardashir this evening…” He paused, turned about. “Rictus, do you know why Fornyx hates me?”

The question took Rictus off guard. “I -”

“Because he loves you, and he thinks I have brought you to this by threat of death. You and I know different. There is nowhere in the world you would rather be right now than here with this army.”

Corvus raised a hand, almost like a salute, and then walked off into the darkness.

In the days of marching that followed, the land rose under their feet and the rain began to ease. They came upon signs of the retreating League army: broken wagons, dead mules and discarded items of personal gear littering the roadside.

With the improvement in the weather the men’s spirits lifted, and they made better time. By now, all the food that they had raided from the League camp’s stockpiles had been eaten, and they were on short rations. Corvus finally sanctioned a series of foraging expeditions, led by the mounted troops of the Companions. The two thousand cavalry split up into half a dozen strong columns and criss-crossed the countryside for pasangs on either side of the Imperial road.

They were gone for several days, though couriers were sent back to the main body by Ardashir to keep Corvus informed of any enemy movements he had sighted.

The army had become a vast, hungry, short-tempered horde, kept in check by the personality of its leader and his senior officers. Those who had campaigned before were philosophical about the shortages, but the new conscripts were especially restive. Watching Demetrius at work in the camp during the evenings, prowling his lines like a cyclopean schoolmaster, Rictus was reminded of his own efforts to keep the Ten Thousand in check on their long march west. It was like holding a wolf by the ears.

Ardashir’s columns returned in time for the first lowland snow of the winter, a skiffle of white that was soon trampled into the earth by the passing thousands.

His horse-soldiers made their way into camp on foot, leading their mounts, for the big animals were weighed down with the pickings of the countryside round about. Herds of goats and cattle and pigs trotted with them, and that night the army feasted as though it were a festival; the men erected spits above their campfires and gorged on fresh meat, baked flatbreads, and the fragrant green oil of the Machran hinterland. Morale lifted, and centons gathered about the night-time fires began to talk of the riches of Machran and what their share of them might be.

Arkadios hove into view on their horizon, and the army formed up for battle before its walls. The usual terms were offered, and accepted with stiff formality by what remained of the city’s Kerusia.

But it was a hollow gain. The fighting men of the city had left for Machran, along with a large part of the population. Arkadios was a shell of itself, and the garrison that Corvus left there was met with sullen hostility. The woman of the city spat at the soldiers of Corvus, and assured them that their stay would be short.