Paul Kearney - The ten thousand

“You’ll vote for me?”

“So will Phinero and Mynon, I’m sure. Talk, Rictus. These men at the front of the crowd have been planted here; I see scores from Aristos’s own mora. Start flapping your fucking mouth, or this son of a bitch is going to be leading us.”

“I might not be any better,”

“Horse’s shit. From what I hear, you’re one of the best men in the fucking army.”

That brought Rictus up short. He had not expected it; he even felt a kind of resentment. I didn’t set out to do this, he thought. All I wanted-

All I wanted was to die facing an enemy. To have a good death.

And here he was, when so many better than him were burnt to ashes. He bent his head a second, remembering them, the dead whom he had loved. Of its own volition, his hand came up and touched the talismans which hung at his neck.

“Rictus-” Mochran said.

“He’s going to take the fleetest and leave the rest. He’s out for himself.” And he’s the reason Gasca died, Rictus added to himself. It might not be true, but it felt right to think it.

He stepped back into the light of the blazing wagon-carcass, a big man with a shock of straw-coloured hair and eyes that caught the light like some reflection of Phobos’s moon.

“I am Rictus. The map which Aristos here is talking of belongs to Jason of Ferai, who commands this army. He came into possession of it after the death of Phiron. Phiron commanded us once, as you may remember. He took us to victory at Kunaksa. When he was murdered, Jason brought us through it. He led us all the way across the Middle Empire, to a place where home does not seem so far away. He brought us here together, and behind us we left only our dead.

“Aristos is right about the distance to the sea, but he is wrong about the time it will take to get there. We have wounded in the wagons who cannot be left behind. If we must travel faster than a wagon, then we must abandon our wounded. We are Macht. This is not something we do, or have ever done. I will not do it. Phiron would not have done it. If the army must have a leader while Jason heals, then I shall be that man. And I say that this decision will not be taken by the Kerusia alone, but by the whole army. Let us vote, here and now, every one of us who can lift a stone. Here in these mountains, decide, and let us be done with it.”

Mochran took off his cloak and spread it on the ground. “I stand here for Rictus,” he cried. There was a moment’s pause, and then Gominos did the same, spreading out the fabric of his cloak and tossing a single stone upon it as he straightened. “This, here, is for Aristos.”

The crowds of men about the bonfire stood silent for a moment. Beyond the light of the flames they could hear the more ardent souls running through the camp, shouting out the news. Mochran bent, and with careful intent, placed a stone on the faded scarlet fabric of his cloak. “Brothers,” he said, “Let us vote on it.”

Rictus and Aristos stood with their arms folded, as tradition dictated, while about them the gathered crowds of men pushed closer. The stones tossed onto one cloak and then the other began to clink against each other, and then to pile up. All through the scattered camp the news was spread, and more and more men began to congregate round the dying fire of the burnt wagon, some bringing more timber to keep it alight, some eddying in and out of the firelight, some standing fast once they had cast their stone to watch over the fast-buried scarlet of the two cloaks. it took until the middle part of the night for the last stone to click down atop the cloaks. Those who were too injured to walk to the piles were carried there. Last of all, there came walking through the assembled crowds of men a tall, veiled shape. Tiryn strode through the firelight in a black robe, only her eyes showing above the veil, and set down a single stone atop Rictus’s pile.

“And who are you to be voting here?” Aristos demanded.

“I set this here for Jason,” she said calmly. Aristos seemed about to say more, but Gominos and Hephr drew him back. “Enough, Aristos; look at her.”

The Macht stood as if thunderstruck by the sight of Tiryn standing all in veiled black before the bonfire, the hem of her robe flapping in the wind. “Antimone,” someone murmured, and the name went through the assembled men swifter than rumour. Those nearest to her backed away a little. Some made the warding sign against bad luck, joining thumb and forefinger before spitting through it.

“Let’s count these things before the sun catches us at it,” Mochran said, weary and old-looking. “Gominos, you count for Rictus and I’ll count for Aristos. You know the drill.”

The click and clatter of the stones through the hands of the two men. Once the pebbles were counted they were tossed into the darkness beyond the firelight. Every time a hundred was reached, both Gominos and Mochran kept that stone and set it aside. It was cold, standing outside the light of the fire, but the Macht wrapped themselves in their scarlet cloaks and remained there, quiet, watching, many following the count with their lips moving.

At last the two cloaks were empty again. Mochran and Gominos lifted them from the ground and raised them up to show there were no more stones upon them, then donned them, shivering. Mynon stepped forward. “Well?”

“Three thousand, six hundred and seventeen,” Gominos said, frowning.

Mochran grinned. “Four thousand, two hundred and sixty-three. Brothers, we have a new warleader, Rictus of Isca.”

The Macht seemed little interested. It was the middle of the night, and the fires were burning low. The morai began to disperse to their bivouacs. Aristos smiled at Rictus, a bitterness twisting his mouth. “Who’d have thought a strawhead would prove so popular?” Rictus looked at him, but said nothing. He felt nothing but weary, and the realisation of what had just happened was sinking in.

“Come to my wagon,” Tiryn said, touching him on the arm. “Jason would be glad of it.”

Rictus shook his head. “Tonight I must be here. Some will want to talk to me, and others I must talk to. I will come see him tomorrow.”

Tiryn walked away without another word. Tall beyond humanity, clad in black, she did indeed seem a visitation from another world.

“Get some sleep,” Mochran said. “The dark hours are not a time to be making decisions. Best left for the morning.” He paused, then added, “Rictus, sleep tonight among your own mora, among men you trust.”

“Have we fallen that far, Mochran?”

“Aristos was right; we’re not an army any more, not right now. It may be you can change that, but in any case, be careful. Aristos does not take this kind of defeat well. He may try something before morning.”

The sun rose, a grey light behind the mountains, no more. Snow was drifting down in shifts and shreds, whirling in flecks and flocks about the encampments, settling on men’s eyelashes and in their beards as they lay shivering in half-sleep beside the butt-end of smouldering logs. In the baggage lines, the oxen and mules stood apathetic and head-down.

“How much of a head start does he have?” Rictus asked, rubbing grime out of his eyes.

“They were in at the baggage well before dawn,” Mynon told him. “So I hear at any rate. They took a dozen mule-carts, no more.”

“Travelling light,” Mochran said, then bent over to cough and hawk and spit a green gobbet out onto the ground. “He’s had two turns’ march perhaps, and no wagons or wounded to slow him down.”

“Why did no one tell me?” Rictus was bright-eyed with anger now.

“The men let him go. What were they going to do, start fighting in the camp, kill their own?”