“Brothers, hear me out. For months now, we have been marching at the pace of the Kufr, held back first by their troops, our so-called allies, and then by the whole impedimenta of warfare as they fight it. These wagons we haul along in our midst—when we fought as centons in the Harukush, which of us had a wagon to carry his baggage for him? Perhaps it made sense in the heat of the lowlands, but we are marching back into our own kind of country now, back to where the seasons are things we know. A cart for the centos, mules for the field-forge—what else did we need? We have been trained by the Kufr to walk at their pace. Brothers, we must strike out again at our own. We must leave all this behind and become again the men we once were. We must strike out at that pace. If we do, I promise you, we shall look once again on the shores of the sea within a month. What say you?”
“I say he talks too fucking much,” Mochran said to Rictus out of the corner of his mouth. But it was no matter. The men were cheering Aristos to the echo. He was offering them hope, a way ahead, something to batten onto, and their cheers were an outpouring of relief.
“I will not serve under him,” Rictus said.
“You must, lad. I believe he’s about to call an election. With Jason out of the way, he’ll swing the vote in the Kerusia. If you want to make the thing go otherwise, you’d best get up on your hind legs and do a little talking yourself.”
“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.