Twenty-Five
THIS ANCIENT IDEA
When the sun was high, Vorus could stand up and see a single square of blue sky set in the vaulted brickwork of the roof. His cell was small, barely a spear-length to a side, but it soared up in blackened brick curves to come to this point. For a few, magical moments every day, the sun came down through this masoned hole like a ladder of light being lowered for him. He struggled to his feet every time, the shackles cutting into his wrists and ankles, his toes sliding in the sodden straw upon the floor. For that brief mote of time he looked up into the face of mighty Araian each day, and felt as light as the dust dancing in the sunbeam. Then the moment passed and he was in darkness again, awash in his own filth, the iron manacles cutting slivers from his flesh, the rats scuttling in the gloom around him. It seemed as though it had been a long time, this subterranean existence, but it had not been much more than seven days. Or eight—or ten. He was no longer sure. Perhaps it had been ten years. He was a patient man though, and his mind was clear. Since he had been here the only distractions he faced were the arrival of a bowl through the slot in the door every day and the coming of the sun. He had mused upon his condition with equanimity, knowing that things would come around to him again. He had only to wait, and fill in the blank hours with his thoughts.
After Irunshahr he had ridden south amid the mobs of his fleeing troops, not trying to halt them or bring any organisation out of that chaos. It was no longer his job. He had been four days travelling, subsisting on the scraps in his saddle-bag, following the Imperial Road south and east but remaining clear of it, watching the Empire slowly regain control of the army the Macht had broken. He had stayed one night with an elderly farmer, alone in his turf-walled house with his dog and his plot of corn. The old man had spoken of the end of the world, the fall of the Empire, and Mot coming back to haunt the face of Kuf to set the Great Bull free to trample all the works of the Kefren. Word of the Juthan mutiny had spread fast; now there were rumours of uprisings all over the Middle Empire, the slave-race turning on their ancient masters at last. The Bull let loose.
Word travelled fast along the Imperial Road. At Edom, Vorus had been arrested on the orders of Tessarnes, the Kefre to whom he had turned over the army. He had been thrown in here to contemplate a square foot of sky. After they had manacled him, he had lain down and had perhaps the longest and deepest sleep of his life. It had been a long rime since last his mind had truly been at rest.
The lock turned in the door, a sound he had not heard since his arrival. He rose to his feet, naked, his beard matted, lice crawling in his hair, and awaited the new distraction.
Bent almost double, two Honai of the Imperial bodyguard entered the cell one after the other. So bright and bejewelled was their armour that it seemed a little of the sun had returned with them, even down to the golden sheen of their faces under the tall helms. They had naked swords in their hands, and took up station in the corners of the cell without a word.
A third Kefre entered, this one swathed in folds of midnight silk, komis pulled close about his face. Vorus knew the eyes, though. He bowed at once.
“Your majesty, you honour me.”
The Great King straightened, and did the same thing Vorus had done upon entering the cell for the first time: he looked up at the square of sky high above. He met Vorus’s eyes, his own almost black in the gloom. Nodding, he said, “Leave us,” to the guards.
They hesitated, then dumbly did as they were told.
“And pull the door to after you.”
The Great King and his general, alone together, stood in the stinking straw while the rats rustled heedless around their feet.
“I could not do otherwise, my friend,” Ashurnan said. His voice was thick and raw.
“I know. You are a king, after all.”
“You let Proxis go. You knew what he was about.”
“I had an idea, yes.”
“Why, Vorus—why?”
The Macht sank to his haunches in the straw. “Forgive me,” he said. “I am getting old, I think.” He smiled at the veiled figure which towered over him, as baleful and threatening as could be imagined, except for the real grief in the eyes.
“I wanted to let him choose for himself. I had not the right to compel him.”
“You were his superior, his friend. You had every right.”
“My lord, I owed Proxis a life. Now I have repaid that debt.”
“He has shattered the Empire.”
With great gentleness, Vorus said, “He has freed his people.”
“He has bought his people a generation of war. The moment I heard, I set the army on the road. Jutha will be subjugated once more. The Empire will be reunited. It will endure.”