Up in the swallow’s eyrie of one of these there was an upstairs room. A man might spit through the gapped planks of the floor there onto the heads of the drinkers below, but somehow the place stood, stubborn and askew and seething with all manner of babel that wine could conjure out of men’s mouths. It was a place where conversations could be had in shouts, and still no one an armspan away would make sense of them.
“When is Phiron to return?” one of the men asked. This was Orsos of Gast, whose face had writ across it the dregs of every crime known to man. He was known as the Bull to friends and enemies alike. Now his deep-set eyes glinted with suspicion. “I have a firm offer from Akanos, me and my centon. Time is money, Pasion. Promises never fattened a purse.”
The cursebearer named Pasion cast his gaze down the long, wine-stained table. Twenty centurions sat there in the faded red chitons of mercenaries. Any one of them alone would have made a formidable foe; gathered together they were a fearsome assemblage indeed. A jug of water sat untouched on the tabletop. Pasion knew better than to buy them wine before the talking was done.
“He is in Sinon,” Pasion said casually, “Putting the final touches to our arrangements. With fair winds and good weather, he’ll be here in a week at the outside. What’s the matter, Orsos; do you have trouble holding your men to the colour?”
“Not since I stopped shitting yellow,” the Bull said, and about the length of the table there were grunts of humour.
“Then have some patience. Pity of the goddess, this is the biggest fee you’ll ever earn and you’re havering over the matter of a few days here and there. If this thing comes off, we will all of us be rich as kings.”
Greed warmed the air of the room a little. The men leaned forward or back as the mood took them, chairs creaking under a bulk of scarred muscle. From below, the raucous slatternly din of the wine-shop rose up through the floorboards.
“Quite a little army your Phiron is digging up, Pasion,” another of the men said. This fellow was lean as whipcord, with one long brow of black across his forehead, and eyes under it that made a blackbird’s seem dull. He had a trimmed goat’s-beard, and a moist lip. No father would trust his daughter to that face.
“I hear that this is only the tip of the spear, this host of ours gathered here. There’s more down in Idrios, and others in Hal Goshen. We’ve near two thousand men in the colour, here in Machran, and that’s the biggest crowd of hired spears I’ve ever heard tell of. What employer is this that can hire such myriads and keep them kicking their heels for weeks as though money were barley-grain to him?”
“Our employer’s name is not to be spoken,” Pasion snapped. “Not yet. That is one of the terms of the contract. You took the retainer, Mynon, so you will abide by it.”
“If you do not mean to take Machran itself I would do something to reassure the Kerusia of it,” another man said, a dark-skinned, hazel-eyed fellow with the voice of a singer. “They’re more jittery than a bride on her wedding night, and wonder if we have designs on their virtue. There’s talk of a League being gathered of the hinterland cities: Ponds, Avennos and the like. They don’t like to see so many of our kind gathered together for so long in one place.”
“Agreed, Jason,” Pasion said. “I will talk to them. Brothers, you must keep your men outside the walls, and in camp. We cannot afford friction with the Kerusia, or any others of the city councils.”
A rumble went down the table. Discontent, impatience. The room crackled with pent-up irritability.
“I’ve had my centon here the better part of a month,” an older man said, his beard white as pissed-upon snow and his eyes as cold as those of a dead fish. This was Castus of Goron, perhaps the wickedest of them all. “I’ve lost eleven men: two maimed in brawls, one who’s gotten himself hung by the magistrates, and eight who took off out of boredom. Most of us here can say the same to some degree. It’s not lambs we lead, Pasion. My spears are losing their temper. Where in Phobos’s Face are you taking us anyway, if we’re not to annoy Machran itself? The capital can muster some eight thousand aichme, given time. If we’re to strike, it must be very soon, before these farmers get themselves together.” There was a murmur of agreement.
Pasion smashed his fist down on the planks of the table.
“Machran is not our goal,” he said with quiet vehemence. “Nor are any of the other hinterland cities. Hammer that into your heads and those of your men. You’ve taken money from my hand— that makes me your employer as much as anyone else. If you cannot hold to your half of the contract, then refund me your retainers and be off. Go pit your wits in some skirmish up north. I hear Isca has been sacked at last, so there’s not a decent soldier up there to stand in line. Rape some goatherder women if you will, and boast of killing farmers’ sons. Those who stay with me will find real flesh for their spears, a true fight such as we’ve not seen in the Harukush in man’s memory. Brothers, stay to the colour here and I promise you, we shall all become forgers of history.”