The Ten Thousand(86)

The youngest, the fittest, the most venturesome of the Macht were scattered throughout the city, ostensibly to gather what supplies they could find. In reality there was a lot of discreet looting going on. But from what Gasca had seen, it was not gold or jewels the men were after, but footwear, clothing, weapons. Anything which might speed their pilgrim way across the Empire. A mora was guarding the city gates, but some of the Macht were making off across the walls, leaving Kaik, their centons, their comrades, and striking out alone across the vastness of the Empire, believing in the madness of their hearts that they could somehow trek all the weary pasangs back to the Harukush. No one stopped these fools, and nearly all who remained recognised them for that. But all the same, the army was creaking and fraying and breaking down. There were a few would-be orators in the main square, arguing that their contract was null and void now, and they were no longer beholden to anyone but themselves. They would hold to their centons for now, but some of them had begun to think in terms of their cities. Lines were developing, even among the Cursebearers.

Gasca found the Dogsheads close to the shade of the trees in the centre of the square, and was handed a waterskin without a word. Bivouacked around them were the Dolphins and the Blackbirds; these three centons had worked as one since the Abekai crossing, and stuck together.

Astianos lifted up a hand to shade his eyes. “You get it seen to?

“There were too many. It’s not much more than a scratch anyways.”

“I’ll stitch it for you later, if you like.”

“You can kiss my arse.”

Astianos grinned. He was Gasca’s opposite, as dark as the strawhead was light, and he had few teeth left to fill out his smile. “Bend over, sweetie, and I’ll see what I can do.”

“Even a Kufr arse would be something to look upon right now,” big Gratus said with feeling. He was Gasca’s file leader, and lay now with his hands clasped on his stomach.

“Go take your pick; they’re all around,” said another.

“But let us watch, Gratus,” old Demotes cackled. “I want to see what a Kufr makes of that skinny little dog’s dick of yours.”

Desultory, reflexive, the profanities were thrown out upon the air. These men had lately fought two great battles, and had found themselves cut off two and a half thousand pasangs from home, but give them a drink of water, and a few hours sleep, and they would be trading insults again, just for the fun of it. Their shoulders had been right next to Gasca’s through the Abekai, through Kunaksa. Their aichmes had kept him alive, and he had taken blows meant for them on his own shield. They had shared water with him when their own mouths were cracked and dry for the lack of it. Sitting down upon his cloak, Gasca reflected that the men on either side of him were more his brothers than those he had grown up with. Whatever happened, he was glad he had come here, and had known this. He thanked Antimone silently, whilst laughing at the obscenities thrown among them like balls for boys to catch and fling back. It may be I’m meant to be here after all, he thought.

Rictus found him as the afternoon had begun to shade into the swift-dwindling twilight of the lowlands. He stepped over sleeping bodies and picked his way across a carpet of battered humanity until he stood over Gasca and held up a small skin. “Palm wine,” he said. “Are you ready for it, or is this crowd still drinking water?”

“Make a space there,” Astianos said, shoving the man sleeping next to him. “I’ve drunk enough water to float my back teeth. I’ll have a slug of that, centurion, if you’re willing.” Rictus tossed him the skin and squatted cross-legged before Gasca. He wore the Curse of God over a Kufr chiton, and was barefoot.

“Jason told me you had come through it,” he said.

“Strawhead luck,” Gasca replied. They watched one another, not quite sure what to say. At last Rictus spoke. “This is a long way from the Machran Road.”

“I never thought I’d miss snow,” Gasca admitted.

“Did you piss yourself this time?”

Gasca grinned. “Me and every other one of these bastards here.” They smiled at each other, but the smiles did not take.

“I just wanted to be a spearman, like you,” Rictus said at last. “That’s all.”

Gasca gestured to the black cuirass that fitted Rictus’s torso like a second skin. “You were born for that, and for what you’re doing now. It’s plain to me. I don’t mind it at all.”

Rictus stared at him. He seemed in need of something, some word, a kind of forgiveness perhaps. “They’re going to make me a skirmisher again, my own mora of lights. I don’t suppose you’d want to come and—”