The next morning, Aslanian and Wellman led the troops into the Shambles and battle. Meanwhile, Isoka and the vice mayor, flanked by two columns of guards, journeyed to the compound of the recalcitrant General Benharash. The encampment was mostly empty, as the day’s fighting had begun, but quiet times like these posed the most danger to the unpopular leaders. Their detachment of guards eyed warily any soldiers still in camp. This need for their own camp embittered Isoka, though he showed no signs of perturbation and never mentioned his chagrin.
The vice mayor chatted happily about his recent decision to deploy one thousand men to attack from the southwest; yet he had to admit he was not entirely confident they could make their way through the Shambles and over the unsure earth of that particularly devastated region east of the Sunset District. He chattered on and on, sometimes repeating himself, and embroidering his monologue with vulgar jokes.
A hard rain had prevailed in the morning, but the sun broke through by noon. The day was warm, the air wet, and the road muddy. Flies and gnats buzzed loudly. The battlefield stench of hidden carcasses added a sickly thickness to the air.
As the vice mayor spoke his fill, Isoka quietly analyzed the general’s state of mind. His sketch was speculative, because Benharash had not spoken to the General Staff in four months. The proud man even snubbed his former comrades during causal encounters at feasts. But Isoka felt that Benharash was simple and predictable, so recent lack of observation should not besmudge his appraisal. He presumed Benharash would be getting restless from inactivity and would be frustrated by the way the army was being expended. Isoka presumed that the general would look for a face-saving way to take back his host and so would be receptive to the well-wrought entreaty. He knew Benharash was vulnerable to flattering pleas. "Always," the diplomat advised the vice mayor, "refer to it as 'his army.' "
The vice mayor rolled his eyes. "Don't you find that a bit small?"
"Vanity always is.”
"I guess great leaders don’t always have first-class intellects,” mused the vice mayor. He enjoyed the thought. It made him feel superior to Benharash, despite the troop’s scorn of his own command.
They walked on for a moment in silence. The only sounds were the uniform footsteps of the guards, the buzzing of the flies, and distant gunshots from the Shambles. In this relative silence, Isoka’s thoughts turned personal. Abe was my friend. Shameful that I haven’t reached out. Take him for what he is. Solid friends don’t fight over obstinacy. So important: him in the fold! Do whatever it takes. Win him back! Things get so out of hand. My fault. Be better. So Isoka pushed away remorse over the broken friendship to concentrate on achieving his current goals. Most of the time, his duties caused the ambassador to feign friendship with people for whom he felt nothing; now he would overlook an actual friendship so that he could work his comrade to his will. Isoka worried about the vice mayor losing his temper if confronted by a display of Benharash’s gaudy arrogance. If things went badly down that road, if Benharash berated or insulted the vice mayor, the reconciliation would be on hold for another death-filled month. The vice mayor would write off his general and refuse to hear his name. But eventually his good humor would take over and he would give rapprochement another try. The ambassador’s self-assignment was to be attuned to and to massage both men’s outsized egos. Isoka found his work unproblematic because the need was obvious: Preventing disaster was at stake. As for actually bringing Benharash back, well, that was another kettle of fish.
On the other hand, the vice mayor felt justified in his idleness regarding the general because, as first-in-command, his duty was to protect the dignity of his position. He thought that even this gesture of going to his subordinate rather than summoning him was contrary to his stately status. The more he had thought about it, the more he wondered if he had been right in allowing the ambassador to talk him into extending his important hand. But, ultimately, after a drunken night of pondering Isoka’s contentions, the vice mayor had concluded that Isoka was right: only Benharash’s skills could help him prevail.
Eventually, Isoka broke the silence. "Make sure we attribute all ALA virtues to his guidance. Go on the assumption that he is using a policy disagreement to conceal his personal aims."
"I always assume that. His aims--” The vice mayor interrupted himself by stopping dead in his tracks. The bodyguards quickly came to a halt and looked carefully about. A thick row of brush and scrub oak lay to their right. At this point, the Shambles was virtually impassable and rarely entered. “He wants to parade into LA as the savior of the water. Sometimes I think he deserted just because he was afraid to risk a setback after taking the Delta. Maybe he foresaw how difficult this fight would prove. He wanted no part of that danger; he savored easy victories. He just did the minimum."
Isoka was amazed that the vice mayor so simplified the accomplishment of the Central Valley campaign. After a pause, he said, “Well then, we must make him believe that he will lead the parade." He looked closely at the vice mayor until the other nodded begrudging assent. Isoka slapped his comrade’s back and began whistling a cheerful ditty.
#
A dilapidated, two-story shack made of wood planks, tarpaper, and junk metal sat atop a steeply tapered hillock. This officer's house was graced with views of battlefield, the Bay, and the Berkeley Hills. In the house and the surrounding compound, General Abe Benharash sat out a superfluous battle in the war he had, in his mind, already won. He considered his fight with the Friscans finished after his victory at King City, where the San Francisco volunteers and other Northern California meddlers banded together in one great effort to stop the LA water grab. These formidable forces were vanquished by the striking efficiency of Benharash’s tactics and battlefield execution. Astutely using the ferocity of his own marines, as well as the Advance Guard and the regulars, Benharash invariably dispatched all insurgents.
The ALA loved him for it, for designing the strategy and leading the charge. The troops abhorred the San Franciscans, who slew them with much glee. The San Francisco volunteers relished baiting and bushwhacking, and they were adept at killing Angelenos. Their constant, murderous attacks reminded the troops that 75 years earlier, San Franciscans, by blowing up the Aqueduct, had destroyed the lives of their ancestors and created the many hardships they had been born into. Situational victories did not appease the enlisted men’s hatred of their cutthroat nemesis. Hence their readiness to give ear to the vice mayor’s pitch for vengeance. History, added to the awfulness of the present San Franciscan threat, drove the ALA troops into an almost religious frenzy of victimhood. Night and day, the soldiers cried out for revenge.
The vice mayor and the General Staff shared the feelings of the crowd. The leadership sought to connect the soldiers’ hatred of this enemy to their own concerns about the Aqueduct’s vulnerability to further sabotage. Their closely-held joint view was that the primary threat to the safety of their water-delivery system came from the remnant of the volunteers and their civilian support in San Francisco.
But Benharash would have none of it. He had no mandate to settle old scores. He could brook no additional slaughter merely because Angelenos and San Franciscans hated each other. On the life-and-death issue of water, Benharash felt duty bound to lead his city’s troops with all the warlike skill he possessed: Water was worth war and the deaths of thousands. He had fortified the Aqueduct with small garrisons at seven-mile intervals alongside the glimmering, cement-enclosed watercourse. He had set up a communications line to link the entire chain of forts. He believed that his measures were sufficient. The mission was a success, leaving no reason to pursue another fight. War, said the general, was always risky, horrible, and to be avoided. He said, too, that peace was wisdom.
But his efforts were for naught. He found no allies among the politicians of General Staff. Having never tasted defeat, the enlisted men deliriously support further war. Hubris, revenge, and greed for the Queen City trophy carried the day.
#
A dozen heavily armed marines guarded the general’s compound and his person. Disciplined, unwaveringly faithful, this ardent brigade knew no dissent. When Benharash said march, his men moved as an agent of belligerency; when, as now, he said wait, the dragoons stood steadfast, content to linger until his next command. For now, they patrolled his grounds and the southern peninsula. The latter duty afforded them readiness drills and served the ALA by beating back the peninsula brigands, leaving the vice mayor to concentrate on his wobbly siege. Neither the general nor the vice mayor let philosophical contention rule out agreement when it came to their tactical needs.
Now that the morning’s gray gloom had lifted, Benharash sunbathed in the well-swept dirt yard beside his temporary home, wearing a small black thong. Six-foot-five, muscular and heavy-boned, the general’s hairy body was striped with white scars. The grizzly marks of his wounds were medallions of valor, and he displayed his scars with smug pleasure. The general's face, too, showed that he had never shied away from hand-to-hand combat. His nose had been so oft broken that his breath whistled torturously. Another wound had taken away the right side of his upper lip, so that he hissed when speaking, performing a gross duet with the sibilance of his nostril. The blows that had so burst and slashed his body would have been the death of many men, but the general had a tremendous, Rasputinlike threshold for pain. His capacity to endure hurt awed his enemies and gave courage to his followers. He wore his scars like trophies, but he was self-conscious about his bodily noisiness, and because of it, eschewed society despite having pedigree and accomplishments that people sought to be near. To retire when not on duty was his nature.
Lying on a blue mat, next to the general, Elise, his young mistress, tried but could not ignore the hissing breath of the man with whom she shared her body and life. She lay there in a matching black thong bottom, with her small, golden breasts enjoying full sun. Blond and blue-eyed, Elise had the wholesome fine complexion of country life and good diet. Her features were small, and she was considered, not beautiful, but cute. She was shy, easily flustered, and spoke freely only in the privacy of her home.
During one of the early battles just north of the Grape Vine, near what had been Bakersfield, one of Benharash’s henchmen found her hiding in the burned-out ruins of her family home. This particular Benharash follower was not a soldier, and Elise saw that he, too, was horrified at the bloody events. She knew her situation was desperate; most of her family had been killed and those who had survived had fled. By convincing the traumatized waif that he would not rape her, Benharash’s man gained Elise’s confidence. The waif accepted his offer of help.
The general chose to dally with Elise because he experienced an erection when he first saw her. His intention was merely to use the gentle and emotionally pliable girl as a wartime sex toy. The first night Benharash had sex with her, he found the most sexually enthusastic woman he had ever held. He did not consider that she thought she was performing for her life. The general took her physiological response to indicate that she found him to be the great hero that he wished to be considered.
Despite herself, she did like him. He told her that he loved books but that reading seemed impossible for him and he could not write. His favorite authors were Caesar, Sun Tzu, Sun Pin, and Steinbeck, but he could not explain his affinity for the latter. He had needed readers all his life, but she saw that Benharash understood the words and issues of complex books. Elise provided willing sex and read to him by candlelight each night. As Benharash took village after village, mile after mile, Elise would go to the captured towns’ libraries and pick books for her knowledge-hungry, hissing lover. In return, she had complete security: He was gentle and loving toward her, yet everyone she knew feared him. In that murder-filled epoch, security was sweet, and hard to come by. Elise felt that Benharash had saved her, and he liked that very much. Within two months, they were living as man and wife. In this most temporary of settings, they built a domestic life. Tranquillity and equality were the guidepost of their relationship. It happens in war, that people fall in love; and it happened to the general of the Army of Los Angeles. Did Elise return his? Even she could not answer that, but she knew that she was safe, and no other man could give her more than that.
The guards were at a distance and dared not look back on Elise's nakedness. But another man sat with them, and he was privy to all that was Benharash's. Benjamin Puglese was the general’s secretary, biographer, and cartographer. It was Puglese who had found Elise and brought her into the general’s presence. He was a petite man with short gray hair and a scraggily beard. His features were bland and his eyes intelligent and calculating. He had served the general for many years: writing for him and reading to him, feeding the smart illiterate the learning of the ages. His current mission was to document the general’s war exploits. Puglese wrote history to glorify his patron; he planned to pack his own pockets by distributing copies through the LA Free Library, which rented books to a public hungry for diversion but operated without electricity and with only scant ink.
Benharash had no interest in money; after all, he took whatever he wanted. But he longed to be revered by history, which, through a clumsy logic based on his partial education, he confused with the verdict of God. His hodgepodge readings led him to believe that he understood not only how to conquer, but also how to govern. His nimble imagination had assembled a Byzantine structure of government, covering everything from public works, to economic policy, to moral standards. His toady, Puglese, wrote it all down in sententious prose, without editing what even he could see was nonsense; after all, Puglese’s goal was to see Benharash rule Los Angeles, with himself in a position of great privilege. The quality of the rule was not a matter of interest to Puglese, only the permanency. As he watched his patron so masterfully lay waste to all opponents and capture the most valuable thing in their world, Puglese became certain that Benharash could return to Los Angeles as the first citizen of that now water-rich town.
The general, his mistress, and his man spent many hours together, drinking wine and reading aloud about ancient rulers and faraway lands. During the months of Benharash's inactivity, Puglese had convinced the general that he was destined to become a philosopher-king once the Reconqeste was over. Logging the battles of the Aqueduct, Puglese had come to hate war. So, while the war raged on, Puglese shaped the general's mind with tales about great leaders who were also men of peace: Washington, Eisenhower, and Powell. He felt pride that some of his influence, in tandem with the like-minded war-waif, Elise, had helped Benharash make the decision to refuse to lead the unnecessary assault on San Francisco. That decision marked, in the minds of Puglese and Elise, the proof of their powerful influence on the general.
On the blue-sky afternoon in question, sitting in a straight-back chair next to his naked friends, Puglese read to the attentive Benharash, the semi-waking Elise, and their huge and lazy Labrador. Benharash’s sinewy arm was outstretched and he gently held Elise’s dainty hand.
The historian was coming to the end of his reading; he closed the book and recited from memory, "Thus, the thoughtful man keeps his inferiors at a distance, not with bombast or threats, but with cool reserve."
Benharash, lying prone, held his jaw in his fist. "So, again," he said, through his whistling wounds, "Caesar didn't mention anything about this. To me, it seems overthought, too cute by half. Attack with strength and fortify your gains! That is simple."
“Pacification is fortification.” Puglese smiled, showing his small black teeth. Puglese took off his rimless glasses and smiled ironically at his student and master, the famous killer of men. He said, "You read Julius Caesar for tactics and toughness of mind. This," he held up the Chinese book, "you read to learn how to fuse your soul and the Eternal Spirit to give greater force to your actions."
"I don't understand that," said Benharash, "but don't bother to explain it." He lay his face back down on the plastic mat. "I'm ready to doze."
"Good," said sleepy Elise. She was weary of droning chatter.
Obediently, Puglese stood to take his leave. Elise pushed herself up on an elbow, holding her arm across her breasts. She kissed Puglese on the cheek. Spending long hours alone with the introverted Benharash could be oppressive, even for one who loved him. The general was given to somber meditations, and Puglese's daily visits brought light-hearted moments to young Elise’s day. The toady gathered his books and turned to leave. He admired the beautiful sky, looking forward to sitting outside his own tent and reading in the sun. But his face dropped suddenly. He looked at Elise with alarm. She followed the former direction of his gaze and saw approaching soldiers. In the center of their steely formation strode the vice mayor and Isoka. Elise and Puglese looked at each other with distress, for they feared the intentions of these dreadful men.
"Oh," gasped Puglese. "Here comes the harlequin." He referred to the vice mayor and Isoka as "the harlequin” because they were black and white, comical and inseparable. The man of peace used ridicule to belittle the captains of war. Benharash looked up and saw the advance of his hapless successors. Elise snatched a shirt and covered her nakedness. Benharash, not relishing a call by his former colleagues, looked at Puglese and whispered angrily, "Tell them to go away! Tell them to leave me alone."
Puglese’s eyes narrowed appraisingly. "If they've come this far, they're determined to parlay."
"Oh, God," moaned Benharash. His eyes beseeched his man for help.
Puglese walked quickly toward the unwanted visitors and met them at the perimeter of the compound, out of the hearing range of Benharash. They waited as he approached. A few of Benharash’s grim-faced guards stood midway between their general and the new arrivals.
"How goes the history?" sneered the vice mayor.
Puglese looked back at Benharash, who now hid his head beneath a small white towel. "There's not much history taking place these days," he said.
Isoka held up a finger. "History marches on, even without your patron.”
Puglese rolled his eyes. "If he's not doing it, he doesn't think it’s history."
The visitors chuckled. They knew that behind their backs, Puglese was equally derisive of them. The man was congenitally incapable of not bad-mouthing whoever was not present. Puglese said, "He isn't feeling very sociable today. Could your business wait for another time?”
"We'll cheer him up," said the vice mayor. He saw Benharash peek from under the towel and raised his wine goblet to general, who quickly dropped the towel.
"I'm telling you--" Puglese cautiously began.
The vice mayor shook his head. He pointed his goblet of wine toward Benharash and continued walking. His guard did not trespass on the general’s ground but began to fraternize with the marine contingent.
Isoka lingered a minute. He looked down at Puglese and held him in his eye until the smaller man began to twist uncomfortably.
“What?” Puglese demanded.
Isoka shook his head as though it were not important, then nodded knowingly.
“What?” Puglese cried.
“I’ve read your books.”
“I’m flattered,” said Puglese with surprise and fear.
“Flattered? Why? It’s only natural that I should. My self-image requires that I familiarize myself with the political philosophy of eminent historians.” Then the ambassador smiled to himself.
“I see.” Puglese wanted the ambassador to come quickly to his point—but doubted that the tricky man would do so. The vice mayor now stopped and looked back on Isoka and Puglese with curiosity.
“Yes, I read quite well,” Isoka went on with a hint of menace. “I can read between the lines, discern implications.”
“One of the great pleasures of reading.”
“I hope,” Isoka said slowly and thoughtfully, “you’re not filling the general's head with fairy tales. . . ."
"What would it matter? Anything I fill that head with today will be gone tomorrow!"
"You'd like me to believe that, wouldn't you? I’ll read between the lines of what Abe says today to see if I find your thoughts in his words.” Isoka nodded and saw that Puglese understood. The vice mayor watched, surmising what threats were taking place between his aide and the general’s. Finally, Isoka joined him, and the two ALA men walked directly toward the sunbathing general. The guards stood aside to let them pass; Isoka nodded to a man he knew. Puglese shrugged toward his patron, how could I alone stop such men? Benharash waved him off.
Puglese turned and scurried home. Along the way, he concluded that his situation had now changed. He was accustomed to the routine treats and bullying of Aslanian. In the earless man’s case, proximity provoked danger. But a dark signal from the normally gracious Isoka was a different thing. This was not lost on the peace-monger.
When his two former comrades stopped short before him, Benharash did not rise but looked up. They were careful not to block the sun, and it fell full in his eyes. They looked like large, black, gun-laden shadows against the blazing, golden sun. He squinted, then looked away and shook his head and scowled.
"We'll take only a minute of your time," the vice mayor said.
Benharash did not reply.
The vice mayor looked around at Isoka, smirked, and shrugged. Then he said, "Hello, Elise."
She opened one blue eye but said nothing. Benharash studied his callers, then lay his face down and closed his eyes. "What brings such august visitors?"
The vice mayor cleared his throat and said derisively, "Serious matters."
"Ah, serious matters!" said Benharash. He sat up ramrod straight and nodded mockingly. "Well, well, I'll be alert!"
The vice mayor shook his head and swallowed some wine. He saw that Benharash would take every opportunity to be disrespectful. He looked at Isoka. The ambassador stood forward and said briskly, "Abe, we've come to request that you come back to take command of the siege."
Benharash's eyes widened in mock surprise. "Request that I take command? You, who devised and executed the plan to bring water back to Los Angeles? But you shouldn’t supplicate: you should issue directives!"
"Damn it, man!” shouted the vice mayor. He felt that his extended hand was a great act of graciousness. Even though he knew what to expect from this man, facing insolence was outside of his normal experiences. He was furious at temerity of this miserable egotist.
"Oh, shit," Elise groaned.
"Everyone knows," said Isoka pleasantly, "that you alone took the Aqueduct. And everyone agrees that your army is not very effective without you." Benharash nodded. He accepted flattery at face value. He felt it was his due and he savored it. Isoka waved his hand at the furniture. "May we sit?"
Benharash grunted, then nodded tersely. Isoka and the vice mayor sat on a magenta plastic couch. The ambassador’s heavily-muscled weight crushed his side of the couch down and pushed the vice mayor ridiculously up.
The vice mayor leaned toward Benharash, resting his arms on his legs for support. He spoke gravely. "Your men need you. They’re going into battle with faint hearts, like small boys without their father. They’re dying because they are lost and demoralized. "
"It's a strange army,” said Isoka. "They fight, but without will. You, and only you, can change that."
The vice mayor reached out and put his hand on his general's arm. "Abe, please. You set the course, and we'll execute. With you in the lead, we could breach the Shambles within weeks. Then San Francisco becomes our town.”
"And why in God's name do you want that?" Benharash said. He picked up the man's soft hand off his arm.
The vice mayor shook his head. He was not made to face resistance. Isoka took over. He and Benharash looked away from each other. They looked at the dirt, at the few clouds; at the mingling guards who stared dumbly back at them. The high sun beat down. The explosions from the battle punctuated the moment, but no one except Elise heard them. Each man retreated into his own thoughts. Benharash bent over and kissed Elise's hand. She did not respond.
Isoka stretched out his legs and said matter-of-factly, "We are military men. Doubt can't interfere with duty. Our first duty is to the chain of command; and in this case, that means the vice mayor."
"Don't lecture me about duty," hissed Benharash.
Isoka ignored him and went on. "The vice mayor isn't just your commander, but your comrade-in-arms." He bent forward toward Benharash, his large hand dangling between his legs. "Abe, we've been through so much together. We've eaten off the same plate. This is the counsel of friends."
"Really?" Benharash snarled. But he looked oddly at the ambassador and remembered how time and again they had fought side-by-side. With emotion in his voice he said, "I won’t lead men to a worthless death."
A long pause ensued. Then Isoka said cheerfully, as though just beginning the conversation, “Bring back your troops. Lead Los Angeles to victory!"
Benharash shook his head. "I won't do that. I agreed to bring the water to Los Angeles. That's done. This grudge match you have with the San Franciscans is stupid and wasteful. We can’t afford to indulge in punitive campaigns. The ALA is too valuable for that. You will squander our gains. You’ll bring on counterattacks, force other tribes to increase their military capacity, and create a world where it’s Los Angeles against all the rest. If you burn San Francisco, you might as well burn LA. I'll have nothing to do with it."
Isoka spread his hands. "Perhaps this isn't your war, but it’s being waged by your men. You made them into an army! Without you, they're dying."
"You lead them, Vice Mayor!" Benharash shouted at the commander in chief, then averted his eyes and spit.
Isoka said calmly, "That won't do."
Benharash suddenly stood, looming over the others. "I'll gladly march 'em back to LA. When do we start?"
The vice mayor said with soft determination, "The route goes through Frisco."
Benharash turned and walked ten yards away. Kneeling, he looked out across the Bay. Sea birds swooped and dove. On the other side of the Bay, the soft hills of Berkeley looked far from war and politics. Benharash shook his head, swiped at the ground, and grabbed a handful of dirt. "I say, let 'em live in peace. They were wrong to start this, but the town doesn't need to be razed. It is not in our best interests."
"They'll come back on us," said the vice mayor.
"No they won’t," Benharash said. "The Wentworths know that we’re capable of annihilating them. We've proven it. They got the message. Now just turn around and leave. End it!"
In an offhand manner, Isoka said, "They'll blow up the Aqueduct."
"The moment they're back on their feet," agreed the vice mayor
Isoka leaned forward and rested his hands on his thighs, looking like a great Egyptian statue. His voice grew resonant, in its orator’s mode. "Abe, we have to burn San Francisco. We’ve got to confiscate all their weapons and disperse the populace. As long as there is a culture of San Francisco, they'll hate LA. They will try to harm us. They're taught hatred from infancy. Generation after generation. Hatred of Los Angeles is their one civic passion. It’s a poison that can’t be rooted out. The infected body must be annihilated."
Now the vice mayor sounded pleading. "Intractable enemies. Until we burn the last Victorian, salt the fields in Golden Gate, we're threatened."
"I think you're wrong."
"You guys," said Elise, "are having the same ugly argument I had to listen to back last March. I'm sick of listening to it!"
Benharash nodded. There was no point in talking further. He granted them their conviction but would not alter his own. "There is wine in that barrow. Help yourselves. It's time we got out of the sun."
Everyone stood except Elise, who kept her eyes shut tight. The vice mayor went to the barrow and refilled his goblet. "Okay,” he said bitterly. “We won't impose on you any longer.”
Stretching as she spoke, Elise said, "A nap would be a good thing." She yawned dramatically. Benharash took her hand and she rose. They walked back into their house. The vice mayor and Isoka were left standing alone, staring at each other and being stared at by the mixed guard.
Isoka looked down on the Shambles. He knew that while leaders had squabbled, thousands fought and scores had died. The great girth of the Shambles overwhelmed the legions and left each band of soldiers feeling vulnerable and alone. The regulars tried to hide; the elite troops of each army hunted down and killed those unable to conceal themselves. Lasers and lead bullets infested the battlefield. He thought, with some bitterness, how in the city of San Francisco a semblance of normalcy survived, despite his best efforts to destroy the town.