LORD RIVA
THE SARASINIAN 5th ARMY
SOUTHERN AHRENIA
NEAR BORDIS
It was the eve of battle, and like an ill wind, a dreadful kind of euphoria swept through the marching camp. For youngsters, it translated into rough-and-tumble. Excited by the prospect of blades flashing overhead, many were given to arrogant boasting, wrestling, and ostentatious displays of their ability with weapons. Anything to keep from being overwhelmed by sudden thoughts of home and family. Veterans largely sought company elsewhere. Some slept, but most sat with friends and chatted quietly.
A heightened sense of brotherhood saw grudges between men set aside. Some remarkable acts of generosity took place as outstanding debts were forgiven, gifts exchanged, and pledges of eternal friendship offered. And although thoughts of death must have weighed heavily on their minds, no man jinxed himself with talk about the possibility of not seeing the next sunset, or of losing cherished friends.
In stark contrast to all this, Riva found the mood in Virgilio’s tent sour, his staff unusually tense, with some even beginning to snap at each other. The reason for their discomfit was soon revealed: the general had hoped to choose the battlefield, but by degrees it had become apparent that the enemy had beaten him to it. “Bah!” he kept saying as he slouched around, grim-faced and brooding, and it was difficult to get anything else out of him.
As the night wore on, however, and as scout reports and empty wine goblets piled up on the table, the man’s temperament began to improve.
“I was mistaken,” said Virgilio. “It seems that our enemies have actually done a poor job of selecting the field after all.”
“Mm,” said Riva. He’d been thinking about Istome. Her skin, her eyes, her perfect mouth. Every now and again, he caught the aroma of perfume, unmistakeably hers. She wasn’t here, though. For reasons unsaid she had remained in their tent.
“It’s not enough merely to occupy the ground, of course. They’ve the high ground, but one must also prepare it–dig trenches, plant stakes, and the like. Ah, but why am I telling you this?”
Riva pursed his lips. “That’s why I’m wondering if it’s not a trick.”
“More wine?” the general asked, his eyebrows raised, hand resting against the neck of the pitcher.
“Thank you.” Riva shook his head. “But no.”
Virgilio sagged back down into his chair. “As you like.”
“I’ve only had one, but it’s enough for me. I’d sooner keep a clear head tonight.”
“Yes, good. Sensible. So, you were saying something about tricks?”
Riva gave a noncommittal shrug. “I was thinking about the possibility that they haven’t prepared the ground because they mean to abandon it.”
“And why would they do that?”
“Because even with superior numbers, I doubt they’d be foolish enough to besiege a fortified camp like ours.”
Virgilio smiled. “They might, but in any case we’re going to march out in battle array in the morning.”
“I see. But still keep the camp at our backs?”
“Indeed. You were right, you know, when you said they made a mistake by not engaging us sooner. They’ve had ample opportunity to concentrate their forces and attack where the ground better favoured them. But they withdrew instead, and along an eastern route instead of a northern one.”
“It was an odd choice,” said Riva. “If they’d gone north, they’d have had room to manoeuvre. If they keep going east they’ll be trapped on banks of the Asfour, most likely.”
“Correct.”
“Men will fight like fiends if they have nowhere to retreat.”
“And die like dogs if they’ve no room to move,” said Virgilio. “I suspect their leaders have been dithering. Arguing. Agonising over tactical choices. And now perhaps they feel they’ve run out of them? They’re making a stand, I think, on what decent ground remains, and hoping for the best. We’ll offer battle, and they shall accept.”
“We’ll know for sure tomorrow.”
“Yes. We will. And speaking of, you’re in no doubt as to your role, are you? Is everything clear in your mind?”
Riva looked directly at the general. “It is. Very clear.”
Virgilio finished off his wine with a sigh. “Excellent. I have ordered a trench dug ahead of our entire front. Have your men dig one perpendicular to your lines, though not too far out, and make sure it stretches all the way back to the camp. That should go some way to preventing us from being flanked on that side.”
“Consider it done.”
“Right. And now, Lord Riva, I think it high time we addressed your recent public humiliation of Amulius.”
“Address away,” said Riva, folding his arms. “But I stand by my actions.”
“Take care not to bite off more than you can chew, my friend.”
“Meaning?”
“Do you want to start a full-blown feud with the man? I heard that not only were you abrasive in your speech, you even went so far as to challenge him to a fight.”
“I did.”
Virgilio smiled. “And how many duels have you fought, Riva? Real ones, mind. Not training.”
“I know enough to beat Amulius at least.”
“Which is to say none. And while I’ve little doubt you could beat him, what if you were injured?”
Riva shrugged. “He turned me down, anyway.”
“And I suppose that makes you happy?”
“Well it doesn’t exactly make me unhappy.”
“Enough,” said the general, shooting him an angry look. “I don’t need this, so I’ll keep it short: the whole thing is beyond petty and will not continue. I would ask that you suspend your hostilities, please. I have already spoken to Amulius about it, and told him in no uncertain terms that he is not to antagonise you. In the coming days I will bring the two of you together, and you will reconcile.”
“As you wish.”
The general offered a thin smile. “I knew you would see sense. And I do hope you will exercise caution on the field tomorrow, and not act even half as boldly as you’ve done with Amulius. Avoid the front lines. Stay out of danger.”
“I promise, Mother.”
Virgilio’s smile slipped. “Such cheek. Now if you are as sure of your role tomorrow as you say, perhaps you’d like to make your nightly rounds of the men.”
Riva unfolded his arms, but only partially. “Oh? Do you disapprove of that as well?”
“No,” said Virgilio tiredly. “I don’t. But nor do I approve.”
“I read somewhere that Jevad went from fire to fire every night while on campaign.”
Virgilio snorted. “Oh? One campaign and you’re the Destroyer now, is that it?”
“Hardly,” said Riva, biting back his irritation at the man’s mocking tone. “But what harm is there in talking with the men?”
“No specific harm. But times were very different back then, Riva, as you well know. Our men follow because they must. Jevad’s men followed him because they wanted to. And he had to keep such men on side, which he did by appearing more a brother who shared their hardships and less a superior who issued orders from afar.”
“I realise all that, of course.”
“Do you, though?”
“I do. I get your point. And anyway, I don’t speak with the Sarasinians. But I would like the Herenians at least to see me as a fellow soldier, and not just their governor.”
Virgilio raised an eyebrow. “And this, even after what I taught you about keeping up appearances? Well, if you truly want what you want, you might consider doing more than fireside chats.”
“Such as?”
“Swapping your bed for a bedroll, for one thing. Swapping your wine for water. And as for Istome, why, swapping her for your hand!” The man cackled. “Your fellow soldiers enjoy no such luxuries, I assure you!”
“Indeed,” said Riva. The accuracy of the observation stung more than the fact that Virgilio had outwitted him. He shifted awkwardly in his seat, wondering how closely Istome had been following their exchange.
“Don’t spend too long out there gasbagging, either,” said Virgilio, oblivious to the embarrassment he was causing. Some of his attendants had overheard and were failing at masking their amusement. “Try to get some sleep.”
Gasbagging? Riva stood up, feeling quite the fool. Even so, he was careful not to lose his head. “Has any man ever slept the night before battle?”
Virgilio snorted. “A very few, maybe.”
“I thought so,” said Riva, bowing. “Nevertheless, should I find my eyelids growing heavy, I shall send for you at once to tuck me into bed.” The general clucked his admonishment as Riva departed, hiding a scowl.
Outside, Nohrt and the others stood to attention as soon as they saw him. “Final orders for the night, gentlemen,” he told them. “You’re to have a trench dug down our right flank.”
“Yes, lord,” said Nohrt.
“Wide enough to stop horses. Not that we’re expecting horses. The trench should have breastworks, too, I think. Any questions?”
“None, lord.”
“That’s all. You may go.”
“As you say, lord,” said the man, grinning, then he wheeled around and strode off into the night. The rest disappeared just as quickly, wanting to be gone before he added to their duties.
Riva went back to his pavilion and exchanged his armour for plainer gear. Until now he had worn his black brigandine exclusively, and the men knew him on sight because of it. Tonight he would see how long it took them to recognise him.
“You want me to stay here,” said Istome, lying on the bed. It wasn’t a question.
“Yes,” said Riva.
“They really don’t see me as anything beyond your mattress slave, do they?” she asked, stretching.
“Which was exactly what you wanted, remember?”
“I’m just getting tired of the game, that’s all.”
“You’ll be able to reveal your true self soon enough.”
“As will you. You could have hidden yourself better from your mentor this past fortnight, I think.”
“Why? Do you think he suspects something?”
“No,” said Istome, sitting up and facing him. “I know he doesn’t. But he does wonder about you.”
“In what way?”
“He marvels at your ability to lead an army.”
“Why? He knows I went to the Bastion. And anyway, for the most part I just copy what he does.”
“Your flashes of immaturity vex him, though.”
Riva grunted. “Good.”
“So.” Istome flashed a grin. “Are you seriously thinking about not taking me on future campaigns?”
Riva looked at her. “Get out of my head, please.”
“Swapping me for your hand?” she said, pouting. “It’d be your loss…”
“Why do you ask questions if you already know the answers?”
“Because it’s fun.” Her grin widened. “So you really mean to keep me, then?”
“I can almost feel you digging around in my brain. Stop.”
Istome laughed and lay back down on the bed. “Fine, I’ll stop. By the way, don’t let Virgilio get under your skin, my love. Forget what he said, because soon it won’t matter anyway.”
“I’m leaving.”
“Will I see you later, or in the morning?”
“I think you already know,” said Riva tersely, and he left.
Regardless of what the general had said, Riva was determined to continue his nightly chats. He might not be the Destroyer, but he wasn’t exactly no one. He was Lord Isidra Erbis Riva, Archon of Herena. Descended from Ahren kings brought low by the Destroyer, but then raised up to serve in his unstoppable armies. “If I want to gasbag amongst my men,” he muttered to himself, “I bloody well will!”
He walked around the marching camp in search of the men upon whom he would bestow his presence. Seeing a half dozen spearmen clustered around a small fire, he ventured within earshot. If he deemed their conversation interesting, he’d think about joining them.
“So anyway,” said a broad-shouldered fellow with a long, black beard, “I’m walking past this knob shop with my little boy, right? He was about four at the time, I think, or maybe five. I don’t really remember. Anyway, he sees the sign they have outside and he says to me, he says, ‘Papa, what’s that?’ It was a painting of a cat, of course.”
There was laughter from the other men.
“Yeah,” continued Long Beard. “So I said, ‘It’s exactly what it looks like, son. It’s a cat.’ He says, ‘Does that mean they have cats in there?’ Now, I should have said no, but I didn’t. Instead I say, ‘Well, yeah, they do. In a manner of speaking.’”
More laughter.
“The boy gets all excited. ‘Can we go in and see the cats?’ he asks me. Over and over. I tried to tell him the place was closed, but he could plainly see it wasn’t. So, I tell him he doesn’t want to go in there, but of course that didn’t work either. ‘I don’t think it’s what you think it is,’ I said, but he doesn’t believe me. He says, ‘You said it’s a cat house, I wanna see the cats,’ and then he starts with the tears.
“Well, I didn’t really know what to do. I should have just given him a clip ‘round the ear and kept walking, but ah, I don’t know what was wrong with me. Maybe I’ve gone soft in my dotage. Or maybe I was nursing a hangover that day. I dunno. Anyway, I had one last go at trying to discourage the boy. I says to him, I says, ‘Yeah, son, there are cats in there, but they’re a special kind of cat you can’t play with until you’re a damn sight older than four.’ Or five. But he called bullshit on that as well. So, what else could I do? I took the lad inside.”
His companions laughed raucously except for one, a man wearing a dirty yellow tunic. “You took a four-year-old into a brothel?”
Long Beard grinned at Yellow Tunic. “Actually, I’m pretty sure he was five. But hey, before you start judging me too harsh, it was the middle of the day and there were no johns about. And the boy didn’t see nothing he shouldn’t have, neither. Turns out one of the girls was keeping a kitten for real and she let him play with it. Said it was a nice distraction and thanked me for bringing the little bugger along. Pretty lass, too, she was. Young. Nice tits. Obviously didn’t have any kids of her own. If I’d had coin, I think I’d have stayed longer. Of course, the wife wasn’t happy about our visit to the ‘cat’s house’ though.”
Yellow Tunic slapped his forehead. “Oh geez, this just gets better and better! You told your wife about all this?”
Long Beard shook his head. “What? No, of course not. I never said a word! It was the boy who spilled his guts about the kitten and the nice ladies, eh? And my wife isn’t stupid. She knew exactly where we’d been. Typical woman, wouldn’t even let me try to explain. She was so furious she cut me off for a month.”
“Ouch,” said someone. “That’s tough.” The men laughed. Even Yellow Tunic cracked a smile.
“Well it was tough on my purse all right,” said Long Beard. “Because I went to that knob shop every other day until the wife got over herself. Cost me a small fortune!”
All the men guffawed, Yellow Tunic included. Long Beard winked at him. Someone got up to poke at the fire.
Riva smiled and moved on to the next fire. It was smaller, and there were only two men around it. As before, he kept his distance.
“Wait, wait, wait,” said the first man. “So let me get this straight–it was you and another guy, but just the one girl?”
“Yeah,” said the second man. “Yeah. And like I said, it was a bet.”
“All right. So, how did it go? What happened?”
“Well, we were both laying back on her mattress, right? I mean, he and I were on either side of her.”
Man One nodded. “All right. And were you on her right-hand or left-hand side?”
“Umm, I was on her right-hand side, I think.”
“Ah. And which way was she facing?”
“She was facing towards us, of course! You want to see the front of the girl, eh? Not the back.”
“Sure. Point taken. But if she was facing towards you, and you were on the right, then it means you were really on her left.”
There was a pause as Man Two thought it over. “Uh, yeah. I guess.”
“So, you got her left hand.”
“Yeah. Must have.”
“Well, that’s not good.”
“No, it was fine.”
Man One squinted. “But she was probably right handed, eh? I mean, chances are. That means the other guy got her right hand, doesn’t it? So he would’ve had a clear advantage.”
“Actually, I’m pretty sure she was right-handed.”
“So then the other guy definitely had a clear advantage, like I said.”
Man Two shook his head. “No. Not necessarily. It really seemed like she was trying to make up for not being left-handed. It felt like she was putting in extra effort to compensate, I mean.”
“Ah. Because she was conscious of it not being her dominant hand?”
“Who knows? Maybe.”
“All right. So who won?”
“Well, let’s just say the other guy should have bet on which one of us would’ve been last off.”
Both men laughed. Riva chuckled, shook his head, and decided to press on.
Around the next fire sat three young officers.
“So yeah,” one of them was saying, “I’m not arguing that point. What I’m saying is, there’s no way the battle happened like the history books say it did. The chroniclers fuckin’ prettied it up later, or glossed over it. You know, whitewashed it for the sake of the losing side?”
“How do you figure, though?” asked another. “Why would they do that?”
“Well, look,” said the first man. “The worst kind of war is a civil war, right? Once it’s over, win or lose, at some point both sides must reconcile. They have to let bygones be bygones. They have to kiss and make up, you know? If they don’t, things will keep festering and sooner or later the stage will be set for another confrontation. Seeds of war, an’ all that. You get me? So, what I’m saying is that what was written about the war afterward doesn’t make sense.”
“Get to the point.”
“All right. Prince Goen loses the Battle of the Rock to his brother, right? He retreats to his stronghold with the shattered remnants of his army. Now, I’m fine with what the books say up until that point. It sounds realistic, I think. Goen lost the battle and Mairn besieged him in his last fortress, slowly starving him out. I’ve got no problem believing that. But here comes the part I just can’t wrap my head around: the bit where Prince Goen prays to the gods.”
“You don’t think he did?”
“Pray? Oh, I’m sure he did. Goen probably prayed to the gods until he was blue in the face. But I don’t believe he confessed to being the one who started the war. And I don’t believe he begged for their forgiveness, either. And I especially don’t believe that the gods answered his prayers by magically transporting him to the Otherworld.”
The man’s companion seemed shocked. “You don’t think it really happened?”
“No. No fuckin’ way it happened! I’ll tell you what did, though–Prince Mairn stormed that castle, captured Goen, cut his dick off, and then killed him.”
The third officer chose this moment to chime in. “Er, is it just me or does that seem... oddly specific?”
“All right, so maybe it didn’t go down exactly like that. At the very least, though, Mairn killed Goen in cold blood and stashed his body where no one would ever find it. I mean, it’s a lot more plausible than oh, the gods whisked him away because he admitted to starting an illegal war! And because he asked nicely to join them and thus extinguish his wrongdoing. Don’t you think? I mean, come on! When was the last time you saw anything like that happen?”
“I don’t know...”
“Never. And look, hear me out, all right? The War of the Brothers makes for a great story, and maybe some of it’s factually correct. But in my opinion, the ending is a total lie. I think Mairn’s side cooked it up. Why? Because they needed something–some sort of device–that would end the war and smooth things over with Goen’s supporters. What they came up with was perfect! I mean, with Goen taken to the Otherworld through divine intervention, no one could say it was Mairn who killed him. Therefore, no need for Goen’s camp to take revenge. And with their leader gone, also no point in continuing the fight.
“Now, with his brother gone without a trace, all Mairn had to do was stick to the script. We know he made public proclamations to the effect of, ‘Well shit, if the gods have forgiven Goen for starting a war against me, who am I to hold a grudge?’ Thus, Goen becomes a kind of mythical figure. Semi-divine, dwelling in peace in the Otherworld with the gods. And he’s blameless, impossible to hate.
“Mairn’s inner circle knew the truth, of course. But Goen’s story gave them an out, so they went along with it. The alternative would have been to fight on with no chance of winning. So rather than be slaughtered, they threw down their weapons and surrendered. Mairn made them swear fealty to him, then let them go back to their estates. The war was won and he was declared the victor, right? And most importantly, the rightful heir. And everyone was free to get on with their lives.”
There was a long pause before the second man replied. “You make some interesting points. But I’d really have to have a good think about this one.”
“That’s not to say I don’t believe in the gods, though,” said the first. “I do. Mark my words, eh? I’m no blasphemer.”
“Oh no, ‘course not. Wouldn’t suggest otherwise.”
Riva chose that moment to make an entrance. “A fine evening, gentlemen,” he said. “How is everyone?”
“We’re all right,” said one of the men as all three turned to look at him. “How are–?” and then his jaw went slack as he realised who he was speaking to.
“No, no,” said Riva, as the men hastily got to their feet. “That won’t be necessary. As you were.”
Riva sat and peered into the fire. The officers glanced at each other, apprehensive, before joining him. “I couldn’t help but overhear your take on Mairn and Goen.”
The man who had spoken the most coughed in a futile attempt to hide his nervousness. “Lord, of course I meant no disrespect towards–”
Riva waved his words away. “Oh, of course. For what it’s worth, I thought your argument was actually quite compelling.”
The man shook his head. “Even so, I, uh, shouldn’t have spoken about it so bluntly, lord. I was crude where I should have been circumspect. Had I known you were there...”
“Yes?”
“Well, lord, had I known you were listening in... well, I probably would not have, uh, spoken of it in quite the way I did.”
“How would you have spoken of it?”
“I… probably wouldn’t have.”
Riva nodded. “You’d have not wanted to risk offending me because Prince Mairn is my ancestor, you mean?”
“Lord, I must–”
“You’re a soldier!” said Riva forcefully, startling everyone. “Are you not? Not a courtier! Tell me honestly–do you believe that Mairn cut Goen’s dick off before he killed him?”
The man nodded and then cleared his throat. “Uh, well...”
“Answer the question.”
“Forgive me, lord, but that’s how I always imagined Goen’s death.”
Riva smiled. “Why? Because Goen raped him when they were boys?”
“Because of that, yes, but also because it was what Mairn did with captured enemies. It was his signature move.”
Riva turned to the man’s companions. “And what about the rest of you? Do you think Mairn cut Goen’s dick off before he killed him or not?”
“Er,” said the first, “Lord I, uh... don’t really know enough about the subject to be able to say one way or another... “
“I don’t know either, lord,” said the other.
Riva looked at the first man again. “What is your name?”
The man swallowed. “It’s Gualtius, lord.”
“Gualtius.” Riva produced his silver flask, removed the plug, and passed it to the man. “Here. Try this, Gualtius.”
Gualtius carefully accepted the flask and took a sip.
“Don’t forget your comrades,” said Riva, gesturing at the others. Gualtius handed the flask to the man on his left, who also took a sip before passing it on. “What are your names?”
“Grigan, lord.”
“Eichel, lord.”