‘What’s happening?’ someone shouted. Gorgas saw whoever it was; a guardsman with a lantern who ran towards the shapes of men gathered around the gate. ‘What’s happening?’ he demanded of the first person he met, who drew a short sword and stuck it in him. More arrows hissing; they must be loosing blind, no light to see by. Just for once, I got it right. Out of my hands now.
There are ever so many orthodox reasons for bringing about the annihilation of a great city; revenge for some intolerable wrong; straightforward advantage, for example where a powerful and ambitious commercial interest decides that it would rather not repay the capital of the huge loan that threatens to strangle it; an overwhelming abhorrence for everything the city stands for; or simply because the grey of its walls clashes with the green of the grass and the blue of the sea. Some cities have been betrayed for the price of twenty acres of rocky pasture, or for love, or because they were there. Wise men in Alexius’ Order often debated the proposal that cities are by their very nature an abomination, a wart or growth that the body of the earth sooner or later heals of its own accord. Cities have been burnt to the ground by madmen, children playing with flint and tinder, and the hem of a curtain being blown into the open door of a bread oven by a gust of wind. Some cities have been destroyed and rebuilt so many times that workmen digging a ditch for a latrine will slice through a dozen crusts of masonry and ash, like the layers of a cake.
Gorgas Loredan had his own reasons, revenge and hatred and level-headed commercial acumen among them. More to the point, he was doing as he’d been told. All fair enough, for someone analysing the pathology of his actions. But Gorgas knew; he knew he was doing it for the best and most wholesome of reasons, for the same reason as everything he’d ever done since he’d left the Mesoge. For family.
Guardsmen were coming up, bringing torches and lanterns. One stopped and fell forwards. Others pulled up, stopped dead, swore under their breath and turned back. One of them will run to the second-city gatehouse to summon the Deputy Lord Lieutenant. He’ll grab his sword and his helmet and come running, shouting orders that nobody’ll be awake to catch. He’ll come running, straight into the oncoming enemy.
Gorgas Loredan drew a deep breath and started to run, not towards the harbour but up the hill. If he ran fast he might get there first, be in time to intercept his brother; it’s all over, I’ve got a ship waiting. A moment for the message to sink in; another moment, and, How did you know? Why’ve you got a ship waiting? Well, he’d deal with that when the moment came.
Behind him as he ran, more shouting on the walls; not city voices, not bewildered requests for information but signals and confirmations, anxiously waited for. An arrow hit the flagstones beside him and skipped, its movement like that of an eager dog at his heels. Irrelevant; no arrow was going to hit Gorgas Loredan tonight, because Gorgas Loredan has important things to do, he can’t be spared to make up the quota of first casualties. As he ran, his temples throbbed; what a time to have a headache, he said to himself, and tried to ignore it.
Someone grabbed Loredan by the shoulder and he woke up.
‘Come on!’ hissed the voice from behind the lantern. ‘They’re here. Some bastard opened the gate.’
Loredan blinked. His head was still full of sleep, and it hurt. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ he mumbled. ‘Who…?’
‘The savages,’ the voice replied. ‘Come on, will you?’ They’re swarming all over the wall.’
Loredan stumbled off his bed and groped for his boots. ‘How did they get in?’ he asked. ‘Did you say-?’
‘Someone opened the gate. A traitor. There’s half a company of guards holding them at the pottery market, and that’s it.’
His feet didn’t want to go in the boots; his left heel was stuck about halfway down, and he couldn’t remember what you were supposed to do when that happened. He pulled the boot off and started again.
‘Has anyone called out the reserve?’ he asked. ‘And what about the district garrisons? Surely-’
‘I don’t know, do I? I’ve just come from the gate – I was about to go on duty.’ Whoever it was handed him his helmet.
‘No, mailshirt first,’ Loredan snapped.
‘Where is it?’
‘There, in the corner.’ Someone had opened the gate; someone from the city had deliberately opened the gate.
There must be some mistake…
Fumbling for the straps of his mailshirt, he tried to think clearly about what had to be done. Alert the reserve and the district garrisons; each unit had an area of deployment assigned to it for this sort of emergency, he’d seen to it that everybody would know where to go and what to do. He’d need messengers-
‘Leave that,’ he said, ‘and go and find the Couriers’ Office. There should be at least ten runners there, standing by. I want them in the courtyard here in the next two minutes. Go on, run. And leave the lantern-’
The last part came too late; whoever it was had run off, taking the light with him. Loredan swore and located his helmet and sword by feel. The sword was, of course, the Guelan broadsword-’
Sure, I believe in coincidences. But this isn’t one.
What else would he need? Wax tablets and a stylus; but he didn’t have any here. Maps and plans, and they were all in the departmental chief clerk’s office, being copied. The chiefs of staff, then; had anybody told them what was happening? He couldn’t assume that, but they’d have to wait until he’d found more runners; raising the reserve and the garrison were the first priority. And still more runners, to bring him an accurate report of what was actually happening. Damn it, when he’d set up the Couriers’ Office he’d assumed for some reason that ten would be enough. That’s your trouble, Bardas, you never think.
What next? He racked his brains as he stumbled into the courtyard. When the runners showed up, he gave them their destinations and watched them dashing away into the darkness. Fortunately, the sound of voices and running attracted a few passers-by, clerks from the Department of Supply for the most part. He co-opted them as messengers and sent them running for the chiefs of staff, too fazed to question the messages they were carrying.
If they’re on the wall already, what’s to stop them forcing a way through all the way round? It depended on how many of them there were, and whether they were coming up on two fronts or only one. If they met no resistance at ground level, they could get across to the next staircase along and take on any defenders from both directions. I should have made specific plans for something like this; but then, who’d ever imagine someone would actually open the gates?
The various chiefs of staff staggered and bumped their way into the courtyard; the Chief Engineer first, accompanied by his first officer, both with their helmets and mailcoats on over long, old-fashioned nightgowns; the Chief of Archers, properly equipped and armed, with his four deputies; the four captains of infantry – guards, garrison, reserves and auxiliaries – in and out of armour, with and without staff; the Chief Clerk from Works and the Quartermaster. Supply was vacant at the moment, because the previous Chief Clerk had been promoted to customs, and it was a political appointment… Second from last the Prefect. Last of all the Lord Lieutenant, his magnificent parade armour still tacky with storage grease, so that dust and fallen leaves stuck to his shins and ankles.
Quickly, Loredan explained, gave his orders. Nobody argued, most of them seemed to know what to do. He put the Prefect in charge of the wall, left the Lord Lieutenant to organise the defence of the second city, and at last was free to go. As he reached the long, broad downhill sweep of the Grand Avenue, he broke into a run. As it happened, he left the gatehouse at more or less the same time as Gorgas reached it. In the darkness and confusion, neither recognised the other.