He had seven men under him now, a tight-knit gang who had all been strangers to the city until the siege. Apart from Adurnos and Bosca, there were a pair of brothers from Arkadios, and three Avennan soldiers who had pawned their armour for food long ago and were now intent only on avoiding starvation, as the siege drew near its end.
Food, or the procurement of it, was what obsessed them all, as it did every person still alive within the walls. The grain-dole had been halved, and was barely enough to keep a child standing, let alone a full grown man. Antimone was hovering over the city now, waiting for the end. There were wild-eyed prophets who haunted the shanty-towns and swore that they had seen her gliding on black wings around the dome of the Empirion at night.
There was no longer any wood to be spared for burning the dead, and the corpses were tossed over the walls each morning by details of men who were paid in bread. Women were selling themselves for a crust, offering their children to strangers for some morsel that would keep the life in them another day.
Lurid rumours of cannibalism ran through the Mithannon, but Sertorius for one did not put much stock by them. There were still rats to be had, two obols apiece, and enterprising archers had started to shoot down the crows and ravens that circled the city as though it were one vast carrion pit. They were not such good eating, but they kept the life in a man.
Sertorius lifted up the gold obol, and clapped Bosca on the shoulder. “You see this, boys? Right now we would pay this for a boiled chicken, or a half skin of wine. But this here means something. We get clear of this shithole, and this piece of gold is worth a horse, or some cattle, or a slave. We got to remember that, if we’re to come out of this smiling.”
“I’d rather have the chicken,” one of the Arkadians said.
“Right now we all would. But think on it, lads -there’s houses up on the Kerusiad that are stuffed with these. When the whole thing turns to ratshit, we all have to stick together, and think of the future. One day very soon, that Corvus is going to come in over the walls, and when that happens, we’ll be ready. There will be a shower of gold for those who keep their heads, and maybe other things too.” His face hardened. “I hear tell that Phaestus, the old bastard, is still alive, and living in comfort in a house not far from Karnos’s.”
“Fucker,” Adurnos said with feeling.
“And we know where Karnos’s house is, don’t we? He’s the richest bastard in the city – think what he has stowed away up there.”
“That little black-haired bitch,” Bosca said, running his hand through his matted beard. “By Phobos, boss, I’d die a happy man if I could get a cock in her before I go.”
Sertorius brought a fist down on the table. “There you are, then. We wait this out, boys, steer clear of the other crossroads-gangs and keep our heads down. Then, when the big show begins, we make our way up to the Kerusiad, settle some old scores, and fill our pockets. We play this right and the whole thing can end happy. Are you with me?”
Around the table, the men growled in agreement.
There was hunger on the other side of the walls also. The supply waggons trundled in ceaselessly from the east, but there was never enough to go round, and the men in the various camps of Corvus’s army grew restless.
Desertions had begun, conscript spearmen who had had enough and were sick of the tented lines, the huddled campfires, and the persistent hunger. This was not how they had imagined war.
Corvus toured the camps with an escort of Dogsheads, and Ardashir’s Companions patrolled the stockade-lines ceaselessly to deter those who had had enough from putting their discontent into action, but despite the arrival of fresh levies from some of the eastern cities, there was a growing disquiet in the army, a feeling that their general might have miscalculated.
Rumours flew abroad like crows – Maronen had rebelled, and the uprising had been put down by its garrison only after a bloody battle that had seen the streets run red. Hal Goshen and Afteni were simmering with discontent, and reinforcements meant for the army surrounding Machran had been diverted to reinforce their garrisons.
Most unsettling of all, there were scattered reports that the Avennan League had recovered from its mauling of the year before, and was now assembling an army for the relief of Machran. It was already on the march, camp gossip said. Soon Corvus would be caught between two fires, and the besieger would find himself outnumbered and surrounded.
“There is truth in some rumours,” Corvus said. He stood in front of the map table with his father’s black cuirass gleaming dark and menacing on its stand behind him. In front of the table stood all the senior officers of the army, except one.
“I have had word from Ardashir this evening. He’s in the hills twenty pasangs to the south of our lines, a foraging trip with two hundred of the Companions and a train of waggons.” Corvus let his strange bright eyes range over the silent men standing before him. Rictus was there, hollow-cheeked and lean as a winter wolf. Beside him stood Fornyx, and then Teresian, one-eyed Demetrius, dark Druze, and Parmenios, not so plump as he had been, and wearing armour now like the rest.
“It would seem our friends in the League have used the winter months to some advantage. They have taken heart, and rebuilt an army of sorts. That army is even now marching to the relief of Machran.”
The men he faced said nothing, but stared at him. There was no speculation; there were no questions. They had been at their trade too long for that. Corvus smiled at them, his white face shining like a bone.
“It will be here in the morning.”
Now they did stir. Frowning, Rictus spoke up. “How many?”
“Ardashir reckons on some seven thousand, all spears.”
“The defenders will sally out, when they get wind of this,” Demetrius grunted. “Even if they’re half-dead with hunger, they will come out.”
“Yes, they will,” Corvus said. “And therein lies our hope.” He leaned over the map table. Once, it had been covered with maps of the entire eastern Harukush, with cities dotted over it like cherries, blobs of red wax with ancient names. Now there was one large sheet of paper, the corners held down with empty winecups, and drawn across it were the outlines of Machran’s walls.
It has all come down to this, Rictus thought, looking down on the map. One lone city, and tomorrow: one single day. Like the point of a spearhead.
Corvus met his eyes, and grinned. He seemed to be thrumming with barely suppressed energy; there was almost a gaiety about him. Always, he seemed happiest when on the cusp of great events, be they good or bad.
“Take a look at our lines, gentlemen. We’re spread thin, to contain the city. That job is done. After tomorrow it will not matter any more, one way or the other. So I intend to consolidate the army once more, but only to make a fresh division of it.”
They raised their heads and looked at him, puzzled. His hand skittered over the map.
“Druze, you will abandon your camp on the Mithos, and bring your command back here, to the main body. Teresian, you will take your morai south, to join with Demetrius. Ardashir will concentrate the Companions on you as well. Rictus, you will take your Dogsheads -” he raised his head. “How many have you trained up now?”
“Six hundred.”
Demetrius’s face darkened. “That’s why Teresian and I have understrength morai – we’ve been leaking our best men to Rictus and Fornyx for weeks. Every bastard wants to get himself one of those red cloaks.”
“I want the Dogsheads opposite the South Prime Gate,” Corvus said, cutting short any further exchange. “When Karnos sallies out, it will be from there, to meet up with the army marching north. Rictus, you will meet him, and drive him back into the city. That is your job. Demetrius, Teresian, you will each detach a full mora to Rictus’s command.”