Foolish men, such as those who never have to leave a city, will tell you that the walls surrounding it, and the guards who man them, exist to defend the city from its enemies – to provide a barrier between the riches within and the covetous, barbarian masses without. Wise men know that this is nonsense. Walls exist to contain gates, and soldiers exist that they may stand next to those gates and demand tribute from anyone wishing to enter. Outsiders desire entrance, guards exact a levee, and then spend it on booze, women and gambling. If they’re good, Gods-fearing men. If not, well, there are a million ways to part a guard and his money, and not all of them have to be approved by a majority of the churches to be fun. Thus the economy is kept vibrant, money moves in the right directions, taxes are manageable, and the whole system runs along as smoothly as a slaughterhouse production line. The truly wise, amongst whom you can count guards, guards’ mistresses and those who didn’t learn their lesson the first time they tried to get into a city, know the truth: there are a million ways to part a guard and his money, so to a guard, money is a useless and transitory thing. If you really want to get into a city unscathed, that is, with your belongings intact and all those special little items you’ve secreted about yourself in the hope the authorities won’t go searching for them, you need to know what your gatekeepers really want. There are as many desires as there are guards to a gate, and the only way to know which one is the most appropriate is to find a good vantage point, pull up a piece of ground, and watch a while.
It is said that the dead are infinitely patient, although it is usually said by the living, and how would they know? Perhaps they are, but only if they have nowhere to be, and nothing to be running from. Marius knew how to be patient. It was part of his craft. Even so, the hours chafed. It was mid-morning when he took his seat. By the time those passing him drew lunches from capes and carts and settled in to eat, his eyes were itching. Still he sat, eyes fixed upon the gate ahead. Carts arrived, arguments took place, and tolls were handed over. Marius paid no attention to them. What was important to him came afterwards, once each supplicant had passed through the gate and the guards were left with whatever bounty they had taken. He watched as lunch came and went, and the afternoon was spent one trudging step after another, one petulant transaction upon the next. The sun began its lazy descent behind the spires and towers of the city, and still he did not move. Shadows became puddles of black, then pools, then one large ocean that stretched from city to hill and up into the sky. The city bells rang for day’s end, then final prayer. Torches were lit along the final approach to the city and over each gate along the wall, and still Marius sat unmoving. On the road around him, groups of travellers, deciding that one more night could stand between them and the attempt to find lodgings, drew their carts to the edge of the road and climbed inside, or nestled in whatever hollow they could find in the gloom, and drew cloaks over their faces. Marius watched a final few enter the city, and then, though the gates still stood open to receive guests, he watched the guards make ready for the long, empty hours of the night. Only then, when it was clear to him what the men at the gates prized most dearly, did he allow himself a small laugh. He stood and listened to the mumbling crowd along the road. Then he set off into the deep darkness, away from the campfires, to make ready.
It is commonly believed that an army marches on its stomach, like some million-headed snail. Marius had been in an army, once, for about six weeks. Long enough to learn the whereabouts of the regimental pay supplies, and separate them from those who expected to be paid. He had learned many things during that time, chief among them being how far into the mountains he needed to run before he was safe from execution. But he also knew that it is not the stomach which is the most important aspect of a soldier’s existence. Any spear carrier with decent enough cunning and a sympathetic sergeant can find a meal. What a soldier truly prizes, and considers the greatest skill to be acquired, is sleep. Not sleep as you and I understand it, in a bed, perhaps even in our own homestead, with a cuddly wife or acrobatic mistress besides us. But sleep in the rain, sleep on a mountain pass with hateful foreigners in the rocks above and a two hundred foot fall below, sleep while the legs still march and the ears still hear orders. Sleep, standing at an open gate with a rich, under-defended city at your back. Sleep, undiscovered.
A sergeant may be sympathetic to many things, but sleeping on duty will never be one of them.
An hour after Marius left his position on the hillock above the final approach he shuffled the last few steps to the mouth of the city gate.
“Hello, lads.”
Twenty minutes amongst sleeping travellers had transformed him. Calfskin gloves covered his hands, and the worn-out shoes he had been wearing since the turn of the year were gone, replaced by a pair of sturdy leather hiking boots that looked as if they had only just embarked upon their first journey. His travel-worn clothes, and more importantly, the nature of his features, lay hidden deep in the folds of a hooded oilskin cape. A thick knobkerrie completed the ensemble, and Marius leant upon it as if it were a cane, surveying the hooded eyes of the guards. He suppressed a smile. Nobody likes being disturbed from dozing, particularly if they’re being disturbed in order to work.
“Gate’s closed for the evening.”
“Looks open to me,” Behind the guards, two wooden doors, twice the height of a man, thick and unadorned and of rough construction, stood open. A corridor the thickness of the wall above, perhaps ten feet in all, led into a short square. Marius could see an open hole in the roof of the corridor. Breach the doors, and the pot that undoubtedly stood above them could pour boiling oil directly onto you before you made the open plaza. Nasty stuff, but a city will do whatever it can to protect the dignity of its Gods-fearing mothers and pure virgin daughters, even if nobody can remember having met one. He tilted his head to indicate the open passage, grunting slightly as he did so, and leaned further onto his support, shuffling forward a step in the process.
“I said it’s closed, old man.” The guards looked at each other over the top of Marius’ head. “That is, unless you can pay the toll.”
This time, Marius couldn’t help but grin. “Oh, yes. And what that might be?”
“Well,” the older, heavier guard said, resting his hands on his hips and squaring himself up between Marius and the doorway. “That all depends on what you’ve got, doesn’t it?”
Some things never fail, Marius thought. The old teach the young all the mistakes they’ve spent years perfecting, the strong never stop to look closely at the weak, and the prepared always vanquish the stupid.
“Got?” he replied, cheerily. “Oh, lads, I haven’t got a blessed thing.”
“Oh, dear,” the older guard said. “Oh, dear, oh dear. You hear that Jeltho? Not a thing, he says.”
“Yeah, Ej, not a thing.” The younger fellow laughed, a thick, hopeful sound.
“I find that hard to believe, don’t you, Jeltho?”
“Yeah, Ej, yeah.”
Big Ej stepped forward, looming over Marius. “I wonder if you’re not trying to hold out on us, old man. I wonder if I’d not be better off searching you for contraband, and see just what you’re hiding.”