“We have all realised that, I think,” Aurungzeb said wryly. “Shahr Baraz?”
The old Merduk shrugged. “He’s the best soldier they’ve ever produced. I believe he and my father would have had much in common.”
“Is there no-one around me who can give me some wisdom in their counsell?” Aurungzeb snapped. “I am surrounded by platitude-mouthing old women! Where is Shahr Johor?”
The occupants of the tent looked at one another. Finally Akran, the chamberlain, ventured: “You-ah-you had him executed, Majesty.”
“What? Oh, yes of course. Well, that was inevitable. He should have died with his men at Armagedir. Blood of God, what happened there? How did he do it? We should have won!”
“We did, at least, destroy those accursed red horsemen, Majesty,” Serrim the eunuch offered.
“Yes, those scarlet fiends. And we slew ten thousand more of his army, did we not? He must be as severely crippled as we are! How does he come to be making threats? What manner of maniac is he? Does he know nothing of the niceties of negotiation?”
The gathering of attendants, advisors and officials said nothing. In the quiet they could hear the crowds of Torunn still cheering, less than half a league away. The noise grated on Aurungzeb’s nerves. Why did they cheer him? He had led so many of their sons and fathers to their deaths, and yet they loved him for it. The Torunnans-there was a collective madness about them. They were a people unhinged. How did one deal with that? When Aurungzeb spoke again the petulance in his voice was like that of a child refused its treat.
“I asked him for safe conduct, the reception of an ambassador-I opened negotiations with the bastard! He must give something in return! Isn’t that right, Batak?”
“Undoubtedly, sire. But remember that he is reputed to be nothing more than a common soldier, a peasant. He has no idea of protocol, or the basic courtesies that exist between monarchs. The conventions of diplomacy are beyond him. He speaks the language of the barrack room only.”
“That may be no bad thing,” Shahr Baraz rumbled. “At least if he gives his word, you can be sure he’ll keep it.”
“Don’t prate to me about the virtues of soldiers,” Aurungzeb growled. “They are overrated.”
Once more there was silence in the tent. The members of the court had never seen the Sultan so unsure, so needful of advice. He had always been one to follow his own counsell, even if it meant flying in the face of facts.
“The war must end,” Mehr Jirah said at last. “Of that there is no question. Thirty thousand of our men died at Armagedir. Our army can fight no more.”
“Then neither can his!”
“I think it can, Sultan. The Torunnans are not striving for conquest, but for survival. They will never give up, especially with this man leading them. Armagedir was the last chance we had to win the war at a stroke, and every one of our soldiers knows it. They also know that this is no longer a holy war. The Ramusians are not infidels, but co-believers in the Prophet-”
“You and your damn preachings have done that,” Aurungzeb raged.
“Would you deny the tenets of your own faith?” Mehr Jirah asked, unintimidated.
“No-no, of course not. All right then. It seems I have no choice. We will remain in negotiation. Mehr Jirah, Batak, Shahr Baraz, the three of you will go to Torunn in the morning and offer to broker a treaty. But no backsliding, mind! God knows I have grovelled enough for one day. Ahara, you were once a Ramusian. What say you? Are they right in this thing? Will this new soldier-king fight us to the end?”
Heria did not look at him. She placed a hand on her swollen abdomen. “You will have a son soon, my lord. I would like him to grow up in peace. Yes, this man will never give in. He… Father Albrec told me that he had too much iron in him. But he is a good man at heart. A decent man. He will keep his word, once given.”
“Perhaps,” Aurungzeb grunted. “I must say, I have a perverse hankering to meet him, face to face. Perhaps if we sign a treaty we may pay him a state visit.” And he laughed harshly. “The times are changing, indeed.”
No-one noticed how white Heria’s face had gone. The veil was good for that much at least.
The war between the Merduks and the Ramusians had begun so long ago that no-one except the historians was sure in what year the two peoples had first come to blows. But everyone knew when it had ended: in the first year of the reign of King Corfe, the same year the Fantyr dynasty had ceased to be.
And five and a half centuries after the coming of the Blessed Saint who had also been the Prophet, the dual nature of Ramusio was finally recognised and the two great religions he had founded came together and admitted their common origin. All this was written into the Treaty of Armagedir, a document it took soldiers and scholars several weeks to hammer out in a spacious tent which had been erected halfway between the walls of Torunn and the Merduk encampment especially for that purpose.
The Merduks agreed to make the River Searil the border of their new domain. Khedi Anwar, which had once been Ormann Dyke, became the southernmost of their settlements, and Aekir was renamed Aurungabar and designated the Ostrabarian capital. The cathedral of Carcaseon was transformed into the temple of Pir-Sar, and both Merduks and Ramusians were to be allowed to worship there, since it had been made holy by the founder of both their faiths. Those Aekirian refugees who wished to return to their former home were free to do so without fear of molestation, and the monarchs of Torunna and Ostrabar exchanged ambassadors and set up embassies in each other’s capitals.
But much of that was still in the future. For now, the gates of Torunn were thrown open for the treaty-signing ceremonies, and the war-weary city made ready to receive a visit from the man who had tried to conquer it. For Corfe, it had the surreal quality of a dream. He and Aurungzeb had negotiated through intermediaries, the Sultan considering it beneath his dignity to haggle over the clauses of a treaty in person. Today he would see the face of-perhaps even shake the hand of-the man he had striven so long to destroy. And his mysterious Ramusian Queen, whose contribution to the winning of the war only Corfe and Albrec knew of. Corfe wondered how the history books would view the event. He had come to realise that the facts and history’s perception of them were two very different things.
He stood in his dressing chamber with the summer sunshine flooding in a glorious stream through the tall windows whilst half a dozen valets stood by, disconsolate. They held in their arms a bewildering array of garments which dripped with gems, gold lace and fur trimmings. Corfe had refused them all, and stood in the plain black of a Torunnan infantryman. He wore no crown, but had been persuaded to place on his head an ancient circlet of silver which at one time Fimbrian marshals had worn at the court of the Electors. Albrec, of all people, had dug it up for him out of some dusty palace coffer. It had once belonged to Kaile Ormann himself, which Corfe thought rather fitting.
Trumpets ringing out down by the city gates, heralding the approach of the Sultan’s cavalcade. It seemed to Corfe he had heard more damned trumpets blown in the past few weeks than he had heard in all his life upon battlefields. Torunn had become one vast carnival of late, the people celebrating victory, peace, a new King-one thing after another. And now this, the last of the state occasions which Corfe intended to preside over for a long time.
He’d like to take Formio and Aras out into the hills and go hunting for a while, sleep under the stars again, stare into a campfire and drink rough army wine. The war had been hellish, but it had possessed its moments of sweetness too. Or perhaps he was merely a damned nostalgic fool, destined to become a dissatisfied old man for whom all glory was in the past. Now there was a concept. The very idea made him smile. But as one of the more courageous of the valets stepped forward for the third time with the ermine-trimmed robe the smile twisted into a frown.