‘They could have all sorts waiting for us; boiling oil, pitfalls, engines, a whole company of archers loosing off point-blank—’
At the very least, Temrai said to himself. If the first hundred men through the gate get more than ten yards in, I’ll be highly astonished. But that’s all budgeted for under Acceptable Losses. We could lose a thousand in the first ninety seconds and still be doing better than anticipated . . .
‘Hello,’ Ceuscai whispered. ‘Look.’
‘I’ll be damned,’ said somebody else further down the line. ‘The gate’s opening.’
There was indeed a slight change in the texture of the shadows under the bridgehouse tower. Temrai caught his breath. In a small fraction of a second, he would have to give the order to move forwards if he wasn’t to miss the opportunity. Once the order was given, there was a strong possibility that his forces might actually enter the city and begin to do the job. Once they were in, just suppose it all started to go according to plan; a detachment to storm the tower and seize the engines, stopping them from bombarding the causeway; two more to force the towers on either side, cutting communications on the wall and preventing the defenders from shooting down into his people as they came through the gate; a strong force to establish a bridgehead just inside the gate; then, assuming the city’s main relief force hadn’t arrived yet (three minutes into the operation, four if there was any resistance on the wall), a push outwards following the foot of the walls, with the aim of encircling the relief force when it appeared and cutting it off from retreat into the maze of streets and squares. If the plan worked, the city would be carved like an animal’s carcass fresh from the spit, divided into manageable portions that the various detachments could easily digest.
Temrai had envisaged the attack as being something like netting rabbits at night on the plains. First, get between the grazing rabbits and their burrows before they see or hear you, and set up the nets. Then show the lights and make the noise, sending the quarry darting back towards safety, right into the instrument of their destruction. Then, methodically and at one’s leisure, pull them struggling from the nets and stretch their necks. It had all seemed straightforward enough, put like that.
Once the order was given, he’d no longer be in control. Always assuming he’d ever been in control to begin with.
‘Here we go,’ he said, edging forward with his elbows until his head was clear of the wagon. ‘Best of luck, everyone. See you in Perimadeia.’
Gorgas Loredan stepped over the body of one of the guards and put his weight on the capstan handle. The drawbridge was massive; made deliberately so, in order that one man on his own wouldn’t be able to lower it. He felt the strain wrenching the muscles of his chest and back; fairly soon the weight would take over, and he’d need to let go and jump clear to avoid being knocked flying by the spinning handles of the windlass. At that point, it’d be beyond his capacity to undo what he was now doing; a few inches more, and Perimadeia would inevitably fall.
He stopped and took off the quiver that hung across his back; the baldric was galling his shoulders, and was one more thing for the windlass poles to catch in once the point of no return had been reached.
Arguably, that point had come and gone many years ago.
He’d shot down all the guards he could see; there had been four, which agreed with the observations he’d made over the last few nights of careful watching. If the plainsmen played their part, and were ready and waiting on the other side, there ought to be men inside the city within the next six minutes; their irruption would be his opportunity to slip away, head for the harbour and the ship he had standing by. If things worked out, he’d be well out to sea by the time the city knew it was dying.
Suddenly he felt the handle pulling away from him, its downward surge greater than his own strength. He let go and stepped back hurriedly, and the windlass began to turn of its own accord. The sound it made, a sort of chattering whir, seemed horribly loud in the still night -
They’ll be able to hear that in the second city
, he thought,
you’d have to be dead not to hear it and guess what was going on
. He let the moment linger in his mind; the last chance gone, the instant when the suicide feels the stool slip out from under him, or knows he can’t regain his balance on the parapet. In a way it was a comfort;
oh, well, too late to do anything about it now, so what’s the point of worrying?
The windlass spun like the wheel of a ship out of control; quite literally out of his hands now.
Job done; successful; no spear in my ribs or arrow in my back. Time I wasn’t here
.
Just for once, I got it right
.
A scoop of shadow grew dense in front of him and became a man; a guardsman, on his way to relieve one of the watch. He was running, staring, not even interested in Gorgas Loredan. Let him go by; no point in picking a fight at this stage of the proceedings.
The guardsman noticed him, hesitated, stopped running just long enough to yell to him. ‘Somebody’s opened the gate! Get help, quick!’ Then he disappeared into the shadows, just as the drawbridge reached the end of its chains, bounced and found its level. There were torches approaching in the distance, where the shadows of eaves overhanging an alley darkened the night. On the wall, someone called out. Suddenly there were men under the arch of the gate, running in, spreading out. An arrow hit the guardsman and he dropped dead to the ground.
Time I wasn’t here
.
More arrows flying now; Gorgas could hear them hiss as they flew past. Behind him somewhere a window smashed. A brief burst of shouted speech, quickly drowned out by the hollow drumming of feet on the planks of the drawbridge. More shouts overhead, sword blades clashing four, five times.
This is the first trickle of water appearing on the wrong side of the dam. Running out of time to get away. Time to move. Time I wasn’t here
.
‘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.