One thing he hadn't given much thought to was how he was going to get back in. There were, of course, sentries posted at all the gates during the night. When he was a boy, there was a good way in through the charcoal hatch, but he'd been smaller then; also, he seemed to remember Aelius' security man saying something about it. Quite possibly he'd booby-trapped it with nine-inch nails.
Nothing for it, therefore, but to walk up to the sentries on the main gate.
"Where do you think you're going?" they said.
"It's all right," he answered. "This is my house. I'm Bassianus Severus."
"Course you are," said a sentry, moving his halberd to block the way. "And I'm the Czar of bloody Permia. Now get lost, or we'll do you for loitering."
Oh, Basso thought. "No, really," he said, taking off his hat. He started to step forward, so his face would be in the light from the all-night lantern, but the sentry swung up his halberd and pressed the shaft against his windpipe. "Suit yourself," the sentry said. "You're under arrest."
The other sentry was behind him, twisting his arms behind his back. It was done so quickly that he had no time to react. "I'll take him down the station," said the sentry he couldn't see. "He can sleep it off in the cells."
Call the porter, he'll identify me, Basso was about to say; but as soon as he opened his mouth, the sentry rabbit-punched him in the kidneys, and the words were suddenly too big to get out. He discovered that it's possible to hurt and walk at the same time, provided someone pushes you all the way.
Just after dawn, the duty sergeant came and let him out. His back hurt from sleeping on a stone floor, and he didn't feel like trying to prove his identity. Instead, he walked to the House, dumping the coat and the hat just before he got there. He walked up to the porter's lodge.
"Do you know who I am?" he demanded.
"Of course, sir," the porter said. "They've been looking for you. Tearing the City apart."
"Is that right?" Basso said. "Well, you found me. Now get my carriage so I can go home."
A lot of people were respectfully furious with him for the rest of the day.
The first letter from Aelius;
Landed; more resistance than anticipated, dealt with successfully, losses trivial. Establishing fortified camp at Bilemvasia. Am leaving for Voroe to begin second front.
And that was all. Two agonising days of waiting; then a letter from Bassano, brought in on the first returning cargo ship:
Well, here we are.
The trip out was pretty miserable--cold and wet, it rained nearly all the way and the ships got thrown about a lot. The captain was worried at one stage, tried to talk Aelius into turning back, putting in to Voroe; might as well have been talking to a brick wall. Made landfall (see, I'm learning the technical terms) mid-afternoon, not dawn as we'd hoped. Someone must've seen us floundering about in the gulf, because there was a fair-sized army waiting on the beach. Aelius reckons somewhere in the region of seven thousand, so presumably the local tribal militia. Occurs to me to wonder how they knew we were hostile; the sheer number of ships, maybe, too many for a trading convoy. Still, how long does it take to convene the tribal militia? Maybe not all that long; someone turns up on a horse and yells, "To arms!" or words to that effect; run back to the huts, grab a shield and a spear, off you go. Then again: time elapsed between first sighting of fleet in bay and army drawn up on beach, two hours? If we knew more about these people, it'd be a great help.
One day here and already I'm blase about it all. A fair-sized army. Well, to me, clinging to the rail as we lurched in on a tearaway wave, it was absolutely terrifying. A beachful of people, and all of them wanting to kill me. All I could think was, oh God, what are we doing? let's get away from here while we still can; then realised the wind was blowing us straight at the beach; couldn't turn back even if we wanted to; this ghastly thing was going to happen, and nothing could be done about it. Wisely, kept all such thoughts to myself, stayed on ship, didn't get under people's feet. Watched battle.
You get used to it. From where I was, I could only see a little slice of the action. I saw what looked like a fence, all pretty colours; figured out that what I was looking at was the Mavortine shield wall, as described in the briefing notes. Too far away to see people as people--just dots. I guess it's easier, on balance, if it's dots.
I was thinking, that's a hell of a lot of dots, how on earth are we going to get off the ships without being wiped out? Then there was this creaking, banging, whistling all round me. Aelius' ship-mounted artillery. I'd clean forgotten about it. I was below deck all morning, feeling like death because of the ship dancing about. While I wasn't there to see, they must've dug out the crates, assembled the machines from the kits of parts and set them up on deck; just like that, easiest thing in the world. Shows how observant I am, I hadn't even noticed they were there until they started going off all around me.
Nasty shock for the Mavortines. Suddenly, the air's full of flying stone balls a foot across. Much too far away for me to see what happened when one of those things landed. I dread to think. The noise was enough to turn my stomach; all that strength and power. As a stone goes over, you can hear it spin--swish-swish-swish, only the sound changes the further away it gets. Nearest comparison is the sound of people whispering about you behind your back. I was scared stiff, and they weren't even aimed at me.
I guess we must've picked up the range pretty well; the shield wall moved back up the beach, and we were coming right in close. We dropped anchor just short of running aground, and then people started jumping into the water. Orderly lines, queuing up, then over the side and splash! I guess they did it because the sergeants told them to. You wouldn't have got me to do it, not even with a cattle-prod.
First ashore were the archers; they formed up in line and laid down covering fire. Air still full of swish-swishing stones; Mavortines not doing much, just standing there, dots. Disembark the heavy infantry. Loads of men splashing about in the water, couldn't hear yourself think, everybody soaked to the skin, everybody shouting. Aelius went ashore with the heavy infantry.
It's easy to say the Mavortines were dumb or chicken. They let us land unopposed, for fear of the artillery barrage. Bad mistake. What they should have done was ignore the head-sized solid granite hailstones, never mind if a few dozen men get pulped; be there to fight 'em in the water, don't let a single one set foot on the sand. I suppose that's the difference between soldiers and people.
As it was, they got the worst of it both ways. By the time they charged down the beach at us, we'd got three ranks of heavy infantry formed up, with a skirmisher screen and archery batteries in the centre and on the wings; artillery still pounding away; they tried to charge home, got within fifty yards, stopped. Men behind still running in, men at the front standing still or trying to turn back. Complete mess. Aelius orders the advance. Up the beach go our three lines, nice steady walk, a thousand men keeping in step; at twenty yards, present arms; at fifteen yards, lock shields. Then they just walked into the Mavortines, like walking into a cornfield.
It took no time at all; maybe half a minute. Then the Mavortines were running like hell up the beach, our lot still walking at the prescribed pace (they hadn't slowed down, as far as I could tell)--no wild pursuit, just the same determined stroll, walking over the dead and the dying. At some point I noticed the artillery had stopped. Two hundred and fifty yards up the beach, the line halts. No Mavortines in sight anywhere, unless you count a lot of dots on the beach--mess, litter, waiting to be cleared away, like Portway Square after New Year's.
Hell of a thing. Aelius said we lost three men dead, seventeen wounded; killed between three hundred and three hundred and fifty Mavortines. Couldn't be fussed to count; left them lying, for the tide and the gulls.
When I was absolutely certain it was perfectly safe, I put on my wonderful brigandine (thanks for that, by the way; you have no idea how amazingly reassuring it is to be wearing armour when violence is going on--so much better than socks), jumped in the sea, got very wet, squelched up onto the beach. Tried very hard not to look at the dead bodies. Logically, it shouldn't matter a damn. You're just as killed by a one-inch arrowhead as you are by a foot-diameter stone ball. Arrow hits you in the face or the neck, you die instantly. Actually, arrows much scarier--can hit you in the guts and you take hours to die. Stone ball turns you to mush; can't get more instant than that. But I can perfectly well understand why the Mavortines were freaked out by the artillery, something capable of doing that to a human body. Aelius agrees, by the way, only he calls it morale effect.
We thought they might come back while we were unloading the ships, but they didn't. Had the beach to ourselves. All essentials unloaded by nightfall; sectional ramparts unshipped, assembled and in place; sentries posted, campfires lit, supper cooking. An hour ago, it was a hundred and fifty acres of sand; now it's a small but prosperous town. Amazing.
I imagine this sort of thing's all in a day's work for General Cowshit. Having nothing better to do, I looked up opposed landings in the Book. It said: if possible, lay down an artillery barrage; land archers first, followed by heavy infantry; seek to engage enemy at earliest opportunity. Which is exactly what he did. I imagine he thought: well, done that, tick it off the list and get on with the next stage. To me--well, who gives a damn? The thought that was uppermost in my mind, even uppermoster than Oh shit, this is scary, was: what am I (Bassianus Arcadius Severus Licinius) doing here? What possible function? Took me a long time to figure that one out. I guess I'm here to report back; which I'm doing.
That's about it. Tomorrow we advance, with a view to taking Bilemvasia, wherever and whatever the hell it is. I can't help thinking, this is a bloody odd way for human beings to spend their time.
Cordially,
Bassano.
Basso reported to the House. He told them that the expeditionary force led by General Aelius had landed at Bilemvasia. They had met with strong resistance, estimated at seven to ten thousand, who were routed with ease. Estimates put enemy losses at five hundred dead, at a cost of only three Vesani. He called for a vote of thanks and a day of national thanksgiving. Passed unanimously.
Arriving back at the Severus house, he got out of the coach, then stopped and looked hard at one of the sentries.
"Excuse me," he said, "but aren't you the Czar of Permia?"
The sentry looked at him and went white. Basso smiled at him, and went inside.
From Bassano;
I was right. Been here a week, feel like I've been doing this my whole life.
News first. We have occupied and are fortifying Bilemvasia. News ends.
We just walked in. Place was empty. Really strange. All the doors of the houses were open, like they were in such a hurry to leave they didn't have time to close them. Or maybe it's one of those places where you never close your door. No, scrub that. You'd have to, because of the cold, and the pig would get out.
No exaggeration. The pig lives in the house--hut--with the family. A man I was talking to who reckons he knows a bit about these people said, well, of course. The pig's more important than any other member of the household; it's going to see you through the winter. Chickens not quite so important, so they live in a coop out back. The cows stay out all year, which is hard to believe.
God, these people are poor. Define poor. In any society, I guess poor means not having as much as somebody else. For all I know, the people of Bilemvasia are the bloated aristocracy of Mavortis, grinding the faces of the rural proletariat. But they basically live in one room, and they don't seem to have got around to inventing the chimney yet. There's a hole in the roof, and smoke finds its own way out. Eventually. Sanitation means please don't shit in the well. Mostly I tend to think of them as a different species, a kind of two-legged upright animal, until I remember that Melsuntha came from here and presumably once lived like this.
Mostly, I guess, they're just different. Hark at me, by the way, the world's leading authority. I haven't seen a (live) Mavortine yet, let alone spoken to one. But they think differently; sort of sideways, if that makes any sense. We've been having all sorts of fun interrogating hapless locals who didn't run away fast enough. We can understand the language, but not what they're saying.
Give you an example. Trying to find out where the enemy army is; the sort of thing you do if you're in a war. Hopeless. It's not that they won't tell us; they can't. We kept asking them: is the enemy at Periboule? Is the enemy anywhere near Mensicertha? They look at us and say, Sorry, where? Turns out that every tribe and sect has different names for all the places. Two villages on either side of a river: one village calls it one thing, the other calls it something else, and the killer is, they don't know (or care) what the other lot call it, because they never talk to the other lot. I can't begin to imagine how a society functions like that; well, it does and it doesn't. When one village absolutely has no choice but to discuss geography with its neighbour, they'll say, the river that comes down from the big mountain due north of here; and the neighbour replies, you mean the river that comes down from the big mountain due south of where we comes from?