“The infection had settled in the very bones of his face. I gave him his last absolution. He died raving, but I pray his soul will take itself swiftly to the Company of the Saints.”
“Undoubtedly,” Martellus said stoutly. “But I have something else I would discuss with you, Your Holiness.”
“My public appearances, or lack of them.”
Martellus seemed put out. “Why, yes. You must understand the situation, Holiness. The Merduks are finally closing in. Our intelligence puts their vanguard scarcely eight leagues away and, as you know, the skirmishes with their light troops go on daily. The men need something to hearten them, to raise their spirits. They know you are alive and in the fortress and that is to the good, but if you were to appear before them, preach a sermon and give them your blessing, it would be a wonderful thing for their morale. How could they not fight well, knowing they were safeguarding the representative of Ramusio on earth?”
“They knew that at Aekir,” Macrobius said harshly. “It did not help them.”
Martellus stifled his exasperation. His pale eyes flashed in the hirsute countenance.
“I command an army outnumbered by more than ten to one, yet they remain here at the dyke despite the knowledge that it would take a miracle to withstand the storm that is upon us. In less than a week we will see a host to our front whose size has not even been imagined since the days of the Religious Wars. A host with one great victory already under its belt. If I cannot give my men something to believe in, to hope for—no matter how intangible—we’d be as well to abandon Ormann Dyke here and now.”
“Do you really believe that I can provide that thing they need to believe in, my son?” Macrobius asked. “I, who played the coward at Aekir?”
“That story is almost unknown here. All they know is that by some miracle you escaped the ruin of the Holy City and are here, with them. You have evidenced no desire to go south to Torunn or west to Charibon. You have chosen to remain here. That in itself is heartening for them.”
“I could not play the coward again,” Macrobius said. “If the dyke falls, I fall with it.”
“Then help it stand! Appear before them. Give them your blessing, I beg you.”
Eyeless though he was, Macrobius seemed to be studying the earnest soldier before him.
“I am not worthy of the station any more, General,” he said softly. “Were I to give the men a Pontiff’s blessing, it would be false. In my heart my faith wavers. I am no longer fit for this high office.”
Martellus leapt up and began striding about the simply furnished apartments that were Macrobius’ quarters in the citadel.
“Old man, I’ll be blunt. I don’t give a damn about your theological haverings. I care about my men and the fate of my country. This fortress is the gateway to the west. If it falls it will take a generation to push the Merduk back to the Ostian river, if we ever can. You will get up on the speakers’ dais tomorrow and you will address my men, and you will put heart in them even if it means perjuring yourself. The greater good will be served, don’t you see? After this battle is over you can do whatever you like, if you still live; but for now you will do this thing for me.”
Macrobius smiled gently. “You are a blunt man, General. I applaud your concern for your men.”
“Then you will do as I ask?”
“No, but I will do as you demand. I cannot promise a rousing oration, an uplifting sermon. My own soul stands sadly in need of uplifting these days, but I will bless these worthy men, these soldiers of Ramusio. They deserve at least that.”
“They do,” Martellus echoed heartily. “It’s not every soldier can go into battle with the blessing of the High Pontiff upon him.”
“If you are so very sure I am yet High Pontiff, my son.”
Martellus frowned. “What do you mean?”
“It has been some weeks since my disappearance. A Synod of the Prelates will have been convened, and if they have not received word of my abrupt reappearance, they may well have chosen a new Pontiff already, as is their right and duty.”
Martellus flapped one large hand. “Messengers have been sent both to Torunn and Charibon. Rest your mind on that score, Your Holiness. The whole world should know by now that Macrobius the Third lives and is well in the fortress of Ormann Dyke.”
T HE address of the High Pontiff to the assembled troops took place the next day in the marshalling yards of the fortress. The garrison knelt as one, their ranks swelled by thousands upon thousands of refugees who had come to look upon the most important survivor of Aekir. They saw an old man with a white bandage where his eyes had been, and bowed their heads to receive his blessing. There was silence throughout the fortress for a few moments as Macrobius made the Sign of the Saint over the crowds and prayed to Ramusio and the Company of Saints for victory in the forthcoming ordeal.
Scant hours later, the lead elements of the Merduk army came into view on the hills overlooking Ormann Dyke.
Corfe was there on the parapets of the eastern barbican along with Martellus and a collection of senior officers. They saw the enemy van spread out with smooth discipline, the long lines of elephant-drawn drays in their midst and regiments of heavy cavalry—the famed Ferinai—spread out on the flanks. Horsehair standards were lifted by the wind and on a knoll overlooking the deployment of the army Corfe could see a group of horsemen thick with standards and banners. Shahr Baraz himself and his generals.
“Those are the Hraibadar,” Corfe told Martellus. “They spearhead the assaults. Sometimes the Ferinai dismount and aid them, for they are heavily armoured also. They are the only troops who are issued wholesale with firearms. The rest make do with crossbows.”
“How far behind the van should the main body be?” asked Martellus.
“The main levy moves more slowly, keeping pace with the baggage and siege trains. They are probably three or four miles back down the road. They will be here by nightfall.”
“He keeps his men well out of culverin range,” Andruw, the young ordnance officer in charge of the barbican’s heavy guns said, disgruntled.
“His light cavalry found out their ranges for him in that skirmish the other day,” Martellus said. “He will not have to waste good troops by inching forward to test those ranges. A thoughtful man, this Shahr Baraz. Ensign, what kind of siege works did he use before Aekir?”
“Fairly standard. His guns in six-weapon batteries protected by gabion-strengthed revetments. A ditch and ramp surmounted by a stockade with many sally-ports. And a rearward stockade in case of any attempt to raise the siege.”
“No need for him to worry about that here,” someone said darkly.
“How long did he spend in preparation before the first assault?” Martellus asked, ignoring the comment.
“Three weeks. But this was Aekir, remember, a vast city.”
“I remember, Ensign. What about mines, siege towers and the like?”
“We countermined, and he gave up on that. He used enormous siege towers a hundred feet high and with five or six tercios in each. And heavy onagers to break down the gates. That’s how he forced entry to the eastern bastion: a bombardment of both guns and onagers accompanied by a ladder-borne assault.”
“He must have lost thousands,” someone said incredulously.
“He did,” Corfe went on, his eyes never leaving the group of Merduk horsemen that looked down on the rest out in the hills. “But he could afford to. He lost maybe eight or nine thousand in every assault, but we lost heavily too.”
“Attrition then,” Martellus said grimly. “If he cannot be subtle, he will simply attack head on. He may find it difficult here, with the dyke and the river to cross.”
“I think he will assault with little preparation,” Corfe informed them. “He knows our strength by now, and he has lost much time in the passage of the Western Road. I think he will come at us with everything he has as soon as his host is assembled. He will want to be in possession of the dyke before the worst of winter.”
“Ho, the grand strategist,” one of the senior officers said. “Someone after your job there, General.”
Martellus the Lion grinned, but there was little humour in the gesture. His canines were too long, the set of his face too cat-like.
“Corfe is the only one of us who has experienced a full-scale Merduk assault at first hand. He has a right to air his views.”
There were some dark murmurings.
“Did the Aekir garrison sortie?” Martellus asked Corfe.
“In the beginning, yes. They harassed the enemy while he dug his siege lines, but there was always a large counterattack ready to be launched—mainly by Ferinai. We lost so many men in the sorties and they did so little damage that in the end Mogen gave up on them. We concentrated on counter-battery work, and mining. They are not so skilful with their heavy guns as we are, but they had more of them. We counted eighty-two six-gun batteries around the city.”
“Sweet Saints!” Andruw the gunner exclaimed. “Here at the dyke we have less than sixty pieces, light and heavy, and we thought we were overgunned!”
“What about mortars?” Martellus asked. Everyone hated the huge, squat weapons that could throw a heavy shell almost vertically into the air. They rendered the stoutest protecting wall useless, firing over it.
“None. At least they used none at Aekir. They are too heavy, perhaps, to bring over the Thurians.”
“That is something at least,” Martellus conceded. “Direct-fire weapons only, so we will be able to rely on the thickness of our walls and the refugee camps cannot be bombarded while the wall stands.”
“They should be herded out of the defences at once,” Corfe blurted out. “It is madness to have a crowd of civilians in the fortress at a time like this.”
Martellus blinked. “Among those civilians are would-be nurses and healers, powder and shot carriers, fire-fighters, labourers and perhaps a few more soldiers. I will not cast them out wholesale before seeing what I can get out of them.”