‘Ah.’ Morosai nodded, doing his familiar imitation of a Wise Old Man. ‘It doesn’t have that effect on you because you know the truth.’
‘Do I?’ Temrai paused to rub sawdust out of his eye. ‘First I’ve heard of it if I do.’
‘You know,’ Morosai went on, ‘that if we go to war with the Empire, we don’t stand a chance. Even beating them does more harm than good. It’s their policy; kill one of them and they guarantee to send five more in his place. That’s why you were all set to run away, until he stopped you.’
‘Really?’ Temrai said irritably. ‘I know all that, do I? Fancy.’
‘Of course you do,’ Morosai answered, apparently oblivious of how aggravating he was being. ‘I wouldn’t insult you by suggesting otherwise.’
‘Fine. And do I know a way of getting us out of this mess? One which doesn’t end with us all being killed?’
Morosai nodded. ‘Course you do,’ he said. ‘You’d have to be stupid not to.’
Temrai stood up and took hold of the saw-handle. ‘Let’s do some work,’ he said, ‘instead of sitting around nattering all day. We’re supposed to be setting an example. ’
‘You’re supposed to be setting an example,’ Morosai pointed out. ‘I’m old enough to be excused duty, but I could see you weren’t going to be able to manage this on your own.’
When he was a boy, Temrai remembered, he’d always hated cousin Morosai. ‘Very true,’ he said. ‘All right, are you ready? From your end, then.’
They worked the saw for a while, until the wood started to clent on the blade. ‘Hold it,’ Morosai said, frowning. ‘You’ll break the saw if you try to force it.’
Temrai let go and leaned against the beam. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘So now what do we do?’
‘We don’t do anything. You hold still while I free up the blade with the bowsaw.’
Morosai started to cut a wedge out beside the cut. Working the saw didn’t seem to bother him in the least, whereas Temrai’s wrists and hands were hurting. ‘Go on, then,’ Temrai said. ‘What’s this blindingly obvious way out we both know?’
‘Surrender,’ Morosai replied; he was three finger-breadths down into the wood already, and no sign of being short of breath. ‘They only want the land; give it to them. Then we go back to the plains, where we belong. Really, it’s the same as what you were planning to do.’
Temrai nodded slowly. ‘So we pack up and move on again. And Colonel Loredan’s just going to stand by and let us go past, without raising a finger. Sorry, but I can’t see it.’
The object of the exercise was to convert the corpse of a mature beech tree into a pile of neatly sawn planks, which would form part of the swinging bridge across the river. Temrai’s design for the bridge called for about a hundred nine-foot planks. So far, he and Morosai had spent three hours sweating and straining at the big saw, and they hadn’t even produced one plank yet.
‘Would you rather I came up top?’ Morosai asked. He was down in the saw-pit, while Temrai was up top (traditionally the young, fit apprentice went down in the pit, while the decrepit old man stayed topside; the significance of this wasn’t wasted on Temrai). ‘Better still,’ he went on, ‘why don’t you shove off and find someone else to do this with me. I know you’re doing your best, but you really aren’t very good at it.’
Temrai sighed. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Point taken. But just answer my question, will you? What makes you think Bardas Loredan will let us walk peacefully away?’
‘Because his superiors will tell him to,’ Morosai replied. ‘The prefect doesn’t want to fight if he doesn’t have to; our dead bodies aren’t any use to him, unless he’s found a way of tanning human skin into usable leather, or gone into the bonemeal business. What he wants is the land. If he can get it with vacant possession, so much the better. And even if Colonel Loredan does want to kill us all – which I doubt, incidentally – if the prefect tells him to let us go, he’ll let us go. Simple as that. You were on the right track, young Temrai, and then you had to stop and play at soldiers. Still, you know I’m right.’
‘On balance, I think you are,’ Temrai said, standing up and dusting himself off. ‘But I can’t take the risk.’
‘I know,’ Morosai said. ‘A pity, isn’t it?’
Having sent Morosai a competent replacement, Temrai walked up to the highest point of the plateau and looked down, trying to visualise what it would all look like if and when it was finished. Here where he was standing would be the citadel, separated from the rest of the plateau by a ditch and a bank topped with a stockade. There’d be another stockade round the whole of the plateau, with towers at regular intervals for archers and catapults. Halfway down the steep sides there’d be the bastions for the big trebuchets, built on top of platforms made from thick piles packed close together and rammed down hard. At the point where the single narrow, winding path reached the plain would be the swing-bridge and the pump – a grandiose name for the array of buckets on ropes that would carry water up to the top. The pump would be housed in a heavily reinforced plank shell and guarded by towers on either side; it was a naturally vulnerable feature, so it made sense to position it alongside the other weak point, the bridge. What he’d really prefer to do, if there was time, would be to enclose the pump and the bridge-house in a brick or even stone tower, thereby making the weakest point into the strongest (just as the head, the most vulnerable part of the body, is protected by the helmet, the most strongly built piece of armour).
Well; it was all very fine in theory. How well it would do in practice, when it was put to the test, remained to be seen. Morosai was right, of course; pinning their hopes on fortifications, on armour, wasn’t the right thing to do. It was the enemy’s way of doing things, not theirs; and no matter how strong armour may be, it’s bound to fail if it’s bashed with a big enough hammer. But the thought of walking towards the enemy, towards Bardas Loredan, and hoping that common sense and expediency would prevail was something he couldn’t do – and that was, as Morosai had said, a pity, because the army and the man who’d managed to bash down Ap’ Escatoy were unlikely to have much trouble smashing up a few palisades of green timber. Here I am, waiting for Bardas Loredan, Sacker of Cities; only seems like yesterday that I was Temrai, Sacker of Cities, knowing in my heart that even the walls of Perimadeia weren’t strong enough for me and my big hammer.
Nevertheless; knowing something is all very well, but it doesn’t count for anything until it’s been proved, and proof – well, they hadn’t reached that point yet. In the meantime, they had plenty to keep themselves amused with.
He wandered back down the path, stopping halfway to watch the men who were digging out the moat and banking up the spoil on the inside to make yet another line of defence. Mostly they were working in silence, which was unusual for plainspeople, but here and there he could catch bits of old songs, concurrent and discordant. They were deep enough down now to need derricks and winches to haul the baskets of dirt out of the canal bed; he could see the occasional group of carpenters shaping them out of springy green timber. Further off he watched the long timber-wagons rolling towards the plateau, massive logs stacked unnervingly high and lashed down with miles of the coarse grass-fibre rope that the women (nominally under the command of his wife, although Tilden had never made a rope in her life and didn’t care who knew it) were busily plaiting in their improvised ropewalk, a hundred yards or so off the road, opposite where the bridge would be. He could hear the crisp, cold chink of hammers on steel, steel on anvils, as the smiths bashed out nails by the thousand, mattock-heads, axe-blades, bill-hooks, hammer-heads, shovels, axle-pins, iron bands for barrels and rims for cartwheels. Next to the makeshift smithies he watched the coopers and wheelwrights, busy with drawknives and adzes and froes. Beside them, in a neighbourly sort of way, were the basket-weavers, working quickly and steadily and with no apparent sign of concern, while their children scampered to and from the wood with enormous armfuls of twigs and shoots. Level with where he was standing on the path, they were digging into the side of the escarpment to make the footings for a trebuchet position; one man wielding the big hammer, the other steadying the drill, giving it a sharp twist after every hammer-blow. In the distance, he could see the saw-pits, the repeating flash as the sun glanced off a saw-blade rising on the draw-stroke. So much activity and work and creation and goodwill, so many different things being made by the exercise of so many and such diverse skills; he couldn’t help thinking of the first day he’d spent in Perimadeia, a wide-eyed boy walking dazzled through streets alive and pulsating with the activity of countless workshops and factories. One day, he’d thought then, I’d like my people to be like this.