Part 5 (1/2)
I'm far more comfortable in a barracks, tenting, on the hunting field, or in a common tavern and with the people of those places than in a palace with the grand.
So the thought of being one more spearman or archer didn't disturb or shame me, although I thought I could prove myself a good enough horseman to be allowed into the cavalry. But once again luck intervened.
My father may not have had a priest, but someone did owe him a favor, a retired domina named Roshanara, who'd been my father's regimental commander at Tiepolo. I do not know what deeds my father did that day-he would never tell tales of his exploits-but evidently they were memorable.
One day, not many months before I was to take the colors, a messenger arrived at the estate. He carried an elaborate scroll that, once its wax seals had been broken and we scanned it, offered me an appointment at the Lycee of the Horse Soldier, just outside Nicias.
This is considered the most elite of the various service schools, attended only by the sons of the n.o.ble rich and descendants of particularly well-connected and high-ranking officers.
None of us had any idea how this could've come to pa.s.s. My father said at one time there were five cadet postings made available by lot to all applicants, but since I'd sent no letters to the lycee that was an impossibility.
The explanation, of course, was Domina Roshanara, and his letter came in the next post. He said he'd not only named me for consideration to the lycee since he had no children of his own nor friends' children he took seriously enough to propose, but he'd also set aside a sum sufficient to see me until graduation. I could see my father's mustaches begin to bristle, but he read on, through Domina Roshanara's rather weak explanation that he'd heard the harvests had been exceedingly
bad in Cimabue, and this was to be looked at not as charity, but as one way to make the army they both so loved stronger.
My father looked very unconvinced, and was, I thought, about to explode and growl something about that would be the last d.a.m.ned time he saved any d.a.m.ned superior's sweetbreads, when my mother took him into another room. I know not what she said, but when they came back my attendance at the Lycee of the Horse Soldier was settled.
The school would commence after the Time of Dews, when soldiers would return from the field, campaigning during the ensuing Time of Births and Time of Heat not being common practice. That was not long distant, and I would need considerable time for travel, since Nicias is far from Cimabue. I spent the short time left with my father, learning all the details of lycees he could remember. Even though he'd not been able to attend such a lycee, but had gone through a training college in our own state, he'd heard many many tales from officers who had, and, he added wryly, still seemed to think their happiest days had been spent there.
Then the time came due and I rode off on the mare I'd chosen, Lucan. She wasn't my favorite, but was quite young, just five, and I hoped to be able to keep her for a great part of my career. I took another mare, Rabbit, named for her over-long ears and thankfully not her behavior when I was astride, and two mules with my gear.
I rode to the curve in the road, and turned to wave my farewell and take one last look at my home. It was hot, but the blur in my eyes was not from the sun. My father... mother... sisters ... all the family's servants, and my friends from the village, all were there. I fixed them in my memory, as if I were an artist taking a final look at his models before he hurries to his easel, as if I'd never see any of them again.
And in truth, that is almost how it has been.
I have only returned to Cimabue twice, for the funeral rites for my parents. Sometimes I was half a continent away, other times impossibly busy, and later it became unwise to do so for my sisters' safety.
That is not the complete truth-there were more than enough long leaves when I could have gone home instead of elsewhere.
But I did not and do not know why.
Perhaps it would be like returning to a dream only to see what a threadbare fancy it actually was.
FIVE.
The Lycee of the Horse SoldierMy two years at the lycee began in a roar, as hardened ex-cavalrymen, all former lance majors, troop guides, or regimental guides, chosen for iron bowels and lungs and eyes that could see a speck of dust on a uniform or a dot of manure on a horse's hoof from across a parade ground chorused loudly, obscenely, and thoroughly about my shortcomings.
Eventually we were shattered enough to be given grudging acceptance, and the army began to rebuild us in the desired image.
I worked hard in the cla.s.sroom, but never ranked higher than the middle of my cla.s.s. Some of the required courses made my eyes cross, such as Military Etiquette and Parade Ceremonials. These would be crucial to a successful career dancing attendance as an aide to a general, but that was hardly how I wished to spend my life. I did acceptably well at mathematics, as long as the instructor could show me its use in the field. I can still figure, within an inch, the height of a moun-taintop I must a.s.sault given its distance and the angle to the top, but as for reveling in the joys of pure numbers that supposedly express our relations.h.i.+p with the universe, well, I think that's no better than what the priests prattle, and I leave such importances for temples.
One course I remember well now was Battlefield Sorcery. It was taught not by a magician, which I found odd, but by a staff officer, which suggested we should not nap through his lecturing, nor hara.s.s him with uncomfortable questions unless we wished our first posting to be the Isle of the Forgotten, which all knew to be somewhere between Lost and Nowhere. He explained on the first day that he had a touch of the Talent, and had been selected for that reason. He further explained that the army deemed it important that a ”realisf' teach the course, rather than some fuzzy-brained scholar who'd fill us up with useless theory and pointless wand-waving.
In his lectures, we learned the army's concept of thau-maturgy's place. It was important, but hardly vital as long as it is present on both sides, the officer, a captain of the Upper Half, explained. An army would march into battle, and the sorcerers accompanying it would cast spells of confusion and fear, attempt to influence the weather, cause landslides, make rivers rise or ebb depending on the needs of the commander. But since the enemy would be making their own magic, it would be almost certain the enchantments would cancel each other out. Of course, if one side fought ”naked,” that is, without magic, it would be quickly destroyed.
One of the more scholarly of my fellows wondered why a battle could not be fought solely with magic, or a real army opposed and vanquished completely by sorcery, given a powerful enough magician.
”In theory,” the captain said, and his lip curled to show what he really thought of the idea,”in theory this could be done. Just as, with a lever long and strong enough and a fulcrum solid enough, you could lift the city ofNiciasto the other side of theLatane River.” There was a bit of laughter.
”But we are soldiers here, learning to deal with the facts of the rude day. Perhaps, if your interests lie in such ethereal matters, you might consider applying to a wizards' academy, and leaving your place here for a more pragmatic young man.” Some of the less brainy sorts laughed harder at this, since at the time military sorcerers were known as mystical dolts who
would die trying to figure why the demon they'd evoked was green instead of the desired blue, and never notice their legs were being devoured.
The young man flushed and sat down.
”I mean no insult,” the officer said, for he was not an unkindly man. ”We all know of great battles fought magician to magician, especially before war is declared or in the early stages of a struggle. And magic is of inestimable value when unopposed, and again I must emphasize that word, for example when the commander wishes to see if the enemy has concealed reserves. Possibly, if a magician has power enough, and his opponent is weak enough, he might be able to affect the opposing general's willpower to continue a hard-fought battle.
”And finally, magic comes into its own when an army is broken, its willpower gone, just as cavalry should always be used to finish a fleeing enemy.
”But all these purposes, important though they are, are secondary to our real purpose, what we soldiers have dedicated our lives to: battle. When steel becomes the argument, and the battlefield has been chosen, then sorcery must step aside. Magic, just like the quartermaster, the paymaster, or the farrier, exists only to ease the path of the warrior on the battlefield. In no way can it replace him.”
I thought of asking a question at this point-I didn't think the questioner had meant that, any more than someone asking if archers should be brought closer to the actual battle zone or kept back to fire volleys at the reserves meant the swordsman should stay home, or someone questioning whether the halberd wasn't vastly inferior to the lance meant it should be sc.r.a.pped.
But I said nothing.
I also thought something else: The witch in our village could heal colds, ease the shaking bones of the old, make childbirth easier-in short, perform many important tasks. She could not, however, make bones knit overnight or keep a failing heart beating for a while. For that we had to send for a more skilled pract.i.tioner. But that didn't mean she denied it was possible to heal a broken leg.
Her attempts to predict and control the weather were complete failures, and so were those of all the district sages I'd seen attempt the labor. But did that mean no one had done such a marvel? Of course not; it merely required a master wizard.
So battle magic was difficult. Perhaps a sorcerer powerful enough had not attempted it as yet, or perhaps no one had devised spells potent enough to rule the battlefield. But that didn't mean it was impossible. All the captain was really saying is that no one to our knowledge had mastered such feats, and not even I, coming from a backwater area like Cimabue, imagined Numantia to be the entire world.
I thought that the army, in this, as in many other ways, was all too ready to say This Is the Way It Is and Must Be, and close its mind. But that was a pa.s.sing notion, and I, too, accepted Things as They Were. Until Seer Tenedos.
Where I did well was out of doors, whether on the parade grounds, where I was very familiar with the evolutions, courtesy of my father; in any sport, particularly if it involved riding; or in our war games.
Perhaps I would have ranked higher, but as I've said my temper boiled when any other ”young gentleman” insulted me, my accent, my district, or, worst of all, my family, and so there were a number of disciplinary infractions on my record. I cared little, because it's far more important for a man to stand up for what he believes than to bow down meekly. A crawler cannot be a warrior.
This showed another peculiarity of the army: If I was insulted, and touched the hilt of the dress dagger we all wore, the challenge would have been made and my foe and I would have met at dawn with bare blades. A wounding or a death would be shrugged aside as part of the price of becoming an officer. But to seize one of these swaggerers by the waist, as I once did, upend him, and toss him into a slops barrel-why, this was most unseemly, and required three days in the stables for me to expiate my sin.
I made few friends, as I'd expected. Most tales of young men away from home for the first time tell how they erred and overstepped their bounds, became c.o.c.ky, or lost all discipline. None of that happened to me, so my time at the lycee is quite a dull tale.
Since I was very poor, Domina Roshanara's allowance just covering my expenses with three or four coppers left at the end of each month, the rich cadets did not take me to their bosoms. Since I wasn't a libertine, again more due to lack of funds than desire, the rakeh.e.l.lies thought me dull. Those few who were studious and aspired to be wise needed nothing from someone as thickheaded as I.
Perhaps I sensed the army's cruelty with relations.h.i.+ps even then. Soldiers swear the friends they make as recruits last forever, but this is seldom the case, particularly with officers. In the beginning there are the normal differences of cla.s.s, wealth, and performance that divide young men from their fellows. But it becomes worse once the sash of office is given. Friends fall away like rain. Some die of disease, some in battle, but even more must be turned away-a man who is promoted to captain can no longer roister with his now-lower-ranking legates. Dominas don't relax with captains, nor generals with dominas. My father had warned me of this, too, saying in spite of all the bravado and cheers, a soldier's life is a lonely one. I think he prepared me well for such a truth, for such a fate.
The few men I felt close to were of the lower ranks, although I was careful to remember my father's advice that an officer must never become so friendly with a ranker that he cannot send him off to die. But I did enjoy listening to the tales of the old warrants, of campaigns long forgotten except by soldiers, or being with the stablemen and learning still more about horses and their peculiarities.
I confess my happiest times were alone, when I had no duties, and I'd saddle Lucan, put some bread, cheese, and fruit in a pouch, and ride off into the country with no particular destination in mind.
Sometimes I'd take a bow and some blunts, and try for squirrels or birds, or a hook and line for fish.
Sometimes, on those back lanes far from the lycee, I'd encounter*farmers or fellow hunters-poachers, I suppose they were, which mattered not at all to me, since all men must eat.
More than once, especially during harvest season, I would encounter young women. I guess there was a certain amount of glamour to being a budding cavalry officer, and since I spoke as these young farm women did, I was a friendly presence. Such an encounter might well end on a bed of moss in a secluded glen, lying naked with a maid, and once or twice with a pair of them giggling and taking turnabout. It is only city people who think the countryside is innocent. To this day the smell of new-mown hay or freshly picked berries can bring a smile to my lips and a bit of remembered heat to my loins.