The historians also failed to note another interesting fact about ancient Klatchian warfare, which was that it was still at that stage quite primitive and just between soldiers and hadn’t yet been thrown open to the general public. Basically, everyone knew that one side or the other would win, a few unlucky generals would get their heads chopped off, large sums of money would be paid in tribute to the winners, everyone would go home for the harvest and that bloody woman would have to make up her mind whose side she was on, the hussy.
So Tsortean street life went on more or less as normal, with the citizens stepping around the occasional knots of fighting men or trying to sell them kebabs. Several of the more enterprising ones began to dismantle the wooden horse for souvenirs.
Rincewind didn’t attempt to understand it. He sat down at a street caf� and watched a spirited battle take place between market stalls, so that amid the cries of “Ripe olives!” there were the screams of the wounded and shouts of “Mind your backs please, m�l�e coming through.”
The hard part was watching the soldiers apologise when they bumped into customers. The even harder part was getting the caf� owner to accept a coin bearing the head of someone whose great-great-great-grand father wasn’t born yet. Fortunately, Rincewind was able to persuade the man that the future was another country.
“And a lemonade for the boy,” he added.
“My parents let me drink wine,” said Eric. “I’m allowed one glass.”
“I bet you are,” said Rincewind.
The owner industriously swabbed the tabletop, spreading its coating of dregs and spilt retsina into a thin varnish.
“Up for the fight, are you?” he said.
“In a manner of speaking,” said Rincewind guardedly.
“I shouldn’t wander about too much,” said the owner. “They say a civilian let the Ephebians in – not that I’ve got anything against the Ephebians, a fine body of men,” he added hurriedly, as a knot of soldiery jogged past. “A stranger, they say. That’s cheating, using civilians. There’s people out looking for him so’s they can explain.” He made a chopping motion with his hand.
Rincewind stared at the hand as though hypnotised.
Eric opened his mouth. Eric screeched and clutched at his shins.
“Have they got a description?” Rincewind said.
“Don’t think so.”
“Well best of luck to them,” said Rincewind, rather more cheerfully.
“What’s up with the lad?”
“Cramp.”
When the man had gone back behind his counter Eric hissed, “You didn’t have to kick me!”
“You’re quite right. It was an entirely voluntary act on my part.”
A heavy hand dropped on to Rincewind`s shoulder. He looked around and up into the face of an Ephebian centurion. A soldier beside him said: “That’s the one, sarge. I’d bet a year’s salt.”
“who’d of thought it?” said the sergeant. He gave Rincewind an evil grin. “Up we come, chummy. The chief would like a word with you.”
Some talk of Alexander and some of Hercules, of Hector and Lysander and such great names as these. In fact, throughout the history of the multiverse people have said nice things about every cauliflower-eared sword-swinger, at least in their vicinity, on the basis that it was a lot safer that way. It’s funny how the people have always respected the kind of commander who comes up with strategies like “I want fifty thousand of you chappies to rush at the enemy”, whereas the more thoughtful commanders who say things like “Why don’t we build a damn great wooden horse and then nip in at the back date while they’re all round the thing waiting for us to come out” are considered only one step above common oiks and not the kind of person you’d lend money to.
This is because most of the first type of commanders are brave men, whereas cowards make far better strategists.
Rincewind was dragged before the Ephebian leaders, who had set up a command post in the city’s main square so that they could oversee the storming of the central citadel, which loomed over the city on its vertiginous hill. They were not too close, however, because the defenders were dropping rocks.
They were discussing strategy when Rincewind arrived. The consensus seemed to be that if really large numbers of men were sent to storm the mountain, then enough might survive the rocks to take the citadel. This is essentially the basis of all military thinking.
Several of the more impressively dressed chieftains glanced up when Rincewind and Eric approached, gave them a look which suggested that maggots were more interesting, and turned away again. The only person who seemed to be pleased to see them –
– didn’t look like a soldier at all. He had the armour, which was tarnished, and he had the helmet, which looked as though its plume had been used as a paintbrush, but he was skinny and had all the military bearing of a weasel. There was something vaguely familiar about his face, though. Rincewind thought it looked quite handsome.
“Pleased to see them” was only a comparative description. He was the only one who acknowledged their existence.
He was lounging in a chair and feeding the Luggage with sandwiches.
“Oh, hallo,” he said gloomily. “It’s you.”
It was amazing how much information can be crammed in to a couple of words. To achieve the same effect the man could have said: It’s been a long night, I’m having to organise everything from wooden horse building to the laundry rota, these idiots are about as much help as a rubber hammer, I never wanted to be here anyway and, on top of all this there’s you. Hallo, you.
He indicated the Luggage, which opened its lid expectantly.
“This yours?” he said.
“Sort of,” said Rincewind guardedly. “I can’t afford to pay for anything it’s done, mind you.”
“Funny little thing, isn’t it?” said the soldier. “We found it herding fifty Tsorteans into a corner. Why was it doing that, do you think?”
Rincewind thought quickly. “It has this amazing ability to know when people are thinking about harming me,” he said. He glared at the Luggage as one might glare at a sly, evil-tempered and generally reprehensible family pet who, after years of biting visitors, has rolled over on its scabby back and played as Lovable Puppy to impress the bailiffs.
“Yes?” said the man, without much surprise. “Magic, is it?”
“Yes.”
“Something in the wood, is it?”
“Yes.”
“Good job we didn’t build the sodding horse out of it, then.”
“Yes.”
“Got into it by magic, did you?”
“Yes.”
“Thought so.” He threw another sandwich at the Luggage. “Where you from?”
Rincewind decided to come clean. “The future,” he said. This didn’t have the expected effect. The man just nodded.
“Oh,” he said, and then he said, “Did we win?”
“Yes.”
“Oh. I suppose you can’t remember the results of any horse races?” said the man, without much hope.
“No.”
“I thought you probably wouldn’t. why did you open the gate for us?”
It occurred to Rincewind that saying it was because he had always been a firm admirer of the Ephebian political position would not, strangely enough, be the right thing to do. He decided to try the truth again. It was a novel approach and worth experimenting with.
“I was looking for a way out,” he said.
“To run away.”
“Yes.”
“Good man. Only sensible thing, in the circumstances.” He noticed Eric, who was staring at the other captains clustered around their table and deep in argument.
“You, lad,” he said. “Want to be a soldier when you grow up?”
“No, sir.”
The man brightened a bit.
“That’s the stuff,” he said.
“I want to be a eunuch, sir,” Eric added.
Rincewind’s head turned as though it was being dragged.
“Why?” he said, and then came up with the obvious answer at the same as Eric: “Because you get to work in the harem all day long,” they chorused slowly.
The captain coughed.
“You’re not this boy’s teacher, are you?” he said.
“No.”
“Do you think anyone has explained to him – ?”
“No.”
“Perhaps it would be a good idea if I got one of the centurions to have a word? You’d be amazed at the grasp of language those chaps have got.”
“Do him the power of good, I expect,” said Rincewind.
The soldier picked up his helmet, sighed, nodded at the sergeant and smoothed out the creases in his cloak. It was a grubby cloak.
“I think I’m expected to tell you off, or something,” he said.
“What for?”
“Spoiling the war, apparently.”
“Spoiling the war?”
The soldier sighed. “Come on. Let’s go for a stroll. Sergeant – you and a couple of lads, please.”
A stone whistled down from the fort high above them, and shattered.
“They can hold out for bloody weeks, up there.” Said the soldier gloomily, as they walked away with the Luggage padding patiently behind them. “I’m Lavaeolus. Who’re you?”