'Yes, centurion,' said Roberto.
'Conquord rider from General Gesteris and the eastern front, my Lord,' said the centurion, a man of the 10th
legion by his insignia. 'He assures me it is important.' He was holding a satchel.
'I have no doubt,' said Roberto. 'Bring it here.'
The centurion hurried across the tent, handed over the satchel and departed with a smart salute.
'One of yours, Ben Rekeros,' said Roberto, nodding at the centurion's receding figure even as he broke the Conquord seal on the satchel.
'Yes, General, and a fine one, if a little nervous in the face of his seniors. He'll do well, should he live past the hastati.'
Roberto retrieved a sheaf of papers from the satchel. They were tied with string and on top of them was a content and summary sheet written in Gesteris's flowing hand. He scanned the top sheet and felt a warmth spreading through him.
'This message was sent from the approach to the fords at Scintarit. How far away is that, do you think?'
Davarov scratched his head. 'Messenger service could get here in six days with river passage, riding at night and fresh horses for onward transport the whole way. It's the best part of four hundred miles, I'd say.'
'Then they have been as quick delivering this as they can,' said Roberto, impressed despite himself having checked the date of the message. 'It seems we are behind the game, growing fat where others' sword-arm muscle is toned. General Gesteris engaged the Tsardon seven days ago. Let's hope he is already victorious.'
'Does that change anything?' asked Tomas.
'Only in my heart,' said Roberto, 'I hate not being first into conflict. Makes me want to rip the head off the nearest Tsardon. Lucky there are so many about, isn't it?'
Chapter 21
848th cycle of God, 9th day of
Genasfall 15th year of the true Ascendancy
The horns sounding at dawn were all but drowned out by the rain drumming on the tents. A weather front had swept over the ridge behind them in the middle of the night and while the winds died quickly, the cloud remained and the camp had taken a soaking for four hours straight.
Shouts rang around the camp, driving citizens from their beds. Rain set discordant music on thousands of helmets, shields and breastplates. Roberto was already up, his aide strapping on his armour. It shone in the lanternlight and he nodded approval. Beneath the polished metal covering head, chest, forearms and shins, his Conquord green clothes had been pressed and stitched with the prayer of victory first uttered at the Battle of Reeth's Pass two hundred years before. A battle that had been decisive in the fall of Tundarra to the Conquord and one in which the Del Aglios family had risen to prominence.
He raised his arms while his gladius, in its scrollwork scabbard, was belted on. His cloak, black and slashed green and carrying the Conquord crest, was fastened at his right shoulder.
'Thank you, Garrelites,' he said.
The young hastati inclined his head and slapped his left fist to his right shoulder.
'Will we fight today, General?' he asked.
Roberto smiled at him. 'How many times have you asked me that? And what do I always reply?' He clapped Garrelites on the shoulder and pointed to his bow, which stood in its protective leather in a stand.
'That if you were a betting man, you'd say that we wouldn't be fighting, just standing and shouting, sir.'
'Well, there you go,' said Roberto. He took the bow and strode out of the tent. 'Get to your maniple, Garrelites and remember not to get yourself killed. I need someone to buckle on my breastplate of a morning.'
'You always say that, too, General.'
Roberto laughed. 'Get going.'
The noise of the army coming to order was deafening close to, a wave breaking around him, harsh under the rain and lowering dark cloud. Roberto added his voice to the tumult.
'15th
horse, why are you not mounted!' he bellowed. 'Where is my marching order? Hawks and Fists, you are slack this morning. It is a lovely day for a fight. And why is it that my armour is the only one from which the rain shies? Did we all run out of polish last night? Let's have you. Archers, keep those bows stowed. Conquord, we are marching. This will be an ordered deployment. I want those Tsardon pissing down their legs at our very advance!'
The wide streets of the camp were designed with formation in mind. The site of each tent meant that the maniples formed up in precise marching order. Quickly, the streets filled. Spears and pikes bristled in the air. The thrumming of rain on metal helmets increased in volume. From the paddocks, cavalry were mounting up. Horses, sensing the anxiety and tension in the air, stamped and snorted. Roberto's horse was brought to him and he stowed his bow behind the saddle before swinging smoothly aboard, giving himself a more elevated view of his fighting force.
The mass of voices was quietening now, leaving the air clear for centurions and masters to drag their citizens into tight formation. Roberto nodded. Their work over dusas had been most worthwhile. Over sixteen thousand infantry and two thousand cavalry, ceaselessly drilled in marching and deployment. Legions in competition with each other, cavalry detachments engaged in races and flanking games.
Roberto trotted to a mound of earth built for him by the principal gate. His flagmen stood on it, waiting for him. Turning his horse, he could see the army ready. It had been a decent assembly, given the torrential rain.
'Right, let's have them. Signal the gates.'
'Yes, sir.'
Flags, green and red quartered, swept up to the vertical, moved out thirty degrees, paused and swept down. On all four gates, the signal had been awaited. Orders were given. The hinged gates were dragged aside. Reinforced bridging was laid across the ditch and the army began to move. It would be the first sight the Tsardon had had this genastro of a Conquord force in battle order.
Roberto loved this moment. Fear and excitement in the faces of his hastati, weary experience in those of his triarii. The overwhelming feeling of energy of an army primed to fight. And the sound. It would always send shivers through his body. The rhythm of feet on the march, the rumble of thousands of hoofs on solid ground. Sound that spoke of unstoppable power.
The three infantry columns marched out of their respective gates, principal centre, right and left while the cavalry exited via the tenth gate at the rear of the camp, wheeling left or right depending on their flank position. From above, it would look like four great, dark snakes issuing from the belly of a scaled beast. He trusted the image was no less unsettling from across the plain.
Shouting encouragement, luck and God's protection to the principes who passed by him through the principal gate centre, Roberto let the thrill of the march rattle through him. He rode out behind them with his extraordinarii, a bodyguard made up of Atreskan and Estorean cavalry. Left and right, outside their tents and wagons, the camp followers watched them go. The traders and the whores, wondering how business would be at the end of the day.
Outside the camp, the columns formed up. Hastati left, principes centre and triarii right. Further right, the engineers led mule-drawn wagons in a line of forty, each carrying a mounted scorpion bolt-thrower. Estorean cavalry trotted on the left flank, Atreskan on the right and ahead, guarding against any sudden moves by the enemy though none looked likely. The rain and gloom cut visibility but it seemed as if they were just standing and watching, if the dark smudge in front of their camp was anything to go by.
The legions marched through the rain and mud and on down to the banks of the river that flowed across the centre of the plain. The ground was easy enough on the way down a very gentle slippery decline of rich grasses and tussocks of shrub. Roberto's scouts had identified a crossing point where rocks poked above the water course.
Fording the river, they forged on. Two miles to the enemy.
Roberto rode at the head of the army, gauging distance and the time to give the order to deploy. Ahead, the Tsardon were rushing into formation and moving down the slopes to give them distance ahead of their camp without giving up the advantage of higher ground. It was a less disciplined assembly than Roberto would have accepted but was effective enough.
Roberto ordered the wheel to deploy at just under half a mile distance. A long way out of arrow range and giving him room to advance at direct provocation. Latest estimates gave his archers a little less range than their Tsardon counterparts though in rain like this, any bowman was at a great disadvantage. The scorpions would be in play before the archers anyway, sending their bolts over a range just short of three hundred yards.
Roberto rode away to the right past cavalry who had broken into archer, sword and cataphract companies for the skirmish and charge. Behind him, maniples marched into place, their centurions keeping them in close order. Wagons rattled into position, covers left on the weapons for now with the rain unwelcome on hinge and rope unless battle demanded it.
He waited at the end of the formation. It took almost an hour to build, each maniple spaced precisely from the next in classic quincunx formation. Careful positioning defended by cavalry who had eyes only for the enemy. Once complete, he rode down the line. Past archers and light infantry ready to respond in a skirmish. Past his phalanx and heavy infantry, their shields front and centre standing on the floor and their sarissas, twenty feet in length, tips almost lost in the rain. The Atreskan alae infantry made up the left and right, his Estorean regulars in the centre.
'We are the Conquord's army!' He knew his speech would be heard by relatively few, particularly given the rain thumping on ground and helmet, but its content would be passed on quickly enough. 'We are the vanguard. Virgin territory is before us. And I understand none of you have left any virgins behind you.'
A coarse cheer and a ripple of laughter spread out as his words passed through the army, maniple by maniple. Roberto walked his horse to the centre of the line and stopped, looking back over his three ranks of legionaries.
'We have our orders. This is the year when we strike the decisive blows that will bring Tsard to its knees before God and the
Advocate. And there is a greater prize on offer than the booty we already carry. This time, victory means we can all go home.'
A second cheer, louder. Spears and pikes rattled against the backs of shields.
'But you have to earn it. Respect your enemy and fight hard. Protect your friends. Discipline. Honour. Victory.'
They were ready. All they could do now was wait.
And wait they did. Through a rain-soaked day in which all their taunting, fake moves and small advances drew not a single man or arrow from the Tsardon on the slopes before them. Roberto kept them in the field until late in the afternoon and as the clouds finally began to disperse, they marched back to camp and into the setting, red sun.
It was the same for four days. The Conquord army's shows of strength, skill and determination to fight were watched by a Tsardon army content to jeer, hoot and even sing from the safety of the slopes up which they knew Roberto would not take his legions. The range advantage of the enemy bows was a problem and he would not have it multiplied by attacking uphill. He had already considered moving his scorpions ahead of the infantry. It was not a tactic he liked. They interfered with the advance of the infantry and damage or loss was a significant risk. But, ultimately, it might be the only move certain to bring out the enemy.
He had even tried a false march south and it had been immediately clear the enemy would let them go. A scout reporting back that night had given him the reason why. More Tsardon forces were building seventy miles distant. All a march would give him was enemy to his front and rear. Not a prospect he was prepared to entertain.
On the evening of the fourth day of the stand-off, Roberto had walked through the army, pausing at cook-fires, joining in songs and story-telling and leading prayers at the Order table and lawn. They might not be able to have a House of Masks on campaign but there was no reason to abandon all their traditions. The lawn grew in the bed of three wagons, transferred to the ground in front of the Speaker's tent when the marching camp was built. In these last days of sun and rain, it had grown very well and his horse had grazed on it. A good sign of things to come.
He was eating alone in his tent later on, surrounded by reports from his centurions, the quartermaster, the surgeons and veterinaries.
The army was in rude health and he was preparing a message for Gesteris on the eastern front, asking for news and reporting on his first contact. A mug of sweet tea stood steaming at his left hand and a bowl of rabbit broth was on his right on the crowded desk. 'A moment, General?'
He looked up; his Master of Engineers stood in the doorway. Rovan Neristus was a timid, balding man with a feeble physique wholly unsuited to life on campaign. How he had survived so long Roberto wasn't sure but every day was a blessing. He had a brilliant mind and a sharp wit. The army loved him. Roberto had often mentioned that even though he was the general, the last man to die in his army would be Neristus. He beckoned him in.
'What can I do for you, Rovan?'
While it was traditional for each legion and ala to have its own company of engineers, Roberto had decided to create a dedicated unit. It was two hundred strong. While each man and woman was nominally attached to a legion maniple, they were too vital to waste in combat. Farmers and potters can fight, Roberto always said, the best carpenters, smiths, scientists and masons have better things to do. Unless I'm about to take a sword in the gut, of course. Then they can fight.
Neristus swept the cap from his head and came in. His hands were filthy with grease which was smeared on his face and clothes too. He was well into his sixties and middle age beckoned him. Roberto wondered if he had ever worried about his appearance. Doubtful.
'Thanks for smartening yourself up before coming to see your commanding officer. I'm glad you hold me in such high regard.'
'It hardly seems worth it, Roberto,' said Neristus. He never had been very good at military protocol. Certainly not in private. 'I'm not finished working yet.'
'So . . . ?'
'Well, the way I see it, we'll be here 'til dusas trying to get these Tsardon off the slope unless you put the scorpions up front,' he said.
'Ah, a tactician now as well? Your powers grow.'
Neristus pointed at his eyes. 'These work,' he said. 'And I know we don't have the numbers to waste attacking upslope. Not with what's waiting for us further on.'
'Correct,' said Roberto. Something was coming. Something good or Neristus would not be standing here. He felt a surge of anticipation.