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.
; 'So we need to persuade the enemy off the slope and on to the flat soon or we risk them being reinforced.'
He was a meticulous man, Neristus. A fine quality though it did lead him to state the blindingly obvious sometimes. Roberto chose not to interrupt. Otherwise they might be all night getting to the point.
'My carpenters have been working with some of the different woods the Sirraneans are selling to us. Very interesting qualities in some of the beech wood. It has great strength combined with flexibility. It means we can . . .' He paused. 'Do you have the time to come and see?'
Roberto shrugged. 'Is it worth it?' he asked a little mischievously.
Neristus stared at him. 'I never waste anyone's time,' he said.
The engineers' workshops were set up at the tenth gate and as far from Roberto as possible to keep him from the noise. The place was ablaze with light and baking hot from the forges. Hammer on metal rang out into the night sky, mixed with the sounds of saw, lathe and file.
'Don't you let your citizens sleep?' asked Roberto as they walked into the open front of the workshop.
'The body needs less sleep than we think it does. Anyway, we enjoy our work,' said Neristus. 'Over here.'
The scrawny little man led him to the right-hand corner where two scorpions sat on the ground. The teams around them hurried to their feet to salute. Roberto acknowledged them with a curt nod.
'Carry on.' He turned to Neristus. 'So, what am I looking at?'
Neristus clicked his fingers. 'Tension these two,' he ordered his team. 'Watch, General.'
Roberto watched. Two men wound each windlass at the rear of the pieces. The single iron-clad wooden arms, for all the world like oversize bows, bent as the cord wound and tightened. Wood and rope creaked, the slider dragged the bow string back along the bolt groove. One clicked into its trigger mechanism. A short time later, the other did the same. The teams stepped away. Roberto frowned. He had to look twice but there was no doubting the difference.
'You've set this trigger further back along the shaft than the other. Why?'
There was a gleam in Neristus's eyes. 'The Sirranean beech is wonderful,' he said, patting the scorpion in question. 'Look at its extra tensile capability. It is over fifteen per cent.'
Roberto smiled. 'And how much further will it fire?'
'Sixty yards easily. I have made all the new arms, General,' he said. 'With your permission, I can have them all fitted by march tomorrow.'
'Are they accurate?'
'We can experiment on the Tsardon if you like,' said Neristus.
It would make all the difference in the world as far as this combat was concerned. Roberto nodded, delighted.
'Rovan, you are a genius and your engineers a credit to the Conquord. Get it done,' he said. 'Tomorrow will be a great day.'
Tactical changes had been communicated through the chain of command before a dry and gloomy dawn broke. The army marched as it had done the previous four days but this time, unlike any other, there was the genuine belief that blood would be spilled. Neristus had walked with his wagons this morning and the sight had given Roberto even greater confidence. The scorpions were all uncovered, the fresh oil glistening on the new beech arms.
They deployed as before, but this time there was no pause. Immediately, they were in position, the advance began. It was slow and steady. Roberto put his magnifier to his eye to see if the Tsardon were reacting any differently to this change but there was no significant movement. Their infantry held its long deep single line with central phalanx. Behind, archers stood ready, with cavalry to the flanks.
Roberto's own cavalry stood back a short distance. Sixty yards meant his scorpions could fire over the heads of his infantry and into the Tsardon ranks before the hastati were in range of enemy arrows. It would expose the flaw in the enemy position. While they held tactical advantage of the upslope, they had little ground to play with in retreat before breaking on their own camp. There was only one way to go should they want the scorpions to stop firing once they had begun.
Neristus was an excellent judge of distance and it was his signal that Roberto took to halt the army. They were closer than they had been before. The hastati were within two hundred and fifty yards of the enemy, still standing defiant and tall above their shields. There was no movement in the Tsardon lines except perhaps a slight uneasy shifting at this new move. But they knew that they were still safely out of reach.
'Hold!' shouted Roberto, his orders signalled by flags and echoed through the army by his masters and centurions. 'Ready to defend. Shield wall on enemy advance, pikes front and proud.' He swung in his saddle from his position on the right flank with the Estorean cavalry. 'Engineers. Cock and load. First on my signal, then by the Master's command.'
Forty scorpion windlasses turned, operated by their two-man teams, creaking and grinding. Bolts were slotted into position, fluted pyramid steel heads on ash shafts, heavy and deadly. The ready was signalled. Roberto held up his arm, flags mimicking him. A silence spread across the plain. On the slopes the Tsardon waited. Below them. The Conquord readied.
'Do me proud, Neristus,' he whispered.
He swept his arm down and the flags came with him. Almost as one, the scorpion strings snapped forwards, dull thuds breaking the silence. The missiles whistled over the heads of the infantry. Roberto could just about track the mass of them but lost them in the background of the mountains and green when they pointed earthwards again.
The breath of every Conquord soldier and cavalryman was held. He imagined Garrelites standing with the infantry, peering out from over his shield at the bolts racing towards the enemy. The boy was anxious to fight. Today, he would have his wish.
The Tsardon moved, a violent ripple over a calm sea. Shouts of alarm echoed out and the bolts struck home. Roberto scanned the lines through his magnifier. Men were scattering from the points of impact. Some of the bolts had fallen short a good ten yards, ploughing up the earth or bouncing to fall with little force. The best of them had struck directly into the front line. Men lay dead. One, impaled on a bolt, twitched and jerked, blood spouting from his mouth. The Conquord legions were cheering.
Behind Roberto, the windlasses wound again. 'More elevation,' he roared. 'Five degrees.' The order was passed to the engineers. Handles cranked and the points of the new bolts canted upwards.
They fired again. Another brief quiet then the death whistle. This time the bolts all struck into the front three ranks. Shields had been placed in a linked defensive formation but were of no use against the heavy projectiles. Wood and hide splintered, chainmail and scale armour sheared. Roberto thought every bolt found its target and through his magnifier saw one drive straight through the body of one man into that of another, the pair of corpses cast into the comrades behind them. Conquord legionaries taunted and laughed, bade the enemy come and fight.
A third time the windlasses were wound. There was action in the Tsardon camp. The only question was, which way they would go. Again, shields were placed as a barrier, Tsardon cowering behind them, packing tight to get as many layers to the front as they could. It was an error. Neristus's scorpions spat again, strings thrumming. More Tsardons died, swept back by the harpoon-like bolts, limbs torn from sockets by glancing blows.
This time, though, the Tsardon charged the moment the missiles struck. Infantry and cavalry swept down the slopes at them. The change in the noise and atmosphere was stunning. Tens of thousands of men hurtling over the ground, baying for the heads of their enemies. The rumble of feet and the drumming hooves shook the ground. For the raw hastati in the forward maniples it would be terrifying.
In response, centurions began trotting along the backs of their maniples, all looking to Roberto and the flags. He moved quickly to a position where his standard could best be seen, feeling a thrill course through him and his heart start to pump. He dragged his gladius from its sheath.
The windlasses creaked again. Roberto had a short amount of time to assess the enemy charge. It was ordered and
disciplined, its pace designed to disrupt and force back. The Tsardon would want to trigger a retreat knowing that the scorpions were slow to turn around and could easily be lost.
Their units were wider than Roberto's maniples but overall, the line was not as broad making the chance of flanking by their cavalry small. His, on the other hand, could make the attempt. But not yet. Flags and messengers were set along the battle line which was in the order of half a mile wide. Too long for him to have close control. Messengers and flagmen could relay his intent, his masters and centurions made the local decisions and he had to trust them to make the right ones. They waited for him to signal how they would begin the fight.
Tsardon cavalry were fast and skilled at firing from the saddle at pace. Ranks of foot archers were also advancing just behind the front lines which carried their trademark shields and mid-length slightly curved swords. Strong for cutting in open skirmish, not so useful in close ordered combat. Roberto's decision was simple.
'Signal tactical plan one. Infantry to hold close, cavalry to break and harry. Close on thirty yards separation. Do not let them stop and pepper us.'
The flags waved the prearranged communication. Runners spaced along the back of the hastati repeated the orders. Over the advancing noise of the Tsardon, Roberto heard centurions and masters roaring commands. In the centre of the Estorean lines, eight maniples armed with the sarissa made up the phalanx. They moved up a few yards for the front ranks to kneel and give themselves room to bring their weapons to the horizontal. A forest of spikes was presented to the enemy; three ranks of them before the first hastati would be at risk from a sword thrust. Shields were planted in front of them, leaving tiny targets for arrow and javelin.
Right across the battlefront, the infantry maniples prepared for the assault, shields of the front ranks right forward, those behind them holding theirs above their heads, creating an armoured shell. Left and right, allied and Estorean cavalry broke into attack and reserve units, ready for the orders to move. And in the principes and triarii, composite bows were brought to bear, arrows stuck into the ground at the feet of hundreds of calm, experienced Conquord soldiers.
Cry of the Newborn Page 25