by Daniel Diehl
“Those leather pants are hot.”
“You’re going to be on horseback for the next ten or twelve hours. If you ride without something between you and the saddle, your backside will be a mass of bloody blisters before noon.”
An hour later, in the shadowy grayness of pre-dawn light, Jason wandered aimlessly back and forth in front of the villa, doing squats and knee bends in a futile effort to make the leather riding breeches slightly less uncomfortable than they would have been if they had been made of wood. Muttering in defeat, he leaned against the rough, stuccoed wall of the building, staring at the hundreds of rushing men, nervous horses and small, two wheeled supply wagons moving in every direction. He quickly sorted out the common foot soldiers from the elite equites whose elaborate armor made it obvious that they were all men of wealth and status. Their knee length leather coats were split to the crotch in the front and back, rather than on the sides, so they could mount a horse, and the plates and rings of metal sewn to the leather was far shiner and more heavily decorated than a common soldier could ever afford. From their wrists to the elbows they wore heavy leather gauntlets with strips of metal running lengthwise to fend off enemy sword blows. They also had leather riding breeches like Jason’s but, somehow, they all seemed able to move without any problem.
For all their flash and swagger it was not the equites that fascinated Jason most, however, but the ordinary soldiers. Dressed in endless variations of the leather and metal armor worn by everyone, the only thing hinting at the fact that the troops all belonged to a single army were the matching short swords and six-foot-long spears, which were being issued to them from one of Arthur’s supply wagons. Jason wondered if the hundreds of wooden shields, decorated with crude replicas of the Roman laurel wreath design, would help make them look more like a real army once they were distributed from the wagons. Overall, the unity and discipline that Jason associated with the military was completely lacking from this disorganized rabble. Most disturbing of all was their ages; at least one in four were certainly still in their mid-teens, some looked like they were no more than twelve or thirteen. These were a far cry from the hard-bitten medieval soldiers portrayed in the movies; they were untrained children being sent out to be ground-up like sausage meat. All Jason could think about was that Arthur would need to have a lot more men with a great deal more training if he was going to stand any kind of a chance against the dragons and Morgana’s army of Picts.
“Wizard.” The voice startled Jason out of his reverie and it took him a minute to realize the boy was talking to him. “Your horse. The king said I was to bring it to you.”
Behind the boy stood one of the shaggy, short legged ponies the equites were mounting everywhere around the yard. Grinning and nodding his head, the boy handed Jason the reins and ran off. Jason stared at the animal, walked around to its left side and looked at the saddle wondering blankly how he was supposed to mount a horse when there weren’t any stirrups to put his foot into. He may have provided stirrups for half of the equites, but there were none on his own horse. He looked around, trying to see how the equites and noblemen mounted their horses. As he stood staring in confusion Merlin came riding around the corner of the villa on a nearly black horse that was even odder looking than the rest of them. As he reined to a halt a broad grin spread from ear to ear.
“Problems, Jason?”
Holding one index finger in the air threateningly, Jason snapped “Don’t you dare mock me, old man. I don’t even know why I’m here, let along how to get on this damned animal.” Shifting his gaze to Merlin’s mount, he added “And what kind of a horse is that?”
“It’s not a horse, it’s a mule. I’m still an ordained priest and for some reason it’s deemed more appropriate if I ride a mule.”
“How are you going to keep up with the charge of the Light Brigade, over there?”
“I don’t have to. They have to move slow enough to keep pace with the men. We only move at three or four miles an hour.”
All around them the army of King Arthur was preparing to march; organizing themselves to take the road heading southwesterly, hoping to confront the army of the Saxons before it reduced Vaddon to a wasteland. The soldiers were being separated into two war bands of roughly three hundred men each, each band arranging itself into columns three abreast and roughly one hundred men long. Behind the war bands a line of more than two dozen small carts heaped with equipment and supplies was being readied for departure. Around the villa the high ranking officers and noblemen were mounting up and heading toward the front of the line. Jason watched the equites mount their horses, hoping to figure out how it was done and repeat the process smoothly enough to prevent embarrassing himself. Merlin saw what he was doing, smiled, and directed his attention to their left. There, the ever charming Llewellyn stood eight or nine feet behind his horse, laughing and chatting casually to Bedwyr. Clapping the other man on the shoulder and nodding, Llewellyn sprinted forward, slapped his hands squarely on his horses rump, pushed down and vaulted into the air, landing squarely in the saddle.
“Oh, for God’s sake.” Jason shook his head and Merlin threw back his head and laughed uproariously.
“Grab the front of the saddle and jump up. It isn’t that far and it isn’t hard.”
Wiping the back of one hand across his mouth, Jason took hold of the front of the creaking leather saddle, flexed his knees and vaulted upward, landing sprawled across the horse on his belly. Swearing and grunting he pulled himself forward, finally taking his seat. Leaning forward, he whispered into the horse’s ear “I hate you.”
“Come on, Jason, follow me. We ride up front with the big boys.”
“And I hate you, too, old man.”
Merlin smiled, chuckled and urged his mule forward with his knees and a gentle clucking sound, slowly making his way to the center of the line where Arthur and Ambrosius waited. As the sun crept over the eastern horizon, pushing the night upward, moving the darkness slowly toward the west, Ambrosius’ trumpeters sounded a single, long blast and King Arthur addressed his little army.
“Once again we go to confront the Saxon enemy who kill our families, burn our homes and gnaw away at my kingdom like rats. Tomorrow morning it will be our job to stop them for all time. They cannot have my crown nor the land of the Britons. We will have every advantage in our favor; we have the element of surprise, we are coming from the east so the sun will be at our backs and in their eyes. And we not only have the Praefator to support us, but he has brought us a new wizard; one who will be adding his own special knowledge to that of Merlin’s. No army in history has had two wizards to guide them. Place your faith in God and your future in my hands, but most of all, be strong. We will have three rest periods during the march but will not make camp until we are within striking distance of the enemy. Expect to be on the road until the sun hangs low in the sky.” Looking up and down the line and receiving waves and affirmative nods from his officers, Arthur nodded to his uncle, turned his horse toward the front of the line and shouted “Move out.”
Four hours later, shortly after Ambrosius Aurelianus ordered the first halt and the baggage boys had begun passing out ale rations to the troops, Merlin led Jason to a low tussock of earth where Arthur, his uncle, Griffudd, Llewellyn and three other men who were unknown to Jason sat discussing their mission. After turning Jason over to the king, Merlin moved a few yards to one side, called to one of the boys, telling him to fill his jet bowl with water so he could spy on the Saxons’ movements.
“Sit down and take your ease, Master Jason.”
Jason shifted uneasily, twisting inside his leather riding breeches and flexing his knees. “Thank you, my Lord, but if you don’t mind, I think I’ll stand.”
Arthur smiled and nodded but Ambrosius and several of the others broke into raucous laughter. Ambrosius nodded knowingly, saying “Not used to riding, are you young wizard?”
“I’m afraid not. When we go back on the road I think I’ll walk for a while.”
&
nbsp; “Ask your friend the praefator to give you some of the ointment he keeps. It’s in one of the wagons. The baggage boys know where it is.” Turning to one of the others, Ambrosius added slyly “He thinks he hurts now. Wait till tomorrow.”
Diverting the levity from Jason, the king rose and spoke again. “The Praefator tells me you have questions for us. Please, speak freely.”
“Thank you, my Lord. If I’m going to come up with possible alternative tactics to use against the Saxons, I need to know what your battle plan is at this point.”
Before Arthur could answer, Ambrosius spoke again. “Unless the Saxons do something unexpected, which they never do, we will fight them in exactly the same way we always do.”
“Which is?”
“We can keep the advantage of having the sun at our backs if we do battle in the morning. We try to position ourselves on high ground, if there is any, and we can still manage to keep the sun behind us. Then we move into formation and try to goad them into attacking us. If they come to us we can hold the high ground. If they won’t come to us, then we attack them. What more is there?”
“I need to know about your formation. What’s it like?”
Ambrosius rolled his eyes at the thought that anyone would be unaware of standard battle formation, and was about to explain the basic facts of life and warfare, but Arthur held up his hand for silence.
“Our usual formation, Master Jason, will be nearly identical to the Saxons’. With minor variations it’s the same formation used by almost all armies when they are engaged in a major battle. We line up our men in four ranks, one behind the other. My uncle will position himself, on horseback, at the center of the line and Griffudd and I will move back and forth to his left and right, relaying orders from Ambrosius to our men. As we begin to close ranks with the enemy, the front row provides shield protection and all four rows throw their spears. As men fall, others from the rows behind move forward so we always present a solid row of shields to the enemy. When we get close enough, the front lines will switch from spears to swords because in such a tight space a spear would only get in your way. Once we enter close-quarter fighting, Griffudd, Ambrosius and I will dismount and join the men. We try to stay near the center of the line because that’s where the Saxon’s commanders and noblemen will be and it is our right to engage them in personal combat.”
“Your equites, how do you use them?”
“They never take part in the main battle. Horses are awkward creatures and there’s no real way to control them in battle. We hold the equites in reserve and use them to chase down the enemy if they try to run away and prevent enemy units from circling around behind our line and attacking us from the rear.”
“And the two lines just push back and forth until one side or the other is too weak to continue?” Jason’s disbelief was apparent in his voice.
“That’s the way all warfare is carried out here. How is it done in in your kingdom?”
Jason’s brain was reeling. Jesus, he thought to himself. They have this fancy cavalry and don’t even know how to use it to break up the enemy line. They just stand there and hack away at each other. It’s nothing but organized butchery. Deciding this was not the best thing to say, he asked “So, exactly how many men do you have?”
“Two war bands of approximately three hundred men each. And we have…” Turning to Llewellyn he raised his eyebrows enquiringly.
“Just over one hundred and fifty equites, my Lord. A fine turnout on such short notice. And thanks to Master Jason, twenty-five of the men have those wonderful new…what did you call them?”
“Stirrups.”
“Stirrups. They make controlling the horses much easier than I could ever have imagined.”
As Jason smiled and nodded his acknowledgement, Merlin walked toward the group, wiping the last drops of water from his scrying bowl. When he approached, Arthur nodded and rose to meet him.
“What news, old friend?”
“My Lord, Colgrim and the Saxons are still moving eastward, raiding and burning small farmsteads and murdering the inhabitants as they come. I have not…”
“Did you see Colgrim, himself?”
“I did, my Lord. And while his men are obviously headed toward Vaddon, I can’t tell exactly where they are. All the countryside is very similar in that area.”
Turning away from Merlin, Arthur motioned to Llewellyn. When the equite commander stood and approached, he said “I want you to send your two best riders to scout ahead. Keep them apart so that, should the enemy discover one of them, the other will still get through. I want to know where the Saxons are, how fast they’re moving and where, and if, they make camp.”
“Yes, my Lord.”
The equite hustled away, leaving Merlin, Arthur and Jason standing alone. Over his shoulder, Arthur called for Ambrosius to muster the troops and get them back on the move. After thanking Merlin for his intelligence, he turned to Jason.
“Do you have any thoughts as to tactics, young wizard?”
“Not yet, my Lord. I’ll need to analyze your current tactics and manpower as well as your strengths and weaknesses. Give me until we make camp for the evening. I’ll try to have something for you then.”
“If you have nothing by then, Master Jason, it will no longer be of any importance. To make the most of whatever small advantages I can guarantee myself, I will engage the enemy when tomorrow’s sun breaks the horizon line.” After a thoughtful pause he added “And I will have to do so with whatever tactics I have. The rescue of Vaddon will not wait.” Patting Jason on the shoulder, the king walked to where one of the baggage boys had been holding his horse, mounted and moved to join the line.
For the rest of the day Jason walked with the troops, sometimes plopping down at the side of the dusty road, lost in thought, and then running to catch up. He reviewed everything he could remember about the great battles of history, from Thermopylae in ancient Greece through the American Civil War. He pondered who lost and who won, and how and why they had won. He needed to make much better use of the equites than Arthur and Ambrosius did. He would have loved to devise some elaborate Napoleonic cavalry charge but he knew that charging in unison takes a lot of practice and their stubby Roman swords were no substitute for four-foot-long cavalry sabers. He briefly contemplated arranging the foot soldiers in a renaissance pike block, but it was a complicated tactic to learn and their six foot spears were way too short. Letting his mind wander, he sometimes imagined that the best thing would be to have just one modern tank with a howitzer and a machine gun, or even a nineteenth century Gatling gun, then he could wipe out the Saxons all by himself and not even break a sweat. But that wasn’t going to happen. He had to come up with something these people could learn with almost no practice and still perform effectively with the weapons they had at hand – and that pretty much limited him to Roman or medieval tactics.
Hour after hour they marched, finally turning off the rutted dirt path onto the old cobblestone road built by the Romans, which Jason knew as the Foss Way. By the time Arthur’s army marched to within five miles of Vaddon, Jason had settled on what he considered the best, most practical attack formation. He was on his way forward to tell Merlin, or the king, or whoever he met first, when the column of soldiers squeezed to the side of the road to make room for two families driving one cow and six unhappy hogs along the road in the opposite direction. Behind them came another family with a cart loaded with household belongings. No one had to tell Jason who these people were; he had seen the same look on the faces in films from World War II, Viet Nam, Bosnia, Syria, Iraq, Afghanistan and a dozen other wars from his own time – these were refugees fleeing their homes in the face of an advancing enemy. Farther down the road, at the furthest extent of Jason’s vision, he could see an approaching cloud of dust rising in the wake of one of the riders Llewellyn had sent out nearly six hours earlier.
Minutes after the rider reined in next to the king, a runner dashed along the marching column shouting the news: “Make ca
mp in four miles. Make camp in four miles”.
As they neared the end of their journey the army entered the outskirts of Bath, which the Romans had called Aquae Seulis and the Britons now called Vaddon. As was true of Arthur’s villa, the Roman buildings were showing their age – patched and repaired, their plastered walls splotched with brown stucco. Here and there stood a Roman temple, a few sporting a wooden cross above the elaborately columned portico, most simply left to decay and crumble. As the army marched through the nearly deserted streets the slap, slap, slap of their shoes echoed hollowly off the walls of abandoned houses and shops.
A quarter mile beyond the western edge of the town, a low defile separated the last outskirts of Vaddon from the open expanse of farmland beyond. Here Aurelius halted the line, ordering the officers to have the men erect camp and set up guard posts between the camp and the open expanse of fields to the west. When the order went out that no campfires were to be built the implication was clear; the Saxons were close enough that they would see the light from the Britons’ fires.
“My Lord.” Merlin coughed gently, hoping to distract Arthur, who was deep in animated conversation with his uncle.
“Yes, Merlin, what is it?”
“I think our young magus, Jason, has a tactical maneuver he would like to present to the two of you.” Jason, who had been standing silently beside Merlin, smiled and nodded.
“Wonderful. Uncle and I were just discussing tactics and Jason’s name was already on our tongues.”
Motioning toward a quartet of empty camp stools near one of the supply wagons, the king smiled and nodded at Jason. When they were all seated and one of the baggage boys had brought cups of ale, the king invited Jason to make his presentation.
“I’ve been thinking about this all day, my Lord, and I have come up with two or three variations on a similar theme, any one of which might work. Do you want to hear them all, or what?”
“While I have no doubt that each of your ideas has merit and is worthy of due consideration, we have very little time. Give me the one plan which you think has best chance of success and my uncle and I will discuss it.”