Trocero, scanning the oncoming host from his command post on a hillock, presently signaled his groom to fetch his charger. He adjusted a strap on his armor and heaved himself into the saddle. To the few hundred horsemen who gathered around him, he said:
"You know our plan, my friends. 'Tis a slim chance, but our only one.”
For Trocero had decided that their only hope lay in a suicidal charge into the Aqulionian array, in a mad effort to reach Amulius Procas himself. He knew that the enemy commander, a stout man of middle years slowed by ancient wounds, found riding hard on his aging joints and preferred to travel by chariot. He knew, too, that the general’s charioteer would have difficulty in maneuvering the clumsy vehicle in the press of battle. Thus, if the rebel horse could by some miracle reach and slay the Aquilonian general, his troops might falter and break.
The outlook, as Trocero had said, was black, but the plan was the best he could devise. Meanwhile he strove to give his subordinates no sign of his discomfiture. He laughed and joked as if he faced certain victory instead of a forlorn attempt to vanquish thrice their number of the world’s best soldiery.
Once again, Destiny intervened on the side of the rebels, in the royal person of Milo, King of Argos. Even before the Aquilonian invasion began, an Argossean spy, killing three horses in his haste to reach Messantia, brought word to the court of Numedides’ command to violate the territory of Argos. Thus King Milo learned of the planned attack as soon as did the rebel commanders. Already affronted by the arrogance of Ambassador Quesado, the usually even-tempered Milo flew into a rage. At once he commanded the nearest division of his army to speed north on forced marches to intercept the invasion.
In a calmer moment, Milo might have temporized. Since he did not think that Numedides meant to seize a portion of his land, as the late King Vilerus had done, he had sound reasons for delaying any irrevocable action. But, by the time his temper had cooled, his troops were already on the march northward, and with his usual stubbornness the king refused to change his decision.
Amulius Procas had halted his army and was meticulously ordering his troops for an assault when a breathless scout galloped up to his chariot.
“General!” he cried, gasping for breath. “A great cloud of dust is rising from the southern road; it is as if another army approached!"
Procas made the scout repeat his message. Then, bluing the air with curses, he tugged off his helmet and hurled it with a clang to the floor of his chariot. It was as he had feared; King Milo had gotten wind of the invasion and was sending troops to block it. To his aides he barked:
“Tell the men to stand at ease, and see that they have water. Order the scouts to swing around the rebel army and probe to southward, to learn the numbers and composition of the approaching force. Pitch a tent, and call my high officers to a conference."
When, an hour later, the scouts reported that a thousand cavalry were on the march, Amulius Procas found himself caught on the horns of a dilemma. Without explicit orders from his king, he dared not provoke Argos into open warfare. Neither did he dare disobey a direct command from Numedides without some overriding reason.
True, Procas’s army could doubtless crush the rebels and chase Milo’s cavalry back to Messantia. But such an action would presage a major war, for which Aquilonia was ill-prepared. While his country was the larger and more populous kingdom, her king was, at least, eccentric; and his rule had gravely weakened mighty Aquilonia. The Argosseans, moreover, fighting with righteous indignation an invader on their native soil, might with the aid of a small rebel force, like that assembled beneath the Lion banner, tip the scales against Procas's homeland.
Neither could Procas retreat. Since his troops outnumbered the combined rebel and Argossean forces, King Numedides might readily read his withdrawal as an act of cowardice or treachery and shorten him by a head for his disobedience.
As the sun rode down the western sky, Procas, deep in discussion with his officers, still delayed his decision. At last he said:
" 'Tis too late to start an action this day. We shall withdraw to northward, where we have left the baggage train, and set up a fortified camp. Send a man to order the engineers to begin digging.”
Trocero, narrowly watching the royalists from his rise, had long since dismounted. Beside him stood Publius, munching on a fowl’s leg. At last the treasurer said:
"What in Mitra’s name is Procas doing? He had us where he wanted us, and now he pulls back and pitches camp. Is he mad? For aught he knows, we might slip away in the coming night, or steal past him to enter Aquilonia.”
Trocero shrugged. “Belike the report we had, of Argosseans approaching, has something to do with his actions. It remains to be seen whether these Argossean horsemen mean to help or harm us. We could be caught between the two forces and ground to powder, unless Procas counts on the Argosseans to do his dirty work for him.”
Even as the count spoke, hoofbeats summoned his glance southward across the plain. Soon a small party of mounted men cantered up the rise—a group of Argosseans, guided in by a rebel cavalryman. Two of these new arrivals dismounted with a clank of armor and strode forward. One was tall, lean, and leathery of visage, with the look of a professional soldier. His companion was younger and short of stature, with a wide-cheeked, snub-nosed face and bright, interested eyes. He wore a gilded cuirass and a purple cloak edged with scarlet, and purple-and-scarlet were the plumes that danced on the crest of his helm.
The lean veteran spoke first: “Hail, Count Trocero! I am Arcadio, senior captain of the Royal Guard, at your service, sir. May I present Prince Cassio of Argos, heir apparent to the throne? We desire a council with your general, Conan the Cimmerian.”
Nodding to the officer and making a slight bow to the Prince of Argos, Trocero said: “I remember you well. Prince Cassio, as a mischievous child and a harum-scarum youth. As for General Conan, I regret to say he is indisposed. But you may state the purpose of your visit to me as second-in-command.”
"Our purpose. Count Trocero,” said the prince, “is to thwart this Aquilonian violation of our territorial integrity. To that endeavor, my royal father has sent me hither with such force as could readily be mustered. I assume my officers and I may consider you and your followers as allies?”
Trocero smiled. "Thrice welcome. Prince Cassio! From your aspect, you have had a long and dusty ride. Will you and Captain Arcadio come to our command tent for refreshment, while your escort take their ease? Our wine has long since gone, but we still have ale.”
On the way back to the tent, Trocero spoke privately to Publius: “This explains Procas’s withdrawal when he all but had us in his jaws. He dare not attack for fear of starting an unauthorized war with Argos, and he dare not retreat lest he be branded a poltroon. So he camps where he is, awaiting— “
“Trocero!” A deep roar came from within the tent. “Who is it you are talking to, besides Publius? Fetch him in!”
"That's General Conan," said Trocero, dissembling his startlement. ”Will you step inside, gentlemen?”
They found Conan, in shirt and short breeches, propped up on his bunk. Under the ministrations of Dexitheus, he had recovered full consciousness, his mighty frame having thrown off the worst effects of a draft that would have doomed an ordinary man. While he could think and speak, he could do little else; for the residue of the poison still chained his brawny limbs. Unable to rise without help, he chafed at his confinement.