Rictus could see them talking amongst themselves as they advanced, and lightly armed as they were, they did not break up the soft ground as a formation of spearmen would. He saw them as a mass of dark speckles on the land, swallowed up here and there by the sunlit glare of the lying water.
“Stay by me,” Corvus said to him, his face grave now, eyes fixed on the enemy line only some two and a half pasangs away, the tented camp rising like a mud-coloured city behind it. “I want your Dogsheads ready to slot in anywhere along the line.”
“What’s Druze to do?” Fornyx asked him.
“He’s going to pick a fight.”
The Igranians picked up speed, like a flock of birds all of one mind. They were moving out to the south, to threaten the enemy’s right flank; the unshielded side.
There was a corresponding ruffle of movement in the lines of spearmen there; a row of bronze shields caught the sun one after another in a series of bright flashes. Then Druze led his men in to javelin range -a hundred paces, maybe – and Rictus saw their right arms go back, their bodies arced for the throw. It was too far away to see the missiles go home, but the glitter of enemy shields catching the sun came and went, flickering like summer lightning upon the sea.
“That’s really going to piss them off,” Fornyx said, with a grin of sheer relish in his beard.
“I thought they needed a prod,” Corvus said. “The morning’s a wasting.”
There was always something almost joyful about watching a battle from a distance, Rictus thought. First, you were glad you were not there, in the middle of it with the iron tearing at your own flesh. But it could almost be like a sport, too. One could study the moves of the players with detachment, see the evolutions of the phalanxes with a clear eye, rise above the packed murderous terror of the othismos and survey things with real clarity.
And with a flash of epiphany, Rictus realised something about Corvus.
That is how he sees it, all the time. That detachment, that clear-sightedness.
The enemy spearmen were breaking ranks by centon, sending out detachments to try and come to grips with Druze’s men, but the lightly armed Igranians evaded them like wolves dancing away from the horns of a bull. As the centons withdrew again, the Igranians closed in. For a few minutes they had actually closed with the enemy hand to hand. Fornyx whistled softly at the sight.
“Those bastards have balls like walnuts.”
“An Igranian must kill a mountain-lion before he is considered a man,” Corvus said. “They belong to an older time, when the Macht did not feel the need to congregate in cities. Igranon itself has no walls; it’s little more than a glorified trading post.”
“A hard people to tame,” Rictus said, raising one eyebrow.
Corvus shook his head. “I did not tame the Igranians, Rictus; I merely earned their respect. Their trust.” He watched the distant fight with his curious pale eyes. “You have that, and they will follow you anywhere.”
The Igranians broke off the battle, wheeling away from the League army. They had cut several centons to pieces; Rictus had been able to make out men running back to their own lines without shields.
In rear of the enemy battle-line, there was now a strong column marching from north to south.
“He’s reinforcing his right,” Corvus said. “Good.” He turned to one of his aides, seating on a snorting horse. “Marco, go to Teresian, and tell him it is time.”
“Yes Corvus.” The fellow kicked his horse into a whinnying canter and the mud from its hooves spattered them all as he took off.
“The curtain rises,” Corvus said. “Look, brothers. We finally woke them up.”
The enemy army was on the move, that vast snake of men undulating forward over the plain. Faint at first, and then louder, there came the sound of the Paean.
The advance was ragged, halting. Some of the League’s contingents were better ordered than others and had to mark time while their comrades caught up. In the middle, a great body of spearmen remained in good order throughout, many thousands. They were the core. The men on the flanks were not as well drilled, but they presented a fearsome sight for all that.
“That is Machran, in the centre,” Corvus said. “See the sigils?” It was too far for Rictus to make out, but he nodded.
“Their polemarch is Kassander, an ex-mercenary and close friend of Karnos himself. He has trained the spearmen of Machran well – so far as a citizen army goes. Karnos is wise enough to know he is an orator, not a soldier, but he’s a good judge of men, by all accounts, and he can charm the birds off the trees when he has a mind to.
“I want him to die today.”
“I’m sure he feels the same way about you,” Fornyx drawled, and Corvus laughed.
Their own army had begun to move now. On the left, Teresian was taking forward the veteran spears, four thousand men in eight ranks. Their line extended some half pasang, and they too began to sing the Paean as they advanced. Rictus watched their dressing with the close attention of a professional, and he had to grudgingly admit to himself that they were not half bad.
The conscript spears under Demetrius remained immobile, stubbornly refusing to move. Alarmed, Fornyx grabbed Corvus by the arm, his black beard bristling.
“Half your spearline is still asleep, Corvus.”
“No. This has all been set in train by my hand, Fornyx. Be patient. Enjoy the view. When was the last time you were able to stand and watch history being made?”
It was quite a sight, indeed. Thirty thousand men were on the move now across the plain in various formations. To the south, Druze’s Igranians were pulling back, and the League’s reinforced right wing was making good time, though their ranks were not all they might be; the soft ground was scrambling them. Teresian’s veterans were marching out to meet them, veering left as they advanced. An oblique. Only good, disciplined troops could accomplish such a manoeuvre.
Finally, Demetrius’s conscripts began to move. Their line was as untidy as that of the enemy, and there was a widening gap between them and Teresian. The two bodies of spearmen advanced separately on the enemy. In the centre there was nothing but a growing hole.
“Phobos,” Fornyx whispered.
Valerian joined them, out of breath. He hauled off his helm, his lopsided face burning with urgency. “Rictus – Corvus – for the love of God, look at the line! We’re broke in two before we even begin!”
Corvus held up his hand. “Do not concern yourself, centurion – get back to your men and stand-to. I shall be wanting you presently.”
His whole attention was fixed on the moving bodies of men out on the plain. There was none of his flashing levity now; he was as solemn as a statue.
But his eyes blazed, like a gambler watching the fall of the dice.
“Rictus!” Valerian protested.
“Do as he says,” Rictus said quietly. “Shields up, Valerian.”
The young man stamped off unhappily, but a few moments later the order rang out and the Dogsheads lifted their shields onto their shoulders, donned their helms, and worked their spears side to side to loosen the sauroters in the sucking ground. Rictus’s heart began to quicken in his chest, pushing against the confines of Antimone’s Gift. He and Fornyx stood silent, watching as Corvus sent couriers out to right and left, young men on tall horses beating the animals into gallops that sent clods of muck flying through the air like birds.
“Rictus,” Corvus said, turning back to the mercenaries. “What is it the Dogsheads can do that citizen soldiers cannot?”
“We can die needlessly, that’s for damned sure,” Fornyx murmured.
“We can advance at the run,” Rictus said.
Corvus nodded. “I like to read. Have you heard of Mynon?”
“He was a general of the Ten Thousand. He made it home.”
“He wrote it all down, some fifteen years ago, before dying in some stupid little war up near Framnos. I read his story, Rictus; they had it in the library at Sinon, copied out fair by a good scribe. He talked of Kunaksa, how it was won, what you all did that day.”