TWENTY-FOUR
Ardashir hummed lightly under his breath, a cradle-song he had learned back in the Empire. The tune came to him now and again, on sleep or waking, and reminded him always of a warmer world, of blue skies and heat shimmering across yellow fields. It seemed Like a dream from another life, but there was comfort in it.
The horses of the Companions shifted and pawed at the ground restlessly. They were on the left of a line extending just under two pasangs, facing south across the vast brown bowl that had once been the famed fertile hinterland of Machran. To their front, the army of the Avennan League was approaching, a line of bronze shields which the rising sun caught and set alight in sudden, blazing ripples of yellow light. Ardashir looked at the sky. At least there would be sunshine today, something to give colour and warmth to this drab country.
Corvus sat his horse beside him, his banner-bearer behind him. The leader of the army had doffed his tall helm with its flowing white crest, and was smiling, the light catching his eyes and kindling in them a violet flame. He looked today more like a fine-boned Kefren than one of the heavy, stolid Macht. His mother’s bones in him, Ardashir thought. He must have his father’s spirit.
Corvus turned to him as though he had caught the thought. “Good hunting, brother,” he said.
The Macht spearmen to their right had taken up the Paean, the men of Teresian and Demetrius’s morai booming out the ancient song in time with their kinsmen across the way. It stirred the blood, a dirge which was nonetheless a challenge to battle.
The horses in the ranks of the Companions knew the sound, and began to prance and nicker under their riders. They were ill-fed and overworked, but still they had the Niseian blood in them, that of the finest warhorses ever bred, and the loom of battle made them sweat and stamp where they stood. The brightly armoured Kefren riders spoke to them and called them by their names. Soon they would be let loose on the singing men drawing nearer minute by minute.
Ardashir turned to his left. Shoron had his lance in one hand, his reins in the other, and a bronze horn hanging from his cuirass.
“You think you’ll have enough spit to blow that thing?” Ardashir asked him, grinning.
“I’ll blow it in your ear and let you be the judge.”
“Good hunting, Shoron.”
“Good hunting.”
Corvus rose up in his saddle, balancing on his knees. He turned right and waved his arm. “Xenosh – the signal. Give it now.”
Behind him his banner-bearer lifted up the streaming raven-flag and moved it forward and back.
A moment where nothing happened, but then a series of orders rapped out through the ranks of the Macht spearmen. Centurions in transverse helms moved forward of the main line, raised their spears, and bellowed to their centons.
The commands of Teresian and Demetrius began to move, three thousand heavy infantry. The Paean sank a little as they started out, and then rose up strong again, the beat of the song marking their footfalls. The phalanx moved out to meet the challenge of the men approaching from the south, who outnumbered them better than two to one.
“The anvil is on its way,” Corvus said. “Brothers, we are the hammer.”
Almost six pasangs away, the defenders of the East Prime Gate were craning their necks to watch what was going on to the south, when someone shouted out in astonishment.
Their attention shifted to the enemy troops along the Imperial road. These were not yet advancing, but behind them something else was. Looming up out of the early light came six huge towers, the rumble of their progress audible even on the walls of the city. Each was the height of ten tall men or more, topped with battlements, and encased in hides of all colour and hue. And they were moving on wheels.
Perhaps two hundred men drew each tower, and there were more pushing from behind.
As the six behemoths reached the lines of Druze’s men, so the infantry moved forward with them. On the towers of the city, crews began to crank back the immense bows of the ballistae.
At the South Prime Gate, a centurion shouted down to the waiting centons and morai below.
“The enemy is moving out to engage the League army!”
Kassander was walking through the waiting ranks of men. “This is it, lads,” he said calmly, “Move out nice and quick, but don’t bunch up in the gateway. Form up on your centurions outside.”
Then he bellowed at the men in the gatehouse. “Open the gates! Machran, we are moving out!”
The gates swung screeching on their ancient hinges, pushed by straining soldiers. Kassander went to the head of the lead centon and raised his spear. The troops of Machran and Arkadios and Avennos began to follow him out of the gates, close on four thousand men in full armour.
Karnos was in the third mora. His heart was thumping high in his chest as he shuffled forward, and as the pace picked up he began to march, keeping his spear snug against his side to avoid entangling the man next to him. No-one was talking now, and every man had that hard, distant stare which comes at the onset of battle. They could hear the Paean being sung by the formations out on the plain, and deeper yet, the low rumble of thousands of horses.
The Companion Cavalry of Corvus was on the move.
“Stand fast,” Rictus said, raising his voice to be heard. “Hold your positions until I give the word.”
He was standing out in front of the Dogsheads, as were all his senior centurions. His men were assembled in an arrowhead. The leading ranks were all red-cloaked mercenaries, trained up by the original Dogsheads over the preceding weeks until they were deemed worthy of the colour.
Behind them were the morai on loan from Teresian and Demetrius, a mixture of veteran spearmen and recent conscripts, though the distinction between the two of them had faded with the duration of the campaign. And on their flanks, hanging back like scavengers, were hundreds of Igranian skirmishers.
Fornyx had the left, Valerian the right. Kesero stood close by Rictus, holding aloft the ancient banner of the Dogsheads, entrusted to Rictus by Jason over twenty years before. Jason, whose son was now leading two thousand heavy cavalry out to the east of the approaching League army, and dropping off centons of horsemen as he went. Whatever plan he had for dealing with the League forces, Rictus was not privy to it.
The city garrison was still pouring out of the South Prime Gate and spreading out in a ragged line. Rictus counted the sigils, and nodded to himself. No surprises there. Karnos was taking half the garrison out on this sally, risking all for the opportunity to link up with the League morai. He would have done the same himself.
“I never saw such a complicated fucking battlefield,” Kesero said, his voice hollow inside his helm. “Look, Rictus: Parmenios’s infernal machines are on the move. I had a bet with Valerian he’d never get them past the wagon park.”
Maybe five pasangs away, the tops of the siege towers could be seen over the city walls. They ground forward like sullen titans, and now Rictus could make out motes of fire sailing through the air towards them.
“They’ve set light to the ballista missiles. They’re going to try and burn them down.”
“Phobos,” Kesero said. “I’m glad I’m standing on my own feet and not cooped up in one of those damn things.”
“Look sharp, Kesero,” Rictus said, as he walked up and down the line, peering this way and that. “Nearly time.”
He took his place at the apex of the arrowhead. He was not quite himself, not yet; the strength he had lost had not been regained.
I don’t heal as fast as I used to, Rictus thought.
He could not help but wonder how many more days like today he had left in him.
Over half the Machran morai were now outside the walls and in formation, maybe two thousand men formed up in line, and two thousand more still inside the gate, pushing through.