‘You fucking- That’s a year’s work! A year’s work!’
A spear point licked out and saved him from any further effort. He fell forward, over his own wound, and bled out on the ground he’d tilled throughout his life.
The heavy infantry were almost two thousand strong – all by themselves, they equalled the whole of the Imperial Army. They flew three great banners: the Virgin Mary, Christ Crucified, and Christ Harrowing Hell. They marched in silence, formed up to a few shouted commands, and halted, waiting for the cavalry to form on them.
The Easterners went wide west, galloping away down the road. They were ordered to sweep well out around the Imperial flank on their own left, to fall on the enemy’s unshielded flank.
The Thrakian stradiotes formed to either flank of the infantry. The one band of mercenary knights formed to the right of the stradiotes, close to the road. The rest of the left was made up of a thousand Thrakian peasants, all armed with axes and bows.
The Thrakian line overlapped the Imperial line on both flanks. Their line was almost two Alban miles from end to end. The Imperial line had gaps and different depths, and was still only a little less than an Alban mile long.
When the lines were formed, a little less than a mile apart, the Thrakians sang a hymn. It was two in the afternoon, and they raised their weapons and gave a shout that rang off the distant hills.
And then they marched on their enemies.
The Red Knight watched them come and he shook his head. ‘He’s too damned bold. Didn’t he ask himself why I was so eager to fight?’ He sighed. ‘If he’d waited until tomorrow morning-’
Father Arnaud raised an eyebrow. ‘Are we retreating?’ he asked.
The Red Knight turned. ‘No. We’re in it, now. Win or lose, this is our path. But it’s going to be tight.’ His head snapped around – his helmet was still in Toby’s hands. ‘No!’ he shouted.
The Emperor, mounted on a beautiful white steed, was cantering along the front of his army.
Men cheered.
Then he turned his horse’s head and trotted towards the enemy.
‘What is he doing?’ the Red Knight asked. He put spurs to his great black charger, and he started forward. The Red Knight was thinking of giving this one a name, instead of a number. He’d killed seven chargers so far. But the horse Count Zac had given him-
Father Arnaud cursed. ‘He’s trying to prevent the battle,’ he said, and followed the Red Knight, equally helmetless.
The Red Knight threw himself forward on his horse’s neck and the giant horse leaped into a gallop as if they were in a tiltyard. He rode like a jockey in a race, not like a man in full harness on a battlefield. His magnificent warhorse did its best to carry him at breakneck speed.
‘Majesty!’ he shouted.
The Emperor stopped his horse and waved.
The Red Knight reined in to save his horse’s wind and trotted up. ‘Majesty?’
‘I want them to see me,’ the Emperor said. ‘If they see me alive they won’t fight. I am their Emperor. My person is sacred.’ He nodded decisively.
The Red Knight felt as if he were arguing with a gifted child. ‘Yes, Majesty. But these men have already hurt you.’
The beautiful man turned his head and favoured the Red Knight with the full weight of his magnificent smile. ‘No, my lord Duke. Those men are dead. You killed them, and quite justly, before my very eyes. That is the banner of Demetrius, son of Duke Andronicus, one of my most trusted lords. He is my wife’s brother.’
‘He took you prisoner,’ the Red Knight said gently.
The Emperor thought a moment.
Behind them, the centre of the Imperial line started forward.
‘He did, did he not?’ the Emperor asked slowly. ‘How could that have happened? The Logothete warned me – I don’t remember. Therefore it cannot be important. Let us ride over and see those gentlemen-’
The Red Knight didn’t know why his own company was advancing at the double, but all he could see was disaster. And the unravelling of his plan – his over-complex plan. He took the Emperor’s bridle, and turned his horse. ‘Those men will try to kill you, Majesty. Come with us – with your friends.’
They trotted along, parallel to the two armies, for a hundred paces, and then the Red Knight turned and led the Emperor towards his own lines. After another hundred paces, he dropped the Emperor’s reins, and the man followed him willingly enough.
The Red Knight rode until he met Ser Jehan, leading the company, under his own black banner.
‘Looked like trouble,’ Jehan said. ‘We can turn about.’
The Red Knight shook his head. ‘We can’t. The city stradiotes only need a feather’s touch to cut and run.’ He looked at the sun and swore. ‘Damn it, Jehan! Now we’ll start sooner. I needed time!’
Ser Jehan looked away.
The Red Knight looked around. Men were staring at him.
He thought back to his first encounter with them, in Arles, and he laughed. ‘Look at yourselves,’ he said. He left the Emperor to Toby and trotted to the head of the company. All the men-at-arms except Gelfred’s were there, in the front rank, with their squires in the second rank, their archers in the third and spear-armed pages in the fourth. The old way. They were all dismounted, their horse holders well to the rear. Their armour was polished as well as could be expected after a three-week campaign in winter weather, and their scarlet surcoats were fading to a ruddy brown. But their weapons glittered like malevolent ice.
‘Look at yourselves,’ he shouted again. ‘Think of who you were last year. And who you are now.’ He turned back to where the enemy lay, having caught in a relieved glance the approach of the Nordikans and Vardariotes, who were reforming the line.
The Scholae came forward at a trot.
He pointed at the enemy, who was marching steadily at them over the frozen fields. ‘An archaic scholar once said that the Thrakians would conquer the world, if only they would stop fighting among themselves.’ He grinned. ‘But he never met you, gentlemen. I will not lie and say this will be easy. I’ll merely say that if you hang together for three hours you will be victorious, and the whole of the Morea will be ours.’
They cheered him like a new messiah.
Long Paw, in the third rank behind Ser Alison, said, ‘Three hours, against all that? Christ, we’re doomed.’
‘He’s coming right at us!’ Aeskepiles said.
Demetrius watched the enemy advance and shook his head. ‘He’s moving his line forward. What does that mean? He has traps set behind him?’ He watched. ‘Is his line in confusion? Now his left is trailing away – those are the Scholae. And the Vardariotes. I see.’
Ser Christos appeared and raised his visor. ‘My lord, many of the levies are anxious. That was the Emperor.’
‘Merely a usurper,’ Demetrius said.
Ser Christos narrowed his eyes. He looked at Count Stefano, who looked away. He turned his horse and faced golden Demetrius. ‘Where is your father, my lord?’ he asked.
‘He is sick, but bravely holding the walls of Lonika with a handful of worthy men,’ Demetrius said.
Ser Christos looked at Aeskepiles.
Aeskepiles ignored him. ‘Here they come,’ he said. He raised himself in his stirrups to cast, but the distance was greater than he had expected and the angle was poor. He put spurs to his horse and went forward.
‘Do your duty,’ Demetrius told his father’s best knight.
Ser Christos nodded. ‘Very well,’ he said. He took the banner and followed Demetrius into the field beyond the low stone wall, and was the last man to leave the crossroads.
Aeskepiles opened the battle with a set of workings – an illusion of a fireball, a second illusion of a complex net spell weaving its way forward from his feet to the enemy lines, and a third spell, a sweeping organic scythe aimed at bowstrings.