The Ten Thousand(100)

“This is good ground,” Jason said. All the generals of the army were clustered about him on the hillside, leaning on their spears.

“This is where we fight. We have two days before the enemy comes up. I want a position prepared here, where the hills break up into stone. We will place our line along these heights and let him come to us. If we break up his army here, he will take a long time to reorganise, and we will use that time to get through the mountains.” Jason paused and looked his companions up and down.

“Any thoughts, brothers?”

Mynon spoke up. “The city has closed its gates behind us. We’ll need to watch our rear. Irunshahr has a garrison; they may well sortie out in the middle of the battle, just to annoy us.”

“Agreed. Aristos, your mora is to remain to the rear of the main battle line, both as a reserve, and to guard against any mischief. Rictus, your lights will be back there with him, and behind you will be the baggage train. The enemy still has a large force of cavalry. I don’t want your men engaging them, or they’ll get cut up like at Kunaksa. Leave the horse to the spears. Clear?” Rictus nodded. He and Aristos looked at one another for a second. Jason saw the hatred between them, and wondered if he were being a naive fool, making them work together. Even men who loathed each other sometimes found the unlikeliest of likings developing on the battlefield. He hoped it might be so.

“The main body will deploy on this hill south of the road,” Jason went on. “My mora will be on the extreme left, next to the road. Mochran, you will be the right-most mora. Watch your flank; there’s nothing beyond your right but grass and stones. Every mora is to keep one full centon to the rear of its line, as a reserve. No one breaks rank without orders, not even if their entire army turns and runs. Don’t forget their cavalry. We lose formation, and they’ll hunt us down one by one. Tonight we sleep in camp, everyone eats a good meal, and we sleep like babies. In the morning we take up our positions, wait for the Kufr to come to us, and with luck they’ll soon be crying like babies.” There was a rustle of laughter, an echo of fellowship.

“If the line breaks,” Jason went on, “then we reform it. We plug the holes, and we stand on these stones and fight until the day is won, or we are all dead. There is nowhere to run to. Any questions?”

“Who looks after the baggage?” Rictus asked.

“I’ve culled two centons from the front-line morai, lightly wounded, footsore, and chronic shifters. They’ll stay with the wagons.”

“And the gold,” big Gominos said, grinning.

They stood looking at one another, until Aristos said, roughly; “Let’s get the damn thing done then,” and the group of men broke up. Jason remained on the hilltop as they walked down the slope to their waiting morai. Even now, they separated into two distinct groups which seemed to take form around Aristos and Rictus. Once the spearheads were levelled, he prayed they would come together.





Twenty-Two




THE LAST OF THE WINE



Mid-morning brought the army in sight of the hills before Irunshahr. On the ridge-line before the city Vorus finally found his quarry standing at bay, a line of heavy infantry over a pasang long, their ranks undulating about every outcrop of weather-beaten stone to the south of the Imperial Road. Here, then, was where it would end.

He reined in, the placid mare chewing at the bit under him, throwing up her head as if she, too, could smell what was on the wind. He turned to Proxis. “We have them.”

“So we have,” Proxis said. He had been drinking, but his eyes were clear. “My legions are in the van—we’ll take up the left, and then the rest can file in to our right.”

“Very well. I’ll send the cavalry out that way, and see if we can feel round their flank. The gods go with you, Proxis.” Vorus extended his hand.

The Juthan leaned over in the saddle and took it in the warrior-grip, fingers curled round Vorus’s wrist. “May they watch over us both,” he said.

Noon came and went. Up on the hillside the lines of Macht infantry relaxed, eating their midday meal in shifts, barley bannock and cheese and the last of the wine. Below them the Kufr marched and counter-marched, their officers chivvying the tired troops along, the regiments fed into the line as they came up the Imperial Road. When at last they were in place it was mid-afternoon, and for a while the two armies stared at one another as in between them the bees clustered about the heather and the scrub juniper, and skylarks sang above their heads, heedless of anything but the warmth of the sun and the clear infinity of blue sky about them.

It reminded Vorus of his youth, late spring in the hills about Machran when at long last the snows eased their grip on the northern world. It had been a long time since he had breathed upland air and smelled gorse-blossom on the breeze. As he sat his horse to the rear of the Kufr centre, he felt a moment of pure clarity, a sense of exactly how the world was turning under him. At that moment he wanted to dismiss these soldiers of his to their homes and send word to the Macht that they might march away in peace. What was it, this notion of duty, of loyalty, of Empire, that kept them standing here in their tens of thousands, that would see this lovely summer’s day soon broken up into a wilderness of bloody slaughter? What would it gain the world, the mountains, the very stones under their feet, to have these thousands shed their blood upon them?