A line of men went running past the litter— Macht without armour. They were dressed in the interminable red tunics and carried leather-faced shields of wicker, javelins, and short stabbing spears. Arkamenes and his Household were at the forefront of the column for once, they being sick and tired of eating Macht dust, so these men were running up to the very forefront of the army. Tiryn eyed their passing ranks with some curiosity as they sped across her vision, sandals slapping in the muddy verges of the road. There were scores of them and they ran easily, like loping wolves.
A different sound in the air; the muffled thunder of hooves. Horses approaching—a troop of them cantering in the wake of the Macht—and there was Arkamenes himself at their head, jewelled breastplate flashing in the sun. He wore a komis, the cowled linen head-dress of the Kefren nobility, and there was a holster of javelins at his thigh. Then he was gone, and the plodding column carried on its way, the litter swaying on the shoulders of its Juthan bearers. Tiryn’s maids squatted with downcast eyes opposite her in the perfumed compartment. Once again, the endless tramp of feet upon the earth, the army’s heartbeat. Tiryn sank back upon her cushions, the scroll sliding from her lap, forgotten. He did not so much as look my way, she thought. I am no longer useful to him now, not even as a brood mare. And from the hot glare of her eyes the tears spilled, and trickled into her veil.
Arkamenes reined in, the high-bred Niseian prancing under him, nostrils flared. The tallest of the Macht would not reach its shoulder, and he felt that he towered over all of them. This put him in an even better humour. He set one hand on his hip and slouched in the saddle as one born to it.
“Well, Phiron, what plan is this you’ve hatched for me now?”
Phiron stepped out of the brisk-marching column. He wore his cuirass and carried a spear. Like all the Macht, he stored his shield and helm in the wagons while on the march. He was growing a beard; Arkamenes thought it did not suit him, but then no Kefren noble grew hair on his face. What an ugly race, he thought. So stubborn and steadfast, so small in mind, unprepossessing. They might be brothers to the Juthan, were it not for their colouring. And yet, these hairy, ugly little creatures were the stuff of Asurian legend. Deep down, Arkamenes knew full well that no Kefren army, not even the Great King’s Honai, could have come out of that river and broken the enemy line as these things had. There was an implacability about them that had to be seen to be believed. His money had been spent well.
“I am sending forward a flying column to scout out the region to our front,” Phiron said. His eyes ranged up and down the passing files of marching men, noting everything. The Macht winked or nodded at him as they passed by, no jot of deference about them. Arkamenes, they ignored entirely, and he swallowed the anger that welled up in him.
“I wish to send these scouts far ahead of us. They’ll be on foot, as we are not a horse-people, but they can move swiftly if they’re unarmoured. And my lord, I would like one of your staff to accompany them, someone who can speak Machtic and interpret for their officers.”
“What is there to scout for? We have destroyed the only Imperial force in Jutha,” Arkamenes said. The sun caught the polish on his nails as he held one reasonable hand palm upwards.
“Fast moving cavalry could cover a lot of ground. Levied in Pleninash, it could be on the Jurid River a week from now. I mean to seize the next bridge intact, my lord. I do not want my men to fight their way across another river.”
Arkamenes was stung by the implication. Again, he found himself controlling the anger these creatures seemed to stoke in him. He affected disinterest. “Very well. But you are not in luck today, General. None among my staff speak your barbarous tongue. That is the reason Amasis had ours written down for you in Tanis—the costly labour of a dozen scholars, I might add. Your men will have to shift for themselves.”
Phiron looked up at Arkamenes’s golden face. He seemed thoughtful and almost puzzled at the same time. Even silent, he rebukes me, Arkamenes thought. He kicked his horse’s ribs and the animal half-reared.
“You are in my Empire now, General. Your men will have to learn my language.” The horse took off under him. He galloped away, raising a hand in mocking farewell, whilst a brightly dressed kite-tail of attendants and staff trailed after him, whipping their mounts to keep up.
The combined army trekked onwards across, the fertile plains of southern Jutha, a moving city of some forty thousand souls. The Juthan peasants who worked the land straightened from their labour to watch as the phenomenon came and went. In the morning it would be a rumble on the air, a dust cloud at the horizon. As noon came, it would fill their world, an awe-inspiring host of hosts tramping the winter-sown barley under their feet and gathering up every hoard of grain, every herd of livestock in its path. The Macht army in the van held to its ranks and marched in disciplined companies. Behind them the Kufr troops spread out in skeins and crowds about the countryside, looting as they came, not just for food, but for anything they might carry on their backs. They rifled through the reed-thatch of the Juthan villages, poked holes in the mud-brick walls, kicked in the doors of smoke-houses, and made off with the hanging hams.