‘Centurion, sir . . .’ stammered Zyvik. ‘And what will happen . . . What will happen if the army of Aedirn resists? Or bars the road? After all, we’re passing through their country armed. What then?’
‘Should our compatriots and brothers,’ continued Stahler spitefully, ‘the ones we’re supposedly liberating . . . Should they begin to shoot arrows at us or throw stones? Eh?’
‘We are to be on the banks of the Dyfne in three days,’ said Half-Gallon forcefully. ‘And no later. Whoever tries to delay or stop us is clearly an enemy. And our enemies can be cut to ribbons. But heed my words well! Listen to the orders! Burn no villages, nor cottages. Take no goods from anyone. Do not plunder. Rape no women! Make sure you and your men remember this, for should anyone break this order, they will hang. The voivode must have repeated this ten times: we aren’t fucking invading, we’re coming to give a helping hand! Why are you grinning, Stahler? It’s a bloody order! And now get to your units on the double. Get ’em all on their feet. The horses and tack are to shine like the full moon! In the afternoon, all companies are to fall in for inspection; the voivode himself will be drilling them. If I have to be ashamed of one of the platoons, the decurion will remember me. Oh yes, he’ll remember! You have your orders!’
Zyvik was the last to leave the tent. Squinting in the bright sunlight, he watched the commotion which had taken over the camp. Decurions were rushing to their units, centurions were running about and cursing, and noblemen, cornets and pages were getting under each other’s feet. The heavy cavalry from Ban Ard was trotting around the field, stirring up clouds of dust. The heat was horrendous.
Zyvik quickened his pace. He passed four bards from Ard Carraigh who had arrived the previous day and were sitting in the shadow cast by the margrave’s richly decorated tent. The bards were just composing a ballad about the victorious military operation, about the prowess of the king, the prudence of the commanders and the bravery of the humble foot soldier. As usual, to save time, they were doing it before the operation.
‘Our brothers greeted us, they greeted us with breaaad and salt . . .’ sang one of the bards, trying out his lyrics. ‘They greeted their saviours and liberators, they greeted them with breaaad and salt . . . Hey, Hrafhir, think up a clever rhyme for “salt”.’
The second bard suggested a rhyme. Zyvik did not hear what it was.
The platoon, camped among some willows by a pond, leapt up on seeing him.
‘Make ready!’ roared Zyvik, standing a good way back, so that the smell of his breath would not influence the morale of his subordinates. ‘Before the sun rises another four fingers there’ll be a full inspection! Everything’s to be shining like the sun. Arms, tack, trappings and your mounts. There will be an inspection, and if I have to be ashamed of one of you before the centurion, I’ll tear that soldier’s legs off. Look lively!’
‘We’re going into battle,’ guessed cavalryman Kraska, tucking his shirt quickly into his trousers. ‘Are we going into battle, Decurion, sir?’
‘What do you think? Or maybe we’re off to a dance, to a Lammas party? We’re crossing the frontier. The entire Dun Banner sets off tomorrow at dawn. The centurion didn’t say in what array, but we know our platoon will be leading as usual. Now look lively, move your arses! Hold on, come back. I’ll say this right now, because there’ll be no time later. It won’t be a typical little war, lads. The honourable gentlemen have thought up some modern idiocy. Some kind of liberation, or some such. We aren’t going to fight the enemy, but we’re heading towards our, what was it, eternal lands, to bring, you know, fraternal help. Now pay attention to what I say: you’re not to touch the folk of Aedirn, not to loot—’
‘What?’ said Kraska, mouth agape. ‘What do you mean, don’t loot? And what are we going to feed our horses on, Decurion, sir?’
‘You can loot fodder for the horses, but nothing else. Don’t cut anyone up, don’t burn any cottages down, don’t destroy any crops . . . Shut your trap, Kraska! This isn’t a village gathering. It’s the fucking army! Carry out the orders or you hang! I said: don’t kill, don’t murder, and don’t—’
Zyvik broke off and pondered.
‘And if you rape any women, do it on the quiet. Out of sight,’ he finished a moment later.
*
‘They shook hands,’ finished Dandelion, ‘on the bridge on the River Dyfne. Margrave Mansfeld of Ard Carraigh and Menno Coehoorn, the commander-in-chief of the Nilfgaardian armies from Dol Angra. They shook hands over the bleeding, dying Kingdom of Aedirn, sealing a criminal division of the spoils. The most despicable gesture history has ever known.’