Cry of the Newborn (26 page)

'So we need to persuade the enemy off the slope and on to the flat soon or we risk them being reinforced.'

He was a meticulous man, Neristus. A fine quality though it did lead him to state the blindingly obvious sometimes. Roberto chose not to interrupt. Otherwise they might be all night getting to the point.

'My carpenters have been working with some of the different woods the Sirraneans are selling to us. Very interesting qualities in some of the beech wood. It has great strength combined with flexibility. It means we can . . .' He paused. 'Do you have the time to come and see?'

Roberto shrugged. 'Is it worth it?' he asked a little mischievously.

Neristus stared at him. 'I never waste anyone's time,' he said.

The engineers' workshops were set up at the tenth gate and as far from Roberto as possible to keep him from the noise. The place was ablaze with light and baking hot from the forges. Hammer on metal rang out into the night sky, mixed with the sounds of saw, lathe and file.

'Don't you let your citizens sleep?' asked Roberto as they walked into the open front of the workshop.

'The body needs less sleep than we think it does. Anyway, we enjoy our work,' said Neristus. 'Over here.'

The scrawny little man led him to the right-hand corner where two scorpions sat on the ground. The teams around them hurried to their feet to salute. Roberto acknowledged them with a curt nod.

'Carry on.' He turned to Neristus. 'So, what am I looking at?'

Neristus clicked his fingers. 'Tension these two,' he ordered his team. 'Watch, General.'

Roberto watched. Two men wound each windlass at the rear of the pieces. The single iron-clad wooden arms, for all the world like oversize bows, bent as the cord wound and tightened. Wood and rope creaked, the slider dragged the bow string back along the bolt groove. One clicked into its trigger mechanism. A short time later, the other did the same. The teams stepped away. Roberto frowned. He had to look twice but there was no doubting the difference.

'You've set this trigger further back along the shaft than the other. Why?'

There was a gleam in Neristus's eyes. 'The Sirranean beech is wonderful,' he said, patting the scorpion in question. 'Look at its extra tensile capability. It is over fifteen per cent.'

Roberto smiled. 'And how much further will it fire?'

'Sixty yards easily. I have made all the new arms, General,' he said. 'With your permission, I can have them all fitted by march tomorrow.'

'Are they accurate?'

'We can experiment on the Tsardon if you like,' said Neristus.

It would make all the difference in the world as far as this combat was concerned. Roberto nodded, delighted.

'Rovan, you are a genius and your engineers a credit to the Conquord. Get it done,' he said. 'Tomorrow will be a great day.'

Tactical changes had been communicated through the chain of command before a dry and gloomy dawn broke. The army marched as it had done the previous four days but this time, unlike any other, there was the genuine belief that blood would be spilled. Neristus had walked with his wagons this morning and the sight had given Roberto even greater confidence. The scorpions were all uncovered, the fresh oil glistening on the new beech arms.

They deployed as before, but this time there was no pause. Immediately, they were in position, the advance began. It was slow and steady. Roberto put his magnifier to his eye to see if the Tsardon were reacting any differently to this change but there was no significant movement. Their infantry held its long deep single line with central phalanx. Behind, archers stood ready, with cavalry to the flanks.

Roberto's own cavalry stood back a short distance. Sixty yards meant his scorpions could fire over the heads of his infantry and into the Tsardon ranks before the hastati were in range of enemy arrows. It would expose the flaw in the enemy position. While they held tactical advantage of the upslope, they had little ground to play with in retreat before breaking on their own camp. There was only one way to go should they want the scorpions to stop firing once they had begun.

Neristus was an excellent judge of distance and it was his signal that Roberto took to halt the army. They were closer than they had been before. The hastati were within two hundred and fifty yards of the enemy, still standing defiant and tall above their shields. There was no movement in the Tsardon lines except perhaps a slight uneasy shifting at this new move. But they knew that they were still safely out of reach.

'Hold!' shouted Roberto, his orders signalled by flags and echoed through the army by his masters and centurions. 'Ready to defend. Shield wall on enemy advance, pikes front and proud.' He swung in his saddle from his position on the right flank with the Estorean cavalry. 'Engineers. Cock and load. First on my signal, then by the Master's command.'

Forty scorpion windlasses turned, operated by their two-man teams, creaking and grinding. Bolts were slotted into position, fluted pyramid steel heads on ash shafts, heavy and deadly. The ready was signalled. Roberto held up his arm, flags mimicking him. A silence spread across the plain. On the slopes the Tsardon waited. Below them. The Conquord readied.

'Do me proud, Neristus,' he whispered.

He swept his arm down and the flags came with him. Almost as one, the scorpion strings snapped forwards, dull thuds breaking the silence. The missiles whistled over the heads of the infantry. Roberto could just about track the mass of them but lost them in the background of the mountains and green when they pointed earthwards again.

The breath of every Conquord soldier and cavalryman was held. He imagined Garrelites standing with the infantry, peering out from over his shield at the bolts racing towards the enemy. The boy was anxious to fight. Today, he would have his wish.

The Tsardon moved, a violent ripple over a calm sea. Shouts of alarm echoed out and the bolts struck home. Roberto scanned the lines through his magnifier. Men were scattering from the points of impact. Some of the bolts had fallen short a good ten yards, ploughing up the earth or bouncing to fall with little force. The best of them had struck directly into the front line. Men lay dead. One, impaled on a bolt, twitched and jerked, blood spouting from his mouth. The Conquord legions were cheering.

Behind Roberto, the windlasses wound again. 'More elevation,' he roared. 'Five degrees.' The order was passed to the engineers. Handles cranked and the points of the new bolts canted upwards.

They fired again. Another brief quiet then the death whistle. This time the bolts all struck into the front three ranks. Shields had been placed in a linked defensive formation but were of no use against the heavy projectiles. Wood and hide splintered, chainmail and scale armour sheared. Roberto thought every bolt found its target and through his magnifier saw one drive straight through the body of one man into that of another, the pair of corpses cast into the comrades behind them. Conquord legionaries taunted and laughed, bade the enemy come and fight.

A third time the windlasses were wound. There was action in the Tsardon camp. The only question was, which way they would go. Again, shields were placed as a barrier, Tsardon cowering behind them, packing tight to get as many layers to the front as they could. It was an error. Neristus's scorpions spat again, strings thrumming. More Tsardons died, swept back by the harpoon-like bolts, limbs torn from sockets by glancing blows.

This time, though, the Tsardon charged the moment the missiles struck. Infantry and cavalry swept down the slopes at them. The change in the noise and atmosphere was stunning. Tens of thousands of men hurtling over the ground, baying for the heads of their enemies. The rumble of feet and the drumming hooves shook the ground. For the raw hastati in the forward maniples it would be terrifying.

In response, centurions began trotting along the backs of their maniples, all looking to Roberto and the flags. He moved quickly to a position where his standard could best be seen, feeling a thrill course through him and his heart start to pump. He dragged his gladius from its sheath.

The windlasses creaked again. Roberto had a short amount of time to assess the enemy charge. It was ordered and disciplined, its pace designed to disrupt and force back. The Tsardon would want to trigger a retreat knowing that the scorpions were slow to turn around and could easily be lost.

Their units were wider than Roberto's maniples but overall, the line was not as broad making the chance of flanking by their cavalry small. His, on the other hand, could make the attempt. But not yet. Flags and messengers were set along the battle line which was in the order of half a mile wide. Too long for him to have close control. Messengers and flagmen could relay his intent, his masters and centurions made the local decisions and he had to trust them to make the right ones. They waited for him to signal how they would begin the fight.

Tsardon cavalry were fast and skilled at firing from the saddle at pace. Ranks of foot archers were also advancing just behind the front lines which carried their trademark shields and mid-length slightly curved swords. Strong for cutting in open skirmish, not so useful in close ordered combat. Roberto's decision was simple.

'Signal tactical plan one. Infantry to hold close, cavalry to break and harry. Close on thirty yards separation. Do not let them stop and pepper us.'

The flags waved the prearranged communication. Runners spaced along the back of the hastati repeated the orders. Over the advancing noise of the Tsardon, Roberto heard centurions and masters roaring commands. In the centre of the Estorean lines, eight maniples armed with the sarissa made up the phalanx. They moved up a few yards for the front ranks to kneel and give themselves room to bring their weapons to the horizontal. A forest of spikes was presented to the enemy; three ranks of them before the first hastati would be at risk from a sword thrust. Shields were planted in front of them, leaving tiny targets for arrow and javelin.

Right across the battlefront, the infantry maniples prepared for the assault, shields of the front ranks right forward, those behind them holding theirs above their heads, creating an armoured shell. Left and right, allied and Estorean cavalry broke into attack and reserve units, ready for the orders to move. And in the principes and triarii, composite bows were brought to bear, arrows stuck into the ground at the feet of hundreds of calm, experienced Conquord soldiers.

The scorpions fired again, bolts clearing the front of the Tsardon army, falling into rear lines, causing consternation and a temporary break in the advance. The whole had slowed to little above walking pace now, keeping close in response to the order ahead of them. They banged swords and spears on shields as they marched, roared insults and war cries, their volume making up for their relative lack of numbers. They needed to break the Conquord legions quickly.

'Archers!' called Roberto. 'Ready volley.'

More flags, more runners. Bows bent. A heartbeat before he gave his order, the Tsardon bowmen fired. Thousands of shafts arced over the enemy front lines rattling into shields of the hastati maniples, a rain of barb-tipped ash, dense enough to find every chink in the shield
wall. Roberto saw gaps appear, shields fall on top of the bodies of the men who carried them.

'Damn, that's a lot of arrows,' muttered Roberto, already debating signalling the advance though he knew he should not.

'Hold firm!' The shout carried along the line. The wall reformed, gaps plugged as completely as possible.

The Conquord legions answered back. A volley soared out, whispering through the air to fall among the first ranks of the marching Tsardon, clattering over shields, striking through helmets and burying in legs and arms. Men fell. There were screams but the taunts and songs didn't falter. The marching pace increased and Roberto could see shields held closer and above heads in mimic of his legions. More arrows. Shafts every count of ten from either side, the sky clouded with them, falling deeper and deeper into the Conquord ranks. His citizens were falling while the armies closed though the enemy was suffering greater loss.

'Keep your discipline,' he said under his breath. 'Don't shift, don't show any fear.'

'Ward!' barked the centurion.

Garrelites set his shield at an angle above his head and braced himself. Through the tiniest gap in the shield wall, he saw the arrows coming. A terrifying, withering rain flashing towards his eyes, whipping just overhead or thudding into shield and armour. They fell like hail on tin, the rattling scrabble of deadly claws. They skipped and bounced off the defence, found every gap and punched through any weak point.

There was nowhere to go. Nowhere to run. Every legionary stood firm. For Garrelites, it was the worst moment of any battle. The only moment when he felt genuinely helpless. His heart thrashed in his chest and he prayed to the Omniscient that this was not his day to die under a barbed shaft. He had promised the General he would be back to help him from his armour when victory was won.