Cry of the Newborn (36 page)

Herine had just watched a breathless chariot final and had to restrain herself not to jump up and roar the Estorean team on to victory. After all, an Advocate must be even-handed in her approach to her Conquord. But now she stood with the sixty thousand in the crowd to applaud one extraordinary move after another by the ist legion, the Estorean Legends, cavalry and infantry.

Seamless formation to phalanx, to turtle, to wedge. Shield walls snapped into position as arrows rained down from the platforms all around the arena. Metal-tipped, she was led to believe, but you never could quite tell. It hardly mattered. To see them bounce and snap off the gleaming Conquord green and gold barriers placed against them was utterly thrilling.

Circling the infantry as it advanced in perfect form towards her position, was the cavalry. The cataphract had skewered moving targets following a charge and break that had drummed in her blood. The horse archers shattered clay discs from galloping horses. The sword cavalry clashed in mock battle with Tsardon-garbed forces, driving at them, scattering them and defeating them.

They had leaped from horse to horse, stood on their saddles while their mounts chased across the sand. They had somersaulted over horses, jumped into saddles, balanced horizontally at right angles to their animals' motion and leaned out and down to pluck the smallest gleaming coins from the ground, faces inches from hoofs.

The announcers had been drowned out long ago by cheering citizens and at last the legion was drawn up before her, the dust clearing from the stadium to reveal the standard bearing the rearing white horse and crossed spears of the house of Del Aglios. She bowed to the legion general and the roars of the crowd took up again as the Legends departed the arena. Herine turned to the Chancellor.

'Can we ever doubt the superiority of our armies?' she said. 'No country can stand against such skill.'

'Would that every soldier and rider was so well trained,' said Koroyan.

Herine flapped a hand at her. 'Years of campaigning under my generals and centurions is training enough. What's next to feast upon, I wonder?'

'The hunting archery finals,' said Adranis, consulting the order of the day.

His face was flushed with excitement and his whole body was bunched and leaned forward to the edge of the balcony as if he were about to spring down and join in.

'Oh, wonderful,' said Tuline, rolling her eyes. She was sprawled in her chair, her legs dangling over one arm. 'Grown men crawling through sand and shooting at stuffed animals.'

Herine smiled at them. 'Thank you for being with me,' she said. 'Roberto would be proud of you both.'

'I expect Roberto is having much more fun,' said Tuline. 'At least what he sees isn't made up and fake.'

'You'll let me join the cavalry, won't you, mother?' asked Adranis.

Herine chuckled. 'Of course. Fine young horseman like you? I'll probably give you to Master Kell. She'll make you great.'

Adranis beamed.

Gesteris's words sounded loud in Kell's head. The steppe cavalry were testing her severely. They were excellent horsemen. Quick on the turn and accurate with spear and arrow from the saddle. If anything let them down it was sword work but you had to get close enough to lay a blade on them first.

Kell's units had seen off the regular Tsardon horse quickly and she had thought the break was hers. But the reserve Gesteris had sent to her had been matched by a large detachment of steppe cavalry, perhaps three hundred strong. And all the while, the stones, each as heavy as a man, still fell. The onagers were so far unchallenged and Kell was aware that Gesteris would be fretting as his infantry died without raising a sword against their foe.

Trotting towards the enemy, she looked left and right and saw the spread of her forces. They had built one cataphract from the three and it stretched across her vision. Three deep, they would punch into the steppe horsemen. Behind them the swords would come and over their heads the arrows would fly. But it was a formation forced on her by the enemy.

Facing her, the steppe had broken into units of twenty or so and were weaving in and around each other. Their horses were covered in bright red-trimmed yellow cloth under which light armour was fixed. The riders were dressed in dun-coloured leathers, yellow pennants snapping at the heads of spears, yellow cloth strips from sword pommels and bow tips. All designed to draw the eye and distract. And that wasn't all. Kell could feel it in the air around her. Anxiety brought on by reputation. But the steppe cavalry weren't the only feared riders on this battlefield.

'Cataphracts, remember who you are!' she shouted from her position just behind them. 'We are the Conquord. We are Estorea. We are the Claws, the Thunder and the Dragons. Never defeated.'

The cavalry came to a canter, closing to within two hundred yards. The flanking lancers moved up to form a shallow crescent. The steppe cavalry paid them no heed. Kell was concerned at this new tactic. They trotted and cantered in their small units, seemingly at play with one another while their opposition came on. She wondered how they would reveal themselves at the charge.

Kell urged her horse up to the cataphract captain. He faced her, his full helm obscuring all but his eyes, his armoured fist tight on his reins.

'Charge at fifty yards. Travel straight. Do not be deflected by them. We are behind you for those that pass you.'

'Yes, Master,' he said, gruff Goslander tones muffled by his visor. 'God protect you.'

'And you. For the Conquord and for me.' 'The Conquord and for me.'

The captain's orders rang across the line, repeated and returned for confirmation. The gap closed. Arrows started to fly from both sides. At seventy yards, and with shafts beginning to find their targets, the pace upped further. Sixty. Fifty.

'Conquord! Tear their flesh.'

Horses spurred to the gallop, the cataphracts surged away, lances coming to ready, gripped in both hands. Riders leaned forwards against the expected impact. What a sight they made. Three hundred driving headlong. Kell called her swords and archers to her and galloped after them.

Through the churning, flying mud and the flanks of the charging cavalry, she saw the steppe cavalry react at last. Every other unit turned and charged, leaving holes in their line. The others scattered, sweeping out to the flanks and further dividing in to threes and fours. Kell shook her head, confused.

The cataphracts collided with the steppe cavalry. Horses sheared left and right at the final stride, lances smashed Tsardon from their saddles, Tsardon blades slashed into horse and rider. But more than half of the Conquord lancers went through unchallenged. At the flanks, the steppe cavalry had already started to turn.

'God-surround-us,' breathed Kell. 'Archers! Flanks. Bring those bastards down.'

The enemy were racing around behind their slower-turning quarries. She should have seen it, she should have seen it. Bows bent, arrows flew. Cataphract cavalry fell, too many and too quickly. Kell galloped into the battle, racing past the fake front and through to the skirmish. In front of her a steppe rider took an arrow in the throat and dropped from his horse. She searched for a target. Arrows whipped around her head. Men fell either side of her.

She looked left. It was chaos. The steppe had broken the Conquord advance into small units and still they had more out on the flanks. She saw them join and charge in. She saw swords glint and arrows in the sky. Behind her, the onagers sang again. She could hear the fretful noise of dogs barking. Hundreds of dogs. She glanced right and saw the mass of them streaming forwards through the Tsardon army like they were chasing the catapult stones.

Hoofbeats, loud. She swung forwards. The Tsardon mace was already on its way. She got her sword in front of her but it was beaten aside and the weapon struck her breastplate. The metal bent inwards, the pain intense and shocking. She was lifted from her saddle. Out of control, she went backwards and down. The last she saw was the rear end of her own horse before the uprushing ground knocked her senseless.

He was just an ordinary citizen but his skill with the bow was exceptional. A potter by trade and a hunter for relaxation. He had struck every target square in the middle as each was moved from behind cover by the wires laid across the arena. Even Tuline had propped her face up on one hand to watch.

As was his right, he was shown to the Advocacy balcony to receive his prize; the gilded leaves of the Conquord, embossed with bow and arrow. Herine slapped Tuline's leg and waved her to a properly seated position as the man came through the curtains, dusty and delighted. He received his prize with an extravagant bow.

'A most impressive display,' said Herine.

'Thank you, my Advocate,' he gushed. 'I never thought I would be standing here before you. So many are more skilled.'

'And most of them are in Tsard,' muttered Tuline.

Herine shot her a dangerous glance. There would be words later. 'Ignore my ignorant daughter.' She smiled. 'Though General Gesteris could use a man as skilled as you to help him.'

The man blushed crimson. 'He needs no help to secure victory for the Conquord,' he said. 'Though if I am called I will be proud to serve you.'

Herine kissed his forehead and the cheers began. 'You are a credit, citizen. Enjoy your moment.'

Nunan stood with his hastati, keeping them strong though the fear was building within them and their confidence draining. Next to him, a youth of no more than eighteen stood shaking, waiting to enter the fight. All day he had been standing and watching while his comrades fought hard, were injured, killed or withdrawn to rest. His time into the front line was soon and he wore his fear like a mask under his helmet. He cowered behind his shield.

And now the stones were falling, the ground was shaking and men were being dashed to fragments behind him. The smell of vomit and piss was mingling with sweat, leather and blood: Nunan could see it was all the boy could do not to run.

'You know me, citizen?' he said. He had borrowed a shield from his triarii and had set it before him against the arrows that fell at random.

'Yes, Master Nunan.'

'Then stand with me and we will fight side by side. Have courage. The cavalry will break the onagers and we will have victory.' 'Yes, sir.'

The noise here was deafening. Nunan had forgotten what it was like and felt the strains of stress in his own muscles too as he waited. In front, three ranks ahead, Conquord shields punched forwards, forcing space to open and allow the gladius thrust. The Tsardon with longer swords and oval shields, blocked and countered. Casualties were still relatively light but blood sluiced around their feet, mixing with mud. The sound of sudden death chilled the heart as it always would.

'Wall!'

The word carried across the lines. Shields flew up to cover the sky. Stones whistled overhead. Nunan held his breath. Beside him, the boy prayed through clenched teeth. The stones hit. Immediately to his right, daylight and devastation. Nunan was rocked on his heels. Men and women screamed. Mud fountained into the air and sprayed sideways. He turned his head away reflexively, feeling wet impacts on his helmet.

He looked back to the boy who had dropped his sword and was staring at his hands. They were covered in gore. His face was drenched in it and those eyes were the eyes of a man ready to break.

'Leave the field,' ordered Nunan. 'Go with my blessing.'

But the boy just stood while the maniple rippled around him and the hideous calls of the crushed wounded laid over the clash of steel on shield.

'Press!' Nunan yelled. 'Strength and order.'

His shouts were taken up by the centurions but more cries were filtering across the field. He heard panic and rumour in them and for the first time in his career, he felt the army waver. The phalanx had been broken.

'Hastati, hold and defend.' He spun and ran out to give orders, praying that Kell would break through. 'Three maniples of principes to the fore, triarii to the phalanx. Don't take a backward step, don't turn away.'

But at the back of the lines he could see soldiers breaking off and moving backwards. The Tsardon were throwing everything at them now. Arrows were thick in the air and the enemy taunts began to ring true. Nunan sprinted for the centre, surrounded by gladius-wielding triarii. He rallied centurions to get faltering citizens back into the fight, to force the legions to stand fast. He moved triarii forward, needing their experience and sheer courage. Fear would sweep through the army and take hearts and wills more surely than any plague.

'We're still winning this,' he called again and again. 'Fight for the Conquord. Fight for me. Fight.'

But the phalanx was in real trouble. The centre had been hit by stone after stone, the front ranks were under pressure from Tsardon who had dropped their spears and were forcing through the forest of sarissa tips with sword and shield. Triarii were sprinting in to bolster its collapsing core while to the right, cavalry were pressing hard to alleviate the infantry pressure.

Nunan looked for the phalanx's commander but he was nowhere to be seen. He caught the collar of a frightened young woman.