Buckling the last strap of his breastplate, Darius stretched and reached down for his helmet and the coldly beautiful silvered faceplate.
“Well I need to see Sarios before we set off. He wanted to speak to me before we went out there.”
Kiva nodded. “He’ll have some good advice to impart no doubt. I’ll be out in a short while myself. Need to find Tythias and discuss a couple of things about his cavalry first.”
With a last look at the general of his army, the young Emperor turned and made his way out of the tent and the lamp light and into the dark valley spotted with campfires. The fires of the enemy glittered like myriad fallen stars further down the valley and from this distance Darius was sure there were at least twice as many twinkling lights there. With a sigh, he set off to find Sarios.
Twenty yards down the hill, Ashar stood with several of his Pelasians, deep in muttered conversation. Darius stopped close by.
“Highness,” he greeted the handsome, olive-skinned Prince. Ashar smiled. “Majesty,” he replied lightly. “It seems that the Pelasian contingent of Velutio’s army is less than enthusiastic about this morning. I gather they are gathered around their camp fires as though this were some kind of family outing without donning their armour. If they still have any motivation to face us, I think my new banner may change their minds.”
He gestured over his shoulder and Darius looked up, his eyes widening before he hurriedly looked away again. The Satrap of Siszthad, corpulent and bloated and, though in pain, still clearly alive, hung stretched with ropes on a frame of sturdy wood held aloft by four Pelasians. He had been opened up expertly from neck to groin and side to side by Ashar’s medic and his innards were displayed to the world while being tightly held in place with thin catgut. He would, of course, bleed to death slowly, but the doctor had also given him something that had considerably slowed his heart and numbed the pain to prevent death coming too quickly from blood loss or from sheer overwhelming pain. It was astounding how the man had managed to keep him open like that without the blood flowing freely, merely trickling in places. The Satrap would still be alive and groaning as the Pelasians carried him across the field. Darius fought the bile rising in his throat and tried to smile.
“Ashar, you are truly a frightening man.”
The Prince laughed. “Nothing more than this usurping fat egomaniac deserves and little more than he did to my uncle. I owe Tythias a great deal for this. I came to support you in order to regain my own title and here I find that we both fight for the same thing in the same battle. If we lose today, we both die. If we win, we two become the two most powerful monarchs in the world. There’s nothing like a little incentive, is the?”
He laughed again. “Anyway, I’ve got to organise my unit. I’ll see you out in front of the line as soon as it’s light, eh?”
He turned back to his subordinate and Darius continued on toward Sarios’ tent. The old man sat at a desk just inside the entrance, squinting at papers in the low lamp light. He looked up and smiled as Darius approached, helmet and face mask held under his arm.
“Every time I see you, you look more an Emperor, young Darius. Indeed, you bear a striking resemblance to Corus these days. He was Quintus’ grandfather, you know? The first in the dynasty and the only dark-haired one.
Darius shrugged. “I want the world to be peaceful and happy and safe.”
“That’s a very admirable goal, though a little fanciful I might suggest. The world will never be entirely peaceful, universally happy or particularly safe. If you can strike a happy medium in all three you will have done as well as anyone could hope. I have a feeling that today will end well, but not without its tragedies, and when it’s over, you need to make sure that you start looking at the future. There must be continuation of the line, but dynasty may not be the way. Corus’ dynasty produced great men, but they came with a price. Madness ran in the blood, and was the eventual cause of their downfall. You will have to decide in your time whether it is more prudent to pass the power on to your own children one day or whether to select a capable man for the job. Either way, remember that your toil does not end today. It only starts here, but most of your work lies in the days and years ahead.”
Darius nodded solemnly. “I was expecting some kind of advice for today, really.”
“Today?” Sarios smiled. “Today is Caerdin’s day. You just need to make sure you survive so that you can face tomorrow. Tomorrow is
The first rays of the sun came late and rose above the hills behind Darius’ army, shining down the valley and striking the tips of the army’s tents and standards. Kiva came trotting gently out of the stables on his steed bedecked in Imperial livery, his armour gleaming and his curved northern sword slung at his side. The helmet with its green crest of horsehair and tail hanging down the back was augmented by the steely impassionate cavalry mask and the wolf pelt hung with pride from the shoulder. It escaped the majority of viewers, but as Darius and Tythias sat ahorse in front of the men, they could clearly see the pain and discomfort riding was causing the man. And yet, the general had done exactly what he said he must. He’d survived until the end, whether it be for good or for ill.
Caerdin rode between the men, eliciting a cheer, and out in front to the others. He pulled up alongside the Emperor and gave a slight bow, as much as his seated position and full armour allowed. Darius returned the gesture. “Are we ready to go, general?” he asked, his voice hollow and metallic through the mask.
“Not yet, highness,” the equally hollow reply came. “First we show our strength to the men. We get them cheering and screaming for enemy blood. It’ll scare the hell out of Velutio’s army.”
Darius nodded as Kiva wheeled his horse and started to trot along the front line of men. Darius and Tythias goaded their horses to catch up with the general and the three began to pick up speed, cantering now along the line.
“For the Emperor!” cried the general, the call being taken up instantly by the footmen as they passed.
“For the Emperor!” Tythias joined in the cry as they rode and the call spread throughout the army. Reaching the end of the line, where the grassy slope led up toward the deserted farms and villas, the three horsemen made a wide turn and then galloped off in the other direction, racing once more along the front line with their cry. The noise filled the valley and echoed off the hills at the sides as the sun fell full onto the army. In the centre of the lines, Sithis began to bang the flat of his blade rhythmically on the bronze rim of his shield and the first regiment picked up the rhythm with their own swords. Within a minute all nine regiments, the entire width of the valley were hammering out a steady beat that threatened to bring down the mountains, drowning out all other noise, including the thundering hooves of the three commanders where they rode, summoning up the blood and stiffening the sinews of their men.
Reaching the far end of the valley, the three turned once more and charged back to the centre, where a number of flag and standard bearers on horseback had assembled. Beside them, Ashar Parishid, prince of Pelasia sat on his chestnut mare, four footmen behind him bearing the grisly banner of Ashar’s erstwhile enemy. As the three reined in at the centre of the line, Caerdin clutched his side and had to steady himself. Between heaving breaths, he addressed his Emperor in that deep and echoey metallic voice.
“When we reach them, let me handle it first. Sabian will speak as the commander of their army, and I should speak as commander of ours. It’s not the place for you or Velutio to air your disagreements and you shouldn’t be the first to break the rule. Velutio won’t be able to resist saying something and then you can speak your mind once he’s broken it.”
Turning sharply, Caerdin stared at the Pelasian Prince. “You’ve a right to be here Ashar, but keep that corpse of yours well away from the Imperial banners. Not the sort of impression we’re trying to give out. You’re a foreign dignitary and should be separate from all this.” Ashar nodded.
“I shall ride alongside you, rather than with you. I have my own affairs to settle here.”
Darius nodded. It wasn’t done for the nobility to get too intimately involved in the gritty details of the battle. Their job was to look important and noble and to inspire the men, though Darius knew that even if Velutio was too dignified to take a part, he himself would refuse to take a seat at the back. He was a warrior Emperor and needed to take his place on the field. Still, first thing’s first: the two commanders should parlay and try to persuade each other that there was an alternative.
Setting his jaw, he turned and walked his horse slowly across the field toward the enemy lines, with Caerdin at his left shoulder and Tythias at his right. Behind them, among the flags and standards, a musician began to blow a horn, calling for parlay. Off a little to the left, with them and yet separate, rode Ashar with the bloated breathing corpse of the Satrap floating along in the air behind him, silhouetted against the morning sun.
Minutes passed as they rode out to where they judged the centre of the field to be. In all the accounts Darius
