Another chapter. Hooray! As promised, the plot will really kick into gear, which means plenty of swashbuckling. Be warned: if you clicked on the inviting blue words expecting an absence of swordplay, and instead a non plot of the nature of so very many Earth/Alagaesia crossovers (read: girl meets Eragon, makes cute), please stop now. This isn't to say that I haven't tried to include engaging, sympathetic characters (or, at the very least, bold and characterful cut outs), but the primary objective of this story is to be a Sharpe like military adventure, with added dragons, magic, occasional satire of Inheritance and historical miscellany in gigantic dollops. So, frankly, written for almost entirely my own amusement. If anyone else likes it, that's a mere coincidence.

(Note for the mysteriously named "Pie": The Ancients also reckoned Camomile tea to be an effective medicine. So do many modern people, although I would guess that they are mostly old, or new agers who hang around "Mysteries of the East Grow Your Own Mind Tranquility Crystal for the Balance of Nature" shops too much.)

A final note: this chapter could involve military marches, songs etc being sung. As you may have discerned from my last attempt, my skill at making these things up on the spot is somewhat poor. As a result, I'll have a deplorable habit of stealing and Roman/Varden/Surdan/Empireising existing ones. So, if you come across something vaguely familiar, then please don't punish me for plagiarizing that hard.

"What is the meaning of our retinues, what of our swords? Surely it would never be permitted to us to have them if we might never use them." Cicero, For Caelio

The next morning, Flaccus roused himself early; and, after accepting one of Master Roderigo's coffees, decided that they had no time to lose: they would march in three days. As such, with Tertius and Mactator hurrying after him in pursuit, he strode off to his favorite café, and began to make preparations for the campaign.

With the wine flowing, it was discerned that their total forces reached a grand total of 8000 Varden foot, 500 Surdan horse, 4 magic users, and of course the XIII Adiutrix itself: 3603 foot soldiers, 40 artillery pieces, 1208 slaves with their wagons, 95 cavalrymen, and 87 cavalry horses. As such, the first priority was to beg, borrow and ("Preferably or, but and if necessary") steal 8 horses to make up the numbers.

Now that it was ascertained to be a siege, Mactator and Flaccus were both in their element. Carriage loads of supplies were constantly coming and going. Mactator was often to be found in conversation with Pygmy smiths over some project or other, both parties gesticulating wildly and bending over tables of figures. Slaves rushed back and forth, in the typical ordered chaos of a Legion making ready for war, carrying letters and crates and barrels of all sorts. Notably, sizeable quantities of incendiaries were being stacked into extremely heavily guarded wagons, and-to the surprise of Varden onlookers-wooden stakes were being stacked higher and higher. Too big for artillery ammunition. What were these Romans doing? Making their own fort?

On each night, Flaccus had a special errand. The first one went to Pulcher.

"Ah, Gnaeus Aurelius." He leaned back in his chair, and stared out at the slowly setting sun. "Be seated, please."

Pulcher, shivering slightly at the evening cool, sat.

His task was simple. The simplest thing in the world! He, Gnaeus Aurelius Felix Pulcher, head Military Tribune and animal lover, would learn the secret workings of Magic. His advice was to get one of the Varden magic users drunk, and grill them thoroughly; the books were proving singularly uninformative.

"How would I know how to do that?" he asked innocently. "I can't even name any bars in the whole of Alagaesia! After all, my evenings have been spent in quiet contemplation, exercise, and hard work."

"Gnaeus Aurelius, another lesson: never try to bribe my slaves to look the other way." Pulcher immediately blushed a deep crimson. "Tertius claims to have seen you inebriated on numerous occasions in Tronheim when he was going to a cock fight. He took your gold, but informed me anyway. I deduce, therefore, that the likelihood of you knowing nothing about this city's drinking shops is vanishingly small, and that you having already arranged several discreet evenings off exceptionally large. You know your methods" Pulcher had indeed seen Tertius leaving what could be termed a "cock fight" (although most likely not what Flaccus would call it), and could only nod shame faced.

This proved not to be excessively difficult. Like an avenging God, he had found Choirmaster Goge, introduced himself in halting Alagaesian (as he preferred now to call the language), and took him to the Dragon and Castle. It was then a simple matter of drinking him to raving, and then under the table, discovering in the meantime that Goge could sing quite magnificently, even while dancing on an upturned ale keg. He had a perhaps unfair advantage in this endeavor thanks to the Roman habit of watering one's wine, whereas the Varden Goge took his wine undiluted. The results of the evening were a thorough, if slightly wine and vomit spattered set of notes. He was congratulated personally by Flaccus, and went to bed feeling mellow, and extremely proud of himself. The next morning, he made a small libation to Bacchus.

"Interesting," Rufus said later the next day, after scouring the notes. "Very interesting." It had transpired that the books the Varden provided had several key omissions. Most importantly, perhaps, was one concerning defense against magic. Both agreed that, with some types of magic user, the best defense was to concentrate extremely hard on one single thought, and never to let one's concentration falter. The Varden books, however, insisted that these were only a certain type of magic user, one so diabolical that the Varden would never stoop to use it for such things as mind control or mind reading. No, their magic users would only be told what the recipient wanted them to hear. Flaccus decided to believe Pulcher's version, on balance.

The second errand was to the Legion's youngest military tribune, Lucius Lutatius Nerva. As he was presently suffering from a local fever, he may seem an unlikely candidate for important errands, but nevertheless he resolved to undertake his task with notable dedication.

It was after Mactator had informed Flaccus that, possibly, it could take more than three days for certain key items to be fetched from far afield, due to city merchants either running out of stock, or refusing to sell any more, that he had the idea. "We need," he said, "an embassy in Aberon." This was to represent the Roman Empire, and-perhaps more importantly-keep a look out for key developments so as the Legion wouldn't be deceived so easily. With his customary efficiency and refusal to listen to any objection, he set forth. Twelve slaves were swiftly rounded up. All were literate, and hastily pressed into service. Eight men were soon found also, who looked impressive but were currently too ill for active service, to act as an honour guard. Finally, Nerva, as he combined his senatorial rank with a craven cowardice according to every Centurion and Legionary who ever encountered him, as well as being currently too ill for proper military duties, was chosen as the ambassador. Flaccus told him whilst he was lying on his sick bed; the fellow looked more relieved than anything else. In addition, a cohort was left behind to escort the supplies.

And, finally, the third day. A brief message was read out to the troops, informing them of where the campaign was to take place, and that they would be fighting alongside gallant Varden and Surdan allies, none of whom were the degenerate pygmies of Tronjheim. Particularly, it emphasized that it was expected to be a poorly defended merchant city, of considerable wealth, where the inhabitants had a lot of portable property, and a great deal of plump countryside surrounding it. Furthermore, they were also advised to fraternize with their fellow soldiers whenever possible. Mactator, in between roaring at pygmy smiths, sketched out plans for a small bath that could be quickly dug at any convenient river. He emphasized that all soldiers, of all nationalities, would be allowed to use it, but only in friendly territory.

For their last night before setting forth, the Legion's Executores were given another invitation to dinner: this time, at the officers' mess of the Surdan Horse Guards, Lord Cithri's Regiment. This, after a brief period of consideration, Flaccus accepted. As usual, Mactator was left with the Legion and a good supply of cakes, so as he could add any finishing touches before it could march. And so, for the last time in several months, their slaves laboriously folded their togas around them, and bade them farewell.

Flaccus, Pulcher and Rufus were not unduly surprised to find that their directions took them, once again, to Borromeo Castle; trust the Varden to get the best billets. But it was a nice place to walk to, through the balmy evening, with the sun sinking over the plains, and Aberon's taverns opening around them. And, to Flaccus' pleasant surprise, even a pleasant place to walk through. The vast, swaddling masses of tapestries and banners had been mostly packed away, brushing all memories of the Feast's oppressive, sweltering, vile heat away instantly. A liveried footman led them through the labyrinthine mess of corridors, giving each a running commentary about what Rufus took to be their history (although his accent and quickness of speech was quite impenetrable.)

Eventually, they found another nondescript wooden door. The footman bowed, knocked, and scurried off, feet echoing off the walls. For an uneasy moment, Rufus felt himself in those hellish tunnels under Tronjheim.

He shivered.

And the door swung open.

The dining hall, as Sir Leon explained happily, was the officers' mess of the Surdan Horse Guards, Lord Cithri's Regiment; and no one who entered that room was ever allowed to forget it. For it was more a museum than anything else.

Despite it being not particularly large, the guided tour still took a surprisingly long time. Sir Leon Dauthay believed it essential to explain every aspect of the room's history, for everything-down to the last candle on the chandelier-was deeply involved in regimental history. "You see," he said, pointing up at a tattered banner, the twisting fire in the corner the only symbol visible on the faded red cloth, "We took that one there from the Imperial Eighth of the Line at the field of Belatona-quite something for a small raiding party!" He smiled as if it were only yesterday, rather than over sixty years ago, and as if he had himself carried his saber to the fight. "That was in the Lord Captain Girdaz's day. A great man, a great drinker too! He loved the wine, the women, and the song." He laughed. "But now we have Lord Captain Smidoreno, who saved the bacon of another guest I could mention!"

Gydrynne reddened, but laughed softly. Tonight, at long last, she had dispensed with widow's black, instead wearing something close to a Varden uniform. Unlike the Surdan one, all ruffles and ribbons and flame coloured cloth, covered with braid and lace, she was dressed soberly, in purple. A purple jacket, a purple skirt, with the Varden Dragon and sword embroidered on the back. For Flaccus' tastes, it was all quite hideously decadent-her ankles showed!-but this didn't seem to bother Rufus or Pulcher in the slightest.

"It wasn't my father's fault that the Jiet Bridge was collapsed early; I always supposed it was the Surdan recommended agent who made the mistake." Both laughed, disengaged, readied new swords of regimental history, and struck again.

At that table, in that room, Flaccus found, one could scarcely move for the mass of shades jostling for elbow room. The knives and forks were from a traitorous Dwarf Lord's stash, brought to justice fifteen years ago by Trooper Oritheo. The drinking horn with the gilt decorations was from the Dragon Mateleus' own talons, one of the Forsworn's greatest Lords brought down by Lord-Captain Raymar in single combat, and thereafter used for his old Company's amusement. Each bowl looked different, and each had its own story; one was from Sergeant Guthite's mistress, the bastard daughter of an old Imperial family ("They have their own marching song now, most unsuitable for ladies, but most suitable for everyone else!"); another, popular rumour said, from Galbatorix's own table. Even the music played after the meal-The Wandering Urgal -was in ironic salute to the Riding Ram tribe of Urgals, who it had taken twelve charges to break. Everything was steeped in history, everything a tradition from centuries past. The Alagaesian senior officers constantly ribbed each other about their regimental history, the Romans listened politely, and the two Alagaesian junior officers sat quietly, glasses in hands, their eyes generations away.

This certainly proved more amusing for a man, such as Rufus, with a complete knowledge of Alagaesian (as he was now calling the local tongue) than it was for Flaccus and Pulcher, who nodded firmly, smiled vaguely and picked at their soup. (Flaccus, Rufus had to say, played bullshitting like a master. Senators, he reflected, never changed.) They had also brought Choirmaster Goge (who constantly directed venomous looks at Pulcher, rubbing at his head; Pulcher, as he was sitting next to him, smiled and tried to suggest one of Master Rogerigo's coffees.)

"You know," he said airily, "there's nothing to be angry about! We drank together, and still have all sorts of things to talk about! Are you married, Choirmaster?"

Grunt.

"Weather good today, wasn't it," Pulcher said loudly and cheerfully, reaching out to ruffle the little Choirmaster's hair.

"Go 'way."

"But I can't, you see! We're at dinner together, and it would be most impolite. Do you want to sing again? The one about the Dragon and the Milkmaid was superb, as I recall." Pulcher's smile only seemed to broaden as the Choirmaster squirmed. It was apparent that he himself had had a bit too much to drink.

Flaccus, of course, tried to make conversation with Gydrynne's Lieutenant, who introduced himself as Cottwood Claye, but otherwise said little. He was a man of middling height, distinguished by rigidly parted grey hair, and a small moustache. "A pleasure!" he said forcefully, and shook Flaccus' hand vigorously, before returning to his reverie.

The food itself, served out of the plates and cutlery of half a continent, was something of a disappointment: wholly average, with the same heavy emphasis on meat, bread and ale as ever. Pulcher was beginning to long for fish, even considering taking a few from his dream pond; he practically gagged on what Flaccus had a habit of calling the "stuff of the honest citizen" before having a cup of sweetly honeyed and spiced wine.

As for Rufus, he got more than a few words in edgeways with Gydrynne. Her Father and Husband before her had both commanded the family Regiment, and she hoped that she would continue to do so, with courage and honour. Rufus looked at her, watched her eyes dart at the military men sitting around her, observed their approving smiles, and understood perfectly.

At great length, the meal came to an end. Toast after toast was made, with Flaccus, Sir Leon Dauthay and Gydrynne-no, Captain-General Gydrynne now- taking turns- "Bacchus!" "King Orrin!" "King's End!" and so on, drifting off into the night.

And, finally, a tipsy Flaccus putting his hand on Rufus' shoulder; "A word with you, please. Keep going, Tribunus Laticlavus! Another l-l-thing to teach you: toast making!" Pulcher, gloriously drunk from the unwatered wine and mead, raised his glass and joined in with the next round.

The next words to pass Flaccus' lips however, safely outside the Mess, were entirely more sober, in both aspects of the word.

"Spurius Julius. For too long, I think, you have been at my side. Your work has been extremely useful. Your translations will enable Romans for generations to come to prosper in Alagaesia, spreading the incalculable richness of the Roman way. For this, I thank you." Flaccus paced whilst he said, this, and then did his trick of turning to face Rufus. "But you are my First Spear, my Primus Pilus. You are the Centurion of the First Century of the First Cohort. Your men, I believe, need you. You will join them tomorrow. You may ride, but not ahead of them. I bid you good luck."

Rufus was speechless, but only for a moment. "I-"

"You are not needed at headquarters, Spurius Julius. Not for now, at any rate. You will join the men, and fight alongside them." Flaccus' eyes, for a brief moment, softened. "A Legion's Executores have to be seen to be sharing the plight of their men, especially when so far from home, fighting for a cause that none of them seem to believe in."

"I believe in it!" was all Rufus could say.

"So I surmised from last night. You should therefore be quite well suited to leading the men. Your fervour will doubtless influence them to fight all the harder." Flaccus' eyes hardened again. "Or are you, perhaps, a coward? A Praetorian skulking in Rome, more used to stealing a sword than wielding it?"

Rufus' blood ran cold. "Is it that you don't want one such as me at your side, Flaccus?" he spat.

"I do not want a coward, and the men want their leader. I am your legate, Primus Pilus Rufus. You will obey." And that was that. "Now, let us return to their delightful dinner. I gather that Gnaeus Aurelius wants to introduce these people to some of his charming drinking songs. We must endeavor to prevent it from getting too out of hand."

When they were alone later that night, Colonel Gydrynne wondered why Rufus was so downcast. He told her.

"Oh." And then: "Oh dear." She knew him well. Too well to imagine him as a good front line soldier. "Good luck."

The next day, the army moved out, leaving Tribune Nerva's embassy in Aberon. Flaccus, as with all educated Romans, had a passion for sending letters; almost as great a passion, indeed, as Publipor Tertius had for indulging his Athenian side and discreetly adding Greek colour and metaphor to what he saw as the unduly sparse, excessively predictable Latin style, with-Ye Gods!-the horrifying predilection of him referring to himself in third person. Deep down, he imagined that his Master knew, and for a while after his beating he tried to suppress this urge; but not for very long. He would write the letter, and send it to Aberon via one of Choirmaster Goge's "Singers" trying to read the Latin aloud in his or her mind. The result was occasionally garbled words; the first time the postman had delivered the letter, freshly copied from Du Vrangr Gata's Communications Office, he said that it was for a mysterious "Lewsheus Lutaetius Nurva," which wouldn't do at all.

"It's Lookeus Lutahtius Nairva!" the Tribune exclaimed angrily, before settling down to read it, wine at the ready.

P. Cassius Flaccus, to L. Lutatius Nerva, Greetings.

Imagine if you will a city, moments before the dawn. All the streets are empty, until one enters the slums. There, there has been blood. Brawls, thieves and want of bread have done their work there, many times over. There are moans, songs, screams. But few. Only early in the morning do the Vigiles put up a token presence; old men fear the darkness so much more than the young, for they know its horrors well. The swinging of lanterns and the marching patrols stumble through streets, and for a time it quietens down. But only for a time. The quiet lies, and lasts. Night, and lawlessness, remains.

And then a trumpet sounds.

In the thinnest sliver of Aberon, for the briefest of moments, there is light, order. Lanterns are raised, and close on fifteen thousand men shoulder their packs and march forth. Close on thirty thousand hands grip the yokes of their packs, or the shafts of spears, or the reins of horses; and close on sixteen thousand feet march rigidly in step, to the beat of drums. Varden officers ride with their swords drawn in salute of a populace which is now starting to arise, to awaken. Cheers are heard, as shutters are heaved open and heads protrude. Oxen and horses grunt and neigh in response, but the songs and shouts of the troops are loudest of all. "Aroughs by Vrael's End!" someone shouts. A flower is thrown, and a Surdan cavalryman catches it, kisses the petals, and expertly throws it back towards its home. A girl catches it, blushing. Trajan's face, held proudly aloft by the Imagifer, almost smiles, as his finest soldiers march forth to the rising sun, victory, and glory!

Of course, Flaccus had found this difficult to organize; once again, the locals found it difficult to accept that their troops, mere allies of Rome, march behind the Legion. Eventually, the decision was made that the First Cohort, with the Image of Trajan raised, should march alongside the Surdan cavalry troop's colour party, and the standard bearers of the Varden regiments. Behind them should come the mass of horse, foot and wagon, each century, troop and company alternately placed.

Once the army left Aberon, of course, this magnificent charade of parade drill collapsed more or less immediately. Flaccus, however, was sufficiently experienced to know that it always did, and leave the other officers to panic. Whilst they rode back and forth, brandishing orders and staffs of office, helmet plumes bobbing feverishly up, he asked Tertius to read him a book of Martial's Epigrams, gifted to him by his good wife Aurelia, and forcing himself to chuckle occasionally. The complaints from the Legion were of the normal sort, and as ever they came in waves: as soon as one man saw it fit to complain, another usually found the same fault, and it would thus pass from century to cohort, intensifying each time. The defensive stakes were too heavy. The caligae were breaking up on these roads, or on the grass, or in the mud. Why, Decurion Macedonicus wanted to know, couldn't we have purchased any of those newfangled Varden horse shoes? And I'm sure this local meat is a bit maggoty-I heard Sextus' crawled across the floor when he put it down! Nothing out of the ordinary, when campaigning in foreign country. Nothing.

And, for six days, it remained completely ordinary. Decurion Macedonicus and Sir Leon's cavalry patrols reported nothing too strange. The countryside was nothing especially unusual for a country preparing for war; the villages were emptying of menfolk, the roads beginning to fill with recruiting Sergeants leading their charges along; and food was for sale at double the normal price. The various villages they passed through reported nothing strange. The Romans pitched their fortified camps out of habit, more than anything else (the Varden, typically, declined, sleeping under the stars on those hot summer nights.) And Surda dozed.

On the seventh day, all that changed.

Decurion Macedonicus was that rarest of things: a Greek cavalryman in a Roman army. Most units used Auxilia from almost everywhere: Gallic cavalrymen with severed heads at their saddles and braided hair to their waists; allied Mauritanians, bareback and lightly armed; even Dromedarii on their strange, bad tempered beasts; but few Greeks. Flaccus, of course, had been initially dubious at the value of a horseman from the land of Hoplites and mountains, but he was soon convinced when he was informed of two important facts: that Macedonicus, as his name suggested, was from Macedon; and that he had called his unit the Hetairoi, the Companions, and that Macedonicus himself was descended from one of Alexander's elites. Sweeping back his quiff, Flaccus had shaken his hand, talked happily to him in Greek, and welcomed him in.

He certainly seemed up to the task, too. Young, tall, with curly black hair and a great white horse, even Pulcher would begrudgingly admit that he had a certain physical charm to ladies. But, most importantly of all, he was almost suicidally brave, which was why when he reported to the Legate, his spear tip was bloodied and his eyes sparkling with delight. "We have met the enemy!" he crowed, brandishing his spear again. "We have met 'em, and beat 'em!"

"So I see, Decurion." Flaccus cast an eye along the man's scouting Turma, and noted two empty saddles. "You have taken losses?"

"A couple of good horses, four men. Meander, Lysander, Samuel and Ducorix." Macedonicus, ever the cavalryman, shrugged. Someone had once said that any horseman who reached thirty was either a blackguard, or a liar. Flaccus hadn't worked out which one was true for Macedonicus. "Good hunting, though. Bagged a brace of 'em in person!"

Gradually, the story came out. The Hetairoi had been riding on scout duty, far ahead of the main column, when they had come upon the village of Cadarn. This, as it was marked on the beautifully drawn map provided by the Surdans-a rare commodity, easily worth its weight in gold for cavalry scouts- was entirely expected; but Macedonicus had sent five men forward to investigate, just in case. He had crouched down behind an old burial mound- very Celtic, he thought- and had stared out at the village.

Which, the moment the riders had approached, erupted into chaos. He could see men streaming out of buildings, swinging into the strange local stirrups and low saddles, grabbing packs, saddlebags, weapons. Cavalrymen! He ran to his horse, and was about to gleefully order a charge when his troop Tessarius grabbed his elbow. "There's fifty of 'em at least," he said. "We're outnumbered."

"So we just sit here?" Macedonicus spat derisively.

"Wait, sir. Wait,"

He had turned back to watch his scouts, when suddenly they seemed to crumple, horses and men tumbling and screaming in a great whirl. Magic? This almost penetrated his iron clad enthusiasm; but then he noticed that they had arrows sticking out of them. Short arrows, shot at a longer range than they had any right to. As he watched, two riderless horses nuzzled at their twitching, bleeding riders. Well, that was that! No one shot at his men and got off scot free!

Macedonicus got into the saddle in one flying leap, and drew his sword. "Phobos kai Deimos!" he cried. "Horses of the God of War!" His troopers mounted up, formed into the battle line, and readied their spears. "By the walk!" he ordered, brandishing his sword at Cadarn.

The troop Tessarius groaned inwardly. They would be slaughtered, whatever his Decurion thought. There were too many of them, and with those bows! But, as a Roman soldier, he obeyed.

But the enemy didn't seem to know that. For, rather than overwhelming the little turma in a charge, the enemy seemed more intent on fleeing for their lives! The Imperial Horse thundered away from the Turma in a wild, red cloud, leaving dust and dung in its wake. There was no order, no coordination. Here a banner could be seen, there a dark cloaked rider with a trumpet but-despite bawled orders and obscenities- they didn't even try to rally.

Macedonicus took this all in with a professional's eye. Should he pursue the cavalry? Or secure Cadarn? His cavalry instinct yearned to pursue the vermin, whatever the cost, and trust in Ares and his swordarm. His horseman's instinct, however, told him that the Imperial cavalry already had a considerable head start, and that any pursuit would result in him tiring his horses to lather. Which, no matter how undisciplined the enemy, was a bad thing. So, sighing, he turned to the village. "At the trot!" The turma formed into two lines, each fifty paces apart. If the front rank fell, from arrow or javelin or witch's curse, the second rank could flow around their corpses without being thrown from their saddles by dead horses. Macedonicus, needless to say, was in the middle of the front rank, hair blowing in the wind, grinning all over his face, horse high stepping and joyful.

The village seemed to loom ahead; all thatched roofs and white walls, the road broad and pure. An overgrown waystation, someone remarked, and just then shutters opened and the buzzing of arrows filled the air.

Macedonicus raised his sword high. He could hear a man grunt as an arrow smashed through his breastplate, but his horse kept galloping. "Horses of the God of War!"

"Horses of the God of War!" the troop thundered and, leveling their spears, they charged.

The horses were at the gallop, the wind flattening his helmet plume, the joy of it surging through him. This was the life! A fast horse, flat ground, and now, he could see as he leant against the neck of his horse and yelled his heart out, a broken enemy.

A scattering of red tunics, seeing the mass of horsemen bearing down of them, had ran from cottages and made a run for their horses. "You won't get away with that!" Macedonicus thought, and was surprised that he'd said it aloud with righteous indignation. "Fight me!" They seemed oddly reluctant to oblige him, so he dug his knees into the flanks of his horse, and went for them, ahead of his men. He didn't need to command them, really, for they were good horsemen, and had scoured and looted many a village in the past. Keep on horseback for as long as possible to intimidate them, then once inside jump off, kick doors in, herd the frightened cottagers out at spear point, and kill the enemy. The usual step after that was to steal valuables and burn everything; but, as this town was supposedly friendly, Macedonicus had reluctantly agreed to leave this one out.

A few of them had scrambled into saddles before they even noticed him. But one, an unshaven boy under his helmet, glanced up to see the howling Greek bearing down on him. He reached for his sword, screamed, and died as Macedonicus took his head off in one cut-

"A difficult cut, that," Macedonicus said proudly. "Tricky thing. Have to up just so, time the swing just right, and gallop right past him! One of my Gauls- Abellius- has it, if you want proof. Disgusting habit, head taking, but useful this time round."

"Continue, Decurion," Flaccus said, hoping he didn't go into too much bloody detail. "I trust in your swordsmanship, of course."

-all those mounted rode away, save for one. An old, grey moustached man, with three stripes on his sleeve and rotted teeth, who drew his cavalry sword and back cut desperately, barking down at the others to save themselves, to retreat-that, at least, was all Macedonicus could make out. "Get your drink sodden souls away! Go on!" He lashed out again, but Macedonicus took his blow on his shield. Their horses, both battle trained, skipped lightly, circling around as their riders crossed swords in a ritual as old as Homer, as old as war itself. The duel.

The soldier cursed Macedonicus, cursed and swore and spat. "Varden Dog! Scum! Tosspot!"

Macedonicus waited for him to tire himself out, parrying and blocking all the while, and was thus able to save his best till last. "Parricide," he hissed, before battering his foe's sword aside with his shield, and stabbing his horse. The beast reared, and died in an extremely painful and detailed manner. The rider was treated to the sight of a few red tuniced cavalrymen being dragged out of buildings and impaled. He himself was set aside for interrogation.

"And what did you learn?" asked Gydrynne. The senior officers rode together in a clump of horses, servants, slaves and subordinates, all dressed in different uniforms and using different systems for everything from signing orders to horsemanship. Yet another symbol of the Free Peoples United Against Tyranny, or perhaps a disaster waiting to happen as orders were misunderstood, troops deployed by leaders with no idea of their capabilities, and a thousand arguments itching to spring forth.

Macedonicus blinked with surprise, and explained. The rider was one Sergeant Feldman, of the 2nd Belatonan Light Horse. The troop had stopped in Cadarn to rest, and had treated the civilians with every courtesy-

"They did, did they?" Sir Leon sneered.

"Apparently so. A few stolen chickens, nothing out of the ordinary. No one defiled, no homes burned, their food and drink paid for with good coin." Macedonicus took a breath to continue.

"The theft of chickens sounds very much out of the ordinary," Gydrynne said, with chilly politeness. "The Lady Nasuada, I believe, has convicted soldiers for just such an offence."

"Ma'm," Sir Leon said, trying his utmost to keep his temper, "I have fought in the cavalry since I was fourteen years of age. When I was six, I started to train with weapons, to ride, to be a good knight. In my Castle, they hang a sword over the bed of newborn boys, knowing he will soon draw it in anger. In this time, I have learned a great deal about battle. Soldiers are, sadly, drawn from the scum of the earth, and it's a miracle that we make heroes of them."

"That is not so in the Varden," Gydrynne sniffed.

"It is so in Surda, and doubly so in an army using conscripted peasants rather than patriotic volunteers. When a troop of soldiers ride into a village far from home, they are hungry, frightened. Things often go missing." Sir Leon, with obvious effort, shrugged. "I'm all ears, as they say, Decurion? Yes, Decurion."

Flaccus, in a remarkably astute turn, didn't point out that looting was commonly accepted practice in the Legions, and contented himself with listening to Macedonicus.

They had treated the civilians with every courtesy, and were there to purchase more rations for their continued patrol. However, as soldiers do, a number of them had got drunk to the point of near paralysis. The commander had given the order to leave them behind; but Sergeant Feldmann, and a few others, volunteered to defend them until they sobered up, and then catch up later. The rest of the troop had ridden off upon seeing Macedonicus' men, leaving Feldman to hold his position. With commendable devotion, he held out, refusing to give up any information, and was then executed. As to his troop, they appeared to be riding Westward. "And that," Macedonicus said, "concludes my report, sir."

"Indeed. Why did you not bring him in for questioning?" Flaccus gripped his cane.

Macedonicus shrugged. "I set two men on him with spear shafts and boots. That's usually enough to set most people's tongues wagging."

"You neglected magic?"

Macedonicus blushed. "I'm sorry, I really am, it just slipped my mind. I'm not used to it, and-"

Sir Leon was open mouthed, Gydrynne hiding her amusement. "You have… nothing in your country?" he spluttered after a moment.

"Magic? Of course! The Sibylline Books, augurs, goodness knows how many oriental quacks and Gallic mumblers! Sadly, I have never encountered anyone of your caliber." Flaccus nodded to Choirmaster Goge. "Or with your manner of doing things."

Gydrynne's second in command, Cottwood Caye, wanted to know what an augur was, and then remarked that, when doing some undercover work in Teirm, he had himself come across a fortune teller. A woman called Angela. Used bones, dice, that sort of thing. Not birds, as I recall. In fact, he doubted she was a seer at all! Damn fine Witch though, damn fine, saved more good men than he could count. Good fighter. By such means was another dispute avoided.

"Could you produce the weapon they fired at you with, please?" Gydrynne asked.

"Fired?" Macedonicus looked blankly. "You mean shot?"

"Yes," Gydrynne said, like a parent explaining a simple fact of life. "I do. Is that not obvious?"

"No. Why do you people say fire?"

"I know this!" Sir Leon thought for a moment. "Ah. Dragon riders ordered their charges to breathe fire with that order, and we soldiers love to copy our elders and betters, even as we ride, womanize and sing for them!"

"That does make sense," Flaccus said approvingly. Trying to copy from his historical betters was his expertise. "In any case, you were shot at. Could you show it to us?"

"Absolutely. Looks like a little ballista." Macedonicus snapped his fingers, and a soldier produced it.

"A gastraphetes," Flaccus muttered.

"No, a crossbow," Sir Leon said. "A brutal little toy. Long ranged, but too slow for a true archer. Galby Empire, though, loves them. Toss them to a peasant, tell him how to draw and shoot, and he could kill-he could kill me!" This seemed to offend him.

"A Roman, then could use one? Good. Collect every one you find-make a note of this, Tertius. I have a plan for them!" Flaccus, if he wasn't mounted, would have started pacing with intellectual vigour.

"Indeed, Master."

"So, this cavalry troop. Deep in Surda, riding in our rough direction." Sir Leon tugged at his beard thoughtfully. "I doubt it's coincidental."

"Could you furnish me with an explanation?" Choirmaster Goge asked.

Sir Leon did not; so they promptly moved on to the next business of the day. Namely, asking Macedonicus exactly what supplies Cadarn could yield.

For another week, the army marched on. They passed along roads through the desert, near the strange "Burning Plains", the precise nature of which no one seemed to know, but all feared. They passed Dauth, and spent their final night in Surda encamped around Sir Leon's castle, a gnarled old crag, toughed by years and barely softened by the smattering of vinyards that kept its Lord in horses, capes and swords. The wine flowed easily, at great length. Tomorrow, they would march to another new country, full of new enemies and, if rumours were to be believed, all manner of the worst sort of horrors. Strange, dark men on birds of leather and wicked talons rubbed shoulders with the twisting fires of the King being applied to captives in ways that got darker and gorier as more wine was drunk, and more Varden veterans attracted legionaries, like moths to a mocking, boozing flame. Sir Leon apologized that they could not stay longer, for there were still plentiful foxes to chase, and the aviary was receiving a new shipment of birds soon-his children, sadly away for their schooling, would have been delighted to take them round. He ended the evening, after watching a delightful troop of minstrels delivering The Rider War, an epic Round song, raising his cup. "Gentlemen. Ladies. Today's fox." Then he drank, and passed out.

Flaccus wrote the letter, informing Nerva of future military developments. They would split their force into three parts. There were two main roads to Aroughs, and he made his deployments accordingly. The Legion, as it had by far the most engineers, would head for Aroughs first, accompanies by a company of archers. The Varden foot would follow, and, as skilled light infantry with a great knowledge of the area, would scour the marshes with one part of their force, the other taking the second road to Aroughs. Sir Leon's cavalry would scour the countryside, sending patrols before and behind the main force, searching for towns and villages, and for concentrations of enemy troops. Of particular priority for his reconnaissance was the state of the local harvest. Sir Leon was surprised at this, but obeyed anyway.

We hope you are in good health. Farewell.

Nerva's reply, in summary, was that Aberon was in uproar. Lady Nasuada was constantly running low on money, and rumours were flooding through of a mysterious child visiting her court, and becoming her constant companion, of Black Hand assassins stalking their leaders, of the Black Hand being a secret pact between the King and various Devils, and every sort of crime being swiftly attributed to them. The honour guard, fortunately, had recovered, and security was being increased.

Flaccus' second letter arrived shortly after the first. It is notable, perhaps, in how little Tertius seems to have interfered in certain parts.

P. Cassius Flaccus, to L. Lutatius Nerva, Greetings

Spurius Julius Rufus sends his regards, and would be honoured to assist the Lady Nasuada in any way he can. His uncle served under his governor of Judea, and considered himself knowledgeable about such things, often informing his family that he was "a man of Vespasian's day." Were this uncle alive, it is likely that he would advocate increasing taxation, by whatever means necessary, and on whatever sources necessary-salt, grain, tariffs, the hiring of servants, and so on. The Varden, inexplicably, has an aversion to taxes, seeing them as impinging upon the freedom of their people. That may be so; but the aversion Orrin will feel when the red tunics are marching into his throne room because he couldn't afford to feed his army will be all the greater. Whilst on the subject, denying soldiers of their boots if they are punished will simultaneously save money.

Our march into the Empire was initially tense. On the first day, the cavalry scouts remained relatively close to the Legion, and the men marched in silence. To their eyes, every tree seemed towering and oppressive, every cloud thunderous and dark, and every tiny pebble or shadow hiding some magic toting menace, ready to spring at them on a moment's notice. As the dust cloud of the marching Varden foot drew away into the distance, they began, once again, to feel as strangers in a strange land.

But, perhaps because they had grown used to this, they began to recover their spirit as the days rolled by. The villages were not so very different to those of Surda, their people just as curious, and perhaps somewhat suspicious; but Nasuada's standing orders were to purchase food with good, Varden coin. Flaccus' standing orders were to steal every crossbow to be found; a bow that could penetrate armour at long range was a valuable thing. Both were obeyed to the letter.

One remarkable thing about Imperial peasantry was just how many were beginning to wear a strange, dark lace; as bandannas and dress hems, neck cloths and belts. This was, as time went on and they marched further, often being sold, remarkably cheaply. The Varden Captain Swiner, whose archers were accompanying the Legion, could not explain it, leaving it to Tenor Skeate, the attached magic user. "Not real lace," she muttered after a cursory glance, before riding on. "The Devil's lace. Traps 'em, poor sods."

For two more wonderful weeks, they marched with little incident. Inevitably, local habits were being picked up. Many men now smoked, crudely puffing little rings up into the night. Magical defense practice was being enforced daily, with men being ordered to focus on something, anything, at a word of command from the Centurion, and to maintain focus on it for as long as possible. Smoking, perhaps, was an activity conducive to being alone with one's thoughts. A smattering of horsemen were now using stirrups, as they galloped round and round, leaping hay bales and ducking branches, performing all manner of horseplay in their free time, even racing occasionally; Macedonicus handled the betting admirably well, with archers and legionaries alike pitching in. The crossbowmen, numbering about twenty or so, were as involved in local custom as any; but results were disappointing. Centurions had a habit of gathering together the weakest, feeblest, most drunken troublemakers from their ranks and, having heard that the crossbow was a weapon useable by cripples, the elderly, even women, kicked them out. Getting Varden archers, most of the longbowmen, together for long enough to train them was also problematic; most scorned it as a peasant's weapon, or were too busy with other duties. Still, gradually, it was beginning to take shape. All that was needed were more crossbows.

The opportunity for those came one fine evening when, after another interminable mile of villages, a cavalry scout came galloping down the road, little curls of dust being whipped up by his horse. He was helmetless, had lost his spear, and was riding like Cerberus was on his heels. The Varden longbowmen, at the front of their column, fanned out into a skirmish line and started stringing their weapons, but the scout simply thundered right through. He continued galloping, head down, past the first cohort, which had halted and was busily removing packs and drawing swords. A few still sang the marching song; one of the new Varden songs, with poor accent but great vigour:

The wandering Urgal, the wandering Urgal,

Was now at a total loss.

So he roared so loud that he summoned a crowd,

And ended on our shield boss…

His only words to Flaccus before he passed out were: "Reds. Thousands of 'em." Then he fell from his horse, and collapsed. ((At this point, Tertius seems to have started taking direct dictation.))

Flaccus looked up to find Rufus standing. "The First Cohort has been halted, Publius Cassius," he said.

"Well done, Primus Pilus Rufus. To your century, I think." Flaccus then very pointedly turned back to the scout.

Rufus sighed, turned and left. Things had not been going well for him. He had turned up with a wineskin as a sort of peace offering, one of his last Tuscan wines, the best-but the Optio told him they needed one per man at least, which was more than he could ever afford. So he had sighed, and done his utmost to soldier on. And, he feared, failed.

The scout, it transpired, would not recover. On Flaccus' orders, Tenor Skeate entered his mind, so as to find his killer. It was found that a large Imperial force was close by, on a ridge with the ominous name of Drakenfarl. The scout's memories, although warped by his terror-of the army, or the probing, it was never discovered- nevertheless seemed to indicate a force of around eight thousand men wearing, according to Swiner, the livery of the Aroughs Civic Militia: red tunics, with an anchor surrounded by a twisting fire.

Another day of marching followed, in the highest state of alertness. Then, at dawn, battle was given.

The armies were deployed like this: at the top of the Drakenfarl Ridge, surmounted by a great windmill, was the main body of Imperial infantry. Seven thousand strong, and armed with both pike and crossbow, they were mostly Aroughs fishermen and tradesmen, called up to defend their city against invasion, and officered by aristocrats, the sons of wealthy merchants, and a handful of instructors from the Teirm Naval College, who were present to train their fleet. Amongst them were a handful of sailors, taken from the Imperial Navy, and the only professional footmen present: large, burly men, strengthened from years of manning an oar, and used to brutal boarding actions and seafront tavern brawls in equal measure. Above them was a veritable forest of banners, marked with the street where each regiment of militia had been called up ("Chandlerstreet Foot" "Vrael's End Pike".) And, striding through the ranks, were magic users in dark robes. They were, according to Skeate with a shudder, agents of an organization known as "The Black Hand": the Imperial secret service.

The Romans were deployed at the bottom of the slope, with all nine cohorts formed into a battle line. To their front, they had placed their archers, spread extremely thinly, as well as their entire complement of artillery: light, carriage mounted ballistae, maneuverable and deadly. To the rear of their position was a copse of extremely densely leafed Oak trees which, as it was summer, were fully grown. Flaccus, his staff officers, the cavalry, medical tents, and Tenor Skeate, had stationed themselves here. Not only was it an easy horse's gallop from any part of the line, but it was also well hidden from the ridge. Imperial Officers, via a lens known as a "telescope", would otherwise be able to spy on them, and launch magical attacks at their position. This, of course, would not be optimal for a victory, especially as Flaccus wore, as ever, his red cloak and kept his head bared, marking him out as a Roman legate.

At dawn, the Imperial forces sent a herald, demanding, in the name of Alarice of Aroughs, and His Majesty King Galbatorix of the Empire, that the Varden troops "Leave this land forever", or they will, regrettably, be expelled at pike's point by General Caastenburgh's army. The Roman herald, the Tribune Gaius Tullius Verres, replied in a typically bull headed manner that, in the name of His Imperial Majesty the Emperor Trajan, Best and Greatest, and of Nasuada, leader of the Varden, that His Majesty's Forces at once stand aside, or they will be expelled, regrettably, at pilum's point by the Legion of Legate Publius Cassius Flaccus, Senator. The heralds bowed from their horses, shook hands, and returned to their armies. Neither withdrew; so, two hours after dawn, the Empire attacked.

What drove them to leave the ridge, such a formidable defensive position, can only be guessed at. The most likely reason, however, is that, as they so greatly outnumbered the Legion below (which, with one cohort removed, numbered just over three thousand, two hundred and fourty men, was outnumbered by two to one), and noticed that they lacked many magic users, they considered themselves, despite an absence of training, more than capable of handling it. So, on a word of command, the Imperial infantry advanced.

They did so in the Greek style rather than the Macedonian. No cavalry to protect their flanks, with a line of crossbowmen leading the way; just a human battering ram, being hurled at the Roman lines. Banners were waved, drums beaten, and, spurred on by dark robed magic users, they sang. Songs of glory and battle, of humanity standing together against the Elven threat, of fighting for City and Citizens against invasion; much like the ancient Greek cities, in a way.

But their commander was no Leonidas, and it immediately began to show. The militia, as they struggled down the hill, were already beginning to break ranks; many tripped and stumbled and, as they righted themselves, entire files ebbed and flowed around them, with sections of the line advancing too far, and others halting. The pike block, even without the Romans, was shaking itself out of position.

The crossbowmen, though, didn't even look back. Each one of them carried a weapon that could punch through a legionary's shield, helmet and armour with ease. They pressed on, cheering and gamboling down the hill, some even laughing and betting on how many of these strange soldiers they could shoot. They were mostly young men, too poor to afford a pike, or even the barest "Gambeson", but desperately eager to prove themselves; apparently, they would be rewarded a crown for every bolt they put through a helmet, and double if an officer was killed. And the Roman centurions, clad in their distinctive greaves and traverse crests, were very visible. So they cheered, and prepared for a last dash into range. What could be easier?

Then the Roman artillery shot its first volley.

The volley of bolts, shot at the maximum range of five hundred yards, slashed through the crossbowmen's tight ranks, scything off limbs and ripping through bodies with horrifying force. Three men died in obscene union, joined by a bolt; nearby, a Black Hand agent screamed at them to keep going. Already, some turned to run; but Galbatorix knew what to do with such creatures. Magic users roared words and snapped fingers. Those who ran burst into flame, their screams rising above the moaning of the dying. "On! Onwards, soldiers, in the name of your King! Panic mongers will be executed!" The Black Hand stood in a tight know, just behind the crossbow line. Their intent was clear. "Forward!"

The Roman artillery shot its first volley.

The crossbowmen were scattering, some fleeing, many cowering on the ground or trying to crawl forward, and a few running to try and get their weapons in range. The bolts caused fewer casualties, but the crossbowmen were still trapped in a welter of their own blood, struggling to get an ordered advance together as officers tugged at plumed hats and helmets and soldiers fell around them. One magic user, more sympathetic than most, tried to erect wards; but they had rarely faced missile fire of this weight and power before. Varden guerillas rarely brought artillery, after all.

The Roman artillery shot its third volley.

"Archers! Advance one hundred paces!" Swiner barked, and the longbowmen advanced. Their weapons lacked the range of crossbows, but the men behind them were properly drilled, had trained since childhood, and knew how to fight. They attacked in a loose order, crouching low, their sergeants signaling them forward with gestures and bugles. A few crossbows thumped in response, and a man toppled over backwards, choking as a bolt struck him in the throat; but then the crossbowmen were frantically ratcheting their weapons, fumbling for bolts, and the longbowmen were in range. "As Vrael said at Arcourt; men, let the black rain fall!" Swiner barked, and they obeyed, giving the two fingered salute and raising their bows. They shot volley after volley of arrows, calmly reaching into arrow bags, dragging out their barbed, white fletched arrows, nocking them, and pulling the string back to the cheek before letting fly.

"Is it always this easy?" a young archer asked, amazed.

"At first," a veteran replied. "Then they get close and it's shit hard."

The Roman artillery shot its fourth volley.

The singing had stopped, but the pike block continued slowly, inexorably, to roll down the hill, drums beating them into something that almost resembled good order. The crossbowmen were being forced on, on, to try and bring their weapons to bear, and the wall of flesh was acting as a brutal shield against archery. They seemed to wilt as they advanced, and for every soldier who was hit, five men ran to "help" him and drag him back to the healers; but crossbows were still being put into range, and they still outnumbered the archers. And all the while, the infantry fumbled around them, drums beating. Bolts began to rain down on the archers who, even in their loose formation, began to die.

The Roman artillery shot its fifth volley. Now it swept through the front ranks of the infantry, felling dozens; but they had seen the fate of the crossbowmen, and the sailors were shouting at them to keep ranks, to advance, to keep the pike raised, so that is what they did. Swiner stood, shot another arrow into them, and was wounded as a bolt struck his cheek, tearing it off. His lieutenant seized his Captain and dragged him back, and the bugles sounded the retreat. The archers ran back to the legion, pikemen jeering all the while. "Cowards! Elf lovers!" The artillerymen towed their pieces back also, with the legion opening ranks with admirable discipline to let them pass. They immediately closed up again.

Trajan's image was raised defiantly, with the other standards joining him. "Fellatores!" someone cried, but was silenced immediately. Flaccus then took one look at the situation-the pikemen continuing to attack, the crossbowmen hurrying forward, his skirmish line defeated-and ordered the advance. His tribunes, Pulcher among them, galloped to the Centurions; and the Legion attacked.

"Testudo!" The line formed into a mass of blocks as centuries smartly raised their shields and continued to march forward. Crossbows were being shot with an ever increasing frequency, and holes were being plucked out of them alarmingly often. But if the men thought themselves comparatively safe, and a bolt was occasionally deflected, it was definitely better than nothing.

(It was here, coincidentally, that Spurius Julius Rufus was killed. He was leading his century from the front rank, his shield raised, and was shot in the chest, straight through his breastplate. He dropped his sword and shield. The last words said to him, I gather, were in response to him being catapulted into the second rank: "Get off me, you bastard!" and then, as the bolt was noticed: "Oh." The century, to its credit, continued to advance, Optio Dexter leading the way. He was, I gather, given water to ease his passing; and so ended Spurius Rufus, Praetorian Guardsman and linguist. May his shade rest easy.)

As the Legion now looked far less formidable, not as a formidable line, all polished steel and proud crests, but as little knots of men, inching forward over the bodies of their own dead archers, leaving a weeping trail of bodies, the enemy was given heart. Their officers drew their swords, their men gave a great "Hurrah!", and they charged as a great wave, pikes leveling. The Legion, unbowed, continued to advance. Pila were produced.

And, too late, the enemy discovered the ditch.

It was a difficult thing, of course. The Legion had arrived late in the previous day, and immediately the engineers had set to work, estimating distances and ranges. Over night, men had been roused from their sleep, raised their entrenching tools, and started to dig and lay stakes. A layer of turf had been used to painstakingly make the trap look real. If the enemy didn't attack, planks had been prepared, to give the Legion safe passage.

But the Aroughs Civic Milita, for all its sailors and fishermen, had no planks.

The charge, so glorious, now collapsed utterly. The pike was a weapon best used in formation, as a great block of men stabbing and thrusting as one, keeping the enemy at bay. Floundering in a ditch filled with wooden spikes, each covered with mud, as the rear ranks pushed on and the front pushed back, had whipped that advantage away.

Worse still, the Legion had formed line. "Milites! Ready your Pila!" the Centurions ordered. Without breaking step, the javelins were raised.

A few magic users had enough wits left to raise wards or cast missiles. Some were stopped by Tenor's "singing", but one struck, leaving a mound of burnt flesh in the middle of a century. But most were too busy ordering their soldiers to advance, on pain of death, and merely contributed to the shouting.

"Milites! Cast your pila!" They first volley struck home, over three thousand javelins. "Milites will ready their second pila! Milites!"

Now the pikemen began to falter. A few begged for quarter, for they had no shields.

"Cast your pila! Draw swords!" A few pikemen had doggedly worked their way through the ditch, and sailors were hacking at the stakes with axes.

"Legion!" Flaccus rode forward, distinctive in his red cloak. "Legion! Charge!" He swept his sword down. "Cheer, Milites! Cheer!" The Legion erupted forth, roaring defiance, spitting curses, clanging sword against shield boss.

And then the pikemen broke. First one man, who was broken by a spell. Then another, and dozens, and then whole regiments threw aside weapons and ran for it, magic users being carried along with them. They had, to their credit, showed magnificent courage to advance even this far; but no further. Flaccus paid them no heed. "Forward cavalry!" he ordered.

Macedonicus now faced a cavalryman's dream: a broken enemy. True, the enemy was fleeing up a ridge, across a ditch, which was hardly cavalry country. But no matter. Planks were brought forward, and the cavalry charged, the infantry following.

Here and there, little groups of men banded together, readied whatever pikes they hadn't thrown aside, and tried to hold out. Knowing that formed pikemen would decimate a cavalry charge, Macedonicus ignored them, instead sending all four of his Turmae into the screaming, disorganized mass of militiamen, herding them up the hill. Varden standing orders, unfortunately, were to take prisoners, rather than kill those who fled, which was a shame; but his troopers could probably still rob them. Militia, in his experience, carried a lot of glitter about them. "Come on, you fellows!" he laughed, smacking at them with the flat of his sword. "Be off with you! Horses of the God of War!"

He then looked up, and saw an even better target. Cavalry! Enemy cavalry!

Doubtless, they had been kept back to run down any fleeing Romans, but he was sure this was only reluctantly. Cavalry were always good sports, after all. They would, in fact, likely be happy for the company. And so, he formed up his turmas once more, and met their charge as it thundered down the hillside.

And Flaccus, watching from behind the infantry, could only watch the disaster unfold. Macedonicus charged uphill with tired horses, whereas his men were fresh. And the enemy cavalry, it seemed, were far more effective. Skeate informed him that they were called "Forsworn", after an old order of dragon riding knights. They seemed more like Cataphracts to him. Each man was armoured from head to foot in solid plates of metal, couching a massively long lance. Their helms, twisted into dragon wings and gargoyles of vile creatures, seemed to grin with the prospect. Flaccus tried to order Macedonicus back; but it was too late.

The Forsworn crashed into the Companions, and emerged from the other side, with a handful of scattered, fleeing cavalrymen before them. Macedonicus was cut down in the first impact, horse killed by a lance, and beheaded as he tried to rise. The Forsworn, seeing the mass of infantry, longbows and ballistas before them, immediately halted their attack, and began to ride up the slope.

That night, Flaccus would have decimated his cavalry, were it not for the fact that he had only fourty three left. For, although he had won the field, the Forsworn had saved the army of Aroughs. Scouts revealed that most of it had rallied, and withdrawn to the City proper.

Two days later, Mactator's cohort arrived, laden with goods (the Camp Prefect disappointed that he hadn't found the fight); and the next day, the Legion arrived at Aroughs.

We hope that your final recovery will be swift. Farewell.

((Author's note: I didn't know it would grow so long! I promise you: the next chapter will be shorter, but less worthy of your favourite fight music being used as accompaniment. The chapter after, however…))

Glossary

Best and Greatest: Optimus Maximus, titles originally bestowed on the Roman God Jupiter, but later bestowed on Emperor Trajan.

Referring to himself in third person: This is not just the author trying to be convenient, but is Flaccus trying to be like one of his heroes, Julius Caesar. Caesar referred to himself as "Caesar", rather than "I" in his writings.

Lookeus…: I'm no expert on Latin, but from what I can make out, it does seem a very different beast from what we expect it to sound like. (Although, I will of course be willfully inconsistent throughout this fic, mostly because of my poor knowledge of Latin.) So, our old friend Gaius Julius Caesar is more correctly Gaius Yooleus Kaisar. (The Germans, with Kaiser Wilhem and co, got it right there.)

Vigiles: Roman night watchmen.

Marching in step: Opinion is divided as to whether the Romans actually "marched" how we imagine it (i.e. all feet in unison, with a man shouting "left, left, left…" and suchlike.) I'm saying that they didn't, because I feel like it. Certainly there is no evidence that they had drummers.

Dromedarii: Camel riders.

The Companions: Alexander's elite Companion Cavalry, one of the finest cavalry units in the Ancient World. Flaccus, with his eye for anything remotely resembling an ancient hero, would have latched onto them immediately.

Stirrups and low saddles: At this time, Roman cavalry, like most other cavalry, didn't use stirrups. Their saddles, however, were still high enough to permit a shock charge of some sort to be conducted. Other cavalry types used different methods. Parthian Cataphracts, arguably the best cavalry in the Roman world, would chain their lances to their horses to increase their impact.

Deimos: The son of Ares, the Greek god of war. He rode into battle alongside his father, and personified the terror caused by war. Appropriate for a battle cry, then.

Parricide: The crime killing one's Father, Grandfather, or possibly Mother. It was, for the Romans, the worst possible sort of crime, with killing the Emperor possibly ranking slightly ahead. For the modern equivalent, think a Mother killing her children after keeping a Joseph Fritzlesque dungeon for a few years.

This is entirely appropriate for the Romans; the Father (or Grandfather, or even Great Grand Father, as long as they still lived) of the family was the Paterfamilias: an all powerful figure. He controlled who his sons and daughters could marry, what they inherited, and much else besides, even being legally entitled to kill them. In practice, however, an excessively brutal Paterfamilias ran the risk of losing all his friends. This doesn't sound like much, but bear in mind that Roman society was based heavily around informal friendships, with the Patronus (the Godfather, not the Harry Potter spell-and, for politicians at least, the mafia analogy is pretty accurate, down to hiring mobs of war veterans to beat up rivals, or even, in one memorable occasion, dump barrels of excrement on them) having a mass of informal clients. Losing all those would effectively mean exclusion from business, politics, and even the informal neighborhood watch that thrived throughout Rome to compensate for a near absence of police.

The word "Parricide" was used as an insult, even by politicians (not surprisingly, Cicero included.) To continue on the final stage of this irrelevant but hopefully interesting digression, the punishment for parricide deserves mentioning. The killer would be tied up in a leather sack with a dog, a cock, a viper and an ape (all of which represent human vices), would then be beaten in the sack, and would finally be tossed into the River Tiber.

Sibylline Books: Books of prophecy, reputedly given to King Tarquinius Superbus, the last King of Rome, by a mysterious prophetess. He only received three of them, and they were heavily guarded ever since, being consulted at times of great need. Copies of them were maintained until AD 405, over nine hundred years later, and long after Rome had adopted Christianity.

Augur: A Roman priest, whose main duty was to study the will of the gods and interpret it, often by observing birds.

Fire: This happens all the time! Whether fantasy, historical, sci fi, or even fanfic about fantasy, fiction, so it's time to get this Hollywood myth straight.(Even our esteemed Paolini, who brandishes swords on you tube and makes armour for fun falls into this occasionally. That, more than anything else, is why I allow the Varden to get away with it.) Unless the archer was intending to ignite his arrow with pitch for some reason (for burning buildings, or for night fighting, or for morale damage-NOT for igniting human bodies, as it is less accurate, and humans don't ignite like that anyway, isn't that so, Total War games series?), he would never, ever be ordered to "fire" his bow, nor would he "fire an arrow" at anyone. Why would he? "Fire!" is something we've picked up from guns, with their massive firey explosions, rather than bowstrings and suchlike. It has no place in archery.

Gastraphretes: Ancient Greek crossbow. Literally, "belly bow", as it was rested against the belly so as to be drawn with more strength.

Vespasian: Roman Emperor from AD 69-79. A former second hand mule dealer, and known for his great wit (for example, he quoted from the Iliad "Striding along and waving a lance that casts a long shadow" when noticing a tall, naked man), practicality (he was reputedly bored by his Triumph due to its slow pace), and penny pinching with Imperial finances. He raised taxes considerably, down to public toilets (not so long ago, French public latrines were still known as "Vespasiennes"), and conducted a Roman "cash for honours" scandal by letting himself get bribed into giving men high positions, or acquitting them at trials-before, when they were richer, accusing them of paying him for these high positions and acquittals, and fining them vast sums of money. This, whilst unscrupulous and probably unpopular, restored the Empire's finances after the chaos of the Year of the Four Emperors. I could go on about anecdotes concerning him, for he was quite a character (or, at least, he was according his various paid up biographers), but this glossary is getting bloated already, and the chapter even more so. PM me if you want to hear more, or look on the internet.

Cerberus: Three headed mythological dog. AKA "Fluffy" from Harry Potter, and with much the same role (guarding Hades.)

Leonidas: Spartan King at Thermopylae, aka "The Battle in that movie with Gerard Butler with those guys in (inaccurate) leather pants facing down Orcs, ninjas, and gods alone know what else."

Gambeson: A padded cloth jacket, and considerably more common amongst medieval infantry than fantasy fiction would let on. Cheap, light, and still surprisingly capable of holding off arrows at long ranges. (After all, Genghis Khan's horsemen mostly rode wearing silk, and he knew a thing or two about medieval warfare.)

Two fingered salute: Unfortunately, there is no evidence to suggest that English longbowmen ever gave enemies the two fingers before fighting. However, as this is fanfic, I can take occasional liberties.