In the midst of chaos there is also opportunity.
Italica was burning.
Jacques could smell it. That stench of destruction. It was everywhere. Smoke and death. Corpses rotting. Homes burning. Fire and brimstone.
Moscow.
Jacques winced as a hand pressed against the wound just below his shoulder. "Careful there," he hissed at Vidal.
Vidal ignored him and poured water into the open flesh. A gout of fire rushed through Jacques's shoulder, and he bit his lip. His eyes idly glanced at the burning city.
It was an hour since Italica's fall by Jacques's best guess. He'd failed his duty and, despite the protests of his men, Jacques had led the Ninth Company to surrender to the first cohort of legionaries they'd found. Now they were prisoners in the Saderan camp, held in a wooden cage clearly meant to house slaves.
There was only one legionary watching them, and he seemed to be the only Saderan in the camp. The rest were in Italica; Zorzal was letting the city be sacked as a reward for his army and punishment to the Italicans. No Saderan wanted to miss out on a chance to loot a city as prosperous as Italica, so the camp was empty of soldiers. Even the man guarding them was antsy; he was missing the opportunity of a lifetime.
"This will hurt," Vidal suddenly said.
"What are-"
"Quiet," she continued and pierced his flesh with a needle and thread.
Jacques grunted. He distracted himself by staring at the city. Plumes of black smoke rose from behind battered walls and mixed with dark clouds above. It seemed like clouds had materialized from nothing as if God himself had deemed the day horrible. If he listened especially close, he could just hear the distant screaming.
Murder. Devastation.
Just like Moscow. Only this time, Jacques wasn't one of the conquerors.
"There. I'm done," Vidal finally said. "Wash it everyday or it'll fester."
"Thank you," Jacques murmured and went back to watching the burning city.
An hour passed, or maybe it was two. Time worked curiously as Jacques gazed at the distant destruction. Six legionaries came to the cage covered in blood. Behind them was a column of French grenadiers, maybe thirty men, the remnants of Captain Raoult's company. They were led into the cage, and then the legionaries turned to return to the city.
"Captain Raoult?" Jacques managed to grunt.
"Dead," someone replied.
"Mhmm…" Jacques murmured. He continued to watch Italica.
It was maybe thirty minutes before two more legionaries came to the cage. These men were in pristine condition, perfectly clean and dressed in purple cloaks. They approached the man guarding the cage, and he straightened up immediately.
One of them stepped forward and spoke, "By order of His Imperial Highness, we are to escort the bluecoat known as Captain Duclos to the prince-regent."
The guard nodded and rushed to unlock the cage. Jacques sighed and stood.
Vidal stopped him. "You are going to your death," she said.
Jacques shrugged. There was a curious fatalism that had infected him, and everything at the moment seemed fairly meaningless. Italica had fallen. He had tried, and he had failed. All his effort had been for nothing.
Vidal wrapped her arms around him. "Don't die." She squeezed. "We all like having you in charge, and you're probably my favorite person. If you die, I'll have to hunt you down in hell."
Jacques felt tears come to his eyes. "I'll do my best to live."
Vidal released him, and then Astier came to clasp Jacques's hand. A cool piece of metal went up Jacques's uniform sleeve. It had a sharp point and was slightly sticky with blood. The end of it had the shape of a bayonet socket.
Astier looked him in the eye. "You're going to meet Zorzal, right? If you find an opportunity, you know what you need to do."
Jacques nodded hesitantly.
"I hope you come out of this. If you don't, we'll all remember you. You're the best captain I've ever had," Astier said.
There were tears in his eyes, and Jacques was moved. They liked him.
Other men murmured goodbyes. Men of the Ninth Company clapped him on the shoulder and looked at him regretfully.
Jacques left the cage with a lump in his throat.
The legionaries with purple cloaks took him through the Saderan camp. He noted that the camp really was almost completely empty; only a smattering of legionaries remained, mostly wounded men and their caretakers. There were slaves and camp followers, but even they seemed to be few in numbers.
The Ninth Company's muskets and cartridge pouches were, Jacques observed, stashed in a tent only four rows from the cage the Ninth Company was held in.
Jacques was taken nearly halfway around the camp. He walked behind the two legionaries, head down, until he was almost at Zorzal's tent. Then something strange happened.
A slave was baking in a camp oven. The smell of fresh bread wafted through the air above the smoke and death. Jacques stopped, breathed in the smell, and was reminded of the old woman in Italica. Of her daughter, who'd given him a bread roll.
He laughed aloud. The two legionaries looked back at him, but Jacques's brain was moving like a galloping horse, as if he had, up until that moment, been asleep. In fact, it did feel like he was awakening. From fatigue, from failure, from a thousand fears…
Oh, I'm a fool, was his first clear thought.
Terror washed over him like a bucket of ice, but his head was working, and he stood up straight, finally truly looking at his situation.
I was just going to walk to my death? Maybe not. But he silently thanked the slave regardless.
"Get moving," one of the legionaries barked at him.
Jacques smiled back and continued walking. He idly felt up the bayonet hidden in his sleeve and considered his options. It was like commanding a battle… all the options, all the chances. It all depended on what Zorzal wanted from him.
By the time Zorzal's tent was in view, Jacques had a dozen plans. And there it was, a magnificent traveling palace of silk with ropes spreading from it in every direction. To call it a tent was really a disservice. The traveling palace had corridors of bright purple silk and floors of luxurious carpet. He was led into a side entrance which led to a brilliant antechamber with a silk roof that towered over him.
A row of benches lined the silk wall, so Jacques cheerfully sat down on one. His guards didn't seem to mind, and they stood at the entrance looking bored. Jacques quietly tapped the bayonet in his sleeve.
There were half a dozen other men waiting in the antechamber with him. A pair of men in thick robes, who read books quietly, and a short Northerner, covered in furs, who gave Jacques a curious half-smile, and a centurion with a scroll, and a servant, clearly terrified. Somewhat to Jacques's surprise, he was made to wait while servants called men one at a time. He'd never attended a palace before. He supposed it was probably similar at the Tuileries or Versailles.
The centurion was summoned, and Jacques could hear Zorzal's voice. It could be none other; no one but Prince Zorzal could sound so self-important. Then the servant was summoned, and then a robed man, and then the other robed man, who took a long time.
"You are Captain Duclos?" the short Northerner asked.
Jacques nodded. "And you are?"
"Jegu. Soon to be Jegu Khan when I kill fucking Khashi, who I hate, and take his horse, may that fucking traitor rot in the frozen hell of my people."
"Khashi?" Jacques asked politely.
"My cousin, stampeding back north pretending to be a great khan." The short man smiled, and his eyes twinkled. "Maybe I return after we fight your Marshal. You know the one they call Feraud?"
Jacques shrugged. "I know of him."
"What a rider! He should be riding the steppes, not wasting away here," Jegu grinned as he spoke.
Jacques shrugged again.
Jegu nodded then glanced quickly at the legionaries with purple cloaks. "You are here to see the brat, yes?" he asked in fluent Elban.
"Yes," Jacques said in that language.
"I hate being summoned. He orders people killed. All the time. For fuck all." Jegu gave a nasty glare in the direction of Zorzal's voice. "Fucking brat. I hate fighting for him. But a contract is a contract, no? If I knew him two months ago, I would never have accepted. Not for all the gold he shits."
Jacques gave an appreciative murmur.
"You know he just killed a man?" Jegu gestured vaguely. "An Italican, Lagos I think. Fucking Zorzal, may his saddle break, killed him after he surrendered. Bad manners. Bad leader."
Jacques did his best to mask the anger that flooded his veins. "I knew him," he merely said.
"Mhmmm…" Jegu stroked his chin. "You think you have a chance at living?"
"Maybe," Jacques replied honestly. He was still hiding his rage. "It depends on how generous he's feeling today."
Jegu smiled. "If you are still alive in an hour, we will drink wine together, yes?"
The anger was already flowing out of Jacques. Jegu had something of an aura around him. "Wine in an hour," Jacques agreed.
A servant emerged from Zorzal's chamber, and Jegu stood from his bench. "My turn," he said, stretching. "I will find you if you live. Then we drink wine."
Jacques smiled at Jegu. Then the man was gone.
If the Northerner had any trouble with Zorzal, Jacques didn't hear. He sat on his bench, nerves on edge but outwardly calm, until the servant returned a few minutes later. The servant nodded pleasantly to Jacques.
"You are ready?" he asked in Saderan. The purple cloaked legionaries stepped forward.
Do I have a choice? Jacques wondered. "Yes," he said.
He entered the Prince's chambers. Zorzal was seated atop a golden throne with two servants kneeling beside him, a cup of wine in one hand. He took a sip, his eyes flickered around the room, and he caught sight of Jacques.
Jacques made a deep bow, the kind he'd seen servants do in Italica. As he rose from the bow, he approached the Prince, who sat under a great roof of superbly embroidered silk which rose higher than many buildings.
"You are Captain Duclos?" the Prince asked. "You're the bluecoat my men are so afraid of?"
Jacques bowed a second time and said, "I am Sir Jacques Duclos, Captain of the Ninth Company Third Battalion of the 134th Line Regiment, Acting Colonel of the Italican Militia, and a Knight of Elbe by King Duran's hand."
Zorzal was bored; Jacques knew it by the way he drank his wine. Jacques rose carefully, however, and calmly stood.
"I expected you to be taller," the Prince mused. "There are so many stories about you."
"Men say many things about me. Some are true. Most are not," Jacques replied.
Zorzal took another sip of wine. "Men said you were unbeatable." He gave an arrogant smile. "Yet here you are."
Jacques noted a dozen guards in the room, tucked into corners and posted at entrances. He didn't think he could cross the distance to Zorzal in time. Instead, he bowed again and moved closer.
"You are correct, Great Prince. You have bested me," he stated.
Zorzal seemed pleased by that, and he handed his cup to the servant at his side. "Regardless of that, you are still a great hero, no? Is it true you conquered Castle Tubet single handedly?" he asked hungrily.
Jacques shook his head. "There were three hundred brave men with me at Castle Tubet."
"But you were their master, were you not?" Zorzal probed.
"I was their leader, Great Prince."
He waved his hand dismissively. "And it is true that you have fended off countless rogues and assassins?"
"I stopped two plots, Great Prince, one in Italica and one in Janku."
Zorzal stood from his throne and looked at Jacques directly. "Do you believe in the gods, Captain Duclos?"
Jacques shook his head. "In my land there is only one god."
"A nonbeliever then." Zorzal shrugged. "Regardless, have you ever noticed that some men are superior to others?"
Jacques wondered if he was close enough to make it to Zorzal before the legionary three feet to his side tackled him. "I suppose, Great Prince."
The Prince breathed in. "Captain Duclos, you and I are different from the rest of humanity. We are better. Stronger. More intelligent." He chuckled. "We are heroes. Like those of legend returned to life. And do you know what that means?"
Jacques had lost the conversation, so he shrugged.
"It means we will be gods," Zorzal stated smugly. "Men like you and I were born for more. Born for greatness. We will ascend!"
Jacques stared at him.
Zorzal returned to his throne and accepted a new cup of wine. He drank from it greedily. Then he finally looked back at Jacques. "Teach my soldiers how to work your magic," he demanded. "Join me as a fellow hero, and I will be unbeatable. We will become gods."
"Gods…" Jacques could only repeat.
"With your magic and my prowess, we can conquer the world," Zorzal continued. "Accept your destiny, Captain Duclos."
"Great Prince…" Jacques carefully said, "I am not of this world. I belong elsewhere and cannot join you."
Zorzal threw his cup to the ground. The golden rim dented on impact. "Really?! You would let something so trivial interrupt your glory?"
Jacques shook his head. "Great Prince, I cannot serve you when-"
"Enough," Zorzal interrupted. He snapped his fingers and a servant stepped forward. "Have this man taken to one of my special chambers."
The servant bowed and gestured for him to come. The two purple cloaked legionaries who'd escorted Jacques fell into step behind him.
"There are military couriers here to see you, your Imperial Highness," another servant said behind them. "Some disturbance in the east. One mentioned Rory Mer…"
The legionaries forced him from the room into a hallway of silk.
"These men will escort you to your new accommodations," the servant whispered. He couldn't even meet Jacques's eye. "You will be cared for by the Prince."
It sounded like a death sentence to Jacques.
The legionaries took up positions next to him, one in front, one behind. They didn't grab Jacques or manhandle him, but both of them had swords sheathed at their sides, and Jacques was unarmed. The enormous tent was well lit, silk reflecting light from lanterns.
They moved along the corridor of silk, maybe thirty feet long. Jacques had passed through it before, and he knew the way. His mind ran like a horse at gallop…
He couldn't count on them letting him live, and the way the servant had looked at him led Jacques to believe that Zorzal intended something horrible. He didn't like the sound of the Prince's special chambers.
It was possible he was being taken to actual lodgings, but Jacques couldn't take the risk. But if he resisted, he accepted a potentially greater risk…
A demi-human woman with white rabbit ears wearing a collar and not much else emerged from a silk curtain to the right, the same side as the legionaries' sheathed swords.
Now.
Jacques sidestepped right of the legionary to his front as the man sidestepped left to avoid the demi-human woman. His timing was exact. The legionary had a fraction of a second to realize his prisoner was moving, and then Jacques had his left hand on the man's sword handle, and he drove Astier's bayonet through the man's eye and into his brain with a stab that had all his fear, all his tension, all his trembling and sweat and anger in it, and then his left hand drew the man's sword from its scabbard even as the newly made corpse fell.
The second legionary went for his sword.
Jacques drove the deadman's blade into his throat.
The demi-human woman put her hand to her mouth. Jacques clamped his own hand over it to keep her from screaming.
"Quiet," he hissed. He waited a moment, and the woman stopped struggling. "Want to get out of here?" Jacques asked.
The demi-human was still for half a heartbeat. She nodded.
Jacques removed his hand. "What's your name?"
"Tyuule," she said.
Jacques nodded. "I'm Jacques Duclos," he breathed. His mind was still moving like a galloping horse. "I'm going to rescue my men, and then we're going to make a break over open country for Marshal Ney's army. It's insane, but I'm out of options. Still want to come along?"
"The bluecoat army?" Tyuule gained a determined look and wrapped the second legionary's cloak around her before taking his sword. "I hear you're going to burn the Empire."
"I can't promise that," Jacques said, but even as he spoke, he was cutting hole in the silk of the tent. "There'll be a fight; that's all I know for certain."
"Better than nothing," Tyuule replied, and the two of them stepped into the open air.
Jacques spared one glance at the roof of the tent to orient himself. Then he began moving quickly to his right while his sword began to sever the great ropes holding the Prince's palace upright.
It had become dark in the time Jacques had waited to meet the Prince. He was nearly night blind, but the tent illuminated its surroundings like a massive lantern. He could see the ropes clearly enough, and the legionary's sword was sharp enough that he only had to drag it along a rope to cut it. He missed several, but it would only take a few to bring the traveling palace down.
Inside, a dozen legionaries and servants were arguing. They were trying to place blame instead of acting. Jacques cut two more ropes and ran a few paces, cut another, ran, and another. Tyuule followed him, cutting the ropes he missed.
Jacques was running out of time, but the tent still remained aloft. He figured that most of Zorzal's personal legionaries were inside the tent, and if that fell there'd be no one left to chase him. They would expect him to try and assassinate Zorzal up close, he had decided.
He cut a heavy rope that he hoped was supporting the main beam, and he felt the tent move. It was forty feet tall at the highest point, with towers opening at either end like a command tent, only on a grand scale. Jacques had gotten a look at the interior supports and the central main beam. He thought he understood the design.
His vandalism was calculated. As he cut another side rope, and another, he saw two more fly from the ground as the weight of the palace was displaced and brought against the few survivors on the other end.
Jacques pivoted mid stride and ran west, towards the cage his men were being held in. Behind him, the traveling palace gave a shudder as if it was alive, and the whole edifice of silk began to topple to the south, still pulled by the few ropes remaining. Men screamed. Women too. The silk of the tent caught fire from one of the internal lamps and, of course, as they fell, all the lamps spilled their lamp oil.
"You really are him," Tyuule gasped between strides. "You're actually Captain Duclos."
"Yes," was all Jacques replied.
They kept running.
Men ran for the Prince's tent, but Jacques and Tyuule were already a good distance from the burning mess. They darted between the rows of tents until they came upon a series of laundry lines. A dozen men sprinted past them with spears at hand even as Tyuule was stealing clothes from the lines and dressing herself in Imperial garments.
She draped her stolen purple cloak over her shoulders as a last touch, and the two of them ran, swords in hand, across the empty camp.
He led them to the cage where the French prisoners were being kept. Jacques watched the cage for a dozen heartbeats, but, as he'd expected, the lone guard was gone, probably trying to extinguish the Prince's tent.
"On your feet!" Jacques shouted in French. He approached the wooden cage and slashed apart the thick ropes binding the door closed. Men got up, surprised.
"You're alive," Astier said, shock tinging his voice.
Vidal embraced him.
She released after a moment, and Jacques gestured back to his newfound companion. "This is Tyuule. She was a slave, I think. We need to go immediately if there's any chance of escape."
"Our muskets?" Vidal asked.
Jacques nodded. "I saw where they're stored. Let's get moving!"
The Ninth Company and what remained of Raoult's grenadiers followed Jacques at a running pace. They arrived at the tent four rows from the cage, and immediately began ransacking it for their gear. Cartridge pouches were hastily put on, muskets handed out left and right. Jacques found the Elban sword laying next to his pistol and retrieved both of them. He also picked out a musket of his own. There were more muskets than men, the result of extensive casualties, so Jacques ordered men to carry two at a time, slinging muskets over both shoulders. It was a quick process, fortunately.
Then they were running again. Into the darkness, while chaos reigned in the Saderan camp behind them. And as they went, the ruins of Italica still burnt.
Jacques looked back one final time.
Then he ran.
By midnight, Jacques's men had put a solid distance between them and the Saderan camp. They'd stopped at some point in the night to rest, and sheer exhaustion had put men to sleep despite the cold and fear.
Morning came and went without breakfast. They had no food to eat. But morning also brought sunlight, and Jacques was able to orient himself with the distant mountains. They were fortunate to have run off in the correct direction, towards the Romalia Mountains and Agrippas Valley where Ney's army was camped. The Appia Road was somewhere nearby, but Jacques refused to take it. Instead, he set the men off over open fields towards the mountains on empty stomachs.
Jacques was with Tyuule as they marched. Raoult's grenadiers had integrated themselves into the structure of the Ninth Company with ease, but Tyuule was a total foreigner and as such stuck alongside Jacques throughout the day.
At some point in the day, Jacques made a decision. He took a spare musket and cartridge pouch from Astier. Then he handed them to Tyuule.
She looked at him in surprise. "I have no magic," she protested.
"It's not magic," Jacques sighed. He knew this was dangerous. They'd kept muskets out of Falmartian hands for a reason. "It's a mechanism, just like a crossbow or ballista. You pull the trigger here, and it shoots a lead ball out very fast. That's what we use to kill people, not magic."
He mimed shooting his own musket to demonstrate. Then he showed her how to load it.
Tyuule seemed cautious. "Why are you giving me this?" she questioned.
Jacques bit his lip and looked at the horizon. "I have barely a company's worth of men out here, alone. Sooner or later someone's going to come looking for us. When that happens, I'll need everyone available to fight. So, I'm trusting you not to shoot me in the back in the hopes that we can all make it out of here alive."
Tyuule was silent, but she took the musket.
And they continued to march.
Marching on an empty stomach was pure misery. They'd all done it, of course. In Russia there hadn't always been enough food to go around during the retreat, and their initial foray against the Saderans at Italica had been achieved on half rations. Those had been bad, but this was something else. This was a forced march on empty stomachs after the most brutal fighting of their lives with the utter despair of defeat hanging over them like a stormcloud. It was misery in every sense of the word.
The wound below Jacques's shoulder bled constantly. It hurt with every step. Worst of all, there were angry red streaks on the skin around it that indicated something far worse than a mere flesh wound. Many men had wounds similar to Jacques's, and some had worse. It was a wonder they were moving at all.
But the Ninth Company was used to misery, and the grenadiers were all tough men. They kept marching despite pain and hunger. They slogged on through guilt of defeat. They endured, because they had no other options.
Everyone knew that Zorzal was somewhere behind them. That in itself was a powerful motivator.
Tyuule, for her part, kept a better pace than most. She was fresh, and there was something about her demi-human features that made her better suited for constant movement. The lack of food didn't appear to be a problem; she had been a slave.
Jacques discovered, as he often did on forced marches, that there was a certain rhythm to trudging along. One foot after the other. Over and over again. On and on.
His stomach grumbled often, but there was nothing to eat. His feet hurt, but that was to be expected. His muscles burned, but there was nothing he could do about that.
That was really the crux of it. There was no other option. There was nothing to do.
Nothing to do but endure.
Jacques made that his new mantra. In the past, he'd cursed his officers to motivate him onward, but now, he was the officer, and it was his decisions that had led to this. He understood them now. He understood the Emperor, robbed of any initiative but to retreat from Moscow. He understood Marshal Ney, forced to march on Italica or starve.
When the die had been cast, there really was nothing else to be done.
Nothing to do but endure, he repeated in his head.
And Jacques did just that. He endured.
Some time after noon, Corporal Malet called out an alarm. There were horsemen behind them, silhouetted against the blue sky atop a shallow ridge. It was only two men, but that meant they were a scouting party and a larger force was nearby.
Jacques fired a warning shot with his musket, and the two scouts rode off. They'd be back soon, but it gave Jacques some time unobserved.
He looked to his ragged men and ordered, "Form company square!"
It went poorly. No one knew what they were supposed to do. Men stood looking confused while others ran about like headless chickens. Astier and Vidal tried to establish order, but even they didn't know what to do. Conflicting orders were given, and eventually they managed to make what amounted to a sad huddle rather than a square.
That had been expected, though. Jacques had known they wouldn't be able to form a company sized square, because it simply wasn't something that was done. Infantry squares were to be formed by battalions at minimum and ideally by entire regiments. A company was merely one segment of that square, requiring the men only to march to their spot in the line rather than shift their formation. But a company square, the kind Jacques had just ordered, was something entirely foreign. It simply wasn't done.
Jacques didn't have a regiment, though. He had one understrength company: a hundred-odd men.
"Zorzal's cavalry have found us," Jacques announced to his huddled company. "If we can't form a square then we will be slaughtered."
Then Jacques counted them off, Tyuule included, into four equal groups. Each was to form one side of the square. Astier commanded the front side while the rest were in the hands of the corporals. When the call to form square was given, each man would run to their side and form a solid, two rank wall so that together they created a hollow square bristling with bayoneted muskets. It ensured they had no open flanks to be exploited, and that meant they could repel a cavalry charge.
Drilling the square cost Jacques about an hour of marching time, but it greatly increased his confidence. The formation was nowhere near perfect; it was merely the best they could do in an hour of last ditch drilling. By the end of the hour, Zorzal's cavalry still hadn't appeared, so Jacques ordered his men back into regular formation to resume marching.
Thirty minutes later, a short Northerner appeared over the shallow ridge with five hundred Northern cavalrymen.
Jacques halted the company. He watched the cavalrymen with grim determination. Five to one odds were bad, and that was before factoring in their horses.
"I knew we'd gotten off too easy," Astier spat, his eyes scanning the Northerners.
Vidal licked her lips and muttered, "At least we'll die standing."
Jacques was silent. He continued watching the cavalrymen; the entire body seemed to be content being atop the ridge unmoving.
Time passed slowly. Eventually, the short Northerner came galloping down the ridge. He dashed across the open field directly at the Ninth Company's square. The other horsemen remained put.
"I think I can bag him from here, Captain," Astier grunted when the Northerner had come within eighty yards.
"He's coming to negotiate," Jacques stated.
Astier scoffed. "So?"
"You'll do no such thing," Jacques snapped.
Astier grumbled, but the short Northerner was allowed to ride forward unmolested. He came straight to Jacques and saluted with his saber. His horse stomped the ground.
"You lived," Jegu said from his saddle. "But never came for wine, eh?"
Jacques bowed his head slightly. "Forgive me; I was busy."
The short Northerner gave an enormous belly laugh. "Busy? You call that escape 'busy'? Hah! Some escape! The brat was furious. His silk tent is useless now, and over twenty men were killed."
"Killed by the fire?" Jacques asked.
"By Zorzal," Jegu said as if such things were regular occurrences. "He killed most of his praetorians too. For not stopping you, Duclos."
"Have you come to stop me?"
Jegus tilted his head. "I come because the brat ordered me to. You know he's a greedy fuck? He sent my men because he says we did not contribute to the siege so we deserve no loot. Like shit we don't. Who does he think kept your Marshal from observing him?"
"We're headed to rejoin my Marshal right now. I'm sure he'd have a place for you if you joined us," Jacques offered.
"Eh." Jegu shrugged his shoulders. "I made a contract. A deal is a deal, no? Besides, your Marshal is losing."
"And you'd rather keep fighting for Zorzal?"
Jegu shrugged again. "We do what we must."
Jacques looked past Jegu, to the ridgeline of mounted Northerners. "Will you fight us then?"
The short Northerner smiled. "I will try to take you alive. Then we have wine."
"I'll try the same," Jacques promised. "Though we don't have any wine."
"I like you, Duclos," Jegu laughed. Then he turned his horse and rode away from the Ninth Company.
"I can still get him from here," Astier muttered, watching Jegu ride off.
Jacques shook his head. "That would be bad manners."
The short Northerner returned to his men on the ridge. Jacques saw him speak to two of his subordinates who rode off to either flank and took command of their sections of the line. Then Jegu blew into a horn, and all together the entire body of horsemen began to roll down the gentle slope.
"They're good," Vidal commented.
"Yes," Jacques agreed. He waited five seconds to ensure the Northerners were actually charging then shouted, "Form company square!"
The Ninth Company responded instantly, men rushing to their predetermined positions in the square. What had been a mob transformed into four walls of gleaming bayonets.
In the distance, Jacques watched the Northerners react to the shift. Both of their flanks immediately split off from the main force, circling to hit the Ninth Company from the left and right while the center continued straight ahead. Their cavalry wheeled with the utmost professionalism, as if they'd been born to ride.
A hundred yards from the square, Jegu drew a curved saber. The Northern horses leapt into a gallop. The horsemen began to shout, a long, thin scream, "Aiyaiyaiyaiyaiyai!"
"Steady!" Jacques cautioned. "Corporals, at fifty yards, you may give the order for the first ranks to fire!"
The distant Northerners no longer seemed so distant. Like centaurs, they crossed the span in a matter of moments. They came at the square from three sides, intending to impact all at once.
Corporal Flandin was the first to judge the distance right. "First rank, present!" he ordered. Then, seconds later, "Fire!"
Flandin's quarter of the square erupted into smoke at once. Sudden screams from horses and men filled the air as the volley scythed through them.
"First rank, present!" roared Malet and Laurent in unison. "Fire!"
Two dozen Northerners died in a wave of musketry. Their horses toppled to the ground, tripping the horses behind them and blunting the Northern charge. Those who continued forward found themselves face to face with bristling bayonets jabbing at them from below. Many horses simply refused to face the square, rearing back before their riders could send them into the wall of steel. Others fell to the bayonets.
"Corporals, you may order the second rank to fire!" Jacques declared.
Malet, Laurent, and Flandin ordered their men to fire together this time, and the effect was devastating. At close range, the Ninth Company's volley flayed the horsemen. Mounts and men dropped together so that the ground became covered in corpses. Maybe fifty Northerners died in the span of a second.
Men and horses screeched.
A horn blow sounded above the confusion, and every Northerner immediately wheeled their horse and rode from the square. It took less than ten seconds for the Northerners to disengage from the Ninth Company's square, something that would have taken any other body of cavalry several costly minutes.
With professional discipline, they rode out of musket range together and then regrouped at the top of the shallow ridge without any sign of disorder.
"Reload!" Jacques demanded. He knew the contest was far from over.
And of course, Jegu knew it too. Jacques watched the short Northerner distribute orders to his subordinates then ride back to his place at the center. With a guttural cry in the Northern language, Jegu sheathed his saber and drew his recurve bow. The other Northerners mimicked his actions, and then they were all riding down the ridge together again.
Their thin screams filled the air again, "Aiyaiyaiyaiyaiyai!"
This time, the Northerners didn't come directly at the square. Instead, they rode to within two hundred yards and began launching arrows at the Ninth Company, all the while circling around them like a swarm of wasps.
Jacques's reply was simple, "Fire at will!"
A crackle of musket fire started soon after as men began picking their targets. Distant Northerners dropped in sudden fits, and horses toppled as lead pierced through them.
A few men were hit by the initial arrow volley, but it was mostly inaccurate. Even the men hit found that their wounds often weren't fatal as the light arrows used by the Northerners failed to penetrate deeply. Lead and arrows were exchanged rapidly; however, the Northern arrows did little, and Jacques's men inflicted terrifying casualties.
The circling horsemen shrieked at their sudden losses, but they were brave and continued loosing arrows. More and more fell to the rolling thunder of muskets.
At two hundred yards, the Ninth Company's muskets weren't accurate by any means, but they still had a distinct edge over the horse archers. Bows and arrows simply could not compete with the consistent power and precision of well trained musketry. That advantage was immediately clear, and the Northerners steadily gained casualties while the Ninth Company held firm.
Jegu, being a fine officer, ultimately decided that enough was enough, and he withdrew his men from musket range, regrouping on the shallow ridge again.
The men were in better spirits after that. Only some were wounded. Not a single Frenchman had been killed.
Corporal Flandin looked around at the dead horses and began dragging one into the square. "O horse, I name you sausage!" he declared.
Men wiping blood from their bayonets looked up and laughed. Others began reaching down at the closest bodies, searching them over for valuables.
"Dried beef," a grenadier announced and began passing around the food.
"Wine!" a fusilier laughed.
Jacques didn't bother stopping it. He was too focused on the Northerners still waiting on the ridge.
"Think he's given up?" Vidal asked after ten minutes had passed without any further attacks by Jegu.
Jacques bit his lip. "I doubt it," he muttered. Then he called, "Tyuule!"
The demi-human woman came running. There was a half-eaten piece of looted sausage in her hand. "Yes?"
"Does Zorzal have any cavalrymen aside from Jegu's Northerners?"
"Yes," she answered instantly. "Saderan knights and light scouts. I do not know how many. I wasn't allowed out much." Tyuule took a bite of the sausage then said, "Your weapons are very potent. These are what you will use to destroy the Empire?"
Jacques shrugged. "I don't know the Marshal's plans."
"Give me a thousand of these staves, and my people can wreak havoc on Sadera," Tyuule said, a gleam in her eye.
"When we arrive, you can tell the Marshal that," he replied. Jacques looked back to Vidal. "Jegu's waiting for something. Saderan knights, maybe even infantry; something that will break our square."
"We can repel knights," Vidal stated. "Remember Prince Teo?"
Jacques shook his head. "We don't have enough firepower this time. If they make it past the first volleys, we won't be able to stop armored knights using bayonets."
"Then what do we do?"
Jacques glanced back at the ridgeline. "If we break the square to march, we'll be slaughtered. If we remain put, he'll bring up knights. So we need to move in the square."
"Squares can't move," Vidal retorted. "It's too difficult to coordinate."
Jacques looked over the Ninth Company. "Maybe for a battalion or regimental square, but this is a company square. It's small enough that I think we can march in it."
"Well, I've got nothing better." Vidal briefly glanced around then gave him a quick kiss on the lips. She shrugged."That's in case we all die horribly. Most of the men already know anyway, and I'm tired of pretending."
Jacques smiled and wondered how obvious they'd been. He held her for a moment before releasing. Then he bit his lip and began dictating his plan to the men.
Fifteen minutes later, the Ninth Company was moving.
A dozen men dragged the carcasses of Northern horses and carried wounded men on makeshift stretchers while the rest formed a hollow square around them. Jacques led from the center, Vidal acting as his enforcer, with the corporals and Astier commanding the walls.
It began as a shuffle. Moving in a four sided square was a daunting task. In order to do so, the men had to march in almost perfect unison or one edge would begin to drift and sooner or later they'd have to reform it. That was hard to do on a parade ground; during the stress and fatigue of battle, it was baffling. And that was before factoring in rough terrain.
At first, their square shifted just slightly across the grass as men inched their way forward. Vidal and Jacques had to run back and forth, reprimanding men who were straying. But eventually, things picked up, men got better, and they started moving at a gradual walk.
Jegu knew what they were trying immediately, so his men shadowed their every step, just out of musket range, waiting for an opportunity to show itself.
It was a deadly game of cat and mouse. Northerners would swoop in whenever they thought the square looked disordered or when men lost their cohesion. Rarely did they ever actually engage, because Jacques, ever vigilant, would immediately order the men to halt and reorder themselves. When the Northerners saw the square reform, too strong to crack, they always turned away. Sometimes they'd accidentally stray into musket range and a volley would empty a few saddles, but those occasions were rare, and after a few repetitions, they began to understand just how far a musket could accurately fire.
Jacques didn't know exactly how far they made it on that day, but it was certainly a good distance. When night finally came, they stopped to rest. But even then, they maintained the rough outline of a square, ready to jump to their feet in case the night watch alerted them to a sudden attack. The Northerners lit fires, easily visible in the distance, that marked their camp. The Ninth Company only lit a single fire, to cook fresh horse meat, and they huddled together for protection against the cold.
Jacques and Vidal held each other through the night, ostensibly for warmth, and in the morning no one made mention of it.
They were moving again at first light. Each man had a belly full of horse meat, and that made everything so much easier. They marched quickly, since well fed men were much better at marching than starving men. By noon, they had covered twice the distance they'd done the day before. Jegu's men still followed them faithfully, but by then it was obvious that the Ninth Company's square would not be broken by simple marching.
When the Ninth Company stopped to rest and eat, Jegu came riding to them alone.
Astier was on his feet, his musket cocked. "I could still bag him, Captain."
Jacques's eyes flicked over to him. "My answer remains unchanged."
"I know, I know," Astier spat. He continued watching the lone Northerner.
Jacques stepped out of the square to greet Jegu. The man looked annoyed. He didn't dismount when Jacques approached.
"Fucking Zorzal," Jegu greeted, "he won't give me knights, and his footmen will not make it in time."
"So you were waiting for knights," Jacques confirmed.
Jegu nodded. "Yes, heavy cavalry to break your lines. If fucking Zorzal was not a dimwit, your men would be dead by now, and we would be drinking wine." He shook his head as if he'd smelled rotten food. "He sends legionaries as if those horseless imbeciles will be able to catch up before you reach your Marshal."
"What's stopping him from sending the knights?" Jacques asked.
"Rory Mercury," Jegu spat. "You know her, no? Fucking crazy bitch. She attacked the camp the same night you escaped and ran off. So Zorzal, may his testicles rot, sent the Saderan cavalry after her while I went after you. Fucking brat kept no reserve cavalry, and now I have no knights to use against you."
Jacques raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure you don't want to join us?" he offered. He nodded at the distant Northern horsemen. "The Marshal would welcome a few hundred expert riders."
Jegu was quiet for several long moments. Eventually, he bit his lip and said, "You are still losing. Bad odds if I bet on you, understand? If that changes…" he shrugged, "who knows what could happen."
"So what now then?"
The short Northerner shrugged.
Jacques spoke cautiously, "If Zorzal won't give you any heavy cavalry, and if you can't beat our square-"
"I can beat your square," Jegu interrupted. "I have more than four hundred able riders; the best horsemen this side of the great steppe. If I wanted to crush you, I would surround you, bait your men into shooting early with arrows, then mass a charge from two directions simultaneously until one side buckled. My men would do it. And you would die. A lot of my men would die too, but you would be dead." He sneered and spat from his saddle. "I imagine that is what that brat Zorzal wants from me, but if that happens, I lose many men, I cannot return to the steppe, and fucking Khashi remains khan."
"What do you intend to do then?" Jacques asked after a moment.
Jegu looked from his men to the Ninth Company's square. Then he retrieved a wineskin from his saddlebags and took a long drink. "It seems to me that I still need to wait for Zorzal to give me his knights. Until then, I can only follow you, and if you reach your Marshal before the knights arrive, it will be no fault of mine." He threw the wineskin down to Jacques.
Jacques drank a mouthful of wine and smiled. "That seems likely." He tossed the wineskin back.
Jegu put it into his saddlebags. "If some of my men ride up to share wine, try not to shoot us, eh? It gets boring sometimes just riding, and you are interesting," he laughed, and he rode off, cackling to himself all the way.
The first booms of Colonel Delon's guns sent the hovering Northern cavalry into full flight, exactly as Jacques had planned. None of the horsemen were killed, because the first shots were fired from too far away to have any real effect. They scattered immediately, fleeing from the mountain fortress that Marshal Ney's army had turned Agrippas Valley into.
One group lingered for a moment. At its head, Jegu stood up in his stirrups and gave them a congratulatory wave. Jacques waved back, and then the Northerners turned their horses and rode back towards Italica.
The Ninth Company marched into Agrippas Valley to the cheers of thousands. It was almost night, and orange light covered the landscape. They walked past earthworks and fortifications while the fusiliers manning them roared their approval. Word quickly spread throughout the camp, and men emerged from tents and shelters to watch them go by. At some point in the last two days, Captain Raoult's remaining grenadiers had integrated themselves as Jacques's men, so they too accepted praise and cheer as members of the Ninth Company. The men waved back and basked in the glory, instantly rejuvenated from their defeat at Italica.
Jacques had intended to find the 134th Line Regiment so that he could report to Colonel Touissant and rejoin the regiment. He was stopped short, however, when General Courbet, General Messier, and Marshal Ney himself came to greet him in front of the men. The cheering died down.
"Sir." Jacques saluted with all the energy he had. "Italica has fallen. Chaucer is dead or captured. We're all that managed to escape."
General Courbet looked at the Marshal then back to Jacques. "How did you make it out?"
"We surrendered, sir. Then we had an opportunity to escape, and we took it. We were chased by cavalry, but we fended them off."
The Marshal looked him up and down, and Jacques became conscious of his tattered uniform, blood stained and grimy from constant battle. For five long heartbeats, no one spoke.
Then the Marshal finally said, "What a soldier you are, Duclos." He removed his hat and put a hand on Jacques's shoulder. "This corps is full of fearless men, but you are without doubt the most valiant of them all."
Jacques blinked.
And the men of the Third Corps roared.
There's been a lot of Jacques in these recent chapters. Don't worry, Ney will be the center of the next one now that we're back with the main army.
The second half of this story was inspired by real events that occurred in the Napoleonic Wars. Many readers will probably be able to spot the inspiration I used. It's very topical to the story.
Also, some readers might disagree with how I portrayed the effectiveness of Jegu's horse archers against the square. I understand there's a lot of mythology surrounding the effectiveness of mounted archery, especially due to the feats of the Mongol Empire. Further, there's also a lot of misconceptions that appear in pop history circles about the effectiveness of archery compared to musketry. Many people claim that archery was superior to musketry, and that Napoleonic armies would have been easily defeated by armies of archers. This is a ridiculous notion that I want to firmly dispel. Muskets were superior to bows in a vast amount of ways, and the best evidence for this is the fact that muskets almost completely replaced bows and crossbows by the 17th Century in nations that had ready access to them.
If that's not enough to convince skeptical readers, I am going to quote two passages of a memoir from a French general in the Napoleonic Wars who actually fought against mounted archers during the Battle of Leipzig. He calls them Baskirs; they were Central Asian irregulars brought to fight in Europe by the Russian Empire, fighting in the traditional style of mounted archery.
"Our soldiers were not in the least alarmed at the sight of these semi-barbarous Asiatics, whom they nick-named cupids, because of their bows and arrows.
Nevertheless, these newcomers, who did not yet know the French, had been so indoctrinated by their leaders, almost as ignorant as themselves, that they expected to see us take flight at their approach; and so they could not wait to attack us. From the very day of their arrival in sight of our troops they launched themselves in swarms against them, but having been everywhere repulsed by gunfire, the Baskirs left a great number of dead on the ground."
"With much shouting, these barbarians rapidly surrounded our squadrons, against which they launched thousands of arrows, which did very little damage because the Baskirs, being entirely irregulars, do not know how to form up in ranks and they go about in a mob like a flock of sheep, with the result that the riders cannot shoot horizontally without wounding or killing their comrades who are in front of them, but shoot their arrows into the air to describe an arc which will allow them to descend on the enemy. But as this system does not permit any accurate aim, nine-tenths of the arrows miss their target, and those that do arrive have used up in their ascent the impulse given to them by the bow, and fall only under their own weight, which is very small, so that they do not as a rule inflict any serious injuries. In fact, the Baskirs, having no other arms, are undoubtedly the world's least dangerous troops."
-The Memoirs of General Baron de Marbot
There you have it. A direct primary source detailing the ineffectiveness of mounted archery against Napoleonic soldiers. It's often hard to find such good evidence, so I thought I'd post it for others to read. You can find the full memoir on Project Gutenberg if you wish to read it.
