"How far from the lilies to the rampart ditch?"

"About forty-five gradii, sir."

Ambrosius looked skeptical. "Are you sure? Those Faerie of yours don't think in straight lines or numbers."

Padrec gave him a tentative smile with the confession. "I measured it."

"Damn it, Patricius! I told you not to go nosing about the hill yourself. And what happens? Don't you go prancing up to measure a distance a bare forty yards from the rampart. What if I lose you? You're the only one who can understand your men, let alone order them."

Padrec contemplated the lines in the dirt. Violence in still-life. "After today, it may be academic."

"Don't talk rot, that won't help."

"There's one more thing, sir. The entrance to the fort. I got pretty close while I was at it."

Ambrosius turned despairing eyes to heaven. "Oh, very good."

"Not to worry. I didn't linger; they'd got my range by then, but they were more interested in throwing insults than wasting arrows. This is the manner of it."

Padrec sketched what looked like the open end of a tore with a spur growing out of one end to curve in front of the opening. Ambrosius knew it immediately.

"The fort was built by Marchudd's grandfather, who apparently read his Caesar. The Venelli used this in Gaul." He borrowed the knife and drew an alley from the opening into the fort. "See anything like this?"

Padrec thought he might have but couldn't be sure, moving fast as he was. The alley was angled at forty-five degrees from the rampart.

'The heavy concentration of archers will be on the right," Ambrosius explained. "The unshielded side for men with swords. Efficient."

"A beautiful place, for all that." Padrec stood up, sheathing his knife. "A braw site for a monastery."

"Hm?"

"A monastery, Tribune. We are to convert them, are we not?"

"Oh. Yes. To be sure."

"A monastery school. In serenity like this, a man could not only read the voice of God, he could hear it. Shall I form the alae, sir?"

Ambrosius remained crouched over the battle diagram. "Yes. I'll send orders through Gallius. By the way, I hope you had a good breakfast."

"Did we not!" About to fork the gelding, Padrec grinned impishly. "My stomach's been rumbling with gratitude all morning."

From the ramparts, Prince Rhiwallon watched the human squares below him elongate to rectangles. Bloody Romans, they even thought in straight lines. Still, he owned a grudging admiration for the discipline that could move so many men with so little argument or confusion. Rhiwallon could see the intent: each wave about to hit his strong-hold was now separated from the others and poised behind its commander.

Crammed into Churnet fort and bristling for battle were near a thousand of his best warriors. He estimated Ambrosius' superiority at between four and five to one.

"But that's mere numbers, not heart," he cheered his men. ' 'Most of them have fought one day to your hundred. After the first attack, the odds will be lower."

They had to be, but the prince refrained from the comment. The first two assaults would be crucial. Those repelled, he could last out Ambrosius. If the rest of Rhiwallon's warriors waiting downstream heard nothing from him by morning, they would move to engage VI Legio from the rear. The boy-bach Ambrosius would

have to split his force even further and eventually break off.

The Coritani's best archers defended the fort entrance, which was choked with sharp-branched tree trunks.

He felt the new tension in his men before any movement. They pressed closer to the rampart, leaning over, stringing their bows. Prince Rhiwallon shaded his eyes against the sun. Ranged before the center of VI Legio, the Faerie riders were dismounting as shield bearers moved forward through their ranks.

"Here they come."

If Ambrosius was younger than Rhiwallon, he learned faster from mistakes. Cavalry against such a radical slope crowned with such defenses would be lunacy. Wye taught him their best use was open, level ground. Archers would move on foot behind shield bearers with files of infantry among them. Once in position, they would fly continual volleys of arrows while the foot went forward to clear wide lanes across the first ditch.

"Because when we go through, Gallius, we'll go fast. Your maniple will be in the lead."

"Yes, Tribune."

Not so much fear that twisted Gallius' already suffering stomach as a kind of evolution. The novelty of soldiering and his own physical valor had worn off on the long road from Wye. His reaction now was much more typical. Why us? He wondered if the trib was still punishing him for the Faerie rations. He set that straight, didn't he? Ambrosius wouldn't know or care the cost to Gallius' stomach to eat that bloody ripe horsemeat. None of them knew. He didn't noise it about, but for years he'd not been able to digest much of anything but plain boiled millet and vegetables cooked to mush.

You'd think the Beardless Mars would be satisfied, ease off a little, but no—always the first maniple: first in, first over. Jesus. Always us. And I asked for it.

Gallius was becoming a soldier in earnest. Like wise foot soldiers through the ages, he no longer volunteered

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for anything. He found Patricius, absurd in his scavenged armor, and passed the orders. The Christly little man just nodded and looked away up the hill to the waiting fort. Even he knew what this day would be for all of them.

Gallius prayed with silent fervor. My God, I hope those stupid children can get along without me, if—ah, that's no way to think. Well, the woman will squeeze every sestertius, always did. And there's men here I'c miss more than her. Holy Mary Virgin, we're going to catch it today.

He drank from his waterskin, wiping his lips and beard.

4 'Don't drink too much, you'll be sick."

Ambrosius was at Gallius' elbow, serene as the priest. "Move them out."

''Yes, sir."

"I'm coming forward with you. That ditch up there's the only place I can see it all."

All the archers were slung with extra bundles of arrows, as many as could be carried. Padrec hefted three himself, trying to look confident for Malgon and Drust.

"Will be an easy day for horse, brothers. God with thee."

He stepped out in long strides, turning to wave his Prydn forward. Drust sprang to his side, swinging along, the bundles bouncing on his back.

"For Jesu!" he sang out. "For Jesu and Dorelei Mabh!"

Coritani arrows were flying before they reached the first ditch. The Prydn crouched close behind the line of shields. Padrec raised his sword, waiting for the order.

"Ready. . .loose!"

The first wush as the flight shot home, aimed a foot over the ramparts. Gallius scurried forward under its cover, leaping into the ditch with his sappers behind him. "Four lanes—four good, wide lanes. Clear 'em out!"

Padrec called for each flight as Ambrosius signaled it.

*'Loose . . . ready . .. loose! Malgon, ready a detail of six men to carry shafts from the rear. We can't let up. Ready . . . looseV

Behind the shield wall, as far forward as he could get, Ambrosius saw the strategy working, the sappers working maniacally in the ditch, hurling tree trunks this way and that, scooping fill-earth to make the paths, and only light opposition from the ramparts. If anyone raised his head, down it went again, or he lost part of it to a Prydn arrow. Then Gallius waved his sword, crawled out of the ditch, legs churning under his heaving paunch, back toward the shields, his men dodging after him.

"Four lanes clear, Tribune."

"Good. Patricius, hold off until my order. Save shafts. Gallius, tell me when your maniple's ready to move up."

Gallius tried to wet his mouth with a dry tongue. "Right, then." He hurried away. Ambrosius hissed his impatience: the damned Faerie were still loosing at the ramparts. "Hold off, I said."

Padrec had given the order twice over, but the battle-fevered Prydn didn't hear or didn't care. He bounded up over the forward rim of the ditch, shouting at them, "Hold off!"

They began to break off raggedly as Gallius' assault and ladder teams started forward. Shuffling back and forth, the shield bearers had allowed a temporary gap. Yelling at his men, Padrec's back was exposed to the ramparts, where men were already fitting arrows to their strings.

Artcois saw it and sprang monkey-nimble out of the ditch at Padrec. "Mind, brother. Down." He swiveled about Padrec to herd him back into the ditch, his own back to the ramparts. "Pad—"

All so fast. One arrow whined by Padrec. Then Artcois' white grimace went red as the arrowhead shot out of his mouth like an obscene tongue. The boy fell against Padrec, sliding down his body, still grasping at him. Below the nose, Artcois' face was a red mask. His

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eyes moved once, finding Padrec, then nothing at all. Padrec made a sound like a sick dog.

The leading edge of the assault pushed toward the wall. One man tripped, stumbled; another went down, dragging his end of a ladder with him. Gallius caught an iron goad, cursing as the hook gouged his leg. Then they were clear of the goads, running forward again with the second wave after them. Readying the third wave, Ambrosius knew only that his attack faltered. The Cor-itani were up and shooting, heedless of the arrowstorm peppering them.

"They're slowing down/' he said aloud. "What in hell is happening up there?"

With the first of his men, Gallius leaped over the narrow lily trench, dashing forward toward the rampart ditch. He stopped, turning to urge them on and so missed the second, disguised trench—two inches of carefully laid down soil over thin wattle and sharpened stakes. The first line of Gallius's maniple went into them, onto them, and when the second line faltered, the Coritani sprang their trap. Out from the fort entrance thundered half a hundred horsemen, trampling over the floundering first wave, scything with longswords, and sweeping on around the hill.