Clinging to his pony's shoulder, pounding down toward Padrec, Malgon heard the sound he couldn't identify at first. Out of range of the hilltop now, he hauled erect in the saddle to see the bridge alive with men from end to end, pouring onto and off of it, then—

"Ai, Jesu!"

The sound grew louder, drew out, ripping and splintering. The ranks on the bridge swayed in a brief, grotesque dance as the whole structure tilted and slid over to the downstream side in a surging stew of timber, spears, shields, and floundering men.

And high above it all, Rhiwallon hummed as he stroked his long moustaches. "Is it not a dear sight, son? Just lovely." His arm swept forward and the Coritani horsemen boiled over the hill, through the last of the trees, and down the slope.

Under his natural flush, Gallius Urbi went pale and froze for an instant, seeing that force coming down at him, then roused, whirling about to his men.

"In ranks! Shields up!"

Padrec himself surrendered an instant to terror before instinct propelled him to safety behind the line of archers. Less than two centuries had cleared the bridge. A few men were safe but astonished on the other side, the rest washed downstream, clutching at each other or fragments of wreckage, whatever would keep them afloat in their heavy gear. Malgon whacked his pony on the rump, sending it toward safety, then ran for the archers, who were beginning to shoot raggedly into the charging horsemen. Padrec found a horse quaver for a voice.

"That's it. Keep shooting. Keep shooting!"

He stumbled to Malgon. "Together, Mai. Tell them

to loose all together on your signal. That's all will stop them."

Malgon ran forward of the archers, sword held high. "Ai! Brothers!"

The flight loosed with the sound of a million maddened bees. Atop the hill, Rhiwallon almost lost his porridge at the sight. The men who rarely missed hawk, fox, or squirrel had much larger targets here. Rhiwallon swallowed hard. The leading edge of his charge lurched, buckled, and simply folded under the next as it ran over them with no time to veer aside. Even as it happened, another flight was drawn and loosed. But his men pushed on. The first of them crashed through Padrec's unprotected men, the naked riders flailing viciously with sword or clubs before they were unhorsed or scampered away. The archers, wherever hit, were simply run underfoot and lay where they fell. Helpless, Padrec cursed, running toward his last sight of Malgon. Where're my people? Oh, God, Vm frightened.

Someone was screaming at him; dimly he recognized Gallius' voice; then a tattooed rider plunged directly at him. Padrec leaped aside, and the man drove on. He'd not even drawn his sword, not that he could use it. How many dear men out there, still shooting, and won't they be trampled?

"Spears, Padrec!" The small, strong hand spun him about to Malgon's grimace. "Spears!"

The whirlwind of horsemen swept back up the slope, managing shields nimbly against the hail of arrows, waiting for stragglers before rushing in again. Malgon and Padrec panted up to Gallius, standing in place before his remaining foot ranks.

"Spears, Gallius. Move your men up in two ranks. A wall of spears in front. They need the cover."

Gallius didn't hesitate. A good idea; he should have thought of it on his own. He ordered the first three ranks forward through the archers but grabbed Padrec by the front of his grimy shirt.

44 Why wasn't this bridge inspected, you fool? Anyone can see that—"

"Could you?" Padrec twisted himself free. "We weren't told to inspect it. Let me go. I've got to get up there."

He sprinted away after Malgon to rally the archers. Already they were dragging their wounded away from the line. Through a stinging veil of sweat that flowed too fast and hot, Padrec saw the Coritani force pause and shuffle about. The spearmen were out in force now, three staggered lines of them, pilums jammed into the ground. The Coritani hesitated. While the Prydn sent another flight at them, a raucous horn sounded from the wood and the horsemen broke formation, galloping back up the hill, losing another half dozen to the descending arrows.

Barely more than a few minutes, but to Padrec it seemed hours. His body was an open floodgate for sweat, and his head stung. No man should sweat that much. He didn't know just how or when he went down on the trampled ground, but it seemed an excellent idea. Lying on one arm, he wiped at his face. The hand came away red. Who . . . what? / never felt it. Then Artcois threw himself down on the grass at his feet, exultant.

"Did see me, Padrec? Was Lugh a's self with my arrows."

"Oh, aye and aye again," Bredei sang, skipping toward them, half walk, half dance. "By Jesu, do know who comes against them now, do a not! Neniane will hear, brother. Such tale-speaking a-nights in the rath. Ai!"

Padrec could only shake violently. "Brothers, am I hurt? My head..."

"Oh, a scratch. A passing bee. Drust! Malgon! Here!"

Drust stood like a monument in front of the archers, screaming at the hilltop. The spearmen waited for another attack that never came. Behind them, Drust brandished his nocked bow, bellowing to the high woods.

"Philistines! Philistines, see David come against thee!"

"Fhain brothers. Here to Padrec."

They came then, Malgon leading his pony, and squatted in a circle of four about Padrec. On the opposite shore, the trailing century of Gallius' maniple milled about in frustration. It would have been their first battle, and a safe one with few casualties, and all they could do was look on, impotent, while the few men on the other side hogged the glory of it. They'd have to listen to it all blown up four times the size of truth for days to come. Men were creeping up out of the river, wet, angry, and feeling foolish. Many, unable to swim, had been sucked under.

Then the black birds, soot flecks in the sky.

"Look, Padrec," said Drust. "Thy omen-bird. Ravens."

After that day they never remarked on the birds or how quickly they smelled the battle. Not omens, only scavengers. There were always ravens.

They watched the ravens settle anywhere they weren't waved off.

"Must see who's fallen," Padrec said huskily.

"A must be barrowed," Malgon said.

Another horn, a legion buccina. Behind the eagles, the first elements of the main force jogged toward them. The blood began to cake on Padrec's forehead.

It galled Gallius Urbi to take orders from a boy like Ambrosius, reputation or no. However, if the boy tribune, nicknamed the Beardless Mars by the older men, were not a cool-headed commander, the first centurion might have been relieved and disgraced. The bridge should have been inspected before crossing.

"You should not have crossed without orders. You could have lost your whole command there, foot and horse. Lost enough as it is."

Step, step. Halt. Sharp pivot. "And you, Patricius. You have neither the temperament nor the instincts of a

soldier. I have no time to teach you, but you could at least think on your feet."

"Yes, Tribune."

"However, you cost Rhiwallon dearly. Both of you. And you didn't retreat."

Step, step. Pause. Gallius and Patricius could both be charged with serious dereliction of duty by regulations, but neither was that experienced in the field. Neither was he, and now he knew Rhiwallon would not fight a textbook war. Score it to experience and carry on.

"Tribune." Padrec stepped forward. "We'll be wanting more spears out front when we're afoot."

"Nursemaids," Gallius snickered.

"Spears, you say?"

"Dismounted, we have no cover. We're naked. Nothing between us and the enemy but good aim."

"I sent my men forward with a line of spears," Gallius offered. "It was the only thing that saved them."

"Spears. Yes." Ambrosius chewed idly at a knuckle, considering it. Of course. In this kind of battle, with archers needed to fight on foot over unditched ground, it was the most logical defense.

"Dismissed, both of you."

Quite right, of course. Alae are valuable only in motion or attack. Dismounted, they are a liability unless defended. I made incredible blunders myself that year, excusable only in that I was a mere student myself and had to pretend to experience, else my officers would lose faith in me.

For Rhiwallon, pondering where to strike the invaders next, the skirmish was not all boasting. He learned with Ambrosius. Of those men and horses wounded, almost all died or were useless afterward. The Faerie poisoned their arrows whenever possible. Since they made much

of being Christian, he would honor them accordingly when the time came.

Pictures in the mind, fragments of a scattered mosaic that never afterward quite rearranged to coherence in Padrec's memory. Pestering Gallius for rations that didn't come or were never enough. The long, plodding marches in the rain, the mounted head of a long serpent moving toward the first of the three crucial forts. The brief pleasure at the smell of watered spring earth before it turned to muck underfoot.

To Meganius—

. . . costly lessons, but we learn. The bank and ditch go up no matter where we are at evening. That is when the Coritani are most likely to attack because the foot troops are vulnerable. We ride a circuit around the camp like herd dogs. When the Coritani come, we shoot from the saddle or dismount and form lines of archers behind a picked detail of spear carriers. If all works in time, the Coritani pay for it.

And so do we. My Latin is plain, my Greek crippled. How can I describe the sound of them, screaming as they come, or the desperate necessity to hurl ourselves like a wall between them and the engineers? What they lack in discipline, the Coritani make up in courage. Sometimes, when it's over, you see a Coritani down on the ground, wounded and perhaps dying. There is always the pall of shock over them, a queasy surprise, like a thoughtless child fallen from a tree. He doesn't know why he hurts. Sometimes, when I look a second time, I find it is one of my own men. The face is always the same.