Arthur’s longbows were deployed in two separate phalanxes to the rear of the infantry — on raised ground to the west and east. Behind them were placed the artillery pieces, onagers, mangonels and sling-throwers. Like the archers, they were only to be used at specific moments in the battle, as decided on by Arthur.
All of this had come naturally, dictated by the landscape. But the problem remained for Arthur to decide what to do with his knights, those men whose names alone were pillars of strength. In the end he decided on a simple ploy. He and his army had gained access to the north end of the vale via two parallel gulleys, to the east and west. These were deep and sheltered, inaccessible to enemy missiles, and could only be approached from a plateau behind Arthur’s army, where his stockaded camp was located, so it was impossible for them to be assaulted from behind. He now placed contingents of knights and horsemen in both of these. They were to be his mailed fists; they would not be called upon to enter the fray straight away, but when they were, aisles would clear through the ranks of the infantry and they would charge down and deal a pulverising blow to the enemy.
Not all were pleased — it seemed contrary to the chivalrous code that knights would join the melee behind the common men — but they knew enough of tactics and of the enemy’s strength to raise no serious objections.
Thanks to the early start, Arthur’s host was in full array when the Romans began to form up. Emperor Lucius organised his force into three main army-groups — solid blocks of infantry composed of symmetrically aligned phalanxes — Flail Cohort marching alongside Mace Cohort, Axe Cohort in support of Mattock Cohort, and so on, each army-group in total some sixty or seventy thousand strong, any one of which was vastly larger than Arthur’s entire force. The Roman horse companies were deployed as buffer units between them, so if the first army-group floundered it could draw immediate support from cavalry at its rear. In effect, Lucius intended to drive a titanic battering ram of men and horses along the centre of the valley, straight into the heart of Arthur’s deployment. He was still convinced that, if nothing else, he would crush the opposition by sheer strength of numbers.
So confident was Lucius that he and his personal bodyguard mounted up and posted themselves beneath the Imperial purple banner in the centre of the first cavalry company. Much to Tribune Rufio’s chagrin, these units were not drawn from the Fourteenth Legion, but from the Eighth, who were augmented by the Saracen horse-warriors of Prince Jalhid. The squadrons of the Fourteenth were placed between the second and third army-groups, well to the rear, though Rufio grudgingly supposed that at least Trelawna would be pleased.
Arthur chose an equally visible and vulnerable position to the Emperor.
In his case, this was not born of soaring confidence or a greedy desire to claim the spoil when the battle was won, but a choice made of necessity. The King could not afford to hide. If he did, the morale of his men would suffer. As such, Arthur placed his distinctive standard — the red dragon on the white weave — on high rocks to the immediate rear of the infantry line, in the very centre of the field.
Sir Kay, in the blunt language that only an older brother would use, told him that this was rank, mule-headed folly. Arthur could be killed instantly, and then what would happen? Sir Bedivere agreed. The Romans were hauling artillery up field in support of their infantry; they would assail the British with a fierce bombardment before actually engaging. If Arthur were to perish before a blow had been struck it would be the worst disaster in the history of Albion.
Arthur merely laughed. “I need to see what’s happening on the field, do I not?” he argued.
“You will see nothing at all my lord, if your eyes are smashed apart by a lead grenade,” Bedivere replied.
Arthur laughed all the more. “Your concern is appreciated. But I put my trust in the Lord. God has decided that from this day on, the Roman Empire will be an empire of the soul, not the sword. It is our duty to enforce this transition.”
“Amen to that,” said Aldemar, the Breton Archbishop of Lorient, who had joined eight hundred of his own knights to “Arthur’s crusade,” as he called it, and now stood alongside the King, wearing mail under his golden tabard and a pig-snouted helm instead of a mitre.
By eleven o’clock in the morning, the Roman formation was complete, and a group of heralds and officers detached from their ranks and cantered up the vale under a pennant of truce. A similar group detached from Arthur’s ranks. They met mid-way.
Ardeus Vigilano, Duke of Spoleto, had command of the Roman party. Kay had command of the Britons. The Duke was a short, portly man, red-faced and with longish ginger locks now running to grey, which, when he shook them loose from his helmet, were already damp with sweat. Spoleto had shown little inclination to be a diplomat during the colloquy at Camelot, and he showed even less now. His terms were simple. Beforehand, the Emperor of New Rome had been prepared to deal with Arthur as a lawful monarch and an equal, but now that Arthur had performed belligerent acts on New Roman territory he must be regarded as a transgressor. The only way he could save himself and the lives of his men would be to surrender all arms forthwith and put himself and his host in the charge of New Rome. The Emperor would then be pleased to enter discussions concerning the easiest and quickest way to hand over power in the former kingdoms of Brittany and Albion.
Kay replied in a casual tone that the battlefield was no place for jest, that they had business to attend to and that they had best get it concluded swiftly.
“However,” he added, “King Arthur is not a barbarous man, and is loath to shed the blood of so many. He proposes that we settle this affair in the correct way — a duel to the death between two champions, the winner to take all.”
Spoleto looked amused. It had not gone unnoticed by him that one of the knights in the British party wore the white leopard and blue livery of Lancelot du Lac, who it was said no man alive could defeat. “How interesting that you offer such a solution,” he said, “when our host outnumbers yours by almost five to one.”
Kay shrugged. “A single combat between champions would be the chivalrous option.”
A junior officer mounted alongside Spoleto removed his helm, revealing tightly curled white-blond hair and astonishingly youthful features, which now seethed with indignation.
“Hiding behind chivalry, sir knight?” he scoffed. “There wasn’t much of that on offer when you captured the free-companies.”
“The free-companies, what remained of them, were gelded to reduce their baleful temperament,” Kay explained. “Had I had my way, they’d have been branded and blinded as well, and each one forced to carry the stump of his right hand.”
“There will be no combat between champions,” Spoleto said decisively. “If your king feels he has overreached himself, he must now pay the price of his recklessness.”
“Then many men will die today because not a single Roman was brave enough to stand alone.”