‘Tomorrow we will start training together – all four regiments. We will march through the countryside, we will practise riding over broken country, we will practise with arms at the wooden stake, we will shoot bows and throw javelins and cut things with axes. There will be tilting and mounted archery. And I’m going to trade men around inside the guard – so that there are Nordikans who have served with the company, and Scholae who have ridden with the Vardariotes. We will ride abroad every day where people can see us. We will take our meals in roadside tavernas. We will behave fearlessly, and if our enemies attempt to interfere, we will kill them.’
There was a nervous titter. Not much of one. Bad Tom said, ‘That’s the way!’ loudly enough to sound like a shout.
‘We’ve kept our heads down long enough. Time to do some work.’ He smiled genially, but in the torchlight he looked like Satan.
No one laughed, and no one cheered.
‘And next Saturday, the Feast of the Saint Martin, we will all relax and have a day of rest. During which day, we will conduct a pay parade in this very yard-’ the rumbling of a cheer began ‘-and see to it that every man receives his back pay to one year-’
‘That’s more fewkin like it! ’
‘Yes, yes! ’ Men were pumping their fists in the air. Oak Pew kissed Cully. This sort of thing was repeated in all directions, and not just among the company. The Scholae seemed delighted to be paid – amazed, even. The Nordikans smiled broadly.
‘And then, in the evening, we’ll hear mass – said by the Patriarch, no less. After mass, Ser Michael and his lady Kaitlin will be wed, right here in the chapel of the company barracks. The Athanatoi barracks. And we’ll have a little party.’ He smiled benignly, and all around him soldiers cheered.
‘Full discipline begins now. On parade, full kit, at daybreak. Any man who has questions about what full kit means is to ask the Primus Pilus. That’s Ser Thomas. On the word dismiss, go to bed. Any questions?’
A thousand men on parade. There was silence. Not a joke, not a titter.
Even the Academy students were silent.
The Megas Ducas bowed to the students. ‘You are all invited, as well,’ he said. ‘We will see you escorted home, unless some of you want to practise marching.’
He hopped down off the barrel, and Bad Tom emerged from the ranks. He was wearing a shirt of saffron linen over trews in black and red tartan, and he looked to be ten feet tall. He grinned at them.
‘I’m just this eager for morning,’ he said. He looked around in midnight silence. ‘Dis – miss!’
In heartbeats, the Outer Court was empty, the guardrooms crammed with men pushing to be off parade. The same joke was repeated in three languages, as old soldiers encouraged each other to sleep fast and hard.
Daybreak – and the sun was just a streak of pink and gold above the spires of the churches.
The gates of the Outer Court opened and the Guard poured out into the square. They formed long ranks, two deep – much less cramped than parading in the Outer Court – making up three sides of a square, and stood silently, at attention, in full armour.
The Nordikans wore hauberks which came to their knees, with hoods of fine mail, mail gauntlets and arms. Many had further reinforcements of splint or scale; a few wore Morean breastplates of moulded leather, both painted and gilt, and two wore the new Etruscan style mixed with their traditional mail. Their cotes were of dark blue, and they wore cloaks of Imperial purple, many decorated in gold – with gold plates, gold embroidery, gold scales, some with pearls or diamonds.
The Scholae wore red – red leather cotes or heavy, tailored tunics under breastplates and backs of bronze scale polished like gold, or alternating steel and bronze. Many of them wore arm harnesses in the new Etruscan style, and a few had leg armour as well. They were beautifully mounted on sturdy black horses.
The company were in scarlet too, but their only uniformity was in their surcoats. Most had breast- and backplates; they wore twenty styles of helmets, from Bad Tom’s towering back-pointed and brimmed bassinet to Cully’s fluted kettle hat. The men-at-arms were all in plate; most of the squires had the same. The pages wore lighter armour, although Morea was already having an effect – some few pages already had curved swords and scale cuirasses. The archers were more conservative, and only one man had a turban on his open-faced bassinet. The Captain stopped during the first inspection and looked at him – Tom ‘Toes’ Larkin, a new man in good, clean kit and spotless breastplate.
‘I like your turban,’ the Duke said.
Larkin flushed. ‘Sir!’ he said, eyes fixed firmly on a point somewhere out in the middle of the Great Square.
‘Show the rest of the archers how to make them,’ the Duke said. He moved on.
Two spots to the right of Larkin, Cully said, ‘That’ll teach you, you fucking popinjay.’ He said it without appearing to move his mouth.
If the company looked good from the standpoint of sartorial splendour, their horses didn’t match the quality of their surcoats – even their old ones. Only the men-at-arms were mounted, and they rode an appalling collection of nags.
Officers conducted inspections, and then the whole of the Guard stood like additional polychromatic statues, completely at home with the other thousand bronze and marble figures in the Great Square. The Megas Ducas and his Primus Pilus rode to the centre of the three-sided square on borrowed horses and waited. They were joined by Count Darkhair and Count Giorgios Comnenos – both officers appointed to those ranks that morning.
The clock at the Academy struck six.
On the fifth strike of the wooden mallet against the great bell, the sound of hooves could be heard ringing on the frosted cobbles of the city.
As silence throbbed in the aftermath of the sixth ring, Count Zac rode into the Great Square followed by three hundred Vardariotes. They formed at the trot – formed line from street column, and then the line rode at a slight oblique – a very showy technique – to fit perfectly from the right marker of the company to the left marker of the Nordikans, facing the Scholae across the square.
Count Zac rode to the centre of the square and saluted the Megas Ducas with his heavy riding whip.
The Megas Ducas returned the salute and nodded. ‘Order of march – the right squadron of the Vardariotes, followed by the Scholae, followed by the Nordikans, followed by the company, followed by the left squadron of the Vardariotes. When we reach the gate, we will turn to the left and march around the city, returning by the Gate of the Vardariotes. We will maintain a practical march order all day; we will deploy into line of battle on my commands, we will make an impromptu camp at the Plataea on the Alban road for lunch. Any questions?’
Count Zac grinned. ‘Want a better horse?’ he asked.
The Duke managed a smile. ‘Very much. For me and everyone else in my company.’
Zac shrugged. ‘Those traitors who kill your horses – they did you a favour. Get better horses!’
‘You could help?’ the Duke asked.
Zac smiled. ‘I said I would – eh? Why have you not visited me?’
The Duke shook his head. ‘I’ve been sick,’ he said. ‘I’ll remedy that. Ready?’ He nodded and raised his baton.
Zac pulled his horse’s head around and galloped the few yards to his men, and barked commands and the right half of his regiment split off and filed away at a trot – headed south and east to the Gate of Ares. Their departure left a gap seventy files wide, and the Scholae, under orders from their new count, filed off by fours. The Nordikans simply marched – every right foot moving off together without the company’s shuffling, as they all seemed to wait for their file leaders and consequently accordioned over the square.
And finally, the last eighty files of the Vardariotes closed the rear. The whole process took almost ten minutes, and there was, on balance, more shouting than was probably needed.