Each day, three hours before dusk, while marching in enemy territory, the two lead Panthers, six thousand hard-eyed veterans, would fan out in a protective screen around the area the officers of the Flag Party had decreed should be the marching camp. The officers would then measure out the defence perimeter line, marking it with green flags. Inside this vast rectangle of up to eighty acres they would flag the dimensions of the general’s headquarters tent, the tents of others officers and men, the area of picket lines for mounts, and the section set aside for the baggage train.
As the next Panther regiment arrived its soldiers would remove their armour, form into work teams, take up their shovels and begin to dig the defensive rectangular trench. Within an hour and a half the trench would be complete, and a rampart wall thrown up along its length.
By the time the baggage train arrived the stockade would be almost complete, and every unit would know where to go and what to do. Once the digging work was finished the soldiers would put on their armour and retire into the fortification, along with the two Panthers of the defensive screen. Last to arrive would be the cavalry units patrolling the outlying land for sign of the enemy.
Within the space of three hours a huge fortification would have been constructed in the heart of enemy territory. By nightfall the full army, and all wagons and equipment, would be camped in relative safety.
Jasaray walked on as the soldiers carved out the great trench, hurling turf up to create the defence perimeter of the marching camp. Elsewhere officers were measuring out the area for Jasaray’s tent headquarters, while his six personal servants stood waiting to lay the general’s mosaic floor. Jasaray’s gaze flicked to the north, and the distant line of hills beyond which the enemy were gathering. He could see his scouts patrolling, and wished once more that his military budget could have extended to more Stone cavalry. It did not sit well that he had to rely on Keltoi tribesmen. He had no doubt that the Gath, Ostaran, was a fighter, but he was – like most of his race – hot headed and volatile, lacking any understanding of broad strategy.
Even as the thought occurred to him he saw a tribesman walking towards the fortification. He was leading an injured pony. Something about the man created a flicker of interest in the general. But at that moment he saw the first wagon of the baggage train cresting a small hill. His eyes narrowed. More wagons appeared, patrolling foot soldiers moving alongside them. The men were too close to the train. If the enemy attacked they would be driven back into the line of the wagons, unable to form a fighting square. Jasaray flicked his fingers. A young runner appeared alongside him.
The general pointed to the protective line of soldiers. ‘Find the officer and tell him to open the regulation distance between his troops and the baggage train. Also tell him to report to my tent as soon as his men are inside the stockade.’
Irritated now, the general began to pace up and down. The four aides and five remaining runners stood tensely by. Each of them was silently cursing the recalcitrant patrol officer, for Jasaray’s anger could only be assuaged by victims. The general swung round to the youngest of the aides, a seventeen-year-old on his first campaign. ‘Quote me the words of Getius concerning marching camps,’ he said. The young man licked his lips.
‘I … do not know . . . precisely . . . sir,’ he said. ‘But the main cut of his theory—’
‘I did not ask for the main cut.” Jasaray was silent for a moment, his pale eyes fixed on the youth’s face. ‘Go away,’ he said, softly. ‘I shall ask you another question tomorrow. If you do not know the answer precisely, sir I shall send you home in shame.’ The young man started to turn, then remembered to salute. Jasaray waved him away contemptuously and turned his attention to the others. ‘I take it one of you knows the answer? What about you, Barus?’