Atcourt shook his head. “Tom, I’m a tired old man. And I know how to form on the marker.”

Tom Lachlan didn’t snap. Instead, he smiled. “Right ye are,” he said. “One more time and we can go and see the company.”

He blew his whistle. Then he leaned over to Cully. “Practice shootin’ o’er our noggins, Cull. Imagine somethin’ as big as a dragon.”

Cully went back to drilling the archers.

The Army of Etrusca was preceded by almost six hundred wagons and carts, six traveling forges, a herd of remounts, and a second herd, a vast sea of beef. Dozens of Vardariotes in working clothes came up on their spare ponies and began to drive the cattle into fields and pens already marked, and Blanche could be seen, with her ladies and Master Julius, riding from pen to walled field, counting and marking, inspecting the food supply.

Behind the baggage and the wagons and the food and the remounts came the army; led by the company, hundreds and hundreds of archers; Iris and Elaran, northern irks, and Urk of Mogon, and Cat Evil and Tippit, Jack Caves and Half Arse, sober and polished within a whisker of perfection. No Head grinned at Cully and he and Smoke saluted the emperor for their ranks and then arrayed the archers as Ser Danved led the men-at-arms onto the field. Ser Milus saluted with his lance and the Saint Catherine banner dipped, and Gabriel found that he had tears in his eyes.

“I feel as if I’m looking at my youth,” he said. He hugged Sauce.

Behind him, quite spontaneously, the casa was mounting their horses and forming ranks, as if, after four hours of ruthless drill, they wanted nothing more than to stand on parade.

Tom Lachlan rode forward. He, too, embraced Sauce.

She grinned.

“I hear you won,” Bad Tom said.

Her grin now split her face ear to ear. “That I did,” she said.

The company was in a long column, formed by sections of sixteen—four knights, four squires, four archers, four pages—four wide by four deep.

Sauce raised her baton. “Company will form line from column by wheeling to the right by sections!” she screeched. “March!”

The whole column flowed, every section wheeling as little doors all together, to the right, and the column became a solid line, hundreds of men long, faced in armour, tipped in steel.

“Halt!” Sauce roared.

Silence.

Sauce drew her sword, held it up before her eyes, and flashed it down by her side.

Conte Simone’s chivalry began to enter the field of Arles behind the company, riding to the left. Behind them came more troops, and more: crossbowmen, spearmen, Venikan marines.

But among the company, discipline was breaking down; men embraced their friends; wives threw themselves into the ranks; men and women from the company dismounted to embrace their comrades in the casa.