No one answered. Half-Gallon grimaced and waved a hand.

‘Ah, sod the lot of you. You don’t understood shit, I see. But don’t worry yourselves, because I didn’t either. For His Majesty the King, the margraves, the voivodes and nobles are there to think. And we’re the army! We have to follow orders: get to the River Dyfne in three days, stop there and stand like a wall. And that’s it. Pour, Zyvik.’

‘Centurion, sir…’ stammered Zyvik. ‘And what will happen… What will happen if the army of Aedirn resists? Or bars the road? After all, we’re passing through their country armed. What then?’

‘Should our compatriots and brothers,’ continued Stahler spitefully, ‘the ones we’re supposedly liberating… Should they begin to shoot arrows at us or throw stones? Eh?’

‘We are to be on the banks of the Dyfne in three days,’ said Half-Gallon forcefully. ‘And no later. Whoever tries to delay or stop us is clearly an enemy. And our enemies can be cut to ribbons. But heed my words well! Listen to the orders! Burn no villages, nor cottages. Take no goods from anyone. Do not plunder. Rape no women! Make sure you and your men remember this, for should anyone break this order, they will hang. The voivode must have repeated this ten times: we aren’t fucking invading, we’re coming to give a helping hand! Why are you grinning, Stahler? It’s a bloody order! And now get to your units on the double. Get ‘em all on their feet. The horses and tack are to shine like the full moon! In the afternoon, all companies are to fall in for inspection; the voivode himself will be drilling them. If I have to be ashamed of one of the platoons, the decurion will remember me. Oh yes, he’ll remember! You have your orders!’

Zyvik was the last to leave the tent. Squinting in the bright sunlight, he watched the commotion which had taken over the camp. Decurions were rushing to their units, centurions were running about and cursing, and noblemen, cornets and pages were getting under each other’s feet. The heavy cavalry from Ban Ard was trotting around the field, stirring up clouds of dust. The heat was horrendous.

Zyvik quickened his pace. He passed four bards from Ard Carraigh who had arrived the previous day and were sitting in the shadow cast by the margrave’s richly decorated tent. The bards were just composing a ballad about the victorious military operation, about the prowess of the king, the prudence of the commanders and the bravery of the humble foot soldier. As usual, to save time, they were doing it before the operation.

‘Our brothers greeted us, they greeted us with breaaad and salt…’ sang one of the bards, trying out his lyrics. ‘They greeted their saviours and liberators, they greeted them with breaaad and salt… Hey, Hrafhir, think up a clever rhyme for “salt”.’

The second bard suggested a rhyme. Zyvik did not hear what it was.