Day 3

Occanse stood atop the ridge, surveying the land to the east. Below him lay Qurat, a shining jewel spread next to the silver sea.

"Make camp there," he ordered, pointing to the great plain stretching before the south gates of the walled city. "On the morrow we will take the city."

"Yes," said Golias, thoughtfully. The Emperor rested easily in his saddle, showing no sign that he had spent the day there. Age had not brought softness to Golias, no indeed. He motioned one of his captains closer.

"Issus, remain here with your chariots, behind the ridge line, out of sight of the city. When tomorrow you hear three blasts of my trumpet, charge over the hill as though a thousand demons were at your back."

Issus bowed low. "It shall be done, my Emperor," he snapped, then went to see to his men.

Occanse regarded Golias thoughtfully. "Subterfuge my Emperor? Surely we have no need of such against these eastern dogs. We outnumber them heavily."

"It is true. But Porus is a canny fighter. And the mad devil-woman Tascela is with him. They will resist to their last ounce of strength."

"As you say, my Emperor." Occanse bowed, and moved down the hill to find his tent.

* * *

The Map Chamber in the Royal Palace of Qurat was a small, well-polished room, lit by baskets of phosphor; torches posed too much danger to the archive's precious contents. The Map Chamber did contain maps, rolls of vellum painstakingly inked by scribes and surveyors, neatly stacked in their wooden compartments. But Trascus and his captains - Porus and Tascela - had gathered in the center of the room, around the sand table. Trascus had paid heavily for the sand table, but it had been worth it. Four surveyors and a sculptor had collaborated on it, crafting a minute model of Qurat and countryside to an exacting degree.

A cunningly shaped pane of blue glass shimmered darkly in the phosphor light - the sea. Nestled up against it were the walls and buildings of the walled city itself. To the south, the great plain; to the west, the foothills of the desert; to the east, well, to the east, nothing of import.

"He makes his camp here," said Porus, dropping a handful of tiny wooden tents onto the plain stretching from Qurat's South Gate. "It seems certain he means to attack the city."

"Do we have supplies enough to outlast a siege?" Trascus asked.

"Supplies, yes," Tascela said, binding her long hair behind her ears to keep it from sweeping across the sand table. "Supplies, but not enough men. That pig-son Golias has us outnumbered near two to one. We could never keep him off the walls."

"Yes," Porus nodded. "We must go out and give battle, and we must do it with cunning if we are to have any hope of survival."

"What is your plan, Porus?"

"We have, maybe, twelve-thousand spears in the city. Tomorrow I will lead them in a sortie from the south gate. We will seem to seek engagement with Golias' center, but will turn and flee at the last second."

Porus set several blocks of wood before the South Gates to represent his spearmen and their foes.

"In the meantime, Tascela will have led her chariots - five-hundred of them - out of the east-gate, hidden from the eyes of Golias by the walls of the Temple District. She will fall upon his flank just as my spearmen reach the city walls and turn to give battle. You, Trascus, must have archers hidden atop the walls waiting to pepper the spearmen of Golias as soon as they are within range. If we can crush his strong infantry center before he brings his horsemen to bear, we shall have victory."

Trascus studied the sand table intently. "It is a good plan. My scouts have informed me that Golias leaves his chariots in reserves here, behind the ridge to the west. If the battle goes well we may have a chance."

"Yes," said Tascela. "A gamblers chance; a toss of the dice."

"Even a gambler's chance is better than certain death, my love," said Porus gently.

* * *

The morning dawned bright and clear. Occanse stood on the plain with his men drawn up in battle array, spear-heads gleaming golden in the new sun. He had near to twenty-thousand spears standing ready in a long block, eighteen men deep, standing shoulder to shoulder more than half a mile wide. On his right flank, Golias had drawn up his fifteen-hundred horsemen, armed with short bows and wicked curved swords. Occanse had counseled against the Emperor personally joining the battle, but Golias was having none of it.

Before the South Gate of Qurat stood the defending phalanx, the banner of Porus waving defiantly in the ocean breeze. Surely that could not be all the men Porus had? The line of spears was near half as wide as Occanse own! Maybe Golias was right, again, to suspect deception.

Signaling his trumpeter to sound the advance, Occanse began to move his line forward at a stately marching pace, Golias and his cavalry keeping pace to the right. The men of Porus did likewise. Soon the forces would meet in the plain, a grunting, pushing maelstrom of blood and spears.

A few minutes more, and the horse archers opened fire, their wicked shafts more of an annoyance to Porus marching troops than a danger. Many bounced off bronze breast-plates and round hide shields. But a few found their mark, and every defender that fell was a blow to the already outnumbered Qurat army.

Occanse accelerated his men to a jog, then a run. Soon the crash would come, the headlong charge. He clenched his jaw. No matter how many times he had seen battle, he could never prepare himself for the earth-rocking meeting of . . .

What was this? Porus men were breaking! They turned and fled before the onrushing mass of Occanse spearmen. The gates were opening!

"Quick!" Occanse howled. "Take them in the rear before the gates can close! The city is ours!"

He shook his spear in the air in triumph, vaguely noticing Golias' trumpeter sounding three long blasts somewhere behind him. The gates loomed ever closer, the squirming mass of Porus' routing men lodged in the center. Porus' routing men . . .

Occanse frowned, searching the ground in front of him. There were no littered spears or helmets here, tossed away by fleeing men to aide the speed of their escape. Occanse had caused many routes, had joined even a few.

"A ruse!" he screamed. "A ruse! They turn to fight!" An arrow took him through the shoulder, and he fell to one knee with a cry."Fight!" he roared. "Fight!"

* * *

The ground shook as Porus' counter-charge met Occanse rushing line head-on. Atop the city walls Trascus gripped the stone railing for balance. All around him his bowmen pulled and loosed, filling the air with the snap and whine of their deadly business. They aimed to the rear of Occanse' line now, picking off stragglers, for fear of hitting their own men. The enemy horse archers, under the banner of Golias himself, hung back out of range of the walls.

"Now," Trascus, ordered. "Now!" His trumpeter sounded, clear and long, and Trascus led the cheer as Tascela's chariots rounded the city and bore down on Occanse' flank.

"My Lord, look to the west," a voice called softly in his ear. Indic, his lieutenant had been leading the bowmen, but now he pointed westwards, away from the battle. Trascus followed his outstretched arm and saw.

Golias' chariots were racing out of the foothills, their descent adding momentum to their charge. They would join the battle in less than ten minutes, he reckoned in his head, but Tascela would finish first. Was ten minutes enough to break Occanse' spearmen? Trascus looked back to the fighting at the gates of his city.

Occanse' spearmen had seen Tascela's charging chariots. Some of them tried to turn to face them, some of them were throwing down their spears and fleeing, shedding armor as they ran, only to be picked off by Trascus' archers. The strong core of the force still stood, pushing doggedly at Porus' sturdy defense. Trascus clenched his fist. It was working! Occanse' entire line was beginning to collapse.

Then he heard Indic gasp. "What is he doing? He's charging!"

Golias' horsemen had sprung alive, rushing at the flank of Tascela's chariots.

"He must be mad!" Trascus exclaimed. "Even three to one those horse archers are no match for chariots!"

"No, but look," Indic cried, suddenly his voice filled with despair. "They have lances! The bows were a disguise!"

Fifteen-hundred strong, the pretend horse archers raced at Tascela's unprotected flank. Some of the charioteers tried to turn, but the time was too short and the turn too sharp. Chariots flipped and tumbled, bringing their horses down in a tangle of harness, flinging their drivers into the dust. Tascela was screaming like a madwoman, her black hair flying loose in the wind of battle. Three of Golias' horsemen bore down on her, tipping her chariot. She jumped clear, drawing her swords and hamstringing one rider as he attempted to trample her. Then Trascus lost sight of her in the cloud of dust and blood.

"We are lost," he said, sadly. "Signal Porus to fall back and bar the gates.

"It is too late, my Lord!" Indic cried. The wall quaked as Golias' chariots thundered into the right of Porus' phalanx. The line bent, swept backward, the impetus of Issus' charge carrying the fighting through the gates and into the city itself.

"Out swords," Trascus ordered his men wearily. "We will stand here and make such an end of it as we may."

* * *