The Arete: Princess Consort
A Study in When to Nod and Say Nothing
Chapter One:
The Cataphract
My company of heavy cavalry stood in their stirrups behind me in formation, bows drawn. To my right and left, other officers stood before their own companies of heavy cavalry, displaying our discipline as the best assault troops in the world. To the left and right of those several companies and behind all of us, companies of light cavalry stood in their stirrups with bows drawn, all waiting interminable seconds for the regimental officer to lower her arm.
The enemy infantry marched up toward us. Their drums sounded. Ours sounded louder. We held.
My heart pounded and my warhorse - Savaran - strained beneath me. Were it up to our whims, horse and woman alike, we'd charge down the slope to crash against their front line. But our forces were waiting just a little longer, and our discipline would hold however long was needed.
The regimental officer's arm dropped and we loosed a rain of arrows on our enemies. They halted and raised their shields in phalanxes. Their archers answered fire, but the arrows fell primarily among us heavy cavalry and bounced harmlessly off our lamellar armor.
Thrice more we loosed arrows. Countless unprotected limbs of the enemy infantry were punctured and ruined through gaps amongst their wall and roof of tall shields, until they were forced to tighten their ranks to virtual immobility to protect against the thickly falling missiles.
Only then did the regimental officer's arm drop again. We switched from our bows to our lances, hardwood poles stretching out the length again of our mounts ahead of us and tipped with two feet of piercing sharp metal.
The drums sped. The charge started, thundering down the slope with the massive weight of fully armored horse and rider behind each long lance driven into the enemies crouched behind their bossed, but ineffective, wooden shields.
Several threw their javelins to some effect. A few of our riders crashed to the ground on their dead or injured horses and others were stone dead in their saddles but still strapped in and riding angry warhorses galloping forward. Lances are adjustably clasped to the saddle and horse armor so that - even in death - our heavy cavalry deliver a final devastating charge.
Our charge folded the enemy line and sent their formations into complete disarray. Drawing up our lances, we drew forth our one-handed weapons for the ensuing melee. I prefer a nice mace as the blunt force blows needn't be angled as carefully in a hurry, but had my kopis - a short sword with a heavy forward curving blade - sheathed in my belt as well in case my mace was lost or I wanted to switch. With one swing, I broke the arm of an enemy thrusting upward at me with a silly shortsword. With another, I caved in the back of a cheap metal helmet of an enemy facing away from me. I imagined the skull beneath cracking, but may have only caused a concussion.
Dead or downed didn't matter for that day. We were deep in autumn and it would be the last battle before the end of the campaign season. The enemy leadership would be forced to sue for peace in the aftermath of this final rout and the less remaining semblance of an army they had the less favorable terms they could negotiate. So no prisoners and no withdrawal.
The drums changed again and we wheeled about and raced back up the slope. In the interim, our light cavalry broached the enemy flanks and their arrows rained down again as soon as we cleared the fray. Reforming into ranks after the steep loss of life and chaos of the charge and melee proved too tall an order for our enemies. They broke and ran.
We uncased our bows and loosed arrows at will at their retreating backs alongside our light cavalry. The drums changed again, signaling a full ceasefire. A portion of our light infantry - wearing wicker armor and fresh to battle - came to the fore to chase down and dispose of the stragglers. A few lucky souls might have survived them, but only a very few.
After fully reforming into our companies and mustering, our infantry and light cavalry began looting the battlefield. There was nothing to be found on the field more valuable to any of the heavy cavalry soldiery than their own mount and gear, so those companies who didn't lose any horses - like mine - returned to camp on foot, leading their tired chargers.
Of my 120, I lost three women to javelins. Conveniently and admittedly macrabely, the corpses stayed strapped in the saddle, so I personally led their mounts back with the dead women still ahorse. Their armor and equipment would be stripped back at camp and passed to new soldiers, because the cost of a charger and full lamellar armor for charger and rider was the greatest limiting factor in young soldiers joining a heavy cavalry regiment.
My First Sergeant caught up to me and we conferred on replacements for the dead as we hurried back. The company had to remain 120 strong, so my First Sergeant gave me three new names.
"Horsegirls" - young women of proven courage and caliber - were the pool of candidates for the newly empty slots for the whole heavy cavalry regiment. (They tended the horses, maintained the equipment, organized the baggage, and - most importantly - trained with us while waiting to come of age and be selected to open slots).
"Rakkex, Blaitax, and Zaquex." My First Sergeant had my confidence, so I called out the three names she recommended to me on our return to camp.
"Yes, ma'am." All three horsegirls answered with soldierly expressions on their faces, but naked anticipation in their voices. It'd be a very unlikely and dirty trick for a company officer like me to be doing anything but inviting them to join ranks under the circumstances.
I said the traditional words, "Due to your demonstrated honor, ability, and diligence, I prevail upon you to serve in my company."
"I accept, ma'am," they all proclaimed eagerly. I'd have been shocked if any refused.
While I certainly rushed to get the horsegirls whom my First Sergeant felt would most benefit my company, a subjective hairsbreadth of difference separated the candidates and they'd be fools to turn down an offer from even the worst company. Aging out and having to join the light cavalry was entirely possible for all of them, although most who were of age would likely be selected for the spring campaigning season to replace retiring soldiers.
"Bury the dead as you'd be buried, but take their horses and gear for your own as you take their places in the service of the Queen," I recited.
I noticed Blaitax was notably stockier than any of the corpses though, so I added, "Have the armor fitted by Garntor the blacksmith and also have her replace any missing or damaged equipment so that you're fully kitted. Charge the expenses to me." Horsegirl wages wouldn't be enough to have lamellar armor adjusted and it'd be weeks before their promotion was reflected in their pay.
"Yes, ma'am," they chorused again, but I heard a quieter, "Thank the Queen," sworn out by Blaitax.
Not being meant to hear it, I chose not to.
After seeing to my horse, I returned to my shared tent. I removed my own armor with practiced ease and proceeded to inspect and clean every piece and all my used weapons with a discipline beaten into me from childhood, before I even qualified for the Academy.
I tucked my kopis under the pillow on my bedroll out of prudent habit from Academy training. (Each of the eleven other heavy cavalry officers that I shared a tent with were of the same habit from the same training). Only then, and in my still bloodstained clothes, did I allow myself to fall onto my bedroll and sleep like the dead.
