‘Walk with me,’ Quintus snapped to the aquilifer. He led Orgilius back to his own command position, at the front rank’s right-hand end. ‘I know it’s not tradition, but I want you to stay close today, Orgilius, and advise me. After all, we are fighting a foe unknown in Roman history – except, presumably, for some long forgotten skirmishes in the mountains of Valhalla Inferior, when we pushed these people out of the way to get at the Xin, our true foe. And you have learned as much about them as any of us.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Well, there’s more of them than us,’ Quintus said. ‘That’s the most basic observation.’

‘But we have the advantage of position. And probably experience.’

‘I know that, Orgilius. And there’s no sign of them using their projectile weapons, is there?’

‘No, sir. It’ll be hand to hand. Sensible in a spacecraft; you don’t use projectiles or fire-of-life weapons. Just like the great days of the Empire.’

Quintus grinned. ‘Let’s hope it stays that way – and that it does turn out to be a great day, for us. What are those generals doing at the back? What kind of toy are they playing with?’

‘The model on the table is their version of a map, sir. They mould it in clay, so you can see the nature of the ground.’

‘Hmm. Well, that’s not an entirely stupid idea.’

‘Their field commander is called the apusquipay. Supposedly a relative of the Sapa Inca, sir. They have a hierarchy of command—’

‘The Incas would.’

‘—all the way up to the aucacunakapu, the head of the army, who never leaves Hanan Cuzco.’

‘What about their forces? They all look the same to me in those uniforms. Except for those lads with the painted faces.’

‘Antis, sir. Specialist archers. Most of the rest are awka kamayuq, taxpayers fulfilling their mit’a. Like conscripts, or a reserve. But again they have specialities depending on which nation they’re from. The antis use bows and arrows, the Wanka carry spears and slings, the Cuzquenos have bolas and clubs and maces.’

‘Ah. I can see the weapons. Like our specialist auxiliaries. You did tell me much of this before—’

‘It always helps to see it for yourself, doesn’t it, sir?’

‘Indeed it does. The central units seem to have a more standard weapons kit – clubs, axes.’

‘They call the axes chambis. Some have whips that they call chacnacs. Those lads are probably huamincas. Veterans, specialist soldiers – not mitimacs – based near Hanan Cuzco, or maybe Hurin Cuzco, or at any rate at the feet of the hubs.’

‘All right. But still they don’t fight – we’ll run out of light at this rate.’

‘Sir, it might just be that our trick is working. If the girls have managed to create some kind of rumpus up in Cuzco, the top levels of command are going to be distracted, if not paralysed.’

‘Yes. I have a feeling that thinking for yourself is even less welcome in the Inca set-up than it is in the Roman.’

‘Also they like their rituals. Before a battle they generally have a couple of days of sacrifices, fasting. We haven’t given them a chance to do that.’

‘I’ll send a note of apology on behalf of the Emperor.’

‘I know how to get them going, sir.’ It was Marcus Vinius, stepping tentatively from his second rank through to the front.

‘Marcus Vinius! Good of you to wake up and join the party.’

‘Sorry about that, sir. But I was having this lovely dream. I had this anti woman in my arms, slippery as a snake she was, and then—’

‘All right, soldier,’ snapped Orgilius. ‘Get to the point. What are you doing stepping out of your rank?’

‘Told you, sir. I know how to get those Incas mad.’ He went to the front of the ridge, set down his sword and shield – and lifted up his tunic, exposing bare legs above the strapping of his boots. ‘Hey! Pretty boys! Here’s what I think of you!’ He pranced up and down, flashing his legs and pulling his tongue, and the men behind him hooted and jeered.

Orgilius grinned. ‘Actually he’s right, sir. That’s a grievous insult to any Inca.’

And, indeed, Quintus saw that Marcus’s antics were evoking a response from the Incas. Some of the soldiers, and one or two of the command team, were staring, pointing at the Romans. He rubbed his chin. ‘Well, Achilles had his heel … All right, Marcus Vinius, back to your rank. Now then, front rank, shields and weapons down on the ground, you saw the man …’ He grabbed his own tunic. ‘Follow my lead. Now!’

The entire front rank bared their legs and capered, while their comrades in the rear ranks rattled their swords on their shields, and yelled abuse in whatever Quechua words they knew. Only Orgilius, with his eagle standard on its staff beside him, stood back, laughing with the rest.

It seemed no time at all before the Incas’ clay trumpets began to be blown, their sound like the voices of monsters drifting across the broad valley.

Quintus picked up his shield and sword. ‘That’s it, lads. Come at us in a rush, with your blood up, and your commanders already uncertain of themselves and now itching at the humiliation … Well done, Marcus Vinius, well done—’

‘Sir!’ snapped Orgilius. ‘Missiles on the way!’

Without waiting to see for himself, Quintus stepped back into the front rank. ‘Close ranks! Shields up! Come on, you slugs, move, move!’

He heard the hoarse voice of Scorpus, his field optio, yelling for the back rows to get into formation. Soon it was done, there was a roof of interlocked shields over the Romans’ heads, and a wall before them.

Quintus crouched to see out. The missiles were arrows coming from the right, and stones from the left, for now falling short. He called over to Orgilius, ‘So they’re sending in their auxiliaries first. Archers and slingshots—’

‘The antis and the Wanka, sir.’

‘Just what I’d have done, if I had any.’

The mood had changed in heartbeats. Nobody was laughing now, nobody posturing. The men huddled determinedly under their wooden shields, each looking to his companions for mutual aid. Quintus heard one man noisily vomiting, and that was a good sign, that was normal too. He glanced out again. ‘They’re closing …’

Now the projectiles fell on the shields, clattering, battering. The stones from the slings were a harmless hail, though they made you keep your shield up, but the arrows were heavier, and came from a greater height. To Quintus, holding up his own shield, it felt like each landed with a blow like a punch to his shield-bearing arm. The shields had been the best he could get made at the ayllu, but they were only wood, and some of the arrows in the storm that fell found weak spots, or gaps in the wall. He heard the ghastly, meaty sound of arrows hitting flesh, and men screamed and fell – but the ranks closed up immediately to close the gap. Flowing like oil, he saw with approval, glancing back, just like oil. Seamless.

‘The auxiliaries have stopped advancing, sir,’ Orgilius called through the noise. ‘Here come the infantry, the veterans, right up the slope towards us. But the auxiliaries are keeping up the fire.’

‘Then we’ll have to fight with shields raised,’ Quintus yelled back. ‘Hear that, you men? We’ve trained for this, you all know what to do.’

‘Just as well old Titus Valerius isn’t here, though, sir,’ called Marcus Vinius. ‘With that one arm of his. You couldn’t even strap a shield to his stump. Why, he’d be better off fixing it to his—’

‘All right, Marcus,’ Quintus snapped, huddling under his own shield, his arm rapidly tiring as the pelting of arrows continued. ‘Save the jokes for the Incas when we have them on the run.’

‘Right you are, sir—’

‘The huamincas are closing,’ Orgilius yelled. ‘Almost in range.’

Quintus shouted, ‘Front rank, ready. Make every blow count, men, there’s more of them than us – for now! But remember, aim to injure, not to kill. Injure, don’t kill …’