All things considered, he knew little of the Greeks. From his education, he knew more about the Ancient Greeks; of these newer Greeks who still claimed to be Roman, well, he knew where this identity of theirs resembled the Ancient Romans.

One such way was that, in times of war, they elected a pair of "Consuls" to lead the army, which was split into two "Legions". If a war proved particularly disastrous, they may have even elected a "Dictator" who would take singular control of the army and any other resources he thought necessary. That had happened in the second Turkish war and almost ended in a civil war.

Over the last week, he had learned much more, and much practised his spoken Greek.

"Consul Doukas, you will not be securing the hill?"

The consul marshalled his expression well, perhaps natural that one who had to politic for power would have better control of oneself, yet he knew well that he rather annoyed the consul. Not that he did so on purpose, just that he did not take a single step out of the way to avoid annoying the consul and, perhaps because of his wife, had grown a habit of asking questions that others found annoying.

"With all due respect, Sir, my orders are not for questioning."

A diplomatic answer, one both polite and yet firm. He had come to understand that he had been assigned to assist this legion precisely because Consul Doukas had the greater tolerance for him.

However, that understanding hadn't brought about any sort of self-reflection. "Very well. I shall take my force to secure it," he said, as if perfectly natural.

"Sir," the consul said—a tenseness to the word, teeth not quite gritted, but forceful, "that side is handled by Consul Madi."

"Need I remind you that I am here at my wife's request for the purpose of opposing King Sigismund's aggression? You need not be grateful; however, you need to understand that I am under no obligation to follow your orders. Of course, if that is not satisfactory, then I will withdraw."

It had not been the first time he had threatened this, but, as both knew, the Greeks needed help and it was not as if he was actually asking for anything.

The consul let out a heavy sigh. "If Sir wishes to secure the hill, of course he may. I would only caution that we are wary of an ambush from the forest."

"Truly?" he said lightly, followed by a breathless laugh. "You think King Sigismund would?"

"With all due respect, we have fought him many times before," the consul said.

In an instant, the humour left his face. "Indeed, your people have, and how many battles have they won? Better yet, how many wars?"

The sudden switch left the consul speechless and, even once he could have spoken, he had no answer, hot with an anger that barely concealed the shame.

After a moment, he continued. "If we observe an ambush amongst the forest, then we will give a signal," he said with a lighter tone, then began to walk away.

The consul took a step after him. "What signal?" he asked.

He paused, turned back, and said, "A thundering clap and a cloud of smoke," then carried on walking.

Soon enough, another joined him and spoke French in a chiding tone. "Would it hurt to be even a slight bit diplomatic?"

"This is a war, so it could easily kill me, you, and everyone else here to be diplomatic," he answered, no humour in his voice.

At that, the other could give no answer but a sigh. In silence, the two walked over towards the camp of the Augstadt "volunteers": two hundred men split between muskets and pikes, another twenty-odd with halberds, and then twenty-four to make up the crews for four cannons. Then there were the ten noble "officers", including himself.

It was honestly all a bit of a mess when it came to the actual names for the positions. This was neither a mercenary company under command of a captain, nor was it a chain of obligations with various knights and their lances under their respective lieges.

Still, that did not mean that their organisation was a mess. The soldiers loosely fell into the groups that his wife had designated, which kept them in good order on the march and in camp, and those twenty-odd with halberds marked the leaders of each such "lance". As for the officers, three had command of the muskets, three command of the pikes, and two for the cannons; he himself had command of these officers, and his second-in-command had command in his absence.

Of course, these men were, roughly speaking, only half the army. Some of the other half were wives and lovers and women of a certain repute, but also cooks and washerwomen. Then there were squires and pages and other attendants for the officers, those who looked after the spare horses and the horses who pulled the carts, apprentices for the cannon crews, the quartermaster and the accountant—along with their assistants—and carpenters and tinkerers and many other craftsmen still.

A rather diverse ensemble which tended to follow an army, his wife having briefed him on her own experience. By other accounts he had read, this ensemble was rather small, perhaps because it had merely been a training exercise when they had left Augstadt for Austria, perhaps because most of the soldiers were commoners, perhaps because the officers were on the lower end of nobility but for himself and his second who were notoriously light travellers.

At his approach of the camp, the soldiers quickly stood.

"Sir!"

That first shout in German broke the dam, a flood of, "Sir!" following after.

He waved his hand high in acknowledgement, then brought it down to bring about a silence. "Good news, lads, we have a ditch to dig. If you work hard, you can even dig a second."

A titter ran through the soldiers.

After a last look over them, he swung out his arm. "Dismissed!"

Although he said that, they did not scurry off aimlessly, naturally fell into their lances with the halberdier at their head and then walked with purpose to their places in the camp. Another of her "gifts" borrowed from the Ancient Romans, this camp was drawn out ahead of time so each knew their responsibilities and place.

With a deep breath, he turned to the officers, a wry smile seemingly his natural state these days. "Gather every free hand, whether man or woman. The pageboys can borrow some horses to scout the forest behind us. One lance at a time is to keep watch of the forest, rotating in usual order, with the usual signals. The cannons will stay back until the Poles are sighted, ready to move out at that time if the Poles bring out cannons of their own."

As he spoke, he met each officer's gaze at least once, at the end once again passing his gaze over all eight.

"Understood?"

"Sir!" they answered in a closer unison than the earlier greeting.

Except for one who, in the pause afterwards, asked, "Where are we to go, sir?"

"Good question," he said, bringing his hands together in a loud clap. "Any others?"

A few chuckled, the rest broke into small smiles.

With an elbow from his second, he broke into a grin of his own. "The hill. No other questions? Dismissed."

One by one, the officers gave the edge of their hats a pinch, bowing their head, then walked off back to their places in the camp. That left him and his second behind, watching them for a long moment before his second broke the silence.

"Are we truly to defend the hill alone?" he quietly asked. An unusual quietness.

"Look out there, tell me what you see," he said, a gentleness now softening his voice.

His second hesitated, gave half a shake of his head, then did so. "I see a meadow, with a forest to the left, and a blend of shrubs and trees along the river's edge to the right. The meadow has something of a ridge that rises near the forest into what could be called a hill if feeling generous, few other places where the ground rises and falls."

He let out a shallow laugh and brought up his hand, giving his second a heavy clap on the shoulder. It was not enough to send his second stumbling, if only because he had a habit of doing so, but also because he knew well how well his second stood.

"You know well how little I think of my own talents. However, as I see it, this is the perfect land for the Polish cavalry to charge."

His second chuckled. "Charge all they want, the Greeks no shortage of spears."

"Fortunate, since such weapons were in short supply for the last two wars which King Sigismund handily won," he said lightly.

Silence followed, yet did not have time to settle before he continued.

"We may quibble over this all day. Of course, I do not think the Greeks imbeciles. However, in this moment, I am trying to understand how our enemy would win. How he would want to win. If there is a field, he must charge. That is how a Polish king ought to make battle as that is how the famed knights justify their own rule."

His second listened, listened well, a kind of weight settling upon him. "It is still strange to hear you speak like this," he whispered.

"How much I would speak while thinking so little," he said, ending in a chuckle.

"Truly, I envy this woman who has so changed you."

Just like that, the chuckle stopped, smile hollowed out, but still smile he did. "I cannot deny that I have changed, yet I hope you of all people understand… how much I needed to change. Changed me, no, she has taught me some things, but what she has done is… I would no longer resist change. Instead, I would master it, shape the world in whatever way I may to make it mine."

His second gave a half-hearted laugh, head falling down for a moment before he then looked up at the clear sky. "Still, I envy her, that I couldn't be that person for you."

"Nor could I be that person for you before. However, I am glad that I may be that person for you now."

Silence followed, not that he had expected a reply, could not anticipate what reply could be given to such words. Which was fine. Sometimes, often, silence was perfect to preserve the moment that little longer.

If only that the world could stop at his whim.

"Let us go and help the men dig," he said, already taking a stride. "If the Polish charge, we would dissuade them from charging our hill. If they do not charge, we will have the satisfaction of having dug a good ditch."

His second broke into a small smile. "Indeed, digging reminds me of worse years made a little better."

Always a lively camp, this morning livelier still, eventually full of shouts and clattering as everything came together into an orderly line. At the front and back were the soldiers, more in the front, and they were four abreast in blocks six long, each line one lance headed by their halberdier. To the one side, the respective officers for those lances followed along on horseback; on the other side, he and his second would work their way from the back of the line to the front, inspecting the line as they went.

In the middle of the line were those of the camp capable of some work and not otherwise engaged in work for the camp, along with a wagon of tools and water. They were overseen by "camp officers", at this time a few squires to the officers and assistants to the quartermaster.

It was an orderly walk across a meadow, some give beneath their feet from a recent rain, firm enough not to pose a hazard. Although they could see far, they could not see any Poles in the distance; however, Poles there certainly were, a scuffle the evening prior where both sides had sent scouts along the river. The battle had almost started then if not for an orderly retreat behind a haphazard line of spears for the Greeks.

Still, such a skirmish marked this the battlefield.

Once on the hill's gentle slope, he gave the order and a trumpet sounded out; there onwards, the blocks gradually broke apart, going from a long line to a line along the ridge as each lance slotted in beside each other. While the soldiers made these lines six deep and almost forty across, the lower officers dismounted and took up positions behind, he and his second took up a position behind them, still on horseback, and those others who had accompanied them stayed back in a huddle.

The soldiers were all in armour. For the pikemen and halberdiers, this was centred around a plate which covered their chests downwards to the point where, if any further, would make it difficult to bend forwards; and it covered around their sides, but not their back. While a pike did not need as fluid a range of motion as a sword, the attached spaulders still took care not to interfere, that raising and lowering a pike was but one part of being a pikeman. Below the breastplate and over the waist, the as-if pleated faulds gave protection and flexibility of movement, from which tassets further hung down over the thighs.

Whereas the musketeers had a lighter armour, the breastplate only covering their front. Of course, both kinds of soldier also wore a sturdy helmet, but one which covered much less than those for knights, little more in size than a metal hat. Despite the growing heat, both did also wear thick trousers and long-sleeved shirts, and leather boots that just about came up to their knees.

The officers, naturally, wore their knightly armour in full.

As for weapons, the pikemen had pikes, the halberdiers had halberds, and the musketeers had muskets, but all also had swords, short things suited for desperate fighting in desperate situations. The musketeers then had a strap across their front which kept the necessities: eight measures of powder ready, a pouch with musket balls and wadding, and two flagons, one of gunpowder and one of the finer priming powder.

The officers had sabres, but those were now complemented with pistols, albeit a change which necessitated shorter gauntlets that did not protect the fingers as well. Still, the pistols packed a lethal punch at close range and, with twelve cartridges packed ahead of battle, the officers could offer critical support in a skirmish.

He rode around to the front and looked upon them all with a certain heaviness. These "uniforms" had been his decision. His wife was generous, more so than any other he knew, yet that generosity knew bounds. A generosity which knew precisely its bounds. For this expedition, though, she had provided a greater allowance, important to her that these talented men he had picked would return safely with their experience.

However, he knew intimately that they would not all return. Life did not go that way. Death did not go that way either. More than both, war did not. All he could do was look upon them all now, knowing his limits, not knowing his limits.

And they all looked back at him, not knowing his limits either.

"Men, my good men, I do not know when the battle will start, so let me say this now. Let me remind you. If you run, you will die. The Polish cavalry is fearsome. The Greeks will not save you. I cannot save you. If you run, you will die. If you break the formation, we shall all die with you.

"However, that it is to be feared, does not make it our master. We are our own masters. We need only keep this hill. I will not lie and say we will all walk away from this unscathed, I will not say that none of us shall die. What I will say is that we have trained for this day. Our pikemen know how to meet a charge, and our musketeers know how to hold their nerve. If the Poles want our blood, they will bleed too."

He paused there, took a moment to regard his soldiers, then smiled.

"Of course, if the Poles wish to charge us, they must first cross a ditch."

Titters broke out across the line for a few seconds before the halberdiers raised their halberds. Once silence fell, they lowered the halberds once more.

"At ease."

Despite what he said, none particularly relaxed as the officers now came to the front to take over. While one lance at a time took watch of the forest, the other lances took turns digging in short stints, those other men from the camp putting in more effort. Meanwhile, the women and boys of the camp scavenged from the forest's edge for sturdy branches and the like, which were hacked into stakes; other bits of wood were also dragged out to be taken back for firewood later. The dirt from the ditch was piled up on the hill's side to make steeper the ditch and it was where the stakes were driven in, a brave man who jumped his horse at this place.

It was something he would not have considered if he hadn't met her. Economy, an emerging word that meant so much, meant so little, simply meant to her: People labouring. The economy of war, how she could convert labour into victory, and how she could convert victory back into labour to be used in other economies.

In that sense, the most sensible thing to do was to dig a ditch. The Polish cavalrymen were masters of the plains, so all he had to do was make this bit of the battlefield not part of the plains, and that was it. If the Polish pikemen came instead, well, they couldn't exactly climb over a ditch easily either. And if the Polish arquebusiers came, well, the ridge made good cover for an organised retreat.

Since it made sense, he climbed down from his horse, took a shovel from a man who had already exhausted himself, and he dug it into the earth. His armour rattled, he a little clumsy, but the other officers and he were no strangers to this armour.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

So they dug, the good chaplain preaching, idle chatter, and much water was drank. In the midday's heat, while the soldiers kept position on the hill, the others returned to the camp, a few soon after returning with meals of bread and stew—what had been stewed, none cared by this day. The officers, naturally, had a more lavish meal of bread, stew, and a cup of wine.

Although at ease, none kept their weapons out of arm's reach, many spared the horizon an odd glance. Even without an appetite, he ate at a good pace and, once finished, raised his cup high.

"My good fellows, do any of you know why the Polish knights have the largest codpieces in Europe?"

His bawdy question already brought out some titters and grins. Not his first performance, one of the officers soon asked, "No, sir. Why is it?"

He gave his cup a swirl, those who could see him saw a look of concentration upon his face, then he downed his wine in a single gulp. After bringing his cup down, he gave his answer. "Not a clue!"

The nonsensical punchline still sent a round of laughter through the men.

Of course, he wasn't finished. "The Polish women, now they are virtuous wives," he said, tone solemn. "Even after their husbands are sent to war for years on end, they carry on birthing sons."

A moment, then the laughter spilled, heartier than before, but contrasted with those here and there who instead looked quite confused—until a helpful neighbour filled them in.

However, in the crowd, he did spot someone who looked neither amused nor bemused. "Jan."

The pikeman in question tensed up, but quickly bowed his head. "Sir."

"Are my jokes not funny?" he asked.

Jan gave a thin smile. "Sorry, sir. I… don't think I can laugh right now," he said, forcing the words to come out loud enough.

"We all know humour is no laughing matter, but laughing is no matter of humour either. We laugh to force out the stale air and breathe in fresh air. So laugh, that's an order."

For a moment, Jan smiled, thinking this another joke, only to raise his gaze enough to see that it very much was an order. After another moment's hesitation, he breathed in and forced out a laugh. A terrible laugh, empty, but a laugh.

"You call that a laugh? Again—everyone—on three. One, two, three—"

Somewhat nearby, many Greeks turned to stare at the bizarre laughter that fell from the hill.

Eventually, the laughing practice came to an end, at which time he asked Jan, "Are you scared?"

Jan, breathless and flushed from the forced laughter, reluctantly nodded.

"I won't tell you not to be scared. Truthfully, I am scared too. Of all the places to be scared, though, I am glad it is on this hill with all of you," he said.

His gaze drifted to the side, soon looking towards the horizon.

"I could say that we are here for some great purpose, but that would be a lie. I could tell you that Lady Augstadt sent us here as part of some clever plan. That would not be a lie, but it would be wrong."

After a short pause, he gestured.

"Tell me, anyone, what do you see out there?"

A second, then one of the soldiers loudly said, "A meadow, sir."

"Ten years ago, I imagine it was a farm. An open field so flat by a river with the forest cut back that far, if not a farm, then certainly a pasture," he said, pausing for a beat. "In digging our ditch, we found some broken pots and such. I imagine this hill is where their house stood. A simple house of mud and straw, but a house where a family lived nonetheless."

His hand reached out again and then he clenched his hand, gauntlet creaking as he did.

"We are here because King Sigismund declared war. No more, no less."

Whether or not that was the sort of thing he ought to say, he did not know, truly did not know. However, he felt the incredible weight of those words. To reach this point, they had followed south of the mountain range, only then going north, and so they had passed through half-abandoned villages, met crowds of those fleeing the coming army.

The economy of war.

"How inadequate King Sigismund must be."

A whisper, a lie, knowing well that what made the Polish king so threatening was precisely how adequate a man he was, his wars motivated by gains that fed into further wars.

After a breath, clearing out the stale air and bringing in fresh air, he turned back to his soldiers. "Have we all confessed our sins, or should I send for the chaplain?"

A smattering of smiles and grins showed in reply. "Sir, I confess, I had lewd thoughts about the neighbour's daughter last night."

Some titters, more smiles. "Did you now? Sweet on her, are you?"

"Yes, sir," the man said, nodding with enough force to make his helmet wobble.

"And is she sweet on you?" he asked lightly.

"She is, sir. Said I'm like a brother."

With as much pride as that was said, everyone else winced. He could only give a sympathetic smile. "Perhaps you could ask her to introduce you to a friend of hers—to make her jealous."

The man sat up straighter, struck with inspiration.

Another, then, spoke up. "Sir, I confess, there's a girl I'm sweet on back home, but she told me she don't care for boys. What can I do so she sees I'm a man?"

"I will tell you straight, the manliest thing you can do is treat her well. If that isn't enough for her, then she isn't a woman worth having, I say. If you're going to spend your life with someone, you ought to treat each other well."

The man nodded with a more measured enthusiasm than the one before.

"Sir, I confess, I bought a cheap wine and pissed all over the latrine."

Unlike the others, this confession was met with a sudden silence and a handful of particularly notable stares. He could only sigh. "Thank you for admitting to it, I am sure God would have judged you harshly otherwise."

A little humour returned to the group.

"However, a lie of omission still stands. Your penance shall be the usual punishment doubled. For those injured, you are to offer a cup of wine—bought from the quartermaster."

"Yes, sir!"

With a few more confessions, a few more jokes, their lunch soon came to an end. Once the sun's heat softened, those idle men from camp returned and, with slightly renewed vigour, those men dug. He gave the officers orders that the soldiers were not to dig any more this day, but to still help with the stakes, stripping branches and carving a point and digging it into the ground.

Then the Poles appeared on the horizon.

His wife had, by the time of his leaving, guessed the Poles would bring a similar force as before, albeit a force further refined. Four thousand cavalry, six thousand men with firearms of some lighter and some heavier designs, and ten thousand men of mostly spears with some swords and whatever else. At this early point, though, Sigismund usually brought forward a smaller force to push back an unready defender, which meant the first true battle would be deeper into the enemy's territory—as if bloodlessly winning the first engagement.

So he thought it likely that, on the horizon, those would be most of the cavalry and perhaps half those on foot, and not yet many, if any, cannons.

"Send word to ready the cannons. Ready, not bring out," he said.

His attendant bowed. "Yes, sir!"

"What are you thinking now?" his second asked, not quite chiding, yet not without a frustration.

"I do not intend to provoke the Poles," he said, his tone clouded by the thoughts he still worked through.

His second wore a wry grin behind his helmet. "In that case, we are rather in the wrong place."

He wished he could have laughed, but it did not reach his lips, dead in his throat. "Pray trust that my first priority by far is for us all to leave alive. A distant second, that I may learn something. An even more distant third, that we kill King Sigismund."

"Again, we are rather in the wrong place if that is your first priority," his second said, this time no hint of humour to his voice nor lingering on his lips.

"I know. Still, this is our place in the world. Would you rather toil in the fields, or apprentice in some trade?" he asked, not chiding, not frustrated, if anything almost pleading.

His second let out a sigh. "You know where my place is, where it always shall be."

He did know, his head falling for a moment, then raising back up. "If we draw blood, the Poles will have to reply with force and they have much of it to reply with."

"So this is all a bluff?"

"A bluff, no. It is a promise that we are not worth the trouble."

While they had spoken, those who were not soldiers left with everything the soldiers no longer needed. So gone were the shovels, yet every flask was filled with water, and there, at where the hill's slope could be said to begin, was a ditch. Not the most impressive ditch, but it did not need to be impressive to snap a horse's leg. On the near side of it, where the dirt piled higher, the stakes jutted out, another line of pikemen who would never flee from a charge.

Further up the hill, the soldiers lined up. He had many thoughts of how to line them up and no answers. From the accounts his wife had found, of those who won with such tactics, the pikes would take the centre with the firearms at either flank. When—if—the cavalry charged, those with firearms fell behind the pikes.

Against other cavalry, he could imagine this successful. Against the Polish cavalry, though, he had some doubt. She had investigated this thoroughly. The Poles would still charge pikes with even longer lances, thus able to hammer the pikemen without a counter blow. To defeat it, then, one needed even greater range—muskets. Yet the Poles would keep a loose formation until the last moment, which would mean keeping the musketeers on the front until the last moment, no time to withdraw behind the pikemen.

If that alone did not leave one with overwhelming helplessness, he had personally seen the value of his father's wedding gift. Those Polish warhorses could go from walk to gallop in the blink of an eye, and more impressive still that they could go from a gallop to a stop in an instant too.

Which meant that, after the Polish cavalry broke into the line, they would stop and turn, then draw a sword to cut down man after man with no possible resistance.

The answer she had seen to this impossible problem—given with a hollow smile—was that of economy. In her words, that the Poles would run out of nobility long before the Empire ran out of peasants, that they could only breed so many horses while the peasants could make so many pikes and muskets.

An answer which, while darkly reassuring and truly unsettling, did little good at this time. Yet it was still the best answer he had, an answer he had to hope the Poles knew well too. Offer a trade that they would not accept.

Distant as the horizon was, there was no rush to position, instead that every man took a moment to address anything which needed addressing first. Like at the start of the day, they then formed a line and broke off to match the positions given by their respective officer.

Along the front of the ridge, he set the pikemen in the centre, with two groups of musketeers flanking them. Although he still thought an ambush unlikely, all the more so with no traces of disturbance that anyone had noticed throughout the day's scavenging, he did put half a group of musketeers at a sharp angle on that side, with the other half continuing the line.

A bluff, a promise, he no longer knew. The more he thought, the more he doubted himself. If only he could be more like his wife.

That thought brought out a smile behind his helmet. With it held tight, he stirred his horse into action, taking himself from the hill's peak to the front of his soldiers. There were no words he thought to say at this time, though. No words that could reshape this world in his favour.

So he didn't speak, simply brought his hand to his chest with a clatter of metal. Once, twice, two slow beats, and his officers at the back joined in, pounding their chests, third, fourth, faster now, the soldiers joining in, fifth onwards, becoming a din as each man pounded their chest as fast as they could.

Until finally, he raised his fist into the air.

"Deo volente!"

His shout was answered with a roar, pikemen and musketeers alike raising their weapons high, halberds able to be seen here and there through the forest, glimmers of metal from the officers' swords further behind.

God willing, words he had mindlessly used at the end of many letters. A hope that it was God's will this letter would safely reach its recipient.

God willing, these men would make it through this day. He did not care if they were battered and bruised and bleeding, so long as they made it to the end of this day, that was all he dared hope.

As he walked his horse back to his place at the back, he glanced over the Greek line. A vast line, their force some eight thousand pikemen and two thousand arquebusiers anchored to the river, and yet irrelevant to him. He only needed to care for his men.

He need only care for his men.

Those indistinct blobs on the horizon became increasingly distinct, at least in one respect: the Polish cavalry glittered and gleamed in the early afternoon's light. An ambush, no, the Polish knights would always seek to charge.

But not yet.

Slowly, the cavalry walked. In banners they walked, supposedly two hundred horsemen to a banner, often fifty short of that number; it still made for an intimidating sight. By his thinking, it was not by chance they stopped at a great distance roughly the extent of the small cannons dragged to battlefields. A distance which ought to be familiar to the Poles at this time.

They were far. Hardly able to tell one man from another, barely able to tell that these were horsemen at all, and only because he was on the closest thing this field had to a hill could he see them over the rise and fall of this ostensibly flat field.

To think cannons could kill at this distance.

However, there was no fire of cannons this day, only the distant shuffling of glimmers and gleams, the line stretching out and out, all the wider for how loose they were—between each horse, about another four could have fit. Impossible to count, especially as the other end of the line fell behind a short ridge that hid them from him. He guessed his wife correct, at least two thousand cavalry to match the Greek's line, four thousand easily possible with several banners likely held in reserve.

Their formation did not happen quickly. This was, after all, a show. With one side anxious and one side confident, it naturally benefited the confident to draw it all out. Battles were won, not by bravery, but by cowardice, not that he could fault the man who fled at the sight of the Polish cavalry. Still, it was the truth that, once the first man fled, the battle was near enough lost, and a lost battle against such a force of cavalry—he did not doubt the deaths reported in their victories.

However, from the moment his wife had given him this commission, he had prepared for this. He had prepared his chosen soldiers for this. They would not leave this hill, even if that meant they would be buried here.

Perhaps an hour after the Poles first came to a stop, distant sounds of trumpets sounded out, and the cavalry began to move. Not at a gallop, nor a canter, but a walk. He smiled to himself.

"Until they cross the ditch, hold!"

It didn't need saying, but he said it for what little good it might do; at his side, a long, loud note from a trumpet echoed his command.

One minute, two, trickling by as the cavalry emerged from the fog of distance and into the realm of recognition. Men in heavy armour, carrying such long lances, on warhorses of a modest size, not the bulky warhorses the rest of Europe rode. No, a breed more like those ridden by the Tatars out east, nimble and with extraordinary endurance.

Again, he did not doubt that, of all distances, it was when they came near the muskets' range that they took up speed. A trot, that little faster, that little closer—

"Hold!" Another long, loud trumpet.

A trembling in the ground, in the air, dust and dirt, louder and louder and louder. Closer, closer to the ditch, closer—

Then they stopped. Not in an instant, but a trumpet sounded and the block stopped short of the ditch and, as quickly as they stopped, they turned, retreated.

His heart pounded in his chest.

At a glance, the whole line of cavalry had pulled back, the Greek line spared this charge. Not a worthwhile trade. At least, not yet.

All it could take was one man to flee.

Once the cavalry had pulled back into a distant haze, he loudly said, "At ease," and a short, loud note followed the command.

Of course, no one put down their weapon or stepped away. What they did do was let out an almost collective sigh. How many had held their breath, held it for long, burning in their chest. One of the men took this moment to squat down and empty his stomach. He did not blame them.

The afternoon early, this was not the only feint made by the Polish cavalry. As if timed to the hour, a second, a third, even a fourth before dusk dulled the battlefield.

At those times, there had been more weight to the feint along the Greek lines. He had not seen, but heard, cries and shouts and the cracks of gunpowder, the heavy smell wafting over with the breeze. However, the line held this day.

The banner which charged his position, though, did not push its luck. At the second, he noticed they did not charge head on and instead tested the gap between his men and the Greek line. For the third charge, he had adjusted the men's angle to better cover this gap, moved more musketeers over. Whoever led the banner replied with a feint towards the other flank and he called their bluff, making no adjustment. For the last charge, the banner stormed head on once more, once more coming a step away from the ditch, a step away—and no nearer.

So, on this day, he had not given the next order. Not that he would have needed to, each man knowing their orders. More importantly, each man knew their role, none breaking, none letting loose their shot. They had stared down the snarling dog and not flinched, knowing the length of the chain which held it back.

In the settling dusk, there was no fifth charge; however, there did come a lone horseman their way, something which did relieve him.

"At ease, send word to camp to cook," he said, not a quiet a command, something resembling a cheer gurgling up from the soldiers.

Although the soldiers were not yet dismissed, he gave word to the officers that they may break formation. While they all shook off the day, he rode out to the coming horseman, a single shake of his head all that was needed to have his second stay behind.

So he rounded the ditch, trotted out into the meadow. What had been a meadow. He trotted across trampled grasses and odd patches of mud.

"That is Sir Frédéric, is it not?" the horseman asked—in French.

He came to a stop a few steps away from the horseman and, with practised ease, brought himself down, clanking as he did. "I am afraid my good man has me at a disadvantage."

The man came down from his horse with not quite the same grace, yet no less familiarity, and took off his helmet once down. "I knew I recognised that coat of arms. Your father may have spoken of me, a long time ago it was. Marek Potocki."

He took off his helmet too, the cool breeze soothing after so many hours. "All I can say is the name is familiar."

With a hearty chuckle, the man shook out his legs. "It is a familiar name to many. I, though, am no more than a simple Hetman."

"One cannot be both simple and a Hetman," he replied lightly.

The man gave another chuckle to that. "Truly, it is like I am meeting your father once more."

He held his polite smile.

Although still mostly armoured, the man wore no gauntlets at this time; after a sigh, he patted his side and, from a pouch there, retrieved a cigar box. "Do you smoke?"

He shook his head. "My wife detests the smell," he said.

The man glanced around. "I see no wife here, oh well."

Once the cigar was lit and the man had taken a few puffs, he tapped off the ash, then turned his focus back to where it had been before. "I must confess, I did not expect to see your banner here."

"My thanks for the praise. It is not an easy thing to surprise a Hetman on the battlefield," he replied, yet there was no humour in his voice. A carefully neutral tone.

Sure enough, the man didn't chuckle this time. "What reason have you to fight for the Greeks?"

He did not answer right away, instead took a moment to look around at the ruined meadow first, only then did he turn back to the man. "I am rather fond of that hill. Perhaps, I would build a house there."

"King Sigismund can give you this land."

He raised his hand, rolled his wrist. "How can he give me something he does not own? This is Greek land, after all."

The man broke into a crooked smile. After another deep pull on his cigar, he tapped the ash off and said, "We are not at one of those fancy affairs. You know and I know all we need to know, so give me your answer."

"You think you know? Let me ask, then, do you know who it is I married?"

The man frowned for a moment, then shook his head. "A Greek?"

"No, I married Countess Augstadt."

"Am I supposed to know her?" the man asked.

He let out a chuckle. "She is quite the admirer of King Sigismund, I must say. When she heard he would be travelling to Bohemia those years ago, she rushed over to see him, bringing along her finest gifts. Now that he is travelling to Greece, she again bid me to show off in front of him. I am quite jealous of the attention she gives him and yet cannot help but indulge her."

Despite the bright tone he used, the contents of his answer became clear to the man, his mouth turning thin. "You would come here at her whim alone?"

"It wounds me that you would think so little of me. I would come here because King Sigismund declared war. Whatever reason he claims, I claim it is insufficient to justify the murder of fellow Christians."

The man snorted. "It wounds me that you would think so little of me," he said, parroting the words back with an attempt to match the tone.

He put his hands together, then opened them. "King Sigismund has drawn blood. Tomorrow, do not expect us to spare your people, nor the days after. Every battle, look for my banner. I would be disappointed if a Hetman could be surprised so easily a second time."

"You speak a lot for someone who leads from behind his soldiers."

Half a laugh broke out, his mouth falling into a smirk. He turned around and climbed back onto his horse.

"You speak a lot for someone afraid of a ditch." Not that he himself was any less afraid.

With a tense heart, he rode back to his hill. Of course, his meeting had not gone unnoticed by the Greeks, so it was that, when he reached the edge of the ditch, both his second and one of the consuls approached him.

"What did… that man have to say?" the consul asked, clearly struggling to use even that polite of an address for his enemy.

He sighed. "Consul Doukas, we are leaving at daybreak."

The consul's mouth twisted. "In the end, just another mercenary."

His second urged his horse forward, face grim, only to be stopped by a raised hand.

"The good consul is mistaken. He certainly made an offer; however, I rejected it. Rather, there is no sum that would have me lead my men back to that hill tomorrow."

He paused there to give his chest a pat.

"This is merely my advice, to be as freely discarded as it is given: Fall back."

Although already shorter for his modest horse, the consul seemed even smaller in this moment. "I spoke hastily before. Sir has our thanks for standing with us, if only for a day."

For a long second, he simply met the consul's gaze, then he turned, his horse turning with him. "When the line breaks—not if, but when—know that we are holding the stream and we will fortify the crossing."

He needed no answer, wanted no answer, urged his horse forwards and his second accompanied him in silence. It was a short trip from the ditch's edge to the soldiers, only so much ditch that could be dug in a morning, and once there he passed on the orders to the officers. At last, the soldiers were dismissed. This still being a battlefield, they left in good order, maintaining a line with an eye on the forest where shadows swirled in dusk's encroaching darkness.

Starting at the back of this line, he and his second started to move forward, gradually making their way along the line towards the front of it. As they did, they kept a little more distance from the line than the morning, and spoke in hushed whispers, in French, for what little privacy those gave, for what little privacy this conversation needed.

"They really would throw away their men like this?" his second said.

He sighed. "In losing twice, the Greeks have overcome their ego. They must stand here, not in hope of victory, but to make the Poles bleed in the only way that matters to them." Something his wife had known without needing to first lose.

"Well, I shall defer to you on this matter." After a moment of silence, his second then asked, "What did that man have to say?"

A grin broke out. "Why, he is an old friend of my father."

"Truly?"

"Oh yes—he even mentioned I bore a likeness to my father in his youth."

At that, his second snorted, the laugh coming out far too fast. "How queer it would be if that the truth," he breathlessly said.

"How queer indeed."

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