"Wheel to the right, in line by brigade!"

The twenty-five hundred men stepped off, the man to the extreme right of the line standing still, the last one on the far left moving at the run, pivoting, the entire formation, a quarter mile across, turning like a gate swinging shut, in a bid to pen in the breakthrough.

The line continued to turn, slowly gaining speed, the men struggling to keep alignment as they moved through fields and vineyards, up and over stone walls, regimental flags guiding them in.

Vincent galloped along the front, hat off, waving it over his head, urging them on. The first regiment to the right of the line engaged, hitting the Merki with a volley at fifty yards, bringing the advance to a crashing halt. The two forces raced toward each other, the Merki desperate to widen the breech, the turning line running to close it off. The Merki crashed into the second regiment of the line, and then the third, volleys rippling up and down, arrows darkening the sky overhead. The fifth regiment reached the entrenchments, sweeping up behind them, racing to a stone wall, deploying behind it, and firing a scathing volley at point-blank range. The Merki who had been rolling up the trench, confident that the battle was already won, were staggered by the onset.

Vincent, screaming with joy, wheeled his mount and started back up the line, checking the alignment, moving up the second brigade to reinforce the first in a heavy volley line four ranks deep. He looked back at the hills behind them. From over the crest, Marcus's reserve division came down, battle standards flying, sweeping to either side of the grand battery, which had turned its guns and now was pouring a deadly crossfire into the Merki breakthrough.

Vincent rode along the line, his heart bursting with the joy of battle.

"Send up the mounted umen of the black horse," Tamuka shouted, pointing to the smoke-clad battle.

"My Qarth, there is no room," Haga roared. "Eight umens are in there, in a front so narrow that barely one could ride in."

"Their north flank is breaking. I want riders in there now!"

Haga, his features flushed with rage at the slaughter, jerked his mount around and rode off.

Tamuka sat astride his mount in silence, eating the last of the salted meat of the cattle taken more than a week before. It was starting to taste rancid. There would be more than enough fresh food tonight, he thought coldly, watching as the northern edge of the breakthrough again began to spill out like a spreading pool of black.

Riding hard, Andrew came around a bend in the road, a low rise in the ground ahead. He reined back in and turned to look to the southwest, and his heart sank. Third Corps was fully engaged, the last of its reserve regiments filing into the right, the regiment bending back at a right angle to protect its own flank. But there was a gap a quarter mile wide between Third Corps and the forward trench, and a deep block of Merki were turning, moving into the opening, threatening to roll up Second Corps all the way back up to Hispania, and to turn the line of Third Corps as well. He sat watching, the Merki less than three hundred yards away, an occasional arrow fluttering down around him.

He saw horses, the flashes of spokes, and to his horror saw a battery of Merki artillery coming out of the press, preparing to wheel their guns out, to fire straight into the flank of Third Corps. If the hole wasn't plugged now it was over, the forward position gone, the reserve formation flanked, and the Merki able to drive straight across the valley and up over the undefended ridge beyond.

Desperate, he turned to look back up the slope behind him toward Hispania.

For the want of a horseshoe, for the want of a working train switch.

Up over the crest he saw a flag appear, and a thin line of men coming down on the double, running hard. He turned and galloped toward them, leaping over a low stone wall, angling through an orchard, the flag disappearing from view for a moment, as if it were an apparition, and then coming back into sight, closer.

He galloped up to the flag, an officer beside it.

"What unit is this?"

"First Vazima."

Andrew looked down at the panting officer.

"Mike Homula, isn't it?"

"Yes sir, with the 35th from the beginning."

"Where the hell's the rest of your brigade, the division?"

"The train's stuck. Schneid's driving them like hell. They'll be here in five minutes. We were closest up the line."

Andrew turned and looked back at the Merki. The battery was starting to unlimber, the column continuing to fan out. There wasn't any more time.

"Homula, you see those guns?"

"Yes sir."

"I need five minutes. Now take those guns!"

Homula grinned.

"I'll see you in hell, sir!" He saluted.

The young Maine officer stepped forward, grabbed the regimental flag away from its bearer, and held it aloft.

"First Vazima, fix bayonets!"

The ragged line paused, drawing up along the narrow path, bayonets snicking from scabbards.

Homula looked back at them and held the flag aloft.

"We're taking those guns. Come on, boys, charge!"

Homula leaped forward, holding the colors up, running madly, not even looking back to see if anyone was following him. An insane frenzy seemed to take hold of the men, and they leaped forward with a maniacal roar, running full out, rifles held up, bayonets flashing.

Andrew sat in silence, watching, heart in his throat, filled with a sense of overwhelming pride and yet at the same time horror for what he had done, ordering Homula and his men to certain death.

The young officer's voice could still be heard, a mad joy to it.

"Do you want to live forever?"

The Merki battery, which had been deploying to rake Third Corps, paused. A commander turned, pointing toward the thin line of Homula's regiment running madly across the open field.

Andrew raised his field glasses, unable to tear himself away.

Merki rammers worked madly, running charges home. To the flank of the guns the column charging to the north slowed, turning to meet the assault, a volley of arrows going up, most of them long, a scattering of men dropping, the charge continuing on.

He held his breath.

Fifty yards to go, Homula far out in front, hat gone, hair streaming, blue flag of the regiment snapping.

Ten yards. A gun kicked back, a ragged hole torn into the line, the flag going down, and then he saw Homula come back up, as if driven by some superhuman strength, staggering forward, leaping atop one of the guns, Merki turning, fleeing.

The column of enemy infantry, caught on their own flank, were staggered, the charge pressing on into them, bayonets and scimitars flashing, musket fire rippling. And yet still the flag was up, waving back and forth.

The full weight of the column turned, pressing in, swords flashing, arrows raining down. Smoke drifted over the battle, obscuring the view. It cleared for a moment, and he saw the flag go down, and then there was nothing but the smoke, and the flashing of the swords.

"Sir!"

Andrew turned, wiping the tears from his eyes.

It was Schneid, the full reserve division coming down the hill behind him.

"I'm sorry, sir, the train-"

"Not your fault," Andrew said.

"Something wrong, sir?"

"Nothing wrong. I guess you could say there are worse ways of dying."

"Sir?"

"Never mind, general. Get your men in, close the gap."

Schneid saluted and rode down the line, sword pointed forward. The division swept forward, battle flags up, the veteran formation closing in to seal thegap.

Unable to contain himself, Andrew fell in with the line, his staff finding him, riding to catch up.

"Colonel, what the hell are you doing?" an orderly shouted.

Andrew continued forward, barely noticing the ever increasing rain of arrows sweeping in, men starting to drop, staggering out of the line. Bugles sounded, clarion calls high and clear, and the division raced forward at the double, cheering madly, Andrew angling over toward Schneid, who was still out front, sword drawn.

"Come on, let's take them!" Andrew roared, and the charge swept forward at the run, men yelling hoarsely, the wall of bayonets flashing in the afternoon sun.

The Merki seemed to pause in their advance, a single volley of arrows lashing out low, men stumbling, dropping, most of the shots going high. The charge continued on, and suddenly the Merki, stretched out to the final breaking point, turned, falling back, running, pouring back toward the river, which was clogged with a mounted umen advancing forward.

The press increased, panic in the air, and they were over the Merki guns, pressing on in.

Andrew reined in out of the charge as it continued to sweep forward, slowing his horse to a walk. His orderlies caught up and moved in front, placing themselves between Andrew and the rain of arrows still arcing in.

He stopped. A dazed knot of men stood around the guns, survivors of the 1st Vazima.

Andrew dismounted and walked up to them.

A lieutenant stepped forward, blood pouring from his scalp, the broken-off end of an arrow still sticking out of his forearm.

"We took the guns, sir," he said, his voice weary but proud. "Just as you told us to."

Andrew nodded, looking around at the group, counting not more than a score of survivors still on their feet. Unable to say anything, he walked away, stepping over the piles of bodies around the battery, pausing for an instant to look at a Merki and Rus locked in a deadly embrace on the ground, each holding a dagger, each having driven it into the heart of the other. The ferocity of the fighting was evident, with few surviving wounded. He walked up to one of the guns and found Homula, lying crumpled on the ground, torn flag still in his hands.

Andrew looked up at an orderly.

"I want his body taken to the rear. Have his grave marked."

The orderly dismounted, and several survivors of the 1st Vazima came up and gently picked up the body. Andrew reached down, took the flag, walked over to the lieutenant, and gave him the colors.

"God be my witness, I'll never forget this," he said softly, and stepping back, he saluted the flag.

He returned to Mercury, mounted, and galloped off to rejoin the fight. The lieutenant, standing alone, holding the flag, looked up at the colors as if seeing them for the first time.

Nearly doubled over, he leaned against the trench wall, gasping, his throat so dry that he thought he was about to suffocate. Another rattle of musketry sounded to his left. He didn't care. A dead Merki was at his feet, a water skin dangling beside the body. He reached down and shook it. There was still some water.

He took the end of a broken bayonet and used it to cut the water skin's strap, brought it up, and raised it to his lips.

"For Kesus sake, sir, some water."

Pat looked over. In the dusty smoke-choked haze he saw an old soldier, hair gray, sitting on the firing step, blood streaming from half a dozen wounds.

Pat sighed, went over, and raised the bag up for the man, the water trickling down his blackened face, the beads of water leaving white furrows. The man nodded a thanks. Another soldier, one of the men from the Roum division of the Fourth, lay beside the gray soldier, an arrow in his chest, unable to speak, but eyes pleading. Pat knelt down, held his head, and gave him the last of the water in the bag.

A flurry of shots rang out, and he looked up. The men were firing to the east. From out of the smoke and haze he saw several Merki riding back, one of them going down, horse screaming. The other two rode straight over the trench, heading back to the river.

It was impossible to tell what was going on. All he knew was that the sun was getting lower, its red disk barely visible, a fog of smoke, heat, dust choking the field. He couldn't even tell what was going on twenty yards away, whether the trench was theirs or not. All he knew now was this small knot of survivors, a hedgehog defense, the battle no longer a battle, but rather a murdering brawl without any semblance of reason or control.

A musket volley slashed overhead, and from out of the haze a Merki came running back, leaping into the trench as if seeking protection, blood pouring from a wound to his side.

In panic the Merki looked around, suddenly realizing he had landed in the midst of cattle. The men stood in shock as well for a second, and then with wild screams fell on the lone Merki, pinning him to the trench wall with their bayonets.

Pat watched with a growing distaste, remembering the young Merki he had killed earlier. The men, as if releasing their rage, continued to stab the Merki, even though he was dead.

The insane battle continued, and he looked back to the west, understanding now why the Bible said that at Jericho the sun had remained motionless in the sky.

He heard a hoarse cheer, looked up, and saw shadows moving through the smoke. Men!

A flag appeared.

"Third Corps! It's Third Corps!"

Stumbling before the advance, the last of the Merki continued to fall back, the survivors of Fourth Corps staggering up out of the trench, bayoneting the remaining Merki caught now between two sides. Pat climbed up out of the trench and stood in silence as the men of Third Corps swept up past him, their lines thin, many of the men wounded but still in the fight.

"Hold here at the trenches," Pat said, trying to shout, his voice barely above a whisper.

The cheering spread, and Pat staggered down the line, unable to avoid stepping on bodies, so thick did the casualties lie. In the haze he saw a rider.

"Gregory!"

The Rus soldier turned, came up to Pat, and saluted.

"Thank Kesus," Gregory said, sliding off his horse and embracing Pat.

"We thought all of Fourth Corps was dead."

"I guess some of us made it. Sections of trench held out even after we got overrun. Where's Mikhail?"

"Dead," Gregory said. "Killed in the first moments of the charge. I guess I've been running the corps since."

"You did good, son."

Gregory smiled.