Toscana 'Avanti!'

The command rang out over the sun-baked earth of the parade ground and the triple files of men stepped out together. At each stride, their iron-nailed sandals hit the ground in perfect unison, setting up a rhythmic thudding, which was counterpointed by the irregular jingle of weapons and equipment as they occasionally rubbed or clattered together. Already, their marching feet were raising a faint cloud of dust in their wake.

'You'd certainly see them coming from quite a distance,' Halt murmured.

Will looked sidelong at him and grinned. 'Maybe that's the idea.'

General Sapristi, who had organised this demonstration of Toscan military techniques for them, nodded approvingly.

'The young gentleman is correct,' he said.

Halt raised an eyebrow. 'He may be correct, and he is undoubtedly young. But he's no gentleman.'

Sapristi hesitated. Even after ten days in their company, he was still not completely accustomed to the constant stream of cheerful insults that flowed between these two strange Araluans. It was difficult to know when they were serious and when they were speaking in fun. Some of the things they said to each other would be cause for mayhem and bloodshed between Toscans, whose pride was notoriously stronger than their sense of humour. He looked at the younger Ranger and noticed that he seemed to have taken no offence.

'Ah, Signor Halt,' he said uncertainly, 'you are making a joke, yes?'

'He is making a joke, no,' Will said. 'But he likes to think he is making a joke, yes.'

Sapristi decided it might be less confusing to get back to the point that the two Rangers had already raised.

'In any event,' he said, 'we find that the dust raised by our soldiers can often cause enemies to disperse. Very few enemies are willing to face our legions in open battle.'