Elliot came in. His .45 was cocked and ready. He looked at Warner, then at Caradoc. “Okay, Professor, what’s happening?”

  “Nothing,” Gwen said. “It’s nothing at all. Please leave.”

  “Not friggin’ likely.”

  “It’s okay, Sarge,” Warner said. “We were showin’ Captain Caradoc a couple of moves, and maybe it got out of hand. I let a round go into the ceiling.”

  Elliot looked suspiciously at them. “Sure that’s all?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s all right,” Gwen said.

  “Okay, if you say so.” He snapped on the safety and holstered his pistol. “If you say so.”

  Warner waited until Elliot was gone before he spoke again. “I’m still waiting to know how you got in here, Captain,” he said finally. “Past the guards. My guards. They weren’t supposed to let anyone in here, not anyone at all. But I guess I know, don’t I? You had them betray their trust. You being their commander and all, you could do that. So now you just tell me why I shouldn’t have them and you both up on charges?”

  For the first time Caradoc looked worried. “There is no reason,” he said finally. “You are correct. But the men are not at fault.”

  “Larry—”

  “Yes, my lady?”

  “Larry, don’t do that. He—had a right to think he could come here.”

  “I see.”

  “I have said it already,” Caradoc said. “I will not listen more to—”

  He’s going to try it, Warner thought. He’ll come for me. He’s one of those, one of the berserker types and he’ll dive for the gun. When he does, it’ll be chancy. A .380 just isn’t that much slug. No fancy shooting, just empty the damn piece into him and take my chances after that. Should work.

  But damn all, I don’t really want to kill him- Abruptly Warner put the pistol in his pocket.

  “What are you doing?” Caradoc demanded. “Have you discovered honor, or—”

  “Main thing is, I’m unarmed,” Warner said. “And you, my friend, aren’t going to try unarmed combat with me. You’ve seen me practicing.”

  Caradoc fingered his sword. “Get a weapon. Any weapon,” he said. “It may be that Caradoc, son of Cadaric, is a fool.. It will never be said that he slew an unarmed man.”

  “Nobody’s going to be slain,” Warner said. “Gwen, would you please leave us?” He changed to English. “I got some talking to do with Muscles here.”

  “You’re sure it’s all right?”

  “Yeah, no problems now.”

  “I want promises from both of you. That you won’t fight,” she said. She looked thoroughly miserable.

  “Sure,” Warner said.

  “I swear I will not draw weapons against this man except on a field of honor with all due ceremony,” Caradoc said.

  “Good enough for me,” Warner said. He eyed Caradoc thoughtfully. I didn’t promise I wouldn’t draw weapons if he gets physical. “Gwen?”

  “Oh, all right.” She paused in the door. “I—I’m really sorry.”

  “Have a seat,” Warner said. He indicated the table. “There’s wine and glasses. Have some.”

  “You make free with the lady’s table. As if—as if it is your table.”

  “No,” Warner said. “That is not the way of it. But understand that the Lady Gwen and I are from the same lands. I have known her for many years. I know she would wish us to make ourselves comfortable.”

  Caradoc went to the table and sat. He waited until Warner had poured for both of them, then drained his glass in one gulp. “It is not finished,” he said finally.

  “Maybe it is,” Warner said.

  “You have sometimes acted as a friend,” Caradoc said. He stared moodily into his empty wine glass. “And I think I have been a fool.”

  “We all are, sometimes,” Warner said.

  Caradoc took in a deep breath. “Lord Warner,” he said formally. “What is the Lady Gwen to you?”

  “Why is that your business?”

  “Perhaps it is not. And yet—If she has been more than a friend, without you promising a lawful marriage, I will have your blood. No, hear me out,” he said, raising a hand as Warner opened his mouth to reply.

  “I know that if I kill you, the Lord Eqeta Rick will have my head. You are worth ten of me, in his plans for facing the Time. Perhaps he is even right to value you so highly.

  “I do know this, however. No lord can ask me to stand by like a capon, while you play the cock with Gwen. I love her. If she does not love me, then let her say so and she can be free to bed any man she wishes. Until she speaks her mind, beware of my sword.”

  Warner nodded. Nobly said, he thought. Corny, but noble. Larry me lad, you didn’t think it through. Old Musclebound here isn’t just a rival for a quick roll in the hay. He wants to marry the girl. Come to that, you were thinking about it too— That was when she was right here, and we were about to go in there.

  He means it all. He’ll challenge me if he thinks I’ve wronged her. And what the hell, I might not win. He’s good with a sword, and better with that bow. Warner shuddered at the thought of a belly wound. And suppose I win? Captain Galloway would have my hide. And Caradoc’s got relatives and they’ll all want my blood. He’s sure as hell got more relatives than I have rounds. Sooner or later one of them will get me. Unless Captain Rick buys off Caradoc’s family. He might do that, and then lock me in some castle tower and let me have a girl once in a while if I’m a good little wizard...

  What was it Samuel Johnson said about sex? “The expense is damnable, the position is ridiculous, and the pleasure is fleeting.” Yep. Just now I can sympathize.

  “You’ve no horns from me,” Warner said. “My word on it.”

  The look of relief on Caradoc’s face made Warner glad he’d said it. Hell, Gwen was all right, but there were other girls, and Jesus, the archer seems like he’s really in love with her.

  Warner poured more wine for both of them. “Caradoc, I like Gwen. I like her a lot. She’s smart and pretty and I can talk about a lot of things with her I can’t talk about with anyone else. I don’t love her. She doesn’t love me. If there is anyone she loves besides her dead husband, it’s you.” He hoped that wasn’t laying it on too thick.

  “Nothing has happened between us that you need to worry about. Nothing will, either. If you get her to marry you, I’ll dance at the wedding and take your kids up in my balloon.”

  Caradoc’s face twisted. He was trying to talk, but nothing happened.

  “You mean that—” Caradoc said finally.

  “Sure do.”

  “But—” Caradoc sighed. “And yet it is too late.”

  “Why in the name of Yatar’s pissoir is it too late?”

  “I have betrayed my trust—”

  “Not by me,” Warner said. “If anybody has you on charges for that, it’ll be the lady.” He laughed. “Go to her, you Yatar-damned idiot!”

 

 

Gwen sat in the chair by her bed, her face buried in her hands. She felt frightened, ashamed, and guilty all at once, and she wasn’t sure which was the worst.

  She’d done wrong by her own standards, never mind those of Tran. She’d as good as played the tease with Larry Warner, and that was something she always’ tried not to do. Usually she succeeded too, particularly when she liked the man as much as she did Larry.

  She’d hurt Caradoc even worse, and more stupidly. She’d never played off one man against another. Nobody deserved that, not even some of the real turkeys she’d met the summer she worked as a secretary. Certainly Caradoc didn’t.

  So much for her own standards. She’d done an even worse job by the standards of Tran, and right now they were what really counted. A woman was a wife, daughter, or mother of some man on this planet. She could also be a widow for a while, but her time for that was running out. Even if it wasn’t, being a widow didn’t give her the right to play around after a respectable man had made an offer of honorable marriage. Noblewomen here had more rights than she’d expected, but this wasn’t one of them.

  If she went on this way, she would soon be considered to have lost her rank. She would no longer have a chance for an honorable marriage. Instead, she’d be getting one proposition after another, none of them honorable. If she accepted, she’d be hardly better than a common prostitute. If she refused, she’d need Rick’s protection from the angry man, and Tylara might not let him give it.

  I could retreat. Be something like an abbess of the University.

  The thought almost made her laugh. She wasn’t likely to take any vows of celibacy, or even pretend to have. And without that, the University might be wrecked and her own life would certainly be miserable.

  So would Caradoc, the man who loved her.

  Well, ducks, said the voice in her mind. It’s like this. You can’t be your own woman here.

  Tell me something I don’t know.

  All right, but if you can’t be your own woman, what about being the woman of the best man around?

  Can I get him?

  There was a knock on her door.

  Maybe you’ve got him, she thought. She knew what she’d say if that were him— Caradoc came in, kicked the door shut, and promptly knelt. Everything she’d planned to say went right out of her mind. For a man to kneel to a woman was to place himself totally at her mercy. He would listen to any insult from her, carry out any command, abandon kin or honor or life itself at her word. He was giving her absolute power over him, trusting that she would not abuse it.

  He started to talk when she wound her fingers into his hair. She didn’t remember most of what he said, because she was trying too hard not to cry. All she remembered was a phrase about “my kin are beginning to wonder where my wits have gone.”

  “Caradoc,” she said, and repeated it until he looked up.

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “No lady. Just Gwen.” She took a deep breath. “Caradoc, you know they never found my husband’s body, after the battle where he was killed.”

  “Yes.”

  “That is why I have not felt free to take another husband. I have not been sure that he was dead.”

  “But—more than a year?”

  “Caradoc, he was—so full of life. Like you. If you died but no one found your body, how long would your kin go on wondering about you?”

  He smiled for the first time. “Quite a while, I think. Particularly my aunt, who is sure I am doomed for hanging.”

  “It is the same for my husband. I have not until now been ready to think of another man.”

  The smile faded. “But—now?”

  “I am ready.”

  Then she did cry. Fortunately Caradoc was there, with his arms around her and a shoulder for her to cry on, even if it was clothed in muddy sweat-fouled wool. Being in his arms felt so comfortable that before long she knew that if he led her to the bed she would go happily.

  “No.”

  “No what?”

  “No, I shall not ask for my betrothal rights tonight, or until I return from the war.”

  “But—you might not return.”

  “All the more reason for us to sleep apart until we know my fate. You are the mother of one child who will never see his father. Do you want to be the mother of a second?”

  He was right, of course. But—”The priests of Yatar are said to know—”

  “I will let no priest tell me when I may bed my wife!” He kissed her. “It will be enough to ride against Flaminius as your betrothed husband. My kin will swear to guard you if I do not return, or I will know why!”

  Ah. This alliance made sense, more than any other. There was no man on Tran to whom Tylara owed more. While Gwen was unmarried Tylara could object to Rick working at the University; but Tylara do Tamaerthon wouldn’t risk offending the man who’d rescued her from Sarakos.

  Even if Caradoc were killed—no. I won’t think of that.

  And Les? Your baby’s father?

  But Les was a long way off, and Caradoc was here; and Gwen had been lonely a long time. Too long. She drew in a deep breath. “Very well. I accept it as you wish.”

  “Good. Now you can help me take a bath. Either that, or put me in the cellar so that my stink will kill the rats!”

 

 

11

 

 

Dughuilas dropped a handful of coins on the table without counting them, drew his cloak over his shoulders, and stepped out into the second-floor hallway. He did not look back. The girl was hardly worth it, and certainly not worth more than a fraction of the price the mistress of the house asked.

  There must be something to be said for her, of course. Otherwise she wouldn’t have been whoring long enough to have a maid of her own. The maid was a little blonde who would have been lovely but for her broken nose. Probably a war orphan, and Dughuilas suspected she’d have been more interesting than her mistress. However, old Echenia wouldn’t let such things go on in her house, and that was an end to it.

  Dughuilas tasted sour bile. The war would begin in less than a ten-day, and it was wrong. Far wiser to let the Romans tear each other like hungry stoats in a cage. Why couldn’t Drumold understand that? Fascinated by that warlock son-in-law, the upstart.

  And I must follow him! A coward, who has never proved himself in battle. Even in the Roman battle— yes, yes a great victory for the Lord Rick—even there he avoided combat. He raced for the pikemen rather than falling upon the Romans like a man!

  Dughuilas shuddered at that memory. The Lord Rick shamed him before a whole army, firing his star weapon to startle Dughuilas and nearly bringing him off his horse. He’d felt fear—real fear—and of Rick, a man whose blood would turn to water if he ever got within sword’s reach of a proper battle. He ruled from Tylara’s bed, not from the saddle, and what sort of chief was that for a man to follow?

  At least they’d had a scare at the University over the sky-machine! Whatever Corgarff might have said under torture, it shouldn’t be enough to allow a trial of Dughuilas before the other clan chiefs. At worst, he could demand right of trial by combat against his accuser, and since that would be Lord Rick or perhaps Drumold, neither of them his match— Something struck Dughuilas hard in the side of the neck. It hurt like a rat bite, and when he put his hand up to the pain he felt blood trickling and the tip of a dart. Some child’s prank with a crossbow. Curse Madam Echenia, she couldn’t keep order in her own house! She’d get no more custom from him or his clansmen.

  He took another downward step, but unaccountably his foot came down on empty air. He fell forward, swallowing a shout and throwing his arms out to break his fall. He didn’t want anyone to see his clumsiness.

  Pain shot up his arms and he didn’t quite protect his head. He tasted blood where a broken tooth had gashed his tongue, but somehow it didn’t hurt as much as he’d expected. In fact, nothing felt quite normal any more. His tongue seemed thick and swollen, filling his mouth. Now he tried to shout, but only a croak came out.

  Poison.

  Poison on the dart.

  The High Rexja’s men, a plot to ruin Tamaerthon! He had to live, to warn Drumold before it was too late-or could it be- He couldn’t finish the thought. He rolled over to draw his dagger, but fell heavily on his back, his arms unwilling to obey. Above him the light from the candle on the stair landing shone on blonde hair. Another shape bent over him, and hands fumbled at his purse and sword. Dimly, as if from the bottom of a well, he heard leather tear and thongs snap.

  Then a small hand in a glove clamped down over his mouth. He tried to bite, got a mouthful of leather, felt his stomach heave. Something cold struck him in the eye and he floated away on the pain until it and everything else ended.

 

 

“The dagger in the eye went straight into Dughuilas’s brain,” said Tylara. “Instant death. His killers took his purse, sword, and boots. They must have been well away before anyone found the body.”

  “Is it known who did it?” asked Rick, as his head popped out from the fur chamber robe. The messenger with the news of Dughuilas’s death had arrived as he and Tylara were getting ready for bed.

  “The maid to one of the women of the house has disappeared,” said Tylara. “She may have been working with the killers, or she may have been slain as well. She was only a half-grown girl, so she could hardly have done the work herself.

  “Beyond that, who knows? We know that both the High Rexja and Flaminius have spies among us. Dughuilas was a champion and clan leader, a bannerman. But more like, it was some enemy. He had enough, and all knew how he spent his nights before going to war.”

  She says the right words, but she does not seem upset, Rick thought. One of our officers dead. . . a man I never liked. “He was an important leader, and his clan will demand blood,” Rick said. “A proven captain in war-”

  Tylara stared. “A proven captain in the kind of war we used to fight! The kind of war which would have destroyed us a year ago. For the kind of war you have taught us, the fewer like Dughuilas we have, the better.”

  “Perhaps, up to a point. But I cannot be everywhere at once—”

  “The more reason for not having Dughuilas in any of the places where you are not.”

  “Are you then glad that he is dead?” Rick demanded.

  “I am not as unhappy as you seem to be. Why, I cannot understand. He was no friend to you or your cause.”

  Ah, but you do understand, my love. Don’t you? “He was yet a brave man. A proven leader, a man of courage. . . and if we seem to care little for finding the killers, people may wonder why. You say Dughuilas had enemies. This is true. He also had fellow clansmen, who will be at my back on campaign.”

  “The Guardsmen can keep watch.”

  “How many of Clan Calder can we afford to kill?”

  “None. But I doubt we must kill any. Dughuilas’s killers will be found.”

  “And if they are not?” Rick asked.

  She shrugged. “It is in the hands of Yatar.” She wriggled into the bed and pulled the covers about her. The bed was large, so that there remained a little distance between her and Rick. “Vothan One-eye has done us no ill turn by this.”

  “Exactly what everyone will be saying. He was our enemy, and he is dead. It is not much of a secret that Dughuilas is suspected of planning the balloon accident.”

  “It is also not much of a secret that Dughuilas has been the leader in half of what the knights and bheromen have done against you. Do you care so little for your plans that you will fret over the death of one of their worst enemies?”

  “I do not. But there are honorable and dishonorable ways—”

  She looked ready to spit on the floor, or even in his face. “You are not the only judge of honor here. I also have to judge what honor demands, for us and for our plans and for our children. Have you forgotten that? Or was André Parsons perhaps right? Are you too soft toward enemies to live long among us?”

  “Enough!” Rick leaped from the bed. “I will go to my rooms. I have never laid hands on you, but by Christ—” He stalked toward the door, then stopped and turned. “I’ve lived longer here than Parsons,” he said. “But then perhaps this is because I’m a coward. Go on, you can say that. Everyone else has.”

  He fumbled with the bolts of the heavy door. Can’t even make a decent exit, he thought. Crap.

  “My love.” She stood next to him, and her face held grief. “My love. Forgive me.” He gently gathered her into his arms and held her while she cried into the fur of his robe. Her hair had its old silky springiness back, now that she’d completely recovered from Isobel’s birth.

  “Forgive me, my love,” she said finally. “Nor I, nor anyone doubts your courage or your honor. Only you. You have doubts enough for all of us, foolish doubts, for you are the bravest man I have ever known.”

  “Not likely—”

  “Enough for me, then. Now come to bed. How can we let a man like Dughuilas ruin our last nights together? Come to bed, my love. . .“

 

 

Later, after they had made love, he woke and lay sleepless. In a few days he would lead an army to war. Vothan One-eye would be loose in the land again. And how many soldiers have told themselves that what they do is right? All of them?

  Now I’ve got to fight, and if I’m killed, will any of my plans be carried out? I think I’m indispensable. Necessary. Have to stay alive or no one will. Easy thing to talk yourself into. Easiest thing in the world.

  Reasonable. Makes sense. Hah! The man who wondered if he was a coward because he’d gone out for track instead of football in college still lurked inside the Eqeta of Chelm. Not very far inside, at times like these.

  I can change what they think. I can prove myself. If I don’t— Dundee. John Graham of Claverhouse, Viscount

  Dundee, the only man since the Bruce to unite the Highlanders; the man who might have kept Scotland

  independent of England and the Stuarts on its throne.

  He’d known he was indispensable. So had the chiefs. But at Killiecrankie, Dundee personally led the

  army. “Once,” he promised his allies. “Once only. But until they know I am worthy to lead them, I cannot lead them where we must go.”

  And he’d fallen at Killiecrankie, ending the Highlander cause...

  I have to win their respect. How, I don’t know. But I have to do something...with Dughuilas dead by assassins it’s even more necessary. Reasons of state. And I have to live with myself as well.

  She stirred slightly, and he covered her bare arm, resisting an impulse to waken her and lose himself in her. Then he stared at the ceiling again.

 

 

PART THREE

 

Angels and Ministers of Grace

 

 

12

 

 

“Pass in review!”

  Drums thundered and pipes skirled as the massed forces of Rick’s army marched across the parade ground.

  “Eyes-RIGHT!”

  The First Pike Regiment marched past, their pikes held aslant, the regimental banner dipped in homage to Rick and the others on the reviewing stand. The banner held three battle streamers; one, Sentinius, might be an embarrassment under the circumstances, but most of Rick’s units had been there and were proud of it.

  He glanced to his right where Publius stood at attention, but gained no clue as to what the Roman was thinking. Publius was an enigma; his manners were perfect when in public with Rick, but spies said he was given to cursing the barbarians whenever there was the slightest reason. He was also interested in women, and his success as a Don Juan impressed even the lustiest of Tamaerthan lords.

  And what, Rick wondered, must Bishop Arrhenius think of his Emperor-to-be? The Roman Christian Church seemed considerably less preoccupied with chastity than did its counterpart on Earth, but even so there was the Sixth Commandment. . . More to the point, though, what did His Lordship think of all these pagan allies? Whatever he thought, he said nothing. He stood next to Publius, splendid in his cope and mitre; and if he longed to go make converts among Rick’s army, he showed no signs of it.

  Second Pikes marched past, then Third and Fourth. They kept their lines straight enough, although they were not expert at parade ground formations. Rick wondered again what impression he was making on the Roman officers. His army was hardly uniform; it seemed that no two men wore the same equipment. Some had breastplates, some mail byrnies. Some had Roman helmets, others had modified captured Roman equipment until it was hardly recognizable; some men wore leather jerkins and no armor at all. None had a lot; the pikes were supposed to be lightly armed, able to march hard and fast, then fight for a long time. Rich knew their value; but would these haughty Roman officers understand?

  “Present-Arms! Eyes-RIGHT!” Battalion guide-on banners rose high, then snapped downward to the salute. There was another thunder of drums, then fifty pipers; and finally the archers.

  Rick saw Publius nod sagely as they went by. They were impressive enough even to look at, their long bows held at high port, and over their backs quivers filled with grey gullfeathered arrows a clothyard long, tipped with a deadly bodkin point that would penetrate armor at short ranges, and kill a horse at two hundred paces and more. There were never enough archers; it took years to train them, years spent at the archery butts when you might be doing something more lucrative. Many wealthy enough to become archers would not; they considered themselves part of the chivalry of Tamaerthon, and learned to ride and fight with lance, usually neglecting the art of the bow. Most of the archers were sons of yeomen and freeholders, the closest thing to a middle class Tamaerthon had.

  The archers wore kilts of bright colors, and colored shirts, and many had jewelry, particularly bracelets. They’d fared well in Rick’s previous battles, and being lightly armed and mobile they’d been able to get extra loot despite Rick’s orders about sharing the booty.

  Even the Romans appreciated their value; although Rick suspected that Publius did not understand the value of combined arms, cavalry, pikes, and archers fighting together as a unit, each covering the others’ weaknesses.

  Behind the archers came Tamaerthon’s knights. They were impressive enough in their haughty ways, but they were not as well mounted as Drantos knights and bheromen-certainly not as well as the Roman heavy cavalry, the splendid cataphracti who’d once dominated most of this continent. Their armor wasn’t as good,’ either; the chivalry of Tamaerthon couldn’t really take its place in the main battle line. With training they could make good scouts. He’d organized about three hundred of them into a Hussar Regiment. The rest had too much pride for that.

  “You have brought mostly Tamaerthan troops,” Publius said. “I see few enough of the chivalry of Drantos.”

  “True, my lord,” Rick said. “I saw little need for more heavy cavalry. Your legions should suffice for that. Instead, the Lord Protector chose to send auxiliary troops. Light infantry and cavalry. And foragers, and wagons, and siege engineers. We will have trouble enough feeding this army as it is; why add to that trouble?”

  Publius frowned. “It is the cataphracti who decide battles,” he said. “Others can be useful, but the art of war consists of having heavy cavalry in the right place and using them well.”

  So far it does, Rick thought. I hope to change that... “Aye, my lord. But the chivalry of Drantos can hardly match your legionaries. It would seem a worthless exercise to bring them when we have more need of wagons and transport.”

  And I can just hear Drumold grinding his teeth at that one, Rick thought. He knows his cavalrymen are no match for Romans, not even one-on-one- certainly not in unit engagements.

  “You honor us,” Publius said. “But I see few enough soldiers here—”

  Fewer than these defeated one of your legions, Rick thought. And did it in their first battle. Now they’ve got pride, and they know they can stand up to a Roman charge...

  The Tamaerthan Hussars trotted by. Their nominal colonel-in-chief was Tylara; today they were led by Teuthras, one of her cousins. Tylara, after many protests, had seen the necessity of having someone completely trustworthy to hold Castle Dravan, their home. Rick sent her with most of the mercenaries, their ammunition, and weapons; the weapons were under guard of Tamaerthan Mounted Archers, and there were equal numbers of loyal Drantos and Tamaerthan troops with her. Rick had no real doubts that the dozen mercs he sent with her would remain loyal-but there was no point in tempting them.

  Behind the light cavalry came engineers with siege engines, including portable ballistae and catapulta— and wagonloads of their ammunition, clay pots filled with gunpowder and potshard shrapnel.

  And finally the mercs: Sergeant Major Elliot, Corporal Bisso, and a dozen troopers in camouflage coveralls and web belts, carrying rifles and grenades.

  “We have brought enough, I think,” Rick told Publius. “Those men alone can win any battle we might fight. Each holds a thousand men’s lives in his hand.”

  “That is still not all of Flaminius’s army.”

  “If you saw a thousand of your men die, suddenly and violently, for no reason you could see, while the enemy was yet a mile away, would that not be decisive?” Rick asked gently.

  Publius shuddered. “Indeed.”

  And you’re wondering how much of that to believe, aren’t you? Well, you’ll find out soon enough.

 

 

They were five days march into territory claimed by Flaminius. There had been no battles; only an endless series of minor crises, decisions to be made, looters to be punished— “We come as liberators and allies, not as thieves and enemies!” Rick had thundered to his army; but if the military police weren’t watching, the soldiers would take anything they could carry. Chickens, pigs, sheep, cattle; it didn’t matter, if it were edible they’d soon have it.

  At least they weren’t setting fire to things; and after Rick hanged two men, the rapes stopped. Of course there were the ambiguous cases, where the girl’s relatives claimed rape while the trooper claimed seduction; those had to be settled as they came up, generally in favor of the trooper if he had half a story.

  “Nobody ever got raped in an upper bunk,” Rick remembered as a judgment of an American military court; if the girl didn’t appear abused, the same principles applied here.

  They rode on. Toward evening, Corporal Mason came in, followed by a score of his Mounted Archer MP’s. “More trouble, Captain,” he said in English.

  “How?” Rick asked wearily.

  “Clan Calder types. They’re still talking.”

  Dughuilas’s clan. Rick could guess what they were saying. That the forces of Tamaerthon were led by a coward, a man who’d struck their clan chief in battle, but had never faced an enemy man to man.

  “Anyone in particular?” Rick asked.

  “No sir. I kept an eye on Dwyfyd, but it don’t seem to be him.”

  Dwyfyd was Dughuilas’s eldest son; now he had the name Dughuilas as well, although not everyone used it yet. They would, eventually; for the moment there was talk about this twenty-year-old who’d inherited the leadership of one of the largest clans. He was a good friend to Tylara’s brother Balquhain, which might help, and then again might not.

  “No suggestions as to who killed Chief Dughuilas?” Rick asked.

  Mason shook his head. “Most reckon that a man who goes to whorehouses often enough is eventually gonna get something he didn’t want.”

  “Too right.”

  “Here come the Hussars,” Mason said. “I’ll go.”

  “No, stick around for the report.”

  “Okay, if you say so.”

  The light cavalry officers rode in. Today the force had been headed by Balquhain, Teuthras, and Drumold himself.

  “Hail, Mac Clallan Muir,” Rick said formally.

  “Hail, son-in-law.”

  “Any sign of Marselius?”

  “None. Nothing but enemies. Enough of those. Skirmishers, raiders, light cavalrymen—”

  “We drove them off easily enough,” Balquhain said.

  “At the cost of seven troopers,” Drumold said. “That was no’ well done, boy.”

  “I am no boy,” Balquhain protested. “And since what hour has Mac Clallan Muir counseled retreat when we have not yet fought? We drove them away, and we killed nearly a score. A small victory—but it was victory.”

  “Headstrong, headstrong,” Drumold said. “Lad, lad, do you not yet realize, the important thing is to win the battle. Not these tiny fights that are no more than tournaments! They do us nae good at all. Is this not so, Lord Rick?”

  “We need all the light cavalrymen we have,” Rick said slowly. “And we need information more than small victories. . .“

  “It is no surprise that you would say that,” a young officer said.

  “Tethryn!” Drumold said sharply.

  Tethryn. Dwyfyd’s youngest brother, another young lordling of Clan Calder.

  “That was not well said,” Balquhain said. “The Lord Rick has strange ways, but he wins victories. . .“

  “Men who fight win victories,” Tethryn said. “Wizards have other ways.” He wheeled and rode away.

 

 

Rick rode with Drumold back to his camp after they had supper with Publius. They rode in silence for a while through a light drizzle. Drumold had sent their guards a few lengths away so they could talk without being overheard, but then he said nothing for a long time.

  Finally he drew closer. “Did my daughter put some new worm in your guts, Rick? Or is it the old one eating at you?”

  “The old one. They’re all certain I’m a coward. I have to show them. But how?”

  “You’ve no need, lad. We know—”

  “You, perhaps.” And perhaps not. “Not the others. I’ve got to do something. But I can’t get within twenty stadia of the fighting!”

  “You’ll no’ be so far from battle when we meet Flaminius.”

  “By then it could be too late.”

  The older man flicked something invisible from his horse’s mane. “I think it is eating you more than usual,” he said. “Doubtless the affair of Dughuilas has provoked more talk than usual, and you hear it. Or- has my daughter been at you? If so, thrash her. I’ll no’ say a word against you or let one be said.”

  Rick sighed. “And how long before Tylara repaid me with usury? It is no light thing, to lay hands on your daughter.”

  “Aye. I have cause to know,” Drumold said pensively. “Lad, you are concerned about more than this.”

  “Yes. We received word from Marselius today. He marches from the north-on the east side of the River Pydnae. We have yet to reach that river. If Flaminius can cut us off—”

  “Perhaps it will be that Marselius will come upon him first.”

  “That, too, concerns me. Mostly, though, we’re getting deeper and deeper into the Empire—I’d not want to face the whole of Flaminius’s strength unaided.”

  “Nor I. Even with your star weapons.”

  “They might be enough. They might not be.” Rick sighed. “Converging columns is a tricky enough war plan when you have good communications. It can be disaster without. We’re inviting defeat in detail—”

  “A phrase I know not,” Drumold said.

  “Military strategic term. If you can divide your enemy into small forces and fight them one at a time—”

  “Ah.”

  “And that’s what we invite,” Rick said.

  “Do you think Marselius has played us false?” Drumold demanded.

  “No. He has no reason to. And we have his son hostage, too.” Rick laughed. “Actually, nothing has gone wrong, my old friend. We are well within the time limits we set.”

  “And yet you fash yourself—”

  “Yes.”

  “I see.” Drumold rode in silence for a few moments. “You wish to find Flaminius’s army, and Marselius. And you wish to force a crossing of this river.” Drumold looked thoughtful, then grinned. “I think I shall wake up with a fever tomorrow morning.”

  “A fever?”

  “Aye. A light fever, of the sort which keeps me from riding with the scouts. I shall stay back with the main body, to do what you have done here. You can lead the scouts in my place, and no one will spend a moment wondering why.”

  With any luck at all, there’d be at least one good fight with Flaminius’s patrols. The Emperor couldn’t simply go on giving ground forever. There might be a stiff fight at the river...

  I’ll be at the head of the army, Rick thought. For a few days, anyway. Lead from in front. Yeah.

  Idiot. You’ll get yourself killed, and there’s no one able to extract your forces out of this trap. Nobody but you. And without this army, Tamaerthon is finished. The imperial slave masters will be in the Garioch. Your friends, relatives, sold into slavery because you had to prove yourself. You’re brave enough, now stop trying to— Shut up! You talked me into track because it was sensible. All my life I do what’s sensible. This time I’m going to lead my troops to battle, and that’s that!

  Only—there’s Tylara to think of. She’ll find out, and ask why I’ve risked myself when I didn’t have to.

  “And if my daughter says aye about it, send her to me,” Drumold said. “She may now be so great a lady that she will say aught to her husband—but let us see what she says to her father, who remembers her a naked babe making puddles in his lap.”

 

 

13

 

 

Rain fell lightly all through the day. The cavalry troopers didn’t want to ride out in that. After all, the Roman cavalry wouldn’t be out either.

  Their reluctance was mostly for show, Rick found. And they were flattered that Lord Rick, the Commander-in-Chief, was riding with them. But the rain continued, so that he could hardly see the men to either side of him, and they made no contact with the enemy.

  And the next day, messengers arrived at dawn. Marselius was indeed across the River Pydnae, marching south through the low hills to the east of the river. Directly ahead of Rick lay more hills and thin forests, good territory for battle. North and east, though, were swamps; if the two armies were to link up, they’d have to do so east of the river.

  Where was Flaminius? His generals could read maps as well as Rick...

  “Mount up!” Rick ordered. “We ride hard for the bridge. I want a mixed force of pikes and archers across that river before nightfall.”

 

 

The sky was grey with low-hanging clouds. The horses picked their way cautiously over muddy patches as the scouts rode out across fields to either side of the hard-packed dirt road. Rick led two hundred Hussars, plus Caradoc with twenty Guardsmen and Elliot with two other mercs.

  They’d covered about seven kilometers when a Guardsman from the point squad rode back.

  “Fresh dung, my lord. Horses, with a few centaurs.”

  “Hmm. How shod?”

  “Iron shod,” the scout reported.

  That meant cavalry. Roman farmers didn’t usually bother. Time to mark up a map. One thing about this campaign, he had decent maps, done by Roman scribes. The enemy might surprise him, but the terrain wouldn’t—at least not too much. The scale of the maps did leave something to be desired: the little clearing ahead wasn’t marked. Not far beyond was the river, with its convenient bridge. Not far to go at all— Rick rode to the center of the clearing, then reined in and held up his hand for a halt. The well-used dirt road ran across the clearing and into the woods on the other side.

  He’d just got out the map— “Ho! Look out, godammit!” someone shouted from behind him. There were three pistol shots, close together, then the shouts of his troops mingled with Roman battle cries.

  Rick stuffed the map hurriedly into his saddle bag and stood in his stirrups to look back along the dirt track they’d followed. Men in Roman helmets darkened with mud were darting out of the trees, their swords flashing among the scouts. One of the mercs was down, and two more were firing from horseback, wasting ammunition.

  The Roman troopers slashed at the horses with their swords, while archers farther back in the woods let fly at the riders. There were more shots from the mercs, but the Romans were mixed well with Rick’s troops and there weren’t clear targets.

  “Cease fire!” he shouted in English. “Elliot! Get out here in the clear! Dismount and set up weapons. Prepare to receive cavalry! They’re sure to be coming.”

  Switch languages again. “Caradoc! You and your Guardsmen, stay with Elliot! Guard their weapons!” Now for his Tamaerthan scouts. “Hussars move out this way! Follow me!” He rode toward the other edge of the clearing.

  I’ve got to get my people disengaged, get some kind of order into this, get them out of the tangle with the ambushers. Elliot can take care of them after that. Dammit, those Romans were good!

  They’d almost reached the other edge of the clearing when the woods on both sides of the pathway sprouted archers and the air came alive with arrows.

  Too damn late, Rick thought. We’re tangled up with them again. We’ve got to buy Elliot and the Guards enough time to set up. “Charge!” he ordered. “Forward!” He spurred toward the enemy.

  Arrows whistled in. Rick’s armor turned the two which hit him, but a third hit his horse in the shoulder. It jumped and squealed, but the arrow wasn’t in deep enough to be a major wound. Rick raised his M-16 and squeezed off five rounds. He thought he hit three men. Then he was at the clearing’s edge.

  He slung the rifle across his saddle horn and drew his saber. In among the trees the sword was as good a weapon as a firearm. He slashed at one man, striking him at the shoulder, then he was past and into the woods.

  He had time to notice that the woods stank. Most of the trees were lower and bushier than Earth trees would be; but mixed in with them were what could only be European scrub oak.

  He bore to the right. The road would be there, and more of his scouts were forcing their way along the track. Behind him a trumpeter sounded; the high pitch of a Tamaerthan horn, not the low rumble of Roman signals. Someone had ordered recall of the point group. Who? It was the right move. Rick should have given the order himself, but he was separated from his staff. He heard men behind him. His, he hoped.

  There were crashing sounds, and someone rode up behind and to his left. Rick turned, sword raised.

  “Hold, my lord!”

  It was Jamiy, his orderly, holding his round target to protect Rick. Just then they burst through to a second clearing; the patch of woods between this clearing and the one where they’d been attacked couldn’t be more than fifty yards thick.

  Shouts and screams erupted ahead. The Guardsmen of the point squad came pounding back down the path into the clearing. Hard on their heels was a mass of mounted Romans. As Rick and Jamiy rode into the clearing, the point troopers rallied to them, while from behind another dozen men who’d been following Jamiy came into clear territory.

  The Romans ahead weren’t the splendid legionary cataphracti; these were more lightly armored, with round shields, looking more like traditional Roman cavalry of the older days. They were scattered from chasing the point men; and Rick’s troopers were lining up in a passable formation—

  An organized charge will always carry against disorganized force. Which dry lecturer had he heard say that, light years away and a lifetime ago? But it was probably true. And there was Rick’s trumpeter— “Make ready to charge!” he ordered. He unslung his rifle and began a slow deliberate aimed fire, chopping down anyone in the Roman group who looked like an officer. He hit five men. The rest were still coming. Lord, what soldiers!

  “Sound the charge!” Rick ordered. “Forward!”

  His light cavalry moved ahead in a passable line, sweeping toward the more numerous but scattered Romans. Rick held the rifle uncertainly. It would be better if he halted and fired but that wouldn’t do at all, not now with his troops at his back. Better to sling it again and use saber and pistol.

  They struck the Romans, cut down more leaders, and were swept into the thick of the action. More and more of Rick’s troops were coming from behind him, while extra supplies of Romans kept bursting into the clearing. Rick quickly lost track of what was happening to anyone except himself. This wasn’t a battle; it was a series of small-unit actions, two- and three-man engagements moving as rapidly as horses and centaurs could carry them.

  And it was getting out of hand. There’d be no point to fighting his way to the river unless he had enough troops to force a passage. “Rally back to the first clearing!” Rick ordered. “We must see to the star weapons! Sound ‘Follow me’!” He turned to ride back toward the woods, followed by what was left of his troops-how many? He had no idea at all. More than a hundred, he thought. The trumpet sang behind him as he rode.

  They reached the edge of the clearing just as a fresh wave of Romans burst through from the other side. Rick had no chance to count them, but it looked like a lot, enough to spread all across the clearing and still have depth to the formation. Enough to be a serious threat to Rick’s whole command— And behind that first wave of light cavalry the orange light of the True Sun glinted on silver links! Cataphracti, regular legionaries. Except for star weapons there wasn’t a thing in Rick’s cavalry command that could stand up to them.

  Well, I’ve found F1aminius’ army, he thought. Now all I have to do is live to get back and report it. Run like hell!

 

 

They reached the first clearing. Elliot had that situation under control; he’d set up a fire base in the clearing’s center, and was shepherding wounded and stragglers into its protection. There were still archers in the woods, and Elliot’s position was within extreme bowshot; but an engagement between a scope-sighted rifle fired by a man lying prone, and a bow used by a man who had to expose himself to shoot, wasn’t really a contest. The Romans would soon run out of archers.

  “More troops coming!” Rick announced. “Heavies. We’ll want to blunt their charge and get the hell out of here!”

  “Yes, sir!” Elliot answered. “Better get down—”

  Too late for that, Rick thought. The rest of his Hussars were entering the clearing in headlong retreat. There were more of them than Rick had expected, at least a hundred. They’d come part way across when the Romans came through the trees.

  “Caradoc!” Rick shouted. “Send four men back to Drumold! Have him bring up the rest of the cavalry on the double. We’ve found the enemy’s main army.”

  Caradoc said something that might be an acknowledgment.

  Rick fired six rounds into the advancing Romans. Three riders went down and a fourth was thrown as his horse stumbled over one of the bodies. Rick wished he had the H&K instead of an M-16. The lighter bullet would punch through armor just as well if it hit squarely, but could more easily be deflected if it didn’t.

  Then the retreating Hussars swept past and the Romans were nearly on him. Rick spurred forward; better to be moving than a standing target. A Roman soldier came at him with lance, but Rick swerved, firing at him as they closed; he missed, but the noise startled the trooper so that he raised the lance point. Then a Roman with an officer’s breastplate was straight ahead, lance lowered and ready to skewer Rick in the saddle. Rick flattened himself on the horse’s neck. The lance dipped, too far. The point drove into the side of Rick’s horse a moment before the two mounts crashed together. Rick’s horse started to topple. He hurled himself out of the saddle, trying to leap clear of the falling horse.

  The thrashing animal missed him by a yard. Rick fell heavily on the M-16. He rolled off it to find the action hopelessly jammed with mud. He scrabbled at his pistol; his hand was numb from the fall, and his thumb swollen so that he had to use both hands to get the safety off. He shot the Roman officer at point blank range, letting the heavy .45 slug batter through the man’s armor. Another Roman mounted on a centaur was charging toward him; there was no clear shot at the man. Rick aimed at the center of the centaur’s body and fired twice.

  The animal screamed, a nearly human sound, its stumpy arms and badly formed hands tearing at the wound. The Roman screamed also, in rage and something more, horror and sorrow. He jumped to the ground and charged at Rick, his sword held high. Rick fired, once, twice, before the Roman staggered; the force of his charge carried him to Rick, and the sword swept down. It never hit. Suddenly there was a round shield held in front of Rick; Jamiy stood left flank rear, his sword bloodied from some previous action.

  “Thanks,” Rick grunted.

  His orderly didn’t answer.

 

 

The Romans charged once more, to be cut down by fire from Elliot and his mercs. Even Roman discipline wasn’t good enough to get them to charge again, and they withdrew toward the woods.

  Rick’s charge had carried him almost to the clearing edge; a Roman horseman swept past, and Rick shot him out of the saddle. The horse stopped in its tracks, within easy reach. Rick quickly holstered his pistol and gripped the reins, ready to mount. He got one foot in the stirrup before the horse had time to react.

  Then more shouts. The Guardsmen had swept forward to rescue their leader. Rick’s new mount panicked and reared, throwing Rick forward. He landed sprawled across the saddle like a bag of grain, and the horse bolted forward into the woods.

  He was among the Romans. One of their troopers slashed at his head. The sword glanced off his helmet. Rick struggled to get back into the saddle and draw his pistol, but he knew he would be too late. There’d be no Jamiy to take this blow. His orderly was back there, down, maybe dead, maybe not, but Rick was alone except for two Guardsmen and a Tamaerthan officer who lay in a tangled pile just ahead.

  The Roman moved in for the kill. Stupid, Rick thought. This is what you get, trying to lead the goddam army yourself. You get dead, and who leads now?

  Then the Tamaerthan clan officer who lay at his feet lurched upward, barely able to stand. He staggered between the two horses, and his rising shoulder caught the Roman’s second downcut. The clansman stabbed at the Roman’s horse.

  “Tethryn!” Rick shouted.

  The Roman’s horse jumped as Tethryn’s knife entered his belly. The Roman trooper had to grab for the reins, and his next sword cut was spoiled. Rick managed to get astride his mount and get out his .45. There was one shot left in the magazine. Rick held the pistol to within a foot of the Roman’s chest and fired. The man screamed and fell backward, and Rick’s horse bolted again. This time it plunged out of the woods into the clearing, galloping across and up the narrow road toward the second clearing, as Rick tried frantically to secure his pistol before he dropped it.

  The second clearing was empty except for dead and wounded. Rick’s runaway mount carried him across at a slowing gallop; by the time they were to the other side, Rick had managed to holster his pistol and get the reins in both hands. The horse was tiring fast; it shouldn’t be long before he could control it— Except that he was being carried into unknown territory toward the Roman army.

 

 

14

 

 

The forest beyond the second clearing was only a thin screen of trees along the bank of the narrow, swift-flowing River Pydnae. Rick’s horse was tiring fast before he reached the river. When they reached the bank, the animal was more or less under control.

  A dozen Guardsmen, led by Caradoc, trotted up behind. “Are you well, my lord?” Caradoc called.

  “Well enough now,” Rick said. “Except for them.” He pointed.

  Not quite three hundred meters off to his left was a bridge, wooden roadway on stone piers. Between him and the bridge stood more than two hundred mounted Roman cataphracti. Their officer, easily recognized by his scarlet cape, was pointing at Rick, but the troops were not moving. Possibly afraid of star weapons?

  Nonsense. Their mission was to control the bridge. But there weren’t any troops visible on the other side, which meant- “Caradoc, get your fastest messengers riding back to the main army. I want the whole Tamaerthan army here as soon as possible. They’re to keep in formations, but I need them fast.”

  “Pikes too?” Caradoc asked.

  “Especially the Pikes. Have another messenger go to Publius and ask him for as many alae of heavy cavalry as he can send. Tell him the main bridge over the Pydnae is intact, if we can just get enough troops across to hold it.”

  Caradoc turned to ride back and find messengers.

  Rick and the Roman officer faced each other at three hundred yards. The Roman still did nothing.

  Trying to make up his mind, Rick thought. Wonder how old he is? His ambush worked perfectly, but his outfit was shattered by weapons he can’t understand. He ought to be terrified, but there he is, defending that bridge, trying to decide whether his best move is to stay there or attack me. He can’t know who won back there in the clearing, or how many troops are left on either side. But he does know where his main army is- Suddenly the Roman officer made his decision.

  About half the Romans formed up and came toward Rick at the trot. A hundred of them, against his dozen; impossible odds, even with a new magazine in his pistol. “Let’s get out of here,” Rick called. He pointed back toward the trees.

  The Guardsmen wheeled, and they rode back the way they’d come. About half the Romans took out bows and let fly; the rest came on at a fast trot, lances lowered; and now Rick’s horse was under control, but exhausted, impossible to get moving at anything more than a fast walk. Rick swore and dug in his spurs. He wasn’t going to make it to the woods in time. He drew his Colt, cursing as he worked the safety with his swollen thumb.

  A flight of arrows whizzed past, then another. He felt wasp-sting pains as a couple of points just got through his armor, and felt his horse shudder. This time he got out of the saddle before the horse started

  to go down, but still he landed clumsily. A worse pain than the arrows shot through one ankle. He lurched to his feet and tried to sight on the Roman commander. Good luck, Tylara— Elliot rode out of the woods at a canter, leading a spare horse. At the same time arrows and bullets flew from behind several trees. Four Romans went down, but others kept on coming. Elliot unslung his H&K and emptied a magazine at full automatic. This time the effect was obvious. The Roman point was scattered, with a dozen horses wounded. They plunged and reared, leaving the Roman force in disarray. The officer shouted something, and they wheeled to fall back to the bridge.

 

 

Elliot rode up with the spare mount. “Need a lift, Captain?”

  “Damn straight.” Rick mounted and rode into the trees. Finally he had time to stop and survey the situation. Nothing broken. Maybe. His ankle hurt like hell, and his thumb throbbed like fury, but he didn’t have time for them just now. “Thanks, Sarge.”

  “Nothing to it,” Elliot said.

  “Yeah. Sarge, have you got that one-oh-six with you?”

  “Yes, sir.” He pointed; Bisso was about fifty yards away with the weapon. “Want me to drop the bridge?”

  “Christ, no! We need that bridge. No, what I have in mind is blowing open a path for some of our troops to get across. Do that and we’ve got the Romans trapped.”

  “Yeah. Why don’t they retreat?”

  “I don’t know. But I can guess. They don’t want to go tell Flaminius Caesar that they retreated from a bunch of barbarians. They’re probably supposed to hold this side of the bridge so Flaminius can get his army across.”

  “You think his army is near?” Elliot asked.

  “Looks like it. Why else would there be both scouts and legionaries? I think we’ve run into their vanguard, and that officer there knows it. So he’s waiting for reinforcements he’s pretty sure to get.”

  Elliot looked thoughtful. “Be hard to hold too many more with just the troops we have here.”

  “I know. I’ve sent for the whole army. First thing, I’ll need to borrow your H&K. Fine. Now, let’s see if we can get across that bridge.”

 

 

Elliot dismounted and shouted orders. Bisso and his companion moved to the edge of the woods and set up the 106 on its tripod. The Romans, meanwhile, did nothing.

  “What the hell?” Bisso asked.

  “Still don’t want to retreat,” Rick said.. “Not from barbarians. But that last clip spooked ‘em en ⁶ugh they don’t want to charge, either-set up the light machine gun over here.”

  Elliot fussed with the machine gun sights, then bent over the 106 recoilless rifle. “Clear everyone from behind,” he said. “All of you-get! Move, dammit. Okay, Captain, ready when you are.”

  Rick faced his dismounted Guardsmen. “Stand easy. When that gun goes off, it will be damned noisy. The mounts won’t like it, so hold them. When you hear the charge, ride like hell for the bridge. We’ll go right over. Don’t stop to fight. Just get over that bridge. Okay, Sergeant Major, stay ready. We’ll wait as long as we can. I’d like to have some reinforcements.”

  “Sir.”

  Only we can’t wait too long, Rick thought. The rest of Flaminius’s army will be coming up too. Or that detachment will decide to retreat across the bridge and we’ll really be for it. I ought to go now— Yeah. Now, before you lose your bloody nerve and won’t be able to do it. Who the hell do you think you are, Napoleon at the Bridge of Lodi?

  While Elliot was making sure of his sights, a dozen Guards archers came up on foot, with a fresh supply of arrows and a message from Caradoc. The ambush in the rear was defeated, and new troops had come in from the main force. There were a lot of Romans scattered in among the forests, but they’d ceased to exist as an organized force.

  The main army was coming, but it would be an hour or more before any infantry could arrive. Drumold and the Tamaerthan heavies ought to be along sooner. There was as yet no reply from the Romans.

  And Rick thought he could see dust rising far down the road across the river. Flaminius? Or imagination? Whatever, it was time.

  “Guardsmen, mount up! Elliot, stand ready to fire!”

  “Sir.” He bent over the sights.

  “Mind your mounts!” Rick called. “Shoot!”

  “Fire in the hole!” Elliot shouted. The recoilless blasted leaves off trees in a triangle behind it. Horses reared.

  The shell exploded among the Romans just at the bridge. Horses reared and plunged, and one whole section of Roman cavalry bolted away. A number of Romans were down.

  “Got the range first shot,” Elliot said proudly.

  The Roman troops milled in disorganization. Their officer shouted at them.

  “Fire!” Eliot shouted.

  This time the round struck near the Roman officer. More of their cavalry went down.

  “Ride!” Rick ordered. “Sound the charge.”

  Trumpets blared, and they were riding forward at the gallop. There was no time to shoot at anyone, and nothing to shoot at either. Rick had drawn his saber; he held it point forward as he rode hunkered down to the horse’s neck. He hoped someone was behind him.

  He galloped onto the bridge, then across it. Some of the bridge planking was missing; his horse barely jumped across one gap. Then he was at the other side. He turned to the right and brought the horse up sharply.

  Twenty Guardsmen had followed and were on the bridge. Jamiy, his sword arm bound to his chest, was in their lead, mounted on the centaur he favored. He shouted at the beast and it turned to stand next to Rick.

  “Dismount!” Rick commanded. “Dismount and hold the bridge!”

  The Roman officer saw his danger now, and was trying to rally his troops to charge across. A score made for the bridge approach, then fell as Elliot’s light machine gun stuttered. Rick unslung the H&K and waited; two Romans made it onto the bridge. He shot them off it, feeling ashamed as he did.

  The Roman officer rallied his troops and drew up in column formation fifty yards from the bridge. There was more rifle fire from the woods, and some Romans dropped. By now Rick’s Guardsmen were also dismounted and had unlimbered their bows.

  “You haven’t a chance!” Rick shouted. “Surrender in honor!”

  The Roman officer stood in his stirrups and waved forward. The Roman line charged. Lances dipped in unison as they thundered toward the bridge- Elliot’s machine gun stuttered again. Rick added to the fire with his H&K. He found he had trouble seeing. There was a mist in his eyes. Lord God, what troops! He aimed low, at the mounts, hoping not to kill any more of the Romans.

  The charge was broken, but still a half dozen Roman troopers managed to get to the bridge. They rode

  on, and now there was nothing for it but to shoot them down in a hail of arrows and bullets.

  The other Romans withdrew. Their officer was down, lying half under his mount.

  A dozen Tamaerthan heavy cavalry burst from the woods. Drumold’s banner led the way. More of the chivalry of Tamaerthon followed. They charged toward the Romans.

  “No!” Rick screamed. He struggled to get onto his mount. “You! Ischerald! You’re in charge. Hold on here. Jamiy, follow me!” Rick spurred back across the bridge.

  They reached the other side. “See to their officer,” Rick shouted to Jamiy. “Get an acolyte of Yatar. Instantly, damn you! He’s too good a man to die like that!”

  He rode slantwise until he was between Drumold and the Romans. Then he led the Tamaerthan troopers forward. The Romans rode away until their remnant was brought to bay, the river bank at their backs. A few stripped off armor and dove in. They vanished in the swift, muddy water, and Rick couldn’t see what happened to them.

  Probably doomed, he thought. One of the more unpleasant life forms on Tran was the hydra, a freshwater squid-like mollusk that could grow to twenty feet in length. The big hydras preferred clear, slow-moving water, but there were smaller forms in nearly all deep streams. One forded Tran rivers with care.

  The remaining Romans sat their horses defiantly. There were no more than fifty left, and now they faced fifty Tamaerthan heavies and twice that many Guardsmen. Still they stood proudly.

  Rick reined up a hundred yards from the Romans.

  Drumold rode up. “I came as soon as possible.”

  “Thank you. We must get reinforcements over the bridge. We’ve got to hold the other side.”

  “That may no’ be so easy,” Drumold said. “As I topped the rise yonder I saw the flash of armor. Perhaps twenty stadia away. Legionaries, I think.”

  “All the more reason to hold the bridge,” Rick said. He thought for a moment. “We’ll need to ride out and show ourselves to the Romans, before they get close enough to see how few we have across the river. That should stop them for the day. Can you get your chaps to let themselves be seen and then retreat back here?”

  “Aye, although they will not be pleased to do so. But they will do it—Rick, we have already been told of your charge for the bridge. And earlier, in the clearing. No man will call you coward now.”

  Yeah. I knew that. And I’ve killed a lot of good men to make it happen. Ah, hell.

  “And what do we do here?” Drumold asked. He pointed at the Romans.

  “I go to speak with them.”

  “And if they shoot you down?”

  “Then you’re in command.” Rick rode forward alone, his hands spread out empty. When he was fifty yards from the Roman line he held his hand up, palm forward. “Hail, soldiers of Rome.”

  There was a long pause. Finally a Roman soldier rode forward. “Hail, barbarian.”

  “Lay down your arms,” Rick shouted. “You have fought honorably, against star weapons and great odds. Now accept honor and take quarter.”

  “From whose hand?” the Roman demanded.

  “In the name of Marselius Caesar,” Rick replied. “You will have heard of his amnesty for all who follow an enthroned Caesar. This I too swear. I am Rick Galloway, Colonel of Mercenaries, Eqeta of Chelm, War Leader of Tamaerthon, War Lord of Drantos, Ally and Friend to Marselius Caesar.”

  The Roman seemed to think that one over.

  “Archers!” Drumold shouted from behind him. “Prepare the gulls.”

  A group of Guardsmen dismounted. They drew their long bows from bowcases.

  “You know what Tamaerthan archers can do,” Rick shouted. “You will die to no purpose. How can it serve Rome to have her finest soldiers slaughtered? Lay down your arms.”

  “Way! Way there!” someone called from behind.

  A group of Guardsmen and acolytes of Yatar came out toward Rick. They carried the Roman officer in a blanket.

  “Your tribune lives,” Rick shouted. “We tend his wounds. He bids you lay down your arms.”

  The Roman decurion looked back at his companions. Then slowly he rode forward. A few yards away he halted, drew his sword, and dismounted. Silently he came forward and presented it hilt first. Then he knelt in submission.

 

 

Drumold led the Tamaerthan heavy cavalry across the bridge and down the road, as Guardsmen collected the Roman weapons. Half an hour later, the first blocks of pikemen arrived. Rick sent them across the bridge to secure their foothold on the other side.

  And now there was nothing to do but wait. And hurt. His clothes were stuck to him with blood from the arrow wounds, his ankle was starting to swell, and his thumb and whole right hand were already swollen. He’d forgotten to take off his ring; they would have to cut that off, and soon, too, or he’d lose the finger. There were other bumps and bruises he felt now that the adrenalin was no longer flowing.

  But we won, he thought. “Twas a famous victory…”

  Caradoc rode up with the rest of the Guard.

  “You’ll be personally responsible for the Roman prisoners,” Rick said. “I have promised them safety. They keep all their property except weapons, and they’re to be well treated. All of them. And guarded by enough troops that they won’t try to escape. I don’t want a single one of them harmed. Is this understood?”

  “Yes, lord,” Caradoc said.

  And there aren’t a hell of a lot of people I can give that order to and be sure it will be carried out.

  “Can you come now?” Caradoc asked. “There is a man you must see.”

  Rick sighed wearily. “It is urgent?”

  “Very urgent, lord. It is Tethryn.”

  “He lives?”

  “For the moment. The priests did not think he should be moved, but he was determined to speak to you, and has come.” Caradoc paused for a moment. “I think it makes little difference whether we move him or not.”

  “I’ll come,” Rick said. “I owe him my life.”

  Tethryn lay on a horse litter at the edge of the clearing. His brother Dwyfyd bent over him. They look so much alike, Rick thought. Alike, and young and— Dwyfyd’s eyes were wet with tears.

  “Lord Rick.” The dying boy’s voice was almost inaudible.

  “Hail, my friend and companion-”

  “Thank you.”

  “You must rest.”

  “There is no time, lord. Vothan One-eye has chosen me to guest in his hail this day. But I hope—you will not believe you see only enemies-in Clan Calder now. Some-some of the lesser chiefs....”

  “Some of them would rather I did, so they can continue to plot against me?”

  The boy was silent so long that Rick thought he’d fainted or died. Then he nodded. “Aye. Couldn’t let you die—to make them happy. Not—when—they lied. My father was wrong. You are—no coward.”

  Tethryn’s eyes closed, and Rick moved away to leave Dwyfyd alone with his brother.

  Damn. Hell and damn. The kid wasn’t eighteen yet.

 

 

“It is done?” Rick asked.

  Dwyfyd nodded silently.

  “He was a brave companion,” Rick said. “He will have no minor place in Vothan’s hall.”

  “Lord—”

  “Yes?”

  “May—may I ask a boon in Tethryn’s name?”

  “Yes.”

  Dwyfyd didn’t hesitate. “Corgarff’s life, lord.”

  “Why?”

  “He is my clansman. And—there are reasons.”

  Aha. So you know that your father was involved in the plot against the balloon. Probably ordered Corgarff ‘s part in it. And you want to make that up.

  “You do him no great service,” Rick said. “He will be a cripple—”

  “None the less, I owe him. And his family.”

  And you’ve probably paid off that crofter’s family, too. “Clan Calder has a worthy chief,” Rick said.

  “Caradoc, have messengers ride swiftly. Carry my orders to Lady Gwen that Corgarff is to be pardoned. Tell her that a writ will come soon. She is to stay the headsman’s ax.”

  “Aye,” Caradoc said.

  And you don’t approve. But you’ll send the fastest man anyway, won’t you? There’s real loyalty. If there’s time to save Corgarff, you’ll save him, though you’d rather watch him die.

  Pity we don’t have working radios. A couple of sets would make a lot of difference. Semaphore? Heliograph? Telegraph towers? We could put those up. Have to think about it. Certainly we could link key points to share messages within a few hours...

  And there were a thousand other details, and meetings to hold tonight, now that he’d located the edges of at least one legion. Battles to plan and kingdoms to govern and he hadn’t even planted the first stick of surinomaz and Lord how every joint and muscle ached!

  But some problems were solved. They held the bridge. There would be no difficulty in linking up with Marselius-indeed, Flaminius might be caught between them. He’d have to fight.

  And there were political victories. Clan Calder an ally. Or at least its chief is. The Romans I killed today haven’t died to no purpose. There’ll be fewer knives aimed at my back, and the longer I live the more I can do on this world— How many get the chance to change the destiny of a whole world? I’ve been given that chance. Every man who died today will save hundreds over the next few years.

  He told himself this as he swung up into the saddle. He would go on telling himself this, until perhaps someday he would believe it. And through it all, he could still hear the small voice in his mind which said, “Rick Galloway, are you sure you’re not a coward?”

 

 

15

 

 

The monontonous beat of the kettledrums ceased. Second Pike Regiment spread forward to stand guard, while Third Pikes began construction of a temporary camp. Roman engineers supervised as the pikemen, assisted by archers, drove stakes and dug ditches.

  “Bloody waste of effort,” someone muttered behind Rick. One of the Tamaerthan knights.

  “It will not be your effort wasted,” said another knight. Dwyfyd, Rick thought. Better, though, to pretend he hadn’t heard at all.

  At least none of the knights was arguing that they ought to dismount and take their ease while the foot soldiers built their camp.

  “Aye. We hae learned from the Romans to sleep well at night, knowing we will no be surprised. And that, my lords, is no small thing.”

  Drumold, of course, Rick thought. But the voice seemed to come from a very long way away. Suddenly he swayed in the saddle—

 

* * *

 

“My lord.”

  Rick didn’t want to open his eyes. There was a hot smell. Lamp oil. Why would they be burning lamps in the afternoon? He opened one eye. Yellow light. Brown walls. He tried to sit up.

  “Stay easy, my lord.”

  His eyes focussed at last. A young acolyte of Yatar. And Rick was on a cot, in his own tent. It was late enough that lamps were lit.

  “Is he awake?” Drumold’s voice came from outside.

  “Yes, lord. I will go for the priest.”

  “Do that.” Drumold came in to sit next to Rick. “Are ye well, lad?”

  “Certainly.” He tried to sit up, but his head felt light. “I don’t understand what happened—”

  “Hah. You’re battered and torn, lost blood from three wounds. Your thumb’s the size of a gull’s head and your ankle larger than his body. Withall, you sit a horse all day and you wonder you faint? Rest, lad.”

  “Can’t,” Rick said. “Where is Publius?”

  “Camped nearby. All is well, Rick.”

  “Is there word from Marselius?” Drumold hesitated.

  “There is, then.”

  “Aye. But—”

  “Drumold, we have a battle to plan!”

  “It will wait a day.”

  It won’t, Rick wanted to say; but instead he let his head fall back on the pillow.

 

 

He awakened the next morning to the sounds of trumpets and shouting men. He tried to leap from his cot, but his ankle wouldn’t hold him. Then Mason was there to help him back to bed.

  “What—”

  “It’s nothin’ to be worried about, Cap’n. Some bigwig from Marselius’s army, with a legion for escort.”

  “A legion? That’s Marselius himself!”

  “Likely it is,” Mason said.

  “I have to go meet him—”

  “How?” Mason asked. “You can’t hardly stand long enough to dress yourself.”

  “Damn it, I can’t greet Caesar from my bed! Get my robes!”

  “Robes, hell,” Mason said. “You go out, you wear armor. And you eat some hot soup first.”

  Soup. That sounded good. But armor? Yes. Not for the reason Mason thought. Not assassination; but it would be fitting to greet Marselius Caesar in armor. Marselius would be wearing his best, no question about that. “All right, help me get on my mail. The shiny set.”

  “How about this?” Mason asked. “Arrived an hour ago.”

  It was a new set of armor, featuring the breastplate fancied by Roman officers. Bronze oak leaves—no, by God, those were gold!—were soldered to the shoulders. There was a shirt with mail sleeves to go under

  it. The links were silvered, and the finest Rick had ever seen.

  “Fancy enough,” Mason said.

  “A king’s ransom,” Rick said. “From Marselius?”

  “No, sir. From Publius. In honor of your taking the bridge.”

  “I will be dipped in—” Publius? That ass?

  The armor fit perfectly. Which of Rick’s people had Publius got his measurements from? It hardly mattered. And certainly this was the right thing to wear...

 

* * *

 

“Hail, Caesar,” Rick said.

  “Hail, friend and ally.” Marselius smiled and came closer to clasp Rick’s hand and shoulder. It was a genuine embrace, making Rick wince. “Your pardon—”

  “It’s nothing.” But he was glad for the armor.

  Both armies stood in ranks in the bright light of the True Sun, watching their commanders greet each other. Wine was poured, and Rick and Marselius drank, then excahanged goblets and drank again. “Silly ritual,” Marselius said. “But I suppose necessary—shall we go inside, while Publius and Drumold carry on?”

  “Yes.” He followed the Roman into the command tent. Maps were already spread on the table.

  There was a man seated by the table. Two of Marselius’s personal guards stood next to him.

  “I think you did not meet Aulus Sempronius,” Marselius said. “He was the tribune commanding Flaminius’s troops at the bridge.”

  “Hail,” Rick said. “I am pleased to see that you live.”

  “I understand that was your doing. Thank you.”

  “You will recover, then?”

  He didn’t look good. His left leg was stretched stiffly before him. It was bound in leather splints. His left arm was also bound to his chest.

  “I do not know,” Sempronius said. “Your—” He struggled with the word. Finally he said it. “—priests say I will. Our healers are less certain. Your rituals are strange but they seem efficient—”

  Marselius looked worried. “My Lord Bishop will arrive in a moment,” he warned. “Does it go well, son of my oldest friend?’

  “You call him friend even now?”

  “Certainly. Because your father sees his duty to serve Flaminius makes his friendship no less valuable. More.”

  “Ah.” Aulus Sempronius was silent for a moment. “I do not think your son shares this view. Left to him, I would be in the hands of the quaestionairii.”

  “Never,” Rick said. “You surrendered to me. Who harms you answers to me!”

  “By what right do you speak thus to Caesar?”

  Publius had come in. Rick turned slowly. What I’d like to say, you pompous little bastard, is by right of the magazine in this Colt. But that won’t work too well— “By the right that any honorable man holds. By

  the rights of honor,” Marselius said. “Hail, Publius.”

  “Hail, father. Hail, Lord Rick.”

  “Have you no more to say to our ally?” Marselius demanded.

  Publius nodded, his lips pressed tightly together. Then, in a rush, he said, “I ask pardon. I should not have spoken as I did.”

 

 

“Why hasn’t he attacked?” Publius demanded. He turned to Aulus Sempronius. “Why?”

  “I cannot answer—”

  “Aulus,” Marselius said. “Aulus, I have granted full pardon and amnesty to all who will accept. There were no conditions, and there will be none. But—will you not submit to me as Caesar? Will you not aid me in ending this war? How can it harm Rome, that this war end?”

  Aulus frowned. “And yet— Ah. How can it matter? He has no need of battle,” Aulus said. “As you must know.”

  Rick nodded. “I thought that bridge too lightly guarded. We were intended to cross,”

  “Your spies have served you well,” Aulus said bitterly.

  “No. It should have been obvious there were too few troops to hold it long,” Rick said. “Only you fought so well I did not understand until now. And when we march for Rome—”

  “He will let you go forward. Then we retake the bridges, and hold you to this side of the river until you starve. May I have wine? Thank you. It deadens the pain.”

  “It is not good for you,” Rick said.

  “More witchcraft of Yatar?” Deliberately he poured another goblet of wine and drank it off. “Soon you will lose your army to desertion.” Aulus laughed sharply. “If we do not lose ours first.”

  “You have many deserters?” Rick asked.

  “As must you.”

  “We’ve seen few enough of yours,” Rick said. He looked to Publius. “Have they come to you?”

  “They do not go to Marselius Caesar,” Aulus said. “They go home, to protect their families from bandits and slave revolts, and the legends of-of-”

  “Of The Time,” Rick said softly. “So you know of that also.”

  Aulus nodded, and drank again, his third large cup. “Our bishops say that God will punish this world.”

  That’s one way to look at it. I wonder how many deserters Publius has had? None we caught, but we weren’t really looking for them.

  “So Flaminius will not attack,” Marselius said.

  “Caesar, he will not,” Aulus Sempronius said. “But say not Flaminius, who is not here.”

  “Who commands?”

  “Titus Licinius Frugi.”

  “Gah,” Publius said.

  “I feared as much,” Marselius said. “My best legate. He was with me at Sentinius.”

  At Sentinius. “Then he will find my pikes and archers no surprise,” Rick said.

  “None,” Aulus said.

  And he knows my secret. The secret of any hedgehog formation. If you don’t attack it—how can we take the battle to cavalry? We can’t even catch their cavalry. And if they wait until we’re in line of march and sweep in— “Then we march on Rome,” Marselius said. “if he refuses battle, so do we.”

  “Except that the further we go—”

  “The more recruits we will have,” Publius said.

  “We come closer to our home estates. And to lands which know Flaminius the Dotard all too well.”

  “He will burn the crops,” Rick said.

  “How can he?” Marselius demanded. “His own troops won’t let him. Nor will Flaminius. Nor will the Church. He can’t burn himself out. No. We march on, and when he attacks, we’ve got him.”

  Or he’s got us, Rick thought, but there was no point in saying that. How did it go?

 

On foot shuld all Scottis weire,

  By hyll and mosse themselffs to reare.

  Let wood for walls be bow and spear,

  That enemies do them na dare.

  In strait places gar keep all store,

  And hymen ye planeland them before,

  Then shall they pass away in haist,

  What that they find na thing but waist.

  With wiles and waykings in the night,

  And meikill noyse maid on hyte,

  Them shall ye turnen with great affrai,

  As they were chassit with sword away.

  This is the counsel and intent

  Of gud King Robert’s testiment.

 

But Flaminius couldn’t possibly have heard of Robert the Bruce. Or could he?

 

 

Two days march were two days of agony for Rick. His ankle remained swollen, so that he could not stand in the stirrups. He recalled the ancient joke, a cavalry manual: Forty Miles in the Saddle, by Major Assburns. It took on new meaning with each mile.

  But I can’t lead from a wagon, he thought. Though I’m going to have to, if this keeps up.

  They marched onward into Flaminius’s territory; and the deeper they went, the hungrier they were. Despite Marselius’s certainties, the land had been laid waste; there was little or nothing to eat. All food and stores had been carried away, and the fields burned.

  They grew weaker in other ways, too. For every recruit they collected, they had to leave two men behind as garrison. They had, when they began, three legions of cataphracti, two veteran and one militia, and two cohorts of Roman pikemen, nowhere near the standards of Rick’s veterans. Now one of the legions was under strength, and there was only one cohort of Roman pikes.

  They had also begun with three cohorts of cohortes equitatae, a mixed force of two light-armed infantrymen for each light cavalryman. The infantrymen ran alongside the cavalry, supporting themselves by holding the horse’s mane so that they could keep up. An excellent idea in theory; Rick wondered how well trained they were. However good, there were only two cohorts of those now; the third was left to guard the crossing of the River Pydnae.

  The whole Roman army wasn’t much larger than Rick’s force; while Flaminius was said to have five legions, three of them veterans, as well as numerous militia and auxiliaries.

  “My lord.”

  Rick looked up to see one of his cavalry officers. “Yes?”

  “Five stadia ahead, lord. There is a villa. It will not open its gates to us.”

  Rick frowned. “Yes?”

  “My lord, Balquhain wished to batter down the gates, but Lord Drumold sent me to find you. Lord, the villa is defended only by women and loyal slaves. Balquhain told them to surrender or they would be given to the soldiers. They slammed the gates in his face. Then Lords Drumold and Caradoc came.”

  “I see. Go and tell Drumold I’ll be there as soon as I can.” He looked back down the road. Art Mason and Jamiy were close behind. Jamiy’s arm was bound in a tight sling against his chest. Wearily Rick waved them forward and spurred his horse to a fast trot. The result was agony.

  And I can’t tell anyone what my problem is...

 

 

“Surrender in the name of Marselius Caesar,” Rick shouted.

  “My lady says that she will never open her gates to barbarians.”

  Was that an intentional pun? The double meaning was obvious, but it certainly wasn’t intended to be humorous. And undoubtedly it expressed the deepest fears of the matron who guarded that villa.

  “We need Tylara here,” Rick said.

  Drumold nodded. “Aye. You see now why I sent for you.”

  “Yes. There’s little honor in victory over women. But a damn good chance of an incident worth more

  to Flaminius than a new legion.”

  “So I have told my son,” Drumold muttered.

  Baiquhain bowed his head. “Aye. I see that now. I was a fool.”

  First damn sign of wisdom I’ve seen from you, Rick thought. But no time for that now. “Mason, bring up the one-oh-six.”

  “You have a plan?” Balquhain asked.

  “Yes. You’re part of it.” Part of it now, anyway. “Listen. . .“

 

 

“Fire in the hole!” Reznick shouted. The 106 recoilless blasted in fire; the shell smashed against the stout gates of the villa.

  The instant the larger weapon fired, Rick and Mason fired concussion grenades from the grenade launchers on their H&K rifles. The grenades went over the wall to explode inside the courtyard beyond.

  At the same moment, Baiquhain, Caradoc, and ten other picked Guardsmen rode to the gate. They flung themselves off their mounts. The gates sagged on their hinges; four men hit them at once, and the topmost hinge of one gave way. They scrambled into the villa.

  Rick rode up behind them, and painfully climbed inside the ruined gate. “My ladies!” he shouted. “You see we have broached your defense. Yet only officers stand in your courtyard. My army stays outside. You will not be harmed. Come out, in the name of Marselius Caesar—”

  Caradoc and two Guardsmen brought over prisoners from the outer wall; two young men, obviously slaves, and another, no more than ten. The boy struggled, but could not move in Caradoc’s grip.

  The villa door opened, and a woman about thirty-five ran out. “Rutilius!” she screamed.

  Rick nodded in satisfaction. That’s one victory I can be proud of. Why can’t they all be like that?

 

 

It was late in the day, and Rick made camp at the villa. Only his officers were permitted inside; and before they entered, Rick asked formal permission from the mistress of the household.

  “You will be paid for what we consume,” Rick told her. “We are allies to a lawful Caesar, not conquerors.”

  She shrugged and gave a bitter laugh. “There’s little enough to consume.”

  Her name was Aemelia, and her husband, Marcus Trebius, was an officer in Flaminius’s army. She didn’t know if he was alive or dead; but three days before, Titus Frugi’s soldiers had stripped her villa of every able-bodied slave and freedman. They had also taken nearly all her food, and burned what was left.

  “You seem to bear little love for Flaminius,” Rick said.

  “I have little.”

  “Then why did you not surrender to Marselius?”

  “You are not Marselius,” she said.

  “Ah. My barbarians—”

  She blushed. “We were told—told that it would be far better to fall into the hands of Publius than among the barbarians.”

  “Ah. Meaning—”

  “That Publius asks,” she said. “But I wronged you. I—thank you. For saving my son. For sparing my home.” She came and stood near him. “Welcome, to my home and hearth. . .“

 

 

“Captain. . .“

  What the hell? Aemelia moved next to him in the dark. She was tense with fear.

  “Captain.”

  The voice was Mason’s. Out in the hall. Quickly Rick rose and went through the connecting door to the other room. He pulled on a robe and opened the door. “Here. What is it?”

  “Messenger, Captain. From Marselius. Said it was too important to wait until morning.”

  “I’ll come—”

  “Armor, Captain. I’ll help you—”

  “Give me five minutes,” Rick said wearily. “Then come help.” And just how close a friend to Tylara are you?

 

 

Lucius, Marselius’s trusted freedman, stood in the library of the villa. Drumold, Elliot, Balquhain, Caradoc, and a dozen other officers waited with him.

  “Hail, Lord Rick.”

  “Hail, Lucius. You bring a message from Caesar. It must be that you have found Flaminius’s main army.”

  “Yes. No more than forty stadia. Some march toward us. Their light cavalry are everywhere—”

  Rick bent over the maps. “Good territory for it. They’ll be trying to circle past us, get some behind and some ahead. With more troops strung along this ridge above our line of march.”

  And worse than that. There were a number of parallel roads here, and Marselius’s army was split into columns, divided into three main forces: Rick’s on the left, Marselius himself in the center, and Publius on the right. With luck, Flaminius could hit one of the flanking columns and punish it before Marselius could come to its rescue. Or circle behind them and harass from the rear. Or— “It is clear that we must know what Flaminius is doing,” Rick said. He turned to his officers. “Send out the Hussars. But in a body, to patrol and return. Not to fight. They’re our eyes, and we’ll need them,”

  “I’ll go myself,” Drumold said. “Now?”

  “Yes,” Rick said. “Elliot, get the troops on alert, but keep them in camp. Until we know what Flaminius is doing it’s silly to do anything—”

  “And yet we have no choice but to continue,” Lucius said quietly. “Or soon we will have no grain for the horses.”

  “Yeah,” Rick said. He tasted sour bile. Horses eat a lot. Cavalry horses eat more than that. Stay here a week, and they’d have no striking force at all.

  “Caesar demands that we march tomorrow,” Lucius said. “I have brought his plan of battle.”

 

 

The battle plan was no plan at all. March ahead and trust to God. Not that Rick knew of anything better.

  “There is one more message,” Lucius said. “I have waited until we are alone to give it.”

  Rick poured two goblets of wine. “Yes?”

  “Your officer, Tethryn, shall have the Untipped Spear.”

  “Ah.” So the Romans of Tran had preserved that ancient Imperial honor. “Dwyfyd will be pleased to add that to his brother’s tomb carvings.”

  “Publius wanted instead to give money.”

  “He had a reason?”

  “Ah. He said to his father, ‘If I were as close to the purple as you, I would not waste Roman honors on dead barbarians.” Lucius smiled. “Caesar replied, ‘If I did not honor my friends, I would not be as close to the purple as I am.”

  “And what happens if Caesar falls in battle?” Lucius shrugged. “Publius is not evil, Lord. He is a strange lad. Well educated. Perhaps I was too strict. I do not know. But—well, we can pray to the saints that Marselius lives to be enthroned. I am unlikely to outlive him. And Publius may yet grow to a stature worthy of Rome.”

 

 

The cavalry returned an hour past full light. “We found nothing,” Drumold said. He pointed to the map spread on Rick’s field desk. “So far as I can tell, we went to this spur of the ridge.”

  “A good ten stadia past where you should have been ambushed.”

  “Aye—”

  “Meaning there will be an ambush there when the full army marches up that road,” Rick said. “You can be sure of it.”

  “So what shall we do?” Balquhain demanded. “What would you do?” Rick asked. Balquhain spread his hands. “I know not, truly. Time was, and no so long ago, I would ride that road thinking myself safe. Now—now I see the danger, but. I know little what to do about it.”

  Nor I, Rick thought. I was about to say that— “My lord!” Jamiy burst in. “Lord, the Captain of the Guard sends word. New forces coming from the west.”

  “New forces?”

  “Drantos soldiers, Lord. Royal Guardsmen.”

  “What the de’il?” Drumold demanded. “Why? Could aught be—no, no, I will not think such things.”

  Nor I, Rick thought. Lord God. And last night I betrayed her. Could this be Tylara coming? Or has something happened to her? Or—I’m a damned fool.

 

 

Camithon stood at the door. His head was bowed, and the old soldier actually stammered. “Lord—lord, I knew not how to prevent him. Aye, our young Wanax has grown-”

  “And so you came with him.”

  “Aye,” Camithon said. “What was my duty? I am a soldier. I know well enough that I am ‘Protector’ of young Ganton, not of the Realm, which I know not how to govern. And as our Wanax conceived this mad notion while the Lady Tylara was no more than a day’s ride from the capital, I sent messengers to inform her that she should remain as Justiciar of Drantos, while I escort the Wanax. What else could I do, lord? For he would come. To prevent him I must lay violent hands upon him—and I cannot believe his nobility and Guardsmen would allow that. Must I then begin civil war?”

  “No. Where is the king?”

  “Ah—the servants are erecting his tent, and he is at his ablutions—in truth he hides until I bring him word of how you receive his visit. I think he fears you somewhat.”

  “He cannot overly fear me, or he would not be here. What forces have you brought?”

  “A hundred lances, lord.”

  Three hundred heavy cavalrymen. Probably more; each lance was led by a knight, and many of them would have brought squires as well as men at arms.

  Picked men, no doubt. Man for man as good as Romans. Possibly better. But not disciplined; a hundred Roman cataphracti would be more than a match for these three hundred.

  But they were heavy cavalry, trained to fight in ranks three deep and cover a three-meter front. They could hold a third of a kilometer, at least for a while.

  “And servants, and fifty porters leading a hundred pack animals,” Camithon continued.

  “Rations? How long can you live without forage?”

  Camithon shrugged. “A day? There was little enough forage in the wake of this army!”

  Rick nodded. Well, that was another four hundred mouths to feed. Plus horses, who’d need grain and hay. There’d be no centaurs among picked Drantos troops.

  One more damn thing to worry about.

  “This is primarily a Tamaerthan expedition,” Rick said. “And it is my command. This is understood?”

  “Aye, lord. By me and by His Highness.”

  “Good. Then have the courtesy to inform the Wanax that when His Majesty is finished with his ablutions, the Commander-in-Chief would like to see him.”

 

 

16

 

 

Titus Licinius Frugi reined in his horse and resisted the impulse to stand in the stirrups. His officers were watching; they should not see him appear uneasy.

  They were among a thin wood at the top of a long ridge that lay parallel to his enemy’s line of march. They could see most of Marselius’s force from here: the center, with Marselius himself, lay on Frugi’s left, ready to march up the military road to Rome.

  On that side Frugi had four legions to face Marselius. More than enough to sweep Marselius from the field—but that would be wasteful of men. Frontal assaults always were.

  But if he could bring a legion around the ridge to take Marselius from behind— Marselius had entrusted his left wing to barbarians. To Frugi’s right, at the bottom of the ridge, was a secondary road in a thin strip of cleared level ground perfect for his heavy cavalry. The barbarians, separated from Marselius by the ridge, would march into that.

  He pointed to the road. “How far up it did they come?” he asked.

  “There.” One of his staff officers pointed down the slope.

  “That far. Excellent.” If the barbarians had scouted that distance last night, they would surely do so again now that they were marching...

  First would come the barbarian light cavalry. They’d be no match for cataphracti; drive them back, back upon their own marching columns—and charge on, using the fleeing enemy as a screen.

  And if the enemy came on without sending scouts ahead? Even better. The road ran between the forest and a stream. The barbarians would have to march close to the trees; close enough that their archers would have little time for their deadly volleys as his hidden troops burst out. Let his legionaries get among the archers, and the barbarian army was his. Kill the archers! The pikemen were not of themselves dangerous. Horse archers could shoot them down—provided that they were not in turn shot down by those bright-kilted fiends with their long, gullfeathered arrows that could outrange his best by half again.

  He shuddered at the memory of the disaster at Sentinius. Not again! Never again would he send cataphracti charging at the pikes while the grey gulls flew in thick flights...

  From his ridge he could see all the way back to the river. Most of it was fertile farmland, but there were scattered orchards, patches of forest, and low rolling hills to block his view.

  A horseman rode up behind him. “It is a splendid view. A pity to spoil it with the ugliness of war.”

  “Yes, my Lord Bishop.” And how much of that did my Lord Bishop Polycarp believe? Possibly all of it. To the best of Frugi’s knowledge, Polycarp was a good man—despite having the favor of Flaminius.

  Marselius, my old friend. Were you right to revolt? Has Flaminius the Scholar brought us to that? But civil war is always the worst of disasters, the worst of evils. Better a dozen bad emperors than an endless series of wars for the purple. Once, Rome ruled from the sea to the West Escarpment, to the borders of the Five Kingdoms. Aye, even the High Rexja sent gifts to Caesar. Then came a year when three Caesars claimed the throne at once.

  “But will not the trees and hills there prove troublesome?” the bishop asked. “They will hide your enemy.”

  “They serve to block Marselius’s view as well, Your Grace.”

  “And that is important?”

  “All important, Your Grace. If we but knew where all of Marselius’s forces were, we would have them. We could win a bloodless—well, nearly bloodless- victory.”

  “How is this?”

  Have I better things to do than give lessons in tactics to a servant of the Prince of Peace? No. Not for an hour. Perhaps longer. “If we know where each is, we can concentrate all our force against a small part of theirs. Break through their line, sweep about their flanks, come from behind. Their soldiers like this war no more than we. Given the chance, they will come to us rather than die for Marselius.”

  “Will you give them quarter, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yet Caesar has ordered—”

  “I know what Caesar has ordered, Your Grace. And I know what I must do. I will send the remnants of Marselius’s force to the frontier posts.” If there are any remnants. I have six legions. Two that Marselius doesn’t know about. Enough force to roll right over, smash my way—”I will give them quarter if I can.”

  “And you are certain of winning?”

  “I am, Your Grace. We have six legions plus the foot. Even counting the barbarians as a legion, Marselius has but four.”

  “So you have half again his strength.”

  “More, Your Grace. With forces matched this evenly, it is as the square of the two. Say thirty-six to sixteen. As if we had double his force. But that would be for a frontal assault. I think we can do better when Marselius advances. He always was a rash leader.”

  Polycarp looked at him sharply. “Be certain of victory. Then go with God. For Rome can little enough afford the loss of her knights, when the barbarians pound at our gates, and the star our ancestors called Beelzebub hangs higher each day. But—will not Marselius simply remain where he is? Why should he place his head in your snare?”

  “He has little choice, Your Grace. There is very nearly nothing to eat where he is encamped.” Flaminius Caesar had rightly forbidden him to strip all of the lands along Marselius’s line of march; but he had allowed him this valley. A raven crossing that land would need to carry rations.

  Marselius and the barbarians carried rations, of course. Grain and fodder for the horses, too. But never enough, not for that army. Marselius would have to fight, on ground chosen by Frugi. And Marselius would lose.

 

 

An hour passed. Trumpets sounded from the west. Marselius was on the march. But the barbarians were deploying as if for battle. They hadn’t moved up the road. Not even their light cavalry.

  Then there were shouts from his troops. A staff officer rode up jabbering.

  “What? Speak up, man!”

  The officer pointed.

  Two miles away, a brightly colored object trailing black smoke rose in the sky. A wind carried it toward him. When he strained his eyes, he thought he could see a thin line connecting it to the ground. Smoke rose from the place it was tethered.

  “What?” Frugi asked. “Surely it is nothing to fear.” But he felt fear, all the same. Fear and terror of the unknown. Star weapons...

  Star weapons are only weapons, he told himself. Like bows, with long-ranging arrows. Like ballistae that shoot far. But as bows need arrows, the star weapons need-need something I don’t have a word for. But something. And their supplies are limited.

  Another staff officer rode up. A frumentarius. Why was he so excited?

  “Balloon,” the intelligence officer stammered.

  Titus Frugi frowned in puzzlement.

  “We heard of them from the Pirate Lands, Proconsul,” the officer said. “But we paid no heed. Until now.”

  “What are you jabbering about?”

  “Balloon,” he said. “See, it drifts toward us on the wind. And it is higher than we can shoot. Look closely, Proconsul.”

  Titus Frugi looked, and saw disaster. There were men in the basket hanging below the balloon. They were pointing at the troops hidden in ambush.

 

 

The semaphore flags waved. An acolyte of Yatar stared at the basket beneath the balloon and called out letters. Another wrote the message.

  “S-T-A-F-F BREAK 0-N BREAK Y-O-N-D-E-R BREAK R-I-D-G-E BREAK STOP.”

  “We have found the enemy’s staff officers, lord,” the scribe said.

  Rick hid a thin smile of amusement. These lads were so proud of being among the very few who could read that they forgot that anyone else could. “Thank you.” He turned to Mason. “Think it’s worth dropping a couple on the ridge?”

  Mason shrugged. “Sure.”

  “We’ll wait a bit more, though,” Rick said. “Ah. Murphy’s located an ambush force. Just about where I’d figured from the map. But it’s nice to have it confirmed. Dismounted. They’ll be out of action for a while—”

  Gradually he gathered details as the semaphore flags wagged and waved. Two legions poised here. Another there, masked by an orchard. Two more in reserve. Hah. Titus Frugi had more force than Marselius had suspected. Must have drained everything, every trooper he could raise—

  “Caradoc!” Rick shouted. “Get me messengers to ride to Marselius. Win this battle and by Yatar we’ve won the whole bloody war!”

 

 

“It was you who said it would be disaster,” Bishop Polycarp reminded him.

  And it damned well is, too, Titus Frugi thought. But how can I avoid a battle? I can’t even disengage! By now Marselius knows every formation I have, how many, where they are— Is he smart enough to divine which troops I can trust and which I can’t? Which I can allow to wander through the trees, and which must stay under the eyes of their centurions? (And one legion whose centurions weren’t trustworthy; that whole legion had to be watched by another.)

  “What would you have me do, Your Grace?”

  Polycarp shook his head slowly. “Avoid slaughter. If you must fight—fight barbarians. Do not let Roman armies kill each other while the heathens remain!”

  Good advise, old man. But I’ve fought those barbarians. You haven’t. Still, I suppose there’s nothing for it.

  It had looked so simple. Until that thing rose in the sky. And now—now everything he did would be reported to Marselius. While he had no information at all on where his enemies marched,

  Disaster. Strange how small a thing can bring disaster. And how little you expect it.

 

 

Presently the enemy strategy was clear. Marselius’s right wing advanced, slowly, through the crop-lands and orchards, while the barbarian left wing stayed behind. With his army split by the ridge, Frugi couldn’t simply sweep Marselius from the field; and how could he break past the barbarians and fall on Marselius from behind now that his ambush was discovered?

  “They are only foot soldiers,” one of the legates said. “Barbarians at that. How can they withstand a charge of legionary horse?”

  “I have described Sentinius to you,” Frugi said wearily. “And then they had no balloon.” The evil thing hung in the sky directly to the west. It must somehow communicate with the ground, because Marselius deployed against the legion Frugi had hidden in the orchards; and when the legion withdrew, Marselius closed his ranks again.

  “It is held to the ground by that rope,” the frumentarius said. “Cut the rope and it must drift free. This has happened before.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “We heard this from spies,” the intelligence officer said. “But we did not believe them.”

  “So.” Frugi pointed to where the end of the balloon’s tether lay. “We need go only there—”

  “Where there are few barbarians,” the legate said.

  That was true enough. There were no more than a hundred to guard the balloon’s tether. But— “Few indeed,” Frugi said. “Now consider this. Their whole formation is like a funnel, with only emptiness at the bottom. With nothing where they keep their balloon. As if they cannot believe we know it to be vulnerable. Or that we do not know its value. Tell me, Legate: would Caius Marius Marselius know the value of a balloon?”

  “He would, Proconsul.”

  “Then can we not assume that the barbarians who possess it must know?”

  “We can—”

  “Then we must assume they will protect it. With their star weapons, perhaps. With something. No. I will not send a legion down those lanes to chase a lure.” Frugi studied the battle ground again. “But—perhaps—”

  “Yes, Proconsul?”

  “Their left flank. Spearmen. Supported by archers, but the archers are further in. There is a gap between their spearmen and the woods. I would suppose their horse waits there, just beyond where we can see, hidden by those woods. But—their horse is no match for a legion; and we have horse archers in plenty. These barbarians have never seen our archery. Perhaps, Valerius, it is time they learned.”

  “It will be my pleasure to teach them,” the legate said.

  “Do so. Recall the Eleventh from hiding in the trees and remount them. Take them and the Eighth.

  Deploy the Eighth against the barbarian cavalry which will surely be hidden on your right. Bring the Eleventh to archery range and shoot down those spearmen. Shoot enough and they will run. When you have broken through their line, ride behind the enemy. Ignore the balloon and whatever protects it. Sweep behind the barbarian force and fall upon Marselius in the center. As you do, I will send the other legions in a general charge. We will crush Marselius.”

  His enthusiasm was infectious, and the legate was caught up with it. “Hail, Titus Frugi!” he shouted as he rode away. When he was gone, Frugi’s smile vanished. Go with God, Valerius, Frugi thought. As for me, I am afraid.

 

 

“I still think it’s stupid,” Art Mason said. “Hell, Cap’n let me go—”

  “No. You and Elliot are needed here. Just see that Frugi doesn’t break through anywhere. And look out for the king.”

  “Ye’re daft,” Drumold said. “But I hae long ceased to vex myself wi’ thoughts of controlling you. Still, what will you accomplish?”

  “Possibly nothing,” Rick said. “But you exaggerate the danger. There is none to me, and little to anyone else. You do not have the game ‘chess’ here, do you?”

  “Not by that name,” Drumold said.

  “No matter. It is a war game. There are many ways to win, but only one way to win quickly without great slaughter. Let’s go.” Rick waved his group forward:

  Reznick, Bisso, and two other mercs, plus a half dozen Guardsmen. The mercenaries wore kilts and bright tabards, and their battle rifles were wrapped in cloth bowcases. From a distance they looked like any Tamaerthan light cavalry. They rode southeast, toward Marselius’s legions. When they were close to the base of the ridge, they dismounted and turned the horses over to two Guardsmen. Rick led the others into the thin scrub that covered the ridge.

  “Okay,” he said. “This is as good a place as any.”

  The mercenaries shed their kilts and pulled on camouflage coveralls. The Guardsmen also abandoned bright colors and put on drab kilts and leather helmets. When they were dressed, Rick led them up the ridge.

  Halfway up they paused in a wooded draw. Rick took out his binoculars, while Reznick shook out signal flags and waved them. Rick focussed in on the balloon, “Okay, they’ve seen us,” he said. He watched the flag man. “L-E-G-I-O-N-S A-T-T-A-C-K-I-N-G L-E-F-T W-I-N-G.’ Get the rest of that signal and acknowledge. I want a look over that way.”

  He couldn’t see. The brush was too thick and the draw too deep. Then he heard distant thunder. The recoilless, and possibly grenades.

  “Murphy says First Pikes are holding,” Reznick reported. “No change otherwise.”

  “Nobody above us on the slopes?”

  “Not until we reach the top.”

  “Okay. ‘Let’s move.” They climbed up the draw.

  When they were nearly at the top of the ridge, they took more signals from Murphy in the balloon. Rick nodded and waved Reznick forward.

  Reznick screwed the sound suppressor on his 9mm Ingram submachine gun. He moved carefully up the draw, guided by Murphy’s directions, until he was near a small thicket. The Ingram made no more noise than the loud tearing of cloth as he fired an entire clip into the bushes. Then he reloaded and went to inspect his work.

  After a few moments Rick heard a low whistle. He waved the others forward.

  Twice more Reznick took the silenced Ingram forward. Then they were at the top of the ridge.

  “Move!” Rick ordered. “Up. Go like hell!”

  They dashed over onto the level ground on top. Rick was panting, and his legs felt like lead. My arse aches, too, he thought. Hell, a man with piles didn’t ought to be doing this! A Roman trooper stood just in front of him. Rick fired twice with his .45 and the Roman went down. Then there were two more Roman soldiers. One held his shield forward and raised his sword— Rick shot through the shield. Reznick fired from behind him and three more Romans went down. There were a dozen more dismounted Roman troopers. Reznick and Bisso fired at full automatic, short bursts, slow, methodical fire; the Romans collapsed in heaps. Then they faced five mounted Roman officers.

  “Surrender!” Rick shouted. When one of the Romans wheeled, Rick shot his horse. The animal screamed in pain. “Kill the horses!” Rick shouted.

  Bisso’s battle rifle thundered. Then it was joined by two more. As the horses began to buck and plunge, a Roman in a scarlet cape leaped free and drew his sword.

  “Hail, Titus Frugi!” Rick called. “Why throw your life away to no purpose? I have come to speak with you.”

  Frugi licked his lips and looked around. One of his officers was struggling to free himself from a fallen horse. Bishop Polycarp’s animal had not yet been killed; His Grace sat with his hands raised as if in blessing. His other three officers were taken, struck down and seized by these grim men; and his bodyguards lay in heaps.

  “Set up over there,” Rick shouted. Bisso and the other two mercs laid out their battle rifles. “Anything comes over that lip, kill it.” He turned to the Roman commander. “Now, Proconsul, let us talk.”

  “Who are you, barbarian?”

  Hah, Rick thought. The way he asks that, it’s a good thing I came myself. “Rick Galloway, Colonel of Mercenaries, War Lord of Tamaerthon—and friend to Marselius Caesar, who sends you greetings. Only two days ago I heard Marselius himself praise your courage and honor. And your good sense—however, you must not run away, Proconsul. And while I permit you to hold that sword for the moment, you must eventually put it down.”

  “While I hold it—”

  “While you hold it you can kill yourself,” Rick said.

  “That, Titus Frugi, is forbidden,” Bishop Polycarp warned.

  “My Lord Bishop,” Rick said. “I had hoped to include Your Grace in our meeting. Can you not prevail upon the Proconsul to lay down that sword?”

  Titus Frugi looked around helplessly. His officers were taken or dead. The strangers looked perfectly capable of dealing with any rescue attempt—not that there was any sizable force nearby anyway. He stood shaking with rage and frustration, then threw down the weapon with a curse. “Speak, barbarian,” he said. “I have little choice but to listen.”

 

 

17

 

 

“Here they come,” Art Mason raised his rifle. The two legions of cataphracti moved in formation, certain of themselves, riding proudly. The lead formation deployed, ready to ride through the chivalry of Tamaerthon to Drumold’s banner lifted high above them.

  The Roman trumpets sounded. Lances came down in unison. The Romans moved forward. At a walk. A trot— “Now,” Mason said.

  The light machine gun opened up in sharp, staccato bursts. Then the recoilless. The center of the Roman line went down; the troopers behind crashed into them, and the orderly line dissolved into confusion. The rear ranks crowded against each other.

  “Fire in the hole!” Elliot shouted. The recoilless blasted again. More Romans fell. Their charge was broken before it had ever begun.

  Tamaerthan and Drantos horse alike surged forward into the confusion. The Roman forces were bunched together, so that only the outer troops could use their weapons. The Allied cavalry, heavy and light alike, could dart in, strike, and dash back to charge again.

  The other Roman legion reined in about a hundred yards from the pikemen and took out their bows.

  Mason turned to his trumpeter and nodded. Shrill notes sounded, and two hundred Tamaerthan long-bowmen ran out of the trees where they’d hidden.

  “Let the grey gulls fly!” Caradoc ordered. The first flight of arrows fell upon the Romans from behind.

  The trumpets sounded again, followed by the thutter of drums and the squeal of pipes. First Pike Regiment surged forward at double time. They flowed across the ground toward the Romans.

  Mason dismounted and opened the bipod of his H&K battle rifle. He lay on the ground and fired randomly into the Roman formation until the pikemen closed. The Romans found themselves in a desperate engagement.

 

 

“I had not known,” Titus Frugi said. He raised Rick’s binoculars again and stared at the scene below, then cursed. “Who ever saw foot soldiers attack cavalry?” It was an event totally outside his experience; the surprise was as complete as if the pikemen had risen into the air.

  First the star weapons. The Eighth legion’s charge was thoroughly broken before they ever engaged the enemy. Now they were trapped, forced back against the Eleventh which was in desperate straits, archers behind it and those spearmen in front. Could Valerius withdraw? Would he? He searched for a sign of his subordinate, hardly able to hold the binoculars still. What other marvels did these starmen have?

  “You see,” Rick said gently. “Two legions could not break my pikes. Not when they have the aid of star weapons. As you must know.” He waved to indicate the dead and dying heaped around them. “Your bodyguards fared no better. What use is this slaughter? How will Rome survive if all her soldiers are dead?”

  “And you?” Polycarp asked. “What do you gain from this?”

  “I am a friend of Marselius Caesar,” Rick said. “When Rome’s borders are safely held by my friends, Tamaerthon and Drantos are safe. These are perilous times, Your Grace. More perilous than even you can know. We all need friends.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Even Rome,” Rick said. “Perhaps Rome most of all.”

  On the field below the slaughter continued. Now the Romans were trying to withdraw, as the deadly Tamaerthan gulls flew again and again.

  “Two legions,” Bishop Polycarp said. “Two legions destroyed, and you have not yet met Marselius.”

  Not destroyed. Not yet. Disorganized, useless as fighting instruments until reformed. Doomed, unless they withdrew. But not yet destroyed... “What would you have me do, Your Grace?” Titus Frugi asked.

  “You yourself said it was disaster,” Polycarp said. He pointed to the balloon. “Will it not continue? Today your forces retreat with what Valerius can save. Tomorrow the barbarians advance. With that, watching, always watching. Wherever we go, it follows.” He shuddered. “And I say nothing of the fire and thunder weapons.”

  “I ask again. What would you have me do, Your Grace?”

  “End this madness.”

  “How?”

  “One of your trumpeters survives,” Rick said. “Sound the retreat.”

  “So that your cavalry can pursue.”

  “What of that?” Rick asked. “Will any be saved if they stand and fight? Where will Valerius take those legions?”

  “Along the road, to hold the ford.”

  “Then send one of these,” Rick said. He indicated the captured officers. “Have Valerius take his legions to the next crossroad and make camp. You and I will meanwhile go to speak with Marselius Caesar.” Suddenly Rick’s calm detachment snapped. “For God’s sake, stop this slaughter,” he shouted. “Haven’t we had enough?”

  “More than enough,” Polycarp said. “More than enough.”

  Titus Frugi ground his teeth together. Then, grimly, grudging every word, he spoke to his trumpeter. “Sound the general retreat,” he ordered.

 

 

“Forward, lads!” Drumold shouted. “Up the road! Forward!”

  “For Drantos! Forward!”

  The young king was right alongside the Tamaerthan leader. No way to stop them, Mason thought. It even makes sense. If we can get any sizable force around the ridge and behind the Roman main body, we’ve won the day. The same plan Titus Frugi had, only he couldn’t carry it off. As long as there’s no ambush.

  Not sure we can do it. The Tamaerthan cavalry aren’t that good, and there aren’t that many of them, even with those Drantos troop& Either way, best send a couple of mercs to look out for Ganton— “Sir!” The young rider was nearly as out of breath as his horse. An acolyte of Yatar.

  “Yes, lad?”

  “Orders from the balloon. Halt at the ford. The Romans are going to surrender.”

  So, Mason thought. Captain’s done it again. Now all I have to do is convince Drumold and the kid. He spurred his horse forward.

 

 

Drumold paced around and around the table in the largest room of the villa. “Och,” he said. “I canna say I care for the situation. The Romans have their forces intact. All their forces, and all Flaminius’s forces, While we are here, in their midst, without rations—”

  “Which they’re sending—”

  Drumold cut off Rick’s protest. “Which they say they are sending. But we have none yet. And I do not think they will let their troops—nor their horses!—starve to feed us.”

  “Your fears are groundless,” Rick said. “They will send food. And why do you fear the Romans?”

  “Iron,” Camithon said.

  “Iron?” Drumold asked.

  “Iron,” the Protector repeated. “Iron makes Rome what she is. They have much, we have little.”

  “That’s a pretty sharp observation, Cap’n,” Elliot said. “Like those mills I’ve seen. They’ve got millponds behind dams, and overshot wheels with gear trains. They can run on less water than any mill I saw in Drantos.”

  Or in Tamaerthon, Rick thought. Which means they can run during more of the year. “Iron mines and good mills—I suppose they use them to drive bellows?”

  Elliot nodded. “Saw just that about five klicks from here. Regular foundry.”

  “Which means when the Romans discover gunpowder—and they will—they’ll have the means to make guns. Lots of them,” Rick mused. One more headache. Add gunpowder and guns to Roman discipline and record-keeping and they’ll own this end of Tran.

  Which might be no bad thing—although Drumold and Tylara weren’t likely to see it that way.

  “If Tamaerthon is threatened, how long before Drantos falls?” Ganton asked.

  Smart lad, Rich thought. Ganton seemed more sure of himself, now that he’d led troops in a battle. It hadn’t been much of a battle, nor had Ganton played a large part in it, but he’d been at the head of his Guards, right alongside Drumold and Balquhain.

  “What should we do, then?” Rick demanded.

  “What we should have done before,” Drumold said. “Take hostages. Think, lad. They have here the whole strength of Tamaerthon, and Wanax Ganton to boot. Surely Publius has thought of this. And ‘tis Publius who will remain, while Marselius marches on to Rome.

  “Without us,” Camithon added. “Without us.”

  “You yourself refused his offer to take us to Rome,” Rick protested.

  “And what of that?” Drumold demanded. “Should we put our heads deeper in a noose? Protector Camithon did well to refuse such a dangerous offer.”

  “And you genuinely fear for our lives?”

  Drumold shrugged. “Perhaps not now. But later, when Publius realizes that he holds all the strength of Rome? What will happen to Tamaerthon then? Aye, and to Drantos as well. You ask it yourself, lad—what happens when the Romans have star weapons for themselves? We can no conquer Rome. We can no destroy the Romans. We can take hostages. Take them, lad. Now. While we yet can.”

  “Is that your advice also?” Rick asked Camithon.

  “Aye.”

  “Elliot?”

  Sergeant Major Elliot shrugged. “You know these people better than I do, sir. But I’d feel some better if we could be sure we’ll get home—and after, who knows what they might do? How can it hurt?”

  “Majesty?”

  Ganton shrugged. “I must heed the advice of those wiser than I.”

  Rick sighed. “It’s no substitute for a policy,” he said. “Even if it is traditional. But I dine tonight with Marselius, and I’ll see what I can do.”

 

 

There were only Rick, Marselius, and Lucius at the dinner; Publius had to see to the ordering of the troops and the final surrender of Frugi’s camp.

  Rick waited until the dinner was finished and they had both had wine. “Some of my officers are concerned,” he said.

  Marselius frowned. “About what?” he demanded.

  “Loot, for one thing.”

  “Ah. There was little fighting, thus few fallen enemies to despoil.” Marselius shrugged. “I will see to it. There should be ample gold in Titus Frugi’s camp. I will arrange a donative to our gallant allies.”

  “Thank you. There is another concern.”

  Marselius looked puzzled. “Of what? The victory could not be more complete. With few casualties on either side. A brilliant stroke—”

  “Which increased the size of your army,” Rick said. “But leaves us in desolate territory, dependent on rations we do not have.”

  “Food is coming,” Marselius protested. “Wagon-loads of grain. The first arrive tomorrow.” He drained a goblet of wine. “What are you saying?”

  “That some of my soldiers are afraid they’ll never leave Roman territory alive,” Rick said. “And Drumold fears that the strength of Rome may be sent against Tamaerthon, now that Rome has no civil strife. My apologies, Caesar, for being so blunt.”

  “Better to be blunt,” Lucius said, “Tell me, Caesar, would you not be, ah, concerned, also, were you in his situation?”

  “I suppose I might,” Marselius said. “And what do you suggest I do?”

  “Drumold wants hostages,” Rick said.

  “And you?”

  “I want only to return to my University. There is much more I must do before The Time—”

  “But you do not protest. You prefer to take hostages.”

  Rick said nothing.

  Marselius frowned. “Then you do not trust me—”

  “Nonsense,” Lucius said. “Caesar, are you under the illusion that you are immortal?”

  Marselius looked thoughtful. “I think I see an answer,” he said at last. “My granddaughter has asked me to visit the Lady Gwen. Now I shall let her. Lucius, ride to Benevenutum, and inform Octavia that it is my desire that she continue her studies in Tamaerthon. Choose suitable companions and servants to join her- but she is to meet the Lord Rick’s forces and accompany them on their return. It is fitting that she be escorted by our allies.” He turned to Rick. “Will that be satisfactory?”

  “Certainly.”

  For a few moments the room seemed cold; then Lucius smiled broadly. “It is a scheme that has merit. May I join her, after we have taken Rome?” The old man sighed. “I have often dreamed of retiring to some center of learning. I would appreciate the opportunity to see this place. And the Lady Octavia will be very pleased.”

  “You will always be welcome,” Rick said. “Caesar, this is inspired. The Lady Octavia can learn much to aid Rome during The Time; and not even the most suspicious will believe that you or your son would endanger her.”

  And beyond that, Rick thought. Beyond that, she’ll meet young Ganton—and who knows what might come of that. It’s time Ganton got a systematic education. Golden years and all that—he can’t object to being a student prince for a while. Where he’ll be with Octavia. Gwen says she’s intelligent and attractive, and Ganton’s young.

  “An excellent plan,” Rick said again.

 

 

INTERLUDE

 

Luna

 

 

18

 

 

Earth, blue and fragile and lovely, swirling storms and shining seas, filled one wall of the office. Les had seen half a hundred planets, and none were lovelier,

  I suppose it could depend on your viewpoint, he thought. Humanity came from there. A lot longer ago than most of them suspect. But home is always the nicest place...

  Stupid thought. I haven’t got a home.

  Les stood in the doorway a moment longer, then entered the office. The room was panelled in wood, with a Kashdan carpet and luxurious furniture; but Les noticed little of that. Despite the opulence, the office was dominated by the Earth.

  The colors swirled gently. Earth wasn’t really visible from that office, but a real-time holographic display was trivial among the honors and privileges earned by the man Rick Galloway had known as Inspector Agzaral.

  Even so, neither Agzaral nor any other human had earned the right to do what Agzaral did next. He opened his desk drawer and took out a small electronic device. After inspecting it carefully, he nodded to Les. “Hail, Slave,” Agzaral said.

  “I greet you, Important Slave,” Les replied formally. He fell silent as Agzaral adjusted the electronic gear. After a moment, Les could hear faint voices: his and Agzaral’s, speaking meaningless pleasantries in the official Confederation Standard tongue for civil servants.

  Agzaral nodded in satisfaction and leaned, back in his chair. “That should be sufficient,” he said. “Sit down. Have some sherry. I regret that the shipment of Praither’s Amontillado has been delayed, but Hawkers is a substitute I have found acceptable. Did you have a pleasant journey?”

  Les waited as Agzaral poured sherry into a crystal glass, then solemnly tasted it. “Excellent,” he said. He glanced at his hands, No tremble. Voice all right. Emotions nicely under control. It was difficult to deceive Agzaral, but not impossible. “Pleasant enough trip going,” he said. “Dull coming back.”

  Agzaral smiled faintly. “Ah. You found it pleasant to learn that the woman was pregnant?”

  “How the hell—?”

  “Gently,” Agzaral cautioned. “That goblet would be difficult to replace. There is no cause for alarm. Our employers do not know. Your efforts to deceive the recorders were entirely successful with regard to the Shalnuksis. But tell me, did you really expect to deceive me?”

  “I’d hoped to.”

  “Unwise,” Agzaral said. “Most unwise. You would do far better to trust me.”

  “Trust you? How the hell can I trust you when I don’t even know what side you’re on?”

  Agzaral spread his hands wide and let them drop to his lap. “Side? You would seriously have me choose a faction? Now, when the alternatives are still forming? Try not to be too great an ass, my friend.

  “And don’t protest. When it comes to politics, you are an ass. I can admire your courage. Your skill with languages. Your prowess as a pilot, and— Yes. I envy your successes with women. You even seem to understand some of Earth’s political quarrels. But when it comes to the important skills, the ability to know the High Commission and the Council—” He shrugged. “You’re an ass.”

  “At least I take a stand. I’m not a damned trimmer like you—”

  Agzaral laughed. “Some day one of your stands will be against a wall. As to being a trimmer, is it unwise to have every faction think I am its agent?”

  “When they find out—”

  “If,” Agzaral said. “And think upon it, my fellow slave. If you do not know which faction I truly favor, then they cannot know either.” He chuckled again. “So. You have taken a stand. Tell me where.”

  “Well—”

  “Come, come, a simple question. Which faction do you favor? Who is its leader? Which race champions your position?”

  “All right, so I don’t know,” Les said. “But I know this. I’m for leaving Earth alone. And Tran, too. Leave them develop by themselves.”

  Agzaral nodded. “The position taken by many of the more powerful Ader’at’eel. Unfortunately not all of them. They are joined by the Enlightenment Party of the Finsit’tuvii. But I fear that coalition is not the most powerful faction.”

  “Is that true?” Les demanded. “The Ader’at’eel want Earth and Tran left alone?”

  “Substantially. Of course they don’t know that Tran exists. But four of the Five Families do indeed support that position.”

  “Then—?”

  “But then there are the Fusttael,” Agzaral continued smoothly. “Their opposition is formidable. They hold no overpowering advantage, but they have the most strength at the moment.”

  “And what do they want?” Les demanded.

  “They want to destroy Earth. . .“

  “Destroy the Earth!”

  “More or less.”

  More or less. He looked at the holograph again. A beautiful planet, filled with humans. Wild humans, not slaves of the millennia-old Confederation. Humans who would soon burst into space, find their way to the stars—who were about to come uninvited into Confederate territory.

  More or less meant more. Bomb Earth civilization back to the stone age, and trust there’d be enough humans left for breeding stock. They only needed enough wild genes to temper the corps of Slave soldiers. Enough to improve the breed of Janissaries...

  “What does the Navy think of this?” Les demanded. “Or your service?”

  “The opinions of Slaves do not matter—”

  “Come off it.”

  “But certainly the Navy has divided opinions,” Agzaral said smoothly. “It is likely that some ships would refuse to take part in the necessary operations. But—enough would obey the orders.”

  “We can’t let that happen!”

  Agzaral spread his hands. “How do we prevent it? But I agree, it would be regrettable. And there is the third alternative.”

  Sure, Les thought. Human membership in the Confederation. Forced membership, imposed now while Earth was helpless. A junior membership, with Earth controlled by the High Commission. Peace, unity, and—stagnation. A static society. Stasis for a thousand years. Still, it had to be preferable to bombardment and destruction...

  “The balance of the Ader’at’eel would bring Earth into the Confederacy now,” Agzaral said. “But enough of this. Your report. Will they be able to grow sunnomaz?”

  “Possibly,” Les said. “Of course there will be the mutiny. It will be settled by now.”

  “Yes. With what outcome?”

  “Either of the mercenary leaders should be competent with those weapons against that population.”

  “Ah. So the survey ship will not be wasted.”

  “I think not. And the soldiers will want resupply. Ammunition, soap, penicillin—”

  “You understand their needs,” Agzaral said. “I will send you to Earth to procure for them. I recall that you enjoy that work.”

  “I’ll do it, but I want to pilot the ship that goes back to Tran.”

  “To what purpose?” Agzaral asked.

  “Why do you ask? I’m a pilot. I know Tran exists. Not too many pilots do. I’d think you’d want me to.”

  “It’s reasonable,” Agzaral said. “You will not be able to take the first ship, however. One leaves immediately. Piloted by Shalnuksis. Tran is not too far off their course, and they want to see for themselves how Tran has revived since their last series of visits.”

  “Last time they went there, they bombed out half the civilization. What will they do this time?”

  “On this journey, nothing—”

  “That’s not what I meant,” Les said.

  “I know. But I have no better answer.”

  Les nodded in submission. “Is their first ship carrying supplies?”

  “A few. Whatever we had. The mercenary leader Galloway had made suggestions before they departed, you may recall. We used his list. Some of what they wanted was easily obtained. For the rest—your task, now.”

  “All right. Provided I get to go back myself.”

  “Why are you so anxious to go back?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “It might.” Agzaral was silent, obviously waiting for Les to speak, but Les said nothing. “Very well. I took the trouble to look up your ancestry,” Agzaral said finally. “Rather a lot of wild human strain.” He paused. “They’ll never allow the child to live if they learn of it.”

  “How will they learn?” Les demanded.

  “Gently.” Agzaral glanced at a timer on his desk. “We do not have much longer to speak freely. Let us not waste these minutes. They will not learn from me. But I must know what you intend.” He pointed to the Earth. “You have lived long among wild humans. In some ways you act like them. Many wild humans mate for life. This seems unnatural to me, but I know they do it. Is this your intent?”

  Les didn’t answer.

  “I must know.”

  “I don’t know,” Les said. “I’ve thought of it. Live on Tran, with Gwen and my children. Doesn’t that tempt you?”

  “Earth would tempt me more. But it is not so attractive that I would forsake what I have. Consider. The girl and the child may both be dead.”

  “You think that hasn’t haunted me ever since I let her go planetside?”

  “Yet she seemed competent enough,” Agzaral mused. “I expect she has survived. She may, however, have found another mate.”

  “Yeah. I thought of that, too.”

  “What will you do in that case?”

  “I don’t know that, either.”

  Agzaral nodded in sympathy. “Certainly your interest in Tran would be much abated?”

  “Yes. But I have to find out.”

  Agzaral looked at the hologram for long enough that Les saw movement in Earth’s clouds. Then he spoke decisively. “You will have that chance,” Agzaral said. “I hope the knowledge pleases you.”

 

 

PART FOUR

 

 

Invaders

 

 

19