“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’ 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 men 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 had 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.
Tylara 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.
Rick 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. Rick 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 themsel
ves 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.”
“This is still not all of Flaminius’ 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 judgement 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 MPs. “More trouble, Captain,” he said in English.
“How?” Rick asked warily.
“Clan Calder types. They’re still talking.”
Dughuilas’ 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’ 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 the 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’ 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.
Lord of Janissaries Page 33
