“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’ 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 exchanged 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’ personal guards stood next to him.
“I think you did not meet Aulus Sempronius,” Marselius said. “He was the tribune commanding Flaminius’ 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 the 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 whi
ch 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 byrmen 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’ territory; and the deeper they went, the hungrier they were. Despite Marselius’ 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.
Balquhain 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 one-oh-six recoilless blasted 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 that same moment, Balquhain, 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. “Rutillius!” 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’ 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’ trusted freedman, stood in the library of the villa. Drumold, Elliot, Balquhain, Caradoc, and a dozen other officers waited with him.
&n
bsp; “Hail, Lord Rick.”
“Hail, Lucius. You bring a message from Caesar. It must be that you have found Flaminius’ 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’ 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 the 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.’ ”
Lord of Janissaries Page 36
