“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 nine-millimeter 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 you 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 the 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 longbowmen 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 spear men 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 ha
ve 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 our 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 troops. 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’ 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 recordkeeping 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, Rick 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. “Wagonloads 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 gra
nddaughter 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.
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