“Sire, let us pass!” Two guards rode alongside. “We have lances. Let us lead.”
Almost he cursed them; then he thought again. If I fall, the day is lost. Morrone cannot do what must be done. And that is not right, battles and kingdoms should not stand and fall by one life, but today it is so. “You have my thanks,” he shouted, and waved the Guards past. More drew alongside, and soon he was surrounded. Not by Guardsmen alone, he saw. Bheromen and knights, all eager to ride between him and danger.
If my father could have lived to see, he thought. And I live through this day, the throne is safe. Throne? Dynasty! Our children, mine and Octavia’s, will hold this land forever!
Wanax and followers rode on until they were through the lines of Westmen.
“Trumpets,” Ganton called. “Sound the rally. Bring the host toward me.”
The trumpets sang as his bannermen raised high the Royal Banner of Drantos and the Fighting Man. Then a dozen Westmen galloped past. They lay flat to their horse’s necks, their quivers empty. They were pursued by a score of Drantos horsemen thundering along behind the banner of Lord Epimenes. “Hold!” Ganton shouted. “HOLD!”
“The cowards flee!” the bheroman shouted.
They must hold, Ganton thought. He drew the Browning and fired toward Lord Epimenes’ banner. There was no knowing where the bullet went, but the sound was heard even in the din of battle. “HOLD!” Ganton shouted again. “Lord Epimenes, stay with me! We have better work than tiring our horses in pursuit of empty quivers! Leave them for the esquires, for we have work worthy of bheromen and knights!”
Epimenes reined in. It wasn’t clear whether he had been won over by Ganton’s words or by the axe and pistol the Wanax carried, but the futile pursuit was stopped.
“Trumpets, sound the walk,” Ganton shouted. In a more normal voice he spoke to the group around him. “We have broken through the first line. When we reach the top of yonder rise, we charge again. Morrone!”
“Sire!”
“Ride to the right flank, where Lord Enipses commands, and be certain that he follows where we lead.” He pointed up the valley. “Lord Epimenes will remain to guard me. And return safely—”
“Aye, Majesty.”
Ganton rose in his stirrups and grinned as he saw the heaps of dead Westmen behind them. A few Drantos knights lay among them, and more stood dismounted; but the host was an intact fighting force. He used the axe to point up the hill, and felt a lump in his breast as he thought how often Camithon had gestured with that axe. “Forward,” he said.
The host swept north and east.
* * *
“Major!” Hal Roscoe ran up shouting. “Here they come again!”
“Yeah, I see ’em,” Mason said. He looked up and down his line and prepared to hold off yet another charge from the enemy.
If there’d been more ammo for the mortar—
It’s no friggin’ good. Mentally he counted magazines. Enough to get out of here, he thought. Hold ’em off until dark and go for it. We’ll lose the wounded, and a lot of the equipment, but I don’t see what else to do. We can’t go after ’em, and these damn little hills give us too little clear field of fire for the rifles.
“Make ready to shoot!” he shouted. “Rolling volley from the left. Take aim! Fire!”
The calivermen fired and reloaded as fast as they could, and Mason used his own H&K to good effect. No point in acting like an officer now, he thought. I’m not all that good a one anyway, and there ain’t that many orders to give—
“Cross the valley, Art!” Murphy yelled. “For God’s sake, look!”
Mason stared across the river. “Holy crap! Look alive, troops! Looks like our little king’s remembered us.”
The Drantos heavies were coming down the hill. All of them. At least all that had horses. A few had drawn right up to the top of the ridge and set up a shield wall, but damn near the whole army of Drantos was riding down that hill.
The wild charge came down the mountain like a wall. From Mason’s distance it looked like a huge wave that washed across the line of Westmen, leaving a wake of dead and dying behind it as the armored men simply rode the lighter horsemen down.
The front ranks were damned near solid with banners, and right out front on the left wing was the biggest banner of all, the Royal Standard of Drantos, and yeah, that was the golden helm that crazy kid fancied. They were coming straight toward Art Mason.
Then they swerved left, pivoting around the golden helmet.
“What now?” Murphy asked.
Mason frowned. “Don’t know. But I’ll bet you anything you like that kid knows what he’s doing.”
Murphy shaded his eyes and watched the last of the Drantos heavies vanish into the dust, then turned back to picking off advancing Westmen. “I sure hope you’re right,” he said.
* * *
Julius Sulpicius, primus pilus of the Fourth Legion, rode up to Titus Frugi and saluted. “Those scouts we sent forward are late coming back,” he said. He could have said that it was unlikely that they would return at all; but there was no need for that. One didn’t work up to First Centurion of a legion by chattering at generals of Titus Frugi’s years and experience.
Frugi cursed under his breath. That was the fourth scouting party he’d sent upriver. One had returned, unable to pierce the combination of Westmen and dust. The other three had not come back at all.
From time to time Titus Frugi had made out a gleam on the tip of a ridge far up the valley; a gleam and what seemed to be a banner. The sketch maps the frumentarii had made of the Hooey Valley showed that point as part of a defensible ridge, and Frugi wondered if the army of Drantos had taken refuge there.
Certainly the starmen and their Tamaerthan allies were holding another hilltop across the river.
“Third Cohort says the barbarians are thickening up toward the rear,” Sulpicius added. His fifteen years of following the eagles gave him the right to say more, but with Titus Frugi that wasn’t needed. His tone made the implied question clear enough: isn’t it about time we get the hell out of here?
It was, but that didn’t much appeal to Frugi. Withdrawing without orders would endanger an alliance that was all that stood between the Westmen and the Roman borders—if the legends were right, these Westmen had once come all the way to the gates of sacred Rome herself! No. Better to stand here, even if it cost the legion.
But—are we doing well? he wondered. We have taken positions here, and none will come past us, but what good do we do? From time to time the Westmen would try the Romans’ mettle, but when they found they could not induce the Romans into futile wild charges they soon abandoned the sport. Now there were thousands—perhaps tens of thousands—of Westmen somewhere out in front of the legion, but they would not stay to receive a charge. Titus Frugi had fought many enemies in his service to Rome, but never one that he could not find! Yet between the dust and the hills that was precisely the difficulty; and if he thrashed about in that dust searching for the enemy, the horses would tire, and then he would indeed be lost.
Trumpets sounded at the forward outposts, and now the decurion and men he’d stationed out there as a screen were galloping back toward the main lines. More trumpets. “TO HORSE!” they sang, and if the centurions ordered that without asking Frugi’s permission, the enemy was in sight! As he rode forward, the first of the Westmen came over the brow of the small hillock in front of the Roman lines.
The centurions knew their business. The cohortes equitates came forward with their shields and spears to protect the horse archers, while the cataphracti shot the Westmen down—
Shot them down, and the Westmen hardly resisted!
“This is no charge!” Titus Frugi shouted.
“Legate, you are right!” Sulpicius shouted. “They flee! But—what?”
Could it be a trick? No. The Westmen were clever, even devilishly clever, but they had not the discipline to sacrifice so many as a ruse. No, they fled an enemy behind them, fled in terror—
>
“Trumpet to arms!” Titus Frugi called. “Sound the ‘Make ready.’ The legion will advance! Fifth and Sixth cohorts to the wings to cut off enemy escape.”
A cheer rang down the lines. Even the iron-disciplined Romans hated standing in place to be shot at.
“At the walk!”
The Roman line moved forward, down the slope and up the next, into the dust beyond. As they did, more Westmen poured out. The centurions hastily put men with shields and lances in the front ranks, spacing them so that the archers in the next rank could shoot between them. The cohortes equitates clung to the saddles of their mounted comrades; when the Westmen charged they moved expertly forward with spear and shield to catch the Westmen from below while the cataphracti threatened them from horseback. More Westmen died.
Then they were over the brow of the hill. The narrow valley below was a cauldron of dust and noise, trumpets of Drantos mingled with the screams of the Westmen and their horses. The Westmen were bunched together, trapped in the small valley so that they could not use their weapons, and with the Drantos force between them and the river, and the Romans coming in from behind, they could not run away.
The legion moved forward to crush Caesar’s enemies.
* * *
Ganton whirled the axe around his head, for now it was work for axes and swords. There was not room enough for a charge. None was really needed. The Westmen tried to flee, only to pile upon their fellows; then they turned to face the host of Drantos, but when an unarmored man with a bronze sword faced a steel-clad knight with longsword or axe, there could be only one outcome.
“They do not flee!” Morrone shouted. He hewed down another enemy.
Ganton was as blood-spattered as Morrone. His Browning was long since emptied, and he had no time to reload. Also, sometime during the charge he had lost his hatred of Westmen. Now he wanted only for the battle to end. I know what Lord Rick must feel, he thought. There can be enough killing, enough and more than enough. Yet we do what we must do. “It is the Romans,” Ganton answered.
A Westman warrior broke through the leading ranks and dashed at Ganton, thrusting with a captured Drantos lance. The lance crashed against his upraised shield. The wooden shield cracked through the middle, but as it did it caught the Westman’s lance. Ganton swung the axe to cut through the shaft, raised the axe and swung it again. His wrist had long ago tired, and the axe twisted as he struck so that only the flat smashed against the steel cap the warrior wore, but that was enough. The man went down, but there was another behind him, and Ganton’s shield was gone. Desperately he tried to avoid the stroke—
Morrone charged forward and spitted the man with his sword.
Ganton waved acknowledgment. By now they had saved each other more times than either could remember.
“The Romans?” Morrone asked.
Ganton frowned. What was this question, and why should he answer questions at all? His head pounded with the sound of horns and drums, and he was exhausted. A council chamber with too many offering advice seemed an ideal place; but he knew he must keep his head.
What of the Romans? Ah. He remembered what he had said before the Westmen had attacked him. “They are ahead there,” Ganton said. “I had hoped they would have sense enough to charge when we drove the Westmen toward them, and it seems they have. And could I but get to them—”
What would I do? I had a thought, and now it is gone, yet I think it was important. Could I get to the Romans—?
Ah. He stood in his stirrups. “Morrone!”
“Sire!”
“You command until I return. The Great Banner remains with you, and you speak with my voice. I must go to the Roman commander. Lord Epimenes!”
“Sire!”
“I give you command of my household. Join your men with mine and let us be off, for there are yet great things we may do if I can but speak with the Romans.”
“Majesty! Command me!”
He must know how many will fall if we batter our way through that mass, Ganton thought. Yet he is eager to come. That is more brave than sensible. Aye, many of my bheromen are that way. Armored from head to foot and from ear to ear. But loyal, and today I need loyal men. Today they obey me as they would Lord Rick! For today I have given them the kind of battle they pray for through long winters, the battle they have dreamed of since first they couched a lance. Yatar—aye, Yatar and Christ!—grant that their loyalty continues.
He let himself be surrounded by guards and the knights who followed Epimenes. Then they lowered their lances and charged toward the Westmen. “For Drantos and Camithon!”
* * *
The tribune Geminius rode up to Titus Frugi and saluted. “A party of Drantos nobility approaches, Legate. They have cut their way through the Westmen.”
“Aid them.”
“That is done, Legate.”
Frugi nodded acknowledgment. Drantos warriors were not noted for their cooperation with others, but whoever was coming had risked much.
A headquarters optio rode in at the gallop. “Centurion says it’s the banner of the Fighting Man!” he shouted.
“That’s the Wanax himself!” Geminius exclaimed. “But why has he come? He has come without his royal banner!”
“I am aware of that,” Frugi said impatiently. “Prepare to give him the proper honors and spare me your chatter. We will know soon enough why he has come.”
That didn’t stop the junior officers from making guesses, but at least it kept them from distracting him with them. Meanwhile, Sulpicius had reports from the cohort commanders.
Then the Drantos party rode in.
“Hail, Majesty!” Frugi called.
“Hail, Legate. We must speak, and quickly.” The young Wanax gestured, and one of his squires leaped down to hold his horse as he dismounted.
Frugi noted the others in the royal party. Knights and bheromen, seasoned veterans all, carrying bloody weapons. They had come through much to get here—it was significant that veteran warriors would follow this boy king. Frugi wearily dismounted.
Ganton drew his dagger, knelt, and in the hard ground began to draw a map of the battle. It was not the best map Frugi had ever seen, but it would do. Aye, Titus Frugi thought. A map drawn by a lad who had never thought of maps as a weapon until the starmen came; it will do well enough indeed.
“We have nearly half the Westmen trapped between us,” Ganton said. “As their ranks thin they will begin to escape; but we will kill enough, I think.” He used his dagger to draw a circle around that combat area.
“The rest of the Westmen are here, across the river from us, encircling the Lord Mason. They face only star weapons, but so long as they do not attack the Lord Mason, they have little to fear because of the hills. There are not enough starmen to go seeking them.”
Frugi nodded. “What know you of the balloon?”
“It does not rise,” Ganton said. “I do not know why. But because it does not rise, the Lord Mason knows little of where the Westmen are. Yet they are here, and here, and—”
“I see,” Titus Frugi said.
“The Lord Rick has taught me not to send all my forces into battle at once,” Ganton said. “To hold what he calls reserves. I believe it is also the Roman way.”
“Yes,” Frugi said. He looked thoughtfully at the young Wanax. There were many more years behind the boy’s eyes than there had been when they planned this battle.
“If you will divide your reserves into two parts, and send them here and here, then much can be accomplished,” Ganton said. He drew lines on the map to indicate positions flanking the mass of Westmen facing Mason and Caradoc. “For in no more than a Roman hour the slaughter here will be finished, and the army of Drantos will be able to charge again. If we charge across the river, we will take the remaining Westmen from behind, driving them into sight of the starmen. Your reserve force will prevent them from escaping to the sides, and the star weapons will finish the task, I think.”
“Unless the Westmen dislodge the starmen
.”
“No,” Ganton said. “True, I have not spoken with the Lord Mason—but I do not need to do so. I know the Lord Mason and the Lord Caradoc. They will have a strong position. They will not be driven out by Westmen fleeing in panic.”
“Umm,” Frugi said. “Will your horses be able to make a second charge?”
“Aye. I have sent the—support troops—to the river for water. Our horses are well fed, thanks to Lord Rick and the Roman scribes who aid him.”
He has indeed grown, Titus Frugi thought. And would be a formidable enemy to Caesar—
“For I have learned,” Ganton said with a rush. “Neither I nor my knights, nor Lord Camithon himself, ever before dreamed how important it would be that a bushel of oats travel from a farmer’s field to the belly of a war horse on the high plains. But I have learned. Aye, Legate, our horses are strong, and soon they will have water. They will charge truly.”
Titus Frugi shaded his eyes and stared into the dusty valley below. The Wanax is right, he thought. An hour should see the end of that slaughter. Barbarians not fighting under one chief are not known for their readiness to come to the aid of fallen comrades. The reserve will not be needed to meet a rescue attempt. One cohort can hold the rear, and if this lad truly knows the position of the enemy we can yet have a decision this day.
“I suggest further that Drantos take the center,” Ganton said.
“The chivalry of Drantos is best employed in a single striking mass; your legionaries are better at maneuver. And we will strike directly here—” He used the dagger to draw a thick arrow.
“You have tested the depth of the river, then?” Frugi asked.
“I have seen the Westmen crossing it,” Ganton said. He held up his binoculars. “With these. At the crucial places the water comes to the bellies of the Westman ponies.”
“Ah.” Titus Frugi straightened from where he had bent over the map. The headquarters officers leaned forward eagerly. Frugi hesitated another moment, then asked, “What think you, Primus Pilus?”
“I think well of it, Legate,” Julius Sulpicius answered.
“And there is no need to ask you, Tribune Geminius. Either you approve or you have adders under your breastplate. Very well. Tribunes, go and ready the cohorts. Wanax, how will you alert your own forces?”
Lord of Janissaries Page 52
