Lord of Janissaries

by Jerry Pournelle

  “I will ride with you until we reach them,” Ganton said. “If that is acceptable to you.”

  “More than acceptable.” And I am glad enough to have you as Caesar’s friend, for you would be a formidable enemy. Our military handbooks will need revision after this day, for they say that Drantos is a barbarian kingdom—and that is true no more.

  33

  Private First Class Passovopolous had just finished reporting the LMG back in action when Mason heard war-horns. They grew louder. A hundred Westmen rode at a gallop out of the dust across the river. Then, suddenly, the Royal Banner of Drantos burst from the dust-cloud behind the Westmen. In another moment, the opposite bank of the Hooey was alive with banners. “Murph!” Art shouted. “Use that one-oh-six! Targets of opportunity—”

  “Rog!”

  “Ark! Get ready with the LMG. Looks like they’ll drive the bastards right out in front of us.”

  “Right,” Passovopolous said.

  “Reckon you were right,” Murphy said. “Fire in the hole!” The one-oh-six roared, and a white phosphorus shell burst among a cluster of Westmen trying to organize at the river bank.

  “Right about what?”

  “Kid knew what he was doing.”

  “Yeah,” Mason said. He sure did.

  The LMG chattered, joined by the crackle of fire from H&K rifles; the Westmen’s abortive attempt to rally at the river bank dissolved before it was fairly begun.

  Then everything happened at once. The dust-cloud erupted warriors, Drantos knights and Roman cataphracts. They charged down the river bank and straight on into the shallow river, slowing for a moment there but building momentum again. By the time they had crossed the river, the Roman and Drantos forces had mixed, clumps of Romans intermingled with the Drantos knights, both groups led by the mixed headquarters troops of both armies. It was hard to tell which crossed the river first: the golden helm of Wanax Ganton, or the scarlet cloak of Titus Frugi.

  The Westmen made another attempt to rally, this time at the top of the knoll above the river bank, but a fresh group of Romans, both horsemen and cohortes equitates clinging to their bridles, appeared on their flank. The Roman infantry locked shields and advanced slowly while the cavalry sat their horses and shot down the Westmen. Meanwhile the combined force of Drantos knights and Roman lancers completed their river crossing. They dressed lines, and their officers rode up and down the line shouting. Then the wild war horns sounded, and Romans and knights alike spurred to a canter.

  The Westman couldn’t stand the combination of arrows from the flanks and lances from the front. Their line buckled, then dissolved. The Allied forces charged on, and the whole battle swept out of Mason’s sight into a fold in the hills.

  “They’ll be coming over that hill pretty quick,” Mason said. “No shooting at ’em on the ridge. Wait until they’re just below us. That way we’re sure of what we’re shooting at.” He sent a runner with the same message for Caradoc.

  And now we wait, he thought. But this time we know what we’re waiting for. It’s all over but the mopping up.

  * * *

  Mad Bear’s surprise at getting across the river after the first charge of Ironshirts was beginning to wear off when the Ironshirts charged again. Even then he was not afraid. The Horse People could win against the Ironshirts, even Ironshirts with wizard allies.

  “Stay with me!” he shouted. “We can yet win. The Ironshirts can be led into charge after charge until their horses tire, and then they are easy to kill. Stay with me!”

  He was still shouting this when he saw Red Cloaks on both flanks of the Ironshirts, and more Red Cloaks at the mouth of the valley. Then he knew. The Father and the Warrior had indeed turned their backs on the Horse People.

  The Red Cloaks came out of the dust behind their arrows and their terrible war horns, and Mad Bear knew that all the history of the Horse People would henceforth be divided by this day.

  “To me!” he called. “If we cannot win, we can yet die as the Warrior expects! Let us all go up hill and kill the servants of the wizards!”

  But few listened. The never-ending storm of Red Cloak arrows fell among the Horse People, and the Ironshirts hewed their way uphill. Their lances spitted the warriors, their great horses trampled the Horse People’s mounts beneath their hooves, and their terrible iron swords and axes cut down even those who had found armor.

  An arrow struck his horse in the neck, and as it reared two more took it in the chest. Two Ironshirts and three Red Cloaks cantered up the hill. They pointed at Mad Bear and spurred toward him. As they came they shouted something to him.

  Mad Bear leaped upon a rock, bow in one hand and captured sword in another. He answered the shouts of his enemies with his own war cries. Then he nocked his last arrow and took careful aim at a Red Cloak. The man ducked behind a shield, and Mad Bear hastily changed his aim point to the chest of the nearest Ironshirt. At that range it went through the man’s armor, and Mad Bear shouted in triumph, but then it was too late. His enemies came on. Something struck his head. He was vaguely aware that he had dropped his sword and was falling.

  * * *

  Titus Frugi rode up to the spot he’d chosen for a command post, to find the starman Lord Walbrook already there. Then the Lord Mason came down the hill after the cohortes equitates relieved his guards.

  The battle was over. There were still Westmen trapped in the valley or hiding among these low hills, but organized resistance had ended. Now it was enough to send out detachments, preferably with officers sensible enough to try capturing Westmen chiefs alive.

  Westmen fought hard. At first very few surrendered, but now that they were cut off from the river, the need to water their horses would drive them to seek quarter. When they did surrender, it was always to warriors; they would commit suicide rather than be guarded by wizards or women.

  “A good day’s work,” the Lord Mason said.

  Titus Frugi nodded judiciously. “It has been done well,” he said. “And proves the alliance has value to all.”

  Down below, the Tamaerthan archers were wading into the river to drag dead Westmen out to the bank. “That is well done,” Titus Frugi said. “But it would be well to get the dead horses out also. Else the river will be too foul for drinking—”

  Mason chuckled. “I’m afraid they’re not thinking of sanitation, Legate. They’re after Westman gold. Most of the Tamaerthan lads came on this campaign for loot.”

  “Ah. There is much to share,” Titus Frugi said. “The legion has collected much gold, as have the Drantos warriors. How shall this be divided? We must speak of this with the Wanax.”

  “Yes, sir,” Mason said.

  “Meantime, your pardon—” Titus Frugi turned to greet Tribune Geminius.

  “Hail, Legate,” the tribune called. “There are still a few bands of Westmen on the ridge across the river. They left the dismounted ones behind to cover while the rest try to escape. Should we pursue?”

  “No.” He lowered his voice so that no one but Geminius could hear. “The legion is scattered. Many of our troops have left ranks to loot. Our horses are exhausted, and we would not pursue as an organized force. The cohorts I could send must remain to guard against a fresh attack. I tell you this because there is a chance—a small chance, but a chance—that you may yet be fit to command a legion.”

  “My thanks—”

  Titus Frugi cut him off. “Meantime, stay here. The centurions know what must be done. It is the task of the officers to see that we face no fresh enemies until the legion is whole again. It is also our task to know what not to see.”

  “Yes, sir—should I then see to getting your tent erected?”

  “How? By shouting orders to the headquarters troops? They would ignore you, Tribune, and quite rightly—what could you tell a ten-year veteran optio about caring for his commander?” Frugi chuckled again. “Dismount and relax, Tribune. And invite the star lords to come sit with us, for I see that Junio has found the wine, and the Wanax Ganton approa
ches.”

  * * *

  A young man who has learned much, Titus Frugi thought as the Wanax rode up with a dozen of his companions. Riders and horses alike showed the fatigue of a day’s battle and two charges.

  “Hail, Titus Frugi,” Ganton called.

  “Hail, Majesty. The day has gone well.”

  “Aye.” Ganton dismounted and gestured to Morrone. For the first time since dawn, the golden helmet was removed.

  Morrone took it from his Wanax with a gesture so graceful that the finest actors in Rome could not have bettered it. The young Wanax shook his head and tried to comb the snarls out of his dark hair with his fingers.

  If there were a sculptor worthy of it, I would give him this as his subject, Frugi thought. He has won over his followers, aye and more than his followers—

  Julius Sulpicius came up with a dozen other centurions. He saluted Titus Frugi, then turned to Ganton. The First Centurion looked to his fellows. All grinned.

  I should halt this, Titus Frugi thought. But he saw the look that his primus pilus gave the foreign king, and knew it was already too late.

  Sulpicius raised his arm in salute. “Ave! Ave Ganton, Imperator!” he shouted. “Hail, Imperator!”

  The other centurions echoed the cry. After a moment the headquarters troops joined, then the other legionaries within earshot. In moments the cry rang through the Hooey Valley. “Hail, Ganton Imperator!”

  I see, Titus Frugi thought. He remembered the first time Roman troops had saluted him thus. Imperator. Worthy to command Romans. It was not a title lightly given, even to Romans. He could not recall when a foreign chief was so honored.

  If I join this cry, nothing will convince Publius Caesar that I did not order it. But if I do not—I will lose the trust of my legion.

  I was prepared to sacrifice the legion to save the alliance. Now I can save both with words that cost no more than the good will of Publius Caesar—which I probably do not have anyway. And Ganton is worthy of all this day may bring.

  Titus Frugi lifted his hand in salute. “Ave! Hail, Ganton Imperator!”

  They cry was redoubled now. Drantos and Tamaerthan troops repeated it, not knowing what the ancient words meant, but understanding that this was honor to Wanax Ganton.

  All joined in the cry. All but the Lord Mason.

  “What’s happening?” Mason demanded urgently. “What is this?”

  Titus Frugi stared uncomprehendingly for a moment, then understood. “Ah. Imperator is a title, Lord Mason. It can only be given by Roman soldiers to one who has led them in battle. Those hailed as Imperator are recognized as worthy to lead a Roman army.”

  “It doesn’t mean, uh, like Wanax?”

  “No. They do not hail him as Caesar. Only as Imperator.”

  “Yeah? And that’s all this means?”

  Titus Frugi sighed. “Certainly no one could be offered the purple who had not been hailed as Imperator.”

  “And if he marries Octavia . . .”

  “When, my friend,” Titus Frugi said. “As you well know. Nor can I think your Captain General Rick will be much surprised by this event—”

  Mason shrugged.

  It is hard to tell what the star lord thinks. But since I have no more of Publius’ good will to lose this day—and I do know that Marselius Caesar thinks highly of his granddaughter—He turned to his tribunes. “Geminius.”

  “Sir?”

  “When the messengers return to camp to bring up the supplies and the surgeons, you will go with them. Bring back a corona aurea for the Wanax Ganton. We will also need three coronae civicae, one each for the lords Mason and Caradoc, and one for the Lord Camithon’s bier.”

  “Sir!”

  “You are pleased, Tribune?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  And so are Sulpicius and the centurions, Titus Frugi thought. Yet I wonder what will be the end of what we have begun this day . . .

  * * *

  Mad Bear woke in near-darkness. His head throbbed, and when he tried to lift his hands he found they were bound with cloth strips.

  I am a prisoner. This is not the Lodge of the Warrior, nor is there so much pain that I have fallen into the hands of the demons. He sat up, and saw that he was in a dimly lit tent. A tent of the Horse People, not an Ironshirt tent.

  At the door sat Arekor, the priest of the Warrior who had been a slave among the Red Rocks until he vanished in a raid on the Green Lands. Now Mad Bear was certain he had not died, for Arekor could never have earned so much honor as to guest with the Warrior—

  “So, Centaur-lover. You have come to take revenge by taunting me?”

  Arekor poured water into a cup and held it to Mad Bear’s lips.

  At first Mad Bear refused; but his thirst betrayed him. He took a sip, then drained the cup. Three times more Arekor held the full cup out. When he had drunk the last, Mad Bear said again, “Why do you taunt me?”

  “No, Mad Bear. I have not come to taunt you. I have come from the chief of the Ironshirts, and what I speak you may hear without dishonor.”

  “I do not believe you.”

  “You will,” Arekor said. “For I will cut you free and give you a warrior’s knife, which you may turn on yourself if you believe you have been dishonored. It may even be that an Ironshirt warrior will fight you in a single combat, risking his life to let you end yours with honor. But first you must promise to hear me out, and not to attack me.”

  “Swear this is true!”

  The priest swore such oaths that even Mad Bear was impressed. Not even a Green Lands priest who had submitted himself to slavery among the Red Rocks would use such oaths to strengthen a lie to a warrior of the Horse People—or if he could, then nothing among gods or men was as it had been, and Mad Bear could do what pleased him.

  “What I will say can bring good to the Horse People,” Arekor said.

  “If this could be so—Give me the knife.”

  “Swear first.”

  Mad Bear swore by the Father and the Warrior. Arekor drew a short blade of Ironshirt make, and cut Mad Bear’s bonds. Then he gave him the knife.

  Mad Bear turned it over and over in his hands. The priest had spoken the truth—“Are there women or wizards within hearing of us?”

  “I swear there are neither,” Arekor said. “Only warriors.”

  Mad Bear tested the blade with his thumb. It was sharp, of good workmanship, quite good enough. No one would ever take that blade while he lived. “Now I will listen to your dream of bringing good to the Horse People.”

  The priest began to speak.

  * * *

  Ganton reached for another sausage and felt the corona aurea begin to slip. He pushed it back into place with one hand and grabbed a sausage with the other. He could not remember ever having been so hungry.

  The food was simple, but there was plenty of it. Once again he could admire Roman organization. The battle was done, and there were a myriad of details to attend to; but Roman optios saw to all that. For once the commanders could rest, with only the most important decisions brought to the command post.

  The headquarters staff had set out a table overflowing with sausage and bread and jerked meat, and nearby a kettle of hot soup was just coming to the boil. There were also flagons of wine, well watered but of good flavor. The Romans hadn’t asked if he wanted his wine watered; they had simply assumed that no commander on a battlefield would drink anything else. It was something to remember . . .

  And not far away was the luxury of all luxuries: an optio supervised as Titus Frugi’s servants erected a tent that would contain a canvas bath! Soon there would be hot water—

  Perhaps, he thought, perhaps I will be able to clean my head without shaving it. He grinned to himself at the thought, trying to imagine what Octavia would say if he came to their wedding night as crop-haired as a slave.

  That wedding would not be long coming. Then, married to Caesar’s granddaughter, and proclaimed a leader of Romans—He could still feel the thrill of that mome
nt. Imperator! The Romans had hailed him, soldiers and officers alike, and he could now appear before a Roman army wearing the corona aurea. And the army of Drantos was now loyal, the strength of the throne—With Octavia as his wife—what might not be accomplished?

  PART SEVEN

  SKY GOD

  34

  The moving light circled.

  “That is it?” Tylara raised one hand and pointed. With the other she tightly held Rick’s arm.

  Rick nodded as he watched the ship hover above the bare hilltop. It was all too easy to remember the first time he’d seen one of the alien craft. That had been ten light years away, in Africa, and he hadn’t believed in flying saucers.

  This time, I know what it is, he thought. Does that make it easier? There are no Cubans coming to kill me. But I don’t know who—or what—will be aboard, no more than I did then.

  The instructions had been clear. Bring a work crew, all the surinomaz harvested so far, and no heavy weapons. The voice on the transceiver had been cold and mechanical, and had not encouraged conversation.

  The moving lights came down with a rush. From the foot of the hill came a wail of terror and shouts that might have been prayers, then Elliot’s curses. The ship settled to the hilltop. There was a long silence, broken only by a whine from somewhere within the craft.

  “Can they see us without light?” Tylara asked in a whisper.

  “Aye. And hear us as well.”

  She tightened her grip on his arm. “Will we see them?”

  She’s bearing up better than I did, Rick thought. “I don’t know,” Rick answered. “Nor do I know if this group will be human or Shalnuksi.”

  He hadn’t wanted to bring her, but she’d been persuasive. If the purpose was to convince the shalnuksis that Armagh was the principal seat of Rick’s holdings, they would expect his wife to be there; and if at the castle, then why not to meet the ship when it landed? “Would they think me afraid?” she asked. “Or that you would marry one who feared them?”