Clan and Crown j-2

by Jerry Pournelle

  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 106 recoilless blasted in 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 amp;K rifles. The grenades went over the wall to explode inside the courtyard beyond.

  At the same moment, Baiquhain, 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. "Rutilius!" 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's 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's trusted freedman, stood in the library of the villa. Drumold, Elliot, Balquhain, Caradoc, and a dozen other officers waited with him.

  "Hail, Lord Rick."

  "Hail, Lucius. You bring a message from Caesar. It must be that you have found Flaminius's 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's 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 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."

  "And what happens if Caesar falls in battle?" Lucius shrugged. "Publius is not evil, Lord. He is a strange lad. Well educated. Perhaps I was too strict. I do not know. But-well, we can pray to the saints that Marselius lives to be enthroned. I am unlikely to outlive him. And Publius may yet grow to a stature worthy of Rome."

  The cavalry returned an hour past full light. "We found nothing," Drumold said. He pointed to the map spread on Rick's field desk. "So far as I can tell, we went to this spur of the ridge."

  "A good ten stadia past where you should have been ambushed."

  "Aye-"

  "Meaning there will be an ambush there when the full army marches up that road," Rick said. "You can be sure of it."

  "So what shall we do?" Balquhain demanded. "What would you do?" Rick asked. Balquhain spread his hands. "I know not, truly. Time was, and no so long ago, I would ride that road thinking myself safe. Now-now I see the danger, but. I know little what to do about it."

  Nor I, Rick thought. I was about to say that- "My lord!" Jamiy burst in. "Lord, the Captain of the Guard sends word. New forces coming from the west."

  "New forces?"

  "Drantos soldiers, Lord. Royal Guardsmen."

  "What the de'il?" Drumold demanded. "Why? Could aught be-no, no, I will not think such things."

  Nor I, Rick thought. Lord God. And last night I betrayed her. Could this be Tylara coming? Or has something happened to her? Or-I'm a damned fool.

  Camithon stood at the door. His head was bowed, and the old soldier actually stammered. "Lord-lord, I knew not how to prevent him. Aye, our young Wanax has grown-"

  "And so you came with him."

  "Aye," Camithon said. "What was my duty? I am a soldier. I know well enough that I am 'Protector' of young Ganton, not of the Realm, which I know not how to govern. And as our Wanax conceived this mad notion while the Lady Tylara was no more than a day's ride from the capital, I sent messengers to inform her that she should remain as Justiciar of Drantos, while I escort the Wanax. What else could I do, lord? For he would come. To prevent him I must lay violent hands upon him-and I cannot believe his nobility and Guardsmen would allow that. Must I then begin civil war?"

  "No. Where is the king?"

 
"Ah-the servants are erecting his tent, and he is at his ablutions-in truth he hides until I bring him word of how you receive his visit. I think he fears you somewhat."

  "He cannot overly fear me, or he would not be here. What forces have you brought?"

  "A hundred lances, lord."

  Three hundred heavy cavalrymen. Probably more; each lance was led by a knight, and many of them would have brought squires as well as men at arms.

  Picked men, no doubt. Man for man as good as Romans. Possibly better. But not disciplined; a hundred Roman cataphracti would be more than a match for these three hundred.

  But they were heavy cavalry, trained to fight in ranks three deep and cover a three-meter front. They could hold a third of a kilometer, at least for a while.

  "And servants, and fifty porters leading a hundred pack animals," Camithon continued.

  "Rations? How long can you live without forage?"

  Camithon shrugged. "A day? There was little enough forage in the wake of this army!"

  Rick nodded. Well, that was another four hundred mouths to feed. Plus horses, who'd need grain and hay. There'd be no centaurs among picked Drantos troops.

  One more damn thing to worry about.

  "This is primarily a Tamaerthan expedition," Rick said. "And it is my command. This is understood?"

  "Aye, lord. By me and by His Highness."

  "Good. Then have the courtesy to inform the Wanax that when His Majesty is finished with his ablutions, the Commander-in-Chief would like to see him."

  16

  Titus Licinius Frugi reined in his horse and resisted the impulse to stand in the stirrups. His officers were watching; they should not see him appear uneasy.

  They were among a thin wood at the top of a long ridge that lay parallel to his enemy's line of march. They could see most of Marselius's force from here: the center, with Marselius himself, lay on Frugi's left, ready to march up the military road to Rome.

  On that side Frugi had four legions to face Marselius. More than enough to sweep Marselius from the field-but that would be wasteful of men. Frontal assaults always were.

  But if he could bring a legion around the ridge to take Marselius from behind- Marselius had entrusted his left wing to barbarians. To Frugi's right, at the bottom of the ridge, was a secondary road in a thin strip of cleared level ground perfect for his heavy cavalry. The barbarians, separated from Marselius by the ridge, would march into that.

  He pointed to the road. "How far up it did they come?" he asked.

  "There." One of his staff officers pointed down the slope.

  "That far. Excellent." If the barbarians had scouted that distance last night, they would surely do so again now that they were marching…

  First would come the barbarian light cavalry. They'd be no match for cataphracti; drive them back, back upon their own marching columns-and charge on, using the fleeing enemy as a screen.

  And if the enemy came on without sending scouts ahead? Even better. The road ran between the forest and a stream. The barbarians would have to march close to the trees; close enough that their archers would have little time for their deadly volleys as his hidden troops burst out. Let his legionaries get among the archers, and the barbarian army was his. Kill the archers! The pikemen were not of themselves dangerous. Horse archers could shoot them down-provided that they were not in turn shot down by those bright-kilted fiends with their long, gullfeathered arrows that could outrange his best by half again.

  He shuddered at the memory of the disaster at Sentinius. Not again! Never again would he send cataphracti charging at the pikes while the grey gulls flew in thick flights…

  From his ridge he could see all the way back to the river. Most of it was fertile farmland, but there were scattered orchards, patches of forest, and low rolling hills to block his view.

  A horseman rode up behind him. "It is a splendid view. A pity to spoil it with the ugliness of war."

  "Yes, my Lord Bishop." And how much of that did my Lord Bishop Polycarp believe? Possibly all of it. To the best of Frugi's knowledge, Polycarp was a good man-despite having the favor of Flaminius.

  Marselius, my old friend. Were you right to revolt? Has Flaminius the Scholar brought us to that? But civil war is always the worst of disasters, the worst of evils. Better a dozen bad emperors than an endless series of wars for the purple. Once, Rome ruled from the sea to the West Escarpment, to the borders of the Five Kingdoms. Aye, even the High Rexja sent gifts to Caesar. Then came a year when three Caesars claimed the throne at once.

  "But will not the trees and hills there prove troublesome?" the bishop asked. "They will hide your enemy."

  "They serve to block Marselius's view as well, Your Grace."

  "And that is important?"

  "All important, Your Grace. If we but knew where all of Marselius's forces were, we would have them. We could win a bloodless-well, nearly bloodless- victory."

  "How is this?"

  Have I better things to do than give lessons in tactics to a servant of the Prince of Peace? No. Not for an hour. Perhaps longer. "If we know where each is, we can concentrate all our force against a small part of theirs. Break through their line, sweep about their flanks, come from behind. Their soldiers like this war no more than we. Given the chance, they will come to us rather than die for Marselius."

  "Will you give them quarter, then?"

  "Yes."

  "Yet Caesar has ordered-"

  "I know what Caesar has ordered, Your Grace. And I know what I must do. I will send the remnants of Marselius's force to the frontier posts." If there are any remnants. I have six legions. Two that Marselius doesn't know about. Enough force to roll right over, smash my way-"I will give them quarter if I can."

  "And you are certain of winning?"

  "I am, Your Grace. We have six legions plus the foot. Even counting the barbarians as a legion, Marselius has but four."

  "So you have half again his strength."

  "More, Your Grace. With forces matched this evenly, it is as the square of the two. Say thirty-six to sixteen. As if we had double his force. But that would be for a frontal assault. I think we can do better when Marselius advances. He always was a rash leader."

  Polycarp looked at him sharply. "Be certain of victory. Then go with God. For Rome can little enough afford the loss of her knights, when the barbarians pound at our gates, and the star our ancestors called Beelzebub hangs higher each day. But-will not Marselius simply remain where he is? Why should he place his head in your snare?"

  "He has little choice, Your Grace. There is very nearly nothing to eat where he is encamped." Flaminius Caesar had rightly forbidden him to strip all of the lands along Marselius's line of march; but he had allowed him this valley. A raven crossing that land would need to carry rations.

  Marselius and the barbarians carried rations, of course. Grain and fodder for the horses, too. But never enough, not for that army. Marselius would have to fight, on ground chosen by Frugi. And Marselius would lose.

  An hour passed. Trumpets sounded from the west. Marselius was on the march. But the barbarians were deploying as if for battle. They hadn't moved up the road. Not even their light cavalry.

  Then there were shouts from his troops. A staff officer rode up jabbering.

  "What? Speak up, man!"

  The officer pointed.

  Two miles away, a brightly colored object trailing black smoke rose in the sky. A wind carried it toward him. When he strained his eyes, he thought he could see a thin line connecting it to the ground. Smoke rose from the place it was tethered.

  "What?" Frugi asked. "Surely it is nothing to fear." But he felt fear, all the same. Fear and terror of the unknown. Star weapons…

  Star weapons are only weapons, he told himself. Like bows, with long-ranging arrows. Like ballistae that shoot far. But as bows need arrows, the star weapons need-need something I don't have a word for. But something. And their supplies are limited.

  Another staff officer rode up. A frume
ntarius. Why was he so excited?

  "Balloon," the intelligence officer stammered.

  Titus Frugi frowned in puzzlement.

  "We heard of them from the Pirate Lands, Proconsul," the officer said. "But we paid no heed. Until now."

  "What are you jabbering about?"

  "Balloon," he said. "See, it drifts toward us on the wind. And it is higher than we can shoot. Look closely, Proconsul."

  Titus Frugi looked, and saw disaster. There were men in the basket hanging below the balloon. They were pointing at the troops hidden in ambush.

  The semaphore flags waved. An acolyte of Yatar stared at the basket beneath the balloon and called out letters. Another wrote the message.

  "S-T-A-F-F BREAK O-N BREAK Y-O-N-D-E-R BREAK R-I-D-G-E BREAK STOP."

  "We have found the enemy's staff officers, lord," the scribe said.

  Rick hid a thin smile of amusement. These lads were so proud of being among the very few who could read that they forgot that anyone else could. "Thank you." He turned to Mason. "Think it's worth dropping a couple on the ridge?"

  Mason shrugged. "Sure."

  "We'll wait a bit more, though," Rick said. "Ah. Murphy's located an ambush force. Just about where I'd figured from the map. But it's nice to have it confirmed. Dismounted. They'll be out of action for a while-"

  Gradually he gathered details as the semaphore flags wagged and waved. Two legions poised here. Another there, masked by an orchard. Two more in reserve. Hah. Titus Frugi had more force than Marselius had suspected. Must have drained everything, every trooper he could raise "Caradoc!" Rick shouted. "Get me messengers to ride to Marselius. Win this battle and by Yatar we've won the whole bloody war!"

  "It was you who said it would be disaster," Bishop Polycarp reminded him.

  And it damned well is, too, Titus Frugi thought. But how can I avoid a battle? I can't even disengage! By now Marselius knows every formation I have, how many, where they are- Is he smart enough to divine which troops I can trust and which I can't? Which I can allow to wander through the trees, and which must stay under the eyes of their centurions? (And one legion whose centurions weren't trustworthy; that whole legion had to be watched by another.)