They rounded the right—now the rear—of Third Pikes, shouting battle cries to reassure the infantry. He didn’t want them panicked by hearing strange hoofbeats behind them.
Out in front, things were quiet for a moment. The right wing of the Roman army had pulled back and was milling around. There’d be a little more time before they could get into any formation for another charge.
First Pikes were standing at ease, looking curiously back toward the main battle. Balquhain raised the clan banner high. A cheer ran up and down the ranks.
The archers linking First and Second had returned to their stakes, and a few more were out in front of them stripping bodies and making sure what they stripped were bodies. There didn’t seem to be any way to stop that.
Inside the pocket, the slaughter continued. The escape lanes were piled with bodies, and some enterprising officer of the Second had pushed a knot of pikemen into each one. The pikemen stood behind heaps of dead and faced the villa, preventing anyone from escaping. The Romans inside that caldron were pressed so close together that they couldn’t use their weapons. They’d be tiring now, too. That was the trouble with armor. The protection it provided came at a high cost.
Ha. The Roman right wing had got itself into formation. Rick used the binoculars to pick out their commander’s scarlet cloak and gold bracelets. The man stood in his stirrups to study the battle. It was obvious that he didn’t know where to charge. The best place—Third Pike’s flank—was covered by Rick’s heavy cavalrymen; hit Third and the Romans would expose their flank to a cavalry charge. Meanwhile the Roman commander was losing half his army down in the pocket.
Aha. He was going to have another go at the junction between Second Pikes and the archers linking First and Second. If they got through there, they’d cut Rick’s forces in two, and they’d have an excellent chance to crush his main force as well as relieve the pressure on the troops caught in the caldron. It was good tactics, but stupid. If they couldn’t break the archers with their first charge, why think they could do it now when the horses were getting winded?
But what else could he do? Pouring men into the caldron would be worse than useless. What would I do if—
“We stand like cowards!” Dughuilas, chief of the largest of the subclans, drew his sword. “I will not have it said that I watched this battle without taking part.”
Oh, God damn it. That’s all I need. “Hold!” Rick shouted. Half the cavalrymen had drawn weapons, and even Drumold was looking anxious. “We protect our men here. If we leave this place, the Romans will strike—”
No good. They weren’t listening. Rick drew his Mark
IV .45 automatic and aimed it just past Dughuilas’ left ear. He fired.
The clan leader winced. At four feet, the muzzle blast would be enough to take off hide. “Another step forward and I strike you from the saddle,” Rick said. “You and any other who desert.”
“Desert? We want to fight!” someone shouted. “You’ll get the chance to fight. Hah! They’re going to try
it.” He pointed. The Roman line swept forward again, this time in a thick column, aimed like an arrow between First and Second Pikes.
Again three flights of arrows struck among them before they could reach the stakes. This time they pressed forward, heedless of losses, walking the horses into the staked area now hastily abandoned by the archers—
It was the last of the Roman reserve. Rick spurred forward, riding hard toward the First Pike regiment. He had no thought that the others would follow him, and they didn’t; they made straight for the Romans. Well, that would be all right now. The important thing was to get First Pikes to face right oblique rear and charge. They’d finish the Romans a lot more thoroughly than these ironheads.
But at least the chiefs would get a chance to fight.
They do, I don’t, Rick thought. Not that I particularly want to. But this battle’s all over except the cleaning up, and I haven’t fired a shot.
Then he grinned when he remembered that he had fired exactly once.
4
The battle was ended. Wherever Rick went, the men raised cheers. Tamaerthon casualties were light, and the Romans were totally defeated. The triumph was complete.
But then he felt the elation drain away with the adrenaline that had sustained him. In the military history books, the battle ends with the victory. The chesspieces are swept into the box, and all is quiet.
But there was no quiet. There were the screams of pain, from horses and men, mingled with the shouts of triumph and joy from the victors. An archer sat stupidly as he watched the blood flow from an arm severed above the elbow. A Roman warrior writhed in pain as pikemen stripped off his armor and cursed him for bleeding on their loot. And everywhere the horses and centaurs screamed and shied away from blood.
The centaurs were the worst. Worse, somehow, than the dying humans, far worse than the horses. The beasts tried to use their ill-developed hands to pluck out arrows or stop the flow of blood. They were not intelligent enough to understand what had happened (in a million years, would they have evolved good hands and high intelligence?), but they were sentient enough to be aware. Like dogs, they howled and whimpered and begged their human masters for help that couldn’t be given. Thank God, Rick thought; thank God the Romans used few of them.
And thank God this is done. With luck we won’t have to do it again. I can be through with war. The battles in Africa weren’t so bad. The helicopters came and took the wounded away. You didn’t have to look at what you’d done.
He had no more time to brood. There were a million details to attend to at once. Stop the slaughter and let the Romans surrender: the aristocratic airs of Rick’s heavy cavalrymen helped there. It was beneath their dignity to kill an enemy who couldn’t defend himself. Some of them were even intelligent enough to realize that if your enemies thought they’d be killed anyway, they’d fight on after the battle was lost.
Slaves directed by Mason and his MP’s stripped the dead and disarmed the captured. That couldn’t be trusted to the clan warriors. And Rick had to convince the chiefs, and they had to convince the archers and pikemen, that the loot would be divided fairly. The idea that a battle was won by all and all should share in the spoils was new to the hillmen.
Cavalry screens had to be sent to keep contact with the Romans who had escaped and to watch for any new Roman units. Arrows had to be recovered from the battlefield and distributed. Midwives and priests to examine the wounded. Prisoners with deep punctures in chest or abdomen had to be killed mercifully—there wasn’t anything else you could do for them. Other kinds of wounds to be cauterized, or washed and bound up—thank God they hadn’t come up with the insane theory of bleeding a wounded man!
And that’s something I can do now, Rick thought. I can teach medical science. I don’t know much, but I can teach the germ theory of disease, and aseptic practices, and get some of the acolytes interested in anatomy and dissection. But how do we develop penicillin? Maybe we can’t. Sulfa drugs? I don’t know anything about them, either. No technology. No chemistry theory, no experimentalists, no scientific method. No surgeons, and I don’t’ know enough, but I can make a start. I can teach them how to learn, and maybe one day a perforated gut won’t be a death sentence.
Grooms and camp followers had to be sent to collect the captured horses. Let the centaurs go—those not mortally wounded. The hill clans weren’t used to them and wouldn’t keep them. Send more MP’s to see that no one stole horses or ran away with loot. And total up the butcher’s bill.
Medieval armies left that to heralds. After Agincourt the French heralds had inspected the battlefield and worked with the English heralds to collect the names of the dead and captured. That useful organization hadn’t developed on Tran. Rick had tried to foresee the problems of victory and organize for them, but even so he had to be everywhere at once.
And everywhere he went, men stopped what they were doing to cheer him. He could feel pride in that. He’d won the battle, and
it was worth winning. Without the grain, the hill tribes were doomed. And the cheers were important, too, if he were to have any control over them. Men want to cheer a commander who wins victories for them. But he wished they’d get on with the work and let him hide in the villa. It was a splendid victory, but he didn’t want to see the battlefield any longer.
* * *
Tylara came into the villa leading a prisoner. “I have found the Roman commander,” she said.
He’d been stripped of his armor and gold bracelets, but she’d let him keep his red cloak. Even with that, it was difficult for Rick to recognize him as the haughty officer he’d seen organizing the final charge.
Rick invited him to sit and sent for wine. The Roman seemed surprised. He studied Rick’s face carefully and listened to his speech, then shook his head. “You are no Roman.”
“Of course not,” Rick said.
“I had thought these bar—these hillmen must have been led by an officer trained by Rome.”
Rick smiled faintly. In a way, that was true, but hardly the way this man thought. “Lord Rick Galloway, war chief of the host of Tamaerthon,” Rick said. Pretentious, he thought. Pretentious, but necessary. Perhaps he could use this man.
Words cost very little. “I have long admired Roman ways,” Rick said. “Your men fought well, as did you.”
“Ah. I am Caius Marius Marselius, Prefect of the Western Marches.”
“Prefect. In the Rome I knew, a prefect was both military and civil governor. Is that your office?”
“Yes.” A gillie brought goblets of wine, and the Roman officer drank thirstily. “Thank you,” he said to Rick.
Rick studied the Roman officer. “Head bloody but unbowed,” he thought. A proud man holding his head up after defeat. But he knows he’s beaten, and maybe he’s sensible.
“You can prevent a great slaughter,” Rick said. “We have come for grain and loot. Now that we’ve beaten your legion, there is nothing to prevent us from sacking the town of Sentinius. I would rather not do that. If you will arrange for the wealth of the town and the contents of the granaries to be loaded on wagons and brought to me, only officers to inspect the granary will enter the city. If you do not, we will take the town by storm, and there will be no controlling the men and the camp followers.”
The Roman’s eyes narrowed. “You ask for tribute from Caesar?”
Damn. Of course he’ll see it that way. “No. I demand what is mine by conquest. I will have all of the grain and much of the wealth. That is certain. The only uncertainty is whether or not the people of Sentinius and the city itself will survive the experience. Do you truly believe the citizens can oppose me now that their legion is destroyed?”
The Roman officer pursed his lips in thought. He took a deep breath and said, “No. The citizens would be killed to no purpose. How am I to arrange this?”
“You will be free to go. My cavalry will watch the city gates. If by sunset tomorrow there are no wagons of grain, then we will do as we will with Sentinius.” Rick paused. Might as well sweeten the pot. “In addition, I will release your soldiers and whatever equipment we cannot carry with us the day we cross Caesar’s borders to return to our mountains.” Rick shrugged. “What use are they to me? We are not foolish enough to wait for a ransom which would likely be escorted by five legions.”
Marselius seemed puzzled. “Now I am certain that you are not a barbarian,” he said. “Who are you?”
“That is no concern of yours.”
“Perhaps not. What assurance have I that you will not sack the city no matter what we do?”
“You have the word of a Tamaerthon lord,” Tylara said coldly.
“I have seen you shouting at your officers to make them spare captives,” Marselius said. “You are no barbarian.” He seemed to take comfort from that. “Very well, I agree. But may I ask, why this concern with grain? In the past, the hill tribes have raided for other wealth—”
“I remind you that I also demand some of the more usual loot,” Rick said. “Small valuables. Trinkets. Goblets. Cloak pins and ornaments. Jewelry. I do not doubt that your citizens will keep their most valuable objects, but make certain that they send out enough gaudy luxuries to please my clansmen. As to why we are concerned with grain, if you care to return—as my guest—after the loot is transferred, I will tell you. It is a story worth knowing.”
* * *
The last of the wagons rolled westward. They were an impressive sight; over a thousand wagons loaded with wheat and barley and oats and a grain that Rick had never seen before which grew on a plant resembling a giant sunflower, and produced a seed that more resembled rice than anything else. Other wagons were loaded with onions, spinach and other vegetables needed for winter nutrition. Fifty were loaded with heavy valuables— furniture and bolts of cloth and iron implements. The light-weight loot—rings and ornaments and personal arms—had been distributed to the army. Interspersed with the wagons were flocks and herds driven by camp followers and liberated slaves.
An impressive sight. Drumold had never seen its like. Everyone was certain there was food enough for all, enough to last through two winters— And they were utterly wrong.
* * *
Columns of pikemen and archers guarded the wagon train, and the light cavalry screens were well out to the flanks and forward to warn of any Roman attempt to recapture the loot of Sentinius. Rick took a position among Mason’s mounted archers in the rear guard.
He shifted uncomfortably in the saddle, not caring for the weight of the Roman mail he wore. It itched. He’d rather do without armor, but that wasn’t possible. He needed the armor and a personal bodyguard of freedmen loyal to no clan chief—and Mason at his back whenever possible. That wasn’t because he was worried about the enemy; the problem was that he might be assassinated by his own officers.
The army was loyal enough. He’d won a complete victory with trivial casualties: a score of pikemen killed when the Romans managed to close with the first rank, another score of archers and pikemen cut down in the desperate fighting that closed the day, and nearly thirty heavy cavalrymen who hadn’t sense enough to let the pikemen and archers do the work and had to go riding in to fight in personal combat with the defeated Roman heavies. Most of the armored men were related, and the survivors blamed Rick for their losses; if he had led the armored charge himself instead of riding to bring the pikemen in, they would not have lost sons and brothers . . .
They also resented losing the opportunity to sack a Roman city.
“Let them,” he’d told Tylara and Drumold. “If we turn those lads loose in Sentinius, they won’t be fit to fight for a ten-day. We’d be helpless against any kind of Roman attack. Don’t forget that a full thousand Romans got away—more than enough to kill us all if we scatter. I would rather stay in a strong position and let the Romans bring the loot to us.”
“We have defeated the Roman legion,” Balquhain said. “They can bring in no other for a ten-day. The chiefs know this, and they say that we can use that time to loot the province. There would be much wealth.”
“To what purpose?” Rick demanded. “We have taken more grain and loot than we have wagons to carry it in. It will take a ten-day and more to transport what we have back to the passes, and we will be fortunate to get it all into the Garioch before the snows begin. Seizing more wouldn’t help us, only harm the Romans—and when the Demon Sun is closest, we may have need of them as friends.”
“Caesar will never befriend us,” Drumold said.
“Perhaps not, but only a fool gives his enemies reason to hate him, and I am no fool.”
“No one says you are,” Balquhain protested.
“Then let them do this my way, as they have sworn.” And let me go back to the hills without a useless battle. I don’t suppose it’s possible to live the rest of my life without another fight like this. It takes a quart of wheat to feed a full-grown man for a day. The fifty thousand bushels of wheat we’ve taken can’t possibly last us two winters. But t
here’s no more to do this year, and for that I’m grateful. Glory’s a heady drink, but the bar bill’s damned high.
The chiefs had accepted the decision, but they had another complaint, too. Rick had distributed the loot among the soldiers rather than giving it to the chiefs to parcel out. They felt he was trying to undermine their authority.
They were right. He’d bought the loyalty of the common soldiers and noncoms, but incurred the hatred of many of the officers. The result was that he had to wear armor and endure the itch. Considering what he’d got for it, Rick thought the price worth paying.
* * *
The cavalry escorted the Roman prefect into the camp on the third night of the march. Freshly shaved and in clean clothing, he looked very different from the last time Rick had seen him—but he’d wisely refrained from wearing jewelry. His sword had been bound into its scabbard so that it couldn’t be drawn, but they had let him keep it.
“I had not thought to see you again,” Rick said. “I had even thought those troops you’ve kept ten miles south of me might be planning an attack.”
“If your information is that good, you also know I have fewer than two thousand men,” Marselius said. “I have come to see if you will honor your word and release my legionaries. Also I wished to hear this curious story you said it would be worth much to know.”
“Then you will not be disappointed,” Rick said. “But will Caesar not have your head? Surely he will say you have not done all you could to punish us for invading his realm.”
“Caesar will have my head no matter what I do,” Marselius said. “He will not deal lightly with a prefect who allowed barbarians—your pardon, but that is what he will consider you—to escape unharmed with the loot of a Roman city.” He shrugged and lifted a goblet of wine in salute. “But Rome will not be well served by wasting the balance of my troops. Your cavalry scouts would give ample warning of my approach, and if we could not face your longbows and longer spears before, how can we now? I have never seen weapons like those spears. You call them pikes?”
Janissaries Page 16
